#i might have fallen in love with power tools oops | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jaeheewillalwaysbemyfav · 3 years

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[The following ask is just an attempt on my, Winter's, part to exploit a quirk in tumblr's code that keeps formatting from copy/pasted items when answering an ask on desktop as opposed to making a text post.]

MC is a Phoenix and Child of a Famous Magic User

A slightly modified request fill for @guardianoftheunderworld090! This ended up getting away from me a bit, and by a bit I mean a lot so uhhh Oops! Because of that, I didn’t end up doing the dateables+Luke, so apologies! But this is already probably wayyyyy off from the original request anyway.

Again, oopsie :3

Content Warnings: Temporary character death, spoilers for Lesson 16+, brief implication of immolation (but not really bc, y’know, phoenix), mild-to-moderate blood and injuries/violence

As soon as they learned their name, everyone knew of MC. While not quite on Solomon or the great witch Maddi’s level, their parents had made quite the name for themselves in the magical community. Their pre-existing knowledge of magic and the supernatural was therefore completely expected.

Less so was what happened when they died.

Mammon had been cradling their body when it happened, still too stunned to react to his smug younger brother gloating about taking out such a fragile, weak creature. The entire House of Lamentation was in shock: MC, the human they had come to cherish, was bleeding out right in front of their eyes and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

The Avatar of Greed’s breath hitched as he felt their pulse fade, watched the rise and fall of their chest cease…

And then he screamed as MC’s body burst into flames. They were scorching hot, but left no marks on him nor the surrounding area. On instinct, Beelzebub darted forward to pull Mammon away from the inferno, his protests weakened by surprise and grief. Belphegor was knocked backwards off his feet by the force of the flames, and they all watched as the fire raged on, until it began to take on a recognizable shape.

Not of MC, but of a brightly coloured flaming bird.

The phoenix cocked its head to the side, as though assessing its surroundings, eyes passing over each of the frozen brothers before rounding on Belphegor. It shrieked, puffed up feathers interspersed with jets of flame, and charged the youngest with its sharp beak and talons bared.

And suddenly it was no longer a bird.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” MC yelled as they continued to slash at Belphie. A large pair of bright flaming wings arched behind their back, threatening to torch anything they touched. “I LITERALLY RISKED THE WRATH OF LUCIFER FOR WEEKS TO HELP YOUR SORRY ASS GET OUT OF THAT ATTIC AND THIS IS HOW YOU THANK ME?! WITH MURDER?!”

Blood pooled in Belphie’s mouth from a particularly nasty slash across his lip. He spit to the side before replying, “In my defense, most people stay dead when you kill them!”

“THAT’S ALL YOU HAVE TO—”

“...MC?” Levi said, voice small. “I-Is that really you…?” His tail swished behind him anxiously.

MC turned their attention to the rest of the brothers (one set of talons still embedded in Belphie’s leg, in case he had thoughts of running).

Beel was stock still, eyes pointed ahead but staring at something beyond the room. Asmo was crying silently, though his expression was neutral and wide eyed. The gears in Satan’s head were visibly turning even as he shredded the sleeves of his shirt with his claws. Mammon was misty eyed, with such an open expression of love and want and hurt that it made them want to cry as well. And Lucifer… The Avatar of Pride’s usual mask of stony superiority had crumbled into something lost and broken.

They looked back to Belphegor, who clutched at his leg, his own tears threatening to spill from his eyes. They slowly remove their talons from his leg and face the group, folding their wings inward until they regain their humanoid form.

“I guess I have a bit of explaining to do, huh.”

Lucifer

Too many things have happened so fast, he doesn’t even know how to respond.

Not only has MC apparently been having secret meetings with Belphegor, not only are the pacts they’ve made with his brothers just tools to free him, not only did Belphegor then betray them and attempt to kill them, but they’re also… A phoenix?!

Distantly, hysterically, he thinks, how in the three realms is that not on their file?

“Oh, I’m also not technically from this timel-”

Lucifer shushes them. He can’t deal with any other reveals right now.

Once… everything is dealt with, he allows himself to be curious about MC’s origins.

Have they always been this way? Were they adopted by their parents, a familiar given human form, or had something gone wrong one day with a spell?

He’ll never ask them though. He knows origins can be touchy subjects.

He grounds himself in the practical. Does MC know how to control their abilities? Are their needs being met? Are there any additional accommodations they require?

Sometimes, when their wings are out, he can’t help but be reminded of the similarly fiery wings of the seraphim from home the Celestial Realm and feel nostalgic.

His more possessive side also relishes the fact that they share a connection through association with birds, especially considering how some varieties of phoenixes tend to resemble peacocks.

It must be difficult for them to preen those large wings, do they need any help? No, it’s not that he wants to, don’t be ridiculous. But if they ever want his help...

Mammon

Once the initial shock of “holy shit the love of my life just BURST INTO FLAMES IN MY ARMS” fades, he’s just happy MC’s alive and well.

But he does put on a front of being upset that they never told him about their nature.

“Stupid hu— uhhh, phoenix, I worried for nothin’! Wait, no, I wasn’t worried at all—”

“Sure you weren’t,” MC retorts with a smile.

Seriously though, why didn’t they tell him? He’s their guardian, their First, he should know these things!

Do they think he’ll… try and take advantage of them because of their powers? He’d never!

Okay, maybe when they first met he might have considered it, but not now! Not now that he…

One night, Mammon and MC are up late watching some terrible Devildom romcom. MC has long since fallen asleep, and one of their enormous wings is draped over Mammon, pinning him in place.

The flames interspersed amongst their feathers are short and glow only dimly, like dying embers. Occasionally, a few will flare slightly or twitch as though a breeze has blown by.

“...I was really scared, you know,” he murmurs to their sleeping form. “I really thought you were gone. And I realized at that moment that I… I can’t lose you. I love you so much MC. You’re worth more to me than anything else in the Devildom, than anything in all the three realms. Please don’t scare me like that ever again…”

MC doesn’t stir, but the flames on their wing follow Mammon’s hand as he pets the warm feathers. They’re only pleasantly warm, with a smooth, silky texture to them.

