#and it's such a monumental piece of proof
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Hey! Strap in guys, it's byler music analysis time.
So, was somebody going to tell me that Being Different (from the van scene) and The First Lie / The First I love You ARE FUCKING IDENTICAL TRACKS??? OR WAS I JUST SUPPOSED TO LEARN HOW TO EDIT AUDIO TO FIGURE THAT OUT MYSELF???
LISTEN TO THIS!!!!
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I thought they sounded similar, but I had no idea that mixing them would give me something this amazing. I didn't do any editing to these tracks other than adjusting the tempo, balancing the volume, and clipping off the ends.
So then you're telling me the track that plays while Will is pouring his heart out to Mike in the van. It syncs up perfectly with the track that plays when Robin comes out to Steve? With the track that plays when El tells Mike she loves him for the first time? With the track that plays when Jonathan and Nancy first get together?? That these songs and their associated scenes are clearly and deliberately tied to themes of romance and/or queerness in every instance, and that the result of mixing the songs together is something agonizingly beautiful, like they complete each other, like they were meant to be the other half of the words left unsaid? YOU'RE TELLING ME that the names of these songs are The First Lie, The First I love You, and Being Different?
excuse me while I go into cardiac arrest. ahem.
It's a through-thread that's impossible to ignore once you see it. Idk about you, but my third eye is wide fucking open right now and all it sees is byler endgame and a kiss scene in the pouring rain as a final variation of these tracks swells in the background, finally complete with all its parts in sync, finally with its full potential realized, finally seeing this arc to its well-deserved conclusion. Somebody sedate me I'm going insane.
(Some extra rambling about combining the tracks under the cut)
Being Different has, from what I can tell, three distinct segments if you listen to the original. The track starts off with these long, droning tones, slowly building in intensity as time goes on. Then, around the 1:10 mark, the second segment introduces the melody of eight (four? sixteen? idk, however you want to count it) repeating notes that originally tipped me off to its similarities with the other two tracks. (Just listen, you'll hear it!) This is the segment that I used in the mashups. At 2:32, that melody is suddenly overtaken by some audio distortion and reversed instruments, and fades out to leave us with the rest of the song.
So since the tracks are drastically different lengths, I had to cut off the beginning & end of Being Different, because The First Lie / I love You matched best only with that middle section. Just fyi.
But other than that, what you see is what I did, nothing more. I cannot stress that enough. Go listen to each of the songs on their own, and then come back and realize that I didn't splice anything, I didn't go in and sneakily add a couple extra bars to either track. They just work like that.
It's literally "yeah you can copy my homework just don't make it too obvious" levels of subtlety going on here. Same key, same number of repetitions, the way it's not just a parallel it's a PERFECT COPY- they go quiet and then crescendo and switch between variations of the melody at the same time and I am losing my mind.
If I'm remembering this correctly, The First I love You was a bit too long, so I had to trim off a part of the end in order to prevent it from spilling past the threshold of the second segment of Being Different. But The First Lie specifically was EXACTLY as long as that segment. Note-for-note. Like they just took The First Lie, without cutting it down at all, reworked it a bit, added some extra stuff on the ends, and put it in the van scene. To tell you I was flabbergasted does not come anywhere close to the reaction I had when I realized how well these tracks fit together.
And a little something I noticed while I was looking for a good version of each of the songs to use- The First I love You, from El's love confession scene to Mike in season 3, pay attention and you'll see that "love" is never capitalized in the title of the song. Not on Spotify, not on Youtube, not on Wikipedia, I couldn't find a single official source that capitalized "love", which is WEIRD because all the other songs have consistently capitalized every word in their titles! I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions from that but all I'm saying is... I'm pretty certain it was on purpose. Do with that information what you will.
#there's no way i was the first person to mix these tracks#right??#there's NO way#but i've never seen anyone bring this up before#and it's such a monumental piece of proof#anyway i've been chased away from ST reddit so hi guys i'm here now#seriously stay away they are out for blood and will gleefully disembowel any unassuming byler they find#i tried to post one of the track mixes with the simple caption:#Mashup between The First Lie (Season 2) and Being Different (Season 4)#AND THE MODS REMOVED IT DJFHDSKFHDJ#they didn't specify a reason#only AFTER i pushed they said it was for the watermark & link at the corner of the video#which does technically break one of the rules... even though the point is to prevent self promo... which i was not doing LMAO#byler analysis#byler proof#byler music#mike wheeler#will byers#stranger things#byler#soundtrackgate
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so some while ago i made a playlist of songs that remind me of sunny or are just cringe ass songs about romance and "eiji" and "hometown" are in it. if i ever show it to him, i know he'll never understand how much it means, including songs from banana fish
#a music box version of tloz title theme is in it too#same with a couple songs from the sk8 ost#(proof i am whipped)#but those two songs from the bfish ost ??#fucking monumental#my sunshine#SO IS CRYSTALLINE#bro the connection i have with sunny and certain pieces of media#like killing stalking and dmmd#is insane#its such an important thing to me ???#its impossible to explain#but dmmd + ks = sunny#like Yes#these medias Are Yours
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“I used to wonder about this place,” Robin tells Eddie as they lounge on the couch, looking up at Steve’s pristine ceiling, not a cobweb in sight.
“Huh?”
Robin smirks knowingly. “Come on, you must have wondered, too.” She puts on a hushed voice of mock reverence. “The King of Hawkins High roaming these hallowed halls… if walls could speak…”
Eddie snorts. “Those are some pretty words, Buckley,” he says, and he knows that even this tease is pretty much a confession that he’d once thought similar things.
“I used to imagine his parties,” Robin continues, “and think that he’d no doubt break some priceless heirloom, like…” She nods at a horrendously ugly vase. “And then he’d have to hurry and clean it all up before mom and dad noticed.” She looks at Eddie head-on, all joking dropped, and Eddie suddenly suspects that she has planned this conversation. “I was wrong.”
She’s lowered her voice, and the two of them simultaneously glance over to make sure Steve can’t hear; he’s completely unaware, trying to shove a still chattering Dustin off the kitchen countertop.
“What part?” Eddie asks quietly.
Robin sighs heavily. “He never needed to hurry, Eddie,” she says slowly, deliberately, like she’s saying something else. Eddie listens close until he can hear it: No-one was ever coming to see the mess. They’re never fucking here.
He looks over at Steve again, smiling brightly in the spotless kitchen; and, unbidden, he thinks of Chrissy, of how loneliness is not always obvious.
Robin knocks her foot gently against Eddie’s. He had spent arguably the worst and best week of his life being surprised by Steve Harrington, but this feels different, a quieter yet more monumental change: like Robin has trusted him, shared a missing puzzle piece from a darkened corner.
“What should we do?” he whispers.
Robin smiles, bittersweet. “Make a mess?” she says, shrugs. “Not broken vases or anything. It’s… it’s proof, I think.”
“Of what?” Eddie says. Steve’s laughter travels across—“I swear to God, Henderson, get your nasty shoes off there,”—and Eddie watches as Steve taps at Dustin’s muddy footprints left on the counter, and not even a show of exasperation can hide his fondness.
Eddie can’t help but love him.
“That we’re here,” Robin answers softly. “That we’re staying.”
#steddie ficlet#steddie fic#steddie#steve x eddie#steve harrington#eddie munson#robin buckley#eddie x steve#eddie and robin#steve and robin
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Pairing: max verstappen x male reader (could be read by masc presenting people)
Summary: sometimes things go right in the moment but will they always be right? can they survive through the hardships of love? can their love hold the test of a treacherous path of love?
a/n: part 4 is here, i just wanted to take a moment and just say thank you to everyone showing love to all of my fics and yeah i hope you enjoy it :)
-> do not repost, copy or translate my works nor post them anywhere else. Read at your own risk. Reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated.
[series masterlist]
www.formula1news/redbulldriversinaromanticrelationship
Prepare yourselves for a revelation that could rock the foundations of the racing world. Fresh off yesterday's adrenaline-pumping race, an anonymous source has spilled the beans with compelling evidence, painting a scandalous picture of Redbull's rivalry duo. Forget podium celebrations; the two Redbull drivers weren't just celebrating their victories to an entirely unexpected level, engaging in intimate moments, sharing more than just victories. Brace yourselves, folks, because it appears the track rivalry has taken an unexpected turn into the realm of romance.
The whispers of the newfound romance between the two Redbull drivers are rippling through the media. Forget the professional facade; it seems that the thrill of victory has ignited a different kind of spark between the two Redbull racers. The photos and evidence speak volumes, capturing elusive moments that beg the question: are they more than just teammates?
In the cutthroat world of Formula 1, where rivalries are forged on the track, this off-track revelation is bound to send shockwaves. 'Friends' don't usually blur the lines between celebration and intimacy, and this newfound closeness could spell trouble for the Redbull team. With both star drivers romantically entangled, the impact on their on-track performance and the team dynamic is poised to be nothing short of sensational this season.
As the smokescreen of camaraderie lifts, the real question arises: will the on-track rivalry morph into a personal one? The last race already provided a glimpse into the friction between the drivers, and it seems the drama is just getting started. Will the asphalt become the stage for not only racing prowess but also a battleground for love and tension?
And let's not forget the intrigue surrounding Y/n, whose rumoured involvement with the Redbull driver were put to rest by his manager a couple seasons ago. One cannot help but think could this 'relationship' be the catalyst behind Y/n's abrupt shift from Ferrari to Redbull? The pieces of this scandalous puzzle are falling into place, unveiling a narrative that transcends the not so typical drama of the racing world.
Examining their career trajectories adds fuel to the fire. Y/n's journey began with a bang, securing P2 in his final Formula 2 race before joining McLaren in the 2016 season. After a brief stint, he spent seven years with Ferrari before the unexpected transfer to Redbull. Max, on the other hand, made his Formula 1 debut with Scuderia Toro Rosso in 2015, solidifying his place with Redbull in 2016 and staying put ever since.
The burning question remains: will this on-and-off track relationship sizzle into an exhilarating love story, or will it flame out in spectacular fashion? The impact on team dynamics and on-track relationships is poised to be monumental. Fasten your seatbelts, F1 fans – the next race might just be the battleground for love, rivalry, and everything in between. What are your predictions for this unprecedented twist in the Redbull saga? Share your thoughts as we watch this high-speed drama unfold on and off the track.
i haven't proof read this so if there were any mistakes, i'm sorry. But i hope you all enjoyed this, it took alot of effort and i'm very excited to post this. I hope you all have a wonderful day/night ❤️
tag list: @leosxrealm, @miloformula123fan
(you can send in an ask to be added to the tagging list)
#eli writes#f1 x male reader#x male reader#x ftm reader#f1 instagram au#f1 imagine#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 social media au#f1 smau#max verstappen x ftm reader#max verstappen x male reader#max verstappen#treacherous fic
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𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯
pairing: anakin skywalker x jedi!fem!reader
summary: in the soul-shattering aftermath of geonosis, anakin finds solace in forbidden affection, risking everything for a stolen moment under the moonlight.
warnings: angst, ptsd, trauma, phantom pains. anakin just needs a hug.
wc: 4k+ oneshot
a/n: this is mainly written from anakin's pov and detailing his thoughts. i was just craving an angst fest don't mind me.
likes and reblogs deeply appreciated :) inbox is open! enjoy <3
The light-polluted nights of Coruscant were not very kind to the Chosen One.
It was becoming a ritual: stirring at the latest hour in a sweat in the night. Almost an hourly occurrence. Poor Anakin would cry out, reaching for the ghost of an arm that was no longer there. The memories of the dreadful incident came around often like an old acquaintance, one who didn't quite get the hint that their presence was not wanted.
The terrors were definitely unwanted. Each nightmare that plagued his mind, almost every waking moment, every phantom pain was a painstaking reminder of his own incompetence. He was too weak, too blind to stop what happened. The flash of the red saber. The brief, agonizing, piercing hot sensation in his right arm followed by a sharp breeze. The unmistakable smell of his own charred flesh. The events of Geonosis were far too grisly to forget. The monstrous nature of his failure grasped and invaded his mind with its tendrils, ensuring nothing but pain as it threatened to pull him down under.
What made matters worse was the useless words of the Jedi Council when he sought their advice. Anakin nearly trudged out of the Council Room in laughter. Did they know how ridiculous they sounded? Firstly, he couldn't confide in anyone or simply desire their comfort. Secondly, his own limbs were considered part of things that he couldn't stay attached to, and the young Jedi found that piece of grim advice hilarious. He wondered if their powers with the Force and their lightsabers were the only reason that they were respected.
The cybernetic arm that he was given only did so much. It functioned like a normal arm and hand; it simulated the sense of touch. It was a piece of technology revered by many and saved those who used it. Whenever he retired to his quarters, he would simply stare at it, desperately hoping that it would complete him, hoping that the many credits invested into his new limb would save his soul from the relentless torment that lurked whenever the sun when down.
