#traitor cut down the altar

[one-winged-dreams]

Word Find Game

Rules: search for the given words in your WIP(s). If you don't have a word, you can use a variation on it or a word with a similar meaning. Then choose new words for the people you tag to look for in their WIP(s).

Ty so much @derelictdumbass for tagging me because this is SO fun. there are a couple tagged cws and it's kind of long but ;_;

My Words: anchor, intertwined, twist, lost, flicker

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"Anchor[ed]"

ship: terra x adriel x angeal (so i stayed in the darkness with you, what do angels dream of)

Circumstances considered, polyamorous and consensual as they were, it was not ESPECIALLY odd to be nervous about meeting your boyfriend's husband.

Admittedly, Terra had never even seen so much as a picture of Angeal, all he had to go on as far as current impressions were was that he was intimidating. Adri did his best to reassure him that he wasn't to be feared but also refrained from lying and telling Terra that he was anything less than firm.

Most of the time, anyway.

So many stories and anecdotes had begun to build an intimidating picture regardless of the reassurance, but Terra would not disrespect Adri OR his husband. And so now he stood at the literal doorstep, letting out a breath until he felt Adri squeeze his hand, a quick glance over earning him a reassuring smile and nod that anchored him a bit. He did his best to return the motion, the nod easy enough, the smile not as much, before he allowed Adri to release his hand to open the door.

As he did, the warmth of the house's interior washed over the both of them, a welcome feeling from the cold night air of Radiant Garden, bringing along with it a peculiar sensation. He could smell it clearly - this was Adri's home for sure. It was a soft, warm scent. Similar to how Adri's pillow back at his own place smelled. Intermingled with it, however, was something with more mass to it. Masculine, almost… Steely? It didn't overpower Adri's scent, by any means, but its presence was heavy.

And not… Unpleasant.

"Angeal! I'm home, Terra's here!"

"Intertwined"

(cw: mild cybergore)

ship: adri x viktor vektor (make your heart beat in reverse)

"Hey, Vik? I need you to come pick me up, and uh, promise not to freak out, okay?" he had said.

That was before Viktor had rolled up to a literal crash scene where Trauma Team was departing, thoroughly ignoring the colorful character propped against a wall despite his blood oh so generously puddling on the sidewalk beneath him. Of course, the mangled mess of a cyberware-infused right arm was of no concern, the mechanisms for the mantis blades intertwined with... everything else. Let alone the malfunctioning optic that twitched around, thankfully, still in its socket. And, of course, not to mention the road rash that lay beneath holes ripped through clothing that stood no match for the velocity the Mox had most definitely slid across the pavement.

As the ripperdoc approached, Adri looked up at him with a squinty and undoubtedly agonized smile. "Hey Vik. You wouldn't believe the day I've had."

Viktor was, of course, concerned. It was a given, considering what he was currently looking at. Still, he crossed his arms and shook his head, "You wanna tell me what happened here?"

"Corpo fucks! Who even taught 'em how to drive?" Adri sounded more inconvenienced than anything as he threw his non-mangled arm outward. He let out an exasperated sigh and was only able to half-shrug. "As you can see, I'm not being hauled off by NCPD right now, so I guess they at least know how to take responsibility for their fuck ups SOMETIMES. And look, look! My Kusanagi took a beating, but she's still standing!"

Viktor's eyes were directed by Adri's pointing towards a damaged but still functional-looking motorcycle. "Right. So looks like YOU took the brunt of beating, then?" his tone was almost stern, and Adri clearly got the message.

Flinching slightly, the Mox offered an uneasy grin. "Well, I was going to upgrade the chrome eventually anyway, right? Cheaper than a whole bike," he trailed off with an awkward chuckle.

Viktor sighed, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Twist[ing]"

(cw: emeto, suggestive, body horror)

ship: adriel x valtiel (i'd make a deal with god)

There is no face to glean so much as an ounce of recognition, and he wonders if It so much as thinks about him. If Its gnarled embraces and things he prefers to leave unspoken are some obscene compulsion to force-feed him his repressed licentious dreams. The ones that fester and rot in his guts, sometimes he feels like if he could just shove his fingers down into the depths of his throat and purge it that it will all go away. It'll all go away, the heat of blood that rushes up to just underneath his sinful flesh, the way he parts his lips, the sweat, the fluids, oh GOD, the fluids.

It leaves him wanting and then punishes him for doing so, an endless cycle of carnal loathing that settles in places, or one place, or everywhere all at once.

That visage that incites revulsion only makes his heart skip, and he can feel it twitching in his chest, writhing beneath his ribcage. The most vital of all the organs, its charismatic leadership incites the twisting of viscera, and his insides are dancing for It.

"Lost [Lose]"

ship: adriel cisne x daval prestor/neltharion (the gift of ruin)

The creature had no right to be as delicate as it was. The subtle grace of his movements was a testament to his noble upbringing, he flitted about like a bird in a manner that vexed Daval to no end. Soft, delicate, piercable skin, limbs so narrow and breakable. Large brown eyes that would water and weep at the pain he could bring him. Soft, flushed lips that would part to gasp in agony-

"You're gawking again, father," Katrana's voice grated in Daval's ears, summoning a scowl to his face.

He turned to glare at her with a rage unseen by anyone present. He upheld an image that would be tarnished by even a fraction of that hate.

"We do not GAWK, dear daughter," he sneered before his expression returned to stone-cold neutrality. Shameless to the definition, he turned to watch the Cisne offspring again. What a miserable sight he was, playing a part not unlike Daval himself, though the semantics couldn't be any more different.

"Father's upset that the Cisne boy hasn't approached him to fawn yet," Nefarian spoke next, quite possibly taking advantage of Daval being in no place to deal out consequences. He had enough self-control to store the rage of the Destroyer away where it could not be felt by these senseless mortals. For now.

Terrible irony guided fate's hand as his attention was suddenly drawn to Lord Cisne approaching him with far too much familiarity. A charming smile materialized on Daval's face, the thought that this man was played far too easily placating him for now.

"Lord Prestor, it has been far too long!" Typical greeting from an unoriginal mortal.

"Indeed it has, Lord Cisne. Your recent absences from these gatherings have been almost concerning." Almost meaning 'not at all.' Though he did retain a certain asset that would be troublesome to lose.

"Flicker"

ship: howl & adri x knull (can't tell where you end and where i start, traitor cut down the altar)

The bleeding was deceptively intermittent, just when the flow seemed to cease, another movement would send the wound running red again. A slice wound to make it all the more painful.

Down, down, and down his leg it runs.

Despite how excruciating walking on it proved to be, Adri's mind was overflowing with endorphins and other fun chemicals that gushed on queue with his crackling synapses.

And no symbiote to slurp them up.

The connection was muddled static. Like his ears were ringing in his head. Every time he cried out its name, he couldn't hear himself. He didn't even wonder if it was doing the same. He didn't have the time.

Traversing this scene of mock domesticity, the house would have been nice, as flooded in darkness as it was. But the broken chairs in the dining room were a good enough transition to a new genre.

It was so stifling in here, the radiator on in this weather? Fucking insane. It's already December, and, in his stupor, he makes an off comment about climate change.

He was doing his best to keep his blood full of oxygen, but he always forgets that hyperventilating doesn't count.

"FUCKER!" he managed to scream out in frustration as he continued to drag himself around as one does a sack of meat.

That's all he really was, though, wasn't he?

An angry, bleeding sack of meat.

But he was meat with a sense of self-preservation.

"I'm going to fucking kill you when I find you!" he called out to the entity that simultaneously hunted and evaded him.

'…ILL THEM!'

The sound of a wooden thud to his rear turned him around. Wide eyes struggled to make anything out in the dark, pupils dilating to desperately adapt to the gloom.

The acute stress response was beginning to flicker to life, ever more skewing to fight rather than flight. It was more than anger, more than rage.

It was hate.

The next scream was loud but not so vocal as to speak. He didn't need words right now. Working on pure unadulterated spite, he would obliterate this thing that tormented him

Finding himself at the base of the stairs boiled his blood and the words that bubbled up with it.

"DIE!"

'…IE!'

"DIE, you piece of shit! Just fucking drop dead! FUCK!"

'…EAD!'

The screams of frustration silenced to heaving shoulders and grinding teeth. And then his head snapped up to the top of the stairs, as would a man cursed by gods, determined to break the cycle of this infernal ascent.

The first step was weighed down with the pain creeping directly into his dorsal posterior insula. It weighed its judgment and found him wanting, by all evidence. Sentence?

Agony.

SGHKSJDGHKGJDS it's always the most eloquent or fucked up WIPs that I tend to abandon

your words: amount, obscure, relevant, taste, definite

I tag: @dearly-beeloved @kylilah @goldenworldsabound and whoever else wants to do this honestly, it's a really cool tag game

[one-winged-dreams]

-cracks knuckles and will smith poses at my boy Knull-

Knull is basically an old god and the progenitor of the symbiotes from the Marvel universe. He is THE god of symbiote and he's just a big ol' horror show, I love him to death. He lives in my s/i's brain chemicals following his death in the King in Black storyline for Venom, it's great.

Also honorable mention to my boy Dagoth Ur

He is... Also a god, actually. A self-made one, but a god all the same. He's from The Elder Scrolls: Morrowind, and hoo boy is that game... Something else. This card art of him does NOT do justice how decrepit he actually looks in-game, he is NOT that beefy-

What's under his mask is never divulged, but there is SO much delicious fan art with depictions of how monstrous he probably looks due to... Plot things.

hello fictional people likers i'm doing this again. seeing if this gets responses like the last one.

if you have a spooky, creepy, weird, "ugly", "gross", terrifying, or horrific f/o, i'd love to see and read about them, and maybe give my own opinions on them [all positive!]

respectfully, for my sake, no pr.o/co.m shippers please.

[ringleaderising]

'' Feel the weight of the Martyr It could all be yours, if you echo birds of prey. traitor cut down the altar It could all be yours, Vultures circling the flame. ''

Felt the sudden and overwhelming desire to blow a ton of money on a new G1, so I got Petrichor, and I needed a morally ambiguous lady exorcist to match Absinthe's whole deal, so she's that now.

