#through incarnations and echoes through time through space

[nobleriver]

In death, I carry you with me, my eternal companion, a broken melody.

[trvthservm]

// age gap // dubious consent // student teacher relationship nanami knows he's a sick, sick man. he realises the extent of his depravity when his eyes first fall on your innocent form when you walk into his class for the first time. he knows its wrong to look at you like that — to look at you like he wants to eat you whole. you are none the wiser, always wearing the shortest plaid skirts and sweaters that hang off your shoulder, just to entice him with the baby pink bra strap that digs into your skin. 

he knows what kind of girl you are. the kind to wear strawberry flavoured lipgloss and vanilla perfume, like a doll wrapped up just for him to get his claws into. he knows that you are a hardworking girl, someone who burns the midnight oil instead of partying out like her peers. no, he knows you sit down at your desk dressed in frilly pajamas, going through his recorded lectures and notes so you could be the best in his class. 

he wants you like how the snake wanted eve to push her pearly white teeth into the apple, letting the sinful juice drip down her lips. he wants you like how evil wants carnage.

its not difficult for him either, to get a pretty thing like you under him. all he has to do is ask you to stay back in the big lecture hall, watch the way your throat bobs as he walks closer, a smirk playing on his lips. it does not take him long to have your lips wobble and your eyes filled with fresh tears.

its easy to have you pliant and ready to do as he pleases when he tells you that your grades have significantly dropped. he sees your animated face shake slowly, denying it internally. he smiles to himself with the panic painted on your face. 

"it happens," he lies, "girls like you work hard in the beginning and then get distracted with boys." he lies again. you shake your head fervently, hoping he sees your desperation. you deny it with honeyed words, your begging saccharine sweet to his ears.

you are angel incarnate and he's the devil's son. 

he has you on your knees trying to show him how good of a student you are, how you only focus on professor nanami's lectures. he has you worship his sinful cock like it was the holy truth of god. he doesnt mind the sticky pink gloss that coats his length. he welcomes it. it reminds him of how awful of a man he is.

he holds your hair out of your face like he cares, like he wants to be a supportive as he can. instead he uses all his force to pull you onto his dick over and over again. your sweeet moans and the noises of your restricting throat fills the hall, echoing throughout. he knows its fucked for him to have you serving him while countless other academics used that space to change the minds of students. 

he only cares about taking control of your mind. he cant help himself , not even when he pulls his throbbing cock out of your soft mouth so he can have your legs thrown on his shoulders. he pushes himself into you, the only preparation your virgin cunt had was his soft kiss to her and a rough two fingers gauging if he could fit.

he surely doesn't regret it when he feels you wrapped around him, your body shaking with the wrongful pleasure you felt. he definitely doesn't when he picks up your skirt hiding the way you were both connected just so he could take a good look at the way he had debauched his favorite student. 

[meleeyz]

┈﹒ ꒰ 𝗚𝗢𝗟𝗗𝗘𝗡 𝗖𝗔𝗚𝗘, 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 ꒱

ekko 𝒙 fem!reader

୨୧ English is not my first language, so I regret in advance if something reads weird or is misspelled

୨୧ Perhaps this is too dramatic for some ;)

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Night in Piltover was quiet elegance, the kind that dripped with wealth and feigned perfection. Stars winked above, their light reflected by the towering spires and crystalline windows of the city. But tonight, amidst the gleaming grandeur, a soft tension thrummed in the cool air. Beneath the golden glow of lanterns, your white dress shimmered like starlight incarnate, its delicate embroidery and flowing silk whispering wealth and purity. You felt like an angel about to take a leap into the unknown—or a cage.

Inside the grand church, the air was heavy with anticipation. The pews were filled with Piltie elite, their fine attire and sparkling jewels a contrast to the warmth you wished for but couldn’t find. Beside you stood your almost-husband, the epitome of Piltover’s carefully curated perfection. He smiled at you, his expression more practiced than earnest, as if your presence were just another acquisition in his long list of accomplishments.

You hated it.

Your heart didn’t flutter for him. It raced for someone else—a boy who shouldn’t even have made it to this part of the city. Ekko. The name was like a secret melody in your mind, one only you could hear.

He wasn’t here yet, but he’d promised he’d come. He’d promised to take you away from this sham of a life, from this hollow marriage and suffocating world of pristine surfaces and rotting cores.

Yet, as you waited, time ticked on mercilessly.

Across the street, atop a marble rooftop, Ekko crouched in the shadows, barely breathing. From his perch, the church looked unreal, like something out of a fairy tale he’d long stopped believing in. And there you were at its heart, radiant in your white dress.

His “Firefly.”

You glowed brighter than anything he’d ever seen in Zaun. Brighter than the neon signs that buzzed and sputtered in the Sump, brighter than the firelight his crew wielded against the darkness. You weren’t just his light; you were his hope. And that terrified him.

What was he doing here? How could he possibly ask you to leave this behind—to leave safety, luxury, and a future so carefully paved for you? What could he give you, really? A life in the Undercity, filled with danger and constant struggle? A target painted on your back because of who he was and what he fought for?

Ekko’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He’d planned it all out—how he’d swoop in, crash the wedding, and take you with him. But now, paralyzed by his own doubts, all he could do was watch as your future was written without him.

Inside the church, your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. Every second that passed chipped away at the fragile hope you clung to.

“Are you all right, my dear?” your fiancé asked, his tone smooth but empty. It was the voice of someone who didn’t really care for the answer.

“I’m fine,” you replied, though your throat felt tight, and your words came out more brittle than you intended.

His brow arched slightly, and a polite chuckle escaped his lips.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

You froze, your mind racing for a lie.

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “Just…nerves.”

If he saw through you, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded, his focus already drifting back to the priest at the altar.

“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” the priest intoned, his voice echoing through the cavernous space.

Your breath caught, your fingers curling into the delicate fabric of your dress. This was it. This was the moment. You turned toward the church doors, your eyes scanning the shadows outside for any sign of him.

Please, Ekko. Please don’t let me make this mistake.

But all you saw was the flicker of green light, distant and fleeting.

He was gone.

Ekko didn’t dare look back.

His hoverboard zipped through the alleyways, a glowing streak in the dark. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, to run back into that church and fight for you, to whisk you away like he’d promised. But he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t good enough, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t enough.

“She deserves better,” he muttered under his breath, his voice cracking. “She deserves better than me.”

His words rang hollow, and the weight of them nearly made him falter. But the hoverboard carried him forward, away from the world you belonged to and deeper into the place he called home.

Your heart shattered, splintering into a thousand jagged pieces as you realized he wasn’t coming. He had left you here, in this gilded prison, to face a future you didn’t want.

The priest’s words barely registered as he continued the ceremony, and when your fiancé slipped the ring onto your trembling finger, you didn’t protest. What was the point?

Yet, as you repeated the vows, your voice was hollow. The promises felt like lies falling from your lips, each one carving another scar into your heart.

In that moment, you hated Ekko. You hated him for giving you hope, for making you believe there was something more, for making you love him so deeply that the absence of him felt like drowning. But more than that, you hated yourself for still loving him, even now.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[the-californicationist]

Hello Cali ❤️. Por alguna razón no te había visto más en mi muro de tumblr y me preguntaba si no estabas aquí, por eso busqué tu perfil y me di cuenta que tumblr me estaba jugando una mala pasada.

How are you??? I'm so busy because I have a loooot of work, pero me tomaré el tiempo de leer todo lo que me perdí de ti ✨✨✨

YOU ARE THE BEST, OK? I LOVE YOU ❤️💍

Quisiera que escribieras un smut de John Price CEO/Mafia con un Reader inteligente y astuto, que queda cautivado cuando John comienza a seducirla, porfis ✨

Anything for you, my friend!! I love you so much <3 <3

Wonderland

John Price is a famous mob boss... but you don't know that. All you know is that you've got a crush on a mysterious, handsome man, and you're willing to go all the way to find out if his bite is as bad as his bark.

The parking garage was dark, and the concrete seemed to hold in the cold like a freezer. It felt like ice on his cheekbone, and not even the blood from his eye socket was enough to warm the skin. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, that odd whooshing sound, and in a distant memory he could recall the first time he had ever gotten a black eye. But, all that was gone now. He had ratted out the one man that no one had dared fuck with in the past five years: John Fucking Price.

Those fucking coppers had said they’d protect him. He even had his people outside his house every hour of every day. How could this happen? He had to admit, he wasn’t even scared, he was just pissed off. Fucking bastards. They’d get what was coming to them. Maybe he’d tell them so. Not like they'd give him any more chances.

“Fuck you, Price. I hope those pigs skin you alive,” he spit out the blood that had began to pool in his mouth, and hoped it hit those stupid boots John was always wearing.

John Price slid his shoe away from the red stain that had began to swell on the ground, keeping his kangaroo leather Berlutis from ruin. The fool beneath his feet had no idea what was about to happen to him, and John almost felt sorry about it, if only for a moment. He and Vinson had been friends once. Hell, he’d even stood up at his wedding. 

“Vince, what did I tell you about that bloody mouth of yours? Said it'd get you into trouble, didn't I? Wish there was something I could do for you now, cause you and me, we used to be mates. But, I can't afford friends like you. Not anymore," Price gave the rat a quick shove with his heel and watched as the stain smeared in a thin streak across the cement. He turned to his men,

"Well, lads, I've got a party to get to. You wouldn't mind cleaning things up here for me, would’ya?"

"No, boss," was their quiet reply.

"You'll be sorry, you goddamn pussy!" Vinson was screaming now, "I hope they hang you from the fuckin’-”

Bang! The loud gunshot echoed through the hollow space.

Vinson didn't say anything after that.

"Let's get outta here, Gaz."

"Right away, boss," Gaz opened the door to the limo and prepared to drive John back into the city. There was a big gala at the Genting Casino tonight, and Mr. John T. Price was never late.

He was never early either. In fact, he was perfection incarnate. When he was younger, that wasn't always the case, but after his father died, he had needed to change. No one was fit to rule Liverpool in his stead, and he was thankful that no one had been foolish enough to try. His father had made this town what it is. Liverpool was built by his family, and even though everyone thought the Price regime had grown tired of their reign on the old docks, they couldn't have been farther from the truth.

John had his cut from all of the major casinos, and he traded security in exchange. He owned two of them himself, along with four shopping malls, five bars, three neighborhoods, two apartment complexes, and a golf course - not to mention the property that wasn't in his name. He made sure to give his men plenty of reign over their own enterprises, even if most of them were strip clubs. But, he didn't care. As long as tribute came in every quarter, he never messed around in their business.

He thought Vinson was one he could trust. He'd even given him a car dealership just last month. 

"Don't run it into the ground, Vince," he had said.

But, no. What had the little bastard gone and done? Put a tracker on his car and dropped bugs in his office. After everything he'd done for him, that's how he was repaid? To tell the truth, John never liked violence. It was awkward. But, his father had given him fists and showed him how to use them, so there was really no going against it. Violence and fear were vital pieces of the only language that men like Vince could understand. Now, with another family coming to Liverpool, John had to be on his best behavior. Even if 'best' was a little more loosely defined.

As he lit the tip of his last cigar, he reminded Gaz to grab him another few sticks on the way home. Gaz would've never turned coat on him like Vince did. He'd give him the car lot.

"You want the dealership on Sefton street, Kyle?" He offered.

"Sure, boss. Thanks a lot," Gaz smiled, knowing exactly which business he was talking about, "You want me to pull around back?"

They had arrived at the main entrance. Throngs of people were craning around the limo, trying to see who was inside. John thought about it for a second, smushed his cigar tip into the ashtray, and adjusted his tie.

"Nah," he said, "We'll give them the show tonight."

"Sure thing, boss."

Gaz parked the car and leapt out of the cab. His hand was on the door before John could take another breath, and on either side of the door, some of Price’s own foot soldiers took up their posts as bodyguards. When he emerged from the muffled quiet of the limo, it shocked John for a moment to be in such a whirl of chaos.

"Mr. Price, can I get a photo?"

"Over here, please, Mr. Price," a cute reporter was frantic enough to step in front of his men. They picked her up and put her back in the crowd.

John made sure to smile and wave, shake hands with those he had seen before, but he knew it was safer inside. 

The manager greeted him warmly and, he noted, by first name,

"John! Good to see you again, mate. We've got just the table for you, tonight. Wait til you see the legs on these girls! It'll be a night to remember."

"I'm sure it will."

"Ah, sorry, but we don't allow weapons past the main floor," the manager's face fell. So did Kyle’s. 

Gaz cleared his throat,

"I'm sure you can make an exception for Mr. Price. We'll be very discreet."

It was more of a threat than a promise, and John smiled at his friend's heavy tone. Kyle was anything if not polite.

"Uh, yes, we can certainly make arrangements. Right this way, gentlemen," and now the manager was nothing if not nervous. Perfect.

The night continued as well as it could, but he had never really enjoyed gambling. Why make all this money if he was just going to throw it into the wind? But, he could mingle with the right people here. Except that these weren't his people. He had come as a favor to his long time friend, Alex Keller, but Alex was nowhere to be found. 

"Passed out on his missus’ tits, probably!" One of the strangers guffawed at the other end of the Blackjack table. 

"He’ll show, don't you worry," another replied.

Well, John didn't have all night to wait on a man to get to his own party. He needed a drink. When he rose to head to the bar, Gaz stopped him,

"I'll get it, boss. No need to bother yourself with it."

The table was silent. The strangers who had been so brassy before were now silent and transfixed on the pair of men at their table, one of whom was important enough to have his slightest whim catered to at a moment's notice.

"It's alright, Garrick. Play my hand, yeah? I'm headed out for a smoke."

"Yes, sir."

John retreated. The awkward stares and weird glances were too much for him to bear. Surely there was a patio around here, somewhere.

By the time he found one, he was disappointed to see it was occupied.

"Oh, beg your pardon. Thought I was alone out here," he said.

To his shock, it was a woman's voice that responded from the shadows. Your voice. 

"You're fine. You got a light? Fuckin’ matches are all wet..." You fumbled with the book, striking to no avail.

He smirked,

"I have the fire if you've got an extra smoke."

"Fair trade," you smiled back jokingly. 

You were dressed in a clean chef's coat, your hair was pulled up, and you might have been going without makeup, but it was almost too dark to tell. It certainly wasn't casino makeup, that was for sure. John watched as you tugged two cigarettes free from the box, put them to your soft lips, and covered his flame with your hand. Your fingernail paint was pink and chipped. You pulled in the fire of both cigarettes and offered one to him. He took it,

"Thanks."

You grunted in a minimal response.

"So, you're a chef?" He asked.

You raised an eyebrow at him, giving him the glare he deserved for such an obvious question.

He back pedaled, 

"I mean, you work here as a chef. I just thought, with the coat...I mean, where's your big bloody hat? You need the hat."

You laughed. It was wonderful to hear, and he liked the way your mouth moved when you started to speak,

"Yeah, I work here. Have for the past three years or so. Bill signed me on as head chef, and I've been slaving away for him ever since."

"Bill?"

"Oh, he's the culinary manager. Runs all the restaurants in the casino and the hotel. When the last guy disappeared into thin air, they had to scramble to find someone, I guess. What about you? Where's your fancy hat? Based on that Hermes tie, I'm gonna assume you're here with the party."

He mindlessly adjusted his tie, noticing its feel on his neck as she called it out,

"Well, I might be."

"Yeah? You some kind of big-shot?" You eyed him again, challenging him to answer with something more than a yes or a no. You had heard yes and no plenty of times.

"I might be," he wouldn't give in.

"If we keep going like this all night, you might end up being the Queen, for all I know."

You both laughed, but then, you sighed, 

"Oh well, Mr. Mystery. Keep your secrets then," you shrugged and turned away from him.

