#planet befall

[ecto-stone]

Paintless.

[ssseriema]

being like half an hour into the minutetech void video is making me realize abyss is my favorite s5 arc but exclusively from abyss pov LMAO

[fishing-lesbian-catgirl]

She’s sopping wet. She can face armies by herself and come out unscathed. She’s miserable. She killed god. She’s just a fish. She’s the strongest woman on the planet. She blames herself for innumerable tragedies that befall people near her. She has the blood of god. Her boss plotted to kill her and then fucked off into the depths of the ocean. She wields a sword as tall as she is. An important historical figure from her country that is now mutated beyond recognition just told her she is the only hope against the greatest threat in the universe. She is so sopping wet.

[dandelion-blues]

Imitheos Phantasm

Chapter 1: Like Clockwork

Time has always existed, and yet it has not. For how can time exist when there was nothing? Then, the first being came. Chaos. They birthed the universe and thus time began. Time didn't originally have a name, nor a personhood - they just were. Much like their parent, they simply just existed. 

But then, life formed on those planets that Chaos created. The passageway of time leading to their evolution and their sentience.

It happened slowly at first, or perhaps in an instance — it can be hard to tell for one that represents time, but Time looked to shape a form that wasn’t like the endless waves of timelines.

Time took a liking to the mortals as they now were called and shaped their form off of them. They were even given a name by the mortals when they visited.

Chronos.

Of course, only a part of Time ever slipped away to the mortal realms, influencing their lives here and there, while the other stayed in the celestial or infinite realms.

But it was this piece (or rather several as there are multiple universes and dimensions) of Chronos that truly became attached to the mortal realm — that chose to separate themselves from their main body even if they became weakened by doing so.

This Chronos came to be named Kronos and was mistaken as a Titan in his more mortal form as he traded his tail for legs. 

Kronos walked or rather stumbled through the land that was known as Earth, or Gaia. Kronos recognized one of his sister progeny of Chaos. They weren’t true siblings like mortals, though, just as they simply came into existence as Chaos willed it so.

It was perhaps in this moment, though, the Kronos knew what love was when they saw her. All tan skin, like gold, and fiery red hair like a rose, and those eyes lush and green.

Kronos fell in love. It wasn’t until later, much later though, that he finally got the courage to approach this gorgeous woman. 

He watched her play in the meadows sometimes. Watched as she took special interest in the golden flowers. And he decided to make his red eyes as golden as those flowers.

He didn't really know until much later that this behavior would be perceived as creepy. Afterall, he’s always watching. He’s watched time form the very start of his existence, and why should another one of his interests be any different.

And so, he continued to watch with golden eyes. His once pale blue skin became pale like the clouds that she so loved to gaze out. And his pure white hair became black as the night she dreamt under.

Then, one day, Kronos could no longer just watch, and he approached her.

Kronos learned that her name was Rhea, and she was the daughter of Gaia and Ouranos.

Rhea seemed almost as fascinated by him as he was with her. His tales of time that just seemed insignificant made her bright green eyes shine with wonder.

And Kronos began to see life and time through her eyes, and he spun tale after tale of all they saw and learned.

Kronos learned what it was to live, and the two soon fell in love.

Their marriage wasn’t one of opulence and riches, but of flower crowns and promises and tender embraces.

Of course, that’s not how the mortals tell their tale, but that’s for another time.

But the mortals did get a few things right. Kronos descend into madness and the swallowing of their children.

Kronos didn’t think that there would be negative effects from separating so permanently from his main body, but not much after Rhea was pregnant for the first time, did he start to hear voices whispering in his ears.

He was too weak. He couldn’t protect them. His children were in danger!

He had to keep them close.

Kronos dismissed it at first, but they grew louder and louder every day. Speaking of the tragedies that would befall the child. And when his first daughter Hestia was born.

The voices were thundering. His daughter. His precious daughter. She was so fragile, so breakable. 

And he ate her. She would never be hurt in his stomach after all. She would be able to grow and survive in peace, and he would always be able to protect her like this. He could feel her breathing, her heart, her screams. She was safe.

Rhea was never the wiser, but Kronos knew she wouldn’t understand.

Thus, began the tale of Kronos and how he swallowed up all of his kids, except one, to protect them. Of how, his youngest, hidden away by his sweet Rhea, eventually tricked him into throwing all of his babies up.

No, he couldn’t protect them! They needed to be safe and whole! They couldn’t leave or they would get hurt!

But then Kronos was cut into pieces by his children.

Even then, he only held love for them, not hate like the mortals would say.

Perhaps, this should have been when he merged with his other self, and became whole again, but something stopped him. The voices, the timelines spoke to him. Of him returning, or him seeing his children again if he stayed and healed over time, of wars and blood and massacres.

And so, Kronos stayed and healed and waited.

Kronos didn’t know how much time passed by again until he was conscious enough to think, but one day he could.

At first, he didn’t know what he was seeing, but eventually he learned that he was seeing other's dreams, slipping into their unconsciousness like a phantom.

It was through these dreams that Kronos learned much of the present world.

That his children once ruled over the world all bright and glorious, until mortals made them fade into obscurity. How dare they?!

The mortals even took their names and changed them! Made them Roman! Even named him Saturn!

Then, the mortals dared to forget his children and even made some of the gods fade over time, when too much of their domain was wrecked by the mortals and they were forgotten.

Kronos was once again stuck by that blinding fear, like lightning from his youngest.

His children could fade!

And his children had children. Some of his grandchildren already did!

Kronos was in anguish. How dare those mortals?! How dare they?!

He swore that day that the mortals would be eradicated if it was the last thing he did.

It was then that he was able to slip into mortal’s dreams, into demigod dreams. 

Kronos loved them, he hated them.

They were his grandbabies, they were destruction.

They were his. And that was what mattered.

He could teach them to forgo their mortal ways, after all they have ichor in their blood just as they have red in their veins. For now, though, until gold overtook their veins, they were pesky mortals, they were pawns.

One such pawn great-grandson went by the name of Luke Castellan, and he was going to make sure that he would see his children and grandchildren again… the godly ones of course.

And so, Kronos lied to Luke, for Luke wanted to tear down the gods, his children, and Kronos said he wanted the same. Still, even as Luke’s plans made Kronos’ blood boil, he was such a good pawn for what was to come.

However, everything started to go down when that mortal with more gold than red in his veins stood against him. 

Perseus Jackson, that brilliant amazing grandson of his useless mortal trash foiled his plans at every turn. And there in his dying hour, did Kronos finally see his grandson for the first time. His green eyes are so much like Rhea’s, the fear and anger and hurt in those eyes.

Ancients what has Kronos done?!

Thus, Kronos let himself seep back to his main body, perhaps to be destroyed for good, for all the sins he committed. But, instead, his other self, Chronos, held him, gold peering to gold, and hugged him.

Kronos cried and cried, and they fell into one another. The two became one once more.

Of course, while this moment felt like an instant, it was also so much more. Fusion of two powerful beings into one, atoms spitting and time ending and begging. The universe tilted on its axis, and time once again started anew.

But then, those golden eyes peered at the universe, to see if their family was safe and saw that their grandson with Rhea’s eyes had died.

Chronos raged that day, oh they raged. So many universes fall into dark timelines, but they did not care, for the one who brought them back to the light was gone.

But then, they saw with their eyes turning a brilliant golden, a baby being born, crying out and their soul. Oh, and their soul was Percy’s.

Chronos wept with joy and from then on, they took to watching each and every moment in Percy’s, or rather Danny’s, life.

…Not noticing until it was too late that a scythe sliced their left eye, and the chains shackled them to a clock tower.

Their eyes no longer were the brilliant golden of sand. No, they were the color of blood, red and weak with mortality.

Chronos was no longer time. No, they were merely a slave to those eyeballs that called themselves the Observants. Whatever they wanted he did. Their powers were greatly dimensioned, and he could barely see into the vast timelines. He needed mirrors to see now. No, in this clock tower, they were simply just another clock worker.

So that’s who he became — Clockwork.

Notes:

Both the Gods in the PJO Universe and the DP Universe and the DC Universe (as well as others) can exist simultaneously because they can split themselves (whether permanently or not).

Also, this fanfic idea comes from my #2 "What if...?" where Percy Jackson was reborn as Danny Fenton. Of course, fate has never been nice to the hero's soul, and struggles will continue on in all of his lives. From one universe to the next. At least the dc universe has other heroes to help him (even if they were too late to save him from death). Still, we can only hope that life will give him a break (but Death never will).

[tanadrin]

In this scenario, you could be an AI archailect creating a pocket universe or a member of a pantheon creating a planet or a human scientist creating a simulation populated by artificial life. Regardless of your exact nature and your exact purpose in creating this world, it will include or eventually evolve sentient life, and we'll take it for granted that you consider that life to have the status of a moral patient.

(Discussion of why you answered the way you did welcome in the notes!)

