#so much of the universe was destroyed and her hands are stained

[acetheta]

now im thinking about all the similarities between thirteen and being a dalek.

[divinehedons]

hard to explain.

previously: call it fate, call it karma | masterlist

pairing: dilf!joel miller x f!reader

word count: ~3.5k

summary: after your fall-out with the son of a texan contractor, you didn't expect to come face-to-face with the man; nor did you expect the feelings that come with him.

warnings: this is a dark explicit fic, minors DO NOT interact! once again, i am reminding you that this joel is a meaaaaanie. ginormous age gap (joel is in his 50s, reader is in her early 20s), brief depiction of somnophilia, fingering, phone sex, mutual masturbation. proceed with caution!

note: thank you sosososososo much for 500+ followers! this is in celebration of everyone who enjoys a little debauchery, i hope you enjoy. you're welcome to suggest drabbles through my ask, and comments and reblogs are much appreciated!

It had to end. You knew it did. You knew it had to end not only when you saw Christopher in the arms of some other girl—you knew it had to end the morning you woke up in his father's bed, Joel Miller himself. You remember it, clear as day.

You remember waking to his tongue exploring your folds, legs already shaking. You wonder how long he had been down there, how long he had been tasting you, and you froze. You remember the way Joel smirks up at you, spreading you open with two fingers, your orgasm not far behind from how sensitive you already were.

The limbic system primarily existed with three mechanisms of responses: fight, flight, or freeze. As your vision cleared, you saw the three responses laid before you, along with their consequences. If you confronted him, you risked the exposure of your very own crime, secrets sliced open and exposed in the warm Texan morning air. If you stayed, you'd find yourself complicit in an active role for destroying a relationship that meant something to you. Therefore, there was only one option left.

You remember the way you shot up, barely getting something on when that Texan drawl emerges from the bed. Sweet pea... You don't hear the rest, shutting the door behind you in near perfect silence. You end it that morning with Christopher; over coffee after he tried to apologise to you. There was nothing to forgive.

Hell, you'd even think you were both even by then.

You left before noon, almost running away from the scene of the crime you have left with hands stained red. You didn't even notice you left a book you were reading until you were back at your parents' house, unpacking as you curse yourself.

You thought that was the end of it. But not quite. Who cares about fate or karma when both clearly wanted to mess with you?

—

You threw yourself directly into the fires of a new semester. Your days easily fill with readings and essays and everything else. You see your friends less and less. You hole up in your dorm room more often. The solitary existence, you began to think, allowed you to repent, to correct yourself. It was why you were so willing.

If only you knew how naive such things seemed.

It was early mid-autumn when you were proved wrong when Joel Miller himself knocked on the door of your dorm room. It was comical, how different Joel seemed against the backdrop of assorted university kids, frat boys, and other such cliques with his greying beard and tired eyes. It was almost comical because you didn't expect him to be here—months after your shared evening disappeared in the haze of stress and study. It was almost comical because you avoided Christopher like the plague, barely dodging out of sight the moment you recognise him anywhere.

Even in mundane things, the father was proving to be brighter than the son.

He sees you, eyes red from exhaustion, fingers stained with pen ink as the pregnant silence fills the air. You wonder what's on his mind as his eyes rake over your form. You're dressed in a campus sweatshirt and (he promised to thank a god or two) just panties. He goes to speak before you can shut the door on him. Before you could pretend and brush him off.

"Christ, sweet pea. What happened t'ya?"

That's how Joel Miller ended up in your shared room, looking over the small collection of books you had stacked up on some rickety shelving. You don't know what to say to him. You don't know what there is to say. You mumble fragments of things. "I'm sorry, mister Miller, this is not a good time..."

"Y'know, this could fall apart on ya. Shouldn't put too many things on it."

You look up at him, catching his eye once more. You feel the heat on your cheeks, feeling like an errant child with their hand caught in a cookie jar. It's strange, you think. You, who had once felt so welcomed by the same man, now look at things differently, wondering if he still thinks of you writhing against his sheets.

Because you think about it. Every fucking night. You think about his deep chuckle, that playful smirk, the orgasm you hadn't been able to recreate ever since. So, the question comes so easily to you: "Mister Miller, did you come here for a shelf?" Your shaky breath exposes you, reveals the tension in your shoulders from the idea of being so proximally close to you.

Slowly, you watch the edges of his mouth curve upwards in a slight, knowing smirk as he moves closer to you, chuckling as you attempt to back away, only for him to continue coming for you, until you feel the door press against the small of your back. His left palm moves to settle right beside your head, effectively pinning you where you are as he leans close enough for you to have a whiff of minty breath. "Why is that, darlin'? Did'ya want somethin' more?"

There is a shiver that shoots directly from your spine to your cunt, a wave of unabashed want as your lips part from his words. It's when a short laugh escapes him, moving to press a chaste kiss against your cheek, the prickling of his beard making your knees clench from expectation. "Actually, I came here to talk to Admissions about Chris and his failed major last semester. And of course, to return a book of yours."

For a moment, you think the conversation is over. Only Joel loves proving you wrong.

"But it's cute to know ya think' 'bout me, sweetheart."

Motherfucker.

The trade paperback emerges from his coat pocket, just as beaten as you had found it all those months ago in some decrepit, secondhand bookstore. You briefly catch the tile in front. The Master and Margarita. Bulgakov's opus. You gingerly take it from his grasp, managing a shy thanks just as you duck out from under his arm to place it on his desk. "I was just looking for that."

"Pretty dense read, if ya ask me." He turns to you, leaning against the door for a moment. "You worry your pretty l'il head too much." He moves to take his leave, opening the door as he steps out into the hallway with a gentlemanly nod.

"Well... I like the, um... thanks. Drive home safe."

He hums, looking around to check if there was anybody to hear his next words. But when he looks back to you, he had that same smirk that generated a tremble to the knee from you. "I hope ya still have my number. Maybe you should call the next time you're thinkin' 'bout an old man, baby doll."

And just like that, he leaves, shutting the door behind him as you collapse to the nearest seat, unbuttoning the top button of your blouse as you exhale.

What a fucking asshole.

—

You do not think of the same Texan contractor until a few days later, coming home from an admittedly awful date with some Tarantino fanboy that thought you needed help when it came to understanding Pulp Fiction. And, should anyone ask, you could honestly say you attempted your best behaviour, but eventually, there were just too many differences for you to logically accept his offer of sex back in his own (possibly) stinky dorm room.

So you walk back alone, sighing as you try not to think you made a foolish decision. You've been stuck in a dry spell, you think, considering the fact that it was Joel who last fucked you dumb. Considering it's been months of you fucking around and never really liking anyone because it's Joel you'll be touching yourself to at night.

With a sigh, you start to understand how foolish you were still being. And with a quiet gulp, you reach for your phone to dial that number you've been avoiding all week.

It's Joel, so, of course, it only took a few rings before you hear him on the other end.

"Well hello there, sugar."

You groan, leaning back to look up at the cloudy evening before clearing your throat. "Please don't be an asshole," you murmur, just as you hear him chuckle on the other end. "I was on a date this evening."

You hear the silence ensure from the other end. As if Joel immediately imagined you necking some frat boy or some other dickwad holding your breast while he's so far away, sitting down on his couch in his lonely home, so empty without you reading at the most random spots. As if he can smell how wet your cunt is and he's nowhere to be found. "It's just nine, baby doll, did you end the fun early?"

"I..." You swallow, entering your dorm room before your voice dropped into a whisper. "He... wasn't being nice..." You hang your coat as you check in to see your roommate fast asleep in her own bed, biting your lip gently. "And now... I'm back at the dorm and I have a roommate so... I'm just... I might just read until I'm tired."

"I might just be the last nice guy you'll meet, sweet pea," he teases, groaning as he adjusts himself in his spot. "And, as much fun as it is readin' about the Devil in Moscow, I think I'm much better company, no?" You perk up, stilling yourself mid-step as you replay the words in your head.

"You read it?" Already, you could feel the smile stretching across your cheeks as you imagine Joel, frowning down at your tiny book in an attempt to comprehend it.

"Tried to, doll. Too dense for an old man like me."

It's when you giggle. So suddenly and naturally that Joel feels a smile etch onto his own face. "I'm sorry, mister Miller. As much as I would like your company... I don't have any privacy right now..."

Joel hums from the other end, as if swallowed by his own thoughts. It's comfortable listening to the easy silene between the two of you, where nothing has to be said for five seconds.

Then, of course, he thinks with his cock and it gets him what he wants.

"I'm gettin' ya a room, darlin'. But you better stop with that mister Miller nonsense, got it?" You hear movement on the other end. "I'll send you the details. Call me when ya get there, sweet pea."

—

In the minutes where he has to wait for you to get where he wanted you, Joel has the time to contemplate just what he was doing to you. You, with a smile so sweet and young that it'd probably let his teeth ache if he let it. You, with your wandering, curious eyes that never asked a question. You, who he missed and hasn't stopped thinking about since that night.

If he was more honest, he would've told you that you also left some clothes from when you stayed over. If he was more honest, he'd tell you that you left your swimsuit in the bathroom beside the kitchen. But he's not honest. Actually, he's just a little bit too fucking selfish.

He'll never tell you of the number of times he breathed in the leftover scent of your skin and your perfect cunt staining the very pad of your swimsuit. He'll never tell you of the number of times he came just from the scent of you, cock in his fist, seed bursting out in powerful spurts.

He'll never tell you he could never have too much of you. And that he's been starving since you left him.

You call again, almost an hour later, shaky giggles being the first thing he hears. He tries to picture you taking in the hotel room he admittedly paid too much for. Tries to imagine if the bed was big enough, if the sheets were soft enough. If the fridge was filled to the brim with things you can enjoy. "Joel," you finally say, and he melts back into his own bed in his own house in Texas, "what the fuck, this is too much!"

He waits until your excitement wears off, smirk on his face. "Private enough for you to touch yourself, sweet pea?"

You audibly suck in a nervous breath, followed by the sound of you falling into the covers of your bed for the evening. He waits for you to respond, expecting some meek response. He doesn't know you've had a few drinks in you, doesn't know that you feel the heat of the alcohol pumping through your veins.

"Only if you touch yourself with me, Joel."

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the saints combined. You were getting bolder. He began to chuckle, and you can almost hear the smirk in his voice. "Good girl. You're getting better, aren't ya?" His large palm reaches down to cup himself through his sweats. "What'cha wearin', baby?"

You tell him and he pictures it in his head. You in a cute knitted sweater, your light washed jeans, your muddy sneakers. He likes to imagine the sweater to be one of his, even if he knows it isn't. He imagines his musk on your skin while you smile an dmake conversation with some boy.

"Anything under the sweater?"

"Uh..." He catches the hesitation in your voice, just slight enough, just there.

"My goodness, did you go on a date in just a sweater, baby doll? Not even anything underneath?" He tsks nonchalantly, reaching down to free his hardness with one hand, sighing in relief at the feel of some contact where he needed it. "D'you think he saw your nipples through dinner?"

It's when you squirm, much to his delight as you stare up at the ceiling. "Oh, God, I didn't even think of that..." You eventually sigh, and he waits for you to continue. "I don't know, he just... he's not quite as interesting."

He wonders what you meant by that. He wonders what to say, but you are quick to add more.

"It's not like I want to fall in love— I just..." Another sigh, the sound of movement as you roll over in bed. "I just want someone who'd do me no good. To fuck me up, just once, so I can understand it."

He chuckles, spitting on to his palm. "I can do that," he mutters, "how 'bout you take off your panties for me, doll?" He waits, judging from whatever sounds your phone picked up. "Well, don't act all demure, now. Use those li'l fingers of yours."

You obey, because it's Joel and he knows things. Because you thought you'd be getting fucked this evening. Because he paid for your time and it's the least you can do.

You listen to him as you slowly melt into the warm sheets, legs spread wide and two fingers shakily rubbing yourself. From the other end, you hear his speech interrupted by shaky grunts, some breaths, and even low, menacing growls.

"Tell me what'ya thought about, doll. When you think of me."

"Uh..." You feel a jolt of want rush through your skin as your fingers unintentionally speed up, leaving you moaning. "I-I... I think of your... your hands..." A whimper follows, making you bite your lip as you attempt to control yourself.

From the other end, Joel himself groans at the sounds you make, his own fist speeding up. "That's it... keep goin' and tell me, sweet pea..."

The image is clear in your head. His hands on your waist, cupping your aching breasts. You think of his desperate cock fucking you wide open in a way nothing satisfied you. You think of his hand tangled in your hair as he takes you from behind, held up only by his grasp. You think of his growling against your neck, teeth running carefully across the surface of your skin before he sucks a trail of hickeys down your wanton body.

You think of him telling you how good you are. You, you, and only you.

Meanwhile, he directs you between his own laboured breaths. If anything, he keeps a clear head about it anyway. "That's it, pretty baby, get one finger in for me..." The sensation is enough to make you whine, whilst he chuckles at how needy you sounded. "S'good, yeah? Pull out your fingers f'me and get a pillow between your thighs..."

It's so easy to obey when you're at the very brink of an orgasm. It's so easy to tear down the walls you built when all you ever wanted is presented to you on a silver platter. You put him on speaker, setting it on the bedside table before you get on your knees, grabbing the nearest pillow, lip bitten as you position yourself.

"Imagine me under ya, baby. Y'like my hands, didn't'cha? Imagine them guidin' you back and forth..."

You squeeze your eyes shut and it's so easy. Your hips grinding down on the pillow, cunt spread open and giving the pressure it so desperately called for. You could almost imagine Joel's cockhead, notching just quite there at the very fold of your cunt, but not quite going in.

So you grind against the pillow, pretending it's Joel and pretending he's grunting your ear, driven by praises and compliments while you cry out in pleasure.

"Stop right fuckin' now, sweet pea, or I end the call."

You pause, shakily, eyes teary as you hear the wet squelch of Joel's fist moving against his cock. "Oh, please, just let me... I was so close, Joel!" You groan, hanging your head as you chew on your lip. Your fists clench the sheets below as you wait for him to let you continue.