He couldn't have that.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Sarah," you spun back around, "Rachel. Tiffany. Willamina. Might be anything."

You had the audacity to wink at him.

"Alright, you got me, love," he moved a little closer to you, "I'm John. John Price."

He extended his hand and waited for the bad news to sink in. No one who knew his name in this town would be dumb enough to be on a patio alone with him at night. He had dodged the media for a long time, but his trials always managed to get leaked. Twelve accounts of assault and battery, two separate accounts of theft, three murder charges - all acquitted of course. But, still, he was no stranger to ducking the law.

"John? Of all the names," you shook your head and smiled, taking his hand firmly, "Pleasure to meet you."

"You as well. You've never heard of me?"

"Oh, Jesus," you lamented, "Are you famous or something? Look, if I'm not in the kitchen, I'm at home asleep. Sorry. I don't even watch TV."

"No, nothing like that, I just - " He thought about it for a moment before you saw him decide to take a different trajectory, “Not famous.”

“Why is it that I feel a little bit like Alice tonight?” You took a long drag and let the smoke fall from your lips, “Like I’m following a white rabbit down a deep, dark hole.”

He chuckled, and you enjoyed seeing his eyes shine with his laughter,

“If you follow me down,” he sidled up to you, his face close enough to yours so you could smell the balsam in his aftershave, “I’ll show you just how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

A man’s voice cleared his throat behind you, and you both turned to look at who it was. 

“Garrick?” John asked, clearly annoyed. 

“Yes, sir. Johnny and Simon made it up. They said they know why Keller hasn’t shown.”

John didn’t answer. He simply turned back to look into your eyes, trying to divine some sort of future from them. He must’ve liked what he saw because the next thing you knew, you were being given a golden key card. Top floor. 

Not famous, my arse, you thought to yourself. 

“Why don’t you take the night off, love. Come see Wonderland, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

“My, my,” you said, palming the card from him, “No one ever tells you no.”

Another smile, a little colder than the first,

“No, they don’t.”

“Maybe I will,” you pulled the tiger’s tail.

“You won’t,” the tiger growled back.

As you watched him leave the small patio, his broad back stretching that expensive suit, his thick fingers flicking his half-smoked cigarette off the balcony’s edge, you were kicking yourself. You knew you were going up to his room, even though something inside of you really wanted to yank this guy’s chain. But, his dark, purring voice had made Wonderland sound so inviting… maybe just one little peek wouldn’t hurt?

You waited a whole five minutes before slinking off to the service elevator, cutting out for the night. No one was making dinner anyway; it was the bar that was slammed. You’d already cleaned and prepped your station, so no one would miss you. 

You ducked into the bathroom just before the top floor, getting off on the service side in an empty hallway, checking your face for stray flour or coffee stained teeth. You smelled like a pizza oven, but maybe you could sneak a shower before he showed up?.

What a slut, you heard the angel on your shoulder chastise you. 

So, what? The devil’s side replied, indignant. 

You peeled the chef’s coat off of your body. All you had underneath was a black tee. It was cropped a bit too high for work, but you wore it anyway. Your black work pants were covered in flour and dried food. You brushed them off as best you could. It would have to do. You shoved your coat into your bag and headed back to the hallway. 

Luckily, the main elevator was vacant, as was the hallway, so you wouldn’t run into any other guests on your way to Wonderland. 

The angel rolled his eyes. The devil glared at him. 

The elevator dinged, and you inserted the gold card, clicking the very topmost button to the penthouse. 

You’d been up here before. Sometimes, you picked up cleaning shifts on your off days for the extra cash, so you knew the layout. But, that had been in the cold, hygienic light of day. At night, this floor was a sparkling vision. When the elevator doors opened, huge clear windows reached all the way into the ceiling, framing Liverpool’s city center, looking more beautiful than it ever seemed from the ground. 

You took quiet, uncertain steps out of the lift, checking for any signs of life. There were none, so you made your way to the bathroom. Huge black marble monolith slabs were carved in a semicircle, a nautilus that curled around the four separate shower heads, all ready to pour their steaming water down your naked body. 

You stripped, stepping into the stream, letting yourself pretend that you lived in this sort of luxury for a moment. A soft lather of soap and a little shampoo later and you were clean. The single-use toothbrush and paste was in the hidden drawer that no guest would ever notice, so you stole an extra set, scrubbing yourself to a minty shine. 

A pair of black satin robes hung in the closet, so you stole one, tying it around your waist, fully aware that one stiff breeze and the loose-fitting garment would fly right off of you. The soft fabric lay against your skin in the most sensual way, barely touching you and yet making you feel touched. 

You explored the hotel room a bit, avoiding Mr. Price’s suitcase like it would bite you. The kitchen came stocked with ice buckets of champagne, so you helped yourself to one, pouring a glass and lounging by the window, wondering how long you’d have to wait for your date. 

Fortunately for you, only an hour had passed and you heard the elevator ding. Out from the dark lift came the man himself… bleeding from his lip.

“John! What happened?” You put down your wine and rushed over to him. 

He held you back, waving you off like it was nothing,

“Don’t worry, love. Just a bit of a scuffle, tha’s all.”

“But —”

“Seriously,” he grabbed you by your arms and looked you up and down, enjoying the wide opening of the robe as it revealed your body to him, “You should see the other bloke. Let me get cleaned up. Pour me one of those, would’ya?”

Before you could protest, he ducked into the bathroom, out of your reach. You were left standing there, worried and a little concerned for your own wellbeing. You didn’t actually know this man at all, and here you were, lamb to the slaughter, eager and bleating happily. 

While he was in the bath, you decided to do a little research. You searched up his name, and you were finding almost no hits, until you stumbled upon a mugshot.

There he was… the notorious mob boss, ruler of the English underground arms dealing circuit, enforcer and racketeering extraordinaire. And here you were, nearly naked in his room with not so much as a penknife within reach. This guy had been in the armed forces, special forces, black ops — the works. He retired and fell into the armed security world, making a name for himself by pushing out the competition by any means necessary. His father had maintained ties to the dark underground, and now John had taken over the family business, doing shady deals for the government and crime organizations alike. All of it was hearsay, of course, and none of the charges had ever landed a single hit… but you knew the truth. 

John Price was the most dangerous man in the world; Liverpool’s crime arena was just a quiet little hobby for a man like him. If he wanted to, he could make you disappear like a magician behind a mirror. Gone without a trace.

What would you do? Would you run? Where would you go? How would you explain your sudden exit? Food poisoning?

Before you could even begin to formulate a plan, John was out of the shower. He looked incredible. His hulking, heavy form was steaming from the hot water, and his hairy chest was uncovered. He’d slipped into a pair of running shorts and nothing else, so his brutal body was on display for you. He was covered in scars, and he was heavyset, but his largeness was from his strength. His core was bulky and strong, and when he moved, you could see the tight muscles rolling around beneath the skin like a snake ready to strike. 

He turned to you, but even though he wore a smile at first, the moment he made eye contact, his face fell. Somehow, he knew that you knew.

He sighed,

“What did you see?”

He rushed over to his suitcase but found it still locked, looking back to you quizzically. You didn’t move, you didn’t dare. John stepped over to you slowly, deliberately, almost as if he was ready for another fight. 

You turned your phone towards him and showed him his own mugshot.

“Thought you said you weren’t famous,” you whispered. Your voice sounded so small and far away, you almost felt like you hadn’t spoken the words. 

He smiled bitterly, tossing his towel on a nearby chair and sat beside you on the bed,

“Cat’s out of the bag, then?”

“Yeah,” you looked down at your phone, unable to look him in the eye. 

“Go on,” he waved his hand at you, motioning toward the door, “Get out.”

You didn’t move. You should have. Every fiber in your being was telling you to make a break for it. Now was your chance. And yet… you stayed. It was silent for a long while. You could feel his gaze raking over you, hot and heavy. His breaths rumbled in his chest. 

“Go!” He spat, “No one’s keeping you prisoner here, girl. That’s me, alright, and the newspapers don’t even know the bloody half of it. Just go.” 

You reacted to his volume, shirking back a bit, but you still didn’t stand. You looked at him then, searching for the kindness you thought you saw on the patio just hours before, checking to see if it was still there, if it was even real.

When you met his eyes, his fury was masking a very real pain. He was angry, sure, but the ache of being cast out was apparent, even though you were the one doing the leaving, and you just wanted that bit of brightness back again. 

John studied you, watching your every movement, trying to determine what you were thinking but coming up short. He stood right in front of you, his hips inches from your face, and he asked,

“What are you waitin’ on, love?”

A strong thumb lifted your chin, raising your jaw up to look at him again, and he used his enormous hand to grab your face, keeping you there under his will. 

“I know you’re afraid of me,” he commented softly, “I can feel it.”

“So?” You replied, trying to keep your tone steady. 

His voice was bitter and mocking, and as he leaned forward, you could smell his clean, warm skin, 

“You wanna play with the big bad wolf, hm? See if I bite?” 

He grabbed you a little too tightly, trying to scare you. It worked, but you tried not to show it. Instead, you decided to place both of your hands at his hips, your palms flat against his warm belly, feeling the dark hair that formed a faithful trail, guiding your eyes down to his waistband. 

It was his turn to be surprised. You felt his breathing catch as you moved your hands up along his ribcage, rubbing gentle circles into his skin, petting him like a skittish hound, expecting him to snap. 

Letting go of your face, he grabbed your wrist, and just as you thought he was going to stop you, he took your hand and placed it on his chest, stretching your arm all the way up from where you were sat, making you extend your spine as you reached up to him. Your fingers traced the fur that lay flat against his pectorals, and finally, you plucked at his nipples, not allowing there to be any question as to your intentions. 

The tip of his wide finger dipped into the silken collar of your robe, swirling around your neck and following it down to the swell of your breast. He didn’t find your peak, but he didn’t seem to care to. He was just exploring. 

Suddenly, John moved faster than you could even begin to understand what was happening. He had reached under you, lifting you, and then tossed you back down on the bed. You lay, sprawled, trying to catch your bearings, and then you were covered by his huge form, his wide body casting shadows over your vision, cloaking you in his own private darkness.

His mouth was on you like a hot flame, licking and burning and biting and sucking wherever he wanted to, eager to taste every inch of your skin, the imperfections of a wrinkle or a freckle seemed to go fully unnoticed as he devoured you, sucking you down like his last meal. 

You were overwhelmed by the pleasure he was stoking inside of you, and you let a small mewling sound escape from your lips that caught his attention. 

“Mm,” he climbed up your body so that you were face to face, “Enjoying your walk on the dark side, love? Think you’re tainted by me now? Or maybe that’s what you wanted, is it? Something naughty, just for a night?”

You didn’t understand his negativity, nor the self-deprecation, so you tried to protest, 

“No, I —”

“It’s alright. I’ll show you how to be a bad girl. I’ll teach you, love. C’mere.”

His voice was smoldering and sticky, clinging to your ears with some of that same bitterness from before. But, you didn’t have time to worry about that. He was standing by the bedside again, and he grabbed your arms, making your head and shoulders hang part way off of the mattress. You were left staring at his thick thighs and scarred knees, worried about what he was up to.

Then, all became clear. He had dropped his running shorts, and the fattest cock you’d ever seen hung down, shining with drool, ready to be fed into your mouth. 

Your eyes went wide, and although you reached your hand out to try and brace against his legs, it was no use. He supported your head from underneath and bent himself over until the tip of his swollen cockhead touched your lips, the gleaming precome sticking to you like gloss. 

Unwilling to be frightened by his aggression, you opened your mouth for him, laving your tongue across his turgid flesh, allowing him to press himself inside of you. 

His cock was slick on the head but dry on his shaft, so you did your best to wet him, licking and sucking as he pumped himself in and out, already nearing the back of your throat and not even halfway sheathed. 

When he nudged your soft palate, making you gag a bit, you made a noise. You tried steadying him with your hand, and he grunted, grabbing both of your arms by the wrist, holding them above your face, clutched to his hip. Then, he continued to fuck your face, ignoring your writhing gasps for breath. 

Your throat tightened around him, but you tried to stay calm. You’d never taken anyone this deep before, but you stilled yourself, ignoring the urge to panic, and you made a point to swallow, feeling your throat squeeze around his head. You could taste him as he painted the back of your throat, salty and sweet at the same time. 

That made him moan, and you felt like you’d won some sort of battle. If he was trying to frighten you, it was going to take more than just a little rough sex. 

“Mm, fuck… Maybe you are a naughty little girl, aye?”

You hummed, making sure you could feel the vibrations travel through his girth. 

He removed himself fully, taking a trail of your own drool with him, gasping from the pleasure of your mouth. 

“Fuck, I need to taste you,” he muttered darkly, crawling over you and settling himself between your legs. 

You tried to lift yourself back onto the bed, but he kept you hanging there, pinning you down with his strong arm, pressing into your belly with his hand to prevent you from sitting up. Finally, after feeling him kiss and nip at your thighs, teasing you mercilessly, you felt the warm, wet slip of his tongue as it fell between your lips, tasting your throbbing pussy for the first time. 

The robe was half-off, and only the tie around your waist was even providing any coverage, and you realized that as he began to eat you, he was yanking off your clothes as well, ripping through the knot of the robe to free you from the fabric. 

Now, his mouth moved deeper, and you felt him seal his lips to your pussy, messily drinking you in. As he fucked you with his tongue, his mouth and jaw were strong enough to rock your body up and down on the soft bed, making it seem as if he were actually using his smooth wet muscle as a writhing cock, thrusting it up into you and reaching deep into your hole.

The scruff of his beard was enough to make you want to come, much less the power that he ate you with. Every deep, curling lick sent sparks into your core, making your pussy drip with eager stickiness. It was hungry for that fat, uncut cock, forcing you to imagine how delightful it would be when he popped his giant head into your pink flesh. 

You were keening for him. Well, it wasn’t exactly for him, per se. The noises you were making were coming from your throat against your will. If you didn’t scream, you’d pass the hell out, you were sure of it. 

“Fuck, that’s it, love. Get loud for me. Ungh… you taste… mmfh… so damn sweet,” he was ruthless, speaking between long suckles from his mouth, commanding you from below. 

You wished you could see him, but all you could see from your hanging position was the giant window, looking out across the sparkling city. So, you called out to him, your voice thick with want, with need,

“John…”

That was all it took. He tugged your hips down until he was above you again, prowling over you like some sort of beast, all snarling unbridled lust and appetite. As soon as he was in position — and your body knew he was in position — everything stopped. He stopped. 

John looked down at you and became… different. The flirty bloke from the patio was back, and he smiled at you. You smiled back, out of breath and already drunk with hunger, but that was all he needed. He kissed you deeply, making you taste your own musk, and as his soft lips slid over yours, you felt the pressure of his huge cock at your hole, pressing through your folds to reach your hot, soaked center. 

You gasped through his kiss, both of you moaning in the same timbre as you felt his heavy dick fit into you for the first time, a sparkling desire swirling within you as every delicious inch of him buried itself in you. He began to thrust himself up into your aching slit, fucking you on half of his length, and then using your own sticky fluid to slip himself the rest of the way in. 

“Bloody hell, this fuckin’ pussy… fuck me,” he groaned, wrenching his eyes shut from the pleasure. 

“Holy shit,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” He asked, seeking your praise. 

“You’re fucking huge,” you didn’t mean to sound so concerned, but there was a part of you that was. 

He sat back on his heels, taking some of the pressure away, staring down at your body lecherously, savoring your tits and fondling them in his hands,

“Alright, love?”

“You feel so good,” you insisted, wrapping your hands around his arms as he enjoyed your body. 

“Tell me again,” he said, grunting again as he fucked his cock deeper inside of you, reaching a new end before dragging himself all the way back out just so he could start the journey again. He upped his tempo, pounding into you with his weight, the loud smack of his body against yours beating into you like a drum. 

