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luvether · 13 days ago

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CHAPTER ONE. HIS BECKONING SALVATION.

SERIES SYNOPSIS, “For his tongue reckon with the beggary and treachery of her.” The narrative of the sun-burnt boy towards the moon-bruised girl, wherein Aeons dare play them both like a sedative, bore them starved for a disastrous relationship.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Sunday x fem!halovian reader. mentions of physical abuse and mutilation, religious metaphors, world-building for Penacony, not canon-compliant to hsr lore. historical + semi-steampunk au! [8.1k wc]

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“Hounds, seize the man in the red tailcoat. The girl is a victim." His young raspy tone coils around the audience like a snake, the pin drop silence, then the haunting allure of your voice comes to a decrepit halt.

Sunday tastes the chaos first before understanding what had happened, what he had just done.

The Hounds were on the move due to his command, undressing clear aggression towards the people in charge of tonight's show. The audience had jumped up from their seats, scattering and fleeing when they recognized the Bloodhound seals on their vest and the muted colors of their uniforms. Gopher Wood doesn't spare another second once his feet touch the stage, his long coat swishing through the cold air.

"In the name of Penacony's esteemed law, I hereby arrest the suspected perpetrators involved in Velvet House's illicit activities of child trafficking."

"Mister Chamberlain, sir!" The man in the red tailcoat stresses out, cries, struggles out of the grasps of a Hound tying him down like a shackle.

"Please have mercy! I was wrong, I was—"

"Your words have no power here." Gopher's tone is ice cold, his crow wings rustling sharply. "Save your pliant cries before the Judges, and pray that your punishment will be in your favor."

"No, please I cannot afford this! Please let me explain myself!"

"Take him away."

Gopher waves a hand at the Hounds, they simply nod their heads, dragging the hysterical man off the stage. Sunday is reluctant as he steps beside the Minister, fingertips trembling from anxious thrill.

"...What will become of him?" He asks.

"The man had committed a heavy crime in the Ménage, if all votes are in favor of punishment then he as well as the folks involved will be sentenced to death—each will take a silver cup of poison wine." Gopher doesn't dare sugarcoat his words, pin needles of guilt pricks at the flesh of Sunday's benign heart.

"And, if the votes go for the latter option?"

Gopher takes a glance at him. "The latter option is seeking atonement for their sins. If the President orders it, they will be exiled to the borders of the Reef where they will spend their remaining days begging for absolution, forced to train as soldiers, they will die valiantly trying to protect our Nation from the remaining Legion."

So death, still.

The guilt within the boy grows thick, enough for bitterness to settle heavy on his tongue. These men will be dead because of his command.

"That's horrible."

"Sunday, I'll speak candidly with you." The young boy is surprised when Gopher drops to a knee in front of him.

"You've done well speaking up." Gopher says. "Cease such sensitivity of yours. Sometimes, there will be a price for freedom. And to fight for goodness, there will be moral conflicts that will be sent to you as a challenge. To protect the weak, we could trample over those who take advantage of the downtrodden ones. It is difficult but it is still our duty, Sunday."

Protect the weak.

The man straightens, then once Sunday's name leaves his lips one last time, without awaiting the response of the young boy he saunters off to deal with the aftermath of the subjugated traffickers, telling Sunday to take a rest if he feels overwhelmed with the situation. What he had said was the truth, after all.

Sunday is not God, he cannot appease everyone, and not everyone will see his beliefs to be absolute, that's why law enforces such as the Hounds still exist even after the civil war—or any war even before that, even when the bold words of Independence happen to be pasted in every billboard and graffitied walls around the Capital—

It was simply just another appeasement.

Another reassurance for the public.

It's like a piece of candy given to a wailing child, if all is devoured and nothing is on their palm, they would whine once more. Greed birthing upon greed like one hurricane of a sinful cycle.

For a war cannot be ceased. No matter how much a pacifist begged and prayed and groveled till their knees bled beneath the stones.

Gopher Wood told him so during one of his studies, don't waste your time clinging to hope that can kill you, even with your selective ignorance on the matter the results will not change.

Even when he had uttered the command to send traffickers to death's door, it was supposed to be an accomplishment.

But Sunday's too bitter and guilt-ridden to feel a huff of pride from his achievement.

An hour has passed then, still, Sunday muddled on his transgression. Thirty minutes later, he pins his back straight; the theatre now is empty of audience, under the jurisdiction of the Bloodhounds, from the report given to them, there are roughly twenty-one children found in the backstage of the building, some former orphans from the war, others trafficked to be laboured as rising singers for on stage performances.

His leg couldn't stop bouncing. Restless, he's so restless all of a sudden. Sunday cannot help but let his thoughts wander to you, the young Halovian on the center stage that had such a grenadine syrup singing voice. He hasn't seen you since your call for help and his command to arrest. Did something happen?

"Would you like a drink, young lord?" A younger Hound had approached, a glass of water in hand.

Sunday takes it silently. "Where will the children go after this?"

"Well, it depends. First, we need to verify their identities before they are taken here. After that, they will be taken to the Great hall where parents with missing kids will come to pick up their kins."

"And, if the children have no parents nor identities?"

The dark cobalts of the Hound's eyes flicker briefly to him. "Then, the Governors will assign them a residence, they will be raised in comfort then trained to be military civil servants."

The young boy couldn't stop himself from feeling so utterly restless, he stood up. "May I ask where they are now?"

There was a brief hesitancy with the young Hound. "I believe they are still backstage, going through individual inspection."

Sunday thanks him and saunters off towards the direction pointed.

Once he opens the heavy flaps of red theatre curtains, he cuts through the small crowd, side-stepping with ease. Big, amber eyes fly quickly—he's trying to find you, a girl with wings and a ringed halo like scattered stars, wearing attire as bare white as sunlight, white ribbons that drag across the stage floor. He remembers your cocktail hat that rests like a crown above your head, the white veil that hides the elusiveness of your eyes, the curve of your lips as you smile. It's daunting to him, he doesn't know you and yet he still seeks you out.

Where could you have gone?

Eight minutes have passed, his footfalls take him to every nook and cranny of the Velvet House until he is certain he has reap the entire place. When the time bleeds five more minutes, his steps turn mild and he's heaving tired breaths, hand pressed against the wall supporting his weight.

For a split moment, he wondered if you ever existed at all—it's like you had vanished like a wisp of dainty smoke when your performance was interrupted prematurely. Sunday dabs his forehead with the edge of his sleeve,

Then, he hears a foreign noise.

It almost sounded like a chair creaking under heavy weight.

When the boy glances up, there's a sliver of moonlight spilling in from one of the open doors on the corridor he was on. Without thinking and with nowhere else to go, he approaches slowly, carefully, the door croaking loud when he pushes it open.

Under the dimly lit room he is greeted with the sight of a girl, standing on her tippy-toes up on a rickety chair, reaching for something that's clearly out of her reach at the top shelf of a bookcase. His sudden presence clearly alerts her and she spins, almost stumbling from her perfect stance—Sunday's eyes fly open and his heart stutters as she starts to lose her balance.

"Hey! Be careful—!"

The chair topples and a heavy thud resounds around the room, along with a few books that fell from its place in the case.

Sunday's chest and entire back blooms with a sudden rush of pain, his face crumpling on a wince.

"Oww..."

His amber eyes peered down and his eyes lock with you as he had you in his embrace to crush the fall of your impact.

The boy diverts his eyes, then looks back at you, clearly at the loss with what to do.

"Uhm." His hands come up to softly hold your shoulders. "Are you okay?"

A second of silence.

"I think so.."

With two of his hands on your own, he helps you up slowly. Then he leans down to brush the dust from your dress.

"Sorry." Sunday goes for an apology. "I didn't mean to startle you, I—"

"Wait a second."

He looks up at your cushiony voice, your eyes seem to hover on the shape of his halo under the candlelight.

Sunday could've sworn he saw wonderment within your eyes.

"You're that halovian boy with the large halo." You say, your enthused tone resting upon his ears and it seemed as if the world had stilled.

Sunday sees the expression on your face and finally he takes every inch of you. Gone was your stylish hat, what remains is a silky dress that seems to ebb and flow around your limbs and legs. Your eyes encased his in orphic merriment.

"Yes, hi." He almost scowls at himself, he hates how that sounded between his teeth. "You're...the one that performed today, your voice is very beautiful."

Your chuckle is feathery and tasted like sweet fruit. You turn away from him to pick up a notebook that fell on the floor, brushing your fingers against its leather cover.

"So why are you in this part of the building, lost?"

"Of that nature, yes."

He doesn't say that he's been looking for you, specifically. He doesn't even know why he felt that way. At the corner of his membrane, he vaguely wanted to ask if you were okay—or inquire why you had asked for his assistance, he wouldn't have made a move if you hadn't done that.

To the boy's misfortune, you see through his white lie.

"You know, if you hadn't called for the Bloodhounds earlier, I would have assumed you were really lost." You tell him with a hardened look. "You're not even supposed to be here in this room."

If you hadn't called for the Bloodhounds.

"So you knew I wasn't just some audience member from the start." He asks you, non-accusatory.

"It doesn't take a genius to see you are different from the rest." You start. "You were in one of the high balconies—only those in high positions are allowed to enter there."

Sunday doesn't know whether you said it as an insult or a compliment. He clears his throat, "Then I wanted to ask you something, why did you ask me to help you?"

Sunday remembers his own humming halo, before hearing your voice in his head. He wonders why you had chosen to converse with him of all people in the audience, you could've called for the Minister instead, but you chose him specifically.

"I just knew you would help." Your gentle smile doesn't leave too much for him to wonder. "I saw it in your eyes."

It takes a long time for you to answer, his amber eyes don't leave you as you brush past him, footsteps thudding softly against wooden planks to stare out the window that acts like a halo around your figure—like performance lights.

Skepticism is sewn between his brows. Everything is quiet now, Sunday doesn't know what to say or do but watch you. The room is too dark to completely see anything but for a split second when the curtains raise to invite street lamps to pour in the room—he notices something.

His heart stutters, then he closes the distance between the two of you. One hand weighs heavy on your shoulder, the other rips the curtains wide so the light has no choice but to cascade in.

Sunday's shock at the sight.

There are deep scars, clumsy and messy, almost like wine blemishes greeting him between the peaks of stylish fabric. Amber eyes then trace along the wounds, it stops closely at the deep scratches where your wings were, like someone had dug red in the root of it.

"What happened to your..."

Your smile is bitter but you dare not answer him. Despite being young and powerless, Sunday's not a fool. He instantly places two together.

The reason for your cry for help, the trafficked children, your injuries...

"You're not from Penacony, are you?" He touches your wrist, pulling you close then closer, breathing almost a whisper in case anyone else was listening.

"You're from New Ebondium."

Sunday's eyes are wide open now, grim and stiff with the revelation—a polar opposite from yours that remains passive, too calm for his liking.

"I guess."

"You guess?"

You chuckle then, it seems like the situation hasn't weighed down on you. Even if it did, you don't seem too concerned with it. "You're smart. I am a foreigner, I was trafficked from New Ebondium. It's easy to exploit a land that was defeated, no?"

Your eyes trail to the window, massaging a tentative finger to your wounded ear wings.

"They tried to cut it off with a pair of rusty old scissors a few days ago." You start, "to them, they didn't care what I am—I'm nothing but a scum from New Ebondium—they said. They also wondered if halovian wings would fetch a high price in the market. That's why I asked for help from you, I thought you'd do something about those bastards and you did."

Sunday's shock turns to fury.

"Blasphemous."

White hot anger rises from his throat and deeper within his veins, a surge of protectiveness. It didn't matter if war ceased three years ago. Whatever the outcome, the victors would always be aligned with honor, breeding pride and prejudice, a slow cycle for the absolute victors and punishment-bearers.

This was not the dream of victory Sunday honors.

Tenderly, the boy brushes your feathers with his knuckles, inspecting closely. From the audience's seats, he didn't notice a single thing wrong about you, but up close, your colored plumages feel stiff and rough beneath his skin, untended and oily and not preened properly—the aspect of a halovian's wings are their basis of pride, divine innocence and most of all, freedom. It's their most cherished possession, ridding one of its feathers means cutting their life to the ground, to be helpless, to die flightless.

It's the fact that your birth-given wings beneath your ears have already been threatened to be chopped off, you haven't even fully grown out your secondary wings yet...

Sunday pulls himself out of his own thoughts when he feels palms lifting his cheeks up.

His eyes lock with yours and for a moment the two of you stay like that, watching the other's folded expression closely.

"You're sad." You concluded after your inspection. "Why are you sad?"

Why were you asking this question?

"You think I shouldn't feel sad about this?"

"No one has." You answer him. "Not the Penaconian folks and definitely not someone like you."

Someone like me, you say. Sunday should feel insulted from such distinctions. But at the back of his head, he knows you're right.

He lets out a shaky exhale.

It's weird. The feeling tickling in his chest is different, there's a tentative pull that he feels towards you but he cannot quite understand why. Aside from Robin no one else had expressed trust in him, a trust that didn't have any basis or solid ground. You had trusted him the moment your eyes met from across the stage, trusted him of your origin and your wounds from harassment that mar the canvas of your body.