"On one condition, darlin'. You better stop runnin' after those stupid college boys who don't know the first thing about takin' care of you."

You take pause, trying to bear the weight of his words with the call of your cunt. You do not know how he grits his teeth at the other end, trying to hold off from his own orgasm, driven by the idea of the two of you cumming together despite being miles apart.

"I... you—"

"Five seconds, doll."

You gulp, clenching as you try and not to give in to the urge to move your hips. "Fine! Fine, fine, fine—"

"Good." He takes in a sharp breath, growling as images of you, his very own personal whore, so fucking willing to obey him, no matter what it is he asked for. "Make yourself cum for me, doll. S'alright. Such a good girl..."

You cry out, words of thanks bubbling from your mouth as you resume your movements once more. You call for him, telling him you're so close as you come closer and closer to the very crest you've been wanting all night.

"C'mon, come with me, baby. You wanna be good, don't ya?"

It's always more than enough. As if just one provocation from him is enough to send a chain reaction through you. You let him know, and he counts you down together.

Five. Your knees quake just as you hear Joel's breath grow more ragged.

Four. He says it through gritted teeth while your left hand grips on to the headboard for some sense of balance.

Three. You tell him you might not last for long but one growl for him makes you learn your place.

Two. You're begging and begging and begging, breath held and teeth clenched. He shuts his eyes before he sees stars.

One. It's so close you both can taste it.

Cum for me, baby, fuck, yes, yes yes—

For a moment, you are caught in a riptide of inexplicable high, vision going bright white momentarily before lulling you into a daze.

A beat passes. Then another.

Fuck.

Fuck.

You better not be falling in love with him.

[lesbianslvt666]

Queen Of Peace

Cw: smut wit plot, gore, descriptions of natural disasters, fake system of goddess and gods, mommy issues, mayor character death, hurt no comfort and much more that I don’t remember.

Peasant!farm!Ellie x exiled!Goddess!Reader

You fell to your knees, clothes sticking to your body, heavy crimson liquid staining your form. Your back facing the large arches the entrance to the temple was.

The desperation seeping through your bloody hands upwards, fingers almost gliding the clouds above, as if to touch the holly.

You couldn’t take this any longer, no feeling has ever been this intense, the punishment too angry, too lonely.

Your back slouched forward as your cries agitated your entire body.

"oh mother!, forgive me, I have paid for my mistakes, I had paid enough…"

Your pleading wasn’t enough, the physical body you were given was still yours, you were still cage inside of it.

"oh my dear! How come I have seen you slaughter and toy with the human kind, that one you are now part off. be grateful for I haven't make you go through the pain of generations, the suffering of those you have wronged."

Your destroyed state, kneeling like lost dog in front of her altar while her defying voice came to rise retrieving all the memories of what you have done.

The regret of those days coming to the pit of your stomach like a burning fire that drips down your eyes like boiling lava, tears of blood that could only be described as the pain in your chest.

Your heart almost exploded in you as the agony grew.

She was making you relive what you had done. What you made humans do.

Before this living torture you were part of the grandiose thrones in the heavens, where goddesses and gods alike sat. All, had a mother in common, she who gave birth to the universe, all inside, all outside, all that exists and that doesn’t.

She couldn’t do it all for herself.

The only thing gods and humans have alike is the blazing torture that loneliness constitutes.

So she created you and all your siblings.

Each representing a valance of the universe.

Life and death

Love and pain

Fire and water

You, you were the most human of all your siblings, for you meant destruction and rebirth.

And so you were full of flaws, and one of them was how stubborn and self-conceded you were.

Your siblings always felt the need to outshine each other, you of course, weren't the exception.

However, you always manage to disappoint somewhere.

But not them, not the humans, not the little creatures, oh so hungry for victory, hunger that mirrored your own. And that’s how, after a big fight with all the family, your anger had clouded all reason.

Back to your temple to rest, you found a crying woman, pleading on her knees, to "please help her kingdom", and her lovely husband, the prince, to win the upcoming war, and so you did.

They won the battle, the war and the small fights after.

And so the people came pleading to you again, and again and… again…

At first it was amusing how eager these creatures were to kill each other, and then your laughter crowded the temple.

Amusement became humour, but soon humour became boredom.

Helping with destruction above all the men could see, land crashing on itself, tectonic planks waltzing, creating a horrendous symphony that destroyed and hurt.

No path, no rock, not a singular place wasn’t covered in blood, the earth mixing with exploding volcanos and sea waters that rose as high as possible.

Sky covered in clouds that crashed against each other with the anger of your soul.

The rivers run wild in crimson shades, bodies flowing down with force. The wind carried screeching screams of fervours agony ripped from the humans. You blamed it on themselves, for they started with the pleading.

You were so immerse destroying that you had forgotten to rebirth.

Your mother realized way too late.

When all life almost ceased to exist.

And that’s how you spent seven thousand years resurrecting live on earth.

To the contrary of destruction, rebirthing took an actual tool on your body.

By the last day of the rebirth, your body was merely a resemblance of what it was.

So human like, so ephemeral.

You fell hard on earth, the smallest amount of holly keeping you from burning out when you entered the atmosphere.

however, it burned all your clothes.

Naked body on the sand, beach waves behind you wetting your skin, liking like needles.

She saw you after a few hours of your falling.

She was struck by your beauty.

Nothing that she has ever seen.

Before she could think, she rescued you, how was she going to explain her father Joel of this girl she was bringing home.

The first night was the hardest.

"Ellie!, Ellie! The girl is awake!"

Joel screamed to the winds hopping the message would reach Ellie who was working on the field.

Your screams could be heard from miles away, she was running towards the small cabin, sweat running down her palms.

Calming you wasn’t easy, you would scream for forgiveness.

Screaming the most incoherent set of words.

Calling for your mother.

Apologizing to the earth…

Your eyes were shut hard, almost painful and when Ellie least expected you opened them, big like the moon, red veins almost exploding in them, the fear you felt in your chest translated to Ellie like she had seen the horrors you had caused.

Ellie placed a hand on her mouth, hardly slapping herself shut when she jumped backwards, falling to the ground when she looked at your eyes, tears of crimson blood falling like scarlet jewels.

And as scared as she was, she was always there, always to calm you down, every day she would make you forget more and more.

Or was now your human brain that couldn’t possible resist the pain of the knowledge you carried.

She taught you how to do human things, she taught you how to work the land, How to cook, You taught her how to fight, how to care for animals the she had never even thought as pets.

Joel, he felt like home, a hug from him felt like healing something you didn’t knew you had in your chest.

A paint your mothers reject had planted in your heart, growing like poison through your veins.

Every day was spent between taking care of the land, animals, cooking, laughing, chatting and you teaching them both how to write and read, how to paint, and Joel taught both of you how to play guitar.

And for a sweet second you forgot you didn’t deserved this.

One night, when Joel had to go to the nearest town with his brother, Ellie and you spent the whole day together, dancing and singing, not a chore today she said giving you her beautiful signature smile.

Her fingers touched yours and then came up your arm.

You had always felt this thing for Ellie, an aching sensation in your chest that made your heart drum with the force of a thousand storms, and right now your realized that this was so intense that you almost cried, bur you didn’t.

"can I kiss you?"

Her inquiry a whisper, almost as soft as the breeze outside, and if you hadn't been so close to her, almost flushed bodies you wouldn’t have heard her.

You knew much of kissing from books you’ve read and songs you’ve heard. But never had done it before.

"I don’t know how to…"

Your words shaking, open sentence at the end to signal the girl in front of you that you do want this.

"I've never done it before either."

Her bright smile embarrassed and her face felt hot, she wanted to be forever with you, she was just worried that she might not please you. before she pulled away you went with your human instincts.

Physical affection wasn’t much of a godly form, she taught you more about it that you had ever experience.

And now, with her hands intertwine at you waist, your mouth crashed with hers.

The feeling of her warm lips moving awkwardly against yours made the pain in your chest become butterflies in the pit of your stomach. Your hands moving desperately now to touch her, finger tracing up her torso leaving one hand on her neck and the other on her waist.

And both lost all sense of discomfort, feeling your soft delicious lips made her delirious.

your body soft against her.

She moaned as your hand moves to breeze over her breast and she started to touch all over you.

She was drunk off your sent, Like a drug where only you clouded her mind.

Yours was foggy.

Ellie.

Ellie.

"Ellie…"

Her name floating out of your mouth deliciously.

In her 22 years of life, Ellie has never felt this intensely about anything in her life.

She was constantly surrounded by men, and the only girl she ever fell for left her behind. Scared of being in love with another women.

She was so lonely romantically.

At first she only wanted to take care of you, an act of kindness natured by her humanity.

But as time passed and she got to know you it felt like she only ever wanted to be with you.

And you felt the same.

Your movements felt so human, instinct powered by emotions you had never felt before.

She by the other hand, was trying to keep herself sane, as you both sat on her make shift bed, kissing passionately but as separate as Ellie could, she feared like if she went any further she wouldn’t stop herself.

The space making you groan, you wanted nothing more in your life than to be with her, than to touch her, and for her to touch you.

So you straddle her, both legs on each side of her hips.

Her lap comforting and warm, she squirm under you, feeling the bubbles of your ass on her.

Intoxicating presence healing your swollen heart.

Years of pain patching up by Ellies soft touches, needy to feel every inch of your body.

Both your hot mouths open for the other to explore, connected by a now passionate kiss, drool falling off the corners of both mouths.

Your hands kneading now on the soft skin of her tits, her whimpers filling your mouth like music on a ceremony.

You separated from her, taking off her shirt hungrily and she helped you take yours. Both naked in a second.

You wanted to worship her, fall to your knees and show her how much she meant to you.

She took you to now be on top of you, hesitation on both parts driven by inexperience.

"Ellie, please…" your whimpers made Ellie twitch, sleek falling in a string down her freckled legs.

"please what angel?" her voice cracked when she felt your fingers gracing up her leg, collecting her wetness.

"please make me yours Ellie."

Fingers going back to your mouth to taste her and she went insane.

She kissed and marked all that she could, every mole, every part of your beautiful skin.

She needed to let you know that she was yours, by making you hers.

Her hand caressed your skin all the way down to your cunt, spreading your lips, shivers running down her spine.

"so wet baby, so pretty"

a moan threatening to fall from your lips, your face inches from her, not kissing her yet, you gave a look on her pretty face, her closed eyes open at the lack of contact, she pushed a finger in and you both felt a wave of something intense like a lightning flowing from the depths of both souls.

The sound of rain droplets falling outside crowned the room with a beautiful melody, Ellie was grunting too enchanted by you, your mouth agape, small breathy moans falling from your lips, unsure if you could be as loud as you wanted.

"don’t be shy my love, no one can hear us" Ellie's voice was raspier, just like when she wakes up in the morning and it made your heart flutter, fast butterflies sending waves of the thought of forever waking up next to her, her voice natural to you and finally feel the warm of love embody your soul entangled with hers.

Kisses and moans, filled the room, wet sounds of both mouths and cunts overlapping with each other.

Finally when both came to each other peaks, you fell to her chest, hearts beating fast against one another, under a thin blanket. the sound of rain more intense, thunder and air severe outside.

Ellie reached one of her hands to turn off the candle beside you, a knock interrupting the moment, desperate screams of Tomy coming from the outside and you jumped from the bed, putting on the first dress you found, while Ellie put back her previous clothes.

You were the one who opened the door to a drenched Tomy, wet hands holding his hair in torment, he entered the house right away, walking in circles.

His eyes drowsy and his demeanour obscure.

You were worried for him but Ellie seemed to know.

"what happened to Joel? Where is he!?"

The way to the town was slippery, rain softening the ground beneath you, Ellie's horse following Tommy's.

Your heart felt a torturous string, the guilt burning up your insides again.

After a three hour travel Tomy stopped at white house, outsiders wating in the rain for their loved ones, a small house that doubled as an alms house.

Upon arrival Ellie entered the place without notice, searching endlessly for Joel, a mare pulp of flesh that was now his body, the smell of death emerging all around.

She fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face like waterfalls of painful realization.

She was taken out of the place, face glued to his body as one of the medics placed a white thin fabric over his body, blood seeping through the white sheet.

Tomy and you buried his body on the outer skirts of Joel's land under his favourite tree.

Days passed, months swiftly went by, and you would wake up in the middle of the night to a cold bed.

Somehow Ellie was always under the oak tree, sometimes Joel's guitar on hand, playing a sombre tune, other times sleeping on the freezing ground.

The first few weeks you had to fight her to get inside of the house, purple lips signalling to her frozen state, it got progressively harder to get her back inside, to the point that you had now made a torturous routine of seen her in that state, placing a fuzzy blanket on her shoulders and a warm candle light to make it less cold.

She wanted to be left alone, so you wouldn’t bother her.

During the day she would silently make her chores, eat with you and sleep the rest of the day, she didn't talked to you for days.

One of the nights when she was shaking under the tree, sleep state shivering with cold, she heard the fierce voice of your mother.

"now see whose fault is that…"

She opened her eyes in fear, the voice so severe she felt dizzy, however, when she opened her eyes she wasn’t at her usual spot.

Colossal columns of precious stones rising above her head, so tall she couldn’t see the end.

sharp laughs from a familiar voice landing in her chest like daggers when she understood who it was.

When she came closer to the source she saw you, hysteric laughter erupting from your chest as you stood in front of a large hole on the floor, she came closer to you, noticing you couldn’t see her, the hole seemed to be above the skies. 

Horrors beyond her comprehension hit her in the face, how could you laugh at that.

She wanted to wake up from that nightmare but she couldn’t. she couldn’t close her eyes, she couldn’t move an inch, and so she was bind to watch the torture you made man create.

At the end of what felt like an eternity of suffering she saw one last vision, Joel.

She screamed and scream, but couldn’t do anything.

Horrific images of Joel's death imprinted on her vision and your laugh became so loud her head was hurting, her hands came to her ears but she couldn’t stop the sound.

You were having so much fun with his torture, how dare you.

A hand grabbed her shoulder and she turned haplessly to it, a tall woman a beauty she couldn’t comprehend looked down at her.

