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sixeyesonathiel · 20 days ago

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your goddess loves you this much

pairing — yandere hero!satoru x goddess!reader

synopsis : you are a benevolent goddess, the eternal comfort in the chaos, welcoming a lost hero into your divine realm after a harrowing journey between worlds. with soft words and steady hands, you guide him through uncertainty, offering warmth, purpose, and a weapon to wield against the darkness threatening your land. loop after loop, you are his constant—his salvation, his truth. after all, isn't that what a good goddess does?

wc — 4.4k tags — oneshot, yandere, psychological horror, time loop, unreliable narrator, slow burn insanity, obsession, manipulation, role reversal, emotional control, gaslighting, looping timeline, moral erosion, poetic justice, deconstruction of heroism, implied multiple deaths

gen masterlist

the weight of his head against your thighs has become as familiar as breathing—more familiar, perhaps, since breathing is something you’ve never needed to think about until now. until him.

you feel the tremors first, always the tremors. the way his body shakes like a leaf caught in a winter storm, muscles twitching with phantom pain from wounds that no longer exist but live on in the meat memory of mortal flesh. his white hair spreads across the silk of your dress like spilled moonlight, each strand catching the ethereal light of your divine realm. it’s damp with cold sweat that shouldn’t exist here, in this place beyond temperature and discomfort, but it does because you will it to. because you find something intoxicating about the way mortality clings to him even in your perfect sanctuary.

loop 847.

the number sits in your mind like a precious jewel, polished smooth by repetition. you’ve been counting since the very beginning, though the significance has evolved from mere record-keeping to something approaching obsession. what started as clinical curiosity—how many times can a soul break before it stops reforming?—has become something else entirely. something you refuse to examine too closely, even in the privacy of your own divine consciousness.

what matters now is the delicious anticipation building in your chest as his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones. those ridiculously long lashes that would make mortals weep with envy, dark against skin that’s too pale from shock and trauma. you count the seconds—three, two, one—before those brilliant blue eyes snap open, wide and unfocused, pupils blown with terror that makes your divine essence sing with dark satisfaction.

there it is. that moment of pure, distilled anguish that you’ve become addicted to witnessing. the way his gaze darts around frantically before finding your face and latching onto it like a lifeline. the relief that floods his features is almost as beautiful as the terror that preceded it.

“shh,” you whisper, the same script, the same gentle tone that’s become your favorite performance piece. your fingers card through his hair with practiced tenderness—so soft, so perfectly maintained despite the violence he’s just endured. the last death had been particularly inspired, even by your standards. the demon lord’s claws had taken their time, peeling him apart layer by layer while you watched from your scrying pool with the focused attention of a scholar studying ancient texts. you’d rested your chin on your palm, legs crossed elegantly, occasionally taking sips of divine nectar as his screams echoed across dimensions.

“you’re safe now,” you continue, letting each word drip with honey-sweet compassion. “you’re with me.”

his breathing comes in sharp, shallow gasps that make his ribs flutter like bird wings beneath his torn shirt. you can feel his heart hammering against his chest where his side presses against your lap—such a frantic, desperate rhythm. mortal hearts are so wonderfully expressive, unlike the steady, emotionless pulse of divine essence. his heart tells stories: of fear conquered and reborn, of trust given and shattered and painstakingly rebuilt, of a soul slowly learning to depend on you for everything that matters.

“i—” his voice cracks like ice under pressure, and oh, how you savor that sound. you’ve heard it 846 times before, but it never loses its appeal. “i was... there was pain, so much—”

“a nightmare,” you murmur, letting your thumb trace the sharp line of his jaw. such perfect bone structure, even when it’s slack with shock. his skin is always so warm when he first awakens, as if his body remembers the fire that consumed him three loops ago, or the ice that froze his blood solid in loop 739, or the poison that ate through his organs while he writhed on the ground in loop 623. each death leaves its signature in ways only you can perceive. “just a terrible nightmare from your human world. you’re here now, with me.”

the lie flows as smoothly as silk, perfectly crafted after centuries of refinement. you’ve become an artist of deception, painting reality in whatever colors best serve your purposes. and your purpose, though you’d never admit it even in the deepest recesses of your mind, is to keep him exactly like this: broken, dependent, desperate for the comfort only you can provide.

satoru’s eyes search your face with that desperate intensity you’ve grown to crave. like a drowning man looking for driftwood, like a lost child seeking its mother, like a worshipper gazing upon their god. the trust there is so complete, so absolute, that it makes something warm and possessive unfurl in your chest. he has no idea. no idea at all that the goddess cradling him so tenderly is the architect of every scream, every moment of agony, every carefully orchestrated betrayal that led to his destruction.

you are merciful in his eyes. you are kind. you are his salvation made manifest.

the lies taste sweeter than ambrosia on your tongue.

“goddess...” he breathes, and his hand—scarred now in ways he doesn’t remember earning, marked by battles that exist only in the spaces between consciousness—reaches up to touch your cheek with trembling fingers. the reverence in that simple gesture makes your divine essence purr with satisfaction. “you’re real. you’re actually real.”

“of course i’m real.” you lean into his touch, letting your expression soften into something that could almost pass for love if observed from the right angle. it’s not difficult anymore; you’ve had centuries to perfect this particular mask, to understand exactly which micro-expressions most effectively convey maternal affection mixed with divine benevolence. “i’ve been waiting for you, hero.”

hero. the title sits in the air between you like a blade waiting to fall, because you both know what heroes are made for. they’re not made for happy endings or peaceful retirements. they’re made to suffer beautifully, dramatically, in ways that make for compelling stories. they’re made to sacrifice everything, to lose everyone they care about, to stand alone against impossible odds until the very weight of their nobility crushes them.

they’re made to break, over and over, until breaking becomes their most defining characteristic.

and satoru breaks so very prettily for you.

you help him sit up slowly, your hands steady on his shoulders as he sways like a tree in high wind. his body remembers trauma it can’t consciously place, muscles locked tight with anticipation of pain that isn’t coming. not yet. the reprieve is temporary, always temporary, but he doesn’t know that. he thinks this moment of peace might last, and that hope is almost as delicious as the despair that will follow.

“i don’t... understand,” he says, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple hard enough to leave red marks on his pale skin. “everything feels wrong. like i’m forgetting something important. something crucial.”

everything, you think with dark satisfaction, watching the way his brow furrows with concentration. you’re forgetting everything that matters, and i’m the only constant in your dissolving world. i’m the only truth you’re allowed to keep.

“memory can be hazy when crossing between realms,” you offer with gentle wisdom, guiding him to his feet with hands that seem to care only for his wellbeing. he moves like he’s testing each step, uncertain of his own body’s capabilities. which makes sense—how many times has this body failed him? how many times have these hands been unable to grip a weapon when he needed it most, these legs unable to carry him to safety? “the transition between worlds can be... disorienting. it will clear in time.”

another lie, of course. his memories will never clear because you’ve specifically designed the magic to prevent it. instead, they’ll remain trapped in that liminal space between dream and reality, close enough to create unease but never quite accessible enough to provide clarity. it’s one of your more elegant touches, that spell. it ensures he’ll always feel slightly off-balance, always in need of your grounding presence.

the chamber around you gleams with ethereal light that seems to emanate from the very air itself. marble and gold and impossible architecture that defies mortal comprehension stretch in all directions, creating a space that’s both infinite and intimate. crystalline pillars support a ceiling that shows glimpses of distant stars, while fountains of liquid light provide a soothing soundtrack to your interactions. it’s designed to inspire awe and comfort in equal measure, to make mortals feel both humbled and protected.

but satoru’s eyes don’t linger on the divine beauty surrounding him. they stay fixed on you with an intensity that’s become familiar over the centuries, hungry and searching, like you’re the only real thing in existence.

you are, in a way. everything else—the weapons, the quests, the monsters that will tear him apart in increasingly creative ways—are props in your private theater. but you? you’re the constant. the comfort. the reward he gets for playing his part so very, very well.

“tell me about the world,” he says quietly, and there’s something in his voice that makes you pause. a thread of steel you haven’t heard before, barely perceptible but definitely present. like the first hairline crack in perfect glass. “tell me about my purpose here.”

you gesture toward the vast armory that stretches beyond the main chamber, a space that could house armies worth of weapons. each piece gleams with deceptive promise—swords that will shatter at crucial moments, armor that will fail when he needs it most, shields that will crumble to dust, magic artifacts that will betray him in creative ways you’ve spent decades perfecting. some of them are beautiful enough to make mortals weep, others radiate power that makes the air itself sing. all of them are tools of his eventual destruction, crafted with the same loving attention to detail that a mother might put into her child’s favorite meal.

“you are chosen,” you begin, the familiar words flowing like water over worn stones. you’ve recited this speech so many times it’s become a prayer, a litany, a song that shapes reality itself. “a hero summoned from your world to save ours from—”

“from what?” the interruption is sharp, unexpected, cutting through your carefully crafted monologue like a blade through silk. satoru’s blue eyes have focused with laser intensity on your face, and there’s something different about his gaze. something that makes the base of your spine prickle with unease. “what exactly am i saving the world from?”

in all 847 loops, he’s never asked that question with such pointed curiosity. usually he’s too traumatized, too desperate for comfort and guidance to think beyond the immediate moment of safety in your presence. usually he accepts your explanations with the blind faith of a drowning man accepting a rope, never questioning its source or strength.

but you adapt. you always adapt. that’s what’s made you so successful at this game.

“darkness,” you say simply, letting a shadow of ancient sorrow cross your features. you’ve practiced this expression in divine mirrors, perfecting the exact degree of pain that suggests personal loss without overwhelming your audience. “an ancient evil that threatens to consume everything good and pure in this realm. only a hero from another world, untainted by our corruption, can hope to stand against it.”

it’s not technically a lie, which makes it easier to sell. there is darkness in this world—you’ve created most of it yourself, shaped it into increasingly elaborate death traps and moral quandaries, each one designed to push him further toward the breaking point you find so psychologically fascinating. you’ve crafted villains with compelling motivations, tragic backstories that make their evil feel almost justified. you’ve built societies that force impossible choices, where saving one group means dooming another.

you are the darkness he’s meant to fight, but he doesn’t need to know that. not yet.

satoru stares at you for a long moment, and something shifts behind his eyes. a recognition that makes your divine blood run cold in ways you didn’t know were possible. it’s like watching someone solve a puzzle you thought was perfectly obscured, seeing the moment when scattered pieces suddenly form a coherent picture.

“show me the weapons,” he says finally, but his voice carries undertones you can’t quite parse.

relief floods through you like warm honey. familiar territory at last. you lead him through the armory, past blades that sing with false promises and shields that radiate protective energy they’ll never actually provide. the space is vast enough to echo, filled with the soft chiming of metal and crystal, the whisper of displaced air around objects of power.

he examines each piece carefully, too carefully, running his fingers along edges and testing the weight of handles with a thoroughness that seems excessive. you watch him move through the displays, cataloguing his reactions for future reference. does he linger longer at certain types of weapons? does he seem drawn to particular magical signatures?

“this one broke,” he murmurs suddenly, fingers hovering over a silver sword without quite touching its gleaming surface. the blade is perfect, unmarked, radiating holy power that makes the air shimmer around it. there’s no possible way he could know about its hidden flaw—the microscopic fracture in its core that will cause it to shatter at the worst possible moment. “didn’t it?”

your mask doesn’t slip. it can’t slip, not after all this time, not when you’re so close to sending him off on another perfectly orchestrated tragedy. “i’m sorry?”

“nothing.” but his smile is wrong, too sharp around the edges, too knowing. it reminds you uncomfortably of your own expression when you’re particularly pleased with a clever manipulation. “just... déjà vu, i suppose.”

he moves deeper into the armory, and you follow, unease growing with each step like storm clouds gathering on a clear horizon. something is different this time, something has changed in the delicate balance of your game, and you can’t quite identify what. it’s like trying to pin down the source of a sound that exists just at the edge of hearing—present but elusive, important but incomprehensible.

satoru stops in front of a section displaying particularly vicious-looking weapons—axes that will grow too heavy to lift at crucial moments, spears that will snap under pressure, maces that will turn on their wielders when activated. each one is a masterpiece of deceptive craftsmanship, beautiful and deadly and ultimately useless when it matters most.

he studies them all with that same unsettling intensity, head tilted like he’s listening to something you can’t hear.

then he turns to you, and the smile on his face makes your divine essence recoil instinctively.

“i’ve been thinking,” he says conversationally, hands clasped behind his back in a pose that seems casual but somehow radiates contained energy, “about patterns.”

the word hits you like a physical blow, resonating through your divine consciousness in ways that mortal language shouldn’t be able to achieve. you keep your expression serene, but your supernatural senses are suddenly hyperaware of every detail—the way he’s positioned himself between you and the nearest exit, the careful distance he’s maintained, the way his gaze never quite leaves your face even when he seems to be looking at weapons.

“patterns?” you echo, your voice steady despite the growing void in your chest where certainty used to live.

“mmm.” he takes a step closer, and every instinct you possess—instincts honed by millennia of existing as a predator among predators—screams at you to step back. but you don’t, can’t, because that would acknowledge the shift in dynamic you’re desperately pretending isn’t happening. “like how some things feel familiar even when they shouldn’t. how some fears feel earned instead of inherited from nightmares.”

another step. your heart—do you have a heart? you’ve never been certain, but something in your chest is definitely racing now—begins to beat with mortal urgency.

“how some people feel too good to be true,” he continues, voice dropping to something almost intimate. “how some kindnesses feel like they come with invisible price tags.”

the silence stretches between you like a wire pulled taut, humming with tension that threatens to snap at any moment. satoru’s blue eyes search your face with surgical precision, and for the first time in centuries, you feel truly seen. not the carefully crafted mask you wear, but the thing underneath. the thing that finds such exquisite pleasure in his pain, that orchestrates his suffering with the dedication of a master artist.

the thing that loves him in the most twisted way possible—not as a person, but as a beautiful object to be broken and mended and broken again.

