#apocalypse timeline

[tblsomedoodles]

nap time

context? Yeah, kinda. Mostly just that i've been thinking about what happens when Apocalypse FW Donnie gets his Clara.

[reveries-daydream]

Open RP

A small, black figure trails along the empty road, barefoot save for the soiled bandages that just barely cover his feet. Andromeda Howlett. That's what people used to call him. Whether that's still him is... up for debate. Andromeda Howlett never lit up a room with the hungry flames of fear whenever he entered it, sparking a fever in every living thing that got close enough and sending them running out.

Or maybe he did. This body was still recognisable somehow, despite the black, necrotising holes that eat at his face, and the burns that wrinkled up his skin like wet paper, and the blisters that only grow and ooze more pus with every passing day. Maybe this is just how people have always seen Andromeda. Patient Zero let out of quarantine. Something to be feared and avoided lest you catch whatever he has, and you end up yet another life ruined by his.

It didn't matter now, he supposes. He has an actual purpose now. The other person who puppets his body does, anyway.

Pestilence's orders are simple. Find the other horsemen, spread their disease, serve Apocalypse. As long as they did that, they'd be fine. They got to watch it all go down from their own high horse and begin something new with Apocalypse. They were needed.

That alone made the rot worth it. Apocalypse has been merciful enough to help with their bandages too, adding new ones every time a new piece of skin rots right off or stitching back any parts of their body that starts to come a little too loose.

They trail along that empty road, bright, burning amber eyes gazing through the dark night in search of... somebody. Anybody. The disease festering in them needed more vessels to make their home in, after all. Luckily for them, they might have found their next target just up ahead...

No Pressure Tags:

@impulsive-spitfire @ancient-siren @nevermore-mindreader @clairvoyant-penrose @variousvossivixens @whiteliesblacklips

[impulsive-spitfire]

Open rp

Distended eyes filled with blood, dotting the sclera like fireworks on a warm summer’s night. Each eye, glassy and blown, gazed upon the tranquil sea of oranges. The tip of a bloodstained dagger punctured an eye, forcing it to pop like a water balloon. Those eyes belong to faces, which belong to heads on bodies. Gutted bodies with entrails spread through the rotting grass. Fireflies flashed through the stale air like twinkling stars.

A black and red horse sniffed the bodies, its fiery tail lapping at the flies attracted to the buffet set before them. It whinnied, pawing at the dry grass, giving its master a side eye. This girl did too much.

War played with a bloodstained dagger, sitting in the middle of the dismembered limbs. She carved circles into the ground, pulling up roots and dirt before stabbing the dagger tip into some body part. Her pale reddish-grey skin became speckled with browning blood, tacky and metallic. This was much of a war as it was a massacre, but what was the difference? In the end, millions died, decayed and nameless.

War stood, beckoning her horse offer, brushing her hand over its nose. All these people were now devoid of identity. Guttural guilt rose in her stomach, and she shook it off, tying the useless feeling half to any tree in the tasteless mindless wasteland locked in their heads. Hatred on one side. Indifference on the other.

A cacophony of choking noises broke the songs of nature. War hacked, being restrained and choked. Working with a defiant child wasn’t on the to-do list. In the recesses of their mind, War put her hands on her hips, facing the kid. She pulled her boots out of the swampland, shaking the muck sticking to it.

“You are annoying as fuck. Did you know that? You’re the type to try and avoid the great dying of your existence, which has gotten you chained and gagged. Go sit and watch like a good girl!” War kicked Zoë in the chest with her boot, knocking the wind out of the frightened child.

Zoë dug her nails into War’s thigh, penetrating the “flesh”. War grit her teeth, kicking Zoë in the jaw then throat.

“You never learn. Stop crawling out of the grave like a resurrected pet.” She yelped as Zoë threw them both in the muck, covering each other in the mud of the bog. Zoë shoved War’s head into the deep, suffocating mud. The cocoon wouldn’t hold, but it allowed her some time as War’s body sank into the bog. Dormancy and silence.

The horse nudged its master, bringing Zoë back to the real world. Hell. The blood. The bodies. Rotting soil and people who had names. She sat in a pile of blood, covering her face with her hands. Good god, how could she let it get this bad? Having to pay for someone else’s crime? Zoë threw up acidic bile. This couldn’t be fixed. There was no fix. There was only execution.

—

Npts: @ancient-siren, @reveries-daydream, @nevermore-mindreader, @clairvoyant-penrose, @variousvossivixens

[luckyeyeink]

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat upon him was Death…

[hvbris]

@multipleoccupancy . welcome back to the apocalypse, it's just as bad as it was before

Violet knew the familiar tug so well that it barely surprised her anymore. And while it happened less often these days, she felt as if the Horned One was taking perverse pleasure in reminding her that he could still very much send her wherever He wanted.

