#Foundation Quaking

[fives-girlfriend]

God I wish I could be on a different planet rn. @ any clone take me into your fucking arms

[fruitmouse]

the earthquake was mad funny btw. i’d been awake for one whole minute & suddenly my house was shaking and i was just like. ok 👍

[ghouljams]

have you ever seen going dutch, cuz all i’m thinking about now is the scene where the military protagonist discovers that his ex-wives go on vacation together every year with their (his) kids and call it ‘(his name) family vacation’ and he has a tantrum about them using his name when none of them are together

group of price’s ex-wives shrugging their shoulders being like ‘yeah we were all too stubborn to listen to the last ex, welcome to the family’

It's so difficult to believe the woman in sunglasses and an oversized sun hat, sipping a tall multicolored drink with perfectly manicured nails holding the straw just so, keeping her precisely applied lipstick from smudging, because she looks the part of "ex-wife" almost too perfectly. Even more difficult to believe her when she tells you "Stay away from John, love, he's not the man for you" in that lush but patronizing voice that women over 40 seem to develop every time they talk to pretty young things like you.

So of course you don't take her advice. Especially when John grimaces and calls her "number 2" like she's shit on his heel. He even manages to win you over to his side, makes you resent how much of his paycheck gets paid out in alimony each month, makes you agree that a child might convince the court to lessen that amount. He's so attentive, keeps telling you that he got it right this time. But a weak foundation leads to a shaky structure, and the first quake of trouble sends it all crumbling down.

He'd never serve you, no matter how little he seems to care about you now. So you do what they all did and serve him, take your new baby and demand your fair share of everything, the house (that you'd once scorned his ex-wife for demanding), full custody (you'd once called his ex heartless for the same reason), and a share of his income (greedy, you'd called a woman you didn't know). And you reach out to the woman you'd been told to hate, only to find out she's just one of seven, well eight with you.

Seven other women, some with kids, some without, all with the same agenda: make John Price's life hell and have fun doing it. All headed by a woman with white hair and perfect red lips, her eyes creased with smile lines as she kisses your cheek and coos "poor baby, welcome to the real family."

[someweirdoreblogger]

Burning Spice Cookie is passion ignited, albeit not in the moral side of the conscious spectrum. He is quite affectionate, actually, more than you may give him credit for.

Do not mistake it as humane, as a blind genosity. It comes not from a moral source of obligation or even gerenal priority.

Once the deranged loin-a Beast amongst monsters-the corrupted Lord himself is invested, your scent guiding freely through the droves, to shake him off your trail will prove diffcult. Burning Spice is not so kind to let prey go by unscathed, untouched by his mighty axe; His shadow stalks the trees, quaking, a deafening roar booms in the distance.

The Hunt begins.

You dare infringe upon his heart, you invade his senses, scrabble his thoughts; you really think you can simply crawl back home unscathed?

What home have you to turn too? Who would even think to take you back with the mark of a Beast weighing down your back?

Luckily, this debt can be paid. Paid solely by your own parry and peril. Burning Spice will remember your tracks better than the back of his own hand.

Once he comes, just an arrogant march away, you will know. The world itself will alert, not you, but itself to his sudden existence.

The birds will cease their music, the ground will shake and stumble; struggling to keep its foundation stable and lively. The lakes, far and wide, the sky, the kisses of clouds and weak leaves rip itself apart, dancing in the reflection below. It ripens in sheer unbalanced tension, seemingly frightened; the water will ripple like static, wavering under a wave of immense, exotic shock, and pressure.

The wind is ecstatic, nature's personal enthusiasm; it moans, groans, and sighs heavy in your ear. Desperate to be heard.

You will taste him in the air, a suffocating sulfur and ghastly spice, it threatens to choke weaker beings. Feel him fester like sparks on your crust, hair standing up stiff, dough throbbing. Tingling and blazing hot, a Beast's presence is a neigh-suffocating weight. You will never know peace until he deems you worthy of such.

Burning Spice roams triumphant, forever hungry. An immovable glare in the sky, a blinding scorch to the people's merger eyes, looking down civilization in cold indifference; The same way a god regurds his subjects. Just ants, peasy insects, building their anthills, simply hoping to piece together a safe haven for themselves in a universe far too large to tackle alone.

The Vitue of Change, The Lord of Destruction, will stand tall alone. Boundless from any chain as mortals rise, spoil and fall. A proud witness to the beginning, present, and the end, the natural tides of history sow in the seeds of devastation he leaves behind. He is a slave to his base desires, as all Cookies are; a chaotic harbinger of endless malice and merciless strife.

But he is still yet a man. A heartless monster in a man's skin. A Cookie baked in the same oven as his fellow kin, a great Beast, seeking to completely deprive himself of sheer boredom and simplicity.

All immortals carry the burden, the smooth erosion of time is not lost even to Beasts, as the ocean inevitably swipes a wet hand over the sand. He lives long and simply withstands, and he stares at the lesser mass in a bubbling, volcanic envy, hanging loose like a knot on his shoulders; the deeper things, the pleasant things. The majority of it stems from an infectious curiosity, aching hunger boiling in the depths of a Beast.

An unstoppable force suspended in a space completely at its mercy.

Burning Spice, gerenally, is an incredibly expressive person; entertainment, living life to the fullest drives his very soul off the edge of madness and carnage. His being is a godly sight to behold, and he wears this infernal arrogance in fine silks and peakish sneers. The weak tremble beneath the heel of their superiors, the Beast of Destruction is bloody pride embodied.

And this God, this Beast will strave for your worship; shall rip it from the dying, rotting hands of the torn world.

Carnal, burnt crimson in abhorrent brutality, Burning Spice is honestly an upfront sort. He won’t shy away from confrontation, solemn. He knows what he needs, what he wants, so he will steal it if one ever dares refuse it from him.

What is inevitable is virtue, Burning Spice knows this in his very jam. He does hold some semblance of responsibility and honor, albeit it won’t make him any less immorally stubborn or hot-headed. He approaches a desired interest alike how a lion stalks his prey; the same way he approaches a potential hunt, with fierce, burning determination and endless persistence.

[sand-jam]

WRAYTHHH

My sweet little headcanon for wrayth's backstory is that he was born into a family of bandits and one day during a robbery he was too slow bc of an injury and got caught, his family didn't notice his absence and exploded the place to destroy the evidence, sending him to the cursed realm

more and more under cut \/ \/

I also headcanon him and soul archer are from the same family, since they got the same headpiece and ngl the mask is the shaking and quaking foundation im basing the whole bandit thing on so soul archer simply has to work with me here

He's younger- 18-19ish- since he's morro's friend ( :] ) and having an old ass man be besties with an at most 20 year old would be weird ngl

The whole explosion getting caught bla bla thing I pulled out of the bandages (actually didnt make sense to get bandages AFTER dying so hes already injured when he dies but explosion persists) and chains on his minfig, like he's a literal 'chain master' and chains are yknow yeah he got captured u get it

Ok maybe the explosion I pulled out of my ass but it adds angst with him getting indirectly killed by his fam and gives some context why him and soul archer dont interact much if he's holding a grudge

heres a pic of him so u actually know what im talking about

jesus fucking christ i alr made a tiny sub au where him and Morro meet without dying💔 somebody sedate me this mfer ISNT EVEN A RELEVANT CHARACTERRRRRR

WHAT AM I DOINGGGGGGG

Have barely posted or drawn any of the main ninja after being in this fandom for YEARS i just skipped right to obsessing over side characters istg this fandom is a PRISON LET ME LEAVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

anw ignoring that im actually planning (since almost a year lmao queen of procrastinating here) to flesh out and give backstories to all of Morros ghost crew and actually draw them full

or maybe not im hella busy with stressing over my drivers license and family and friends time spending and work and and and yeah i just dont have motivation to draw rn see u guys in a month when i post again

[dinsbeskar]

Homecoming (Sauron/F!Reader)

Sauron finds his wife in Eregion when Galadriel is forced to find aid for Halbrand's terrible near-fatal wound, a thousand years after she left him at his coronation

AO3 Link

Soundtrack: a thousand years by Christina Perri (shut up, I know it's obvious!!), If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher, It's All Coming Back To Me Now by my girl Céline Dion, Can't Fight The Moonlight by LeAnn Rimes

Warnings: 18+ only!! Smut!! Tooth rotting fluff!! (Remember to floss!!) Tiny bit of angst (the rest comes later, it's a slow burn!) P in V sex, handjob, Halbrand’s glorious chest hair (I'm amused when we tag for that so I'm joining in 😂), separation anxiety lmfao (no but fr), cuddling, spooning, emotional manipulation (what a mix), tiny bit of rough sex/teeth/biting, praise kink, teasing (the guy is a menace, sorry!), male masturbation, fingering, dom!Sauron (he's a service top, okay?), big dick Halbrand (it must be done, idek at this point)

A/N: hi guys!! So finally, after so many chapters, I have for you: Sauron and Reader's reunion. I wrote In The Dark first, and promised a follow-up, and then ended up writing a bunch of prequels first. But finally, here they are!!

Word Count: 4.9k!

Quick rundown of what to read before this one for context (or don't, I'm not the boss of you!!):

Haunted, where we split them up

In The Dark of The Night, the story that started it all, where Reader fantasises about Sauron and he manages to reach out for her

Evil Will Find Her, Sauron’s POV of the above.

Y'all this is the softest, most candyfloss like fluffy smut I've ever written, what is wrong with me??

When Galadriel is sent to Valinor, you mourn the loss of your friend, of course, but there is a traitorous part of you that is secretly glad that your husband's last hunter will no longer keep you up at night in fear for his demise yet again.

You have not felt him stir in such a long time, you were beginning to give up hope. But one night you swore you could feel him, the ghost of his touch, his comforting presence. And the next night, and the next, until you'd grown entirely accustomed to imagining him beside you, atop you, beneath you.

~

The quaking in the earth beneath Lindon was barely perceptible, but perceive it you did. It must have come from afar, but what could cause the very foundations of the earth to shake so? The rest of your kin brushed it off as some natural occurrence, but you were sure deep down that these stirrings in the earth and in your heart were one and the same.