You trusted him despite not knowing him.

Sunday doesn't understand.

By the time the inspection was finished, Sunday had to leave the room and you were called back with the other kids. The night was dead and the rain had stopped pouring, mechanical carriages awaited outside as Bloodhounds ushered the children within.

"Where have you run off to?"

Sunday looks up at Gopher, the night rests peacefully upon his face, his arms crossed softly over his chest. The young boy avoids eye contact first, then looks back at his deep eyes, "I just wanted to take a look around the area."

"Hm." Gopher hums. "Next time, take someone from the Bloodhounds with you. You could've run into trouble."

Run into trouble. The man's deep voice invokes doubt, enough to pierce and stumble Sunday's self-morale.

He bites his tongue.

"Of course."

The young boy focuses on the line of children in front of them, he's reminded of you. Sunday knew that if these kids will grow up, they will be like lambs to a slaughter. To be entangled in a more governed and high atrocity the closer they get to the Capital.

And then there's you, a girl from the enemy land, the girl who loves to perform—born to be one. One mishap from you and your life would tumble down like a weed in a garden.

'Oh, aren't you that halovian boy with the large halo?' 'My instincts told me to trust you.' 'Why are you sad?'

Your voice is in Sunday's head, your tone absent of any sort of expectations or contempt.

It felt like petals falling, your voice that is.

Sunday wants to hear it again—he cares.

He felt like he had the responsibility to look after you now after that statement of yours, after relishing briefly in your company, the young boy cannot help but crave for more, like a moth to a flame.

So when you appear from the door, following the line to the carriage—he steps out from his place beside the Minister, he cannot help but reach out and circle your wrist, the line that flowed like a stream suddenly meeting its disturbance, the boy could feel many eyes on him, burning his skin. It almost makes him flush red with embarrassment, but your eyes appear gentle like he'd remember a few moments ago beneath that moonlight, encouraging, so he stills his determination.

"Son?" Gopher questions.

But Sunday's eyes are on you.

You're sad. Why are you sad?

You think I shouldn't feel sad about this?

No one has. Not the Penaconian folks and definitely not someone like you.

"You're wrong because I care." He tells you, he feels the warmth of your wrist, the pulse on his fingertip, pouring at a similar rhythm of his own heartbeat. "Pain is still pain. It does not discriminate, not with rugs or with riches."

From there on, he has made his final decision and turns to his guardian.

"Mr. Gopher Wood." Says Sunday, a tinge of weakness in his tone, he takes another breath, fists clenched.

"I want her." He says. "As a companion for Robin and I."

"Sunday." Gopher's eyes narrow. "If you demand something, speak with a voice of confidence, only then will I listen to you."

Sunday's eyes widened, this was the first time the Minister had given him a chance to explain himself. He feels the warmth of your skin beneath his palm.

He looks at you gingerly. "Will you come with me?"

You seem also shocked by his actions, but you're quick to recover. "Only if you allow it."

"Then, she'll be coming back with me to the Church, Mr. Gopher Wood."

There was a splotch of silence, then a small exhale from the tall man. "Alright then. If you wish for a friend, who am I to refuse my son's request?" Sunday's surprise of Gopher Wood's pliancy on the matter. Sunday beckons you to stand with him and watch as the last remaining kids enter the carriage. The Minister had his final say with some of the Bloodhound officers and Sunday diverted his attention, ready to take you to their carriage.

He stops when he notices you staring up at the Velvet House once more, you squeezed Sunday's hand. "You told me pain is still pain despite rugs or riches."

"Yes, I did."

"Then, do you truly understand my pain?"

Sunday notices the melancholy framing your irises and the lilt of your tone, he tilts his head and says your name for the first time that night. That garners your attention and you look back at him,

He releases your hand only to reach out and hold both your ear wings upon his cupped palms. He feels the feathers once again and remembers its touch of roughness—he hasn't told you this, but there was a time where both he and Robin had smoke rubble and tangy blood caking their feathers. It was such a long time ago, but Sunday would dare not forget his mother's caresses and final words.

He holds your face softly, "My dream will involve everyone. It will be a paradise where the weak will be protected and one day, when we are older, if you wish for a stage to perform I'll build you one, something more grander than Velvet house, where everyone will love you and your voice. Pain and harassment will not be a factor."

You stare dumbfounded at his bold statement, Sunday sees your eyes turn starry-eyed.

"You promise?" You asked him, hopeful.

The boy is still young, doe-eyed and ruddy-cheeked, skin still dewy from any tribulations, with the first touch of the sun on the tip of his tongue when he says,

"I promise you."

“Another dead Halovian, sir.” There is a strain in the officer's tone, the body before them covered with a plain sheet, concealing the corpse.

"She was a widowed baron's wife." Gopher Wood's brows knotted, conflicted. The night lamp from afar provides ample light, glittering the chain hanging from his glasses.

"Are there any leads?"

"The local detectives are on their way here. But it will take about a day or two to gather any concrete evidence."

"What a waste of precious time." the man chastises. "By the time the detectives finish their work, the perpetrator would have escaped the city."

"My apologies, Chamberlain. However with the issues of Lady Constance's funeral preparations, the missing merchants and the suspicious activities of New Ebondium our resources are running incredibly thin."

Gopher Wood cannot help but pinch the bridge of his nose, rarely does he show any pint of irritation but the ongoing problem has been thinning his patience. "I had told those ignoramus Family heads to handle this affair weeks ago. Time and time again they have proven to be incompet—"

He catches himself before insults can spill any further. The atmosphere hushes into silence, merely the humming of lamplight and the distance roars of mechanical gears fill the cracked air.

Gopher barely turns his head, fixing his gloves. "Sunday."

"Yes, Minister?"

"This situation shall be kept hidden from the public and there's nothing more for you to learn today, you may head back to the Church."

The boy tilts his head. "Then, I’ll take my leave."

The night is achingly cold, even with him bundled up in a woolen scarf. His chauffeur guides him back to the awaiting carriage at the end of the alleyway, the young boy gets in and they are set off. When Sunday leans his elbow by the window sill, the radio starts to sputter:

"Convicted suspects of the horrible discovery in the downtown sector of the Velvet House have already been sentenced to their execution a few system hours ago. Their punishment to drink a half-pint of foxglove from a silver goblet, they have been—"

Sunday closes his eyes.

"Coach."

"Yes, young lord?"

"Please turn the radio off."

"Right away, young lord." His eyes remain vacant on the moving road, his fingers thrumming on his lap. Aside from the silence from the lessening radio, he could hear the distant roars of mechanical wirings and cogs from the Industrial Capital, the clips of horses' hooves as his carriage continued to roll by the granite road.

And just like that, after two weeks of hearing about the trials, the judgment, following the Minister around, the people involved with the trafficking had met their tragic end.

Penacony's news and radios had been sputtering about the incident, coupling it with the gasps from passersby and locals of all the sectors that bore witness to such atrocities. Two weeks of nonstop rumors and gossip about the tainted downtowns of deepened black market connections running haywire, and how they had gone radio silent after the crimes had surfaced to the Capital and the Bloodhounds.

In a couple of weeks people will move on from the topic, and days will continue to ebb and flow like clockwork.

That also means it has been exactly two weeks since you came to the Church.

Two weeks since Sunday last spoke to you.

Your schedule doesn't seem to find a crossroad. On the night of your arrival to the Church, the Minister had pulled Sunday aside,

"You've matured, Sunday." Gopher Wood had a different expression on his face. "I will tell the Academy to change your general studies to something more befitting. It's about time you start learning how to be a leader of this Nation."

Sunday should've been more aware of this outcome. The price of the Minister's lack of scolding on the matter concerning you—was Sunday's obedience and devotion to his growing responsibility. And thus, more weight was added on his shoulders.

With more duties on his plate comes the sacrifice of spending less time with his sister or having leisure time for himself.

The carriage stops. "We have arrived, please watch your step when you exit, master."

Sunday straightens, picking up his textbooks and exiting the carriage, what greets him at the entrance of the Church was one of the sisters that raised him, her smile kind, "Welcome back, Sunday. You've done well today, allow me to take your textbooks to your room."

"Thank you but there's no need, Sister Ruth." Sunday hesitates. "Is Robin home already?"

"Yes, she finished her recitals earlier and is now singing for tonight's sermon—ah." Ruth's eyes brighten. "That young girl volunteered to sing tonight as well, both have such lovely voices. Miss Robin and her seem to be enjoying each other's company."

A small smile graces Sunday's lips. "I see."

During the short time busying himself with the Minister's demands, he has found how you and Robin had grown closer to one another each passing day.

It was an instant click of friendship, Robin warmed up to you first after hearing of your circumstances (of course, Sunday hid the fact that you were New Ebondium-borne).

It only took a day or two to realize how similar you two were; she dreamt about being a star one day, you responded kindly to the same notion, your child-like dreams of performance still small and conserved, passion growing like a flavorful fresh fruit. The other day, Sunday saw how Robin had enthusiastically pulled you to join her in her recitals and practices, sometimes during the lukewarm afternoon light, he would hear you both giggling over in Robin's room or he would see you two care for the other children, tidying up the dinette table together, talking and grinning, the kids offering you a wreath to crown your head, the sisters patting your head or cheek affectionately.

It always brings a smile to Sunday's face to see you getting along so well with the others, a little relieved that Robin has another companion of her age whenever the boy is too busy. But at the same time, Sunday cannot help but feel a bit left out, a type of bittersweetness on the duvet of his expression whenever he sees you and the others, a gaping ache of loneliness in his chest that continues to grow a ravine, but he swallows down his own emotions.

"Would you like to join them?" Ruth asks. "I can go ahead and—"

"No, it's alright. I…" Sunday hesitates a second too late. "The Academy is expecting me to do well for the next exams, I have to study. Please send my greetings to those two."

Ruth's smile is softer now, sad. "Okay. Be sure to take breaks in the middle, young lord." The boy feels a warm hand caressing his cheek, almost achingly akin to a mother's touch of concern. "You're still fifteen, you shouldn't be worked up over things like these so early."

"I know." Sunday sends her a kind smile, pivoting in his heel after bidding her a curt farewell.

But he can't help but worry about his future responsibilities as the future successor, too busy worrying to join you and Robin so leisurely,

And his loneliness is quickly filled with matters of the Ménage.

The night is growing colder by the minute and Sunday finds himself leafing through the pages of one of his books—he cannot find it in him to sleep with ease, deprived and muddled with so many troubles. The Academy has high hopes for him to rank one and sooner or later depending on how he performs, he will be introduced as the Chamberlain's successor at the next banquet in the heart of the Ménage.

Sunday closes his eyes for a moment, a headache rampant. It's too much.

He sighs heavily, leaning his head against his arm. A knock on the door pulls him from his own thoughts, he flinches at the unexpected disturbance.

"Who's there?" He calls out softly, his eyes wander to the clock, 2:34am. It's so late for someone to come over. Silence answers him at first, however Sunday could hear the heartbeat of the person on the opposite side of the door, a mellow whisper and a dainty shuffle of feet beneath the wood.

"Sunday?" His breath hitches at your soft voice. "May I come in?"

The chair is dragged back as he stands. When he reaches the door he cannot help but fleet his gaze to the mirror in the corner, he squints beneath the dim light, pressing his shirt flat from creases, making sure his cowlicks are tamed down and presentable; he fusses over his appearance for a while before he cracks the door open.

His eyes sought yours and just like that, his lethargy lessens. You greet him on the other hand, your familiar smile decorating your lips, head tilted to the side.

"Hi."

"Hey." Sunday pauses, eyes looking you up and down, a frown on his lips. "The night is getting chillier, why are you only wearing cotton?"

He reaches out, albeit reluctantly for your hand to tug you in—only to jolt from how icy your fingers feel.

He sighs then. “Take care of yourself.”

His kiss-warmth hands are firm over your own, the boy pulls out a wool blanket from his wardrobe, wrapping it generously around your shoulders. He closes the door to his room and asks you to follow him to the lounge where a fireplace rests. You both sit in front of the hearth as Sunday clumsily cracks fire embers on the wood, it took a minute or two before red crumbs grew bright, licking up charred wood and humming through the empty air.

"Thank you." You let out a puff of breath, inching your cold fingers near the fire, then you turn to him. "Sorry if I'm disturbing you, I just couldn't sleep."

"No, no—" He's quick to clear his throat. "It's alright, really. I couldn't sleep either." His golden eyes drop to the heavy book being cradled to your chest.

"Looks like the two of us have things on our minds."

When Sunday looks back at you, your eyes are tipped upward in a smile.

He looks away immediately.

He hasn't mentioned it but it still feels a little odd to see you walking around the Church like that; hair untied, dressed in a simple cotton fabric—maybe he was used to seeing you in that silk-priced performance dress back at Velvet House but as you walk around, there's something else that seem to change about you.