She opened her eyes to take in her surroundings, and the sight that welcomed her was grim. Violet knew this place. And seeing the desolate ruins of the world stirred a mixed bag of emotions in her, as most things did in life. The Apocalypse was one of the scariest timelines she had visited, but she had also missed Theo terribly. And he was here, right? He had to be around, somewhere, like last time.

But nothing looked like the settlement she had helped them start. She did inspect the rubble frantically, terrified that it could be the remnants of their little town. But this was something else. She was somewhere else.

Where?

Panic started to sink in. Violet prided herself on being a very independent young lady, that she could fight monsters on her own. But the apocalypse was another beast entirely, and if Theo wasn't there... It was another cruel joke of the Horned One, no doubt. Bringing her back here, but far from the man who always kept her safe.

Maybe he'll come, she thought as she tucked herself behind a large slice of wall. He wasn't in the hospital, last time. He found me outside. And so she sat down, and she waited. The weight of her Hound Knife inside her pocket brought her very little comfort -it wasn't enough in a place like this.

Footsteps echoed in the distance, and she glanced from behind the wall. It seemed to be a small group, and she couldn't really tell if Theo was part of it. With a shaky breath, she held onto the knife in her pocket and waited for them to approach. But Theo wasn't there. And Violet didn't know whether to ask these people for help or not. It was the Apocalypse, and they could be cultists for all she knew. But as she pondered over the matter, she lost her balance on a small rock and fell, loudly, behind the wall.

Too late for discretion, she thought bitterly. There was no doubt that they had heard all the ruckus.

[ancient-siren]

Closed RP for @adamantiumpaws

The cold was nice. The forest was more a home to her. Sienna hasn't returned to the mansion in a few months. Too distracted by her conquest. But it stopped.

The plan was going so well and she's gained control over many areas she's always wanted.

Her foot tapped against the trunk of the tree. She heard a thud of steps. Her dress swirls as she hops down to the ground. Glowing gold eyes flipped back as she studied him. Logan.

"Oh look at you. I thought you died long ago James. Such a pity... I would love to make that a reality again." She swirls her daggers in her hands as she eyes him.

Her curls were a mess above her head. The once beautiful dress was stained in mud and blood. She didn't know what to expect. But she was excited.

"Shall we dance?"

[sophiacloud28]

Burn Out (One-Shot)

One-shot, Rise Leo, Apocalypse Timeline

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Taking Mikey's advice is both a blessing… and a curse.

You're hard to approach. Just like his twin, you're always working. Always making yourself useful, always listening, always helping. You look like you're dancing across headquarters, giving smiles, advice, time. Time you don't have as he watches you joke with Donnie while you both head to bed, his lights go out, and yours… don't. You are a mess of schedules atop of schedules, catching the slack he used to barely notice and now watches you destroy yourself over.

You're difficult. Not impossible, just… horrendously difficult as his own work catches up with him. Because as he watches you, he can't help but try harder. Try to make a difference in this infernal nightmare that he wishes would just… end.

It doesn't. It doesn't as he plans strategies and sends recon missions with some of them never returning. It just gets more, and more, and more until he finds himself carrying as much work outside of meetings as in them. Until he tries to catch a breath, realizes he can't, and finds himself in the same situation he can see you struggling in.

Funny. A horrible joke. And he's not sure what to make of the fact that it's this that guides him to your room as he feels absolutely beat.

"Still mending?"

Neither does he know what to make of the fact that you jump and look at him like he's caught you doing something you shouldn't be doing.

And, in a way, he supposes he has. He doesn't recognize the fabric you're working on, making him wonder where you got it and what you're doing with it. Hell, it makes him wonder what other secrets you've been keeping from them even if it's a question he already has the answer to. He's been watching you nearly break yourself for everyone, giving weight to Mikey's words and making him wish there were more hours in the day.

"Can I come in?" he asks and he's grateful when you shuffle and offer him a spot. He still drags himself in, though, beat and so completely washed out, he can't even look at the papers he's holding. Instead, he sits on the floor next to you, looking at the fabric in your hand.

It's blue. He kinda likes it.

"That's what's been keeping you up?"

And while he knows you probably won't say much, he hopes it's enough to carry something of a conversation if only because he needs it. Something you need too from the nod.

So he lets himself snort and hopes this takes him somewhere.

"Eh, serves me right for thinking that you never stop, then, huh? Then again, those bags definitely don't look Gucci, I'll tell you that."

"You're one to talk."

Only to chuckle when it not only does, but it gets him somewhere familiar. Somewhere he hasn't been in months.

Talking to his twin has been a strained affair. Donnie is too busy, just like he is.

… Dear god, he wants a break.

"Oh, yeah? How bad?”

“I could carry groceries with yours.”

Then again, as he chuckles and catches you smiling, if only a little, this could be seen as a break. A pause in the insanity that is their lives if only just to laugh and enjoy each other.

After all, while he is holding onto all that paperwork, he hasn’t taken one look at it yet. And you, who’s been carrying your weapon all over the place, have finally set it down even if…

Even if he can see the scabbard at your side.