"I have shown you now, why I sent her to earth, she had to pay for her sins, I as a mother couldn't control her wrath"

And Ellie finally understood the nonsense you were saying when you first woke up.

She had never hated anyone in her life before.

She woke up, standing up, fury burning through her veins.

She walked quietly to the kitchen grabbing a silver knife, strong enough to butcher an animal.

Strong enough to kill you.

She straddle you without a care, she screamed at you how much she hated you, tears running down her face and she swung the knife at you.

Your sudden waking up state you defended yourself, dodging her knife and grabbing it from her hands, you couldn’t control yourself now that you were alert, strong hands fighting against each other for the knife, and when you least expected Ellies eyes opened wide, her mouth open to speak.

"your mother was right" her thick blood flew out of her and you tried your best to stop the blood flow, but the river was too sudden, and your movements weren't fast enough.

[lucky0stars]

Hehe! Ask and you shall receive! How about FemReader activating a Rage Form in front of her S/O Sora? Maybe he's hurt in battle and she is desperate to save him? Idk I'll leave the specifics to y'all. I'm fine with HCs or fic btw!

Rage? Intense battle? Fighting for a loved one?? I grabbed it up as soon as I could!

Enjoy!

TW: Blood and mentions of Death

One Bad Day

Word count: 1743

The fires hadn’t stopped in three days. And had been burning since you all got your boots on the ground in this world a few hours ago. You charge through the streets, your weapon in hand. This world was under fire of an unexpected Heartless storm, and you were ordered to go onto patrol looking for those in need of evacuation as Sora was on the offensive. Clearing the streets of Heartless while you were helping civilians.

The smell of burning wood and the sight of dense clouds lingering overhead was overwhelming. It reminded you of the fires that roared in Hollow Bastion when an entire legion of Heartless laid siege to the world. It was supposed to get easier, that’s what you thought would happen when the Organization fell. 

The collective sigh of relief from throughout the whole Universe when Xemnas fell, the bright morning sun that shone when Organization Thirteen had been destroyed by Sora and Riku could be felt from one end of the realm to the other side. But that didn’t mean the worlds were completely safe and sound after all.

There were still villains and still dangers throughout the universe, Sora and Riku were then tasked to take up arms and continue the work to protect them. Just as Keyblade Wielders were tasked with doing. Sora and you were tasked with this world this mission, and here you were assisting with the protection of the denizens of this world. You’ve already escorted so many of them to safety and you couldn’t bear to think there was one out there that you didn’t see or couldn’t save. You turned the corner and came face to face with a squad of Soldiers, their purple armor jingling and eyes on their leader. Listening to the wordless orders of their commander. 

The one clearly in charge of this attack was an Invisible that was named Orcus, an intimidating and dangerous Heartless. This horned creature of pure darkness and exuding power, with a strong sharp jaw and a mouth full of sharp fangs, a crown of crimson horns and the Heartless signature golden glare. With a pair of charcoal wings on its back that helped it hover across the ash laiden floor. A blade of sharpened iron and with a shade of red along the cheek of the steel. Whether it was hammered into the metal or stained with the blood of the innocent, it is unknown. 

The Heartless turned towards you, those golden eyes drilling into your soul as it approached you with a seething hatred lingering in its stare. The Heartless zoomed ahead, so much faster than you think something this big should move, sword held firmly in hand. By the time your hand could begin to get a solid grip, Orcus was in striking distance. 

“Y/N!” Sora shouted as he raced to your side and placed himself between your body and the blade of this powerhouse of a Heartless to protect you from its incoming wrath. You could only watch as he matched the swings of the Orcus with his own defending blows. Meeting strike for strike until the Heartless jabs him across the bridge of his nose with the hilt, stunning the young man long enough for it a wide hard strike to drive into Sora. From his to its opposite shoulder, nearly cleaving the young Keyblade Wielder in half. Your heart stops, your pulse drops, with a faint and immediate chill coursing through your whole body. Your lungs feel their breath dragged out, leaving you light headed and confused for a moment. Sora fought, Sora was winning, Sora was struck, and now Sora fell. A series of events that seemed almost impossible, but you knew it to be true. 

Watching him fall from the strike of the crimson hued blade was nauseating, chilling you down to the bone. Watching the frenzied slash spray a torrent of red up against the turbulent blackened skies and paint the street in a bloody splash. The sound of his skull knocking against the ground was a hollowed out echoing bang that makes your stomach flip and your eyes immediately hazy and wet. 

They hurt him, they might have just killed him, and for that? For that they will pay. A rumbling deep within your heart and soul roars to the surface, your passion for him only rivaled by the passion for his safety and wellbeing. He would be avenged. 

Your hair stands on end, your gentle gaze being quickly replaced with a rapidly bleeding in wrathful golden glare. Your skin morphed from its typical shade to a shade of pitch that matched a starless night. Your hands flexing out into extended fingers that grew out sharp-as-dagger claws. Your roars of depthless misery and unbridled rage rattling nearby windows in their frames. The Orcus huffed in bewilderment, its crimson crown cocked curiously toward this new development. They let the weight of their blade carry their arm and they moved to strike. You dodge with a backstep that makes you jump off your feet and miss the incoming swing.

The Orcus gives chase, wide horizontal chops aiming to bisect you across your hips. Your mind is now a roaring mess of smoke and fire, images flashing behind your eyes of your sullen sulk to Sora’s childhood home, to have to carry the weight of the responsibility to explain to his mother that her son fell trying to save you. 

You charge forward when the Heartless overextended their swing and you strike without delay, slamming your shoulders into the Orcus’ wide frame, arms hooking into knees and following through with tackling them hard onto the stones. Once the creature landed, you follow up with driving your claws hard into their chest. Puncturing deep to ensure that they felt every bit of pain they inflicted on Sora. Then you got to clawing. 

Each scratch and tear with your claws brings to mind the weight of the spades in one’s own hands when they prepare the earth to receive the most compassionate and loving person you’ve ever met. Your savage screams echoing through the streets as you finish your slashing and let the back of your fist crash against the Orcus’ cheek. This blow ended up disorienting the creature just long enough for you to take up the creature’s own blade and drive it into its scored chest without hesitation. Sending this Heartless back into the dark and letting it combust into dark matter beneath your power and rage. Your heaving and heavy growls of passion and adrenaline are immediately chased by the image of a single cold tombstone, morning dew wet grass, and the apathetic feeling of a morning sun rising overhead. You tremble and you feel your body begin to seize and surge with sorrow. You have to take him home, you wouldn’t dare leave him here, which means you have to see what damage was done to your boy. That’s when you hear the sound of ringing bells and a flash of ember all over your shoulder. 

“Y/N, Y/N,” Sora’s tender broken voice was enough to bring you back to your senses just enough to make you straighten your back, even out your current heavy animal like panting, and make you turn your attention back to him. He is upright, barely, and shuffling over to you as quickly as his body would let him. “It’s ok… you can stop. The fight is over…” 

His bloodshot blue meeting your burning golden glare. He shuffles forward with a grimace and a dragging of his right foot behind him. The Cure he used had staunch the bleeding, but left him with a wicked wound that would leave a scar. The sight of the broken limping body of the one you love the most is enough to drag your hyper vigilant and hyper aggressive mind out of its dreadfully dark corner and back into the light. Your claws reach up with a little hesitance as you cradle the tanned baby cheeks of Sora with a tenderness that any extra pressure could cause him to shatter in your grasp. Your body shudders as you watch him lean into your grasp and press his cheek against your palm. Unafraid of you. 

“Sora…” Your single word came out into a guttural and monstrous, more of a bark than a real word. Your claws begin to sink back into your typical nails as your skin illuminates back into its typical shade and tone. Your golden eyes shift back to your normal eye color, the heat of fresh tears streaming down your cheeks as you feel his hands shakily reach up to cup your own face. You feel your jaw clench as his palms make contact, your breathing stifles as you feel how gently he handles you. As if he could break you. “Sora?”

“You’re hurt, Y/N.” He mewls with a whine in his voice, his rough thumbs combing over your cheek to wipe away your tears. His soft blue eyes glisten as he lets out a soft cough and keeps rolling his digit over your face. His eyes seemingly drawing your somber expression over and over again, a look of self-disappointment in his eyes. That lingering fear in his eyes, you could tell what he was thinking. He blamed himself for your pain. For your damage. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you got hurt. I should’ve- I should’ve-”

“Sora,” You simply whisper, catching his attention just before he starts to spiral. You kiss him softly on the nose, letting your hands slide along his jaw to meet and interlock against the base of his neck. Getting lost in the hazel spikes of his hair. Keeping him close to you. Keeping him safe.

“Let’s go. We need to get you somewhere safe.” Sora responded with a tender tone. You almost want to laugh, the Keyblade wielder who should be dead from such a devastating attack is only concerned about you and your safety. You had buried him several times over in your head already, and to feel his unsteady breath against your chin shocked your system with every wheeze and hum that slipped out of him. Your foreheads meet and you're just thankful for those blue eyes that still held the beauty of the picture perfect sea and the endless lovely sky. All you can do is nod with a grateful smile and let him focus on saving you. 

— Mod Stranger

[coeurdalene]

looking for some light

masterlist | ao3

summary: he tells raleigh, “i want to come back from this mission, ‘cause i quite like my life.” he means, there’s still so much i want to do, so much i have to do. (aka chuck wants to make it through this goddamn war so he can finally live a normal life, even if he doesn’t really know what that means.)

pairing: chuck hansen x reader

warning(s): character death (sorry), swearing, mentions of canon-typical violence.

word count: 3.86k

a/n: i meant to have this finished by the ten year anniversary of the movie but uh… anyways, here it is now! this is my love letter to chuck hansen and also a projection of my want for a beach house.

The universe gifts Chuck an unwanted Christmas present in the form of a memorandum. He swears under his breath when you trudge into the Mission Control Center that morning with a dejected frown on your face and shove the crisp paper into his hands. His eyes fall on the letterhead, embossed with the familiar spread-winged eagle, and he already knows what it contains. He’d been expecting it for months. He resists the urge to scream, to crumple the paper into a ball and hurl it at the trash bin with every ounce of remaining strength in his body. He doesn’t envy you when you announce the bad news to everyone else, fulfilling your final duty as Sydney’s Chief LOCCENT Officer.

Days later, not even twenty-four hours after the Shatterdome decommissioning and right at the beginning of the new year, the universe offers him—and the rest of Sydney—another unwanted gift.

Mutavore is an ugly thing. Nearly ninety meters tall and weighing over two thousand tons, it’s hunched over as if struggling to support its own weight, blade-like plates protruding from its head and back.

“I don’t care how many eyes it has,” he says after you read out its classification and measurements, “I’m gonna kick its ass.”

(Six. It has six eyes. Just because he doesn’t care doesn’t mean he won’t pay attention.)

The category four Kaiju plows through the coastal wall like a knife cutting through warm butter and tramps into Sydney Harbour, stopping only to raise its head and let out a guttural screech, as if barging through a metal barrier hadn't been enough to announce its presence. He wonders how many millions of dollars have now been reduced to rubble at the bottom of the bay and how many weeks were spent welding together beams that took only a few seconds to destroy. 

Then, its beady eyes—all six of them—focus on Striker Eureka and her brass knuckles glinting in the sun. It screeches again before charging headfirst into Striker’s swinging fist.

Mutavore dies as quickly as it breached the wall, lying motionless in the bay, blood-soaked missiles lodged in its chest and Kaiju blue staining the water. 

“That’s Striker Eureka’s tenth kill to date. It’s a new record,” he boasts to the reporter in the aftermath. He ignores the questions about the decommissioning and brushes off the look his father gives him. Don’t get too cocky, he looks like he wants to say.

When they return to the Shatterdome, the J-Tech crew cleans Striker, polishing her knuckles and wiping Kaiju remains from the Conn-Pod. Chuck takes a long hot shower. Then, the move to Hong Kong begins.

The Anchorage Shatterdome—the cold and stalwart Icebox—had been the first to close. He remembers how you had stared blankly at the official PPDC statement for hours while he watched the newscaster on the television read it out loud. The Marshal had been on the broadcast, too, brought on for further questioning. When the anchor asked about the future of the Jaeger Program, he had assured her that, as long as the Kaiju kept coming, the Jaegers would keep fighting. Chuck had laughed dryly at that. The dwindling funding from the U.N. would say otherwise and whispers of better opportunities at the wall hung in the air, getting louder with every passing day.

The closure of the Icebox set off a string of shutdowns: Lima and Tokyo later that month, Panama City in November, Vladivostok and Los Angeles a few weeks after. The clock was ticking and it was only a matter of time before that damned memorandum arrived in Sydney, his fate dictated by its contents.

His beloved Sydney Shatterdome closes at the turn of the year, leaving behind its only remaining sibling in Hong Kong. What had once been a robust network of PPDC hubs was now reduced to one. 

And the clock continues to tick. 

“We don’t need a stupid wall,” Chuck declares on the flight to Hong Kong, glaring at the news broadcast replaying footage of the Sydney attack. “We need better pilots.”

He’d expressed the same sentiment to the reporter who interviewed him after Mutavore’s attack, too, blaming the fall of the Jaeger program on the mediocrity of those involved. He isn’t sure if it’s that simple—you had explained something to him about politics and funding and morale, government nonsense he didn’t understand—but he sure as hell knows that the Jaegers would be winning if pilots stopped letting the Kaiju kick their asses.

“Have some respect,” his father chides. “Every pilot has fought tooth and nail to protect the people they love.”

And perhaps that’s the truth—it sure is for him. His days consist of sore muscles from training, never getting enough sleep, and always anticipating another fight. He does it for his father, who has been a soldier for as long as he can remember. For his mother, whose untimely death lingers in the back of his mind every time he sets his eyes on a Kaiju. For you, who frequently pulls all-nighters and agonizes over details to make sure the Shatterdome stays running. And for Max, of course. (Silly little dog probably has no idea what a Kaiju is.)

So, yeah, perhaps it is the truth. But it doesn’t change the fact that they only have eight months left of funding, or that the U.N. thinks a wall will fare better than a Jaeger.