So when the High King sent Elrond to Eregion, you figured your best bet was to go with him, travelling further east in search of answers. You knew what you hoped for, but would not dare speak it even in your mind, not wanting to dispel the wish before it had even taken flight.

Lord Celebrimbor was a most gracious host, giving you both rooms and leave to stay as long as you wished. It was so different to Lindon, you thought you might stay a while, and with the building of the new forge, a tiny part of you hoped your beloved would seek out a place where he could practise his craft, and what better place to do so.

The last person you expected to see was Galadriel, whom you thought had arrived safely in Valinor, racing through the city gates, another horse in tow carrying a nigh-unconscious man who nearly falls from his seat as they come to an abrupt halt.

"Enemy lance. Six days ago. We rode without rest. Can you help him?" Galadriel's voice carries to your Elvish ears as you run to meet them, a feeling in your gut that your healing was required.

"Come, he needs rest, take him to the infirmary, I will follow." You say to the guards propping him up.

He's filthy, as is Galadriel, and the first thing you'll need to do is strip him off and bathe him.

You thought he was unconscious, but he turns his head slightly to catch your eye, winks, then allows himself to be dragged away.

A sweat breaks across your body, accompanied by wild fluttering in the pit of your stomach.

Mairon.

Your husband. The husband you thought had abandoned you. The husband you thought was dead. That husband.

You can't fight the smile on your face, the utter joy that is about to overwhelm you; even after everything you'd said to each other the last time you spoke, you still missed him, yearned for him with a fiery passion that hadn't dampened in the eons you've been apart. The utter delight of finding the other half of your soul again obliterated your momentary shock at his arrival, and you hasten to be at his side.

"I'll go see to our guest," you excuse yourself, while squeezing Galadriel's hand. "It's good to see you, mellon nin [my friend]."

She watches after you with a strange expression, bemused that in your hurry, you thought to ask no questions as to how she was back on the shores of Middle Earth.

~

"Leave us. I can tend to him well enough without an audience." You nod to the guards standing over your husband; any excuse to be left alone with him.

Thankfully they don't need much persuasion and take their leave, the room filling with tension as soon as the door clicks shut behind them.

The thrill of his presence has not faded; in fact what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder might indeed be the case. However your joy is overcast by the malice you threw at each other a millennium ago.

You have no idea what to say, now that you're face to face with him. Your last words were cruel, and you remember them as if they were yesterday; if he has brooded upon your words, he might never forgive you. You pick at a stray thread on your sleeve, avoiding his gaze, which is suddenly very alert now that you're alone.

"No greeting for me, dear wife?" His voice is different, his cadence of speech is rougher but no less silver to the ear.

"I missed you."

"I know."

You step closer, bringing a washbasin and cloth, placing it beside him. You go to feel his forehead with the back of your hand to check for infection, but he snatches it from its path and holds you in place, studying your face intently. His green eyes pierce your soul, and instantly you feel more at peace than you have in a thousand years.

You reach out once more, trembling slightly with anticipation, tracing his face, learning every new contour in case he is ripped from you again.

He leans into your touch, letting you take your fill of him, before reaching up to grasp your face, pulling you in for a tender kiss that makes you see stars, his rough stubble a sharp contrast to the way his tongue softly delves into your mouth.

He breaks away first, his mortal form forcing him to take a breath, the wound in his torso paining him more than he'd like you to know.

"I thought you'd still be angry with me." You whisper against his cheek, heart racing.

He shakes his head slightly, a tender smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Never, not with you." His voice is so soft, you barely catch it, his words meant strictly for your ears only; in Eregion, surrounded by sensitive Elvish hearing, the walls really do have ears.

"I've had so much time to think about what happened, and I take it all back. Every word. I love you and I'm so sorry, I should have been there for you." You hold his gaze, searching his eyes for confirmation of his forgiveness, that he will not just say what he thinks you want to hear.

"No, that was the only thing that saved me, knowing you were safe, out of harm's way."

"Still, I should have-"

"Hush, my love, I'm here now and I won't be parted so easily from you again." He means it, you can hear the determination in his voice, but Morgoth's curse has plagued you both for centuries, even after he was banished to the Void, and joy makes way for the dread already beginning to build in the pit of your stomach.

Relief rolls through the two of you, and the very air is lighter as you take each other in after so long. You look entirely as he remembers, perhaps more radiant, more lovely, than his memory allowed him to recollect. Perhaps it is just that he can finally touch you.

He, on the other hand, looks entirely different. Not that you're complaining. This new form is just as pleasant as any other you've enjoyed; perhaps a little coarser, rough around the edges, more hair than you're used to... but it is no bad thing, and you find yourself just staring at him until you remember why he is here.

"Oh, would you like healing, perchance?" Your tone is playful but the tiny crease in your forehead tells him you're still worried for him.

He chuckles, wincing as he does so, pain smarting in his side.

"If you'd be so kind, fair maiden." And with that, he lays back to let you work.

You let him away with a fair amount, this being only one thing of many. You know he's perfectly capable of healing himself of such a wound, and he knows you know, but sometimes it is satisfying to care, and to be taken care of. He did always enjoy your attentions.

"I'm afraid I must get these rags off you, my lord. I cannot possibly see the wound through all these layers." You pull out a wickedly sharp pair of scissors, slicing through the fabric in one fluid motion, moving it to the side to examine him.

Your gaze is already locked onto the gaping hole in his side, but you allow yourself to run your fingers methodically up his torso, marvelling in the thick black hair that populates his chest. Certainly different from what you were used to, but not unappealing in the slightest.

His wicked grin reminds you of your work, and your blush grows with your smile, enjoying yourself far too much.

A little cleaning, some herbs and a healing song render him virtually healed, as well as a little of his own power to speed the process along, but you run your hands over him long after the wound is knitted together, enjoying the feeling of your husband beneath your fingers after so long.

"Did you know I was here?" You ask him softly, your head laying on his bare chest as you nestle into his side on the small cot, running your fingers through his hair.

"Of course. I could feel you, in fact, I was on my way here," he pauses, considering his next words; you wouldn't be too happy to hear he'd used the scenic route, instead of hastening to your side.

"But?" You can practically hear the cogs whirring in his mind, trying to come up with some elaborate fabrication.

"Fate pulled me to the sea. And then it brought me back to you." Perhaps he'd regale you with tales of Númenor another time; right now, he was simply content to listen to your heartbeat, fluttering in time to his once more.

"With Galadriel and an army? That must be quite a tale." You ponder aloud, leaving him space to elaborate if he wishes, but not wanting to press him too soon.

"It is." He kisses you again, this time deeper, rougher, tongue demanding entrance to your mouth as he curls his fingers in your hair.

He has to resurface first, letting your lips part reluctantly as his lungs demand air. It's quite charming, considering how he is so used to torturing you with your bodily needs, only letting you gasp for air when you're desperate, if he's feeling particularly cruel.

"Don't get used to it," he chuckles, overhearing your thoughts as always; you muse over how that used to irritate you, but now you're so ecstatic to have him under your fingertips again, you'd unlock every door of your mind for him.

"I'm just enjoying the difference in dynamic, my love, it's delightful being the torturer, not the tortured." You laugh, as a low growl emanates from his chest.

"Don't remind me," he rolls his eyes before pulling you closer, as if that were possible.

"I really did miss you, love, it's been a lifetime and ten since we could last do this." You lift up your entwined fingers to emphasise the point, which he answers with a kiss to each knuckle, as if in apology.

"I won't be parted from you again, you need not worry," he whispers in your ear, and you want to believe him, but fate has always had other plans for the two of you, and you have no reason to assume it might be different this time.

"Besides," he continues, stroking his fingers through the hollows of your knuckles, "it's not as if I was wholly absent, especially recently."

You crane your neck to meet his gaze, confused as to what he could possibly mean. You raise your eyebrows, encouraging him to elaborate.

"Admittedly it was difficult to manifest myself in two places while I gathered my strength, but surely you noticed me reaching out for you? Touching your mind?" He pauses for dramatic effect. "...and other things?"

"Now I really have no idea, my dear husband, you will need to explain." You laugh at his bemused expression, still none the wiser as to how he could have been with you while physically absent.

"I reached out for you, I could see you, feel you, and I swore you felt me too. Did you really not feel me?" He asks, slightly indignant, as if you could hardly have missed him.

Ah. Yes, now it clicks into place; you'd thought you'd sensed something, or perhaps someone, with you on those dark nights alone. You were right. He hadn't abandoned you after all.

"It was you," you breathe, marvelling anew, "I thought for a moment- you found me, even then, even when you were at your weakest, you found me."

He kisses your palm and holds it to his chest, reluctant to ever let you go again.

"Of course, love, I vowed I'd always find you," he murmurs in your ear, his physical being aching with the reunion of your two souls, electric tingles dancing across your flesh as you trace across his unfamiliar form.

You relish in his closeness, unwilling to be parted from him until-

"Oh no! What you must have witnessed-" You go to cover your face, cheeks flushing as you recall exactly what you were up to when you felt his presence.

He takes your hands and chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. How could you still be embarrassed in front of him, your lord husband, after all this time? His heart swells, taking you in as you squirm under his gaze.

"Darling, you are mine, I am yours, we are one soul, one flesh, are we not?" He squeezes your hands, gazing at you fondly; after a thousand years, your hearts still beat as one, and you meet his eyes with relief, cheeks still heated but no longer with embarrassment.

His fingers travel across your body with the practised touch of one who knows you better than you know yourself. Even after all this time, he knows exactly where to be gentle, where to be rough, where to knead your flesh or trace it softly. He knows your body better than his own.

"You're trembling, love," he whispers against your lips, cocking an eyebrow.

"Anticipation, darling, you did always know how to draw these things out." You smirk, already over the foreplay, wanting your husband to fill you in every way he can, mind, soul, and body, each way just as delicious as the last.

"How long it's been, not an ounce of patience left in you," he teases, provoking a groan as he licks a long stripe up your throat.

"I've done my waiting," you groan against him, "I think I deserve my reward."

His grin grows wicked, as he takes you in, laid bare under him.