Utterly insane about this color matching btw, Stained you will always be That Girl.

[heliads]

Your other Strollonso fic was AWESOME so can I request a Strollonso mafia!AU maybe? Like maybe it’s an arranged marriage so mob boss Nando can keep his alliance with Larry Stroll and they’re super awkward around each other at first but get closer and then Lance gets kidnapped and hurt by a rival and Nando just flips his shit and tears apart the city to find him and they have a really nice lil kiss once Lance is safe and ok? Thanks so much 💕💕

'not just one of your many toys' - fernando x lance

masterlist

It is Fernando Alonso’s own wedding day, and he’s already half an hour late. It’s not a good look, certainly, but no one in their right minds would ever say that the head of the Spanish mob has ever been good, so, according to Fernando, this just fits right in with the rest of his grim reputation. It’s all about appearances, isn’t it?

Today, though, it’s not beyond Fernando to admit that he should have done better. Today matters. Fernando is not stupid enough to have actually fallen in love with someone, so he doesn’t have to worry about disappointing a heartsick fiancée. Besides, if he wanted someone like that, he would have managed to twist his way inside their mind enough that they would forgive him for this tardiness the second he asked.

No, today isn’t a matter of love. Rumor has it that the Spanish mob had their hearts cut out in an expensive procedure when they turned eighteen, and although that’s an obvious fabrication since they’re all still bleeding rich red, it’s true enough by emotional standards. If you love, you die. Fernando Alonso does not accept weakness. If he ever fell in love, he would kill the object of his desires first so they could never drag him down again.

This, then, is yet another business transaction. Fernando has been courting the Stroll family for years now, eyeing their billions ever since they made their first killing, but now, he’s finally managed to force his way in. A young man is waiting on an altar somewhere across the city; Lawrence Stroll’s only son, Lance. Fernando and Lawrence cut this deal a month ago, and it took far too many pulled strings for Fernando to fuck it up like this now. If he were smart, he would have been there early.

Instead, his knife is halfway inside another man’s chest cavity, and Fernando is no closer to wrapping this up than he had been fifteen minutes ago when he realized he was late in the first place. He can’t afford to rush this, though. Traitors never flourish in the mob, least of all with Fernando’s men. Fernando has a reputation to uphold, his marital status be damned. If he doesn’t make this guy a prime example of what happens when you cross Fernando Alonso, his whole business will be riddled with holes until it all comes crashing down.

Still, Fernando can’t afford to piss off the Strolls more than he has already. Jerking his knife out of a partially deflated lung with a hiss of annoyance, Fernando turns to his second in command, Carlos Sainz. The younger, that is. The father is somewhere getting rich off of his son’s bloodlust, as all dutiful parents should be. “You’ll have to carry on with the rest. I was needed thirty minutes ago.”

Carlos swears under his breath. “Shit, I forgot about the wedding. I can make Alguersuari take over if you want me there. It can’t hurt to have backup, I don’t trust the fucking Canadians not to pull some shit.”

Fernando shakes his head. “Stay, I need a guarantee this is handled properly. Besides, I’ll have others there. This isn’t the day that I die.”

Carlos doesn’t look convinced. “You’re going into their stronghold. All of their guys will be there.”

Fernando chuckles. “It’s not a death trap, Carlos, it’s a church. Even Lawrence isn’t bloodthirsty enough to off me en una iglesia.”

Carlos makes a snorting sound that lets Fernando know just what he thinks of that, but one sharp look from Fernando silences the last of his objections. Carlos is a good kid, and Fernando trusts him the most out of anyone here, but in the end, it’s Fernando’s show, and he’s got to make sure none of his men are bashing his soon-to-be husband’s father any more than absolutely necessary.

Fernando cleans off his hands with a rag, grimacing at the spots of purple and green already starting to flower over his knuckles. Bruises on his hands don’t exactly add to the wedding atmosphere, but everyone there already knows what he’s capable of, so this should be no surprise. He exits the building and directs his driver to the church. They get there as fast as they can, but, judging by the stony expression on Lawrence Stroll when Fernando arrives at last, it wasn’t fast enough. He’s only thirty-five minutes late, though. By all accounts, it’s not even that bad.

Lawrence takes him by the arm, leading him casually yet forcefully to one of the small rooms in the back of the church used for the wedding party to prepare themselves before the big event.

“Where have you been?” Lawrence glowers the second the door closes.

“Traffic,” Fernando muses. “It’s terrible in these parts.”

Lawrence arches a silver brow. “You have blood on your cuffs.”

Fernando glances down at his sleeves and fights a wince. It’s only a few drops, but the copper stains still manage to stand out against the fine material. “Really bad traffic. Tourists should have their licenses revoked if they go more than ten below the limit.”

Lawrence doesn’t seem to be in the mood for jokes, which is good, because neither is Fernando. None of them like this deal, but they have no better options, so here they are. “Do not forget what rests upon this agreement,” Lawrence intones. “This is not some pretty spring wedding. I must admit, I was relieved when I signed my son over to you because I thought you of all people would understand everything that depends on this. And then you showed up late.”

Fernando tilts his head to the side slightly. “I know exactly what this means. I signed the contract. Let me be the first to assure you that I have no second thoughts. I was merely handling business.”

The air in the prep room is damn near icy. Lawrence is good at the scary act, but Fernando has been inspiring fear in the hearts of better mob men for decades now, and he isn’t the type to back down. Fernando may have coveted the Stroll money, but Lawrence wanted something too, or he never would have agreed to this in the first place. Fernando has had a long and bloody climb to the top of the Spanish mob, and Lawrence wants the notoriety and security of being forever associated with that kind of success. What tie could be better than a marriage? Lawrence had already married off his daughter to a lesser gun of the Bulls, but, well, there was always the other heir.

The legalization of gay marriage did a lot for mob patriarchs. One piece of paper, one actual legal thing about their whole enterprise, could genuinely complete an union between two families. Now, when searching for tenuous threads on which to conduct alliances, wealthy fathers with bloody hands wouldn’t just have to pray for daughters, they could also marry off their useless sons. 

Fernando knows for a fact that there’s been talk of Charles Leclerc from the Chevaux Rouges getting married off to one of the other dime-a-dozen Frenchmen. Pierre Gasly’s father has been pushing that agenda since both young men were boys, but Fernando also knows the way that one of his own best men, Carlos, has been eyeing the Monegasque, so maybe the deal wasn’t yet set in stone after all. Fernando should get after Carlos for that. Pretty boys aren’t worth toppling alliances. He’ll get himself in trouble faster than a sports car can accelerate. 

After all, this was supposed to be about politics, not actual affection. Fernando is the perfect example of this. He could count the times he’s seen Lance Stroll on one hand. The boy lingers in the back of his father’s meetings, pulling exaggerated faces when he’s certain nobody can see him, but Fernando isn’t even sure he’s actually talked to him more than forced interactions conducted in an effort to make it seem like Fernando is a team player. Then again, he doesn’t actually have to enjoy Lance’s company. He just needs his hand in marriage.

One of Lawrence’s men hurries into the room, holding his phone aloft. “A body was just discovered across town. Strung up by the church spire.”

Lawrence eyes Fernando coolly. “Traffic?”

Fernando just sinks his teeth into a matching icy grin. “Traffic,” he agrees.

Lawrence reaches forward, taking hold of Fernando’s hands like he’s praying the rosary. “Do not put any further stains upon my family,” he intones. “Waste the money I give you, fine. Kill your enemies on my own dime. But do not misuse my son. And do not keep him waiting any longer.”

Lawrence squeezes abruptly, causing the rapidly forming bruises on Fernando’s knuckles to twinge with fresh pain, then pulls away. Fernando follows him into the sanctuary of the church. Men in varying shades of black suits watch him like hawks from both sides of the aisle, women most of them probably don’t know lingering on their arms. At the front, Lance’s best man eyes Fernando with particular hatred, but Esteban Ocon has despised Fernando ever since a certain deal went south last year, so Fernando doesn’t pay him much attention. It’s very easy to ignore the Frenchman, which makes Esteban even more irate.

Fernando studies his fiancé. He’s not even certain that Lance was in the room when Lawrence and Fernando agreed on the marriage union, but it’s not like it would have mattered anyway. Lawrence makes the decisions for the Strolls. In a way, Fernando feels like he’s been courting the Stroll patriarch more than his son, but it’s all in the interest of a pawn to move around. Both Lawrence and Fernando can agree on that, apparently.

Lance considers Fernando with vague interest, eyeing him up and down with a lifted brow. He’s not bad to look at, all things considered. He supposes it could have been worse; for a while, that Russian upstart, Mazepin, was thought to be someone to coerce into a marriage, but then his family was revealed to be a bunch of rats and were subsequently driven out of the business. Fernando feels he dodged a bullet there.

The ceremony is conducted without much difficulty. Lawrence insisted on an extravagant reception so they can at least pretend this is a wedding and not just a job reassignment, and Fernando has been dreading this part all day. Carlos turns up an hour into the reception, matching bruises dotting his knuckles. Fernando tells him to enjoy himself as a reward for his good work, but not to have too much fun. Drunkenness and debauchery on a night like this would condemn Fernando even more than showing up late to his own wedding.

Fernando completes circuit after circuit of the event hall, shaking hands with Stroll associates and hearing congratulations from his associates. Many mob men are here as a sign of respect; Esteban brought Pierre as well, so the French are adequately represented, plus young Mick from the Germans. 

Nico Rosberg usually turns up to these sorts of things, so Fernando is sort of surprised that he didn’t show, but then he notices Lewis Hamilton talking with his fellow Silver Arrow George Russell by the bar and the pieces click together again. Now that had been a split to remember. Lewis and Nico had run things together since they were kids, but when Lewis switched sides overnight, Nico had been left without a right hand man when he was about to consider a major deal. It was a stab in the back from the one person Rosberg had thought was his most loyal ally. All of the informants had been simmering for ages afterwards. Talk about a scandal.

