#as she is when she tried to save them before she died

[angrenwen]

"This new villain before you was a nightmare come true. You could admit you were scared, your hands were shaking, your breaths hurt like the stab of a knife due to your broken ribs and your right knee was barely supporting you anymore after the villain had dropped a piece of concrete on it.

Under any other circumstances, you would have fled. There was no way for you to win. In the time the villain had broken your bones and made you bleed, you had landed one hit. One they hadn’t even reacted to. This was a Class A villain and you knew protocol when crossing paths with someone who far surpassed you in skill and power: Retreat, regroup and call for reinforcements.

But there were civilians behind you and you had barely kept the villain from killing bystanders so far. If you left, they would attack the city. They had proven their willingness to murder as many people as necessary for whatever plans they had. As soon as your heart stopped beating that was.

You had never felt so hopelessly weak and terrified, all without budging from your position in front of a group of high schoolers who frantically tried to get away.

The worst part, somehow, beyond the pain and fear, was the terrible, horrible knowledge that people would get hurt and die the moment the villain took you out. All you could do was buy time and shout at people to get away.

You had to blink back tears, swallowing nausea and raised your fists in front of you, even if your bleeding arm viciously protested the movement. You couldn’t win, but you could play punching bag for a little longer and hope it made a difference.

The villain lifted an unimpressed brow and raised a hand in a near lazy, unhurried motion, hurled cars at you, too fast and too many to dodge them all. Your knee buckled as you tried to duck below the first one and the second car slammed into you with the force of a truck, crushing you into the building across the street, glass shattering and raining down around you.

You couldn’t move, pinned by the car and you couldn’t breathe anymore. You managed to wrench one arm free and shove the car off, gasping for air. Dimly you were aware of lying beside one of the teenagers that had tried to run away, the girls eyes wide and so, so terrified.

You had to get up, at least one more time, for her sake.

You hoped someone would look after your dog Suzie after you died.

"Run," you forced yourself to speak, blood dripping from your mouth, the taste of sweet copper still overpoweringly strong on your tongue. You braced your good hand on the wall and used your good leg to push you up, the world swaying and tilting dangerously.

You couldn’t fight anymore, you couldn’t even walk, but you lifted your head anyway. A hero never loses their smile, you remembered the words of your teacher and you smiled at her.

"I’ll be okay," you said, though you knew she knew you were lying. "Go, run."

You couldn’t move further than this, but the villain would take another shot at you and not the girl. Even if all you wanted to do was collapse and either pass out or cry, you didn’t, because this sixteen year old girl deserved better than to be turned into a bloody pulp, left on some half destroyed sidewalk.

Your heart was pounding and panic and pain were stealing your breath away, but you stared the villain in the face and kept the smile on your face. Another hero might have had something funny or witty or impressive to say, but you were barely staying upright and your mind felt simultaneously too empty and too full.

"Pathetic," the villain drawled and as they made half the street around you float, cars and street lanterns they ripped out and shattered glass, you did the last thing you could. 

You managed to grab the girl who stood frozen beside you, tears running down her face as she stared at the villain and twisted to shield her with your body, tucking her head beneath your chin and praying it would do anything at all to save her.

The grunt of pain, the sound of metal crashing to the ground and glass tinkling, made you open your eyes and blearily look back. Silver stood behind you and the new villain was lying on the street, groaning and struggling to move. Strange cables had wrapped around them and there was the hum of something electronic.

Silver glanced back at you, his mercury eyes worried and his face grim. You had never seen him look so serious or so furious. The Silver you knew was excitable like a schoolboy when he presented his inventions and trash-talked with a grin so wide it must’ve hurt his cheeks.

"I came as fast as I could," he said and swiftly stepped up to your side, helping you sit down. "Easy, darling, it’s going to be alright." He glanced at the girl who had heavily sat down as well. "Can you call an ambulance?"

She wobbled her head in a hectic nod and Silver helped you lie down onto your back. The girl remained kneeling at your side and fumbled her phone out of her bag with trembling hands. While she dialed, Silver took off his leather jacket to fold it beneath your head.

"Careful," you rasped and he met your gaze, steady and reassuring.

"I will be," he promised. "Rest, I’m here now."

He stood up just in time for the villain to free themselves from whatever trap he had sprung on them and now they looked absolutely pissed off. Silver flexed his hands and metal slid free from his sleeves to cover his hands, soft blue light lighting up like veins.

"I’ll take care of this," he said and stalked forward, anger in every line of his body.

It was too hard to keep your head up so you let it sink back, blinking blearily and when the girl began to cry, sobbing into the phone, you offered her your good hand to hold. Her skin was ice-cold and she clung to you, trembling all over. 

"You’re okay," you rasped as she finished the call. "Deep breaths, yes, just like that."

You managed to loll your head enough to catch glimpses of the fight and you swore every time you blinked the new villain looked worse and worse, as though Silver was beating the everliving shit out of them singlehandedly. 

He had some gadgets with him you had never seen before, nothing big and clunky, no, what he had brought to this battle were smooth working, futuristic inventions. Tough armor was revealed without his jacket, weaponry you had never seen him use before, glowing knives and mini-freeze-bombs and some kind of technology in his boots that allowed him to perform large jumps and fast-forward lunges, too quick for the telekinetic powers of the villain to keep up.

The new villain was beat into the ground in no time flat and Silver tied them up before he was back at your side. He knelt down, his silver-white hair disheveled and strands had gotten free from his braid, his gaze worried and he looked unsure if he should reach out or not.

"Thanks," you managed to say. "Sorry."

"No, darling, no need for that," he answered softly, as you heard ambulance sirens close by. "They’re almost here, you’re going to be alright." He offered a smile that looked to be trembling at the corners. "You did so fucking good, you know that?"

You felt tears gather again. "Liar," you rasped, and amended, "Pretty liar."

His brows furrowed, but the ambulance arrived before he could say more and he stepped aside as the medics rushed forward. He disappeared in the fray, but the girl stayed at your side until you were loaded into the ambulance.

"You’re going to be alright," one of the medics promised, just as you started to black out.

.-.

You had gotten countless of gifts and cards during your stay in the hospital. You put smiles on your face whenever doctors and family members showed up to check on you. You recorded a message for the public once to reassure them that you were alright, make-up put on your face by your visiting cousin to ensure you looked less hellish. 

You hid your shaking hands beneath the blanket of the hospital bed and tried not to remember the feeling of your bones breaking, your blood spilling and that horrible, ugly, terrifying knowledge that you were going to die. You were going to die and condemn everyone else around you to the same fate.

You were a disgrace of a hero, if you could still call yourself that. You had thoroughly succeeded in showing the city just how incapable you were once someone stronger than you had shown up.

No one would feel safe with you patrolling anymore and you half expected to receive a polite letter informing you the position of protector had been handed to some other hero who looked for a solo gig.

Silver must have dropped by one time when you had been gone for a check-up, since there was a little mechanical flower waiting by your bedside table. If you pressed a button, it unfurled its petals, a little clunky and sometimes you needed to shake it a little so it worked again.

You found you had many questions about your nemesis. If he had such inventions at his disposal, how come you were constantly arresting him? How had he not taken over the city yet? Well, to be fair, he seemed to have no interest in being some kind of governing body, but he could force you or anyone else to bend to his demands.

You’d have to talk to Silver to get those answers, but the very idea of having to fight now send a spear of ice down your spine. You were scared. You were so fucking scared since that beatdown from the telekinetic villain you either felt disgusted by yourself or had to breathe through a panic attack.

The day you were released you donned your civilian disguise and went home to pick Suzie up from your neighbor who had looked after her during your absence.

"I’m so glad to see you recovered, dear," the stocky woman said. "I was so worried when I heard you were involved in a car crash. I’ll bring you some food later, so take it easy and don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you, Mrs. Fin, that’s very kind," you answered with a weak but grateful little smile. Suzie was losing her shit, she was so happy to see you again she nearly became a kangaroo in order to reach your face for kisses.

You said your goodbyes and went back home for the first time in weeks. The air smelled stale, but Mrs. Fin and her wife must’ve looked after the place since it was clean and no food was rotting in your fridge or your fruit bowl.

You slowly, carefully, sat down on the couch and Suzie was immediately hopping up, her tail wagging so hard her little body shook. You hugged her and pressed your face into her fur, suddenly so deeply grateful that you got to go home. That you got to hold her again.

It was this thought that made you break down crying, all the repressed emotions welling to the surface, like murky silt getting churned up to cloud water.

You remained there for some time, curled up on the couch with Suzie licking your face and tucking her little head into the crook of your neck, warm and soft and alive.

The city returned your hero suit to you a week later, freshly washed and perfectly repaired. Your smile felt like cracked glass on your face as you accepted the package from the delivery man. You dropped the box onto the kitchen table and stared at it for a long time, torn between longing and dread.

In the end you shoved it into the closet. You weren’t allowed to return to active duty yet anyway and the hero association had sent a substitute for the time being.

Silver, to your surprise and confusion, was very quiet, for he hadn’t shown up with a single invention since your hospitalization. At first you thought it was because he wanted a fair fight and you were still hurt, but that didn’t explain why he wasn’t challenging the substitute hero. He had claimed this city as his home as much as you had, so why wasn’t he testing the new guy?

It was pure coincidence that you ran into him a few days later while walking Suzie. You had taken a shortcut, hood up to hide your face just in case there was someone who might recognize you out of costume, when he emerged from a dumpster with a triumphant noise.

Silver was easy to recognize, mainly because he had never bothered with a mask and his hair and eyes were hardly inconspicuous. He was, for some reason, carrying an armful of used, broken shoes. You stared at each other in silence for a long moment.

"I can totally explain," Silver said and you absolutely believed him. He probably needed those shoes for some kind of new invention, the only question was which one.

The thought of fighting immediately made dread draw tight around your lungs, your fingers gripping Suzie’s leash hard.

"So, fancy meeting you here," Silver said, leaning against the dumpster in a may that might have been suave if, well, it hadn’t been a dumpster and he didn’t carry old, dirty shoes. He smiled, batting his lashes. "Come here often?"

That made you huff softly, cracking a brief smile. "Don’t you know alley meetings are lit, as the kids say?"

Silver blinked, then laughed, the sort of throaty, carefree laugh of true amusement. "Oh no, you sounded so old!" Suzie yipped and his eyes brightened. "And who is this gorgeous little fluff-ball?"

"Suzie," you answered and after a second, you tacked on, "You can pet her."

Silver was out of the dumpster in record time, shoes shuffled to be squeezed beneath one arm so he had the other hand free to hold it out to Suzie. Your little dog decided she found him acceptable and he was allowed to touch her. Silver was cooing softly as he pet her carefully, smiling softly.

"You’ve been quiet," you found yourself saying. "No new schemes cooking up in your lair?"

Silver hummed and smirked up at you. "Of course, my next invention is going to kick ass after all and that needs some time, you know?"

You didn’t know how to voice the thoughts muddling around your mind like drunk, bouncing balls. How he had defeated that villain but somehow lost against you time and time again. How the tools he had brought to that fight had been so different to the inventions he brought to your battles.

All you could think was that he didn’t take you seriously and was having fun at your expense and you simply had been too dumb to notice it until now.

"You look tired," Silver said quietly, scratching Suzie behind the ear. "Are you recovering well?"