He snuggles closer to them and drifts off himself, comforted by the heat of their body, human and avian anatomy alike.

Leviathan

Levi cannot believe his luck. He finally gets himself a friend he can really trust, and then his younger brother (who was trapped in an attic by the way, NOT in the human world like Lucifer said, because oh yeah, also Lucifer’s a liar) kills them, and now they’re—

It’s too much to process at once. All he can latch onto is that’s them, right? That’s really his MC, his Henry, the one person outside of his family who doesn’t dismiss him as some gross shut-in?

Once he’s assured himself that they’re safe, he’s immediately hit with the rest of the surprises to process. He hugs MC tightly against himself, whether to protect them from Belphegor or himself from… everything, is anyone’s guess.

It takes a long time for Levi’s newfound clinginess to dissipate. He refuses to let MC be alone around Belphegor under any circumstances, even if it means leaving his room more than he’s comfortable with.

In this time, he learns a lot about MC.

He learns that they seek to cool off the same way he seeks out warmth, and that this makes them excellent cuddling partners. He learns that they let out very adorable chirps of squawks when caught off guard.

He learns the hard way that a phoenix in love is a fire hazard.

But he also learns that he’d risk every item in his collection to see MC’s radiant smile.

Satan

Set the phoenix thing aside, Satan thinks to himself as he rushes over to inspect MC for injuries. Set it aside.

Once he’s sure they are unharmed, he turns his attention to Belphegor.

The Avatar of Sloth is lucky MC got to him first. Satan wouldn’t have stopped at a warning strike. Belphie knows from the murderous glare shot his way that it is only the presence of the others that’s stopping Satan from taking his revenge.

His fingers linger in their wings. MC’s feathers are all out of sorts, but there are no bald patches indicating any serious burns or other wounds. Still, Satan cards through them carefully, checking and double checking for any signs of damage. MC fidgets under his attention.

“Uh, Satan?” They’re blushing. “That kinda tickles.”

“Oh! Oh, um, sorry, I was just— you’re okay, right?”

They let out a small laugh and bop him gently with a wing. “Everything’s in working order, don’t worry.”

“That’s— Good, that’s uh, that’s great.”

“...Go ahead, you dork,” MC prompts with a smile. He blinks at them owlishly. “Ask your questions!”

He does, over the course of the next couple of weeks, in between therapeutic pranks against a certain youngest brother.

Asmodeus

As MC is born again from flame, Asmo learns the true horror of love.

He had always been the one to invoke passion in others: to seduce loyal partners and drive others mad with desire, to twist their love into lust and unleash its destructive potential. Despite this, he never really understood the feeling himself, why something as ephemeral as a feeling could drive humans to such extremes.

But seeing MC wounded and bloody, watching the light in their eyes dim, the Avatar of Lust had felt the call of blood and rage and grief and love for the first time. And watching MC dust themself off as they explain their unique heritage, Asmo realizes that those feelings would have destroyed him. He would have done anything and everything to bring MC back to him, given up any part of himself just to see them one more time.

So forgive him, MC, if his movements ever slow to a stop while preening your wings. If he sometimes stares at you with awe, or holds you tight enough to bruise.

His heart has never been anyone’s but his before, and he is so very afraid of getting burned.

Beelzebub & Belphegor

Oh this is Not bringing up good memories at all.

Something about seeing MC and Belphegor, bloody with the scent of fire and death in the air jumbles his senses and suddenly they’re not in the House of Lamentation but the battlefield and she’s been struck down, he was too slow, he chose his twin over his sister can he live with that? Can any of them? She’s falling she’s falling and he’s falling and they’re going to—

When he snaps back into awareness, Beel is restraining a hissing and spitting MC as they scratch and claw at him to get to Belphegor, the one wing Beel didn’t manage to pin down flapping about erratically.

Their movements only stop when they feel hot tears on their back. MC calms down and shifts more gently in Beelzebub’s grasp, turning to face him.

“Beel, it’s okay,” they say, cupping his face with a bloody, taloned hand. He smells the blood and lets out a sob.

Belphegor moves to comfort his twin, but MC’s wings snap open, shielding the pair in a ring of fire and feathers.

“I— I…” He can’t form the words. You died, my brother killed you, he’s here, you hurt him, why is he here, why did he hurt you, how did— “Please,” he says, finally.

MC frowns, hesitates. But slowly, they lower their wings and step aside, letting the twins reunite. As they embrace, Belphegor shoots them a look, but it’s not hateful. It’s not regretful or apologetic either, more of a profound confusion.

Despite demons’ regenerative abilities, Belphegor remains mostly bedridden for quite some time. It seems a phoenix’s wounds negate most healing factors, and the 5 pronged gash in his leg is particularly stubborn in its refusal to close. He jokes that the slow recovery must be because MC will never forgive him for what he’s done. Beel chastises him and says they’re more forgiving than he thinks.

Still, Belphie is surprised to see MC join Beel when he comes to change the youngest’s bandages. They hold out their hands, revealing 10 strange, press-on caps over their talons as they assure Belphie they won’t hurt him.

Where Beel is overly cautious and gentle, MC is practiced and efficient as they inspect, clean, and redress his wounds.

“Is this your way of apologizing?” Belphie can’t help but ask, earning him a stern glare from his twin.

“For attacking you after you killed me, not knowing it wouldn’t take? No,” they reply around a mouthful of medical tape. “It’s an excuse to talk.” They gesture for Beel to move his hand from the gauze pad so they can tape it down.

“You want to talk with your would-be murderer.” MC gathers up the garbage and old bandages to toss them in the trash.

“You’re not the first person to try, you know,” they remark as they dust off their hands.

“What?!” the twins shout in unison, Beel nearly dropping the scissors he was putting back into the first aid kit.

