#*i am exploded with the force of one thousand green suns*

[incorrect-hs-quotes]

DIRK: Tell me, is being a complete and utter moron a prerequisite for being a Lord, or a side effect?

CALIBORN: LET ME ANSWER YOuR QuESTION WITH ANOTHER QuESTION. WHO WILL BE THE MORON AFTER MY WHITE-HOT RAGE CRuSHES YOuR LITTLE BODY INTO A MANGLED BLOODY PuLP WHILE I SING A JAuNTY TuNE TO ACCOMPANY YOuR uNANSWERED CRIES FOR MERCY?

[puxinghua]

YOU HURT MY FEELINGS A MILLION TIMES. YOU'VE MADE ME SHED A THOUSAND TEARS AND I CAN'T BREATHE IN THE DAY OR SLEEP AT NIGHT BECAUSE YOU CRAWL INTO MY VISIONS AND CALL ME NAMES. I yell back sniffling at the echoes of my own repeated thoughts by daylight, and dream of gracefully drowning when the sun dips low, when beams of moonlight hit my tongue and the cold glow taste shocks me into needing lake hug. The water's so still that it becomes a second sky. I can trace the Big Dipper between my toes. When I chase the North Star, it's gravity pulling me down toward its ice gleam.

All of my feet slip underneath me to the tune of a familiar boardwalk creak when I finally let the Jersey Shore take me. I've always pined after her for so long, so romantically; I think it's only right that she is the first to swallow me whole, to wrap around every thick and thin of my body and force herself down my throat until there is no more point in gasping for air. Water is my final fear, and today I tackle it footfirst.

I'm shattering Carnegie's precious surface into a million shards of ice light. I feel the sky in the water ripple and burn and chase away the stars because now I've broken the mirage. Supernova dust swims from me like little fish; I radiate reflected light like it's my own.

For an infinite two minutes I am taken beyond the cold of the ice turbulence and into the warm swathes of sticky pink and blood of my mother's uterus. I open my eyes to a glowing Pittsburgh hospital bed; I swim in fabric and sweet kisses. Legs sprout from my shoes and I love the feeling of leaping and landing outside my childhood home, of the green grass playgrounds and the clunky house number 8118 and sparkling view of a golden water. Here, five rivers meet and I call my powder sugar donut holes the juncture.

It's my third birthday and no one shows up to the party. My parents are at a loss for words, my two-foot tall self cries its first real tears. In elementary school I make two foot-tall friends. They graduate and I sit at the window alone during aftercare, nothing but the heater beneath my skinny chalkboard fingers and rainbow kid leggings to heat my sick child self as I wait for the clock to tick down to 5:30 and my mom to come pick me up after work. When the teacher's not looking, I crank open the white winter window and watch my breath float to the sky to become a cloud. My mom's wrapped in a bright yellow puffer and I decide from that point on that my favorite color's gonna be dandelion. 

All the water flows from one chapter of my life to the next, from those Pittsburgh rivers to the waterworks that I can't possibly shore up every time I lose a friend. In high school my heart's wrenched again. "You're too much, I can't keep up." Why are you so fucking depressed? That's a bad friend, people say, but maybe so was I. We were all sixteen anyway. By the time I hear that line in college it's already a staple in my playbook, an old record I can't be bothered pulling off the library shelf. I check off words and stuttered phrases like it's my personal bingo board. "Need distance," "I love you but." I nod in routine. I nod til my chin hits the water. I nod til my jaw snaps against its stone surface and I can't open it to cry out any longer.

YOU HURT MY FEELINGS A MILLION TIMES. YOU'VE MADE ME SHED A THOUSAND TEARS AND I CAN'T BREATHE IN THE DAY OR SLEEP AT NIGHT BECAUSE YOU CRAWL INTO MY VISIONS AND CALL ME NAMES.

The bingo board cracks like the lake's surface. Its stupid phrases curl around my ear with my third birthday cake and a honey yellow jacket. Splash — I'm dying, and you're in my visions again. I'm sorry. Ice. I didn't fucking mean it. My lungs, logged, water. Cold like knives, the words in my ears. Gasps, flails, muted screeches. I swallow every star, I feel their shards rip through my nostrils. I chase the North one like my life depends on it.

Stardust powders my guts, and I explode like Betelgeuse. I'm a tiny bomb in Lake Carnegie, I'm a burst of hot sun on a quiet summer evening. I flash bright white stripe and fan out drizzling every rainbow color and hugged person and creaky shape I have ever loved and hated. I become my own end and beginning. I am a uterus spark and a bingo board ember, a burnt blacksmith coal sinking slowly to the bottom of the rowers' dwelling.

I am an arm and a leg. I am a newspaper headline. I am fish food. I am algae creeping along the surface of the pond. I am a distant memory, a foregone laugh, an unfortunate tragedy, an excellent example of inexcellence and an indignant point to be made. I am an ex-roommate, an ex-friend, an ex-lover. I am an internet obituary with two smiling pictures and eight quotes about how I've always reached for the stars. I am a puff of carbon dioxide evaporating into the sky. I am every tear that I have shed and the path that they took to run into this river. I am the heat death of every atom that composes me. But most importantly, I am without link to the world at my feet. I am free. And I am happy.

[strsburn]

destiny led me to you | loki

pairing - loki laufeyson x female reader

synopsis - driven by the heartbreak of losing your entire world by the hands of thanos, you set out to find him, leaving destruction in your path in multiple universes; thus creating a horde of branches in the timeline and catching the attention of the TVA.

but you would do it all again if it meant you could see him once more.

notes - this is hopefully going to be a series, depending on the feedback i receive, i plan to follow the episodes only slightly because i dont want it to be an exact copy of the show.

[THIS WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR LOKI SERIES]

idea credit ( @horrorisunknowntoyou ) thank you for the inspo and allowing me to run with it!

warnings - death, violence, angst, and possible smut (in later chapters?)

wc - 2.4k

MASTERLIST • AO3

"Dread it, run from it. Destiny arrives all the same." A wrinkled hand reaches for your chin, running prune colored fingers along your jawline, doting; mockingly.

Your heartbeat pulses loudly in your ears, eyes glazing over with exhaustion and pain as you attempt to glare, the notion in vain as the titan merely chuckled amusedly.

"I can see great power in you, little one. An infinity stone pulses beneath your every vein. Tell me, where is the tesseract?"

You remain silent.

"We don't have the tesseract, it was destroyed along with all of Asgard." Thor interjects weakly from where he lies, his body held tightly in the arms of the black order.

Guilt sweeps across your being as you make eye contact with Loki, sharing a single nod as you both know what you must do.

Thanos grows annoyed with your unwillingness to comply as he walks over with loud steps, his footprints visible as he raises his gauntlet up, the power stone shining threateningly close to Thor.

"The tesseract, or your brother's head. I assume you have a preference." It's not a question. Merely a statement, one that Loki knows he must prove unbothered.

"Oh, I do. Kill away." To anyone else it would seem he couldn't care less about his brother's demise, but you know your love better than he does himself and you catch the glance of fear that washes over cerulean eyes.

You can only watch in trepidation as the stone makes contact with the God's head. Agonized cries escaping as his skin is burned by the mere power of the stone.

Loki does his best to look unaffected, but you catch the hitch in his breath as he batters inner turmoil. the universe, or his brother.

"Alright, that's enough!"

Loki turns his palm up, as a familiar blue cube materializes in his hand. The eerie blue glow casting a shadow upon his face.

Thanos steps away, smug. You force yourself to look away from Thor's accusing gaze.

"You truly are the worst, brother." Thor shakes his head, eyes disappointed but not surprised.

As Thanos moves to take the stone from his hand cerulean blue eyes make contact with your own and you feel a wave of fear wash over you as you recognize the look in Loki's eyes.

"I assure you, brother. The sun will shine on us again." He does not move his gaze from your own and you can't help but feel this is an unspoken goodbye.

"Your optimism is misplaced, asgardian."

"Well, for one thing, I'm not asgardian. For another, we have a hulk."

In a blur of color you are shoved from where you lie, a slithe figure covering your own as you breathe in the familiar scent of cinnamon and leather.

"We don't have much time, my love. I just want you to know that I love you dearly, and I am grateful for the time I had with you. May I see you again, in Valhalla." His eyes are teary and you barely process his words, as his hands grab hold of your face and pull you into a kiss.

The kiss is desperate, filled with love and grief and you can only briefly kiss your love back as he steps closer to Thanos, rambling on about undying fidelity.

You catch a glimpse of silver behind his back and you gasp as realization sets in.

You move to reach him just as he leaps for Thanos, the knife poised for his head, frozen in mid air as the stones across his knuckles pulse.

"Undying fidelity, you should choose your words more wisely."

You cry out as Loki struggles in his grip, his skin fading blue. You crawl forward, legs aching as you reach for him, your progress hinged by your inability to walk.

"You will never be a god." The rasped words are followed by a snap as his neck gives out beneath Thanos' hands.

A tortured scream rings out and it takes you a second to realize it's your own. A broken sob leaves you as you crawl forward to reach where Thanos has carelessly thrown the body of your love.

You heave as your shaky fingers caress his face, his lifeless eyes staring ahead as you clutch him to your chest.

You rock back and forth knotting your fingers in his hair as you plead for the nightmare to end.

"No resurrections this time."

A portal opens and closes behind you, yet you make no motion to move.

You simply close your eyes and welcome the sweet release of death as the universe explodes around you.

N E W Y O R K 2 0 1 2

"'Coordinates for search and rescue, on my way now.' I mean honestly, how-" Loki is promptly shut up by the mouth guard that decorates his face, courtesy of his brother.

Displeasure makes an appearance as Loki is led to the elevator followed by the avengers that quickly file in. The only source of entertainment being the temper tantrum the green beast throws as he is denied entry. Loki can hardly contain his glee as he waves mockingly as the doors close.

As he is led to the ground floor his cuffed hands clinking annoyingly with every step he glances wearily around himself, dreading the lecture that is sure to come once he reaches asgard. He has no doubt in his mind that Odin will find perfect reason to throw him to the wolves, lest his mother get involved.

As he contemplates, his attention is caught by the sound of his brother calling for help, the guards holding him, attending to what he perceives to be a heart attack, to none other than the man of metal.

He watches, confused as a small stature kicks the case holding the tesseract away from view as the others tend to Stark.

Looking around bemused he watches to see what will conspire next. Before any other move can be made a shout is heard as the doors to the staircase along with the wall is torn apart, the hulk making his distaste for the tedious activity known.

For once since meeting the beast he feels thankful, as the case holding the tesseract is knocked open, the familiar cube sliding towards his foot.

A beat passes and grabbing a hold of the familiar cube he glances around, vanishing in a thin cloud of blue.

T V A U N K N O W N

Hurried footsteps echo down the corridor as the man moves with barely contained excitement. Tie swinging to and fro, a slightly wrinkled hand pulls at the collar of his neck nervously.

Mobius had seen many variants in his time at the TVA. Yet, none had ever come close to interesting as the file he currently held in one hand. Variant L1130 or Loki, as he was called, was perhaps one of the most complicated cases he had come across.

Born as a legend of mythology it was quite unbelievable to know that not only was he real, but he happened to be in their custody for creating a new branch in the timeline. Mobius could only hope Renslayer would agree to allowing him to be the God's superior.

Entering the courtroom, Mobius sits down and watches with rapt attention as Loki attempts to bargain with Ravonna. His plans are foiled as he tries to call upon his magic in a last effort to escape.

Mobius feels it's time to intervene when Renslayer makes it clear he is to be executed.

"You have no idea what I am capable of!"

"Actually I might have an idea of what he is capable of." He offers as he makes his way up to the stand.

His plea must be written across his face as Ravonna leans over to look at him directly.

"Whatever you're planning, it's a bad idea." She warns.

Nonetheless she reluctantly lets him go and Mobius has to fight off the urge to fist pump the air as he escorts Loki down the hallway.

"Oh, I'm Agent Mobius by the way." He offers a hand that is quickly ignored.

He can practically see the distrust written on Loki's face, his eyes calculating every move he makes.

Mobius is hardly surprised that as soon as he enters the room, his back turned to the God as he adjusts his projector, Loki is surging forward to attack. He doesn't even bat an eyelash as he clicks a button on his remote, resetting the God as if the action never even happened.

"C'mon, let's take a look at some of your greatest hits." Mobius waves a hand, as Loki curiously sits down, eyes trained on the projector.

He finds himself staring back at a hologram of his attack on New York. His blue eyes darting back and forth with glee as chaos erupts around him.

A feeling of something akin to shame runs down his spine as he recalls his reign of terror on the city, an illusion of preying on the weak to hide his own fear, lest he fail and succumb to Thanos and his minions.

Loki clenches his jaw, arms crossing over his form in an attempt to hide himself as he turns to avoid the screen.

"I see no point in this-"

"No, no wait, this is just getting good." Mobius grins as he points to the screen and Loki finds himself once again face to face with another variation of himself.

He briefly recalls the time he had lost a bet to Thor and had to change his form into that of a ginger haired man wearing a clean three piece suit, claiming he had a bomb and required over two hundred thousand in midgardian money just to see if he could pull it off. He did, in fact, pull it off, but his mother was not happy as well as the midgardians who failed to solve the case, naming him D.B. Cooper as they had no clue as to his real identity.

His attention is pulled to the screen as a familiar voice of silk enters the scene and he watches as his mother speaks to his future self, his eyes drawn into her face.

"Then am I not your mother?" He hears her ask. Yes, you are.

"No. You are not." Loki's eyes start to mist as he watches the look of hurt pass over his mother's features before she schools her expression into one of contempt.

"Always so perceptive, about everyone but yourself." She decides.

The screen flickers and he sees himself talking to an intruder, his voice amused as he suggests the monster to take the stairs to the left.

Then, his mother, Frigga, lying on the cold ground, a puddle of red growing rapidly beneath her body as her eyes remained closed.

His breath hitches, anger now licking up his spine. He turns sharply to Mobius who smartly remains silent.

"What is this! Some cruel joke? Where is she?! Where do you have her?"

Mobius steps forward, expression neutral as he speaks.

"She's dead Loki. This is the future, it's destined to happen, again and again because that's how it should be."

Loki falters his eyes narrowing as he spits "You're lying! I'll kill you!"

"What? Like you killed your mother."

There's a split second of silence before an angered shout is heard, a chair splitting the air as it crashes into pieces along the floor.

Before anything else can be said Mobius is summoned by Hunter B-15, his eyes falling to Loki who remains silent and he leaves with a slight tinge of guilt burrowing in his chest at the haunted look in the God's eyes.

"You think yourself so sly don't you." Loki looks up at the unfamiliar voice as the projector suddenly comes to life, a new image flicking gently on screen. His eyes catch upon your form and he watches in awe and wonder as you sit beside his future self.

"I don't think, love. I know." He grins leaning in to steal a kiss from you that leaves you both breathless.

He watches as your eyes are filled with nothing but love and adoration for him as you lean into his side.

"Loki?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Do you believe in soulmates?"

Loki tilts his head in contemplation as he looks to you, before a soft grin pulls at his lips.

"I didn't until I met you. I know that no matter who or what tries to tear us apart, we will always find a way back to each other."

A smile breaks out onto your face and Loki watches in stunned silence as the clip ends with the two of your voices fading into laughter.

"You two are meant to be together."

Loki turns as Mobius slowly comes to a stop behind him, his expression thoughtful.

"I don't enjoy hurting people you know." He responds, motioning towards the screen in reference to his attack on New York and the death of his mother.

Mobius doesn't respond, and he takes that as a sign to continue.

"I do it because I have to. Because I've had to." He looks down as he fiddles with his fingers.

Mobius hums as he replies.

"Why? Why do you think that is?"

"It's part of the illusion. It's the cruel, elaborate trick conjured by the weak to inspire fear."

Realization lights up in Mobius' eyes as he answers back.

"A desperate play for control. You do know yourself."

"A villain." Loki sums up.

"Not the way I see it."

There's a mutual silence between them before Mobius sighs.

"Look I can't offer you salvation but I can offer you something better. A fugitive variant has been killing our minutemen."

"And let me guess, you need the God of Mischief to help you stop him."

"That's right."

"How could I possibly be of use to you?"

"That's the thing. The variant we are hunting, we believe is y/n." Mobius looks towards the projector where your image is still.

"I beg your pardon?"

U N K N O W N

Mutilated bodies line the floor as a hooded figure steps over them, eyes glowing an unnatural hue.

"Is it finished?"

"Yes."

A wicked laugh fills the empty space as a portal opens in the deserted land, a set of footsteps following through.

"I'm coming for you, my love."

[ignisaeri]

~

At that time, all Alatus could hear was the howling of the wind, and the screams of the Yakshas as they waged war against their karmic debts.

A blaze of crimson flame splits the night sky as the Pyro Yaksha shrieks, clawing desperately at scarlet locks of hair with bloodied fingernails, trying to rid herself of demons only she can see. Her eyes flash with the light of a thousand stars as she throws her head back, pleading with the darkness in ragged gasps to leave her, to go somewhere where they could not haunt her. She’s still begging as she dies.

~

The Geo Yaksha rests his foot against the Hydro Yaksha’s abdomen, using her still body as leverage to draw his sharpened blade out from between her ribs. His eyes stare into the distance, unseeing, pupils clouded over with an inky black, fingers twitching as they hold the weapon that had killed one of his oldest friends. The Hydro Yaksha only lays quietly, death caressing her form with its bony fingers, the pool of water beneath them tinged pink from blood.

~

The Electro Yaksha falls to his knees, gaze finding Alatus’ one last time, seemingly apologizing for leaving the Anemo Yaksha alone for eternity. His slender hands float over the blade embedded in his chest, then collapses onto his side as his last breaths leave him, currents of violet electricity flickering out into nothing. He dies silhouetted against the blackness of The Chasm, as silent as the sun creeping over the horizon, even as the battle rages endlessly around them.

~

Rex Lapis gazes at Alatus with such pity, such sadness, before smiling hesitantly, gold eyes meeting the Yaksha’s.

‘Sit, Ever Vigilant Yaksha. The archon war is over. Let us share a cup of osmanthus wine.”

“Alatus, I free you from your duty as a Yaksha. In the fables of another world, the name Xiao is that of a spirit who encountered great suffering and hardship. He endured much suffering, as you have. Use this name from now on.”

“Yes, Morax.”

~

The God of Freedom seeks him out one evening, when he’s resting quietly near the edge of a cliff, feet dangling restlessly off the side, imagining the faces of the lost Yakshas floating through the clouds. Barabatos’ braids glow a gentle forest green, and he inclines his head slightly towards Xiao as he nears.

“Alatus, correct?”

“Xiao,” the adeptus corrects him.

“Xiao,” Barbatos says, “Rex Lapis told me of you.”

~

“It was you with the flute, was it not?” Xiao tells Barbatos as they watch the workers construct a massive statue in Liyue’s center, honoring the late Tianquan. Ningguang’s placid face smiles down at them as the workers dust the marble, freeing it from dust and grime.

Venti bobs his head, gaze never straying from where Rex Lapis (now Zhongli) stands with arms folded, gaze dark. With Ningguang gone, the last of the Liyue Qixing has perished.

“Yes,” Venti says. “I saved you that day.”

~

Tonight, they drink, in honor of the dead. Zhongli gingerly holds a glass of osmanthus wine, a glaze lily tucked into his hair. “To Guizhong,” he says. “Havria, Ningguang, and Tartaglia.”

Venti hiccups, face the color of an overripe tomato, the glass of dandelion wine tipping dangerously in his grip. “To the children of Mond,” he choruses. “To the Ragvindr brothers, to Jean, to Lisa, to Noelle. To Klee!”

Baal is here tonight too, and she leans forward restlessly. “To Kujou Sara,” she adds. “To Kitsune, Chiyo, and to Sasayuri.”

Tonight should be solemn, Xiao thinks, as they list the names of their dead companions. Yet, nearly five hundred years after the last of them passed, he feels nothing but contentment.