There's still an air of untouched sophistication about you, your steps feather-like and quiet, sometimes he feels like if there is any form of danger right around the corner you won't hesitate to up and vanish like a smoke. But now, there's grounded reassurance—with the light of the fire, your wings appear preened and fluffier than usual, like it's been taken care more, it susurrates as you flap it. You settle comfortably on the floor beside him, nose buried into the blanket around your shoulder, and Sunday thinks that you look domestic, more like a child now than before.

You open your eyes. "Robin mentioned how much of a scholar you are."

He chuckles. "I'm just alright."

"Really?" You tilt your head. "You seem to like spending more time with books and scriptures than wanting to spend time with us."

Sunday's lips curve into a thin smile, he jots down about your unexpected boldness in his head then he quietly takes the empty space beside you, the floor creaking under his light weight. His wings flap once, twice. peeved and troubled. "I don’t particularly like scriptures as much as you thought." He turns his attention to the book you have. "What do you have there?"

He sees you look at him, down at the book, then up again.

"Oh." Your fingers are tentative over the letters inked onto the book. "This is just a book from the library I found. I was wondering if you knew of this." A pause. "I just didn't know how to approach you."

Sunday shakes his head, then leans in. "What is it? I can teach you if you want."

The boy wasn't expecting you to inch closer to his face, he refrains his wings from expressing his fluster and surprise, tucking it beneath his ears daintily when he sees you cup a palm around your mouth, your voice becoming whispery and hushed on his ear.

"It's about the Reef."

"The Reef,” He echoes. “The one that borders Penacony and separates the land from New Ebondium?" Sunday swallows his bash and answers you in a scholarly tone.

You nod your head. "Yes."

"Why are you curious about it?"

"The folks from the Velvet House mentioned it a couple of times back then." There's a look of adamancy in your expression, something that stirs Sunday. "They mentioned how difficult it is to go through the Reef and cross the border, why is that?"

The young boy thinks about it for a moment, during his travels he finds himself picking up certain information not privy to the public ears—on one of his journey towards the Serenity District, the closest location to the Reef itself—he has heard of Bloodhound officers talking about a creature spotted in that zone, not exactly the Legion but something more sinister.

Sunday spares you a look, his amber eyes glowing beneath the late hour. He leans forward, enough that his lips are brushing the feathers of your wings.

"There's a mimema in there."

"What's a mimema?"

"A meme." He simply says. "A creature as big as the most priced stallions in the high districts, said to have multiple eyes, golden claws and a weird...inky proportion."

He can feel your long silence. Then you ask, "Like a monster almost?"

"Yeah, almost. People have been said to have disappeared whilst crossing the Reef, mostly verified merchants trading to and fro." Sunday pauses. "That's just a myth though."

"I see." Your fingertip runs across the page, tracing the lines of a map on the book. "Then, can you teach me more about Penacony? I barely know anything about it aside from the Velvet House."

Sunday blinks his amber eyes down at you, the fire continues to crackle and burn. "Why me?"

"Why not you?"

"I'm," he looks away, insecurity is quick to well up inside of him as he remembers Mister Gopher Wood’s critique. You still have a lot to learn, son. He told him one time, and the young boy is quick to believe it.

"I'm not that good yet.” He tells you, and a pang coils through the air at the sound of rejection, he readies himself to stand and return to his room. “Forgive me but it’s best if you ask Robin or the Sisters…”

“Sunday, wait.” You catch the palm of his hand in yours, stopping his pace completely.

“Don’t leave yet, you don’t have to if you don’t want to—” You were quick to say, noticing the complicated expression caking his golden eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just been two weeks and I…I have been looking for a reason to approach you, this was the only thing I could come up with.”

Then and there, young Sunday realizes the issue. He starts to piece together your unexpected visit, your sudden interest about Penacony and your request for him to teach you.

Two weeks, he has busied himself with other matters that he hasn’t spoken to you in that long. He thought Robin’s company was enough to satiate you, or the presence of the Sisters and the other children that you don’t need him.

He thought you didn't need him, but here you were, reaching out to him first when he should’ve kept his promise to you the moment he intertwined his hands with yours and offered you to come live with him.

“I just want to spend more time with you.” He finally sees the look of loneliness in your eyes, your hand squeezes his own, a lingering yearning in your own eyes. “You were the one that helped me and took me away from that hell. I just want us to be friends at the very least.”

Sunday cannot help but stare at you simply. There's valiance pooling in your eyes, a shine that dares to overflow it makes his breath hitch. The young boy clears his throat, he turns away—the apple of his cheeks burning and not because of the hearth's warmth—he traces his steps back and occupies the space beside you once again, the action makes your shoulders slump in relief.

His amber eyes are akin to the fire in front of both of you, “You don’t need to say all of that, I already see you as a friend.”

Your eyes seem to sparkle at his reply, your hands are still latched, and the boy is hyper aware of the feel of your cool fingers and the mild calluses written on your palm. He reaches out to brush some rebellious strands from your face, “I should be the one to say sorry, I was the one who brought you here and I never gave you reassurance.”

You shake your head. “I knew there were other things that worried you. I saw it in your eyes when you were talking with that Minister,”

So, even you noticed that.

You continued, “Robin has told me a lot about you.” Sunday cannot help but feel bashful at your confession. “She’s worried about you too, you know. She wants you to lean on her when you feel overwhelmed.”

Sunday’s smiles thin and he replies to your statement, a light-hearted chuckle leaving his lips. The night continues to prolong and ink through the minutes, however the two of you find yourself staying in each other’s company in the lounge. You were an easy person to be around, you were willing to listen as conversation quickly fills the background. Your chatting ranged from random spurts of topics you wish to tell the other—talking about your days in the Church, what you liked and disliked—to in-depth talks about philosophies from Sunday, even if there was a lack of heartfelt conversations tonight, it didn’t matter. The boy had yearned to interact with you since he saw you in Velvet House, being able to chat with ease about anything and everything was all that he needed.

That night, Sunday learned more about you as you did with him. You didn’t realize how long you both lingered and talked that the fire had reached its lifetime, and the dregs of sleep had pulled you both under, conquering your consciousness. The enthusiastic chattering quickly shifts into silence and you both fall asleep on the lounge floor, huddled together with the blanket Sunday had lent you.

By the next morning, the young boy awakens with Robin poking his cheek. His drowsy amber eyes fall to his sister’s sly expression and only then did he realize how he had fallen asleep whilst chatting with you throughout the night, and how he had you close to him, an arm beneath your head to act like a cushion at the absence of a pillow and his other arm draped over the blanket like he’s shielding you from the cold.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Robin coos teasingly. “Seems like the two of you had fun without me last night.”

“It’s not like that.” Robin could only laugh sweetly which made Sunday’s ears brush red yet again. It seems as if his soft skin had melange with rud these days. The boy sits up, cradling your head as you continue to slumber and he looks down at you softly.

Robin sees this and gets up from her crouched position, her dress fluttering “Her room is just across from mine.” She tells him. “I’ll help make breakfast. Take care of her, brother. She’s been through a lot.”

With one last smile in his direction, Robin exits the lounge leaving Sunday to ponder. Take care of her, brother, the sentence resonates through him. Without sparing another second, Sunday winds a hand around your shoulder and the other under your knees to lift you up into his embrace. You seem to unconsciously drift closer to him, your cheek and tucked wing making home on the crook of his neck as Sunday takes you to your own room.

It doesn’t take long for him to reach it, struggling a little with you in his arms and juggling the doorknob open. Sunday hasn’t been inside your own space before, but as soon as he steps inside the boy cannot help but realize how much the room is akin to its owner—he was reminded of the room he found you in at the Velvet House. The honey gold spilling through the thin curtains and melting down the floor looked like performance lights. Your bed is a fluffy nest, with layers of caked beddings and duvets, he spots a vanity, a wardrobe, a desk with a singular notebook tucked by the corner. He diverts his attention and waddles his way to your mattress and slowly sinks you on its comfortable sheets.

He cannot help the smile from invading his lips when you let out a breathy sigh of comfort. His hand inches to brush your hair again but his fingertips stop just as it graces your forehead, “It should be me, thanking you.” He mutters out softly.

“If it weren’t for you…”

Sunday pauses briefly, amber eyes observing your peaceful expression. He ruminates upon his thoughts as the morning continues to float around the room in gentle waves.

Sunday had kept his promise to you. After the whole ordeal with you visiting him and asking him to teach you more about Penacony—he approached you the next few days and was more than willing to give you a few pointers of what he was taught by his tutors and the Academy. Ruth specifically was elated at how you two are getting along now. More importantly, looking at the gentle look Sister Ruth gave Sunday, the boy knew why she was relieved.

Ever since taking private lessons to be the head of the Church at thirteen, Sunday stopped acting like a child and had been making surface-level relationships. Aside from the people within the Church, Robin and Mister Gopher Wood—he never let anyone genuinely in.

You were the first in a long while that Sunday was letting into his life.

Of course, neither Sunday nor Sister Ruth mentioned that fact as he guides you to his room, books already stacked and ready at his desk for topic reviews.

Time passes in a blink of an eye.

After a few slices of moments together, Sunday came to a quick realization that you don't seem to hold a heavy amount of worry about the future like he does, and even if you did, it didn't seem to affect your person.

Bright, glittering, crystalline water—that's what he describes you as. With your grinning eyes, curves of your lips and alluring tone—it's easy for anyone to fall into your own little puddle, you seem to have a talent with that. By the next month since you've arrived in the Church, you have become the sweetheart of many. It's well known how much Robin had considered you her dear friend, or how the younger kids had called you their pretty older sister, or how the Sisters of the Church had called you their darling girl.

And as for Sunday, the young scholar boy continues to fall into the currents of your mannerisms, your bold trajectory, your hauntingly drawn smile, deeper than anyone can sink themselves into.

All those routine nights studying alone through wordy scriptures and heavy proverbs was simply replaced by your presence and the crackle of fire. That one late night visiting Sunday turned to two, then four—to the point the boy doesn’t question when he hears his door open and close because he knows it’s just you, another new book in your arms and questions ready to slip between your tongue.

You were easily Sunday's best student, you were quick to understand certain verses, can make analysis and theories on certain economic and political decisions of the Ménage, get into deep discussions with him in terms of Penaconian history and learn its linguistics. It had quickly become a study session for the two of you—one of the last things on his routine which Sunday favored the most. It was the only time you two got to spend time together since his mornings and afternoons were preoccupied by private tutoring.

"You learned the Penaconian language faster than I expected." Sunday's impressed at your written notes, they are all correct and easy to understand. Then he starts cleaning up the mess of cards and parchments from his room floor. The boy was too busy to notice your long stare. When he gathers up the last remaining notes, he barely sees you reach out your hand until he feels the touch of fingertips grazing the feathers of his wings, touching a nerve.

Sunday jolts back in surprise, curling his wings protectively beneath his gray hair. "...What is it?"

"Oh sorry. It’s nothing, I just..." You seem to be daydreaming, stagnant and saddened all of a sudden. "To Halovians, wings are their lifeline. Scriptures and textbooks have mentioned the divinity and the meaning of wings to Halovians so I still cannot understand why there will be people out there that desire to cut off our wings."

Sunday is quiet for a moment, he cannot help but sigh heavily. "Did you eavesdrop on the passing guards outside of our Church?"

Your silence is almost deafening. "What do you mean?"

"Did you hear about the recent serial murders of Halovians?" He asks. Your expression shifts: shocked, caught, then melancholic.

You nod slowly and the boy's shoulders droop.

A month has passed already, and that meant three more dead Halovians found in ditches and alleyways with no clue of the murderer behind it. The only alarming difference from the first found body—was that the recently murdered Halovians had ripped off wings and missing halos. Maybe the black market networks are finally making a bold move after the execution of their own? Sunday hasn't heard anything from Minister Gopher Wood in awhile since the first case.

The very thought of those mutilated Halovians twists ichor and sickness within Sunday.

Then for a moment, everything seems to stop.

The two of you hear clattering, then the door creaks open, Ruth emerges with a lantern in hand, her expression creased with panic and worry. Something felt wrong.

“What the matter?” Sunday is up on his feet, his pulse is racing.

Ruth is reluctant for a second, then she says. “It’s the young miss.” She says. “We can’t find her anywhere.”

Robin. Sunday felt like his whole world crashed for a momentary second.

𐔌౨ৎ 、 MASTERLIST ノ NEXT CHAPTER

taglist — @kazucee @3lectraheart @cakechase @swivi @justcallmemidnight

#📰 — icarus syndrome series #⋆ ࣪. 🪐 kou works.#sunday x reader #sunday x y/n #sunday x you #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x reader

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inotakumagf · 4 days ago

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the strength to push forward

✶ gojo satoru x gn!reader

word count ✺ 1.6K

summary ✺ your mission goes terribly wrong. gojo is there to pick up the pieces.

warning ✺ the shitty side of being a sorcerer. hurt/comfort. everything sucks, but husband!gojo is there to take care of you. slight descriptions of injuries, blood, and death. reblogs & comments r appreciated ^u^

There is always the risk, as a jujutsu sorcerer. There is always going to be a threat that's larger than life, and there are always going to be people to save. You do what you can, and you always push yourself past your limits for the sake of your vow to protect and defend. Fight, protect, defend. Those words—those promises—circle your mind during every mission. You can never allow yourself to slip, not for a single moment. The higher ups demand perfection.