[yaut-jaknowit]

Gawtin x fem hunter reader

The reader having been raised on yautja prime in a family who’s striven in bloodlust, and in high demand for more hunts blinded by hunger and need, which made reader to be a good hunter but only downside is also being blinded by the need and hunger for trophy’s/hunts, stumbling upon gawtin, the 2 getting into a fight, which as the fight goes on, Gawtin grows more interested in reader.

Bloodlust

Pairing: Gawtin (Female Yautja) x GN!Reader

Word Count: 3512

Summary: Deep in the forests of Yautja Prime. A human made their name among their clan, proving they could be as great as their best hunter. You hunt for a well known cvorteilio only for the hunt to turn from bad to worse. The hunter becomes the hunted. You've also got a audience that likes what she sees. Even as you succumb to bloodlust to fight for survival.

Author Note: I never thought about this before and I love it!

P.s. Work moved my schedule AGAIN so I'm back to a 6am-2pm. Which means, I won't have as much time to write

Masterlist

Ao3

As an entire different, frail species on a completely hostile planet, it changes a person. Reduces them to what makes them at their core. That’s when its determined whether they love or perish along the land. Life lives and returns. A unending cycle that a hunter knows far too much about.

The land is unforgiving to a creature meant only as prey. It takes and only relents in giving when you’ve earned that right to nourish your form to survive another day. Not only is the wildlife trying to bring you down, the plants would love for you to slip up once. One wrong step could be the fatal blow they’ve been desperate for. To feast upon something that doesn’t belong to this world. Something new and fresh. Young.

There won’t be any slips to bring you to a fatal end. Not with the way your dam taught you. To be sure footed even on the rockiest of ground; to crush all those who want to see you under their feet. Another trophy on their wall. A decoration. Your dam saw to it you wouldn’t become prey like what everyone saw your kind to be. She thought you as a miracle when she stumbled across your abandoned form days after learning she will never bear another child. Let alone a miracle to survive for so long without substance.

Your dam made sure you’d survive. No matter what. It sort of back fired though. Once seen as meek prey amongst her clan, now you were worthy to be hunted. That your skull could be torn out of your body and adorn on a hunter’s wall. As a prize. Trading one monster for another.

Humans are seen as volatile creatures. You’ve only grown to show how much of that’s the truth.

Bloodlust.

Yautjas befall the same disease. All of them can. But you, not of Yautja-not even a drop, has fallen to these depths before. When a Yautja threatened your family name with vile disgust. You were blinded by a vision of red and tore the scum apart in a challenge. Pieces of him had to be scooped up and buried. They’ve never found where his pinkie finger disappeared to. Nor have they ever seen the three pieces of bone connected by thin twine hidden under clothing around your neck.

A mark to etch into the world of the first time you’ve gone into bloodlust.

Today was no different. The more times you succumb to the bloodlust, the easier it is to slip into it. Until you cannot be pulled free. Bad Blood. Because they cannot follow the code that their culture has been built on. So, they must be killed. Their blood purged of the universe before it can spread.

You’ve had a firm grip after showing such a sight in front of the clan. The clan leader had sparks of fear in his green eyes. A human befalling to bloodlust has never happened. He almost beheaded declared you as a bad blood and to be slaughters where you stood. But, when your eyes panned over to him… he won’t it but you saw the hesitation. The clan leader, a title earned in shed blood, couldn’t utter the words needed for your excitation. Something he probably regrets still to this day.

There are times where you’ve slipped under its control. Not often. It mainly comes in the heat of the moment. Fight or flight for survival. Or when the hunt is just that exciting.

As the hunter, the feeling of eyes made your skin crawl with gooseflesh. Anger raced along your blood as you tuned into your senses. That did little to help you, only pissing you off more. A snarl etched into your face as the feeling dissipated. This is a gaze you knew the origin of.

A Yautja.

How dare one interrupt your hunt?! If the coward decides to show their mug, you’ll show them not to mess upon your fury. With a lungful of fresh, humid air, you sprint across the branch and flung yourself to the closest limb. A singular leaf flutters down at your sudden weight. The cvorteilio below you were none the smarter at your move. Despite the eyes on you, you settle close to the trunk of the tree. A few drops of sweat trickle down your face. You use the back of your hand to wipe them away and focus on the pack below you.

The heat of the new morning beat down on you despite the foliage providing shade. A quick swig of your water helps quench your thirst. You tie the pouch back to your hip. The pack continues to laze in comfort, not expecting to be hunted. Let alone at this time of day.

Two suns rose high in the blue sky, pounding heat and humidity of the jungle. The bow slips off of your shoulders; an arrow notched. One specific predator lies amongst his pack. A seasoned male who’s time was soon coming to an end. Either by your hand or to the rising male. You waited until the youngster was ready to take over the pack. Your dam had raised you well.

Said leader was lying on his side, stretched out as if he had nothing to fret about. If only he knew of the danger from above. You pulled the notched arrow back. The taunt and steady string against your finger tips. Your lungs filled with air, held for a second before you released both the arrow and air in the same motion.

A high pitch whistle and dull thud is what your ears hear. Then, chaos.

Your marks leaps to his paws with a mighty roar that vibrated the tree branch you were perched on. A gasp surpassed your lips as the male shot its gaze up and found your form among the tree. Its form screamed dangerous. Those eyes that called for your death. Honestly, you felt fear at the mistake. Fear was good. You used it for the adrenaline dump into your system and notched another arrow.

It whistled through the air and landed with a dull thud where the cvorteilio once were. Its feathered plume was raised while it gave warning calls that sent the rest of the pack either to fell and join his side. You sent another arrow at its heart and hissed when it refused to take the hit.

Despite the height of the enormous tree offer, the cvorteilios began to climb. The leader was the first to begin the ascent to your crouched position. A snarl rattle the back of your throat. There was no need in being quiet anymore. His claws dug deeply into the thick, near fireproof bark. Another was sent flying but only embedded into his shoulder. Not deep enough to do fatal damage.

More cvorteilio clambered onto the thick trunk. Your options grew increasingly thin. There was no running, no amount of climbing that could save you. Now, the only chance for survival was your favorite.

Hunting.

Your lips spilt into what anyone would call a psychotic smirk.

Arrows flew threw the humid air. All landing with a dull sound yet no all hitting their marks. But the pained noises is all you needed to hear before leaping to another branch to defend that side of the tree. It was fruitless. That only worsened when you reached behind your head and felt nothing but air. A curse leaving your lips. The prized bow was slipped back into place. Then, a well decorated spear was pulled free from your belt and extended it to its full height.

The silver metal shined beautifully in the full light. Your grip firm yet gentle like balancing on thin ice and going for the short. Sweat beaded down your face, nearly blinding you. The thick, humid air made it hard don your lungs. You were forced to slow your movements so the device in your lungs could keep up. Even technology has its limits to allowing a different species from surviving on Yautja Prime.

A narrowing of your gaze did nothing to the advancing group. A telltale sign behind you alerted you to one cvorteilio had made it. A fine female you would’ve chosen next to the leader. She lowered her jaw. Drool dripping from her dangerous maw, teeth glinting in the sunlight. You held your spear and stepped backwards so none could surprise you from behind.

She stalked forward on her front bird-like limbs and back canine paws. Almost like a wingless griffin. A very dangerous wingless griffin who was more than happy to tear you apart.

You never give her the chance and charged forward with a battle roar. Spear in hand. The female snarled back and leapt forward in hopes of surprising and overpowering you in one swoop. But, you buried one end of your staff into the branch. The other end slicing threw fur, flesh, and organs with no force at all. Her heavy weight sent her crashing all the way down until one end stuck out of her back and her belly met the branch. It was now slick with her blue blood. Still in the fight, the creature snarled and swiped her fatal claws at you.

Pain lightning across your flesh. Blood mixing with your salty sweat, making the now spilt wounds sting. You gave a hiss and stumble backwards then, you cursed yourself when the large form slid to the side then going into freefall.

With your spear.

More cvorteilio landed on either ends of the branch you stood upon. Others were nearby. Six. All adults. All skilled within their pack. All prepared to die to defend against the clear threat to their territory and way of life. Something you would’ve applaud them if it wasn’t for the threat to your own life.

Both loses of your primary and secondary weapons weighted heavy. If you dam was here to watch this fatal error, she’d be raging at how you could be such a fool. So, you pulled free your small parrying knives. The last resort for your survival.

The next to attack didn’t follow the same footsteps of its predecessor. It kept its vulnerable bits low to the ground and darted forward with lightning moves. You barely had time to draw up a knife to divert a blow that would’ve torn your face clean off. You brought the other sharp weapon and feel it slice through fur and muscle.

Blood and sprayed in a beautiful arch over your face, arms, and chest. Marking you with the blood your prey.

An artery had been severed. The blood spurting out with each beat of its now weakening heart. It would only have minutes before it would die from blood loss. You grinned and dodged another feeble attempt to harm you. Claws swiping through the air you once stood. You dance around another attack and drove the same blade into one of the main arteries of its neck. The shrill cry it gave was music to your ears. It jerked away from you, stumbled over its own paws. Then, its form pitched over the edge of the branch.