It was never the same. How could it ever be the same? Despite the fact that Dooku had severed his right arm, Anakin felt like he had broken his whole body and spirit. One would describe his state as one of constant grieving, for his arm, for himself. He dreaded training, missions, meditating. Eating seemed to be a monumental chore for the boy who was destined to save the galaxy.
His body was at a disconnect with his own mind, and no amount of tinkering or relentless practice with the replacement would help. It was like everyone else was above ground, moving at a normal pace, and he was stuck at the bottom of the ocean, unable to control the chaos of the water around him.
He had hoped that the nightly perils would cease in their frequency with time. As the years passed, his hope diminished, at the very least wishing that he could get used to the feeling.
On another lonely, sleepless night, Anakin had woken from phantom pain. Defeated, he slid himself off the edge of his bed, letting his body slump to the floor. He was the phrase 'human wreck' incarnate, his now grown-out hair askew; sweat and tears mingling as they slid down his face and neck; the pale, vein-ridden skin of his half-bare body being proof of his negligence towards himself. It was only on occasion that he could sleep alongside the moon, with no troubling thoughts to bother him. The rest of those nights were akin to psychological torture.
"Maybe it was karma for all the times I used the Force to extract a confession from somebody. Is that what that felt like?" he said to himself.
At times, he liked to pause as if there was someone there who would respond.
He wanted a response, longed for someone to just be there. Someone could sit across from him and say that his pain was superficial, that he was being overdramatic, and Anakin would still be grateful for the words. Intimate touch was constantly on his mind; not the kind of touch that led to something amorous, but the kind that could leave his battle-torn skin covered in goosebumps, the kind that would make him hyper-aware of every inch of his body.
He brushed his human fingers over the forearm of his replacement, wanting to know if there was some way he could make himself feel that intimacy. His desperation to simply feel was slowly driving him mad, and he once again let himself lose to his rage. A tear seemed to poetically slip down Anakin's cheek as his sweat-ridden fingers fumbled around with the latches, dislodging his mechno-arm and flinging it towards his wall with enough strength he could muster. A pained grunt escaped his lips.
As it slammed against the wall, it made a loud, yet unsatisfying 'thud'. Some of the casing popped off, the wires and inner mechanisms becoming exposed as it fell unceremoniously to the floor. The emotional toll and the sudden action it wrought had left Anakin out of breath. His glossy eyes trailed from the wreckage down to the emptiness where it should have been, and at that moment, he felt truly pathetic. He desperately wanted to blame anything else, but it seemed that with every obstacle, he only had himself to blame. Did he truly deserve this? He started to believe so.
It was then that his ears picked up a soft knock at his door. Anakin had shot up from his seat on the floor, hurrying over to retrieve his arm and fix it back into place. Disoriented from the absence of sleep, he managed to trudge his way to his door, carefully watching his own feet so he wouldn't stumble. Almost like a child.
When he opened the door, the last thing he expected was to see her. Why was she even here this late at night? She didn't even live in this part of the Knights' Billet. Had one of the masters sent her? Her expression and her body language were timid, seemingly afraid to cross the line; but her ever-so-captivating eyes shone with curiosity. Anakin caught those eyes trying to sneak a glance behind him, tilting his head as he made himself comfortable leaning against his doorway.
"Did someone send you? Tell them I'm not in the mood," he said rather curtly without another glance, taking a step back as he moved to close the door. He was growing exhausted with how the Jedi expected so much of him but didn't even respect him.
Her hand seemed to spring out to hold the door open in retaliation. He was growing tired of the antics, ready to glare her down with daggers, until he saw something different in the girl. Her stance was firm as she held open the door. He saw that her eyes held a brewing mix of resolve and desperation as if silently pleading for him to hear her out.
"I was walking by, and I heard a noise. Are you okay?"
Time seemed to stop as she voiced her concern, leaving Anakin breathless once again. There was an undeniable pang in his heart, threatening to set loose what had been building up inside of him. Any other day, he would've brushed her off and forced the door shut without a care in the world. She was jeopardizing her place in the Jedi Order, and his as well. How could she afford to be so careless?
So careless about her duties…but she cared about him.
Struggling to voice his answer, he found himself nearly paralyzed with uncertainty, not knowing how to proceed. The mere act of them meeting this late at night had already broken so many rules...but was he willing to sacrifice some rules to save his own sanity? He saw a look of pity flash over her eyes, and he stayed frozen as she quietly shuffled in, closing the door behind her in a similar matter.
Anakin was sure about the fact that he needed someone to confide in, to share his agony, to comfort his long-tortured soul. It was only until she had uttered her first words to him that night that it dawned on him: she would see him as weak, and not the Chosen One. The dichotomy of his needs and fears clashed about in his brain. He needed a companion, but he was afraid of losing her approval, anyone's approval. Everyone's approval.
"What's wrong, Anakin?"
Her voice had cut through the growing torment of his thoughts, leaving it silent, those three words alone threatening to unravel him. He avoided the piercing gaze that was threatening to see right through him.
"Just insomnia," he muttered.
When his eyes returned to her, he immediately knew that his answer wasn't good enough. Who was he kidding? He realized that he hadn't even bothered to look presentable, hair messy and skin glistening with sweat. As if to mock his own thoughts, a gust of air blew in from his conditioning unit, making the tear streaks down his face feel like they were freezing. He watched her carefully as her eyes examined these very things, a flush gracing her cheeks as she briefly glanced at his bare chest. The faint glow of the stars pouring in from the window only seemed to accentuate it, illuminating her skin. She was pretty.
The very thought angered him. Why did beauty distract him so in such a vulnerable moment of his life? It was a weakness he was not proud of, not only because it represented what he could not have, but what he struggled to be himself. Every rule in his life seemed like it was set in place to keep him from having beauty, being beautiful. He couldn't help but break those rules as his eyes raked over her figure. He saw how her hair cascaded down to delicately frame her face, skin that was once covered modestly by Jedi robes, eyes that seemed to tantalize him even if her intentions meant otherwise.
Would it be so terrible if he indulged in these desires in his moment of need?
Anakin shook his head to his own thoughts, causing her to tilt hers in confusion. Of course, it would be terrible, but why was it terrible in the first place? He was suffering, feeling pathetic with his appearance and in his mind. It was not terrible to need someone, but why was guilt beginning to consume these selfish desires? Maybe it was terrible to need her. He barely knew her, and she took the same vows as he did.
"I understand," she whispered, seeming rather awkward and sheepish compared to before. She avoided his gaze as she turned her back on him. As she began to reach for the doorknob, Anakin was surprised to see that she hesitated. Was it too hopeful to think that she felt the same? He called out for her, more despairingly than he intended to.
"Wait, I..." He hesitated, not sure if he wanted to take the plunge. It would be the start of a slippery slope he couldn't hope to dig her or himself out of. He knew that if he tried, it would be futile, so that must've been why he had the nagging feeling that he didn't even want out.
"I need you here."
He watched closely as her brows furrowed and her grip on the doorknob tensed, immediately realizing that his request might have been too bold, to say the least. His gaze fell to the floor as a wave of humiliation washed over him. If she had run off at that moment, he would've understood. However, as he gathered the courage to look up once more, he saw that she had stood still, eyes continuing to prod him for a better explanation. Swallowing the ever-growing lump in his throat, he leaned against the wall of his dormitory as he tried to find the words that would lead him down the slope. If it meant that he could find peace for one night, one hour, or even one minute, so be it.
"I need you here because…I am cursed. I'm cursed with an affliction I can't ever hope to cure. I feel like I'm at war with myself, and it haunts me to my soul."
Anakin paused, subconsciously holding his breath, unsure if he wanted to continue. All of this was most likely too heavy to hear, especially since she barely knew him. Did she care?
At that moment, as if to answer his silent query, she stepped forward and placed herself in front of him, standing so close he felt the warmth of her body. The scent of her freshly-washed hair polluted his senses, leaving him feeling melancholy. He watched in a trance as her brows furrowed in worry, tentatively lifting up her hand. Her fingers gently prodded at his cybernetic, outlining the broken casing. Once her curious eyes rose back up to meet his, there was a silent acknowledgment. Understanding. It gave him the push to keep going, to muster the strength to hold open the floodgates of his heart. He stopped holding his breath, his sorrowful gaze falling to the floor.
“I'm...completely lost. I've strayed so far from the path of the Jedi that I can no longer see it…and I am afraid I don't even want it. I'm constantly told that I shouldn't feel this way...that hurting is selfish, and that I should focus on the needs of others before my own, to live up to my prophecy," Anakin muttered, his tone turning bitter and his brows furrowing in anger at the last word.
"But how can I do that when I am disconnected from myself? When I don’t feel like the Chosen One? I don’t feel like anyone is choosing me.”
Anakin’s eyes traveled up her figure once more, her minuscule and simple movements making them glaze over with desperation. He found the way her shoulders gradually moved up and down with each breath captivating, the flutter of her lashes with each blink. He took her by the hand that was calmly tracing his forearm, enveloping it firmly in his. She watched him as her breath halted in suspense, her fingers seeming hesitant to move.
“I need you here, not because I expect you to fix me, but because I just need someone. Anyone. I need you to choose me, to touch me,” he whispered, his voice shaking as he watched her lace her fingers with his own. “Please, I need this...bittersweet taste of relief. I can't bear this alone anymore.”
After what seemed like an eternity of silence with their hands in each other’s, she let go, much to Anakin’s chagrin. However, she lifted her hand once again, gradually bringing her hand to his chest, laying it flat above his heart. The sensation sent waves of warmth across the bare skin of his chest, the rippling feeling leaving goosebumps in its wake. He was certain that she could feel the deafening pounding of his heart. A faint gasp left his lips as she began to slide her hand down to his abdomen, his muscles in that area tensing. He didn’t expect to feel this hyper-sensitive to someone’s touch.
She flinched a little at his reaction, causing her to stop her motions. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she looked up at him timidly.
“Is that okay?” she asked, her voice unsure, as if she was testing the waters.
Hearing her words, Anakin’s vision was obscured by his own tears…tears of relief. He savored the straining feeling in his chest and throat as he fought to hold back his sobs, thankful he was even feeling anything like that at all. A slow blink of his eyes betrayed him as a brief stream of hot tears slid down his cheeks, which she quickly wiped away with her free hand. She seemed rather flustered when that very action caused more tears to fall in succession, awkwardly wiping more tears as quickly as she should.
The act made Anakin chuckle briefly, nearly surprising himself with the sound. It seemed to surprise her too, in turn making her laugh along with him. Realizing that this warming feeling was contagious, they both began to erupt into giggling fits, ending with a hush from her, muttering something about “quiet hours”. Though it had seemed silly, Anakin had wished they never stopped.
Again, damn the Jedi with all their rules.
During her stay, they sat together at the foot of his bed as Anakin slowly began to unravel the darkness that had been plaguing him since Geonosis. They spoke in hushed murmurs, afraid that someone might find them together. Their conversation would cease at the mere sound of a distant footstep, the creak of the conditioning vent, and muffled voices from the other side of his dorm wall.
However, Anakin thought all the sneaking around to be worth it. Her presence and her conversation proved to help more than he could have hoped for. Soon enough, he was pleading for her to come back the next night. A shy expression overtook her features. Something around the lines of “You like me that much?” was uttered, and those very words ignited the beginning of an insatiable fire within him. Her wide, curious, and sparkling eyes continued to feed that very fire.
Anakin wasn’t too sure when he started to kiss her.
He wasn’t even aware of when they had closed so much distance between each other. However, her receptiveness pushed those questions far away, his thoughts taking form in the shape of her. A rush of emotions flooded through him, momentarily drowning out the misery that consumed his existence. In that singular, stolen moment, he felt a profound peace, something that he thought he might never experience again.
Every touch, every gentle brush against him sent electric currents coursing through his body. His senses were enveloped by her, reveling in the taste of her, the softness of her lips, the warmth of her breath mingling with his. Her hands began to clutch onto his frame desperately, her nails digging in and leaving red trails in their wake. The world around him slowly began to fade into insignificance, his focus narrowing to the raw sensation of being alive, of feeling something so intensely beautiful.
For that fleeting moment, Anakin allowed himself to be consumed by this sinful, blissful indulgence of the present. It was a sanctuary from his own mind. After a lifetime of monochrome, he was overjoyed to feel anything at all. It was a bittersweet joy, knowing that this kiss was fleeting, and that it came at a heavy cost.
As their lips reluctantly parted, Anakin’s mind was only filled with anticipation for the next. He watched her, his eyes filled with a mixture of reluctance and longing, as she began to pull away, her breath slightly ragged. A part of him wants to hold onto her desperately, to stop the inevitable departure.
“Wait,” he called out, his voice feeble and vulnerable as he cautiously took her hand in his. “I-i…don’t want you to go. This is…it's everything to me.”
Anakin hated how desperate he sounded in his pleas, embarrassed at the state Geonosis had reduced him to. He almost despised the fact that he needed this…that the Chosen One needed someone else to feel so alive. But the way she flooded his mind was such a high for him, and he never wanted to come down.