After greeting both Arrows, Fernando has to steer Carlos away from the Chevaux Rouges again– he’ll have to have a conversation with the younger man about that later, it does no good to make it so easy to tell what you want– and spoken to Charles Leclerc once he was alone again. Lawrence Stroll has been satisfied by the turnout, so he’s actually in a good mood when he and Fernando talk lightly about business later on.

By the end of the reception, Fernando has managed to have a conversation with everyone but his new husband. When the lights are turned off at the end, they’re both in the same car heading to Fernando’s mansion, but Fernando has to take another half dozen quick calls from regretful allies who were otherwise occupied tonight, so they don’t say a word until they arrive at the door.

Fernando lets them in, muttering something under his breath about needing to get Lance a set of keys. He gives Lance a rough tour of the estate, essentially just enough to know where to sleep, work, and take meals, but when he’s done talking, Lance still stands there expectantly in front of the door to Fernando’s office.

At first, Fernando hardly even notices that he remains. He would have assumed the younger man would want to go to bed. It’s late, and although Fernando still has plenty of work to be done, Lance is likely used to a life of comfort, so he’d want to catch up on sleep. It isn’t until he starts grabbing files from a cabinet at the far side of the room that Lance coughs pointedly.

Fernando glances up as he stacks papers on his desk. Now that he’s got access to Lance’s funds, he’ll need to go over potential expenditures for the coming months. There are a couple of business ventures he’s been waiting to accelerate until this windfall, but now he can race towards whatever he pleases. So long as it turns a good profit, of course.

“Do you need something? There should be servants down the hall if you require anything.” He says, glancing back down at the files in his hands.

Lance shakes his head. “No, I was waiting for you.”

Fernando frowns. “Whatever for?”

It’s strange to see someone so high up in the mob who still hasn’t yet learned the value of a good poker face. Fernando can actually see the incredulity appear in Lance’s eyes and spread to his dropped-jaw stare. “It’s our wedding night, Fernando.”

“I am aware,” Fernando says. “I was there at the wedding.”

Lance scoffs. “Yes, but– come on, man, do I have to say it?”

Fernando looks Lance dead in the eyes for what might be the first night all evening. “You don’t have to say anything, Lance. I’m not oblivious, even if you seem to be. This is not a normal marriage. We are wed in name and fortune but nothing else. If your bed is cold, turn up the heat or imagine someone else is there. I have work to do.”

Lance’s brow furrows with indignation, but when he speaks again, his words are tight and controlled. So he can manage his anger, at least. That’s a start. “I see. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” Fernando says, just barely managing to keep his mouth from twitching into a disbelieving smile when he says it. Are they children? Should he offer Lance a nightlight? Wishing him goodnight. Please. Fernando is a professional killer. They do not tell each other soft goodbyes when they wipe out entire bloodlines.

Fernando has no idea what his husband ends up doing, but he stays up late to sift through more ledgers. The second his mind begins to cloud from exhaustion, he goes straight to bed, and wakes respectably early into the morning. He works out with the same base routine he’s used since he first entered the business, of course adding a few repetitions or new drills here and there where he can sense the weakness in his muscles. 

By the time he’s showered, dressed, and entered the kitchen for some coffee and breakfast, Lance has just begun to stumble downstairs, hair flattened by his pillow and half sticking up. He’s still in his pajamas, which consist of sweats and a shirt for some tennis player Fernando doesn’t recognize.

Fernando arches a brow at him. “Sleep well?”

“Wonderfully,” Lance grumbles, the syllables turning into a yawn halfway through.

Again, Fernando feels the need to swallow a laugh. He doesn’t think anyone’s spoken to him without an undercurrent of fear in a very long time, yet here Lance Stroll is, oversleeping and walking around his mansion in leisure wear. Technically, it is Lance’s mansion as well now, but still. Fernando doesn’t even think his sister dared to wear anything other than business casual when she visited.

Fernando does need Lance to feel valued, though. The last thing he needs is Lance complaining to his father that Fernando keeps judging him or something, then this whole thing could go up in flames. Fernando can be a dutiful husband even if it kills him.

“Would you like something to eat?” Fernando asks politely. “We have fruit, eggs, anything. Our chef can make it.”

“A bagel, maybe?” Lance says, yawning again.

Fernando nods. “I’ll ask the chef to prepare some.”

Although Fernando does his best to keep his true emotions in check, Lance, apparently, is beyond the same need to not laugh at his spouse. “Dude, it’s a bagel. One ingredient. Surely you don’t need the chef.”

Fernando scowls. “I just wanted to ask him what types we had in stock. I am aware that bagels are a simple food to serve.”

Lance chuckles again. “You’re telling me the head of the Spanish mob knows every one of his enemies but not every one of his bagels? Terrible priorities, man.”

Fernando is starting to realize that marriage might be difficult. See, if Lance could just be properly nervous around him like every other son of a mob boss Fernando has met, they wouldn’t have to have this terrible interaction, but no, Lance seems immune to everything. Delightful.

He extends a hand towards the extensive pantry. “Feel free to check by yourself. I’m sure it’s incredibly important for the sons of mob bosses to be able to verify their own information. Even on bagels.”

Lance grins sarcastically. “Technically, I’m not just the son of a mob boss, but the husband of one, too. If you’re going to mock me like everyone else, at least do it well.”

Fernando frowns. “I’m not trying to mock you.”

Lance spares a disbelieving glance towards Fernando, then turns back to his search for breakfast. “Really? Is that why this is the longest you’ve ever spoken to me since you realized you could get my dad’s money by marriage?”

Fernando can’t entirely argue with that, so he doesn’t. “You don’t have to hate me, Lance.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Lance says cheerfully. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. Seeing as we’re going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, I would advise you to do the same. And in case you were curious, you have both plain bagels and cinnamon raisin.”

With that, Lance breezes back out of the kitchen, carbohydrate prize secured. Seconds later, Carlos files into the kitchen, glancing curiously back in the direction Lance had gone. “Sorry to bother you, I just had the information on Verstappen that you wanted. What the hell happened there? And since when have you had bagels in the house?”

“No idea,” Fernando says tiredly. It answers both questions well enough.

Lance Stroll proves himself to be more and more of an enigma as the days go by. He joins Fernando for meals only when Fernando asks, but then he seems disappointed that they don’t do anything else together. He zones out when Fernando talks business, then always gets annoyed when Fernando so much as alludes to the conditions leading to their marriage. Fernando can’t decide if Lance is actually happy with the arrangement– or, as Fernando is beginning to suspect, if he had any say in the matter at all. Strange for the heir to the Stroll legacy to have grown up with so little sway over his father’s business. It is as if Lawrence expected to live forever, so he never bothered teaching Lance the ropes.

Fernando tries to make it work. A little. Not enough. He’s busy, that’s all, he doesn’t have time to babysit a husband who seems compelled to fuck with him on each and every turn. It’s like Lance gets joy from being a nuisance. And yeah, sometimes when Lance’s attitude is directed towards Carlos or anyone who isn’t Fernando, it is pretty funny, but Fernando has not made a career of getting laughed at and he doesn’t intend to start now. 

Once, Lance insists that his room is far too cold to be slept in, so he’ll just have to sleep in Fernando’s room instead. Fernando personally walks into Lance’s room to check it out himself, but it’s actually freezing in there despite adjusting the thermostat, and Lance refuses any other solution, so they spend a silent night on polar opposite sides of Fernando’s bed. The next day, Fernando is informed by the staff that a wrench was discovered in the heater that led to Lance’s room, jammed perfectly so that the temperature could not be changed. Neither of them mention it again, and Lance goes back to sleeping in his own room.

Carlos asked him once why he puts up with it– Lance’s teasing, his sarcasm, everything– but it’s not like he has any choice. If Fernando truly gets desperate, he goes to the printouts of his bank account and just stares at the numbers. Solace can be found in deposits of numbers followed by many, many zeroes.

Over time, the good moments start to crop up like a five o’clock shadow. Fernando takes Lance on a drive to visit some allies and they drive through glorious countryside in a sports car more expensive than any of the land as far as the eye can see. They play a couple of rounds of tennis in a court on Fernando’s estate. Lance’s sister visits and everyone’s in a good mood.

Somehow, though, something always happens to sour each and every small win. Lance squirms in the passenger seat of the car Fernando bought with his father’s money and picks a fight about missing Sebastian, who was the second best marriage candidate until Fernando put his name in the ring. When they’re out on the courts, Fernando asks why Lance seems far more passionate about tennis than business; Lance doesn’t realize it’s a joke and asks how long until Fernando gives up on him, just like Lawrence. Fernando is walking through his mansion late at night when he overhears Lance talking to Chloe in hushed voices about what she did to make Scotty like her, as if Lance needs coaching to even handle Fernando at all.

They fight and they make tentative peace. The ground gets shakier before it solidifies. Eventually, they manage to keep a respectable truce that varies throughout the week. They drink together, they talk together. Lance keeps lingering at the door of his room in a way that makes Fernando want to do something he regrets, but he never commits. Somehow, he knows that even one mistake is all it will take to destroy him forever.

Fernando is in between conference calls one day when Lance pops into his office. “I’m going to be back late tonight,” he announces. “Meeting Esteban.”

Fernando nods. “Want me to drive?”

“You’re in meetings,” Lance points out.

Fernando shrugs. “I can skip them.”

This makes Lance grin triumphantly, like he’s somehow proved himself far more valuable than even Fernando’s beloved ledgers and printouts. “That’s so unlike you, I’m charmed. I’ll be fine, we’re just grabbing drinks. See you later.”

Fernando lifts a hand in farewell when Lance does the same, and watches the man disappear back down the hall. Although it seems strange to say, Fernando swears the mansion seems emptier that evening. It’s just one person gone, he reminds himself, and besides, he and Lance don’t see each other all that often anyway. Too busy. Still, Fernando feels like his steps echo up and down the hallways in a way that they haven’t in a long time. Since before the wedding, perhaps. Since before he got used to having someone else around.