Xiao raises his own glass. “To the traveler and his sister,” he says. “And to the Yakshas”.

~

Xiao watches as Venti’s fingers dance, weaving an enticing melody through the hollow sounds of his flute. He’s sitting against a rock, the cool water of the stream lapping at his ankles, washing against the outcropping where Venti stands, a face full of bliss as he plays.

The song is one that Xiao wished to hear, one that he had first heard from the cart of a passing merchant shortly after the end of the Archon War.

The notes seem to float away into the air as he listens, chasing away the darkness in his soul, and he closes his eyes, reveling in this small moment of peace.

~

Sometimes, when Xiao sleeps, he dreams. He dreams of a woman wreathed in fire, eyes burning tears down her cheeks. He dreams of a not-truly-there man, standing with his blade buried in the chest of a woman floating limp in blood-tinged water. He dreams of purple lightning dying as a man takes his last breaths deep within The Chasm.

~

He knows, of course, that he cannot run forever. One day, he will become engulfed by his karmic debt, like the Pyro Yaksha, or go mad and disappear, like the Geo Yaksha.

That day comes sooner than he thinks.

~

Liyue is burning. The city is just as Xiao remembers, a perfect place of beauty. If he concentrates, he can still barely remember the night of the Lantern Rite, thousands of years ago. He closes his eyes and wishes to see the light of a hundred lanterns, instead of the light of fire the buildings shudder and succumb to the roaring flame.

Zhongli stands in front of him, something akin to pain in his gaze, one arm thrown to the side to keep Venti from rushing forwards. The Anemo Archon’s eyes are wide and wild, hat askew and bow grasped in shaking hands. Baal stands straight, weapon drawn, sorrow dotting her gaze.

Fontaine’s archon, the God of Justice, flits around the backdrop of burning flame, hurriedly trying to save as much of Liyue as she can. Her hands wave, spilling waves of water over the temples and buildings, undoing the damage that Xiao caused. The Dendro and Pyro Archons are busy, pulling screaming mortals from the wreckage and destruction.

Three torches and three exploding barrels, compiled with Xiao’s anemo attacks, had set all of Liyue aflame.

There is distant screaming in Xiao’s ears, sounds he knows only he can hear. Deliriously, he recalls the Pyro Yaksha howling at non-existent demons millennia ago and wonders absently if the same will afflict him.

The karmic debt has finally taken over, and it seems to favor the path the Geo Yaksha had taken. Xiao almost laughs as he realizes this, feeling trapped within his skin as he wields his polearm, pointed unwaveringly at the archons.

“I am sorry,” he rasps. There is darkness at the edge of his sight, and the screams only intensify. He can hear individual voices now, hissing and howling and wailing, crying for mercy and death and blood.

“Do not apologize,” Zhongli says. “It is not your fault.”

“What is this?” Venti gasps, the sound echoing in Xiao’s ears. “Xiao, what is happening?”

Baal answers for him. “It is the fate of a Yaksha.” Electricity begins to crackle around her shoulders, eyes darkening to violet as she calls the power of the storm.

Xiao wants to weep at how much she reminds him of the Electro Yaksha.

Maybe, he muses, he will see his fellow Yakshas again. Maybe he’ll meet Aether and Lumine too, in the place that lies after death. He may finally meet those who used to belong to Mond, the ones that Venti talks of so adoringly.

Zhongli finally draws his polearm, an earthen pillar appearing before him, casting protective gold around the archons. Xiao knows why.

He can feel the wind gusting around him, responding to calls he does not remember sending out. Leaves swirl in the gale, and trees rip their way out of the ground. The pain in his head intensifies as the number of screaming voices triple.

Xiao meets Zhongli’s gaze. Sometime, somehow, over the years, the archons had become his closest confidants. Yet, Zhongli was always his oldest companion, so now, Xiao asks Zhongli to do the impossible.

“Morax,” he croaks, using a name that hasn’t been spoken for ages. “You must.”

Zhongli’s gaze is pained, yet resolute, and that is how Xiao knows that Morax will kill him to save the world. Baal seems to sense this too, and lightning strikes the ground not too far away, anxiously awaiting her command.

It is only Venti who has not yet seemed to grasp the situation. He frowns at both archons. “What must you do, Zhongli?”

Zhongli only shakes his head, and Xiao knows it pains him to be the one who will have to kill the last Yaksha. So he answers Venti, limbs shaking as he desperately tries to contain the whirlwind threatening to tear from his chest.

“He must kill me. If he does not, I fear I will destroy Teyvat. I have lost control over my body, Venti.”

Barbatos’ eyes flash green, and Xiao is yet again reminded of the power of the archons. “No,” he says simply. “You cannot die. To live for thousands of years, to drink with us, all this time? You cannot die like this.”

Xiao loses concentration, just a tiny sliver, yet the gust of wind that tears from him shears the top off of a nearby mountain. He groans, harnessing the gale yet again, even as the action forces him to his knees.

“Morax,” he says again. “Please.”

Zhongli looks at him, and the archon’s eyes are glistening in the light of the dancing flames, as wind whips his hair into his face.

“Alatus,” he says, and his voice is full of hurt and resignation. “It has been an honor.”

Yes, Xiao wants to answer back, but he cannot force his mouth to move. He just nods, shaking his head as if he can jar the wailing into silence.

Venti starts towards Zhongli, power thrumming at the edges of his fingers, seemingly ready to resort to battle in order to prevent Xiao’s death, and that is when Baal moves. She slams into Venti, pushing him into the ground, even as wind starts to whirl around them - Venti’s magic, not Xiao’s. Her element locking curse comes a second later, binding itself around Venti, even as he hisses at her in protest.

“Xiao,” Venti cries, twisting as if he can escape the curse. His hat is lost, blown away in the wind, and his hair has come loose from its braids, flying around his face.

“Barbatos,” Xiao whispers. “I never thanked you, for saving me that day.”

Venti pauses, for a second, stunned into silence.

���Thank you,” Xiao says, over the voices in his head. “Thank you.”

Baal only looks at him solemnly, and Xiao stares back at her. They exchange no words, but Baal just nods, once, the simple gesture conveying everything he needs to know.

Xiao holds her gaze for a few more seconds, turning back to find the point of Zhongli’s spear resting above his heart.

Zhongli's face is twisted in grief, yet his blade still hits true, sliding into the hollow space between Xiao's third and fourth ribs.

Xiao chokes, the whirl of wind around him finally dying out. His legs buckle and he falls ungraciously, feeling gentle hands grasping at his clothes as he does.

Somewhere, Venti is screaming his name.

The wailing inside his skull is dissipating, and near the edges of his sight, Xiao can make out swirls of color. At first, he thinks they are the archons, and his failing body cannot see the details of their faces. Then, he recognizes a blue that does not belong to those in the present.

“Rest,” Zhongli whispers, as Xiao fades. “Rest, Alatus.”

And Xiao does, letting himself fall into the embrace of the Yaksha's, who are only becoming clearer, even as Xiao dies.

~

637 years later, a scholar strolls through the bookshelves of Sumeru's most famous academy, searching for a piece of information that could support her thesis.

She turns into a lane labelled Mondstadt: The City of Freedom, and begins to scan the titles, careful to replace everything exactly where she finds it.

There are two other travelers within the small space between the bookshelves, and they're talking to each other, quite loudly.

The scholar frowns. No matter how foreign these travelers are, the rule of silence in a library should be universal.

The first traveler, a tall man with golden eyes and umber hair that falls to his lower back flips another page in his book, completely ignoring his companion. A jade spear is strapped across his back, and the scholar thinks idly that the weapon looks more like a piece of art, with great wings of green jade shattering outwards from the main spike.

The tall man's companion is quite short, with yellow cat like eyes and evergreen tufts of hair, a pink pearl necklace slung loosely around his throat. His boyish grin seems quite misplaced.

It only takes the scholar a few moments to figure out why.

A few months ago, the scholar had studied ancient folklore of Liyue. Among them was a tale of several Yakshas, the last of whom had supposedly been buried beneath a statue of himself, on the highest peak in Liyue.

The man standing before her looks exactly the same as the grainy photo in the text. However, in the scroll of lore, the last Yaksha had worn a fierce scowl across his features, nothing like the one that stands before her now.

"Come, Zhongli," the should-be-dead Yaksha says, tugging on his friend's sleeve. "Baal is waiting for us."

"Baal can wait a while longer," the taller man says, turning the page of his book a while longer, which the scholar now sees is a copy of The Ruling System of Mondstadt: Grandmasters and Cavalry Captains.

"You said you wanted me to learn more about Mond, didn't you?" the taller man continues. "Besides, I am quite intrigued as to exactly who this 'Kaeya' is, the one you keep referencing."

The yaksha frowns. "Kaeya," he says. "Diluc's brother."

At his companion's blank stare, the yaksha says. "I'll remind you later," he chides. "We really must be going, Zhongli."

The scholar startles, embarrassed that she eavesdropped for so long. However, she still hears what the tall man says back.

"Fine. Let us go, Venti."

[lexosaurus]

Eldritch Ghosts

My piece for Day 4 of DP Side Hoes Week! Initially, I was kinda wary about writing this one just because I usually don’t really do a ton of world building in my fics, but I’m actually pretty happy with how this one came out!

Character: Clockwork Theme: Origin

---

Every ghost had an origin story, the tale of how they came to be. For most, they were created from a dying body, driven to existence through a deep sense of purpose. Perhaps a dying wish they never got to fulfill, or an especially traumatic death that resulted in an overexertion of brain matter in the last moments. For most, this was their origin story.

For other ghosts, they were created in the Zone. Most of that group were born from the procreation of two other ectoplasmic creatures. Not all ghosts had the capabilities of reproduction, but some of the more sentient, more powerful ghosts could find a way if they so pleased.

But for a small group, they were born from the Zone itself. From the deepest, most ancient parts of this vast expanse of ectoplasmic energy. There were only a few ghosts who developed this way, but those few possessed powers that other ghosts could only dream of.

They were called eldritch ghosts.

“So what about you?” Phantom asked. He had taken a liking to a particular stuffed armchair in Clockwork’s haunt, lounging with his back to one arm and his legs dangling over the other. He asked the question lazily, his eyes more focused on the ice shapes he was creating in his palm than on Clockwork himself. 

“How were you made?”

Clockwork shifted to his adult form. “I know you’re not a full fledged ghost, but even you should know the taboos of our culture.”

Phantom dissipated the ice crystals. “Oh come on, Clocky! You know how I got here.”

“I know how everyone got here. I am the master of—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Phantom shook his hand nonchalantly to the side. “Master of time, god of all past, present, and future, observer of all timelines and potential outcomes. I know, but even you have an origin story.”

“Not everyone has an exciting tale of origin, ghost child.”

“But you still came from somewhere.” 

Clockwork turned his attention back to a portal he was watching. It was of a young ghost child learning to ride a bike for the first time. Clockwork had seen this before, and he would see it again in the future. 

He sighed, shifting into his child form and wiping the portal to show a new landscape. It was dark, black. He waved his arm, zooming in further on the scene until a bright green orb of swirling ectoplasm came into view.

“Come, child.”

“Huh?” Phantom rose from the couch. “Oh, what’s that? Is that the zone?”

“Correct.”

Phantom peered closer to the scene until he was hovering just mere inches away from it. “I don’t get it. Where are all the doors?”

“There are no doors in this realm of the Ghost Zone. No portals to other lands, other timelines, or other worlds.”

“Oh. So then why are you showing me this?”

Clockwork pointed his metal staff towards the glowing green mass. “Do you see that?” 

“Yeah?”

“That’s the epicenter of the Zone. We all exist around it in an ever growing mass of ectoplasm and space. Everything in this plane originated from that core.”

“Wait, the Zone has a core? Like ghosts do?”

Clockwork nodded, his purple hood bobbing at the movement. “That is correct.”

“Does that mean…” Phantom’s face scrunched up. “Does that mean the Zone is a ghost?”

“Not exactly. The Zone is not sentient, it is merely an expanse of space that emits ectoplasmic energy, the thing that creates and sustains us. Without this core, the ectoplasm in the Zone would be unable to sustain itself, and the Zone as we know it would cease to exist, along with all of us.”

Phantom’s eyes shifted warily back to the screen. “That’s sort of dangerous, isn’t it?”

“How so?”

“If the core is so important for us to stay alive, then why is it so...I don’t know, exposed? Couldn’t some insane ghost just go destroy it?”

“No,” Clockwork said. “That’s the biggest mystery of the Zone’s core. Anyone who’s ever tried to get near the core has never made it back in one piece. The core is so powerful that it incinerates any ghost who attempts to get close. Hence why there are no doors around it either.”

“What if someone just like accidentally stumbles across it? Like what if one day I’m flying, minding my own business, and I get too close to this core?”

“That wouldn’t happen. Ghosts can feel it.” He shifted to his elder form and waved his hand once more at the portal, zooming in even closer to the core until the duo could see all the individual swirling speckles of ectoplasm pulsating around the core.

Phantom was silent for a moment, staring up at the bright green core with childlike wonder. “It looks sort of like a sun.”

“It is like the sun. If we fly too close, we can feel it. But it’s not hot in the way a human sun is. It won’t burn or melt you if you get too close.”

“Then what happens?”

Clockwork took a deep breath, closing his eyes. It had been so long, an eternity even, but even he could never forget the way the Zone’s core felt. How it affected his core, how it directed the ambient ectoplasm around him, guiding him away from the ancient depths of the Zone.

Most ghosts would never get that lucky. Other ghosts would cease to exist. 

But not him.

“A ghost who gets too close would feel an intense amount of pressure. At first, it’s just a slight warning, but the closer the ghost gets, the more they would feel as if gravity itself is imploding around them. But if they get close enough, the core’s radiant ectoplasm would begin to interact with the ghost’s own core, and they’ll be driven insane by the Zone’s sheer power. The ghost’s core would become parasitic, and would force the ghost’s body forward until the Zone’s core can reach them. At that point, they’d simply dissolve.”

Danny shuttered. “Seems like a bad way to go.”

“It is.”

“So…” Danny started, his tone shifting into one of cautious curiosity. “Not that this isn’t cool and all, ‘cause it is, but why are you telling me all this?”

Clockwork shifted back into his childlike form. “You wanted to know my origin story, did you not?”

“Well, yeah. But I don’t see how the Zone’s core has anything to do with you specifically. Other than, you know, us being a ghost and needing the Zone’s core to exist and all that.”

Clockwork held his gloved hand up to eye level, watching as the miniature clocks adorning his wrists ticked away at their various times. “Every couple thousand years, the Zone’s core has too much radiant ectoplasm it needs to dispel. A human star does this much more often in the form of solar flares. But the Zone’s core is made of ectoplasm, and so it dispels its energy in the form of a new ghost.”

“So...you mean...you were born from the Zone’s core?” 

“Yes. Exactly.”

“And you’re still here?” Danny jumped up, swirling around Clockwork in alarm. “How? How did it not drive you insane and make you explode?”

Clockwork chuckled. “Child, I am the Zone’s child. Why would it kill its own creation so soon?”

“But you said the Zone wasn’t sentient.”

“That I did.” Clockwork hummed, shifting back into his adult form. He waved his staff once more at the portal, transforming the scene to a ghost wandering beyond where doors existed. If anything was amiss, the ghost paid no mind, traversing deeper into the empty landscape. 

In a few hours, the ghost would be no more.

“I’m sure if I tried to go near it now, I would end up like this poor soul. But upon my creation, the core was expending excess energy. It wouldn’t have wanted to take back the energy it just spent so much effort getting rid of.”

Phantom eyed the portal, looking ill.

"Remember, child." Clockwork swung his staff, morphing the scene back into the child riding a bike. “The Zone is full of mysteries. Ones that I myself do not even fully understand.”

---

Thanks for reading!

[oldjane]

So this friend of mine, whose tumblr handle I don’t even know, so Imma link to their ao3 profile instead, was going feral about some movie they saw, and about a JoeNicky AU for it, and I haven’t seen the movie, don’t even remember the name of it, but well.

Here is... Some AU (unedited).

“We have to get out of here!”

Nile’s panicked voice spurs him on. He is running to the dock, hoping the emergency pods are not too badly damaged by the ravage going on around them. Joe is half a step in front of him.

Nicky doesn’t know where everybody else is – most of the inhabitants got evacuated late yesterday afternoon, but there will still be dozens of people who didn’t make it onto the evac shuttles. Nobody expected disaster to strike quite so soon. Nicky knows pods have been leaving all day, but they thought they had at least two more days. There will be people trapped, families who are desperately trying to make it to the pods –

Nicky stops, tries to turn around, but Joe notices and grabs his wrist.

“Nicky, no! We need to go, now!”

“But there might be others, we should –”

“No!” Joe’s voice is sharp, and he tugs at Nicky’s arm desperately. “There is no time!”

His eyes are huge, and his curls stick to his sweaty temple. His shirt is dirty and there is a gash on his arm. It is a far cry from the cool and calm engineer who arrived almost three years ago, introducing himself to Nicky with a wink. But he is still the most handsome man Nicky ever saw.

He fell in love with Joe at that first wink, and somehow, Joe didn’t seem to mind Nicky being painfully shy and blushing fervently as he awkwardly managed to introduce himself. Over the next two months, Joe simultaneously managed to draw Nicky out of his shell and make himself a fixture in Nicky’s comfort zone. They’ve been the best of friends and Nicky kept his feelings firmly under lock, afraid of losing Joe completely.

“Come on, Nicky, please!”

Nicky throws one last look over his shoulder, and Joe almost dislocates Nicky’s shoulder, he is yanking his arm so wildly.

There is nothing Nicky can do, and so he follows Joe. He would follow Joe everywhere.

The dock is in complete disarray. A lot of the stations are empty, and Nicky is glad that so many people got out. The far side of the dock is completely destroyed, and some of the remaining pods seem too damaged to risk the journey.

Nile yells at them to hurry. They run to where she found a pod in a good state.

“I don’t know – I never used these things –”

She is trying to enter the correct code with hands that tremble terribly, and Nicky looks at Joe. Joe nods, and he covers Nile’s hand with his own.

“It’s really easy,” he shushes, and he turns her towards him while Nicky makes quick work of unlocking the pod and firing up the systems. He hears Joe talk to Nile, explain to her how the pods work, what will happen. His voice is soft and calm, and Nile sniffs away her tears as she nods.

Nicky’s heart could explode. Here is Joe, taking care of one of their friends, as if this is just another day and they are not minutes away from being completely wiped away.

Nile steps into the pod, and without hesitation, Nicky and Joe strap her in, as if they have done this a thousand times. Their hands brush. Nicky feels the usual combo of heart flutters and a sense of belonging whenever he and Joe touch, but there is no time for that. He keeps running the procedures, and Joe keeps talking to Nile.

“You will get to the surface, and we will be right behind you, okay? I promise we won’t leave you alone. A beacon signal will alert home base, it will be no longer than thirty minutes before the chopper picks us up. You can open the hatch as soon as this light comes on, okay?” He points to the clear indicator. “The systems are all working perfectly,” he continues, when Nicky reaches the final check. “Tell me what you have to do.”

“Enter my personal code and the take-off code – seven-nine-four, enter, three-nine-three. Then the green button. Close the hatch.” she says, sounding almost normal, ticking it off on her fingers. “When I get up, this light will come on and I open the hatch. You will be right behind me. The chopper will be there not long after.”

“Good,” Joe replies fondly. “You’ll be fine, Nile. Keep your eyes on the screen, the counter will start as soon as you take off. We will see you up there in fifteen minutes.”

As Joe reassures Nile one last time, Nicky scans the stations. They can’t go back to the main section anymore, they need to find undamaged pods here and they need to be fast. The warning signs for critically low oxygen levels have been blasting for at least twenty minutes now. They could run out any minute. But most stations are empty, and the pods that are still here are broken and rusty.

There. Nicky sees one, and as soon as Nile closes the hatch, he pulls Joe along.

He opens the pod, and he breathes out in relief when it reacts immediately. It seems to be functional, and he pushes Joe in, entering the launch key.