You had no idea how to tell him that you were scared to go patrolling, that you felt like a useless poser and utterly unnecessary. That you waited for the hero association to demote you to a little town no villain was interested in. Aside from that, though, you were healing fine. 

When you didn’t say anything, Silver looked up, his expression was solemn and serious.

"It’s okay if you’re not alright, you know that, yes?" he asked and you bit down on your lower lip to keep your expression in check. He rose from his crouch, adjusting the shoes beneath his arm. "I know that sort of advice sounds like shit when it doesn’t feel true, but what happened was scary. No one would blame you for needing some time off."

He shrugged and gestured vaguely towards the rooftops where the substitute liked to patrol. "The new guy’s alright enough to keep the peace, I guess."

"Why don’t you fight him?" you couldn’t help but ask. "You like fights."

Silver was quiet for a moment, his face giving nothing away. Then he sighed softly and brushed back a stray strand of hair, only to grimace when he briefly smelled his own palm, holding his recently dumpster-rooting hand away from himself.

"I like fighting you," he said. "I don’t care about the new guy."

"Why?" It felt like there was a bit of a disconnect between yourself and your mouth and words were clumsily tumbling out. You had to know what he really thought about you, though. "I’m hardly a good opponent -"

"You are," he protested so sharply your mouth clicked shut. He looked at you, mercury eyes strangely captivating in their earnestness. "You’re not a failure for losing. We all meet someone stronger than us one day, someone who is the perfect kryptonite to our abilities or fighting style."

Your face must have given your troubling thoughts away, because Silver’s expression gentled and his eyes were deeply understanding.

"Do you know that everyone talks about how well you protected the civilians?" he asked and, no, you hadn’t known. You had avoided any and all news entirely since the fight, scared of what people might say and hating how cowardly you were acting.

"Not a single civilian got hurt when a Class A supervillain showed up," Silver continued. "They talk about your bravery and your cool-headedness." He smiled, warm and honest. "They’re all worried for you, hoping you’ll return soon."

"Oh." Your voice was soft and you felt surprised and yet, something deep down within you felt like it took its first proper breath in too long. People still wanted you. People still trusted you.

"Why haven’t you beaten me yet?" you asked, a question that had bounced around your head whenever you had lain awake after a nightmare.

He fiddled with the shoes in his grasp, for once avoiding your gaze for a moment. "I don’t like using those inventions you saw me use," he said softly. "I occasionally make things to get the shit out of my head, but it’s for emergencies. I don’t like making things that kill. I’m a villain and I’m proud of that, but I’m not vile."

That was true. Since the day he first showed up to challenge you, he had never endangered a civilian. There had been a few near-accidents, but he’d always either stopped to let you help or had actively helped you usher some moronic teenager out of the way, scolding them in a way that strangely enough reminded you of an angry goose.

"I’ve been in a fight like you have been too," Silver said out of nowhere. "Back when I debuted in another city, Terra beat me and I had to stay in the hospital for nearly a year to recover. After I managed to get away, I, well, I stayed hidden for a while."

You knew of Terra, of course you did. She was the hero of Mossville, a massive city a state over and she was one of the big league heroes, single-handedly keeping her city villain free since claiming it. The villains had nicknamed her Terror for her ruthless, violent response to anyone threatening her home. You had heard a rumor that a number of villains had been so severely injured during battle they had ended up paralyzed or were otherwise unable to ever work in their chosen career again.

Silver shrugged again, but this time it was a little tense and not as nonchalant as he tried to make it look. "I was a bit messed up for a while. And as I said, I don’t want to kill and I don’t really want to hurt people either. What I want, what I love, is the thrill of knowing I can be creative and someone else will meet me step for step." 

His he smiled again, charming and a little lopsided. "I love fighting you, because I know you’ll actually let me do my thing. Because you treat my inventions with respect, because you never even think about kicking someone who’s down."

You blinked in surprise. You knew that Silver loved his intentions, it was obvious in the way he spoke to them when they stuttered and glitched at times. Now that he mentioned it, you remembered your first fight with him, how he had craned his head to stare back at you as the police led him away, the worry lurking in his eyes. How they had widened when you had ordered for the walking ball of Crazy Kung-Fu, as he had named it, to be confiscated instead of destroyed.

His inventions all disappeared the same day he escaped prison, of course, but it had never crossed your mind to smash them to pieces. Or to hit him when he had already surrendered.

Silver offered a small, soft smile. "I know nothing bad will ever happen to me or even my inventions when we fight. You never break more than you have to and no matter how cleverly I hide dead-switches and weak-points, you always find them so fast. It’s so much fun to fight you. I don’t have to second-guess anything or worry about losing, because I’m, well, I’m safe with you."

You couldn’t help but stare and he coughed, suddenly looking a little awkward. "So, you know, let me know of any new triggers and I’ll be mindful of my actions." At your dumbfound expression he shrugged a little. "You hate it when I use my inventions anywhere near animals or children."

Oh. That was true. You remembered the time he had set loose a pack of robo-bunnies beside a pet-shop and you had been upset during that fight, taking the asphalt- and electronics-devouring metal-bunnies out as fast as possible. He hadn’t even bantered with you back then and instead had looked a little startled and then every solemn and kind of apologetic.

"I’m scared," the words sounded chocked as you spoke and shame was hot on their heels. You stared at the wall over Silver’s shoulder, resisting the urge to turn tail and run. What a hero you were, crying and sniffling after one near-death encounter. In front of your personal nemesis no less.

Silver was quiet, then suddenly snapped his fingers, making you startle. "I know just the thing! Give me a month and I’ll let you know where to meet me."

With those words he turned around and bustled away with an air of great importance and you were too dumbfound to stop him.

Right up until you realized he had no way of contacting you and you had to hurry after him to exchange phone numbers. He smiled in a utterly dazzling manner, holding his phone close and promising that he’d never misuse your trust.

You knew villains usually weren’t to be trusted, but this was Silver, your nemesis. The man who knew you better than anyone else and, well, if he was safe with you, then maybe you were safe with him, too.

.-.

A month later, after the doctor declared you were healthy enough to train again so you could return to active duty, Silver texted you an address.

You found yourself standing in front of a shady looking factory and the only reason you weren’t getting worried was Silver himself, who had poked his head out the front door and was waving you in.

He let you into the entrance hall, bouncing a little on his heels and grinning from ear to ear. He looked as excited as he did whenever he had come up with some particularly fun inventions.

"This way," he said, leading you down the hall towards the production hall. Or the hall where a production line once had been, before everything had gotten dismantled and Silver had gotten his hands on the building.

You had to fight to keep your mouth closed as you looked at a training parkour so grand it would have made the entirety of the hero association jealous.

"I made as many simulations as I could come up with," Silver said, showing you the multitude of settings on a tablet. Numerous ways to train your endurance and strength and to fight against robots and machinery. "I may have hacked my way into some databanks and looked up the abilities of other villains to simulate them as much as possible."

"All this, for me?" you choked out, turning to stare at him, awed and wide-eyed.

His smile became soft and understanding. "After I lost to Terra I trained relentlessly to regain a sense of safety. It helped me to feel better prepared, I thought it might help you as well. If you find anything lacking, let me know and I’ll build it."

He held the tablet out with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. You reached back to take it and he shuffled a step closer to point at the settings again, rambling over how you could go wild, things were build to endure and be resistant and he’d fix anything that broke during training.

"Well, I’ll leave you to it and go back to my business." He suddenly pointed a stern finger at you. "Do not go towards the back of the factory, I really don’t want to spoil the surprise for when you’re read to fight me again."

You couldn’t help but smile a little. "Alright, I won’t." He turned to leave, a spring in his step, when you spoke up again, "Silver? Thank you."

"Of course, darling," he said, warm and unexpectedly sweet. "You’re my nemesis, after all."

Part Two"

Your supervillain nemesis is little more than goofy comedy relief, always coming up with clunky machines and insane, nonsensical schemes. When a new dangerous villain appeared, your nemesis utterly destroyed them, and then continued on like nothing happened.

[twilightkitkat]

What makes this Logan the "Worst Wolverine"?

There are versions of him who are "worse" in different ways. Some of them failed not just to save the X-men, but to save the world. Some let down everyone around them more harshly than he ever did. Some were objectively less "good" than him. So what separates him from the rest?

One of the biggest factors is regret.

Regret is one of the most crucial parts of Logan's character. It's the whole reason he's called the "Worst" Wolverine to begin with. It's the cause of his depression, the big hurdle he needs to overcome, a primary motivator for him.

But all variations of Wolverine experience regret, so what makes Worst Wolverine in particular so special? Why is he called the "Worst" Wolverine when there are other variants who have "failed" the X-men? When there are other versions who aren't good people? When almost all of them are burdened by remorse?

I think, firstly, it's important to clarify the depth of Logan's regret. He isn't just regretting the X-men's deaths. He isn't just regretting his inability to prevent it. He isn't just regretting the way he reacted to their deaths, how he rampaged and let his anger funnel into destruction.

He isn't just mourning what he lost, he's mourning what he could've had.

Because in his world, he never really had the X-men. They existed and he occasionally worked alongside them, and clearly got close enough for them to want him to join, but he never belonged to them. He never took them on their offer. He never became a part of their team. He never wore that suit. He never accepted them as his family.

Before they died, he was on rocky terms with them. They cared, and they knew he cared to some extent, but that was it. Logan cared enough to show up but not to stay. He was so terrified of commitment and letting people in that he hid away from his troubles with alcohol.

They died without ever knowing that he really cared. They never had the chance to learn the depths of his feelings or yearning to be part of their family even if it scared him. They died with the memory of him as a closed-off, reclusive, alcoholic bastard.

And Logan has to live with that. Live with the knowledge that that's the last impression he left, the image that flashed before their eyes as he died.

Logan has lost the X-men in several universes. In the main movie timeline, in which he was regarded as a hero, he still lost them. There still was "more" he could've done to save them. He could've stopped Scott from his self-destructive spiral or gone with him. He could've reached Jean before she was too far gone and beyond saving. He lives with the regret of knowing he could've done more for them, that if he'd just acted a little differently they might still be there.

But at least he had them. At least, while they were alive, he was honest about his feelings. Even Scott knew he cared, in a fucked-up way. Logan had joined the X-men and saved Scott in return and even tried to hold impromptu interventions after Jean's death. In hindsight, Logan could've done more, but in the moment he acted the best he could with the knowledge he was given.

But Worst Wolverine didn't even do that. He didn't fail them while he was doing the best he could over a blind spot. He failed them because he deliberately chose not to try. He chose not to get closer. He chose not to do more, knowing full well that they wanted him to be more involved. He chose a path of willful ignorance and denial and never had the chance to confront his feelings. Not until he was hit with them full force as he realized the magnitude of what he'd lost.

He never took the chance to get to know them. To become Scott's rival-friend or Jean's almost-lover. He never became a paternal figure to Rogue, never became a confidant to Storm. He can't look back on the "good times" because he didn't have any. He prevented them from happening.

He has no memories to comfort himself with. He has no past to cling to. He can't claim to have lost his family because it never existed. He has to confront the weight of his feelings and the fact that they never were realized all at once. He has to reconcile with how he never took the chance while they were alive, and now it's gone. He has to live with the knowledge that he could've had what he wanted, even for a little bit, if he wasn't such a pathetic fucking coward. That it would be better to at least have something other than the weight of the what-ifs and could-have-beens.