Fernando hadn’t intended to wait up for Lance, but he’d also assumed that the man would be back before too long. A few hours past midnight, Lance still hasn’t returned, but this probably doesn't mean anything. Maybe Lance is on a hell of a bender and he’ll find his way downstairs the next morning in even more disarray than usual. The thought makes Fernando smile.

Fernando wakes up the next day and decides to check that Lance had actually made it back, just in case. A bit of paranoia, but that’s how he’s made it this far, hasn’t he? Fernando drifts by Lance’s room, but the door is wide open, revealing– an empty bed, the sheets untouched. Wasn’t even slept in. Ignoring the skip in his heart rate, Fernando pokes his head inside, but he doesn’t see any evidence that Lance had been there.

Maybe he was drunk and passed out downstairs. Fernando can’t pretend like he hasn’t pulled that move before. However, after conducting an extensive sweep of the mansion, Fernando still can’t locate Lance. The questioning text sent to Lance’s phone goes unanswered. Fernando gives it five minutes before giving into his panic and calling him. Three times, it goes unanswered. By the final ring, Fernando is genuinely starting to panic.

Esteban does not sound happy to have Fernando calling him, even though it’s not even that early in the morning, all things considered. “What do you want?”

“Where’s Lance?” Fernando asks, abandoning all pretense.

Esteban sounds confused. “What do you mean?”

Fernando wants to throttle him. “He was out with you last night and he hasn’t come back. Is he with you or not?”

There’s a pause over the line, and when Esteban speaks again, his words are very deliberate. “What are you talking about? Lance was never with me.”

Fernando feels his heart drop. “That makes no sense. Lance told me he was meeting up with you for drinks. Did he never show up?”

“No,” Esteban says, and finally he sounds just as nervous as Fernando feels, “I never texted him at all. It must have been someone else impersonating me.”

Fernando swears. “Who? The Strolls have plenty of enemies, but who would go to the trouble of luring him out of my estate just to take him?”

Esteban is silent for a while, and then he speaks again in a rush of static. “Do you remember the BWT incident?”

Fernando lets out a low breath. “Of course I do. It’s half the reason I considered the Strolls in the first place.”

BWT was a sizable mob family of their own back in the day. Although they’d never been at the forefront like the Spanish, the Chevaux Rouges, or, hell, even the Bulls, they’d been there, and that’s more than most wannabes can say. Then Lawrence Stroll had gone and fucking bought them out. It’s unthinkable. Imagine having the money to purchase an entire black market ring. The Strolls were on the up-and-up, but after that, they solidified their place among the elite. That’s when Fernando had started looking at them in earnest.

“Nice one,” Esteban harrumphes. “Way to appreciate Lance.”

“I do,” Fernando insists, which feels strange. He’s never bothered to defend himself against Esteban’s feckless complaints, but he has the overwhelming need to exonerate himself from this one.

Esteban sighs. “I know Otmar Szafnauer signed the deal to give the Strolls control over BWT, but his right hand man, Sergio Pérez, was furious about it. He never forgave Otmar, and he’s had it out for Lawrence ever since. Everyone else in this goddamn city wouldn’t pick a fight with Lance, especially not so recently after they were all at the wedding, but Pérez wouldn’t care about something like that.”

“He’s probably been biding his time for a while now,” Fernando realizes. “Waiting until he could get back at Lawrence. This was his chance.” He stands up, signaling to one of his servants to rally his men. “Where is he? I need an address.”

Esteban tells him the location of his estate after some searching then hangs up, but not before reminding Fernando to get Lance as soon as possible, a sentiment that Fernando has no problem following. Carlos shows up just in time, the best killers under their employ with them. He starts to ask Fernando what the plan is, but Fernando silences him with a single glance. There is no plan. Fernando’s only want is to get Lance then burn the whole damn place to the ground.

Fernando Alonso is no stranger to killing. This is not the first time he’s gone after a rival. Still, he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted it like this in a very long while. Every bullet in the head of one of Pérez’s guards is one closer to getting Lance back. From the moment Fernando’s cars show up at Pérez’s property, he hopes the man is terrified.

They break down the gate, smash through the double doors, and everything goes to hell. The constant ricochet of bullets is like a drumbeat in Fernando’s ears. He is methodical, tactical, going from room to room. There will be no survivors. Blood starts to coat his shoes, his clothes, but Fernando does not care. 

He’s hardly aware of what he’s doing at all until he breaks into a locked room somewhere in the basement and he finds a figure tied to a chair.

Lance.

The guards don’t stand a chance; they fall before they even get a chance to fire their guns. Fernando races to Lance’s side, undoing the bonds. Lines of dried blood arc across Lance’s face, his arms, and Fernando feels a bout of rage descend upon him, even stronger than when he first found out that Lance had been kidnapped.

“I’ll kill him,” Fernando pledges, “I’ll kill him, and I’ll make it long. He’ll be begging for mercy at the end, but I won’t give it to him. Not when he did this to you.”

Lance reaches up a trembling hand. Fernando catches it at once, pressing it between his two palms. “Fernando?” He asks uncertainly.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s me. You’re alright, Lance. I’m so sorry.”

Lance shakes his head. “Not your fault. I should have seen through it.”

“No,” Fernando insists. “He tricked all of us. I’ll put a bullet in his mouth to stop his lies.”

Lance stands up slowly, unevenly. Fernando catches him, helping him to the door. “I just want to go home,” Lance tells him. “You got your revenge. Let’s just go.”

“Okay,” Fernando says. “Let’s go home.”

On the way out, he passes Carlos, who tells him in terse Spanish that they have Pérez waiting for him. Usually, Fernando would insist on handling the matter himself, but Lance looks up at him and Fernando knows he can’t put this off any longer. He tells Carlos to handle it quickly, then leaves without waiting for an answer.

They get into a car together, Fernando driving and Lance in the passenger seat. The low light from occasional street lights shines on Lance’s face, reflecting the dim planes of his countenance.

Lance catches him looking and smiles softly. “I’m alright, Fernando.”

Fernando still isn’t entirely convinced. “I’ll get a doctor to look at you. I wouldn’t put anything past that coward. And I’ll get more guards on the estate, just in case. Around the clock.”

Lance scoffs. “We don’t need that. He’ll never touch us again. And besides, I know you’ll handle him if he does.”

Fernando is well used to being a source of fear, a reason not to attack. Hearing Lance’s sincere trust in him, though, even after being kidnapped, makes his frantic nerves finally start to settle. “Why would you have such faith in me?” He asks quietly as he parks the car in his garage, sitting in the stillness of the car now that the engine is off.

Lance actually smiles. “Let me prove it to you,” he says, and leans forward to kiss Fernando.

It explains a lot.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[one-winged-dreams]

Time to gaslight gatekeep girlboss the primordial god because heeheehoohoo it's funny

wait norman technically being insane and convinced he was cletus is even funnier to consider w @one-winged-dreams.

adri stops by oscorp to see me and runs into norman bc he gets lost trying to find my lab and the whole time norman is walking him to my lab knull is like I THOUGHT THIS WAS CARNAGE. WHAT DO YOU MEAN HIS NAME IS NORMAN. THOSE ARE TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE?

[souliebird]

sugar skulls & altars

Frank Castle x OFC || 4,233 words

xxxxx

She makes him feel like Frank Castle

xxxxx

A love letter to my Punisher oc bc I'm a big fucking Sap.

Frank wants nothing more than to take off his fucking boots. 

They are sopping wet and the left one is torn to shreds. It's barely holding together. Which only furthers his anger because he Liked these boots. He actually shelled out the money to Red's suit maker to get them custom made. Now he'll have to track the guy down again.

After he tracks down the rest of this fucking gang he's after.

But that's for another night. He's done tonight. He needs to restock and think and cool down. Going in angry won't do him any favors. These fuckers are clever, way more than he gave them credit for.

And maybe a beer or two won't hurt. Take Max out. 

Check on his girl across the hall. He hasn't seen his little angel in a few days - hell, he hasn't been to his apartment in a few days. He feels like a fucking asshole over it, relying on her to take care of Max. He knows she doesn't mind it, Max practically belongs to her now, the little traitor, but Frank doesn't want to give her more to worry about. 

She's got the weight of the world on her shoulders, his Sadie. If he could admit it to himself, he'd say he loves her for it. Her absolute genuine concern for everyone else. 

"Whatever I can do to help," she always tells him with the brightest smile. 

Yeah, if she's up, he'll knock on her door. 

Frank slumps his way from where he's parked his van to the building that holds his apartment. No one else is on the street, but he knows better than to let his guard down. His dwindling anger keeps him vigilant and he keeps his hand on his gun until he's through the front door and in the lobby. He doesn't bother with the elevator, heading right to the stairs for the short trek up three flights. The building's quiet for the most part. The walls are pretty thin, so there's always some noise, but the people here are just trying to get by. He doesn't need to worry much about finding a junkie in the stairs or kicking down a door to stop some asshole from beating on his wife. 

It's one of the better shitholes he's lived in.

The bulb in the hallway is burnt out, but it only serves to help him see the little sliver of light shining out from under Sadie's door. He pretends to not notice the pleased feeling that settles in his chest and forces himself to go to his own door instead of straight to knocking on hers.

Max is waiting for him when he opens the door. His tail is wagging and he's doing his little tip-tap dance as Frank pulls what's left of his boots off. The second he tosses them aside, Max is on him, pushing his big square head into Frank's hands. 

Frank instantly starts scratching at his jowls, "I missed you, too, bud. You bein' a good guard?"

His answer is more tip-taps and some face licks.  He indulges in another minute of pets before pulling away. His gear joins his boots on the floor then he makes his way to the bathroom.

The second he turns on the light, he's grimacing at his reflection. He looks like fucking shit. Bruising and cuts cover his face. Drying blood is caked all over him. He's lucky the worst he got tonight was a deep swipe in his side with a knife. He already wrapped that in the van, keeping himself from bleeding over everything. 

