❛ thank you, captain obvious. ❜ storm rises in the teeth of the hybrid. slow, mean. something hope mikaelson should be accustomed to. the pit, it stares back when you stare down it: dark, seemingly never ending. it rises goosebumps on skin, (begs the question ... how far down until you hit the ground, or something hard?) malivore an incident one chooses to ignore, put onto the back burner of your brain. shuddering, you swallow down fear in the absence of courage. ❛ don't suppose you were going to start going on and on about how– oh, no! it's magical and mysterious, we need to be cautious! ❜
@dawnade sent alright, well, it looks like a pit of eternal darkness.
summer humidity foams between them, dividing the space of intimacy or closeness. water drips from a pipe nearby, annoyance all but crossed in eyebrows. ❛ what i meant was— ❜ a breath, taken: careful and poised. (though, the irony in lacking necessity isn't unfamiliar to you) ❛ what exactly do you plan to do about this pit of eternal darkness? you're not actually going to suggest it's harmless. i vote we throw someone in there and see if they come out on the other side of the world. ❜ (...) ❛ next time, call me when malivore 2.0 actually does some damage to mystic falls, this could've been a simple text. ❜
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
ℑn this idyll, there persists a rhythm. Circadian in its poetry, though unaccompanied by the mortal percussion of a beating heart; no sanguine tide flowing through veins, no pulse declares its dominion. And yet, this house, this home, peopled by the cold and the changeless (save one), is not bereft of warmth. It is steeped in it. It breathes it. It is kept by it. Love, here, is not an adornment; it's the very architecture; the very foundation, with Esme, the Cullen Matriarch, at its core. It binds them in a covenant far more enduring than blood: an unassailable promise of forever, chosen and re-chosen in every silent hour. And the relief, the profound and ineffable solace in the assured continuance of her granddaughter’s life. A permanence. Her existence secured within the gilded, unbreaking chain of their immortality. The youngest bloom in an eternal garden, untouched by decay, luminous in her becoming.
ℋere, within this sanctuary, this amaranthine haven, the ingénue inhales what might be called the scent of home, were such a thing not beyond the senses of her kind. And yet she knows it. Aureate light spills in ribbons across polished floors; it gathers on Edward at the piano, where he plays her song, while beside him, Bella sits in quiet constancy, her presence a sentinel even at rest, her love a force that stretches far beyond the limits of sight. In the adjoining room, Alice arranges flowers with delicate movements, each petal placed as though it were a note in some silent symphony, while Jasper lingers near. Book in hand, gaze intent, attuned always to the invisible cadences of feeling that move through them all. And there, beyond the threshold, where Douglas firs stand in their ancient watch, laughter, bright and unrestrained. Emmett, undone by delight as Rosalie bests him again. Perhaps in some spirited contest of strength.
𝙰nd always, always, him. Carlisle. Her Carlisle. The axis upon which her eternity first turned. The quiet miracle she chose, and was chosen by in return. Occupied in his study, as he so often is, broad shoulders inclined in contemplative repose, one hand absently tracing the margins of some newly published thesis, the other: veined, elegant, impossibly steady, turning each page with the care of a man for whom knowledge is both vocation and absolution. And the door, as ever, remains ajar. For her. Eternally for her. That he might see her when she passes. That he might look upon her not in habit, but in devotion renewed. That he might, in the quiet sanctity of their shared eternity, continue to admire the singular grace of the woman who taught him that immortality need not be endured, but cherished.
She finds their newest addition curled up in her room. A room conceived in adoration. No corner left unconsidered, no detail untouched by Esme’s discerning hand; each fabric chosen, each hue softened or brightened according to the imagined delight of its intended occupant. For this child, this miracle, there would be no limit to what might be given. She has grown since that first snowfall. Her hair, now a cascade of deep wood and molten chocolate, falls in silken waves to her waist. In her, Esme sees Edward and Bella: Indivisible and exquisite. The matriarch enters with the hush of something almost otherworldly; a figure of gentleness and quiet majesty, as though some storybook sovereign had stepped into the realm of the living. She gathers the youngest to her without hesitation, folding her into an embrace.
@dawnade, as ℛenesmee, “I’m sure I don’t think of myself as suffering.”
Something within Esme stirs; a tender, ineffable ache. A mother’s instinct awakening in the smallest shift of breath, in the almost imperceptible tightening of her hold before it softens once more into something infinitely patient, infinitely kind. “You are so loved, my dearest. There's no one under this roof who would not, without a moment’s hesitation, lay down all that they are for you.”
“There is suffering in both worlds that we know.. It's not the absence of it that defines a life, but the grace with which one is held through it. And you, my darling girl, will never have to bear it alone. You will have your joys. Oh, such joys as few are ever granted. You will grow, and learn, and become all that you are meant to be, with time stretched generously before you.” She presses a kiss, blush pink lips feather-light, to her granddaughter's temple. “And should this world, in any of its forms, ever dare to weigh too heavily on you, your grandfather and I will always be here. As we always have been. As we always shall be.”