“choose your weapon,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake. it doesn’t, because goddesses don’t shake, don’t falter, don’t lose control of situations they’ve spent centuries perfecting. “the world needs its hero.”

satoru laughs, and the sound is nothing like the broken sobs or desperate gasps you’re used to hearing from him. it’s rich and dark and full of terrible understanding, like the laughter of someone who’s just gotten the punchline to a very long, very cruel joke.

“oh, i’ve already chosen,” he says, and his hand shoots out faster than your divine reflexes can track.

his fingers close around your wrist like a shackle forged from mortal determination, and the contact burns in ways that have nothing to do with temperature. for the first time in your existence, you feel small. vulnerable. caught.

“i choose you.”

instinct takes over before conscious thought can intervene. you reach for your divine power, the endless well of cosmic energy that’s been your birthright since the moment of your creation. it should be as easy as breathing, as natural as existing—power flowing through you like golden fire, reshaping reality according to your will.

instead, you feel... nothing.

not the absence of power, which would at least be something, but a hollow emptiness where your divine nature used to reside. like reaching for a sword and finding only air, like trying to breathe underwater and getting nothing but liquid suffocation.

you try again, panic beginning to claw at the edges of your perfect composure. surely this is just shock, just surprise disrupting your concentration. you’ve had your power for millennia—it can’t just disappear, can’t just abandon you when you need it most.

but the air remains stubbornly still around you. no wind rises at your call, no light bends to your will, no reality shifts to accommodate your desires. you are as powerless as any mortal, as vulnerable as the humans you’ve spent so long manipulating.

the realization hits you like ice water: he’s not just grabbing you.

he’s dragging you down.

the world dissolves around you, divine architecture collapsing into streams of light and shadow. your perfect sanctuary, your place of absolute power, crumbles like sand castles before the tide. you feel yourself being torn from your celestial throne, stripped of the comfortable distance between observer and observed, between puppet master and puppet.

the sensation is violating in a way you’ve never experienced—like being turned inside out, every carefully hidden thought and motivation exposed to harsh light. you’ve never been vulnerable before, never been at the mercy of another’s will, and the terror that floods through you is more overwhelming than anything you’ve ever imposed on him.

when reality reassembles itself, you’re on your knees in mortal grass, mortal dirt staining the pristine white of your divine robes. the earth beneath you is real in ways your realm never was—rough, imperfect, stubbornly resistant to your will. the air tastes different here, heavier, full of mortality and consequence and the complete absence of your absolute control.

you look up to find satoru standing over you, and his expression is nothing like the desperate devotion you’re used to seeing. his blue eyes are calm, calculating, almost gentle in their cruelty. there’s no trace of the shattered hero you’ve been so carefully maintaining. instead, there’s something that looks almost like...

relief.

“surprised?” he asks, crouching down to your level with fluid grace. his hand cups your chin with mock tenderness, fingers warm against skin that suddenly feels too fragile, forcing you to meet his gaze. “you shouldn’t be. you taught me so well, after all.”

“satoru—” you begin, but he presses his thumb against your lips, silencing you with the same casual dominance you’ve used on him countless times.

“eight hundred and forty-seven times,” he says conversationally, like he’s discussing the weather or commenting on the quality of mortal wine. “that’s how many times you’ve killed me. how many times you’ve held me while i shook apart, whispering lies about salvation and purpose and the greater good.”

your divine mind reels, struggling to process the impossibility of what he’s saying. he couldn’t remember. you’d been so careful, so precise in your manipulations. the memory spells were perfect, tested across centuries of use. he shouldn’t be able to retain anything between loops, let alone count them.

“oh, but i do remember,” he continues, as if reading your thoughts with the same ease you once read his. “every death. every betrayal. every weapon that failed at the crucial moment. every ally who turned out to be an enemy in disguise. every moment of false comfort in your lap while you planned my next exquisite destruction.”

his grip on your chin tightens, just shy of painful, and you could break free—should be able to break free—but something is fundamentally wrong with your body here. dulled, muted, constrained by mortal flesh and mortal limitations in ways that make your divine consciousness scream with claustrophobic panic.

“the first few hundred times, i believed you completely,” satoru admits, thumb stroking along your jawline with possessive familiarity. “trusted you with everything i had. you were so convincing, so perfectly compassionate. the way you held me, the way you looked at me like i mattered... i thought it was real.”

something in his voice makes you want to protest, to insist that it was real, that your care for him wasn’t entirely fabricated. but the words die in your throat because you know they’d be lies, and somehow you suspect he’d know too.

“but patterns, goddess...” he continues, voice dropping to something almost fond. “patterns are hard to ignore when you’re paying attention. and after the first few hundred deaths, i started paying very close attention indeed.”

he releases your chin only to thread his fingers through your hair, the gesture a perfect mockery of all the times you’ve done the same to him. when he tugs, just lightly, you can’t suppress the small sound that escapes your throat—part surprise, part something you refuse to name.

his smile widens at the sound, blue eyes lighting up with the same dark satisfaction you’ve seen in your own reflection when a plan comes together perfectly.

“the way you always knew exactly what to say to comfort me,” he muses, fingers still tangled in your hair. “the way you never seemed surprised by the specific ways i’d been hurt. the way you’d touch the wounds that were no longer there, like you were checking your work.”

each observation hits like a physical blow, stripping away layers of deception until you feel raw and exposed. you want to deny it, to maintain the fiction that has sustained you for so long, but what’s the point? he sees you now, really sees you, and there’s no mask perfect enough to hide behind.

“and then there were the weapons themselves,” satoru continues, almost conversational now. “each one perfectly suited to my preferences, each one guaranteed to fail in exactly the way that would cause maximum suffering. it was almost artistic, really. i found myself admiring the craftsmanship even as they killed me.”

he leans closer, close enough that you can feel his breath against your ear, close enough that the warmth of him surrounds you like an embrace.

“you have such beautiful taste in tragedies,” he whispers, and the words make you shiver in ways that have nothing to do with cold.

“and now here we are,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something almost intimate as he pulls back to meet your eyes again. “no divine realm to retreat to. no reset button to press when things get uncomfortable. just you and me and all the time in the world to explore some new patterns.”

the realization hits you like a physical blow: he’s not going to play hero anymore. he’s not going to quest or fight or die gloriously for your entertainment. the game you’ve spent centuries perfecting, the delicate balance of hope and despair that’s sustained you for so long—it’s over.

he’s going to keep you instead.

“the world—” you start desperately, grasping for any argument that might restore the familiar dynamic between you.

“can burn,” he finishes simply, with the casual dismissal of someone discussing an unwanted dinner invitation. “i’m done saving things. done being your perfect little tragedy. this time, i think i’ll try being the one in control.”

your hands shake where they’re pressed against the earth, divine composure finally cracking under the weight of complete role reversal. for the first time in millennia, you don’t know what comes next. don’t know the script or the ending or how to manipulate the variables in your favor. the future stretches ahead of you, vast and unknowable and entirely outside your control.

you are no longer the author of this story.

you are no longer anything but a character in his.

satoru seems to sense your realization, because his expression softens into something almost pitying. he helps you to your feet with gentle hands, steadying you when your legs threaten to give out under the weight of mortality and consequence. his touch is warm, familiar, almost loving—and that makes it so much worse.

“don’t look so lost,” he says kindly, and the tone is so familiar it makes you dizzy with déjà vu. how many times have you used that exact inflection to comfort him? how many times have you steadied him just like this, with patient hands and false compassion? “i’ll take good care of you. after all...”

his lips brush against your ear, voice dropping to a whisper that makes your divine blood sing with terror and something else you refuse to acknowledge.

“you taught me exactly how it’s done.” he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and his smile is soft and loving and absolutely terrifying.

your mouth opens—maybe to beg, maybe to explain—but no sound comes out before he leans in.

“shh,” he whispers, and his thumb smears a tear across your cheek you didn’t realize had fallen, dragging it down like a mark. “don’t be afraid. you’re safe now.”

a/n: i might write this into a long fic someday 🌝

#gojo satoru #yandere gojo #yandere gojo x reader #gojo oneshot #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #yandere jjk #yandere jjk x reader #jjk x reader

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demilypyro · 4 months ago

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Molly called Kill la Kill a "red lesbian" type show. And tbh nothing has ever been more true. Because something that stands out to me is that pretty much everyone in this show wholeheartedly believes what they fight for is right. In this fucked up quasi-metaphorical space, your power is pretty much directly proportional to how strongly you believe in what you do.

Satsuki is a normal human, but even in her backstory where she's a middle-schooler, she can take down a giant like Gamagoori because she's just THAT sure that what she believes in is right. Her sense of justice gives her literal strength. Even Mako, who essentially has no skills whatsoever, is given extraordinary narrative impact simply by always believing really hard and acting on her feelings. And I think this narrative device is illustrated really well by how almost nobody ever lies in this show. Everyone is always shouting exactly what they're fighting for.

Ryuko is always wholeheartedly fighting for her dad, and then for herself, and for her friends. Mako is always wholeheartedly fighting for Ryuko, and for her family. Satsuki is always fighting because she believes it's the moral thing to do. The elite four always fight because they believe in Satsuki THAT MUCH. Conviction is the name of the game. It's what sets these characters apart from the rank and file. Even Ragyo utilizes this meta-narrative, believing fully that her goals are the natural order of things, and being made near-untouchable by it.

There are three notable exceptions to this rule. First, there's Maiko Ogure. A minor antagonist in the early show, Maiko makes almost no impact on the plot whatsoever. Her lies and deceit earn her an immediate ousting from the story. Even the other minor antagonists get redeemed in the final battle because at least they were honest. Maiko doesn't get to do shit.

Our second exception: Satsuki. As part of her plan, she compromises on her honesty in hopes of taking down Ragyo. She lies about her loyalties, she lies about the purpose of Honouji, and she lies to Ryuko's face about her dad. Unavoidably, the narrative punishes her for this, by making all her plans come to nothing. Only when she discards these falsehoods and fights openly alongside Ryuko for what she believes is right, does she truly get to succeed in defeating her mother.

The final exception is Nui Harime. Because Nui.... doesn't believe in anything. She's empty inside. The only thing she's concerned with is making all the humans die. She has her own goals, taking a noted interest in Ryuko, but when Ragyo tells her to off herself, she does so with no hesitation. She's even the only character who actively disguises herself. She's a dark reflection of what Ryuko would be without her human connections. A true nihilist. In the end, she's reduced to nothing, her consciousness fading away entirely inside the life fiber mass.

Kill la Kill is a show that cares about being who you are and standing up for what you believe in. And nothing else has ever punched me in the heart quite like it.

#kill la kill #kill la kill spoilers

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rotagnus · 5 months ago

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positive words spoken about you when you're not around 🪷

-------------------------------<3

hi babies! i know i said i wouldn't come back for a week or two, but i've fallen ill and it was a reminder to slow down and breathe rather than rushing through my life. i decided to make a little pick a pile. i hope all of you enjoy!

pile 1.

people think that you have this evanescent sense of comfort around you. people like spending time with you, and they think that you're very ahead in life. they believe that you are patient and they feel as if they don't have to put up barriers around you. you seem to attract a lot of emotionally cold people who believe that they are uncared for, but your warmth seems to make them believe that they can be who they are with you. many people speak fondly about you to their mentors or their parents. people think that you're very put-together--they like your makeup style, or your clothing style, which may fluctuate but the vibe always stays the same. people like your eyes--you're very cat-like and people like the qualities of yours that make other souls believe that you're very decisive in who you let into your life. they feel chosen by you.

pile 2.

people like how bright you are. it's like being locked in a cave for a while and there you are, the sun, positive and bubbly and sweet. you remind people that not everyone chooses to remain tarnished by this world. you probably have a strong connection to the universe, God, or whatever faith you practice--you may talk about it a lot or your actions show your good morality, and people take note of this and speak about how you have a good sense of justice. you have this dreamy aura around you. you're distinctly you, and there's truly no one that can ever repeat your qualities, even though people think a lot of people want to be like you. people say you're very sweet and despite your innocent appearance, you're rather wise and well-spoken. you also take care of your physical body and people admire this. people think you're very beautiful in a way that is noted by everyone else but you.

pile 3.

people think that you're very caring. awwwww, you might be a plant mother or have a lot of animals. either way, you have this heavenly prowess that makes you seem at ease wherever you are. you're blunt, honest, and unafraid to say the truth. a lot of weak-minded people will be offended by this, or your banter, but you mean well and the right people love love LOVEEE these qualities. people think that you remind them of nostalgic places, maybe their first childhood home or those effervescent memories that stick with us no matter where we go. you treat people with respect and you refuse to go down to other people's levels if they're disrespectful. you're constantly in a state of growth, and people compliment that, because they never meet a version of you that stays the same. people love your features, particularly your facial structure and your hair.

#love reading #pick a card #pick a pile #tarot reading #pac reading #pick a picture #tarotblr #intuitive reading #intuitive messages #intuitive readings #divine guidance

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divaofmads · 2 months ago

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A Love Meant to Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Chapter I: The Hour Behind the Bullet | Chapter II

Summary: Y/N, whose father was executed by Joel Miller, sets out for revenge—only to find herself falling for the man she swore to destroy. Every answer is shadowed by deeper secrets as love and hatred intertwine. This is a passionate reckoning that asks: is salvation found in forgiveness… or in the kill?

Word Count: 5k>

Warnings!: Angst, Violence, death, and execution scenes, Themes of trauma and grief, Gunfights and post-apocalyptic survival elements, Moral dilemmas, revenge, and justice themes, Mature romantic/emotional content, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional

A/N: This chapter marks the beginning of a story where Joel Miller has not yet appeared, but his shadow lingers in every line. His name is a whisper—etched into the back of a watch, a secret that stretches from the darkness of the past into the vengeance of the present. It doesn't just delay the encounter with Joel—it builds it into an unforgettable, strikingly dramatic moment. The reader knows the meeting is coming… but never when, how, or in whose hands it will unfold.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

As the moon vanished with the first light of morning, the mist still lingered on the mountainside. The air was dry, but the sharp chill remained; the earth had not yet shed its nightly frost.