“Please,” he begged, his voice nearly giving out as his eyes began to glisten. “I know the risk you’d be taking, but…one more night, please. The same time, tomorrow night. We can figure out what to do then.”
He watched as her resolve wavered, noting the longing in her eyes. Anakin knew she felt a pull to him as well, it’s what caused her to come and investigate him in the first place. As she took a deep breath, his thoughts came to a halt, ensuring utter silence to hear what she had to say.
“Okay, Skywalker. One more night. But…if we get caught, it’s on you,” she scolded, her arms crossing.
Anakin found her attitude endearing, answering her with a simple nod. Despite her playful nature, he understood the weight of her words. He leaned in, allowing his forehead to rest against hers, enjoying the subtle heat that radiated from her, a stark contrast to the cold room they were in.
Pulling away with a lingering touch and a final gaze, they parted ways. As the door closed behind her, a profound sense of emptiness washed over Anakin. Her absence only made him feel the weight of his desperation. The taste of her still lingered on his lips, and it nearly made him want to throw the door open and chase after her. However, as much as he desired that, he couldn’t bring himself to.
As he returned to his empty bed, he decided he would just have to wait until she would return, his newly found moonlight, who had illuminated his dark and harrowing night, who had caused the waves in his heart to surge and swell.
He found comfort in the fact that the moon would always return to the sky.
-
As each night passed, their next clandestine meeting was what occupied Anakin’s thoughts. Every single moment until then felt like an eternity, nearly stretching his patience to the limit. His thoughts were never without her.
It was especially bad whenever he would sit in the Temple’s garden and meditate with Obi-Wan.
The afternoon after that encounter with her, Anakin and Obi-Wan sat cross-legged across from each other, eyes closed as they sought inner peace with the Force.
Anakin struggled to quiet his mind, to let go of the constant longing that plagued him. He tried focusing on his breathing, to sink into stillness, but the image of her under the moon invaded his every thought. Her face, her touch, her taste, her warmth–it consumed his mind like a raging wildfire.
As Obi-Wan searched through his own mind, he couldn’t help but sense a disturbance. A subtle ripple, a flicker of distraction that emanated from his young apprentice. His brows furrowed slightly as he tried to search for what was troubling Anakin.
After a while, Obi-Wan slowly opened his eyes, gaze fixed on his padawan as his gentle voice broke the silence. “Anakin, I sense something is weighing on your mind. Is everything alright?”
Anakin’s eyes remained closed, feeling sweat break out on the nape of his neck as he fought to maintain his composure. Why did Obi-Wan even bother asking? He was never going to tell his master, and he knew that. That didn’t prevent the feeling of guilt that started to accompany the flurry of his emotions.
“I’m sorry, Master,” Anakin responded after a beat of silence. “I’m just…worried about my knighthood. That is all.”
Obi-Wan’s expression softened, his eyes taking on a knowing, yet understanding look. Of course, he knew his apprentice hiding something. He would consider himself a bad master otherwise. He could feel the turmoil radiating from Anakin, yet his desire to remain elusive. He wanted to respect his privacy, but his duty as a mentor compelled him to push further.
“Anakin, you know it is one of my many responsibilities to guide and support you, but I cannot do that if you hide things from me,” Obi-Wan said. “Whatever it is, just remember you don’t have to face it alone.”
With that, Anakin’s eyes fluttered open before meeting his master’s, a mixture of guilt and longing to open up to him. He hated that he was in an order where judgment and the potential consequences of desire prevented him from confiding in his mentor, his best friend, his brother.
“Believe me, master, I am more than thankful for your concern. But this…this is something I have to figure out on my own,” Anakin replied, his voice displaying a hint of vulnerability. “I will be fine.”
Obi-Wan sighed inwardly. He knew that part of becoming a Jedi involved navigating your own path, but he couldn’t help but feel like there were deeper issues at play. However, he was willing to let it go for the sake of supporting his apprentice.
“Very well, young Skywalker,” he conceded, a touch of sadness in his voice. He reached over to give a reaffirming pat to Anakin’s shoulder. “I trust that you find your way, as you always do. Don’t forget that I am here, whenever you need me.”
Anakin nodded, letting his eyes fall shut once more as he continued to “meditate”.
Still, his moonlight danced through his mind, and he could only think about how long it would be until he could see her shine again.
a/n: ao3 saw it first! inbox is open!!
#anakin skywalker x reader#anakin skywalker#angst#hurt/comfort#forbidden love#anakin skywalker x fem!reader#anakin skywalker needs a hug#anakin x reader#fem!reader#clone wars#he also needs therapy#and an arm
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Skin Deep IV
Summary: Our favorite psychopaths are back with a plan to get the Sheriff off their tails
Word Count: 4K
Warnings: +18 NSFW, GF!Reader, GF!Tara, violence, smut.
A/N: I forgot how fun it is to write unhinged Tara. Enjoy you gremlins! Also, sorry if my proof reading sucks on this one, I have a date to get ready for tonight!
Part I Part II Part III Part V
Tara is in handcuffs. She’s snarling at the officer with his hands on her shoulders, spitting mad, and struggling with the intensity of a 200 pound linebacker. You can’t move. Your feet are too heavy, your tongue is glued to the roof of your mouth, and your arms are locked at your side.
Your heart begins to race. Your robe rustles in the wind, the mask over your face makes it hard to breathe. You squeeze the handle of the knife in your hand. They can’t see you. You’re standing in the middle of the road. You feel the ground beneath you cracking, opening up around you. You lock eyes with Tara. She can see you.
You shoot up in your bed, gasping for air, soaked in sweat. The sheets and your pillow are cold, damp. Your heart pounds in your chest as your shaking hands run over your face. This is the third night in a row you’ve had this dream.
You take a deep, unsteady breath and roll out of bed. You peel off your wet clothes and pull on a fresh tank top, and sweats. Your hands are beginning to slow their trembling as you tie your shoelaces. The clock on your nightstand reads 1:37 AM.
The house is so quiet it makes your ears ring, making tiptoeing through the hall and down the stairs monumentally difficult. When you slip out the front door, the night air is cool, damp from a rainstorm in the early hours. Your car rumbles to a start, and you freeze, eyeing the second-floor window where your parents are sleeping. The light doesn’t come on, so you put it in drive and let it roll down the driveway, waiting to hit the gas until you’ve slowly rolled down the street.
Tara’s bedroom light is on when you park on the street in front of her house. You sit in the car for a minute, wondering if she’s awake or if she fell asleep with the light on. Her driveway is empty, so you know she’s home alone. You climb out of the car and crane your neck up to look in her window again, and you can see her shadow cross behind the curtains. What she’s doing up is a mystery to you, but you’re glad she is. You want to seek comfort in her. She’s always so sure about everything, so confident in her decisions. It’s just the kind of influence you need after three straight nights of nightmares.
Her front door is unlocked. You let yourself in and turn the lock behind you. She may not worry about someone stumbling in, but you are constantly vigilant. You step out of your shoes and creep up the stairs, avoiding the one you know creaks. The carpet makes it easier than your house to sneak down the hall and peek into her cracked door.
Quiet music is playing from a record player in the corner. Tara is cross-legged on the bed, bobbing her head, a sketchbook in her lap, and a pile of colored pencils splayed out around her. Seeing her like this makes you feel better already. Right now, she’s not a serial killer, a psychopath, or a monster. She’s just Tara Carpenter.
You take stock of how the thought makes you feel. It’s like champagne in your veins, warm and cool at the same time, fizzing in your belly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you might actually be in love with her.
The idea makes the champagne feeling explode, and you’re not sure you like it.
You push the door open and step into the room, waiting for her to jump or bare her teeth in surprise. Instead, she smiles down at her book, not looking up at you, and continues her drawing.
“Hello, y/n.”
You falter, frowning in defeat, “You heard me coming?”
She shrugs and finally looks up at you, pieces of her hair falling into her face.
“Bad dreams?”
“How did you-“
“I’ve been having them too. Well, I assume they’re similar dreams,” she pauses to scratch the tip of her nose with the back of the colored pencil, “come sit and tell me your woes.”
You trudge over and flop on your back next to her, sending the pencils bouncing around the blankets. She swats your leg with the one in her hand, the wood cracking across your thigh with a sting that makes you hiss.
“What’s that for?!” You whine, sitting up to rub your leg.
“If you lose one of my pencils, I will stab you with one,” she tells you, pointing the red pencil between your eyes.
You open your mouth to argue, but she narrows her eyes, and you think better of it, snapping your jaw shut. She smiles, nods once, and turns back to her book. You sigh, gather the pencils around you, and delicately set them between your knees before laying back on her pillow.
“I keep dreaming about you getting arrested.”
She tilts her head, turning one ear toward you. It’s her way of telling you she’s listening without actually facing you.
“I’m always standing in the street, watching it happen, and I can’t do anything about it. It’s like I’m a ghost that only you can see.”
She places her pencil in the spine of her notebook and closes it, setting it aside to turn toward you. Her hand rests over the exact spot she’d hit you, the warmth radiating from her seeping through your sweats.
“Hm. Do you feel relieved? In your dream?” She asks, her eyes soft.
You shake your head no, “I feel angry. Helpless.”
Her lips quirk up at the sides, she seems pleased with your answer. Her hand runs up your leg a few inches.
“I keep seeing us walk out my front door. There are spotlights on us and news crews. Everyone is screaming and wants our autographs. It’s disgusting.” Her face contorts, emphasizing the distaste she has for the idea.
You snort, the image so clear in your head it’s comical. It makes her smile down at you. She scoots up the bed and lays her head on your shoulder, her hand resting on your stomach.
“I would rather die than be in handcuffs, y/n. In fact, if we ever do get caught, I will make sure they kill me.”
“What about me?”
“They’ll kill you too. Or I will.”
You hum in thought, your fingers trailing down her arm. It’s not a terrible idea. A cyanide pill between the teeth of your lover. You find it all very romantic.
“You couldn’t kill me,” you murmur into her hair.
She stiffens, then rolls on top of you with another pencil in her hand. She sits up on your hips, leaving the sharpened edge pressing into the hollow of your throat. You grin like the Cheshire Cat, and she frowns down at you.
“Why are you smiling like that? You look like an idiot.”
“Well, I’ve got you where I want you don’t I?” You say, glancing down at her hips, your hands over her thighs.
Her glare pulls into an unwilling smile. She tries to fight it, but you can see every detail on her face; you have her memorized by now. She makes a show of grinding into you, gasping lightly, and dropping down to leave a soft kiss on your lips.
You’re sure you’re getting lucky until she rolls off of you and begins collecting her pencils. You jut your bottom lip out in a pout and sit up on your elbows, watching her gather her art supplies and leave them on her desk. She glances over and waves you off, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.
“Don’t pout, I’m on my period.”
“So?”
She purses her lips and levels you with an impatient glare, “So, I’m tired and don’t feel like cleaning up a mess. Take your pants off, though, I hate it when you sleep in sweats.”
You huff but do as you’re told, stripping down to your boxers and pulling back her sheets. You’re already over it by the time she crawls into bed next to you, tucking herself into your chest. She falls asleep almost instantly, and before you realize it, your breathing evens out, and for a few blessed hours, your sleep is dreamless.
——
You wake to an empty bed. The pale pink pillow beside you is cold, the sheets pulled back. You roll onto your back, listening for signs of life.
A quiet, distant shuffling catches your attention and the smell of coffee. You close your eyes and stretch with a smile. She’s making you breakfast.
You forgo your sweats and pad down the hall in your underwear, eager to gulp down a mug of coffee and convince Tara to shower with you after. You freeze in your tracks at the top of the stairs when the doorbell rings. Curious, you wait, ears pricked as Tara answers the door.
When it opens, you hear the chatter of a radio, and you can feel the tension in Tara’s voice when she says, “Good morning, Sheriff. What brings you by?”
You can hear the smile plastered to her lips, can practically see her bubbly persona washing over the Sheriff. You decide to linger out of sight until you know why she’s there.
“Tara,” Sheriff Hicks replies, her voice is thick with grief. It has been since Wes was murdered. Since you killed him. “Are you home alone?”
“My girlfriend is upstairs,” Tara chirps, loud enough for you to hear clearly.
“Ah, that’s actually who I want to talk to you about. Do you have a moment?”
“Oh, actually Sheriff, I-“
You choose this moment to noisily make your way downstairs, stretching and yawning, interrupting their conversation. You scratch your head as you reach the landing and shoot the Sheriff a lopsided smile.
“Morning Sheriff,” you wrap your arms around Tara’s waist and rest your chin on the top of her head, “you want some coffee?”
She watches you wrap yourself around Tara with visible disdain. Though you’d never actually been in trouble with the law, there was an unspoken agreement you would be eventually. She and the previous Sheriff had always made it clear they were wary of you. It had never been a problem before, but now, with your guilt and your nightmares, seeing her at Tara’s doorstep fills you with dread.