"And I am that reward? Surely such a beautiful maiden would prefer-"

You press your lips to his, interrupting his teasing, refusing to let him play his games for now, needing him atop you, inside you.

You roll him over, thighs pinned around his hips, gazing down at him fondly, relishing the view that you've been denied for a millennium. He smirks at you, continuing to grope and knead your flesh, grabbing your ass and thighs to steady you, leaving deep finger marks that drive you wild as you rock against his crotch.

"My lord," you chuckle as you attempt to unsheathe him, his belt proving a challenge for your trembling fingers. "There are still too many layers between us."

He sits up, reaching for your lips with his fingertips, humming against your skin, his small laugh breaking the tingles down your spine with a shiver.

"Well, my lady, we can't have that..." he murmurs into your abdomen as he journeys down your body.

His lady. A phrase that never failed to delight you, to send tingles of arousal shooting through you. The connotation of your vow to each other. That you were his and he was yours.

At the moment, you have the upper hand, pinned atop him with your body weight as leverage, but you'd sacrifice it in an instant to have him claim you.

You lean back a little, keening under his touch, wanting your skin on his, your souls already singing in a harmony you could never forget, even after all this time.

Every breath you take is from his lungs, grasping at his thick brown curls, savouring every unfamiliar sensation.

Every movement you make sends shockwaves through him; the only pleasure he has known in this body was by his own hand, but his wife back in her rightful place was far sweeter.

He's fucking desperate for you, and you can sense it despite his immaculate self control. Your favourite thing in the world is seeing Sauron lose his mind for the love of you.

"I cannot possibly continue my work if the patient is clothed. I'm afraid I need to conduct a-" you pause, pretending to consider your choice of words- "thorough examination."

He fucking growls at you, deep and low in his chest, and you can't help but grin. You roll off him, only to release him enough to help you out and shimmy his trousers off. Instead he grabs your upper arm, flips you underneath him, smirking with heavily lidded eyes, his hair falling over his face.

"How did I know you would do that?" You laugh, wrapping your legs around him as he strips bare for you, finally.

"One thing I will not allow-" he kisses your neck softly before baring his teeth- "is being called predictable."

He scrapes his teeth against your throat before yanking your head back with your hair, the pain smarting through your scalp obliterated by the feeling of his other hand between your thighs.

"You're so fucking wet for me already," he gasps, rocking into your thigh, his cock weeping on your abdomen.

"I've waited this long, I won't wait any longer." You moan against him, taking his cock in hand, running your thumb over the head.

"No, darling, wait, no-" his strangled pleas fall on deaf ears as you stroke him once, twice, before you force him over the edge.

He worships and curses you in the same breath, wanting nothing more than to spill himself inside you. But you've foiled that plan, for now.

"Too soon-" he chokes out, his pent-up orgasm pouring out of him, surging through him, but doing nothing to quench the thirst he has for you.

You stroke him through his orgasm, kissing him softly, letting him moan into your mouth.

"It's okay, I wanted you to come, love," you whisper in his ear, tracing his chest, running your fingers through his thick black hair. "You needed it, you deserved it-"

He arches his back under your praise, kissing your neck, grasping at your bare back, raking your skin with his blunt fingernails.

After so long apart, with a new mortal form with which to grapple, you had a feeling he'd need release sooner rather than later, needy under your touch after centuries only dreaming of you. Now, with his first orgasm out of the way, you could tease him for longer and get what you'd been craving during your centuries apart.

You pluck at his pleasure like an exposed nerve, drawing every groan, whimper, gasp from his lungs, until he is hard and aching for you again.

He wants so badly to be inside you, to crawl into the space between your flesh and bones, your mind and your soul, to simply relish in the feeling of being home with you.

Thankfully you have the same aching need, pulling him closer with your legs, still wrapped around his waist.

This new body feels strange under your fingers, between your thighs, wrapped around you, coarse hair brushing your torso every time he rocks against you, never mind the hardening length that presses against your core.

"That feels... different." You gasp against him, feeling his smirk against your jaw.

"Different as in bad? Or good, my love?" He raises his eyebrows innocently, as if he is asking you about the weather.

"I could not possibly say," you laugh, "we shall have to try it out to see for certain."

"My sweet wife. Moments ago, you were embarrassed that I saw you relieve your yearning for me," he groans as he circles your clit with the head of his cock, "and now you speak of me as some kind of object for your pleasure."

His faux-sincerity in his scolding is so carefully balanced that for a second, you're unsure if he is actually offended. But you quickly realise he is teasing you when he spreads your cunt, ready for his new thick cock.

A whimper escapes your throat as he teases your folds with his fingers, gathering your wetness to ease his way inside you, stroking his cock, unhurried now that you've relieved him once. You regret that decision now that he draws out giving you your own release.

"Please, love," you stammer out between shaky breaths, rocking your hips against his hand.

"Please, what? Use your words, my darling, tell me what you need." The glint in his eye is dangerous, full of promises of rich reward, but only if you can play his game to the end.

"I need you," you murmur, eyeing him through heavy lids, desperate for any touch he will bestow upon you.

The expression on his face is positively profane, lips parted, a thin ring of green lining his blown pupils, sweaty brown hair falling in his eyes. He wets his lips as you watch his tongue enviously. Oh, to be those lips, his tool for such pleasure. And pain.

"Need me how, love? Be specific." His tone becomes harsher as he reaches for your chin, to impress upon you that you will not get what you crave unless you beg for it.

You keen and moan under him, but he is steadfast, stroking himself while he gazes down at you with such longing, such fondness that even in the throes of your desire, your heart sings for him in harmony with his.

"Love, please-" you whine, your vehement desire to be one with him again overtaking your senses completely; it has been a thousand years, too many lifetimes, and he teases you like this?

"Please, what? I need you to tell me what you long for." He enunciates every syllable, the cadence of his unfamiliar accent falling like sweet summer rain around you, his silver tongue plaguing you with its sweet promises, if only you can find your words.

"Need you, need to be close to you, need you inside me, need-"

He interrupts you with his fingers at your entrance, forcing a sharp gasp from your lungs at the sudden intrusion.

"Is that better, my sweet? Is that everything you crave?" You'd give anything to kiss away the self-satisfied smirk that graces his lips, but he holds you down with one hand splayed on your torso as he begins to spread you open to his velvet touch.

You shudder as he lightly strokes your folds, delving in with a finger to make you gasp, working his way to two, then three, whilst grasping the flesh under his other hand almost painfully, grounding himself in your body.

If he could just open you up and slither into the space between your ribs, nestled beside your heart, to do nothing but listen to it beat for eternity, he is sure he would be content.

You arch your back into his touch, trying to work yourself onto his fingers, but he pulls away too quickly for you to find any relief.

"Ah, my love, that would be too easy, would it not?" A smile tugs at his lips, but Sauron fixes his expression into one more akin to concern, perhaps even pity.

"Tell me, love, tell me what you crave." He is drunk on the power he has over you, intoxicated by the goddess writhing under his fingertips, so eagerly in his thrall.

After a thousand years parted from you, it is taking so very much self-control to keep from ravaging you, but he wants to savour every moment, wants to hear it from your lips, your sweet surrender to his control.

"Need you inside me, need you, my love, it's been so long, please take me, I'm yours." His eyes blaze as you struggle through every word, as your breath hitches and your legs shake, his fingers unrelenting in his slow torture of your cunt.

"You are mine - and I am yours." His vow is made through ragged breath as he leans down to claim your lips hungrily, your wetness allowing him to rut his cock between your thighs, so tightly pressed together, that he sees stars.

Sauron kisses at your neck, sucking and biting, sure to leave dark bruises that will not be easily covered tomorrow. Claiming what is his, and his alone.

He pulls your hips to his, forcing your thighs apart, laying his cock on your mound. He is bigger now than he was all those eons ago; he is frankly fascinated as to how you will take him, but he knows you'll take it all for him.

You squirm under him, pushing your hips to his, desperate for him to take you, patience wearing thin for his teasing now.

As if he senses you are at the end of your tether, he smirks, adjusting himself to set the head of his cock at your entrance.

"Please... Mairon, please, I need you." You know what you're doing when you use his true name, know that he won't be able to stop himself from ravishing you, breaking any semblance of self-control.

With a groan, he presses his body impossibly close to yours, sliding inside you, forcing all the air from your lungs as you feel his girth fill you so sweetly, so completely. He draws your legs up to press himself deeper inside you, his hips rocking against yours, rougher and more erratic than he has ever been but satisfying every desire in your core.

Running your fingers up his strong forearms, feeling the muscles tense and flex with each thrust, you grind back into him, whimpering and pleading for more. More what, exactly? You're not sure, but you know you need everything he is willing to give you.

And he wants to give you the world.

Centuries apart, thinking of little else but each other, it is hardly any surprise that you are both ravenous in body and soul, your love and lust building to a towering inferno to spite the gods who would see you parted.

When he feels you tighten around him, he pulls back from devouring your mouth to stare agape at your blissful expression as you ride your high, awestruck that he has you in his arms again. It is that awe that pushes him over the edge again, pulsing inside you, clutching at every inch of bare skin he can reach, your torso pressed against his as he holds you both upright, murmuring sweet nothings in your ear as you quake against him.

Breathing heavily, lying entwined in the tiny infirmary cot, the two of you fall into quiet, intimate bliss. Holding each other close, you let the world fall away until it is just the two of you, the calm in the other's storm.

"I told you. Predictable." You chuckle, your laugh reverberating through his chest, sending tingles down his spine.

"Perhaps predictability is not such a bad thing. When it comes to you, at least." He continues to stroke your hair, giving you a tiny squeeze as if to make sure you were no illusion.

One thing that is predictable, even certain, is that he will be parted from you soon enough. It always happens, even after Morgoth’s defeat, and the notion is enough to send a chill down your spine.

He senses your discomfort, knows what you're thinking immediately without needing to probe your mind for once.

"I am here, beloved, let us enjoy what we have now, and worry for tomorrow when fate reveals itself." He hides his trepidation better than you do, but he pulls you closer all the same.

You look up at him, fingers tracing his chest softly, reaching for his free hand. He grants it to you, would grant you anything in the cosmos if you only asked it of him.