Joe goes along, strapping himself in.

“Leave it, Nicky, I can do this myself, get to a pod –”

Nicky knows exactly when Joe notices what Nicky already knew. He starts unstrapping, but Nicky is faster. He locks Joe’s chair in place, keeps working on the take-off checklist.

“Nicky, stop, we can find you one further along –”

“There is no time, Joe,” Nicky says calmly. “We will run out of oxygen in seconds.”

“Come in, then, I won’t leave you –”

“There is not enough oxygen for two, Joe, you know that.”

“We will breathe as little as possible, hold our breath, something! Nicky, they never even tested that stuff, we could –”

“We are not risking it, Joe. One of us has to make it up there alive for Nile. You promised her.”

Joe is frantic now.

“Not without you, Nicky, stop, please!”

He reaches for the touch screen, trying to override Nicky’s commands. Nicky slaps him full in the face, and Joe falls back in the chair, stunned. It gives Nicky just the seconds he needs to complete the final procedure. He knows Joe’s code, of course, they’ve been friends for years, and he doesn’t make a mistake. Then the same numbers Joe told Nile, seven-nine-four, enter, three-nine-three.

“Nicky, no,” Joe begs, and –

Nicky presses the green button, not looking at Joe, not listening to his pleas.

Nicky will die here. He will die, within the next minute, while Joe is travelling up, and –

Nicky grabs Joe’s face between his large hands. One cheek feels hot where Nicky slapped him, but he doesn’t pay attention to that.

He stares into Joe’s beautiful, beloved eyes, and he bends closer to press his lips on Joe’s.

It is too short, too chaste for three years of pining, but there is no time – a crash, close by, vibrates through the structure, and Nicky pulls back. Joe starts saying something, but Nicky shakes his head and closes the hatch, gently but determinedly.

He hears Joe’s voice, calling out for him, but then the pod is sealed hermetically. It takes off smoothly, and Nicky’s knees buckle.

 ***

The fifteen minutes before Joe reaches the surface are the longest and the shortest of his life.

He screams himself hoarse in fifteen minutes, he bangs his fists on the inside walls of the pod until his knuckles burst, and then he touches his lips, where Nicky’s were but the blink of an eye ago.

Almost three years of dreaming about Nicky’s kiss, and –

And now –

He curses himself. He should have known Nicky would make sure everybody else got out before him. He should have seen right through him, should have forced him to go first –

He should have told Nicky he was in love with him three years ago. He should have kissed that man every chance he got, because now he will not ever get to again.

He is too distracted to pay attention to the screen or the indicators, and only when a robotic voice announces he needs to open the hatch because oxygen is low, he mechanically unstraps and enters the correct code.

Nile is floating right by his side.

“Oh, thank God!” she says as soon as he stands up. “Your pod arrived but you didn’t open the hatch, I was freaking out here, I didn’t know if there was a problem or – wait.” She takes a look at Joe, and she cuts herself off.

Joe doesn’t know how he looks – his eyes feel puffy and tears are streaming over his cheeks and his hands are bloodied.

“Wait,” Nile says again, unsteady. “Your pod arrived at least five minutes ago. Why isn’t – where is Nicky?”

Joe can’t help himself. A fresh wave of tears springs to his eyes, and he screams to the heavens.

He wants to dive back into the water, swim down, every meter a meter closer to Nicky, until he drowns as close to Nicky as he’ll ever be again.

Nile gasps.

“Joe, Nicky – Nicky made it out, right?”

He doesn’t answer, just sobs, his lungs burning, his throat choked up.

Nile reaches her arms out for him in a futile gesture, since they are both confined to their pods, and anyway, hers are not the arms Joe wants around him right now.

“I am sorry,” he hears Nile whisper, but it doesn’t help either. It feels like nothing will ever help.

If you asked him two days ago, he would have said feeling the sun on his skin again would make him the happiest man ever – it would have been a lie, of course. Kissing Nicky would make him the happiest man ever, and he got to do that, and the sun is reflecting from the water, but nothing will ever make him happy again.

The water has exactly the same colour as Nicky’s eyes.

He should say something to Nile, praise her for making it up here, assure her they would be picked up any minute now, tell her he loves Nicky with all his heart – though she might have some inkling of that by now – but he cannot bring himself to do any of it.

Then he hears the rhythmic sounds of the helicopter blades, and he will be brought to home base, and he will be further away from Nicky than he ever has been since they met, and –

Nile is winched up first, and then Joe. Somebody is interrogating Nile when he is pulled into the chopper.

“Anybody else coming?” a rough voice asks, and Joe curls in upon himself on the floor as he shakes his head.

“We were the last people at the dock,” Nile says hesitantly, “The two of us and – and Nicky – but we were out of oxygen –”

“So we are still waiting for this Nicky then?” the pilot asks, and Nile looks at Joe.

Joe doesn’t answer, can’t speak, wants to get to the base and be left alone for a week – a month – maybe a lifetime.

“I – I don’t think so,” Nile says. “There were not many pods left, and most were damaged, and – and we’ve been up for ten minutes, and –”

She doesn’t finish, but everybody knows what she’s not saying. There was not enough oxygen left for ten minutes. Nicky isn’t coming.

“Sorry,” the first speaker says. “Let’s go, then,” he directs the pilot, and they swerve off. Joe stares to the window, to their floating pods. A boat will come by later, tomorrow or the day after, to retrieve the pods. Somewhere, miles below, is Nicky.

Did he suffer? Did he regret kissing Joe as he died all alone?

Another sobs wrecks through him, and Nile does pull him closer this time, and Joe buries his face against her shoulder as he cries his heart out.

And then suddenly a harsh beeping fills the cabin.

“What the –” the pilot mutters, and the other guy’s voice is hard.

“You said there was nobody else!”

Joe’s heart leaps into his throat.

Nile speaks up.

“We thought – we didn’t know –”

“Could be something else too,” the pilot mutters. “Let’s check.”

The chopper swerves again, and two dots appear as they get closer, but no –

There is a third pod there, and the beacon signal gets louder, almost deafening Joe.

“Joe – Joe, look,” Nile says, and Joe does.

The pod is battered and cracked, an older model by the looks of things. It’s a miracle it made it, any of these fractures look like they could tear the thing in two any second, and –

Nothing.

The hatch doesn’t open, and Joe dies a second time that day. Is it just an empty pod that managed to launch itself somehow?

They get closer, and still no sign of life. The diver is winched down, and he pries open the hatch so agonizingly slowly.

Then they hear his voice through his comms system.

“There is someone in here. Male, unconscious. Twenty-five, thirty, maybe. Brown hair.”

“That your friend?” the pilot asks.

“Yes, maybe,” Nile says, hope dripping from every syllable.

“Older model pod,” the diver continues. “Takes longer to come up. Amazed it even got here, seems to have not been maintained in years.”

The winching up is silent, and it seems to take so much longer than when it was Joe hanging there. Every second is a lifetime.

“He has a mole on his chin,” the diver then says, and Joe doesn’t believe his ears, asks Nile to repeat, but she just hugs him, laughing and crying at the same time.

“It’s Nicky, Joe! It’s him! He made it.”

And then the diver is pulling him in, and it’s Nicky, and he is breathing, and Joe is sobbing again, from joy this time.

The diver puts an oxygen mask on Nicky, and Joe crawls over, cradles Nicky close, kisses his jaw, his hair, his hand.

He’s gonna do that for a long time, if Nicky allows him to. As soon as Nicky wakes up, he will tell him he has loved him since he first saw him, competently bandaging up somebody who had fallen off a ladder, setting a broken bone and wrapping up a deep wound on their temple. He had been talking softly the whole time, reassuring the woman it would be fine, distracting her from the pain, and at the same time managing to keep the woman’s young child calm. He’d been so effortlessly competent and kind and so damn attractive. Joe had introduced himself and Nicky had been adorably shy, and Joe had been hopelessly lost.

And then he’d wasted three years.

And he’ll be damned if he wastes another second.

Nicky opens his eyes, and blinks. Joe smiles, but he must look a freight. And yet, Nicky pulls off the mask, and he mouths Joe’s name, though no sound comes out.

“Nicky,” Joe stutters, and then he decides talking is overrated.

He softly, gently lays his hands on Nicky’s face. He stares into Nicky’s beautiful, beloved eyes, and he bends closer to press his lips on Nicky’s.

There is nothing short about it. They have three years to make up for, and the rest of their life to do it.

[kettlequills]

Chapter 1: waking dreams: master of fate

Miraak is victorious against the Last Dragonborn at the Summit of Apocrypha, and reclaims his rightful place as ruler of Solstheim. However, the world he wakes to is not the one he left behind thousands of years ago. When the certainty Miraak once relied on is questioned, will he be able to adapt to this new world and the people within in time to prevent the destruction of all he has worked for? On A03 here.

Tags and tws: Blood and graphic violence, major death, mind control, Apocrypha, Mora.

“And so the First Dragonborn meets the Last Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha. No doubt just as Hermaeus Mora intended.” Miraak’s words rang out bold and proud over the inky seas that surrounded his lonely tower.

He stood, gleaming and glowing, every inch the Dragon Priest he had been, unchanged and preserved in time like a moth behind glass, since Hermaeus Mora’s theft of him from his rightful place at the helm of Tamriel. He kept his back straight and his shoulders tall, let his voice thunder with echoes, and he looked down upon the Last Dragonborn fearsomely-masked, staff in hand. His show, his pride, his excitement, was for his benefit, and theirs, and the dragons that watched them, silent and monumental in this battle of the ages.

Sahrotaar, Relonikiv, Kruziikrel. His companions, his servants, through his torment – and now, the witnesses of his triumph.

As they would all witness!

“The hour of my freedom from this place and its fickle master draws near!” Miraak cried exultantly, fought to remind himself it was for moments more premature, “and soon I will be master of my own fate, once again. My time in Apocrypha is over. And soon, so will be yours.”

Hermaeus Mora’s thousand-fold eyes were unseen in the sickly green sky, but Miraak knew he was there. If he peered over the sheer edge to that liquid darkness, he knew he’d see Seekers clustered like crows, with their ragged cloaks like tattered wings tugged by no current save that of Fate and Mora’s will in airless Apocrypha. In the waters themselves, he would see Lurkers bleeding oil with steady pulses that sat upon the ink in fiery shimmers. Even the constant muttering of rustling pages hissed and whispered amongst themselves, as if placing bets. He heard the riotous wet slap of the ink against the base of the tower, the tentacles beneath squirming like blind worms to the light, and Miraak knew the whole of Apocrypha was watching.

In the tautness of the near-silence, his dragon- and man-heart stuttered in its restless anticipation, cried with each pounding beat the hope of a thousand years’ work swift-coming culmination: soon, soon.

Steady and sure, the Last Dragonborn that returned his gaze. Even now, on the eve of his victory, he drank in the sight; how he had craved the presence of another as the years worn on in his lonely imprisonment.

The air seemed easier to breathe scented by the freshness of Nirn they carried in their lungs, and their arms, their armour, were richly coloured, the most vibrant thing in this world of nightmare and books. No pallid greens or inkblushed blues for them, this Dragonborn wore handsome red and burnished steel. They were solid, made strong by the grain and meat of Skyrim, by the grape and grass of their sun-dazzled, Aedric-blessed life outside this cursed realm. Even now, their form was faint to his eyes, anchored to their real body on Nirn. As he soon would be real, and subject to the pressures of the wind and the rain, the sun and sky, once more.

They were no simple Seeker of Mora’s knowledge, this Dragonborn, with their well-worn sword held sure in their grip and their scratched shield in the other, no, they came to Miraak in the armaments of a warrior, the trappings of an empire Miraak had seen in illustrations. Their skin was browned by sun, their dark eyes watchful and shadowed beneath the owl-face of their wood mask.

Such cheap imitation though their mask was, he scoffed internally, of the mighty artefact they would have been gifted had they walked in Miraak’s time – but no, the men of this new age were weak and stumbling, and remembered not what they ought. No matter, though, he thought, and felt his lips twist to bare his teeth unseen, Miraak would teach them.

“You will die here, by my hand,” Miraak continued, promised, “And with the power of your soul, I will enact my glorious return to Solstheim.”

Unaffected, or perhaps he dared to hope, sparked by this threat, the Last Dragonborn rolled their shoulders with a metallic grinding and extended one gauntlet. They beckoned to him insouciantly, and their feet slid apart to a fighting stance, ready to leap in any direction.

“No words for me, Dragonborn?” Miraak taunted, too eager to let this fated confrontation end without a moment to savour its richness upon his tongue, and the Last Dragonborn growled.

“You waste your breath,” they said, in their raw, untrained Voice of thunder, “Better to beg the name of the one who will be victorious: I am LAAT-AAZ-IN!”

“A strong name,” Miraak allowed, grinning savagely under his mask as their Shout rocked the tower beneath them, shivers of that power in the soles of his boots, “You could have been mighty, if fate had decreed otherwise, Slayer of Alduin.”

“Might is unnecessary to win against a man who only talks.” Laataazin nettled at his pride, but though their weapon was held ready they waited for him to speak first, as the elder of the two of them. The note of respect for Miraak was beyond what he had expected – the Greybeards it seemed had bothered to teach their rare pupil some things. Miraak burned to know what else.

“Is that so?” Miraak murmured, and he could not hold back anymore, mortal words were soft as snow in his mouth and he needed fire. “YOL TOOR SHUL!”

It was a mighty greeting, and Laataazin’s wide eyes vanished behind their shield. The plume of fire was brilliant and blinding-bright, and through it, Laataazin charged fearlessly at him. Blinking smoke from his eyes and too slow to leap aside, Miraak swept his staff across his chest. Their shield, glowing white-hot at the edges, smashed into him like a battering ram. The staff clanged hollowly at the brute impact.

They wrestled there at the summit. It was hot work. The thinner parts of Laataazin’s armour were molten and spark-bright, the flames that licked at the fabrics of their tabard smoking relentlessly. Miraak drove his heels into the soft leathery floor, refusing to back down even as he felt his staff begin to creak ominously and his muscles scream. Kruziikrel snarled – Miraak heard the snap of jaws, one of the other dragons harrying it. Sahrotaar? Laataazin had flown it to the summit. Their eyes burned in the firelight through the mask, behind the shield, glimpses of brown shimmering orange. Miraak met those fire-bright eyes, and saw in them a soul that mirrored his own.

Inexorably, Laataazin pushed him back.

Miraak gritted his teeth as he was forced back one step, then another. He had the height advantage, towering clear, he could see their skin bubbling and scalding under their armour at the intense heat, but Laataazin was strong. Cracks raced like fault-lines up his staff, and he had moments – moments, before it shattered in his grip.

They would disarm him? So be it!

He gave a giant shove, and Laataazin’s shield dipped as they staggered. He seized the opportunity and at once Miraak discharged all the magic in the staff. It exploded with a thunderous boom and crack of searing white light.

Miraak was blown clear, rolling quickly to his feet with visions of Laataazin planting their sword in his spine. He squinted around his arms protecting his head from the shrapnel flying everywhere, and hissed.

Laataazin had gone to one knee, but as he stared, they shrugged off the explosion and rose to their feet. Their mask had shattered on their face, and they swiped their metal-clad arm over the wreckage. Fresh blood splattered free from the splinters driven into the flesh of their face, but Laataazin did not pause a moment before raising their head to look for Miraak. Threateningly, their shoulders rolled back, their neck arched, and Miraak had just enough presence of mind to throw up a ward before Laataazin Shouted.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!”

His ward was battered by the strength of their fire, but held. Over the roar of the dragon-fire, Miraak could hear his actual dragons thrumming warmly in approval. Miraak’s fierce joy welled like a song in his heart. Laataazin’s Thu’um was strong, nearly his match. How long it had been, since he had had conversation with one of the Dov – true conversation, of magnificent fire and fury!

Miraak would not dishonour his opponent by holding back an inch. As Laataazin’s dragon-fire dimmed, Miraak shot a bolt of lightning into its heart. Laataazin cursed in a rumbling voice – either he’d surprised them or hit them. He followed it up immediately with a torrent of ice-storm. The cold was revitalising after the heat of their grappling, and even better, he heard the brittle snap of Laataazin’s armour. Thick mist descended, the hiss of his summoned snow spitting when it touched their searing hot armour, the tower.

Miraak drew his sword and spun it idly in one hand.

“Hiding is beneath you, Dragonborn,” he called smugly. Casting Muffle in one hand, he prowled around the column of mist and strained his eyes for any movement in the shadows inside. There – a flicker!

Miraak’s Cyclone Shout bolstered the speed of his limbs, until he was like a surging tempest. He rained down blows on Laataazin, their shield, their armoured shoulders, but Laataazin bore the vicious attacks like a fortress of stone. His oily weapon, the gleam of Mora’s eye dark against his wrist, spawned writhing tentacles that yanked and pulled at the ties of their armour. One strap frayed and snapped under his onslaught, and Laataazin leapt back as if they had just realised what he was about.

“Serpent!” they hissed at him, and Miraak smirked.

He turned his eyes to the crumbling pillars where the dragons snapped and snarled at each other. Relonikiv was tenting its wings, posturing at a growling Sahrotaar, whose finned tail lashed restlessly. Its eyes were dull and distressed.

“Weak that you are,” Miraak called up to it, “You may serve me again to redeem yourself.”

He summoned in a great breath to Shout, but Laataazin’s rung out first, with a crack like sundering worlds. All three dragons froze, the leash of Bend Will dropping over them like a lead blanket.

“Go!” Laataazin shouted hoarsely. They had pushed themselves to Shout sooner than they should have, Miraak could hear the cracks in their throat. No master indeed the Greybeards had raised.

Relonikiv was first, shooting up like an arrow from a bow, then Sahrotaar with a howl of “Thuri!” that sounded almost mournful. Kruziikrel fought, digging its talons into the pillars, but Relonikiv swooped down again to bite at its head until, roaring, Kruziikrel lumbered into the sky. Sahrotaar circled them in swooping lines, like a carrion bird over an army.

“Using my own Shout against me?” Miraak snarled, “They cannot help you up there!”

Miraak did not wait for them to recover but rushed to close the gap. He needed that shield gone if he wanted to close this fight and secure his freedom. Distracted by the dragons, Laataazin didn’t have time to raise their shield before he was on them.

“MUL QAH DIIV!” Miraak’s Dragon Aspect emblazoned him like a god, strengthened his attacks. He went for power this time, two hands clutching over the grip of his sword, blinding Laataazin with sweeps of his great spectral wings. They firmed beneath their onslaught, but their fierce eyes were looking at his face – and so therefore missed his tail lashing around to crack against their knee.

Laataazin stumbled, and Miraak wedged his sword under the shield and sent it flying. A well-placed lightning bolt had it soaring clear over the edge of the tower, and he retreated out of the range of their retribution. With how strong they were, he did not want to risk being caught beneath their blade. He imagined they must strike with the strength of a giant.

Facing him, Laataazin’s expression, marred by old scars and freshly-cut by the splinters of their mask, was a ferocious scowl. Their only reply was a wracking cough. They held their weaponless hand cocked protectively over their midriff, where the loosened strap had left their chestplate to sag on one side.

Relonikiv screamed anxiously.

They met with a furious clash. Evenly armed, though Miraak noted Laataazin had not once used magic, their struggle was one of bodies and clanging weapons. They drove notches into his sword with the force of their swings, jarred his arms all the way up to his shoulder. The fight was long, brutal, and messy. Thrice they cut him and once they just fisted a hand around his belt and headbutted him so hard his skull rang inside his mask.

The summit quickly became scarred with their tumultuous battle, smoking pits of dragon-fire and magical ice still crackling with the aftermath of lightning. The leathery spines of the books that made up this particular tower became waterlogged and swampy under their feet, making Miraak’s boots slide and slip when they bulled against him.

It was an intricate dance, and Miraak’s partner knew the steps well. Better, perhaps, than he, after all this time in Apocrypha with none but Seekers and Lurkers with whom to practice his skills. He praised their skill, and reassured them of the inevitability of his triumph. He could not lose. Miraak’s destiny was freedom.

