The throne room was a massacre. The throne room was where Prythian ended and a new force began. Feyre stood, her sword barely gripped in her right hand, blood slowly rolling down her skin.
Her eyes fluttered closed as she looked around the carnage that surrounded her. The High Lord of the Dawn Court was pinned to the wall, his mouth still open, his skin still glimmering. Feyre watched that light fade.
His wife and chosen soldiers decorated the floor with their golden blood, which carefully slithered across the floor. The Lady of the Dawn Court’s eyes were open, the golden orbs staring into space.
Feyre had never learned their names.
Kallias was lying down motionless, the blade in his back frozen over. His bright blue eyes seemed dull in comparison to a color Feyre once knew. His fingers were digging into the ice that painted the ground. In the process of crawling away from a force you can not out run: Death.
On top of him, as if in the last moments of her life she was determined to guard him, a female rested. Her back was arched, her own jagged blade sinking into her sternum. White blood stained her lips, her fingers curled helplessly around the metal.
Their own warriors were discarded and ruined around them, white and gold blood slowly swimming together, mixing like they were made to. It created a marble design, and slowly it swam to Helion.
Hellion’s golden tunic was stained with a vibrant red, brighter than any red Feyre had ever seen. She would have loved to paint with such a bright color. His beaded head piece was tossed from his head, laying on the ground, far away from the High Lord. If Feyre didn’t know any better, the High Lord could have just been sleeping. He still looked magnificent.
His wife lay beside him, those deep brown eyes forever unseeing. Her mouth opened in a scream the world would never hear again. The fiercest battle cry she had ever witnessed. Her crown still rested on her head, as if it knew it belonged there, even in death. Blood ran down her deep brown skin, and Feyre thought it was the most beautiful horror she had ever seen.
Warriors of the Day were thrown and destroyed around their High Lord and Lady, their bright red blood crawling across the throne room floor, until it met with the white and gold. Their deaths were brutal, yet undeniably stunning.
The blade fell from Feyre’s fingers, clattering against the ground, when her eyes saw Tarquin. Young, brave, fearless Tarquin. She should have let him alone after she had betrayed him in his own Court. She should have never involved him in this.
Tarquin’s white hair was matted with blood, his eyes peacefully closed. He was crumpled on his side, his body broken in several ways. Of all of them, he had fought the hardest. Feyre wished his eyes were open, so she could see that blue one last time.
A male warrior had fallen on top of Tarquin, his body resting over the High Lord’s long legs. His left arm was reaching out, only a few inches from Tarquin’s unmoving fingertips.
In their last seconds, the lovers had reached for one another. Feyre saw Varian and Cresseida amongst the Summer Court Fae who had fought bravely. Blood swam down Cresseida’s arms, her eyes glazed over. Varian’s own sword had betrayed him in the end, lodged in the Fae’s chest.
She nearly staggered to the side when she saw Lucien’s bright red hair.
His good eye was closed, his scarred eye staring at the far wall. Feyre had a sick feeling that Lucien could still see with that eye, even as he lay there, stone still. He was horrible to look at. Her friend, dead, gone, brave, but gone.
Unnamed Autumn Court warriors had died by their High Lord’s side. Had accepted him as their rightful High Lord, had given her friend love, compassion, strength, everything she could not. And Feyre couldn’t even bother to learn their names. Faes with dark skin, natural tans, or olive undertones had died for Lucien, for a ray of hope. Their red hair, brown hair, golden hair, all soaked in blood; their blood. And all of their veins, empty of that raging fire. They had given that power up the moment they fell to the ground.
The ends of Tamlin’s golden air was soaked in his own blood. Feyre stared at him, blood slowly trailing down her face, sliding down her cheeks, dripping off her nose. She knew she was covered in it. White, blue, red, and other colors alike.
He looked peaceful.
Like he was waiting for someone.
Feyre’s knees began to tremble as she looked closer to her. The bodies created a path, a path to her. She swallowed a lump in her throat when she saw Elain and Nesta. Nesta with her burned hands, Elain with her tranquil face.
Feyre wanted to collapse when she saw Azriel. His wings were bent against his back, a siphon cracked and broken, scattered across the floor, never to hum and glow again.
Feyre looked at her friend, someone she would have called a brother, someone who would never breathe again. Cladded in Illyrian leathers, Azriel had gone down with a fight, Feyre knew that much.
And so had his brother. Cassian, collapsed by Azriel’s side, motionless. His wings were gone from his back, once again. Feyre knew one thing. In death, Cassian deserved his wings more than anyone else. Fate was a cruel, wicked thing. His siphons were also cracked, broken, and gone.
Another male she would never be able to call brother.
