#battle aftermath

CW: blood, implied character death(s)

[insert your favorite Mario game over jingle here]

I have nothing to say for myself.

I'm so sorry.

@wahooitsamee @peaches2217 You guys seemed interested, so... enjoy?

EDIT: I have a Luigi version (well, sort of) now too, called He's-a Gone if anyone's interested!

❤ | Your options shall be: Sunday, Aventurine, Dan Heng, Veritas Ratio, Boothill, Jing Yuan, Blade, Phainon, Mydei, or Moze. Whoever you think suits this prompt.

❤ | Flower & it's definition: The Columbine flower | symbolize virtue, resilience, and praise of God. It serves as a symbol of fortitude, and it's sometimes given as a gift to provide courage and endurance in one's endeavors.

The Language of Flowers

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Fluff, Slow Burn, Comfort, Symbolism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Battle Aftermath, Introspection, Subtle Romance, Soft Moments.

Warnings: Mentions of War & Conflict, Mild Injuries, Survivor’s Guilt, Existential Themes, Mentions of Isolation/Loneliness, Self-Doubt & Internal Struggles, Bittersweet Undertones.

The evening aboard the Astral Express was quiet, the soft hum of the train lulling most of its passengers into stillness. You found yourself outside the passenger quarters, seated near the glass-paneled observation deck, staring at the endless expanse of stars.

Mike Wheeler x Eleven / Jane Hopper

Summary: After the fight is over, the adrenaline fades, but the weight of survival doesn’t. In the quiet that follows, Eleven and Mike cling to each other, finding comfort, grief, and love in the aftermath of almost losing everything.

Warnings: Post-Battle, Post-Canon Fix-It, Bonding, Trauma processing, Non-graphical sexual content, Soft angst, Bittersweet, Aftermath

Songs: Don‘t Dream It‘s Over by Crowded House & Nothing‘s Gonna Hurt You Baby by Cigarettes After Sex

Words: 2,123

Eleven’s POV

The adrenaline does not leave all at once. It clings to me, lodged deep in my chest, buzzing under my skin like a live wire. My heart is still racing, pounding hard enough that I swear it shakes my ribs. The truck pushes forward through the dark, headlights slicing through trees and drifting smoke, the road uneven beneath the tires. Only when the engine settles into a steadier rhythm do I realize how badly I’ve been holding my breath.

I let it go in a slow, trembling exhale.

It feels like my body is finally catching up to what has already happened. Like it’s realizing that I am alive.

Tonight was terrifying. Not the kind of fear that hits fast and fades just as quickly, but the kind that sinks into your bones and stays there, heavy and cold. I’ve lived with fear for most of my life. I know its shape. I know its voice. But it never gets easier. Every time something new happens, every time the danger changes form, it takes something with it. A small piece I don’t get back.

I stare out the window for a moment, watching the darkness rush past, then my eyes betray me and drift to the side.

Mike.

He sits close, his shoulder nearly touching mine, his posture finally relaxed in a way it hadn’t been all night. The tension has drained from his face, leaving something softer behind. Relief. Joy. Maybe even hope. The dashboard light catches in his eyes when he looks over, and the sight of him makes my chest ache in a way I can’t explain.

Without thinking, I grip his arm tighter.

He is the only good thing that has ever stayed. The one constant when everything else has been torn away. The best person I have ever known. When the world feels sharp and overwhelming, he is the one thing that feels steady.

Everyone else looks happy too. Tired, dirty, bruised, but smiling. Laughing softly. Like they’re already letting themselves believe this nightmare is over. I know I should feel the same way. I want to. I try to.

But my thoughts drift where I don’t want them to go.

Kali.

Her name sits heavy in my mind. Life has never been fair to me, but it was cruel to her. She was always fighting, always surviving, and in the end she paid the price while the rest of us were saved. I feel the loss like a weight pressing down on my lungs. I saved everyone else, but I lost my sister in the process.

The guilt is quiet but constant.