She shakes her head and steps back out the door, pulling her notepad from her hip pocket.
“No coffee, thank you. But if you don’t mind, where were you the night Mikayla was killed?”
You frown, release Tara and step in front of her, “Ma’am, I already spoke to your deputies about this.”
She squints, nods, “I just want to double-check.”
You can feel Tara’s fingers on your wrist, lightly brushing your skin. She wants you to stay cool, not lose your temper. It works, to your shock.
“I was at a party. My friends can confirm that. Then I went home, where my parents saw me.”
Sheriff Hicks clicks her pen and nods slowly, eyeing her notes, “It’s difficult to corroborate your alibi, seeing as one of your friends was also killed.”
You clench your jaw, your irritation rising, “Don’t bother with tact, Sheriff. I just lost a close friend. No big deal.”
Tara slips herself under your arm, wraps her arm around your waist. Reminding you to breathe.
The way the Sheriff is staring at you feels like a Western standoff. She wants to pin you for this; it’s apparent. She gulps, blinks away tears that spring up in her eyes.
“I lost my son. So you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little overzealous in finding the person responsible.”
Tara reaches her hand out to rest lightly on the Sheriff’s forearm, her eyes brimming with tears, “He was my friend, Judy. I want justice for him too.”
Sheriff Hicks swallows hard and softens. She sighs, drops her notepad back into her pocket with the pen. She squeezes the bridge of her nose and nods again.
“Thank you for your time. Please don’t hesitate to contact me with any information, okay?”
You both nod solemnly and watch her walk back to her patrol car. The simmering in your veins makes it hard to stay still, even with Tara under your arm.
She closes the door and pulls you into the kitchen, where you slump onto a stool at the island. A cup of coffee is slid under your nose, and a kiss is pressed to your cheek, and you feel lighter.
“We have to kill her,” you growl over your coffee mug, but it comes out like more of a whine.
Tara leans on the island and smirks, “We will, baby, just not yet.”
“Who’s next?”
“I believe it’s your turn to choose.”
“Chad.”
“No.”
You scoff, lean back on the stool, “You said it’s my turn!”
The smile she gives you feels like one reserved for a child, “First, no. Because he would break your neck. And two, I actually enjoy his company.”
You grit your teeth, “That’s why I want to kill him.”
She chuckles and leaves the island to finish cooking breakfast. Your eyes track her every move, the sway of her hips, how she stands on her tiptoes at the stove, the delicate flick of her wrist when she flips a pancake.
“If you killed everyone who flirted with me, you’d have an impossibly long list.” She says over her shoulder.
You shrug, pouting into your coffee mug, and mumble, “Sounds like a win in my book.”
“No, we need someone unrelated. Lead the Sheriff off our trail,” she turns and points at you with the spatula, “Actually, we should find someone to pin this all on. Send the police sniffing after them instead.”
You raise an eyebrow at her, your bad mood dissipating as quickly as it formed, “You’re diabolical, Tara Carpenter.”
She grins, “I have an idea, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
——
Tara is right; you hate her plan. For some reason, giving credit for your hard work to some stranger irritates you to no end. Obviously, you don’t want to rot in prison or see Tara die to avoid it. But finding some loser on Reddit to pass the blame (credit) over to feels like letting the lazy football star cheat off your test while you fail.
“This dude is a fucking dweeb Tara. He’s all talk.”
You’re standing behind her at the computer, looking at a photo of Tara’s sister and her boyfriend. She pulls up his Reddit profile and scrolls through his posts on the Stab thread.
“He doesn’t need to be a killer baby. He just needs to sound like one. And this guy is unhinged.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“He’s perfect.”
——
Holding the Bowie knife without the Ghostface robe and mask feels foreign. It feels heavier, more consequential. Knowing you’re going to sink the blade into your girlfriend makes it feel like a double-edged sword in your hands.
Tara’s bedroom feels too small, the air too thick. You drop the knife on her bed and shake your head.
“What if we just say they broke in and we got away? I don’t get why we have to do this,” you groan and sit on the edge of the bed.
Tara’s nostrils flare in irritation, the glint in her eye telling you she’s losing patience with you.
“I told you already, no one would believe we didn’t even get a scratch if Ghostface attacked us.”
She pushes your knees apart and rests her hands on your shoulders, her eyes steely and cold. Seeing her in this state, the cool calculated certainty on her face makes your stomach flip. It always reminds you of the night at Mikayla’s, dangerous and erotic.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” you grumble, not meeting her eyes.
She wraps her fingers around your throat and squeezes, dipping her head down, “I can make you want to hurt me.”
You look up at her in defiance, your jaw clenched. She’s right, in a way. But stabbing her is not the kind of hurt you want to inflict on her. Her grip around your throat tightens, making your breath whistle through your nose. She smirks, and you decide stabbing her can wait.
You stand and scoop her up, her legs wrapping around your waist and her hands leaving your throat to loop around the back of your neck. You’re playing into her hand, you’re aware of it, but you don’t care. Plus, you have a surprise for her today.
You drop her on her bed and are satisfied at her surprise. She frowns up at you as you leave her, heading for the backpack you left in the kitchen. She follows you wordlessly, curious about your intent. You glance back and note the knife hanging loosely in her fingers. She leaves it on the counter when you unzip your bag and stands on her toes, trying to see what you’re doing.
You don’t miss the excitement that flashes through her when you pull the harness out, the dildo already strapped to it. You let it hang off your finger, dangle it in front of her.
Her eyebrow raises, a dangerous smirk on her lips, “And just what do you think you’re going to do with that?”
You tilt your head, “Don’t you want to find out?”
Her eyes grow dark, and she steps toward you. She takes the strap from you and sets it next to the knife, pulls you into her roughly. You smile down at her, appreciating the way her lips part as her tongue wets them. She pulls you down and kisses you, frantic and excited, her teeth nipping at your lip, her tongue quickly chasing them. From an outside perspective, it probably looks more like a fight than what it actually is.
Your clothes are gone in a hurry, dishes left on the counter clattering to the floor in your haste. When she shoves you shirtless into the living room, you knock over a lamp, and she drags you down onto the rug, the strap-on tossed at your side. Your pants and underwear are ripped from your legs, hers following after. Furniture and decor have become casualties in the midst of the power struggle, which suits your case. By the time you’re done here, it really will appear as if someone broke in. Especially if Tara keeps it up.
She thinks she’s in control when the harness is around your waist. You cinch it tight and allow her to take the lead.
“I want you right now. Hurry up,” she growls, her eyes wild.
You slow your fingers, hold her gaze. Her chest rises and falls quickly, her breathing erratic. When she tries to pull you in, you shake your head no, and hold out an arm to stop her. She seethes, her impatience rolling off her like heat waves.
“On your knees,” you tell her, your voice level and calm.
An internal struggle begins, her eyes searching your face for an answer to a question she’s unsure of. Does she trust you enough?
You wait, unmoving, until she complies. When she does, the pure satisfaction that envelops you is inebriating. You pull her back into your hips, and she gasps as the dildo presses into her leg.
“How are you going to explain rug burn, y/n,” she says, watching you over her shoulder, “Did I grovel and beg Ghostface not to kill me?”
You can’t help the fury that washes over you at the thought of her on her knees for someone else. You push the tip inside her, reveling in her barely contained groan. Slowly, you sink all the way into her, reach for her throat, and pull her up into your chest. You bite her shoulder, squeezing her throat.
“I’ll tell the Sheriff I fucked you on your knees, and that you begged me not to stop.”
With that, you release her throat and push her down to her elbows, your hands sliding down her back until they reach her hips and grip hard enough to leave bruises. You pull back and push into her, the uninhibited moans that leave her throat sending a chill down your spine. Every thrust of your hips sends her rocking forward, her elbows and knees reddening as the carpet rubs her skin raw.
She pushes up onto her hands after a few minutes, and you lean over to kiss the skin between her shoulder blades. You only half feel bad for the rug burn; the other half of you eats it up. The wet sound of skin on skin fills the room, mingling with her voice as she cries out your name. It’s gratifying, having her like this. Out of control and whining, pushing back into you, her hands shifting across the carpet. You don’t stop until she’s trembling, her arms shaking under her weight. You slow your hips, gently coax her down and pull out of her.
She shivers and tucks her leg to roll onto her back, pulling you down to meet her. Her hand slides between your bodies and lines the dildo back up, slipping it in as you drop your weight down on her. You kiss her slowly, building your rhythm back up slowly.
Her hands pull you down by your hips, and you smile into her mouth. She turns her head, encouraging you to dive into her neck, and you oblige her.
“You know how I feel about teasing,” she sighs, her lips brushing your ear.
The idea to string her along is there, but you know deep down hearing her cum is better than teasing her.
“You’re a brat,” you whisper in her ear and push yourself onto your hands to give yourself room to pick up your pace.
She grins at you, even has the gall to wink, “Fuck it out of me then.”
And you do. You fully realize it defeats the purpose of you give her what she wants, but who wouldn’t? You can’t deny her, and she knows it. So you fuck her until her body tremors, her eyes roll back, and her nails rake down your back. You kiss her chin when you pull out of her and admire the shiver that starts in her shoulders and ends in her toes. Sitting back between her legs, you unbuckle the harness and slide it off, tossing it to the side.
She sits up and crawls into your lap, straddling your thighs.
“Are you ready for the fun part?”
“Don’t pull a Billy and actually kill me,” you say, tucking her hair behind her ear.
She shakes her head, her eyes softening, “You were right. I couldn’t kill you.”
——
The police show up twenty minutes after Tara calls them, screaming and crying. Her sweater is coated in blood, most of it her own, some of it yours. Getting stabbed fucking sucked. Bleeding out wasn’t as bad.
You slip in and out of consciousness when the paramedics arrive, fussing over the wounds on your side. Tara refuses to leave you, leaning over you as they try to patch both of you up. You hear snippets of the frantic conversation with the Sheriff, who had done this, how big were they, what did they smell like. Tara asks her to call Sam and tell her to return to Woodsboro. The plan the two of you have orchestrated working out perfectly.
When you’re loaded into the back of the ambulance, Tara is at your side.
“Your parents are going to meet us at the hospital. You’re okay, we’re okay.”
Once again, you marvel at how amazing of an actress she is. You think maybe it’s her calling. You try to tell her, but your eyes are rolling shut, and the drugs they’re pumping into your veins are dragging you under. The last thing you see is her wicked smile and a wink as her lips press into your forehead.
#skin deep#tara carpenter x fem!reader#tara carpenter x you#tara carpenter#tara carpenter x reader#jenna ortega x reader
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Okay so the FF7 fandom is having a meltdown and I gotta talk about it. See, the Rebirth Ultimania came out yesterday in Japan, and one specific piece of information has people freaking out.
[source]
This is, apparently, beyond the pale. People are insisting that it doesn't make sense, it's a retcon, it doesn't align with the games at all, et cetera, with a lot of people specifically citing Before Crisis as proof that this can't possibly be correct. After all, Elena is in her last year at Shinra's military academy in the game, and the academy is structured like a high school, meaning she'd be 17-18 during her Before Crisis appearance.
The issue here is that the majority of people don't actually know the timing of the aforementioned appearance. Because Before Crisis starts in 0001 and Elena is in it, people seem to assume that means she's in it from the beginning. This isn't the case at all.
In its entirety, Before Crisis is 24* chapters long—Elena appears in Chapter 22, specifically with her appearance starting on October 4th, 0007. (*In spite of technically being broken in 24 chapters by title, Before Crisis is actually 26 chapters by presentation, with two of them split into two parts.)
Meteorfall took place January 21st, 0008. We know this because the date is visible on the monument in Edge shown in Advent Children:
This means Elena's introduction in Before Crisis was less than four months before Meteorfall.
These portraits are months apart. She cut her hair and got out of the school uniform, but her face is completely unchanged; it's easy to say this was to lower artist workload, but the dates in-game are very specific.
The new Ultimania literally just reiterated information we've already had since around 2006. This has been canon for almost 20 years—it's not a retcon, it's not a "weird new decision," it's not another case of the Ultimania timelines contradicting the actual source material. This has been confirmed in-game as canon for longer than a lot of current players have even been alive.
I don't care what people do with this information, mind you. I don't care who you ship Elena with or anything like that, it's irrelevant to me. I don't care about age gaps or what the fuck ever, she's a pixel doll, do what you want with her.
But this isn't new. And everyone freaking out about it as if it isn't information we've had for so long that the game in which it was revealed is older than the character is kind of ridiculous.
I am begging you, do not cite sources with which you are not familiar in an attempt to make your assertions carry more weight. There are nasty people out there who will take your ignorance on the topic and use it to be even worse than they could have if you just stated that her canon age makes you uncomfortable so you portray her as being older and don't care that it's noncanon.