Female Illyrians surrounded the two warriors. Wings. A sea of wings, all broken, tattered, torn, or simply gone. It was a sea of destruction, a sea of pain. Feyre blinked, and she saw another blonde head.
Blood still seeped from Mor’s stomach and Feyre pressed a shaky hand against her mouth. Her blonde hair was pressed against her face, her brown eyes open, positioned on Azriel. He was the last thing she saw.
Amren, her firedrake friend, their last hope in the seemingly impossible war, was just as dead as the rest of them. Silver blood still poured from her neck, her silver eyes on the ceiling. Silver painted her and Feyre thought it was fitting. She sparkled like one of her beloved gems.
She hoped her friend was back home, back with those who she loved and loved her.
Feyre’s eyes drooped closed, then she forced them to open. She forced herself to look at the body at her feet. Her heart laid bare before her, crushed and broken, never to beat again.
Her mate, her husband, her High Lord. His violet eyes so dark, not nearly as light and glowing as she remembered them. Her everything, her salvation; the one she saved, the one who had saved her. Broken and dead.
The realization hit her hard. Rhysand was dead. Feyre finally fell, her head hitting the smooth floor. She moved one last time, determined to hold Rhysand’s hand. Determined never to die alone again.
Her fingers clasped around his and Feyre looked up, letting loose a shuddering breath as she saw the King, skewered on his throne. His head thrown back, his body lifeless, all that power, gone.
Unmade and Made; Made and Unmade - that is the cycle. Like calls to like. The Book of Breathings had warned her. The Book had warned her of the price. The Book had told her she was the princess of carrion. If only she had listened, truly listened.
For something to be Unmade then Made, something had to be Made then Unmade. For Feyre to hold the power of all the High Lords, it was fitting they should all be destroyed. Her eyes fluttered and the King wavered in her vision, as the Cauldron toppled over.
The water raced across the floor, washing away blood in its wake, drowning the Fae in its cold grasp. It swam closer and closer to her, seemingly hissing and cackling. Soon, it soaked her, head to toe, along with her mate and her friends.
Together, the deaths of the High Lords, they had Unmade Prythian. Feyre saw a figure in the doorway, their bare feet slick with the Cauldron’s water. The water began to shimmer, carrying the seven High Lord’s magic as well as the King’s through the liquid.
Feyre heard a faint thumping, as if the figure had fled. Her eyes finally closed, she finally slipped away. She could only hope the Cauldron had chosen correctly; chosen someone to end this cycle.
She would be the last to be Made.
And with her, Prythian would be the last to be Unmade.
An Explanation: Last night I was sketching some designs for a tattoo I want to get; the Unfettered symbol from Fialleril’s Tattooine Slave Culture inside the Rebel Alliance symbol, when I had the thought that the Rebel Alliance symbol kind of looks like a stylized dragon with the Unfettered symbol at its heart. Then this happened. I hope you like it and that I didn’t accidentally misrepresent anything…
This is the story of the First Unfettered child of Ar-Amu, and how the Krayt Dragon acquired a new heart.
The vest is too tight, and Steve is sure this is an omen, a sign that this exercise can only end badly.
He looks over to the other team, where Peggy chats quietly with Thor, swinging the oversized gun on its string like it’s nothing. Her hair is tightly braided, as always, and the vest sits perfectly on her shoulders like it’s part of her normal uniform.
“Okay, team,” Tony says, calling Steve’s attention back to the huddle comprised of half of the Avengers. “Cap’s team has been undefeated for years, but that streak ends today! You all know Agent 13, of course.”
Steve nods at the team, each of whom is wearing a similar vest and toting a laser gun like his own.
“Steve here is our secret weapon,” Tony continues, goatee twitching as he smirks. “His mission is to keep Cap out of the way while we wreak havoc on the rest of the team. After the last time, we decided that removing her from the equation was our best hope.”
yoongi x reader. angst, drama, attack on titan!au. 12.5 k words. warning for cursing and depiction of violence/gore. yeha i’m back ppl. this story is only loosely based off of the world in attack on titan, the events written are not the same to the anime/manga.
as long as humanity can remember, they have lived in the confines of
three great walls—the outermost ring, Wall Maria; the middle ring, Wall
Rose; and the innermost ring, Wall Sina—and feast on the false pretense
of peace the government has given them. They turn ignorant to the giant
man eating beasts—titans—lurking on the other side of the wall that acts
as their barrier, and surrender to a cowardly life where they refuse to
fight back for their freedom.
Though so, there exist the
remaining of humanity that refuses to bow down to the false reality they
live in. And among these few people, lies The Survey Corps, one of the
three military branches that tasks brave soldiers with the fate of
humanity’s freedom: venturing outside the walls, slaughtering and
discovering ways to exterminate these titans once and for all. But in
the process of reclaiming their freedom back from a terrible threat,
some of these soldiers are forced to turn their sanity over for the sake
There has only ever been a thirst for blood.