Down it went.

Four more to go.

You met every other with the same fierceness. Red entering your vision as another contender steps up to.

Five bodies litter the ground at the base of the tree. Blood drowns you. A mix of blue and red to make a near black purple. Your chest heaved with each deep breath you took to regain the lost air.

The sixth body stood near in front of you. The very prize all this started today. A rumble vibrating the back of your throat. A well know Yautja pleased noise. “Come on now. I’ve earned your head.” Then, you launched yourself at the leader, wanting to spill blood. No. A deep, rooted need that your own blood sung to bathe in.

He read the move. His body rolled to the side and whirled around. Your back to the trunk of the three now, limiting your space of movement. A hiss of displeasure left your lips before the beast stalked closer. You mirrored the movements, not willing to give up any space to him.

One dodged had another set of claws raking down your back and skidded across your rib cage. The red in your vision swarmed until it thickened. You released a howl from the depths of hell itself. You whipped around with a new fury driving your muscles.

He makes another move to attack but you watched it in slow motion. You rolled into his space and drive the blade of your knife into the soft mushy underside of his belly. The sharp metal slice up from pelvis all the way to his sternum.

Blue blood and intestines spill from the clean cut and drowned you like a paya praised warrior. The hunter you were born as. You gave one last roar that echoed for miles before slumbering to your blood knees. Everything about yourself was drenched in gallows of blood. You panted heavily and noticed the red starting to fade away.

Your spine locked up, head whipping up to the left. Nearly the same color as the leaves around her, stood a female form. A biomask covers her features and gives away nothing besides the feeling of her piercing gaze on you. The red in your vision doubled. A fiery snarl ripped at your throat. Blood coated hands made holding your knives nearly impossible. Even with an iron grip, the handles wanted to slip out of your hands. So, you threw the blades into the branch and launched yourself forward. A roar left your lips only to be cut off.

The view before you changed in a second. Your back slams into the hard bark that once was beneath your feet. A strangled, choked groan is all you can give. The move throwing you off balance mentally and physically. The red threatened to evaporate but you clasped onto it with an iron grip.

You kicked, clawed, and even tried to bite at the form pinning you down. Even the human body has it’s limits.

Her voice over came the roaring of blood in your ears. “Calm. Clam. Soothe, little one,” she cooed to you. The rest of your reservoir depleted. Your chest heaved with each breath you took. Her masked face hovered over your sweat-soaked, blood-drenched form.

Once you finally caught your breath, the green female Yautja releases your throat and pulls away to stand a towering height above your prone form. Exhausted, you sit up and rest back on a hand. Propper up. You can barely look up at her.

One thing you questioned: why wasn’t she killing you?

This one wasn’t from your clan. Humans are considered forbidden to be on Yautja prime. Kill on sight. Yet, she hesitates… or won’t do it at all.

In reaction, your eyes narrowed, lips drawing tight over your slight pointed teeth. If she were to grant you mercy to see another day, you won’t waste it by angering her.

Her masked face glanced side to side, over the edge of the branch. Down at the carnage left in your wake. “I have never seen a ooman go into bloodlust,” she spoke, intrigued at the situation. “you have clan markings as well.” You didn’t need to see her eyes to know they were sparkling with curiosity and mirth. You couldn’t tell if you liked it or not.

With your markings decorating both of your arms, proudly slating what clan and family you come from. Markings you had to work twice as hard for. Just to prove you were worthy of them as a ooman. You pulled yourself to your feet, head confidently raised. You weren’t going to let her mock you.

A snort enters the air. “I don not even need to see the entire clan marking to know where you come from. That posture is well known.” You bristled, feeling offended at her mocking you. If only you had the energy to issue a challenge and teach her you were something to stifle with. But after defeating six adult cvorteilios, you could barely lift a finger. You’d call upon some of your hunt siblings to help carry them back for the entire clan. Nothing will go to waste.

She reaches up and tugs the bio-mask from her… oh Paya, she’s beautiful. Here top, right mandible was cracked. She had a crown of spikes on her head. Then, her gorgeous eyes. The purple so vibrant you swore they glowed in the daylight.

“Calm, little hunter. You have done your fight. I do not challenge you,” she coos to you again, soothing most of your jittery feelings. “I spotted you amidst your hunt and decided to watch. You are very skilled. You were taught well by a great teacher then. They are proud.” All statements. The female highly confident in her words.

So that was the eyes you had felt earlier. You didn’t know if the quelled the unease in your belly or just made it worse. It made sense spotting her was impossible even without the camouflage. Her green scales matching the foliage nearly perfectly. Lucky.

“if you desire help, I am more than happy to do so. I can retrieve my ship and aid in carrying your hunts home.” With this amount of kills, it wasn’t demeaning to ask for help either.

You narrowed your eyes on her then dipped your head in agreement. Her upper mandibles pulled up into a grin. The female took off and left you standing on the branch, covered in blood, sweat, and guts still. It was beginning to dry and flake off of you. You ignore the familiar feeling to take a few hearty swigs of your water sin. Then, you start the process and lowering the gutted cvorteilio down to the ground alongside its fallen pack members.

By the time she came back, ship carefully docked, you had said your prayers and prepared the bodies to move. The two of you loaded each one in the cargo hold. You boarded her ship and took a seat besides her in the cockpit. The ship was pulled expertly up into the air and gliding over the massive trees you called home.

Along the way, you checked up on the arrows and spear you retrieved, checking for any damage. You kept peeking at her from the corner of your eye, drinking in the sight of her beautiful face. Then, her eyes caught yours. She chuckled. “Ask away.” The one thing that gives you away… your eyes.

“Your name.” How rude of you. “Apologies. What is your name?” you rephrased the question to be more polite. She was giving you a kind of gesture after all. Then, you told her yours to be kind and open for causal conversation.  You wanted to learn more about her. Anything. Though impossible, you couldn’t help your thoughts about her.

She repeats your name a couple of times. In your delusional state, you really liked the sound of her name coming from her mouth. “I am called Gawtin.” Even her name was pretty and rolled off of your tongue smoothly.

“Mm, that’s a pretty name,” you mumbled mainly to yourself but you weren’t as quiet as you thought.

A smoothing purr rumbled from her throat and vibrated the air. Get it together. Stop saying stupid shit like that. “Why thank you, little hunter.” Paya, the names she keeps calling you. Usually offensive if not taken a certain way. You were used to it from your hunt siblings and your dam.

Sooner than you liked, the ship sets down in a larger enough spot close to your home. The two of your work in tandem to bring each carcass to the base of your tree home.

It was over quicker then you wanted it to be. Nerves light up along your spine. A prickling feeling. Cursing yourself for your humanness, and these damn feelings that weren’t very Yautja-like. You watched her bid you goodbye and walked for the door.

Panic. Your heart racing wildly in your chest. “Wait! Gawtin,” you called after her then cursed yourself again for a silly, childish move. You take a breath to help settle your nerves. “I… I would like to see you. If possible.” As a human, you knew you had no grounds to speak to anyone outside of your protected clan. Or else you’ll find yourself dead and mounted on someone’s wall.

Gawtin paused just shy of the ramp of her ship and glanced over her shoulder. “I would like that too, little one. Where I can finally challenge you and see what your skills are.” A challenge?! There were many different types of challenges. The man two though are a fight to the death or until they forfeit.

You answered with an nod, not trusting your voice. Gawtin smiled then ascend into her ship, leaving you with that promise. To fight her? A challenge. How lucky you were!

[thebigbadbatswife]

Beneath The Mistletoe

Pairing - Bruce Wayne x F!Reader x Selina Kyle

Summary - Selina and Bruce corner you beneath the mistletoe.

Warnings - Public Displays of Affection, Christmas Fluff, Suggestive Themes, Humour, Bisexual!Reader

Word Count - 800

Wayne Manor was cast in a golden glow from the various twinkling lights that currently decorated the place. Along with the lights were the decorations that you would expect to see in a billionaire’s home. Gold, silver, red. Nothing overly gaudy, but still screamed rich. And there was the tree in the entrance hall. Its size completely surreal and was decorated in a very orderly and traditional way. A similar one was set up within the main ballroom as well.

It was all for show. Something for the “official” Bruce Wayne Christmas party that was thrown each and every year without fail.

The real decorations were deeper within the manor. Set up in one of the lounges. A tree decorated by the boys. It was messy and chaotic and perfect. All at once. A fake pine garland along the top of the mantle of a fireplace that had a low flame flickering within it. And none of those gaudy hanging decorations are anywhere to be seen. 

The lounge wasn’t filled with strangers either. Friends and family only. This was the real Christmas party. One that wasn’t going to end up in every magazine and news website across the planet. Where everyone was made jealous of the luxury that came from a billionaire’s bank account.