(Also, seeing the same people who declared that only the Ultimanias are correct even if they contradict the games or each other, now flipping to declaring this specific Ultimania to be wrong because "it's just meta" is indescribably frustrating. Sephiroth being 30 in-game was something the Ultimanias "fixed," but Elena being 18 in-game is something that the Ultimania has "screwed up." Pick one.)
#fandom ramble#fandom vent#lore gremlin reporting for duty#and I cited my fucking sources#I'm sorry you didn't know your OTP was problematic#I'm sorry you didn't know that there was a HUGE age gap at play here#but that's been the case for ALMOST TWENTY YEARS#this is NOT new information#not tagging this because it'll get picked up anyway
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Cautious yet Optimistic and Graceful Part 2
Part 1 & Part 3
CW: Morally gray reader, F!Reader, John Wick-type universe (ie, killing, the reader thinks about past injuries from fights. training not descriptive). Not smut but suggestive thinking from both Vincent and the reader, mutual pinning, and worldbuilding but no description of the reader. Smoking, a nonsexual cigarette burn on the reader, brief drinking. MAYBE OCs (Fictional staff for the fictional hotel). NO BETA
Summary: The Marquis de Gramont still annoys you. But he needs help from you(r hotel). Like a good manager, you help.
AN: PART 2 everyone!!! Thank u for the likes/comments/reblogs! This takes place a few months after part 1. IDEK if this is ooc the man had like 30 minutes of screen time overall and I’ve been writing this for a week. I read it a few times for spelling but something got messed up copy and pasting and a para or 2 got dropped. Part 3 will be out ???? soon(ish)
Something about today had his words bouncing around in your head. Out of all the ways to describe someone, he narrowed it down to three (well technically he used six).
Cautious. Sure, you can see that. Out of a love of being alive, you tried not to take any unnecessary risks in your fighting days. You also tried to avoid having a marker whenever you could. There was one in existence with your blood on it. A favour for someone you thought was a friend. You held up your end, the bloody fingerprint stored in the New York Continental as proof.
Optimistic. That also makes sense. You actually enjoy what you do, loving being part of the criminal underworld before and now. You haven't been the manager for too long but would already die for this hotel.
The part that was throwing you was graceful. You didn't think you were that graceful physically. You have scars to prove that you've taken a hit, slash, or burn many times. Did he mean gracefully with people? Camille did so much for the hotel, you just deal with regular hotel things (like getting Monument Historique status for a collection of French weapons, take that, Vincent). The other part was implanting rules from the high table. Maybe just being graceful and polite when you were resisting the urge to claw your eyes out.
It could also be flirting. You felt he wasn't the type to hit on someone out of the blue. Sure he was smart and confident, but it seemed like too big a risk for him to take. Unless he is just a playboy, which is something you find yourself tempted to google twice a day.
You would rather die than admit it, but you almost like when he called you Mademoiselle. Almost. It was like a nickname, plus it brought out his accent more. When you found yourself enjoying.
To make things worse Camielle caught on to your crush immediately. While embarrassing, it did show how clever she was and you were glad she was the concierge. Her knowing also gave you an excuse to just tell Vincent your direct number, so Camille would stop reminding you how frequently he called.
You love the bar in the hotel. It is beautiful, decorated in an Art Nouveau style, with large windows allowing for the sun to filter in during the day. You were almost pleased that Vincent asked to meet you there, allowing you to subtly show off your business.
Finding him at the bar wasn’t hard, no one else was wearing a dark green three-piece suit, complete with a complexly tied tie and their coat of arms pin. He looks good but tense, one long leg crossed over the other. Plus, you could see Chidi and another guard in their gray suits keeping an eye. You were thankful that you took extra time this morning on your outfit.
You slid into the chair next to him, after shaking a few hands with other big names down in the bar for a late-night drink.
“I hear you have a problem.” You say, while not knowing the full details, just that he wanted to meet you in the bar and something was wrong. It kicked your heartbeat up, even if you only told yourself it was the stress of him being here.
“Correct.”.
“I’m sure you know because of your love of rules, but I can only help those who are using the hotel services.”
You didn't care that much, and would absolutely bend the rules to do him a favour, but couldn't resist a chance to get a dig in.
The Marquis pulls out two gold coins and slides them across to the bartender. He orders a top-shelf spirit before his eyes cut to you. Now he's buying you a drink in your own hotel. You would want him to buy you a drink in a different situation but at least he didn't order for you. That may cause you to actually kill him.
Clearing your throat you order your usual, quietly thanking the bartender when the drink was placed in front of you.
The bar wasn't loud, but he dropped his head towards you so you could hear him better and to give the conversation some privacy.
“You have a cartographer here, no?”
You nodded. The cartographer is excellent. He had blueprints for buildings past and present, as well as the catacombs. He also had knowledge and keys to abandoned buildings if something had to be desponded and not be found.
“How soon do you need him?” While one of the best, he was away for his daughter's wedding
“Tonight.”
You took a small sip of your drink. You could probably get the information he was looking but you wouldn't be as efficient.
“While we do have a cartographer, he's gone to a family event. If your plans are that urgent I can try my best to fill in.”
Content with your answers, Vincent leaned back into his seat taking a swig of his drink. You took the finishing sip of yours before pushing out of your chair.
“I have spare keys in my office. I’ll meet you back here in five.”
For how commanding and prideful he is, you never expected him to need the services from your hotel.
The maps room was fairly boring. Three out of the four walls were filled with lockboxes to various maps. Blueprints, and documents for France and even some other countries nearby.
“Are these your beloved catacombs?” The Marquis asks, studying the paper taped to the wall. You asked the map maker for more information and for ideas on what you could do with them.
You hum in agreement, deep down thrilled that he remembered such a small part of your conversation ages ago.
Your eyes jump over the numbered lock boxes in front of you, trying to find the one he needs.
You half expected him to help you pull out maps and building plans, a blend of chivalry, showing off his height, and getting under your skin. He didn’t, letting you struggle with the lock instead.
Vincent knew he should help you, but the way your back was arched as you tried to open one of the lockboxes out of the dozens was more interesting. His gaze moved over your legs, before looking at your ass in your skirt.
Feeling the lock give a turn to the side, you peek inside the box to make sure the plans were there. Hand sliding in, you pulled the thin tube out, double-checking the label on the front to make sure it is the one you need. Leaving the box unlocked you turn to face Vincent, a triumphant grin on your face.
Maybe your grin and pride in getting the correct documents were a bit unprofessional but he didn't care. Not since the small room amplified the smell of your perfume and how the spent the better part of the last five minutes checking out your legs.
Uncapping the tube, you pulled out the blueprints and spread them on the backlist glass table in front of you.
“Here are your prints,” you state awkwardly. You're not sure why he needs them, and why he personally came here. Chidi is keeping guard outside the map room, despite you repeating the hotel policy of no business.
The Marquis nods in response already focusing on the table. You flatten a small map from the tube in case he needs context on the area. Not likely since he already knows what to look for, proven by his notebook and the constant sound of his pen against the paper taking notes.
Watching him study the map may have been alright at first, but three hours later you are tired. There are only so many times you can look at his hair and wonder if he would get mad if you run your hands through, or gently tug it. Or what his hands would feel like, especially with his signet ring.
The grandfather clock tells you that it's only 2:36 am but you feel like it's later. Even Vincent looks slightly less than perfect, hair falling out of place from where he had gelled it that morning.
He is a guest of your hotel so you're going to keep helping him no matter how long he stays. Just with a bit less optimism.
“Mademoiselle?” Your eyes snap to his face at the sound of his voice, pulling you from your thoughts.
“You look tired. You should go to bed,” he comments.
Wow. Thanks, you think.
“I’m okay. I’m happy to stay here as long as you need,” you say while hoping he leaves soon. “How are the plans going? The cartographer can help you with the finer details when he gets back.”
“That is not necessary. I have all I need here.” He slowly stretches and starts to stand. You never considered it but being hunched over the table must have been hell on his back given his above-average height. Finally seeing your chance to go to bed, you quickly make it over to the door, opening it for him.
“Merci, again.” He thanks you as if this is not your job.
“Do you want me to walk you to the main door?” You have all your floor plans memorized.
“We are fine.” He replies.
He looks at you and you can't read his expression. He's less tense, obviously getting what he needed from the plans.
“The high table did a good job making you the manager.”
You feel pride swell in your chest, despite the exhaustion you feel behind your eyes.
“Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle”
“Bonne nuit. Bon matin.” You quietly wish him as he leaves, wasting no time putting the plans away and locking the map room door.
You let out another exhaust of bitter smoke, watching it curl away on the cool night air. You didn't start smoking in Paris, but dropped and picked the habit a few times.
“Fumes-tu, Mademoiselle?” a voice behind you makes you flinch. You didn’t tell anyone that you have a secret smoking place, let alone that you went out to smoke.
You spin around before relaxing at the sight of the Marquis, clad in a dark suit, his signature pin on the lapel reflecting the light.
You nod, before realizing he probably can't see you well under the lights in the alcove. He is by your side quickly, long legs carrying him the short distance.
You tip your head to the small table, where your rolling papers, tobacco and other smoking paraphernalia sit in a silent offer. Vincent looks at the table before facing you again. Guess he's too fancy to smoke you assume while taking a drag.
You turn your head to blow out more smoke, careful not to blow it in this direction, a hard feat considering he was extremely close to you. The smell of his cologne drifted under the smell of smoke.
You move your cigarette down and out to the side, fully ready to see why the Marquis interrupted you. Watching his face, his eyes dipped down to your lips and then back to your eyes almost a silent asking. The smooth and sophisticated era was still there but there was uncertainty under it.
You slowly leaned closer, not wanting to make the first move, but you want this to happen. He hand-cupped your face, the cool metal of the ring nice as he shifted closer, leaving a small gap for you to make the final push to kiss him. Just a few more inches and then -
Pain. A sharp burning pain on your pinky finger.
You jerk back, trying to examine what happened. Your cigarette slipped while you were distracted and the glowing embers of the end dropped only to land on your pinky.
“Shit. Sorry,” you apologize, letting out a nervous huff of a laugh while holding up your burn. The Marquis was unreadable, hand withdrawn. Does he think you rejected him?
He reaches for your wrist and you let him take it. Slowly he brings your hand up to the outdoor lamp to inspect your burn. The stinging has subsided but you are sure the flesh is a bit swollen.
With his free hand, he takes the offending cigarette and brings it to his lips. You can't help but stare, cigarette burns long forgotten as you watch him take a deep inhale, before exhaling over your head, so no smoke blows in your face. Part of you regret not making the final push to kiss him, while another hopes he takes another puff.
Vincent brings your cigarette down to examine it in better lighting before placing it back in your hand, still firmly in his grasp.
“It is not a well-rolled cigarette. It is too tight.”
There it is you think. The classic Vincent snark. But you secretly hope he rolls one so you can watch his hands and watch him smoke it.
“You don’t have to smoke it.”
“I just wanted to give you this.” He reaches into his suitcoat pocket, retrieving a white envelope. His hands brush yours while you grab it.
You know his handwriting from the time with him in the map room, and you could easily tell he wrote your name on the front.
“Thank you?” you weren't sure what was inside but you were being all the things he described you as.
“I will go, and let you read it.”
You watch him leave, thoughts racing too fast to try and save the situation.
Do you call out after him? Does he think you rejected him? Maybe not because he still gave you the envelope.
You ash your cigarette before collecting your things and going back to your office. Maybe things would make more sense there.
Taglist: @heartrot666
#ONCE AGAIN ITS DONE !!!!! wooohoooooo#marquis de gramont x reader#marquis de gramont#marquis vincent de gramont x reader#Vincent de Gramont x reader#john wick movie x reader
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cw: violence
Lena checked her watch. She only had a few minutes to pull this off, and had to time it perfectly. Lex was across town meeting with an investment consortium from Japan.
Officially.
She knew what he was planning. She just lacked the proof she needed. Once she had it, she would go to the media through her best friend and confidant, Kara Danvers. She had eyes on Lex right now as he met, in secret, with a Kasnian agent, the same one who'd help him orchestrate the theft of a prototype Lexosuit; that had been one of the first times that Superman had shut down one of Lex's schemes, and earned his undying hatred.
Lena needed the final piece of the puzzle before she involved Kara and pulled her into the danger of her private little war with her brother. This was so far beyond anything Lex had attempted that Lena knew now was the time, she had to stop him now, today. The line had to be drawn here, and no further.
The secure lab was deep in the bowels of the Lexcorp Tower in Metropolis; Lena made the excuse of a meeting with some of the research team working on battery enhancements for the upcoming line of Lexmobiles. (Lena had spent hours genuinely trying to talk Lex out of that god-awful name, and actually call them something marketable, but his towering ego was as immovable as it was monumental)
Lena's heart was racing as she stepped out of the elevator, carrying her briefcase under one arm. She strode down the hall like she owned the place (she did, actually- or half of it, anyway) and made sure anyone watching on the security feeds would pay her no mind. She'd worked here for years; even though she'd moved to National City to lead her own division, away from Lex, Superman, and all the drama, she was not an uncommon sight in this place.