“Tell. Me. Again,” he growled his warning, snarling down at you, pinching your nipple to punish you for your silence. 

You were gasping for breath. He was so deep now, you could feel the pressure of it in your belly. Between sharp intakes of air, you hissed, 

“You… feel.. so… fucking… good…”

“That’s my girl,” he bent over you again and that familiar pressure returned. His cock was too big, and yet you took it anyway. Your body was panic and pleasure all at the same time, and he had you pinned down for the ride of your life. 

You weren’t sure how many hours passed that night. He seemed to have the stamina of a much younger man, and every time you dozed off, you’d wake up again to fingers or tongue or cock playing inside of your folds, coaxing you to open yourself up to him. You were happy to oblige, but you were properly fuck drunk. If someone asked you for the alphabet, you weren’t positive you trusted your answer. But, when John Price asked you to open your mouth or your legs for him, you were the top scholar. 

A golden, creamy dawn was rising up over the docks as you stared out the window. John’s hand was rubbing your bare back in long, relaxing strokes, and he was leaving soft, lazy kisses down your spine. You knew you were a mess. Your hair was tangled; you’d thrown it up into a messy bun on the second runthrough, done with trying to pretend to be a pristine hot girl. Your body was covered in his marks. Bruises from his teeth and red welts from a delightful slap on the ass or two were painted across you like little tattoos to commemorate your coupling. 

“You alright, love?” He checked in on you. 

He’d been checking in all night. For all his ruthlessness, he never crossed a line, and he never forgot to make sure you were safe. Sometime in the wee hours, he’d even made you drink a bottle of water and eat some fruit to hydrate, teasing you with grapes like some sort of earthly Baccus. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, “Looks like it’s time for me to get out of your hair. Not sure I should be seen by the public in my current state.”

“You have work, or…” John looked confused. 

You thought about lying to him for a moment. It would hurt so much less for you to just break it off now in the soft dawn glow rather than a painful goodbye over cold breakfast. But, you didn’t.

“No, just… don’t wanna fool myself into thinking this was something that it wasn’t.”

Your truth hung there in the air for a moment, but before he could open his mouth to reply, you heard the elevator ding.

You turned to look at it, but he didn’t. Instead, he pulled you off the bed and forced you to the floor. It was so fast that you didn’t even realize what he’d done until your nose was in the carpet. Then, you heard a sharp, snapping pop of something hitting the bed.

You watched in horror as John’s hand reached under the mattress and pulled out a small pistol. He held it like a professional, calm and trained, and shot twice. Then, it was quiet again. 

He helped you to your feet, and he was telling you something, but your brain wasn’t registering his words. What had happened? Why were there bullet holes in the mattress? Who had he shot?

Then, you saw it. A man’s body was laying across the door of the elevator. Wanting to descend, the elevator’s alarm wailed, beeping and beeping. 

John grabbed your jaw and made you listen to him,

“We have to go. Now. Get your clothes on. Now. Now.”

“Okay…” You couldn’t move. It was so hard to even lift your arms. They felt like solid lead. You just wanted to sink back to the floor. Maybe if you could just…

“Hey! Now!”

He shoved your clothes into your hands and you started to put them on, doing your best not to look at the elevator. John was packing a black bag, half-dressed himself, and checking the windows over and over, looking for something in the streets below. 

“There’s no time, c’mon, love.”

You felt his hand cover yours as he led you to the elevator. You watched him ruthlessly kick the body away from the doors and push you inside. Once you were in, the doors closed and you rode in silence with him. You could only hear your heart in your ears. 

“...to my car. Stay close to me.”

“Okay…” It was all you could say. No other words even dared to come to mind.

“Hey,” he held your face in his as the floor numbers dropped to the teens, “You’re alright. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Okay.”

The doors opened, and you found it extremely weird that the lobby was empty. There were no workers, no guests, not even a custodian. It was just a big, silent cavern in what was usually a lively casino. 

He was leading you out to the parking garage, and just as you stepped into the concrete enclave, you heard the screech of tires round the corner. John stood in front of you and gripped the gun in his hand, but he didn’t move away. 

The car stopped in front of you, and you braced yourself, hiding behind your lover as much as you could. 

“Get in, boss! They’re right bloody behind us. Soap, shove over,” a man’s voice came from the car. He was in the driver’s seat, and he was wearing a ballcap with the Union Jack emblazoned on the top. In his passenger seat was a man in a black balaclava, and in the back was a bright-eyed man with a mohawk who you guessed had to be Soap.

“C’mon, love,” John shoved you inside just as a black SUV rounded the same corner, the engine roaring when it saw Price’s car. 

Gunshots rang out, and you knew some of them had hit the car. You worried for John, but he stood straight up, aiming carefully for the driver, and fired his gun. As if you were in some sort of action movie, the SUV careened off-course and slammed into several parked cars. Men began to pour from it, armed to the teeth. 

John jumped in beside you and made you kneel in the floorboards, holding his body over yours protectively. 

“How’d they find out? Gaz!” John yelled at the driver, shouting his name when he saw another SUV approaching from the side. 

Gaz swerved, narrowly missing being rammed, and sped off down the highway, trying to run from his pursuers. 

“No idea, mate, but they think it was us who tore up the warf. Banno’s man must’ve turned snitch. Only explanation.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” the masked man sighed, rolling down his window to fire shots at the SUV chasing you down. 

“Who’s the bonnie hen, boss?” Soap peered down at you before turning his attention back on the car chase. 

“Uh… she’s…” John tried to explain, but you realized that you never even told him your real name, “I dunno.”

“You dinnae ken?” Soap’s brows knitted together.

“Soap! Shut up and shoot, mate,” Gaz turned his attention back on the fight.

“Well,” the masked man grumbled loudly, “She’s stuck with us all the way to Hadrian’s Wall. Heading to Katie’s house. No place else is safe.”

“Aye, good call,” John agreed. 

Finally, after leaving the city, your pursuers turned back around and left you to your escape. John helped you back into the seat and checked you for injuries. 

“John… I’m…” Your voice shook with fear, and you felt all of that stress tumbling down into your chest, turning into shock and tears. 

“Shh, it’s alright, love. I’ve gotcha. I’m… I’m sorry. Should’ve known better.”

“Better?” You whispered as he held you to his chest.

“Aye. Thought I could be a normal man for a night. Hit on the hot bird at the bar, go to a fuckin’ party. But, nothing’s normal right now. I’ve put you in this mess, and I’m sorry.”

You didn’t have a reply, not one that made any sense, and as he held you, you watched the English countryside come into view. Rolling green hills still wet with their dew made everything that had just happened to you seem so far away, but you could smell the gunpowder on his hands as he pet your cheek, and you knew that nothing could be further from the truth.

[dumb-ster-fire]

Night Incarnate - Part 1

Eventual Azriel x OC

warnings: blood,violence,trauma,abuse

Summary: A deadly assassin and the elusive leader of Veilforged, Nyra delivers justice from the shadows, wielding starlight and darkness with lethal precision. Operating from Night’s Refuge, she rescues the powerless and turns them into warriors. Whispers of her name spread through Prythian, but few know the truth—only that where justice fails, Night Incarnate rises.

Masterlist , Prologue , Part 2

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

The war room in the House of Wind was bathed in dim faelight, the scent of parchment, ink, and steel thick in the air. A large obsidian table sat at the center, maps and reports sprawled across its surface. The Inner Circle of the Night Court gathered around it, tension crackling in the space between them.

At the head of the table, Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His violet eyes, sharp with intellect and unreadable as the stars, flicked over the latest reports before him.

“They’re getting bolder,” Azriel murmured, his shadows curling around his shoulders like living things. He stood off to the side, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His scarred hands were clasped together, his siphons gleaming in the dim light. “More whispers, more rumors. The name Veilforged keeps appearing in places it shouldn’t.”

Cassian, standing at the opposite end of the table, snorted. “I still don’t know whether to be impressed or pissed off that we know so little about them.” His wings twitched, his hazel eyes narrowing as he scanned one of the reports. “An entire organization operating in the shadows of Prythian—under our noses—and we have no idea who they are?”

Nesta, seated beside him, arched a brow. “Impressed, then. If they can keep themselves hidden from you, Azriel, and Rhys, that’s saying something.”

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter. “They’re careful. Too careful. Every piece of information we get is deliberately vague. No solid leads. No names. Just stories of criminals disappearing, of entire operations being dismantled before we even get wind of them.”

Feyre tapped a finger against the table, scanning the reports. “I don’t think they’re our enemy.”

Mor scoffed, flipping her golden hair over her shoulder. “That doesn’t mean they’re our allies, either.”

Amren, perched on a chair with her usual feline grace, idly turned a goblet of wine in her hands. “Whoever they are, they’re good. I’ve been asking around, and even the oldest whispers in Hewn City don’t know much. They don’t take contracts. They don’t kill for sport. They only target criminals.”

Rhysand exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. “That’s what makes them so dangerous. If they were assassins for hire, we could predict them. Track them. But Veilforged is…different.” His eyes met Feyre’s. “They’re operating on a code. And codes are harder to break than coin.”

Cassian crossed his arms, muscles tensing beneath his leathers. “We need to figure out who’s leading them.”

Azriel’s expression remained unreadable, but his voice was quiet. “There is one name that keeps surfacing in the darker circles.”

All eyes turned to him.

“The Night Incarnate.”

A hush fell over the room.

Feyre frowned. “A title?”

Azriel nodded. “No real name. No descriptions. Just rumors. Some say they wield shadows. Others claim they wield starlight.” His jaw tightened. “But whoever they are, they’ve built something formidable.”

Rhysand leaned back, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his lips.

“Then I suppose it’s time we find out exactly who Veilforged is.”

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

A cold wind swept through Velaris that night, the stars burning bright against the endless night sky. From the balcony of the House of Wind, Azriel stood in silence, shadows curling around him like a second skin. The conversation in the war room still echoed in his mind.

Veilforged.

A name that had begun as a whisper, nothing more than a ghost in the underground, had grown into something undeniable. He had spent months trying to track them, unravel their secrets. But every lead ended the same way: in nothing. It was as if they moved beyond his reach, as if the shadows themselves obeyed someone else’s command.

And then there was the name—the Night Incarnate.

Azriel didn’t like mysteries he couldn’t solve.

“You’re brooding again.”

Azriel didn’t glance back as Cassian stepped beside him, arms crossed, wings tucked in. His friend’s usual smirk was absent, his hazel eyes sharp with thought.

Azriel exhaled. “Veilforged is dangerous.”

Cassian huffed. “No shit.” He leaned against the railing. “But from what we know, they’re only targeting criminals—people we would have gone after anyway.”

Azriel’s fingers tightened on the edge of the railing. “It’s not just that they’re doing our job. It’s how they’re doing it. They move in silence. No traces. No survivors to question. They’ve been operating under our noses, and we still don’t know how many of them there are.”

Cassian gave him a sidelong glance. “Sounds like you’re almost impressed.”

Azriel didn’t respond.

Because in a way, he was.

He had spent centuries perfecting the art of secrecy, of infiltration. And yet, this Veilforged had managed to outmaneuver even him. Whoever the Night Incarnate was, they were no ordinary leader.

And that unsettled him.

Cassian shifted, rolling his shoulders. “What’s the plan, then? Do we keep searching, or do we let them be?”

Azriel didn’t hesitate. “We find them.” His voice was quiet, deadly. “We find the Night Incarnate.”

A pause. Then—

“Rhys isn’t going to send you alone.”

Azriel finally turned, meeting Cassian’s gaze. “I wouldn’t expect him to.”

Cassian smirked. “Good. Because you know damn well I’d come even if he told me not to.”

Azriel huffed a quiet breath. “I figured.”

Cassian patted his shoulder. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we hunt a ghost.”

But as Cassian disappeared back inside, Azriel remained on the balcony, staring into the night.

Something in his gut told him that whoever the Night Incarnate was, they wouldn’t be found so easily.

And for the first time in a long, long while—Azriel wasn’t sure if he would be the hunter…

Or the hunted.

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

The following evening, the Inner Circle gathered once more in the war room, the air thick with anticipation.

A map of Prythian lay spread before them, littered with markings—red for confirmed Veilforged activity, black for rumored locations, and blue for the sites of their latest strikes. The pattern was erratic, unpredictable. They didn’t linger in one place for long. But Azriel knew better than to mistake chaos for carelessness. This was precision.

They weren’t just shadows. They were ghosts.

Rhysand stood at the head of the table, his violet eyes gleaming with contemplation. “I don’t want to assume hostility, but until we know who they are and what their true motives are, we can’t risk leaving them unchecked.”

Feyre traced a finger along one of the red markings. “We could try drawing them out.”

Mor leaned against the table, golden hair spilling over her shoulder. “And how do you propose we do that? Set up a fake criminal operation and hope they come running?”

Feyre gave her a sharp look. “If they’re targeting criminals, then maybe we need to find their next target before they do.”

Nesta, who had been silent up until now, crossed her arms. “That would require knowing who they consider a worthy target.”

Amren hummed, swirling her wine. “That shouldn’t be too difficult. The list of truly vile individuals in Prythian isn’t exactly short.”

Azriel’s shadows curled around him. “I may have a lead.”

All eyes snapped to him.

Rhys inclined his head. “Go on.”

Azriel tapped the map, his gloved fingers resting on a region near the Autumn Court border. “A group of slavers has been operating in this region for months, trafficking females and children between courts. We’ve been tracking them, but they’ve been careful—no permanent base, always moving. If Veilforged is what we think they are, this would be a prime target for them.”

Cassian’s hazel eyes darkened. “Then we need to move before they do.”

Azriel hesitated.

Something about this still felt…off.

Veilforged wasn’t just a group of assassins. They were organized. Precise. Whoever the Night Incarnate was, they had built something that rivaled even the most disciplined covert forces. If this leader had the ability to outmaneuver him at every turn, then they were either incredibly powerful—

Or they knew exactly how he operated.

“We don’t engage,” Azriel finally said, voice firm. “Not yet. We observe. We wait for Veilforged to make a move, and then we track them.”

Cassian frowned but didn’t argue.

Rhysand studied Azriel for a long moment, then nodded. “Fine. But if an opportunity presents itself, I want answers.” His voice dropped into something softer, more knowing. “If they really are fighting for justice, then perhaps we aren’t enemies after all.”

Azriel wasn’t so sure.

Because if Veilforged was what they claimed to be, if they truly had spent decades operating unseen, then the Night Incarnate wasn’t just some mercenary leader.

They were a phantom. A myth given flesh.

And Azriel wasn’t sure what would be more dangerous—finding them…

Or what would happen once he did.

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

At Night’s Refuge, deep in the heart of Veilforged’s hidden stronghold, Nyra stood on the balcony of her office, watching the night stretch endlessly before her. The wind carried the faintest whispers of the forest below, the distant hum of Veils moving in the shadows. Her people. Her family.

Her mind, however, was elsewhere.

The past few months had been different. There was a shift in the air, a ripple in the shadows Veilforged had ruled for so long.

Because the Inner Circle of the Night Court had finally taken notice.

She had known this day would come. No secret lasted forever, no shadow remained untouched. The moment Veilforged had begun operating in Night Court’s underworld, rumors had reached Rhysand, Feyre, and their court of warriors. Nyra had watched from the dark, unseen, as they pieced together whispers, trying to make sense of an organization they couldn’t track.

Now, they were hunting her.

A door opened behind her, followed by the familiar sound of boots against stone. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Sylus.

Her second-in-command stopped a few feet away, his presence steady, solid. “They’re moving,” he said, voice calm but laced with knowing. “The Night Court is watching the slavers near the Autumn border. They’re waiting for us.”

Nyra didn’t react, only exhaled softly, watching the stars above. “Then they’ll see nothing.”