There was no need to dress fancy either. Though ugly Christmas jumpers were mandatory, per Dick’s request. Which was fine by everyone, but Bruce. Who looked grumpy and kept pulling at the neck, scratching his skin, where it was irritating him. Though, in true Bruce fashion, it was a Batman themed one. He likely wasn’t hating this as much as he was making out he was.

Seeing everyone in one room together made you smile. With all the near disasters that kept almost befalling the planet and the city you called home, it was hard to get everyone in the same room.

You sipped on the eggnog in your snifter glass, humming softly. It was thicky and creamy and delicious. One of these days you were going to have to beg Alfred to tell you the recipe.

“Well, what do we have here?” Selina asked as she approached you. She was wearing a sweater that had the image of a cat tangled in christmas lights. It was very her. 

You raised an eyebrow at her. What was she on about? 

She smiled, amused at your confusion. Her eyes looked above you before returning to your own. You looked above you and chuckled when you saw it. Mistletoe. Dammit. You had been doing a good job all night avoiding it. Now Selina had you cornered. She took a step forward. You attempted to take a step backwards (it was all part of the game), but your back came into contact with a solid chest, which stopped you in your tracks. There was no need for you to turn around to see who it was. You already knew. 

Bruce. 

They were teaming up against you.

“You know, mistletoe can be deadly if you eat,” he said. Both of his hands came to rest on your hips and pulled you against him. 

She hummed and stepped into your space. “Yes, but a kiss can be even deadlier, if you mean it.”

Your cheeks felt impossible hot. They were going to be the death of you. You were sure of it. Bruce’s lips brushed against your ear, sending a shiver up your spine.

“It’s just a couple of kisses. Then we’ll let you go.”

But it never was a “couple of kisses”. Two would turn into four and four would turn into eight. Before you knew it they would have you wrapped up in the silk sheets of the custom bed Bruce had had built for the three of you. Not that you ever complained. You trusted them completely.

“Fine,” you replied, accepting your fate and surrendering yourself to your lovers.

Selina kissed your first. It was far more sensual than a kiss beneath the mistletoe should be. You sighed softly when she pulled away. Your lips weren’t left alone for long. Bruce turned your head to him and kissed you. Even going as far as to push his tongue into your mouth, caressing your tongue with his own. Your moan was barely audible. Only Selina and Bruce were able to hear it. 

“Get a room you three!” Hal called out. There were a few chuckles and laughs that followed. If it was possible for your cheeks to get even hotter, they definitely did.

And Bruce decided to make it so much worse.

“I think Hal’s right for once. Perhaps we should go up to our room.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, they were immediately followed by the sounds of Dick and Jason fake gagging and retching.

[pidgeony]

what genuinely drives me ever-so-slightly insane every time i see people being like "why doesn't x batfam character kill, that's so hypocritical/ selfish/ whatever reason of them" is when did we ever need a reason *not* to kill??

everyone is justified in not killing. yes, some characters (bruce and cass for example) have very clear reasons (parents died in front of him, killed a man and saw what he felt), and some are less fleshed out or seemingly don't have a reason at all, but that doesn't mean that they are like, obligated to kill (or like/ forgive characters who kill)??? is this not obvious????

they chose this. they are vigilantes held by their own standards and codes and they choose not to kill. they've seen terrible things, tragedy befalls their everyday lives and they wake up and decide: no, life is precious, no, i am going to save lives, not end them, no, i will not be judge, jury, and executioner. if that's not important and significant about the batfam (excluding jason for obv reasons) then i don't know what is.

no, you don't have to agree with their code, but please for the love of all that's holy stop acting like bruce wayne is the worst man to grace the planet because he won't murder criminals or twist tim/ dick/ cass/ anyone basically into some morally gray anti-hero because you don't like their no-kill moral code.

[picturejasper20]

Do you have any good Danny and Vlad fics you can recommend to the viewers at home? 👻🎤

That depends on the story you are looking for but i would recommend:

-Seeing is Disbelieving: ¨Caught in the crossfire between Time and Existence, Danny and Vlad are forced to face the Master of Time, the Defenders of Existence, a new Enforcer, and, ultimately, extinction. ¨

These Cold Days trilogy: ¨After tragedy befalls Amity Park, an injured Danny and his friends must flee with authorities snapping at their heels. As Sam and Tucker try to protect their suffering friend from ghost hunters and himself, they begin to worry why Danny is hiding the truth from them. Why the Fruitloop is madly trying to contact him. And what truly happened in Amity Park...¨ -Miasma: ¨When Freakshow is broken out of prison, he teams up with Walker to repair the shattered scepter that grants the wielder the ability to control ghosts. Together, the two form a diabolical plan and agree to go after the one ghost who has ruined both of their lives¨ -The Crossroads Betwixt Life and Death: ¨Takes place instead of Phantom Planet. Danny is left alone after a 'Nasty' explosion and it's up to Vlad Masters to help the lonely ghost boy pick up the pieces and move on. But along the way, they find themselves entangled in a mysterious plot which could destroy all they have left.¨- TUE timeline AU

I would also recommend reading other stories from History101, they are one of the best writers i have seen when it comes to Vlad and badger cereal.

-Protection: Danny and Vlad are on the run from the GIW and they have to work together to survive and getting captured.

-Second Chance: ¨After an intense battle Danny finally receives the chance he's been waiting for. Remembering a valuable lesson from the past, the young half-ghost confronts Vlad Plasmius once more. But what exactly is our hero trying to achieve with his actions?¨ (One-shot)

How to Mentor a Troubled Ghost Child: Takes place after Bitter Reunions. AU- Vlad tries to be a good mentor to Danny instead of becoming his enemy. One of the best badger cereal fics you can find.

Survival of the Fittest: ¨When Danny and Vlad are fighting in the Ghost Zone, they accidentally go through a portal to the human world... one that leads to the middle of nowhere. They later try to learn who was behind sending them there. Takes place after Eye for an Eye.¨

Playing with Fire: ¨Danny knew something was up when in the dead of night he saves the distressed spirit of a phoenix from being captured by the Guys in White. However, what he didn't know was that by doing so, he was in for one heck of a ride… Now the ghost of some sorcerer has abducted his friends and he's stuck in yet another forest with a certain fruit loop..¨ -Sequel to Survival of the Fittest

Shattered Identity: ¨ Vlad has been shot with a weapon that breaks him down to his very core, more specifically, his ghost core. But before Maddie can shoot Danny with the same weapon, he saves the core and flies off, stuck with making sure he stays safe despite his conflicting feelings about it and tries to keep it from breaking despite not knowing what will reemerge from the unstable core. But as Vlad finally reforms, both of them realize that the core fiasco was just the beginning of a new disaster.¨ Written by mutual Hello-I'm-Not-A-Possum

Paradigm Shift: ¨Danny is snapped out of his dream by Vlad of all people, seeking his help to defeat Nocturne. Though they succeed, Nocturne’s latest scheme sets off a chain of unforeseen consequences that lead toward a future even Clockwork cannot see. With the fate of the world hanging in the balance Danny must face one of the most difficult foes of all: his fellow humans, and the tangled messes they weave with one another.¨ This one is more about Jack and Vlad but it has parts about Danny and Vlad. Written by mutual KuzAnn

[ddarker-dreams]

Stellaron reader my Shayla, could you give us crumbs Abt her and blade? I miss them 🥺🥺

sweet anon ,,,,,,,, you may have opened a can of worms that can never be closed 💀

so i've been working on the universe piece by piece. here's the basic rundown:

reader is from a planet which primarily follows the aeon of illumination, named saelis. her planet has an energy crisis that only the highest governing body is aware of — their ancestors tamed a star which powers everything. this star's energy must be periodically replenished, or it'll go supernova and it's gg for that entire system.

emanators of saelis have the capacity to absorb, store, and extract energy from stars. when the previous emanator dies, a new one is born, ensuring the cycle's continuation. these emanators are known as light wardens, since they imprison stars in a pocket dimension that resembles a panopticon.

elio's scripts require an incomprehensible amount of energy to generate. so, at the behest of destiny's salve, kafka strikes a deal with the governing body of reader's planet. in return for reader joining the stellaron hunters and powering elio's scripts, a certain amount of power can be returned to the planet's dormant star.

this is an attractive deal since the light warden is vulnerable once they commence the ritual to seal away a star. it's an immensely draining process, space travel is too risky in the aftermath as the light warden recovers and stabilizes their latest prisoner. this leaves them exposed to retaliation. most people don't take kindly to their sun getting poofed away. this puts reader's planet in a tricky political situation. the stellaron hunters will protect reader ensure no harm befalls her.

blade is assigned as reader's primary bodyguard... reader isn't thrilled about this development 💀💀 however, over time they form this unhinged codependent relationship. it's a rough start though.

for more detailed lore:

Lurnem is a seemingly prosperous planet in the Restom star system. 