I make myself a promise in the silence of my own head. She will not be forgotten. She will not become another ghost people stop talking about. Whatever justice looks like in this broken world, I will make sure she gets it.

A sigh escapes me before I can stop it. Too loud. Too uneven.

Mike notices immediately.

His gaze shifts to me, concern replacing the smile on his face. He leans in without hesitation and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. The touch is soft, careful, like he knows exactly how fragile I feel. I close my eyes and rest my head against his shoulder, breathing him in. Familiar warmth.

Safe.

That’s what he is. What he has always been.

Lately, though, something between us has felt strained. Like we’ve both been holding back, afraid to pull too hard on something that already feels worn thin. We’ve been distant, careful, weighed down by everything happening around us. Maybe that’s normal. Nothing about our lives has ever been simple. This was never the kind of love story people write about. Not the easy kind, at least.

But when he smiles at me the way he does now, like I belong right here, it feels perfect anyway.

-

Later that night, the quiet feels unreal.

The cabin is dim and warm, the air still carrying traces of smoke, damp wood, and adrenaline that hasn’t fully faded. I sit on the edge of the bed, wrapped in mismatched clothes, my hair still wet from what might have been the best shower of my life. The water had been hot, grounding, washing away layers of blood, dirt, and fear. For a few minutes, it felt like the world was small again.

Some of the others went back to the Wheelers’ house. The rest stayed here. Mike stayed.

I didn’t want to be alone tonight. The silence feels too loud when I’m by myself, filled with memories that refuse to stay buried. I think he understood that without me having to say it.

The sound of the shower stopping pulls me from my thoughts. My heart stutters, nerves fluttering low in my stomach. I wait, listening to footsteps down the hall, until the door opens and he steps into the room.

He looks tired. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and his shoulders sag like the weight of the night is finally settling in. Still, when his eyes meet mine, they soften.

He comes over and sits beside me on the bed. Close. Close enough that our knees brush.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then he gently takes my hand in his. His skin is warm, solid, real. His thumb moves slowly over my knuckles, grounding me in a way nothing else can.

“I know tonight was…” He trails off, searching for the right words, then lets out a quiet breath. “I don’t even know how to describe it. Or how to thank you, El. Everything you did. It was unbelievable.”

I look down at our hands, then back at him, and nod. My voice is soft when I speak. “We did good. All of us.”

He shakes his head with a small smile, like he can’t quite accept that. Carefully, he reaches up and pushes a strand of wet hair behind my ear. His fingers linger there, resting against my skin.

“Nobody compares to you,” he says quietly.

The words send a shiver through me. Not fear this time. Something warmer. Something I’ve missed more than I realized. I lift my hand and let it close around his, where it rests against my neck. He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away.

I don’t.

His lips meet mine in a soft, gentle kiss. Unhurried. Certain. Like a promise rather than a question.

At first there is no rush. No urgency. Finally no monsters waiting outside the door. Just the steady sound of our breathing and the fragile calm of surviving. But with every second, I realize more and more what I could have lost tonight. And that angers me. And it makes me happy.

And then I really look at Mike, at the way he’s still sitting next to me, hair wet, eyes wide but steady, holding me closely after the kiss.

And in that small, impossible moment, I realize again… we’re in this together. We always have been.

I close my eyes and slowly inhale.

My legs work faster than my mind, and I settle onto Mike’s lap, wrapping my arms around his neck and crashing my lips harder onto his. Any of us could have died tonight. And I’ll be damned if I’m not celebrating our final victory.

The kiss is desperate, messy. My fingers tangled in his hair, his hands gripping my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

Mike pulls back just enough to murmur against my lips, “El-”

“Shut up,” I whisper, kissing him again. Harder this time.

He groans, his grip tightening, and suddenly we’re falling backward onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and shared breath. His mouth is warm, insistent, chasing away every frantic thought screaming in my head.

I nip at his lower lip, earning a low sound from him that sends heat spiraling through me. His hands slide under my shirt, rough palms skimming my bruised ribs, and I arch into the touch.