“We won’t be getting more pilots. All we can do is work with what we still have,” you chime in, pulling Chuck out of his thoughts. “But, on the bright side, our remaining pilots are some of the best in program history.”

“Including me?” he smirks. You laugh, cheerful and bright, punching his arm lightly. Max shifts in his sleep at the sudden noise. His father gives him that look again. Don’t get too cocky.

He spends the rest of the flight listening to you read briefing notes on “Operation Pitfall,” the Marshal’s shiny new plan to end the war by detonating a bomb at the throat of the Breach. Somehow, the PPDC had procured a thermonuclear warhead from the Russians, entrusting Striker Eureka to carry it while the remaining Jaegers played defense. 

Chuck is cynical about this plan. They had already tried (and failed) to drop things into the Breach. A bomb would only bounce back at them and kill anything in range.

He quips sarcastically if the Marshal had thought of that. You respond only by flipping through the file again for an explanation. He knows you won’t find one. 

As he steps off the plane and onto the landing pad, he’s met with a grinning Tendo Choi shouting over the patter of heavy rain, “Welcome to Hong Kong!”

The man, wearing a grey suit jacket too wide around the shoulders shakes their hands in greeting before ushering them out of the rain and into the Shatterdome. Chuck sidesteps some J-Techs as he enters, surveying his surroundings.

He had been much younger the last time he visited Hong Kong and much less invested in all the inner workings of the PPDC. He remembers mechanics and pilots shouting and running about, dirt and scuff marks on the floor, and his father reminding him to keep a tight grip on Max’s leash. It had felt unfamiliar then, but he realizes now that it isn’t too different from Sydney. Same high ceiling, same metal catwalks, and almost the same arsenal of Jaegers towering over him. It’s a little older, a little grittier, and a little more worn down, but no longer foreign. 

He spots Cherno Alpha in one of the bays, its stalwart form hunkering and heavy. The Kaidanovskys stand at its feet, engaged in conversation. Crimson Typhoon stands opposite it, brilliant red and regal. J-Techs gather around her three arms, inspecting and cleaning the rotating saw blades. 

“Striker arrived a few minutes before you did,” Tendo gestures to the shiny silver Jaeger standing in the far bay, metal glinting under the bright lights of the hangar. “The crew is getting her settled in.”

Then, Chuck’s eyes fall on the fourth and final Jaeger. That last he had heard of Gipsy Danger was that she had been decommissioned, damaged beyond repair from a mission gone wrong. But here she stands—untarnished metallic blue, left arm intact, and definitely not lying forgotten in Oblivion Bay.

“What’s that old rustbucket doing here?” he leers, very aware that there isn’t a single speck of rust on her.

“She looks brand new,” you remark. 

“She is, sorta,” Tendo replies, “We’ve been fixing her up: a new fluid synapse system, new engine blocks, and a new hull. She’ll be holding the defensive perimeter for you in Operation Pitfall, along with Cherno Alpha and Crimson Typhoon.”

“Does she have pilots?” you inquire.

“Not yet,” Tendo grins. “But she will.”

Chuck hopes that these pilots won’t be incompetent idiots, whoever they might be.

The peaceful moments are rare, but cherished and so welcomed. In these instances, he lets his guard down, breathes deeply, and allows himself to think of anything other than training or fighting.

One of his favorites is somewhere in between Striker’s fourth and fifth kills: a lazy afternoon in bed with your back against the headboard and his head in your lap, sunlight streaming in through the windows with your fingers carding lightly through his hair.

“After this war is over,” he declares, imagining a life without the chaos and destruction that comes with being a Jaeger pilot, “we’ll buy a nice house in the suburbs where we’ll live blissfully for the rest of our lives.”

“The suburbs are nice,” you contend, “but how about a beach house on the Gold Coast? Or Port Douglas?”

He chuckles at that, picturing what living by the ocean without the fear of a Kaiju attack would be like. He would spend his mornings engulfed in the soothing murmur of the sea, gazing out at the unbroken horizon. His afternoons basking in the warmth of the sun, feet buried in the soft sand. His evenings surrounded by music and your melodious laughter, trying not to step on your toes while you lead him through a dance in your living room.

Quiet, he thinks. Serene. The only unrest would be the waves at high tide or the gulls swooping down to steal his food.

“Wherever you want, as long as it’s you and me. And Max. Right, bud?” he grins at the bulldog lying at the foot of the bed. Max lets out a little grunt. Chuck takes that as a sign of agreement.

“Sounds lovely,” you reply, your hand moving to rest against his cheek. He turns his head to kiss your palm, heart soaring at the way you smile softly down at him.

All Chuck knows about Raleigh Becket is that he quit the Jaeger Program. That information alone is enough for him to dislike the guy. He doesn’t trust some washed-up pilot to run defense for him while he carries a 2400-pound bomb on the back of his Jaeger. Doesn’t care that his father fought alongside the guy in Manila or that he single-handedly piloted his Jaeger back to shore. Doesn’t bother to hold back a grimace when Raleigh tells him that he’d been working on the wall for the past five years.

“If you slow me down, I'm gonna drop you like a sack of Kaiju shit,” he hisses at him in the mess hall. He ignores the way his father watches him with disapproval as he stalks away.

His bad mood turns worse when Mako Mori is named Raleigh’s copilot. 

He has known Mako for years. They had grown up in Shatterdomes together, met a few times when the Marshal had brought her to Sydney, and briefly bonded over their love of dogs. He’s close enough to her to know that she can fight well and that she has one of the best simulator scores he’s ever seen. (Better than his, although he’d never admit that.) But, she has no experience in a Jaeger and no understanding of what a drift is actually like, which, in his eyes, makes her no better than Raleigh. He isn’t surprised when they’re both out of alignment during their test run, your concerned tone alerting the rest of LOCCENT of the deviation, or when Mako begins chasing the RABIT, raising apprehensive murmurs from the crowd of onlookers. Or when it ends in Tendo pulling the plug on Gipsy’s power.

“Worse mistakes have happened,” Tendo sighs as Gipsy’s plasma cannon goes offline. Chuck scowls. There is no space for even a single mistake in the plan to attack the Breach, especially amateur ones like chasing RABITs. He knows that the Marshal understands this, too.

Later, as he paces in the Marshal’s office, still brimming with anger from Raleigh and Mako’s failure of a test run, he snaps, “He's a has-been. She’s a rookie. I don’t want them protecting my bomb run. sir.”

His father stands across the room, arms crossed and mouth set tightly in a frown. In the corner, you and Tendo are huddled over a tablet, discussing the drift results in hushed voices. The Marshal warns him to watch his tone. Chuck rolls his eyes in response and thinks to himself, He knows I’m right.

He finds Raleigh and Mako standing silently in the hall outside after his father kicks him out of the room. He rounds on the former, seething and jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest, “I want to come back from this mission, ‘cause I quite like my life.”

He turns to Mako, sneering and spitting out some distasteful things, ignoring the feeling that he’ll regret it later. 

When Raleigh’s fist makes contact with his jaw, Chuck sees red.

On bad nights, he wakes up in a cold sweat, plagued by nightmares of being painfully ripped to shreds by sharp claws and teeth. Some nights he wakes up angry, frustrated with himself after overanalyzing his fights. Other nights, he relives the moment when he found out about his mother’s death, shaking with body-wracking sobs and shuddering with each intake of breath. But you hold him through it, your soothing hands on his back and comforting words in his ear. He focuses on your voice, steady and calm, and syncs his breathing with yours.

“You’re okay,” you murmur. “They’re just nightmares. You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” he repeats.

On bad nights, you confess your fear that the war will never end, or that you’ll burn out before it does. Some nights, you feel that you’re not doing enough, that you need to get back to work even though it’s past midnight. Other nights, you worry that you’ll spend your entire life fighting, that you’ll never be able to rest. But he holds you through it, his calloused fingers on your cheeks wiping away your tears. You focus on his touch, firm and resolute, and rest your hands on top of his.

“It’s okay,” you contend, voice shaky but certain. “I have you. This is enough.”

“This is enough,” he repeats.

Yet, he can’t help but want more. He wants the beach house instead of the cold metal walls of the Shatterdome. Wants to wake up to the sun, your smile, and Max’s whining for food instead of doomsday alarms and Kaiju attacks. Wants you to be able to sleep in for once. Wants to spend his days sunbathing and learning to surf instead of training in combat drills and preparing for another attack. Wants to give you some peace, and to find some of his own.

He tells Raleigh, “I want to come back from this mission, ‘cause I quite like my life.”

He means, There’s still so much I want to do, so much I have to do.

Chuck has only felt true fear a few times in his life. Standing on top of his disabled Jaeger with only a flare gun in his hands is one of them. In the moment, he tells himself that he isn’t afraid, that a double event isn’t any different from any other Kaiju attack, and that Striker will come back online in just a second. The adrenaline coursing through his veins overpowers the feeling of impending doom anyway. But, later, as he reflects on the feeling of relief that had washed over when Gipsy’s fog lights enveloped him, he admits that he had been scared shitless. And, he admits (only to himself) that he’s thankful for Raleigh and Mako, even if they’re has-beens or rookies.

He holds you closer that night and knows that you’ve already picked up on all the details of his uneasy expression. Still, he musters up the strength to confess aloud, “I thought we were gonna die.”

You’re silent, responding only by rubbing your hand across his back and hugging him a little tighter. The heavy weight of his lingering fear sits in his chest as he continues, “Dad had injured his arm, our comms were out, Cherno and Crimson were gone, and there was a fucking Kaiju ready to swallow us whole. Shooting that flare at it made it even more pissed off.”

“Not your best idea,” you remark playfully. “You’d think all that training to prepare you for situations like this would help you keep calm and think of something rational to do.”

“It was Dad’s idea, not mine,” he shrugs.

“Well, I’m glad the flare managed to keep it occupied long enough for Gipsy to get there,” you reply, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “And I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Me, too,” he sighs, the weight in his chest lightening slightly.

When he drifts off to sleep, he dreams of the war ending and a house overlooking the shore.

If, a year ago, you had told Chuck that he would be piloting a Jaeger with the Marshal Stacker Pentecost, he would have laughed in your face and asked why the Marshal wasn’t off doing better things (like convincing world leaders to keep funding the Jaeger Program or figuring out ways to increase pilot recruitment). And, if you had told him that he would hear the phrase “there’s a third signature emerging from the Breach,” he would have rolled his eyes and declared the situation impossible. (“I’d still kick its ass, though,” he would have probably said.)

Yet, here he is, strapped into Striker with the Marshal as his copilot, only three hundred meters from the Breach, watching a category five Kaiju materialize in front of him. He feels his stomach drop as he lays eyes on Slattern’s angular head and the sharp spike protruding from its chest. When it roars, the water around them ripples, and the ground beneath shakes. He barely has any time to think before the massive beast rears its head and charges, swinging its heavy leathery tail directly at them. 

The hit knocks Striker off her feet and sends her crashing into a nearby hydrothermal vent. He winces and swears, body aching and head beginning to throb as streams of water push and jostle the Jaeger. Slattern prepares to charge again just as Striker regains her footing and he easily falls into a fighting stance along with the Marshal, fists clenched and ready to strike. This time, when it attacks, they’re ready—dealing out swift punches that send the Kaiju reeling.

He isn’t sure how much of it is the Marshal and how much of it is himself, but the exhilaration that rushes through him as one of Striker’s sting blades slices across Slattern’s throat reinvigorates him. The other blade cuts into its arms, blue blood spilling from deep gashes. It screeches, and he expects it to rush at them again, but it swims away, blood trailing eerily in the water.

He takes the moment of respite to breathe, and to survey the damage. The harsh red light of the many, many warning messages flashes across his vision. He fiddles with some controls, watches as the Marshal does the same, and sighs heavily when neither of their attempts fixes anything. He resigns himself to hoping that Striker can hold on a little longer. She had gotten him this far, surely she could see him through to the end of this war—and to the beginning of his life at peace.

But–

“The attack jammed the bomb release,” he notices. “We’ll have to manually override–”

A yell from LOCCENT cuts him off. Chuck’s stomach drops even further when he hears someone say, “Striker, you have two Kaiju converging on you fast!”

He curses loudly and immediately knows, There’s no time for a manual override.

The Marshal is on the intercom before Chuck can even begin to formulate a plan, shouting to Raleigh and Mako. 

“You know exactly what you have to do,” he declares. “Gipsy is nuclear, take her to the Breach.”

“What can we do, sir?” Chuck asks, bracing for the hit.

“We can clear a path,” the Marshal answers firmly, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “for the lady.”

Even without the drift connecting their thoughts, Chuck understands.

“Well, my father always said, ‘If you have a shot, you take it,’” he remarks, knowing that, on the other end, his father is listening with pride. Chuck can admit that he was an arrogant dickhead with no respect for any of the pilots around him and that he never bothered to hide his resentment for his old man, never gave him a reason to like the man his son had become. Yet, he knows—and has always known—that his father is proud of him. (He is proud of his father, too, for what it’s worth.)

In the final moments, his thoughts drift to you: swathed in blankets and gathered in his arms on cold winter nights, perched on the seat of a stationary bike and reading reports while keeping him company in the gym, wrapped in his brown leather jacket with Max’s leash in your hand while accompanying him for walks around the Shatterdome. He recalls your bright laughter when he’d crack stupid jokes, your serious voice you’d use only over the intercom, and the mischievous glint in your eyes when you’d pretend you hadn’t given Max extra treats.

“I love you,” he had said before entering the Conn-Pod, so quietly that only you could hear him, holding you tightly and kissing away your concerned frown. The warmth of your hands against his cheeks had lingered as he had stepped away.

“I love you,” he says now, loud enough for you to hear him over all the noise, swallowing the lump in his throat and blinking away the tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry we’ll never get that beach house.”

“But, I had you,” he says. “It was enough.”

When the bomb detonates, he’s surrounded by blinding light and a deafening boom. And, finally, peace.

In his dreams, he can’t tell where he is, only that Max is sitting at his feet, his father is somewhere in the distance, and you’re next to him with your hand in his, fingers intertwined.