Those who are native to the planet are known as Lumens, a humanoid species whose lifespan averages around 200 years. They are known to follow the Aeon of Illumination, Saelis. The planet's main exports consist of minerals and precious gemstones. These gemstones are envied around the universe for their splendor. There are five primary inhabitable regions. Baymont, home of the holy sky city, Tu-el, the dome expanse, Gaverri, the underwater paradise, Yuul, the meadowlands, and Ryuex, the frosty abyss. 

The main governing body consists of Proctors, each overseeing their respective regions. These Proctors all have their own interpretation of what ‘Illumination’ means, which serves as a point of contention. What unites the Proctors, however, is an apocalyptic threat that Lurnem must work in the shadows to avoid. An Emanator of Saelis is appointed each generation to champion THEIR ideology, unknown to the masses at large. The Proctors refer to this Emanator as The Light Warden. This Light Warden is capable of ‘absorbing’ incredible sources of energy, such as stars. They can store them in a lantern-like apparatus for a variety of uses. 

At the behest of Baymont’s foremost Proctor, Naiva, a certain young lady has disembarked with a criminal group. In return, a percentage of each star collected can have its energy transferred to maintaining Lurnem’s most highly guarded secret: the planet’s main power source, a ‘tamed’ star, that would go supernova should its energy plummet.

[sunderwight]

Time travel fic where Vader gets the chance to go back in time, any time, and change his history.

So he goes back to when he was still a slave boy living on Tatooine with his mother.

He avoids the Jedi. Qui-Gon doesn't get the money for the parts they need, so the Queen doesn't reach Coruscant in a timely fashion, and the ousting of the Trade Federation is delayed. Which sucks ass for Naboo. But, on the other hand, the confrontation with Maul happens smack dab in the middle of the desert, so Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan actually overpower him together and neither of them dies.

After the Jedi leave, Anakin uses his future knowledge and expertise in cybernetic implants to remove his and his mother's slave chips. A tragic accident befalls Watto, and a fire in the junk shop destroys most of his records, so no one who inherits the remainder has any knowledge of slaves (or anything else) missing from the inventory.

Shmi knows that something has changed. But Ani's always been a miracle, strange and unknowable in many ways, and yet still her son regardless. She goes along with it, even though she's apprehensive about affording water, shelter, and food as they are.

She needn't have worried.

At every turn, Anakin miraculously seems to uncover things they need, or opportunities for them to explore. Shmi finds decent work in various establishments -- cleaning garages and hangers, and cantinas after closing, mostly. There always seems to be someone willing to hire her on for a while, even if they already seem to have staff. Ani works his magic with scrap parts and whatever better pieces they can afford, when they have enough to spare (which is surprisingly often), and sells contraptions to the Jawas, junk dealers, or other interested parties. If he makes and sells some weapons to some enterprising bounty hunters or mercenaries, Shmi doesn't discern it, and Anakin doesn't volunteer the information.

But mostly, he works in prosthetics.

There's a pretty big demand for such in the Outer Rim, especially Tatooine, where the idea of anyone hopping into a Bacta tank is even less realistic than the idea of public swimming pools. People are losing limbs all the time, and good prosthetics are hard to come by.

Anakin makes good prosthetics. Even with limited parts and visible frustration, by the time he's thirteen, most of the planet knows where you go if you need an "extra hand", so to speak.

It's not long before the Hutts take an interest in monopolizing the resource, and seeing what else this talented young mechanic can build. Even if most Hutts rarely need prosthetics themselves, they like to be in charge of a hot commodity, after all. And it's hardly unheard of for them to lose an arm or two either.

Shmi worries. Anakin doesn't. Somehow, all of the local crime lords start to be met with unfortunate accidents. Their relatives and allies investigate, of course, and no one really believes in coincidences in the Outer Rim. But nothing turns up either. Falling cargo, suicides, misfiring weapons, heart attacks, choking on food, slipping and falling into sarlacc pits, it's all stuff that does happen. It just usually doesn't happen so often, to such a specific group of people, within such a short amount of time.

When Anakin is fifteen, Sidious sends people to fetch him. They approach him with sweet offers and seemingly-generous gifts, at first, as if it's not the most suspicious way they could go about it. His mother too, but it's such a stupid effort that Shmi finds them suspect even without prompting, and senses something off about them. Anakin's mother might not be nearly as Force sensitive as he is, but she is, and she doesn't like Palpatine's people even if she doesn't know who they are.

The next ones just try and abduct him. It's at least less insulting in its directness. They find themselves falling afoul of the many dangers of Tatooine instead. Such a risky place, people disappear out here all the time. Mind the womp rats and the krayt dragons.

Finally, Sidious goes himself.

His ship suffers a terrible malfunction upon its descent towards a planetside dock. A true tragedy. The Chancellor will be missed.

History remembers Anakin Skywalker as a footnote in the development of several innovative prosthetic enhancements, and a semi-obscure abolitionist who also advocated for the rights of clones.

[ynnie631]

You lay on your bed, sweat clinging on our thighs, arms, and sheets.

The heat was a test to your temper, one that made your blood boil and mood worsen by each passing minute. You calm the raging pest deep inside your gut, thrashing and writhing just to turn on the AC and lay where its cool air exudes a more tolerating climate than your damp ass. 

Consequently, having a damp ass meant damp shorts. 

Which forced you to strip bare of your final garments and plop yourself in your sweaty and definitely damp sheets. Despite the fan working its ass off to cool you down, its maximum power served nothing to the heat of 38° celsius. 

You wish hell to those corporate scum who aided more pollution than the necessary help in saving your only habitable planet.

You grumble curses as you toss in bed, phone in hand as you scroll endlessly on Tumble. Easing your temperament just a little at liking various artworks and x readers with Sylus and Caleb. You giggle nonsensically as you swing your feet idly behind you, the repeated  squish!  of sweat meeting skin irks you further than you’d like to admit. 

At some point, you’ve tossed your bra somewhere in your room. 

You stand near the drawers, patting the droplets of sweat accumulating beneath your breasts with a towel— eugh. You swear you’ll lose your mind once you start smelling like musk just laying here in bed. Damp. Sweaty. And most of all irritated. 

You fail to notice the footsteps right outside your door nor do you notice the soft  click!  of it opening right behind your mostly bare and stripped figure. 

A string of curses befall you, eye twitching as you internally monologue about this never–ending heat. 

“Patience, [name]. You’ll have to pay more for the bills if you open the AC now.”  you mumble faintly, bending over to grasp your phone’s charger on the floor—  SLAP! 

You jolt with a loud squeal, quickly whirling to your assailant of harassment. 

Caelus whistles, as you give him an irritated glare.

“Didn’t think you were this freaky without me, mamacita.” he winks, giving you finger guns as he eyes you up and down. Well, mostly eyeing your exposed tits with a knowing grin.

“Can you not?” you roll your eyes, shoving him aside— gently, but enough to send a message that you weren’t in the best of moods— plopping face-flat on the mattress with a loud groan. 

Thankfully, he understood your demand without any offense. Unfortunately for you, with a man like Caelus he can’t seem to shake his annoying antics. 

He’s lucky you love him. 

“What seems to be the matter, mamacita?” you cringe at the newly acquired nickname, scrunching your face with a disgusting snarl, “Your husband-to-be can help with any request mamacita needs to attend to~” he sings with dramatic flair, sitting down and leaning his head on your ass.

You breathed deeply. Eyes twitching as he dares toy with the band of your hello kitty panties. 

“Caelus.” you warn. He hums innocently, acting like he wasn’t just adding more ire to your temperament. “I’m sweaty and smell like shit. Get your head outta there before I kick you in the groin.” 

“Smell?” he inquires incredulously. You yelp as he grabs both of your fucking cheeks, “as if I could ever get enough of this musk.” he makes a show of sniffing loudly, much to your horror and chagrin.

“EUGH—”  you exclaim in mild disgust, flailing your feet as you try to hit him. But to no avail, he quite literally sat on your thighs to stop your floundering. 

And as if that cheeky bastard did enough, he gathered enough audacity to bite at your ass. 

Yes, he bit your fucking ass. 

Your ass that’s stained from sweat and whatever germs that possibly festered from having a damp panty. 

“That’s disgusting— eughh!” 

He giggles, that man fucking giggles, “I’d lick and drink your sweat, if it's for my beloved mamaci—” 

He couldn’t finish his sentence as a pillow aimed straight at his face. 

⌗ 🧷... Divider — @hyuneskkami

💌┆inspired by this fucking heat. I'm sweaty, damp, and most of all I'm irritated and thinking of illegal atrocities. I genuinely love summer for swimming, but omfg I cannot take the 30°+ temperature out here.

So maybe this drabble is more of an self-insert-my-experience and insert this utter fool who I know I'd fall in love with but would beat (lovingly) everyday.

You know what, for whatever reason, my hands did all writing while my mind went blank. Caelus definitely possessed me and wrote his own dialogues...