(He has to live with the fact that they never knew. They never knew he cared. He never told them. He could've at least given them a crumb of affection, any hint that he cared. They died thinking he'd move on without a second thought.)

One of Logan's "key" character traits is that he isn't afraid to take what he wants. That he's single-minded and purpose-driven. That he's open about his emotions and pursues his goals by throwing himself into them wholeheartedly.

Succeeding at this is what makes a "good" Wolverine. It isn't necessarily about morality or even power, it's about the ability to chase what he wants and obtain it.

This is what makes our Logan the "worst" Wolverine. He knew what he wanted but never pursued it. He gave up before he even started, distancing himself from the X-men so that they couldn't hurt him.

Wolverine is meant to represent a man who never gives up. Who pushes through pain and hardship with unsheathed claws and gnashing teeth. Who refuses to lose. He's meant to be the image of perseverance: someone who throws aside regard for his own well-being to protect those he cares about and achieve his goals. He's always been scared, terrified even, but he doesn't let that stop him. He rises up to that fear and spits in its face.

He was supposed to be a symbol of bravery. Of courage. Of being true to yourself and fighting for what you believe in even if it's hard. Of being gruff and sometimes mean but painfully honest and willing to do what's needed for the sake of his team and the world.

But "Worst" Wolverine isn't like that. He let his fear control him. He acted the opposite of what made Wolverine special. He isn't the worst because he's evil, or even because of the deaths he's caused. Some versions were more morally grey and mean and fucked up.

He's the worst because he didn't have the strength to keep going. Because he gave up too soon and it cost him a family he never really had. Because he didn't go down with a fight, he just laid down on the ground in a puddle of alcohol and let it swallow him whole.

He's the worst because he went against everything he stood for. He never pushed, never tried, never suffered for the sake of what he believed in. He just suffered without purpose. Sometimes on purpose. He had no reason for living, nothing to belong to, and nothing to strive for.

This is why he was considered the "Worst" Wolverine.

And this is why, at the climax of the movie, Wade called him the "Best" Wolverine.

Because Logan was no longer aimlessly floating without a purpose. He stopped running away from his problems and feelings. He looked Cassandra dead in the eye as she offered him the "easy way out" that he'd always taken before and refused it. He laughed as Wade captured her even if it took away his only chance to silence the voices in his head because he no longer wanted that.

He didn't want to keep living in the past, he wanted to finally fucking fight for something. For his future. (He wanted to finally fight not just because he had no other option. Not just needless violence. Not just because he didn't know anything else. But because he had a purpose. Something that he wanted and that he'd try to pursue.

He finally found a purpose. Something to believe in. Something he'd fight for. Live for. Die for. So when he finally was willing to sacrifice himself, even if he didn't, he achieved the crux of what "Wolverine" is meant to be. Someone willing to do and endure anything to protect what he cares about. Someone willing to do the impossible to reach his goal. Someone willing to die for his family.

Wade helped him become the "Best" Wolverine because he gave him what he'd always been looking for: a home.

[bennie-jerry]

My Beef with Wanda Maximoff - An MCU Rant

Sorry not sorry, I will ride the Wanda-ain't-shiitake train till the wheels are worn out. I do not care what her fangirls say. And if you're legitimately going to be so overly offended just from me disliking a FICTIONAL character, I highly suggest you click off, make some tea, and watch a Ghibli movie.

How many times does it need to be said? Just because someone suffers from some form of (small or big) trauma, IT DOESN’T GIVE THEM A PASS TO DO EVIL SH—

I really REALLY sincerely hope there's lore or bits I'm missing here (and if so, PLEASE tell me because I WANT to be wrong so BAD). But from what I know and remember, I feel as though I have every right to be disgusted with who Wanda is as a person.

It frustrates me so much how this carmine-colored narcissist will whine about people being scared of her, but she does stuff only a scary person WOULD do.

Purposefully setting the Hulk off so you could use him as a wrecking ball on innocent civilians in Johannesburg during Age of Ultron? Seems scary as heck.

Literally warping the universe itself to hunt and kill a teenager who did nothing to you during Multiverse of Madness? Seems scary as heck.

Brainwashing an ENTIRE town JUST so you can live in delusion about your man not being dead during Wandavision? Seems DOUBLE scary as heck.

Don't even try to defend what she did in Age of Ultron. Even if she supposedly didn't INTEND to have civilians killed, she sure as HECK didn't seem all too sorry that it happened. She wasn't ‘regretful’ that she did it. She was only ‘regretful' when Bruce confronted her on it. She has the nerve (the utter AUDACITY) to hate Tony Stark for the same CRAP that she does (if not worse, which let's be honest—it’s worse).

At least Tony Stark DIED out of an effort to save everyone, whereas Wanda usually tends to only help others when it benefits HER.

Wanda is nothing more than a Multiversal brat with a god-complex and no one can tell me otherwise. If something does not go 100% her way, she completely acts out and throws a reality-warping tantrum.

“Oh, but she tried to fix everything in Wandavision!”

Yeah, only after finding out she was BRAINWASHING people!

How the FREAK do you reality warp an ENTIRE town (especially at the large radius she used her magic) and expect NO one to be under mind control? Would you NOT try to fly around the premises to see if ANYONE else was there?

Once again, even if this was an example where she didn't INTEND for it to happen, then that proves another great flaw that she has.

Wanda hardly (if ever) thinks through her actions. And then when her actions bite her in the butt, she has the nerve to be surprised. Wanda almost never (and I'm being generous here) considers how her actions harm or affect others until it turns around and affects HER.

She did not deserve Vision, he was too good of a man for her, sorry not sorry.

Just the stuff she did even BEFORE Multiverse of Madness is enough to not like her.

Let's not even get into the fact she never ACTUALLY apologized to Bruce Banner for everything she put him through. All she said at most when he confronted her is, “I know you're angry…”

Oh wow, REALLY? I couldn't POSSIBLY understand why Banner would EVER be angry at you for essentially brain-raping him (going into his mind and memories without his CONSENT) and using his worst fears against him to trigger Hulk so you could use him like a personal killing machine, further lessening the very few support systems he already HAD. She should feel grateful Banner immediately didn't throw her through a wall upon seeing her.

“But she became an avenger and helped them in Endgame!”

I could not give less of a DOOKIE about the fact she did that. Wanda fighting Thanos was literally the ONLY option she possibly had if she didn't wanna turn into dust along with the other half of the population. Sure, she also did it because she was forced to kill her boo BECAUSE of Thanos, but let's be honest—she would've had to fight him regardless. Her handing Thanos’ butt to him (while a very cool scene) doesn't prove JACK about her character.

The fact she ever BECAME an avenger after effectively traumatizing the MAJORITY of them is mind-boggling to me.

“Oh, I'm sorry I weaponized all of your traumas against you for my own personal gain because I wanted to work with a genocidal robot, can I join you guys?”

“Sure, Wanda! Come into the team and we'll pretend like you didn't do a darn thing!”

(The fact this isn't even ALL that she's done is absurd, I can still keep going—)

Don't even get me STARTED on Multiverse of Madness. And before anyone tries to say, “She did it so she could have a reality with her children!”

BRO, HER KIDS WEREN'T EVEN FREAKING REAL—

Wanda Freaking Maximoff wanted to murder a TEENAGER all for some children that were not even ACTUAL people. And when she did have them, didn't she make them FIGHT against the military in Wandavision or am I mistaken (which I VERY MUCH hope I am because what the he---)?

I do not care whatsoever what her reason is or what trauma she went through. Attempted murder of a minor (ESPECIALLY in this case, a minor who didn't even do anything) is inexcusable to me.

There is no way in frog fingers you guys are ACTUALLY trying to justify and/or downplay a grown ADULT trying to murder a CHILD (because that's what America was—a CHILD).

(Her and Miguel O'Hara would get along GREAT, when's the collab--)

And by then, she had ALREADY brutally murdered a whole bunch of people and probably corrupted the multiverse even FURTHER than she already had.

It wasn't until an ALTERNATE version of her (who ACTUALLY had her kids) told her to sit the [BLEEP] down (I'm paraphrasing here, but you get my drift).

Wanda is NOT a victim.

Is she a good villain? Yes.

But this witch isn't a victim. Not anymore at least.

She doesn't apologize for her actions. She doesn't take responsibility.

She doesn't reflect on what she does.

And even when she DOES finally do ANY of those things in ANY capacity, the damage is already done. In fact, it's not JUST done, it's also BURNT inside the oven causing smoke to go everywhere.

There is no rhyme or reason you could pull out that will convince me to be anything short of angry with this character and I'm so tired of her fans trying to defend her just because she was a lab rat and lost her man.

Once again, it's not bad to like a character that does awful stuff. But please, for sanity sake, STOP acting like they're a lost little angel BECAUSE you like them. I know they say "hurt people hurt people" but that still doesn't justify doing bad stuff just because bad things happened to YOU.

[ladsofsorrow24]

i think some of you are too used to genre conventions, you guys forgot to question the worldbuilding that many authors painstakingly made to question the subject of death and life in a more nuanced manner than just "wow resurrection is so romantic!"

[socksandbuttons]

oh i read this fanfiction!

[purplelea]

Twewy native Pre week 2 neku and kh1 Riku would be the most toxic friend group ever

I had to specify neku as twewy native because in dream drop josh straight up said they all died and that's why they got sent to traverse town. But given his lines it's clear he's at least past peak asshole neku.

Thoughts?

OH YEAH VERY TRUE. but actually I don't even think they'd be friends, if that makes sense. Riku needs someone kind who looks up to him (like Sora and Kairi), and Neku pre-twewy... isn't that. Neku on the other hands needs people he can relate to and who share his worldviews (ex: how he got along with Joshua in week 2 and was able to have many interesting discussions with him despite, yknow, thinking Joshua murdered him). So it wouldn't actually work if there was only the two of them: Riku doesn't share Neku's values of shutting himself from people because he's scared of getting hurt & hurting them. And Neku only looks up to CAT.

[chryzuree]

alrighty, since i’m thinking abt those early 2010s tv shows, im banging my pans wildly and chanting CHRYSIJACKS HAVEN AU at the top of my lungs!!!

[tragicblondie]

thinking about the ending of dragon age 2 as a mage hawke who sided with the mages at the end of the fifth blight, the warden defeats the archdemon and saves ferelden. they are paraded through denerim to the sounds of cheering crowds. if they don't survive, their memory lives on in a tale of great heroism and sacrifice for years to come. the inquisitor celebrates at skyhold with the rest of their companions after they beat corypheus, the threat finally ended, the inquisition a success.

but not hawke. you can fight with everything you have to support the mages, but there is no grand fanfare when it is over. the villain succumbs to corruption and dies unceremoniously - you don’t even get the satisfaction of striking the killing blow. you can’t get a round at the hanged man to celebrate. it’s time to go. you and your friends can never sit around your table at the hanged man again. you can’t be seen here when the templars come to clean up the mess. nothing will be the same. you have given seven years of your life trying to hold kirkwall together, accepted your accolades and played the part of champion, and you watch it fall apart anyway. and how much of that is your fault? this city has been stained in your blood since before you could remember, since before the blood was your own.

you lost your sister when you lost your first home. even so, you tried to live by the advice you gave fenris - when you stop running, you build a life. the estate that you clawed your family back into stands looming and empty. it is the last place you saw your mother alive, and you still can't bear to touch her things, and you will never even see her room again. bodahn and sandal are making preparations to leave for orlais, orana will find other work with the skills she's learned, and the house will remain, a hollow testament to your family's legacy. gamlen will hear only the stories. your brother fought by your side when it mattered, despite everything. even so, he will stay behind, and you might never see him again.

no, there is no time for a celebration. instead you get a cautious acknowledgement from the templars, a tense goodbye, and then you can never go home again. for the second time. you thought you could build a life, and you tried. you held on as long as you could, you made friends, you fell in love, you clung to the last vestiges of your family, but most of them will be forced to leave your side anyway. you won, but even that wasn't enough.