A pause. Then—

“They have Azriel tracking us.”

That, more than anything, gave her pause. Her pale green eyes flickered as she turned to look at Sylus.

Azriel. The Shadowsinger.

She had heard the name long before the Night Court had taken an interest in Veilforged. He was a legend, a spymaster who could slip through the darkness unseen, who could break even the most guarded secrets.

A male much like herself.

Nyra’s lips curved slightly, a slow, knowing smile. “Good.”

Sylus arched a dark brow. “You’re not concerned?”

She turned fully, tilting her head. “If they truly want to find me, let them try.”

Sylus exhaled, but there was no true exasperation in his expression. Only understanding. He had followed her for centuries, knew her well enough to recognize that glint in her eye—the one that spoke of amusement, of challenge.

“Dravien is already making arrangements to ensure our movements are unseen,” Sylus said. “Kyra and Elara have eyes on the slavers. When we strike, there will be no trace left behind.”

Nyra nodded approvingly, though she already knew this. Her people were the best. The most elite. Even Azriel would find nothing but ghosts in their wake.

Still…

Something coiled in her chest, something sharp and familiar. She had spent centuries ensuring she remained a shadow, a whisper in the dark. But this time, the ones hunting her were not ordinary fools.

This time, it was them.

And for the first time in a long, long while—Nyra wondered if the moment had come when she would finally have to step into the light.

[wadewnstonwilson]

echoes of death: part two;

summary: During Logan's early days with the X-Men, he struggles to adjust to the ideals of unity and trust that Xavier champions. Haunted by his violent past and accustomed to solitude, Logan often found himself confronting an even more enigmatic presence: you, death incarnate.

word count: 3.4k

fic rec: @pedroscurls

part one

Logan was new to the X-Men, still navigating the uncharted waters of Charles Xavier’s dream of harmony. Trust didn’t come easily to him. Peace felt foreign, almost dangerous in its fragility. He was used to the rough edges of life, the solitude of the wilderness, and the brutal clarity of battle. Joining a team, fighting for a cause bigger than himself—it was a balancing act that felt unnatural. Yet here he was, surrounded by people who believed in him more than he believed in himself.

It was a mission like any other. The X-Men had been sent to a small mutant settlement under siege by a militant anti-mutant group. The scene was chaos. Smoke clung to the air, acrid and stifling. The cries of the wounded blended with the sharp crack of gunfire. The scent of blood and fear hung heavy, overwhelming even to Logan’s dulled senses.

Logan tore through the attackers like a force of nature, his claws slicing through their ranks with brutal precision. His teammates’ voices crackled through his earpiece—commands, check-ins, warnings—but he barely registered them. His focus was singular: fight, survive, eliminate the threat.

Amidst the chaos, his attention snagged on a figure that didn’t belong.

You.

Logan’s claws retracted with a soft snikt as he slowed, his gaze locking onto you. You knelt beside a fallen man—a young mutant whose powers had failed to protect him. The boy was barely alive, his shallow breaths rattling in his chest. Logan watched, his own breath catching as you reached out, your hand hovering just above the boy’s chest.

You didn’t touch him—not quite. Your fingers lingered in the space between, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, far enough to seem ethereal. The boy’s expression began to change. The pain etched into his features melted away, replaced by something softer. Peaceful. Logan could feel it—the air around you shifted, as if the world itself had taken a long, steady breath.

“You’re here,” Logan said, his voice rough but certain. It wasn’t a question. He knew exactly who you were.

You didn’t look up right away. When you did, your gaze met his with a calm intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. Your eyes held no fear, no surprise. There was only quiet understanding, as if you had been expecting him.

“I am,” you replied simply. Your voice was soft, steady—like the first notes of a melody carried on the wind.

Logan took a step forward, his boots crunching against the charred ground. The space between you felt electric, charged and fragile. “It’s not my time,” he said, his tone low but resolute. He wasn’t asking. He didn’t need to.

“No,” you agreed, a faint curve of your lips suggesting the ghost of a smile. “Not yet.”

For a moment, the battlefield faded away. The chaos around you dulled, its sharp edges blunted by the weight of your presence. Logan’s senses narrowed, locking onto you entirely. He could feel the hum of energy in the space between you, as if the air itself trembled with the force of something unspoken.

Your gaze didn’t waver. You held him there, grounded and vulnerable in a way Logan hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t fear or even curiosity that kept him rooted—it was something deeper. Something inevitable.

“You don’t stay long,” Logan said, his voice quieter now. There was a hint of something in his tone that hadn’t been there before. Frustration? Longing? He couldn’t say.

“I stay as long as I’m needed,” you replied, your words carrying the weight of truth.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his hand flexing at his side. “And when you’re not?”

“Then I wait.”

The simplicity of your answer struck him like a blow. There was no hesitation, no doubt in your voice. You spoke with a certainty that felt immutable. Logan took another step closer, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

The space between you was almost nothing now. Logan could see every detail of your face—the faint shimmer of light in your eyes, the way your features softened as you looked at him. He swore he could feel the warmth of your presence, brushing against his skin like a whisper. His hand twitched, almost reaching for you, but he stopped himself.

“I’ll see you again,” Logan said, his voice barely above a whisper. He wasn’t asking this time either.

“Yes,” you said, your lips curving into the faintest smile. “But not today.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with promise. Logan wanted to close the gap, to reach out and touch something real. But before he could, you stepped back. Your form began to blur at the edges, dissolving into the smoky air like a memory fading from view.

“Wait—” Logan began, but it was too late. You were gone.

Logan stood frozen, his hand still half-raised as though reaching for a ghost. The battlefield roared back to life around him, the cries of the wounded and the crackle of distant flames filling the void you left behind. But Logan barely registered it.

All he could think of was the way you’d looked at him, the quiet certainty in your voice, and the warmth he’d felt in the space between you—close, but never close enough.

And for the first time, Logan felt the weight of what he had always known: you were destined to be part of his story, but not quite yet.

------

The medbay was silent except for the faint hum of machinery and the occasional soft beep from the monitors, a sound that seemed painfully loud in the absence of life. The air was thick with the lingering tang of antiseptics and something heavier, something unspoken: the weight of failure. The young mutant on the table had fought valiantly, but even courage and resilience could only carry one so far. Beast had tried everything—every piece of medical knowledge, every ounce of his expertise—but it hadn’t been enough.

Logan stood in the corner of the room, a dark silhouette against the sterile brightness of the medbay lights. His fists were clenched tightly, the muscles in his forearms coiled and tense, as though sheer anger alone could change what had already happened. His jaw was set, teeth grinding against each other, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. The frustration wasn’t new to him—he was no stranger to death. But this wasn’t a battlefield, wasn’t chaos or survival. This was loss, plain and unchangeable, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He didn’t say a word. He couldn’t. What would be the point? Words wouldn’t bring the boy back. So he stood there, silent, watching as Hank gently placed a sheet over the boy’s face, his shoulders heavy with the burden of yet another life lost.

And then Logan saw you.

You stood at the foot of the bed, as calm and composed as ever. Logan didn’t need to glance around to know no one else in the room had noticed you. They never did. But you were unmistakable to him. He had seen you too many times to question your presence now. There was something about the way you carried yourself, the way the very air around you seemed to still, that demanded his attention.

You didn’t look at him right away. Your gaze was fixed on the lifeless body beneath the sheet, your expression soft but tinged with an almost imperceptible sorrow. It wasn’t pity—it was something quieter, deeper. Logan’s chest tightened at the sight of it. For all his time on battlefields and in the aftermath of violence, he had never quite seen an expression like yours. It was as though you bore the weight of every soul you touched, every life that slipped through your fingers, and yet you carried it with grace.

His breath hitched when your eyes finally met his. It was like the world around him fell away, leaving only the two of you. The hum of the medbay equipment, the sound of Hank quietly cleaning up his tools, even the steady rhythm of Logan’s own heartbeat—they all faded into nothing. Your gaze held him captive, steady and unwavering, as though you could see straight through the gruff exterior he wore like armor.

“You’re early,” Logan muttered, his voice low and rough, tinged with a frustration he couldn’t fully place. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way around you, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. Your presence always left him unsettled, though he’d never admit it out loud.

You didn’t flinch at his words. If anything, they seemed to amuse you, the faintest curve of a smile ghosting across your lips. “I’m always here when I’m needed,” you replied, your tone soft but carrying a quiet gravity that made his frustration twist into something else—something he couldn’t name.

Logan’s fists unclenched slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides as he took a step forward. The tension between you seemed to grow with every inch he closed, the air thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged truths. His voice was quieter now, almost accusing, as he asked, “And what about when you’re not?”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. It wasn’t the kind of gaze that made him feel small or insignificant—it was the kind that made him feel seen. Truly, fully seen, in a way that both unnerved and grounded him.

“Then I wait,” you said simply, your tone as steady as ever, but there was something behind your words, a weight that hinted at more.

Logan’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he tried to make sense of the emotions churning inside him. He wasn’t used to feeling this way—vulnerable, exposed, tethered to something he didn’t understand. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. There was a pull between you, an invisible thread that bound him to you in a way that felt inevitable.

The space between you was small now, close enough that he could see every detail of your face—the softness of your features, the faint shimmer in your eyes, the way the light seemed to catch on something almost ethereal about you. Close enough that he could feel the heat of your presence, brushing against his skin like a whisper.

Logan’s hands twitched at his sides, his instincts warring against each other. Part of him wanted to reach out, to touch something solid and real, to prove to himself that you weren’t just some figment of his imagination. But the other part of him—the part that had learned to respect the quiet inevitability of your presence—held him back.

“You wait,” he said finally, his voice rough but quieter now, almost resigned. “For what?”

Your gaze softened, and for a moment, Logan thought you might answer. He thought you might close the remaining space between you, might let him feel something tangible in the charged air between you. But you didn’t move.

“For the right time,” you said simply, your voice carrying an unshakable certainty that made Logan’s chest tighten.

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. Logan wanted to press, to demand answers, to tear down the walls of mystery that surrounded you. But something in your gaze stopped him. There was a finality to your presence, a quiet assurance that no matter how many questions he asked, the answers wouldn’t come until you were ready to give them.

Before Logan could say anything more, the moment began to slip away. You stepped back, the tension between you easing as the distance grew. Your form seemed to blur at the edges, fading into the sterile light of the medbay like smoke dissipating into the air.

“Wait—” Logan began, his voice rough and strained, but it was too late. You were gone.

The hum of the medbay equipment returned, the sound of Hank’s movements grounding Logan back in the present. But he didn’t move. He stood there, his hands still flexing at his sides, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The air felt heavier in your absence, the silence deafening.

Logan’s eyes flicked to the lifeless form on the table, then back to the empty space where you had stood. He didn’t know what to make of what had just happened—what to make of you. All he knew was that you had left something behind, something intangible but undeniable.

And for the first time in a long time, Logan felt the weight of his own mortality, not as a curse, but as a promise. A promise that, when the time came, you would be there, waiting.

------

The village was a husk of what it had once been, consumed by fire and chaos. Smoke hung heavy in the air, curling into the ashen sky like ghostly fingers. The charred remains of buildings stood like jagged teeth, casting eerie shadows across the ruined ground. The stench of burnt wood, scorched metal, and something more human filled Logan’s lungs as he moved through the desolation. His boots crunched against debris, every step deliberate, every breath drawn through gritted teeth.

The team had split up hours ago to search for survivors, their voices crackling faintly through Logan’s comms, but he’d turned his radio down to nothing. He preferred the silence, the grim solitude of hunting through the wreckage. He’d followed a different trail, one that tugged at something deeper than instinct. He didn’t know what he was looking for—or rather, who.

And then he found you.

You were kneeling in the midst of the destruction, your presence impossibly still against the chaos around you. A woman lay motionless at your feet, her body crumpled in a way that spoke of pain and fear in her final moments. Logan paused, his breath catching as he watched you. Your hand hovered above the woman’s chest, close but never touching. The tension etched into her features began to fade, her expression softening into peace as if you’d taken the weight of her final agony and lifted it away.

The air around you felt different. It always did. Logan couldn’t explain it—couldn’t put words to the way the atmosphere seemed to hum, charged with something that was neither warmth nor cold, neither threatening nor comforting. It was simply you.

This time, Logan didn’t hesitate.

“You always show up,” he said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. It was rough, gravelly, but even. There was no fear in his tone, only a strange sense of certainty, as if he’d been expecting you all along.

Slowly, you rose, your movements deliberate and graceful, as though even the air around you obeyed your unspoken command. When your gaze finally met his, it was like the rest of the world fell away. The smoldering ruins, the acrid smoke, the distant cries of the wounded—they all faded into the periphery. In that moment, it was just the two of you.

“And you always notice,” you replied, your voice steady, carrying a quiet weight that settled into Logan’s chest like an anchor.

The space between you was thinner than it had ever been, the air charged with something unspoken. It wasn’t just the tension of two strangers crossing paths. It was deeper, heavier, as though every encounter before this had been building to this moment. Logan’s pulse quickened, a steady drumbeat in his ears that matched the rhythm of his shallow breaths.

“You’re waiting for me,” he said, his voice low and steady, though there was an edge of something—accusation, maybe, or a challenge. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you admitted without hesitation. There was no coyness in your tone, no deflection. You spoke the truth plainly, as if it had always been obvious.

Logan’s chest tightened. He could feel the heat of your presence, brushing against him like a whisper he couldn’t quite grasp. His claws itched to extend—not for violence, but for something solid, something real. “But not today,” you continued, your eyes holding his with an unyielding certainty.

“Why not today?” Logan asked, his voice rough but quieter now, the edge softened by something deeper.

You took a step closer, the movement slow and deliberate, as if you were giving him time to process each inch of space you closed. Logan didn’t move, his body frozen in place. His breath hitched as the distance between you dwindled to mere inches, close enough that he could see every detail of your face—the way your features seemed both otherworldly and grounded, the faint shimmer in your eyes that caught the dim light, the way the air around you seemed to hum with something he couldn’t name.

“You’re not ready,” you said, your voice so quiet it felt like a secret meant only for him.

Logan’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face twitching as he processed your words. He leaned ever so slightly forward, his hands twitching at his sides, his claws threatening to extend. He hated how vulnerable he felt in that moment, exposed and tethered to something he couldn’t control.

“What if I am?” he growled, his voice barely above a whisper. The question wasn’t just for you—it was for himself, for whatever force had brought him here, for the universe that seemed to keep you just out of reach.

For a moment, it looked as though you might reach for him. Your hand lifted slightly, your fingers hovering near his arm, so close that he swore he could feel the warmth of your presence brushing against his skin. Logan’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven movements as he fought the urge to close the gap himself.

But you didn’t touch him.

“You’ll know when it’s time,” you said softly, your gaze steady, unwavering. There was no doubt in your tone, no hesitation. Just a quiet certainty that left Logan’s throat tight and his heart pounding.

The tension between you was unbearable, like a storm building on the horizon, waiting to break. Logan’s claws twitched again, not out of anger or fear, but because he needed to feel something tangible, something solid, to ground himself in the overwhelming weight of your presence.

But before he could act, you stepped back.

“Wait—” Logan began, his voice rough and strained, but the word caught in his throat as you began to fade. Your form blurred at the edges, dissolving into the smoky air like a memory slipping through his fingers.

And then you were gone.

Logan stood frozen, his hand still half-raised as though reaching for a ghost. The distant crackle of flames and the faint groans of the wounded filled the silence you left behind, but none of it registered. The warmth of your presence lingered in the air, brushing against his skin like the final notes of a song that ended too soon.

All he could think of was the way you had looked at him—calm, knowing, certain—and the weight of your words. “You’ll know when it’s time.” They echoed in his mind, heavy with a promise he didn’t fully understand but couldn’t ignore.