Maybe here.
Lena stopped at the door, a heavy steel slab six feet wide and eight feet tall. Breath catching, she slipped her hand in her pocket and slid her finger through the ring she carried there. When she pulled her hand out, an image inducer created a perfect replica of Lex's hand around her own, projecting the unique contours and ridges of his palm and fingertips while simulating his pulse and unique vitals.
It was either going to work or it wasn't. She pressed the false hand to the sensors and waited. It beeped twice and turned a healthy blue.
The door let out a rush of cool air as it slid silently aside, its motion mirrored by an inner door of the same dimensions sliding in the opposite direction. Lena stepped through and removed the ring; the doors slid ominously closed behind her, latching with a heavy thunk as wrist-thick steel bolts slid home, anchoring them in place.
She knew that not only was the entire room lined with lead, but the lights could instantly switch to a red wavelength and the long sliding panels on the wall would open to reveal K-Radiator emitters. This room was designed to be a death trap for Kryptonians, should one be foolish enough to enter. That was why Lena had to do this alone.
Supergirl would rush in where angels feared to tread, and given the chance, she'd barge through those doors and end up helpless on the floor, at Lex's mercy to murder without witnesses. Or worse.
The lab was smaller than she expected, and Spartan. Despite her brother's notorious, arrogant grandiosity, he could be relentlessly practical when needed, and at heart was utterly ruthless. Lab benches lined the walls, and the computer was no different, visually, from any other workstation, though it was connected to a vast private database and would have very difficult encryption and security protocols that no one in the world could crack.
No one but her.
The far end of the room was dominated by a peculiar machine, resembling an incubation chamber of some kind, roughly human-sized and surrounded by thick steel cables and tubes, with several dozen monitors rigged up all around it, displaying all sorts of information.
Including biorhythmic data and vital signs.
Lena ran a hand over the steel of the external pod. It was warm.
Her throat tightened. This might be worse than she thought.
Turning to the terminal, Lena sat down on the stool and took from her bag a small portable drive and connection cable, setting them on the desktop in front of her. Lex had one of those drinking birds dunking placidly away at a glass of water on the desk, another bit of his peculiar humor. She'd once loved that about him, before his joking took on a mirthless, cruel streak.
Letting out a slow breath, Lena wiggled the mouse and woke the computer. It demanded a password, pass phrase, and passkey. The two she had, the latter was what the drive was for.
She typed BUCEPHALUS in the password field, then THY FEARFUL SYMMETRY in the pass phrase field, then clicked the cursor into the last box and plugged in the drive, and waited.
The program loaded automatically. If she made an attempt to brute-force the passcode, it would set off the alarms and possibly even trigger a deadly trap in this room. Lena had to crack it without cracking it; it took her months to create this algorithm, with the secret and begrudging help of Querl Dox at the DEO. He'd been concerned about it falling into the wrong hands; he was right to fear that, as it could crack virtually any system in seconds.
It did exactly that, filling in the require passcode. Lena clicked the LOGON button and let out a soft cry of relief as the screen lit up with Lex's desktop.
He had a series of folders waiting, just sitting there ready to be opened. The folders had names like LEXOSUIT, PARTICLE EMITTER, BINARY FUSION GENERATOR, SPATIAL DISTORTION CANNON, POINT-TO-POINT TRANSMATTER... and PROJECT GALATEA.
Lena opened that folder, and found a series of video files. She opened the first one, dated over a year ago.
Lex' face appeared, the man himself seated in this very lab.
"Mother stole Supergirl's DNA and used it to breach the Fortress of Solitude. She walked those hallowed halls, and didn't invite me! Not only that, she took only one device, when Superman's precious armory was right there for the taking! Is everyone a fool? Am I doomed to be surrounded by incompetents?"
He took a deep breath.
"It doesn't matter. There's enough of what she took left to comprise a viable sample... all I need is time, and I had that in abundance now that I've taken care of that nosy Gotham prosecutor that was working with Superman. He's too busy robbing banks to bother with me, and with the Metropolis police and GCPD in my pocket, Superman and that flying rat of his have nowhere to turn."
Flying rat? What the hell was he talking about?
Lena skipped a few files ahead.
"We'll call her Project Galatea. My initial plan -to create a limited-use drug that would produce Kryptonian superpowers- has been a failure. Nor was I able to successfully create a viable clone."
Lena's stomach sank. Clone? Clone? Had Lex tried to clone Supergirl? Was that was this equipment was for?
"Then it hit me- I could complete the project another way, by filling in the gaps in her DNA, but that still didn't solve all the problems. There was a missing component- I still don't know how Kryptonians actually absorb and process sunlight, for one. Still, that seems to be solving itself. Galatea's cells are absorbing the artificial solar energy that I'm pumping into her maturation chamber at a geometric rate. She might be even more powerful than her mother by the time she matures."
Lena jerked to her feet, a chill running through her body. Mother? Wait, did he mean-
Oh. Oh God.
Lena let the video drone on in the background as she moved back to the chamber. It was encased in steel plating, but it was designed to open. Lena found a pair of goggles on a work table near the control panel and put them on before flipping a switch.
The panels rotated, exposing a human form lying at an angle at rest on a padded platform. A respirator, like a flight mask, was strapped to her face, and she was submerged in thick, bubbling liquid. The chamber would have been too brilliant to look at, if Lena hadn't put on the goggles. It was flooded with brilliant solar radiation.
She'd put the inhabitant between ten and twelve years old, with golden skin and dark hair. Lena blinked a few times; it was like looking at an old picture of herself, actually.
For a brief moment, she just stared.
Then it hit her, and she almost vomited as she shoved the switch and closed the doors over the maturation chamber, stumbling back as she retched.
What did he do?
What did he do?
"I see you've met your niece."
Lena whirled, and found Lex staring her down, standing in front of the lab doors with his hands clasped behind his back, a satisfied smirk on his face.
"How... what... what the fuck did you do, Lex?"
"I think you've already pieced it together."
"Why?"
"Why?" said Lex. "I'll tell you why. Security. The security of a free state, sister. I did it because it had to done."
"This is... this is obscene," said Lena. "This is a violation, Lex. I'm not going to let you get away with it."
He laughed. "Get away with it? What do you mean, get away with it? What are you going to do, sue me for custody?"
"You... this is monstrous, Lex."
"We live in a world of monsters, dear sister," said Lex, stepping closer. "Gods and monsters, and who are we? Men, just men. There's whole universe out there, a multiverse, full of these creatures, and the human race is defenseless against them, and worse, they're being welcomed. They're eating of those Kryptonians' palms, you included, and now there are more of them. The green freak claiming to be a Martian. The so-called Amazon. There's seven or eight of them running around. Eventually it'll be twenty, then thirty, then more. They'll run roughshod over our institutions."
"You're out of your mind," said Lena.
"Am I?" said Lex. "Superman and Supergirl claim they fight for truth, justice, and the American way, right? What if their definition of justice doesn't match ours? What if they decide the American way isn't good enough? What if they decide they need to do more than pull kittens out of trees? Then what? Tell me, Lena, what happens if Superman decides to fly down tomorrow and tear the roof off the White House?"
"He wouldn't do that," said Lena. "I've met him, and I know Supergirl. She's saved my life a dozen times, and I suspect you know exactly what I'm talking about."
Lex shook his head. "Mother's extremism has always been a burden. I've done my best to protect you from her, Lena, and I've been honest about it. That's more than you can say for Supergirl."
"You kept this from me," said Lena.
"Until I was ready. I had to be sure that she was viable before I bring her out of the chamber and introduce you. She's going to be part of the family. Our long lost cousin, who we'll raise as a daughter, knowing that the Earth is truly safe now. That we'll have one of them on our side."
"This... this is Supergirl's child."
"That won't be a problem," said Lex. "It's time for you to grow up and let go of these fantasies, Lena. Supergirl doesn't have any interest in you. You're nothing to her, at best a beloved pet."
"I believe in her. We've worked together."
"I said the same thing about Superman. You know how close we were."
"It's not like that."
Lex's smirk turned cruel. "Isn't it? You've always had a type."
'Fuck you," Lena spat.
He chuckled softly and shook his head. "You're not listening. I guess I have to prove it to you. Computer! Show her."
The droning video log of Lex discussing the problems of merging Kryptonian and human DNA stopped, and another one popped up, taking the entire screen. Lena almost didn't look, but her head turned inexorably and she watched.
"Kara?"
Lena watched Kara Danvers walking down a corridor. She stumbled, as something hit her back, twice. Whatever it was tore holes in her cardigan, and she turned around, standing tall. Taller than usual. She didn't move this time; it was as if little puffs of wind were blowing holes in her clothes.
Except they weren't puffs of wind. They were bullets; Lena could see the muzzle flashes, off camera.
"What... how..."
Kara yanked her glasses off and shook her hair free, ripping the cardigan open, popping the buttons, baring the sweeping crest on the chest of her her blue uniform.
"No," Lena whispered.
"I sent the men who shot her in this recording," said Lex. "Don't worry, I already knew; Mother told me. The alien confessed it to her, before begging her not to tell you. I wonder why."
The video ended.
"This is a trick. She wouldn't... she isn't... she's my best friend."
"No, she's your master and you're an obedient dog, heeling where she tells you, and if you aren't... do you know what happened to the assassins I sent to kill Kara Danvers?"
Lena swallowed. "Shut up, Lex. Stop talking."
He smiled, teeth bared in a wolfish grin. "The martian mind-wiped them. He uses his psychic powers to erase the memories of anyone who compromises her identity."
"Stop," said Lena.
"Ever have any... episodes?" said Lex. "Any of those days, where you were so busy your memory gets a little foggy? Ever find yourself back in your apartment without quite knowing how you got there? Are you sure your own memories haven't been tampered with, Lena?"
"Shut up!" she screamed.
"You've been manipulated, tricked, deceived. She doesn't love you, she never will, and you have nowhere to turn. Help me, Lena. Join me, and we can be a proper family again. We can put things right, and lead a free world to-"
Lena reached into her pocket and pulled out a nickel plated Smith and Wesson Ladysmith revolver with faux-ivory grips bearing Lena's initials. Lex gave it to her on her twenty-first birthday, and went with her to the range the next week to teach her to use it.
"Oh," said Lex.
Lena shot him. The blast was ear-splitting in the confined space, leaving a painful ringing in its wake. Lex crumpled, toppling onto his side as if his strings had been cut. Rolling onto his back, he stemmed the gushing of his lifeblood from the wound just below his ribs and looked at her.
"Didn't think you had it in you," he rasped. "Should have known you'd be the one. You can only count on blood."
Tears stung her eyes, blurred her vision. Lena held out the weapon, her grip trembling as she aimed at his head.
"You'll never stop," she choked out. "You'll kill her. She'll never be safe as long as you're alive."
Lex grinned, the corners of his mouth wet with blood. "Do it."
Lena's finger flexed, but the trigger felt frozen in place. As it shifted slightly, a flood of memories slammed through her- shooting lessons and chess games, strange idle fancies and muted conversations, long rides in the back of sedans. Lena's graduation, Lionel's funeral, Lillian's abuses, Lex standing between their father and Lena with a bruise on his jaw, warning the old man not to lay another hand on her.
A sob tore from her throat. She couldn't do it. She couldn't.
Lex laughed flecks of blood onto the floor.
"Go on, then. I don't need you. I have my own Kryptonian, and she's going to be daddy's little girl."
It was as if the rain suddenly stopped, the sun cracking open the clouds. The gun was terribly loud again, and Lena turned away before she saw the shot connect, looking away from the blood fanning out across the floor as Lex went silent and still.
Shoving the still-hot gun back into her pocket, Lena ran.
Thought I'd share a little bit more from the in-progress Curse of Strahd AU/Crossover!
#supercorp#supergirl fanfiction#supergirl#supercorp fanfic#lena luthor#kara danvers#kara x lena#karlena#supergirl fanfic#lex luthor#spookycorp coming a little early#this is how it starts#lex isn't done yet#he's about to meet a vampire#Lena and Kara are going to have to work things out#then they're going to have to fight about it#then kiss about it#then fight a vampire about it#the entire multiverse is in danger and they're gonna kiss about that too#only the power of love can save the multiverse from the curse of strahd
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the devil you don't know
(part one)
synopsis: heaven has unsurprisingly been hiding another secret, unluckily for them, the secret they had tried so hard to cover up and snuff out, makes a very overdue pissed off return.
trans masculine original character x Alastor x Lucifer
warnings: eventual smut, OOC Alastor, fluff, angst, conflict, self deprecation, anxiety, depression, PTSD, self indulgent, he/him pronouns for main character, potential harm to self and others, enemies to lovers, not overly proof read, i know my writing sucks my bad <3
@cafekitsune for dividers, art of oc is mine :)
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when the universe began, it was nothing, a place devoid of anything. it was pure darkness, a space that longed to be filled, slowly but surely, God had filled it. Planets, stars, time, things were put in motion, but before that, were Angels. God plucked strings and coiled them to make divine life, impressive sets of wings adorned them. He made several, to help in creation, to give their ideas, to aid in whatever the universe would become.
at some point in time, humanity was created.
long ago, when adam and eve had roamed the earth, angels and demons alike were told a tale of how eve ate the apple, leaving her with immense knowledge and also leaving sin to crawl into the depths of earth, and therefore creating hell.