[masterlist]

[feinecutasy]

Long Night

“ʟᴏɴɢ ɴɪɢʜᴛ”. The voice behind him stirred emotionlessly. The stranger was unremarkable in every aspect, a man who could, by the act of vanishing into the midst of a crowd, pop into and out of existence. Yet the mysterious allure of his voice chase away even the slightest thoughts of ignoring the words coming out of his mouth.

“Yeah”, Matt said. No amount of mental effort was spent when he replied to the man behind him. The sentence uttered by the mysterious figure had the character of a rhetorical question, even though in form it was a plain statement. The affirmation given by Matt had the opposite energy. There was only a very faint indication that its speaker was paying a crumb of attention to whomever was talking to him, such that the word may as well be replaced with a grunt. Matt was tired.

Matt glanced at the rearview mirror. “You have beautiful eyes”, his wife used to say. The same pair of eyes, void of liveliness, stared blankly at the highway behind drooping eyelids. It was clear that his eyebags would only get more bloated after this restless night. So much for the forty-first year spent on the planet. More suited to describe the number of wrinkles on his face than the number of birthday cakes he'd had.

“ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴄʀᴜᴇʟ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴍᴀᴛᴛ”, the stranger lamented.

Matt would love to agree, but the more he thought about it, the less convinced he was. So frivolous is the thing that is called language, it assigns to dead things quirky traits of the living. For time is a law of nature. It doesn’t judge. It has neither a face, nor a persona. It was the cruelty of mankind that had wreaked havoc on his face and body. It was also the cruelty of the concept named “Matt” to have accepted the former cruelty without ever once questioning it. The body was rebelling, yet the ego didn’t want to listen. Cold coffee sloshed around gently in the half-drunk cup, and explosive ‘90s rock blasted up the stale, conditioned air of the car. His favourite brand. His favourite band. There was no enjoyment, only the echo of a voice telling him to not fall asleep.

“ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʟɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɪʟʟᴜꜱᴏʀʏ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪɴᴅ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ꜱᴇᴇɴ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ”.

The man was boring more and more doubts into Matt’s brain with his statements. Matt glanced at the rearview mirror. “You have beautiful eyes”, his wife used to say. How he yearned to hear that same sentence again. Yet for all that he could imagine, the weary face of the woman he loved would scrunch up upon seeing him the next morning. It was already past mid-night; he had missed their anniversary. Business suit still on, with all the business cards from the conference, coated with the faint smell of fast food. The fresh, vibrant bouquet of flowers and neatly wrapped gifts sat silently on the rear seat, judging him for being the liar that he was. He had promised to come. He was coming. He didn’t forget. But why did the prospect of fulfilling this promise bring no more joy than letting it rot in oblivion? Why all this effort, when he already knew what lied ahead? The ugly faces, the apologising, the berating.

ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ɢʀᴇᴇᴅ, ᴍᴀᴛᴛ, ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ.

But what do I do? Matt thought. The publicity would be disastrous. The year-long legal process. Custody. Child support‒

ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ. ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ.

The empty, desolate road could not see through the windows that Matt was shaking. Not by the chilling cold breathed in and out by the cranked-up A/C. Not by any kind of medical emergency that might befall upon the healthy, though exhausted middle-aged entrepreneur.

ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄᴏɴᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴍᴀᴛᴛ.

Matt felt tears welling up behind his eyes. He glanced at the rearview mirror. Glassy, wet blue eyes. He desired. Yearned. Thirsted. For the thing that he hadn’t felt in years. In decades.

The low hum of the engine became almost hypnotic. The headlights carved through tunnels, piercing the void of asphalt and darkness. The gloomy street lights left behind streaks of ethereal yellow, merging with the blurry, waving road signs. Forms got squashed into blobs, and shapes got crushed into lines. And the lines went on,

and on,

and on,

endlessly.

Until they collapsed.

Into one point.

---

The warmth of a Saturday’s morning greeted Matt as rays of sunlight shone through the car’s window. He softly groaned, his head spinning. His voice no longer carried with it the raspiness of a heavy smoker. The smell of cologne and leather mixed with someone else’s scent filled up the car. It smelled heavenly. The road continued to slide backwards, but Matt was no longer in the driver’s seat.

He felt lighter. In mind and in body. No more responsibilities. No more irritating voice telling him to stay awake. Gone was the certain dreariness of a bleak future. The soft fuzz of hair on his right arm glinted gold as they passed through a forest clearing. Youth had graced Matt’s body once more, manifesting itself in the form of raging hormones. He felt a heavier weight between his legs, not counting the natural reaction of his body that had already tented up his shorts. Energy was coursing through his body.

He looked to his left. Driving the car was a handsome young man with a deep, warm voice. He smiled at Matt, and said something. Something about his beautiful eyes. But Matt was too groggy and not in the right state of mind to make out what the man said. But it was not important. He felt like he could just ask the man later about it. He felt a link towards the man that he couldn’t explain. The only way he could verbalise it was that he could trust him.

But above all, he felt happy.

[solspina]

Hello! I saw that your request box is open if this doesn’t suit your taste you can ignore this.

Could you write a hurt to comfort fic that involves a workaholic Guilliman and his politically married wife?

They knew they had being married to a primark would be rough but they didn’t think it would be so emotionally draining/lonely. Guilliman finally decides to do something and acknowledges his wife when one day she’s considering divorce and there are TOO many suitors waiting to have her hand.

Could you add how Robute pines for her but doesn’t know how to show how he loves her because he’s trying to manage a dying imperium and he doesn’t think he’s worth loving?

Never Again Will I be Gone

roboute guilliman ⋆˙⟡

i deeply apologize if this is rushed, i couldn’t figure out how to end it and it may be a little all over the place, but i hope it is enjoyed nonetheless!

why spill blood if things can be handled peacefully? guilliman is far too afraid of becoming attached or falling in love with his wife, and eventually she places the most dreaded option on the table for him. when tragedy befalls her, guilliman can hold his act of withdrawal no longer

warnings: blood, distant ass guilliman

how she had gone from being an incredibly privileged noblewoman to the wife of the last remaining primarch, she did not know.

there was a point in time she had believed she was a beacon of hope for her people. once her father’s reign was over, she would finally be able to restore peace to her planet, heal the sick and the dying, uplift the thousands that resided there from poverty. It was only when she stood on the altar and was encapsulated within the piercing blue gaze of roboute guilliman that she realized her people could not be saved.

the planet she resided on, the one she was supposed to rule, had an astonishing militia. the imperium did not wish extinction upon an innocent colony, nor did they want to challenge a planet that would undeniably put up a fight. teaching her father the ways of the emperor was far easier than trying to convince him that a woman could lead or be of any importance.

that ideal had been drilled in her head her entire life. she was to be married off from the day she was born. not a single suitor met her father’s standards, for none of them held enough power, until guilliman.

but it was fulgrim who convinced guilliman to take a wife in the first place. her planet was dangerous. if a peaceful negotiation was on the table, why sacrifice any lives?

fulgrim relaxed in his chair, pulling his wine glass away from his lips with a sly but genuine smile on his face. “you don’t have to love her guilliman. ive wed dozens of women. we do this out of necessity for peace, not out of love.” he said, his tone aloof and dismissive. guilliman hated to admit that his brother was right, thousands of his sons and innocent humans did not need to lose their lives when peace was on the table. “besides,” fulgrim added, his eyes gleaming with mischief and something akin to lust. “she is quite beautiful. i’d watch your back, i’ve heard others deeply desire an opportunity with her” guilliman’s expression remained stale and unmoving from the papers on his desk, though an unfamiliar feeling flickered through his eyes at the thought of someone else coveting his soon to be wife. was this possession?

“sure thing, brother.” guilliman replied, cold, unfeeling, and professional as usual.

he did not get to meet her until their wedding day, and quite beautiful she was. gorgeous fragile, and timid. her cowardice in his presence was something he was not anticipating of a noble, let alone the daughter of an incredibly cruel king. yet her eyes, glassy with tears, looked upon her people with great sympathy and sadness. they looked back at her the same way. she was not cruel, she was kind. these people were being ripped away of the only kindness they had been shown from their rulers.

when her father approached the two of them, she seemed to shrink into guilliman, clinging to his arm as if her father would rip her away the moment he got close enough. the king’s gaze shifted back and forth between guilliman and the girl, before her wrist was grabbed with such force guilliman swore he heard a crack. “i’d like to say goodbye to my dearest daughter” the man said, cooing as she whimpered at the pressure on her wrist, her hand turning blue.

guilliman’s eyes narrowed as he wrapped an arm around her. “release her, and say your goodbyes here, then.” he stood sternly, eyeing the girl’s hand. her father let go, not expecting such a protective tone from the primarch. “i will not depart from my wife.”

he protected her from her father, sure. but his words were a lie. for he did not have to love her.

throughout 6 months of marriage, he had only allowed himself to see her a dozen or so times, each meeting brief and rushed. his sons took great care of her in his absence, always sure to carefully to reply to every “where’s lord guilliman?” with a flat and prompt “he’s busy”.