✩ * 𓈈 ζ @dawnade ﹏ JANE: you don't have to be strong all the time. / 🖇 … ALWAYS ACCEPTING.
the basement foams with melancholy, the lackluster energy rooted in the grief of the week's events. you're distracted, pensive and far away. she can feel it, you're almost sure. the crawl had been a hair short of disaster one catastrophic derail after another, and honestly it's starting to drive you a little nuts. the unified effort, the spent resources … all amounting to nearly nothing of use. HIGH RISK, LOW REWARD. just like the crawl before. and the one before that, too. whether the missions are disrupted by the military's hand or vecna's hivemind it's hard not to feel the weight of desperation amongst the group. your concern lies with jane: as it always has. how you both could come out of this, STILL HAND IN HAND. she'd saved your life so many times, saved everyone's lives ... and while you're fresh out of magic and superpowers in the real world, you can try to protect her with all the heart in you alone, if nothing else.
late night meet ups at your house are ideal: like a slice of smoke, she's perfectly untraceable when traveling in the evening. less to worry about when it comes to being seen … being caught. not to mention far away from hopper's beading, eagle eye. HE DOESN'T WANT JANE GOING BACK TO THE UPSIDE DOWN. it's naive on his end, but for once, you don't dismiss his thinking entirely. you're as apprehensive as he is; abusing her abilities would not only hurt the plans, but far more importantly, her. she renounces everyone's warnings, and you admire the fortitude in the girl who's not known much in life but a fight to be had. still, there are times her fire just inflates your unease.
dripping in summer humidity, you're craned over an oak cabinet, on the hunt for something to occupy both your minds. your lips wring into a moody stitch, caught with all the anguish you don't have the strength to verbalize. pull it together, mike. where is it, where is it ? ❝ i know it's here somewhere, sorry its a mess, my mom keeps telling me to clean ❞ in the back of the cabinet, a well - loved box of candyland gets hooked within your fingertips. ❝ aha ! i lost pretty much half of the pieces, but … ❞ you whip over to face a girl less than elated with your poorly camouflaged expression. YOU'RE CORNERED, EXPOSED. converse scuff anxiously, the spotlight of her gaze throwing off your rhythm. ❝ why are you looking at me like that ? ❞ ' you don't have to be strong all the time. ' as if in defense, your ears ring.
mike the brave: how much courage can you spread thin so your party can continue to carry the same unwavering will in their bones ? ❝ i'm not … ❞ the sentence shrivels up before it can bloom. you hate thinking about it, talking is even worse but you made a promise a few months back. no more lying. no more guarding your feelings behind deflective armor. ❝ they keep asking me what the plan is. how we can defeat him ... and i know we can, we will ❞ OPTIMISM IS MORE OF AN INSTINCT than a true display of their odds. ❝ but if how we win means ❞ head rattles, just about cutting your own tongue off. you're missing the guts to paint the extent of your anxieties. but it doesn't matter: your eyes give it all away. ❝ i don't know what i'd do, jane. i don't want to lose you I CANT LOSE YOU. ❞ you're 12 years old, clawing at the wall of a classroom you're hoping is the only thing keeping the little girl with the buzzed hair from coming home. miraculously, eventually, she did. 353 days of blind faith, but she found her way back to you all over again. you found solace in the idea that she could be able to live a life that felt something akin to what a ' normal' ‘ girl would experience. playing in the sun, making new friends, growing out her hair. IT'D ALL SEEMED SO TANGIBLE, and sure, maybe it still is. but that's the thing about borrowed time, isn't it ? ... you always have to pay it back.
QUIET NIGHTS ARE A DISTANT MEMORY, joyce can pinpoint the exact date of the last time she had a full night's sleep. while the ache in her back is begging for the comfort of her old mattress in the comfort of her own room, she is a mother first and a person second.
▐ ┃ ⊰ ' ᴾᴿᴼᴹᴾᵀ ﹖ ⤷ ❛ don’t go. please. ❜ * jane
@dawnade calls to her and she answers, immediate, without hesitation. the smile that pulls at the corner of her lips shows no sign of her exhaustion. it is warm, and soft, and kind in a way a only a mother can be. comfort found in her softness.
joyce sits on the edge of the bed, feels it shift under her weight, springs creak, that smile on her features emphasized with a nod. “ — okay. ”
the jane she sees is still that little girl in the pool, wearing one of nancy’s dresses. terrified but willing to help. far too young for the weight of the world to be placed upon her, and yet she carries that burden, even now.
friends don’t lie, and neither will she. when she makes this promise, she means it with all her heart, every fiber of her being woven into the words. “ i’ll stay right here, as long as you need. ”
A LESSON WILL HAD TO LEARN THE HARD WAY: even when you manage to survive the most unimaginable of terrors, homework is still waiting for you on the other side. the numbers on the page stare back at him, almost judging him for the amount of time it's taking to solve them. his mother's voice trails softly from the other room, eagerly hoping to convince someone of buying a new product. it intertwines with jonathan's music coming from his bedroom. somehow, without him noticing, new routines started to feel mundane, secure, comfortable. eternal sunshine and barren landscapes became the new norm. the dull ache that appeared whenever he thought about his friends still lingered, but it was becoming more of a distant echo. having jane by his side helped tremendously. it was a constant reminder that neither of them were alone. and having someone to lean on while dealing with the perils of high school was vital. will was incredibly grateful to have her ... except maybe in that particular moment, as she continues asking him about the painting he's been working on.