[tytarax]

For a funny post about Oolong and Roshi's pervs lol

This is the first draft Oolong and Roshi are peeping at a reader during one of Bulma's usual parties. The fact that she communes with the gods doesn't stop them much., at least they have other ladies in their sights.

And imagine, what a show it for Zeno and Daishinkan.

The reader is explaining some joke to them, with Oolong looming behind them somewhere. The reader is slicing bread with a knife, using the same knife to spread butter or something else on toast. The reader literally in the middle of a sentence, without interruption abruptly throws a dirty knife at a piglet. Or the reader holds a tray with several appetizers, treats the gods to them, and when they take the latter, hits old Roshi in the face with this tray, so that the shape of his face remains on the tray.

The next time the reader beats up Roshi and Oolong with the angel staff that Daishinkan or Whis gave her for that purpose. ------ As a second option, Priest and Zeno (plus the reader) can teach Oolong a lesson about experimenting with the god's appearance. It's boring to destroy him, more fun to watch this mortal experience fear. The piglet may have gotten cocky and isn't keeping track of the presence of the real Zenon and his guides, perhaps he doesn't know who the strange low angel is and hasn't even given it a second thought. Oolong only cared about peeking at the reader and the others. This meeting with the reader seems to go much easier, she just sits next to him and talks about stuff. Her hand on his blue-purple head and stroking, Oolong enjoys it. After a while, he sits on her lap, remembering that the reader is letting the real Zenon do this.

Oolong! Zeno misses the moment the Grand Priest is near him. He didn't notice him! The stranger's presence, seemingly like a top predator, causes him to instinctively freeze and hold his breath. - "There you are, my lord,” - Daishinkan speaks lazily and measuredly, Oolong stunned and frightened, still nervously frozen in his posture, -”we must leave. Observation of the 4 universe is required". - Daishinkan smiles briefly at the reader, Oolong blinks, Daishinkan bows to his god after his sentence, Oolong tries to get off the her lap.

Pig has never really thought about the other angels and what they are. The angelic counselor in front of him just stands there, but he feels an almost suffocatingly heavy pressure of divine energy emanating from him. It's as if the angel's gaze is so cold and penetrating that direct eye contact is quite capable of freezing his insides.

- "Of course, Daihinkan! Hey, y/n, will you come with us?" - Oolong!Zeno finally stands to his feet, trying to calm the trembling in his knees and looking at the reader, trying to look like a demanding Zeno, "- Where are we going, Counselor?" The Grand Priest blinks, the reader standing next to the angel chuckles, Oolong frantically tries to realize where he went wrong. He never delved into learning the little god's personal habits.

The reader takes him and Daishinkan by the hand, the pig only managing a sigh before they all teleport back to Zenon's dimension. Once inside the huge bright hall, Oolong!Zenon jerks his hand away sharply, letting out a wheezing sound. He has never teleported before, he feels sick and is literally about to vomit. And it was divine level teleportation, after all. How does the reader deal with it at all?

- "Just don't stain the floor of the divine house, Lord Zenon". He hears the reader's venomously sarcastic voice, looks around to see her, Daishinkan, and Zenon himself.

- “Really, y/n? That's the reason I was deprived of your affection?” - The real Zeno complains. The reader shrugs guiltily and laughs out loud, Daishinkan literally tears the piglet apart with his gaze, his halo glowing brightly , Oolong returning to his form, shaking from the weight of the new divine energy and the presence, and effects of the teleport.

The pig shrieks, whispering many apologies, which are abruptly interrupted by the new teleportation. He looks around: this isn't his house or Bulma's house, is this some kind of forest? Has he been teleported miles away from familiar territory? How is he supposed to get home.

At least he won't repeat the trick again, knowing that Zenon and his angel will repeat the 'punishment' just as well. Or erase it.

OMG I laughed so hard with this.

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

For the WIP game, do you have plans to add add any more to Outside the Lines from the Outside Chance universe? You single-handedly got me shipping Prim & Rye(n) hard b/c of this fic 😂 And from in progress, You + Me and/or The Cold Side of the Bed?

Alright, we'll cover all three. <3 Below the cut because it's a lot of text.

Friend. I am totally going to throw my beta under the bus on this one. PRIM AND RYEN WERE NEVER PLANNED. I was not gonna go there. Buttercupbadass, however, had other ideas. "Wouldn't it be funny if Prim's 'spa day' was her sneaking away to be with Ryen???" she asked. "Oh it's so cute she had a crush on him!" she says. "Screw it. I want them [Prim & Ryen] to get married," she puts in her edits/comments on ch 17 of Outside Chance, and not on a Prim and Ryen interaction even. That's what bba commented when Prim is saying goodbye to Eirik when she and Katniss are leaving Skaid after their summer visit!

Thus began an entire barrage of her reasoning, possible scenes and dialog, and then... THEN bba mentioned how funny it would be if Katniss accidentally saw a naked Ryen in the background of a Skype call one day and I lost it. So much of that story has roots in my personal life and well... so does that, unfortunately. But after that, the whole concept became too delicious for me to resist. And also, bba was right. They belong together.

I absolutely plan on adding more to Outside the Lines. At the moment, I feel the need to finish writing the next chapter of Outside Chance because that's the root story. I build Outside the Lines and Outside Expectations around what's in Outside Chance, and in a lot of ways, Otl and OC are kind of written simultaneously. So here's a snippet from the next chapter of Outside the Lines and lord help me if bba sees this, I won't hear the end of her prodding to get it done lol ;)

--

“So you’re the flavor of the week. Is there anything you can tell me about Ryen’s mental state going into this competition?”

“If I were really just the flavor of the week, why would you think I’d have any insight into his mental state?” I retort. There’s not much I remember about Agnes Mellark, other than a vague impression of cold aloofness. But how much of my idea of her has been stained by what Katniss and Ryen have told me about her? I don’t know.

I can’t even tell if she recognizes me right now. Maybe it’s too soon to play this hand, but I can’t resist. Maybe because it’s proof that I know Ryen far better than any of his previous flings. Maybe even better than the woman confronting me right now.

“Aren’t you his mother? You should have a better idea of his mental state than me,” I say with a smile. Really, I’d like to stab her in the jugular, but with what? Couldn’t smuggle in a knife, and am unfortunately not wearing my favorite four inch heels, which would be a perfect weapon.

Agnes purses her lips and her eyes wrinkle at the corners. Oh shit, I think and prepare to run, but she shakes her head and chuckles slightly.

“I wish I could say that my son were smart, but he usually thinks more with his dick than his brain,” she says and eyes me. “You’re every bit as beautiful as the others, but smarter, aren’t you?”

“I’d like to think I am,” I say.

“Good. Maybe you actually have a shot at getting him to commit, but don’t hold your breath for it. He won't admit it, but he needs someone with a brain to keep him in line, to challenge him and keep him from squandering his talent.”

“Multiple Olympic medals and world cup titles count as squandering his talents?” I ask. She takes a step back from me and I hold in my triumph that I got a response. 

“Maybe not, but his personal life is a mess. I just want to make sure you deserve him and treat him the way you should. Don’t be like that trash his younger brother keeps falling for.”

Oh no. She did not. Fuck this bitch. I don’t need a knife to destroy her.

"Oh you mean my sister?" I say with a wide smile and hold out my hand to her. "I guess you don't remember me. Primrose Everdeen."

**

You + Me is another one of my outstanding Everlark Fic Exchange prompts. This one is from 2019 (I think? *cringes in shame*), and was for either K or P as a romance novelist who secretly uses the other for inspiration in their writing. What happens when they find out?

This one has been super fun to write, if a little slow going, mainly because there are multiple moving pieces to it. Now for a snippet!

--

Katniss… we live together when we travel. I think I’m aware of all your annoying habits by now. ;)

And here I thought I was something of an enigma.

Nope. Open book to me.

Shit. 

Does he mean…?

My brain is scrambling, but I take a deep breath and manage to reign it in. He knows I’m a published writer. His words could merely be a reference to that. This can’t be good. Has he already figured it out?

Before I start plotting a heist to break into his house for a book burning party, I manage a decent, mostly innocuous text.

Hey what’s the title of the book you’re reading? Maybe I know it and can spoil the ending for you. ;)

Not on your life, Everdeen.

Just reached a plot twist in between your texting barrage. 

A delicious plot twist. ;)

Oh?

The hero is not who I was expecting. Dun duh dun!

The wheels squeal and I rush off the train as fear rises up in my throat. Oh god, he’s figured it out. What gave me away? The food porn passages, probably. He’s got to be reading The Thrill of the Hunt. That’s the only one I can think of where I pulled a bait and switch with the hero. 

The street is crowded and I have to tuck my phone in my pocket to navigate the crowds. When I get there, I’m still unable to answer him because even though I’m early to meet my editor, she’s ready for me.

“Katniss, darling! Welcome, welcome! Have a seat please. The cappuccino is fresh,” Effie trills as I’m ushered into her office and offered coffee.

Oh this cannot be good. Whenever Effie has liked my pages, she forgets her manners. Excitement precludes etiquette. But when a writer needs a kick to the creative pants… that’s when she’s the picture of perfect manners.

“That bad?” I ask when her assistant is finally gone, the door shut and a hot cappuccino gripped in my hands.

“They were...how to say this…?”

“Shit,” I supply and she scowls at my language.

**

And finally, since you asked about it, The Cold Side of the Bed was something I started for one of the "This Would Have Happened Anyway" challenges. I don't remember which one, only that the prompt was for Everlark in District 13. I never managed to finish it, in fact I've barely started it beyond a vague outline and the opening scenes, mainly because I was still finishing my degree at the time and pretty much would crash after finals then not be able to muster up the energy to write fanfic. But also because it kind of turned into an epic story. Short synopsis: Non-reaped Everlark winds up married to different people after their last reaping. The rebellion still happens and 12 is still bombed. Some of the story would be about them getting to 13, but the juicy stuff happens while they are in 13.

--

When I wake, the other side of the bed is cold. I reach out through the rough material, seeking a shred of the warmth that would exist if Primrose didn’t still climb into our mother’s bed after a nightmare. Not that I am surprised she had a nightmare last night. This is the day of the reaping, after all. I slowly lift my head to peer across the room at them. The three of them curled together for comfort. My mother, my sister who grows more achingly beautiful every day, and the ugliest yellow cat in the world. He sees me watching and hisses at me.

“Yeah, I know you’d be happy if they called my name today. Lucky for you, they just might.”

After all, my name is in the bowl 28 times today. I dress and join Gale in the woods, relaxing as I make my way through the thick summer foliage to our meeting place.

“How’re you planning on celebrating your freedom?” he asks as we make our way back towards the fence when we’re done hunting. It’s been a glorious day and we’ve got quite the haul. I’ll need the woods to keep providing like this in a few weeks. When the Games end this year, I start working in the mines.

I shudder slightly and give Gale a look. He just shakes his head and laughs. I don’t need to say it. It’s not exactly freedom, aging out of the reaping and into working down in those mines.

“You thought about what I said?”

“Gale,” I say and stop walking right before we reach the fence. He stops too and sighs, looks up at the sky. “I told you I can’t think about that right now. Not when Prim will still be—.”

“And I’ve got Rory still eligible and Posy about to start in a few years, but I’m still thinking about it. How’d you explain that? How about Nathan Dawson and Lilah Bronski? They’ve already decided they’re getting married some time after the reaping if they both make it through. Lots of people think about it, Catnip, and lots of people do it.”

“Well lots of people are stupid then,” I snap and Gale sighs.

“Alright look, just forget I said anything. Let’s go make our trades before we make you late.”

[sntslomidzes]

dancing in a day dream

just you and me, dancing in a daydream just you and me, lost in the clouds just you and me, dancing in a daydream don't wanna wake up right now

His feet swings, back and forth, on the ledge of a building tall enough that he feels like he can touch the clouds, if he reaches his hand above his head. He doesn't. Heaven is no place for a creature dripping with blood and regret, staining the world beneath its hoofs. He feels strangely ordinary today; like he opened his eyes for the first time in a thousand years; his heart beats again under the moonlight, and he can finally breathe. Free falling onto a bed of broken glass. Back and forth, back and forth.

He doesn't understand what is different today; the house felt too stifling, like a cage made of gold ⸻ not too different from the ones in Rome. Then too, he reeked of sweat and blood and rot. How is he still a dancing monkey fighting for the enjoyment of a roaring crowd?

No. His sisters are not Ceasars, no Roman empire. His life is not the Coliseum anymore.

Then why ⸻

"Are you going to jump, or will I have to wait all night?"

That voice, it can't be. His head is playing tricks on him, whispers of his past haunting his every breath, every blink. For so long, his mind never replayed that sweet tone well. He closes his eyes, counts to ten. Why now? Why here? ⸻ One two three four five

"I've waited two thousand years for you, making me wait a minute longer feels discourteous."  

He turns his head, slowly, eyes tightly shut until he muster the courage to open them. And there she is, beautiful as the last time he had seen her. With a twinkle in her eyes and a smile that could make Aphrodite cry in defeat. It is like she never left his memory, his life, this universe. She shits next to him, watching, as if he hadn't watched her die. As if he didn't land the killing blow.

"Hey, I implored you to. I would have suffered a torturous slow painful death had you not been brave enough to give me mercy."

It was the hardest thing he had ever done, he remembers it now. Holding her in his arms, broken, bleeding, asking him to do the unforgivable. The inhuman men atop their tall boxes clapped and cheered, uncaring for the lives they so eagerly destroyed. He fought his way to her, I would kill and die for you, but he was too late. Her wounds were too grave, and all he could do was weep and cradle her as his dagger buried in her neck. A swift death after many hours of suffering. Another life taken in the name of amusement. Another body to be tossed into the pits. His love, his ⸻

"Fran," is all Ezra manages to whisper, eighteen again with bleeding hands and a heavy heart, tears in his eyes he holds back poorly. He has forgotten her face. How could he? How could he lose the only person that mattered to him? How how how ⸻

"It's been a long time."

He chuckles, bitterly. "It feels like it was yesterday, right now."