Through it all, the ink swirled and sucked against the base of the tower, and the dragons circled far above it, their agitated roaring backdrop to the clashing of their blades, Miraak’s grunts when they pushed him back. Laataazin was quiet, but he heard the raspiness of their breathing, saw the sweat that dripped down their forehead and mingled with the blood on their face. He couldn’t stop himself from inhaling when they came together again, close as lovers with their breath misting the front of his mask. Their sweat was pure and human, untainted by daedra.

When they were so close he could feel the trembling of their muscles as they fought him not through their blade but through their brace against his chest, Miraak met their eyes. They were brown as earth, he noticed, narrowed in determination. Bloodshot, as if they hadn’t been sleeping well. He bared his teeth at them. How long had they spent, toiling at his stones? Were their bloody eyes his alone?

The tentacles of his sword oozing wetly down the guard of their own, Miraak leant all his weight on their arms. He bore down on them with all his height advantage, crowding the smaller Last Dragonborn until he could see the strain gritting their teeth.

“Getting tired, Dragonborn?” Miraak purred, ignoring the fatigue in his own muscles.

They flicked their gaze up to the dragons circling far overhead. Their arm shook. Miraak pushed harder, sensing an opportunity, and all at once their body trembled at the force of him and gave in. His sword punched into the gap in their armour and slid in to the hilt. Reflexively, Miraak tried to yank it free – but it had notched into bone, and all he achieved was making blood gush wet and warm from the wound.

Laataazin gasped.

For a brief moment, the both of them only blinked at the sword that speared from Laataazin’s chest, the blood that spurted steadily over Miraak’s gloves, but then suddenly, their weapon fell from nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor.

“NO!” Mora howled, “This cannot be!”

Laataazin fell, and Miraak caught them without knowing why. They were warm and real, heavy, in his arms. He sank to his knees to bear their weight, arrested by the sheer redness of their shocking-bright blood over their steely armour, his robes, his buckle. Exposed, Laataazin stared up at him, their ruined face mortal and small. This close, he noticed details about them he had not before; the grey hairs that stood among the close-cropped brown of their hair – older than Miraak looked, but centuries younger – the wrinkles around their eyes and mouth that told him they had loved to laugh, once. Laataazin did not laugh now. They coughed, a wet, rattling gurgle, and blood splattered over the scarred lips. They were trying to speak, he could see their lips fumbling, but only blood came out.

“This is the only way, Dragonborn,” Miraak hissed at them, “The only way I can be free.”

Their hand, weakly, curled into the front of his robes.

“This is not my design!” Mora shrieked, and Miraak was dimly aware of his tentacles racing over the floor towards them.

Laataazin’s wide eyes stared up at Miraak. Tears of pain glittered on their cheek. Their breath was shallow and rattling around the sword. They were going to suffocate on their own blood; Miraak had perforated their lung. But there was no time for Laataazin to die slowly in Miraak’s arms. Mora was coming.

Miraak gripped the Last Dragonborn’s jaw, and closed his eyes, his bloody gloved hand spreading red stains over Laataazin’s neck as he sought the softness of their temples, then the back of their head. He pulled on his magicka, that deep and verdant pool inside of him. And then as Mora reached them, Miraak cast the strongest lightning spell he knew.

A snap of burning flesh and Mora’s scream. Laataazin’s body convulsed in his arms, and Miraak roared in pain as the electricity shot through his own body, but they were dead before their stunned hand could untwist from their robes.

Mora’s tentacles wrapped around Laataazin’s chest and yanked. Miraak clung to their body doggedly.

“No,” he shouted, “NO! You won’t-“

A bolt of green magic struck his shoulder and Miraak cried out. Seekers – waves of them, coming up the side of the tower-

Laataazin’s flesh was beginning to glow, Miraak maintaining a death grip on them as the embers of their soul roared to life and surged into him. He felt their flesh dissolving against his fingers, felt the hungry jaws inside his dragon-soul rear its jaw wide, ready to rend and tear Laataazin’s soul into nothing but power for Miraak.

Another blast of magic rocked him, then three more in quick succession. It blew him onto his back and Miraak stared through eyes blurred with pain as the three dragons in the sky tucked their wings and dove. Fire blasted from Sahrotaar, immolating a wave of Seekers before they could fire on Miraak again.

Mora’s tentacles thickened like snake coils and with a mighty heave, the Prince yanked Laataazin’s body from his grasp. Miraak clung to the shred of the Last Dragonborn’s soul even as their body was ripped away from him. With effort, Miraak plunged his magic into the centre of Laataazin’s soul, and followed that tiny, tugging thread, back to Laataazin’s real body.

The air rent wide with a horrible Daedric scream. An unholy rictus of green light shredded open and Miraak saw through, warm darkness, firelight, Nirn. Mora was howling with rage, his thick tentacles wrapping around Miraak’s neck, his body, his limbs, trying to slow him down. The dragons protected him from the Seekers, rode flaming passes over Mora’s tentacles so they withered and popped with the thick reek of smoking oil, but Miraak felt himself being dragged back, slowly, into Mora’s embrace.

“No, no, no,” he gasped, desperation searing as tears in his eyes.

For a moment, Miraak felt a surge of something, as if some dying ember of the Last Dragonborn had heard his cry as he ate their soul, and then the glorious streams of gold and blue and green became fire, dragonfire, infused with all the colours of Keizaal’s auroras and hotter than its sun.  A rancid smell boiled up as Mora’s tentacles bubbled and burnt in the fire of Laataazin’s soul infusing into Miraak, their flesh into his, their will becoming his own.

Miraak forced his foot through the portal, then his shoulder. He struggled there like a fly caught in a web as the portal began to narrow and waver, his body wrenched between planes by Mora’s tentacles.

“Niid,” Miraak roared, “MUL QAH DIIV!”

His Dragon Aspect formed spears of spines that drove into Mora’s tentacles, causing the Daedric Prince to snarl. The tentacle hold loosed, just barely, just slightly, and Miraak stumbled forward, out, out, out, into Nirn.

Miraak collapsed to his knees onto Laataazin’s fleshless body, hearing their bones rattle within the casings of their armour at the force of the collision. With his last shred of strength, he reached back and hooked his hand into the portal, feeling Apocrypha’s fury shred into the bone and muscle of his hand. It was agony, agony, but first Sahrotaar’s blue snout wrested its way out, Relonikiv, slim and quick, and Kruziikrel, shouldering through with a deep bass roar at the tightening shred of Mora’s thorns.

The portal snapped closed with a resounding boom. Miraak felt Mora’s presence die, a last imprint of futile, terrible rage.

One of the dragons was howling, and droplets of dragonblood were stinging acidic on Miraak’s shoulders, his bowed head. His hand was a wreck, bloody ink gushing from the wounds, and Miraak was laughing, laughing.

He gripped Laat Dovahkiin’s empty chestplate until his gloves creaked. Their mask rattled free of their fleshless skull, blank white wood yet unbroken here, with no eyes, no enemy, no soul. Miraak gasped for breath around horrible laughter that wrenched at his chest as if it were possessing him, hot tears in his eyes.

Miraak was free.

(tags: @sumsaltysorceress @argisthebulwark)

[embyrinitalics]

Calamiversary: Link’s POV II

Here’s some more scenes from Link’s POV—about 2.4k worth! (I rly hope this makes up a little bit for the fact that I haven’t updated in two months omg)

But you know how I said that reading through my old stuff makes me cringe? Yeah this is like, way worse. It’s all unedited, and I wrote these in December 2018, so it’s all old. It’s all embarrassing. 😬 But with that disclaimer, I’m going to put my personal feelings aside and let you guys read it if you want 😂

Also now that I’m looking at this I feel like they’re not in chronological order, like that scene with Revali stabbing him should have come after these ones with Mipha, but   o h   w e l l

Here u go!

  Drowning

At first, all that registers is the pain, white and hot across my throat, and the numb realization that I’m going to die.

Of course, it’s not that simple for me.

The half of me that I’m always suppressing senses my weakness, slamming frantically against my defenses in the span of a heartbeat. I have to choose between saving myself and containing it. So I pour everything I am into holding him in, dragging him down with me in a white-knuckled grip. But he fights back.

The pain is agony, a thousand heated needles covering my entire body and then being driven down to the bone in nauseating synchrony. He thrashes in my hold, tendrils of his hate whipping out in places, and my vision blotches white. I feel the deathstroke across my throat heal; the earth quaking beneath my feet; the malice seeping out of me like blood oozing out of a wound.

I can hear myself screaming beyond the war, part agony and part fury. Part man and part beast. It’s slowly tearing me in two, ripping ligaments and shredding flesh as it claws deliriously towards escape. I grapple with him, desperately trying to hold on even as he starts pulling my limbs apart. But I know it’s only a matter of time.

Then I see her. Her light cuts through the pain, through the fear and the hate, brilliant and pure as the sun. I can’t speak; I can only stare, imploring her with my eyes to end me quickly.

She takes my face in her hands and I suck a sudden breath. Her glowing touch is warm and soft, comforting, and not the violent end I had been expecting—the touch of a goddess, and for a moment I can breathe.

Then her light engulfs everything—the woods, my body, and soon my mind. The relief from the pain and the peace of it is so indescribably jarring that I don’t resist, falling headlong into it.

And then I’m drowning. Drowning in the sensation of her between my hands, of the softness of her lips under mine, of the closeness of her. Drowning in sensations that are brand new and millennia old at once. I’m drowning, burning from the inside out, and even though it aches I don’t want it to end.

I remember myself, haltingly, and muster the will to let her go. I drop my forehead against hers, grappling with how much I want her—and with how far I’ve let myself fall. There’s no amount of leniency on her part that could possibly excuse this. But I’m not concerned with the consequences for myself; only with how my lack of self-control must have affected her.

“Forgive me,” I breathe. “That was—”

But she silences me, her soft, delicate fingers brushing my mouth with a feather-light touch that sends another pang of want rippling through my middle. Her eyes pierce into me, unendingly blue and so powerful I can’t help but wonder if it’s her magic. Then she exhales, drifting closer, her eyes falling heavy-lidded to my mouth just before they close completely. And the feeling of her lips meeting mine, electric, breathless, so warm, sends me diving under the surge of sensation again.

I draw her close, losing myself in her. There’s nothing even close to this—her touch, her taste, the sound she makes when I angle her head to deepen the kiss.

And I don’t know why I’ve denied myself for so long. I’ve always wanted her. And now that I’ve tasted this, tasted her—even all the armies in Hyrule couldn’t keep me from her now.

I smile against her mouth. Slaughtering them would be easy.

Through the intoxicated cloud swirling in my brain, the thought snags unpleasantly, like a potent flicker of light in a comfortable darkness. It’s enough to slow me down, enough to make me think.

Enough to make me realize this can’t possibly be real.

I stop, pulling away slowly to search her eyes. So familiar. So beautiful it makes my heart ache.

But she’s been dead for 10,000 years.

I want to ignore it, dive headlong into the illusion of her. But I can’t unsee it. I murmur, breaking the spell, “This isn’t real.”

She blinks, and suddenly she’s different. Still familiar. Still beautiful. Still alive. And then the pieces are snapping into place, and the woman in my hands isn’t the one I loved so many millennia ago. It’s the Zelda of this era, the one who only knows me as I am—as the Calamity. And we’re reliving one of her memories—one of my memories—

And it’s agony. All at once the peace is gone, the gentle, tremulous bit of happiness the memory had lent me and I had been nursing in my heart like a single spark in an endless night, and the hatred is flooding in. The anger. Everything the illusion had been strong enough to veil.

And I remember what I am. I feel the evil pouring through my veins like a poison. I feel it making my heart pound stronger. I feel it coloring my vision and filling me with desires I must never obey.

And it’s agony.

I’m quaking on the inside, partly from fury and partly from shock. And then I erupt.

“What are you doing here?”

She looks as lost as I feel, green eyes glittering with shock and fright. “I—I don’t know—”

“Is this some kind of a joke to you? You think that just because you have her memories that they’re yours to do with as you please?”

“No! I didn’t mean to do this—”

Oh, I want to break her. I want to hold her down and force her to taste some of the pain I have. I want to hear her scream. But I push her away instead, unwilling to give the monster the edge.

“Well undo it!”

She stumbles into the mantel, turning back with that pretty face covered in tears. And the satisfaction and the guilt churning together in my stomach makes me feel sick.

“I don’t know how!” she tries to reason. “It was an accident!”

I turn away and try to breathe. That glimmer of humanity, after 10,000 years without—and then to have it just wrested away—

“This how you operate when you don’t get your way, then?” I bite out before I can rein it in. “Prick the Calamity, see if he bleeds?”

“I told you it was an accident,” she says again, more quietly.

She sounds so miserable. A very small part of me wants to comfort her. But I’m so furious I can hardly see straight. Forcing me to relive this moment—with her—

What was she thinking? What in the name of the gods made her think she had the right? Hadn’t I been through enough? Hadn’t I endured enough torture over the last eon? Did she really have to reach down into my most private, most intimate moments and drag them into the daylight, too? The last, precious fragments of who I was, that I hold onto so fiercely, lest I lose myself completely—

Why?

“Magic doesn’t just materialize out of nothing,” I growl, closing the distance again, propelled by a fresh wave of anger. “What did you want to know? If it would hurt me to relive this? If I could even tell the difference between you?”

She winces like my words had been a slap. “No!”

“Then what?” I grab ahold of her, desperate for this to be over. Desperate to just—just feel nothing. “Do you want me to admit that you remind me of her? That I’m in agony every time I look at you? Is that it?”

“I don’t want anything! Let me go!”

“Would it please you to know that I am?” I murmur, my voice dangerously quiet, and she goes still. “Every time.”

And now, I realize numbly, it will be worse.

Because now she doesn’t just remind me of what I had with my Zelda.

Now I’ve tasted her, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to again.

  Frightening

“I’m sorry about what happened with the Champions,” she says quietly, catching me off guard. “I imagine it was… frightening, losing control like that.”

Yes. Yes, it was. I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid of anything in my life as I was in that moment, so close to rupturing, so close to tearing her apart with a thought, so close to losing myself completely and destroying everything I love in the aftermath. I want so badly to tell her, to unburden myself. I know she’s hoping I will. And that just… makes the temptation worse. She’s staring through me with unseeing eyes, full of the desire to understand, to heal even a little bit of the damage. I want to pull her closer, taste her again, thread my fingers in her hair and indulge in the warmth of her. I want to lose myself in her touch, in her lips, lose myself to her instead of to the monster working to claw its way out of me. I want to—

Gods!

“You were right,” I manage, finally. “They weren’t to know.”

“How have you been since?” she asks. So eager. So earnest. So gentle. It’s infuriating. “Any lingering effects? Urges to explode?”

“I always feel the urge to explode,” I scoff, grateful for the levity. “But no. The seal is as strong as it ever was.”

  The Zora Princess

We stop to rest and I quietly remove myself. So I can breathe. So they can breathe.

The air tastes clearer once I put some distance between us, like grass and wind and the malice in my mouth instead of the honeyed flavor of their adrenaline. The pressure in the back of my mind eases somewhat without the constant temptation, but the hollow gnaw of the hunger is just as strong as it ever was. I lower myself into the prairie grass, beating back a groan.

The Gerudo and that bird creature are arguing about something. It makes Zelda laugh.

That’s good.

Then the wind shifts and the air tastes of sugar and salt, and I turn towards it slowly. It’s the Zora girl. She’s so short the grass is up to her knees, and her trident has become more of a walking stick than a weapon. She’s so quiet it’s easy to forget she’s there—but she’s one of the Champions, and royalty, if the headdress is any indication. I’m sure she’s stronger than she looks. The fact that she’s confronting me on her own is evidence enough.

I tilt my head at her as she draws close, feeling after that gentle spike in her heart rate as I fix her in my stare. It makes my spine burn.

“Princess,” I greet her quietly. “To what do I owe this honor?”

She leans on her staff, remarkably calm, and I can feel the tendrils of power wafting off her.

“You’re in a great deal of pain,” she says.

My lips move towards a frown as I draw the inevitable conclusion. Just my luck. “You’re a healer.”

“Yes.”

And her magic is a peculiar brand. Very strong, almost magnetized in the way it drifts towards injury. It’s what brought her to me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could bring someone back from the brink of death.

I contemplate her usefulness for a moment; but I need to go much further than the brink, and that’s well beyond even her abilities.

  Dreamcraft

I carry her up to the campsite, lay her near the fire and rouse it a bit so she isn’t freezing, and then grudgingly lift the sleepweb from the Zora girl. Her eyes open and then drift upwards, like she’s watching the spell float away.

Her eyes settle on me, finally, all golden and rippling, and she says, “You seem better.”

She’s a strange one. No demanding what I’d done, or where I’d gone, or what had happened. But she’s also sharp. Sharp enough that her bold-faced concern makes me feel manipulated. But she’s not wrong. I had been caught up in feeling terrified to notice, but the hunger had faded into background noise. Throbbing, like something swollen. I frown, trying to puzzle out how that had happened.

I finally admit, because it’s too easy to admit things when I’m with her, “We shared a dream.”

“And that helps?”

I can’t be sure if it’s the emotional implosion that follows one of her illusions merely drowning the hunger out, or an actual, measurable, residual effect of her dreamcraft. Either way, it’s worth studying. Which is horrifying.

“Maybe.”

We sit by the fire in silence for a while. That’s easy, too. Almost like we had been friends once, in another life. I’m watching the flames, and she’s watching Zelda, and then so am I.

“Could you enter her dreams now? While she sleeps?”

The idea of sauntering into her mind uninvited worms unpleasantly in whatever scrap of my conscience is left, vaguely reminiscent of guilt. But she’s plowed headlong into mine more than once, so it seems only fair. For some reason that reasoning doesn’t make the worming stop. I still haven’t answered, and her eyes glide to the side of my head. I call up the fire more, loosing a taut, tired sigh at her persistence.

“Possibly.”

It’s noncommittal and non-revealing, which I assume will grind her advance to a halt. But she slips around it like water in that infuriating way she does.

“You should try it sometime,” she says.

I tilt my head at her. “You don’t find the idea of trespassing on her mind morally objectionable?”

She shrugs. “Not as objectionable as you tearing a swathe of Hyrule up by the roots.”

And that’s logic I can hardly argue with. Her eyes say she knows. And suddenly I find the image of her pretty crimson skull smashed against the stone and its contents spattered everywhere very appealing.

“You need her,” she adds, too simply, too condemningly, and I have to swallow down fury and terror.

Because she’s right.

The night drags and drags and drags, dread and disgust whipping me into a tumble of disquiet and every quiet tremble of fear or pleasure from her tempting me into her head.

[geminiwriter1881]

Paradise Is Lost

                                          In one breath it was gone

                Gold were the days                         That we laid to waste                                      In this burning sun

                Paradise is lost                         Paradise is lost                                 Paradise is lost.

                        — GoldTop ft. Sam Tinnesz – Paradise Is Lost —

A/N: I highly recommend listening to ^^this^^ song as you read. It heightens the atmosphere.

. . Sunlight flashes white atop cut-glass sapphire water that stands pattern-shifting under the restless fingertips of the wind. Sand froths golden beneath churning hooves of a crimson stallion screaming in triumph: 'never-die'.

.

.

Light explodes white in the hearts of houses turned to rubble from the stones flung out of the hands of unseen malevolent gods in the heavens. The high whine of wind shaped by propeller force echoes overhead, and it chants: 'all-shall-die'.

.

.

They stand beside one another, heads tilted back.

The flames lick hungrily toward the late-evening sky, as if with their searing fingertips they can clutch at the fabric of the firmament and catch it, also, alight. In the west, the weary sun takes pity and sends the silver bellies of the clouds to molten-gold and heated-iron glow.