Heaven however, forgot to include a detail that was quite monumental to understanding how sin had almost become a pandemic, spreading alarmingly fast and sending sinners to damnation far too quick for heaven’s liking.
it was to do with lucifer yes.
but with his lover, an even more rebellious spirit than lucifer himself had been painted to be.
a seraphim, renowned and respected, it was no surprise heaven went to desperate lengths to cover up the betrayal of such an influential figure. snuffing out his light and his darkness in one fell swoop. the only ones to remain aware of his existence was Lucifer and the high council of angels, the beings that the universe started with.
and even the council weren’t immune to the dishonesty hidden in the so called truth. Leviathan, the fallen seraphim had not died as told. He was simply imprisoned, bound in thick gigantic chains by Sera, woven to stay in place by powerful magic. Any Angels involved in his entrapment were forced into forgetting, memories erased with a careless flick of the wrist.
and lucifer, was vowed to never usher his ex lover’s name, or he would end up just like him. wrapped in an unescapable prison.
The truth, in its raw entirety, is that Leviathan loved Lucifer, adored him more than anything. Until Lucifer had loved Lilith.
then hate had consumed him. a never ending storm of grief and hatred swirled in the angel until he sought to ruin heaven, earth, any piece of life he could get his clawed hands on.
whispers of murder infiltrated humans, murmurs of greed and lust filled their senses and heaven was frightened. With no evidence on who it was at the time, they had scrambled to try and fix the problem, to uproot the evil with bare hands and feed it to flames. then angels went missing, corpses strewn across the pearly gates horrifically, missing limbs and torn apart cruelly. fear struck their hearts, and motivated by fear, they found the culprit.
so when heaven inevitably put the pieces together, it reared its ugly head a second time, but instead of repeating Lucifer’s treatment, they had tied Leviathan down. They had cornered their prey and trapped it, snuffing out its myriad of emotions and luring it to suffer for the rest of time. They had locked him in a box, devoid of life, devoid of anything, just like when the universe began, when he was made, the first thing he saw was nothing. And then he saw a hand, a hand that guided him to the other angels, that’s when he had locked eyes with Lucifer for the first time.
He had spent hundreds of years staring through blank space, tugging on relentless binds, thinking about how he could possibly be rid of suffocating silent damnation. He was Leviathan, destroyer of souls, devil of vengeance, angel of revenge, how dare he be reduced to a simple prisoner?
each passing day, a seething poison spiralled within the corrupted seraphim. His claws itched and downrightly begged to tear apart anything it could.
immeasurable anger in a dangerous celestial being was beginning to pose a silent threat, but heaven had realised too late, too preoccupied with monitoring hell and stopping any revolts.
as his bitterness grew, as his fury doubled, it only took one mistake on heaven’s part to release the monster.
they failed to recast the enchantments on his chains, the spell had become duller and duller, their vibrance dimming, for Leviathan drained them, overtime the bond’s power just washed away into his own bones. His inhuman strength trickled into his muscles once again, and that undeniable urge to crush every angel to dust seared its way into every crevice available in his deranged brain.
he would be free, he would smash these chains into smithereens and every angel that stood in his way would crumple and beg for his forgiveness.
especially Sera.
and that younger Seraphim she spoke so fondly of.
his impeccable hearing picked up on the words of endearment Sera had let slip out before entering his dome of nothingness. Em, that was her name. A name to a person that would cease to be when his binds singed to ash.
the familiar flitting and fluttering through the air broke his concentration, wings that were almost as powerful as his own flapped fiercely as they descended down.
“Sera.” he hid the smile about to overcome his features, choosing to mask it behind a growl. “what a surprise, come to see your favourite prisoner? i’m flattere-“ the sentence was cut off by a gust of wind hitting him and the feeling of a firm hand wrapping around his neck.
“Quiet, traitor.” she hissed, the whites of her large eyes almost concealed by her purple irises, Sera’s expression was almost catlike, pupil’s small and long as they peered at him. Ah, she still believed he was her prey. “you have made things incredibly hard for me, a pain even. if you had any idea what your mistakes have caused.” She huffed, drawing her hand to rub her pointer finger between the creases between her brows.
“good.” He breathed, his own eyes slitting narrowly, “i hope you will forever suffer from what i did, sweetheart.” the taunting nickname slipped through his charcoal lips.
The hand that had withdrew from his throat eagerly twitched to return.
another set of wings sounded, this time oddly bold and arrogant, it was strange that wings could even sound like that. or maybe Adam’s whole being radiated ironic debauchery.
Sera let herself hit the ground, gracefully pacing around the fallen seraphim, once again illuminating him as a kind of prey to be toyed with. “in two months.” She started, a new found firmness seeped into her voice, “there will be another extermination.”
Adam’s sickening smile was easy to spot from a mile away, the mask’s yellow teeth gleamed deviously with his next words. “i really do hope that ex boyfriend of yours bites the curb.”
another? whisperings outside his chamber had let him know the previous extermination was four months ago, this was much too soon. “He’s the king of hell, i hardly think you’ll be able to kill him.” He rolled his eyes, feeling the weakness in his restraints, almost weak enough to cleanly break.
oh how he had craved freedom, it was almost surreal to think he had a chance of undoing his bonds.
“then maybe something..” she paused, a hesitancy showing through the Seraphim’s speech. when the sentence refused to pour from Sera’s lips, Adam simply finished it for her, mindlessly lighting a match that would cause a damaging blaze.
“maybe something will happen to that bitch of a daughter lucifer has!”
all of the blood in his body stilled. the breath in his lungs froze.
Lucifer had had a fucking daughter.
a daughter he had never met.
He snarled, looking up at the grand Seraphim with laboured breaths, Her expression remained hard, a flicker of apprehension flashed over her face. “you are both cowards. talking to me like this when you’d know if i was able to move i would fucking kill you.”
“Leviathan, i will not hear thi-“
“for so long, i have been insulted under the guise that i would never escape. but you’ve messed up this time Sera, truly.” Sera’s eyes changed from irritation to unmasked fear.
“what are you talking about?” She murmured unsurely, too late to take action as one of Leviathan’s arms pulled harshly against his bindings, and almost like time had slowed down, the metal began to snap and disintegrate. “Adam, get the exorcists, Now.”
The room grew infinitely colder as the last chain crumbled to cinders. Leviathan leapt forward to taunt childishly, “oh? where do you think you’re going hm?” His clawed hands effortlessly plucked adam out of the sky, clenching around his heavenly robes. “No, i don’t think you will call for others.” Leviathan swapped his gaze to Sera, catching the uncertainty that she struggled to keep hidden. Her slanted eyes were wider than ever, not having enough time to react, the first man now in his palms.
He didn’t kill Adam. But his stare stayed upon the high Seraphim as he let the man go, conveying a silent message of i could’ve killed him if i wanted to.
“goodbye Sera.” words devoid of emotions emitted from the fallen seraphim’s mouth. no taunts, or jeers, just complacency for the first time in thousands, upon thousands of years.
#x reader#imagines#fluff#lgbtq#anons are open#angst#fanfic#fanfiction#angst prompt#hazbin hotel angst#hazbin hotel#hazbin alastor#hazbin lucifer#hazbin angel dust#hotel hazbin#hazbin hotel fanart#hazbinhotel#hazbin art#alastor#alastor the radio demon#radio demon#lucifer morningstar#hazbin hotel lucifer#radioapple#hazbin hotel alastor#hazbin hotel vox#hazbin hotel adam#niffty#hazbin hotel husk#hazbin husk
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I was a contributor for the "Between Heists" Lupin the Third fan book! Maybe it was a weird call for me to draw instead of write. Sometimes, you've gotta shake things up, right?
I ended up contributing five pieces. Our suggested limit was four, so I figured this would give a good selection in case room was needed to be made and something had to go. All five made it in, though! Hell, one's even cropped on the cover!
Thoughts/explanations:
Who was gonna do video game stuff if I didn't? 😅 I suppose it should have been based on Sega consoles instead, but I think this reads easier to American audiences. (The black velvet painting is based on a piece I have in my house that I found at a county fair.)
This piece of Goemon at his ancestor's monument was the first piece I made. It shows up one time in "The Woman Called Fujiko Mine", but the kanji on it appears to be wrong. Turns out that the first Goemon Ishikawa earned the postmortem name of 融仙院良岳寿感禅定門. So, I tried to at least get some of it on there.
@jeannettegray lamented the series' lack of cornetto breakfasts in Part 4, so that's where the "Italian Breakfast" came from. Fanworks are sometimes about fixing holes, right? (Naturally, I thought the "American Dinner" made for a good complimentary piece.)
I think it's fair to say a lot of sweat and tears went into this project. Thank you again @tabbiewolfreblogs for spear-heading this and to @maryellencarter for proofing/editing!
#lupin the third#d. f. 38 tries to art#hell everybody tries to art#arsene lupin iii#jigen daisuke#goemon ishikawa xiii#fujiko mine
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I still see the ghost of myself walking that front porch. Down the end of my street is this great rotting mass of a house . Its foundation turned to rubble against the onslaught of water from the nearby creek. I suppose over the years the water level rose faster than owners had expected. I passed by this monument when I go between the mimosas and kudzu to the creek side. Each time my eyes lingered on its windows a bit more .
My dad had a habit of taking us on walks with his new wife . What should have been bonding was quickly overtaken by her . My sister and I lagged behind them, always five paces away. During one of these walks she asked if I’d accompany her in sneaking inside . My dad and his lover long gone down the road, we braved the weeds and climbed the porch . Dry rotted plastic crunched under our shoes as we peered around the porch with my phone flashlight. We soon found the source of it piled against the wall of the house . The pieces became more whole as we came closer. If it hadn’t been for the proof of the years gone by in the labels mildew, or the eroded bits strewn about , they looked as if someone had set them down just yesterday. The few whole cassettes laid there , waiting for their player who will never come back.
#southern gothic#photography#photoblog#southern#south#americana#liminal#liminal photography#digital photography#vintage#tennessee#abandoned#abandoned photography#nature
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How would Silco propose to Mel/ Sevika?
Or would it be the ladies doing the proposing, haha?
Silco has monumental trust issues.
This translates into deeply-embedded commitment issues, and all the evasions and equivocations that go along with it.
If there was a wedding on the horizon - and it wasn't a political sham - it would absolutely take time (we're talking years), during which he'd spring a hundred traps and employ a thousand tests to ensure proof against treachery, all to bitterly console himself if presented with evidence of disloyalty, "See? Nobody can be trusted. It's just me and Jinx."
If both partners pass his bizarre marathon of mind-games - and still find themselves interested in him (?!) - he'd nonetheless want to avoid anything concrete ("The ties that bind become the knots that strangle," etc etc...)
Likely, a proposal would happen on the heels of some bigass epiphany. Him realizing that he's stabler, steadier or even sharper with the object of his affection closeby (I'd hesitate to say "happier" because I feel this character has left rock-solid romantic happiness behind in his youth, and the closest he finds to pure joy is his child, and Zaun in her stead.)
In which case, he would be the one proposing. On the surface, it seems a way to assert control. In fact, it's the opposite. In proffering an invitation, it's his feelings on the line - and the other party's prerogative to refuse. The ball would be - symbolically, literally - in their court, and they'd be aware of it.
In Mel's case, he'd opt for a wry formality. After all, Mel is someone who enjoys being wooed - but also loosens up after a bit of tasteful impropriety. After a diplomatic event, while they're still in 'business mode' he corners her somewhere alone with the invitation to have drinks. During which point, while they're sparring and scheming over martinis in their usual way, he casually tosses a little box into her lap.
With a ring inside.
Mel raises an eyebrow, masking her shock with cool poise. Silco raises an eyebrow right back: no poise, just simple expectation. "Well?"
Later, Mel is heard saying to Elora that it was the most succinct proposal she'd ever received.
She said yes, by the way.
In Sevika's case, they've known each other so long that even formality devolves into informality. She's also bluntly down-to-earth and a straight shooter with no patience for wishywashy hints. Silco might make his proposal as matter-of-factly as a business merger. But also rely on the environment to work for him, because he likes a little drama in his life...
Mid-shootout, both of them crouched behind a piece of wreckage while some rival chem-gang shreds the scenery, and Jinx ripostes with Pow-Pow, cackling maniacally in a hail of bullets - he leans in and murmurs, "If we do the done thing, you'd enjoy this rousing exercise every evening."
Sevika stares at him like he's lost his mind. But his half-smile tells her he's serious.
She finds herself smiling back.
That's a yes, by the way.