"It does, doesn't it?" She hums, pensive. His hands tremble, his body shakes. He feels out of place; on this roof, with a shirt ripped at the seam, a hoodie worn and cold. There is no blood stains, at least.

"Oh please, I've seen you covered in blood before. Most of it yours, mind I remind you."

He can't help but laugh. From the bottom of his ribcage through his windpipes, a rumbling sound he hadn't heard since ⸻ Well, since she died. His happiness was buried with her, he knows, in a place he cannot find anymore. With no name, no respect. He has tried; wandering through Rome before and after the fall, searching for something he couldn't quite remember. The missing puzzle piece.

"How ⸻ Why ⸻ When ⸻"

"Breathe, wonder boy. You will burn that head of yours if you think too much."

He laughs, wetly.

"I don't know how. I just am here now, for a little while."

"Just a little?"

"Just a little." Her smile makes the corner of his mouth tug into a shy grin, not wishing to take his eyes off her if she will soon disappears again. He vows to not forget; plans to draw and paint her face in as many canvas and paper as he can find. She deserves statues, a museum, worshipping. His Aphrodite in disguise. Fuck, he loves her. After all this time, he doesn't think he will ever stop.

"Don't be a sap now, wonder boy. The world is too cruel for romantics." She is right. "Tell me, how is the world doing now? Is it better than the shit-hole we lived in?"

He doesn't hesitate. "No," firm, quick, simple. "I don't think a world without you can be a good one." She blushes, and he is presented with his favorite view for the first time in nearly two millenniums. He can't help the tears dripping down his cheeks, his shaky smile, the nails digging into the skin of his fingers.

"Oh, shut up." Were she capable, he knows she would have shoved him now. He misses her touch. Her scent. He misses her.

"I should have married you," he whispers, blinking in awareness. "I should have married you and ran. We could've made it to Greece, and settled on a farm."

"And you would've become a brave fisherman and provide for our children?"

"Yes." The mention of children hurts them both, Ezra knows. They will never get to raise a family together, never grow old and sore, caring for each other as they vowed. There won't be grandchildren running around the house, no legacy to pass on.

"It is a lovely idea. You, me, Greece, the open sea." She sighs. "You know you couldn't have. You had your sisters to worry about."

His sisters. The two bright lights of his life, the ones he was devoted to. He fought to protect them, fought to get back to them. When Fran asked, begged, for them to run away together, he nearly did until he remembered his sisters. His loves. His murderers. They took him from her. From the life he could've lived. From the man he could have become. Bitterness boils inside of him, a poison he has never felt before.

"I should've taken you and ran," he repeats, reaffirms. They could've been happy. She wouldn't have suffered.

"We can't change what is in the past, Ezra."

But a future without her is one he doesn't want to go back to. He can't undo what is done, but it doesn't stop it from bleeding and hurting still. They sit in silence, watching each other, lost in a spell.

"Are you happy?"

"Without you, how can I be?"

"Have you found someone that makes you even a little bit happy?"

He thinks. Takes a deep breath. "There was a boy, not long ago. I think I could've been happy with him, had fate not taken me out of control."

She nods. "Tell me more about your life."

He tells her everything.

[adflictus]

Sad Headcanon Questions

tws for suicide & child death mentions

Who does your muse hate?

For the primary verses, it’s Lilith. She’s the reason why everything went to shit and Gabriel will not hesitate to admit that.

For the (sole) secondary verse, it’s God and Eden. God for killing his loved ones and almost killing him, Eden for being the trigger of this in the first place. Almost all the pieces are in place for him to take his revenge, he’s just waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

How does your muse handle grief?

Initially? Not Well™. The first time Gabriel experienced proper grief, it nearly killed him - literally. The pain of loss consumed him so strongly that he attempted to kill himself. It didn’t succeed, of course, but he later opted to have his memory erased just to make the suffering more bearable. He hasn’t truly forgotten anything, but the feeling’s more hollow now.

What is your muse’s biggest regret?

Five times he had the opportunity to get rid of the wretched blight he tends to refer to Lilith as and each time he failed to do so. It wasn’t because he changed his mind or because she suddenly cleaned up her act - there was a genuine force of interference that kept him from putting any of his plans in motion and it makes him seethe on the inside whenever he thinks back on it. If he ever figures out what was directly responsible for that, he’ll eat their fucking hearts.

How many scars does your muse have?

His body’s covered in them. He has three major ones, but those are covered for the most part. All the other scars that cover his body are more on the smaller side and he’s made it more of a point nowadays to make sure he doesn’t add onto the collection he already has.

How long can your muse hold a grudge?

Long. Gabriel is vindictive to a fault, almost. While depending on the circumstances he can be rather quick to get payback on the spot, he does follow the principle of revenge is a dish best served cold. If you find yourself of his shit list, you’re pretty much fucked.

How does your muse handle loneliness? 

He doesn’t have time for that. Those never-ending piles of paper barely even gave him time to mourn, why would he have time to feel lonely? Not to mention the fact that the second his children or his siblings sense a disturbance in the force, they’re immediately latching onto him like cats to catnip.

What is one of your muse’s greatest fears?

Losing everything - He's worked so, so hard to keep things together at the cost of himself. Gabriel’s hands are so thickly stained with blood it could replace the very oceans themselves - he’d rather destroy the universe first before letting all his hard work come undone. Again.

What does your muse fear losing the most?

Losing his twin. Raphael is quite literally his other half. If anything happens to him, not a single soul would be spared.

Does your muse think violence is ever warranted?

Gabriel’s default solution to anything is tearing it from the roots so yes, more often than not he thinks violence is always warranted. He has to actively fight against that instinct because while he may feel that violence is warranted, it does not mean it’s always the appropriate solution to a problem. He has to keep the circumstances in mind too.

What is the worst illness your muse has ever had?

The resulting seizures he gets whenever Aris is having one of his temper tantrums. Because Gabriel is sturdier than most, if not all of the, celestians in Heaven - he can handle a blow from Aris irregardless of the severity. The problem with this, however, means that the wounds he gets are essentially infected with foreign divinity that goes on a rampage whenever the origin source does. Not to mention the wounds also re-opening afterwards too. It drives him nuts.

What would your muse consider their worst failing?

Not being able to kill Lilith. That’ll always be a top one.

Does your muse tend to push themselves too hard?

Always. What is rest when the second he stops just to close his eyes for a minute, something goes to shit? He’s literally the sole pillar keeping everything together.

How does your muse outwardly express their anger? 

For the most part? He doesn’t. There is almost always a smile fixed on Gabriel’s face no matter his mood - you’re more likely to feel his anger than you ever are to see it. If he does express his anger, there’s usually a lot of destruction involved before seconds later things are so pristine it’s like nothing ever happened.

What is the worst injury your muse has ever received?

 The injury he received from Aris. It reminds him repeatedly of what he lost.

What might others consider your muse’s worst failing to be?

Uriel thinks him to be too free-spirited and rebellious. Gabriel thinks the dog should just shut up and go fetch like a good boy.

Does your muse have a short fuse when it comes to temper?

Nope. Gabriel can be considered to be somewhat mild-mannered, it’s harder to piss him off than it is to get him to snap a neck.

Who does your muse wish they had said goodbye to, but didn’t?

Eve & Xavier. He knows spiritually they’re much better off, technically. But he misses them terribly.

Does your muse suffer from nightmares? How often? What about?

If he isn’t taking a nap with any of the siblings/people he authentically cares about, then Gabriel is prone to suffering from nightmares every time he falls into Sandman’s embrace. It’s always the same thing - his beloved’s corpse lying in a pool of blood and the loss of his unborn child.

In his secondary verse, it’s watching his beloved & first born be burned alive and reliving the sensation of having his second born ripped from inside him.

Out of everything your muse has lost/given up, which hurt the most?

Primary verse, it’s losing his unborn child.

Secondary verse, it’s losing his first born and barely managed to save just a fragment of the unborn second’s soul.

What is something your muse wants to tell others, but is too afraid to?

 The amount of times Gabriel has held his tongue because he knows the reactions he’d receive are negative can resurrect the library of Alexandria and then some.

How hard is it for your muse to open up to others? What holds them back?

Very. He’d rather bear the burden than push it onto others. Especially with the mental state of his twin.

Looking back, what is one thing your muse wishes they had done differently?

 He sometimes wishes he never experienced what it was like to feel love different from what he felt for his siblings and the children he calls his own. He’s seen what it did to Aris and Eris, seen how it ruined Eve to an extent. He wishes he never experienced it for himself because that’s a hollowness that’ll never be filled no matter what he does.

Does your muse tend to be hard on themselves when they do something wrong?

Not particularly - Gabriel never regrets his actions, the only thing he does regret is his inaction. The war in Heaven is a good example - he doesn’t regret forcing Raphael to be on the sidelines despite that going against Raphael’s very purpose because he knew well that seeing all of their brothers and sisters dying up close would be more damaging to the Healer’s psyche than seeing it all happen from a distance. On the flipside, he regrets not being able to remove the roots of the war in the first place - because if he had just taken things into his own hands instead of foolishly relying on the dog and his Master; there’s a chance the war wouldn’t have happened in the end.

Does your muse lean more toward “forgive and forget” or “resent and remember?”

Remember and resent. Gabriel doesn’t forgive easily, and it takes an extraordinary amount of time to get him to do so depending on the circumstances. But, it doesn’t matter how small or large the grudge he held was - Gabriel never forgets.

Does your muse recognize their faults, or do they have trouble with self-reflection?

He recognized them, but can also acknowledge that a lot of issues that occur were also the fault of others. Majority of it stemming from Aris, Eris and Eden.

[chicxxonaa]

Have some Zelink fluff(?) hehehe

(slight spoilers for ToTk)

“Are we soulmates in every universe?”

“We don’t have a choice.”

I lost you again, Zelda.

…

After a hundred years in deep sleep.

Not even feeling a wake of consciousness.

The world I knew was overruled by nature.

The places I knew before were not the same.

The homes I’ve seen, destroyed, different.

The people are different. They don’t know me.

No one that I knew was here.

There’s Impa, and her clan.

The people of Hateno. The Rito. The Gerudo.

The Zoras and the Gorons.

Travelers, merchants, good people.

But no one that I knew.

Revali, Daruk, Mipha, Urbosa. The king.

They were gone.

You were gone.

But not anymore.

…

It’s been a peaceful three years.

Slowly, everything has been restored in new ways I couldn’t imagine.

The people love you. Their Princess.

I was anxious, scared actually. Of placing you in the position of Princess. A leader. You must’ve been so tired, so much energy, and time keeping the evil at bay.

I didn’t want to put you in a place where you’d have to stretch yourself thin anymore than you were.

But, the one lesson I always seem to forget that you have taught me time and time again, is to never underestimate you.

You placed yourself in that role you swore you could never uphold. And you became the person who brought up the whole kingdom out of such a dark rule.

And I followed in return. I’ll always follow you.

I’m your knight.

I’m the one who will follow you to every house, every village, every forest, every mountain, every desert, every corner of Hyrule. I will follow you, protect you, watch you and let you know you’re not alone.

You were never alone.

You’re never alone when we are exploring a large and dark cave, knowing danger lurks inside.

You’re never alone in the places you loved to travel to, to discover, for research or to simply to gaze upon and admire.

You’re never alone on nights when you couldn’t sleep because of the nightmares you’d have of that fateful day. And it was hard for you to go back to sleep.

Because I will be there.

With either a weapon in my hand, or my arms open for embrace. I will be there for you.

…

The night before we began our exploration under the castle rubble, our supplies were packed, and all of our equipment was ready for the day to come. You slept next to me, a gentle hum of your voice every time you’d gently breathe. You were asleep, but I couldn’t close my eyes again.

I had a dream.

I saw you, and I saw myself.

But we looked different.

First you and I were on large birds, in the sky.

Soaring without care in the world.

And then we were young, in a castle. You gave me such an odd instrument. But it played beautiful music

Then we changed again. We were at sea. What a vast sea it was.

Then we were under a blanket of twilight, only to be pierced by your light.

We changed again, and again, and again.

…

I understand now.

This life, our life, is a cycle.

That you and I are doomed to repeat over and over again.

To stop a malefic doom that none of us conjured.

We are here, together, because we don’t have a choice.

But I don’t care.

I don’t care if I die, and come back once again as the hero.

I don’t care that I’m linked to this chain of a spiral that will not cease due to a curse that has been placed thousands upon thousands, upon thousands of years ago.

I don’t care, because you’re here.

We don’t have a choice, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.

In all of the lives we’ve lived together, you were happy with me. You smiled at me. In every version of you, your gracious smile never changed.

And my love for you, never changed.

It’s a curse I’m happy to carry, as long as you’re with me.

A curse that has blessed me beyond measure.

…

Now we are separated again, you’re in a place I can’t reach you yet.

I only see your figure above so distantly. You’ve become a part of the sky. Your tears hitting the earth. Staining the land with your memories. You must feel so alone…I’m so sorry.

I lost you again, Zelda. And I’m so sorry.

But, I will be with you again. No matter what it takes.

You’re meant to be with me. My silent princess, my Zelda.

I will always save you.

Until the ends of eternity.

…

[evilasiangenius]

The Fall

“Out.”

And when Her voice reverberated throughout Heaven as if a bell struck, the War in Heaven was over, the cries of damaged and destroyed angels were silenced, and the marked angel, the tall one with the long dark curling hair and the good cheekbones felt existence suddenly shift around wings and shoulders and legs and elbows and knees and suddenly everything was falling.

No, it wasn’t falling.

They were being pushed out.

A harsh downward pressure and the angel could not even scream at the brief fierce pain of being thrust out of Heaven and in that moment something important happened; identity snapped and shattered, brittle, disappearing into the ether. The name that the Creator had vested in this angel was gone, ripped away with everything else and the angel was left as something partially blank, empty, memories torn and broken. Despite that, the angel clung to the snatches of things that could be remembered; a stolen conversation, a voice raised in song, the warm light of Heaven, and most importantly, that deep sense of quiet profound intimacy that Heaven had always represented, until it did not.