He can't go see his girl looking like this, so he starts the shower and peels out of his clothes. He's just as covered in blood and grime naked. He buzzed his hair earlier that week, so at least he's not going to need to scrub his scalp to death to get clean.

But he still spends a good twenty minutes in the shower, making sure there isn't a speck of dirt on him. 

Max is sitting in the doorway when he steps out of the shower and gives Frank an excited wiggle when he's looked at, coupled with some grumbly whines. His 'pitbull talk' as Sadie calls it. He's been doing it more and more and she encourages it, pretending to have conversations with the dog. Frank may or may not have picked up on the habit. 

He raises his brow at Max, "You givin' me attitude now?" 

He can't help but snort when he just gets a big dog smile in return. 

"That's what I thought."

He gives Max another scratch as he passes from the bathroom back into the main room, going to grab some sweats and a shirt to throw on. He thinks for a to moment, then digs his sneakers out from under the bed. He's so used to wearing his boots to do everything, he can't even remember the last time he wore them. He doesn't even go jogging or shit like that. He's got some older boots, but he's not going to break those out just to take Max out. 

And that's not just because he's got no idea if they are in his apartment or one of his safe houses. 

He's gonna fucking bulk order from Red's suit guy. 

Max seems to know the plan. Frank's not even fully dressed before the leash is being pushed against his hand. He takes it with a huff and a smile, and clips it to Max's collar. He can't even be annoyed about the dog being pushy - he's been a crap owner. He'd be eager too, if he'd been locked up in the apartment.

He finishes putting his shoes on then lets Max lead him out. The air is a lot crisper now that his adrenaline is down. Halloween is right around the corner - he's been roped into joining Red's little group to make sure no one tries to burn the fucking city down. 

He starts to think up a plan for the rest of the night as he walks Max around the block. He knows Sadie will want to clean him up a bit and feed him and he'll let her. He's become spoiled on her cooking - he's bulked up a bit since she came into his life and he won't complain one bit. And she gets the good beer. 

Maybe he can talk her into watching some horror movie. She doesn't like the R-rated shit, she's too sweet for that, but he's sure they can find something tame enough. Something they can enjoy and he can just take a moment to fucking Relax. 

It's something he's forgotten how to do. He's always head down in his work, going after some shit bag or another. Grinding down anything left of Frank Castle and encompassing The Punisher has been his balance for the past year or so. Not losing himself like Red did, he's not letting a building collapse on him, it just didn't feel like the world needed Frank Castle anymore.

'Til he stumbled upon her, literally, and she took one look at the Punisher and only saw Frank Castle.

Maybe he'll pamper her instead, coax her into a bath and massage. Taking care of her gives him a sense of calm he hasn't had since Lisa was in diapers. Nothing else matters except what's in his hands. 

He licks his bottom lip at the thought of digging his thumbs into her shoulders, making his angel sigh in delight. Having her completely melt under him, trusting him so completely to take care of her. Soft conversation about whatever project she's wrapped up in, feeling like an actual person instead of a ghost of a man. 

So yeah, he'll do that, make up being away with doting on her. Solid plan, room for improvising. 

He tugs on Max's leash, dragging the dog's attention away from whatever he was sniffing, and starts heading back to the apartment building. It only takes a few minutes, Max trotting by him, throwing up those happy dog smiles to him. He lets himself smile too. 

The building is still just as quiet when he returns, the only sound as he starts up the stairs being the jingle of Max's tags. He stops in front of Sadie's door and tells Max to sit before knocking.

Frank knows she knows it's him, but he can't help but smile as he hears her push against the door so she can look through the peep hole. She's soft, but far from stupid.

His world brightens as the door swings open and he's met with a blinding smile.

"Frank! I wasn't expecting to see you tonight," she says, stepping back so he can come in. After Max, who pushes his way in to his favorite human. Sadie bends to scratch his ears, eyes never leaving Frank. 

She looks so sweet, he has to tell himself he can just throw her over his shoulder and take her to bed. Her mane of curls are thrown up in a bun and even though it's the end of October, she's wearing a tank top and little sleeping shorts. It doesn't leave much to the imagination.

"Saw you were still up, wanted to check in," is his reply to her. "How you doin', sweetheart?"

Sadie unclips Max's leash and he barrels his way to the couch, probably going to right where she had just been sitting. She doesn't seem to mind, turning her attention to Frank, putting her hands on his chest and leaning up on her tip toes to press a feather light kiss to his lips. He instantly reaches around to run his hands over her ass before squeezing her cheeks, pulling her closer to him. She gives a pleased hum against his lips.

"Better with you here." She pulls back and taps her fingers against him, lips turning into the slightest frown, "There's glass in your arm."

He gives her another squeeze before letting her go, and looking at the back of his forearm. It's like his boot, shredded to fuck. He went through a window at some point, so he's not surprised glass got in there. Everything kinda hurts, so he didn't even realize.

Sadie traces her finger up to his neck, dancing over his skin before cupping his jaw. Frank leans into it eagerly, "Let me grab my tweezers."

He's reluctant to let her go now he has his hands on her, but he behaves. He kicks off his shoes and follows her into the main room.

Max has made his home on the couch and the table in the front of him is covered in what looks like disassembled picture frames. His sweet girl is always working on some type of project and he can't wait to hear about whatever she's doing now.

After she patches him up.

He plops himself down at the kitchen table and rests his arm there, turning it so Sadie can easily get to the cuts and waits. A moment later, she's coming out of the bathroom with bright pink tweezers. He smiles at the sight - he bought her a whole grooming kit in obnoxious colors and it pleases him she uses it.

She playfully snaps them at him as she sits, "I only felt a few, so it will just take a minute."

Frank hums, "Baby girl, you know there's no rush."

She just smiles at him then turns her attention to his wounds. 

He doesn't take his eyes off her. 

With such gentleness and care Frank has never deserved in his life, Sadie picks up his arm and the slightest tingle goes down his spine as all the pain in his body is dulled into nothingness. In the blink of an eye, the scrapes on his knuckles are gone, like they were never there to begin with. Every wound, every injury he's gotten over the last week or so disappear, save the cuts on his arm she is pulling glass out of. He can't even feel it - she's numbed the area around it. 

He swears she just really be an angel. She can heal anything with just a touch. She's saved his ass too many times to count at this point, Red and Finn's too, and that doesn't compare to the weird underground clinic she works with. She does it all without asking for anything in return and hardly ever questions where injuries came from. And she does it all anonymously - only a handful of people know what she can do. She covers her face and hair when she works. 

Frank knows a great deal of it has to do with her fears of being taken to some lab - not that he'd ever let that happen - but he knows she wouldn't want the power that would come with being public. If she wanted it, she could be the richest person in the world. He's seen her cure fucking stage three cancer in a five minute session and save a man who had been stabbed in the heart. People would literally pay billions for a handshake from Sadie Harper. 

She barely makes rent.

She thrifts all her clothes and buys her furniture from the flea market.

She lives in this shit hole apartment in Hell's Kitchen and the first time she's ever been outside New York or Jersey, it was him taking her to Connecticut for the Elephant's Trunk Flea Market. 

She doesn't have health insurance or the ability to heal herself because Fate truly is a bitch.

She spends all her time cleaning guns with him, talking about her dreams of buying a run down apartment and remodeling it all herself. She's the unofficial doctor for a group of New York vigilantes because she can't afford to go to college. Her hobbies include acting like a nutritionist to all her friends because she can tell all of their blood work with a touch and she is extremely passionate about food and being the neighborhood safe person. Everyone knows Sadie knows the Punisher. He's made sure of that.

And that means kids come to her when someones hurting them. Sometimes it's a bully, and Sadie gives them advice. Sometimes it's a kid who can't go to the ER and knows the Woman at the Clinic won't ask questions. And sometimes those kids keep coming back and back and neither of them say a word over and over and over again until the kids just says a name. Then Sadie never sees that kid again. 

And that's who she is and Frank…cares very deeply about her for it. 

She makes him feel like Frank Castle again. 

"That's the last one."

She drops his hand and bounces up to go clean the tweezers. His eyes go right to her ass. Like a true New Yorker she walks every where and it shows. Frank's a simple man.

"I went to the butcher's today and got more ham for stock. I haven't used it yet, I'll make you a sandwich. Would you like beer or coffee?"

"Beer, please," Frank replies. He finally looks away from her and over to the TV. There's a couple touring some run down looking house. "Where they at?"

"California."

"They're always in California." 

"They're based in California, so they didn't spend the money to travel for the first few seasons," she says, starting to flutter around the kitchen, gathering things to cook with. 

"Huh," he grunts, and turns on his chair to face the TV. His eyes drop to the frames on the coffee table. "What'cha working on?"

She doesn't respond right away. Frank waits a few moments, thinking she's busy with something or thinking over her answer, before he looks over. 

Her back is turned to him and her shoulders hunched up. That makes him knit his brow. He waits. She'll tell him when she's ready, but he doesn't like it's something she's nervous about. She's got some of the worst anxiety he's ever seen, but she's gotten better at knowing he won't get angry at her. 

It's not like she's doing anything dangerous - her projects are all crafts in one way or another. 

It takes her a full minute before she turns around and comes back to him. He holds out his hands and she takes it, giving the smallest of tugs. He gets up and follows her easily, heading over towards the couch. Max looks up at them, tail starting to thunk hard against the seat. She leads him to the other end and he sits, raising the urge to pull her into his lap. He lets her sit between him and her dog.

Frank finally notices a yellow envelope on the table and he instantly knows it has photos in it. Real printed out photos. He lets go of her hand to reach for it. 

Sadie is still as a statue beside him. 

There's a fair amount of photos in the envelope and he slides the stack out into his hand.

And nearly fucking drops them.

Lisa and Maria are beaming back up at him, wearing swimsuits at the beach. He's never seen this picture before in his life.

He flips to the next photo. 

It's Frank Jr's school photo.

The next is Lisa and her friends at a bowling alley. She's posing with a ball. 

The next is he and Maria's wedding photo.