One of his hands cups my face, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. The other splays over my spine, holding me closer. So close I can feel the wild beat of his heart.

His lips skim my jaw, a trail of fire that makes me shiver. I tangle my fingers in his hair, tugging, needing him, needing more. The world could be falling apart outside this room, and suddenly I don’t care. Not when he touches me like this.

-

Mike’s POV

This night was too much.

I know that one day I’ll sit down and really think about everything that happened. I’ll replay it over and over, trying to understand how close we came to losing everything. How close I came to losing her. But that day is not today.

Right now, all I know is that I need El close. As close as humanly possible.

My hands slide up her back under her shirt, fingertips tracing the dip of her spine as she arches into me. The press of her body against mine is electric, every point of contact burning through the haze of panic that had settled in my chest hours ago.

She makes a sound against my lips, half frustration, half desperation, and I swallow it hungrily. My thumb brushes the delicate skin just below her ribcage, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat.

“Mike,” she breathes, nails scraping lightly down my neck.

I don’t answer. Can’t. Not when she’s like this, kissing me like she’s trying to erase everything outside this room, outside us. Her hips roll against mine and I groan, fingers tightening involuntarily on her waist.

Her teeth graze my lower lip, sharp and sudden, and all coherent thought evaporates. I flip us over in one smooth motion, pinning her beneath me as she gasps. Her legs wrap around my hips instinctively, pulling me closer.

For one suspended moment, we’re frozen like that, her beneath me, flushed and breathless, eyes dark with something fierce. Though, the small lamp on her bedside table catches the gold in her irises.

Then she surges up to kiss me again, and the world dissolves into heat and touch and her.

It’s like a switch flipping. All I can think about is her, her fingers on my skin, her body warm against mine. I lose myself in her, forgetting everything but the way she gasps into the kiss, trembling like she might fly into pieces.

She pulls back, panting..

“Mike,” she murmurs. “How are your lips so soft?” she asks, with a small, genuinely curious smile.

My laugh shakes a little, breathless. “Are you seriously asking that now?” My thumb brushes over her cheekbone, trailing down to trace the line of her throat.

The sound she makes sends any coherent thought flying right out of my head.

“Sweetheart,” I breathe, shifting so I can bury my face in the crook of her neck. “You’re trying to kill me.”

Her small giggle is everything to me in this moment.

-

Eleven’s POV

For a moment, I forget how to breathe.

The way he’s hovering over me, the warmth of him, the weight, makes my thoughts scatter. My hands slide up his back without thinking, fingers pressing into fabric, like I need something solid to hold onto. His breath ghosts over my skin, uneven, and I can feel how hard his heart is beating, fast and reckless, matching mine.

Everything feels heightened.

Nothing outside this room exist anymore. There’s only this small pocket of heat and breath and the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing anchoring him right now.

And maybe I am.

Maybe he’s doing the same for me.

When he buries his face against my neck, I close my eyes, my hand sliding into his hair, holding him there. The moment stretches, taut and trembling, and then slowly softens. Like a wave pulling back from the shore.

He shifts slightly, resting his forehead against mine, eyes closed. I feel his exhale against my lips, long and grounding. I mirror it without realizing I am.

“Hey,” I whisper, not even sure why.

He hums softly in response, thumb brushing once over my side. Gentle now. Grounding. The intensity eases into something warmer, steadier. Safer.

Eventually, we separate just enough to breathe properly again. He sits back, running a hand through his hair, laughing quietly under his breath like he can’t believe himself.

“Wow,” he mutters.

I smile, pulling my shirt back into place, my heart still racing but no longer spiraling. “Yeah,” I say softly. “Wow.”

Then he lies down, and I lie with him. Our arms everywhere around each other and his lips against my ear, whispering “I love you.” And for the first time in months, I sleep like a baby.

I love you too, Mike Wheeler.