⋆ ˚ ࿔ why is this so important to you?
❛ it's— it's not important. it's whatever. ❜ will dismisses immediately, unconsciously abandoning his homework to start sketching something in the corner of the page. ❛ it's just a painting. you've seen my art before. ❜ not only seen, she's received a lot of drawings since they moved to california. some of those were even displayed on top of the fridge, while others were used as decoration for her bedroom. he thinks about promising that he'll show her the finished product once he's done, but he doesn't want to lie to her. ❛ it's personal. a personal project, you know? ❜ maybe she didn't. will has never been this secretive about his art before. not that anyone else would've noticed, as his mom spends most of her time glued to the phone due to her telemarketer job, and lately jonathan spends most of his time stoned. ❛ hey. i was thinking ... we could do something fun tomorrow after school, right? maybe we can get jonathan to drive us somewhere. ❜ he's definitely not changing the topic. it's an idea that he's been considering for some time now.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“You know, Elena, considering I saved you from those… vampires who wanted to sell you, you're being pretty ungrateful.” Elijah brushed the glass shards from his face. The wounds had long since disappeared, and he looked at her calmly, even though there was a certain undertone in his voice. Not strong, but audible if someone paid attention. The glass shards were annoying because they had ruined his suit. “I thought you would have learned by now that vervain is useless against me.” He emphasized the last words meaningfully; the vervain had caused pain, but the wounds had closed so quickly that it could hardly have been a minute ago. And the pain is gone too. Accordingly, he was completely blocking her path. She had nowhere else to go.
＊ ☆⠀ .. ⁱⁿᵇᵒˣ : last of us starters , NOT ACCEPTING. .. @dawnade, nancy. “ I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD. ”
USUALLY, A CRESCENDO WOULD IMPLY INTENT AND ESCALATION: not this, it is the opposite ( ... ) this is the aftermath hum, the tinnitus of survival and jim hopper is standing in it like man misfiled by fate. he occupies the wheeler living room like bruise occupies skin: present and without permission. the lights feel too bright. or too dim. he can't tell. everything feels ever so slightly off-register. ( MAYBE THAT JUST HAPPENS AFTER YOU DIE. ) or almost die. or definitely did, just poorly. he exhales through his nose, a sound that might once had been a laugh if it lasted longer.
“ .. yeah. ” flat and unpolished, a word scraped to bare bones. he rubs at his jaw like there's grit there. “ felt that way myself. ”
a pause long enough for him to remember and long enough for nancy in recalibrating his exist. corpse ➜ absence ➜ ghost ➜ this. his shoulder lift and lower in a shrug. “ didn't stick. ” the joke, if it is one, floats there as thin as cigarette smoke. he looks at her then, really looks, and taking stock of one who has grown sharp edges in his absence. there's so many things buried deep in a girl this strong and he should say something useful. “ YOU HOLDIN' UP ? ” an offering, small words set on the table with gentility.
＊ ☆⠀ .. ⁱⁿᵇᵒˣ : last of us starters , CURRENTLY ACCEPTING. .. @dawnade , eleven. “ YOU CAN'T BE STUPID LIKE THIS. ”
THE CABIN CONSPIRES HERE IN THE WITHERED WOODS. it gathers its pine-sapped walls inward with the patience of something that has learned to wait out the storms. hawkins exists somewhere else, danger exists everywhere. jim hopper runs hot, he always has. arguments ignite him faster than any logic ever could, fear metabolizing into anger because at least anger moves and doesn't sit quietly and watch the people it loves march back toward the fire. eleven stands across from him, still as a held breath. ( SHE LOOKS CAPABLE, FOR ONE. ) sharpened by her skill and survival and forged by horrors that rewrote her nervous system. she also looks like someone who has already decided, for another.
“ don't call me stupid, jane. ” WORDS TOO HARD. they're already bruised around the edges and burning. “ i'm not being stupid. ” yes, he is. god, of course he is. “ you think i don't know the odds ? huh ? ” a breath, ragged and shallow and sharp. “ the math turns real ugly once you're in it. ”
the math he means isn't numbers, not really. it's jungle rot and body bags and hospital rooms. IT'S KNOWING EXACTLY HOW MANY SECONDS IT TAKES TO LOSE SOMEONE AND SPENDING THE REST OF YOUR LIFE COUNTING BACKWARD FROM THERE. “ you are not going. ” each word drops in heavy. “ end. of. story. ” hop's barricade building with his bare hands. the crawl isn't only lethal, it's exposing and it's the variable he doesn't parade because secrecy has become their shared bones, a second skeleton, and he will not watch her crack it open out of principle.