The furious blaze glints on silver crowns; the mail of Narnian warriors as they cross back and forth before it, beating out advancing sparks that leap Dagori's Ford to rake at browning reeds. The jewels gleam scarlet on the halters of steaming chargers that stand heaving vapor into the ether; a cheap mime of southern drakes, their breath less devastating.

The half-built tower burns.

The tower combined of Calormene stone and Telmarine timber.

Housed of Daradans and Telmarine knights.

Screaming assaults the evening wind. Shadows draped in carmine garlands plunge from the walls of Tel-Ilil into the deep Great River lapping at its smoldering foundation.

Metal whines softly on fine metal as Edmund sheaths his sword.

"It’s good," Lucy murmurs, wiping blood from her dagger onto her soot-streaked crimson skirts.

"It is," he answers graciously, dark eyes on another glowing specter as it streaks from the tower like a Star earthbound. The hiss of steam – fire's reluctant death – whispers from the river's middle before drowning in the lap-lap-lap of the relentless current.

Narnia grows. Narnia lives. Narnia is free.

Forever.

It is good.

Pine shingles over Calormene heads is not a house of peace, but threat of war. Lucy smiles as the tower heaves and shudders and slides down the bank into the River, as if it never was. Not that it ever Was.

.

.

The scream will reverberate within his heart long after the source is dead and buried. The image of a boy-not-man with a shadow of another life lived long before his own welling dark and threatening in savage sky-clear eyes.

The shriek of ancient metal against golden hilt – that sword of kings he held in his hands but had not will to wield – and he saw Narnia in ermine and gold, streets paved in soft rose petals, chargers shod in silver, rulers bold and fearless and blessed by a god to reign. Honored by many, cursed by few. Haloed by the sun, guided by the stars, protected by the moon.

The blood of a thousand ancestors fallen under the edge of Narnian swords cried out in his veins, and he wanted to cower. But it was not his body that fell in front of the High King of Old.

Peter stepped away from Miraz.

To look to him.

And Caspian did not think he could be ready.

.

.

Gryphons wheel aloft.

Stallions scream below.

Smoke drifts along the battlefield, the gauze curtain between death and life—parted to accept the noble and valiant victims of war. Death knows no side, and chooses no victor.

Peter lifts his hand, and points the length of Rhindon toward the left.

Susan bows her head, eyes closing, and tears her malachite veil from her hair. It cracks in her grasp, longing to be set free to tangle in the wind's embrace.

Bowstrings tense; silver-white feathers kiss sun-brown cheeks and fray into unruly rugged whiskers.

Below them, Edmund throws his charger's head to the side, cavorting on the plains of war like a boy-prince plays with tin soldiers on a field of green felt. He laughs, and his general rears and shouts a war-cry, directing with his spear as he leaps toward the army's left flank.

A gryphon screeches. Edmund turns and lifts his shrewd gaze to the cliff’s face. His night-dark stallion rears beneath him, beating the air with iron-spiked hooves. Edmund raises his hand, and a ray of sun strikes against the silver crown in his raven hair, blinding in its piercing path of light. For a moment, Edmund is frozen; the portrait of glorious war. Then the stallion comes back to ground. Edmund drops his arm.

The veil whips out of Susan's clutch, billowing away behind her.

Arrows whisper farewell to archer lovers, falling broken under hooves, buried within hearts.

The Telmarines retreat, leaving their dying like rotting spoils of warfare in their wake. Lucy brings all race and creed beneath the shadow of her white tents. Healers know no flag, and the living will not join the dead without a second fight.

.

.

The flames lick upward along the collapsed timbers, the toppled brick like grinning jagged teeth against wolf's-eye yellow fire. It washes their pale faces in light.

Air raid sirens wail on high. Somewhere nearby a child screams— 'I am lost!'

Wind barrels down the broken street, funneling toward them to rough the edges of their hair and lift their ties like torn pennant banners in its wake. A lorry burdened with bags of sand roars by them, the rush of it cool in the presence of the bomb's seething aftermath. The street is cracked like china fine; rubble – dust and glass and ash – crunch under-heel; hell's gravel footpath.

A rumble, the ground quakes beneath their bodies. Light explodes over ridgepoles and roofs.

Bombs whine and aircraft growl a mile distant.

Edmund stares as gods fling flint-stones to make mortal-burning fires.

Edmund will not forget.

Gryphons can be German war-gods, too.

.

.

Sunlight flashes against ocean-spray. Wind beats wave, and hooves beat sand in staccato rhythm. Laughter lashes out and echoes down the beach, thrown against cliff-front and boulder-face.

Susan drives her golden-gleaming palfrey hock-deep into sapphire sea. She lowers her reins, looking back over her shoulder as her ribbons of raven hair catch on the wind, braids unwinding, then sinking down—weighted by the water, lying over the back of the gold mare with suggestion of a selkie's tattered hide. Susan beams, leaning back in her saddle, bare feet tickled by the surface of the ocean-top.

Peter's pale charger – the color of specters, mist, and death-shrouds – paws at the foam, kicking mermaid tears against his belly. The High King utters the war cry of Narnia, and nudges his stallion into motion. The white coarser snorts, rises up in a half-moon leap with Peter clinging to his arching mane— they plunge forward over waves shore-bound into deeper water. Peter presses his palm in circles against his beloved Capaill Uisce's coat, the silver ring on his finger outweighing saltwater's siren song.

Lucy's crimson and saffron skirts stream out behind her, pressing tight against her thighs. Her fingers wrapped close in flying ebon mane and silken rope—the only rein. Her heels sink low as she rises off her saddle. The mare is of Calor, her coat is called blood—her legs are so fine they look as if they will break with each step. But the delicate face and broad back conceal a loyal heart of molten fire; a devil temper of Tash's own make. Lucy's sun-kissed brown locks stream out behind her, a brass banner on the wind, and they race on.

Edmund rides bareback, without bridle, and hackamore-free. He presses down against billowing black waves of rippling mane that tangle with his own. Lather flies against his bare calves, and he whispers to his warhorse in the language of its ancestors—Telmarine. They stretch thin against the beach, a streak of black on gold-white sand. Shod hooves cleave half-circle furrows in their wake.

It is a golden age.

The sun will not set on their reign.

.

.

"What happened here?"

The question is not that at all, but a demand for answers. They are surrounded by dust and death and decay. Motes float bloated and sluggish on thick atmosphere. Sunlight shafts through broken ceiling. This is not the empire they left. This is not the Narnia they know.

Rusted swords, shattered shields, cleaved-in armor. Shadows loom velvet-thick over heaping piles of metal and bone and rotten wood.

Peter kicks a layer of mortar dust and chalky silt. It clouds into the room.

From his place among the shadows and marks of death, Edmund stares out into the circle of daylight beating down on his brother's golden head. Peter mourns, but mourning is for afterward of victory. They are not victors yet—he does not know what they are.

But we will find out, he vows in savage silence.

.

.

The sobs echo through the dim-lit cavern.

Susan steps off the main tunnel after a moment of gazing ahead to test none else have ears that hear. She lays her bow along the shelf for offerings and tokens. Her quiver follows. No arrow knocks fletching against another. She is silent.

The weeping continues without pause.

Susan steps down a shallow flight of stairs, each one wider than the last. Her aubergine hem kisses the dust, leaving a low-lying cloud in her wake that quickly fades.

She presses a hand to an earth-hewn pillar, gouging her nails until dirt-grains run down her chainmail sleeve. She stares into the darkness. Torches light at sparing intervals in the underground chamber stretching to infinity. A catacomb for the dead—a tomb for Narnia that bears no bodies, only the soul of a world struggling to gather breath.

Peter stumbles away from a pillar of his own to fall heavy on his knees. One hand presses dirty and stained to the ground, the other against his face. His tears fall unashamedly, and dampen the ground.

There is a legend the half-dwarven professor told her—how the High King's tears cause barren earth to bud and grow bounty to feed his starving subjects. But not a single stalk of green rises up in front of her brother; a boy that was a man who is so small in this massive place. He shudders as his lungs take in a gasp of air between one sob and another. His hand pressed to the ground trembles, his arm collapses, and he is bent over himself.

Like a woman hearing news she is become a widow.

Like a father learns he outlives his child.

Like a king mourns for his people.

"Oh, Peter," Susan breathes, though he cannot hear her. Gently, she draws near.

His head lifts as she comes to him, kneeling down. Her skirts rustle, an echo into graveside silence.

"Sue?" He says her name in a panting whisper, almost a breath. His lashes are black and sticking to one another. His eyes are clear, and full of horror.

"Oh, Peter," she says again, a soothing murmur that soothes nothing. In it he hears perhaps only accusation, and thinks her justified for such feeling.

"I can still hear them," he says, hoarse. He reaches for his neck, for his collar, clutching at his tunic with trembling hands. The earthen air quivers, and for a moment the world is rent. Time dissipates, vapor before heat; she sees dimly through a mirror.

Another king—the same king. Older. She is a woman, they are covered in blood and ash. The sky is death-black. The battle was won, the victory Pyrrhic.

Peter wept.

Everything is strange, but this remains the same.

Peter weeps.

"Hush then, hush then; shhh, Peter, hush now," she mantras gently, compassionately. Her hand goes to his hair and she strokes it back; it is shorter than her fingers remember it should be in moments like this, and smells of salt-grass and earth.

He leans into her, forehead against her shoulder, mouth open as he chokes another sob back but it spills forth because his heart has not yet ceased to mourn for what died and passed away. His breath is hot on her dress, and makes her skin fever-warm under the cloth.

Peter draws back, reaching for her, clinging to her sleeve, wrapping his fingers around her upper arms.

"Is there blood on my hands? Am I to blame? I don't understand—What have I done? I can still hear them, Sue! I can still hear them. . ." He breaks again, crumbling beneath the weight of twelve hundred years of majesty and skill that are no longer a match for a world gone mad with rage and ache.

Peter exhales, and his breath stirs the dust of the dirt floor. He coughs. Gags, moans, and closes raw eyes that have all but exhausted their tears.

Susan looks down at him, a consoling hand gentle on his back, running in useless circles meant to soothe.

The High King, brought level to a little child.

Oh how empires fall.

.

.

The sun shines through the stained glass at their backs, spilling around the marble edges of the four thrones. Peter does not look to his siblings as, haloed in golden light and crowned with a burning diadem of the sun, he rises.

As if they all understand – for they all understand the unspoken word – they stand from their thrones as one body in echo of the High King, while trumpets sound distant down the marble hall.

The diamonds and sapphires in Susan's midnight hair catch pinpricks of light, and set like stars. Her azure skirts with silver thread, and stardust grey under-slips swirl around her ankles as her hair falls to her feet. The prophets of Calormen called her a goddess of Narnia, and she thanked them graciously—but laughs behind Cair Paravel's locked doors at such blasphemy against the Great Lion.

Lucy's summer-green gown overextends its hem, sewn too long; to cover bare feet southern foreigners consider unseemly. She curls sun-browned fingers over the gold hilt of her dagger. Twin brass braids slide along bare shoulders, and when she smiles, spring begins anew in the hearts of all Narnians.

Edmund, the judge and wise man (prophets of Calormen have come to him to seek his understanding and departed newly taught) stands arrayed in black and silver with raven curls dragging to his chest, swept clear of his solemn brow and grave dark eyes with intricate centaur braids. His robe sloughs lazily down his arms, half worn, half falling free. Threatening action if it is demanded—even in the land of peace and plenty.

The Pashdaan from Calormen walks up the hall from the grand foyer beyond, but the splendor of his train fades pale compared to the wealth of happy Narnia.

"Most Elevated and Noble Majesties of this esteemed northern kingdom. I come from the Tisroc – may he live forever – to offer unto you such gifts and work and terms of peace so that you seek out no reparation for such destruction and war as the rash young Prince as placed before your path. Instead, to hope that you may deal mercifully. The Tisroc – may he live forever – has offered my own life in place of Prince Rabadash if you do not think such treasures as I bring sufficient. Do with your slave as you will have be done." He prostrates himself before the throne, a fearful subject from another land.

Lucy does not look at Peter as she moves forward, her gown rippling out behind her; gossamer silk flowing in currents of her own motion. Her bare feet are silent on the cool, rosy-white marble tiles.

A hand touches his face.

Shimri lifts his head and peers upward into the face of King Edmund. Beside him stands Queen Lucy. Her hand remains on his body, moved to his shoulder. Toward him, Edmund offers a pale hand ornamented with a lone silver ring. The serpent eats its tail, so evil will consume itself. The king who is a judge who is a wise man that could have been the brightest of prophets smiles down at him, and Shimri wonders if this is what it feels like to be blessed.

"You are no slave of Narnia, my dear lord," Lucy admonishes with brilliant kindness. "You need not grovel before us, as we require no such degradation; we do not hold you in offense for any wrong done by another."

"Come, take this hand of peace, and be met with friendship all our days, Pashdaan," Edmund coaxes, his voice the depth of a forest river, melodic as one also.

"We want for nothing from Calormen but that we be free," the High King declares, and the world seems to stand still as he speaks in golden tones, eternal summer rich in his voice. He smiles broadly when Shimri looks up at him, and the corners of Peter's eyes crinkle with mirth.

"I. . . have entered paradise."

Edmund smiles; it tilts crookedly. "An earthly one, perhaps—as best a mortal man can make. There is better still to come beyond the hallowed Shore in the Eastern Lands."

Shimri reaches out, ringed fingers trembling. He lays his dark hand inside Edmund's pale grasp, and stands.

A hearty cheer breaks through the great throne hall of Cair Paravel. Susan descends the dais of marble and stands beside the Pashdaan.

"Now, we shall feast as friends and equals. Tell us, what is your name?" She takes his arm as Narnians frolic about them, and soft blush petals float down from an invisible place above.

"Shimri, my lady. I am born Shimri, son of Paraan."

"I am Susan, Shimri. Welcome to Narnia—you are welcome forever, until the stars forget all our titles, and we are written into myth."

.

.

It is a forest. It is a jungle. It is desolate. The woods are so still and dark. There is no music calling softly to the ear, no fountains that bubble merry in their basins, no pale towers gleaming in this early light. There are only ruins, and apple trees grown feral from their gentle ancestors.

There is no perfume of spring-budded flowers in Susan's private garden. Jasmine does not cling any longer to the lattice around his balcony, tossing dappled sunlight over his dark head as he stirs at break of day. There are only marble castle bones, rising jagged from undergrowth of ancient rose briars.

There is only pain.

In the quiet morning rush of air coming sharp and brisk off the Eastern Ocean from the cove of the mermaids, Edmund Pevensie leans against what was once a marble pillar, and weeps.

Paradise is lost.

A/N:

I originally published this on Fanfiction.Net, but decided to brave up and post it here too; because why not?

This AU (sort of?) one-shot is wholly inspired by “Paradise Is Lost” by GoldTop featuring the vocals of singer Sam Tinnesz. For those wondering why I call it a “sort-of AU”, it’s because since I began writing Narnia fic in 2013, I head-canon a lot of little details and aspects to Narnia that are not written by C.S. Lewis, but, I like to believe, he wouldn’t be averse to. I combine elements of both the novel series, and their film adaptation counterparts. If you’ve got questions, don’t hesitate to shoot me a message. I’m friendly.

Dagori's Ford = inspired by my headcanon that there would be landmarks named after Digory Kirke and Polly Plummer since they're important to Narnian history and lore.

Pashdaan = of similar status to an ambassador or lower-ranking European nobleman. I love Turkish/Ottoman/Middle Eastern culture and history, and I know C. S. Lewis modeled his Calormene after them, so I'm going to continue in that vein with my headcanons. Pashdaan is a play on the Turkish "Pasha".

Tel-Ilil = a watchtower built on the edge of the Great River (in Narnia, but near the Telmarine border, so technically an invasion of Narnia). Edmund and Lucy plot a covert attack and destroy it.

@nothinggold13​ Thought this might be something you’d like. 

[wordynerdygurl]

Birth the Stars

Author’s Note:  Hello all!  So, this story is shamelessly and selfishly just for me.  It’s my birthday, you see, and I was inspired by @sherrybaby14​ and her delightful Loki birthday wish story.  Should you like it, as usual, leave some love! Tag lists, asks and requests are open! P.S. The gif is beautiful and I thank the OP! P.P.S. I will be on vacation for the next week, so, no planned posts, but I’ll make it up to you!  Promise! Summary:  Your special day coincides with a cosmic event and Loki helps you celebrate it grand fashion. Pairing:  Loki x Female Reader Warnings:  SMUT, just sweet birthday SMUT

How could you describe something that no earthly words were designed for?  

Through the massive glass shield you had an expansive view of the galaxy unfolding in burning stars and kaleidoscopic clouds.  Clouds that came in every color Crayola could possibly conceive, and a few they would never believe, curled closer, lit from behind by the strength of a foreign sun.  

Scientifically, you understood that it was gas and dust and light bending, blending, to create the spectacle you were staring at, slack jawed.  But seeing it?  Watching it rise on the unending horizon of space from the security of Loki's state room was something else entirely.  And you were lost in wonder.

"Glorious, is it not?"  Sneaking in on silent feet, his handsome face reflected in the glass, Loki offered you a small smile.  His voice is silky and soft, reverent and respectful of your contemplative quiet.

Your nod is barely perceptible, "I… I can't bear to look away.  It's magnificent."

Feeling his masculine presence at your back, blue eyes on you, "Magnificent… truly."

Sighing sweetly, stepping closer to the protective crystal window, "I'm talking about the nebula."

A hand skates over your hip, hugging your curves through the layers of your frock.  The other brushes lightly over your bare shoulder, fingers toying with the strap, and you cover them with your own.  

"I am not."  

Acknowledging him with a slight bow, "You, dearest, are just as rare…"  Loki's soft lips press against that tender place behind your ear as you tilt your head, "Just as beautiful…"  Now your jaw, "and more than magnificent."

Seeing your smile in reflection, "Liar."

"Me?  I would never!"  His mock innocence makes you chuckle which Loki uses to his advantage, shamelessly.  Lacing his fingers through yours, Loki gently pulls your arms between your bodies, effectively pinning you against your window to other worlds.

Standing there, breathing synced with Loki's, you lose yourself in the incredible view.  So easily lost to the streaks of stardust swirling in space, as if the ancient arcs of light and color were a painting hung in the sky of Creation's museum,  "On Earth, it takes eight minutes for the light of the sun to reach the planet, the people… Did you know that?" 

Sensing his head shake, continuing, "How many light years ago did this nebula begin, I wonder?  How long does it take to bring a star… a galaxy into the world?"

Those lips, his lips, trailed over you making strategic stops along the nape of your neck.  Brushing over your tight tendon, his sharp teeth nip at the junction, your cooing response music to Loki's ears.  "Making something so… perfect takes time, love.  Which reminds me.  Do you know what today is, dearest?"

Still looking out at the scenery, you shake your head, "Loki, since coming aboard I have lost track of so many things… the month, the day, the time… my sense of modesty."

Raising his eyebrow with a sly smirk, "I like to think I helped with that last one…"

"Oh, most definitely!  But, sorry, no… I don't know what day it is."

Wrapping your hands around Loki's trim figure, his back to your chest, grounds you to this place.  To him.  But it's true that your world has gone topsy turvy since Loki entered your life.  You haven't missed the way things were, instead, enjoying the amazing moments only a person like Loki could offer had become your new normal.  

Things like a front row seat to the ever expanding universe.  It startled you and delighted you.  So like the man you loved.  

"It is your birthday, my darling.  And everyone is waiting now to celebrate with you."

Cheeks turning crimson, you burrowed further into Loki's arms, "No!  Is it really?"

"Yes… really."

"Good thing someone was keeping track…", you answer softly.

Stepping snuggly against you, Loki's chin to your collarbone, "Just think, you and this cluster of stars will share a birthday."

Another twinkling laugh escapes you at the idea of billions of brilliant brothers and sisters.  Deepening silence returns as a streak of yellow collapses into a flash of green, swirling into teals before pulsing purple.  "Intergalactic fireworks for your special day, sweetling."