[deadsetobsessions]

Alley Drunk! Danny AU- Part 1

[Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4]

To not turn into a giant raging asshole hell bent on murdering people and destroying the world after everyone he loved died, Danny had ran from Amity with his chosen vice.

A bottle. That’s right. Even after Jazz’s talks about alcoholism as a poor coping mechanism as a form of self harm, he still chose alcohol. Or maybe that’s why he picked it, because it reminded him of her, right before the booze took the sting of grief off of her memory. He was never really all that good at listening to Jazz.

And now she’s gone, so it’s moot point. Danny really hated Nasty Burger.

Danny made it all the way to Gotham, bottle constantly glued to his hand. It’s better than Vlad’s creep-o-self looming over him all of the time. He bummed out on the streets, fitting into crime alley like a native. Danny learned to pickpocket. Not much, just enough for a bottle when his ran out. He stayed human. At first he tried to convince himself that it was because he didn’t want to be perceived as a meta in a city where Batman notoriously disliked metas. Then, as he sunk deeper, he admitted to himself in a shameful curl of a whisper that it was really because alcohol affected his human side much easier.

Ghosts need an ungodly amount of alcohol to even get slightly buzzed. Danny’s human side? Only one full bottle the shittiest tequila he could find could even hope to be more than buzzed. It sucked.

He’s spent two years being an alcoholic that didn’t actually get that drunk. Technically, underage drinking was a crime. But then again, so was being a vigilante ghost. So, whatever. He does what he can to dull the grief. Mostly, he slept on covered and hidden nooks on top of Crime Alley’s roofs. Gotham city had taken pity on him and cleared her smog clouds when he was awake at night. Stargazing helped, at least. It gave him a little hope. It gave him a little wish to change and better and live like he wants. But then the night ends and when the day comes, Jazz isn’t there. Sam isn’t there. Tucker isn’t there. His mom and dad are not there.

Danny always went back to the bottle, in the end. Not that it did much.

Which was why, when he saw three looming figures over a tiny child, Danny’s saving people thing flared with a vengeance and his surprised ectoplasm burned what little buzz he had achieved by downing most of the bottle away, leaving him stone cold sober and pissed.

Danny sighed, dumping the rest of the nasty tasting liquid out. There’s no point drinking that little.

He approached the trio, who were beating up an actual child. Ancients, he hated Crime Alley sometimes.

“Give me your shit, you little punk!” Asshole 1 decided to say like a typical mugger, raising his leg to kick the curled up kid below. Danny doesn’t let him land the kick, smashing the bottle on the asshole’s head before any of them clocked his presence. He pivots, pushing a bit of that extra strength he normally keeps on a tight leash into his hands, and punched the other two in a quick fashion, knocking them out.

With that taken care of, Danny turned back to the kid who was still curled up. Danny sighed again, the trembles in small shoulders plucking on his heartstrings.

“You okay, kid?”

The kid uncurls, and Danny stared. Holy shit, is he looking into a mirror? Blue eyes, black hair, and tanned skin. Holy shit, he’s even got similar jaws to Danny.

“Huh.”

The kid flinched.

“Y-y’er the drunk,” the kid flinched again, eyes darting to the broken bottle still clenched in Danny’s hand. “I- I ain’t got money, honest. Please-”

Danny blinked down at the kid, brain connecting the dots after so long without actual interaction. He’s panicking and staring at the bottle in Danny’s hand like it’ll kill him. Danny raised the bottle and the kid closed his mouth with a click, terror worming its way into the kid’s eyes.

“I wasn’t going to mug you myself, kid.”

“But- y’er the- the Alley drunk.”

Danny blinked. Did he get a reputation without knowing again? Goddammit.

“I guess. Am I famous or somethin’?”

“Nobody- nobody fucks wit’ ya.”

“I also don’t hurt kids.”

“…”

The kid stared at him dubiously and with a sinking feeling, Danny realized that maybe the kid already had some terrible experiences with a heavy drunken hand. He promptly chucks the bottle further into the alley.

“I drink, yes. But I’m also not the kind of scum that would lay hands on a kid, let alone anyone that didn’t provoke it first.”

“Oh.” The kid uncurled more, looking at Danny warily, more at ease now that the bottle has left the chat.

“Yeah. I’m Danny. Stone cold sober, right now.”

“…”

Danny waited.

“Peters.”

“Okay. Peters, do you wanna take their shit?” Danny pointed a thumb at the knocked out would-be-muggers behind him.

“Y… yeah, sure. What’s my cut?”

“All of it.”

Peters stared.

Danny shrugged and started looting.

"Y'er so fuckin' weird."

----

See, the thing is, Danny hadn't anticipated saving Peters- "'s actually Jason"- would result in having a duckling following him around. The kid, Jason, glared at everyone who even looked at them wrong. But that's not the problem, because Danny could take anyone who took issue with Jason's looks, it's more like there's a child following him around now and Danny doesn't want to be the reason Jason turns into an alcoholic. It's- well, it made him cut down on the drinking. He even got jobs- legitimate jobs that sucks out his his poor ectoplasmic soul.

Why? Because Jason's apparently homeless. While that's something Danny's okay with for himself, he can't ever condone that for an actual child. Jason's walking around in threadbare clothes and thin soled shoes in the middle of Fall, for Ancient's sake.

Danny grumbles as he piled a bunch of clothes into the shopping bag as he checked out. Gotham's Walmart is a different kind of hell, but Danny feels right at home.

Sure, the work might suck out his soul and he might hate being sober, but Jason's face every time he comes home to an actual place to live, warm clothes, and food was worth everything.

[thelostconsultant]

Not a gold digger

pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

summary: Fans think you only want Max's money. But as it turns out, you were wealthy before he came into your life--you just don't make it obvious.

warnings: No smut, but there's a part that makes me say MDNI.

note: So... I'm kinda back? Idk, I'll see if I'll stick around.

The toxicity of the fandom was becoming quite entertaining, really. It was the third time since you and Max had made your relationship public half a year ago that someone started an anti gold digger campaign to protect your boyfriend. They truly believed they were doing this for a greater good, and they all begged Max for his attention.

It always began after they sniffed out he had given you something expensive as a gift or took you shopping to a luxury boutique. While there were some people who tried to protect you by pointing out that maybe he enjoyed showering you with gifts, the rest didn't care about that. 

You lived in a small apartment back home, you were driving a five years old Renault SUV, and no one knew what you did for a living. This was enough to enrage them and make them believe all you wanted was Max's money at the end of the day. Just think about the way she's looking at him, one of them wrote about two months ago, she's so clearly not in love with him. Poor Max, someone please save him. 

Ridiculous.

“Is everything okay?” he asked when he got home and kissed the top of your head. 

You were sitting in his sim rig, using the time while it was free to practice, because you wanted to play with him when you weren't here together, and he was more than happy to show you the basics. “Someone started another campaign to cancel me,” you replied casually as you got out with his help. 

Even when you were standing in front of him, he didn't let go of your hand, instead he raised it to his lips to place a soft kiss on its back. “Gold digging?” You nodded with a sad look on your face, but less than five seconds later you were both laughing. “Look, I know you're having way too much fun with this, but–”

Without waiting for him to finish, you raised your hand to make him stop. “I'm not stepping out of the shadows, Max. I've been hiding for years, even fucking Forbes doesn't know my real name or face,” you told him.

Back in the old days, when Bitcoin appeared, your geeky uncle had gotten into mining and trading it. He knew the potential, so he put most of his savings into buying them, then he held onto them, and by the time he got sick years later, he knew they were valuable and would be worth a lot more in the upcoming years. In his will, he left his savings and his wallet to you, giving you the chance to use them as you wished since you had learned everything about crypto from him.

So now you had Bitcoin as well as old fashioned investments, and you had used your money to help out an up-and-coming tech company for a forty percent share, and it was later sold to a tech giant for a lot of money. But despite your wealth, you chose to stay under the radar, because you loved your small apartment, and you weren't about to trade it for some fancy penthouse. 

You had met Max the year before in Las Vegas. F1 was a sport you watched with your uncle while he was still alive, and you were hell-bent on getting a VIP pass for the weekend. If you asked your boyfriend, he would say it was love at first sight, but in reality he was just annoyed by you. For a solid ten seconds, he would correct you every time you talked about it.

You agreed that you would hide in Max's apartment until this latest campaign died down, which gave you some time to spend together in peace. Every now and then you checked the tags to see how things were going, and after the silence of the past few days, today your name was trending again. Ready to have a good laugh, you opened the tag, but the most popular post gave you a minor stroke.

“Oh, fuck me,” you yelled as you launched your phone into the couch.

Max pulled the headset down to his neck as he looked over at you. “Is everything okay?” You raised your finger to your lips as if you wanted him to stay quiet, but luckily he got the message. “I'm muted. So?”

You grabbed your phone and went over to him. “They know. One of those idiots from the company I helped back in the day posted a tweet to protect me, saying that if it wasn't for me being an angel investor, they wouldn't be millionaires now,” you summarized as you gave him the device.

He scrolled through a series of tweets, and found a post from a journalist of Forbes in which he promised a proper investigative piece based on this info. He handed you the phone, then wrapped an arm around your waist. “It's okay, schatje. I know that's not what you wanted, but maybe they'll stop with the recurring hate campaign now,” he tried. “And if you’re worried about the article… Don’t be. There is nothing compromising about you. Yes, you inherited the money, but you have proven you know what to do with it.”

“Maybe you’re right,” you admitted with a sigh. 

“I’m usually right. C’mere,” he said as he reached out to pull you closer, but you glanced over at the camera. Rolling his eyes, he quickly turned it off, then gave you an expectant look. “Will you hug me now? And I want a kiss too.”

With a laugh, you leaned down to wrap your arms around his neck and gave him a soft kiss. But he wanted more, his hand slowly sneaked under your shorts, his fingers running over your clothed cunt before he decided to pull your panties aside and dip a finger between your folds. You moaned into the kiss, but he pulled away a second later to lick his finger clean. 

Shaking your head with a chuckle, you patted his shoulder and walked back to the couch. You could feel Max’s eyes on you the whole time, and when you looked at him again, he flashed a devilish smile at you. “I should quit the stream. Now that I had a taste, I want more,” he told you. 

“I’m not going anywhere, just try to be patient.”

He looked back at the screen, then put the headset back on his head and unmuted his mic. “Sorry, I have to go. See you next time,” he told the others, then logged out. You couldn’t remember the last time he left the sim rig this fast, and only a few seconds later he was kneeling in front of you, eagerly reaching up to pull your shorts off you.

liked by user1, user2 and 947,896 others

f1gossips: Breaking news! Turns out Max Verstappen's girlfriend isn't a gold digger after all as she has her own fortune according to the investigative article published by Forbes. Will the fans apologize?

view all comments

user2: And here I was, thinking she's just a greedy airhead...

user3: Easy to be wealthy with your uncle's money.