You must be perfect on every mission, because there is no room for error. You cannot fail, ever. You have been bound to perfection ever since you were promoted to Grade 1 sorcerer in your third year of high school. You were too young, too hopeful for what the world did to you. Your husband feels this pressure tenfold, because he has been viewed as a weapon for the sorcery world since he was born. The two of you have been spread thin with all the missions and assignments that you’ve taken on over the years, all for the sake of keeping everyone safe.

Tragedy after tragedy has wrought you weary, but you find strength in your husband. Not because his power and his technique make him “the strongest”. You have stood by him, and you’ve seen everything that he has suffered through. All that pain and loss, yet he still endures it for the sake of others, all with a smile on his face. He wants nothing more than to protect his students, non-sorcerers, and you.

He is your strength, he keeps you fighting. And even now, as you watch the world fall apart around you, you can only think of Satoru.

You’ve been sent out on another mission. The briefing is the same as all the others: a Grade 1 curse is tormenting a small village, and you’ve been summoned to exorcise it. By all means, it should be an easy mission given the details you’ve been provided. But you had only just gotten back from another grueling mission, and because of that you haven’t slept in over 24 hours.

And the creature before you is not a Grade 1 curse.

It takes you only a moment to sense that this is a Special Grade. You’ve fought Special Grades before, but your body has already been pushed to the edge in this past week alone. A feeling of despair sinks into your gut. Fight, protect, defend. You clench your fists and summon your technique. You will die before you let this curse cause any more harm.

For a few minutes, you’re certain that you have the upper hand on the curse. But the damage that it causes is too much. You heave after every use of your cursed energy. Your technique has weakened, and your blows roll off the curse like air. It overwhelms you, and you sink to your knees. There are crumbled buildings around you. The village had begun its evacuation, but you know how many people have already died. You think this is where you meet your end. When you shut your eyes, you can see your husband as clear as day. He has a stupid joke on the tip of his tongue, as usual. You need to see him again. Your eyes snap open, and you face the curse head on.

It takes you a minute of fiddling to get the front door open. It’s difficult, with the arm you have pressed against the wound at your side. You could have—should have—gone to see Shoko when you completed your mission. But the only thing keeping you on your feet after exorcising the curse was the thought of your husband. A soft chant of Satoru, Satoru, Satoru has been the mantra to get you to stand and to move and to survive.

It is well past midnight, but you know Satoru will be up waiting for you. You hate for him to see you like this, but there is nothing you can do. As soon as you push the door open, you startle at the sight of him right before you. But of course, with his Six Eyes, he was expecting you. His uncovered eyes roam your injured body, and he pulls you into his arms.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, and you can see the pain in his face. You don’t say a word. You can’t in this state. The mission has left you numb and nonverbal. You want to scrub each layer of your skin off until there’s nothing left to remember.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers into your skin. His touch, his voice knocks something loose inside of you. It pulls you back down to Earth.

You sob into his neck, pulling him as close as you can. You want his energy to swallow you whole. “I-I couldn’t…so many people are dead because of me. I failed.” The confession comes out in a whisper, and the shame makes your tears multiply.

Satoru cradles your head against his chest, soothing your shaking frame as best as he can. He doesn’t speak as he pulls you silently towards the bathroom.

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his reassurance in the way that he gently cleans and bandages your wounds. You feel it in the way that he stares at you, and in the way that he presses fluttering kisses along every inch of your skin. He is here, with you. Everything else is secondary to that.

He draws a warm bath for you, and he even adds in the fancy aromatherapy soap that you save for special occasions. He is uncharacteristically quiet as he scrubs you clean, trailing kisses along your sore arms up to your shoulders. He rubs body soap into your skin, letting you rest your head against his solid arm. Once the water has gone cold, Satoru helps you stand so that he can wrap a towel around your shivering body. He sweeps you off your feet and lifts you up bridal-style, which gets a laugh of surprise past your lips. You link your hands around his neck, tucking your face into his chest. He refuses to let you down, instead pulling you closer to him.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, “My wonderful, wonderful other half.”

You don’t respond. Because you know you’ll just try to deny it. You just acknowledge his words with a delicate kiss on his jawline. A thank you for putting up with you, even though you know he’ll insist he isn’t “putting up” with anything.

He picks out comfortable pajamas, and he even helps you change into them. The feeling of his warm, gentle hands running over your body makes you want to sob all over again. When you’re dressed, he pulls you beside him under the covers of your shared bed. You rest face-to-face, and he leans even closer to brush his nose against yours. He lays one leg over your hip, tangling the other between your own legs. Satoru traces his fingers over your body, flexing his hand into your skin every few seconds, as if still convincing himself that you made it back. It makes you feel terrible, because you can’t stop thinking about how many people don’t have the same privilege of being with their loved ones. How many of them still have people waiting anxiously, hoping that they’re just late when really they’re gone? How many people will have empty graves, because there were no bodies to recover? How many–

“Hey,” Satoru whispers.

You pull yourself out of your head. You whisper back just as softly, “Hi.”

“I missed you today. The kids were acting stupid, and I thought of you.”

You hum. “What happened?”

His hand trails over your side gently as he recounts his day. “Yuji and Nobara challenged each other to a mochi-eating contest. I don’t even remember what prize they had agreed to. Megumi said I wasn’t allowed to participate. Said I’d eat all the mochi on my own.” He pouts, and you lean forward to kiss it away. You laugh when you taste the sweet dough on his tongue.

You pull back to give him a look. He pretends he doesn’t see it, snuggling into you sweetly. “Really, Satoru?”

He grins. “What? The kids don’t like kikufuku. I had to eat it, or else it would have gone to waste.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile at your husband’s antics. He nuzzles his nose against your cheek. “Don’t worry, I saved some black sesame mochi for you. Snatched it up before anyone else could take it.”

You know he’s jesting, because he always buys way too many sweets for the kids. But the mental image of him fighting his own students to save you your favorite flavor makes you smile.

“I love you,” he mutters into your skin, as if he’s storing his love there.

“I love you, too.”

He pulls you closer, if that’s even possible. This is where you belong. This is where you store your strength, your motivation to continue when everything has gone to shit—it lives here, with your beloved husband. You know that no matter how difficult everything gets, no matter how much you lose, Satoru will be here for you, and you will be here for him. Always.

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru fanfic #gojo satoru x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru fluff #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo fluff #satoru gojo fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #jjk x reader #mywriting

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seresinhangmanjake · 2 months ago

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Fluff for Feyd, reader tells him that she’s proud of him and it’s the first time someone’s said that to him genuinely 🩵

Feyd-Rautha x reader

All He Knew

Summary: Feyd deals with the emotional aftermath of protecting you from his uncle.

Notes/Warnings: mention of past abuse, mention of death, and vulnerability. It's fluffy-ish and angsty-ish, and slightly different, but I still kept in the main idea. Hopefully you still like it :)

Words: 1150

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

You knew the second your husband’s blade went through the Baron’s neck that his whole world would change. Everything inside of him would disconnect. The pieces of his inner self would scatter chaotically, and he would no longer know who to be. You knew because of the power his uncle held over him for the majority of his life.

After Feyd killed his mother, the Baron was all he had. And how do you go from having the fullness of an overbearing presence on your shoulders—miserable as it was—to nothing? By killing the Baron, Feyd excised a part of himself, as if some creature had sauntered up to his side and taken a big bite out of his body. And now there’s a chunk missing that you fear cannot be filled, even by you.

He cries when he thinks you’re asleep. And though you continue to feign unconsciousness as you roll over and drape your arm over his waist, it’s not always enough to stop the tears. Part of you knew it wouldn’t be, but you still hoped. You hoped that having you beside him would remind him why he did what he did.

The Baron had ordered your execution because you were taking too long to provide an heir, and as you were dragged in front of the old man to answer for your ‘crime’, Feyd was nowhere near to protect you. The Baron was smart—he took you from the comfort of your bed in the early morning as your husband was training for another fight in the arena. The plan was simple, and Feyd wouldn’t know about your fate until it was too late. He wouldn’t be able to save you.

But he did, somehow. Your best guess is that Feyd has a mole, or many, throughout the Harkonnen fortress to relay everyone’s movements, because Feyd was rushing into the room and thrusting his blade into squishy flesh just as the order to end your life was leaving the Baron’s lips. And in those quick seconds, your husband was changed.

You don’t know how to bring him back to you. At least, you didn’t. You wrestled with it for days until it dawned on you that what he might need is not necessarily your touch or the reminder that he still has a wife, but instead, the words he deserves to hear.

—

“Feyd, I’m proud of you.”

You’ve been watching him all morning, standing aside, not wanting to interrupt his process of slowly nipping away at a training dummy with his knife. There are holes of all sorts in the torso, both deep and shallow, and slashes across the inanimate face. It has lost both its legs. One arm hangs on by what would be a thin cord of skin were it human. When your words reach him from the other side of the room, he pauses mid-swing.

“You did a hard thing,” you continue as his arm drops to his side and he straightens his stance from a fighters position. “You did a painful thing.”

His adam’s apple bobs. He sighs and stares down at the blade, the sharp point digging into his index finger as he twirls it. He has yet to look at you in the hour you’ve been here, and with the unpredictability of your husband, you don’t know what he’s going to do next. But you wait, patiently, because that is what you can do for him.

“I wouldn’t let him take you from me,” he finally says. The blade stabs into the gut of the dummy. “He’s damaged me enough.”

That’s all he gives you. Your heart shatters for him and for the walls he’s been building between you since he killed his uncle; walls that took you ages to tear down after you married him. You’d done so well at getting him to trust and love you, and you hate to watch the bricks stacking as the minutes pass.

“Since when are you proud when I kill?” he asks.

And it’s a fair question. You’ve never been a fan of the death that wreaks through the halls of the Harkonnen fortress. You’ve never enjoyed his triumphs in the arena. But this is different, and so you must handle it differently, with a gentle hand and well-chosen words, despite what those words may bring.

He hasn’t often handled well certain topics that you’ve tried to bring up in the past. Risky topics, you learned. Topics that have usually left him drawing away from you until the next morning comes and he can pretend as if you never brought them up.

When you’ve asked about his parents, he gets fidgety; can’t stand still, can’t stop messing with his hands, can’t look you in the eye for more than a quarter of a second. He’s unlike the husband you know. When you’ve asked about his uncle, he’s worse. He’s more than just unlike your husband, he detaches himself from the moment completely. He becomes stiff as a board; a statue with a faraway gaze in his eyes. He offers few words. But those reactions are enough for you to assume the truth of his past without him giving you more than the little he has.

“Feyd, he was abusive,” you say, closing the distance between you. “You ended someone who had power over you for years. Of course I’m proud of you.”

“It’s not as if I did it for me; I did it to save you.”

“You did it,” you tell him. “You did it when you needed to protect us most. You didn’t let him hurt me and force you to accept his justifications for doing so. That's what matters.”

Long beats pass that grow longer with each one. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears so violently that they feel stuffed with cotton. You fear his reaction; a further pulling away from you—something you’re not sure you’ll be able to take. But then he drops the knife to the floor, turns to you, and tucks his head into the space where your neck meets your shoulder.

His arms slowly snake around your waist and squeeze you tight, and you’re struggling to breathe properly, but you don’t care because the half-built brick wall just tumbled down. He needs you.

His exhales shakily graze over your collarbone. A droplet forges a path down your chest, disappearing into your cleavage and leaving a chilled trail in its wake. You raise your hand to the back of his head and hold him against you, letting more droplets trickle down your body, letting your skin muffle sobs.

“I’m sorry it had to be like this,” you whisper.

He inhales, breathing you in, and then says, “There’s not a life where I wouldn’t have done it for you.”

“I know,” you tell him.

“It shouldn’t hurt.”

“It’s allowed to hurt,” you say. “He’s all you knew.”

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha fic #austin butler #dune 2

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wannabespacesmuggler · 4 months ago

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L.H. | When You Call My Name

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Decades after the events of 1973, Logan finds himself drowning yet again at the bottom of the Potomac River. Luckily, you're there to help pull him out of his nightmare.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: depictions of drowning, mentions of death, discussion of nightmares, Logan's claws make an appearance, mentions of religious trauma and biblical imagery, mentions of abuse (it's on sight when I see you, William Stryker), mentions of self-deprecating thoughts, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, not really a warning but set after the events of Days of Future Past, loosely based on "Like a Prayer" by Madonna, Logan's POV, gender-neutral reader

Word Count: 2.4K

Author’s Note: So this one got away from me and my own religious trauma may have taken over a tad bit — sorry in advance (If you find comfort and solace in religion, more power to you. This is simply written from my own perspective and lived experience.) This came to me while listening to "Like a Prayer" by Madonna for the thousandth time since seeing Deadpool and Wolverine. Intended this to be shorter, but then I got possessed by some fanfic phantom and this was created. Super proud of the finished product though — hope you all enjoy.