“I’ll tell you about it if you tell me why…” MC gestures broadly to Belphegor, “this all happened the way it did.”

This exchange of stories does not repair MC and Belphegor’s fraught relationship. That is not how wounds heal. But nevertheless, some weeks later, the House of Lamentation has a movie night. And sandwiched in the middle of the familial cuddle pile is MC, Beel, and Belphie, each tucked under one fiery wing.

#obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me fanfic #mine #my writing #lucifer #mammon #leviathan #satan #asmodeus #beelzebub #belphegor #as you can see this stylistically got very far away from me lmao #i'm not sure how i feel about it #eh #c'est la vie

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five-hxrgreeves · 3 years

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I Won’t Back Down - Five Hargreeves x OC

Word Count: 3,244

You can stand me up at the gates of hell But I won't back down I'm gonna stand my ground Won't be turned around And I'll keep this world from dragging me down

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Pt. 4- Waking up to Ash and Dust

Lola didn’t know what woke her but she groaned and opened her eyes, lifting her head from where her cheek stuck to the page she’d been writing on before she’d fallen asleep. The basement was pitch-black, her candles having been burned out while she’d been resting. Unbothered, the brunette stood, stretched, and made her way to the wall where she knew the light switch was. After patting the guessed area, her hand hit on the dimmer and flicked it up. Nothing happened.

She moved it up and down several more times and the room remained completely dark. Frowning in confusion, Lola guessed that they’d lost power during the night for some reason. With no windows in the basement, it was impossible to tell what time it was or if a weather event had happened. Shrugging, she stepped twice to the right and placed her hand on the banister to guide her steps up the stairs. Only- she hit her head even halfway up.

”Ouch!” the girl yelped, rubbing the sore spot on her head. What the hell? The ceiling was never this low before! There were fifteen steps from the door to the bottom of the basement. Lola had only gone up ten.

She pushed on the supposed ceiling tentatively. No movement, “hey, guys? Mom? Dad?” she called, hoping someone would hear.

There was no way the ceiling was caved in, right? How would that even be possible? Maybe her uncle was pulling a prank on her and had stuffed obstacles down the stairs so she couldn’t come up.

“Uncle Ed? You’re really very funny! Haha!” she tried, hoping it would convince him to help move the stuff.

Then, something shifted and movement by her feet made her jump, causing her to yelp. There’s no mice down here, idiot. Her mother would never allow that, so what had fallen by her foot?

Still in pitch-blackness, Lola made her way back down the stairs until the was on the last one. Gripping the banister carefully, she moved her foot into the empty space below the final step until she hit what had fallen. Bending over, she was surprised by the weight of the item.

Lola moved the object between her hands, feeling the roughness and shape of it. It wasn’t any sort of object used for a prank, she determined. It felt like a part of her house. But how could that be right?

Stay calm, Lola, she told herself, there’s a reasonable explanation for this. Maybe mom decided to renovate the upstairs, started this morning, and forgot you were down here? That seemed a little far-fetched. What about school? Her mother always checked the basement if Lola wasn’t in her room and it had to be around the time she had to get ready.

Dropping the loose object, the girl made her way back up until her head brushed the blockage again, “MOM? DAD?” she yelled again, straining her ears for an answer.

What the hell happened last night? Or early this morning, she supposed. She called for her parents several more times, all of which went without response. Turning, she sat down on the seventh step and buried her face in her hands, the sudden coverage of her eyes making no difference with the black of the room.

Okay, she thought, you know the basement. What could you use to help you?

There were drills and electrical cords so she could drill herself out but she’d never used the tools before, her mom would go nuts and there seemed to be no power. She had candles, so she could burn her way through but if it was mostly cement on top of her that wouldn’t help. Paint was useless and so were light bulbs. She doubted there was something useful in the holiday section. Did they have a pick axe? Those couldn’t be so hard to use. Or maybe an anvil and a hammer.

That would take longer but didn’t require electricity and her mom might be more okay with that.

What if it caves in on you, though? she considered, biting her lip as she tried to puzzle around it, what did people use to prevent cave-ins? Some type of support, she supposed. Did they store plywood in the basement? Was that even strong enough?

Stay calm, Lola, you can do this. And besides, she was jumping ahead of herself. Surely her parents would notice and dig her out? Maybe there wasn’t even that much blockage and it just seemed like a lot. It probably just was a rotten prank her Uncle Ed had cooked up but she couldn’t see her mother being okay with her being late for school because of it. Still, she didn’t want to jump to conclusions so she stood and made her way back up the stairs, calling as loudly as she could, “MOM? DAD? UNCLE ED?”

There was no telling how much time had passed but no answer came as Lola’s voice tired out. After her 839th call, she gave a final cough, turned, and sat down, bending her head slightly to accommodate the small space. What now?

Surely it was past school’s starting time. Her uncle and father would be at the store and her mother would be at the library starting her shift. Lola sighed and strained her eyes into the blackness, hoping it would reveal an answer of what happened. It didn’t, of course, but she wasn’t sure what else to do. Maybe her voice wasn’t loud enough? The thought suddenly occurred to her and part of her favorite, well-memorized story came back to her: Liesel hit the lid of a paint can. Maybe her paint cans weren’t as useless as she thought.

After sliding down the stairs feet first and lowering herself carefully by her hands, she stood and made her first step to the left. Suddenly, she was very glad she was a counter. There were exactly twenty-seven and a half steps to the paint section of the shelves from the bottom of the stairs. Carefully counting them out, she arrived in the correct place and took the top paint can after feeling around for the handle. Then, with another fifteen steps, she made her way to the hand-held tools and felt along the second shelf for a hammer, pleased when her hand grasped the worn, wooden handle.

Turning, Lola counted the total forty-two and a half steps back to the stairs and went up again to the blockage. Placing the paint can on the last available step, she swung the hammer down, hard, on the lid. It let out a resounding clang which was loud in the dark stillness and made her flinch in surprise. Shaking off her prickle of fear, she repeated the action several more times.