↳ user4: Have you read the whole thing? She invested the money and helped out several startups--that later became pretty successful--as an angel investor. Yes, maybe she inherited a lot of money, but she knows what to do with it.

↳ user5: May I remind you how many F1 drivers started their careers with their families's money?

user6: Told you she wasn't a gold digger. Suck it, haters.

liked by yourusername, landonorris and 1,577,353 others

maxverstappen1: If you don't buy your girlfriend gifts every once in a while, you're a bad boyfriend. I love to spoil her, it's not a crime. I love her, I'm proud of her, and you can send us as much hate as you want, it will only make us stronger.

tagged: yourusername

view all comments

yourusername: I'd be perfectly fine without the gifts, I already told you.

↳ maxverstappen1: I don't care.

landonorris: You're absolutely right!

↳ maxverstappen1: You're single, how would you know?

↳ landonorris: Just FYI, I've been in relationships before.

danielricciardo: You're so disgustingly smitten with her. (I love you both.)

[reidrum]

if you keep asking | s.r

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

a/n: this was requested with “if you keep asking me i’m not gonna be okay” or smth along the lines 😭 i am a glutton for hurt/comfort fics so if yall have any more requests send em in :)

summary: in which you’re trying to keep it together when you hear some detectives talking ill of you, and spencer isn’t gonna have it

cw: hurt/comfort, self deprecation, insecure!reader, bitch ass detectives, protective bau my heart, use of she/her pronouns

wc: 2.2k

_______

the bau team was filing into the bullpen after landing from their last case in seattle, everyone making a beeline for their desks to get a head start on their reports so they could go home faster. everyone, except you. it felt like you were on autopilot, remembering your last known movements and just repeating them for as long as you could.

the case in seattle was rough to say the least. the unsub’s mo seemed to change every minute, making any progress the team made obsolete. the only thing that seemed to be somewhat consistent was where the unsub was taking his victims, which meant the geographical profile was the most important part to solving the case, a task you and reid were assigned to.

it started off fine, you both had found the comfort zone of where the unsub would strike next to figure out how to catch him in the act. except the next time he struck it was completely out of the predicted range, and this time a kid had died. no one could have anticipated that happening. it didn’t make the loss hurt any less.

the team knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault, humans are unpredictable, and that includes serial killers. spencer made sure to tell you specifically that it wasn’t your fault, he knew how you’d get if someone didn’t tell you.

his efforts went to utter waste when you walked by a room at the precinct with detectives whispering about how “you fucked up the whole profile, that’s why that kid died” and “it’s clear you make the team stupider, how did you even get into the fbi in the first place?”

it wasn’t the first time your abilities were in question. you were the newest member of the team, having only transferred six months ago from cold cases. you may be new to the field, but there was a reason hotch chose you personally for the bau.

you tried hard to prove yourself, despite pretty much everyone saying your skillset was enough proof. you’d stay late to finish reports, do extra research on cases to help garcia narrow her searches faster, and you spent countless hours at the training range.

you were a worthy agent, anyone who knew you or read your resume knew that. but right now, you felt like the smallest person on earth, an imposter. what the hell were you even doing here if you couldn’t save him.

you shouldn’t be allowed to feel relief that the team caught the unsub, not when there’s blood on your hands.

the bad thoughts swirling in your head causes you to stall your motions when you’re putting files away, gaining the attention of morgan, “you alright, sweet cheeks?”

“i’m good morgan, don’t worry.” you lie effortlessly. if he can tell you’re lying, he doesn’t mention it and turns back to his work.

taking a deep breath, you stand up to go to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee, when you run into jj finishing up making her own, “i was just thinking about you, i got this new creamer i think you’d rea-, hey, are you okay?” jj starts but ends concerned.

you try to focus on metronomic tick of the clock so you dont escalate, “i’m fine j,” you laugh unconvincingly, “what creamer did you get?”

she ignores your question, “because i know that was a tough case, and if you need to talk about it with someo-“

“jj, drop it, please.”

the blonde’s face drops a little at your sternness, but respects your space and offers you to try the creamer before returning to her desk. you feel bad for snapping at her, but the growing guilt within you is giving you apathy, and you can’t bring yourself to care at this moment.

you linger in the kitchen so as to avoid any more concerned faces, and you’re left to your own devices that are slowly overtaking you.

unbeknownst to you, spencer had been watching you since you all landed back in quantico. he kept his distance, mostly because he knew how overwhelmed you get at confrontation, especially about your emotions. he was the same way, a man of logic getting befuddled by emotion was enough cognitive dissonance to last a long time.

he knew it was different with you. you had a way of internalizing everything in your surrounding, a downfall to your endless empathy for others even if they never deserve it. he could explain the logic behind your beliefs, and hopefully use facts to help you relax, but that was the other thing he knew about you; you were stubborn. asking for help is something you hated doing, and if it wasn’t on your accord to be asking, it was even more detrimental to your mood.

so when he watched you duck out from the kitchen and push past the glass doors of the bullpen, he knew you were reaching the head of your doom spiral quickly.

spencer got up from his desk, “i’m gonna go check on her.”

jj nodded, “just be mindful spence, something feels different.”

they’d all been on cases that hit a little too close to home, how could they not when all they do is rid the world of the evilest of evildoers. but after a good cry, a rant to a teammate, or even an emergency therapy session, even the worst of the scum could be washed away.

something about the way you’ve been acting since they landed seemed like those fixits aren’t going to work this time.

he let out a sigh in response and walked out of the bullpen, realizing he didn’t actually know which direction you went in. assuming you’d want to be alone, he thinks the bathroom might’ve been a viable option for you and heads towards it.

the nice thing about the seventh floor is that it’s only for the bau, the bullpen was where the team spent most of their time but outside the doors there were so many empty rooms being used for storage.

so as spencer walked towards the bathroom in the hopes of finding you, his ears pick up on a tiny sniffle a little ways before it. he stops in his tracks, hoping he was just hearing things. but another pained sob rang through the door on his left, and he knew he’d found you.

he rapps the door a few times, softly calling your name, “hey, it’s spencer…can i come in please?”

you were on the other side sitting at one of the abandoned desks with your head down, but shot up at hearing spencer’s voice, “i- i’m fine i just needed a minute. i’ll be back in like two minutes, i promise.” you angrily wipe at the tears pooling on your face, grateful that you took your makeup off in the plane.

“honey, that’s not what i asked,” he starts, “is it okay if i come in?

your heart clenches at the term of endearment as you stare at the door knowing he was waiting for your okay to come in, and you start to internally weigh your options. you could let him in, and let him in to do whatever comforting you know logically would help. or you could lie, and feign ignorance to the end.

don’t they say ignorance is bliss?

you make sure to wipe the last of your tears and your runny nose before practicing a few fake smiles so it didn’t look like your face was frozen in sadness for the last thirty minutes. turning the knob you swing the door open, borderline creepy smile on your face as you greet the man, “hi dr. reid! was there something you were looking for?”

he furrows his brows at your complete (fake) shift in mood, but he comes in and shuts the door behind him, and moves to stand a few feet from you, “what’s going on?”

“nothing spence, i’m fine.” you insist.

spencer thinks if you could be more see through you’d be a windexed window. you’re avoiding eye contact with him, picking at the skin of your thumb, he can see your nose is red most likely from all the tissue blowing, and your eyes are still puffy and lined with some unshed tears still. you are so clearly breaking at the seams, like an old childhood teddy bear with stuffing falling out the sides yet hoping you can offer some semblance of stability despite your state.

“you don’t look fine, honey. why won’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

his words almost make you falter, and you think the walls you built so high are starting to chip down. “it’s not a big deal spence, i-,” a hiccuped breath gives you away, “i can deal with it on my own.”

spencer instinctively shortens the gap between you two, “you shouldn’t have to. i just wanna help you.”

“but i’m oka-“

“no you’re not.”

there is only one tiny thin thread left holding you together. “well,” you take a deep inhale and your voice gets impossibly small, “if you keep saying things like to me i’m not gonna be okay.”

“that’s why i’m here.” he says softly.

you look up at him with the biggest glassy doe eyed look he’s ever seen, and it’s like spencer can hear the snap of the thread in real time when he watches your face absolutely crumble. he doesn’t hesitate to pull you into his embrace, allowing him to hold your head down in the middle of his chest while his other hand smooths up and down your back in comfort.

“i know, shh, hey it’s okay, i got you.” he comforts.

your hands wrap around his waist beneath his suit jacket and you keep your face buried in his chest, inhaling the musky vanilla scent of his cologne mixed with the fresh laundry detergent smell letting it ground you back to him.

“i’m sorry.” you cry.

“don’t say that,” he hushes, “is it about the case?” you nod in his embrace, “we talked about it remember? there was nothing we could have done. we did everything right, sometimes it just doesn’t work out, you know that.” he moves his hand to tangle in your hair and rub your head.

“i- i know,” you say through labored breaths. you take a big breath before admitting the true reason for your anguish, “when we were about to leave, i walked by a room with some detectives talking about how i ruined the case and that…i’m the reason the kid died.”

“what?” he pulls back to look you in the eyes hoping to find any indication that you didn’t believe those poisoned words, “we both worked on that geographical profile together, the whole team agreed it was accurate and acted accordingly. what happened was not your fault. at all.” he emphasizes the last two words.

“yeah but…i don’t know maybe i could ha-“

“stop. you can’t do that to yourself. we did what we could with what we had, the burden of that child’s passing does not fall on you. we were only able to find the unsub’s hiding spot when you figured out he’d been going to the same gas station since the murders started.” he reinforced to you.

“they said that they didn’t know how i even got into the academy in the first place, and that i make the team stupider.” you quietly added.

spencer felt the rage consume his body, already planning the ways he was going to obliterate seattle pd. he cradled your head to look at him in the eyes, “listen to me. you are an important asset to this team. you make this team better at what they do, you make me better at what i do. you mean so much to me and the team okay? please don’t forget that.”

he swipes at a fallen tear on your cheek as you tell him between sniffles, “thanks spence…” you hope he understands the sentiment and love you’re trying to exude to him, even thought you’re unable to vocalize it.

“you gotta tell me if something like that happens,” he softly scolds you, “i’ll make sure they lose their fucking jobs.”

you’re about to speak when he cuts you off, “and don’t tell me that we should be the bigger people, because once the rest of the team hears about this, they’re all gonna be fighting over who’s gonna kick the shit out of them.”

you let out a tearful giggle, “you sound really funny when you curse.”

he scoffs, “what the hell, i do not!”

“you sound like a baby duckling that just learned how to say fuck.”

he starts to guide you out of the room and towards hotch’s office so you can recount what happened, “ouch, i’m hurt. i’d like to think the pistol and fbi badge i carry makes me intimidating.”

you giggle again, and spencer puts aside his rage to revel in the fact that you’re feeling better.

when hotch learned of what happened he immediately called seattle pd to file a motion to get those detectives fired, and the rest of the team were secretly praying for a case in seattle again so they could, as spencer predicted, kick the shit out of them.