For the first time, Logan understood something he had always felt but never acknowledged: you weren’t just waiting for him. He was waiting for you, too. But the time wasn’t right.

Not yet.

[scattered-dreamers]

I had a thought. Well, it’s been an ever growing through for a little while now. I started listening to the Mechs yesterday for the first time, but this started a little while ago when I learned that Nikola Orsinov’s VA was also part of the Mechinisms. And after learning of Gunpowder Tim. [I made the joke internally about Tim deal with explosives in every incarnation he’s in.]

What if the TMA fears are echoes of what the Mechanisms dealt with??

Brian being lost in the Vast and the Lonely—don’t know if that’s canon. I found a “Lost” poster online. But his fear being echoed out across the cacophony of space and ending up in our plane of existence kind of makes sense—in a Doctor Who sort of way, if you get my meaning.

The Toy Soldier being the inspiration for the Stranger makes sense too. A creature that is in a way like us—living, sentient—but in many ways unlike us, thus inspiring the fear of Uncanny Valley—and again that fear is echoed through the cacophony of time and space.

Idk how Gunpowder Tim dies, but if it’s in an explosion, there you go for the Desolation.

Jonny and his need for violence and action is drawn into the Hunt but it’s not clear if Jonny inspired the Hunt or if the Hunt inspired Jonny.

The Flesh is very animalistic so that probably started on Earth with prey animals. But that’s not my point.

There are many earth based fears—the Flesh, the Web, the Corruption, the Buried—but what if the more obscure ones—the Lonely, the Vast, the Void, the Stranger, and the Desolation—started with the Mechanisms?

Because I can’t help but recall planets getting destroyed in OUaTiS for however long Cole was ruling and destroying planets. Things had to have been released from some of those planets.

Things that lead to the Fears, things that inspired the Fears. Idk. Just my ramblings.

[knoepfl]

Mad Genius, Part |||

Hey there! I finally made part 3! I'm glad I made it because to be honest I really love the idea but I'm also not good at writing multiple part stories soo I hope this is alright? I'm already working on part 4 where it's about her only. So we can get a glimpse in the character more. If you'd like to see anything or have an idea feel free to tell me!

---

Characters:

- Viktor – A brilliant but physically frail scientist whose passion for progress often drives him to take risks. 

- Reader (You) – A chaotic but genius inventor from Zaun. Once rational and sharp, your mind has spiraled into madness due to overuse of experimental powders you created. Obsessed with Viktor, you break into his lab to meet him for the first time. 

Trigger Warnings:

- Mental instability and obsession 

- Self-harm (implied through powder effects) 

- Unsettling and erratic behavior 

Masterlist

Part 1: Mad Genius

Part 2: Mad Genius

Part 4: Mad Genius

Words: 1086

Then came the photographs. The first was of Sky, unaltered but serene, her face marked with little red hearts sketched in ink. The next, doctored and grotesque, showed her screaming, her eyes hollow and empty, her skin marred with sores. Viktor recognized your work—your powders. Finally, there were pictures of you. Some were disturbingly intimate, your smile innocent as your fingers toyed with a vial of Crimson Powder. Others were chilling: your face twisted in a mad grin, powder dusted across your lips like war paint, your eyes filled with manic glee.

---

It had been a month of hell. Viktor’s life had unraveled in ways he hadn’t anticipated, each day punctuated by your lingering presence—though you were nowhere to be seen. The letters began innocently enough, reminders of your obsession inked in looping, elegant script. But they quickly grew darker, their contents escalating with every message. You described dreams of your future together, blending them with threats that sent chills down his spine.

He had avoided confronting you for weeks, hoping you would simply disappear. But the last letter left him no choice:

“Viktor, my love, I’m growing impatient. You and I are destined to change the world together, but you keep ignoring me. Perhaps Sky will convince you to see reason? Meet me at the old factory by the river at midnight. If you don’t come... well, I’m sure you can imagine the rest. Don’t make me do it.”

The factory loomed in the distance, its rusted silhouette rising like a skeleton against the blackened sky. Viktor’s cane tapped against the cobblestones, the sound sharp and deliberate. His chest felt heavy, his breath shallow. He gripped the strap of his satchel, inside of which he had packed vials of antidotes—precautions he prayed he wouldn’t have to use. His mind raced with strategies, though he knew none of them would matter. You were chaos incarnate, unpredictable and dangerous.

The factory door creaked open, revealing a cavernous interior lit by the faint glow of dangling bulbs. Machinery stood like rusted sentinels, their shadows stretching ominously. The air smelled of oil, mold, and something faintly sweet—powder residue.

“Viktor!” Your voice rang out, high and melodic, echoing through the space. He stopped, his grip tightening on his cane.

“Where is she?”

“Oh, darling, don’t be so cold. I’ve missed you,” you purred.

You stepped into view, descending a set of metal stairs with theatrical flair. You wore a flowing, dark dress stained with colorful smears of powder, your hair disheveled in a way that only accentuated your manic beauty. In your hands was a small glass vial filled with a shimmering red substance.

Viktor’s stomach twisted. Crimson Powder.

“She’s fine,” you said dismissively, waving toward a shadowed corner. He followed your gesture, spotting Sky slumped against the wall, bound but breathing. Relief flooded him, but his fury quickly returned.

“You’ve gone too far,” he snapped, his voice sharp and unyielding.

Your face fell for a split second before twisting into a pout. “Too far? No, no, no. I’m doing this for us, Viktor. Don’t you see? Everything I’ve done—this powder, this work—it’s all for you.”

“For me?” He took a step forward, his voice trembling with controlled rage. “You’ve poisoned people, terrorized my colleagues, and now you’ve dragged Sky into your madness!”

You tilted your head, your expression softening into something almost childlike. “But Viktor... we’re soulmates. You and I are the same. Don’t you feel it? When I look at you, I see someone who understands me, who sees the potential in chaos.”

He recoiled as you reached out to touch him, his cane tapping against the floor as he stepped back. “I see someone who has lost their way,” he said coldly.

“Lost my way? No. I’ve found it. And I want you to find yours too.”

You held up the vial of Crimson Powder, its contents swirling like liquid fire. “Do you know what this does?” you asked, your voice soft and teasing. “It’s my favorite, you know. It turns love into rage, affection into destruction. Isn’t that poetic?”

Viktor stiffened, his knuckles whitening around the handle of his cane.

“And it’s not just Crimson,” you continued, your tone growing more animated. “There’s Sapphire—oh, the despair it creates is delicious. Emerald... well, I think you’d enjoy that one. But my personal favorite might be Magenta.”

You took a step closer, the vial glinting in your hand. “Would you like to see how it feels, Viktor? To be consumed by love so pure, so obsessive, that it hurts?”

“Enough!” he barked, his voice echoing through the factory. “This isn’t love. It’s madness!”

Your eyes narrowed, your smile fading into a grim line. “Don’t call me mad,” you whispered, your voice trembling with anger. “I’m not mad. I’m visionary.”

He met your gaze, his voice low and steady. “You’re alone.”

The words struck you like a slap, and for a moment, you stood frozen, your expression unreadable. Then you laughed—a sharp, brittle sound that echoed through the room. “Oh, Viktor,” you said, shaking your head. “You think I’m alone? No, darling. I have you.”

Before he could react, you hurled the vial of Crimson Powder at the ground. It shattered, releasing a vivid red cloud that engulfed the room. Viktor stumbled back, covering his mouth with his sleeve as the powder burned his lungs and eyes. The effects were immediate.

His vision blurred, his heart racing as a wave of uncontrollable rage surged through him. He gripped his cane so tightly that his hand ached, his mind clouded with violent thoughts he couldn’t suppress. His eyes darted to Sky, still slumped unconscious in the corner. Unimaginable scenarios played out in his mind—yelling, screaming, beating—acts of cruelty he couldn’t comprehend wanting, but couldn’t stop envisioning.

“No...” he muttered, his voice strained.

His body moved against his will, his legs carrying him toward her. Inside, he screamed against the urge, fear clawing at his sanity. He collapsed before reaching her, his cane clattering to the floor beside him as he gripped his head in both hands.

“Fight it,” he whispered to himself, his voice ragged. “You’re stronger than this...”

The powder’s effects began to fade, leaving him trembling and drenched in sweat. When he finally lifted his gaze, the room was empty, save for Sky, who stirred weakly in the corner. You were gone, leaving behind only the shattered vial and a note scrawled in your elegant handwriting:

“This is just the beginning, my love. I’ll be waiting for you.”

---

[airybcby]

Hiiiii, I love your writing and also think that the blue lock matching with spotify wrapped us so fuuun!! I was wondering if I could get a match too, my top artist was Mother Mother ;))

ofc!!

if your top artist was mother mother i'd pair you with...

charles chevalier

જ⁀♡⊹｡° getting on a mountain

♡ a/n — for my spotify wrapped event!

♡ content — charles chevalier x gn! reader, gn! reader, charles has high standards for himself,

♡ synopsis — perfection is something that cannot be contained, but to Charles Chevalier...it was what he needed to be.

The first thing you noticed about Charles Chevalier was how flawless he was.

Every movement was deliberate, every word perfectly said. He carried himself with an air of untouchable elegance, as if he'd long mastered the art of existing above the chaos of life.

You thought people like him didn't make mistakes, not because they couldn’t, but because they simply didn’t allow themselves the room for failure.

That was why it was such a shock to find him here, in the empty locker room, slumped against a bench with his head in his hands.

“Charles?” Your voice echoed in the cavernous space, startling him enough that his head shot up, his carefully guarded composure flickering into something raw before he could mask it.

“Ah,” he began, clearing his throat as though to erase the moment of vulnerability, “I didn’t think anyone else would still be here.”

You stepped closer, hesitant but concerned. “I was waiting outside, but you didn’t come out after the game. I thought something might’ve happened.”

His laugh was dry, humorless. “Happened? Nothing has ‘happened.’ I merely played beneath my standards today.”

Beneath his standards? You’d watched the match. He was brilliant, as always, threading passes and controlling the game like a conductor directing an orchestra. But maybe that was the problem. To everyone else, Charles was perfection incarnate, but perfection wasn’t a plateau—it was a steep, endless climb.

“You were incredible out there,” you said, trying to sound reassuring.

He scoffed, leaning back against the lockers with a thud. “Incredible? If that’s true, why does it feel so... empty?”

You hesitated, watching him carefully. Charles was never one to let the cracks show. You’d seen glimpses of his humanity before—an offhand comment about the pressure he faced, a rare smile after a victory—but this was different.

He looked exhausted, drained of the poise he clung to so desperately.

“Maybe it’s because you’re always chasing something that doesn’t exist,” you said softly, taking a seat on the bench opposite him.

His sharp gaze snapped to you, as if offended by the suggestion, but you held your ground. “Perfection. Control. Whatever you want to call it. It’s not real, Charles. You’re setting yourself on fire trying to reach it.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, he sighed, running a hand through his hair—a gesture so uncharacteristically messy that it startled you.

“I’ve always thought,” he started, voice quieter now, “that if I can control everything—if I can be perfect—then nothing will hurt me. No one will have the chance to tear me down if there’s nothing for them to criticize.”

The weight of his confession sat heavy between you, a reminder that even someone like Charles Chevalier had fears, insecurities, and scars he worked tirelessly to conceal.

“You know,” you said, leaning forward slightly, “there’s nothing wrong with not being perfect all the time. People care about you, not the image of you that you think you have to be.”

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, as if trying to determine whether you meant it. Slowly, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

“maybe,” he murmured, almost to himself, “maybe I can start to believe that.”

You smiled, standing and offering him a hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

For the first time that night, Charles smiled—a small, tired thing, but genuine. He took your hand, and as you helped him up, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to let go of the weight he carried.

Bit by bit.

usually i would've played into his absolute insane personality, but mother mother gave me no other options

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[bumi-writes]

How Long?

- Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen

- Category: Angst, scene rewrite

- Words: 620-ish

- tags: angst, canonical death, canonical universe, grief, possibly OOC (still getting the feel for these guys), anger, grave, flashback, Gojo has migraines/headaches when he’s too tired (this is almost canon to me), probably WAY too many commas (love those little things)

- pairings: SatoSugu (heavily implied), ItaFushi (lightly implied)

- thank you @feralsteddieshipper for the idea, and for reading it to make sure it’s okay :) <3333

—————————————————————————————

“How. Long.” Satoru’s voice came out choked, shoved through his teeth as if they didn’t want to let it out.

The self-gratifying smirk never left Kenjaku’s, Suguru’s, face as he stepped closer, leaning over Gojo. “How long what?”

“How long have you been using his body?” Satoru’s blood rushed through his ears, drowning out the laugh he was sure echoed around the space as Kenjaku threw his head back. “How. Long. Have you been using him?”

How long have I been talking to an empty grave?

——————

Satoru’s head was pounding as he made his way up the familiar steps, not needing to use his Six Eyes to see the path burned into his memory. His body moved slower today, exhausted by the onslaught of missions and lack of sleep. He sighed when he felt the gravel change to grass and tree roots under his sneakers.

Pulling off his blindfold, he squinted in the low light offered by the full moon. He waited for his environment to focus, as he stopped before a small stone under the large Katsura tree.

Geto Suguru

1990|02|03 - 2017|12|24

Don’t lose your way.

Taking a deep breath, Gojo sat cross-legged in front of the stone, and he felt the pressure in his head lessen as he removed his infinity. For a while he sat silently, breathing in the warm summer air as he listened to the Cicadas call out into the darkness.

He spoke quietly, almost afraid to startle the man resting below him, “Tired today; more curses are still popping up because of Itadori and Sukuna. Pretending they’re gone doesn’t work on them, Sugu. The higher-ups are still buying it though. Oh, poor Megs hasn’t gotten out of bed since it happened. You’d think he’d be better adjusted, since he only knew the kid a couple of weeks.”

He could imagine the response, “Sure, but then again he’s got you for a guardian, ‘Toru. Even after everything, you’re still here.”

“Thats different,” he scoffed, pulling a blade of grass from the ground and twirling it between his fingers as he continued, “I think, anyway. He’ll be okay, though. He’s tough. It’s just always rough when it’s someone you know.”

His mind drifted as he trailed off. He thought about another teen boy that smiled like he was sunshine incarnate, lying cold, dim, and much too young on the all too familiar metal slab in the basement of the school.

Shaking his head, determined to make this visit less sad, he continued, “Nanamin is coming back, to help with Itadori while I’m teaching. He’ll do well under him. The kid’s bright. He’s already gotten that dumb doll to stop punching him. God, I hate that thing. You know he called it cute?” He laughed, and he could almost hear someone else joining in as the breeze ruffled his hair.

He basked in the moonlight awhile longer, speaking gently as he rested under the tree. When it was time to leave, he stood and pressed a soft kiss to his fingers before running them over the top of the headstone, as he’d done every day since it was erected.

“Same place tomorrow, Sugu?”

“I’ll be here.”

——————

Kenjaku’s stolen fingers were cool as he pulled Satoru’s face up by the chin, malice glinting behind the plum colored irises he’d known so well, once.

That same malice oozed from every word, sharpened into daggers that pierced Satoru’s chest when spoken, “He was never there. All those nights, all those tears shed, all those words spoken. All to an empty grave.” He gave a mocking tsk as he continued, “It seems even the Six Eyes can be willfully blind.”

Kenjaku stepped back, and the last thing Satoru saw was a small wave, a wiggling of familiar fingers, as his rageful cry was cut off with the closing of the Prison Realm.

[astra-ravana]

The Influence Of Past Lives

If existence is a river, then past lives are the stones beneath its surface—shaping the flow, unseen but ever-present. We walk through this life with instincts and inclinations that have no clear origin, as if echoes from another time whisper in our hearts. Why do certain places feel familiar though we have never been? Why do some people awaken within us an unexplainable recognition, as if our souls have met before?