As Logan’s eyes shoot open, he’s only got one thought running through his mind: his lungs are on fire. He attempts to move but is met with a sudden searing white pain shooting through his veins. His eyes, still adjusting to the eerie darkness surrounding him, search for the source of his injury. Panic rises in Logan’s chest as his gaze follows the metallic glint of rebar weaving through his body. He attempts to draw in a shaky breath, and his chest burns as water fills his lungs.

No.

It can’t be.

He’s drowning at the bottom of the Potomac River.

Logan wants to scream out of frustration, but it’s impossible. He has no more air left in his lungs, and he has no hope of reaching the surface to take a much-needed deep breath. Even if he could endure the agony caused by his body’s movements, the weight of the rebar Erik impaled him with is pinning him to the riverbed. He’s going to die here.

Cold. Alone. Suffering.

And yet, a sudden tranquility washes over his body and mind as he realizes that maybe he can finally rest in peace. He knows he placed his trust in the right people — somehow, Charles and Hank will find a way to stop Erik, and finally, the world will see that not all mutants need to be feared. He did his part — he brought everyone back together against all odds.

Logan knew the risks before Kitty sent him back in time, but there was no other choice. Because he also knew what the future would hold if he did nothing — he’d watch the sentinels eviscerate the last of his friends until he was the only one left. And that’s not a future he can live with. But what he can live with is no one remembering his life before 1973 as long as they’re safe — as long as you’re safe.

His body relaxes at the thought. He may not have a future with you in this new timeline, but knowing you’ll have the life you’ve always dreamed of puts Logan’s mind at ease. You’ll finally be able to live a peaceful life teaching at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters instead of being forced to play the part of a loyal soldier. Although Logan is deeply saddened by the fact he won’t be a part of this new life, he has more than enough memories of you from his timeline to keep him content in the afterlife.

Logan’s eyes flutter closed as he begins to feel himself slipping into unconsciousness. His regenerative abilities may be able to keep the rebar from killing him, but it cannot save him from asphyxiation. But before he can completely drift off, something grabs his body, pulling him towards the surface. Once free from the river’s grasp, he begins coughing up water. His body desperately gasps for air, and it feels like his lungs cannot get enough oxygen.

Logan finds the strength to open his eyes and takes in his surroundings. It’s bright — too bright. He blinks several times to adjust his vision to this sudden change. His attention gets drawn to the sound of several men talking in hushed voices. And as he looks up at his rescuers, the panic in his chest starts growing like a wildfire through his body. Logan might have let out a dry laugh at the sight if he wasn't in excruciating pain. Because instead of being met with any type of salvation, Logan seems to have been cursed with eternal damnation, no matter the timeline, in the form of William Stryker. Some things never change.

He’s younger than when Logan met him in his timeline, but as Stryker smiles down at him, Logan knows this is the same man — the same sick, twisted man he knows all too well. Panic turns into terror as he realizes what he’s about to endure. Agonizing years of torture and torment that he’ll be burdened to forget. He can’t do this again. Not after knowing a life full of not only hardship and loss but also friendship, laughter, and love. He can’t let Stryker take that from him — all those years of happiness. He can’t let him take you.

Stryker opens his mouth to speak, but instead of his condescending tone, Logan hears your voice call his name. Logan’s brow furrows at the sound. Maybe his extended lack of oxygen caused some sort of brain damage. But then he hears it again — a voice he’d recognize in any timeline. Your voice.

And suddenly, it hits him. This isn’t happening. There’s no river, no pain, no Stryker. This is a memory — a nightmare.

His eyes snap open, and his body jolts forward until he’s sitting up. He coughs hoarsely, as if his body is still trying to expel imaginary water, as he attempts to catch his breath. A layer of sweat has formed over his toned body, and his muscles flex as he rolls his shoulders back. He shakes his head roughly, trying to get a grip on reality.

And then you say his name again.

His head snaps up, and he looks at you with wild eyes. You’re standing across the room — arms wrapped around yourself tightly as you watch him worriedly. You take a hesitant step toward him. Logan’s brow furrows at your unsureness, concerned about what he might have done in his sleep. But then he follows your gaze to his extended metal claws, and your hesitancy becomes understandable. This isn’t the first time Logan’s claws have come out in the middle of the night. His eyes nervously scan over your body for any injuries he may have inflicted as he retracts his claws.

“Did I hurt you?”

You immediately cross the room as he speaks. Logan watches as you climb onto the bed and sit crisscross before him between his legs. You gently take both of his hands in yours and pull them onto your lap — the hesitancy long gone in your actions.

“No, Logan. I’m okay.”

He lets out a relieved sigh as he leans forward until his forehead meets yours. He takes a moment to simply relish in the warmth of your touch. Logan relaxes his tense shoulders and melts further into you as you draw lazy circles into the palm of his hand.

“Where’d you go?”

You pull away slightly to meet his eyes, and his breath hitches. Regardless of how many lifetimes he spends by your side, he’ll never get used to the fondness in your gaze as you look up at him. He remembers waking up in this timeline, thinking he actually did drown at the bottom of the Potomac River. Because this had to be heaven: having you tucked neatly into his chest, legs tangled up with his, steady breaths fanning across his neck. But as he felt you stir in your sleep, arms tightening slightly around his waist, he realized that this was real. He’d come to terms with his own death because at least his two hundred years spent suffering on this earth would mean something. But then he woke up from that nightmare, and he’s spent every day since then wondering when he’d inevitably be pulled out of this dream — waiting for history to repeat itself yet again. But he’s still here — and so are you.

“D.C., 1973.”

You hum quietly before bringing his hand up to your mouth and placing a tender kiss to his palm. Logan waits for you to ask another question about his nightmare, but you silently return to tracing circles into the palm you just kissed. He shouldn’t be surprised; you know him better than anyone by now — better than he knows himself. You know not to push him. And he appreciates it more than you’ll ever know. After years of having his autonomy stripped away, you wait for him to come to you — allow him to open up at his own pace. Soothe him whenever he feels that he is sliding backward instead of moving forward. Healing isn’t linear. This has become your mantra for him on the nights when he’s sure that he’s slipping back into the past — when he longs for the familiarity of his vices and self-destructive tendencies. And you sit next to him with relentless patience through the highs and lows as he continues to navigate and grieve the fifty years he lost.

He’s come a long way since he first woke up. And he still has a ways to go before he can say that he’s processed everything he’s lost. Truth be told, he’s not sure he’ll ever truly heal entirely from his past. But you tell Logan that it doesn’t matter. Every time he begins to think that he’s too damaged — too broken — you reassure him that you love him as is. But he still tries to piece himself back together, for your sake. Tries to open up — to show you that he trusts you more than anyone he’s known during his two hundred years across two separate timelines. And so he continues, letting you into the depths of his tortured mind.

“I was drowning. Again. And it all felt so real. I couldn’t breathe, and I was sure I was slipping into the darkness, but then Stryker was there…”

As Logan trails off, he notices how your body tenses at the mention of Stryker’s name. Your hands tighten ever so slightly around his, and Logan lovingly sweeps his thumb over your knuckles. He knows that name holds as much weight to you as it does to him. He knows about the years of abuse you endured at the hands of William Stryker. He vividly remembers when you confided in him. After months of running into each other in the middle of the night, Logan found you silently crying with your back pressed against the railing of your favorite balcony in the mansion. Without a second thought, he slid down next to you and wrapped an arm around your shoulders. He didn’t know you — not like he does now. You’d recounted how you first met on Three Mile Island when Scott and Jean brought him to the mansion. And he was thankful for the small piece of his past that you gave back to him. But under the dim light of the night sky, you revealed precisely what you endured during your years of captivity at Stryker’s facility. And that night, Logan made it his life’s mission to get revenge against the man. Not for his sake. No — for you. He would tear Stryker apart limb from limb for what he had done to you.

“You aren’t there. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Although the words are directed towards him, he knows you’re equally trying to convince yourself of that fact. He knows that even though William Stryker is long dead — after Logan made good on his promise to you — he still haunts you. Unlike Logan, your trauma does manifest in the form of nightmares but insomnia. He thinks maybe this is why the two of you work. After years of feeling alone in this world, Logan finally found someone who understands him and what he’s been through. Although your torment isn’t identical, the similarity in your stories bonded the two of you together. You help him piece together the shared fragments of your past as you heal alongside him.

“I know, you pulled me out.”

Your brow furrows at his confession. He lets go of your hands and gently holds your face. Your face flushes as he openly admires you. The faint light of the single side table lamp that Logan had left on softens your features, making you look damn near angelic. Logan isn’t a religious man, but his mother was. He was a sickly child before his mutation restored his body. His mother would often sit by his bedside with a bible in hand. And on the nights when he wasn’t delirious from his fever, he would listen to his mother read to him. One verse always stood out to him: “God is faithful, and He will not let you be tested beyond your strength but with your testing He will also provide the way out so that you may be able to endure it.” She meant for the words to comfort him, but the words only angered him.

He remembers finding himself down on his knees multiple times during his years as Stryker’s mindless, faithful soldier. Praying to that same God that his mother once trusted to save her baby boy from the illness slowly degrading his frail body. He begged Him for salvation — to be given the way out that was promised in the bible verse his mother once recited. But instead of an answer, Logan was met with silence. So if the years of physical and psychological abuse he endured were nothing but a test from the Lord above to prove his faithfulness, then that’s no God worth following.

“I heard you call my name, and it brought me back home.”

God never did anything for him. He didn’t bother protecting the innocence of a broken, misguided child. He refused to provide respite from the harshness of humanity. He never offered him any form of help or guidance during his times of greatest need — but you did. Without even knowing, you came into his life like an answered prayer.

Seemingly at a loss for words due to the intensity of his gaze, you grab onto the front of Logan’s t-shirt and pull him into a tight embrace. Your hands slide under the white fabric and slide across the contours of his back. He melts into your touch — finding relief in the direct contact of your skin on his. He’s never considered himself desirable, but you hold him like he’s something to be coveted. And then you murmur his name again. It’s barely a whisper, but the sound rings in his ears because your voice is heaven-sent.

“You’re a goddamn saint, you know that?”

A melodic laugh escapes your lips as you shake your head at his words. You pull away from him slightly and tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

“I’m nothing special, Logan.”

You don’t mean it in a self-deprecating way. Logan knows that — knows that you simply see yourself as ordinary. But you couldn’t be more wrong. Because you might not actually be a saint or an angel, but you are the only person in two hundred years who’s managed to restore his faith in what this world has to offer.

“Well. You’re special to me, sweetheart.”

#logan howlett #james logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett fanfiction #hugh jackman #x men #x men fanfiction #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine x reader #wolverine x deadpool #marvel #marvel fanfiction

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stealingpotatoes · 4 months ago

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some ppl very kindly loredumped abt the organa-solo kids for me so gonna put that + responses below the cut!! ↓

@erkhyan asked:

Don’t mind me, just dropping some Organa Solo kids lore, hopefully summarized enough. Anakin: both motivated and intimidated by the fact that his name was supposed to redeem that of his grandpa. Had his grandpa’s qualities (excellent pilot, great warrior, very strong in the Force) but none of his negative trait. Traumatized by being unable to save Chewie. Died a hero at age 16 during a successful mission to destroy a Jedi-killing weapon. Jacen: a big, empathetic goof as a teen, but was traumatized by the war that killed Anakin. The war and the trauma of Anakin’s death turned him into an introspective monk who went to learn weird non-Jedi Force powers. Returned, fathered a secret daughter, fell to the Dark Side because the Force told him that every timeline in which he’s not a Sith ends badly for his daughter. Became a Sith Lord by killing mara jade Skywalker. Eventually died when he found himself having to choose between saving his daughter from an Imperial plot, and dodging his sister’s lightsaber. Jaina: best pilot, best lightsaber user, best warrior, earned the nickname of Sword of the Jedi. Unfortunately, people mostly remember the fact that she was stuck in the world’s most annoying love triangle for two decades in-universe. And that time she processed the trauma of Anakin’s death by trying to seduce her Jedi Master. And that time she was in a bug hivemind that tried to solve her love triangle with a sexy threesome. And that time she went to train under Boba Fett so that she could kill Jacen in Luke’s stead. And also because the Jedi Order finally recognizing that she should have been a made a Master years ago, was almost the LAST thing that happened in the Legends continuity. Heavily implied that her husband would have eventually become Emperor (but a good one) if the continuity had been allowed to go on.