[stormhearty]

Pushed to the Edge

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Trigger: angst, cheating, suicide, death

Word Count: 3k

Summary: You were the official seer of Night Court for nearly 500 years. the Inner Circle had always listened to you and your visions; however, when the Archeron sisters came and Elain started to show her powers, your family started to shift their attention to her visions. When you try to voice your warnings about the death-lord’s resurrection, everyone gave you the cold shoulder, ignoring your prophesies — this included your mate.

Note: no hate to Azriel or Elain, it just helped with the plot. and Also, I know it's completely unreasonable for Azriel to not have the Truth-Teller be with him at all times, just go with it for now. And I am working on “Reach Your Voice” Series, I’m still trying to figure out how to make sure each of our boys spends quality time with the reader.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Epilogue

<Pushed to the Edge> Masterlist

“That sounds absolutely absurd… How many times will you try to warn about something that will never happen?”

Your voiced died in your throat as you watched Rhysand look at you with apprehension before focusing on the paperwork in front of him.

You had ran into his office, waking up in cold sweat after another vision of another Death God crawling it’s way back into Prythian. You had tried to forewarn your High Lord for weeks on end ever since you first saw that vision. However, your warnings had been ignored by Rhysand. You knew that it sounded impossible, you knew that, Prythian had just finished a war — one that almost destroyed the world.

After the war with the King of Hybern, Prythian was slowly returning to its normal … well, attempting to fix what was broken by the King. The Night Court was healing, trying to rebuild itself again to its glory, helping other Courts to fix the damages that the war caused. Rhysand had been through an ordeal, losing his life to save Prythian and you knew that your High Lord was still recuperating from that tragedy. You knew that your High Lady was as well, almost losing her mate.

They didn’t need another war to happen when peace had barely returned.

But you also knew there was another reason your High Lord had been ignoring your for forewarning. You looked to the side, one where the rest of the Inner Circle was watching the confrontation. Cassian and Nesta, sitting close to each other, a glass of wine in their hands, whispering to each other, mostly likely about you and your vision. You could barely pick up with your keen Fae hearing on what they were saying.

“Do you think what she’s saying is real? That Koschei is trying to come back?”

“Elain hasn’t seen it though…”

The whisper of the middle Archeron child echoed in your ears as you looked at the Made Fae. She sat next to the window, brown eyes that seemed to sparkle like the sun rested on you before turning over to the male that she was sitting with. Your gaze followed hers to Azriel — your mate— but you can see that he didn’t bother to glance in your direction, only to focus on the delicate female next to him.

It hurt. You watched as the two of them conversed, glancing back in your direction before focusing on each other.

It was no secret, not for you, on Elain’s growing infatuation for the Shadowsinger, and in turn his own growing affections for the middle Archeron child — and in turn, losing his love for you.

You woke up in an empty bed, your mate missing from his side. You tried to talk to Cassian about how his day went, on if he would still train you with the Valkyries if he had time. You tried to converse with Rhysand and Feyre, seeing if they were healing properly after the war, wanting to make sure your High Lord and Lady were safe. You sought after you mate, wanting to spend even a second with him.

But they disregarded you so easily. Especially after they had found out that Elain had similar powers to you, one that was gifted to her by the Cauldron — one that was deemed more powerful than your own.

Your role as the Official Seer of Night Court was granted to you after Helion had sent you as an emissary for Day Court. Helion had found you wandering around Day Court lands. You had been a wandering child, with no real attachment to any Court, abandoned in the streets by your family at the age of five when your seer powers started to come into light. Helion had taken you in when you were ten, helped you hone your powers. Being a seer had been a mystery, no one in your heritage (that you were aware of) was a seer. And it baffled Helion on why such a remarkable gift had been casted aside.

You had stayed with the Night Court, gaining their trust and friendship for five centuries, gaining your own little foothold in their family. You had been a pillar when Rhysand had been trapped Under the Mountain for nearly fifty years. You helped Mor and Armen with the official Night Court Duties, trained with Cassian to ensure you were strong enough to fight when neither he nor Azriel was there.

During your time protecting Valeris from the eyes of Amarantha, your mating bond with the Shadowsinger snapped. It had been difficult at the start, both of you were still struggling with the disappearance of your High Lord, along with the weight of protecting the very city he hidden from view. But during that time, you became each other’s pillar, each other’s comfort in such a dark time. Falling in love with Azriel wasn’t difficult.

But keeping his love, apparently, was the most difficult.

When the Archeron sister’s came into everyone’s lives, it caused a tip in the scales. You loved Feyre, you loved your High Lady. You would do anything in your power to ensure she was safe and well cared for. But for the Cauldron-Made sisters, it was difficult for you to accept them.

They were different. You couldn’t see anything about them, as if the Cauldron had masked them from you powers. It made you terrified of them. Feyre and Rhysand had tried to assure you that the Archeron sisters deemed no threat to the Night Court. And you trusted them — trusted your High Lord and Lady without a blink of an eye. And yes, while their words deemed true, you did not realize that they were a different type of threat. One that would eventually lose your foothold in the Night Court.

You swallowed, your throat parched as you glanced from the sight of your mate and Elain speaking to one another to Rhysand and then to Feyre who had stood next to him. She gave you a worried look, wondering what you were wanting to tell them.

The air was tense, the declaration from your High Lord seeming to echo in your surroundings — he had deemed your vision to be false. And he had never done that before.

“… But…” you whispered, your voice nothing but wind in such a large room, “… I’ve seen it so many times, Rhys. Someone is trying to resurrect him. That they need a piece of something from the Cauldron — -”

“The Cauldron is with Miryam and Drakon… in Creta. There is no way that anyone would be able to use that power again,” Rhysand’s tone was taut, as if trying to drawn a line between the truth and your vision, “Your vision must be wrong, (Y/N). There is no way that Koschei can be resurrected from that lake.”

Another swallow, “But what if it doesn’t have to be the Cauldron itself. It could be something that was Made from the Cauldron.”

Rhysand’s eyes snapped up from his desk, up to you, eyes darkening at the words you were insinuating, “—- What are you trying to say, (Y/N)?”

You let out a shaky breath, eyes shifting down to your hands, fiddling with your fingernails — a habit that you’ve had ever since you were a child — one that would leave your hands raw from removing skin, ‘… Nesta and Elain were Made from the Cauldron. If it were to get word to the followers of Koschei, they… they could be in danger. The power that resides in them is the Cauldron… Nesta took something from the Cauldron and did not return it… They could be looking for that.”

It was already bad that you were trying to suggest a return of a Death God, months after a war with Hybern, but it was worse that you were even implying that the sisters were the center of being in danger again.

A dark shadow stood in front of you and you looked up to see Azriel. The golden string that connected the two of you sung, it had been weeks since Azriel went near you, but you knew that his side of the bond was shut, enshroud by shadows, completely shutting you out.

“Az—-” you said his name, as if it was a prayer, hoping he’d be the voice of reason. That he would back up you and your visions. As he always had in the past.

“How can we know that your visions are truth, (Y/N)? There are two Seers in the Night Court now, and yet you are the only one who sees this.”

Your ears rang, a high pitch noise echoing through them as disbelief shook your body. Azriel never distrusted you, never doubted your visions and your forewarnings.

The bond in you ached, as if it was burning you on the inside. Tears lined your eyes as you looked up at your mate, brows furrowing, “…How could you, Azriel?” you muttered, the pain lining your tone, “How can you not trust me?” your voice small.

“Because Elain hasn’t seen it,” was all he had to say.

Hot tears ran your cheeks, as you shakily stepped back from the male that had towered you. You glanced at Cassian and Nesta who looked at you, their eyes inattentive to the pain that you were feeling. You glanced at your High Lord, who looked at you with disinterest. You looked at your High Lady, the only person in the room that seemed to have noticed your pain and anguish, as she took a step towards you way, only to be stopped by Rhysand, his hand around her wrist.

“… So, just because the Cauldron-Made Seer hasn’t seen it, doesn’t mean that it is going to happen?” you asked, your question in the air for everyone to think, “… Just because I wasn’t a Seer Made by the Cauldron, that my visions and my words are not real? That I am a lesser of a Seer than her?”

“(Y/N)—-” Feyre, the voice of reason, called our your name.

You took a step back again, head shaking at them, “I’ve worked my life off for the Night Court. Ensuring that your city is safe, making sure that any danger would never step past the wards that you have put up. I have never hidden anything from any of you. I used my visions and my powers for all of you. And yet…” your voice shook at the end, not believing anything that was happening in front of you, “You disregard me… the moment a better Seer shows up. One that is Cauldron-Made… one that you…” eyes shifting to Azriel, “Deems more suitable for you.

“I’ve seen it. Not only in my visions but here with you all. You have decided to all turn a blind eye to it, decided not to tell me about it. Three sisters for three brothers, isn’t it, Azriel?”

Azriel’s form stiffed in front of you — he did not think that you would have heard that.

You were done, you were tired. You were tired of the lies and the deceit from whom you thought were family.

Feyre’s brows furrowed as she looked at you and then her elder sisters before the back of Azriel. Rhysand stood up as well, standing next to his High Lady at your declaration.

“… What are you talking about, (Y/N)?” Feyre asked, watching your form shake.

“Don’t you lie to me…” you muttered, glaring at your High Lady, “Don’t you dare lie that you have not seen it. Don’t you dare tell me that you have not noticed that Azriel and Elain have been together all this time. That you have turned a blind eye that a mated male would be infatuated, would fall in love with someone else that was not his Cauldron-bound mate. Don’t you dare lie to me you have not all seen it, and have ignored it and not tell me about it.

“You also have all disregarded me and my visions, ever since Elain started to show her own powers. You have all deemed, even without you telling me, that my powers are not worthy enough. That you all would listen to her cryptic visions rather than my own.”

Your words were rushed, you were hyperventilating to the point that your visions swam, but you shook your head, focusing on the scene unfolding — Feyre’s surprised look, Nesta and Cassian staring wide-eye at Elain before glancing at the Shadowsinger in front of you and your High Lord gripping the edge of the table, his violet eyes clearing as if he was in a trance, as if his mind has been cleared and he realized what he has done and what was unfolding with his family.

“No, (Y/N), that’s not what we meant…” he tried to reason, try to gain back your trust in the found family you had with them.

You scrunched your face, shaking your head as you looked at your High Lord before back at your mate, “…That’s what you have meant for the months you have been ignoring my forewarnings. Been ignoring me. Because Elain’s powers are better than mine, you have casted me aside…” Another step back, glancing at the grand door behind you before you glanced back at the family who had lost you, to the mate that had broken your entire being, “You had decided, to your own conscious, to fall in love with someone else, who is bound to someone else, just because you deemed that the Cauldron was wrong. I don’t understand what I have done to you, Azriel… when I have spent nearly five-hundred years with you, fifty years with you as your mate. And you, knowing Elain for a mere five minutes, throwing all that away…”

Azriel looked at you, his chest rising and falling quickly, his eyes staring you down. He watched as tears continued to flood down your cheeks, your form shaking even further. You couldn’t do it, you couldn’t just stand here and be the object that they throw away.

So, you ran, ran out of that room, your name echoing behind you as your dress swirled behind you. You climbed up the spiraling stairs to your shared room with Azriel, throwing up the strongest ward you can muster behind you and around you. You couldn’t handle it.

You couldn’t handle the echo of the bond in your chest, you couldn’t handle the empty stare of your mated looking at you. You couldn’t handle the thought that you were so easily replaceable. A sob escaped your lips as you rummaged through Azriel’s drawer of weapons, pulling out the one weapon that he never is without — Truth-Teller. Dark tendrils of shadow gripped your wrist as you looked around you, Azriel’s shadows surrounding you.