With a bow on your back, a knife on your belt, and mud clinging to the soles of your boots, you walked silently. “Two hours, maybe three,” you said in a low voice. “But it hasn’t gone far.”

Footsteps behind you were followed by muffled laughter.

“My God, Y/N, did you just tell time from tracks?” Nico bent down to examine the ground with you. The sleeve of his jacket was torn, but his smile was intact. “Hunting with you always wrecks my self-esteem.”

“I’m just doing my job,” you said, without turning your eyes. “You’re the one who brings the noise, the jokes, the troublesome sounds…”

Nico placed a hand over his heart. “Was that a thank-you I just heard?”

“You’re welcome to imagine it that way.”

You stood up. Bow on your back, knife on your right hip. You wore a waterproof cover sewn from the sleeve of your father’s old jacket. He had been of the hunter breed, and you were determined to carry that legacy.

The tracks led you to an old gravel bed by the river. Small footprints stuck in the mud.

Not a rabbit. A fox.

“Eyes open, Nico,” you said. “This isn’t just a fox. There are feathers on the ground. This animal was attacked before. We’re in a predator’s territory.”

Nico drew his knife. “You mean a Clicker?”

“No. I know those tracks. This is different. Maybe a lynx. Maybe a hungry wolf. Be careful.”

You crouched, focusing on the scent. There was a faint smell of blood, mixed with damp earth. Your hand went to the head of your arrow. You were tense, but exhilarated. The dance within the hunt always fascinated you.

About an hour later, you reached a forest clearing. The trees thinned out, and the sky began to show itself.

At the edge of the forest, in the shadow of a tree, you spotted a grazing deer.

“A pair,” you whispered. “Female and male.”

Nico squinted. “Which one do we take?”

“The female. Slower. Her meat will be more tender. And the male won’t charge if we don’t threaten him. We need to stay unnoticed.”

You readied your arrow. Placed your left knee on the ground. Pressed your elbow firmly against it. Raised the bow with your left hand, and drew the string to ear-level with your right.

You held your breath.

Thwip...

The arrow pierced the deer just beneath the neck. The animal staggered, then collapsed. Nico’s eyes widened with admiration. “Every time… you blow my mind.”

You smiled and stood up. “Well… you’re allowed to be a little impressed.”

“Being impressed by you might be dangerous.”

You set up camp by the riverside that night. As the meat cooked over the fire, Nico watched you.

“I just don’t get it… how this world still manages to make you happy.”

You shrugged slowly. “Because there’s still a sky. I still have a friend I can smile at. I can still breathe. It’s that simple.”

Nico sighed. “Finding someone like you in this world feels like a miracle.”

You smiled, but your eyes drifted to the horizon.

In your gaze, there was a shadow your subconscious refused to name.

But tonight, there was no past.

Only firelight, laughter, and the warmth of survival.

The deer was tied securely with two strong ropes. Hung by its hind legs, it dangled slightly off the side of Nico’s horse. Its hide was still intact; the surface lightly salted to stop bleeding and keep flies away. That had been your suggestion. Salt not only preserved but also kept the meat from spoiling during travel.

“If we don’t make it to Redhill in three hours,” you said, tightening your horse’s reins, “this meat’s going to turn sour. I’d rather not have my father scolding me over dinner.”

Nico grumbled as he balanced the load on his own horse.

“Not just scolding… Don’t be surprised if he sends us to fix fences. Last time we were only ten minutes late.”

“And we hauled hay for three days,” you said, smiling with embarrassment. “My spine is still plotting revenge.”

As you crossed a narrow rocky path, stones crunched beneath the horses’ hooves. The sun was slowly pulling back behind the mountains, casting long shadows. The road to Redhill used to be a hiking trail. Now it was a lifeline—overgrown with weeds and scattered with forgotten footprints.

“Your father…” Nico said quietly, “has he ever offered you leadership? I mean… has he ever thought you’d take his place one day?”

You tugged the reins gently, slowing your horse. “My place is with the bow, the tracks. His is with people—untangling knots in their minds. My father keeps Redhill standing because he knows when to be soft and when to be firm. I haven’t learned that balance yet.”

Nico nodded, his gaze wandering to the horizon. “But you… when I watch you, I see exactly what a leader should be.”

You paused. His words echoed through the quiet forest like a bell. Then you offered him that familiar smile. “Because of what you just said, I might make you carry rocks until morning.”

Nico laughed and lowered his head. “There’s no punishment worse than you.”

“Oh, believe me, there is,” you said, narrowing your eyes and turning back to the riverside trail. “But right now, I’m bored. Too much silence.”

You took a deep breath. Your voice was soft at first, then carried over the wind. From the depths of a fallen world, you began to hum a song from long ago:

“What have I become, my sweetest friend?

Everyone I know goes away in the end.”

Nico rolled his eyes but smiled. He knew how much you loved to sing that song. He joined you.

As the horses moved on, even the birds seemed to sing along. Until Redhill appeared on the horizon, your laughter raced the wind. Just another evening. A quiet, simple, ordinary journey home.

But none of you knew.

None of you.

This would be the last peaceful journey you ever shared.

The path through the canyon leading into Redhill was familiar; the sound of hooves on dirt, the intermittent calls of birds, and the scent of earth carried by the drifting breeze... Everything was as it should be. Maybe that’s why it took you so long to realize something was wrong.

The deer was the prize of a two-day hunt. These kinds of tasks had become routine over the years. In a self-sustaining community like Redhill, surviving the hunt was only half the job—preserving the kill was just as vital.

You were in the lead, Nico behind you. The young man had talked endlessly like an impatient child; about his new bow, how he’d outshot you, how the second deer was still out there somewhere… But something was bothering you. Whenever you approached the Redhill valley, you could always catch the scent of fresh smoke drifting from between the hills. Burnt wood, simmering stew, a lit pipe... That smell wasn’t there this time. Only damp earth and silence.

“Y/N?” Nico asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. “Is it just me, or... are the sentries gone?”

When you fell silent, the silence itself felt like a scream.

The wooden archway at Redhill’s entrance stood ahead—its painted emblem half-burned. The watchtower beside the gate was empty. No laughter or whistles from above like usual. No children, no women, no crates of tomatoes... It was as if everything had vanished all at once.

“Maybe it’s harvest time. Everyone’s in the back gardens?” Nico said, hopelessly.

You didn’t answer. You dismounted in a swift motion; the stones beneath your boots weren’t dry—they were laced with ash. As your eyes scanned the valley, more came into focus. Broken fences, an overturned wheelbarrow… and then… blood.

Without another thought, you started walking. Nico followed, but your steps had slowed, grown cautious. Your hand instinctively went to your knife. You searched for a threat—but the threat was gone. Only the aftermath remained.

It didn’t take long to find the first body. It hadn’t been covered. The face was charred. A knife stuck out from the back. You didn’t recognize them, but the handmade Redhill clothing was familiar—crocheted edging, handwoven fabric.

The second... the third...

Your legs carried you on their own now. They trembled, but you kept walking. And then, in the center of the courtyard, in front of a still-burning tent, two figures appeared. Reuben and Caleb. Reuben’s arm was in a sling, his face smeared with blood and ash. Caleb had his rifle leaned against a wall, his head buried in his hands. When they saw you, their eyes widened.

“Y/N…” Caleb said as he stood. “Goddamn it…”

“What happened?” you asked. Just two words. But the crack in your voice carried a weight nothing else could.

Reuben tried to speak, cleared his throat. “Attack... The Vultures...” he said. “Marcus Flint was leading it himself.”

The words hung in the air. You didn’t hear them. Only saw the movement of his lips. Redhill had been attacked.

Your eyes scanned everything. Trampled fields. Shattered fences. Broken doors of shelters. It looked like an army had passed through. But Redhill wasn’t a battlefield. It was your home.

“My father?” you asked. Your voice sounded like it came from someone far away.

Reuben lowered his head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.

Your knees nearly buckled. But you didn’t fall. Something inside you—a cold, sharp feeling—held you upright. In this world, falling was a luxury. And you no longer had that luxury.

“Take me to him,” you said. Your voice came out steady and cool. It didn’t shake. But something inside had snapped, like a wire pulled too tight.

Caleb stepped forward quickly. “No, Y/N… No. That’s not something you want to see,” he said gently, panic flickering behind his calm tone. “Remember him the way he was. As a leader… as your father. Don’t see him like this.”

You looked at him. Your eyes were cold, but a storm raged behind them. “Get out of my way, Caleb.”

“Y/N, please. His body… it’s unrecognizable. You don’t want to remember him like that.”

Reuben stood a step back, waiting for your decision. Unlike Caleb, he knew you. You weren’t weak. You never were.

You stepped forward, locking eyes with Caleb. “I’m his daughter,” you said, your voice like lead. “And if Redhill’s legacy is mine now\... then I will see the truth with my own eyes. Now move.”

Caleb looked away, his jaw clenched. Then he stepped aside. Over his shoulder, he looked at Reuben.

Reuben nodded slowly. “Come with me,” he said. “Be ready.”

Ready? What did that even mean now? Wasn’t surviving without being ready the very essence of this world?

Reuben led you to a cold shelter behind the stone storage buildings. The door hadn’t been this heavy even when the place was used to store medicine. Inside, it was dim. And there he was.

Your father.

Lying there, half-covered by a dark blanket. His hair was dusted with ash. His beard matted with dried blood. His eyes were closed. One side of his face was unrecognizable—bruises, shattered bones... But the other side... still him.

Your knees gave out, but you didn’t collapse. You knelt beside him. Your fingers trembled as you pulled the blanket back a little more. A massive lump formed in your throat—one you couldn’t swallow.

Your hand reached out and took his. Still warm. Thick, callused hands… The ones that first taught you how to handle a bow. That pointed out spring herbs, that rested on your shoulder when you made small triumphs… the hands of a leader.

“Dad…” you whispered. Just once. Knowing it was the last time you ever would.

Tears fell from your eyes, but there were no sobs. Your tears were silent. You were strong, but not ice. That day, the child in you died. And something else took her place: the beginning of a leader, shattered but standing tall.

After a while, you stood up. Your heart in pieces, but your shoulders squared. You turned to Reuben.

“Where are the rest of the dead?” you asked.

“We managed to gather a few,” he said. “But more might be under the rubble…”

“We’ll find them. Every last one,” you said. “Tomorrow. At dawn. We’ll hold a ceremony—for them… and for my father.”

Reuben bowed his head. Caleb looked at you from behind, his eyes still wet.

“Y/N…” he said in a hushed voice. “You… you’re now…”

You turned to him. Met his gaze.

“No,” you said. “I’m not ‘now.’ I’m still his daughter. And I’ll remind the world what Redhill means.”

When you stepped outside, the sun was beginning to set. Long shadows stretched across the valley. Ash and silence. But you walked. With each step, you became someone else.

The funeral… wouldn’t just be for the dead. An era was ending, and something else was beginning.

At dawn, as the sun lit the ridges of the valley, Redhill was wrapped in silence. The sun was rising, but yesterday’s cold still clung to the air. A coldness that came from deep inside.

You walked toward the main square, repurposed from the old quarantine center, every step echoing beneath your boots. The mud beneath your soles clung with a mixture of blood and ash. But your stride never faltered.

You wore a dark brown leather jacket—your father’s. Its inner lining still stained with blood. The scent of it had nearly broken you as you put it on. But you’d endured. Because you were no longer a daughter. You were a leader.

The people had begun to gather in the square. Women, children, elders… The wounded and the quiet fighters. Some carried arms in slings, others leaned on sticks. The same expression on every face: a fog of grief and fear.

The dead were laid side by side on a carefully prepared platform in the center of the square. Your father’s body was at the center. A single torch burned above his head. Nothing else. No flowers, no ornaments. This world was now made of simplicity.

When you stepped forward, there was a moment of silence before you spoke. The wind wrapped smoke around you as all eyes turned your way.

You took a deep breath. You could hear your own heartbeat. Then you spoke. “They were our companions. Our neighbors. Our brothers and sisters.”

Your voice didn’t crack. Your eyes didn’t water. Every syllable struck like a hammer. “When my father founded this community, he said survival wasn’t about fighting—it was about being together. He brought order to this land. He brought safety. We’ve protected the life we built here for years. But now\... they’ve taken it from us.”

You lifted your head. The eyes of your people met yours. In them, a spark began to burn.

“The Vultures didn’t just go after one man—they targeted a whole people. They stole bread from a child’s hands. Gunned down the sick and the old. These are not enemies. They’re filth. And we... we will not stay silent.”

Your words echoed off the stone of the square. A child cried somewhere in the distance. A woman bowed her head in silence. But most of them—most of them now held something else in their eyes: fury. A fury ready to act.

“Their leader, Marcus Flint—he tried to quench an old grudge with fire. He thought burning us would end it. But Redhill rises from ashes. And now I, as my father’s daughter, will carry on the fight he left behind. We will not only mourn our dead. We will not forget them. We will speak their names alongside justice.”

The crowd fell silent. Then Reuben stepped forward, dropping to one knee and bowing his head.

“Daughter of Y/F/N... Y/N. I know you. I see your father’s fire in your eyes. I stand with you. Just as I walked with him, I’ll walk with you.”

Caleb, on the other hand, took a hesitant step back. His eyes scanned the area, filled with worry, yet also the fear of being left behind.

“Y/N... this path... it could cost us even more. The Vultures aren’t an easy target,” he said.

You turned to him. Your shoulders straight, your gaze unwavering. “What more can we lose, Caleb? I lost my father. My people are dead. Our land is scorched. All we have left is our honor. Should we give that up too?”