His palm at your lips, you breathe him in before looking back up at him, his dark green eyes alight with the love of ages. The words you whisper next shatter his heart, the edges of your souls knitting together more completely with every yearning wish woven into your plea.

"I beg you, Mairon, for the love of all that is good and pure in this world, please stay with me."

The way his eyes crease and his face lights up with the widest smile, it wrenches your heart, a pain so sweet and pure you would carry it for a thousand years more to keep him at your side.

"For the love of you then."

[general-yasur]

Egalt and his teaching methods really struck be because they directly contrast Lloyd’s teaching method

Egalt is strict, blunt, and demeaning, he isn’t going to tell you he believes in you the way Lloyd does. Lloyd is the first to pat you on the shoulder and tell you that He believes in you and you should believe in yourself.

Particularly with Arin- Egalt was actually teaching how to do the Rising Dragon technique, while Lloyd let Arin do his own thing because Arin has a Gift/Talent

Egalt would tell Arin he didn’t have enough of the foundational skills and in the next shot Lloyd is there telling Arin he can do it

You realize Lloyd hasn’t bothered to teach Arin spinjiztu and it’s probably because he thinks he doesn’t need to- Arin will just get it

Arin not getting better because he isn’t receiving the right teaching / advice fuels Lloyds fears of not being a good master and fuels Arins fears of not being fit to be a Ninja. It’s a quaking cycle

​Egalt and Lloyds methods are on opposite ends of the spectrum but both ultimately failed at helping him,, they are both out of balance you could say

Makes you wonder where Arin would be if Lloyd had taught him before. Can’t help but wonder if Lloyd being the original “gifted ninja” and the chosen one tampers with how he teaches

[1800titz]

BEWARE THE WATER | merman/siren!Harry x reader

You’ll never forget it— the time when you suggested an outing. You were sitting around in your room with beer bottles on the off hours, you on your twin-sized mattress with your knees tucked to your chest. Skinny dipping. Like a kidhood pastime under the coat of nightfall. A fuddled proposal off your liquified tongue, spurned by the alcohol simmering your veins. You regretted it the moment it slinked from your mouth (the moment the weight of the silence lodged in the rational part of your brain, clinging through insobriety), but you doubled down. “…You’re crazy, rookie,” you remember one told you, eyes listing to the side, over the rubescent smear across the bridge of his nose. “Why not?” Curse of the North Shore, they called it. Call it. An urban legend— but the circles of their eyes shrink into the framing of white when they tell the story of men strewn across the coastline. Skins. Sapped down to the marrow, hollowed bones marred with scrapes, littered across the beach, the patch of rock shed off the cliffside. Spread all over. Eaten from the inside. A fable for grown men to chase, like a monster hiding in the coal-dark nooks under their cots. You stuck the lip of the beer bottle to your mouth and rolled your misty eyes. “Bullshit.”

preview

Your self-preservation scratches up, from beneath the surface of the sea’s hymn settling into your bones. Wrong. Dangerous. Go back. It carves a nick, like a scrape from under a layer of ice across the arctic pelagic, and fractures your mindless audacity. Your foolish gall. Leaves you blinking like you’re batting a haze of smoke off with your lashes, out on the rocks with your lantern swinging in your hand. 

It hits you all at once. Anxiety like storm surge. The sense of impending doom makes your throat tight when you swallow. Dry. What are you doing? Clotting up your lungs, waves slamming against the rocks you’ve trekked. The foundation under you quakes with the hairline fracture of your risk, and something tacky oozes in. Fear. Instinct. The consequence of your recklessness—

A moment too late. Moments. A moment too stupid, too uncalculated, too rash. Ill-advised, when you left the base and stepped out from behind the barricade of the dunes. You take slow, cautious steps back into the direction of the sand across the slippery eigengrau, shaking. Stupid, stupid— counting your steps, reaching for the stretch of land out of fingertip’s length.

(And really, there’s only so long you can dangle a filet out in front of an animal before it breaks and bites. Only so long you can lure something from the sea with a soft, fleshy silhouette over the surface of the water.)

The ocean is humming. Singing. Like it’s lapping in an echo of the word that shatters the calm of the reticence— “Soldier.”

Not quite a bark. No ire. But it’s louder than the water and makes your heart lurch to your throat when your head snaps over your shoulder. Your balance is threadbare, and the plummet of your stomach makes the string ripple. Your heel nearly slips across the jagged stone—

(Not rookie. Soldier. Shedding the moniker feels like molting a worn, second skin that’s started to crackle across the stretch of your appendages.)

Hindsight laughs at your irreparable, full fledged stupidity— you, ignoring every warning they handed out to you in the cup of their palm. 

(You were supposed to cradle them close, heed like the signs told you.)

Your unease is a vicious pulse across your throat, roaring in your ears, mottling the perfect tempo of the waves, when the lantern between your fingers sways to the craggy patch behind you, where you once stood. It casts ochreous light across the slippery tar-black of the stones. 

There’s a man in the water. Your lungs squeeze. Caught. Stuck. In stasis. 

Wet skin. Slippery, slick. Burnt orange catching on sinews, even with a patch of jagged stones between you, emphasizing your distance. 

You’ve never believed in fairy tales, not as a child. Not now. Never chased legends, and myths, imaginary friends and monsters under your bed. But something unspools inside of you. Unfurls in the pit of your belly. Instinctual. Like a sixth sense to save your skin. You still have a chance, a distance, muffled echo behind your skull hisses, you still—

But you’re glued onto the stone. Stagnant. Stalemating, with a chill stinging like shards across your veins, nausea lingering from the sharp bludgeon of being swung off kilter. 

A deer caught in headlights. 

(Game, staring across the plain at the looming predator.)

Fear tastes like heme and crushed ice. Your emotions are a farrago— terror, confusion, apprehension.

Dread. 

“You’re a soldier,” he asks— tells you, it feels like a statement— over the roaring sea, cadence honey smooth. Molasses heavy. A treacle across your ears that ghosts and melts across your earlobes. The scruff of your neck, where the peach fuzz bristles at attention. “Aren’t you?”

Your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth. Bloated up in your mouth. From this distance, you can’t make out his face. Not the details— only the shape, and his gaze. Liquified tar. Glinting, coruscating like the peaks of the waves. 

Uncanny. Wrong. The echo of an urban legend— a mystical beast waiting to swallow you whole. 

You should run. Sprint across the rocks, let adrenaline aid in your coordination and pray for the best—

But you're stuck. Your brows notched, your ribcage rattling with your heart bursting behind it. Bounding, in place of your stubborn feet. 

“You— you’re not supposed to be out here,” you bluster. Ever the pedant (as if you are, mouthy, little hypocrite). Shoulders rigid like the stretch of nightfall limestone, chin high in your wavering merit. A soldier— a mask you wear as a cloak that can’t hide the quake in your fingers, and the burnt orange off the lantern jumps across the waves. 

It all feels pointless. Otiose— there is no warranted explanation when the unimaginable, unforeseen myth, blurs with reality and crumbles your expectations (your rationale) out from under you. 

His arms stretch across the stone. Lax. Languorous. The delineation of ease— and you can’t stop your eyes from roving across the breadth of his shoulders, the heft, the way the musculature there flexes when he moves. The way the water sticks to his skin. Glimmering obsidian roams you. Wanders. Strays. Drifts. Across every inch, every piece. Assessing. Contemplating. Absorbing.

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing?” he says, instead of answering you. 

The purr stuns you. Weaves across your logic, the congeries of your emotions— the fear— in ropework. Ties to an anchor, lugging you, luring you to drift further from the coastline, closer to him. Sediment from the ocean floor dredged under your feet when they nearly shuffle forward over the stone. 

The words sound wrong. Hungry. Like an omen— and the paradox of them, their tone, against your crumbling mettle, jars you back into survival-mode. Your head feels heavy. Clogged. Wading through a mist you can barely shake off—

“How did you get here?” you demand. Your teeth feel tight.

In the lack of immediate response, you know he’s staring at you. Inkblots roaming across your shape like the eyes of a carnivore over a meal. Incisors aching. It spills your resolve across your shoulders. A wave laps across your toes. He hums.

“Givin’ me a fuckin’ toothache, just looking at you,” he murmurs. A sawtooth dodge around your questions, the anger that bubbles off you in a broken defense mechanism— a vicious cat baring its teeth, swiping out with its little claws, backed into a corner. 

[jadegretz]

In the dim glow of a decaying mansion, shadows danced along the crumbling walls as a chilling wind howled through broken windows. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and a sense of impending doom. Roaring thunder echoed outside like a beast prowling the horizon, promising more than just a tempest. It was a harbinger of chaos, a signal for what was about to unfold.

Rogue, known for her defiance and unyielding spirit, stood at the threshold of what was once a grand parlor. Memories of opulence clung to the fragments of faded wallpaper and the shattered remains of antique furniture, now mere specters of a bygone era. She gripped the doorframe tightly, her knuckles turning white beneath the strain. Though the storm raged outside, it was an internal storm brewing within her—part fear, part excitement, and all confrontation.

She didn’t come here seeking trouble—after all, she was a member of the X-Men, trained to face threats that loomed over humanity like storm clouds—yet, trouble had a way of finding her. Carnage was her ever-present companion, and as much as she fought it, the thrill of the conflict surged through her veins. This night would be no different. The whispers of the mansion seemed to echo her trepidations, warning her of the dark presence that lurked ahead.

He was waiting, as always, in the depths of the darkness. The Juggernaut, a titan of wrath and fury, whose name alone struck dread into the hearts of even the mightiest heroes. Bull-headed and relentless, he was a force of nature, a hurricane personified, and Rogue had tangled with him more times than she could count. Each encounter left her reeling, every victory hard-fought, and losses etched into the very core of her being.

At that moment, the flickering candlelight revealed the grotesque visage of an adversary lurking deep within the shadows. The Juggernaut grew larger with every heartbeat, his hulking form accentuated by the flickering light, casting monstrous shapes on the wall. An unsettling grin cracked across his face, but it did not reach his eyes—those were cold and devoid of any hint of humanity.

“Welcome, Rogue,” he boomed, his voice echoing with malice. “Thought you could keep running from me?”