That was where his shadows went — they had always disappeared when he was around Elain, yet they were here with you.

Frantic knocks startled you as you grasped the weapon close to your chest, your head whipping around towards the door. You heard them — Feyre’s panicked voice, Rhysand’s apologizes, Cassian yelling your name. But you didn’t hear that one voice that you had loved — you knew Azriel wasn’t there.

That had pushed you. Gripping the weapon, you moved to the bathroom, the shadows following your every movement. As you kneeled down on the marble floor, you felt the tug of the shadows against your hand, trying to will the weapon out of your grip — attempting you to stop at a take of your life.

You had always loved the shadows that surrounded Azriel, both physically and metaphorically speaking. They had always comforted you, protected you, always had been there for both of you when times were tough. But this was one of the times that you didn’t want them protecting you, comforting you.

“Please..” you begged at them. Whether or not they would listen or sprint off to their master, they backed off, though a few tendrils stayed behind, slithering around your wrist, holding Truth-Teller, as if a reminder not to do it. But you had made your mind — you couldn’t stay and be pushed to the side. Not anymore.

And with a last breath impaled yourself with your mate’s beloved knife, the very knife he had handed Elain during the war, was the last thing you remembered. As your body fell against the marbled floor, your soul leaving your body, you felt the tendrils of shadow frantically skim over your body, as if to try to find a piece of life still clinging onto you. Eyes looked and watched as the ward was broken and your High Lord and Lady skidding towards your body as your soul left for the skies above, the cool feeling of shadow never leaving your body.

A gasp escaped your lips, the dull ache on your chest making you rub at it.

“— - What…” you mumbled, your voice hoarse as if not used for a century.

“That Shadowsinger did not know what he had decided to let go, huh…” A voice, one so dark and so familiar echoing.

You knew that voice, that voice that haunted you in your visions for weeks — the same voice that you tried to warn your family about. Eyes opening, you were surrounded by the dark, the voice of the Death-God echoing around you.

“I should have died…” you voiced to no-one.

A laugh echoed around you, “You did, (Y/N), but you forget that I am a Death-God… And I can resurrect anyone I wish. Now, that your family has abandoned you, why don’t you join me. Show them what happens when a Seer of your capacity has been cast aside. I should have had you when that original family of yours stranded you, but that damn High Lord of Day found you first. Anyway… come child…”

You laid there, in the darkness, before you shakily reach out a hand, before spiny fingers grasped onto yours and pulled you out of that darkness.

[loriache]

Butch up that Elf: my Marcille manifesto

TBQH, this came into being because the Falin "dragoness" fanart rewired my brain completely. It's sillytimes, but we're going to make a serious argument: trying out being a little butch would Fix Her.

1. Marcille Gender Discomfort

Now, Marcille LOVES feminity. She loves playing dressup, she loves elaborate gowns, she spends her free time going to the spa - the absolute last thing I want is to deny that. However, there's also a definite vibe that this isn't just a preference. Specifically, the way that she pushes Falin towards femininity suggests that she isn't comfortable with gender nonconformity in the people around her.

If this was something she was 100% confident about ("I'm doing this for myself and nobody else!") surely what other people do wouldn't be a big deal? Of course, you can read this as a little bit of solipsism; "what works for me must work for you too! I think this is so cute and would suit you - wouldn't you agree?"

But for the sake of this argument, all I'm trying to suggest is that gender nonconformity (and probably sexual nonconformity... well, frankly, any kind of sexuality at all) is unlikely to be something that's on Marcille's "radar". She hasn't tried out other ways of presenting and decided she doesn't like them. I do think she'd be a very flamboyant butch - "ouji lolita" vibes, you know? It's a whole new set of wardrobe options she could play dress-up in, even.

After the story ends, she starts dressing like her mother in all black, which makes sense - her mother was also a court magician, so she's probably emulating her in order to project confidence and authority. But I can't say I think she should stick with this. Break away and be your own person, Marcille! Try a fancy waistcoat and frilled jacket!

2. Haircut

This is another potential hard sell, I'm sure. The people she loves doing her hair is a cute symbol of their care for her, and her hair is key to her magic - so there's plenty of reason for her to keep it long. But like... think practically. Having someone do your hair every morning, for the whole of her long life, while it gets messier over the day (because she can't remember to keep it neat)... That's got to be such a pain. My hair gets messy when I put a hoodie on. And I have short hair.

It would require her to go through a change of mind, and probably a little more growth in how secure she feels in her relationships, but - the hairdo's a symbol. The more important thing is the relationships themselves. Eventually I think there might be something liberating about cutting it off, even if she might eventually decide to grow it out again.

The lion, her trauma, took something away from her which was really important to her. The people around her are able to make that easier, and make up for it, and soften that loss, but... Mithrun isn't the person he was before, you know? He's a new person. The relationship he has with his brother is new, and I don't know if it's one that the person he was before could have had. If Falin hadn't died, they wouldn't have gone on that wonderful adventure! They wouldn't have met Senshi or saved Izutsumi and Laios and Marcille wouldn't have gotten so close. So I think it's totally congruent with the themes of the story that the burning away of this part of Marcille's self might eventually create the potential for new growth in a new direction, not clinging onto the parts that are gone.

This also isn't totally out of the norm for elven mages - both Otta and Flamela have short hair. Otta is canonically butch, and potentially Flamela reads that way to elves too, but the point is it clearly is possible to be an accomplished mage without long hair.

3. Desiring (to be) a chivalrous prince

Marcille's succubus is clearly General Halleus from her favourite book series, the Daltian Clan. The fact that this is her ideal man.... it certainly plays into readings of her as Not Straight. But at least, this conveys the way her conception of sex and romance is strongly idealised, dissociated from the bodily and from physical desire.

There are many ways to interpret that, including thinking about what types of desire this fixation is obstructing because she is not comfortable with it, but I am going to focus here on what this desire does signify. She likes the trappings of courtly romance, and is clearly comfortable putting herself in the role of the princess, being taken away on a white horse by a noble (but tormented; eyepatch has "death" on it lmao) prince. (Though I think he's actually the token male lead who isn't royalty; he's a General. There's always one in Romfan, lmao. IYKYK)

A kiss on the hand - this is so chaste, I think it's clear it's more about desire to play a role in a dynamic than it is about desire in a physical sense. There is undoubtedly a big part of Marcille that wants to be a beloved and chased-after princess, but I think it isn't at all impossible that she'd also enjoy being the powerful, cool, and chivalrous "prince" to someone (a pretty girl, perhaps) who needs her protection.

This is a little silly, because it's clearly just aping the shoujo artstyle that articulates basically the same idea as her succubus, that Marcille is attached to highly abstracted and idealised romantic (and Romantic) tropes and ideas. But the imaginary "successful" Marcille from chapter 4 looks quite similar to her succubus. (Another thing I noticed is that in the fantasy she has sharp ears... like full elves have. Despite what she says, I think the cultural messaging that this trait is "attractive" and hers are inferior got to her at least a bit. 😥)

Also, the way that she treats Falin, scolding her indulgently, trying to look after her and wanting to be looked up to and respected by her... that aligns more with the "masculine" role in the trope that her succubus is referencing. "What are we going to do with you...?" I can imagine her saying this to Falin, word for word. Whereas, if anyone real started talking down to her, even affectionately, I don't think she'd like it, given the negative way she reacts when people don't respect her or her skills. Especially after canon, given the way the Winged Lion was treating her.

Her attitude to Falin is partially down to her reluctance to acknowledge Falin as an adult, who is independent and can grow beyond her and leave her behind. But I think even as they move on from that unhealthy dynamic, Marcille is still going to get pleasure from feeling capable, reliable, able to look after and protect Falin. She'd like to pull the chair out for her in a restaurant on a date, you know?

4. Conclusion

Even after the growth she goes through during the story, there are parts of Marcille's character that are very much obstructed. Romance, sexuality, and gender, feel like one of those to me. The way that her discomfort with the messy origins of food betrayed a deeper, more significant discomfort with the cycles of life and death.

Much in the same way, I'd argue that the simplified, idealistic, and safely fantastical way that she views romance, as well as her very "safe" gender presentation and tendency to push it onto others as well, suggest an underlying discomfort in her own gender and sexuality. The character growth she goes through leaves her in a place where it may be possible to safely re-evaluate her relationship with Falin, as well as her choice of clothing and hairstyle, both things that go through a change at the end of the manga. Neither, I think, reach a sustainable stopping point that we see - there will be a point when it's more servants doing her hair than friends, just out of practicality, because they're all going to be so, so busy. The black clothing to copy her mum is cute, but once she gets some more self-confidence in her own skills as a court magician, I think she'll move on from it. And... who knows what direction her relationship with Falin will develop, over the years? I'm rooting for them, anyway.

In all those cases, I think moving outside of the things she's done before, into something really different from the things that are "safe" and expected, will be the most rewarding path for her. Like in the dungeon, things that she would initially reject were actually able to sustain her and broaden her tastes. She loves dressing up, looking after people, and "princely romance". So I say: Butch Marcille! It'll be good for her!!

[jq37]

Aelwyn is sixteen and preparing for midterms at Hudol. Uniform pressed and starched, head full of incantations and spell components. She doesn't mean to bump into Adaine and get orange juice all over her shirt but today isn't the day she's going to start showing weakness.

"You know, you really should watch we're you're going," she says archly, playing off the clumsy mistake as a purposeful jab.

Playing it off a bit too well because, the next thing she knows, Adaine is flipping her off and a bolt of queasy looking, green energy is coming towards her. Ray of Sickness. And she can't spare the spell slot for Counterspell because she needs it for her exams.

"You little bitch!" Aelwyn says once she's emptied the contents of her stomach down the front of her shirt.

"Good luck with your exams," Adaine says sweetly.

Aelwyn is eighteen and the oldest, mangiest cat she's ever seen in her life has just vomited on her shoes.

"My," she says, casting a shield spell around her ankles to stop the cat from clawing at them. "You weren't kidding. He is a little bastard, isn't he?"

The shelter volunteer looks mortified. "Oh, gods! I am so sorry. I tried to warn you--I mean, not that I'm blaming you but--"

"No, it's alright. I did ask you to show me stragglers."

The shelter worker gestures to another pen on the other side of the room. "I can show you the kittens we just got in or there are some very well behaved older cats as well if you'd--"

But Aelwyn cuts her off, scooping up the old cat--though she holds him at arm's length for now, just to be safe. "No need. I haven't changed my mind. I'll take this one." She looks at the tag on his collar. "Hector."

Aelwyn is three and, as of a month ago, no longer the youngest Abernant.

She's had baby dolls in the past but never a baby sister and this is exciting new territory. She's full of questions. When is she going to be able to walk? When is she going to be able to talk? When will she be old enough to have lembas bread instead of formula?

Her parents seem less fascinated by the new addition to the family than she is but her mother is amused when she slaps away the hand of a colleague of her father's who tried to touch Adaine before sanitizing his hands, standing between the much larger man and her sister.

"So defensive. Perhaps she'll be an abjurer."

When Aelwyn asks what that is, her mother says that it's a kind of magical protector and she likes that a lot. That sounds like a good thing to be.