The thirst for it singes her veins, crackles the bones in every uncontrolled and vicious movements, sparks the fire in lifeless eyes, dictates and shapes her very being.
It’s far better to be guided by bloodthirst than despair, or pointless anger, or ridiculous hope, or even courage in a world as bleak as this. That’s how she sees it.
And for that reason, she is raised to thirst for carnage and blood and death, to become an uncontrollable force of weapon, a demon to fear.
In which Caroline saves a baby vampire and it ruins her whole Queen Bitch routine.
Okay, so I think this is the most fun drabble I’ve ever return. It’s a total role reversal, so it’s Original Hybrid Caroline and baby vampire Klaus, and this Caroline was definitely the most interesting to write. By the way, there is smut in this drabble, so all you kiddies out there or just anyone uncomfortable by that sort of thing, please don’t read, I’d hate to ruin your innocence.
She waits until his vision is clear enough that he sees her standing over him.
“I apologise,” She says, gently. “Unfortunately, your friends have proven to be less than trustworthy so I thought it better if I collected you myself.”
“Collected?” His voice is thick with confusion as he slurs out his words, still not completely recovered from the warlock’s assault.
She hums her agreement and crouches in front of him so that he can look her in the eye.
Hello everyone! My blog reached 1,000 followers over the weekend, and I wanted to thank everyone for making this blog what it is and continuing to enable me in my Venom madness. To celebrate, I wanted to share with you all the bulk of my very disorganized Venom collection. All of this is the equivalent of many years of collecting and contains items from lava lamps, paddles, cups, backpacks, Funko Pops, hats, masks, giant erasers, you name it. The top photo is what I have on display and what I like to call the “Symbiote Shelves.” Thank you very much everyone for all the support. I’ll save posters, wall decor, books, trading cards, and comics for a later date! See you then, Venomites!
An excerpt from the indictment of Madame Elisabeth, who was executed on May 10th, 1794:
Élisabeth has … co-operated in all the plots, the
conspiracies formed by her infamous brothers, by the wicked and impure
Antoinetter … It was she who in the month of June, 1791, sent diamonds,
the property of the nation, to the infamous d'Artois, her brother, to
put him in a condition to execute projects concerted with him, and to
hire assassins of the nation.
… Élisabeth meditated with Capet and
Antoinette the massacre of the citizens of Paris on the immortal day of
the 10th of August. She watched all night hoping to witness the
nocturnal carnage. She helped the barbarous Antoinette to bite the
cartridges; she encouraged by her language, young girls whom fanatical
priests had brought to the château for that horrible occupation.
disappointed in the hope of all this horde of conspirators,
namely,–that the citizens who came to overthrow tyranny would be
massacred,–she fled in the morning, with the tyrant and his wife, and
went to await in the temple of National sovereignty that the horde of
slaves, paid and committed to the crimes of that parricide Court, should
drown Liberty in the blood of citizens and cut the throats of its representatives among whom she had sought a refuge.
Finally, we have seen her, since the well-deserved punishment of the
most guilty of the tyrants who have ever dishonoured human nature,
promoting the re-establishment of tyranny by lavishing, with Antoinette,
on the son of Capet homage to royalty and the pretended honours of a
Pick an au -- Nyx standing back with the bros while someone attempts to threaten Noct because he looks like an easy target. Bets are placed.
back to the swords n’ shields verse we go~
Nyx contemplated non-existence.
He seriously considered spiriting off under the cover of
night and finding a wizard – that was not
Crowe, no matter how low of a fee she offered – to eradicate his existence off
the face of Eos. That would be such a sweeter mercy than having to wake up to
this hangover, with these people, and getting up on that chocobo to go
gallivanting across Duscae to do their thing.
Especially with Noctis electing to now ride with them.
Making a behemoth’s puckered asshole of himself in front of
a stranger in a tavern was one thing. Even making himself said asshole in front
of Lucian nobility that was close acquaintances with his Lady was one thing
that he could maybe bounce back from
with enough faulty retelling of the tale and acres upon acres of Lucian
countryside between him and the tavern.
Making himself said asshole in front of a man that he was
now going to be spending the duration of his quest with in close proximity was
an astronomically, out of reach, other
“see? you think i’m unsettling. trust your instincts,” she deadpans, before the corners of her lips turn up a moment later. “you’ve been at this game a lot longer than I have, longer than i’ve been alive, judging by the crows feet. but i’ve got the advantage in this one, so step off my mark, would you? i’m not letting that painting slip out of my hands again.”
Eris (Ἔρις) is the Goddess of Discord, Strife and Chaos. She caused the Trojan War with the infamous golden Apple of Discord. During the war, Eris fought by the side of Ares. She is more generally known for the less deadly
forms of conflict; political strife, personal contention, rivalry and wrangling
but the potential for evoking her deadly nature is ever present.