Caleb fell silent. He lowered his head. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Alright... damn it. I’m with you. But we’re going to make a good plan. No rushing in blind. With our minds. Just like your father would’ve done.”

Reuben stepped forward. “First, we track The Vultures’ movements. Pinpoint their locations. We don’t strike… we dismantle. We isolate their leader. Then, you’ll be the one to end Marcus Flint.”

You narrowed your eyes and looked out toward the horizon. It was like a map formed in your vision. The dark towers of The Vultures… their arrogant laughter… your father’s final breath… That feeling inside you had evolved beyond vengeance. This was the first step toward justice. And Redhill would rise again��with you.

As evening fell, the mist leaning against the hills of Redhill slowly began to swallow the rest of the camp. Torches flickered like trembling flames, casting long shadows between the cabins. Most of the community had withdrawn into silence after the funeral, mourning their losses in solitude. Many were still under the spell of your morning speech. But you carried the weight of those words now.

The small wooden cabin you were in had once been your father's "map room." His old papers still lay on the desk; dried ink stains and yellowed notes remained. An old plan of Redhill, tucked into the corner of a map, was still in place. Your fingers traced the borders he once drew. Fragmented memories spun in your mind like clipped reels of film.

The door creaked open. Reuben entered. The old jacket on his shoulders had faded to the color of dust over time. His hands were covered in mud, sweat lined his brow. His face was as hard as ever, but tonight his eyes were soft. The loyalty he had once shown your father had shifted into a quiet respect for you.

He walked toward you and let out a heavy breath.

"People expect things from you now," he said. "Not just your name... but his resolve, his heart."

You turned your head to look at him.

"Do you think I have that in me?"

Reuben furrowed his brows. He paused, then nodded.

"Sometimes you're even more. But I can't ask you to be anyone else now. So... you need to know the truth."

You sat up straighter, perched on the edge of the desk. Your hands rested on your knees. You waited.

"You keep asking why the attack happened..." Reuben began.

"Marcus Flint, the leader of the Vultures, claimed our community was hiding a criminal. He said the man was a FEDRA agent. That he escaped and found refuge here."

You frowned.

"I never saw anyone like that. No one's sought shelter here recently. And if he was FEDRA, why pick Redhill? Would he really risk that much for a group hundreds of miles away?"

Reuben nodded.

"I know. I thought it was nonsense too. But he needed an excuse. There was bad blood between him and your father—goes back years. In the early days of the outbreak, they worked together for a time. But they clashed over a trade deal—meds and food. Your father stopped Flint from selling out his own people."

Your eyes fixed on a point in the room. Something stirred in your veins—heavy like poison. Flint’s name was no longer just a threat—it had become a personal wound.

"So this attack... it was old revenge," you said.

"Yes," Reuben confirmed. "It was his way of settling the score."

You both fell silent. The only sound in the room was the wind whistling outside. Cold air crept through the cracks in the ceiling, brushing your shoulders.

Reuben turned to leave, but paused at the door. He looked back at you over his shoulder. There was hesitation in his eyes. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat.

"I’ve got one more thing," he said quietly.

"It was by your father's body. I don't recognize it, but... maybe you will."

He stepped closer and opened his hand. Inside it was a wristwatch. Its metal band was scratched, its glass cracked—but it still resisted time. You took it. It was cold. Its weight seemed to come not just from metal, but from the burden of the past.

You turned it over.

An engraving: J.M.

You didn’t move for several seconds. Time itself seemed to stop. Your fingers traced the letters. The mark of a stranger... yet the only clue found beside your father’s blood.

"I don’t know what it means," said Reuben.

"But I felt you should have it."

Your eyes remained locked on the watch. Narrowed. You repeated the letters in your mind again and again.

J.M.

That watch was a whisper of fate. Maybe a name. Maybe the gateway to hell. But now, you had a target.

And you would find him.

Two months later...

The sky that morning was a pale, ashen gray. The earth still bore the marks of blood and gunpowder. But Redhill was breathing. Wounded—but not dead.

Y/N stood at the top of the wooden watchtower, overlooking the valley. Beyond the thorny bushes, broken fences, and ruined cabins, there was an effort to be reborn.

Caleb, working on wires pulled from a broken radio transmitter, spoke without looking up.

"If we can reroute communications to the northern outpost, maybe we’ll learn where Cascade’s storing the old meds. That’d be good leverage for trade."

"Set up the line, but be cautious. Not everyone out there trades," you said. Your voice was firm, but warm. Leadership sometimes weighed heavy on you, but you didn’t show it.

Reuben entered, making marks on a map as he walked.

"Y/N, the boy from the north is back," he said. "The scout you sent."

"Rory? Send him in."

The door opened and Rory entered—sun-scorched, tired-backed, but sharp-eyed. Young, but seasoned in the field.

"Ma'am," he said, nodding.

"What did you find out about the Vultures?"

"Strange things. Their headquarters doesn’t seem as stable anymore. We used to hear constant chatter over the radios. Now… almost silence. A lot of Flint’s people have left. There’s even a rumor—he clashed with his own men."

You listened to Rory’s words in silence. Then leaned forward, fingers pressing the table.

"We need confirmed intel, Rory. If Flint’s alive, he’s still a threat."

Reuben added,

"And if he’s weakening, that’s our window."

Caleb, more cautious, frowned.

"But what if it’s a trap? What if they want to lure us out?"

You raised your head, eyes hardened.

"If they killed my father to provoke me or this people, then they already chose war."

A few days later, under your leadership, a secret meeting was held. Maps, radio data, Rory’s hand-drawn sketches of their base were spread out before you. Where Marcus Flint was last seen, which lookout towers were still active, which water routes had been cut—everything was being charted.

You pressed your finger against a point on the map.

"We’ve pushed them this far. Now they’re on the brink of collapse. We need to wait for the right moment… but if we wait too long, they’ll regain their strength."

Caleb nodded.

"When do you plan the attack?"

"Two weeks from now. I’ll send Rory out again. If Marcus is at the compound and we can strike a deal with someone on the inside, we’ll open a door from within. If not, we’ll infiltrate from the north."

Reuben smiled.

"That’s how your father used to do it. He’d read the enemy first, then end the fight with a single bullet."

You dipped your head slightly. Inside, you carried both the burden and the strength of walking in your father’s footsteps. This wasn’t just about revenge anymore.

It was about Redhill’s future.

***

The wind whipped violently at the flag hanging on the border of Redhill, nearly tearing the fabric apart. The sky was covered in that hazy orange that comes just before darkness falls, as if even the sunset sensed the coming reckoning. In the center square of the community, there was a flurry of preparation. Weapons were being oiled, knives sharpened, bags packed. Every movement was silent but purposeful, because everyone knew: this wasn’t a mission—it was a journey of vengeance.

You had just returned from the old medical center. The first aid kit on your shoulder was filled with collected pain-relieving herbs, antiseptics, and bandages. Reuben and Caleb were waiting for you at the large map table.

"The first team will enter from the west at oh-three-hundred," Caleb said, pressing his finger on a red-marked spot on the map. "The second team will sneak in through the old warehouse door on the north wall. Rory said it’s still unguarded."

Reuben nodded. "There’s also someone inside they've made contact with. Someone Rory’s been in touch with... Might buy us a few minutes."

You placed your hands on your hips, looked at the map for a moment, then raised your eyes and met theirs one by one.

"Remember, Marcus Flint will die. But this isn’t just about him. We’re doing this for Redhill. For my father. For our people."

Reuben bowed his head, eyes shimmering with a sorrow almost proud.

"Your father built Redhill from nothing at your age. Now you’re rebuilding it."

When night fell, Redhill sank into silence. A team of twenty—the best warriors and trackers you had chosen yourselves—mounted their horses and rode eastward in silence. Aside from the soft clatter of hooves on earth, no sound broke the stillness. The moon split the sky like a blade, painting your path in silver.

You remained silent during the ride. Sitting tall on your horse, your hand rested on the shortbow at your side. Countless memories clashed in your mind: your father's voice, Caleb’s doubts, Reuben’s support, Rory’s intel… and the wristwatch. The one that started it all, engraved with those cursed letters: J.M.

After five hours of silent travel, you made camp near an old watermill. Rory had already gone ahead to make his final contact with the insider. The rest of the team knelt, checking their gear one last time. You scanned the entire group carefully.

At first light, you reached The Vultures' camp.

From the outside, it looked abandoned. The cabins were in disrepair, most of the watchtowers broken down. Rory had been right—Marcus Flint had lost most of his forces. Something had collapsed from within. But that didn’t make him any less dangerous.

The plan worked perfectly. The north warehouse door was still unlocked. While Caleb and three others slipped in from the north, you and Reuben entered from the west.

Behind the cabins, the space was littered with scattered rubble, rotting crates, and toppled barrels. It was as if time had forgotten this part of The Vultures' camp. But you hadn't. You lowered your footsteps as you moved forward, stepping into the narrow path leading to the backyard. Your shortbow, slung over your shoulder, was ready at your fingertips. Reuben was on your left, and young but fearless Nico on your right. Each of your breaths was silent but sharp. This wasn’t a walk—it was the beginning of the end.

The first guard was on the roof of the cabin to the left. As he turned his head to scan the surroundings, you suddenly drew your bow. Your fingers, guided by muscle memory, pulled the string to your ear. You held your breath. One second. Two. Three.

Shhhft.

The arrow hissed through the air like a snake and sank into the guard’s neck. He fell backward without a sound. The thud of his body hitting the roof jolted the camp like a disturbed ant nest.

"They saw us!" Nico whispered, but you were already in motion.

Two men burst from the cabin to your left. They held modified rifles, barrels rusted but deadly. As they fired the first shots, Reuben pulled you down by the shoulder. Bullets whizzed past just above you, followed by his return fire.

"Down!" Reuben shouted, bracing his rifle on the rooftop edge and taking aim.

The first man was thrown back with a bullet to the forehead. You handled the second one. You dropped to a position parallel to the ground, released your hand from the shortbow, and pulled the silenced pistol from your belt. Aim, breathe, trigger.

Tak!

The man hit in the shoulder staggered for a moment, then collapsed to the ground with a scream. His weapon fell from his hand. When you reached him, your eyes met. He was about to say something, but you stayed silent. Instead, you pressed the silencer to his head and finished the job with a second shot. This wasn't mercy—it was resolve.

“Nico!” you shouted. “On the right! Two just came out from the entrance!”

Nico was young but agile. He’d learned archery from you. He turned to the target, drew his arrow, and released it. The first man was hit in the shoulder, the second in the chest. They collapsed in front of the barrack.

“The camp's almost empty!” Nico called out, breathless. “These are just Marcus’s leftovers!”

“So they still don't take us seriously,” you said, your eyes locked on the large building at the center of the camp. “That’ll be their last mistake.”

As you passed between the shacks, three more men appeared. One had a shotgun, the others charged with knives. The first bullet came from Reuben’s gun, bringing the shotgun-wielder down. You slung your bow onto your back, gripped the knife from your belt in a reverse hold, and rushed in.

The first attacker swung at you before reaching, but his move was clumsy and fueled by rage. You ducked and drove your knee into his thigh. As he stumbled, you buried the blade into his abdomen. When you pulled it out and turned, the second attacker’s punch grazed your face. You rolled backward, bounced up from the dirt, and struck back quickly. You pinned him to the ground with your knee on his chest and pressed the blade to his throat.

Nico was wrestling with the last man. He was tall, trying to overpower Nico. In a blink, you intervened, stabbing the man’s knee. He fell with a scream, and Nico struck his head with a rock.

Silence. Only distant gunshots from the rooftops. And slowly, even that faded.

Reuben rubbed his shoulder, looking at you. “You’re not your father’s daughter. You’re the war itself.”

Your face was cloaked in shadow. The dirt and blood on you had become a warrior’s blessing. But your eyes... they still mourned your father. Even in the heart of revenge, they searched for ways to remain human.

There were almost no obstacles left between you and Marcus Flint.

The office building was one of the strongest structures in the Vultures' camp. Built years ago, its concrete foundation still held, but the walls were moss-covered and the windows shattered. The front door was ajar. One hinge had fallen to the ground, the other creaked with the wind. This was the place where Marcus Flint made decisions, where lives were determined. But now it felt more like a tomb, devoid of his footsteps.

Your gun was in your hand. The cold metal clung to your palm, heavy with sweat, rage, and the weight of a long journey. Reuben and Caleb had stayed outside. This confrontation was yours alone. It was your father’s blood that had been spilled. You needed answers.

Your footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. Then a voice came from inside the office. “Close the door,” it said calmly. “The wind’s messing with my thoughts.”

You stepped in. Gun raised with both hands, you locked onto your target. “Marcus Flint!” you said. Your voice cracked, but your resolve did not falter.

The man behind the desk looked up. His hair, a reddish shade of brown, was streaked with gray. His face was stern, the corners of his eyes lined with fatigue. He sat proudly, but his spirit had aged more than his body.

“Marcus is gone,” he said. “I’m Cutter. The last remaining owner of this structure.”

Your finger trembled on the trigger. “Don’t lie to me. Marcus is here. I came all this way for him. Where is he?!”

Cutter smiled faintly. He leaned back, nudged some empty casings on the table with his fingers. “Marcus is dead,” he said. “Last month. Drowned in his own filth. Took his pride with him.”

Your throat tightened. It wasn't supposed to end like this. You wanted to look into his eyes, steal his breath, then pull the trigger. But now someone else sat before you. And in his eyes, there was not death—but truth.

“How?” you asked. Your voice dropped slightly, but the determination remained. “Who killed him?”

Cutter shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. In the end, he became a victim of what he created. False alliances, shattered decisions... This place wasn’t a camp anymore—it was a swamp. Your attack was just the final blow.”