“My legs aren’t weary yet,” she shot back, trying to keep her tone steady despite the unease bubbling in her gut.

The mansion quaked as he took a step forward, the force of his weight causing the floorboards to creak ominously. “You should’ve stayed away. This isn’t a place for little girls playing the hero.”

Clouds rumbled outside and the lights grew dimmer. Rogue felt her heart race in synchrony with the chaos outside. Thunder crashed, momentarily drowning out the chilling words of the Juggernaut. The mansion seemed to resonate with his anger, its very foundation trembling as if it too was afraid of the relentless creature stirring within.

Every fiber of her being screamed to flee, to retreat into the safety of the night, but the X-Men had conditioned her to fight. Run away? That wasn’t an option now. She squared her shoulders, taking a step forward, defiance radiating from every pore.

“Not here for games, Juggernaut,” she declared, emboldened. “You have a habit of making things personal.”

Laughter—a rumbling, thunderous sound—echoed in the darkness. “Personal? Oh, darling, this is so much more than personal. This is about obliteration. And you, my dear, are standing in my way.”

With a sudden surge, he lunged, moving so swiftly it belied his massive form. Rogue evaded the initial strike, springing into action like a coiled spring releasing its tension. Instincts kicked in, and she barely ducked in time, the air from his clawed fist creating a gust strong enough to knock her off balance.

The adrenaline coursed through her, igniting a fire inside. It was fight or flight, as it always had been—but Rogue was no coward. She re-engaged, using her agility to her advantage. Dashing toward him, she looked for any opening, her mind racing with strategies to absorb his strength and turn it against him. A flicker of her own powers surged within her, the energy bubbling like a storm contained.

Rogue reached out, her gloved hand aiming for his muscular arm. If she could harness even a fraction of his brute force, perhaps she could turn the tide, at least for a moment. But Juggernaut was no ordinary foe, and the moment she grasped his arm, his strength erupted as if released from a barricade.

Powerful tendrils of energy cour …(more at https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

[aghost-writer]

Enough

Chapter 1

This is a Yandere MHA/BNHA x Female Reader Fic!

MDNI!!

The city lay in ruins. Smoke billowed into the ashen sky, turning the once-blue horizon into a smudged canvas of despair. The ground trembled with each deafening explosion, a relentless symphony of destruction. Hours ago, this street had been vibrant, alive with the chatter of vendors and the laughter of children. Now, it was a battlefield. Crumbled buildings lay scattered like the discarded remnants of a forgotten game, and the air was thick with the mingled scents of dust, fire, and fear.

Seven-year-old Y/N L/N huddled behind the jagged corner of a shattered wall, her small body trembling uncontrollably. She’d been playing on this very street, chasing a ball her parents had bought her, just before the chaos erupted. Her parents... They were right there. Weren’t they? Y/N’s memory was a haze of panicked screams and hurried footsteps, their voices shouting for her to run, to keep moving. But now, they were gone. Dust clung to her disheveled hair, and tears carved clean streaks through the dirt smudged across her face. 

“Mommy? Daddy?” she whispered, her voice cracking as she scanned the wreckage for any sign of them. Only silence answered, broken by the occasional distant scream or the ominous groan of collapsing structures. Her heart thundered in her chest, loud enough that it drowned out her shaky breaths. She pressed herself tighter against the wall, as if she could melt into it and escape the nightmare unfolding around her.

The shadow loomed first, long and monstrous, cast by the flickering light of nearby flames. Then came the figure—a hulking villain whose every movement sent shockwaves through the ground, toppling what little still stood. Y/N didn’t know who he was, only that he radiated danger, a living force of destruction.

Suddenly, the building beside her groaned ominously. Cracks snaked up its foundation, the sound splitting the air like a warning. Y/N’s wide, terrified eyes snapped upward just in time to see the structure give way. She scrambled to her feet, trying to run, but the ground beneath her quaked violently. Her foot caught on a jagged piece of rubble, and she fell hard, scraping her knees. She had barely time to scream before the collapsing building sent a massive chunk of concrete crashing down onto her small frame. 

The world went white-hot with pain. Her legs were pinned beneath the rubble, and every shallow breath felt like knives stabbing her chest. She clawed at the ground, trying desperately to pull herself free, but the weight was too much. Tears streamed down her face as her cries for help rang out, weak and desperate amidst the chaos.

“Help me! Somebody, please!” Y/N sobbed, her voice breaking. Her small hands clawed at the jagged debris, but it was futile. Dust filled the air, choking her lungs, and her vision began to blur. Fear coiled in her chest, tight and suffocating. Was this it? Was this where she would die, alone and scared beneath the wreckage?

And then, amidst the chaos, she heard it: footsteps. Purposeful. Steady. They cut through the cacophony of destruction like a lifeline. A voice followed, calm but resolute, commanding attention despite the surrounding mayhem. “I’m here. Stay still. I’ll get you out.”

Through the haze of her tears, Y/N looked up. A man emerged from the smoke, his figure stark against the backdrop of destruction. He was clad in black, his dark hair tied back haphazardly, strands falling into his sharp, focused eyes. His scarf whipped in the wind like a living thing. Though he didn’t wear the polished confidence of a seasoned hero, there was a determination in his expression that rooted her to the spot. 

“It hurts…” Y/N whimpered, her voice barely audible.

“I know,” Aizawa Shouta—Eraserhead—replied as he crouched beside her. His voice was low, steady, almost soothing despite the urgency of the situation. “I’ll get you out of here. I just need you to stay calm for me. Can you do that?”

Y/N nodded weakly, though tears continued to stream down her cheeks. The pain in her legs was unbearable, and her tiny hands shook as she reached out to him. “I-I’m scared…”

“I know you are,” Aizawa said, his tone softening. “But I won’t let anything else happen to you. I promise.”

He wasted no time, his sharp eyes scanning the debris trapping her. His hands moved with practiced precision, aided by the movements of his scarf, which stabilized larger pieces of rubble as he worked to free her. Each shift of the concrete sent small tremors through the pile, and Aizawa paused frequently to ensure nothing collapsed further. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he gritted his teeth against the strain, but he didn’t stop. 

“You’re doing great,” he murmured, glancing down at her pale face. “Stay awake for me, okay? I need you to stay awake.”

Y/N blinked at him, her vision swimming. She tried to speak, but her voice was barely a whisper. “I-I’ll try…”

“Good. That’s all I need.”

The rubble groaned as Aizawa lifted the final piece pinning her legs. His movements were careful but urgent, and when the weight was finally gone, he wasted no time. Blood stained Y/N’s torn clothes, and her legs were bruised and scratched, but there was no time to assess the damage. Gently but firmly, Aizawa scooped her up into his arms. She was so light, her tiny frame trembling against his chest as she sobbed into his shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he said softly, his scarf coiling protectively around them to shield her from the falling debris. His voice was a quiet anchor amidst the chaos, grounding her as he moved swiftly through the wreckage. “You’re safe now.”

Y/N clung to him weakly, her small hands gripping the fabric of his suit. Exhaustion weighed heavily on her, and despite her best efforts, her eyelids began to flutter shut. “T-thank you…” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the distant roar of destruction.

Aizawa’s jaw tightened, and his pace quickened. “Don’t thank me yet. Just stay awake, okay? We’re almost there.”

But Y/N couldn’t fight it any longer. The pain, the fear, the exhaustion—it was all too much. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her breaths shallow but steady. Aizawa glanced down at her unconscious form, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his worry.

As he carried her toward the triage station set up at the edge of the destruction, Aizawa’s thoughts were a whirlwind. This was one of his first major battles as a pro hero, and the devastation around him was overwhelming. But holding this small, fragile child in his arms reminded him why he had chosen this path. It wasn’t about fame or recognition. It was about moments like this—being the person who could make a difference when it mattered most.

He reached the medics, his voice sharp and commanding as he handed Y/N over. “She’s stable, but her legs need attention. Make sure she gets the care she needs.”

The medics nodded, quickly taking her from his arms. Aizawa watched for a moment, his sharp eyes softening as they checked her vitals. Then, with a deep breath, he turned back toward the wreckage. There were still others to save.But as he ran back into the chaos, Aizawa carried her whispered “thank you” with him, a quiet reminder of the lives he fought to protect.

The steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor was the first sound Y/N L/N heard as she stirred from the heavy fog of unconsciousness. Her body felt leaden, as though weighed down by invisible chains. Her head throbbed faintly, and her limbs wouldn’t obey her attempts to move them. Slowly, she forced her eyes open, squinting against the harsh glare of fluorescent hospital lights above her. 

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled her nostrils, sharp and unfamiliar. She tried to sit up, but a searing pain shot through her side, stealing her breath. Gasping softly, Y/N stilled, blinking back tears. It was then she noticed the wires and tubes connected to her small body—an IV drip in her arm, electrodes on her chest, and a pulse oximeter clipped to her finger. Her legs, swathed in layers of bandages, throbbed with a dull ache, and the skin beneath her torn hospital gown itched where scrapes and bruises had been treated.

Panic bubbled at the edge of her mind. Memories flashed before her eyes—the crumbling building, the deafening roar of explosions, the agonizing weight of rubble pressing down on her small frame. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if doing so might block out the haunting images. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” a warm voice exclaimed, breaking through her spiraling thoughts.

Y/N turned her head cautiously, her neck stiff and aching. A doctor stood beside her bed, clipboard in hand. He looked to be in his forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes framed by thin glasses. His smile was gentle, meant to comfort, though his gaze held a shadow of concern.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” he asked softly, pulling a chair closer to her bedside. “Do you feel any pain?”

Y/N swallowed, her throat dry and scratchy. When she finally managed to speak, her voice was hoarse. “My side… and my legs. They hurt.”

The doctor nodded, his expression sympathetic. “That’s to be expected. You’ve been through something very serious, but you’re safe now. You’re a fighter, little one—you pulled through.”

She blinked at him, confusion mingling with the lingering fear in her chest. “What… what happened to me?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Setting his clipboard down, the doctor leaned forward slightly, his tone measured and calm. “You were brought here in critical condition. The rubble that trapped you caused severe injuries, including damage to your liver. You lost a lot of blood, and we had to perform an emergency surgery to save your life. That surgery included a liver transplant.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in shock. “A t-transplant?” she stammered, the word foreign and frightening. “Who… who gave it to me?”