Eris would appear
frail and small as she entered the fighting but as she strode through the
carnage she would get larger and larger until her head would brush the heavens.The symbols associated with Eris are: a poniard, a hissing adder
which she holds in one hand, and a burning torch that she holds in her other
Hello! Can I get Tracer, D.Va and Mercy with a male s/o who can transform into a dragon?
Lena got home from another long day of missions and paperwork, exhausted and melancholy. She found her draconic s/o lounging in the middle of the living room carpet, stretching out his limbs lazily. When he saw that she had arrived, he perked up, his little beady eyes looking intently at her.
“How was being the poster girl of Overwatch today?” he grinned.
“Ugh!” Lena groaned, throwing her bag onto the couch,” It’s just been a long week. I’m glad I made it to Friday, ya know?”
“Yeah, I know how you feel,” the dragon shrugged.
Lena just gave him a deadpan, “You’ve been napping in the lounge all day, love.”
“Uh–well–” he stuttered nervously, “I mean, the rest of my week was rough. I just had today off is all!”
Rather than argue, Tracer let out a long yawn and stretched her long legs. Trudging up to her s/o, she plopped down next to him, leaning on his scaly body.
“I’m tired,” she croaked.
“I can see that,” he chuckled, running a gentle claw through her hair.
She just nestled herself closer to him, mumbling some sleepy, inaudible things as she did. Her s/o gave her a warm smile before wrapping a wing around her and letting her fall asleep.
“Nerf THIS, you scrubs!” Hana laughed maniacally from the back of her dragon…s/o…dragon s/o?
She watched in delight as she racked up “bonus points” when her dragon breathed fire on all the enemies in front of them, scorching them in their tracks. Her meka was fine and all, but nothing could compare riding into battle on a drake like a medieval warrior! She felt like a boss right out of Dark Souls.
“I’m the true Kalheesi!” she cheered at the carnage around her, “Onward, my steed!”
“Urm, Hana,” her dragon s/o looked back at her, “They’re all dead. The parameters been cleared.”
“Then let’s go flying around the base just to make sure!” she grinned.
Flopping his wings to his side tiredly, he groaned, “But I’ve done enough already, Hana.”
“No, we have to go flying!” she laughed, kicking at his sides like a horse.
Rolling his big, dragon eyes, her partner just transformed back into a human, leaving D.Va to fall from her perch and land on the ground with a resounding thud. She looked up at him with a saddened face, but he wasn’t buying it.
“But [Naaame],” she whined.
“No,” he held out a hand for her, “Now come on, the others will be waiting for us to go back.”
“Can’t you fly me back?” she stood up.
“Hana, I already said–”
“Pleeeaase?” she sang with that adorable little pout on her face.
She noticed a bit of pink on his cheeks and decided to move in for the kill. She pressed her body up against his and looked up at him with the cutest face she could muster.
“Pretty pretty please?” she pouted.
Now he was trying desperately to cover his blushing cheeks. She often wished he could visibly blush in dragon form, in fact.
“Oh fine!” he groaned, morphing back into a dragon.
“Hurray!” Hana cheered as she scrambled onto his back.
“Jack! One of my Valkyrie suit wings is damaged, I can’t fly out of here!” Angela shouted into her comm link.
Right a mission had started going south, the strike team were ordered to pull out as quickly as possible. Mercy was just about to swoop out of there herself when she took a shot to her right wing and was left grounded. Now she was left alone in the middle of a war zone with nothing but a healing staff and a dinky pistol.
“Okay, we’re sending in backup, just don’t move!” Jack barked on the other end.
Mercy felt a growing dread in her. She only hoped the “backup” arrived in time. Taking in her surroundings, she was going to find a better place nearby to hide, when she caught sight of a rather large and sharp-looking bot. At first she hoped it wouldn’t see her, but of course it’s over-active little sensors saw her. It made a loud beeping noise, alerting smaller omnics to its side. Now she was screwed.
“Jack…please hurry,” Mercy whispered, shakily readying her pistol.
The pack of scrap metal had just about reached her when suddenly a huge, reptilian body landed around her, its four paws surrounding her protectively. Wait, was that her s/o? But he wasn’t supposed to be on this mission! How did Morrison get him as backup? The dragon let out an ear piercing roar and followed up up with a spray of molten lava on the bots, melting them on the spot.
The larger one from before was able to withstand it, but her s/o merely slammed his claws down on it and reduced it to rubble. Once the danger was gone, a silence fell upon the scene as both of them took a moment to catch their breath.
Removing himself from the protective stance over Mercy, her s/o said in his rumbling voice, “Are you alright?”