"Facebook," Sadie says so softly it almost spooks him. "And Instagram. A lot of their friends don't have private accounts. I…ummm.. Made enough to make into an album for you, too."

That pulls his eyes away from Maria's smile and he frowns up at Sadie. 

She's looking down at her lap, wringing her hands. Her voice is still quiet when she speaks, "Dia de Los Muertos is coming up and I thought they would want to know how you were doing. I've never made one before, but my abuelita would make an altar for my abuelito every year to give him all the gossip, so I kind of have an idea."

Frank looks back to Maria. His chest is getting tight. There's something growing in his throat. "You made 'em an altar?"

She squirms beside him, "I'm still making it…" She sounds ashamed over the fact. 

He doesn't know how to feel. There's so much going through him and God, seeing Maria's smile is destroying him but he wants to sear it into his memory. His hands shake as he flips to the next photo.

It's him and Lisa. He remembers taking it - they went to Coney Island without checking the weather and it rained on them. About ten minutes after Lisa demanded they take a selfie. 

God, she'd laugh her ass off if she knew how many dumb selfies he's been in. The thought makes him tear up and he starts tracing over her smile. His baby girl. He misses her so much. 

He misses them all so much. 

He forces his eyes away from the photos and back to Sadie.

She's still not looking at him and he can feel the nerves rolling off her in waves. She's scared how he's gonna react and it makes his heart hurt. He knows whatever she is doing is with pure intentions - she's not snooping around or anything. He's not sure what she's doing, if he's being honest, but he's got a rough idea. He's seen the sugar skulls and knows what an altar is. 

Frank swallows the lump in his throat and locks his lips. "Can I help?" He asks and his voice is cracked to shit.

Her head turns to him slowly, her lips turning up into that beautiful bright smile. She starts to nod eagerly, and Frank's heart is pounding in his chest for so many reasons. 

"We need to find photos. I was looking for really happy things. Good memories for them to come back to? And…um…" She leans down and Frank watches her pull out a shopping bag out from under the table and up onto her lap. Max pushes his head into her lap, sniffing loudly. She opens the bag towards him and he sticks his head right in. Finding nothing for him, he pulls back and flops back down with a huff. 

Sadie then shows him what's in the bag - two little Lego sets, both dinosaur themed. The lump in his throat comes back full force and his hand is shaking again as he pulls out one of the boxes. 

They'd go feral for these - Lisa and Frankie. These are the toys aimed at older kids. Hell, he used to always get a kick out of putting them together, no matter his age. It's always been fun to see what little blocks can build. He can hear them in his head, screeching and laughing about stealing each other's blocks.  He can picture being roped into building some big thing so they can have their dinosaurs tear it down just in time for dinner. 

"I didn't know," Sadie starts, her voice back to being so soft, "if I should build them or not. My abuelito only ever got tequila, cigarettes, and the paper. But they are meant to be played with, so leaving them in the box seems…sad?" She looks from the box in his hands up to Frank's face, "What do you think?"

He licks his lips before putting the box and stack of photographs down on the coffee table. He turns back to Sadie, takes in her large, love filled brown eyes, and part of him just melts. 

How can she be so good? So good to him?

There ain't no way in hell he deserves her goodness. And not at this level. 

Finding pictures of his family, getting toys for his kids, doing all this because she knows how important they are to him. How important they will always be. 

He is supposed to be pampering her and here she is, making him cry. 

Frank takes her face in his hands and kisses her, soft but firm, running his thumb over her cheek as he does. She sighs into him, turning towards him so she can rest her palms on his chest. He doesn't miss a beat, dropping his hands to her hips and tugging her into his lap so she's straddling him. She moves so easily for him, making soft little pleased noises the whole time, settling against him. 

He slides one hand up her back, pushing up her tank top until he reaches her shoulders, then let's the fabric drop back down, before going up her neck and burying his hand into her hair. He bites her bottom lip lightly before pulling back just enough to talk. She tries to follow him and he ends up mumbling into her mouth between more kisses.

"I think buildin' 'em would be perfect. Think you're perfect, sweetheart, for doin' this. Thinking of them. You got no idea," he gets out as he starts kissing down her jaw to her neck, "Thank you." He might start actually crying if he keeps going, so he buries his face into the crook of her neck. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and holds him close, cradling his head against her and lightly scratching the nape of his neck with her nails. Comforting him so he doesn't turn into a mess.

She kisses his temple and she gives a little hum against him before she starts talking, "You said you don't get to visit them as much as you'd like, so I thought they'd like to know how you're doing. And…" She nuzzles against where she kissed, like she's shy about what she's got to say, "I wanted to meet them…let them know you.. Aren't alone."

And God, that just fucking gets him. Frank hugs her tighter to him, trying to absorb her into him because part of him never wants to let her go. 

He takes a shaky breath and looks up at her, and he can't help but smile because she's smiling down at him. She really is his angel. 

"Nah…not alone. I got you to take care of me." He gives her another sweet kiss, "Don't know how I got so lucky." 

"Fate," she replies with a hint of mischief. It's her go to answer for everything and it's not something he believes in, but he's not going to argue with her. 

She slides off his lap, turning to grab the stack of photos on the table as she does, then curls against his side, tucking her feet up under her. Frank wraps his arm around her to hold her close and looks down at the image of Lisa clasped in Sadie's hands.  Lisa would have loved Sadie. Maria and Frankie, too. 

"Will you tell me about this one?" Sadie asks, flipping the photo of him and Lisa to the back to reveal one of Maria dressed up like a pirate for Halloween. Lisa, still a baby, is wearing a parrot onesie and has clearly just poured her bottle all over Maria's top. 

Frank can't help the bark of laughter that escapes him, "Oh Lordy, I remember this. Lisa had just started really eaten solid food…"

And just like that, another part of Frank Castle blooms back to life from the ashes of the Punisher's past. 

[mysticdeath]

scene + hope's birth, for klaus.

agony lingers in his bones, radiating from every aching, splintered fragment of strength klaus mikaelson can muster. shards of glass tear through his lungs with each rasp of breath. or that's what it feels like anyway. every heartbeat, a laborious, aching throb that seemed to echo through his battered body. he staggers forward, fighting against the creeping numbness overtaking him. but it isn't his wounds that steal his strength — IT'S THE SOUND. that raw, heart - wrenching cry that cuts through the night like lightning slashing open the sky. hayley's voice, laced with agony, trembling with the kind of terror he figures only a mother can feel. her pain calls to him. clawing at the raw, unhealed spaces in him, drawing him forward with a desperation that swallows him whole.

instinctively. filthily. the hybrid stumbled through the first line of witches that dared to stand between him and the mother of his child. his hands shake, bloodied and raw, but he cuts them down, one by one, through the power of sheer desperation, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, an unyielding resolve pulsing with every step. but even it proves fruitless. for the great and ancient klaus mikaelson is dragged down to his bones, his very soul scalded by betrayal and bound by a weakness he hasn’t known in a millennium — still, he will break the world to reach her. he can feel his blood churning, each thud in his chest pounding with a fury and terror he cannot temper, cannot contain. and then, at last, his gaze falls upon her.

the sight of hayley splayed upon the altar, forced down like an unwilling lamb laid out for slaughter, ignites a storm in him. RAW AND UNTAMED. her body writhes, her hands clutching at the empty air, her face twisted in torment. she is more than the mother of his child; in this moment, she is everything he cannot be and never would — vulnerable, mortal, precious beyond reason. her cries pierce through him, wrenching apart whatever tattered shreds of his heart remain. he lunges forward, his mouth forming words he cannot voice. his hand reaching out, though he cannot close the distance. but before he can take another step, a spell latches onto him, yanking him back, pinning him hard against the wall.

immobilized. helpless. useless. the cold stone bites into his back, and his arms fall limp, suspended in the air like some grotesque effigy. he is powerless. TRAPPED AND BROKEN. a prisoner within his own rage and anguish, his screams caught behind his teeth. they die there, silenced. for he is no match for their magic. it roars within him : the rage, the frustration, that familiarity — yet he cannot break free. he can do nothing but watch as they force hayley, tell her to push, to suffer, to bring their child into the world. a cruel mockery of life and death entwining on this blasphemous altar. a life meant for violence. for bloodshed. his child's life.

and then — a wail. the first cry of his daughter cleaves through the silence, fragile and fierce, filling the vast emptiness of the church with a sound so pure, so untouched. he can feel his heart, his traitorous heart, straining against his ribs as his gaze is drawn to the fragile, breathing life in genevieve’s hands. a daughter. HIS DAUGHTER. it hits him like the first, fierce rush of sunlight after centuries of darkness, this warmth, this strange, bewildering warmth spreading through him. expanding, stretching. his breath catches in his throat, and for a single, impossible heartbeat, he forgets everything. his pain, the betrayal, every monstrous thing he’s ever done, every dark whisper that’s ever clung to his name — bit by bit. piece by piece. it all fades, lost in the wonder, the blinding, unbearable beauty of her though he cannot comprehend it.

she is radiant. a living contradiction against the darkness that surrounds them. this tiny, fragile thing, so impossibly delicate, fills the empty spaces in him he had not known were hollow. holding the entirety of his heart in the delicate, trembling curl of her fingers, the newborn wisps of her breath. he has seen empires rise and fall, watched stars collapse and crumble, and felt the unrelenting weight of centuries, yet none of it compares. none of it holds a fraction of the power that she has in this single, precious moment. awe cascades through him, unfamiliar, achingly warm, filling the cracks of his broken spirit with light he has never known. and, creeping along the edges of that overwhelming love, there is terror. bone - deep, soul - rending terror, a fear he cannot swallow, cannot reason away. for the first time in his thousand years, klaus mikaelson knows the weight of fragility, of vulnerability. it has his daughter's face, and it crushes him beneath its weight.

their gazes meet— his and hayley’s —bound by a shared joy so profound it transcends the agony of the night. she cradles their daughter to her chest, her tear - streaked face softened, transformed by love he can see reflected in her every breath. they share a smile, faint but luminous, as if they are suspended in some sacred, untouched instant. he wants to hold onto it, to keep it frozen in time. THIS FAMILY. this one perfect moment where nothing and no one can touch them. but then, in a heartbeat, it is ripped away. a violent stroke of fate. monique steps forward, her hand cold and pitiless as it wraps around hayley’s hair. pulling, pulling, pulling. it yanks, rearing hayley's head back with ruthless precision, a coldness that chills even him. and before klaus can even shout, before the horror can fully register, monique drags the blade across hayley’s throat, leaving a brutal, crimson line in its place. blood pours forth, vivid and brutal. a dark tide that spills down her body and stains the altar in final, irrevocable testament to her sacrifice. a pain he was never strong enough to never shield her from.