The girl jumped when something slightly wet splashed on her and she gingerly felt the spot where it landed on her shirt. Oops.

The lid had dented after so many hits and now it had finally given, the most recent contact had splashed the sent the wet paint flying. She swallowed nervously. How many paint cans did they have? How long would she be stuck here? Clearly, no one was coming to help. Lola supposed she should have waited until her parents would actually be home but the thought hadn’t occurred to her until now. Besides, who knew how long it had been?

The thought made her shudder slightly, the idea of days passing without being released not sitting well with her. She loved the basement but even she didn’t want to live out the rest of her days here. I need light, Lola thought, slightly frantically.

She shook herself and took a deep breath. As well as she knew the space, losing count of the steps wouldn’t help her. She descended the stairs again and stepped left, this time counting out eleven steps. Her hands found the candles and matches blindly, relieved when she felt that there were twenty-five in all. She would still conserve the light, though. Just in case.

Lola repeated her path in reverse and sat on the third step, carefully holding one slim, long candle between her legs as she prepared the lighter. There was a spark and the match caught, causing her to quickly set it to the wick and shake it out, relieved to keep some of the darkness at bay. Holding the light aloft, the brunette stood from the stairs and in twenty-one steps she reached the far wall where a wine cellar of sorts stood embedded into the cement. The space was tiny and hand-dug, extremely cold in the winter and less so in the summer but was an additional food storage area for long-term items. They didn’t usually keep it very full but there were several packages of canned drinks, two tubs of ice cream, some frozen dinners and a case of water.

The girl now took stock of the items, checking that each one she thought was in there actually was and was reassured that she would be able to survive down here for some time, if it came to that. She hoped not. Lola had zero practiced survival skills and what she knew only came from books like Hatchet which wouldn’t truly help her here.

She wasn’t an idiot; rationing her food should start immediately and she needed to go as long as possible without eating or drinking to make it last longer. Going to the bathroom would be a challenge, but she’d dedicate a spot and hope for the best.

Stop it, idiot, Lola thought suddenly, you’re acting like you’re stuck down here. You probably aren’t.

Still, she couldn’t help but think what if she was? At least the couch could act as her bed and the rest of the time would be spent trying to free herself.

She sighed and exited the food storeroom, at least you don’t have to worry about homework right now. Your teachers will understand if you miss because you’re trapped in a basement. Hopefully.

Okay, she thought, if worst comes to worst, you’re pretty well off. There’s definitely no need to panic. Nope, none at all. Think: what would Liesel do? WWLD? She wouldn’t panic- well, she did at the sight of her dead-

STOP. Don’t think like that. The point is, she didn’t panic when she was trapped in her basement. People came to help. The same will happen for you. You’ve always wanted to be like her, remember? Now’s your chance.

“At least this will make for an interesting section in my autobiography,” Lola commented aloud and instantly shook her head, stop it, talking to yourself is a sure sign of insanity. It had only been a few hours at most, probably eight.

The uncertainty of exactly how many made her shudder slightly.

The next day- or what she assumed was the next day- she tried the same routine, calling her parents’ and uncle’s names for as long as she could before her voice gave and then resorting to banging on a paint can until it, too, gave. Lola used some of her light to count exactly how many paint cans she had, which were fifteen. A little over two weeks and she’d used two already.

They could help her keep track of the estimated days. To keep herself busy, she also partitioned out her food into servings so she wouldn’t eat a lot at once, even if she was really hungry. Her stomach was already starting to growl but she pushed through knowing it could get worse.

Another obstacle she realized she had was that there was no running water, not that the basement had a sink. There was no way to keep her hands clean or wash herself and she cringed at the thought of becoming disgustingly dirty.

The next guessed day came and Lola was entertaining the idea that something had gone very, very wrong outside. She’d sat for several hours next to the cave-in and heard nothing. She allowed that the pile on top of her was too thick to let sound through but it seemed that she’d hear police sirens or something as they swarmed over the collapsed house.

The thought made her heart twist in her chest. What about her parents? Were they hurt? The only explanation that there could be was the house collapsed, but surely they hadn’t been inside when it happened? They were probably worried out of their minds right now about her. Lola wished she could send them a message that she was okay.

An idea had crossed her mind that she could tap out an SOS out on her paint can lid but she didn’t know Morse code and had tossed the idea aside. The brunette was glad that she had rather weak olfactory senses and couldn’t easily smell herself but she was sure that after three days of not showering, she must stink.

You stink to high heaven! her mother would say. Lola had never missed her as much as she did right now and she wished she could have been more understanding about her mother’s reasoning for things. The next time she gives me chores or scolds me, I won’t ever complain again.

Two more days passed without much change. Lola still lived in darkness most of the time, worried about running out of light. It was surprisingly easy to stick to food rations. She’d never been a big eater but she wasn’t a small eater either. She chalked it up to the fact that she could count each serving.

Her first time going to the bathroom without a toilet had been awkward and messy but luckily they did store toilet paper and trash bags on the lower part of one of the shelves so at least she could clean up. The couch was a fine sleeping place and only creaked a little when she shifted around.

After spending her obligatory hours trying to get help, Lola would then shuffle, shuffle, shuffle her cards, over and over again to keep the panic at bay, the action familiar and comforting. In the dark, she would try magic tricks which proved to be difficult as she couldn’t see the result. Then, she returned to counting all fifty-two of the cards, reassuring herself that they were all there. Her writing fell by the wayside as she focused on keeping herself calm and definitely not panicking.

After approximately one week, Lola was starting to feel the affects of being stuck in the dark for so long. Sleep had become more difficult and she instead lay awake for hours, staring into nothing as she lay on her side on the couch, the cushions pressed against her back. It was easier to operate without light now, too. She still counted her steps whenever she moved around but her ears seemed sharper- the ringing of the paint can lid proved that- her touch seemed more sensitive and it seemed like her smell had improved, too, because she was definitely stinking.