He should not feel flattered. It’s a weapon. A method of self-defense. It’s nothing sentimental.

“Do you ever take it off?”

Yet, as he watches you blink and shuffle your work to look, he can't help it. He can’t help but almost smile as you pause in your sewing to put a hand on the blade, Mikey’s words ringing in his ears.

Yours and his. Forever intertwined. He can live with that.

“No, I — I keep forgetting it’s there.”

God, can he live with that.

“Probably a good thing even if I hope you don’t forget it when you need it.”

“I don’t. It’s kind of strange.”

He snorts, “Nope, that’s actually pretty standard. Feels that way to me.”

“Must have been rough when you lost one of your katanas, then, huh?”

He checks at his side. The blade he’s been left to carry now has an actual scabbard thanks to his twin, although sometimes he still reaches for his back, looking for both. It has been rough. It is rough. And he hates the fact that it chips at him.

Probably why he concentrates on your work instead of answering, even if he can’t help but frown at it.

“That’s new.”

“What is?”

“The thing on your finger.”

Although the fact that it makes you pause to look at the green, metal thing on your middle finger is a nice plus. Along with you chuckling, “It’s called a thimble and Donatello insisted. Said he had some scrap metal to spare after giving it to me like the perfect “fait accompli”. I wanted to punch him.”

“Fe…?”

“French for done deal.”

“You know French?”

“A little. And some Spanish.”

He gets up, unable to help the smile on his face. He wonders for a moment if he should, if it’s too out of left field.

Yet, as you finish the side and cut the thread, he can’t help but bring your face up so you look at him. As he watches your face struggle with emotions, he’s unable to stop himself from smirking as he says, “A woman after my own heart. Wouldn’t you say, hermosa?”

Just like he can’t help but laugh after you manage to take him by surprise and knock him back before covering him in the fabric you were working on.

Still got it. Could go without getting kicked, though.

He hears you sigh and paper getting shuffled around. He lifts the fabric over his head to watch you pick up the work he’s scattered around. And he blinks as, when you’re done and holding out the stack to him, you giggle in a way he’s sure he’s never heard before.

It’s light. It’s warm. It feels like sun rays on a balmy Spring day. It reminds him of better things, things he should fight for.

“What are you laughing at?”

And it makes him wonder if he can maybe, just maybe, have it.

“Sorry. I just… It matches your mask.”

If he can tell you that you don’t have to apologize for laughing like that as he frowns in confusion while taking off the fabric and trying to see if you’re right. If he can tell you not to look away when he takes off his mask to check your claim only to chuckle himself when the old fabric blends in with the new one. If he can get up while thanking you for the stack, putting it on your nightstand for the moment as he holds onto his mask and the fabric you’ve just finished working on from the hem work.

“Hey. You can look.”

So much so that he can feel his heart break a little when you wince before carefully, hesitantly looking up, your face a mixture of embarrassment and almost reverence.

You understand the importance of the masks. It makes breathing difficult and his heart a mess as he hands you back your work.

“Here.”

Only for the latter to near jump out of his plastron when he feels your hand touch his own to curl his fingers around the fabric.

“… For the tantō…”

… Oh.

It’s hard to breathe. Hard to think. It only gets harder as he asks for your help and you do, making him realize what the fabric is for.

It's a cape. Something to keep him warm, keep him somewhat safe when fighting. Something to allow for those grandiose entrances he’s been envious of Mikey for for a few weeks now. Something… to keep you close by.

He can smell you. Your scent is all over it. You’re right there in front of him, but you’re also…

Hugging him. Keeping him warm. Trying to keep him safe.

Oh. Oh no.

He thanks you. Your brittle smile as you respond nearly shatters his heart as he puts his mask back on before gathering his paperwork.

“You — You should get some sleep.”

“You should, too, Captain.”

And his own smile feels barely there at your reply, unable to help himself from sinking a little into his shell.

Your scent gets stronger. His face feels like it’s on fire. He… He wants to hold you.

He can’t. It’s too late. He fucked this up.

But maybe…

“Hey, hermosa?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? Got a problem with being called beautiful, beautiful?”

“When I haven’t taken a shower in months, yes.”

Just maybe…

“I guess my point of view counts for nothing, then.”

“… Leo…”

“Not important. Just… if this… rips. Can I come to you?”

“The people –”

“I know. I just… I want it to be you. Please.”

“… Okay.”

“Thanks… hermosa.”

Mikey was right. Maybe he can give back what he stole. ‘Cause god does he want you to have it.

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[powderrr]

The video that I made with my own hands and which I talked about last time. I liked this trend on YouTube, so I decided to do it too, even though I’m not much of an editor.

Видео которое я делала своими ручками и о котором говорила прошлый раз. Мне понравился этот тренд в Ютубе,так что я так же его решила сделать,хоть монтажер из меня такой себе.