Shivering at the awe inspiring sight before you and the nearness of the God behind, Loki hums huskily, "Cold?"

Still gazing into the cosmos, "My dress isn't terribly thick."

"But it is lovely.  Perfect for tonight…"  Layers of gauzy chiffon in emerald and mint flowed from the thin straps tied at your shoulders.  It was a gown without a waist, falling in waves to the floor, after accentuating your abundant bust, of course.

Whining, just a little, "I had almost forgotten about tonight.  What time is it?"

"Early still."  Wandering hands trail up your arms, caressing the roundness of your shoulders, kissing each one in turn.  A strong hand turns your chin, your mouth parting for Loki's, his tongue eagerly licking over your bottom lip.  

Deepening the kiss, Loki kept you from turning into his arms, instead his hips held you in place.  "Keep watching, little dove.  Put your hands on the glass, like this." 

Bending at the elbow, Loki folded your forearms forward, fingers spread.  The glass is smooth and cool to the touch.  Crowding into you, trapping your body like a butterfly on display, Loki's hold on you tightened.  His mouth, suddenly savage, sampled the sugared skin of your neck, swept over your clavicle, stroked the shell of your ear.

Whimpering in want, forced focus on the star nursery expanding ahead of you, your head rested back on Loki's chest.  "It is creation… that glowing swirl of color in the distance.  Hot and cold, dark and light, all of those… contrasts colliding."

Slim fingers fidget with your dress.  First the right tie drops, the weight of your gown shifting to to the left, throwing you off balance for a beat.  Loki's palm falls to your freed breast, his skin warm compared to the space chilled glass in front of you.  Moaning, the startling difference between your gossamer garb, his petting paw and the chilled wall is suddenly too much.

The second strap lets go and your fancy shift puddles at your feet with a sigh.  Loki covers your exposed chest with his hands, kneading your sensitive globes in a way that walks the line between too hard and not hard enough.  His iron chest leans into your back as your tender nipples harden against the window, held down by the exquisite weight of Loki's lean body on your own.

"Loki… I… What if…?"

Cutting you off with a husk, "Hush… there's no one to see you but me.  And infinity."

Feather light, Loki's touch scorches down your ribs.  At the swell of your hips he hooks your flimsy panties at the waist, tugging them down to your knees.  "Spread your legs for me kitten.  That's it.  Just like that."

Boxed in, nowhere to hide your body, your want, he grants you enough room to accommodate his wayward wandering hands.  Maybe you should feel shame at being so casually exhibited to the expanding universe.  But you don't.

What you do feel is powerful.  It's as if you are manifesting the molecules which are dancing in that disco ball of unimaginable energy, calling them to you, bringing forth a million stars and with them a thousand planets.  It is life!  It is beautiful.  And it is terrifying.  

Loki's fingers find your silky slit, spreading your saucy excitement over your straining bud.  Circling you in slow, simple, strokes your body starts to sing.  Simpering, you're breathing in short gasps, fogging the glass in front of you and distorting the stellar symphony of light and color beyond your vessel.

Using his unoccupied hand to tangle your short hair, Loki pulls your head back from the window, attaching his hungry mouth to your throat.  His fingers grind against your firm clitoris, intent on releasing your sexual tension.  Cold, so cold, your collapsed breasts are sensitive and screaming for respite.

As you are forced to feel all of this competing stimulus, the fibers of your feminine form have compressed closer and closer and closer together.  Just like the nebulous cluster before you, to grow you must crack, shatter into a galaxy of glowing gaseous orbs.  Expanding, your excitement is matched by the spreading of stellar space dust, colors swirling as Loki's digits dance deliciously.

His own breathing hitches as your body vibrates under his hands.  You can't face him, he's too close, the clear glass ensures that.  So you have to endure hot kisses on your chilled cheeks, your icy shoulders, your cool clavicle.  When he sucks on the base of your neck, you hiss, pushing your hips forward, seeking more.  Undone, Loki's teeth break through the thin barrier of your skin with a flash of pain.  

Your ecstasy explodes from deep within.  Sweaty palms slide down the see through barrier, barely supporting your weight.  Legs shaking, you flood over Loki's fingers and your thighs, grateful for his Godly strength, his sturdy support.

He lingers, letting you catch your breath, his strong hand resting over yours as if together you could reach out and capture the haze of colors in the clouds rolling by.  It takes you a moment to come back to yourself, trembling at the power of your pleasure, overcome by the intimacy of Loki's attention.  Shivering, goosebumps break over your bare arms.

Pulling you back into his chest, Loki rubs his hands across you, warming you.  Dropping low, he lifts your panties, placing them on your hips where they started.  As you struggle to calm your racing heart Loki glides your gown back over your bruised bosom, "Can you hold this, darling?"  And with your help the straps of your dress are tied properly once more.

Tearing your eyes from the fiery furnace of creation in front of you, your head rolls onto Loki's chest, "Wow..."

You spin in his arms, molding yourself to him, staring up at Loki, the chaotic center of your own galaxy.  Finding your dewy mouth eager and accepting, ready for his talented tongue, Loki kissed you deeply.  Curling your hands into his raven locks, returning to Loki all of the pleasing passion he had given to you, and soon your body was craving more.

"Hmm… we have to stop now.  People will come looking for us."  

His voice was ragged from pleasure denied, something that pleased you greatly, so you purred, "Let them look!"

Sliding your hands up Loki's chest, he grabbed your wrists, "Oh, darling!  There will be time for that later."

"Promise?"  Wiggling against him, teasing Loki shameless had your smiling.

Pressing a kiss to each of your palms, releasing his grip, "Promise."

When you stepped back, smiling, Loki whispered, "Happy Birthday, sweetling."  

And it was.

--- Tag Team:  @just-random-obsessions​ @iamverity​ @brokenthelovely​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @archy3001​ @rorybutnotgilmore​ @vodka-and-some-sass​ @mizfit2​ @jamielea81​ @jessiejunebug​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @procrastinatinglikeabitch​ @thefallenbibliophilequote​ @lots-of-loki​

[moonsofmars-writes]

One Thousands Summers

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 七つの大罪 - 鈴木央 | Nanatsu no Taizai | The Seven Deadly Sins - Suzuki Nakaba (Anime & Manga) Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Diane & Fairy King Harlequin, Diane/Fairy King Harlequin (pre-relationship) Characters: Fairy King Harlequin, Diane (Nanatsu no Taizai), Other(s)

Summary: After being condemned for his sin, King is serving his sentence in prison. Time passes slowly and the only thing he can do as he waits to be free is losing himself in his memories. When summer comes to visit him once again, all he can remember is Diane.

Notes: Finally posting my piece for Nanatsu no Taizine: Vol II @nntzine! I’m glad I could take part in it! I hope you enjoy my piece.

Days are all the same in his cell. The light that enters from the tiny window, nothing more than a crevice just under the ceiling, is enough to let him know when the sun is up and when the darkness falls, yet it’s easy to lose count, to sleep through the days and the weeks hoping that this will make them pass faster. But even so, Harlequin always knows when summer comes.

It’s the perfume, rich and inebriating, that first infiltrates through the cracks and the bars, filling the room and waking him up from his drowsiness. The scent embraces him like a warm grip and tells him of the blossoming rhododendrons and the delicate lilacs and the too many wildflowers blooming in the fields around the prison. Then it comes the heat and the moisture, the intense sunlight almost hurting his eyes. The sounds of summer are different too, from the calls of the migrating birds to the steps and voices of the peasants getting ready for the harvesting of the fields. Only then, when his every sense is enveloped in the feeling of summer, Harlequin allows himself to acknowledge that another year of his sentence has passed. He lost count of the days long ago, but he can’t stop counting the summers. One, two, ten, and then twenty and fifty and soon they’ll be one hundred - and the day he will be free comes closer, slowly but steadily.

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It’s also a sign that spring has passed, and there is always something relieving about it. He loves spring, he always did, since the time he could spend it surrounded by the trees and blossoming flowers of his native land. Yet, this season is hard for him, even harder than the windy autumn or the cold, lonely winter. Spring is the Fairy King's Forest, the Fairies flying between the vines and laughing and asking him to join them, for once. Spring is Elaine and her honey eyes - they looked so hurt and shone with tears when she begged him not to leave her, and yet he did. Spring is Helbram and his carefree laugh - and his desperate cry as tears ran down his cheeks until blood suffocated his voice. Their ghosts hunt him with the smell of bluebells and primroses, insinuating in his thoughts and dreams, a constant reminder of how he failed them, of how he is still failing them, even though he is doing everything he can to atone for his sins.

Summer is different. Summer is the light entering their cave and waking them up in the morning, is the glimmer of the stream they went to get water. It’s the bright days spent in the meadows, flying in the clear air as she ran after him, laughing and trying to catch him. It’s the shimmer in her eyes and her beaming smile. Summer is her. Diane. Harlequin still can’t understand why this is the season that reminds him of her the most, as they spent together entire centuries, but there is no doubt that when summer comes, it’s easier to lose himself in the memories of her, to forget, if only for just some time, about the people who are hopelessly waiting for him. Strangely enough, thinking about Diane doesn't quite hurt. He broke the promise he made her and he lost her and he knows he could never see her again, and yet his heart aches just a bit with bitterness and longing. He still misses her like air, but that’s alright because he knows that it was the only way. She is okay without him, she has to be. Without her memories of him, she has nothing that could burden her young shoulders, nothing she will want to wait for, maybe in vain.

Harlequin remembers, though. And when summer comes again to visit him, he can take a sigh of relief and close his eyes and dream.

He dreams about the days they used to spend just laying near the riverside, enjoying the warm sun of the afternoon and the softness of the green grass, the singing of the birds and the gurgling of the water. Sometimes, they both fell asleep and woke up only when the dark started to fall upon them like a cool blanket. Sometimes, though, she was the one who woke him up, with a question to ask or something to show him.

"Harlequin! Look what I found!" His eyes snap open at the sound of Diane's excited voice, his mind still a bit addled and lost in a confused dream. He sits up and blinks as he looks up at her and at the green bush she holds in her hands, and it takes him a moment to notice the little red berries between the leaves. "What are they, Harlequin? Can we eat them?"

“Raspberries,” he declares after taking flight to get a better look, “and they are ripe enough to eat them! They are good!” She beams at him and nods, but when she tries to take the berries between her thumb and index, the tiny fruits explode, leaving a red stain on her fingers and a frown on her face. “Let me,” Harlequin says, furrowing his brows as he uses his magic to pick all the fruits he finds.

One by one, they float towards Diane’s open palm and here they set down, forming a little pile. She watches them amazed as they move in the air, then, hesitantly, she brings her hand to her mouth. “Oh,” she says, after tasting some of them, eyes widening, “they are sweet!”

Then she finishes the ones on her hand and smiles at him, and her lips and teeth are red as her palm. The utter and simple happiness in her eyes makes him giggle and feel pleasingly warm as he puts a raspberry in his mouth. It's sweet, just a bit sour and it's perfect as her joyful smile and amused laugh when the juice stains his hands and lips as well.

Then a door slams and when Harlequin opens his eyes, there is no sun and there is no river and there is no Diane. Only the stone of his cell's walls and a bowl of dry bread and rotting vegetables in front of the wooden door that wasn't there before. That's all the food he will get for the day and as usual, he forces himself to eat it - yet, if he doesn't look at it he can still feel the full taste of the raspberries on his tongue.

It was summer, Harlequin remembers as he sits again against the wall, that one time they found a fawn stuck in a ravine. Diane lifted it in her hand to take it out as he held and calmed it, and her eyes shined with joy when he told her how grateful it was. It was still summer when in their wandering they discovered a small lake not far from the river, the water deep enough just to get to Diane’s calves, and her laugh seems to echo in the cell as it did in that clearing, centuries ago.

And it was summer the night of the falling stars. His stifling cell is nothing like the vast fields surrounding their cave and the stone floor can’t be compared to the softness of the grass, but Harlequin lies down anyway and when he closes his eyes, he can see the infinity of the starry sky above him and smell the earth and the flowers in bloom. That night they lingered outside longer than usual, and Diane was lying next to him, excitedly pointing out the constellations she identified.

He blinks, and suddenly there is a flash in the sky, slicing the cloak of darkness like a blade. “Look over there!” Diane exclaims and raises her arm, “a falling star! Oh - look!” There is another, Harlequin notices, and he holds his breath as follows its path in the air. More stars follow and they watch in awe as the sky seems to fall apart. When he glances at her, maybe after a few minutes, her mouth is open and her eyes wide, so close that he can see the lights shine on her irises. “Why do they fall?” She suddenly asks, her voice filled with wonder.

Harlequin knows she probably doesn’t expect him to know the answer, yet he takes some moments to think about it before shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he whispers back, “maybe it just happens, like when ripe fruits fall from a tree.”

Diane hums, her gaze still on the sky. “Do you think,” she murmurs, and this time her voice is so low that he can barely hear her, “they feel lonely?”

“Why should they?”

She bites her lip, taking her time before answering, “They are falling away from the sky and the other stars and leaving everything behind. It seems lonely.”

Harlequin knows she is not just talking about the stars. She told him about the day she left home and how she spent years living alone before meeting him. The thought fills his chest with anguish and bitterness but he casts them away as he rises, flying closer to her. “Maybe they are falling alone,” he says, “and leaving everything they know, but wherever they are going, look at how many stars are in the sky!” He gestures at it but doesn’t look away from her, meeting her curious gaze when she glances at him. “Wherever they are going, they will not be alone. They will find a new place and new stars and a new home, just like - like me. When you found me, I had nothing and was nothing, but you saved me. You gave me a place I can call home. I still don’t know what happened to me, but falling led me to you and I - I am grateful it did.”

Harlequin breathes in, warmth creeping over his cheeks, and only then it hits him, how true his words are. How the fear and anguish of not having a past has slowly lessened as the days went and his affection for the young Giant girl has grown instead, like mulberry trees. It’s only when Diane turns her head to look at him that he notices a glimmer of tears in her eyes, and his stomach clenches as he prepares to apologize - he would have never wanted her to cry. But she smiles a wide, joyful smile. “Thank you,” she whispers, “thank you for staying with me. You are my home too, Harlequin.”

He feels like a lump in his throat that doesn’t let any other word out, so he simply nods and smiles back even though he is the one who should thank her, for saving his life and healing his wounds and giving him a place to stay. For her kindness and selflessness, and for the joy and innocence that pervade everything she does. For making him know love, because he loves her and it’s love that makes him feel warm and fills his chest with joy every moment they spend together. It’s not like he didn’t know before, yet it’s only now, as he thinks about how he could tell her, that he fully realises the enormity of his feelings. And suddenly, when she smiles and reaches for him with her finger and he holds its tip, he realizes that his love will not fade nor wither. He loves her now, and he will until he dies. He would want to tell her, but the silence around them is too peaceful and emotional to break it, and so no word leaves his mouth. They stay like this for hours, her finger in his hands, as they watch more stars falling.

When Harlequin opens his eyes he is in his cell again and tears shine on his lashes. He lied to her, that night, and that’s what hurts the most. He loved her and still loves her with all his soul, and yet he lied and deceived her. It’s in moments like this that he is almost happy she can’t remember about him. Yet, he thinks, eyes half open and fixed on the stone ceiling, yet he knows that as soon as he’ll have the chance, he will look for her. Before he has to serve his sentence, and return to the Fairy King’s Forest, to Elaine, and apologize with her for making her wait. But then, when he’ll be sure that everything is alright, he will fly towards the Giants’ lands and he will find her. Diane will not remember him, but he can take it as long as she is happy. As long as he can see her smile again, at least one more time, and, if she’ll let him, keep his promise.

One day, he thinks as his mind slips again into memories that now are only his. One day, when these one thousand lonely summers will be over, he will see her again.

[introvert-celeste]

Do you have an issues going on with jasper and why it seems like she's getting shafted despite being talked about a bunch of times by RS in the past and the fact that they are possibly not going to address the lapis and bismuth situation and it's possibly resolved off screen in the time skip and it's going to be a barn situation (peridot and lapis becoming friends quickly despite lapis really hated her) which is probably why some people are turned off by seeing peridot, lapis and bismuth togeth?

Oh, anon, anon, anon...you brought this upon yourself. Now you have to listen to my long ass theory about how jasper, Lapis, and Bismuth are all connected and that connection lies in Beta. I don’t feel like linking to all the other posts I’ve done on it, simply because I don’t feel like digging them up, so you’re about to get the long explanation.

Now, do I have a problem how the show is currently treating Jasper? No, not really. Not anymore. I’ve become jaded by her absence and I can stand to wait a little longer if I have to. I would love to see her as soon as possible, but I don’t think her presence...fits with the movie. I mean, she’s still technically an antagonist. Nothing has been resolved with her.

Do I have a problem with Lapis and Bismuth’s miraculously friendly relationship, despite the fact that Bismuth poofed Lapis, which inadvertently led to her being trapped in the mirror for thousands of years? No, because Rebecca confirmed today at SDCC that Lapis doesn’t know that our Bismuth was the one who poofed her (it also confirms that that was our Bismuth, which was never explicitly stated previously).

With that out of the way, I begin.

It all starts 5750 years ago, when Blue Diamond showed up with her entourage to deal with Rose Quartz and her “small but persistent” rebellion, which was basically just her and Pearl wrecking shit. Among her entourage is a gem that looks like Lapis, same gem placement, hair shape, everything.

Lapis claims in Same Old World that “we” (suggesting she was a part of group) “were only supposed to visit for a short time” (meaning Blue Diamond expected to capture Rose Quartz quickly), so it fits in with the previous assumption. She goes on to say “but we got caught in the middle of the war.”

Keep in mind that the rebellion prior to the events in The Answer consisted only of Rose/Pink and Pearl, the only gem she could trust. Pink was fight solely for the Earth and it’s organic inhabitants against gemkind. After she met Garnet, she realized that gems like her are also worth fighting for, so she would have likely started accepting more gems into her group, starting with Garnet. More gems means stronger forces, and stronger forces of gems who have been abused by Homeworld in ways Pink probably wasn’t even aware of meant a bad time for Homeworld. Rose’s little rebellion grew into an all out war.

Peridot says in Beta that “halfway through the rebellion, Homeworld scrambled to generate extra soldiers on the ground.” The rebellion began ~6000 years ago and ended a thousand years later, so halfway would have been ~5500 years ago, which is when Jasper was born. Well, that’s when she started fighting against the Crystal Gems, according to the Guide to the Crystal Gems, but considering Eyeball said that Jasper “came out with [her] helmet on and shattered 80 Crystal Gems before the sun went down!” I think we can reasonably assume Jasper was born in the middle of a battle.

5500 years ago also lines up with the Lapis’ claim that she was “caught in the middle of the war,” a quote that corresponds with the lower image of the two above. 5500 years ago is 250 years after the events of The Answer. To spare you any more unnecessary elaboration, my theory is that the Crystal Gems grew rapidly after Rose met Garnet, and Blue Diamond employed her own entourage to help create more Homeworld soldiers on Earth. The Beta kindergarten strongly resembles Antelope Canyon, which is shaped by yearly flooding, so I’d say Lapis is pretty qualified to help cut this kindergarten.

As you can see, the top image shows Lapis in a green landscape, corresponding with her first assertion that she was “only supposed to visit for a short time.” The second image, meant to be the same location, it rocky and barren, telltale signs of a kindergarten that has sucked the life from the surrounding area. There is also the outline of what appears to be an injector in the bottom right corner and, most obviously,a group of Jaspers running in the background. Immediately after this image, a couple of the Jaspers actually explode into shards. Not poofed, because there is no orange smoke. Only a bright flash of light and bits of rock, whether from the gem or from the ground, flying up into the air.

Here’s when Jasper was poofed for reference.

So, it wasn’t just a battle...it was massacre. Sure, Jasper “took out” more than her fair share of Crystal Gems, and I’m sure her fellow Betas had few scruples over shattering the gems that were attacking them fresh out of the ground, but from how Peridot was trashing it, saying it was “too small” and “obviously a total rush job,” I doubt it would have been hard to shatter them. The way she criticizes the shape and locations of the exit holes suggests that the vast majority of the Betas were defective, with Jasper being the overly perfect exception. We also have to consider who else was present.