"NO!" his voice tears from his throat, raw and broken, a wretched cry that reverberates through the empty, unfeeling stone, but there is no power left in him. no force strong enough to shatter the spell binding him. he can do nothing, nothing but watch as the life drains from her. her eyes wide, filled with a sorrow so deep it will haunt him for eternity. his breaths come in fractured gasps, his heart tearing itself apart with every agonized beat, every shuddering intake of breath as he clings to the image of her, burned into his mind as she fades from this world. the witches gather his child like a prize, cradling her in hands unworthy of the life they hold. they turn, moving like shadows, leaving him behind with nothing but the echoes of his daughter’s first cry and hayley’s last breath.

he watches them, eyes wild and burning. his fury trapped within him, suffocating him. with a flick of a wrist, a witch snaps his neck, ending his world in a crack of magic. his body collapses, a lifeless puppet tumbling to the floor, but even as the darkness claims him, he knows he will rise. he will rise again, and when he does, NOTHING — not gods, nor witches, nor the weight of a thousand years of torment — will stop him from reclaiming what is his.

| | | | 🩸 — send me a scene and i'll write in detail how they felt in it, accepting.

[dominimoonbeam]

Don’t Run - 1

tags: mobsters, dark themes, bad childhood, arranged marriage, reference to past violence, reference to past murder

DON’T RUN - ONE

Freya Morgan had the long drive down to Everton to think about her life, but all she could think about was the graveyard stretching farther and farther from her back.

She hadn’t known that clearing at the back of the property, near the base of the mountain, was a graveyard when she was a kid. There were no markers. She had played there, and no one had ever said.

She hadn’t known until the night her momma tried to run and her daddy dragged her home.

The Morgans didn’t bury their dead in that clearing, they buried their living there.

It was the final resting place for traitors and fuck ups. Her aunt had a space picked out for Freya since she was ten, right next to her momma.

But Freya wasn’t going into that ground.

Freya hadn’t run.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to get away. She just had to be smart about it.

If she played her cards right, Everton would be her chance. She had never been this far from the mountain—this far from her family.

The car slowed just inside the city and pulled up in front of a hotel.

Freya grabbed the handle and tried to open the door, but it was still locked.

The driver didn’t look but the guy next to him did. Paul. One of her aunt’s thugs. He raised an eyebrow like she was going to rabbit and he would get to chase her down.

Freya sank back into her seat with a roll of her eyes. She wasn’t going to give him the pleasure. She folded her arms and put on her practiced bored face.

The locks popped but before she could even think about trying the door again, it was opened from outside the tinted window. Roger, her aunts personal guard, held the door.

Freya scooted over.

They hadn’t driven together but it seemed they were going to arrive together. Were they presenting a united front? Her aunt, the kind but staunch matron of a crime family, and Freya, her aunt’s beloved only niece to be sacrificed at the altar of peace.

It was all lies. Her aunt was a blood-thirsty terror and Freya was a pawn. Not even the peace was real. It was about a deal, agreed upon boarders, and new trade between the northern counties and Everton. The Ellises had a chokehold on the city and the port, and Aunt Sybil wanted access. The problem was their long history of deception and murder. The Morgans could only be trusted to do one thing—whatever the fuck they wanted. And the Ellises would do whatever got them the most money.

Her aunt settled in beside her, not acknowledging her until the car was on its way again. Her salt and pepper hair was in a thick braid over one shoulder, steely eyes fixed ahead, and coat collar high. She had a wicked scar on her neck from the time her husband tried to garrote her long before Freya was born, and she wore high collars and scarves to hide it when she left the homestead.

“Are you plannin’ to give me trouble?” Sybil asked, voice steady but with a flutter of amusement at the idea.

Freya turned forward, subconsciously imitating her posture. “No ma’am.” The car rolled slowly through traffic and she fought the impulse to turn her head and study the busy night streets.

“We’ll hand you over tonight, sign the papers, and be back for the officially party in two weeks.”

Freya pressed teeth into her tongue to keep down her initial response, and the one after that. Finally, she asked, her tone carefully devoid of accusation. “This was always your plan for me?” She couldn’t help but think back to all the stupid classes and lessons she’d had that no one else in her generation had. Why she could never cut her hair. Why her aunt was so angry that time Wyatt nearly broke her nose when they were teens. It had been an accident and it wasn’t like her aunt to care about her wellbeing—but it was about her face. He could have busted her face.

“It was always a possibility. Do this right, and I’ll let you walk away.”

What was terrifying was how honest she sounded when she said things like that. Sybil Morgan was a woman who had played soft and foolish many times. She enjoyed lower expectations. She liked when her prey thought they were going to get away.

Freya knew it was a lie, because she was a Morgan too.

Her aunt had no intention of letting her go, not even if she did everything she was told, but she also knew that her only options were the Ellis family or that graveyard without markers.

 #

 Adi Ellis had spent the last thirty minutes pitting his parents against each other in hopes of creating one of those perfect storms where they broke shit and everyone had to leave. Dinner would be called off and maybe the stupid marriage would be postponed.

Adi had tried reasoning and even refusing, since all of that had failed, he figured why not let Rebecca Ellis have at it?

It wouldn’t be the first time his mom burned a business deal for his dad.

Harmon Ellis drained his glass and refilled it at the bar along the wall. Most rooms in this house had a bar. Adi used to empty the decanters and refill them with water and apple juice when he was little. He would serve his siblings and they would all take turns pretending to be their parents. “I mean, if you’d really rather not marry the Morgan girl,” his father began, addressing him and not his mother with that reasonable tone that suggested he would be anything but. “We can hand one of your sisters over to them.”

Adi stared back at the old man. “This is archaic and stupid,” he said, but it was the fifth time and not likely to change anything. “What about Grayson?” he suggested, just being a shit about it now because they both knew that wasn’t going to happen. “He is your first born. Make him get married.”

Adi shouldn’t have said it and knew it the instant his mother pressed a smile into the lip of her glass.

“He’s not blood,” she said, as if speaking the words into her wine would keep the two men in the room from hearing them.

Adi curled his lip at her, and Harmon did the same, exhaling a sharp, “Careful.”

There had always been rumors about Grayson’s parentage, cultivated and spread with a vengeance by Adi’s mother. It wasn’t that it wasn’t possible. Grayson had never resembled their father, and all of Harmon’s romantic relationships had been fraught with affairs, break-ups, and some very questionable overlaps of time.

Harmon and his first wife, Stephanie, hadn’t exactly been divorced when Adi’s mother got pregnant with him.

Over the years, he’d heard plenty about it over dinners gone to dramatic shit when the two women collided. Ellis family holidays were particularly explosive.

But Grayson, for all the rumors, was family. Their father had never asked for or allowed any conversation about a paternity test, no matter how Rebecca had pushed when her kids were still young, and she was still his wife.

Harmon had remarried his first wife a few years back, going back to the familiar in his old age maybe, while Rebecca seemed to prefer her position as the hostile ex and mother to Harmon’s heir.

She had mostly dropped her remarks about Grayson’s parentage a decade back when he rebelled hard and made it clear he wasn’t going to be taking over shit.

It had all fallen to Adi and Adi was pretty fucking happy about that.

Except for today.

Today he was pissed because he really didn’t want to marry a stranger—let alone a stranger likely to try to kill him.

Rebecca gave up with a dramatic sigh, kissed her son’s head, and then flowed out of the room to check on the dinner party like this was still her house. There was a possibility that she and Steph would clash and bring the night to an early close with tossed wine and maybe a few soap opera slaps.

God, Adi really did love his family.

He got up and buttoned his jacket. His father lingered by the door, watching him. They were photos of one another on a timeline that would never catch up. Adi was just a little taller, a little broader in the shoulders and slimmer at the waist, but it wasn’t far from how his old man had looked at his age. Only his suits had been less flattering.

“You’re the only one I can trust with this, Adi,” Harmon said, voice rough like he’d spent too much of his life yelling rather than whispering. “Grayson can be…empathetic and rebellious.”

Adi fought down a smile. That was one way of putting it. Grayson would either fall in love with the treacherous Morgan woman or collude with her against their father, if he was the one forced to marry her. Grayson was loyal to the family—the siblings—but the love between him and their father had twisted into something that hurt both of them after the incident. Nothing had been the same after that and though Harmon and Steph had spent a lot of time and money trying to get Grayson back to the person he had been before, Adi thought who he was after was who he had always been, just set free.

“And Evan would be an easy mark. He’s too trusting.”

“I’m not sure this is flattering to me, old man…”

“You’re sharp. You’ll see whatever plan she has before she strikes.”

Adi stared back at him, suddenly not amused anymore. “And then what?”

Harmon Ellis stared back at him with the cold eyes that none of his wives or girlfriends had ever seen. Neither had his younger children. And that was why, though his mom had spread those rumors about Grayson not being his father’s son, Adi knew he was, because he had seen that look on his brother. Harmon would do anything for the kingdom he had built, just like Grayson would do anything to protect his siblings from it. And what would Adi do? What would he protect or burn?

Harmon finished his second glass and put it down on a bookshelf before leaving the room first.

[alleyskywalker]

Robb Stark/Jeyne Westerling

They do the best they can in the circumstances with her dress and maiden's cloak – some lace and silk ribbon sewn onto one of her white muslin dresses to spruce it up, their house sigil cut from a ruined cloak and stitched onto one of hers. Jeyne tries to not think of where they'd found an old, ruined cloak with a sigil in such haste, under what circumstances it had become ruined. (She tries to pretend she hadn't heard her mother discuss with the washerwomen how hard it is to get blood out of cloth, how they'd need to go through several, likely, before they found one that works.)