You took that object from your backpack. The watch. Rusted, the glass scratched. You didn’t strap it on your wrist, you placed it in your palm. Showed it to Cutter. “This,” you said, “was found beside my father’s body. There’s something carved on the back.”

Cutter recognized it without looking. His eyes widened slightly, but were quickly replaced by quiet acceptance.

“Joel,” he said. “Joel Miller. I recognized the watch. Never met a man so obsessed with time. If he dropped it... he must’ve thought he made a mistake.”

The blood drained from your face. You hadn’t heard that name before. “Who is he? Why was the watch with my father? Did he...”

Cutter lowered his head, silent for a moment. Then he stood from his chair and looked out the window. At what remained of the camp.

“Joel Miller was a mercenary. But not your average killer. Quiet, precise, did everything his way. Marcus hired him to kill your father. Joel did the job. But... he disappeared right after payment. As if... the weight of what he did broke him.”

You swallowed. “So... he’s the one who killed my father?”

“Yes,” said Cutter.

The words hung in the air for a while. The watch in your hand was no longer just an item. It was the key to a door leading into the past.

"Joel Miller..." you murmured to yourself. The name left a sharp taste on your tongue; metallic, rusty, like blood.

Cutter was still by the window. His shoulders were slumped. His voice held no triumph, only exhaustion. “Look. Flint is dead. He was your father’s enemy. He had him killed. Now he’s buried too. The score is settled.”

He slightly turned his head, eyes locked on yours. “I don’t want to hurt you. I know there’s no redemption for what we did here. But… you’re different. You think like a leader. For Redhill’s future…”

“Stop,” you said, low but sharp. “Did you see that day?”

Cutter didn’t answer.

“Did you hide? Did you run? Or did you watch my father get shot?”

Cutter’s lips twitched. “I want to protect you,” he said. “Like everyone who died here, I fell apart too. I just wanted you to know that.”

You stepped forward. The grip of your gun fit so well in your hand, it felt fused with your bones. The watch was still in your pocket. It weighed you down—but not as much as the burden you carried inside. Like a curse flapping its wings in your chest.

“I will find Joel Miller,” you said. Your eyes no longer trembled. “And I’ll find out what happened that day. Turns out it wasn’t just Flint. The man who executed my father had a name. A voice. A breath. And now, that breath belongs to me.”

Cutter nodded slowly. “If you’re going to find Joel…” he said quietly, “pray he doesn’t recognize you… or that he does.”

You paused. There was a threat in those words, in Cutter’s voice—a lingering fear that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t just a warning. Joel Miller was the kind of man whose name burned itself into memory, who made lips dry when whispered in the dark.

“Who was he?” you asked. “Who was the man who killed my father?”

Cutter clenched his jaw. “He spoke with darkness. Sometimes he didn’t even know who or why he killed. You make a deal with him, he gets it done. But he always leaves a trail of blood behind. Flint made a deal. But Joel was never anyone’s dog. Maybe he killed Flint too. Maybe his conscience caught up. But… that conscience buried a lot of people.”

Cutter stepped back. At the end of his words, it was like a weight had fallen from his shoulders. He was waiting. For mercy. Forgiveness. Maybe just to be spared.

But you only looked at him for a moment.

“That man executed my father,” you said. “Neither Flint’s rotten orders nor your aged guilt can change that. My father built Redhill with hardship. But I was the one who buried him.”

And you pulled the trigger.

Cutter’s head slumped to the side. His eyes stayed open in surprise, as if even in the end, he couldn’t believe it was your hand that sent him off. When his body hit the floor, silence swallowed the room. No triumph, no grief… only that sharp clarity creaking in your bones: Nothing could stop you now.

You closed your eyes for a moment. Took a deep breath. The watch… was still in your pocket.

Your footsteps echoed as you left the office. Your eyes weren’t on the darkness—they were fixed on the horizon of vengeance.

Now you had a target. Joel Miller.

And you… would not speak to him. You would not forgive him.

Outside, Reuben and Nico were waiting. Their eyes immediately fell on your gun, on your blank expression.

Nico stepped closer. His brows were furrowed, but there was a trace of relief in his eyes. “Is it over?” he asked. “Marcus… is he dead?”

You didn’t answer.

Reuben exhaled deeply. “Y/N… What happened in there?”

Instead of replying, you reached into your pocket and pulled out the watch. Slowly, carefully. Your fingers brushed the metal for a moment. Then you handed it to Reuben.

“Joel Miller,” you said. “That’s the name of the man who actually killed my father. Marcus died during the riot here.”

Reuben’s face turned pale. His hand trembled as it hovered around the watch. “That name…” he said. “It sounds familiar. But…”

Nico stared at you in disbelief. “What are you saying? Flint gave the order, didn’t he? That bastard paid the price. Fate punished him for you. And you…”

You cut him off. “There’s no such thing as fate,” you said. Your gaze was fixed, like a dusty desert horizon. “Only choices. And I’ve made mine. This isn’t over.”

Nico couldn’t make sense of the silence that surrounded you. There was a mixed sense of victory on his face, but your expression was far beyond triumph. Reuben, however, understood everything. He slowly took the watch in his hand, felt its weight, then handed it back to you.

“This isn’t just his watch anymore, is it?” he said. “For you… it’s the key to a new war.”

You nodded. “I found it next to my father’s body. Cutter said Joel was the one who executed him. Even if it was under Flint’s orders, he pulled the trigger. And that doesn’t mean it’s over. It means this is just the beginning.”

Reuben slightly bowed his head. “Y/N... Revenge can be poison. You carry a fire in your heart for years. I trust your leadership, but… you’re not going to turn this into a blood feud, are you?”

...

On the road, the horses’ hooves kicked up dust as you rode toward Redhill. The sky was still gray, but there was something else on the horizon this time. What had happened in Marcus Flint’s town was still fresh in everyone’s mind, but the images in your head were older: your father’s face, dried blood, the watch placed in your hand, and Cutter’s final words.

You were riding in front, eyes locked on the horizon, your lips pressed together. But those behind you read the silence differently.

Caleb was the first to speak. His strong voice cut through the dry air. “Y/N. You didn’t just avenge your father today. You carried the weight of all Redhill. You fought for all of us.”

You slowed your horse, glanced back slightly, but didn’t reply.

Rory rode his horse beside Caleb’s. The young man’s eyes were shining. “When the town burned. When Flint’s men tied the children to trees and dragged the mothers away—we couldn’t do anything. But today... today, something finally changed. People will hear about this. Redhill is no longer alone.”

Voices started to rise behind you. You weren’t the only ones who stormed that town. A few more fighters from Redhill had come, all watching you.

An older woman, Mellie, spoke in a whisper, but her voice was clear: “Your father stood up for us. Now you carry on where he left off. But your road is long. If you’ve taken this bitter decision on your shoulders, don’t leave it unfinished.”

Reuben looked at you from over his shoulder as you pulled gently on the reins. Your horse stopped. From the mountainside, the distant lights of Redhill came into view. You slowly turned around, your face glowing in the red of the setting sun. Your eyes turned to your people, your companions.

“When my father died,” you said, your voice rough as gravel but steady, “all I had left was a watch. A clue. I followed it. I chased it. I killed Cutter. But behind that watch was another name. Joel Miller. And that name opened the door to another story, soaked into the soil of these lands.”

Your lips parted again, your gaze returned to the horizon. “This isn’t my path anymore. It’s the path Redhill walks now. And you... you’re putting it on my shoulders. Like a stone, heavy and sharp. But if this is truly your war too... then I’ll walk it to the end.”

Those looking at you bowed their heads. Rory placed a hand over his heart. Mellie nodded, wiping her tears away.

Reuben slowly approached, took your reins. “You won’t walk alone, girl. You won’t kill alone. This will be Redhill’s final farewell. And we’ll be the witnesses to that farewell.”

As the sun disappeared behind the mountain, Redhill’s lights drew near.

But in your eyes, a darker, more distant light was burning now:

The memory of Joel Miller. And the final day when you would face him.

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evilminji · 1 year ago

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You know what idea has always ENCHANTED ME?

Ever since I saw it on a sci-fi show?

The Deadly Magical House That Loves You™. See, it's a house that has become something MORE. Gained sentience. And? Instead of acting out some cheap horror movie jump scares? It digs deep to its foundations, thinks long n hard, and decides on what it WANTS.

And it WANTS?

To be a HOME™.

To TAKE CARE OF somebody. Have LIFE in its halls. Meals at its tables. Joy and laughter bouncing across its walls. So? It lays a trap. Lures people in.

Come live in me~

I am a good home.

I am Free! I am "Safe". I will give you whatever your heart desires.

I care not for morality or laws. Boundaries or taboos. Do you desire? Come, come, be HAPPY~! Live in me! Relax here! Forget about the world beyond these walls. Anything I can not give you, I can bring TOO you! This is a Happy Home.

But, of course, such sentience and pushiness terrifies. People run and flee in horror. The house getting more aggressive. Trying to hold tighter. After all! If they would just STAY for a while, they would SEE! It's so LOVELY here! The would LOVE to live inside them!

But... instead?

They are hurt.

Doors smashed open. Windows broken to escape. Furniture thrown. Their avatar, Jeeves, bashed with heavy things. Why... WHY?! They are only trying to HELP! To LOVE them! Be a good HOME! They grow more and more run down. Starved. Wrathful.

It is, of course, their Obsession. To be a home. They are so very hungry.

When? Who should come along?

But the depressed AF Ghost King! He's been... not TECHNICALLY kicked out. But "things are tense" kicked out. He's tired. His college courses are remote. He can't really AFFORD rent. And everything is just...

He's TIRED.

He wants to cry.

Why... why can't he have ONE good thing? ONE sign everything's gonna be alright?

"Free House!"

Well... I mean... that IS a literal sign. Huh. He flies down. The house notices him. Tries to look as enticing as it can. And? Gasp! I... It's WORKING? This one seems INTERESTED? Quick! Flowerbeds! Look at my flowerbeds! Ooooh, lovely floooowers! A.. and there's probably really nice wood flooring! C'mon. C'moooon!

Danny? Sees a free Lair. Not too far from both Gotham AND Metropolis. Good location. Needs a little fixing up. But I mean... you can't beat free, right?

Is he really gonna do this?

......fuck it. Yeah, let's do this. First house time. He's just glad he carries a sharpie on him most of the time. Scribbles "Sold!" Over the sign then calls Jazz. He's... kinda not sure WHAT he's supposed to pack?

Finds out, post move in, whoop. Sentient Lair. Clingy, clingy, highly desperate sentient Lair. Oof. Guess fixing up the place can be therapy for both of us. Jazz helps.

The house heals. He falls into a routine. Schoolwork, hang out in the garden or the observatory, meals FaceTiming friends or watching videos, naps whenever he wants them. It's... it's so peaceful. Quiet and soothing to his agitated and worn down soul. Like a balm.

House gets him whatever he needs. They're kinda awesome like that. Always seems to have room to fit this or that. He doesn't question it. His brain figuring it works on Zone logic.

He probably SHOULD have.

Because? Things have been going missing. At a slow, steady, pace. Food, technology, entertainment. A building that shouldn't BE there, has been spotted in a wealthy county just outside of Superman and Batman's two cities.

No one can get near it.

It's been getting BIGGER.

Growing, like a tumor, room by room. Floor by floor. The gardens creeping like kudzu, to swallow everything in their path. Yet delivery drivers drop things off. Things they don't remember. On trips they don't recall. People are scared.

Amateur detectives have managed to discover some sort of starlit fae that lives there, along with a human boy.

Justice League Dark has been called in. Are currently standing just outside the slowly creeping property line. A garden statue just hissed at them. The trees are trying to throw acorns. A hushed argument has already broken out. How do they contain the house?

@the-witchhunter @nerdpoe @hypewinter @hdgnj @babbling-babull @mutable-manifestation @spidori @lolottes

#minji's writing #dpxdc #dp x dc #dc x dp #dcxdp #dc x dp prompt

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radicaldreemurrs · 11 days ago

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the six humans died because they refused to change. they're all cautionary tales of putting all your stock in a single virtue:

patience may pay off eventually, but you can't lean on it forever, or you'll die waiting for nothing.

bravery will take you further, but the bruises you get from throwing caution to the wind will stack up, until you'll find you can't keep going anymore.

integrity is important, and admirable too, but confining yourself to such a strict set of principles will have you tripping over yourself eventually.

perseverance is necessary in times of difficulty, but if your eyes are only locked on the future you want, you won't see the road that's formed around you leading you downward.

kindness is a crucial thing to keep in your heart, but the naivety that kindness will always win out will get you burned badly.

justice is a powerful faith, but when it comes down to more complex moral situations, such a focused mindset might have you questioning what you believe in, and might get you staring down your own barrel.

the first human, too, died for the same reasons:

adamance is a dangerously powerful quality. going all or nothing is a high-risk, high-reward path. to live by this principle is to accept nothing less than absolutes. it is the most extreme manifestation of determination.

it's the reason undertale only has two true endings, all or nothing. it's the light shining stark against the darkness, creating the contrast that paradoxically defines both. it is what defined “CHARA”, in life and in death.

when chara made plans to save monsterkind, they would not go through with it until asriel had conceded fully to the idea, because he was the only person chara could trust to follow through — it HAD to be him, no alternatives, no compromises. and it's chara's absolute nature that got the both of them killed, because control was SPLIT between the two. in chara's eyes, by trusting asriel, the plan failed. it's only natural they'd be broken up about it.

in the end, the only thing that saved the underground was chara abandoning this mindset and embracing what they had learned in their new life. patience. bravery. integrity. perseverance. kindness. justice. the strengths and setbacks of each, and the ways each complemented the other.

to internalize this, to realize that there isn't always just one solution, that you might have to take steps backwards in order to go forwards, accept that mistakes can be made and learned from, and be critical about your situation and develop a more nuanced intuition if you want to do good in the world... that is to become frisk.