At night, Adaine cries. Except, she doesn't hear it because the mobile above her crib is etched with runes that cast the Silence spell.

"But what if she gets hurt?" Aelwyn asks.

Her father brushes her off. That's what the Unseen Servants are for. But she thinks that's what an abjurer might be for too and even though she isn't one yet, that doesn't mean she can't start practicing.

So, every night, Aelwyn waits until her parents have put Adaine down for bed and then tiptoes into her room. She checks to see if Adaine is silently wailing and if she is (and even sometimes if she isn't) she presses her face between the bars of the crib and sticks her little hand over Adaine's face.

"Don't cry," she says, even though the Silence spell mutes her words as completely as the tears. "Mum said I'm an abjurer. Nothing will get you. Don't cry, baby."

Adaine grabs her hand with impressive grip strength for something so small and, within a few minutes, she's trancing peacefully.

Aelwyn is seventeen and her sister is off to save the world again. This time from a Night Yorb--whatever that is.

It feels cruel that Adaine should have to go risk her life again so soon after she just almost died--not almost died, she did die before being raised by her cleric.

She wants to come with, to help in some way. Surely she could be helpful--last quest they brought Gilear for Helio's sake!

But Adaine doesn't ask her and she can't bring herself to say the words she needs to have the conversation she wants. So, instead, she lightly whaps Adaine on the shoulder with her spellbook as she's packing for the quest.

"I know you haven't done much studying lately what with your grades being based on how many hobgoblins you kill or whatever ridiculous system Aguefort has cooked up," Adaine rolls her eyes at that, "But if you don't mind a little cram session before you leave tomorrow, I can show you how to cast Teleport like I said. Might help you stay a touch less dead on your quest."

Her tone is light but her eyes betray her: Please, please, please don't die again.

Adaine's expression softens but then she scoffs, playing her half of their game. "I don't know what a Hudol dropout who's been in jail for the past year is gonna teach me but do your best."

Aelwyn is seven and her father is cross with her.

"Really Aelwyn," he says and even though they're talking via crystal she can feel the frost of his glare. "You thought it was appropriate to call me at work for no good reason? How many times have I told you and your sister to not bother me while I'm working."

She hates the word bother. She doesn't want to be a bother. She tries very hard not to be. Maybe she just didn't explain herself well enough.

"I know, father. But Addy got really scared and panicky on the playground. She was breathing really hard and--"

Her father makes a noise of disgust. "I don't have time for this. She is in primary school now. Stop coddling her. And her name is Adaine, not Addy. Please speak properly. I'm raising you better than that."

He hangs up before she can say anything else.

Aelwyn is eighteen and most of the claw marks on her arms have healed, which is nice. On her lap asleep is Hector who has apparently decided he likes her enough to use her as a radiator but not enough to submit to medical treatment without using her arms as a scratching post.

"You little heat vampire," she says as she slides her thumb across the screen of her crystal, searching for a video that will help her out. Eventually she finds one that looks promising and she calls it up.

On the screen, a halfling is standing next to a cat who is actively shredding her sweater with its claws. "You're going to be tempted to use some kind of a shield spell when applying the ointment," says the halfling. "But cats can smell abjuration magic and they don't love it. You won't get close enough to do the job. Isn't that right my darling?"

In response, her cat hacks up a hairball.

"Darling indeed," she says under her breath.

But even laced with sarcasm, the word is sweeter against her tongue than she anticipated.

She sinks her hand into Hector's fur and scratches his back for a few moments before tentatively speaking aloud. "Sleeping well, my darling?"

Hector says nothing--he's asleep and a cat. But warmth blooms in Aelwyn's chest--more than enough to make up for what Hector is leeching from her.

Aelwyn is seventeen and her father has just given her the most horrible command she's ever received in her life--and she's counting being made to sink a ship full of people in that calculation.

She knows her father doesn't expect her to delicately extricate the knowledge he needs from Adaine's mind. He expects her to get it at all costs. To ransack and pillage the memories if necessary with no heed of the consequences on her psyche. He'd probably prefer it that way--the more broken Adaine is, the easier it will be to mold her into a version of herself that is more useful to him.

Aelwyn is usually a smooth talker and a convincing liar but now, she stumbles all over her words, babbling out a stream of deflections and pleas as her heart squeezes tighter and tighter in her chest until she can't hold back the truth that she's been suppressing for years anymore.

"Adaine's just…she's a baby."

Aelwyn is eighteen and her apartment is full of cats.

She's always thought that the phrase, "One thing led to another" was a bit of a cop out--clearly there were key steps between point A and point B being glossed over--but in this case, there is truly no better way for her to articulate how she went from zero cats to ten cats in such a short amount of time.

She's sure that if she was still living with Jawbone, he'd have something to say about it but that's exactly why she isn't currently living with Jawbone.

She portions out food for all of the cats, saving Hector for last because he likes to eat curled up next to her.

"My darling baby boy," she says, lifting him onto the couch with her because the jump up is a bit much for him and his old bones. She kisses him on the top of the head and then pulls out her crystal. She scrolls mindlessly for a bit before checking her messages despite the fact that there's conspicuously no notifications.

Not that she has many people to expect texts from but she hasn't heard from Adaine in a few weeks and it's unsettling. When they weren't getting along, they were still living under the same roof. She was able to keep tabs on her, more or less. Now, they're closer than they've been in ages but barely talking.

I'm the older sister, I suppose, Aelwyn thinks. I should take the initiative.

She pets Hector with one hand and drafts a message with another: Are you alive, bitch?

She's about to press send but then she frowns and deletes the draft. After a few moments of thought, she taps out a new message: Can't believe I'm gonna say this. Miss my little sister. Everything all right?

Aelwyn is seventeen--though she doesn't feel like it.

Her mind is telling her that she's sixteen and that she was just been broken out of a jail cell in Solace but Adaine is telling her that she's just been broken out of an entirely different prison after being tortured for months even though she doesn't remember any of that.

But her body feels frail and Adaine says she's been in her mind which means she must have used the hard reset.

She's suddenly feeling very vulnerable--not because of the disorientation or the of the levels of exhaustion she can feel weighing on her like leaden chains. No, it's because of the fact that Adaine using the reset means that she must have read the treacle-y note that she left there for her to find.

It was just an insurance policy, she tells herself. There was wisdom to buttering up your savior to make sure she'd do what you needed her to do.

She manages to mostly believe it. But the small, truthful part of herself that knows how deeply she meant the words is so uncomfortable that she antagonizes Adaine until she's annoyed enough to hit her with a spell, sending her into blissful unconsciousness.

Aelwyn is nineteen and she's going to kill her mother.

Well, not alone of course. Adaine deserves the kill at least as much as she does if not more. It'll be a group effort.

It's a strange mix--the cold fury at her mother mixed with the warmth she feels for her sister, sitting across the table from her. She summons a flame to her palm, a preview of what their mother has waiting for her. She watches Adaine's eyes harden with resolve and she sees the face of her baby sister, left to wail alone silently for hours, soothed by her presence. "Let's get her."

"Yes, my dear," she says, the endearment coming freely as if this has always been their dynamic. "We'll get her."

But there will be time for that later. Right now, it's time for ice cream and seeing Adaine so content in such a simple pleasure causes the warmth in her to surge so suddenly that it would be startling if it wasn't so pleasant. The urge to voice it is so powerful that she doesn't know that would have been able to stop it at any point in life, let alone now.

"I hope we get to eat ice cream and cast magic forever," she says, words that would have been impossible for her to say one short year ago and impossible not to say now.

And, to her delight, Adaine agrees.

[astridthevalkyrie]

he’s died for her. lemuria has died for her. of course it has. she’s precious, she’s his beloved bride, she’s worth all of it. she smiles at him. it hurts. she has no idea how important she is. he holds her close and she soothes this heart of his, the same heart that she carved out of his his chest once before. it’s okay. he’s forgiven her. he’s forgiven her and she doesn’t remember. she doesn’t remember. the skeleton in that collector’s fountain tank, propped up like a pretty decoration. she tried to save that man. helped him. came to the studio to investigate it as though the collector didn’t deserve it. but it doesn’t matter. she has no idea, she looks at him with her chin jutted rolling her eyes at everything he says like he’s not her friend, like he’s not her employer, like he’snotthegodofthefuckingsea. they visit beautiful cities, filled with lush trees and flowers and algie used to love flowers. lemuria was just as beautiful as this city if not more before she, he, led it to its downfall. it’s such a romantic story they tell, how the lemurian trusted the sailor and let the kingdom be pilfered and torn apart, they tell the story as though it’s a charming fairytale and not his disturbing, bloody history. he was alive then, watching the light flicker out as he struggled to breathe, as the humans came in and took everything from them. she’s so soft, holds him so close, but not close enough for the nightmares to stop. he chose her. she doesn’t remember. doesn’t remember how he spared her more than once. how he chose her again and again and again and his people paid the price. how she could’ve been dead, just another body taken by the sea had he not appeared. had she not been so arrogant. the storm had every right to her life. and that night during the storm who gave her the nerve to fucking kiss him. he was the sea god. she was a lowly fucking human, claiming what wasn’t hers like humans always did. she wasn’t his lover. she wasn’t his heart. she was his follower. she was his sacrifice. she was nothing but a vessel for lemuria’s greatness and he should’ve killed her when he had the chance, should’ve plunged his hand in and taken that weak, unassuming heart and ripped it out of her corpse.

[clockwayswrites]

By the Scruff (Start?)

“I didn’t—” the man cut himself off with a carefully measured breath and pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it had to hurt. “Jasmine, I didn’t kidnap you, I’m saving you!”

“Oh so you’re that type of fucked up freak, got it,” Jazz growled.

The way she bared her teeth reminded Danny of a feral dog. He’d never seen her like this. She tucked him further back behind her again, shielding him from the strange man.

“I am not—” Another careful breath. “I am not that type of freak. I am being sincere here, Jasmine. Your parents hurt me also—”

“Our parents love us!”

“Your parents let your brother die!” the man screamed.

Jazz stumbled back a step into Danny.

Danny who felt like he would throw up.

Jazz wasn’t supposed to know.

Jazz wasn’t ever supposed to know. He was supposed to take this secret to his—

Well, no, he didn’t get a grave, did he. He died and he didn’t get a grave. Danny clamped a hand over his mouth.

The hysterical giggle slipped through anyways.

“Danny?” Jazz asked. Her voice had dropped the growl. She wasn’t the feral animal anymore, she was addressing one.

Danny couldn’t meet her eyes. She’d know if he looked at her.

“They let him die, Jasmine,” the man said, voice a bitter whisper, “just like they let me die, alone and without them. Their inventions killed both of us. They killed both of us.”

“Danny?” Jazz tried again.

Danny shook his head, hand still clamped over his mouth. He thought if he moved his hand he would throw up. If he moved his hand he would answer her.

“I went to Amity Park to— to see them. To show them what they had left to wither away. To show them— it doesn’t matter anymore. When I saw that Daniel— when I saw that they had done the same thing to their own son… well, what was the point?” the man asked. He sounded so broken under the perfectly enunciated words; perfectly trained like a prize pet. “I had to get you both out of there, Jasmine, before they hurt you too or before… or before they discovered what Daniel was and ripped him apart… molecule by molecule.”

“Danny?”

Danny couldn’t—

“Oh, little badger, I am so sorry.”

Danny sobbed.

He had died, and he didn’t even get a grave.