The doctor’s expression softened further. “I’m afraid we can’t disclose that information. Just know that the right donor was available at the right time. You were very lucky.”

Her small hands gripped the blanket covering her, trembling as she tried to process his words. The idea of someone giving her a part of themselves to save her felt heavy, overwhelming. She wanted to ask more, but her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

A tall man in a police uniform stepped into the room, his demeanor professional but kind. He carried a notepad and pen, his face serious but not unkind as his eyes landed on the young girl in the hospital bed.

“Hello, Y/N,” he said gently, walking closer. “I’m Officer Tanaka. I need to ask you a few questions about what happened, but before we start, I want you to know that you’re safe now. The hero Eraserhead found you and brought you here in time. He’s the reason you’re alive.”

At the mention of the hero’s name, Y/N’s chest tightened with emotion. “Eraserhead?” she whispered, her voice small and shaky. “He… he saved me?”

Officer Tanaka nodded, pulling up a chair to sit near her bedside. “That’s right. He cleared the rubble and carried you all the way to the medics. He stayed until he was sure you were in good hands. You were very brave, Y/N, and so was he.”

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and her lower lip quivered. She rubbed at her face with her unbandaged hand, sniffling as she tried to contain her emotions. “What about my parents?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Did he… did he find them too?”

The officer’s expression faltered, and for a moment, his gaze dropped to the notepad in his hands. “We’re still looking for them,” he said softly, his voice measured. “The area where the attack happened is still dangerous, but our team is working hard to find them. Can you tell me the last time you saw them?”

Y/N’s chest tightened as she recalled the chaotic moment when she’d been separated from her parents. “We were running,” she murmured, tears slipping down her cheeks. “They told me to go ahead, and they stayed behind me. Then the building started falling, and I—I couldn’t see them anymore.” Her voice broke, and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

Officer Tanaka’s pen scratched across his notepad as he jotted down her words. “Thank you, Y/N,” he said after a moment, his voice kind and steady. “I know this is hard, but you’re helping us a lot. Do you remember anything else about the attack? Or what the villain looked like?”

Sniffling, Y/N wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. “He was big,” she said shakily, her voice trembling. “And scary. His arms were like sharp rocks, and he kept laughing when he broke things. I—I don’t know what he wanted. He just… he just kept smashing everything.”

The officer nodded, scribbling down her description. “That’s very helpful,” he assured her. “Thank you, Y/N. We’re going to do everything we can to stop him and bring your parents back to you.”

Y/N’s small frame trembled as she clutched at the blanket covering her. “Do you think my mom and dad are okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, Officer Tanaka hesitated, his gaze flickering with something unspoken. Then he knelt beside her bed, his voice soft but resolute. “We’re going to do everything in our power to bring them back to you,” he promised. “But right now, your job is to rest and get better. You’ve already been so brave.”

The doctor placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, his expression reassuring. “The officer’s right,” he said. “You need to focus on healing. You’ve been through more than most adults ever will, and you’re still here. That makes you stronger than you realize.”

Though her heart ached with worry for her parents, Y/N nodded weakly. The weight of the day pressed heavily on her small body, and exhaustion pulled at her mind. She clung to the officer’s words and the memory of the hero who had carried her to safety, holding onto the fragile thread of hope they offered.

For now, all she could do was wait.

The hospital room was silent, shrouded in the faint glow of moonlight spilling through a narrow gap in the curtains. Y/N lay in the bed, her frail body resting against the slightly inclined mattress. Though the room was quiet, her mind buzzed relentlessly, refusing to let her drift into sleep. She stared at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the plaster as if doing so might calm her racing thoughts. 

Everything felt different now. The world beyond the hospital walls seemed sharper, louder. Sounds she once ignored now demanded her attention. She could hear the soft chirping of crickets from somewhere far away and the low, persistent hum of traffic in the distance. Even the faint rustle of leaves in the wind seemed magnified, pressing against her heightened senses. 

She closed her eyes, attempting to block out the overwhelming sounds, but it was no use. The more she focused on silencing them, the more they seemed to grow louder, filling her mind until her chest tightened with frustration. Just as she was about to let out a weary sigh, a new noise caught her attention—a subtle creak, almost imperceptible, coming from the direction of the window. 

Her eyes flew open, her body jolting upright despite the soreness in her limbs. Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned her head sharply toward the source of the sound. The window, which had been securely closed earlier, now moved ever so slightly, its frame groaning softly as it slid open. A shadow slipped through the gap with quiet grace, landing silently on the floor. Y/N froze, clutching her blanket tightly, her breath caught in her throat.

For a fleeting moment, fear gripped her. Who could it be? But then recognition washed over her like a soothing balm. Her wide eyes softened, and a smile broke across her face.

“Eraserhead!” she exclaimed, her voice a hushed but excited whisper. Relief and joy colored her tone as she relaxed against the bed.

The shadowed figure froze in place, his hand still gripping the edge of the window frame. He looked almost comical, like a child caught sneaking into the kitchen for a late-night snack. Slowly, he straightened and stepped closer, his face coming into focus under the moonlight. His wild black hair framed his tired but watchful eyes, and his scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said softly, his tone carrying a hint of teasing.

“I was trying,” Y/N replied, shrugging lightly as she adjusted her grip on the blanket. “But everything’s so loud now. The world feels… different.”

She tilted her head, her gaze distant as she focused on the cacophony of sounds beyond the window. “I could hear the window creak before you even opened it,” she added quietly, her voice laced with wonder and confusion.

Eraserhead’s expression softened, though his face remained mostly unreadable. He stepped closer, crouching beside her bed so they were at eye level. “Your senses are probably heightened because of the trauma,” he explained, his voice calm and reassuring. “It’ll settle down over time. For now, try not to let it overwhelm you.”

Y/N nodded slightly, though the tension in her small shoulders didn’t completely ease. She glanced down at her bandaged arm, then back at him with a faint, determined smile. “I’m strong,” she declared, lifting her arm as if to prove it. “See?”

Eraserhead’s lips twitched upward in the faintest of smiles, a rare crack in his usually stoic demeanor. “Yeah, I see that,” he said, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “Stronger than most adults, I’d say.”

His words made her grin widen, her chest swelling with pride. The hero who had saved her—the serious, intimidating Eraserhead—was smiling and even laughing at something she’d said. It felt like a tiny victory in an otherwise dark and uncertain time.

Gathering her courage, Y/N glanced at the notepad and pen sitting on the bedside table. “Um… Mr. Eraserhead?” she began hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze following hers to the notepad. “What is it?”

“Can I…” She fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, her fingers twisting the fabric nervously. “Can I have your autograph? Please?”

Eraserhead blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. “An autograph? From me?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “Why would you want one from an underground hero? I’m not exactly famous.”

Y/N tilted her head, her expression earnest. “Because I’m your number one fan,” she said simply, as if the answer was obvious.

For a moment, Eraserhead simply stared at her, caught off guard by her sincerity. Then, to her surprise, he let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Number one fan, huh?” he said, his voice carrying a hint of dry amusement. “That’s a first.”

She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes shining with admiration. “You saved me,” she said, her voice brimming with emotion. “You’re the coolest hero ever! Even if you’re not famous, you’re the best to me.”

Eraserhead shook his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward again. “Alright, number one fan,” he said, reaching for the notepad and pen. His handwriting was messy but legible as he scrawled his name across the paper. “But don’t go selling this, okay?”

Y/N giggled, clutching the autograph like it was the most precious treasure in the world. “I’d never sell it! I’m keeping it forever,” she promised, her voice filled with childlike sincerity.

As he stood, preparing to leave, her voice stopped him in his tracks. “Will I see you again?” she blurted out, her words rushed and filled with hope.

He paused at the window, glancing back at her over his shoulder. His dark eyes softened, and he gave a faint nod. “Maybe,” he said, his tone light but sincere. “But only if you keep being strong. Deal?”

“Deal!” Y/N replied, her voice firm and determined despite her small frame.

Satisfied, Eraserhead gave her a small wave before slipping out the window as quietly as he’d come. Y/N lay back against her pillow, the autograph clutched tightly to her chest. For the first time since the attack, a genuine smile spread across her face. The fear and sadness that had weighed so heavily on her heart felt lighter, replaced by a glimmer of hope.

The sounds of the world outside no longer felt so overwhelming. Instead, they became a backdrop to her thoughts of the quiet, kind hero who had saved her. As she closed her eyes, she held onto the memory of his visit, the sound of his laugh, and the promise she’d made.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt safe—and maybe even a little happy.

The hospital room was steeped in an uneasy quiet, the kind that settled over places meant for recovery but steeped in pain. The soft glow of the overhead lights created elongated shadows on the pale walls, giving the space a sterile, almost lifeless feel. Y/N sat in her bed, a child too small for the heavy weight of the world now pressed upon her shoulders. The plate of food on the tray before her sat untouched, its contents growing cold as she absentmindedly fidgeted with the edge of her blanket. Her hands trembled slightly, though whether from exhaustion or the unshakable emptiness that had rooted itself in her chest, she wasn’t sure.

The creak of the door opening broke through the stillness. Y/N’s head jerked up, startled, her wide eyes fixing on the figure stepping into the room. He was an older man, dressed impeccably in a kuro montsuki, the formal black attire strikingly out of place against the drab setting of the hospital. His presence was commanding yet serene, a quiet power that filled the room without overwhelming it.

The man’s face was lined with the marks of age—deep wrinkles etched into his forehead and around his sharp eyes, which seemed to pierce through the veil of her silence. His hair was streaked with gray, tied neatly back, a contrast to his otherwise unyielding aura. When his gaze fell on her, the hardness in his expression softened, replaced by something almost gentle.

“Y/N L/N,” he greeted, his voice deep but warm, its resonance easing some of the tension that had settled in her small frame. “My name is just ‘The Boss’ or 'Pops' for now. I was a close friend of your parents.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the mention of her parents, a flicker of recognition flashing across her face. She straightened instinctively, her small hands tightening on the edge of her blanket. But she didn’t say anything, her lips pressing into a thin line as a shadow of suspicion and pain crossed her features.