the only time she remembered physical contact with him was the kiss they shared their wedding day, and the occasional brushing of hands when she handed him his paperwork. being allowed to sit in his office and watch him do his work was a rare and very awkward occurrence. she had her own room. her own space. she should spend time there instead. neither her or her belongings were allowed in guilliman’s personal quarters, anything to stop her sweet and intoxicating scent from getting on his sheets. anything to stop him from falling in love. he does this out of necessity, he has no time for love. he did not have to love her.

he’d admire her from a distance instead, or he’d submerge himself in papers and documents to avoid catching a glimpse of her. she’d sit in her room, contemplating the blank tear stained divorce papers that sat upon her dresser as she traced her fingers over the contours in her wedding ring. all the paper needed was guilliman’s signature.

her quarters were still close to his despite being separated. he heard her cries at night, incredibly often. comfort, she needs comfort. she needs warmth. he’s been in that room before, it’s so… so cold. he knew, and yet never once did he act on it. instead, he sat alone in his room doing paperwork by the warmth of his fireplace, the cracking flames helping drown out her sobs. he did his best to ignore them. he did not have to love her.

sometimes he couldn’t help but stop and listen, pressing his ear against the cold wall, knowing just how freezing and lonely it must be past the walls of his massive and elaborate quarters. his bed was more than big enough for the both of them, and he mulled over the thought many times. it didn’t matter, a little cold wouldn’t kill her, he did not have to love her.

one particular night, though, guilliman did not hear her crying as usual. her sobs and the sounds of the fire were replaced by heavy footsteps approaching his door. the heavy metal boots of cato sicarius were unmistakable as he made his way toward the primarch, a stern but panicked look across his features. Something about the look on cato’s face caused guilliman’s heart to quicken.

“my lord” cato’s voice was close to trembling, sweat pooling on his forehead “it’s lady guilliman… she’s hurt” cato’s voice echoed despite his panting. guilliman rose to his feet with an urgency he had never before felt toward his wife, his heart filled with a mix of panic, confusion, and anger.

“how badly?” he asked with a hint of controlled fury behind the question, every millisecond that passed causing him to dread every possible answer more and more until his heart felt as if it would beat out of his chest.

“she is in critical condition, my lord” the worst possible outcome rang through cato’s lips, but fell on deaf ears as the primarch plowed past him, walking directly to the medical unit and ignoring anything attempting to grab his attention along the way.

guilliman cursed to himself. to hear her cry was one thing, to long for her was one thing, but to be absent and allow her to become fatally injured?

when he arrived in the medical bay, multiple medicae surrounded the bloody and trembling body of lady guilliman. tears poured from her eyes despite her state of near-unconsciousness, the clear wound left by none other than the claws of the night haunter was swollen and crimson, it’s bright redness mixed with black screamed at guilliman. he should’ve been there. there was not an excuse in the universe that would satisfy the fact he was blind enough to let konrad curze get his filthy hands on his wife.

“where’s… guilliman…” she choked out, past her exhaustion and teary eyes.

one of the nurses seemed to tense up at her sad and confused expression. despite his constant absence, despite the papers for divorce he had found on his desk, she still cried out for him. “i apologize my lady, he’s busy” the nurse responded, watching her face twist into a look of defeat. he’d already signed the papers, had them prepared for her, and placed them on her nightstand in her quarters.

his heart could hold its true feelings no longer as he felt it begin to crumble. “i’m here.” his voice announced his presence as he approached her bedside, the nurse who cared for her widened her eyes in shock, swiftly stepping to the side to allow guilliman to see his wife. she reached up weakly with a single one of her tiny hands. her eyes were half lidded, confused and full of sorrow.

he stepped forward, reaching out his own hand to grab onto hers. “you’re really here…” she whispered, a small smile upon her features. “you found my papers, guilliman?”

his smile, once mirroring hers, faded into the slightest frown. “yes.” he responded. his voice cold and yet sorrowful. “they are signed but,” he paused, wanting a moment to consider the weight of the words on his tongue. “I cannot let you return home until you have recovered.”

she frowned. “i don’t want to go back home, roboute.” he tensed at her use of his first name, the only piece of his identity that was truly his own. “but there i had my people, and here i have nothing at all…” her voice broke as she cried, the pain of her wound overwhelming her as the machines stitching her wound together brought healing alongside pain. Exhausted and in something akin to agony, tears began to stream down her face.

“then i will give you everything” he replied with a solemn vow, turning to face the nurse as she nodded toward the primarch, the machine finishing its work and signaling to him that she was free to go as long as she did not walk or strain her body for a few days. he, for the first time, lifted his wife into his arms with more gentleness than that of which a primarch was capable.

he carried her into his room, past her own freezing cold quarters. he’d have her personal belongings moved within the next few days. Gently, he lay her on the soft rug next to his fireplace, not wanting to stain his bedsheets with her blood or hurt her as his period of scheduled rest passed. he removed his own armor, placing it to the side with ease before moving over to his bed. He did not lie down, instead grabbing a soft blanket and draping it over her body, ensuring she stayed warm. He sat next to her, placing her head on his thigh as she nestled into him for both comfort and warmth.

perhaps his scheduled rest meant nothing at all. damn the schedule. he had more important things to attend to now, and those marines of his were more than competent enough to handle it. his focus now was on nothing more than his wife, the girl who lay with her head in his lap as he stroked her head, memorizing every hair on her scalp like he should’ve long ago.

she shifted in her sleep, her body instinctively cuddling closer to her husband, thankful for the warmth she had always longed for. she did not cry on this night. he placed his hand over her shoulder and leaned back against the wall, his heart finally willing to admit the truth. he did not have to love her, but he did. by the emperor, he did.

[tragedy-of-commons]

HI GERN !! could i request yellow rose, amaranthine + druxy + petrichor with aventurine? hunters evil deeds emoji

YELLOW ROSE:  though valentine’s day is usually centered around romance, there are many types of relationships that deserve to be highlighted and celebrated.

amaranthine  —  undying.

druxy  —  (of wood) having decayed spots or streaks of a whitish color; rotten, decayed.

petrichor  —  the smell of earth after rain.

aventurine backstory spoilers, depictions of fear and injury, angst and retrospection, possible lore inaccuracies, intended as platonic

Aventurine can’t quite remember when he started running. 

It could’ve been when he was only knee high to his older sister, her warm hand combing through his hair, praise and reassurance leaving her mouth in droves. He’d run, and she’d chase him, a cacophony of their shared laughter amidst a simple game of tag. 

Maybe it was when the shouting and panic started to penetrate the walls of childhood ignorance; he’d sneak off as far as he could without worrying anyone, desperate to escape the rising tensions of his homeland, all the while humming a long-forgotten lullaby to pass the time.

On the other hand, it might’ve been when everyone fell lifeless around him - his sister bid him to run, Kakavasha, he believes, and his mother and father’s pleas fell on deaf ears. Aventurine ran then, too. He narrowly avoided the wrath of pointy spears and the fate of his loved ones, weaving deftly between each obstacle before being forced to play dead when the time called for it. 

He finds he remembers those details better - the bad ones - rather than the good memories that continue to elude him, slipping through his fingers like sand.

But he knows for a fact that he can sprint, and that was almost enough to save him. 

And he sprints now, as rain falls from the sky in a torrential downpour. There is only one unshakable instinct carrying him forward: one foot in front of the other, run, Kakavasha. The trees around him are thin and generous enough to provide glimpses of where he’s actually going, flashes of forest floor and springy roots abound. 

He cannot feel if his feet hurt, but one of them feels confined; a dress shoe he was well-fitted for months back remains tightly enclosed about his ankle, stomping through puddles without regard. His other foot is free save for a tattered sock, its matching shoe likely abandoned amongst the elements somewhere behind him. 

Flaxen hair sticks to his forehead, too heavy to flutter in the harsh wind. A nauseous, saccharine taste floods his mouth. He wants to vomit, but just as he did back then, he presses on, leaning into his instincts. There is no burn of exertion because this is the high of adrenaline.

This is the same sensation he gets before taking a big risk, teetering on the precipice of whatever bad outcome is to befall him should he somehow lose. But he never does, and so he bids himself to keep going. 

Rain is lucky. It’s something the gambler intrinsically cherishes wherever his job may lead him, no matter the climate of the planet he’s skulking about. Maybe he’d jokingly call it a vice or a weakness, but that’s something he’d say at a party if he was caught gazing at the light drizzle just outside. The occurrence is lucky, to him, the person sick of fortune and what it leads to. 

That’s what triggered this flight response. The storm on this planet (one he cannot recall the name of now, and cares not to) was brewing long before his arrival.

Trip advisory remains a small part of briefings, but he was told of the drought. 

“It’s really nothing to worry about, Mr. Aventurine. It hasn’t rained there in almost five weeks now, but it shouldn’t impede your directives; you have my assurance. The locals may be a bit… standoffish, but it’s not like you’re part of the Special Debts Picket Team, haha! Just be aware of the wilting vegetation and depleted resources. It must be quite a depressing sight. Your accommodations are still top notch, however!”