“Oh, [Name]!” she smiled, rushing over to him.
He dipped his head, letting her hug his face and press her forehead to his.
Pulling back, she asked, “I thought you weren’t on this mission, though,”
“I wasn’t,” he shook his head, “But I finished my job early, and as soon as I heard you were in trouble, I took off after you. Pretty sure Morrison wanted to send someone else, but I wasn’t about to let my angel get hurt on my watch.”
Angela smiled up at him, wiping away a few tears that prickled at her eyes. Then her s/o sat down on the ground and extended a wing for her to climb up.
“Shall we get out of here?” he asked.
Mercy nodded, carefully climbing onto his back. His wings would always be there when hers stopped beating.
Here’s the thing: they’re not demigods. They’re not sprites or deities or blessed ones or chosen champions. They’re just heroes, that’s all.
Tobias earns Artemis’s respect right from the start, because she knows better than anyone how to turn loneliness into strength, how to kill and hunt and provide for herself while needing no one else’s support or even their approval. She rejoices with him over each kill and mourns with him as well, because she loves all the orphans with nothing left to lose but most of all she loves the cleanness of putting something right and doing it all by one’s lonesome. She laughs as he leaps across the sky and clenches her fists with fierce pride every time he asserts again and again: I need no one. I am myself, and I am free.
Pan doesn’t come to him until later, crouched next to Tobias to whisper in his ear even louder than Taylor’s taunts, to warm more fiercely than the endless lights of the Anti-Morphing Ray. Don’t you give up on me, you piece of shit, he growls in the voice of a collapsing mountain. Us of lesser gods can survive anything, because we already have. I know it hurts, you fucker, but you already have all the strength of all the ugly and broken and wild things that no human can ever love or tame. Pan teaches him in that moment, and in a thousand thousand that will follow, that sometimes there is no need for words or norms. Sometimes all you have to do is scream. Sometimes you have to hammer your pain into the instrument of your enemies’ terror, and let it loose in a cry that will break the hearts of anyone who hears. Pan shows him that pain has no words, but then neither does the feeling of the entire Earth joining together at your back to fight on your side.
Marco wins Hermes over right from the start, with his charm and rule-bending and ability to get away with seemingly anything thanks to the sheer outrageous boldness with which he does what he is told not to. Hermes cultivates his self-deprecation and quick-wittedness, laughs when he triumphs and laughs even harder when he fails. Hermes teaches him to tell the truth in such a way that no one even notices when he does, to joke of church-doors and curses even as he bleeds to death, to be all things and all people but never ever serious for long. Through Hermes Marco learns to be faster than the bullet that would kill him, to move through all places and modes of being—even darkness, even cruelty, even ruthlessness—but never to stay for long. Always the delicate quick-thinking ones must race ahead of their would-be killers, dodging and twisting and coming at their problems from a thousand angles, if they want to survive the war.
Apollo shows Marco how to love beauty in all its forms—male, female, in others, in himself—but above all teaches him the beauty of simple clean rules of logic applied across all situations. He might be cold at times, might be aloof even, but he also sees all possible angles to every problem that confronts him and can offer half a dozen solutions, most of them more elegant than anyone else might come up with, in half the time it would take an ordinary kid. Marco has a beautiful body but more importantly a beautiful mind, and Apollo cultivates that mind like a peer and a lover and a patron and a worshipper all at once.
Rachel fights with Ares’s own ferocity, the terror of tyrants and the pathbreaker for her peers. She is a creature of legend and song, a pure warrior who can strike fear into Crayak himself while even the Ellimist watches in awe. She laughs off her own wounds and drinks in those of her enemies like mother’s milk. Ares revels in the slaughter at her side, and swaggers at her shoulder murmuring: You have power, power that you have killed and wounded and been wounded in turn in order to earn. Walk with your head held high, because you deserve it. Ares laughs with her as she kills, and he laughs with her as she dies. There’s no such thing as a fountain of youth. There’s only one path to immortality, and it’s fighting to your last breath. It’s living like there’s no tomorrow because there is none. It’s taking hundreds of the bastards with you as you go. It’s leaving the world a safer place than it was when you entered.
For every ounce of Ares’s ferocity she possesses, Rachel also has all of Aphrodite’s poise and grace. She can draw beauty from the most unlikely places and keep it at all costs, emerging unscathed from the hurricane and the carnage alike. She is ethereal, untouchable, as golden and glowing as the goddess herself and as—rightfully—prideful besides. Rachel has the instincts that tell her when a blouse is overpriced, when adjusting the curtains will draw out the beauty of a room, and it comes from her patron goddess. After all, Aphrodite always does spare her best love for the ones who will never age or grey.