CHEWIE DIED??????????? also christ thats a lot to put on poor lil anakin jr-- ALSO AGAIN. POOR LEIA. HASNT SHE BEEN THRU ENOUGH (poor han too but LEIA)

WHY ARE THERE MORE STAR WARSES!!! LEAVE THEM ALONE!! a secret daughter hi i love those but AGAIN. POOR LEIA. A SITH. FR HE KILLED MARA JADE WHAT???????????? oh my god.

i support jaina's turboslaggery she's been thru so much also WHAT potential emperor husband????????? wow ok legends gets wilder n wilder

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@novastargalaxydesigns asked:

I saw your Jacen, Jaina, and Anakin from Legends! And as someone who freaking adores that trio, I'd love to help point out a few things! In Legends of the Force, Jacen starts to affiliate himself with the Dark Side with his cousin, Ben, as his apprentice. Anakin was killed before the book, The Joiner King, and I didn't get the book that he was killed off in, but if I remember correctly, it was told in The Joiner King that he was killed during a mission as a fighter pilot. Jaina, in Legends of the Force I believe if I remember correctly, she gave up being a Jedi to be a pilot. I don't have all of the Legends of the Force books so I may be a bit spiffy on a few things. But we cannot forget Chewbacca's nephew, Lowbacca aka Lowie, and Jacen's childhood and teen hood crush, Tenel Ka whom is a princess and he accidentally cut her hand off with his new lightsaber during the book Young Jedi Knights Lightsabers. And Zekke who went to the dark side in the series Young Jedi Knights (I only got the first 3), but was redeemed. Anyone please correct my nerdiness if I'm wrong. But anygays, you has been educated by a fluffy bean. Had a lovely day!

JACEN CORRUPTS LUKE'S KID??????? HUH?????? CAN THE SKYWALKERS NOT CATCH LIKE. ONE SINGLE BREAK FROM THE DARKSIDE EVER???????? PLEASE

sorry all i can think w the tenel ka thing is:

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@m0th-person asked:

To follow up on the solo kids ask, Jaina had a weird love life. Her love interest that she eventually married was Jagged Fel. He is the son of the former baron of the empire , Sootir Fel, and Syal Antilles-Fel (Wedge Antilles sister) . (a picture I found on Wookieepedia when he was imperial head of state, the white streak in the hair seems to be genetic) Jag grew up in Thrawn’s empire of the hand (and was grown up with the chiss expectations, that’s literally the second quote on his wookieepedia page)

he had 3 out of his 5 other siblings die. He eventually became the imperial head of state (he first lost to his rival political candidate for the role because abeloth messed with it) and flash forward to the legacy comics, his descendants have revamped the imperial remnant into the Fel Empire. It’s mostly believed that his descendants are also Jaina’s because both Roan fel and his daughter empress Marasiah Fel are both force sensitive. And Jacen Solo’s descendant , Ania Solo, says she’s a distant cousin of Marasiah. (Roan)

(Marasiah and her love interest) ( the imperial knights were grey Jedi that served the Fel empire) — and in legends Han actually had a family tree (ancestors, specifically, Jonash e solo (who was Corellian royalty and the admiral-prince during the old republic time period)) , and him and Jagged fel’s father used to rivals in the imperial academy. Darth Vader attended his class graduation and I only find this funny because Han became his son-in-law.

jaina was rlly living that booktok enemies to lovers life back in the 90s huh. go girl i love her and support her weird love life decisions so much

omg go han having fancy royalty ties <3 see hanleia IS politically advantageous

#legends sounds like it's a terrible time for every character involved #star wars legends #thanks for the ask!

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visenyaism · 4 months ago

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Okay I simply must ask, what are Cersei and Rhaegar’s kids Aegon and Rhaenys(? - I assume that’s what they called the other daughter) like? Do they get along with their sister?

hmmm i think Rhaenys inherits her father’s melancholy and solemn sense of purpose, but very practical. not a big believer in magic or prophecy. why would she be. that’s all reserved for her brother who is going to save the world that’s what everyone says. has a genuine passion for statecraft that no one in her life humors or encourages aside from the occasional books sent by her uncle tyrion or her grandmother rhaella on a quiet day who might listen to her and nod quietly. her mother loved her when she was a little porcelain dress up doll toddler but has little regard for her any older. shunted between being betrothed to her uncle viserys and her brother aegon depending on if her father or grandfather has more power at court but really she’d be happiest as like. master of laws in her own right. neutral towards her brother, has a healthy amount of disdain for visenya ii because rhaenys recognizes the same thing in her that exists in viserys and aerys and maybe also her father as in there’s something living within you that makes you destroy everything you touch. she doesn’t understand it and doesn’t want to.

Aegon is pretty messed up given that Cersei is trying to groom him into the perfect extension of herself prince-king she was never allowed to be and Rhaegar is trying to groom him into being the messiah. Don’t think he ever gets the chance to be his own person or develop a personality outside of crushing pressure that externalizes as arrogance. when his parents’ marriage falls apart and both of them are trying to win Aegon over to have him be like their puppet heir he crashes out, is not seen at court for six months, comes back wrong. Not close with either of his sisters, not even the one he’s engaged to, because he’s not really close with anyone. readily apparent that he cannot take off the mask or turn off the messiah prince persona because there is simply nothing underneath. if Dany brings back the dragons in this at all it’s definitely his death that does it.

#asoiaf #and again visenya ii targ-lannister is a serial killer but she can’t help it it’s in her nature #cersei’s evil targaryen children

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ennn · 10 days ago

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Agatha's character growth re: "Agatha did not change at all during the show and just stayed evil"

To be fair, I think it is easy to miss what character growth Agatha gets on the show because she doesn't finish a redemption arc—she doesn't "arc out," as Schaeffer puts it—and consequently what progress she does make can be easily overlooked.

Now to see how much Agatha has changed from the events of the show, we must first see where she starts out, and how far she has to go.

And at the start of the show, Agatha is a ruthless, remorseless, stone-cold serial killer. The world-infamous Witch Killer who actually lives up to the name. A covenless witch by choice and by her nature.

Agatha's earned her reputation. She didn't just kill witches in self-defence. Murder is our gal’s most favourite hobby and she is super cool with killing again to get her purple back.

I've talked about a bit about Agatha's motivations for killing here. But basically there are multiple layers to it: The betrayal of her coven, the hatred from her own mother, has calcified into a deep distrust of other witches (and humanity in general) alongside a deep desire for control and power. Selfishness as a means of survival.

"It's not the first time your witchkin betrayed you. But you survive. In a way few do."

Even when she had Nicky to take care of, Agatha kept manipulating and murdering witches on the regular, rationalising it as necessary and unavoidable, condemning the world the way her coven condemned her.

But it's also not just paranoia and survival and deep cynicism, Agatha genuinely enjoys taking power. Not only does it feed her ambition and ego, the process of siphoning power is euphoric. And whether as a product of her upbringing or something innate, Agatha is often enough cruel.

Look Agatha's brand of humour: she likes being mean, being the ultimate troll—which isn't damnation in itself—but layer it with everything else going on—her arrogance and pain and anger, her extraordinary ability to siphon power—and it's easy for Agatha to go too dark, take too much.

Especially after Nicky's death.

Let's be clear: this is not a woman with a clear, rational mind or a normal level of empathy—or a normal sized ego. This is Agatha Harkness.

What's interesting is that she isn't a sociopath or psychopath: Agatha can be cruel and incredibly callous but she can also care and love deeply—if only to a very specific few.

It is this capacity for love that brings Agatha the immense pain of betrayal and grief that threatens to drive her to madness and has made her build up her walls and defences. It is also this capacity for love and compassion that allows for her redemption.

From Covenless to Coven Two

Through the events of the show, Agatha experiences a coven true—probably for the first time ever.

Her fellow witches laugh with her by the campfire. They fly on brooms together, using a ritual that signifies selflessness. Alice and Lilia choose to save her at the cost of their own lives. Jen heals a wounded Billy, doing what Agatha desperately wants to but cannot. By the earth trial, Jen also comes around to consider Agatha part her coven, a fellow sister in the craft.

And we also see Agatha experience—probably for the first time ever—regret and remorse for a witch dying directly because of her.

Look at how she is in the immediate aftermath of Alice and Lilia's deaths, especially as she's alone. This is someone who's killed hundreds, maybe thousands, of witches over the centuries. When Agatha plays up her staggering kill count to Billy ("I mean I've killed... my share"), with how she doesn't remember the exact number, I don't think she's kidding.

By the end of the show, it is significant that Agatha consciously chooses to team up with Billy and form a Coven True. And I think she wouldn't have done so without those experiences with Alice, Lilia, and Jen.

Billy is simply the easiest, most convenient, most appealing next stepping stone for Agatha on her arc to having a proper coven and opening up, expanding on the very limited things and people she selfishly cares about.

But En, you might be saying, Agatha clearly cares enough about Billy by the third episode to do stupid selfless shit how is this character growth?

To which I'd like to point out an interesting thing about Agatha: she tends to be compassionate in the moment, but callous and selfish when she has time to think.

Look at episode 3 when Agatha shows empathy and patience for Lilia after the latter is shaken by her hallucination. When Billy threatens to drink the poisoned wine, or when he's thrown through the window in episode 4, Agatha reacts on instinct and emotion.

This is why it's significant when Agatha chooses to coven up with Billy. Sure, there's probably selfish reasons for Agatha to do so (Billy's chaos magic might get her back into a body, and he's basically the most powerful witch around now) but she's essentially choosing to be responsible, as a coven "sharing burdens and blessings alike".

And it's also significant that Agatha is under no illusion this is Nicky, which she might have clung to despite all the evidence up to episode 4 or even 5. Billy is someone else's child. He may remind her of Nicky, but he does so in the most crucial way: he reminds Agatha that Nicky wanted her to be better, and believed things could be different.

If you want to survive, get used to this feeling. If you want to be a witch, get used to this feeling.

It is notable that Agatha has—for a long while it seems—recognised that her actions don't feel right: She tells Nicky and Billy to get used to it, a clear echo to what she's probably been telling herself for years.

Buried deep deep down, Agatha has a conscience and compassion. As much as she might jest, she's not really proud of many of the things she's done, the things she's rationalised for survival.

And this becomes clear when Agatha admits to not being able to face Nicky. An honest admission not just to Billy, I think, but to herself. Which probably wouldn't have happened if she wasn't a ghost.

Agatha is a ghost because she's made just enough progress to go further. It's because she decided to go with her instincts, to give into what felt right, to save Billy and embrace Death, that she dies. And she's a ghost because she knows on some level that there's a lot more for her to do to become a better version of herself.

#agatha all along #tv: agatha all along #aaa meta #agatha harkness #not the most organised thoughts but have at ‘em

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another-goblin · 6 months ago

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Spoilers for 2.3

Some thoughts, speculations, and headcanons about our little dialogue with Ratio (+more)

1. This tells me that Ratio and Aventurine are friends (or as close to being friends as both of them are currently capable of, which isn't much, but still). Yes, what Aventurine thinks about TB could have been them discussing their mission. But I choose to think that they just chat with each other sometimes, because they actually enjoy it. Aventurine feels comfortable enough to just share what he thinks about the people he meets, and he knows that Ratio is interested in his opinions, and he's right. He listens and takes note. btw people being actual friends is my favorite trope for romantic couples.

2. Ratio seeing his relationships with Aventurine, and our TB, and people in general as a teacher and a student and being constantly in his teacher mode made me think. Probably all significant relationships in his life were those of a teacher and a student. He cannot see himself in any other role because he has never experienced it himself. I wouldn't be surprised if even his parents provided him with knowledge and education instead of parental love. This may also be why he's so frustrated with people who don't fit these two roles: normal people not interested in bettering themselves through education, students who don't take studying seriously, most scholars, and especially the Geniuses, for not actively sharing their knowledge or doing anything to uplift humanity.

3. Ratio seeing their relationship with Aventurine in particular this way is appropriately weird and a bit unhealthy, in my opinion (but what did we expect from him), considering that they are undeniably close. But that's probably the only way he knows to show his care for somebody: to teach them stuff and help them better themselves.

4. On Avenrutine's side, he seems amused by it, in a good way (the way he playfully refers to Ratio in the descriptions of some of the 2.1 quests, "Your professor friend," and so on). He even seems to be a bit proud that an actual professor has taken an interest in him.

5. But what can he teach Aventurine? He might share his actual knowledge. I think the "Death" and "Dormancy" part of his note is him doing that. But he mostly sees his duty as a teacher in showing people that they can achieve a lot by themselves if they stop relying on higher beings who don't care about them and start relying on themselves (with little help from Ratio.)

But "relying on himself and achieving things" is what Aventurine has been successfully doing most of his life. So is it the "little help from Ratio" that matters here? Or is he helping Aventurine stop relying on his supposedly supernatural luck and realize how capable he actually is?

6. This. (btw 'philosophical zombie' means "a being in a thought experiment in philosophy of mind that is physically identical to a normal human being but does not have conscious experience" (from wiki), so basically just some weird concept in philosophy.) But what an admirably in-depth knowledge of his 'not partner' he's showing here. Are you equally interested in the inner worlds of all your students, doc?…

7. Anyways, that reminded me of what Jade said about the Stonehearts, even using the same word 'void'. So. Aventurine has a void in his heart, caused by his inability to protect people he cares about. It's very significant that Diamond gave him the power of Preservation specifically to help him fill that void, to be finally able to protect somebody he cares about. The problem is, he doesn't have anyone to protect anymore (he doesn't even see himself as worthy of protection). Until recently. So, and I'm being extremely self-indulgent here, if Ratio got in danger, Aventurine protecting and saving him would fill the void in his heart. And btw what can boost one's self-worth more than protecting somebody who's important to you? I mean, he should snap out of that 'I'm only worth the money my slaveowner paid for me' mentality sooner or later, I hope.