His lackeys certainly agreed, voicing their concerns about the darkening sky and the streets devoid of people. That didn’t matter to him. Why would it, when there is no risk he hasn’t taken?

But when it all came pouring down, it was different. Different how? Aventurine’s heart thundered in his chest - fear so raw that it was isolating and all-encompassing. It dredged up things deep within him, things that were buried so far down he’d be reluctant to call them human. Things so animalistic, so prey-driven, that he up and vanished from the task at hand like a wounded deer. 

The man (if he can even be called that), notices the landscape narrowing further. He’s getting close to something greater, someplace that will be safe from the maw of the past ready to swallow him whole. His shades, along with every other part of his signature wardrobe, have long since been stripped away along with his wayward shoe.

His fur boa that normally lounges across his shoulders is dirtied, yes, but also fraying after it snagged on a protruding branch. Cursing and gulping heaving breaths, Aventurine discards the accessory with haste. It will only slow him down.

He feels like Kakavasha, for the first time in a decade or so. 

When he reaches the illustrious clearing, he slips.

His body connects with a slope after his foray with the air ends. It’s a steep drop; there is still no pain, but a gasp of finality escapes his throat as he tumbles, mud and leaves embracing his form due to the harsh impact. Either way, it cannot and will not be heard. Cold, cold, cold. He lands knee-deep in frigid water, the surface of which being battered with the force of the rain. If his adrenaline is gone, it’s then replaced with shock.

Clumsily dispensed into the prone position, his chin digs into the rocky sediment lining the bottom of the creek while his arms flail outward. He swallows enough of the murky water to cough and hack a few times before his vision goes dark.

He can still hear the rhythmic sound of dripping.

Splat! Splat! Splat!

But this time, the repetitive symphony is deep and clanging, almost metallic. It’s loud, rousing him. When Aventurine opens his eyes, expecting to see that he’s still in the forest somewhere - that assumption is proved wrong. He’s now warm, surrounded by downy blankets boasting knitted patterns. If he stares at the swirls of indigo and black long enough, they dance. Just where is he, and why does it feel like he’s in more danger here than indisposed at the creek?

…is this a dream? It certainly feels like one.

The springy surface beneath him is no doubt a mattress, and when he blinks the remaining bleariness from his vision, his surroundings become even clearer.

A voice startles him.

“Oh. You’re awake, then.”

Aventurine wrenches his head to the side - the bedside - where someone he doesn’t know is perched on an old rocking chair. There’s an expectant but curious look on your face, and the gambler is disconcerted by the fact that he can’t get ahold of himself immediately. He doesn’t speak, mouth drawn open in terrible vulnerability.

“I’d be speechless too. How are you feeling?” you probe, tossing the book you were thumbing through aside. It lands with a thud near a pail that’s attempting to contain a leak plaguing the high, logged ceiling. Aventurine watches the source of the earlier clanging, enraptured. “Do you remember anything?”

Assess the situation and make a move.

“I feel—” he winces at the hoarse quality of his voice, “—fine. Would you mind filling me in? I can’t say I have the best grasp on things at the moment, friend.”

He tries valiantly to save face, clearing his throat before pulling himself up to sit against the headboard. Mercilessly, he’s bombarded with pain. Hot, white needles stab at his lower extremities - the ones still obscured by the blankets. Agony circles and constricts his torso like a vice, the telltale aching of a few broken ribs.

The way you react to his answer is unfavorable. Your lips purse - Aventurine can easily place the look on your face as suspicion. He’s been regarded that way more often than not, and he can’t say it bothers him. He’s practically a living, breathing warning sign for any enemies of the IPC. But it’s not good, not good at all, to be on your bad side after you’ve presumably saved him; not while he’s in your care.

“We’re not friends,” you correct. “And I found you on my property, floating in the bank behind my cabin.” Hopping off your rocking chair and standing, you sweep your arms out as if to show him around.

Once you notice him adjusting again, you snap, “Hey! You’re lucky to be so unscathed, boy. Quit moving or else you’ll make it worse.”

“Sorry, sorry,” the blond chuckles, trying to disarm. There are bandages winding around the full length of his arms, the (most likely) mangled remnants of his clothes replaced with a plain undershirt. Aventurine suddenly mourns the loss of his gloves. His hands are on full display, having been bared to himself and to you.

Faded scars mar the skin around his knuckles, similar abrasions littering his palms. Calluses that will never smooth pool around his fingertips. 

Look how much you know about him already. 

Aventurine will not run again, even if Kakavasha is screaming at him to do so. He already has to deal with the fallout of his… uncharacteristic outburst. “I’m here on business, to put it plainly. Seems I got caught up in the downpour and got lost.”

It’s the best thing he can come up with to tell you, one of the “standoffish” locals. He stuffs his hands under the covers and quilts to hide them from view; when he does so, he also feels the scratchiness of gauze around his legs. Being indebted is never a good feeling, even though it’s something he experiences every waking moment. Aventurine knows you’ve saved him… and he knows you’ll, humanly, want something in return.

“Let’s just say I believe that,” you mutter. “I treated you the best I could, but it’s not much. Medical supplies have been scarce around here lately. Your torso’s pretty busted up, and you have a swollen ankle. I dunno how you were so fortunate, but you’ll need to see a doctor as soon as possible.” 

“Thank you. To whom do I owe the pleasure…?”

Silence. The tattoo on his neck burns.

You, with crossed arms, observe him again - this time from head to toe. Your scrutiny takes in his dull, multicolored eyes and his guarded posture. You’re a sharp one, for ostensibly nobody.

“It’s probably better if you don’t know my name. You’re not from around here, and you must’ve been running fast to end up face down in the rough like a corpse. I saw the tracks leading up to where you fell.” A strike of lightning and subsequent thunder punctuates your sentence, exacerbating the roof leak. The pail takes a beating trying to collect the new runoff, quickly filling. 

“But if I had to guess who you are,” you turn your back to him, making sure the thing doesn’t overflow. “You’re the rain-bringer. Hah!”

Aventurine understands you’re just joking, that you’re playfully chalking the termination of the drought up to the appearance of a bizarre stranger. The timing would get a laugh out of anyone. 

Well, anyone but him, that is. 

The man scorched by possibility finds it in himself to say nothing. He watches as you flit around the enclosed space - the cabin being about the size of a public restroom. You’re stoking the fireplace, then you’re up again to bring the wood-burning stove to life. 

“You’ve been out for a day at most, goldilocks. Once the storm lets up and the phones start to work, I’ll call the town doctor, and you can call your people. They must be worried, yeah? I made you something to eat earlier, but I…”

Aventurine tunes out after that. Despite the pressing concern that Diamond and his subordinates will be vexed by him going AWOL out of nowhere, he’s an asset for a reason. Even without taking his infernal blessing into account, he trusts his intuition. He’ll be okay in your hands - at least for the time being.

He doesn’t have a choice in the matter.

event post here. network members only!

[galvatream]

First of the Main Character posts for my TFP Gilded Future Au, starting with Optimus' successor and the last Prime to ever arise, Jack.

Jack, like Miko and Raf, was returned to Earth to share in whatever fate befall all life on the planet during the cyberforming process. While Miko and Raf would end up elsewhere on the planet, Jack arrived at the outskirts of the Autobot base where he would be amongst the half of humanity that survived the transformation into a species that mimicked the Cybertronian people.

Jack would be the first amongst those who knew of the Autobots to join them, though only after a pep talk from Sierra. He would be the only Autobot to ever receive gold insignias. After making contact with Miko, he would rename himself Nova. (Seen below)

As Nova, he would go on to lead a group of Autobots towards a meeting point he'd agreed on with Miko where he would be reunited with both Miko and Raf, the latter of who had managed to listen in on their communications.

He would be chosen to become the new leader of the Autobots, proclaiming them as The Autobot Resistance and around a century after the cyberforming of Earth, engaged in a gruelling and deadly fight with Megatron during a battle known as The Battle for the Thanatos, he would reclaim the Matrix of Leadership and transform to become Novalis Prime, learning that he had been chosen by The Thirteen as the last hope of freedom across the universe. (Seen below)

As Novalis Prime, he would go on to engage in many battles against Megatron, now known as Galvatron, he would also go on to call his followers The Last Autobots and would order the revisit of an old project abandoned during the War for Cybertron several millennia ago, which would go on to bring them into the past.

As a leader, Jack/Nova/Novalis Prime would lean heavily on the teachings of the Thirteen to lead his followers, making tough decisions in order to achieve victory in the war, yet as a friend and fellow Autobot, he would be fair and soft, not once using his authority unless his hand was forced.

He would be recognised by Primus as a Prime, and would be bestowed a gift by the slumbering god, the Sword of Primus, a blade he only ever used twice. To best Predaking in combat and when he ultimately brought an end to Megatron in the past.