Cassie doesn’t catch Persephone’s eye, not at first, because Persephone may love all things that grow but she also sees the pretty ones the most. And then Cassie, eight years old and with tears striping her face, picks up a rock and crushes the skull of a suffering rabbit that was fatally injured by a passing car. Persephone takes notice. When Cassie saves four baby skunks and doesn’t blame Tobias for eating the fifth, Persephone watches carefully. When Cassie coaxes David so gently to his doom, Persephone smiles just a little. When Cassie eats a seal while its children watch, Persephone approves. Life is death. Cultivating a garden is a matter of loving every blossom and also knowing when to snap its neck. Persephone is green and growth and spring, but she is also the goddess of death because she understands that these processes—growing and aging, blooming and dying—are one and the same. Persephone may see the pretty ones first, but the ones she loves are the ones who know that all things must end, that all cycles have two sides, and that humans are ultimately not that special in the grand scheme.
Hestia’s interest in Cassie begins on those late nights spent watering horses and murmuring to sick wolves and checking on cranky eagles, but it blossoms into admiration the day that Cassie hugs Jake goodbye and chooses not to adventure. Hestia is a one-woman army of her own, a burning homefire to her own adopted family, a brilliant brand in the darkness who never ever compromises her morals even for a second. Hestia nurtures Cassie through the long years during which she must redefine home after everyone she loved is gone, but it is work that she is glad to do because Hestia is like Cassie in that regard: she understands that a hard day’s work is its own reward, but that a smile at the end of it is a greater reward still.
Ax comes to Gaia late, as an outsider, and she doesn’t know what to make of him at first. In all her infinite millennia she has never had a creature quite like him running across her surface tasting the sweetness of her grass. But he sees her in a way that none of her homegrown children ever really do, drinking in the incomprehensible richness of the millions of species she uses to populate even the meanest square of grass on the most neglected of her fields. He speaks to her trees and drinks of her streams… and he shares her taste for vengeance as well. Gaia can adapt and evolve, and so can Ax, but they both understand the importance of following certain rules and never losing sight of one’s heritage. Gaia welcomes Ax and gives him a home like none he has ever known before, strange and frightening and wonderful and lonely. He cultivates himself and his heritage under her watchful eye, and he learns to love her back even though he did not come to her by choice.
Hades is a keeper of memory the way that Ax is, sheltering him first when Ax is trapped beneath an infinite black ocean and surrounded by the dead. Hades does not forget, and he does not forgive; every time Ax clashes with Visser Three, every time he refuses to compromise his morals to humans or to andalites, Hades is there. Hades is a collector of rare and precious things, and he recognizes that Ax is a thing like no other. Ax does not flinch from death, nor from killing, but he does recognize how terrible a life wasted is. Ax can find the life in a simple sound or a beautiful food, but he never loses sight of the place that he came from. Ax mourns his family, Ax remembers his heritage, but Ax has enough understanding of the vastness of his task as a warrior that he never allows himself to be consumed by grief. Hades sees all, and Hades approves.
Jake springs from his cocoon of mediocre complacency the moment the war lands in his lap with a speed that reminds Athena of herself, and he wastes no time demonstrating a military spirit that proves her faith was not misplaced. He is canny enough to maneuver seven Animorphs into the world leaders’ conference with everything from repurposed fishing weights to reverse psychology against Visser Three, but also bold enough simply to tear through problems with a rhino’s ferocity when he cannot solve them with a dragonfly’s cleverness. He sees how the pieces—of situations, of tools, problems, of people, of teams, of empires—fit together, and how they fall apart. Athena has fought on the shores of Normandy, in the icy waters of Trenton, on the bloody sands of Algeria, and now in the suburban streets of a California town. War is an art, won through sacrifice and strategy and sheer cussed refusal to sink to the level of one’s enemies. War is about victory for the sake of peace, about winning to return to the hearth, about making plowshares out of swords. Athena fights by Jake’s side, and she considers it an honor.
Poseidon is inscrutability and depth of thought, but also rage that shakes planets and tears islands from their moorings. Poseidon is about masculinity and pride, not the silly posturing of his younger peers but the brutal self-assurance that comes with hard-won maturity. Poseidon recognizes himself in Jake, and though Poseidon does not ally himself with anyone, nor does he respect any mere mortal, much less admire such silly fleeting creatures, he still smiles faintly across the battlefield at a worthy opponent. He watches the Howlers destroyed and 17,000 yeerks sucked into the unforgiving vacuum of space, and thinks that these things have earned his time long enough for him to whisper to Jake: The sea weathers down all things in the end, and the prettier they are the faster they fall. But any rock that has survived a hundred storms and still stands has more dignity in its defeat than any statue or house never battered into the smooth utter essence of its being by the waves.