Lola wished she had a change of clothes at least, but she was out of luck. The only possibility of new cloth was Christmas tree skirts and that wouldn’t help her since she didn’t have needle and thread- not that she was even a fashion designer, but she could have figured something out.

Sometimes, when she stared at nothing for long periods of time, bright spots would enter her vision or strange, geometric shapes would pop up. Then, she would blink and they would disappear. The thought of seeing things terrified her and Lola made an effort to keep her eyes physically closed instead of just peering into the darkness.

By the beginning of the second week, sleep had suddenly come back. Lola thought she was just closing her eyes in short spurts but in reality, they were closed for many hours. The paint cans helped keep her from misjudging how many days she’d spent in isolation and the food rations did too, slightly.

The panic that had threatened to overwhelm her had ebbed, only poking at the back of her mind every so often. Lola could feel that her body had become weaker, too, even though she spent many hours pacing the edge of the space, counting out all 900 steps. It was clear that no one was coming to help her but she couldn’t bring herself to stop hoping. Even as she lost everything else, something told her to press forward and keep believing someone would come.

She’d been speaking to herself more and more too, to cover up the awful silence that persisted in the darkness. She’d often just recite parts of her autobiography, sang song lyrics she'd memorized or she’d spend several hours reciting The Book Thief as a way to help calm her as her panic increased. One time, in her rotations, she’d turned on the third corner and had stopped for a moment, eyes wide, as what looked like a monkey on a unicycle juggled in front of her, complete with flashing circus lights and music.

Lola’s mouth had dropped open and she’d let out a crazy, slightly maniacal laugh before she rubbed at her eyes furiously in disbelief. The darkness had promptly returned, leaving her to shiver fearfully on the spot.

On the twelfth day, according to her paint cans- not that she actually knew for sure anymore- something changed. Lola hadn’t been expecting it, of course, and had gone on with her usual routine. Then, in one of her circuits of the basement, she heard something, out of the ordinary from the sounds she was used to- not that there were many. Her pulse picked up. Was someone trying to kill her?

“No, stupid,” she said aloud, her voice raw and hoarse from the hours she spent yelling, “you’re dumb. There’s no one alive. I think we’re alone now.”

The words didn’t make sense but then nothing much did these days. When had she started speaking in plural? Still, the shifting continued.

Creeping slowly up the staircase, the brunette paused next to her already set-up paint can. It certainly sounded like someone was out there. The girl looked down the dark staircase, thinking about her remaining food and liquid supply which was now rapidly dwindling, her shrinking amount of candles, paint cans and matches, her wrinkled, used deck of cards and came to a decision.

At first, her banging went unnoticed on the surface until the shifting stilled above her.

“Hello?” the sound was faint and muffled, clearly she was hearing things.

Lola continued her banging, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t.

The shifting resumed but it seemed more purposeful now. The sound came again, “hello? Is anyone there?”

Bang, bang, bang came the answer, the brunette continuously hitting the lid. A chink of brilliant light appeared above her head, making her shut her eyes in pain.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” it was definitely a voice, a young one, too.

Then, the hole opened wider, wider, and wider until bright light came pouring into the dark space. Turning up her face but closing her eyes, Lola tried to look up at who had come for her. Maybe she was dead and the light was from heaven.

The answer was the exact opposite as the voice spoke again, this time disbelief clear in the tone, “what the hell?”

#The Umbrella Academy #Umbrella Academy #five #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x dolores #5 #five hargreeves x oc #five hargreeves x reader #Five x oc #five x reader #five x dolores #human dolores #dolores isn't a mannequin #dolores #pre-tua #apocalypse #hargreeves #tua five

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

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Desert Sands: Part 4

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Scott, John, Alan, EOS

Oops, been a little while since I last posted anything so I thought I’d chuck some more of this one out into the void... I’m still not done writing this one but that’s the fault of the other fic I’m attempting to work on (which keeps throwing me into stumbling blocks at the moment, which is super annoying).

<<<Part 3

John’s knees jarred when he made the jump from the top of the space elevator to the hot sands below. In front of him, the large monstrosity of an EMP generator loomed and he stumbled across to it, running his eyes over the control panel. No Thunderbird Five, no EOS. No communications at all. It was just John and the EMP generator, alone for over a hundred miles in each direction. By the time Thunderbird Two returned, he had to have it disabled, otherwise their third and final Thunderbird designed for atmospheric flight would join her sisters in the sand.

No pressure.

The inelegant solution would be to smash it, but it was huge, towering far above him, and John didn’t have the strength nor the tools to break the entire thing. Gritting his teeth, and wishing he had gecko gloves, he started to climb.

Behind him, the space elevator retracted, travelling at a much faster speed than it had dropped him. Thunderbirds Five and Three must have been out of time; he’d been hoping the elevator would have been able to stay until he’d dealt with the generator, but apparently not.

He was going to need retrieving as well, but with no working communications he couldn’t contact his brothers to organise that; he’d just have to trust that they wouldn’t forget about him with the overriding priority of Scott in the fore of their minds. At the very least, EOS shouldn’t forget about him.

But no-one was going to be retrieving him until the EMP was gone. Armed with a selection of short-circuited tools and his own brain, John reached the control panel, which glared at him tauntingly.

You can’t stop me, it jeered. You’ll fail and die and with no-one to reach Scott, he’ll die, too. Thunderbird Two will crash, and then Alan’ll be the only one left. International Rescue is finished.

Unfortunately for the control panel, John had long since learnt to work through doubts, facing down the odds over and over again because if there was one thing he loved more than space, it was his family, and he wasn’t going to let them down. Not now, not ever.

They didn’t call him a genius for nothing. A selection of short-circuited tools and his brain was all John needed to break it.

And time. With no gear, John didn’t know how long it took before the thing gave a pathetic whine and powered off. Just to be sure, he awkwardly scaled the entire thing, watching for fail safes and backups, breaking anything that looked remotely like it could be used to repower the EMP. Only once he was certain the machine couldn’t possibly restart did he back away from it.