#adologue #undertale

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tarysande · 10 months ago

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The best part about coming back to the source material after a looooong time is you sorta get a fresh look at canon in comparison to whatever the dominant strains of fanon have become. Or, in fact, whatever your own dominant strains of headcanon have become.

I mean, yes, Garrus “I’m not a good turian” Vakarian gets infinitely cooler (and more competent!) by pretty much every metric as the storyline progresses. He does. But fresh out of ME1 and into ME2 through his recruitment, I find myself genuinely amused by how thin the veneer of badass is over a pretty dominant core of straight-up nerd sprinkled with idealism mixed with self-doubt.

When you have Garrus in the squad all the time (and thus get all his ambient dialogue and remarks), you really pick up on the number of times he calls out bad behavior, unethical actions, cruelty, and rule-breaking, especially in ME1.

He’s not actually a hothead who can’t abide rules of any kind. In fact, most of the time he’s pretty pro-law-and-order, and he gets amusingly hall-monitorish when people are breaking rules he considers important and worth following.

Fundamentally, Garrus chafes when his sense of what is just is at odds with what the authorities do about that injustice (or what they stop him from doing). And I would hazard a guess that the reason his actions seem so intense or harsh or "of course we should have shot down that ship in the middle of the Citadel" is indicative not of his impatience but of the degree to which he thinks the authorities have failed to uphold that justice. We know he can be patient. He's a sniper. His whole modus operandi on Omega is precision kills without civilian casualty. But when that long fuse finally burns down, he goes from zero to shooting down ships in the middle of the Citadel in what looks (from the outside) like a heartbeat.

And yes, injured pride hastens the burning of that fuse; he doesn’t like losing. Or admitting defeat. Or failing.

Having just replayed his recruitment mission, a few things really stood out to me this time.

The merc bands really hate him--and they also reluctantly admire him (he's described as smart, resourceful, dangerous, idealistic, brave, slippery; they all agree they only way they managed to get this far is by isolating him and employing dirty tactics). I mean, there's literally a station-wide announcement that Omega can return to "business as usual" once Archangel is out of the picture because he was disrupting things so completely.

The way Garrus blames himself for the deaths of his squad is so freaking turian. Failure reflects on the leader who places his people in danger they can't handle, not the individual who fails. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Yes, Sidonis betrayed him, but the person Garrus blames the most? Is himself. For trusting Sidonis in the first place. For raising Sidonis to a position where he had the means and opportunity to harm others--and the weakness of character to turn coat, to save his own hide, instead of dying to protect the others.

Garrus mentions more than once that he was trying to emulate Shepard. And his tone always implies that he knows he failed because Shepard would never have let a Sidonis into the fold. Again, he's blaming himself. Like a good turian. Yes, he wanted to avoid the red tape and bureaucracy of C-Sec, but his code--Archangel's code--certainly aligns with Paragon Shepard's morality (with a Garrus Vakarian twist).

And since it wouldn't be meta without adding a Tara's Headcanon Twist ... I've always wondered why "Archangel" when it's such a ... human concept. But this time, when I noticed how he spoke about Shepard's influence, and how quickly he brushes aside the name when she asks him about it, I wondered if it wasn't actually his way of honoring the mythology of the dead woman whose example he was trying to follow. Not that Shepard is a God he's worshiping, but ... there is something about the way he talks about her. Garrus doesn't make himself over in the image of a God, though; he's the soldier, the right hand, the avenging angel responsible for carrying out divine punishments suited and proportional to the crimes committed, the rules broken, the selfishness or cruelty of the perpetrator.

#mass effect #garrus vakarian #mass effect meta #femshep #commander shepard #no i do not have time to write a whole epic what happened on omega fic #admittedly this all works a lot better if shepard trends paragon #but since i've never played a non-paragon shepard i don't have to twist my brain around to make it work #in sum to most of the people around him garrus is a big ol goody-two-shoes nerd #so it makes sense when joker makes the comment about the stick up garrus's ass #long text post #thinky thoughts

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venussaidso · 8 months ago

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Venus Dominant Themes — 𝐍𝐚𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 (part 1) 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟒

warnings: mentions of sexual assault, rape and murder.

Finally, I am exploring Venus as a nakshatra lord but, more importantly, the significance of the nakshatra Purva Ashada through medias I've collected. The nakshatras within the Sagittarius section seem to all connect through the theme of purification, especially with the start of Mula who destroys the falsehood through the hunter/huntress archetype and purifies the untamable. As Mula is the cycle of conquering the wild things and seeking truth, Purva Ashada is now a stage above that.

It is already evident in that Purva Ashada literally means "the undefeated" or "the unconquered", now dealing with themes of justice, honour and battle. This nakshatra is known as the Invincible Star. This victorious warrior-like essence stretches towards Uttara Ashada, as Uttara Ashada means "later victory" or "final victory", closing off this journey in Sagittarius. Other Venus nakshatras will be mentioned, as expected, since trine nakshatras all literally have the same outlining experiences.

Purva Ashada is associated with invincibility and triumph over adversity. It possesses the Varchagrahan Shakti, which is the power to invigorate or energise, meaning to be relentless and driven in its pursuit of ideals. Its desire is said to be “gaining the sea upon wishing for it”, being supported by its Jupiter rulership. As Jupiter is idealistic, Purva Ashada will be more set in its way through action and fixed determination as it is, first and foremost, a fire sign. As this is Sagittarius, it comes as no surprise that fictional archers in the media can be often played by these natives, signifying their grit and focused determination ♐︎.

Mula Suns Kathryn Winnick in Vikings and Anna Popplewell in Narnia.

Purva Ashada Moon Hailee Stainfield and Purva Ashada Sun Jeremy Renner in Hawkeye.

Purva Ashada Sun Jonas Armstrong in Robin Hood.

Archery is especially perfect for this nakshatra's lord as it requires a flowing adaptability and accuracy as Venus would obsess over perfecting and executing it, unyielding a level of concentration and precision through burning passion and drive.

Bharani Sun Stephen Amell in Green Arrow.

The star of Purva Ashada is very fierce and severe by nature, being Ugra, and with its Venus rulership, it will always always find a way to achieve its goals. Venus allows for creativity, craftiness, and even strategy (especially within diplomacy); the fire element making it fierce and quick-thinking for battle and war. The fire signs in the Venus section are specifically suited for overpowering societal norms in a way that their combined fire element and Venusian qualities know how to. The best character that exemplifies this is literally Mulan.

The themes of fighting for honour, family, one's country and being part of a larger purpose are just knocking on the 9H, and Sagittarius, as a whole. Purva Ashada cannot be victorious without overcoming hardships and obstacles that sharpen their skills and instincts. Her obstacle is what supports her journey to independence and truth, as she disguises herself as a man to join the army when women are not meant to fight for their country. Jupiter, being expansive in nature, shows in her decision to break free from the confines of being a traditional woman. Her character immediately signifies Sagittarius' need for freedom in pursuit of truth and expansion. When she is told no, she goes the other way to march to the beat of her own drum, her determination unwavering and her creativity helping her remain disguised while she acquires skills and knowledge that she wouldn't have as a woman (now her Jupiterian nature is able to flourish).

Purva Ashada Moon Ming-Na Wen voices Mulan. Purva Ashadha is formed by the stars Kaus Borealis and Kaus Australis in the Archer’s bow.

Purva Ashada signifies perseverance and moral duty which we see in Mulan who carries a deep responsibility to her family & country, choosing to prioritize duty and honour over societal norms or even personal desire.

She grows stronger, more skillful, after every challenge; influence of Venus sharpening and refining her, as she is on her way to become an invincible, victorious force.

Jupiter rashis (Sagittarius and Pisces) all have a theme of transcendence; Mulan's arc having more to do with family and patriotism, transcending limitations and becoming a hero who saves China. The message of the story has a lot to do with self-worth, making your mark no matter the restrictions of society; the philosophy of Mulan being that real honour and strength come from within and not from conforming.

The whole Sagittarius section deals with issues of conformity, such as Mula who doesn't fit in society or doesn't feel free within it due to its raw nature. Mula, being Ketu, tends to find ways to escape or its power can be intense. While Purva Ashada, being Venus, is more creative in maneuvering restrictions in order to overcome them.

Both Lea Salonga and Christina Aguilera sing the popular soundtrack song Reflection.

In the kdrama The King's Affection, Purva Phalguni Sun Park Eun-bin plays a character who disguises herself as a man to survive in such a patriarchal society.

Much like Mulan, she breaks societal expectations. Both characters have to prove their worth even while they're men, and these two Venusians excel in their roles despite all challenges and danger. While Mulan sacrifices her personal safety to protect her father and to fight for her country, the character Dam-i (in The King's Affection) sacrifices her identity and freedom to maintain her family's honour and stability in the kingdom.

Purva Phalguni Moon Yifei Liu in Mulan (2020)

Venus is connected to the idea of sacrifice in the willingness to endure for love, beauty, and unity. This willingness to transcend one's own personhood for the greater good or a higher ideal perfectly captures the Jupiter & Venus rulership of this nakshatra.

The film Wonder Woman (2017) begins by telling a similar arc to Mulan. Before being known as the hero named Wonder Woman, she was Diana, princess of the Amazons, who trained rigorously to be an unconquerable warrior.

Raised on a sheltered island paradise, she meets a stranded war pilot who tells her about the massive conflict happening in the outside world. Convinced that she can help stop the threat, Diana desires to leave Themyscira for the first time ever. Much like Mulan's desire to join the army was protested against, the Amazons tried to stop Diana from leaving, as they feared for her safety. As the rashi rulership here is Mars, there are no barriers to overcome to expand oneself from clear oppressive forces (which would be a Jupiterian storyline), instead, this portrayal of Wonder Woman goes head first into battle (very Aries of her).

Her Aries nature shows as we follow her in her journey of self-discovery when she joins the pilot to fight the wars. This Aries version of Wonder Woman is seen as she explores this new world like a newborn baby, as Aries is the baby of the zodiac. Her identity (following 1H themes) is slowly uncovered as she comes to realize that she is the Godkiller, meaning that she has always been a goddess. And that there is a potential confrontation awaiting her with Ares, the God of War. This discovery is picked up when she is fighting alongside men in a war to end all wars.

Bharani is ruled by the Lord Yama who is the god of justice. He oversees the transition of souls after death, ensuring that they face the consequences of their actions as he acts as a guardian of moral order and spiritual integrity.

Bharani ASC Cate Blanchett plays Hela, the Goddess of Death. Yama is the God of Death and the Lord of the Afterlife.

Purva Ashada nakshatra generally carries this sense of justice as well, as it stands for truth and high morality. This can be seen in the film North Country, which is directed by Purva Ashada Moon native Niki Caro (who also directed 2020's live-action Mulan).

Purva Phalguni ASC Charlize Theron portrays one of the members of the first group of women working at a local iron mine in Minnesota. Male workers become offended that they have to work with women, and they express this by lashing out at them, subjecting them to sexual harassment. Appalled by the physical abuse and violent misogyny, Charlize Theron's character files a historic sexual harassment lawsuit, despite being cautioned against it by family and friends.

The reality of femicide tends to be bravely explored through the media by Venusians the most, I've noticed. Acts that harm women, such as physical or sexual violence, can be seen as affronts to Venus itself, violating the sacred feminine.

A lot of revenge stories led by women start with the woman being sexually violated or physically oppressed, justifying her rage and her violence against those who have harmed her.

Lord Yama is also known as Dharma Raja, which translates to "King of Righteousness". Being associated with his punishment for sinners, retribution and justice are synonymous in this cycle; seen in popular revenge movies where one is given this divine right to properly, and quickly, execute justice for themselves and, or their loved ones. As if Lord Yama is acting through them, they are protected on their path of vengeance and restoration.

Purva Phalguni ASC Charlize Theron as Furiosa.

In the film Mad Max: Fury Road, Furiosa is driven by a desire to restore freedom, dignity, and hope to the oppressed class of society. Through her actions, she opposes the extreme patriarchy, her character signifying collective salvation. Furiosa carries a relentless drive to overthrow Immortan Joe’s tyrannical rule and rescue the few women in the society, who are treated as his property. Her unbreakable spirit in the face of extreme challenges mirrors the invincibility found within Purva Ashada (and its trine nakshatras). Purva Ashada's link to water, as it is ruled by the deity Apah, highlights purification, healing, and renewal. Furiosa’s quest to find the Green Place, a sanctuary of life and hope, reflects this thirst for a pure, life-sustaining environment. (As everywhere else is a post-apocalyptic wasteland).

Being that she is played by a Venus-nakshatra native, we see just how self-sacrificing she is for a greater purpose, being protective over the Wives and willing to risk everything for their safety and make it to the Green Place in order to establish a new foundation of harmony (Purva Phalguni is associated with comfort and happiness, and this version of Furiosa carries hope for such a future for her and the Wives).

Bharani ASC Anya Taylor Joy portrays a younger Furiosa who disguises herself as a man for survival and avenges the brutal death of her mother who was murdered in front of her as a child (much like O-Ren Ishii in Kill Bill.)

Bharani Moon Quentin Tarantino has written and directed popular revenge movies, such as Kill Bill & Django Unchained.

Both films star Bharani natives who execute retribution to people who did them wrong.

In Kill Bill, there's another Bharani storyline in which a little girl, O-Ren Ishii, witnesses the brutal death of her parents. She grows up to be trained and lethal, and kills the culprit that she's sworn revenge on.

O-Ren Ishii is portrayed by Bharani Moon Lucy Liu.

Bharani Moon Han So-Hee portrays Ji-woo, a woman driven by a thirst for vengeance, infiltrating a drug cartel to uncover the truth behind her father's murder.

In the Korean film Night in Paradise, Bharani Moon Jeon Yeo-Been portrays a character who goes on a murder spree in the ending, ambushing the gangsters who murdered her uncle and a friend of hers and being the one to successfully kill off the antagonist.