(the problem is, I'm not sure how it can play out now that he doesn't have his stone anymore. And he lost it, not protecting anybody but nearly killing himself and furthering the IPC's agenda. Although doing something like that without the stone would be even more significant)

Also, I hope Ratio won't realize that, and won't deliberately put himself in danger for Aventurine to save him. You know, for educational purposes.

8. He just runs around helping people, making sure everybody's okay, and, emm, 'enhance their living', that's his thing. And even broadly speaking, with his scientific discoveries, and him saving people on Herta station. And considering that 'everybody's my student' thing, I feel like he sees himself as responsible for everybody (in his own way).

And some people still think that he's selfish and egoistic. He even gets angry when we ask for an autograph:

9. Aaand that's the third time he disappeared in the middle of a conversation involving Aventurine. I understand him, though. As somebody who also 'detests noisy gatherings', group chats aren't much better.

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ok this was supposed to be hidden in tags but i think tumblr found it too scandalous or something i don't know, i'll just leave it here: the more I write about Ratio, the stronger the urge to just call him Rat, you know, lovingly also whoops sorry, I'm physically incapable of writing short posts, it was supposed to be a short comment about their friendship, how much content can I squeeze out of a half-minute long dialogue?, the answer is yes, but I just had to get it out of my system

#honkai star rail #my stuff #hsr spoilers #hsr 2.3 #dr ratio #aventurine #raturine #ratiorine #aventio

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urdreamydoodles · 3 months ago

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X-Men x Reader (Part.3)

You die in their arms (Part.3)

In the heat of battle, you succumbs to fatal injuries in the arms of your partner. Each X-Men, torn apart by grief, reacts to the devastating loss, facing the crushing reality that their greatest power cannot bring back the person they love most.

Characters: Wade Wilson, Mystique, Warren Worthington III, Bobby Drake, Laura Kinney, Kitty Pryde, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Sunspot

Wade Wilson

The battlefield was its usual chaos—blood, explosions, and a flurry of bullets—but none of it registered to Wade when he saw you go down. His joking banter stopped dead in its tracks, and for once, the Merc with a Mouth was silent as he sprinted over to you. His heart raced as he dropped to his knees beside you, his gloved hands shaking as he reached out to touch your bloodied form.

“Y/N, hey, c’mon... this isn’t funny,” Wade muttered, a nervous laugh escaping him as he gently pulled you into his lap. You were too still, too quiet, and it terrified him in ways he couldn’t put into words.

Your eyes fluttered open, and despite the pain, you gave him a small, familiar smile. “Wade... always the comedian...”

“Yeah, well, you know me. Gotta keep things light, right? But this... this isn’t light, babe. You gotta hang in there.” His voice cracked, and he cursed under his breath, trying to keep his usual bravado intact. But as he looked down at your wound, the blood soaking through your clothes, the reality hit him like a freight train.

“Wade... it’s okay. I’m okay,” you whispered, though your voice was weak.

“No, no, you’re not okay! You’re gonna be okay, though. You’ve gotta be, because I can’t... I can’t lose you.” His voice was raw, and for once, the usual joking tone was gone, replaced by desperation.

You reached up, your hand trembling as you touched his face, and he leaned into your touch, his heart breaking. “I love you, Wade... don’t forget that.”

Before he could respond, your eyes fluttered shut, and the weight of your hand slipped from his cheek. Wade froze, the world around him slowing to a crawl as he stared at you. “No... no, no, no!” He screamed, pulling you closer, his voice echoing in the chaos. For once, the man who always had a joke for every situation was left speechless, his heart shattered into pieces.

Mystique

The battlefield was nothing new to Mystique. She had fought in countless wars, led rebellions, and watched allies fall by her side, but none of that had prepared her for the sight of you, crumpled and broken on the ground, blood soaking into the dirt beneath you.

She shifted into her true form as she sprinted toward you, her yellow eyes wide with fear. When she reached you, she dropped to her knees, her usually stoic expression shattered by the sight of you so close to death. “Y/N,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a fear she rarely allowed herself to feel.

Your eyes fluttered open as she touched your face, her blue fingers tracing the lines of your features. “Raven...” you whispered, your voice weak and breathless.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice a mixture of desperation and determination. “You’re going to be fine. I’ll fix this.”

But as she looked down at the wound in your chest, her heart sank. Even with all her experience, all her skills, she knew there was nothing she could do to save you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, your hand reaching up to touch her cheek.

Mystique swallowed hard, her jaw clenching as she fought to keep her composure. “Don’t you apologize,” she growled, her voice rough with emotion. “You’re going to make it, do you hear me? I won’t let you die.”

You smiled weakly, your fingers brushing against her cheek as your strength faded. “I love you, Raven.”

Mystique’s breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. She had been in love before, but never like this. The thought of losing you, of being without you, was more than she could bear. “I love you too,” she whispered, her voice breaking as tears filled her eyes.

But as your body went limp in her arms, Mystique let out a strangled cry, her heart shattering into pieces. She pulled you close, her blue skin slick with your blood as she clutched you to her chest.

For the first time in her life, Mystique felt truly vulnerable.

Warren Worthington III

The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the battlefield, but all Warren could see was you—lying motionless on the ground far below. His heart skipped a beat, panic rising in his chest as he dove from the sky, his white wings slicing through the air. Nothing else mattered but reaching you.

When he landed next to you, his breath was ragged. “Y/N!” he cried, his voice breaking as he knelt down, gathering you in his arms. His wings curled protectively around the two of you, shielding you from the chaos around.

Your eyes fluttered open, barely focused, and you gave him a faint, weak smile. “Warren... you’re here.”

He nodded frantically, brushing the hair from your face, his hands shaking as he inspected the wound on your chest. “I’m here, I’m here. You’re going to be okay, just hold on.”

But as he looked down at the deep, bleeding wound, his heart sank. He had seen injuries like this before, and he knew—he just couldn’t accept it. His wings trembled as he held you closer, cradling you in his arms. “Don’t... don’t leave me,” he whispered, his voice barely holding together. “I need you.”

You reached up, your hand weakly caressing his face. “I love you... I always have.”

Warren’s breath hitched, tears welling in his eyes as he pressed his forehead against yours, feeling your warmth fading. “I love you too. So much. Please, don’t go.” His voice was a broken whisper, the angel brought to his knees by the thought of losing you.

Your hand slipped from his cheek, and he felt your body grow limp in his arms. He let out a broken sob, clutching you close to his chest as his wings unfurled, stretching out toward the sky. For the first time in his life, the feeling of soaring through the skies meant nothing—because the only person who had ever grounded him, the only person who made him feel whole, was gone.

Bobby Drake

The battlefield was chaos, ice and fire clashing, mutants fighting for survival, but none of that registered in Bobby’s mind the moment he saw you fall. His heart dropped into his stomach, ice forming instinctively around him as he sprinted across the field toward you.

Sliding to his knees, he reached out, his hands trembling as he touched your face. “Y/N? Hey, hey, stay with me,” he whispered, panic lacing his words as he cradled you against him. The cold that usually radiated from him felt distant, irrelevant, as he stared at the deep wound on your side.

Your eyes fluttered open, weak and unfocused. “Bobby...”

“I’m right here,” he said, his voice breaking as he tried to smile for you. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ve got this, okay?”

But the truth hung heavy in the air, and he knew it. The wound was too severe, and the blood pooling beneath you wasn’t stopping. He wanted to freeze time, to freeze everything so that this moment wouldn’t be real. But time kept moving forward, and you were slipping away.

You reached up, your hand cold against his cheek, but it wasn’t from his powers—it was from the life draining from you. “I love you... I always have.”

Bobby swallowed the lump in his throat, tears spilling down his cheeks as he pressed his forehead to yours. “I love you too. God, I love you so much. Please don’t leave me.”

Your fingers slipped from his face, and your body went still in his arms. Bobby let out a choked sob, pulling you closer as the cold around him intensified, the frost spreading across the ground. For the first time, he didn’t care about controlling his powers. He didn’t care about anything, because the one person who made him feel alive was gone.

Laura Kinney

Laura fought like a force of nature, her claws slashing through the enemies with brutal precision. She had always been a weapon, honed and sharpened for battle, but when she saw you collapse on the battlefield, her heart clenched in a way that was unfamiliar—fear, raw and unfiltered, surged through her.

In an instant, she was at your side, her claws retracting as she dropped to her knees next to you. “Y/N!” Her voice was rough, strained with panic as she cradled you in her arms.

You opened your eyes, your face pale as you looked up at her, a faint smile playing on your lips. “Laura...”

“Don’t talk,” she growled, her hands hovering over your wound, unsure of what to do. She could heal, but you... you weren’t like her. She couldn’t fix this, and the realization hit her like a punch to the gut.

Your hand weakly reached up, brushing against her cheek. “I’m sorry... I didn’t... didn’t see it coming.”

Laura clenched her jaw, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she shook her head. “You don’t have to apologize. This wasn’t your fault.” She bit back the sob threatening to escape, her heart pounding in her chest as she held you closer.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice so soft it was almost lost in the wind. “Always.”

Laura’s breath caught in her throat, her grip on you tightening as she pressed her forehead to yours. “I love you too,” she whispered, her voice breaking as tears slipped down her cheeks. “More than anything.”

But as your hand fell from her face and your body went limp in her arms, Laura let out a broken cry, her claws extending with a metallic "snikt" as she gripped your lifeless body to her chest. She had always been a fighter, a survivor, but in that moment, she felt powerless—because the one person who had ever made her feel like more than a weapon was gone.

Kitty Pryde

The battle was in full swing, with explosions and shouts all around, but the moment Kitty saw you go down, everything blurred into a distant hum. She phased through the chaos, slipping past debris and combatants until she reached you, her heart hammering in her chest.

Dropping to her knees beside you, Kitty gently pulled you into her lap, her hands trembling as she cupped your face. “Y/N, no… come on, look at me.” Her voice was urgent, but there was already a knowing fear in her eyes as she scanned the wound on your abdomen.

Your eyes fluttered open, barely focusing on her face. “Kitty…”

“Shh, don’t talk, okay? I’ll get you out of here, we’ll be fine,” she promised, though her voice wavered. Kitty had been through countless battles, but none of them prepared her for this—the thought of losing you.

You gave her a weak smile, reaching up to brush your fingers against her cheek. “You’ve always... been my hero.”

Tears welled in Kitty’s eyes as she gripped your hand, pressing it to her face. “And you’re mine. Don’t you dare leave me, Y/N. We were supposed to have more time, more—” Her voice cracked as she choked on the words.

You squeezed her hand one last time, but the light in your eyes was fading. Kitty felt the moment your body went limp, and she let out a broken sob, her forehead resting against yours. For a long time, she just held you, her tears falling silently as the world around her collapsed.

Wanda Maximoff

The battlefield was littered with chaos—magic crackling in the air, debris scattered everywhere. Wanda had never felt so out of control, her powers threatening to lash out as she saw you fall to the ground, unmoving. She blinked to your side in an instant, the world slowing down as she knelt beside you.

“Y/N... no, no, please don’t...” Her voice wavered, her hands hovering over you as if afraid to touch, afraid to confirm what she already knew. A deep gash marred your chest, and blood soaked through your clothes at an alarming rate.

Your eyes opened just slightly, and when they landed on Wanda, you smiled faintly. “Wanda... I’m sorry...”

She shook her head, her hands trembling as she pressed them over your wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. “No, don’t apologize. You’re going to be fine—I’ll fix this. I can fix everything!” Her voice rose in panic, and she started to chant, her fingers glowing with red energy. But no matter how much magic she summoned, it wasn’t enough.

You reached up, your hand weakly brushing against her face. “I love you... you know that, right?”

Tears streamed down Wanda’s face, her vision blurring as she cupped your cheek. “I love you too... please don’t go, Y/N, I need you.” Her voice was a broken whisper, desperation flooding every word.

But you were slipping away, your breath becoming shallow, your grip on her loosening. And as your eyes fluttered closed for the last time, Wanda let out a gut-wrenching scream, the magic exploding out of her in a surge of grief and fury. The world bent and warped around her, but none of it mattered—because the one person who anchored her was gone.

Pietro Maximoff

One moment, you were standing beside him, fighting off enemies with your usual grace and skill. The next, you were on the ground, bleeding out. Pietro’s world slowed down even more than usual, his heart dropping into his stomach as he zipped to your side, cradling you in his arms before anyone else could even react.

“Y/N! No, no, no... please don’t do this to me,” he whispered, his hands shaking as he pressed them to the wound on your chest, trying to stop the bleeding. His mind raced a thousand miles a second, calculating every possible scenario—but there was nothing he could do.

You opened your eyes, and when you saw him, you smiled weakly. “Pietro... you’re always so fast.”