Perhaps our joys and struggles are not born in this moment alone, but are remnants of journeys we have walked before. The lessons unlearned return, presenting themselves in new forms, urging us to complete what was left unfinished. Love, loss, fear, and wisdom cycle through us, carving the soul like waves against stone, refining and reshaping who we are. If we listen closely, we may begin to hear the stories of who we once were, guiding us toward who we are meant to become.

You Have Lived Before

The concept of past lives suggests that the soul is eternal and experiences multiple lifetimes through reincarnation. Many spiritual traditions, including Hinduism, Buddhism, and various esoteric philosophies, believe that each lifetime provides lessons for soul growth. These past incarnations shape your current personality, fears, talents, relationships, and karmic lessons. Knowing and understanding one's past life experiences can allow us to move through this life with wisdom and knowing.

How Past Lives Affect Your Present Life

• Unexplained Fears & Phobias

• A strong, irrational fear (e.g., drowning, fire, heights) may stem from a traumatic past-life event.

• Inexplicable Talents & Interests

• Some people naturally excel in skills like music, languages, or healing arts, possibly carried over from previous lifetimes.

• Deja Vu & Strong Soul Connections

• Meeting someone for the first time but feeling an intense connection could indicate a past-life relationship (soulmate, karmic bond, or soul family).

• Recurring Life Patterns & Karma

• Struggles or repeating patterns in life (toxic relationships, financial hardships) may be unfinished karmic cycles that need resolution.

• Birthmarks & Physical Ailments. Some believe birthmarks correspond to past-life injuries or significant events. Chronic pains with no medical explanation could be energetic imprints from a past incarnation.

Methods for Remembering Past Lives

Meditation & Self-Hypnosis:

• Find a quiet space, relax, and visualize a golden doorway labeled “Past Lives.”

• Imagine stepping through it and allow images, emotions, or flashes of past experiences to arise.

• Journaling immediately after can help process and analyze what you see.

Dream Work & Intuitive Messages:

• Before bed, set an intention: "Tonight, I will remember a past life."

• Pay attention to repeating symbols, historical settings, or identities in dreams.

• Keep a dream journal to track patterns over time.

Past Life Regression Therapy:

• A trained hypnotherapist or regression specialist can guide you into a trance state to access past-life memories safely.

• This method often uncovers key experiences, relationships, and karmic themes.

Tarot & Divination:

• Use tarot or oracle cards with questions like"What lesson from a past life influences me now?" or "Who was I in a past life that is affecting me today?"

• Look for Major Arcana cards like Judgment (rebirth), The Wheel of Fortune (karma), or The High Priestess (hidden wisdom).

Records Exploration:

• Some believe there to be an energetic library of every soul’s history (sometimes referred to as the Akashic Records).

• Meditating and asking to access your soul’s record can reveal past-life insights, soul contracts, and lessons.

• Feeling deeply drawn to (or repelled by) a particular time period, culture, or place may indicate a past-life connection. Visiting locations that feel “familiar” could trigger past-life memories.

Working With Deities and Spirits

Many deities, spirits, and entities across different cultures are associated with memory, reincarnation, and uncovering past lives. Here are some that are often invoked for such purposes.

Deities Associated with Past Life Recall:

• Mnemosyne (Greek) – The Titaness of memory, Mnemosyne governs recollection and insight, making her a powerful ally for past life recall.

• Thoth (Egyptian) – The god of wisdom and knowledge, Thoth can aid in retrieving hidden memories and understanding karmic lessons.

• Shiva (Hindu) – As the god of destruction and transformation, Shiva can help dissolve illusions and reveal past-life truths through deep meditation.

• Hekate (Greek) – Being the goddess of liminal spaces, necromancy, and magick, recovering past life memories is definitely in the realm of Hekate's influence.

• Yama (Hindu/Buddhist) – The lord of death and reincarnation, Yama oversees the cycle of rebirth and can provide insight into one’s soul’s journey.

• Kuan Yin (Buddhist) – The bodhisattva of compassion, Kuan Yin helps individuals navigate past-life traumas and karmic healing.

• Anubis (Egyptian) – A psychopomp god who guides the souls of the dead to their rest. He is familiar with the soul of each human, which makes him great for past life recall.

• Hermes (Greek) – The messenger of the gods who can slip between realms of time with ease. Also known as a psychopomp and knowledge keeper.

General Spirits:

• Record Keepers – In esoteric traditions, there exists spiritual libraries containing all souls' histories, and their keepers can help reveal past lives. The spirits who keep these places are like librarians with access to extensive knowledge.

• Ancestral Spirits – Connecting with one’s ancestors through rituals or dreams can uncover past-life connections and wisdom.

• Psychopomps (Soul Guides) – Spirits that guide souls between lives can help retrieve past-life memories.

Otherworldly/Demonic Entities:

• Paimon – Known for his vast knowledge, Paimon can provide deep insights into past lives, hidden truths, and esoteric knowledge.

• Agares – Said to reveal hidden knowledge, Agares may assist in uncovering past lives.

• Orobas – Known for truth and knowledge, Orobas may provide insight into one’s reincarnations.

• Azrael – Azrael helps souls transition between lives and may aid in understanding past incarnations.

• Vassago – Known as a spirit of prophecy and hidden knowledge, Vassago can help reveal past-life memories and karmic patterns.

• Glasya-Labolas – A spirit of wisdom who can reveal secrets, including those of one's past lives and spiritual journey.

• Dantalion – A prolific knowledge keeper, Dantalion may be able to offer aid in past life recall.

• Buer – A demon associated with wisdom and philosophy, Buer can aid in understanding the lessons carried over from previous lifetimes.

• Lucifuge Rofocale – A demon of deep wisdom who may assist in revealing past-life secrets through occult practices.

• Astaroth – A spirit of knowledge and hidden wisdom, Astaroth can help in uncovering past-life memories through divination.

• Foras – A demon of forgotten knowledge who can assist in regaining past-life awareness and lost spiritual insights.

• Ronove – Known for teaching languages and hidden wisdom, Ronove may aid in recalling past-life skills and knowledge.

• Metatron – A spirit of knowledge and keeper of the Book of Life, Metatron is familiar with all of the soul's incarnations.

Spell for Past Life Recall

This spell is best performed on a full moon or during a quiet evening. This spell is gentle and safe, but for deeper exploration, you may combine it with dream work, guided meditation, or divination tools like tarot.

Needed:

• A purple or white candle

• A small mirror or bowl of water for scrying

• Mugwort, lotus, or lavender incense

• A journal and pen

Instructions:

Light the candle and incense. Sit in a comfortable position with the mirror or bowl of water in front of you. Take deep breaths and focus on calming your mind. Stare into the mirror or water, allowing your vision to soften. Recite the following:

"Veil of time, now grow thin,

Show me where my soul has been.

Through the ages, my past I see,

Reveal the truth, return to me."

Keep your gaze on the reflective surface. Allow any images, emotions, or sensations to come naturally. Do not force them. When ready, blow out the candle and thank any spirits or energies present. Immediately write down any visions or feelings in your journal. Past life recall can take time and practice. Repeat the spell when needed and look for patterns in your dreams and meditations.

Healing & Integrating Past-Life Knowledge

Once past-life memories emerge, it's essential to process and integrate them:

• Forgive & Release old karmic wounds to prevent repeating cycles.

• Acknowledge Strengths gained from past experiences and apply them to your current journey.

• Work with Spirit Guides or ancestors for guidance in resolving past-life karma.

• Do shadow work to understand your own behavior in previous lives and now.

By uncovering past-life experiences, you gain deeper self-awareness, healing, and spiritual evolution, allowing you to live more fully in the present. While one can certainly get through life without exploring their past incarnations, they will likely repeat the same patterns and relearn the same lessons. Integration of past life experience raises our level of consciousness in this life, allowing us to navigate life’s challenges with understanding and relative ease.

[theheartofone]

Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Thirty-Seven

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Washed Up

Kozuki Raya

I have to throw him into the lake, I tell myself again. Throw him in the lake, and the water will do its thing.

That’s what Aragnus said to do before he flew away, planting the rest of my crew and allies all across his thick back.

For the millionth time in that hour, he had to assure my enraged ass that he wasn’t going to harm anyone. That they were going to be taken to rest, and that I would be able to see them after dealing with Zoro if that would make me feel any better. Acting as if he wasn’t trying to obliterate me and everyone I knew only a mere minutes ago.

I stare down at Zoro. His entire body is paralysed, his arms and legs splayed on the floor like a dragged across puppet. I try to stifle down a smile as I look at the priceless reaction on his face. Oh, he’s definitely pissed off about the whole thing – and unfortunately for me, Zoro notices the weird contortion on my face.

“I swear if you start laughing, Tenguyama…” he grumbles.

Even though I do bite down on my tongue, I can’t help but teasingly cock my head. “Or what? You gonna suddenly jump right up and fight me?”

He calls me a not-so-nice name that I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear.

Whatever Aragnus did to Zoro… well, his body just wasn’t cut out for it. My small smile starts to fade as I think about that.

This is probably the first time I’ve ever felt afraid for his pain in the ass. And I didn’t like feeling like that.

It’s not like I’m doing this against my will. It’s the opposite, actually. When Franky offered to take Zoro off my hands, knowing I’m going through the worst identity crisis of my life, I had the audacity to bark back at him like a rabid dog.

I guess that sounds pretty on brand, with who I supposedly am, the incarnation of Retribution – whatever the fuck that even means. I can’t admit it to anyone else, but I’m scared. I’m really fucking scared about what that means about myself.

Do you even know who your mother is? Your father?

Aragnus’s weathered voice echoes in my head again, thrumming against the sore walls in my head. It infuriated me. Back then, he was toying with me, trying to pick at the gaps of my history with his enormous chicken claws. Provoking me to turn into a monster.

But Aragnus was right. Gramps, as much as I loved – no, love him - he’s still alive, Raya, don’t be an idiot, he was always so vague with his answers. He didn’t want to say anything, do anything, almost as if he was trying to fool the fates themselves.

Who really are my parents? Where did I even come from? I’m not sure I want to know anymore.

I frustratedly sigh out loud and force myself to take in my surroundings, trying anything to block out my thoughts. I can’t deal with these thoughts right now. I can’t.

I stare, my jaw clenching, at the trickling lake. A large body of surreal, illuminating water drifts within the cavern - yet another vast tunnel that connects to the rest of the Draconian colony - immediately making my body groan and claw desperately for its comfort.

I begin to tug at Zoro’s lean shoulders, drifting his paralysed body into the water with as much care as I can. He lays there silently, his eye staring up at the glittering stalactite ceiling. I let go of him, beginning to unfurl my pants that’s been cindered into pieces, buttons clinging onto them for dear life.

Zoro attention then crosses back to me when he hears a ruffle of clothing coming from my direction. He chokes on water, looking completely pale.

“What the hell are you doing?” he exclaims, making me yelp and jump in surprise. His alarmed voice takes all of the space of the hollow room, echoing over and over again until all I can hear is a dozen of aghast Zoro’s.

I annoyedly give him a look, my fingers pausing in the middle of unbuttoning my shirt. “What do you mean, what am I doing? Don’t you bathe with your crewmates?”

“Yeah, separately, we do.”

“Sorry, Roronoa, you’re so right. I’ll just let you wash your completely paralysed self first, with your completely paralysed hands, and then I’ll jump in straight after!” I muse sarcastically. “How about that?”

Zoro glares at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. His frustration is palpable, but there’s not much he can do in his current state. I grin at him, sticking my tongue out.

He kisses his teeth. “Get in, then.”

“It’s not like you’re seeing anything new, anyway,” I mumble under my breath, slipping my half-burnt shirt over my head. My fingers go to my bra, my eyes awkwardly averting to the ceiling as I undo the last latch.

Zoro tries to maintain his angry face, but I can see the faint flush of colour creeping up his neck as he averts his gaze. His eye flickers back towards me occasionally, despite his best efforts to look uninterested, his jaw clenching and unclenching quickly.

“Damn it, Ray,” he mutters, his voice rough and strained. “I said, get in.”

“Okay, okay.”

And then I slip into the body of pure warmth.

When I tell you I can’t even describe in words how captivating this liquid felt against my skin, brewing within my bones, it’s a complete understatement. I gasp heavily, my cracked lips parting. It feels like hope kissing her lips my thighs, her arms reaching for my waist with a melancholic look in her eyes.

Zoro’s presence, however, still lingers like a wounded predator, drifting in the corner with his back facing down. His eyes follow me as I wade deeper, and I can sense his gaze lingering on me, assessing, calculating, perhaps doing something else I can’t put my finger on.

A thrumming waterfall behind me plays endless tricks with the light, casting restless shadows across Zoro’s face. His jaw glints like a sharp-edged blade, constantly refining the line connecting to his shoulder blades and the sinewy muscles running through his relaxed arms. Even the grassy curls that lay across his wet forehead look like they’re pulsating with new colour, more energy.

I tread towards him, not knowing what to say in the midst of the silence between us. All I can do is feel the water rush and lap over my bare body, my lips parting again from the tumult of sensations. Roronoa glares at me, his jaw clenching with restrained frustration, the muscles rippling beneath the surface of his skin like coiled springs waiting to be released. Every movement he makes is deliberate, controlled, yet there’s some sort of intensity that threatens to break free at any moment.

I can feel the heat radiating off him, from his breath, his skin overcome with streams of teardrops over the curve of his muscles, and I can’t help but lean closer to him. My wet brown curls snake over my bare shoulder, pressing across his chest like a string of unfurled ribbon. He releases a breath he was trying to restrain, which makes me suddenly hold mine in.

This is so… intimate. I haven’t even yet touched him, and yet the slightest touch of my hair on his skin feels like we’re breaking boundaries.

Neither of us wants to break the silence as we lay here, allowing the small trickles of waterfalls be the only source of sound within this large cavern.

For a moment, I tip my head backwards, feeling the heat of the liquid flow through me. I sigh dejectedly. This was a painful day. A stressful and a lonely one, to be honest. I’ve never felt so vulnerable and uncovered in front so many people until now.

I raise an arm from underwater, staring at the water that chases past the honey hue of my skin. And for the first time in a while, I notice that my skin is smooth. Bright. Full of life. No colourful bruises, no spurting blood, no torturous metal caging its way into my veins like some kind of hell-spawn.

I hold my breath as the image of myself flashes into my head.

I became light.

I transformed into some sort of thing in shades of gold and black, metal encasing my whole being as if that was my original form all along. My mind starts to race.

Retribution? What does that event equate to? A punisher? A torturer? A Goddess who demands revenge and destroys all for her personal gain?

All I’m missing is a scythe. Then I’d be the fucking Grim Reaper.

Gods, I’m a monster.

“Okay,” I snap out loud with my eyes closed, quickly plunging my arms back into the heat of the water. My voice echoes with no end within the emptiness of the room. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“You really don’t need to do this,” Zoro quickly says, his eyes trained on the ceiling.

I cock my head at him, frowning. “Come on. It was my fault for getting you into this.” I stare at his beautiful, tense face. “If only I’d shut my mouth and let that bird talk, I wouldn’t have put everyone in danger.”

“What you did was pretty fuckin’ stupid, yeah, but you weren’t making me do anything against my will.”

I shake my head, and finally decide to trace my fingers over one of his rough hands, my skin brushing against his delicious warmth. I cup some water in my palms, sifting some over his coiled, hard biceps and admiring the way the water beads off in harmony to his form. When all of a sudden, I feel his fingers curving over mine, catching my hand into a loose squeeze. I gasp a little.

“I wanted to fight that chicken freak so bad, you know,” Zoro breathes out heavily, his chest rising in reaction to my cold fingers. He’s trying his best to train his eye on the ceiling and not on my bare form that hovers above him.