Job done. Thunderbird Two could reach Scott now.

He flopped down onto the sands, letting gravity have its way because that was less effort than fighting it. They were hot, even through his uniform – his short-circuited, no longer temperature-controlled uniform – and John belatedly realised he didn’t have any water with him.

Well, nothing to do now except stare at the sky and wait to be retrieved.

His retrieval was nothing like he’d anticipated. He’d thought Thunderbird Two would fly overhead, pausing just long enough to collect him, before they carried on towards Thunderbird One and Scott.

The sight of a giant red rocket landing in the Sahara despite her pilot being told numerous times that he was going nowhere except home was a surprise, although given the situation, John couldn’t scold Alan too much.

“Drink,” his little brother ordered the moment he succeeded in clambering into the cockpit, shedding the dead exosuit and his sand-encrusted helmet. He watched Alan climb around his cockpit, fastening the discarded gear and handing him his spare helmet from Thunderbird Five as he emptied a water bottle. “Strap in, we’re going to get Scott.”

“What about Thunderbird Two?” John asked, obeying.

“Thunderbird Two is still thirty two minutes away from Thunderbird One’s location,” EOS informed him coolly. “Thunderbird Three will make the journey from your current location in four point eight minutes.”

“So we’re going on ahead,” Alan said, firing Thunderbird Three’s retros to get them back into the sky. “Hold on, this might get bumpy.”

Bumpy was one way of putting it. Thunderbird Three was most definitely not suited to flying so close to the surface of the Earth, and John watched as his youngest brother wrestled with the controls, keeping her barely on course until they reached EOS’s co-ordinates for Thunderbird One.

The expulsion of the Vernier jets blew away the light covering of sand as they passed overhead, revealing the damaged Thunderbird in all her glory.

“She’s belly down,” he observed, frowning. That made things more awkward – with both the pilot exit and the cargo doors buried, access would have to be done by the dorsal hatch. More clambering, wonderful.

Alan set them down alongside, and John immediately disembarked, trawling through the sand to the other Thunderbird. Her hull was scorching hot to the touch, even through his uniform, and he grimaced as he clambered up, using dents as hand and foot holds until he reached the dorsal hatch.

It was jammed shut because of course it was.

Behind him came a clunk, clunk, and he turned back to see Alan using his magnets to clamber the hull, a bag over his shoulder.

“Here,” the blond said, nudging him out of the way. “I’ll cut the hatch.” In his hands was his hand-laser, usually referred to by the teenager as a tin opener. He wasn’t calling it that this time, clearly as aware as John that it was one of their own ships they were slicing open.

As soon as the dorsal hatch surrendered, John was through, dropping down into the confines of Thunderbird One. He was dismayed to find that the air inside the ship was just as hot as outside, if not more so – clearly the EMP had knocked all of Thunderbird One’s temperature controls out, leaving the metal hull to conduct and amplify the unforgiving heat of the desert even inside. It was also pitch black; even the emergency lighting had fallen victim to the EMP.

John fumbled with glowsticks, snapping them and illuminating the interior of the Thunderbird in a sickly green glow. That observation, however, paled against the unmoving form slumped underneath the pilot seat, face down.

“Scott!” he exclaimed, picking his way forward and crouching on the broken glass that had once been the viewing window-come-pilot access. His brother didn’t react, and with a sinking feeling he realised that the visor of the helmet had broken. Blood had congealed on Scott’s face, the source unidentifiable from John’s angle, but more concerning was the sand invading through the broken window and helmet, peppering Scott’s lips and plastered to his face.

Scott’s eyes were closed.

“John?” Alan dropped in behind him, and made a noise of shocked distress. “Scott?”

“Did you bring a medical scanner from Thunderbird Three?” John asked, not daring to take his eyes off his fallen brother. One appeared in his view, the gloved hand that held it not quite steady, and he accepted it, immediately setting it to assess Scott for injuries. “Find out how far out Thunderbird Two is.”

He tuned Alan out as the teenager started talking into his comm, glaring at the scanner and willing it to work faster. Out of all of them, he had the least medical training – there was less of a need for it when he so rarely took part in rescues – but it was clear even to him that Scott likely had a concussion, and considering how hot it was inside Thunderbird One, they’d be lucky if they only had to worry about heat exhaustion.

Even heat exhaustion would be bad enough, but before John could touch him he had to make sure there were no other injuries – especially internal ones – that could be worsened by movement.

While he waited for it to finish, he glanced up at the seat above them. The restraints should have prevented Scott from falling out of his seat, even if he’d fallen unconscious, but they were lifted. That was odd, unless…

“Scott?” he called again, resting a hand lightly on his brother’s left shoulder as the medical scan showed up nothing majorly wrong with it – some nasty bruising was in Scott’s future, if it wasn’t already starting, but that was all. There was still no answer.

“They’re ten minutes out,” Alan reported, coming up next to him and crouching down in the broken glass. “How is he?”

“Scan’s still working,” John shrugged, watching the holographic copy of his prone brother appear piece by piece above him, red warning lights flashing up near the right shoulder. Oranges and yellows dotted the rest of his body; to John’s relief, his bleeding head was only flagged yellow – whatever impact it had taken had obviously been mostly absorbed by the broken helmet. Heart rate was also flagged up as too slow, while his body temperature declared one oh four and still rising.

“I’ll get a blanket,” Alan said, standing back up and heading for one of the many lockers that decorated Thunderbird One’s interior. John heard the hiss of the manual release and then Alan was back, laying the blanket down next to their brother.

“Good thinking,” John praised, zooming in on the results of the shoulder and wincing. Right, that made things a little more complicated, but they needed Scott on his back to best fight the heat exhaustion. It was only the one issue, however, and John sent a quick prayer of thanks to their Mom for Scott’s comparative lack of injury before directing Alan to Scott’s legs. “Roll him on three. One… two… three!”