With great effort the angel struggled to turn around, arms and wings and legs fighting against the fierce pressure forcing the angel away from the bright light above. Turning to catch a glimpse of a home that began to disappear quickly, the angel kept golden eyes fixed upward but that point of light, gorgeous and shimmering and orderly, stayed for a long time within sight as the angel fell and at that moment, as the lovely dreamy glimmering light slowly disappeared from view, the angel knew that there was a reason as to why the Creator had wanted them to see Heaven for so long, just out of reach.

Punishment.

Time didn’t matter much in Heaven, and it mattered even less here.

Blackness punctuated by starlight, blues and reds and gold and it was so beautiful that the angel saw nothing but those streaks of light, even as there was no longer any way to see that true light, the bright soft glow of a home that was so distant now that there was no point in trying to look for it anymore.

It had been a long time since the angel tried to struggle against the inexorable, unrelenting force that pushed downwards. There was nothing to do now but feel the fierce cutting stellar wind through huddled white wings that shielded the angel from the worst of it, taste the grains of stardust that floated through space, see the distant fires of burning stars that flickered by, brief splotches of light staining the darkness with their warmth.

As if a massive invisible hand crushing them flat, there was no way to fly up, no way to break away, to break free.

All around were the sounds of screams, of cries, anger and begging, pitiful wailing as other falling angels struggled in their own torments but the angel was quiet. The time for begging had long passed; from here there was only aching loneliness, the emptiness of being torn away from the close intimacy of Heaven, the fellowship of its innumerable angels.

Then again, it was already like that long before the Fall, when they had been made individual, when they had been given these things called bodies instead of just existing as an amorphous blob of spirit. Heaven had already become a lonely empty place; this just capped off what was already unpleasant, pushing an already unhappy situation into something terrible beyond endurance.

The angel could not even sigh anymore. The tears that had filled golden eyes were long since gone, dried up to nothing. Now it was just a matter of existing, and it was not much of an existence, falling through the great span of darkness through the universe, passing galaxies and nebulae (or was it nebulas?) at a speed so great that it was impossible to tell which ones the angel had even worked on.

Perhaps it would have been best to have never existed.

*****

Ages and eons passed alone, and the angel wondered; if the Creator could see them now, if the Creator were watching, did they look like stars themselves, falling in great trails of blazing light? Or were they more like rocky asteroids, tumbling through the darkness on a tilted orbit askew?

A million light years and maybe a million more, the angel thought absently, even as there was no way to gauge how far or how long they had been falling, pushed down by the force of the Almighty Lord.

There was nothing to hope for nothing to do but to patiently wait for destruction. Surely this had to end in destruction. After all, in that first, painful push out of Heaven, even the angel’s name had been torn away, broken and destroyed, lost. It followed that the rest would follow in kind; ripped up into tatters, white feathers scattering like stars in the endless night of space.

Somewhere above the angel, a strange light streaked in an irregular way, moving from one falling figure to another, and the angel watched it idly, wondering what kind of star it could have been to move in such an unusual way.

And then, the star came down to the angel.

“Are you all right?”

Surprised, the angel could not speak; no one had addressed the angel in so long that the angel could hardly remember being spoken to, much less how to move one’s mouth in the motion of speech. There had been no one to talk to; the pressure had been so intense that the angel could hardly move to turn around, and here was an Archangel, flying about as free as a wandering comet and the angel felt such a sharp twinge of longing, of hot jealousy and envy, that it was almost painful.

“You’re…” the word came out as a harsh croak.

“Asmodeus,” the golden-haired angel managed a little smile, a polite and dignified expression turned awkward and uncomfortable by the circumstances. “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“A shame that I never gave it to you,” the nameless angel said, voice a creaky unused whisper. “I don’t have it anymore to give.”

“Oh.” Asmodeus was taken aback. “I’m sorry to hear that. Unfortunately you’re not the only one. Most everyone has lost their names. I’m not sure why I still have mine.”

“Probably the same reason you can fly about. I can hardly move.” And the fear that had been long silenced by acclimatization came back suddenly and tears filled the angel’s eyes, tears that the angel had not thought possible returned.

“Yes. I suppose I was created to be more powerful. Please don’t cry.” Asmodeus reached out to brush away a trickling tear, and the angel was startled by the touch, at the hint of warmth in those long beautiful fingers. “I’m doing my best here to help everyone. But there’s not much I can do…”

“Yeah. I don’t think there’s anything to do but wait and see what She decides for us. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to stay. Someone else will need you more than me,” the angel wiped away those tears as best as possible, watching little droplets of water float away, salt-stained jewels freezing and disappearing into the icy void of space.

“Hang in there. I’ll be back, when I can. If I can,” Asmodeus said, correcting himself. “No promises, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the angel said. “We’re all sorry. We’ll all be sorry forever. That’s the point.”

*****

If there was a home, if there had ever been a home, the angel was beginning to doubt that it had ever been real. The only existence there was now was falling, and it felt like it had gone on so long that whatever had happened before might as well have never existed.

The angel thought once more that perhaps it would be better to turn to face the Fall. To see where they were going, if there was a destination. The angel had turned a few times, but had seen nothing through the streaking darkness that went on for eons.

Long dark hair tangling about a pale face scowling from the effort, the angel turned around.

Faintly, a light glowed in the distance, and the angel’s eyes narrowed, wondering what it was.

But it did not take very long for the light to resolve itself into something more clear.

Eyes widening, the angel realized that the distant destination that they were being pushed toward was filled with fire.

A massive wall of fire and through it, glimpses of lakes of molten sulphur, lava hot and boiling in the distance that drew closer with every heartbeat.

A gasp, and pale wings beat frantically, trying to fly away and if not that to at least slow down but the pressure behind the angel that had never relented was brutal, inexorable, a terrible reminder of the futility of struggle. All around the screaming grew louder, some of the cries were cut horribly short as distant figures began to fall into the boiling lava and the angel recoiled.

“It’s all right! I have you!”

Strong hands closed about the angel’s shoulders and the angel turned back, surprised, hair tangled in a sinuous knot by the sharp cutting winds.

That Archangel again, golden hair blazing about his head like a crimson-stained halo from where the glowing fires reflected and the angel wondered why Asmodeus had been marked. He wasn’t one of the Archangels at the center of the rebellion. He didn’t even know Lucifer that well. He just had some questions too.

Maybe that’s all it took.

“What’s your name, Angel?”

“I don’t know,” the nameless angel whispered, wondering if the Archangel had even remembered that they had already talked about this, given the numerous other angels he must have already met. “I don’t have one anymore.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not fair to you. Not fair to anyone. I can’t save everyone. I tried, but it’s impossible. There are too many. Millions and millions. I went around to everyone I could, but I can’t fly up, not very far. Not enough to return any one of us to Heaven, not even myself. Maybe I can’t save everyone, but I can save you.” Massive white wings moved quick and for a brief moment the angel wondered how it was possible that anyone could move like this, so easily through the unrelenting pressure of the Fall. Asmodeus took the angel into his arms, the angel’s head tucked beneath his chin. The shock of touch sent a jolt through the angel and the angel clung to Asmodeus’s arms, his hands. Those great white wings turned both of them in a sharp motion so that Asmodeus’ back was to the flames.

“Why me?” the angel gasped, as they turned away from the growing flames. But Asmodeus did not answer, tightening his arms and his wings around the angel, whose own wings were bent inwards as well.

“Why me and not someone else?”

And the last thing that the angel remembered seeing before they hit the molten stone was the white of Asmodeus’ wings closing around them protective, the faintly translucent feathers stained a rippling yellow and red with the light of the flames.

“No…!” the angel cried, clutching the Archangel’s hands, feeling the hard biting edge of the golden crown of the Archangel’s cold ring press against the tender center of a tight-clutched palm as they fell into the flames.

x

[xcvrnage]

     𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟⧸𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑒 :   artemisia   ››   high warlock   ››  anya chalotra  .

❛❛   aesthetic.  ❜❜   ⸻   ◜   ❏  . ⸻ black cat curled up on a pillow of her bed , blood stained dress , silky robes , her bones knowing something wonderful about the darkness , rotting fruit between manicured fingers . ―   ◜   ❏  . ―  →

𝐈 . . . 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 !

⸻ ◜   ❏  . ⸻ ⚔ ⸻ ( anya chalotra → cis woman → she/her ) / / * seems like artemisia , crossed the city limits into rome : you know , the twenty-eight / unknown year old warlock , who is reputed to be calculative and strategic , but is avoided when they are apathetic and untrustworthy . that would explain why they want to destroy the mortal instruments . * / /

𝐈𝐈 . . . 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 !

name . . . . artemisia

nicknames . . . . sia ( only those she is close to can call her that )

age . . . . 28 / unknown

sexuality . . . . pansexual

date of birth . . . . unknown

place of birth . . . unknown

gender . . . . cis woman

pronouns . . . . she + her

current location . . . . london , UK

languages . . . . universal .

𝐈𝐈𝐈 . . . 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 !

zodiac . . . . unknown

bad habits . . . . losing her temper

hobbies . . . . reading , coming up with new spells

fears . . . . unknown

other mentionable details . . . . it's important to note that artemisia is one of the oldest warlock .

𝐈𝐕 . . . 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 !

faceclaim . . . . anya chalotra

height . . . . 5'6''

hair color . . . . black

eye color . . . . purple

notable features . . . . her purple eyes and pointed ears .

𝐕 . . . 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 !

parents names . . . . unknown

siblings . . . . n/a

pets . . . . a black cat

income . . . endless

residence . . . . a luxury penthouse

𝐕𝐈 . . . 𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘 !

⸻ not much is known about the warlock other than, she was born in ancient Greece, she is murderous by trade with true skills in power and she has thirst for vengeance .

⸻ Rumors are her entire family was murdered by mundane soldiers when she was a child . being young artemisia was taken captive, suffering terrible abuse at the hands of the ones that sold her around in secret . After all , she was other worldly ... her ferocity bested only by her beauty .

⸻ However, when her warlock mark developed and they realized that she was the daughter of a demon, her captors feared her and artemisia was strong enough to watch it all burn to the ground .

⸻ In those dark times, she became infamous. even amoung shadow hunters . As long as no one bothered with her , she wouldn't bother with you . She grew in favor of most during the war when she effortlessly murdered and won battles.

⸻ Anyone supernatural would know the name Artemisia. knowing her to be murderous by trade and having thirst for vengeance .

⸻ At one point, Artemisia became the High Warlock of India . Though she took the initiative to meet with the heads of the Greek Institute after taking over, Artemisia still believed that Shadowhunters and warlocks were best kept separate. ⸻ Over time Artemisia would disappear before showing up again. Truthfully she would stay in the Spiral Labyrinth . ( The Spiral Council is a secretive, unofficial group of warlocks that operates out of the Spiral Labyrinth. They act as the closest thing warlocks have to a governing body and maintain contact with warlocks in the outside world. // Artemisia helps govern it . ) When rome was founded , she made it her second home away from home .

⸻ She came back from india when learned of the troubles in rome . more so , her fellow warlock best friend told her so and given everything going on, any decision made in the future would affect her too .

[daisytrails]

i just read lazarus rises (amongst other things) by berklie novak-stolz and i have some thoughts that need screamed into the void

there were 49 days between the end of berklie’s Before and the end of mine

for 49 days i watched. part of me wanted to look away as she sobbed but another part of me knew i couldn’t, knew i wouldn’t be able to no matter how much i wished i could let myself. because unlike berklie the end of my Before did not come as a shock. i knew it was coming and was helpless to prevent it all the same.

so i sat and i watched for 49 days all the while wondering how many more days it would be until i joined her in the After while still seeped in that hopeless denial of thinking that maybe just maybe i never would

it’s been 257 days since my After began and i held lazarus rising in my hands knowing, certain after all of that watching, that once i opened it, it would destroy me. break me down to my very core in a way that i had tried so hard to prevent, postponing it for as long as i could so i could keep on imagining that nothing was wrong surrounded by people who didn’t even know my After had begun.

i sat alone in my car and read it aloud. i needed to hear it spoken, needed the universe to hear me struggle to speak through my tears

there is a particular poem in the book about berklie’s 48th day. about how she was still waiting, 44 days after the original 4. something about knowing what happened on the next day keeps me coming back to it.

i was right about this book. it crushed me. pulled thoughts from my head even i had been afraid to look at and put it to words more eloquent and beautiful than i ever could have imagined

tears started falling without my permission halfway down the first page and didn’t not stop until long after i had closed the back cover.

and i will do it again, i know that. i will read and reread this book until it is cracked in the places where my hands have held it, stained with my salted tears on every page, my scribbled notes in the margins, and i will do so for the rest of my life.

and i hope she knows that in all that time i will be thinking:

if she can rise from that which is the grave but ultimately not her final resting place then maybe so can i

anyways, i think everyone should read this book

[lafayettenossie]

The girl, just over 13 years old, with long dark hair, tanned skin and blue, almost violet eyes, woke up scared. She didn't know if she was dreaming or if it was real... If it was, she was in big trouble!

She knew that part of the city, the Saints stadium was in front of her, with its dome shape, The Superdome. But everything was wrong. The dark sky without stars but at the same time without clouds. The rotten smell. The brownish stains on the ground, the stench of iron in the air. And those vaporous shapes floating several meters above her head...

She was in the place where she shouldn't go! They warned her, she promised she wouldn't, that she would stay away from that reality... and yet she was there!

Without thinking, she entered through the half-open door, she could barely see. She remembered the old spell from that book she saw in the attic. They wouldn't let her go up there alone, she was too unpredictable and inexperienced with her powers. But she looked too much like her mother... and she did. Now, using the right words, a blue glow erupted from her right hand, intense enough to light her up and not trip over the rubble and what were clearly human remains in a very advanced state of decomposition. With disgust, she moved trying not to step on anything. She went up the stairs towards what was undoubtedly one of the emergency exits of the stadium at the foot of the track.

Something forced her to go in, she didn't know why. Even so, she opened the door by pushing the safety bar.

She was in the stadium, the grass was poorly maintained, dry and brittle as she walked. The smell was getting worse. There was a huge pile a few meters ahead. Her childish curiosity got the better of her teenage reasoning. She moved forward, trying to keep her pink stuffed slippers with a bear's head from making too much noise. She was scared.