As I mentioned before, Rebecca confirmed that this was our Bismuth. As we know, Bismuth isn’t opposed to shattering, not like Rose. While I don’t think she’s a ruthless murderer--after all, she didn’t damage Lapis’ gem here--she’s far from a passive fighter. Bismuth has led a life of hardship, and she was among gems who also led lives of hardship, and Beta was Homeworld’s newest military tactic. To quote Greg, “there’s no such thing as a good war.” That’s only bolstered by the fact that the first time Beta was even mentioned was in It Could Have Been Great, when Peridot pointed it out as the Cluster’s insertion point. You know, THE CLUSTER, as in the gigantic ball of gem shards deep in the Earth’s mantle? That Cluster. Beta is where it was inserted into the ground, which implies that there was such an excess of gem shards that, combined, they could eventually create an entity that would destroy the planet just by forming. I’m sorry, that just...it’s truly upsetting.

That being said, I believe that this is one of the reasons Beta hasn’t been talked about in the show yet, besides via Peridot’s third-party perspective. She didn’t even exist then. It isn’t something anyone wants to talk about, whether out of shame or grief. Many, many gems on both sides were likely shattered there.

SO, what does all of this mean?

It means that no, I don’t think Jasper is being shafted, although I do with they would have addressed all of this earlier, at least some of it. I think the right time hasn’t happened yet, and that nothing has been resolved. Lapis doesn’t know who Bismuth really is, so there really isn’t anything to resolve until they start talking about what happened at Beta which, as I mentioned, doesn’t seem like the sort of thing the gems who experienced it would bring up in casual conversation. It would be a heavy topic.

And as I’ve speculated, I seriously doubt Jasper took the news about Pink Diamond well. She has a history of running off on her own, and Beta is the only logical location for her to go at this point. It was where she was made, and it’s not a place where anyone else is bound to go, given it’s history. I believe this is where the Beta discussion will begin: when they specifically go out looking for Jasper and she reveals the awful truth of the place. That will lead to discussion of Lapis and Bismuth’s involvement, as well as Bismuth’s inadvertent responsibility for Lapis’ suffering.

Unlike before, we’re now in a position where we can hear all three sides of the story. Bismuth is unbubbled, is on friendly terms with everyone, and has made peace with what happened with Rose. Lapis no longer has an incentive to run away, now that the Diamonds aren’t threats, and has time to settle into the family dynamic. Jasper is uncorrupted, but otherwise at her most vulnerable, now that she knows that Rose Quartz, the gem that basically ruined her life, was also the gem jasper has wanted to avenge since she was “shattered.” She won’t do anything to hurt Steven, now that she knows who he really is, and he’s more likely to get an honest answer out of her. Think of all the backstory that was necessary to get to this point and you will find that they really couldn’t have done this any earlier without taking away from it.

So, while I am dying to see Jasper again, I don’t want her to be in the movie. I want them to save her for season 6, when we can have a proper arc for her, like she deserves, and I want Bismuth and Lapis to be a part of this arc. I want them to shed some light on Beta.

[chronicallylatetotheparty]

Fractured Foundation: Scorned Soul Ch.3 Drift Away

Summary:

Burning ardor.

--------------------------------------------------

Scorned Soul stared into his mother's stone eyes. Emilie's smile was sculpted in perfect imitation of her kindness. Fire scorched the ground where Scorned Soul sat in his usual place when visiting her, slowly spreading across the garden. Hungry flames bit at her flowers.

 

There was something he should be doing. He knew there was. That's why he set fires in a straight line across the city. To draw her out. Like a moth to his flame. But...

 

You could almost believe Emilie would stand up and stretch after sitting too long in the sun. Hand outstretched, Scorned Soul pulled his fire high and shaped it. As a potter shaped clay until Emilie stood there and smiled at him.

 

With a wave of Scorned Soul's hand a small fire Adrien ran up to her, scorching the grass as he went. Kneeling, Emilie wrapped his younger self up in her warm embrace.

 

Fire Emilie was speaking to fire Adrien. Both looked happy and content. The sight brought tears to Scorned Soul's gently smiling face. Intense heat that had nothing to do with his fire or rage rose from his chest to his throat. Seeking expression, demanding recognition.

 

"Here in the Garden

Let's play a game

I'll show you how it's done

Here in the Garden

Stand very still

This'll be so much fun."

 

Emilie and Adrien did not stand still. They spun in silent laughter, the flames whirling with their joy. Faster and faster, embers flying up and filling the garden with their short lived light. The more they played and danced the greater the fire grew, fire Adrien growing with it.

 

"And then she smiled!

That's what I'm after!

A smile in her eyes!

The sound of her laughter!"

 

Emilie collapsed, coughing, and Gabriel appeared by her side. Helping his wife to her feet, Gabriel pulled her away from their son as Emilie's light faded.

 

"Happy to listen..."

 

Fire Adrien made to follow but Gabriel barked a command, stopping the boy in his tracks.

 

"Happy to play..."

 

Turning back, Emilie soothed Adrien with a smile, caressing his cheek. Then she forced herself away from him, hand still outstretched.

 

"Happily watching her drift away..."

 

Fire Adrien watched as Emilie faded to embers. Gabriel, instead of returning to his son, continued moving further and further out of reach. Until he vanished too.

 

Vision blurring, Scorned Soul rose and his flames rose with him. Tears evaporating as his unnatural heat grew. He stared at his former self as Adrien obediently stood there. Doing nothing.

 

Ladybug's arrival was announced by the whirring of her yo-yo as she landed behind him atop the stairs, since everywhere else was on fire. Something twisting inside her as he turned and looked up at her.

 

Golden, wild hair, the tips fading into red like the flames around him. Red gloves to match his boots in stark contrast to the black suit. Flaming red heart on his chest stabbed through the top by a dagger. A sword at his back and so much heat the air seemed to flicker around him. But the worst part was his blood red eyes glaring out of a mask that resembled a broken heart.

 

"A-Adrien," she breathed.

 

"No," he corrected, fire flaring. "Scorned Soul."

 

Before Ladybug could say another word fire Adrien became a Chat Noir. And a fire Ladybug joined him. Scorned Soul gestured to the flaming pair and placed a finger on his lips. Warily, Ladybug glanced between Scorned Soul and his creations.

 

They were arguing. Chat Noir seemed upset as fire Bug left in a puff of smoke. Turning to his audience of one, fire Chat spread out his arms

 

"Happily waiting

All on my own

Under the endless sky..."

 

Ladybug's stance wavered at the sorrow in his voice. This wasn't what she expected, what she was used to from akuma victims.

 

"Counting the seconds

Standing alone

As thousands of years go by..."

 

Gabriel rose from the flames, larger than life, as Scorned Soul's thoughts turned to his father. Taking on the shape of a monster Gabriel attacked Ladybug.

 

"Happily wondering!

Night after night!"

 

Fire Chat rushed to protect her and vanished with a swipe of fire Gabriel's claws. Ladybug's eyes widened as something stabbed at her heart.

 

"Is this how it works?"

 

Ladybug sliced the fire monster with her yo-yo, Tikki's magic protecting it, and Gabriel exploded in a smokescreen that covered everything.

 

"Am I doing it right?"

 

Ladybug coughed as the smoke flew everywhere, obscuring her vision. She should have known better than to let down her guard! Whirling her yo-yo as a shield and makeshift fan, Ladybug readied herself.

 

The smoke wasn't thick enough to hide Scorned Soul's sword as he slowly unsheathed it. It's white-hot blade shone like a beacon through the fumes.

 

"Happy to listen."

 

Backing away from the wave of heat that radiated from Scorned Soul as he closed in, and the fire that moved to surround her, Ladybug looked for a way out. His accusations ringing in her ears. Because that's what it was. An accusation.

 

"Happy to stay."

 

Realizing she could still go up Ladybug cast her yo-yo and pulled herself onto the mansion's roof. Gasping as clear, cool air entered her lungs.

 

Scorned Soul landed beside her with a burst of jet fire. His eyes bored into hers.

 

"Happily watching her drift..."

 

Fire spread quickly from Scorned Soul. Surrounding Ladybug with a wall of flame.

 

"... Away."

 

Suddenly, the butterfly mark flared to life. Scorned Soul winced at the force of Papillon's demand to limit his flames. But he ignored the nuisance and brandished his sword.

 

Ladybug squared her shoulders as she faced him, yo-yo whirling like a shield.

 

Scorned Soul took in the sight of his former partner. White-hot sword trembling in his hands. Her stance was firm. Heat flowed through him as his heart hammered in his chest. Fear plain on her face. His body tensed and eyes narrowed. Pity in her gaze. He lunged.

 

Sword sparking against her shield Scorned Soul's lips curled back in a snarl. He swung again and again, every raging strike forcing Ladybug a step back. This was uncomfortably familiar.

 

The clogging smell of carbon distracted Ladybug. Though not as much as fire Chat's words. Adrien's words? No, the akuma's words!

 

Another hit struck her spinning yo-yo and she slid across the roof tiles with the force of the blow. Scorned Soul himself was a furnace. Every searing strike sending another heatwave at her sweat soaked form.

 

"You keep on turning pages for people who don't CARE

People who don't CARE about you!"

 

Ladybug opened her mouth to protest but Scorned Soul cut her off with a thrust of his sword. It's brightness and heat haze blurring her vision.

 

"And STILL, it takes you AGES..."

 

Leaping backwards Ladybug fought for air against the growing smoke and the physical force of the rising heat as she launched her yo-yo straight at Scorned Soul.

 

"To see that no one's THERE!"

 

He grabbed her weapon as it came at him and in one fluid motion Scorned Soul's blade melted through her unbreakable string.

 

"See that no one's THERE!"

 

Stumbling, Ladybug's vision blurred as she lost her balance and fell to one knee. Heartbeat like a jackhammer. She couldn't think. Couldn't focus past her body's demand for oxygen.

 

"See that no one's THERE!"

 

Everything burned in the superheated air. She had to find a solution! She had to-

 

"Everyone's gone on..."

 

Scorned Soul loomed over Ladybug's kneeling form, raised his sword high-

 

"WITHOUT you!"

 

-And swung.

 

"SHELL-TER!"

 

Scorned Soul's sword sparked against the sudden green force field. Ladybug slumping against it's cool walls.

 

Scorned Soul's flames roared up the mansion's walls from the burning garden as his features twisted in an ugly grimace and he swung again. Again his sword did nothing.

 

"Adrien," a familiar, mournful voice called.

 

"No!" Scorned Soul snapped, twisting around to glare at his other prey. "Not Adrien!"

 

Features twisting as his body trembled, Scorned Soul's fire turned blue all around them as it flared across the mansion. Papillon's voice spoke in his head again, butterfly mark accompanying it, demanding Scorned Soul turn down the heat.

 

But why would he do that when Fu was right there?

 

Fu held his shield up and kept his eyes on Scorned Soul. Starring back, the heat of Scorned Soul's glare distorted the air around them. The Guardian spoke to his former Chosen. But Scorned Soul couldn't hear him over the roaring in his ears and the nagging voice in his mind.

 

Ignoring both, Scorned Soul's grip tightened on his sword and he charged. Fu caught the white-hot blade on his shield despite the searing heat burning through the Turtle's armor. Scorned Soul grinned as he pushed forward, Fu taken aback by the steaming tears in his eyes.

 

"Finally something!"

 

Knocking Fu off balance Scorned Soul's sword slashed against the Turtle's shield just as he brought it up.

 

"Finally news."

 

Fu cried out as his skin scorched in the heat radiating off Scorned Soul and slammed his shield forward, pushing the boy backwards into the whirling smoke.

 

"About how the story ends."

 

All the while Scorned Soul's blue flames grew hotter and the smoke more suffocating. Sweat ran down Fu's face and the air burned his throat.

 

"She doesn't exist now."

 

A woman, who bore a great resemblance to Adrien, formed from the embers flying around them. She flew at him as a sideways twister and Fu shielded his face. The mass of sparks slammed into his defense but some breezed through, blistering his skin wherever they touched 

 

"Survived by her son."

 

Lunging out of the surrounding smoke Scorned Soul sent the Turtle's shield flying.

 

"And all of his brand new friends."

 

Holding his white-hot sword level with Fu's neck Scorned Soul hesitated. The old man coughed as smoke entered his lungs. Sweat dripping off him and running into his eyes. Right hand clutched to his chest, burned where the sword had grazed him. Eyes wide and face pale as Fu stepped back.

 

For a moment Scorned Soul thought of sparing him the sword but... He took Plagg. Face contorting Scorned Soul thrust forward and-

 

A polka dotted fire extinguisher flew between him and his target. His sword melted through the container and the extinguishing foam blasted into his eyes. Scorned Soul yelled at its sting and whipped his sword back and forth blindly.

 

Wiping his eyes clear he scanned the burning roof. He was the only one there. The Shell-ter was gone along with its occupant. Only a half melted Lucky Charm proof of her presence.

 

Shaking, Scorned Soul warped the air around him, glowing brighter as his heat grew and grew. Until light pulsed outward in a heatwave, shattering every window in sight. His flames rushing into the newly exposed interior of the mansion.

 

"Isn't that LOVELY!?"

 

Papillon screamed in his head and sent spasms of pain across Scorned Soul's body. And then, suddenly, stopped.

 

"Isn't that COOL!?"

 

Fire blasted away from him in a wave, temporarily clearing the roof of smoke even as the flames at ground level grew.

 

"And isn't that CRUEL!?"

 

Scorned Soul glared at the other pillars of smoke rising from the fires he set across the city. Unbothered by the sight of Paris burning.

 

"And aren't I a FOOL to have..."

 

His flames devoured every meaningless possession in his hollow excuse of a home.

 

"Happily listened."

 

Every portrait reminding him of what he lost.

 

"Happy to stay."

 

Every shallow gift that decorated his gilded cage.

 

"Happily watching her DRIFT!"

 

The heat fractured the foundations of stone and the mansion trembled.

 

"DRIFT!"

 

Emilie's statue cracked as it was surrounded by flames.

 

"D R I F T . . ."

 

Raising his arms skyward Scorned Soul brought his power up in a great vortex of blue fire that swallowed the mansion whole.

 

"... Away."

 

Before exploding as he released his hold.

--------------------------------------------------

Notes: Reminder that akumatized victims don't think straight.

Apparently I'm breaking all the rules of song fics with this... That's strangely appropriate. But this should be the only song in here.

Song is Drift Away from Steven Universe: The Movie. Specifically the cover by NateWantsToBattle.

Inspired by @gale-of-the-nomads Fired AU

AO3

[imagines4abrokenheart]

My request is kinda similar to my first one. (Dragon Ball) Android 18 (Destroyed Future Version) Finding a guy hiding out from the Androids. But she thinks he is cute so she decides to make him her boyfriend. (Even if he likes it or not) But if she catches him trying to escape she sits on his face to teach him a lesson, having his face trapped under her booty until she is sure he will be faithful to her

I gotta ask, what’s your obsession with women sitting on dudes faces to show dominance? I’m not judging, but what is so fascinating? Also, sorry this took so long but I tried to go extra, so I hope you like it!CW: Male reader, Mentions of gore(very brief), POV switching(Only once), Facesitting to show dominance, male submission, mentions of enslavement and forced pet play. 

Queen of Apathy’s new pet

The buildings stand in defiance of the people who fell. They are no vulnerable flesh but concrete and steel, not as timeless as the mountains that ring the city but able to outlast the civilization that created them by centuries. Given enough time even the smooth grey will give way to a jungle of green and this “ancient” civilization will lay ruined for future generations to discover and perhaps piece together how we lived. I wonder if they'll know how we, with all our labor-saving devices could barely glean six hours sleep, and even when the opportunity to rest came our stress levels kept us unwillingly awake. But for now, all I can do is walk ant-like between the monoliths, grey at my feet, grey at every side, under a carpet of grey that promises nothing but a storm. In the end, it was not our using up of resources that killed us. It was our arrogance and lust for technology that doomed us, for it was man’s own created machines that slaughtered us simply because they could.

A bleak, thin wind it was, like a fine sour wine, searching the marrow and bringing no bloom to the cheek. A thick dreariness that hung in the air and condensed in my lungs making it difficult to breathe. The sky swirls, ominous clouds tinted with the blood of the fallen which had turned to mist in the heat of their death, curling together like a serpent. These clouds were followed by the sudden burst of lightning, sometimes flashing bolts of pure energy seem to stand for long moments around certain buildings. Count one, count two, count three, then, came explosions of thunder in great waves of discordant and demented sounds. The noise level became so intense that it rattled what few windows were still intact. The wind raised to the level of a thousand howling hounds.

I bend forward, pulling my hood over my head and picking up my pace. I run into an abandoned building, the rain pounds against my back like bullets. By the time I get to my sanctuary, I am soaked to the bone and stand shivering like a rat just pulled from the water. My teeth clatter together to create a melody with my pounding heart as it thumps against my ribcage. I drop the hood of my jacket down, it slaps onto my back with a wet splat that has a small, childish chuckle leaving me at the obscene noise. I breathe slowly, in then out to still my heart and relax my tense muscles. They hadn’t been seen in some time and so I had volunteered to go out to scavenge the cities with a small group. I had wondered away from the others, I wanted to see my old apartment and try and scavenge what I could from it- at least pick up a few of my old toys for the kids back home, I knew they could use that cheering up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If apathy was a person, Dr. Gero once said, her skin would be pale from lack of sun and her limbs would seem to thin and long for her torso. Her hair would be as pale gold as wheat overdue for harvest, swaying in the wind and eyes of a clouded sky on a summer day. Her voice would be of a viola, slow and even with the hint of more emotion under a stone facade of uninterest. If apathy was a person, I would be her. Through all his constant monologuing, that was the few things I remember. Apathy, yes I am apathy. Nothing is as interesting anymore, if things were different would I still be apathetic? Possibly, what could be stronger than my brother and I?

Flying over this broken cityscape brings more waves of disinterest, constant boredom that gnaws like an insistent rat at the back of my mind. It burrows itself in my bones and tightens my muscles to the point I feel I may explode if I don’t find something to do. My eyes scan below me, surely scavenge teams have been sent out? Surely, one human will be foolish to walk out in the open. I close my eyes, crossing my arms and weaving around buildings in frustrating ease that spoke volumes for the monotony of my current life. However, I jerk to a halt. A noise, soft and near blending into the rain that mops my hair. Feet, running. My eyes scan the area now on full alert and spot the retreating form of someone running into a building. A smirk dances onto my lips and I fly higher into the sky, knowing the building had a hole on one side of the roof. As I approach the roof I can hear it chuckle, a deep sound. A male. I descend at a quicker pace, peeking inside to get a feel of the situation before chuckling myself.

A lone guy soaked to the bone and thinking he was safe. How...pathetic. Truly, apathy did not feel like this. I landed silently, his back still turned to me. Surely, he had heard me or was he so enraptured with his escape from the rain that he was truly oblivious. I stand behind him, a sudden wave of giddy anticipation for what I could do this human thumping through my body from head to toes. He was none the wiser to my presence just behind him. I could blast a hole through his back, strangle him from behind or if I don’t mind getting dirty, I could rip his intestines out as he slowly bleeds to death and watch as the life leaves his eyes. However, we are both startled as he turns abruptly and he screams, throwing himself back against a wall. For my part, my eyes only widen a margin before I am closing in on him.

My hand snaps up and my fingers wrap around his neck, feeling his quickened pulse against my palm. His own hands fly up to grip my wrist and he struggles to breathe. He gasps, eyes glassing over and mouth gaping like a fish. His hair is tousled and wet, clinging to his forehead and his eyes look frantically at my face and at the things behind me. He begs, only barely with my crushing grasp. My head tilts, my own eyes flickering around his face and body. For a human, he was attractive I could suppose. More of an endearing cuteness added to the fact of how weak he was, it was like seeing a puppy. Your instinct to kill it diminished when it gave you pleading eyes and soft, high pitched whines. My hand unlocks from around his reddened throat and he drops to the floor. His hands now feeling around his throat as he coughs and sputters, trying to scoot further back into the wall and appear as none threatening as possible.