The Boss didn’t rush her. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, as if aware that any sudden action might startle her. He pulled the chair from the corner of the room and positioned it beside her bed, lowering himself into it with a quiet dignity. His sharp gaze flicked briefly to the untouched plate of food on the tray. He raised an eyebrow but made no immediate comment.

Instead, after a moment of silence, he said, “You haven’t eaten.” It wasn’t a question. His tone was soft, but there was an unmistakable firmness beneath it. “Why not?”

“I’m not hungry,” Y/N replied, her voice barely audible. She kept her gaze down, her hands knotting the blanket into a tangled mess.

The Boss studied her closely for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Not eating won’t help you heal,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees. “Your body needs strength, and you won’t find that strength on an empty stomach.”

His words hung in the air, heavier than the sterile quiet of the room. Y/N shrugged, her small shoulders lifting in a way that seemed to hold the weight of the world. “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered.

“It does,” he countered, his voice taking on a fatherly edge. There was no anger in his tone, only quiet insistence. “You’ve been through a great deal, child, but life doesn’t stop because of pain. You must take care of yourself, even when it feels like the world has turned its back on you.”

Y/N flinched slightly at his words, but she didn’t look at him. Her chest tightened, and she blinked rapidly to hold back tears. His voice, though firm, carried a thread of empathy that made it harder to push him away. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his. “You knew my parents?” she asked hesitantly.

The Boss nodded, his expression softening further. “I did. Your father and I shared a bond—a deep trust forged through years of understanding. And your mother…” He paused, a hint of wistfulness creeping into his voice. “She had a light that brightened even the darkest of times. They were good people, Y/N.”

Her throat tightened at his words, and she quickly looked away, biting down on her trembling lip. “Then why aren’t they here?” she asked, her voice breaking as she spoke.

The Boss didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful as he considered her question. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “Sometimes life takes people from us before we’re ready,” he said. “It’s not fair, and it never will be. But what we can do—what we *must* do—is carry their memory with us and honor them by living.”

His words hit her like a tidal wave, and though she said nothing, the tears she had been holding back spilled over, streaking silently down her cheeks. She bit her lip harder, trying to stifle the sob threatening to escape.

The Boss reached out, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the bed. His presence was steady, grounding, as if he were offering her an anchor in the midst of her storm. “From now on, I will take care of you,” he said firmly. “You will have a home, safety, and family. I promise you that.”

Y/N turned to look at him, her tear-streaked face searching his for answers. “Why?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Why would you do that for me?”

“Because it is the right thing to do,” he replied without hesitation. “Your parents would want you to be cared for, protected. And I will honor their memory by ensuring you have that.”

For the first time since the attack that had stolen everything from her, Y/N felt a small flicker of warmth in her chest. It wasn’t enough to erase the pain, but it was something—a tiny ember of hope that had been absent for far too long. She nodded hesitantly, her voice trembling as she whispered, “Thank you.”

The Boss inclined his head slightly, his expression softening even more. “You’re welcome, child.” He gestured toward the plate of food on the tray. “Now, let’s start with something small. A few bites, for today. I won’t force you, but I’ll be disappointed if you don’t try.”

Y/N hesitated, her gaze shifting to the plate. The food didn’t appeal to her, but the weight of his steady gaze and the gentle encouragement in his voice made her pick up the fork. She took a small bite, chewing slowly. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a step.

The Boss nodded approvingly, leaning back in his chair. “Good. That’s a start.”

Y/N set the fork down after the first few bites, her appetite still nonexistent. But when she looked at the Boss, his expression wasn’t one of disappointment. Instead, there was quiet pride in his eyes, as if her small effort had been enough.

“You’ll find that strength,” he said softly. “One step at a time.”

Y/N lay back against the pillows, a tentative sense of security settling over her. The sterile walls of the hospital room felt less suffocating with his steady presence nearby. For the first time in what felt like forever, she believed that she might be able to keep going. Not for herself—at least, not yet—but for the memory of the parents who had loved her and the stranger who had promised to carry her through the darkness.

[dickanddamianweek]

Prompt Spotlight: Life Lessons

Batman (1940) #688

With Dick claiming responsibility for Damian during their time as Batman and Robin, he takes plenty of opportunities to pass on life lessons to him. One of the first we see between the two is on the training mat with Dick advising Damian to allow for spontaneity on the field, along with an open mind for their future.

Batman (1940) #713 “It was a lesson Robin needed to learn, though.”

Towards the end of their partnership as Batman and Robin, Damian even passes on one of those lessons to kids at a Quake Survivors Benefit held by the Wayne Foundation.

Nightwing (2011) #17

Originally offered as a comfort, Damian reminds Dick to be true to himself despite hardships. This later serves as a life lesson for Dick through his grief after Damian’s death.

While these spotlights describe some interpretation of the prompt, they’re simply here to inspire, and can be translated in any other way!

Prompts list here and the FAQ and Rules here!

[king-candybug-backup]

I saw the coffee post lmaooo. I can only picture Candybug repeatedly saying "TURBO-TASTIC!" over and over again to the point where his voice is literally overlapping itself as he rushes around the room

Meanwhile the foundation of the castle is quaking and the rest of the citizens of Sugar Rush think their having an earthquake when in reality its because the old giant bug guy got the coffee zoomies

IT WOULD BE SO CHAOTIC, HOW TF DO YOU CONTROL A CY-BUG WITH THE ZOOMIES 😭😭😭

[batratcatman]

Sweltering hot from the living radiators that made up the patients in the other rooms, her stomach rumbling dangerously due to the briny, dense, slop-like soup that counted as dinner, the sounds of similar, larger bellies gurgling, burps and farts quaking throughout the night, and Mikan herself shaking the foundations trudging endlessly to fuss over everyone...

Yuma groaned in her bed... Between the heat and the sulfurous air, did this count as hell?

Not to Ibuki, who has just finished belching her way through a new song, ecstatic at her new form of singing. Mikan had grown used to it, accepting it as just one of the many stressors of her job. She was used to everything her patients threw out, as well as her own body. She was embarrassed when new patients had to deal with it, like Yuma who had just checked in, but she lived with it. Even found ‘antics’ a bit of a thrill sometime. 

Still, she was a nurse first and foremost. Waddling through the echoing halls, her floor scraping belly entered Yuma’s film first, out of breath and absolutely drenched in her own sweat.

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Dr. Edwin Payne (Ghostcrow Art AU)

It was the only problem that there was in their relationship, the only crack that split the earth too close to the heart, threatening the very foundations. 

(And Charles Rowland had spent over a decade giving Edwin the best foundations in the world; nothing could truly shake them, Edwin knew. No doubts could ever break Edwin, because Charles’ love for him would always bolster him stronger than any quake could ever shake.)

Monty loved Charles and Edwin in other ways. He was affectionate in bed, was an absolute delight to debate with, was open enough with them to trust them with art, the one thing that he truly loved, and was so vulnerable and open in other ways, on other topics. He clearly loved Charles and Edwin outside of that one sticking point of visiting family.

And Edwin loved him. Loved Monty in such a similar way to how he loved Charles, the feeling taking root so deep in his heart that maybe the earth would never split because the roots pulled the crust so tight to itself.

-aletterinthenameofsanity, underneath the sunrise (show me where your love lies)

I don't wanna seem the way I do

But I'm confident when I'm with you

Lately, all I feel is bad and bruised

Tired of tripping on my shoes

But when he loves me, I feel like I'm floating

When he calls me pretty, I feel like somebody

Even when we fade eventually to nothing

You will always be my favorite form of loving

-Beach Bunny, Cloud 9

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @ashildrs

@tragedy-machine @just-existing-as-you-do-blog @orpheusetude @mj-irvine-selby

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @mellxncollie @tumblerislovetumblerislife @lemurafraidofthunder

@likemmmcookies @wr0temyway0ut @thelakeswillbreakourfall

[prefermagneto]

Metal & Mind | Cherik fanfic WIP

While I wait for my invitation for an AO3 account, I figured I'd post this fanfic me and my love have been writing together. Part 2 with art may be added later. ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

The sun filtered through the tall windows of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, casting a golden light across the floor of Classroom 3C. Students lounged in their chairs, pencils scittering against pages- some without the guidance of a hand to move it. And then- a hum. A tremor. Every piece of metal in the room quivers. The door doesn't just open, it rips from its hinges and folds inward like foil. In strides Magneto, cape trailing behind him and, albeit out of breath, his expression is as unreadable as iron.

His voice is low, urgent.

"We need to talk. Now."

Even as the metal foundations of the room quaked and groaned under the mutant's command, Charles barely twitched. An eyebrow quirked as the telepath's eyes flicked upwards from the textbook page that they'd been nestled in. Watching the armor clad man from beneath (now) furrowed brows, Charles clicked his tongue, moving to close the textbook, resting it in his lap.

“Making dramatic entrances again, old friend? You haven't changed a bit.” He mused at him, though there was a bit of a bitter edge to his words. Biting back the rest of his sour retorts, Charles set his sights on his students instead.

“It would seem I have a guest, children. So we'll continue this lesson tomorrow. Please leave the room carefully, and—”

A look was cast towards Erik.

“—do watch your step. I'm not sure what my companion has knocked loose during his theatrics.”

As the children filed out of the room, their hushed whispers followed behind them. Not that Charles paid them much attention, he had bigger minds to fry. After adjusting his glasses, the Professor moved to set the book atop his desk, standing and brushing himself off. The man pocketed his hands, turning to properly face Magneto.

“What can I help you with, Erik?” he asked.

Magneto stood still while the students fled from the room- he doesn't look at them, not really. His gaze never strays far from Charles. But when the last of them disappears and the room falls quiet save for the groan of settling metal, he speaks.

"It's time." His voice is cold, but not distant.

"The President signed an executive order this morning. Effective immediately: mandatory mutant identification. Anyone suspected must report. Submit themselves for 'screening.' And Charles… they’re training soldiers now. Soldiers with serum injections. …Some prototype they claim lets humans see us—sense us."