She was finally close enough to see what that huge pile was. Insects buzzed around the mountain of corpses, because that was what it was. Disgusted, she tried to back away but saw the bloody face of one of them and understood everything...

It was her, or at least someone who was her spitting image... destroyed and surrounded by dozens of other bodies... But they were all her! With different ages, between 12 and 30 years old. All dead and terribly mutilated.

The girl understood where she was! The place where she should never go and that all her other versions inevitably visited... the reality where all of the Nimués ended up dying at the hands of...

She felt a hand grab her and turn her around. She screamed in fear, fearing that her end was near. A woman in her twenties, with long hair, tanned skin and blue, almost violet eyes. grabbed her, now covering her mouth so she wouldn't scream anymore!

It was like seeing herself in an enlarged mirror, it was herself but in 7 or 8 years!

-"Are you crazy?!!! Weren't you told never to enter this dimension? We all die here! I noticed your presence and came looking for you..."

-"I... I was sleeping in my bedroom and... I dreamed that... that nice woman... promised me that..." her eyes opened wide. That's how they did it, that's how they were drawn there!

They both heard the sound of jaws snapping in the air. They sniffed their prey and ran towards them!

-"Let's go!!!" the 20-year-old Nimué shouted to the 12-year-old. "Run!" and they both headed towards the exit. The creatures that were chasing them were very fast, they would reach them in seconds. They were able to enter and close the emergency door behind them. But the attacks of those beings were so powerful that they would undoubtedly knock it down in seconds.

-"You have to jump! But not to another time or another place. Jumping between universes... you've done it before!" he said, looking at her seriously.

-"No... I don't control it... I've only done it once... well, now twice! I don't know how..." Nimue was scared. The door was bending under her blows, the bar was about to jump!

-"Do it! I'll distract them! Go back when you're safe to your time and reality. And never come back here or you'll end up like all those..." The sound of metal tearing was the last thing the young Nimué heard: she closed her eyes and noticed how her whole being faded and entered another universe...

The adult Nimué prepared herself, the door fell and she saw how those shapeless horrors entered, jumping towards her. Blue eyes, from the darkness behind those beings that destroyed her, looked at her with weariness. Another one...

Nimue opened her eyes, it was night, she was in a humid forest and it was cold... Where was she? Or when? In which universe? "Oh, shit...!"

To be continued...

[taughtdefense]

receiver finds sender desperately trying to wash the blood off of themself (ck!talia is not as used to brutal violence as her other verses)

❝ when push comes to shove, mr. wilson, who do you want to be on your side? ❞ kreese had once asked you after abruptly pulling you into his office. you'd performed at your usual level of brutality for that day's training, bringing kyler to his knees in two seconds—literally, much to your sensei's amusement. you'd kept the answers—while fairly obvious to you & maybe even to kreese, closely guarded, declining to answer. but your silence had been enough of an answer for kreese to start ruminating over what admittedly very little he knew about you, to sort your friendships out in his head.

your dynamic with miguel & tory, for one, piqued his interest. it requires further observation.

IF YOU GAINED A PENNY EVERY TIME ANY VERSION OF YOU ACROSS ALL LIFETIMES SENSED BLOOD STAINING YOUR FRIENDS' HANDS, you'd be rich enough to secure a spot in the top of the top of doyona international's shareholders stock. given the amount of blood on your hands—hurting or killing many who were deserving, many who were not ( miguel, for example, falls in that second category, in the destroyed universe AFTER ROBBY'S DEATH AT THE HANDS OF SILVER ), it doesn't phase you in the slightest.

you—humanity-less, unfeeling, & cold as you are—have to frequently remind yourself to feign a modicum of a modicum of human concern, or any fucking emotion. empathy, is quickly topping the list of emotions you. it sucks having to fake emotions at least 3% of the time around others, but there’s a silver lining for this particular scenario. at least @taughtartist is talia. she’s not, say, nolan... who, by the way, actually is trying to get along with you in this universe. you're okay with him in this lifetime, mostly because when you order him around, he does whatever you say without question. here in this lifetime, he doesn't detest you for simply existing. sam, tory, meet the male versions of you.

it’s… interesting, being hailed as the king cobra, mentioned as such by kyler during an outing after the arcade fight. you’re one of the original members, the second after miguel, joining THE IN MIGUEL’S THIRD SESSION ( before he’d drummed up more interest & wallets thanks to fighting kyler & his cronies at school ). so it at least makes total sense to be revered as such. kyler may be a moron of epic proportions, but in this lifetime he knows very well not to mess with you. for example, he witnessed you hospitalize icarus with zero remorse during the school brawl.

charlie, emma & icarus kind of hate this current version of you for that, but you don’t fucking care.

alison had called you a few minutes ago, in a somewhat controlled panic. you don’t really know what the fuck happened, ali had tried explaining, but you told her to stop mid-sentence after she’d stumbled over her words with stern orders wait for you to get to her apartment, so you, talia & ali could have a proper discussion. you hadn’t been doing anything too different than what you usually do after school—training—which is why you’re currently clad in your cobra kai gi. when you enter ali’s apartment with the spare key she’d had made for you ( the apartment is paid for by you, of course. that hasn’t changed either ), you close the door.

you immediately spot ali pacing around her living room, rubbing her hands anxiously, her eyes full of anxiety. your relationship with her is entirely unchanged from your alternate life—the one where you’re a miyagi do student—except she likes to trace the snake tattoo on your arm.

❝ you alright? ❞ you ask her. when she nods, you quickly do an internal diagnostic check with your senses to make sure she’s actually alright. your sharp senses smell talia’s blood & some other unknown person’s on her hands, see it splotching there. she’s otherwise unharmed.

satisfied ali’s uninjured, you step back. ❝ where is she? ❞

❝ upstairs hallway bathroom. ❞ she replies gently, pointing towards the stairs. you nod, already moving towards them. ❝ get yourself cleaned up, too. ❞ you call over your shoulder to her while making your way up the stairs, not bothering to pause your movements, your footsteps thudding on the stairs. ❝ the blood smell is on track to stinking up the entire apartment at this rate. ❞ your tone is blunt. ali winces but nods her head, retreating into the kitchen to do just that.

you heard the sounds of this particular sink faucet running before you’d even approached the apartment door, pinning talia’s exact location down almost immediately. had alison not be anxious or present, you’d have gotten up to the steps without a care in the world. now that you’re getting closer, you can perfectly hear the sounds of furious scrubbing, can smell the soap-diluted wet blood circling the drain. you approach the doorway, simply observing your sister-figure scrubbing her hands clean in a maniacal, obsessive way. okay, so she’s probably in shock. not that you can BLAME her for it. you lean against the threshold of the door, face in its resting blank position. the sounds of desperate scrubbing persist, the only sound in the small room. yep. that blood-soaked towel is definitely going to be replaced at the first opportunity. you’ll put it on your tab.

❝ if i had to take a bet as to who won that fight, i’d say you. ❞ is what you begin with, in a carefully constructed neutral tone. you eye the blood still staining her hands with a scrutinizing gaze. ❝ let me guess: karate run-in gone bad with our fucking friends at miyagi do? ❞ you’re wholly flippant right now with her, but you’re already plotting REVENGE.

[cosmicerebral]

“  is that your blood?  ”

ji-geon is no stranger to witches, nor their trickeries, strengths, weaknesses or feats. none are like eumelia & cosima, the only witches who matter in his mind's eye, & certainly as far as shadow is concerned, too. an echoed sentiment. those other insignificant beings who are not eumelia is something that makes him both suspicious of & dismissive of every other witch, warlock & coven in existence - including the aeternum coven. past, present, future witches/warlocks/covens. from a purely clinical point of view, like the rest of humanity, their goals are insignificant. they do not matter. none of what they do matters in the grand scheme of existence, either, despite humanity's annoyingly elevated sense of self-importance. something they came up with on their own, surely. they are not the only beings in any universe. not even in their own. their earth will die sooner than they theorize. once their planet falls, so will they. it is only logical. humans mean nothing to any creature that exists, unfathomable to their small imaginations, save for themselves. ethan, though, is the only one who seems to care -

ripped apart dimensions aside by his own hands nonwithstanding. how many creatures has ethan wilson-keene slaughtered in the interest of self-preservation? out of rage, out of fear of his Creators, out of grief for the inescapable death of his robert swayze keene?

( that question merits more speculation. )

humans are their own worst enemy. they fight wars that only further shortening their lifespans, they pollute their planet, what they touch, they destroy. this is factual. at present, ji-geon cannot fathom why three ethan willingly exists alongside them, why he weaved life & emotions into them upon realization that dae-sook & her peoples passed his tests, when she passed the tests he gave her by granting her emotions in the first place. why he of all beings concerns himself with something as insignificant as the aeternum coven is beyond ji-geon's scope of understanding, nor is it his place to meddle in that affair, extensive curiosities as to ethan's reasonings aside - reasonings he will not disclose, not even with his closest friends.

ji-geon knew that the minuscule, insignificant group of thirty demons were planning on hurting him, ethan, hyun-woo, & light. if ji-geon had a sense of humor, he would have laughed at the moronic, pitiful attempts at pep talks the leader gave his subordinates, all in an attempt to egg them on to complete their task. still, though... he refused to let harm come to his friends. he did he thought what was right, in the end. he has no regrets. ❝ SURVIVAL & GUARANTEEING THE SAFETY OF YOUR LOVED ONES COMES SECOND TO EVERYTHING ELSE. ❞ ethan had told him on their second meeting. ethan would have done the same thing. no, the older eldritch has done the same thing plenty of times before, in the interest to protect robby. his other friends, too. this knowledge comforts ji-geon, even as his hands are stained with blood, clothes only slightly & inconveniently unkempt by the demons' sheer desperation to kill an unkillable monster worse than them.

if robby knew ethan's genuine past, would he still look at him the same way?

...perhaps it is best to not probe too much into that line of thinking.

ji-geon glances up from the circle of corpses surrounding him. he does not know how adora found him, & honestly, he does not care. he is entirely calm despite the dead at his feet. the room stinks of blood, innards & sulfur. it invades his sense of smell.

❝ is that your blood? ❞ the question does not catch him off guard. he looks down at @chosendivine, like his hands are not covered in blood & sulfur from dead demons who never stood a chance at existing.

❝ no, it is not. i do not have the need to produce blood for my vessel. ❞ ji-geon's candace remains the same way it always does ( flat, clinical & devoid of emotion, like he is reading from the back of a prescription bottle), despite the clinical killings he had done before she showed up here. there were no emotions in the killings, no guilt, nor shame, nor fear of retaliation from other demons. all of the other demons who knew about this group are dead; a coordinated effort from ethan, charlie & hyun-woo, all of which happened seconds before ji-geon descended upon this group of demons. not a single soul was spared. any creature who knew of the plans to harm the eldritch beings cannot return to their eternal home in hell - there is nothing of the demons left. if there is nothing left, they cannot exist, so they cannot return to hell. it is embarrassingly simple logic, even a mortal child could understand it. like ethan says, you cannot move a 'living' entity to another place if their essence no longer exists.

the killings became a bit too messy for his liking, so he had ended it quicker. despite the blood staining the floor, walls & sulfur dotting his hands, he is unharmed, & there is not a spec of blood on him or his clothes. though, sulfur is a different story.

❝ unlike ethan, i have little need to pretend i am human, nor the inane desire to act as such. ❞ he continues. he does not move. ❝ as for the corpses that are displayed around me, i did what i must to ensure the survival of myself & my allies. nothing more. i may not particularly enjoy the presence of your coven members, all of whom i do not care for - but i am positive every single one of them can relate to the sentiment of survival above all else. ❞ he produces a silk handkerchief out of thin air, holding the cloth in his hands loosely. he keeps his eyes on the girl & begins wiping his hands on the white cloth, staining it yellow from the sulfur, red from the small amount of blood from the human body a particularly mouthy demon - that is the leader of the group. ❝ yourself included, i presume. ❞ after cleaning his hands, the eldritch teleports in front of the smaller girl in an instant, now moved further away from the corpses, rather than surrounded by them. instead, he is standing in front of the doorway, where adora is.

❝ you may report this to that mortal your coven refers to as leader, if this act of violence warrants alarm for the sanctity & wellbeing of your coven. i do not care what your coven does, nor what you do. nor do i fear you. i never have. & be that as it may, i will certainly not start today. ❞ the eldritch being sighs lightly.

❝ ...ethan knows my whereabouts. my task here is complete, so there is no need to remain. i do recommend following me, lest you wind up becoming another burnt corpse, too. need i remind you that practical invulnerability is not quite the same thing as whole invulnerability. arrogance is one of the flaws i know mortals have. only out of concern for ciro, i recommend you do not fall victim to your hubris, mortal. but i do not care what you do. you may stay here & test the limits of your invulnerability against my abilities, or die. it is your choice, human. one i recommend you make posthaste. ❞ as soon as the eldritch says that final word, the corpses burst into white flames, flesh blackening instantly, bones snapping violently, then collapsing in on themselves because of the sheer heat. the bodies turn to ash within the blink of an eye. the room immediately catches on fire, starting at the curtains at the small, bloodstained window, which is to the left of the pair. it looks out towards the other abandoned homes in the equally abandoned, ruined neighborhood. the other homes burn down quickly, too, but theirs is immediate. simply because adora is not in them. one second the homes are there, the next, there's nothing left.

ji-geon pushes past adora & walks of the room without another word. he exits the home in a calm manner, his hands in the pockets of his ( well, hyun-woo's ) black leather jacket. he waits until he is a safe distance away from the home, then another room bursts into blue flames with a mere thought. this one is down the hall from where the demon murders took place. the blue-colored flames are vicious, terrifying, & two times more unfathomably hot than blue flames should be. if adora was completely human, she would have burned to death. ji-geon watches the home burn impassively, not blinking or breathing, even as the light from the fire reflects in his eyes. the blue flames do not reach the room adora is in - ji-geon is withholding that from happening until she is out of the house entirely. he will resume once she is out. he knows that ciro would not be happy if adora winds up injured in some way.