I rest my hands on my hips, thinking. If I killed him now, it would be boring again. I’d fall right back into the rut I was in before with nothing to do. However, if I kept him around I could have endless amount of fun. I could make him do useless chores, do tricks like a dog. 17 wouldn’t be happy at first, but he did say I could have anything I wanted and perhaps, at least for the time being, I could keep him on a leash. If he got boring I could torture the location of the other humans out of him and get a new toy. What to do now, though? He seems submissive enough but what would really drive home the fact he is laughably weak compared to me?

A smirk slowly drew up my lips and my pearly white teeth exposed themselves. I knelt before him, grinning like a shark as I slowly undid my belt. If it worked in the animal kingdom, surely it would work for this. He was just a dog now. I stared in down as he watched in abject horror as I grasped my belt in hand. “Your hands. Put them out in front of you.” I practically purr out, I couldn’t have him thinking he could try to get away and if his hands were bound he wouldn’t be able to stop me. He doesn’t listen at first, stares blankly at me before I snap the belt. That jolts him into action and he presents his hands as if he were expecting to get handcuffs. I chuckle, “Used to being bound, are we?” I cooe before quickly binding his hands together with my belt. I then stand, stepping on the extra belt and effectively pinning his hands to the ground between his legs.

I turn my body, my foot that stands on the belt simply twisting with me instead of picking it up. I could hear him swallow and it causes a chuckle to work its way out of me. I then grab a fistful of his hair, using it as an anchor. “You’re pathetic, a dog. A lowly mutt that serves no purpose but for my entertainment.” I then lean back, pressing my ass to his face. He struggles but I keep his arms and head still as I grind.

“Do you understand? You belong to me now. I am your master, your Alpha and you are nothing but an omega who lives to serve me until the day I decide you are useless.” My voice is chipper, giddy at the end and I laugh. My eyes sparkle with a level of pure delight, not even killing can accomplish these days.

He whimpers like a dog, body going limp and I can feel him nod, agreeing to whatever I say. I pull away, he gasps for breath that I had stolen from him for a second time. I step away, throwing him to the ground and he lands on his side. His eyes are red and puffy, wetness now from crying running down his cheeks. His face is a deep red from my action and he shivers from a combination of cold, fear and pure humiliation. My head tilts up, looking down at him from my nose and my hands go back to my hips.

I may be the personification of Apathy, but that does not mean I can’t take an interest in something.

[meladotjournal]

Esther - Like A Stone

Esther Abigale Lebel, despite everything, is still human. It’s her time. For now, at least. And all hunters go the same way- bloody. But what exactly happens when someone like her dies?

ESTHER has left the chat. 

Feauring: Aeszura and Dionysus. As always, I have no idea what I’m doing. If I write your character wrong, or if you have any comments at all, please tell me! I encourage it! I need to be more productive, and if you need me to rewrite absolutely anything/everything, I am more than willing to have something to do!

Takes place during Supernatural Season 12, Episode 21, set at the end of Esther’s story. Near 1800 words. 

/////

May 11, 2017

I walk out of the cabin, not bothering to clean up the mess inside. The fire I had started inside was already spreading. Sure, the bodies would smell, but at least I could be sure that I wouldn’t have to worry about any more undead spirits in this town anytime soon.

It was an easy hunt involving a couple of serial killers and a surprisingly helpful ghost. I was surprised that no local hunters (whose names I rarely bothered to remember) had picked up on it before I did. Jobs were becoming unsettlingly easy to find. I’m not one to back off of a case- I’ve been known to force other hunters off of jobs, but it felt wrong, and the recent British invasion was nothing if not suspicious. It made me almost glad that I hadn’t made many friends in the hunting community. 

And not that I was lonely or anything, but damn! I haven’t even heard from Aes. And I think we all know how much she likes to talk my ear off about things I hardly understand. But at least she sticks around, you know? I was worried about her, but don’t tell her I said so.

I start towards my car before I hear rustling in the trees. Or was it the fire? My paranoid ass wasn’t looking to wait to find out. That’s when I notice my tires were slashed. Shit. Shit! Here I am, moping like an idiot just to find out that someone’s tailing me. Just my luck. Shit!

I’d go back into the cabin, but that thing is on the verge of collapse at this point. I make a break for it, running into the thickest-looking stretch of forest, aiming in the direction of the shitty little town where I booked a shitty little motel suite.

I find a clearing nearby. Bad for cover, but a hell of a lot easier to run through. Just as I’m plotting my zig-zag formation, I see a big black SUV. Definitely bulletproof. Ominous. There’s sigils etched all over the thing. Shit. Those British fucks were onto me. I’ve been avoiding these cars for months.

I’ve spent too much time examining this thing. Lucky for me, this dumbass left the passenger door unlocked. Sloppy for one of the Men of Letters, though. What was he, drunk? Even the footsteps were sloppy. Small, around my size.

I hop in and crawl into the backseat, locking all the doors manually. I spot my reflection in the window. Jesus, I look terrified. My hands are shaking, and I find myself fiddling with my necklace. Stupid! Be productive! I use my stupid shaky hands to call the first person on my contacts list.

/////

We were getting ready for the next hunt, just like always. This was a big one, I can’t quite remember what, but it was something to do with demons and some weird hoodoo drug trade. And as much as I hate needing help, Aes and Dio were helping. In their own ways.

If I hadn’t met them while I was soulless, I doubt I’d have had the balls to stand my ground. In all honesty, they’re terrifying. I feel like at any moment, they could just eat me alive, or tell me that whatever bond we’d built was a part of some elaborate prank. But even I‘ll admit that I’m not exactly “best fwend” material. So I guess it works.

None of us sleep much. We were fooling around, getting drunk off the minibar while we watched the sunrise from the comfort of our surprisingly classy hotel room, thanks to Dio’s snappy finger magic.

“I think I finally figured it out,” Aeszura cackled. “I know exactly how I’d kill you.”

I rolled my eyes while Dio played along. “I really fucking doubt you could, little miss musical.ly star.”

“Yes, I could. I’d film it. No- I’d livestream it. And people would give me so much fucking money just to watch your smug ass die. I know the websites. Hell,” she laughed, “Facebook Live would work just fine. My followers would love it. Idiots.”

“You don’t even know what I am. I’ve been alive for thousands of years. I could be anything.”

“Time works different in hell. Like Australia. You can’t imagine how long I’ve been kicking ass. But I know exactly what you are. Dionysus.”

“I honestly doubt it. Dumbass.”

“You’re a little bitch, that’s what you are.”

I downed another one of the funky little cinnamon drinks. Not Fireball, but something fancier to match the room, and the Greek cotton I was spilling it on. Higher thread counts were pretty good at absorbing alcohol. Nice. I tried drawing patterns with my finger on the sheets before it could evaporate.

/////

I ran my nails along the face of my phone, fidgeting with the cracks in the screen. “Aes. Please, fucking pick up. I’m going crazy here. Crazier than usual. I’m talking to myself. I swear to-”

“Hey, bitch! What’s up?”

“Oh thank fucking god- Aes, I-”

“HAHA! Just kidding. This is my voicemail. Ha. Sorry. Follow me @stankthottie on musical.ly and-”

“SHIT.” I pound my head on the window, immediately regretting it. I can’t believe I fall for that stupid fucking voicemail every fucking time.

There’s no way I’m gonna be able to hotwire this car or anything. And even if I could, the Men of Letters would know that I stole it and track me down before I could even look at an asphalt road. I don’t know what I was thinking, getting into this car in the first place.

“-anyways, leave me a message after the scream or whatever. Except if you’re an angel or some shit. Eat a dick.”

“Aes, I’m such a dumbass. I’m in one of their cars. They slashed my tires and I- I can’t-” I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a deep breath.

“It doesn’t look good. I’m alone. Haven’t been able to figure out where all the hunters have been going and you know my knife hasn’t been working the same since Asteraoth… you know…” Shit, I’m crying. “-and I’m just so fucking scared, okay? I don’t know where you’ve been and why you’ve been avoiding me or whatever but now would be a really really great time to pop in and do that whole dramatic-as-all-hell smokey thing and save my sorry ass-”

I could’ve sworn I saw something in the trees. Someone? Blonde.

It’s started to rain. Great. Awesome. Fantastic. I try to shuffle my body lower into the seats and closer to the floor of the car. I can see the sky through the windows. The sun’s setting. It’ll be dark soon. I was hoping on getting some biscuits and gravy or something from the diner for dinner before heading out of town. My hiding spot smells like leather. And blood.

/////

“Fine. Fine! Then how- how’d you kill Esther, huh?”

“I don’t even know if that bitch can physically die. Can you die?” Aeszura threw an empty beer can in my direction, laughing, barely missing my head.

“Hrruhgh?” I grumbled.

“CAN. YOU. DIE.”

“Of course she can. Everyone does…” He paused, slouching. Before he thought we noticed his change in tone, he winked. “‘Cept me, of course.”

“I dunno. I’ll go to hell probably. Jus’ like everyone else.”

“Yeah right, with all those angels up your ass? You’ve got half of heaven on your stupid speed dial. It’s disgusting.”

“You’re sounding pretty self-righteous for a demon. What’s got your panties in a twist, huh, pink eyes?”

“They’re RED, fuckhead. Shut up. I hate you.” She coughed. “Ess, I don’t even know if you could go to hell. Trust me- I practically run the joint. Your soul isn’t, like, ‘soul-y’ enough. I don’t know what that angel did to you but-”

“He saved my-”

“Shut UP. Call it whatever the hell you want, but I know souls, okay? It’s kind of my fucking job. But even I’m not exactly sure what would happen if your m-eatsuit-” she paused to gag, “-exploded or something. It’s not a soul anymore. I’m not sure if it- if you - could even go anywhere.”

“Can’t become a ghost, can you? Your soul is already Tethered. I bet like, eight goats that you’d get trapped inside the knife or some shit like that” Dio giggles, snapping his fingers.

“Too bad your pretty little angel can’t tell you anything.” Aeszura joked, but she was getting genuinely angry. “That’s what you get for trusting some stupid fucking feathery-”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, guys. We have a case, remember? Why should I care, anyway? It’s not like I can do anything about it. It’s just eternity. I don’t have to worry about that when I’m busy here. Working cases. And I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.”

Dio chimed in, singing. “That’s what they all say…”

/////

I’m still on the phone. I don’t want to turn it off. I want an audience. It’s stupid and childish, but even hiding from whoever’s out there, I don’t wanna be alone.

I can hear the rain attacking the roof of the car. The leaves on the trees are shaking just as badly as I am. Stupid. I’m probably overreacting, right? It’s nothing. This is nothing. I’ve been through worse. I’ve come out of worse. Who says I’m gonna die? I don’t know the Men of Letters’ M.O. but the thought just leaves a rank taste in my mouth and a lump in my throat. There’s something outside, I can feel it.

That’s when my knife, the Tether, starts humming. I take it out from the inside of my jacket, squeezing it tight. It’s glowing for the first time in months. The thing is practically singing, the vibrations making the worst noise imaginable, like a cross between a bell and a scream. The windows start to shake and the car alarm goes off.There’s a chirp and all the doors unlock. The rear door, the one by my feet, opens.

I sit up a little (might as well) and lock eyes with a blonde woman. Short hair. Big green eyes, but they’re glazed over. She looks tired, but she’s smiling. She’s holding some complicated device, as all these British fucks do- but she doesn’t look like one of them. She’s a hunter. They must’ve recruited her. Bitch. She fiddles on something on the device and the Tether stops screaming.

She pulls out a small gun and aims it right at my chest. I flip her the bird.

[geekofmanyforms]

New Beginning

Summary: Unlike her twin sister, Elena, Elara Gilbert never quite fit in. Heck, how could she when this was at least the 50th time she'd relived her teenage years? Cursed by a sorceress a thousand years ago, Elara is stuck in an infinite loop of birth, life, and death, dying on her 18th birthday in each lifetime. Her curse is inevitable, and there is no escaping what's to come.

 AN: I do not own the Vampire Diaries or the world any of the known characters come from. I only own my OC’s and any original ideas that you see incorporated into this story. ATTN: My wonderful Beta, by the name of Casey, is currently helping me slowly rewrite this fic and fix any mistakes. So, if you see the first few chapters looking a lot better then the ones that follow; that is why. Also, I love constructive criticism so please to let me know what you think. I am working on my own original work so I could use the help fine-tuning my writing. This fic is on Wattpad, AO3, and FFN. I currently have 33 chapters written and will post them here if I receive enough requests. Otherwise, you may search my username on any of the three listed sites to find the other chapters.

                                    Chapter One

Looking back, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that I was ever ‘normal.’ Even as a child, I could see and do things no one else could. It never scared me, however- to me, it felt normal to be able to do what I could. I never thought anyone would view my abilities as something to fear until I was forced to show them. I remember the day I first showed anyone my skills as clear as crystal. That day, I learned that to be abnormal wasn’t a good thing. That day, I lost the filter of innocence I had to shield my childhood from the horrors of the human condition. That day, I learned you can never truly trust anyone.

It was an average day, like any other. The sun was shining brightly; I remember the way it felt seeping into my skin as my fraternal twin sister Elena and I climbed the trees beside our house. We climbed the trees in our yard almost every day. Even with the day starting as average as any other, it just happened to end up a defining moment in my childhood - all because a swift gush of wind and a few strands of errant hair caused my sister to lose her footing.

For many years, I grew up thinking everyone was as ‘special’ as I was. My mother always told me I had an active imagination, that the things I told her I could see were all in my head. After that, I decided to keep my newfound abilities to myself. I was fearful of what she would say or do if she ever found out that none of it was actually in my head.

It’s funny how quickly a few minor things can come together and change your life forever. I watched helplessly from the lower branches as she tried to brush her hair from her face, causing her to lose her balance and fall. I screamed her name as she plummeted towards the ground, her fingers grasping at the empty air as if to catch a stray branch and save herself.

If I close my eyes, I can still see myself rushing to her at the sound of her cries. I can remember the abrasiveness of the tree bark underneath my palms, scraping and scratching my skin as I dropped from the tree. All other thoughts had left my mind as adrenaline coursed through me; I needed to get to my sister.

I had always been protective of Elena. I was born first, even if it was only by mere minutes, so I always viewed myself as the elder sister — her protector. When I finally reached her at the bottom of the tree, she was sprawled out on the bright green grass. Her legs bunched up around her middle as she gasped in pain. I held her in my arms as she cried, telling her everything was going to be alright, to take a deep breath and try to relax. I gently lifted her arm to find that it was turning a purplish color and was twisted in a way that I knew, even at such a young age, was unnatural. Her pale face was screwed up in agonizing pain, tears streaming down her cheeks. I wanted so badly to help her, to take her pain away. Somewhere deep inside, I knew I could do something to ease her suffering. I was nervous to show her my abilities, but I couldn’t see her in such pain and do nothing. If anyone were to accept me for who I am, I was sure it would be my sister.

I placed my small hand on her arm and closed my eyes. I imagined her arm healed, back in its rightful place as it had been only moments before. Bright blue light poured from my fingertips, and her bones maneuvered back into place.

Elena gasped and pulled away from me quickly. She held her arm against her chest in shock, staring at me wide-eyed and fearful. She looked down at her freshly healed arm with hesitation, then screamed.

“W- what are you?” She shrieked, rising to her feet and stepping backward away from me, “Some kind of-of- monster?”

My heart broke. Did she really think of me as a monster? I had tried to help, and I scared her. I never expected my own sister to turn against me like that. My blood began to boil, my heart pounded violently in my chest; I was so angry. I stepped toward her, ignoring the way she flinched back, the disgust plain on her face. I slammed my fist square into her face, enjoying the crunch against my knuckles as her nose shattered. Blood poured down her front as she stumbled backward, falling onto her bum.

“You FREAK!” she hissed. “You’re a freak, Elara!”

I earned a nice sentence of four weeks locked in my room for punching my sister. My parents didn’t believe it when Elena told them about what had happened with her arm. They thought we had been playing and it had gotten out of hand. There was no possible way I could’ve healed a broken arm; it was impossible.

They could deny the possibility of Elena’s recount of her arm injury, but the proof of her broken nose was right on her face. That one I couldn’t deny and didn’t particularly want to. I was angry at my sister for what she had said, and as far as I was concerned, she deserved what I did to her in return.

Being whatever I was, I started to be very careful about who I trusted. If a member of my own family couldn’t accept me for who or what I was, I feared no one could. From that day forward, I never said another word about the things I could see or do. My sister showed me that I would be viewed as something scary or unnatural. Telling anyone could potentially bring me one of two things: pain or punishment. I chose to keep to myself from then on — I was afraid I would hurt someone again. I didn’t want to be the monster my sister accused me of being.

Our relationship never mended. We started doing everything separately after that day, instead of together; I honestly doubt she even remembers why. As we grew, she found her own group of friends, and I found mine. Well, I found one; Caroline Forbes. She had been my sister’s friend before she was mine. She and my sister are still friendly, but they aren’t nearly as close as we are.

At first, I couldn’t stand Caroline. I could hardly handle being in the same room as her. But, the more she bugged me, the more I started to like her. She had a fiery personality, one that you couldn’t help but be drawn to.

So, that’s how my life went. I hid away until Caroline showed up, dragging me out to a party or school function that I really didn’t want to go to. I’d rather stay home buried in a good book, but Caroline would have none of that.

That is until the Salvatore’s moved back into town. I had known from the minute Stefan knocked into my sister in the hallway at school that he wasn’t human. I could feel it, and not to mention, I had seen him before. He showed up in one of the many memories I had received of my past lives. I’m not yet sure how many times I’ve lived and died, but I know it’s numerous.

Every night, the memories come to me like nightmares. For the longest time, I thought they were until I was visited by one of the spirits that haunt me. Throughout my many lives, I’ve seen different spirits — some dead, some trapped in limbo, or the ‘in-between,’ as I call it. It’s my way of saying they are stuck in a realm somewhere between life and death.

This particular spirit, Rebekah, was my personal favorite. We had been friends in quite a few of my past lives. Her spirit form has plagued me off and on for as long as I could remember. She isn’t exactly a ghost, but someone who tends to get stuck in the in-between, thanks to a very long story full of family drama. We’ll get to that later.

I’ve always been drawn to her and her family. I don’t really know why; I have only unlocked a few of my past lives. It’s a painful process that I cannot control, and when it happens, it can take me days to recuperate. It’s like being forced to eat even after you’re full. It makes me feel like I could explode, bursting into a billion pieces if I bumped into something the wrong way. The headaches are the worst part, it feels like someone is pushing hot pokers into both of my eyes at the same time.

So when Stefan showed up, I knew exactly who and what he was. Rebekah had come to me the night before and told me everything was about to change. She told me that once again, I was going to be drawn into her family drama.

Great, that was just what I needed!

Even without Bekahs warning, I had remembered a bit about Stefan. I had run into him before, just as I had the Mikaelsons. I was sure he had come back to town the minute he heard there was a doppelganger of one of the women who had caused his change, Katherine.

Lucky me, this specific doppelganger happened to be my sister. Note the sarcasm.

Thankfully, he hadn’t noticed me playing the creepy stalker at the other end of the hall as he spoke to Elena for the first time. I made sure I steered clear of him the entire day. It hadn’t been easy, we all shared the same classes, but I had made sure to play hooky and hideout.

I wasn’t sure if he would recognize or remember me, but I didn’t want to take the chance of him giving me away in front of Elena. I had worked really hard to keep my typical, average girl cover, and I did not want that ruined by anyone.

Especially by some vampire who wanted to stalk my sister because she looked like his ex-lover.

I needed to speak to him alone, so that’s what I planned on doing. I would follow a vampire home, knock on the door, and ask to chat.

Smart right?

Masterlist