A/n💌

This is an aged-up (19 years old), post-canon fix-it one-shot focusing on emotional and physical closeness after trauma/the night of the battle. Hurt/comfort, soft angst, and healing ahead. I’ve thought of many scenarios after the ending, and this is one where Eleven survives and they find comfort in each other. It was inspired by the scene in the truck where they smile at each other and Mike looks so ready to kiss El‘s face off 😭

cross-posted on ao3/

It's been quite a while since I wrote an inworld historical letter excerpt, but I remembered how fun it was to write one (courtesy to @doinglinesakawriting for providing some of the motivation to continue on with that; would be intrigued by your thoughts on this one!). So here I have yet another historical correspondence, and this time from the perspective of a very villainous faction, and from another setting entirely!

For a little bit of background, Lilierland is a small, now-subjugated nation where one of the most important characters of Under The Shade (Velle; close friend and LI of Anton the MC) hails from as a refugee in Halmland. Eleven years before the story starts proper, the Rizelian Empire would start its invasion of Lilierland and occupy nearly the entirety of it after four years, sending Velle, and 3 million other Liliers fleeing for their safety, with an additional 2 million massacred.

Halmland, which is the main country where the story takes place in, would eventually intervene in a limited manner, taking over the Lilier side of a prominent border mountain pass before the Rizelians could get to it, and thus the Ferlais War sparked before armistice was signed between an exhausted Rizel and a Halmland struck by mana drought.

I'll admit, this letter didn't come out exactly the way I imagined it when I first envisioned it down at the grocery store, but I'm glad to have written it out regardless. It was genuinely fun to write the subtext of the villains complaining about being finally chewed through once they started fighting properly armed soldiers rather than civilians and lightly-armed guerrillas. I get to write in the meandering, militaristic way I often naturally write, and I also get the catharsis of writing in detail how the villains got what was coming to them.

This will probably get some adjustment later on to make the numbers clearer and the annoyance of the writer come off even more blatantly, but it's night now and I want to get this over with. So without further ado:

I finally got a drawing tablet! So now I can start doing digital art! :D

Masterpost / Prev page / Page 4 / Next page

...Uh oh. Looks like he's a tad too late. Who would've thought?

@cynfuldax @ocarina-of-what

Snaps and shinks, ornate buckles unfurled their leather and cloth strapping as the astromancer unfastened the crimson spaulders from his knobby shoulders, dropping his hood behind him and mounting his battle-worn cloak on the hook. The Dawnwards’ tent would come down that eve for their displacement and he was likely going to be the only one to carry out the task of moving their things. The weight of exhaustion and annoyance furrowed Felo’thore’s brows. Adrianal’s night was far from over, and his wouldn’t be either.

Crumpled in the breast pocket of his heavy robes was the Scion’s letter, and words of the man’s wisdom was perhaps what kept the creases around Felo’thore’s sharp lips a little softer. Much as he loathed war and how petty factions had long been over territories and power, this was one he knew could be done no other way. The global threat was now encroaching on their homeland while his daughter slept soundly in their stately home in Silvermoon.

The Legion was too close when it struck the Broken Shore and now it choked the Eastern Plaguelands.

The Scarlets played an awful game, and as Felo’thore wandered over to his cot, slumping into it, the Scion’s words of considered empathy twisted his face. There was little time to see his family in place of the Argents, and to inflict pain on his heart when it wasn’t yet there. So when the outcries of justice’s dispute came earlier that evening in letters and voices, Felo’thore chose to remain silent. As twisted as it seemed to reflect in his mind, Adrianal had taught Felo’thore great deal about what it meant to sacrifice. But to squawk over what was ethical in the midst of annihilation was moot. War was terrible and never fair.

Felo’thore leaned over on his knees, clasping his hands loosely in silence for a very long time. He couldn’t undo what was done. He couldn’t take back the roar of his flames. He couldn’t find regret in any moment that his heart pumped on that field. But he could revere in silence those that had become a casualty of war. Words would eventually find his lips softly.