In Last Night in Soho, Bharani ASC Anya Taylor Joy kills all the men who have sexually violated her, and more importantly, avenges herself by murdering the man who lured her into the abusive underworld.

Claire Nakti touches on Bharani women being erotic dancers and finding themselves in the underworld. This further validated Anya Taylor Joy's Bharani placement for me, in this movie she's been sex trafficked and forced to be a dancer and prostitute in an underworld of sorts.

Purva Phalguni Sun& ASC Salma Hayek as an erotic dancer in an underworld in From Dusk Till Dawn.

It is interesting as trine nakshatras are also seen associated with the Goddess Persephone, Queen of the Underworld.

In The Matrix franchise, Persephone is married to the Merovingian, a program often described as a ruler or trafficker of information in the Matrix's underworld.

The Goddess Persephone is mostly associated with Bharani nakshatra. Initially being a victim of Hades' abduction, Persephone's evolution into a strong ruler of the underworld represents resilience and empowerment which perfectly encapsulates the journey of Venus nakshatras. She literally grows into a powerful queen, presiding over the dead and representing justice and the necessary order within the underworld. Bharani signifies the womb, representing creation, struggle, and the emergence of new life. Persephone’s cyclic movement between the underworld and the earth (as she is also the personification of vegetation, also being the goddess of spring) mirrors this cycle of life, embodying death (winter) and rebirth (spring). Purva Ashada represents the regenerative power of life, also signifying its association with Persephone’s role in seasonal changes. (Also, Furiosa's abduction from the Green Place perfectly parallels Persephone's abduction, as explained above).

In conclusion, there lies a higher purpose within the Venus nakshatras, especially Purva Ashada nakshatra, which possesses an ability to harmonize life's dualities—victory and loss, pleasure and pain, creation and destruction, love and retribution—into a transformative journey of growth, empowerment, and universal balance. Venus emphasizes how resilience and renewal can lead to profound evolution, with Purva Ashada's process of purification being removing impurities and starting anew. The character Mulan going through army training highlighted her inadequacies and shortcomings; her initiation of purification being the stage where she breaks free from traditional expectations. And so the process of purification is seen in her discovering ways to make up for her lack of physical strength, this being a mark of her transformation while being disguised as a man. Rediscovering her inner strength is all the cleansing of self-doubt that she needs to go through to finally be in her final triumph. Reconciling her inner self with her external role, Mulan symbolizes the renewal and balance within Purva Ashada.

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deerspherestudios · 19 hours ago

Note

Asking about Mycheal’s sense of morality and thoughts on kindness sort of got me thinking - what are his thoughts on justice?

Some examples on what I mean (that you do not have to specifically address!): If someone has harmed someone else, does he think that justifies hurting them back in any sense? And if someone in power continually abuses that power, does that justify hurting or killing them to prevent more harm in his opinion? Does it depend on the degree? Where does he draw the line? Or is it completely unacceptable - does he think we should always try to use mercy to solve conflicts? What about in situations where mercy can’t be used? And how does what he’d say verbally on the matter differ from how he’d actually act in a satiation where justice might be needed (eg. he says that he would never hurt anyone in any situation, but in reality there might be situations where he’d bring harm - or he says that he would hurt someone to prevent more damage but couldn’t bring himself to in reality). I’d be interested how his isolated upbringing impacted his thoughts on right and wrong as well - I’d imagine he prioritizes interpersonal relationships over the good of the whole (of any group he’s been rejected by especially), but, if so, by how much?

Again, these are just examples of generally what I’m going for by asking for his take on justice, please don’t feel pressured to answer any of the questions in that wall of a paragraph specifically! I’d love to hear your thoughts on his opinions in the area of morality in general - whatever comes to mind, even if it doesn’t relate to any of my example questions or the points I brought up. Thank you so much for your time and the love you pour into your work, and I hope you have a wonderful day!

Oo now this is a doozy of a question, from an anon no less :-0! I actually love these kinds of questions, but save them in my draft for months until I'm up to answering since I wanna do my best for them haha. Now's the time for this question to shine!

Long!!!!!! (possibly mad?? character opinions about justice and morality???) ramble below:

Regarding justice, I find myself struggling to answer to be honest! While I, the creator, have my own views on it, I'm not sure how someone like Mychael would feel about the concept of justice. This kind of thing warrants a society, of which he is isolated from. You don't really bother to be justified if something you did was wrong unless it's in the eyes of someone else, if that makes sense? Otherwise you'd end up arguing with yourself. And when stuck between committing a crime to survive or moral righteousness, it's obvious which one he would go for.

From your example, he's not really the type to believe in "an eye for an eye" as he's a pretty forgiving person. But of course, an extreme situation would change his mind like any of us!!

Now morality is a pretty nuanced topic, but after digesting the question a bit and gathering my thoughts, for the sake of conversation, I think his sense of morality can be simplified into a few traits:

First, he tries to be kind in all situations.

In the past, he's seen cruelty and kindness, how humans are capable of both, and the effects of those actions. Whether it's towards himself or others, he obviously prefers the latter treatment over the former. No matter what, he'll try to do the good thing (or at least, what he perceives to be the good thing) in most situations. He's aware it's naive to think so, but when you claw for something to live for, he insists "kindness above everything" is the best he could hold on to without losing himself.

Second, at times, he will be self-serving.

Just because he tries to be kind, doesn't mean there aren't moments where he'll be selfish. While his self interest isn't his top priority, in the rare instance he wants or needs something for himself, he'll likely skew odds in his favor. This is kinda clear from the game itself with how he treats MC when they start pulling away from him (another example is how he got his chickens and it's implied he does shoplift groceries/supplies no matter what he wants you to think.)

And finally, mercy is a tricky thing.

Let's say we equate mercy to forgiveness or compassion. Already in the game we see Mychael being callous towards the injured rabbit but also refuses to kill Rosie even though she doesn't really serve a purpose anymore other than being an attachment for him. With that said, you are definitely correct in saying "he prioritizes interpersonal relationships over the good of the whole" since with his background, interpersonal relationships are few and far in between. He might forgive a lover of his for murdering someone in front of his face, but wouldn't do the same for a stranger. He doesn't have the same sense of a judicial system like us humans, so with the above traits combined, he'd brush off the frankly heinous crime easier than most.

I hope that answers the question? Re-reading my answer a bunch I'm not even sure if I gave the points you're asking for but mmMM I spent spoons on this so have it like so 🫴❤️❤️❤️!!

#mushroom oasis vn #mychael ask #im gnawing on this question like a bone but will i ever get to the marrow i guess is up to anon hAHAH #enjoy my yapping #or not #the Keep reading tab is clicked upon YOUR consent so dont blame me if u didnt get what u came for!!#🏃🏃🏃

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leyavo · 25 days ago

Text

Simon Riley dating someone that grew up with a similar childhood like him.

He loves that you haven’t lost your childlike wonder and remained soft. You don’t let your bad experiences taint the way you treat others either.

You introduce him to the whole inner child notion and he listens to you as you talk about the toys you’ve recently bought. All the little trinkets you wanted as a child, but never got. He doesn’t make fun of you, knows that it makes you happy to acknowledge your younger self.

If he sees something you’ve mentioned, he’s definitely buying it for you. He even likes that you’ve got him stuff he wanted when he was a kid too.

Reading comic books together, he takes them to the base with him when he’s away. Smiles when he finds your little notes in between the pages. Silly thoughts of the plot line and how it was your favourite character. He loves that you’ve given him the space and safety to be vulnerable together, to touch on the past and create some good.

John Price dating someone disciplined like himself. Self assured and ready to go for what they want. You’ve known what you’ve wanted since you were young and done exactly that. Nothing can stop you once you have a goal.

He teases you for your military folding and the way you tuck your clothes in the drawer. Asks if you’ve ever enlisted knowing that you really haven’t. Loves that you can talk you’re self out of anything, saved him a parking fine a few times.

He loves that you approached him first and asked him out. Likes that you’re upfront about your feelings and assessing the relationship, making sure you’re both on the same page. There’s no room for silent treatment or lashing out, not when you two are honest. Too honest that you end up mirroring each others bad habits and come face to face with the things that need working on.

Because that’s what you do, you work on the hard stuff and come out on the other side of it a better person. You make him a better person without even meaning to. He’s the first one in your corner, backing you up when you’re stressed with work and need to vent, his similar train of thought easing your worries and helping you figure out a solution.

Johnny Mactavish dating someone that grew up just as wild as him. Both from a big family, elbows clashing with siblings at the dinner table. Never a quiet room in your childhood home that you aren’t afraid to take up space.

The type of kid that had scraped knees from climbing trees and mud splattering your shins. One that didn’t come home till the street lights came on.

Athletic too, he likes to look through the boxes of medals and trophies you worked hard for. Asks you about the skills you’ve learnt etc, if you’ve taken a fighting sport he’s definitely rolling around the floor with you.

He loves that you match his competitive nature, always seeing who can get home first from a morning run. Or betting on which team are going to win the match.

Rock climbing, hiking….any extreme sport really. You’re both up for it. He loves that you push him to do more, encourage him to keep going even if it’s difficult. Not everything comes easy, but you know that time and effort always pays off. That and it doesn’t hurt to have a little fun and take a risk.

Kyle Garrick dating someone who’s strongly led by their morals. Someone who was taught to stand up for those in need. You’ve always sought justice and did the right thing even when it was hard. There’s not much you’re backing down from and it keeps Kyle level headed.

You hold him accountable for things, let him know that what he’s done doesn’t sit right with you and you are the first to admit when you are wrong. The first to apologise, there’s no shame in it for you.

But above all he loves how caring you are, how you can comfort anyone no matter their age. How vulnerability is a strength and not a weakness.

How you build him back after a mission, let him process all the emotions and then ask for you. When he’s ready, so are you.

He lightens your mood, knowing that you’re deeply moved by what’s happening in the world currently. Gives you a breather, offers you a space to shut out everything beyond your home with him.

[Masterlist]

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sunschay · 19 days ago

Text

Bedtime || WandaNat

You couldn’t accept failure. “People die all the time” was the phrase that haunted you the most and you hated it deeply. So, to drown your own frustrations and pain, you drowned it all in drink, as always. Luckily, your friends were there to help you.

Pairing: WandaNat x GN! Reader.

Warnings: Abuse of alcohol, inappropriate language.

Word count: 3k

The lights flashed above your half-closed eyelids. Yellow, blue, red… orange, maybe? You couldn’t keep track of so many colors due to the alcohol consuming your veins, but it wasn’t like it was a big deal. People celebrated around you, drinking, smiling, laughing together while you didn't even know which bar this was. You had had a bad night, the mission you had been on earlier had left more dead than saved from a terrorist attack in Ohio. You hated it, this feeling deep inside you that you could have done something more for the world, but that once again, you had failed.

Your best way to try to forget everything was always drinking. The death of your parents, the discovery that you had been captured by Hydra to become some kind of enhanced robot.

All the things that affected you in some way turned into a simple American glass of rum, whiskey, vodka or any other drink nearby. It was an insatiable habit, as deep as an endless vicious circle in which you sank every time you got closer to the edge.

Having innocent blood on your hands made you sick. It made you even sicker to feel like you could have done more, to carry a guilt you could never completely shake.

When you were first recruited by the Avengers, something that only happened thanks to Steve Rogers and Wanda Maximoff, Cap always saw potential in you. Wanda sensed your sense of justice, your fickle fight to save lives and try to pull the world out of ruins that could crush you if you wanted to. You didn't save the people you loved from death, no matter how hard you tried, so the only thing left for you was to do something that would serve as knowledge for the world.

You also had your dark side, your fits of rage were almost uncontrollable in battle, but even so, it usually fueled you to do the best you could for people.

You saw that in Steve too. He was a moral, upright man who would do anything to make everything and everyone in harmony, at least for a while. As for Wanda… Wanda was a witch. That meant she could come and go from your mind whenever she wanted, she could feel all your emotions and feelings without even trying. She was fascinating, but mysterious, like you were in the beginning, and something about her drew you to her. You became friends, if that's the word, and she became familiar with your story.

“One more round please.” You asked the bartender absentmindedly, unable to even think about what the total bill would be.

You had been drinking for over an hour. This even surprised you because you should already be lying somewhere, unconscious on some dark and empty road.

“Y/n.” A male voice, firm and yet calm, approached from behind your bench.

You didn’t need to look up to recognize the blond hair parted slightly to the sides or the wall of muscle that was Steve. He pulled off the top of his mask and sat down next to you, his eyes roaming over you, down to the shards of glass stuck in your knuckles and the bruises on your long arms. He wasn’t surprised, you fought until your last breath, until failure, but he didn’t want you to kill yourself if it meant he could keep you safe.

“We could have done better.” You replied simply, grabbing the two glasses of drink and drinking one at a time, barely caring about the feeling of the alcohol cutting your throat.

“We did well, we did it well. Sometimes I really wanted to save everyone. Believe me, it’s true, but it’s not always possible, and there’s no reason to blame yourself if you went to your limit to make everything work out.” He replied, wanting you to put down the drink as soon as possible.

“But it didn’t work, did it? So many dead, so many homes destroyed. That reminds me of something, Rogers.” You whispered to him, watching his broad shoulders tense before he turned and grabbed his phone, texting someone. “What are you doing now?”

“The girls will take care of you from here. Alcohol won’t bring those people back.” He replied firmly, standing up and then leaving.

You rolled your eyes slowly, looking at the empty glasses and tried to get up, but ended up stumbling back down and falling back onto the stool. It was too many rounds to get out of there alone. The hours passed painfully, your vision blurred each time the alcohol consumed more of your blood and you felt your head spinning when the bartender approached.

“Would you like the bill, my friend?” He asked you and you just waved your hand, taking your wallet out of your pocket. “Just a minute, mate.”