I snort, cupping more water over his neck and shoulders. My hand doesn’t even manage to wrap even halfway around his bicep, so I decide to use both. My palms slowly ripple over his tense skin, lathering over each surface with silent admiration. “The both of us could’ve skewered him.”

“Given that damn cook something to barbeque.”

I laugh out loud. My burst of joy envelops each and every crevice of the cave, making Zoro’s mouth slightly twitch in return. “Well, you should be glad he wasn’t. You’d be stuck here, motionless, forever.”

There’s a defiant glint in his eye as he locks his gaze onto my face and says, “Would’ve been worth it.”

I lean towards him even closer, slightly drunk on the joy of the water. I hold my breath, taking a moment to stare at him and the thin sketch that runs over his other eye.

Wasn’t I supposed to hate him?

A few other green curls have found its way to rest over his eyes, the heat of the water tracing over his face in dewy drops. My fingers are itching so bad to touch more of him.

Snap out of it, Ray. What the hell am I doing?

I instantly turn away and busy myself with cleaning him up.

Zoro stares at me with an unreadable look as I focus only and solely on his neck. “You don’t need to do this,” he hoarsely says.

I hesitate, my fingers pausing right above his Adam’s apple. “I mean, if you’re so hell-bent on doing something, there is one way you could repay me.”

 “And what’s that?”

“Um…” I swallow, avoiding his questioning stare. My fingers begin reaching for his warm chest, my palm softly drifting across his muscles on its own. I hear him take in a quiet, yet sharp breath as my fingers come into contact with his skin. His eye darkens instantaneously with an edge of wanting.

Obviously, that didn’t last for long as I release the next sentence from my mouth.

“Well, you mentioned somebody named Kuina.”

If a paralysed man could become even more paralysed, that’s exactly how Zoro reacts.

He doesn’t respond for a few moments, almost as if he’s brewing on what to say.

“What… about her?” He asks, his low voice warning me to tread carefully with the topic.

“The Kuina you knew served the Wado Ichimonji, right?”

He gave an approving grunt.

“Short hair? Blue?”

“Yeah.”

“Her dad own a dojo? Was she strong? Fucking amazing with swords? Was always a little bit defiant, but could still act all cool and collected when she had to? Did she—”

“You knew her.”

I pause. My chest feels tight as I force out a fake smile. “Small world, I guess.”

“You knew her,” Zoro repeats, still taken aback by the information. “How? When? But…”

I’m an actual fucking moron, then. I release a bitter laugh from my lips as my fingers clench into fists, resting firmly over his hard chest. Since when had I turned into this thoughtless air-head?

Because the Kuina I knew, the Kuina who would drag her Wado across the deserted fields of the island we would meet up on, would complain to me. How her father couldn’t see her as anything more than a female. That she had noticed herself, how her own limits were only multiplying; her breasts were forming, her body slowing its growth in height and strength. And.. And she’d complain about…

“She’d tell me how this one green-headed, snotty-nosed kid was always running up to her for a fight,” I mutter, my voice cracking. “She’d gloat about it, too. ‘Lil’ fry didn’t know what hit him when his sword flew across the room.’”

“She said that about me?” Zoro snaps.

There’s an uncomfortable silence after that. I can’t bring myself to reply, terrified that if I do, I’d probably just cry.

Zoro’s breathing is harsher now. I can tell just by staring at the way his chest is dramatically rising, trying so hard not to blow up.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe it was a mistake, digging up a part of Zoro’s past, because I’ve never heard him ever talk about his life before the crew in much detail. There must be a reason why he doesn’t.

I needed to know, though. Because no one in my life besides my Gramps knew about Kuina, and now knowing that someone else does… it makes her existence more permanent. As if she wasn’t a dream I made up all along, and now I can honour her more by knowing that.

Zoro’s still breathing heavily. “I’ve…never told anyone about her, not even to Luffy,” he mutters. “I can’t… I don’t even know how to deal with this. I didn’t even deal with her…” He stops himself, gritting his teeth hard.

I don’t know how, but I just knew what he was about to say.

He didn’t even try to honour her death.

“I guess that’s where you and I differ,” I mumble, furiously trying to suck in the tears back into my eyes. “I made my own small burial for her, with all the things she liked. Made this tiny-sized shitty dojo out of bamboo, with a sword-shaped locket I made for her placed beneath. There were pictures of us inside, acting like dumbasses in front of my snoring Gramps.”

I laugh out loud, my eyes glazing over. “Man, we attached balloons to his arms and threw darts at them until he woke up. Got into so much trouble with him that day…

And the Wado - it was supposed to be the finishing touch to her burial, you know. And maybe then, I’d honour her by wielding her sword later. But when her father told me that it was gone – given away…I was furious. Enraged. I screamed at him. Sobbed. I told him, who else deserved his daughter’s sword, besides him or…”

I stop myself, biting my lip hard until I feel blood seeping across my tongue. I was about to say, ‘someone who promised her they were forever sisters, regardless of blood.’

I shake my head, moving away as to hide my face from Zoro. “That’s why I hated you so much when you came to my shop, with those three broken weapons by your side. Not only did I think you stole Kuina’s possession, but defacing it like that, like it meant nothing…”

My voice breaks and I dejectedly let myself take a few breaths. I don’t have the heart to continue anymore, so I wait for Zoro to reply.

It’s unbearably silent. I don’t even hear him pause to say anything. The silence feels like an ending more than a continuance, and for some reason I feel dread run cold through my body.

I raise my head up to look at him, and my suspicions are confirmed.

Zoro shakes his head unforgivingly, glaring at me with hatred in his eye.

“What?” I ask.

I notice that his arms are moving by his will now, his legs drifting underwater to steady himself upright. His body’s slowly gaining back sensation. “Who are you, Raya?”

I freeze. I feel like a thousand poisonous daggers are raining over me, a tumult of all my worst fears stabbing me through my skin. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” he spits out. He steps towards me, making me stumble backwards until my spine hits the edge of the lake. “I never saw you at the dojo, meaning that every time Kuina said she was off for the weekend with her dad, she was seeing you. People don’t travel across islands to meet just anybody, Raya. So, who are you?”

I press my hand against his chest, forcing him to take a step away from me. I instantly turn from terrified to angry, scowling up at him with defiance.

“You answered your own question. I’m Raya, asshole.”

“Tenguyama Raya?” He pushes. I bristle, feeling his large hand cup over mine on his chest. He swipes it away and advances toward me, his gaze darkening. “That right? Or have you been lying to us the entire time?”

I can’t tell him. I can’t tell him, my mind furiously hisses, whispering over and over again the million different possibilities that could happen if I did reveal myself to them. I’m afraid that things will only get worse if he knows, what could happen to the crew if they all did figure it out.

A small part of me still doesn’t trust any of them. I hate that I feel this way, but it’s true. I don’t know who to trust, and frankly, I don’t want to be known as a Kozuki anymore. I want freedom from that cursed name.

“I’m…” I hold in a breath and furrow my eyebrows in irritation. “I’m just Raya. Can’t you just accept that answer and move the fuck on?”

“No. Not if you’re going to hurt my crew,” he simply says.

Hurt my crew. My crew.

I feel I’ve just been punched in the face.

“You don’t trust me.” I don’t pose it as a question, but instead say it matter-of-factly. I search his gaze and purse my lips. “You never did trust me, did you?”

He scoffs, leaning his head towards my face, his hot breath landing against my cheeks. “You think I want to be this close to you? You think I want to be spending my time, watching you, following you, like some sort of fucking dog? No, Raya, you don’t trust me either. Don’t be accusing me of distrust if you have it.”

I suddenly feel an odd sting to my eyes but I’m not sure why. Blood is rushing through me so quickly, and I’m immediately in a state of fury.

“You should’ve decided that when you kissed my hands, Zoro.” He stares at me with confusion, and I scoff, pushing him away from me. “That day, when I was losing blood and then passed out? I saw you. When you put me to bed, and before you left, you kissed my hands as I was bleeding from them. Why?” I wryly look at him when he doesn’t respond. “What, was that last minute guilt?”

Zoro's expression shifts, a mix of anger and contemplation flickering across his features as he meets my gaze. He considers my question. The silence stretches between us, thick with fury and fear.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low and measured, each word weighted with anger. "I did it because..." He pauses, as if searching for the right words. "To show you I’m not afraid of you."

He takes a moment to stand in front of me, his fist opening then closing by his side as if deciding whether to reach for me. He heaves out a frustrated sigh before turning his back to walk to the other edge of the pool.

I don’t move; I don’t look at him or try to even understand what he meant by saying that. The water trickles across multiple broken rocks, calmly fluttering into the lake with a discontented sigh, and all I can do is sink my shoulders deeper into the warm liquid, hoping that maybe it’ll wash even my memories away.

Zoro in the distance begins to dress himself, throwing on his shirt and pants with unnecessary aggression before grabbing at his two swords. He doesn’t offer a look back to me as he storms out of the cave, except he leaves me with a few parting words, the words that will stop me from going to sleep at night.

“You don’t scare me, Kozuki.”

[motsenvractmblr]

Ep 1. A Reverie of Desire

Will you not stay with me, inside me always? This question lingers, reverberates like the tender echo of skin brushing skin, as though the universe itself leans closer to listen. There is no mere desire here—no surface longing to be kissed and dismissed. No, this is the deep hunger, primal yet refined, that burns in the hollows of a soul seeking to be truly seen.

I have come up from such depths to find you. I clawed my way through the unyielding terrain of solitude, each breath an ascent toward you. When you arrived, it was as if time itself unraveled, spilling into the eternity that existed only between us. Your gaze was a mirror, yet it was more—a chasm, a quiet dare to fall, to plunge.

To say I love you isn’t enough. The phrase feels like a paper kite—fragile, fluttering, unable to hold the weight of what I mean. What I feel is a storm, a surge, something untamed and untranslatable. I want you in every sense the world denies.

Your touch is no ordinary touch; it is alchemy. When your fingers brushed my skin, I ceased to be mere flesh and became something molten, something unbound. In those moments, the world shrank to the span of your hands, the curve of your lips. Your mouth traced my edges as though seeking an entrance to my hidden places. And oh, how willingly I opened.

Probe around inside me, unearth everything that’s in me. Isn’t that what love demands? Not to skim the surface but to dig, to excavate, to dive deep into the wreckage and the wonder of another. When you spoke, your words were not words—they were tendrils, searching, wrapping, pulling me closer to some unspoken truth.

You wanted more of me, and so I gave. I gave the jagged pieces, the polished fragments, the shadows I rarely dared to name. And you took them, cradling each piece as though they were sacred, as though my flaws were the very architecture of your desire.

Together, we created a language of the body—a syntax of sighs and gasps, a poetry of intertwined limbs. It was not about release, though we found that, too. It was about becoming. In those moments, we were not two bodies but one storm, one ocean, one undivided pulse.

Stay with me, I whispered—not in words, but in the shudder of my breath, in the press of my palms against your back. Stay with me in the way you trace my scars and make me whole. Stay with me, not as a fleeting moment but as an infinite knowing.

And so we linger, in the space where desire meets devotion, where passion is not a fire that consumes but a flame that lights the path to deeper knowing. To stay, to probe, to unearth—that is the promise, the plea, the prayer. And in that staying, we are no longer seekers but finders of something vast, something eternal, something more.

Ep 2. The Furnace of Us

“Don’t expect me to be sane anymore. Don’t let’s be sensible,” you once whispered, your breath a flame against the shell of my ear. In that moment, you unhinged something primal in me, the quiet restraint I’d worn like armor. Sanity fell away, and all that remained was the gravity of you—your body, your essence, your unbearable closeness.

You were not a lover. No, you were an artist, and I, your canvas, trembling beneath your touch as you painted me with heat. “I am like you,” you confessed once, your voice low and rough with something that felt like confession. “I cannot live without intensity.” And so, we became intensity incarnate.

Each encounter was a storm. You were the wind, wild and unyielding, and I was the earth, shuddering beneath your force. When you kissed me, I felt the universe collapse to the edges of your lips. There were no stars, no sky—just the dark, endless hunger of your mouth consuming me, remaking me.

“I want to do things to you,” you wrote in one of your letters, “so wild I don’t even know how to name them.” And oh, how you did. Your touch was not merely touch—it was poetry. Your fingers wrote verses along the curves of my body, and I surrendered, letting you rewrite me.

You didn’t just love me; you unearthed me. You broke me apart with the force of your need, and I let you. You taught me that love wasn’t soft or gentle—it was ferocious. It devoured. It burned.

“Why are you so beautiful?” you asked once, your eyes dark with something deeper than desire. And before I could answer, your hands answered for me. They traced me like a map, lingering on the valleys and ridges, memorizing me as though I might vanish at any moment.

In the darkness of our room, we became animals, raw and unguarded. Your body against mine was an invocation, a prayer offered to some ancient deity of flesh and flame. And I worshipped you in return, my lips finding their place on the altar of your skin.

You said you wanted me “inside you always,” and I knew then that we were more than lovers. We were flames feeding each other, devouring the air around us. Our love was not a soft flicker; it was a furnace, consuming everything in its path.

You made me yours in every way. You made me insane. You made me wild. And in your arms, I found the only truth that mattered: to love you was to surrender to the fire, to let it burn me until I became something new, something vast, something unending.

[lime-bloods]

The theory used to be that Caliborn was his own dad. Thematic echoes ring around the story; his followers' obsession with "MOTHERFUCKING" evokes the Oedipal undertones of Yaldabaoth imprisoning and corrupting his creatress Sophia. And Aranea, often misinformed but rarely, if ever - in spite of the school of red herrings surrounding English - intentionally misleading, seems to hint at such a possibility: Caliborn and Calliope's home planet is the former home planet of their father, which is in her words "a loc8tion now conspicuously occupied 8y a truly massive 8lack hole". Now that the comic's over, and we have a more comprehensive idea of English's life and times - he was born, he fucked with the trolls, left to try to kill his sister, and then died - it seems pretty unlikely that he had the opportunity to go back to the era of his birth and spawn himself... in the incarnation we're most familiar with, at least. We've known from much earlier on that there were Englishes in "countless universes", and that the "mobster Hulk" menacing Homestuck itself would never be fully representative of all of Caliborn's crimes. And now that I've spent some more time looking over the mechanisms by which Caliborn is able to exist in so many countless universes, I'm not totally convinced that he isn't his own dad?

Cherub romance is chiefly two things; it's caliginous, and it's incestuous. One way in which it is widely understood to be incestuous is by way of being masturbatory: in its mate, a cherub looks for "qualities its other half once had", seeking to replace the aspect of itself it once referred to as brother or sister. But increasingly, I also think cherub mating is incestuous by way of being cyclical. Indeed, it's difficult to draw a line between 'cyclical' and 'masturbatory' for a race who couple by forming an ouroboros; but as touched upon already, the planet around which Caliborn's father intertwined with his mother was also the planet around which his father's father intertwined. Because cherubs always mate around black holes.

It's easy to fall back on the simplest, most surface-level observation of the black hole, that it's a symbol of Lord English. I have described the singularity in the past as English's mouth, the orifice that swallows suns in the same manner the god of time Cronus swallowed his own son. But once more, English is ouroboros; the mouth that swallows his prey is also the mouth that swallows itself. The number of times I've pointed out the significance of white and black holes in Homestuck could be aptly called ad nauseam: but for the comic's metanarrative purposes, being a gateway out of the story also makes the white hole a gateway forward into progress, and by contrast, the black hole is necessarily a pitfall into regression. Just as the black hole is where the god of cycles is swallowed by his own cycle, and is therefore a signpost of Lord English's resurrection, it is also where cherubs go to enact violence upon their sibling-spouses because that is where their parents, and their grandparents, and their grandparents' grandparents, enacted violence upon each other.