It's not what she had imagined her wedding would be like, if she'd imagined it at all. She can still hear her sister screaming, whore, traitor, as she walks down the aisle on her brother’s arm. She knows that behind her mother’s forced smile there is a pained acceptance and her uncle won’t meet her eyes. No one will meet her eyes.

She could have said no, she supposes. I’ll kill him, Raynald had sworn before she explained, hot tears running down her face: he didn’t force me. I love him.

Robb takes her hand before the septon at the altar, somber and flushed, his eyes tender. Maybe she’s a fool; maybe she should have lied. But it had been beyond her will, just as loving him was and always would be.

[send me a ship + prompt and I'll write a 3 sentence fic]

[one-winged-dreams]

@jackals-ships

WE GET IT DUDE, YOU'RE A GOD

I'M STILL NOT GOING TO TAKE TIME OUT OF MY FFVII REBIRTH PREP BECAUSE YOU'RE SUDDENLY NEEDY

[ffxvficrec]

2023 PROMPTIS GIFT EXCHANGE ROUND UP 1

You can also check out the collection here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Promptis_Gift_Exchange_2023

We’ve listed additional pairings, archive warnings, and ratings, but please remember to mind the tags!

More Than One "Night Light Sky" by jam_calamity 

General Rating

No Archive Warnings Apply

Noctis and Prompto share a special moment watching a meteor shower together under the Duscae night sky.

Like Real People Do by Loki_chan 

Teen Rating

No Archive Warnings Apply

He looked down at Noctis, unable to help the grin on his face as he watched Noctis’ grumpy expression. “What’s up, Noct?” Noctis just groaned and thrust the paper at him, covering his eyes with his arm. Prompto took the paper, bemused. What could bother Noctis so much? He didn’t usually let the tabloids get to him. “He’s upset because they say the Niff prince has surfaced again.” Gladio leaned on the kitchen counter, eyeing them while Ignis worked. Prompto frowned as he skimmed the front page article. Everyone knew the story of the missing Niflheim prince. Right at the end of the war, as the Emperor was chasing down Besithia for his misdeeds, his youngest son went missing. Sentiment was generally split between believing the poor boy was dead or being hidden away for some future political purpose. Officially, he was listed as missing, and periodically someone would pop up claiming to have found him in order to collect the reward. Prompto felt for the young prince, but he was selfishly glad he would probably never be found. He didn’t want Noctis to have to marry someone he’d never met. He didn’t want Noctis to marry anyone. Anyone not him, the traitorous voice in the back of his head whispered.

One True Groom by Maniikoi 

Teen Rating

No Archive Warnings Apply

Prince Prompto Aldercapt of Niflheim and Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum of Insomnia both share the same problem—they’re both arranged to be married to people they’ve never met and won’t know until they’re at the altar. Prompto travels to Insomnia to enjoy what little freedom he has left before he’s metaphorically collared to a complete stranger. He’s resigned himself to his fate until he meets a certain feline prince at Insomnia College for his final year and catches feelings.

Clear Hearts, Cloudy Skies by cloudbureiku 

General Rating

No Archive Warnings Apply

“You made it-” Noctis started, getting cut off as Prompto quickly closed the distance between them and enveloped him in a crushing hug. He froze for a second before melting into Prompto’s embrace. “I thought you were dead, Prompto. Your phone-”

Courage to Confess by treya_barton 

Teen Rating

No Archive Warnings Apply

Now that Noctis has survived saving Eos, the Chocobros decide to go on another road trip to celebrate his return. Only the other three have been acting kind of strange lately and Prompto especially seems to be hiding something. Noctis decides he's going to get to the bottom of it while on the trip and doesn't realize that may be what the others plan for him too.

right here waiting for you by sephirothflame

Explicit Rating

No Archive Warnings Apply

It was a lifetime coming, Noctis dancing with Prompto in the crowded hall, a shiny new crown on his head. They've waited long enough to acknowledge this thing between them.

In the Here and Now by Amarilly (Tookbaggins) 

Mature Rating

Graphic Depictions of Violence

Major Character Death

Grounded. Prompto needed to be in the here and now. He could feel a faint beat pressed against his chest. Feeling another person’s heart beating was strange and wonderful against the silence of his own. The quick pace was exhilarating and he smiled, pressing another kiss to Noct’s face as he reached out blindly to slide the screen of the doorway closed.

would you like your receipt in the bag by kiwiaste

Teen Rating

No Archive Warnings Apply

or would you prefer my number instead?

Arrangements, Secrets & Promises by Marlingrl 

Explicit Rating

No Archive Warnings Apply

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret/Noctis Lucis Caelum

When Prompto is stabbed during Noctis' wedding, it sets off a series of events that upend not only Prompto's life, but also change the entire political landscape of Eos in the process

you’re all i want (to love, to hold) by dreamtowns

General Rating

No Archive Warnings Apply

Noctis is just barely shy of nineteen when he meets his fiancé, Prompto Argentum Aldercapt; First Imperial Prince of the Niflheim Empire, as many an article proclaims. When Noctis pondered on his future spouse, he knew it would be an arranged marriage. It was a rare occasion when nobility married for love. Nonetheless, he had accepted the fact that he would share the rest of his life with a spouse he had little care for and could only hope he would grow to love them and vice versa. He did not, however, expect his future spouse to be the prince of Niflheim.

[one-winged-dreams]

REESE IT IS SO FUCKING SPOOKY THAT YOU POSTED THIS because I was JUST going through my old Knull content

once again randomly thinking about psycho goreman is so much just @virus-selfship and knull and losing it

[inherhouseshewaitsdreaming]

Music March 20

Prompts for this month will be song based. I am going to suggest a song each day, but my song choices definitely lean towards being good prompts for horror, so if you want something lighter, pick a song that means more to you. I’ll post a quote that you can take, or you can listen to the song as a whole. I’ve selected songs from two bands who are bringing a horror atmosphere into their music. As with the tarot cards, use them to generate ideas or short pieces of writing, or even scenes that might form part of a larger work.

Song 20 is Circle With Me by Spiritbox.

“Feel the weight of a martyr It could all be yours if you echo birds of prey Traitor cut down the altar It could all be yours Vultures circling the flame”

Some ideas based on this song:

Your character is expected to inherit something/follow a tradition. They refuse that legacy and forge their own path. An example might be the descendent of a chosen one.

A character who is key to a rite decides instead to stop it. What happens next?

[theslothycat]

Seasons

Spring, summer, fall and winter

Strings of my heart tied around your fingers

Spring, summer, fall and winter

Travel through my blood, tracing my veins like rivers in a map

Spring, summer, fall and winter

Collide against my being, my essence, we are a Stellar collision.

Spring, summer, fall and winter

One kiss, our universe made from just a scrap.

Your voice echos inside my ears, moving the engines of my cage.

My fate tied by my ankles, crawling through space with my body made of scales and my mind still a red supergiant. Song of sirens, Eye of the Storm.

Prisoners of time, we seen past and future of ages.

My body crumbles down, ashes, my soul tied by waves.

A warrior eaten by its battlefield and a god eaten by his altar, by his worshippers. Hold me tight in your hands and own my strength within with your kiss. For you I shall become your knight, but you throw my sword as you crown me a equal besides the stars.

I am the Hermes of your sun. The fallen angel of your god.

The sudden gust of wind in your tomb, the hound of Zeus, snatching you for myself like the harpy I am.

Bounded by the ancients blood in my veins, their mistakes falling down my born flesh. Supernova. The god of mars.

But you embrace my flames as you call me your vermilion bird of the south, infiltrate my season, the opposite of me: black tortoise.

The myth of the forgotten god.

Long dead songs sang of you, a walking dream on earth.

Paradise in your slumber, a sweet lullaby in your ears and tender ties in your mind.

Your altars and statues have long aged and decayed, your paintings and manuscripts already returned to the earth in which once they were born of and your prayers belonged to the broken wails of the dead.

But your existence still prevails like Uranium in seawater.

He is a blurry dream that sails in your mind like deep water currents, like the untamed winds of the sea. Something where you can only recall the pleasant parts, but never it’s full history and why he was forgotten in the first place.

Dreams may be paradise, so as can be the sea, but just like it’s body runs deeper and deeper where you can’t see the carcasses of sailors it has laying on it flesh, drowned by the traitorous abyss of subconscious.

My planet overheating with the realization hitting my bones. My master polishing my body to his liking. cutting, ripping, stabbing, breaking, burning, smashing, again again and again. My solemn wings scarred since golden times.

My steps of earth marking each passing of my endless years to come, the endless winters and summers. My past erased as he is locked away, his mistake now my consequence. His friend now my foe.

My rough feet, who only has known solitude and violent bloody floor of the battlefield, paces around the white and clean floors of a prestigious place. Like i wasn’t capable of tainting it in snap of my fingers. Unworthy.

He smiles at me, with a falsity that seems mocking. Smirking like a Cheshire cat, his purples eyes reveal nothing but power thirst: moving us around like paws in his chess game.

Friends in variety, the soberness before inebriety.

You cup my face as you tell me you will never leave me. You are my home for all seasons. You are my sun to my glacial winter, as I am your moon to your fiery summer, I am your fall and you my spring. Because just like to the galaxies to simplest of systems in our world, we are the seasons of our years and the years of our life’s but together we are a entire universe.

[one-winged-dirty-dreams]

I was thinking about the semantics behind me and Knull’s ability to fuck.

Like, I was thinking some sort of mindspace thing while he hijacks my symbiote to do stuff EXTERIOR to the mindspace for ~authenticity~.

I don’t know, it counts as fucking.

[one-winged-dreams]

@flatstarcarcosa

YOU FUCKING SUMMONED HIM WITH YOUR NORMAN POSTING LIKE BLOODY MARY