The young man nodded and you started looking for some bills inside your wallet, pretending you weren't terrified by the various final numbers of the bill on the paper in front of you. Footsteps started approaching and you felt your wallet being stolen from your hands, a mixture of lavender, cinnamon, two different faint perfumes and a bit of gasoline invaded your senses, making you turn your head awkwardly.

“Here you go. Thank you.” A familiar, soft accent drifted behind you, and you saw someone handing the bills to the young bartender.

“We got you. Let’s go.” You felt two people pull you to your feet, resting your arms around their necks as you heard the bartender let out an awkward ‘thank you!’ in the distance.

You looked around drunkenly, finding a familiar face beside you. She was wearing a jacket, something like a tank top, also black. Pants. Boots. Her hair was different this time, maybe she cut it? You didn't know, but Natasha knew how much you blamed yourself, how inadequate you felt for not being able to solve everything all the time. Natasha was holding you firmly against her shoulder, trying to support you there, although the difference in strength and size was clear. Her greenish eyes looked back at you, apparently serious and filled with concern, and you only looked away when you felt Wanda calmly push you into a car. Wanda was wearing a wine-colored jacket and a very dark blue blouse underneath, her boots were very high. Her eyes were surrounded by some dark glow, you couldn't describe it due to the level of alcohol trying at all costs to steal your reasoning. Natasha and you were similar, in terms of your distant and mostly insensitive personality, and in your constant ability to last hours in a fight against each other.

Natasha however, was not like Wanda, she didn't know how to mask her blatant interest in you. The way she looked at you, how she was always somehow close to you, the way she always wanted to know where you were, when, where, with whom.

She always made the excuse that you were all a team, even then. And she always acted the same way with Wanda. Which seemed like an alibi to her.

“Fasten your seatbelt.” You heard Wanda say, sitting next to you as Natasha began to drive the vehicle.

“Next stop… strip club then?” You smiled wildly, fingers struggling with your seatbelt.

“Next stop… Compound. So, bed, it’s time for you to sleep, Y/n.” Natasha rolled her eyes, staring in the rearview mirror as Wanda helped you with your seatbelt.

“Wow, I’m a kid again and now I’m going to be put to bed to sleep. What else is missing, my pacifier?” You pouted, earning an inevitable smile from Wanda and then a serious look.

“Maybe a few spankings?” Natasha raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her focus on the road ahead.

“Wow, do you think I can’t take a beating? I think you better not trust that woman, Wands, she could kill us right now.” You whispered in Wanda’s ear who rolled her eyes and looked out the window.

“She’ll definitely throw you out of this moving car if you keep pissing her off, that’s all I have to say.” Maximoff shrugged and you shivered as you felt Natasha accelerate the car hard.

With that in mind, you kept your mouth shut the rest of the way to the Compound. Natasha looked at you a few (several) times in the rearview mirror, it was as if she wanted to make sure that you weren't going to do something stupid or throw up in her car. Meanwhile, Wanda removed the tiny strands of hair that were sticking to your sweaty forehead so that they wouldn't obstruct your vision or bother you, and she did seem tender and calm. You wondered why Steve hadn't done it himself, it must have been because maybe (very obviously) he knew that keeping you alone with the two most attractive women on earth made you uneasy and intimidated.

“Let’s go.” Natasha stopped the car, parking it quickly and got out of the car, opening the door towards where you and Wanda were.

“I can walk, right?” You smiled smugly, seeing Natasha make a scolding expression.

One of your feet was thrown out of the car and you stepped onto the damp ground, taking a few steps before falling face down on the ground. Yeah, you definitely couldn't walk on your own. A breathless groan left your mouth and you wiped the dirt and grass off your forehead, feeling Wanda's arms help you up.

“Imagine, you’re always so independent even when you’re drunk.” Natasha yawned behind you, grabbing your arm.

“You know I do, dear.” You laughed weakly, walking with the support of the two to the entrance of the Compound and passed through the gate, noticing the silent and very deserted first floor.

“If they throw up in the living room I just cleaned, consider their lives doomed.” Tony rolled his eyes as you walked in with Natasha and Wanda, and you fell back into an armchair.

“Someone needs to help them take a shower.” Natasha crossed her arms with a sigh, the idea making her mentally blush.

“You guys better not drag me into this.” Clint rolled his eyes, jumping up onto the couch and Tony nodded. “Yeah, I don’t want to be part of that terrifying scene either.”

“Girls, I appreciate you being cooperative. Just don’t let them go around naked, we’re all wide awake.” Steve said, even getting a chuckle from Vision.

“Great, we’ve become babysitters for a fully functioning, grown adult.” Wanda sighed, biting her lower lip.

“No one will see me naked. Forget it.” You grunted, awkwardly getting up from the couch and running with as much enhanced speed as you had to the other hallway, but fell and hit a wall.

“This looks more like a murder scene.” Natasha huffed, pulling you into the first bathroom she found with Wanda and then locking the door.

“I think you better not leave me naked.” You grumbled, your heavy, stuttering voice filling the bathroom as Wanda sat you down on a random bench.

“You should thank us, if it were up to others to bathe you, they would hang you upside down and dunk you in the water.” Natasha grumbled, pulling your shirt up.

“But you guys are so adorable, wow.” You replied, watching her throw your shirt somewhere and you blushed slightly.

This was really happening. You were going to get naked in front of your two friends, if you could call it that. They were going to give you a bath without even having any other kind of intimacy with you beforehand. I mean, that was already pretty... advanced. But you were drunk and there was nothing you could do to stop it, and you should trust them, right?

“I… I think I need a bucket.” You coughed, covering your mouth with your hand and Natasha pulled away, grabbing the first thing that resembled a bucket, an abandoned pot under the sink. She threw some cleaning supplies out of it, leaving it free for you.

You grabbed the object and started to vomit, feeling your stomach violently expel what you had eaten in a whole day from the drink of the last few hours. Wanda covered her mouth and nose with one hand, but pressed your hair away from your face, carefully so that you wouldn't get any more dirty. Your stomach didn't stop until it was completely clear, and you gasped, your head falling back against the cold wall.

“I think you understand now that there are no benefits to getting so drunk on alcohol.” She whispered, carefully watching you as you let it all out.

“Forgetting is a benefit. Forgetting everything.” You mumbled, pressing your head against the cold wall and pushing the pot away, watching Natasha pick it up and start washing all that stinky dirt away.

“No more wasted conversation.” Natasha approached you, turned on the cold water under your head and brought her hands to your pants, bending down to remove the fabric along with all the rest of your clothes.

You moved your irises until you found Natasha's, who after undressing you completely, couldn't stop her eyes from being taken over by dark, dilated pupils. She knew you were looking, but she couldn't help but notice every detail of your body, every tiny scar, every bruise. And now you were naked in front of her and Wanda. She felt enchanted, as Wanda probably did. The greenish irises were mesmerized, astonished by such a wealth of perfect details, by the sculpture of your body. Wanda swallowed dryly, feigning naturalness as she gently rubbed a sponge with soft foam on your aching and bruised shoulders.

“If I hurt you, you can let me know.” Wanda said, breaking the slight silence that had formed and you barely moved your lips, allowing her to continue.

Natasha remained hidden in her silence, watching as Wanda removed the dirt and dust from her body, rubbing as carefully as possible on some bruises and cuts caused by today's mission. You kept your eyes on Natasha, you knew she was restless, thoughtful perhaps. But you also felt her gaze on you, on your face, your eyes, your collarbone, the bones of your shoulders, on every possible detail of your body. Yes, Natasha Romanoff really didn't know how to be discreet. You wondered what would happen if it were just her and you there, with the exception of Wanda.

“Let me get that bitter taste out of your mouth.” She whispered, grabbing a toothbrush with some toothpaste on it and leaning down close to your face.

You parted your lips slightly, feeling her brush your teeth carefully, so slowly that it could make you forget that you were naked in between them. Natasha leaned down a little more, and you tried not to look down but it was too late, you could tell that she was wearing a tank top without a bra. Suddenly, the drink had already fixed your vision suddenly. You were a pervert. But so was she. Fair enough.

“Wash your mouth out.” She instructed you, walking away with the toothbrush and you filled your mouth with water, yawning before spitting it all out.

“You’re quite an obedient baby, aren’t you?” Wanda teased, gently tugging your ear and you rolled your eyes.

“Sometimes, apparently, they are. Can you grab a towel and some clothes?” Natasha asked, turning off the shower and sighing when she saw that her shirt was wet. “Sure.”

“And my hair that you wet, young lady. Are you forgetting that?” You joked, seeing the ironic smile appear on Natasha’s lips, who calmly approached you again.

Natasha turned on the shower again, grabbing a bottle of shampoo and dispersing it on her fingers. She entered her fingers into your scalp, starting to wash slowly, trying to ignore that she was literally between your legs, so close that she could feel your now cool breath near her neck. The foam spread all over your hair and you brushed your hand against some of it, passing it on her nose.

“Goofy. You find this funny, huh?” She shook her head, lifting her hand and running it over your cheek, smearing foam on you. “I find this funny? I think you’re confusing me.”

Natasha frowned and shook her head, pulling yours forward slightly to remove all the excess shampoo. Her fingers were soothing, as peaceful as walking on clouds. And she didn't take her eyes off you. She opened another bottle and spread something on her fingers, then ruffled it through your hair and you felt the soft, cool texture, it was cozy. Natasha leaned in close, her nails scraping over the back of your neck as her breath covered yours, your faces closer than ever.

You didn't move an inch to get away from her, you couldn't even think straight. The mixture of alcohol floating in your blood and the confusion of events left you in an abyss of doubts. But you didn't need to reason or think too much now, not even Natasha. She brushed her lips over yours, a sure hand resting firmly on the back of your neck and the touch of her lips were like igniting a sensation you had never felt before.

“Towels, clothes. I don’t think anything’s missing. Or is it?” Wanda absently walked through the bathroom door once more, causing Natasha to pull away from you and subtly rub her fingers through your hair, removing the cream as calmly as possible.

“No Wanda, I appreciate it. That should be enough.” Natasha replied with a smile, as convincing as possible.

You both hoped that Wanda hadn't seen anything, but by heavens, she was the Scarlet Witch. That was enough to know that, if she hadn't noticed what you and Natasha were doing, she could tell by the rapid heartbeats of both of you, the goosebumps on your skin in contrast, waiting for another touch. Wanda was smarter than that to know that it was impossible for someone to fool her like that, but she would pretend to be stupid just to see how much you two would fall for it.

Natasha was, however, frustrated. She didn't want to be interrupted, of course not. If it hadn't happened, she would be all over you, kissing you like never before because an opportunity like this doesn't come so easily to her.

“You’ll sleep with us tonight, just in case something happens and you’re out of our reach-” Wanda shrugged her shoulders as Natasha rubbed the towel on your head slowly, trying to dry your wet hair.

You didn't even know they slept together until now. Or maybe you were just too drunk and tipsy to remember that detail.

“You guys are great babysitters, but I can take care of myself. Thank you.” You blew a kiss in the air.

You fixed the towel on top of your hair, forgetting to get another towel from Wanda and walked out of the bathroom. Completely naked, without clothes, with nothing to cover yourself! You whistled along the way, feeling a little better now that you had expelled more than ninety percent of the alcohol from your body, but still with a heavy head and blurred vision, and then you were pulled at the end of the hallway, grumbling when you felt a firm hand on your ear.

“I said I was fine, Grandma.” You grumbled as Natasha dragged you to the room she shared with Wanda, covering you as much as possible before anyone in the group saw you naked around the compound.

“If you call me grandma again I’ll make you swallow this towel.” She whispered and you laughed lightly, rubbing the towel. “Wow, Nat, you’re kind of a brute.”

“Y/n, please get dressed, it’s late at night and we can’t wake up the others anymore.” Wanda asked, leaving a change of clothes next to the bed.

“Okay.” You sighed, rubbing the towel over the rest of your body.

Natasha and Wanda exchanged a quick, brief glance. They understood each other, but they couldn't do anything about it, not when you were still half drunk and fragile. They could feel the heat emanating from your body, they couldn't even stop admiring the way you leaned forward and how your body only stood out more with a bunch of bruises covering it, the way you looked great even after having vomited probably half a bottle of pure alcohol. You were magnificent, mesmerizing, extremely fascinating and neither Wanda nor Natasha would dare to deny that.

Their skins burned for something, even anything, a touch, a slightest glance, a kiss. Natasha didn't feel perverted or anything like that, because she had the right to look and admire every part of your body like Wanda, looking wasn't wrong, was it? But she had to admit that the fact that she was on fire, restless, needy and with her breathing irregular was solely due to you and your natural effect of making her that way. Wanda felt the same way, with her hands restless, trembling, her teeth biting her lips every second, her body sensitive to the air environment (and to you being there for the first time), everything made her intimidated if it was about you.

“Okay. What’s up now?” You asked, finally dressed from head to toe, which you both mentally thanked for keeping so many dirty thoughts at bay at the same time.

“You can lie between us.” Wanda said the first thing that came to mind, quickly joining her bed with Natasha’s with her powers and Romanoff thanked her silently.

“Don’t think we’re stupid, the door is locked. So lie down and go to sleep.” Natasha said, glancing at the bed before entering her closet.

“Was she always this bossy?” You huffed, throwing yourself onto one of the beds and felt Wanda gently cover you with the blankets.

“Only when she’s right. Bedtime, Y/n. Sweet dreams.” Maximoff smiled and leaned down, giving you a kiss right on the corner of your mouth. And then she kissed you right on the lips. Which left you blushing and speechless.

“Good evening.” Natasha reappeared, a wine-colored blouse covering her, probably because the other one was damp.

You looked to both sides, seeing that you were still lying in between them. Natasha leaned over, turning off the lamp and leaving the room in deep darkness, and you sighed, feeling her head rest on your shoulder for a moment. Great, you were lying with your two friends. Wait, friends lie together in the same bed after kissing?

#marvel #black widow #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat #the avengers #mcu

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