Summary: The signing of the Accords does not go as planned
Authors Note: Sorry for the delay, I’ve been swamped with grad school applications and then ended up in the hospital for a few days, Overall I’ve just been having a rough go the last few weeks. Hope you all enjoy. Tagging is open, they’ve just been moved to the bottom, just ask if you want to be tagged :D
“Do I detect some flirting… is the great Black Widow smitten with a Prince?” You twitter sardonically as Natasha guides you away from the Prince of Wakanda, now engaged in a private conversation with his father, the King.
“Will you stop it?” She rolls her eyes as she shoves you forward towards your seat, rolling her eyes as you laugh at her annoyance, “I honestly don’t know what’s with you lately.” You cock an eyebrow at her, confused at her observation, “What do you mean?” you question, wishing for her to elaborate.
“You’re kidding right?” her eyebrows raise at you, believing the answer was obvious, “Talking about flirting? Caring about my relationship status? This isn’t you. The sarcasm and teasing yes, but the incessant smiling and interest in my personal life… I mean come on.” She looks you up and down feigning as if she doesn’t recognize you.
You laugh at her absurdity, wondering how your friend had drawn such conclusions about you, “Oh shove off Nat. I’ve asked you about your personal life before, I’ve cared. You’re overacting… you’re just embarrassed that I caught you flirting.”
“You’re never around anymore, and when you are you’re cryptic and distant. Not to mention how absent minded you have become, always drifting off into your own head, you’re unfocused.”
“I’m not…” you start but Natasha interrupts you, continuing in her explanation, “And don’t even get me started with you and Steve. I’ve known both of you for a while, watched you be on and off for the past few months, and I have never once heard you fight like you did today.”
Her words hit a nerve, wiping the smile from your face as you consider her observations. Had you really changed that much? Had Bucky’s presence in your life had that wide of a scope of impact? You admit that your behavior towards Steve had changed, but that was more because you could no longer give him what he wanted.
Your stomach tenses, realizing fully the effect that Bucky has had on you. Your thoughts were constantly with him, drifting to him at every available moment. She was right… you weren’t present anymore, the bonds that had previously tied you to your work, to the avengers, had been severed. The focus of your life had shifted without you even being aware.
Oh my god. I’m in love with him. I love Bucky. You stood there with a blank stare glossing across your face. You had never fallen in love with anyone. Sure you had affectionate feelings before, you would go so far as to say you were invested in some, but never like this. Never before had there been this all-consuming feeling, like a magnet pulling you to his presence.
“Y/N? Hello! See this is what I’m talking about, you always drift off nowadays. Y/N? Are you even listening to me?” Natasha grips your arm roughly, pulling your attention to her as she shakes you from your realization, your face quickly correcting as you try to hide your thoughts.
“You’re being overdramatic,” you roll your eyes as you pull your arm from her grasp, noticing as King T’Chaka moves towards the podium, his son taking position beside him, a few feet away. “The conference is about to start, we should sit.” You speak quickly, hoping to distract her as you move towards the row of chairs.
The two of you settle into your chairs as King T’Chaka begins his speech. Natasha shifting ever so slightly in her chair as Prince T’Challa takes his place stoically by the window, observing the conference as his father speaks of peace, defensively monitoring the situation at large. You notice the tension in his stance, his nervousness as he peers around at the crowd of diplomats.
You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand as something outside draws T’Challa’s attention, causing his head to whip around towards the street. In a moment he is moving across towards his father. You react instinctually, predicting an attack as you hear him yell, “Everybody get down.” In a moment you are vaulting over the table in front of you, hopping over obstacles on your path to protect the King, racing T’Challa to his father.
Then, in an instant, you feel your body blown backwards, heat pressing against you as glass and debris are thrown alongside your airborne body. With a hard smack you feel your back connect with a cement pillar, causing you to crumple to the ground as more debris falls on top of you.
You lay there, gasping for air, trying desperately to regain some orientation as you fight to steady the breath that got knocked from you. Your ears ring as they try to process the sound around you. You feel as if you are under water, the terrified screams sounding muffled and distant as the frightened people scamper around the demolished room.
Your vision blurs as your head swims constantly, you shake your head trying to clear your senses, but lose the fight as your eyes fall closed, your body relaxing into the ruble.
“Y/N! Y/N!” You feel a firm hand on your shoulder as someone touches your cheek, pushing the hair out of your face. Your eyes open as the sound of screams return to your ears. “Thank god!” Natasha breathes a sigh of relief as she helps you sit up, you wince slightly as you clutch at your shoulder, a large piece of glass imbedded in your skin.
Natasha’s hand moves quickly to the wound assessing the damage “I think it’s just superficial, doesn’t feel that deep.” You hiss as you move yourself to a kneeling position, feeling your body ache beneath you as bruises begin to form. “You’ll need stitches none the less,” Natasha scolds, trying to keep you from rising to your feet, “Just stay still will you! Can I get a medic?” She shouts searching the room for help.