He steps forward and continues without missing a beat.

"You know what comes next. Identification is just the first step."

Various emotions began bleeding into Charles' chest, twisting and winding around each other into a knotted mess. Irritation at Erik for the fact that he showed up just to defend his war. Sorrow for the thoughts of what may come, the fear that his students, his people would feel. Deep down though, there was a bubbling resentment, not just for the humans that would deem this 'executive order' necessary, but at himself.

Truthfully, he should've seen this coming. Charles was not unknowing of the threat, but he'd been foolish enough to believe that those in power would not let this kind of cruel behavior pass. Maybe Erik was right, maybe he was naive.

Fear. Fear was the source of all their issues. Humans feared mutants, and it was equally reciprocated. Peace talks rarely worked out, if they were ever formatted in the first place. If he'd followed his fear down the rabbit hole, it would quickly turn to anger, which was helpful for no one, least of all himself.

Sucking in a shaky breath through clenched teeth, Charles had to will himself back from the emotional precipice.

“What would you have me do, Erik? If this is truly going to go as poorly as you expect…”

Charles sighed, moving to press two fingers into his temple, rubbing in an attempt to soothe the incoming migraine. Handling his telepathy was always a hassle, but in times of great panic or anxiety, it got much worse.

“War isn't a feasible solution, old friend. It may shake them, sure, but it'll also end with many of our own dead.”

There wasn't much of a good side to any of this. No matter what decision was made, if this was truly where things stood, then senseless bloodshed was an inevitability.

“What did you come to me for? You aren't usually the gloating type. So you have to have some kind of idea hidden behind that dense exterior.”

Whether he was referencing the helmet, or Erik's skull itself was a mystery that even he couldn't answer. But Magneto did not flinch regardless. The jab bounced off easily. What doesn't bounce off is the pain he sees flickering behind Charles' eyes, the weight of it. That hurts more than words. He inhales and, finally, speaks.

"I didn't come here to gloat." His voice is softer now.

"I came here because this is bigger than rallies or speeches. They found something, Charles. Someone. A mutant, like us." He gets close, a pleading look in his eyes, the sparkle of something that was always there, something more, and only present when he spoke to Charles, evident as the weight settles in his words.

"They have a child; one with plasma that reacts to X-gene signatures. They're injecting soldiers with their blood."

He continued. "I need your mind. I need someone who can get us in. Quietly."

Watching the normally stoic man soften, even if just a little, is enough to get Charles to release some of his anger and tension. He may have been at odds with Erik half the time, but the other did hold a rather large part of his heart. The Professor sighed, moving to brush some of his wayward strands from his face, tucked back neatly into place behind his ear. A tense quiet fell over them for a moment while Charles continued to take in the information he was being fed.

“They're using a child —?” He murmured, the corners of his lips twisting into a sorrowful frown.

“So you want me to what? Lend you one of my students? Or are you proposing that I somehow free the child myself?” The telepath's eyes fell back upon Magneto as Charles settled into his body and it's place in the empty classroom. He drummed his fingers on his hips while he thought, something he rarely didn't do.

“We can't go about this in a way that's normal for either of us, Erik. We are not doing it your way, and mine isn't entirely suitable either. We'll have to work together on this.”

Charles grumbled, a hand straying from it's place on his hips to ruffle through his hair in an agitated manner. This was far from an ideal solution, but time didn't permit anymore stalling. “We work together, but I take point. Someone needs to keep you on a leash.”

As Magneto listens to Charles speak, there's a haunted glint in his eyes. A memory rising, perhaps, of children in camps, names erased, lives stamped out before they begun. He doesn't answer right away. Just watches Charles- watches the way he frowns, how he plays with his hair, all the familiar ticks in that brilliant mind that, in the past, have brought Magneto some form of closure. It makes something in his chest twist unpleasantly.

He shakes his head and, finally, speaks.

"Always the idealist." He speaks gently at first, but his eyes glaze slightly, and there's an imposed distance which fogs over his cadence.

"I wish it could be your way. But we do not have time for wishful thinking."

Charles could see Erik pull away, see him retreat into himself. The first glimpse he'd had of the man he held in such high regard, only to be shut out again as the distance separated them once more.

He didn't need to tap into Erik's thoughts or feelings to know what was running through his mind. Despite his hard exterior, his tendency to be quick to violence, to rage… Charles was well aware of the fragility that hid under all the armor. The man was haunted. Not that Charles could blame him, anyone would be after what he'd gone through.

But therein laid the issue. They were both opposites, spaced evenly apart, one extreme mirroring another. As a staunch believer in the power of hope, Charles was an idealist, just like Magnus had suggested. Though, he was no better. He was so jaded, so lost in his past and the fear of replication, that he refused to see the potential for good in humanity.

Both of their ideals wouldn't be able to be sustained unless they accepted the other. Light cannot exist without Darkness. Magneto was always comfortable in having to be the latter.

“Erik. If you want this to work, we need to work together.”

Charles reiterated, a bit more force behind his words. He attempted to cross the distance that separated them, stepping forward. He had always been the one to extend his hand first, but it was up to Magneto to accept the offer.

“If I'm an idealist, then you need to be my realist. You need to level me out."

He pressed again, taking another step forward. Charles extended his hand this time, offering the best thing he could at that moment. A truce.

“If this is going to work. You need to listen to me—”

A sigh fell from his lips as he tried to escape the clutches of his pride enough to admit that their need for one another was mutual.

“—and…I'll need to listen to you. Agreed? And if you can't do it for me, then do it for the child we're trying to save.”

Magneto doesn’t move at first—not when Charles closes the distance, not when that hand reaches out like it always has. He stands like a statue carved from some ancient grief, tension radiating from his shoulders like magnetic force.

He looked at the hand and inhaled then, shakily, spoke.

"I'm not here to save the child, Charles." He finally lifts his gaze, but is unable to meet his eyes at first. For a moment, he almost looks young. A boy that saw too much, and a man who never got to forget it.

"We have to destroy them completely."

A slow exhale. He rejects the hand and begins to pace, distancing himself once again.

"As long as the child lives, the humans have a weapon. One they can replicate, distribute, inject into every soldier, every officer, every border guard. They'll turn their entire society into sentinels—not made of steel this time, but of flesh and bone. Human sentinels, sniffing us out like dogs in the street."

He turns sharply.

"Do you know what happens when we're no longer hidden? When every safehouse, every sanctuary, every school becomes a target?"

"Identification is just the first step. Trust me, old friend, they will draw first blood. But not if we do it first." He turned.

"This isn't about the child. It never was. It's about the idea that our kind can be cataloged, tracked… controlled. That is the first step in every massacre I’ve ever survived. I saw it in Germany. In Poland. They called it registration then too. It always begins with a number."

"And it ends in a grave."

@mens-omnia-vincit is the brilliant soul which has helped me write it.

[the-ninja-legacy-whip]

I know at one point you said that you didn't think these new Elemental Powers would have Elemental or NRG abilities, and that everything DR is non-canon anyway, but what do you think about these for potential abilities?

Technology -Elemental Ability: Blueprint Download (The power to understand the inner workings of technological devices at a glance) -NRG Ability: Digital Swarm (The ability to automatically take over all technological devices in a certain radius and have them assist in whatever the Master wishes)

Heat -Elemental Ability: Thermal Vision (The ability to see via heat signatures) -NRG Ability: Selective Burning (The ability to only burn specific targets with their heat, everything else touched is unaffected)

Fusion -Elemental Ability: Upkeep (Any object the Master touches is strengthened and will not break while in their hands) -NRG Ability: Fused Skin (The ability to fuse items to the Master's skin, making impromptu weapons and armor out of junk)

Shockwave -Elemental Ability: Sure Footed (By firmly planting their feet on the ground, they can lock themselves in place and avoid being knocked over) -NRG Ability: Knockback Punch (The ability to imbue shockwaves into physical attacks, sending targets flying back via physical contact)

Quake -Elemental Ability: Super Durability (The power to absorb the blows of physical attacks, reducing their overall effectiveness) -NRG Ability: Focused Epicenter (The ability to have the focus of their quakes travel through solid surfaces to reach desired targets or destinations)

Reflex -Elemental Ability: Danger Premonition (The ability to see a few seconds into the future, it activates automatically before oncoming danger) -NRG Ability: Evasive Dash (The ability to become incorporeal while dashing to avoid otherwise unavoidable attacks)

Tech: EA- love this actually!!! Very fitting for Sora too, and fits with her being able to tinker/upgrade things even at just a glace <3 NA- initial gut reaction was that this seems a bit OP, but 'within a certain radius' saved it + again, is something Sora at her best has been capable of doing, so, stamp of approval!

Heat: EA- yES THAT'S SICK HEADCANON FULLY ACCEPTED (Wyldfyre: wut u mean everyone doesn't see like this) NA- Hmmmmm kinda iffy on this one since they make it a point to demonstrate that Wyldfyre's heat can't 'burn' things like Fire can in the first place (which is...bizarre on its own, but whatevs) PLUS if it turns out she can wind up controlling a 'lack of heat' as well (i.e. COLD), I think she should get an ability that capitalizes on that (esp if she only gets to tap into this -theoretical- aspect of her powers after TP too)

Fusion: EA- Yessss I like this toooo NA- Horrifying! A bit iffy on this too considering the 'cant fuse living things' thing BUT if there ever was to be an exception, it would be in this very specific instance cuz I like the idea of Fusion Armor *-*)9 (maybe he fuses it to his clothes/ jewelry and it counts jgfdggfd)

Shockwave: EA- I like this!!! I feel like it can be pushed a bit in concept, but I like it!!! Solid foundation here (hee hee see what i did there) NA- OOH NOW WE'RE TALKING!!! Shockwave Punch *-*

Quake: EA- Like a reverse quake—instead of expelling a force going outward, this absorbed force coming inward (...is the best way I can interpret this lmao????) But I like how it parallels super-strength in its own way~ NA- Ooooh I like this too!!! SICK

Reflex: EA- SPIDEY-SENSE?!?!? NA- AND THIS IS SICK TOOOOOOO (im kinda mad i didn't think of this for Speed but this does fit Relfex waaaaay more hgfdfds)