Scott wasn’t the lightest fairy in the world, and John was hyper aware of the broken collarbone as he guided his brother’s torso over, keeping an eye on the suit for any sign that the bone had broken the skin.

There was a quiet groan as they got him settled on the blanket, John carefully detaching the remains of the helmet and clearing broken fragments away from his face.

“Scott?” he tried again, lightly brushing the sand away from where sweat had stuck it to his brother’s face. Eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. “Alan, we have to get his temperature down.”

“Already on it.” A cutter was pressed into his hands. “Get as much of his uniform off as you can while I get the cool packs working.” John didn’t stop to think, the powerful tool sheering through the baldric at the shoulder, hip and thigh to remove the grey material and reveal the full extent of the blue flight suit Scott wore.

Considering the relative minority of Scott’s injuries, John was very grateful to that flight suit. However, it had done its job, and he didn’t hesitate to pull the zipper down and re-engage the cutter to lop parts of the uniform off. It was sticky with sweat, despite Brains designing it to be anti-sweat, and John sacrificed a moment to remove his own gloves from his dead suit. Scott was cool and clammy to the touch, but it was easier to feel the rise and fall of his chest which, even if it was rather slow, reassured them that he was still with them.

John had every intention of making sure he didn’t leave them.

Part 5>>>

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #john tracy #alan tracy #eos #desert sands

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ethelphantom · 4 years

Text

Death Doesn’t Discriminate (Between the Sinners and the Saints)

If this is the first fandom you read fics from me, you might not know that I am, in fact, not a fluff writer. I am an angst writer, and my angst is almost never light. You might've gotten a taste from it from my prompt fill for the 9th day, soulmates. My expertise is grief and loss and, you guessed it, death. Oh, and insanity. This... is probably what you should expect from me for the next few writing prompt fills... Oops? Today’s prompt just so happens to be death.

So yeah. Death. And grief. And brief implications of losing one's mind. Please mind the warnings. The death's aren't graphic, nor is the descriptions of corpses, but like, both are still somewhat described so it might be disturbing to someone? Please be careful. Love you all!

Ao3

This is Maribat -- don’t like; don’t read

______

The freezing wind played with her hair as she felt like the skin of her face was going to break in the cold. The tears that flowed down her face froze as soon as they left her eyes, but Marinette couldn’t bring herself to care. Yet another day in their ruined paradise had passed by, but she didn’t know what to make of it because said paradise that she had loved, no matter how cruel and ruined it was, had now come to an end.

The butterfly brooch in a tight grip was close to breaking, so hard she was squeezing it. It didn’t matter. Why would it matter if it broke? It was the fault of its wielder they were here now anyway. She blamed everything on those who had wrongly taken Miraculouses and used them for their own gain, because of their own greed.

Ryuko placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. “Look at the bright side. We won, we finally won. You got the brooch, Agreste and Sancoeur are on their way to prison. The war you’ve been fighting for years has finally come to an end. You won”, she said and gave her a small sad smile. Her eyes betrayed her emotions though — she was devastated. It was in no way surprising, they had just had to watch too many of their comrades die — and even Ladybug’s Miraculous Cure wasn’t strong enough to bring them back. No.

She should’ve remembered. Nothing could bring the dead back to life.

She should’ve taken better care of them.

They had won through the loss of countless innocent lives — their victory had been secured by countless tragic demises. It was all their fault.

“I… Won?”

The bracelet of the turtle laid upon the snow, and its wielder was detransformed, dead on the ground for all the world to see. Walking past him, Marinette picked up the Miraculous and bowed to her fallen comrade, to her former friend. His shield had not been strong enough to protect him from Hawkmoth’s sword.

The corpse of the one who was supposed to manipulate time and give them a second chance was leaning against a tree, his blood having already turned the white snow under him a glaring red. Marinette knelt next to him, squeezed his fingers and took off the miraculous. It revealed a young man with blue hair, one of the few to stand beside her through thick and thin in both her civilian life and behind the glamour of the Miraculous. One last time she brought her hand to her heart and paid her respects to her dear friend. Even he couldn’t give himself — or any of them — one last second chance.

The fox, their illusionist, had fallen for illusions and mirages, visions of something better and a future filled with hope. Her life had ended as she fell to her death from the top of the Eiffel Tower, and with no miraculous to save her as it had dangled in Mayura’s tight grip, she had broken her skull as she hit the cold ground. She had been the first one they lost. Her miraculous Marinette had retrieved as she defeated Mayura, who was now missing her eyes. The peacock’s gleeful smile had turned to a horrified, soundless scream as she realised what was to come.

Never again would Mayura or Nathalie Sancoeur be able to fight or perform her duties as she once had.

Oh, and Chat Noir. Her sweet kitten. He’d fallen victim to his own mind, cruelly executed by those he once called family. Years of manipulation and conditioning to become the perfect tool for his so-called family to use, he’d been forced to try and kill her with his cataclysm — only, Agreste and Sancoeur hadn’t realised he would never kill his lady and instead forced his hand to touch himself. The last thing Marinette could remember of him were his teary eyes and the broken smile, along with a sorrowful whisper of “Farewell, M’Lady, make sure you avenge all of us. Make sure you bring them in front of cruel justice, or bring it upon them yourself. Don’t let anyone else die after me.”

As a miraculous could hardly be destroyed, she had picked up the silvery ring from the ashes and murmured her apologies to both her lost kitten and Plagg, who had once again had to watch his holder get their life stolen from them. She could barely come to terms with the deaths of her friends and comrades, but even considering how horrible it must have been to Plagg to lose holders times and times again was so much worse.

And for his death, she’d taken away the use of Gabriel Agreste’s hands. He would never be able to use them again, regardless of what anyone tried. She’d made sure of it.

But even though she's promised to fulfill her kitten's last wish, she’d failed him, as there had still been one more death after his. One death that she could not accept.