Bruce Banner was transformed into the monstrous green Hulk halfway by radiation, halfway by a brutal childhood at the hands of his own monstrous father. Cronus devoured his son, black hole-like, because he received prophecy that his children would overthrow him the same way he had overthrown his own tyrannical progenitor. Even Oedipus was an early victim of the time loop; had prophecy not deemed him at the moment of his birth to be responsible for his father's death, his infamous transgression upon his mother could never have taken place. Whether we choose to believe English literally stepped through that black hole in some winged incarnation to commit the Oedipal sin, or if the rift through space and time is simply a symbolic wound - the bleeding hole left by generations of fathers traumatising wives and sons - the end result is the same. By becoming the Lord of Time, that god of cycles, and embedding himself in the very story structure cherubs dedicate their lives to upholding, Caliborn must embody that cycle; and the Oedipal is in the cyclical just as much as it is in the incestuous. Whether or not Caliborn's dad is him is irrelevant to the simple fact that Caliborn is his own dad.

[ms-oswald]

unspoken words | finan

author's note: it's been a while, but after watching the last kingdom, had to jump on the wagon :) this one is a bit long - it was difficult to figure out where to trim it down, so hopefully it won't bore you. To whoever reads it, i hope you enjoy this little concoction. Lots of love & stay safe 💕 

      She was lost in the thick of it. Mud, sweat and blood were pouring left and right as she injured and maimed every body that reached her across the battlefield.

She was a good fighter, a warrior in her own right. Not only could her quiet demeanour send chills down a man’s spine, but her presence during battle were songs to write about.

She wore the name of a god - given to her - even though she was not part of their world. Saxons claimed she was the devil incarnate, while Danes thought her a witch, or worse, a malevolent spirit roaming the earth to haunt, hunt and kill them all.

To the sight of the strangers that crossed her path, they would scurry away while praying to their gods to protect them, to shield them from her evil presence. She couldn’t care. The soil she spent years marching on had no emotional ties to her body - well, almost.

She was far away from what she once used to know. Space and time had created a convoluted way of separating her from her old life.

And so, here she was. In a war zone, fighting for her life and for the lives of the men she grew accustomed to. She was fighting for their survival, to aid them in their endeavour.

      He might have feared her when they met. The way her eyes first laid on him had sent shivers down to his bone - he had grasped onto his little crucifix, reciting a quiet prayer out of fright and distrust.

And then, with the time they shared together, with the moments they spent, she became something else entirely. Whenever he would catch himself looking at her, staring at her, intrigue came and made his initial feelings obsolete. She became a mystery he wanted to resolve, an enigmatic and mystical being overpowering his logical senses in exchange for timid devotion, and then, tumultuous desire.

She was made of steel, it was as clear as day. Her body carried her through bruises and sickness. She was a shield herself; her skin, her hair, her eyes, as well her weapons, protected her from the insanity she had been dragged into. Her knowledge of the human anatomy, of Mother Nature and her gifts, her combat skills, her agility and flexibility were a driving force.

Qualities that left his heart rendering to endless possibilities, good and bad.

The worse, the greater the grief; while in battle, he always knew where she stood. She was easy to find. There weren’t many women who could terrorize men twice their size. And yet, today, he had lost her in the crowd.

Anxious, panicked, he yelled for her name while swords were clashing against the enemy. While he still fought, his mind wandered to what could have happened. “Freya!”

Though his accent was strong and though his voice was loud, the grunts and yells from soldiers and warriors alike were louder, and louder. It was to such strength, ears could be beaten to deaf.

His heart raced not only from war, but from uncertainty and it drove him wild. Drumming away between his ears, he was scared. He was terrified. He was getting enraged. It couldn’t be that she had fallen, that the enemy had taken her, sweeping her life off this ground.

He kept calling for her, his voice trying to echo across the massacred field. It strained him - his anxiety creeping through as his world slowed down, almost to a halt. He could feel it in the back of his throat. His voice cracking as the worse played itself in front of him, blinding him from reality.

She was nowhere to be seen and nowhere to be heard.

      She was down against the grass, her body bathing in mud and blood, the stench of dead bodies suffocating her.

She could always take men that were bigger than her - it was cocky to think that way, but she knew herself too well.

And it almost killed her.

In the middle of it all, she thought she had slain yet another opponent, cutting him frontward, backwards and then down to his legs, forcing him to fall. But instead of crashing to the ground, he was back up on his feet. She had already turned around, ready to fight the next big Dane, but unfortunately, she was pushed on her back.

The stranger grabbed her from her collar, holding her from behind and yanked her down, her back hitting the rough ground with brutal force. The gesture cut off her breath from her lungs. It left her disoriented for a moment until she saw his axe swinging her way.

She caught the weapon with the head of the blade resting between her hands, as they touched its shoulder. She could feel the edge pushing down on her face, the sharp end tickling her skin. With all her might, she tried to push it away - if the cost were her fingers, then so be it. She just had to get out.

The maniacal laugh he was emanating gave her the strength she needed to push him out. She used her legs to kick him off her; one to the knee, the other straight between his legs. By shock, he dropped the weapon and with its loosened grip, she was able to hold it steady and position it to her advantage.

It was still a tough fight.

Once she was able to get back on her feet, she got hit right in the face. She felt her nose take a hit as it cracked; blood was dripping down to her chin.

It was hearing his voice calling out for her that distracted her.

She could sense the desperation in the tone and it tore her apart.

She had to survive. She wanted to survive - for him. She whispered his name between her own lips, not able to gather the energy to call out for him.

She needed him, and the slow realization left her begging for his help with no way of speaking up.

The hit to the nose resonated to her head, adding to the pounding headache she was already carrying from falling on the ground.

She could barely make any sense of what was happening anymore. It was only when a sharp pain throbbed across her body that it woke her up.

Her opponent had caught her again. He nicked her neck with a dagger; a step closer and she would’ve been gone.

She punched him across the face, hoping to phase him enough that she could pick up her sword and ram it straight through him.

Once she did, he fell to his knees. She kicked him, forcing him out.

She moved on to the next and fought again, as weapons caught onto her. Big or small, her skin was taking streaks of wounds, leaving her vulnerable enough to join the dead.  

She wasn’t giving up. She needed Finan.

Out of breath, she kept going, all in the hopes she would prevail and find him.

      They couldn’t yet tell if this battle was coming to an end, but the dread of her possible death was driving him insane.

It left a taste in his mouth he never wanted.

Distraught, his emotions had taken over; his sanity was losing its grip to reality, his heart wrenching in his chest. His voice carried across the field the best he could. Like a prayer, her name fluttered through the wind, trying to find her and still hoping it wasn’t too late.

Finan was at a complete loss.

Where could she have gone? Maybe she backed out - or maybe she was down and dead, he thought.

Grunting for force, yelling for assurance, his body kept him busy. Sword in his hand, he fought left and right, front and back, slaying one Dane after the other. He needed victory against the enemy.

With faith stuck at his neck, he begged his God that the woman he cared for was alright. He begged, his whispers shadowed in the fight, that she was still alive and fighting just as he was.

It wasn’t their first battle together; they’ve fought side by side before and always made it through. But the gut feeling residing in him made room for his anxiety to cripple him.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

She was sometimes impossible; infuriating even. She was stubborn and sometimes reckless. She was fearless, and yet gentle. She had a touch that could either melt a thousand men or bring them to their knees, begging for their lives.  

There were more reasons to love her. He couldn’t depart from it; it was like she stuck to him, every part of her body and soul intertwining with him.

The words were never spoken, but they still stood by each other’s side - mute, but not blind. It was an invisible thread pulling and pushing but never breaking them apart.

      “Freya!”

Piles of bodies were scoured across the open field, their blood tainting Mother Nature’s body.

The noise had quietened down; only the victors remained as they gathered the prisoners and tended to the wounded.

He was stumbling across the dead, searching through the fallen faces to find her.

It was a dreadful maze, an overwhelming route to nothing. And yet, he wasn’t giving up. How could he when she was still out there? How could he stop searching when the woman he loved seemed to have disappeared forever?

Frantic to his core, only his voice deafened the silence surrounding the world.

“Freya!”

His knees were about to cave in, guiding him downwards; his brother by his side, Sihtric held the man up with an arm around the danish warrior’s shoulders as he was carried away back to the main grounds. However, Finan forced himself still. His eyes were still looking, still wandering. “Where did she go?”

To his hushed tone, his inquiry came with no answers.

The silence hugged the air. Hopelessness was crawling up inside him, shaking his body.

Sihtric then spoke up. “Finan.” He placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder for attention. “Look.” He gestured to turn and watch the horizons.

Lifting his head, he saw her.

Finally.

Finally, she graced his view with her survival.

Her body was covered in scratches from head to toe as she silently made her way to him and the others. She remained speechless.

They had won, and she couldn’t bother dancing to victory as her heart wore her heavy, its weight dragging her towards the mudded grass.

He should’ve felt relieved - she was safe and out of harms way. But for some reason, his heart still broke at his sight; he was troubled, on the verge of anger, of frustration.

She could hear him call her name as he ran towards her.

She tried to speed up her steps but did not have the energy to pursue.

“Where have you been?! You made me believe you were dead!” He burst out without thought. He was completely exhausted, but he couldn’t stop himself. “I couldn’t find you! I-I was worried sick!” He didn’t even stop to take a breath, he kept going without holding back. “What the hell were ya thinking?!”

She was watching him, her eyes following the traces of his features as he expressed his worry and his anger, his voice tone increasing slowly.

She could tell he had gotten scared. It was the way he was staring at her that gave it away.

He was still rambling; she wasn’t paying attention to his words anymore when she dropped her weapons. She then took his hand and gently placed it on her chest, right where her heart stood, holding him in place.

She still did not speak, letting his voice carry both of them.

The realization slowly hit; her heart raced against the palm of his hand, he started to calm down.

He was catching his breath, his chest heaving up and down.

Tensions were still running high when comfort softly slipped in. She was standing in front of him, alive.

She bore bruises like the rest of them, and he couldn’t look away.

As his left arm still held her, his right hand wandered to her wounds. His fingers gently traced the small cut on her head, down to her broken nose and then to her neck. Only then, when his arm kept following the limbs of her body did she wince at the touch under her waist.

Her voice barely made a sound but Finan knew something was wrong; she had tightened her grip on his hand, her eyes closed as her body took in the pain that waved across her.

He looked down to notice the blood slowly slithering down her hip to her leg, then down to the mud.

She tried wearing a reassuring smile, something to ease his discomfort.

“Finan…”

It was muttered, delicate; hearing his name roll across her tongue, he could almost cry. He could feel the tears prickling the corner of his eyes, his browns gazing at her.

Freya took one step closer, wanting to feel his warmth - the sign he still lived - against her own body. To feel the spark bursting from his skin to hers; the thought of it accelerated her heart rate. Oh, did she love this man.

He wanted to kiss her. The sheer need of it, the wanting and desperation that crept out of him could turn a person blind.

And yet, he didn’t dare. It was too good to be true, right? The darkest part of him was playing mind tricks. It was mischievous, treacherous even.

But he could feel her breath against him. Her lips so close to his, one move and he could take her right there and then.

But again, nothing happened.

They stood still, like time itself.

The sun was peaking high up, lighting up the sky to its prettiest of blue and they did not move.

It was cold. Her skin shivered as their breaths crowded the space between them.

His eyes were still gawking at the wound on the right side of her waist - it couldn’t have been that bad since she was still on her two feet. A few inches deeper and she would’ve been cold in his arms.

She sensed his distress. His breathing was catching up to him, making him dizzy.

He tried to speak but the words were stuck in his throat this time.

His hand was still pressed against her chest when she reached for him; her hands carrying his head as she leaned towards him, their foreheads pressed against one another and bringing their bodies closer together. It was her way of telling him ‘I’m safe, I’m here’, of telling him she was spared.

She felt the tingle at the edge of her lips; he stood so close and yet he was so far away.

They stayed like this for a little while longer - the rest of the group let them be, not daring to interrupt the moment.

The sentiment they felt for each other, the unspoken words that draped their skins and wrapped them tightly against one another, held them strong.

      The noise of the war was gone.

They were the only two people left in this place.

These unspoken words were dancing across their lingering touch, the ghostly tingle carrying them on into another day, until the next battle, and the one after that.

They were here, voiceless - closed up to the physical world around them.

But with Finan, with her, unspoken words were enough.

They always knew what they meant to each other and that was okay.

Looking into the future was a dangerous game, and so they let it be.

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

xoxo,

[kovacs-of-courage]

Eclipse AU(Tldr at bottom of post_

So I made a modern-sort of percy jackson inspired AU for Linked Universe, I think it's fun to write! I hope other people enjoy it. Here's my weird rough summary. Willing to answer any and all questions!

The Chain are lost in time, trapped in an unending cycle of life and death. A familiar tale to the hero's spirit. In their last confrontation with the incarnations of demise, and the demons he commanded--the whole of reality went asunder, and the power of the gods shattered entirely.

After that confrontation--the nine embodiments of the hero’s spirit suffered the same fate as their homeland--their souls washed away in caskets of golden tears and failed promises.

Hyrule was wiped away, wiped from the face of history and beyond. The goddesses had to begin their creation anew, without the baggage of those that caused it’s destruction in the first place.

Earth, modern earth, was created in it’s place--with a few key changes.

For all their efforts--the remains of their first creation leaked through, infecting the history of our earth like vile rot. The monsters were the first to make the breach, their combined hatred and inhuman will to survive holding their corrupted essences together through the transition.

There are stories of these creatures, often disregarded as exaggerated hyperbole by historians, or metaphors for natural disasters. 

They were not.

The Queen Gohma haunts the jungles of South America, legends of her urchin-like young making victims of unfortunate wanderers; sustaining her immortal lifespan in the depths of her hollowed tree.

Argorok terrorized the skies of medieval Europe, casting plumes of fire on the feudal armies that tried opposing it’s oppressive reign; her accompanying packs of gleeoks hunting ancient sailors in the atlantic.

And there were many, so many more monsters that endured the chaotic folding of time and space, the near-annihilation of any sense of self--as the mind and soul were put to battle against the last, drawn out gasps of their dying universe. The destruction was biblical, the return of gods seen only in legend--it’s a wonder that anything survived that cataclysm.

The chain suffered a similar fate--at first--their existence and histories torn apart atom by atom, their souls stretched paperthin as thought and reality blended together during the collapse of stars.

But they endured.

They tumbled through the new cosmos, the echoes of their shared spirit melding into the foundation of the universe--as immovable as gravity. When humanity came to prominence; the chain were there to follow. They were reborn, stripped of their memories, into a thousand different societies, and countless eras.

At times of crises and devastation; their nine courageous souls were reborn across the earth, their courage burning brighter than it had been before. They were prepared for the changing world, their skills old and new continuing with each reset.

There are some echoes of continuity, however, rules that their spirit must follow.

Twilight is related to time in some way, and they’re the two who meet again the most. 

Wind is always born in sea-faring communities, whether that be in the literal age of pirates, or as an early tribesmen at the dawn of civilization--rediscovering his aptitude for sailing.

And as the chain have been reborn, so too have many of Hyrule’s legends, their essences bleeding forth onto our realm. The memory of that primeval history scars our world, and fragments of every era hides under the bustling, nation-states of our modern age.

Some more aware than others.

Those with the blood of Hylia returned, bringing the memory of their goddess with them--thought to be eradicated. They possess no royal heritage, living as normal citizens, the zeldas being born nearby their links.

The sheikah bounced back quickly, as Impa(SS) managed to come out of the transition with her memories intact--assembling her fractured tribe during the stone ages. 

TLDR: Modern AU that’s sort of percy jackson in how Hyrule seeps over. Ancient things hidden in modern times, with the chain reborn worldwide.