#asks#arcane#arcane league of legends#arcane silco#silco#forward but never forget/xoxo#forward (never forget)/xoxo#arcane sevika#sevika#arcane mel#mel medarda#silco x mel#silco x sevika#melco#sevilco#arcane headcanon#arcane jinx
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Hi phykios! I love you, your writing are so amazing. The Marble King is one of the best pieces on ao3, hands down. Really. One. Of. The. BEST. FICS. EVER. The worldbuilding, the dialogue, the history, the angst. SO. GOOD. Omg I die a happy death every time I read it (I have done so multiple times). Thank you for doing what you do!!!!!! If it is possible, may I ask for a bit of the shipwreck fellowship Thalassa story or the one where Sophia is born during (during?!) Percy's dissertation defense?
🥰 tysm anon!! marble king really does hold a special place in my heart and i'm glad ppl are still vibing with it
as requested, a bit of shipwreck hunting to whet the appetite 💖
Annabeth frowns. “That’s the embassy?”
Percy nods. “Uh huh.”
“But it’s so… nothing.”
He shrugs, readjusting his backpack, gripping the strap before it slides off his shoulder onto the wet pavement. In his other hand is his eldest daughter’s, squeezing it tight as she twirls around, her sneakers making little whirlpools beneath her feet. “That’s what I thought.”
Now, technically, it is a Tuesday, and Junie should have been in pre-k, wowing all her teachers and outperforming all the other kids by a mile. But, well… turns out the genes run a little bit deeper than just looks. The teacher had not been exactly sure how Junie had managed to flood the classroom via the little sink in the corner. But it seemed pretty clear that she had. She hadn’t been expelled, exactly. But it had been suggested she seek education and enrichment somewhere else. Honestly, Percy and Annabeth were a little charmed by it. Apples and trees and all of that. But they did worry that it heralded things to come.
“I mean, there’s nothing,” Annabeth says again, craning her neck upwards. “No decoration, no sculpture… There’s nothing there!”
“Nothing but pilasters.”
She gags.
“At least the one in Boston is next to the bar from Cheers.”
She blinks at him, uncomprehending, and Percy makes a note to himself.
“So how long do you think this will take?” she asks.
“Dunno.”
“Because if it’s not that long we can just wait out here for you.”
He shakes his head, kissing her on the cheek. “Don’t waste the rest of your lunch break on me.” Besides, his back itches in the way that means it’s probably going to rain soon. “I’ll pick up Lucie from my mom’s place, and I’ll have dinner ready by the time you get home.”
Percy is long-since immune to the domesticity of such a statement. Or at least he thought he was, because the way Annabeth grins at him, leaning forward to capture his lips in a stronger kiss, makes him want to do a little jig with Junie, right here on the sidewalk.
His daughter certainly seems to agree, if the way she spins faster is any indication.
Annabeth slides her own bag off her shoulder, and pulls out a bulky file folder, handing it to him. “One last check?”
“Hit me.”
“Award letter?”
“Check,” he says, thumbing through the pages.
“Proof of insurance?”
“Check.”
“Background check?”
“With fingerprints, and without allegations of underage terrorism.”
That had been a fun and nerve-wracking experience, getting his fingerprints taken. He had been sweating bullets for a week, expecting his brief bout of monument-related arson to have the FBI kicking his door down.
“Visa application?”
“Plus immunization forms, birth certificate with apostille, and two hundred dollars cash.”
“Passport?”
He blinks. “I thought you had it.”
Annabeth snaps her gaze to him, eyes blazing. “Are you serious?”
“Kidding!” Reaching into the folder, he pulls out his shiny new passport, flapping it in the air. “Kidding.”
She swats at him. “Seaweed brain…”
“Sorry, sorry,” he laughs, kissing her again. “It’s all good, promise.”
“Don’t be an idiot in front of the ambassadors, or whoever it is you meet in there, okay? Save your dumbassery for something less high-stakes.”
Scoffing, he slips the passport back into the folder. “Excuse you, my dumbassery is only reserved for the lowest of low-stakes operations.”
“Just go in and get your stupid visa.”
Try as she might, her shortness is only undercut by the final kiss she leaves him with. “Love you, too.”
Percy crouches down. “See you soon, Honey Dew,” he says, kissing her forehead. “Go have fun with mommy!”
Junie’s only response is to kick water in his direction.
Yes, he stands and watches them leave, smothering a laugh, even as it begins to drizzle on him, until they turn the corner.
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✧ HOW TO LOVE WITH BTS (MAKNAE LINE)
→ jimin x reader | taehyung x reader | jungkook x reader
→ just a drabble with how the maknae line demonstrates affection & love
→ warning: light smut, nothing to worry about and most fluffly things
if you want to read the first part (HYUNG LINE) just click here
park jimin, physical touch
jimin’s definitely the most romantic man in the world when it comes to the person he loves. he spares no effort to show how much he loves and oh how much he cares. he’s a physical touch lover, at every chance he wants to demonstrate that he’s there physically. this includes letting you fall asleep in his arms after a long day at work, where he caresses your skin so slowly until you fall into a deep sleep. he also makes sure you feel loved, kisses on the forehead, in the corner of your lips, behind hugs and moments where he carries you to bed. he likes to put his hands inside your shirt when you're sleeping, to feel and caress your skin. he’s also a person who loves to call you by the most pet names possible. “my angel, pretty girll” always making you blush like a little girl, because he has the charm, with those siren eyes. he especially loves using these names in bed. when he slowly removes your clothes, embracing your skin, always telling you how beautiful you’re, perfect for him. no matter what situation you're in, whether it's you giving him the finest bliss, or him eating you out, he needs to make sure you know how good you’re being for him, in every way. he’s a skin to skin lover, the heat, the sweat, the cuddle and the love that comes inside this combination’s certainly his favorite.
kim taehyung, taking pictures
this man has a classically artistic soul so that means the whole relationship is based on taehyung being the most considerate but still cult boyfriend. he likes to capture the moments you spend together, be it at home watching a movie or going for walks on the street, trips to the city, to other countries, where you’re always the main monument of his art. so he always goes out with a camera around his neck, recording every second you're together. he likes to have a collection, that's why his house has traces of you, always on polaroids scattered around the house, stuck in a bedroom mirror, inside his wallet, inside albums, and perhaps the most precious: the provocative ones that taehyung captures when you're alone. it definitely makes the relationship more erotic, he asking you to pose on the bed in different positions, each click a less piece of clothing, until you have to cover your body with your hands, blushing violently because he’s registering you in its most vulnerable version. but taehyung’s a man in love, he collects memories and makes sure that the most intimate ones, whether you’re wrapped in his body, or the sight of you giving him head, will be kept for just the two of you. so, as always, he prefers to document the moments you spend together so he can always remember the good times.
jeon jungkook, quality time
many say that a long distance relationship doesn't work, but you and jungkook are proof that this is bullshit. every day he calls you via facetime to see if you are ok, he makes a point of asking about the mundane things in your life, such as “what did you eat today?” or “how was class?” because he cares and even from afar, he needs to be part of your life. when he's around, he makes a point of giving you as much attention as possible even when your schedules collide at odds. he prepares your lunch when he’s in your apartment, keeps you company while you study and when you call it a day, the night becomes a marathon of series, pizza, wine and video games, where he’s much better than you, but you don't care , just being next to the person you love is enough. jungkook likes people to feel loved by him, that's why he likes to make you laugh, he takes you to places whenever possible, arcades, backstage shows, rehearsals, where you watch from behind the scenes, hidden from everyone. another active thing in your relationship is the constant exchange of messages, whether it's about everyday life, exchanging memes — because you're that kind of couple, or about spicy ones. it's endless teasing, you just need a teasing photo while he's at some important event or interview to have him confused, with those doe eyes, parted lips, trying to know how to proceed, his malfunctioning brain. of course, he rewards you for it later — in the best possible way.
#jimin x reader#jimin x you#jimin fanfic#jimin imagines#imagines jimin#park jimin#fanfic jimin#bts fanfics#bts imagines#bts drabble#jimin drabble#taehyung#kim taehyung x reader#kim taehyung x you#taehyung fanfics#taehyung imagines#jungkook#jeon jungkook#jungkook fanfic#jungkook x you#jungkook imagines#jeon jungguk
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Proposition - [TOH] Bill/Belos fic
1.025 words , horrid old people make hand holding weird, doomed toxic yaoi
Bill invites Belos to the shrine at night to talk, Bill´s full name is Vasilis, they are unmasked. v
"Follow me" He said to the emperor and walked over behind a curtain, Belos followed through with his royal mask left on the other elder´s makeshift throne .
Down an illuminated elevated hall there stood an altar, idolatry to a sun shaped face decorated in blue and yellow hues, and surrounded by almost endless piles of skulls, different from the usual witch or demon he's come to known, not strewn across but meticulously piled onto each other to maintain integrity, candles lit up sporadically but mostly around the table by the altar, and in front of it some steps leading towards it.
Bill stood still on the middle of the steps, gloved claws held around his back.
"I must say, you have an eye for presence."
Belos spoke, eyeing at the organization, wondering if he could make something out of the discarded pieces of failed guards at the Titan´s head, would it do anything? would it mean anything, they were not supposed to mean anything, once it dies the soul turns back from its vessel, that's the purpose. But Vasilis personal shrine seemed to emanate something to him, he couldn't help to inquire what was this feeling,
"Im proud of what i have built, it's a monument to us all as much as it is to the Grand Huntsman" there he went, the Huntsman, a god-like figure that would grant wishes and fortune to all who give it proof of the slaying of the Titans.
"Did the huntsman grant you all life?" a question escaped his lips, upon trusting himself with the trappers, he finally felt somewhat at ease in a house of hunters to talk of faith, it had been decades since he last spoke of faith, the Collector was no use of it, they were entirely too childish and seemed to feel above the thoughts of the mortals, or well, only seemed to be interested in the feats of Bible men and miracles, the only sort of thing "similar" enough to magic to the creatures of the demon realm
"The titans... tie us to this wretched world, they give us the land that we walk on so that they clutch us with their horrendous claws, forcing us to become part of them," Bill rambled on tightening his fist and looking down towards him with that piercing single blue eye, grinding his teeth
"The Huntsman grants something greater, infinite like the skies, powers beyond any low demon sucking the marrow out of the bones of this world" he had a tongue for prose, his expression softened with fondness as he turned around.
"He doesn't need to give us life when he offers something more beautiful beyond it, right?" His smile was earnest but the look in his eyes was wide and crazed, blue eye reflect with his own blues, human spirit in an ugly witch shell, he thinks, even if it's at the wrong side, at the wrong heaven, the ambition is there.
"Do you wish for salvation?" Belos found himself saying, maybe it's the moon, the influences of lunacy, to be alone and find someone who speaks a prayer you have not heard in centuries, he longs for a church, a true one,
"What a - You're not trying to sell me anything right? I already said im not
going to join the Titan´s dogma!" the short man accused while going over a step, Belos walking forward -ugh, the idiot- he thought , almost scrambling to explain himself before Bill talked his head off
"No-" Belos reached out and Bill stepped away from touch, keeping his false claws to himself, the tall man took a look at his own hand and then, digit to digit, carefully took off his armored glove, Bill looked down at that arm and hand, not so scarred, Belos always made sure to not show off the carved markings over his flesh in his other arm.
Vasilis just stared at that naked hand, "Is there glory in salvation too?"
his posture relaxing, an examination that Philip may have not been aware of, the moon peeks over the clearing of the roof, he's distracted by the glow of the man's eyes, his glances back at his own hand again and back at him, when did a dead heart decide to drum?
Bill reaches over carefully, just with the slightest touch, and Belos grabs onto the clawed digit, pulling it off the witch's hand, the man letting him undress it to reveal that smaller palm, he examines it himself; not a single sunspot and smoothed over as if time didn't touch it, fervor jealousy and fascination bubbles up, how? his mind starts wandering off to figure out, is it what The Huntsman promises them?
he speaks with careful method, to sway the witch lower to him back again, he has answers if he hears them out,
"There is always glory in what lies beyond, i know it, that's the promise He makes for all of us" He in this case his own god, the Holy Father of humanity, but Vasilis doesn't have to know, he doesn't have to know anything more than the coldness of his roughed hand,the prickling against the skin of his naked hand, there's nothing there, its beyond what's natural, it reminds the witch of a feeling almost forgotten but something that fills him with vigor to continue on this mission. The celestial touch living in the dusty corners of his mind.
"We could light a beacon with this world, don't we?" the elder smiles meeting Philip´s face, was he willing to smile back?
"It'll shine and burn so bright He is bound to find us and take us to the heavens." The emperor gripped that man's hand, almost with the will to scratch it, taint it, bring it down to his level, but he wanted him to believe he was a messenger of the stars, so not yet.
In a way it was a half-truth, would he hate him if he told him the truth, that he's keeping the Huntsman away from him and gaining their favors?
He doesn't have to know. It's more beautiful when he doesn't know.
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