She was the Great Guardian of the Miraculouses. She was The Ladybug. She was meant to protect her team, she was meant to ensure they stayed safe. She couldn’t fail, she couldn’t lose a battle, let alone the war, because if she did, it would be immediate Game Over, not only to every single miraculous wielder, but also everyone else that might be unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity of a miraculous that had fallen into the wrong hands. That was all there was to it. Even if everything else was lost, she would still need to be standing and ready to fight — and fight she had.

But, even though she’d technically won, why did it feel like she’d instead lost her everything? Why did she feel like she hadn’t done her job well enough?

All these young lives had ended way too soon, but there was nothing she could do about it. Marinette walked in the snow that was stained by unforgiving crimson, leaving behind dirtied footprints. Once upon a time she might have been disgusted and horrified at the sight of all this, but now she was merely empty. Numb.

Except that she wasn’t. There was one that made sure she couldn’t be numb, one whose death hit her the hardest.

She fell on her knees next to the corpse of someone who was dressed in red, black, yellow and green. A chuckle void of happiness escaped her lips. Even in death she couldn’t forget about how atrocious that suit was, how that someone looked like the personification of a traffic light.

At last, unable to hold herself with pride like the “victorious” Ladybug she was supposed to be should, she buried her face to the chest of her beloved and sobbed, the one person she hadn’t been prepared to lose. She’d long ago accepted she might lose her teammates, either to death or something else, but she had never come to think she might have to see a day when her love would be ripped away from her hands. Marinette had never wanted to bid adieu to any of them, but this one? This goodbye she never even got to say was devastating.

There were ways to bring him back — after all, that had already been done to him once — but Marinette couldn’t bring herself to even consider letting something corrupt her love so thoroughly again. Besides, she needed to get rid of the Lazarus pit once and for all with the aid of Tikki and Plagg, that she knew. She had promised it to the few who had suffered from it, she had promised it to all the kwamii. She couldn’t leave such thing in existence now that she had finally defeated the danger that had loomed over Paris and the entire world in a way for years now, thus preventing her from going and ridding the world of the curses left behind by the gods that became the kwamii a long time ago.

Her hands became stained by Damian’s warm blood (it was the only warmth she could feel in this endless, merciless cold) as she held him close and wept, though in a much different way than Gabriel Agreste’s or Nathalie Sancoeur’s. Their hands were stained in sin along with the blood of so many, hers was for trying to tell them goodbye.

She was bitter, she was angry, she was furious. She was vindictive.

But, as the one who was supposed to represent creation itself, she could do nothing about it. She would stay quiet and grieve in the depths of her soul where a part of her would always be missing, lost to the eternity of agony and time.

At least she had a body — a corpse — to bury. She hadn’t been given such luxury with some of the others. At least she could bid her last farewell to the one for whom she would have given up anything.

Marinette had the power to destroy and create anything she wanted, but there was no way she could bring her lost teammates and her lost love back to life. They wouldn’t be happy with her for destroying the balance of the world for it, and so she kept to her pain. She simply clutched Robin's — her beloved Damian's — hand in her own, trying to get the last bits of his warmth to herself, hoping for them to bring her comfort. She was nowhere near ready to let go.

Abeille — the former Queen Bee, the reformed Chloé — walked up to her and lifted her up even as she tried to resist and stay with her love. Marinette struggled as she tried to get back to the one she would have given her entire being to if he had asked, but when Chloé still wouldn’t let go, she surrendered to her fate and let herself go limp.

“Honeybug, please. You can’t do this to yourself. I know this is difficult and painful — it is that for me too —, but you need to remember we won. You won. You don’t need to suffer anymore”, she told Marinette with feigned confidence, but it was clear that in reality she had no idea what to say.

Marinette sneered and looked up and the dark, gloomy sky as snow flakes floated down and melted on her face. “I don’t… need to suffer anymore…? Beil, what are you talking about? I lost the most on this day. Officially, I won, but is it truly so? Look at what it brought me!”

She could no longer keep her composure as she screamed her heart out, unable to care about what potential witnesses thought of her. It didn’t matter, they didn’t matter. Marinette threw her hands to her sides and shook her head, her entire body trembling. “Yes, I won, but at what cost?! I lost everything and everyone I ever fought for!”

Abeille flinched back at her hysterical voice, but she couldn’t leave because she could see how devastated Marinette was, how horrified she was, yet how emptiness ate her alive from inside and made her numb. It was clear to her and Ryuko, Marinette’s closest living friends, that if they left now, there would be something bigger than a piece of her heart and soul that would break and shatter into a million fragments. They knew she would lose it.

And so, they both stayed by her side, throughout the numb and bitter apologies to her beloved’s father even as he tried to reassure her it wasn’t her fault (he did blame her, but he also knew she blamed herself enough for the both of them and even the rest of his family, so deep he knew her guilt was). They stood by her side as she brought the existence of the Lazarus pit to its end. They held her close as they buried their lost teammates and friends together, refusing any help from outside parties — after all, it was their solemn duty to let their dead to finally rest. They founded the new order of the Guardians hand in hand, dedicating one room to those miraculous wielders who had been on their side and lost their lives, and another to the one whose existence and life would have kept their Great Guardian who was too young for all of this from losing her sanity.

And, when the day came when both Abeille and Ryuko had to say goodbye to this world?

Well, that was the day Marinette Dupain-Cheng lost her mind and, bitter at the entire world and existence, started to consider bringing all of existence to an end so she could once more reunite with her friends and her love.

___

@ladysblackcat @daminett4life @tinyterror333 @annabellabrookes @7-sage-7 @theyellowfeverexperience @thethirdwheelfriend @lady-phoenix-of-tardis @kris-pines04 @daminette-december2019 @bluerosette23

#maridami #daminette #damian x marinette #maribat #Daminette december #Damian Wayne #marinette dupain cheng #fanfiction #Kagami Tsurugi #chloé bourgeois #fanfic #ethel's writing

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