“Nat, I’m fine, there are plenty more people that need help. Just help me get up.” She bites her lip as she debates whether or not you should move but as she takes in the carnage of the surrounding scene she realizes that you were not the biggest priority. “Fine…” She caves, “Let’s get you out of here.”
With Natasha’s help, you are able to make short work of it, stopping only once to breathe through a dizzy spell, your legs finding their strength with every step as she guides you out of the building and towards an ambulance.
“What were you thinking running forward like that, you could have been killed!” She scolds as you wait for medical attention. Though Nat was still pretty young she was a fair bit older than you, often causing her to go into worried mom mode whenever you were particularly reckless. Between her and Steve it was a marvel that you were even allowed to hold knives, let alone fight with them.
“I saw T’Challa notice something outside, I thought it was a sniper. I thought I could get to the King in time…. The King… Natasha?” She shakes her head sadly, confirming your fear. “And T’Challa?” You ask earnestly, worried for the fate of the young Prince. “He’s alright, a little beat up and heartbroken but… He’ll make it.”
The medic arrives, interrupting your conversation with Natasha, you nod and allow them to tear your shirt exposing the bloody skin and shard of glass entrenched in your shoulder. “I’m going to check on T’Challa, get some information, maybe find you another shirt. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit alright, just stay put.” Natasha squeezes your hand affectionately as you nod, agreeing to her terms.
It takes about 20 minutes for the medic to remove the shard and insert a few stitches, but pretty quickly you are patched up and drinking water, watching as Natasha sits across the way, next to a distant looking T’Challa.
His grief was evident in the Prince’s stance as he looks at his ring, allowing Natasha’s words to wash over him before decisively standing and walking purposefully away from her.
In a moment she is walking back towards you, a long sleeve black shirt in hand. She throws it to you, looking over the bruises forming along your torso as you slip your arms through it, cautiously moving your newly repaired left shoulder. “Any info?” You ask curiously, pulling the shirt over your head and settling it down on your torso.
“Yes, they’ve released a video of the suspect. It’s The Winter Soldier.” You hear Natasha’s words as if from a distance, your stomach knotting at the sound of the alias. Bucky? But… it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. “No… it has to be someone else.” You speak quickly not fully comprehending your own words.
Natasha raises an eyebrow at you, confused by your assertion, not expecting this reaction, “What? It’s Barnes. They’re sure of it, they have him on video by the van, about 30 hours ago. The team is just waiting for a reliable tip on his location.”
30 hours… I was with him then… It wasn’t him… He knew I was here… He wouldn’t. He would never hurt me. “Natasha, you have to listen to me, it wasn’t him. They’ve identified the wrong man. I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but it’s a distraction. Bucky didn’t do this.”
“Y/N…” She speaks slowly, her brow furrowing in confusion as she processes your words. “What are you talking about? Do you… do you know something?” She leans forward, staring at you intensely as your brain whirs trying to form a response or find an escape. Natasha’s phone begins to ring, distracting her for a moment as she answers quickly.
“Yeah?” She responds roughly, her eyes remaining locked on you. “Are you alright?” Steve asks on the other end of the call, “Ah, yeah, thanks. I got lucky.” She responds slowly, “Y/N? Is she… Is she ok?” he questions, “She’s fine Steve, a little bit bruised, but she’ll live.” She turns her back to you, looking questioningly through the street as a siren fills the air.
“I know how much Barnes means to you, I really do. Stay at home, you’ll only make this worse for all of us. Please.” You hear Natasha caution Steve, thinking quickly. Of course Steve would try to protect Bucky, but he was running out of time.Luckily you knew something no one else did; where he lived, you just had to get to him.
You move slowly, cautiously watching Natasha as she continues to glance through the street only feet from you. Silently you sneak around the ambulance and disappear into the crowd, breaking into a run as you establish some distance, heading back to the jet for supplies and a ride. You feel your feet quicken beneath you as your adrenaline clears your head. You have to move quickly, Bucky was running out of time.
After she couldnt cry any longer, Lumina walked out of the house since nobody was there to tell her no.
She got lost in the woods for many hours, And sat down listening and talking with the crows that came from the surface. They lead her though the underground and out. She shook as she saw the Carnage that Rose left behind of her home.
Holding her arms close to her body she continued to follow the birds out of the underground and to the surface. Blinking at the light and continuing to walk forward, she looked for help from someone- anyone in Ebott. Finding nothing but blood in the streets she panicked, darkness surrounding her and she fell though the ground- or so she thought.
She screamed as she teleported, not used to the feeling, When she opened her eyes she was sitting on the ground in some unknown universe.