“Not fast enough,” he said, his voice cracking as he brushed your hair away from your face. “I should’ve been there, should’ve protected you...”

You reached up, your fingers brushing his cheek. “You’ve always been... my hero.”

His breath hitched, tears blurring his vision as he pressed your hand to his face. “You can’t leave me, Y/N. We’ve got so much more to do. Remember? We were gonna run away together, see the world—just you and me.”

Your grip on his hand loosened, and Pietro felt your body grow still in his arms. He let out a choked sob, his forehead resting against yours as he held you close. For once, time felt too slow, and every second without you was a moment too long.

Sunspot

The battle raged on around you, the heat of Sunspot’s powers lighting up the battlefield as he took down enemy after enemy. But when he saw you collapse, his heart stopped, the fiery energy around him flickering for just a moment as panic surged through his chest. He flew to your side, his hands shaking as he dropped down next to you.

“Y/N? No, no, no... this isn’t happening,” Roberto’s voice was frantic as he cradled you in his arms, his usually confident demeanor crumbling. You were pale, your breath coming in shallow gasps, and there was so much blood...

You coughed weakly, your hand twitching as you reached up to touch his cheek. “Roberto...”

“I’m here, I’m here,” he whispered, his voice trembling as he pressed his hand over your wound, trying to stop the bleeding. He had seen this happen in battle before, had seen friends and comrades fall—but not you. Never you. You were supposed to be safe, supposed to be by his side.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you smiled faintly at him, despite the pain. “You’ve always... burned so brightly.”

“Don’t say that. You’re gonna be fine, okay? You’ve gotta be fine, because I can’t—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. Roberto wasn’t one to cry, but the thought of losing you? It was too much.

You gave him one last, soft smile, your hand falling from his cheek as your eyes slipped closed. Roberto felt the moment your heart stopped, and the fire inside him burned hotter, fiercer than ever before. But it wasn’t enough to bring you back.

With a broken sob, Roberto pulled you closer, his body trembling with grief. For the first time in his life, his powers—his fire—felt like nothing compared to the cold emptiness of losing you.

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elfbotanist · 25 days ago

Text

working on my version of veilguard, so far it goes like:

act 1:

exactly the same. inquisitor lavellan hired people who were unpredictable to track down Solas. And they did, untill that plan backfired. Well, shit. Solas is trapped. Evunaris are blighting the world with their two blighted dragons.

Solas continues to advice rook and rook informs the inquisitor. We need the wardens. But the first warden hates the inquisitor as much as he hates rook. Inquisitor is a wise woman, she knows she can talk down first warden so she does exactly that (you can do that as rook in game so why not as inquisitor? I seriously don't know why this game won't work if inquisitor was the protagonist but anyways it is what it is. Let's continue)

act 2:

after weisshaupt's fall, thousands of wardens dead, inquisitor realises this is not going to work. A group of seven misfits cannot win a war against immortal gods. They had an army, a network of spies and alliances with two nations when they were fighting corypheus... they need that strength once again. So time for inquisition 2.0 (kinda makes sense why different provinces/organisations will be willing to make an alliance with a former hero with a name than a random kid). So rook has some ground work to do while the inquisitor sets up the new inquisition at the lighthouse, which is much easier because they got dreadwolf's eluvian. The lighthouse was the heart of Solas' rebellion and now it's functioning as that once again. Lighthouse servers its purpose. Every adviser is there, inquisitor herself now acts like an adviser and rook gets the job done.

But you cannot win a war against immortal "gods" without having an immortal "god" on your own team, right? You need everyone on your side, even the people you can't trust fully. Inquisitor understands this and some members of the inquisition, that is Cassandra, is more than willing to get Solas out of that prison and have a "talk" about varric. And Cole needs someone who can understand him "i do not understand...the demon behind the crow's eyes is a friend or a foe?". So the inquisitor makes a deal with the dreadwolf. Freedom in exchange of his alliance.

They track down the dragons. With the help of our new dragon hunter, remaining wardens, what's left of inquisition army, the crows/shadow dragons and the dreadwolf himself. Rook manages to kill the dragons and wound Ghilan'nain with minimum loss of life.

In Arlathan, Rook et al infiltrates venatori's ritual. At lighthouse Solas senses that Elgar'nan has trapped Rook and their companions. He informs the inquisitor that he can help...Inquisitor suprised from his eagerness to help rook of all people (whose daily agenda is to annoy Solas to death) is hesitant. Solas says he wants to save the elves just like inquisitor wants to save her people.

"There is no other motive behind my plea other than saving innocents from being sacrificed for Elgar'nan's sadistic whims, like I did during my rebellion...Trust me vhenan. I know his mind"

So rather than Rook just telling Lavellan that "Oh Solas is good. You should totally try to redeem him". I'd rather have Adviser Inquisitor Lavellan and Adviser Solas slowly grow close to each other once again, like they did back in skyhold. A perfect parallel.

We all know he can't help but rizz her again with his fade talk

"Allow me to show you something, Inquisitor"

"You and your sweet fade talk"

"No fade tongue this time"

They relive all dai solavellan scenes... Even the crestwood scene. (These parallel moments with her are important because we know she almost changed his mind. That's why he ran away. Avoided her like plague for last 10 years because she has that power. To change his mind. And reliving dai moments with her is going to be the catalyst when we have to stop him in the end and redeem him)

It's here, in the garden, she mentions the letter he had sent. He finally... FINALLY tells her everything. His past, the titans, the veil, the evunaris, the dagger, the blight... his people... him being a former spirit of wisdom... Everything. Lavellan connects the dots and asks if this is why he was so hurt when his friend, a wisdom of spirit was corrupted, because it was personal, because it was his trauma. All new, faded for her.

"Forced to do something against its purpose, fighting... Is that what happened to you vhenan?"

"Yes"

"But you were always wisdom to me. My Solas. My wisdom. Everyday at haven and skyhold...I saw the real you. I saw Wisdom. The self you're always mourning. I loved all of you. I still do."

"Your empathy is a blessing. Your spirit pure and unmarred."

"I am only human, Solas. And so are you"

"That I am. A broken man."

"Not to me my love."

act 3:

Eclipse takes place. Solas and Rook kill Ghilan'nain but Neve/Bellara is lost. With the strength of the new inquisition and its allies, it is much easier to get in Minrathous. Rook and companions along with Inquisitor and Solas fight the blight. Solas tells Rook and Inquisitor the blight can sense him, some intelligence is controlling the blight tendril. They need to get to Archon's Palace and kill Elgar'nan with the dagger, while he fight the archdemon.

"What? On your own?"

"Don't be afraid, vhenan. All these years... My feelings for you, they never changed. Ar lath ma"

There's pain in his eyes, like that night in Crestwood. She's not sure what he means.

"Solas..."

" Now go with rook. When next we meet, let us be standing over Elgar'nan's body!"

"Woooow... Your husband is a... dog?"

"That's a wolf rook and he's not my husband"

"He is huge though"

"And fluffy..."

"Inquisitor, you can dream about petting your wolf husband after we're done here."

"He's not my-"

"LET'S GOOOO!"

If Solas is Wisdom, then he is also Pride. In Emmrich words "He is however, a former spirit. Solas cannot help but listen to appeals to his nature... his yearning for reflection." And his duty to save his people. So one last betrayal from the dreadwolf. Blighted Neve/Bellara informs that killing Elgar'nan will destroy the veil.

"Of course he lied! I knew something was wrong... his eyes. He's a terrible liar"

"Inquisitor what are we supposed to do?"

"We stick to the plan, Rook. I'll deal with Solas"

*outside dreadwolf cries in pain*

"Solas..."

"Inquisitor, Solas will do his part. We must press on forward.

"Yes Cassandra, but I need you and Cole with me."

"I understand. Always with you inquisitor."

Inquisitor, Casandra and Cole fight the blight and darkspawns, helping rook and companions get to Elgar'nan.

But Solas can't win alone. Blighted Neve/Bellara uses her power to free Solas and he kills the archdemon, making Elgar'nan mortal. Rook and companions kills him and the veil starts disintegrating.

"I am sorry for this final betrayal. But when you'll see the old world restored..."

Rook persuades Solas. He relents but it's not enough.

"I cannot. To stop now would dishonour those I have wronged to come this far"

"Even if those you've wronged asked you to stop?"

"Vhenan..."

"You think you've gone too far to come back. But you're wrong! I am here, walking the dinan'shiral with you!"

"I lied. I betrayed you."

"I forgive you. All you need to do is stop!"

"Ir abelas vhenan. But I cannot."

(I had to add my boy)

*Cole*

"They sleep, masked in a mirror, hiding, hurting, and to wake them I must burn down the sky again. Break the old chains. But it's not enough. Never enough. This world is too real."

"Cole?"

*Cassandra*

"You need to stop"

"But Varric...."

"Not your fault completely. Honour the death of your friend. All those years ago. When I asked what do you believe in, and you said you believed in People. We are people. Have faith in us, Solas"

*Cole*

"I long for my home, my people, my world. But here is also home. Here is home. She is home. Vhenan, my heart. Ar lath, ma vhenan. Wherever you are, there is my heart. Wherever you are, I am home. She is home and my heart and a cold fortress in the mountains that shines so brightly because she shines, she has made it home and they were together, the Inquisition, my family.... You are not alone Solas"

*Lavellan*

"Banal nadas. Ar lath ma vhenan"

Solas breaks and binds himself to the veil. Vows to keep it intact, protect innocents and help with the blight.

He's ashamed. So ashamed but he needs her to know his sincerity. Needs her to know that he can be that man she fell in love with. Her Solas, as she has said that night in the garden. So he looks at her finally, in her eyes and says. "I will go now and seek atonement." It's a promise, of a better duty, a better path, for her.

"But you do not have to go alone"

"Ar ghilas vir banal"

"Tel banal ara'ma vir shiral ma'lasa. bellanaris"

"Bellanaris"

And now we turn to my beautiful city

Black skies changed into blue

And my love is so wise and so pretty

I no longer dream of her

cause she is real

she is here

she is mine

And I am whole

#dragon age #dragon age veilguard #solas #solavellan #solas x female lavellan #dav spoilers #veilguard spoilers #datv spoilers

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calliesmemes · 2 months ago

Text

POPULAR TROPES AND CLICHÉ QUOTES

Assorted ASKBOX PROMPTS reminiscent of beloved TROPES seen in literature, on screen, and on stage.

CHANGE gendered words and in-universe phrases as needed

SPECIFY muse for multimuses

❛ So you’re the girl that I’ve heard so much about. ❜

❛ I’ve heard so much about you. ❜

❛ I could corrupt you. It would be easy. ❜

❛ Not every puzzle is yours to solve. ❜

❛ The truth is stranger than my worst dreams. ❜

❛ You will become everything you hate. ❜

❛ Wait. Did you hear something? ❜

❛ I have a feeling this has something to do with you. ❜

❛ This isn’t a dream, then. ❜

❛ All will be well. I am sure of it. ❜

❛ We’re in this together. ❜

❛ You were born to make history. ❜

❛ We make a really good team. ❜

❛ What I did, I did for us. ❜

❛ You’re not safe here. ❜

❛ I’m the happiest I’ve ever been because of you. ❜

❛ You’re my fate. Always my fate. ❜

❛ There’s a storm coming. ❜

❛ We’re not so different, you and I. ❜

❛ Hello? Is anybody here? ❜

❛ You don’t even know my real name. ❜

❛ To the ends of the earth, would you follow me? ❜

❛ Who are you, little girl? ❜

❛ I like you more than I planned. ❜

❛ I wish I could protect you from everything. ❜

❛ I shouldn’t be jealous; you aren’t even mine. ❜

❛ You won’t leave me, will you? ❜

❛ You know you should not have survived that, right? ❜

❛ Whatever you do, you’ll always be my brother. ❜

❛ The light … it’s calling to you. Just let it in. ❜

❛ If it means something to you, fight for it. ❜

❛ Can you remember who you were before? ❜

❛ The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated. ❜

❛ Never again will I let someone in. ❜

❛ I see something in you that I can’t explain. ❜

❛ There are traditions and expectations that you must uphold. ❜

❛ I won’t risk our enemies getting their hands on you. ❜

❛ A knife? Are you flirting with me? ❜

❛ Let me be your protector. ❜

❛ I am more than just a copy of you. ❜

❛ Everything’s about to change. ❜

❛ I don’t want to hurt you. ❜

❛ You have no idea who I am, do you? ❜

❛ You’ll never get away with this! ❜

❛ I’m not who I was before. ❜

❛ We’re gonna be legends someday. ❜

❛ Straighten up, little soldier. ❜

❛ You and I are going to change the world. ❜

❛ I did this all for you. ❜

❛ If you wish to see strange things, then I have the power to show them to you. ❜

❛ What’s it like to be a prophet? ❜

❛ You are not your father. ❜

❛ Are you flirting, or starting a fight? ❜

❛ I’m not the person that my parents wanted me to be. ❜

❛ I need to be touched. ❜

❛ This is where you belong. ❜

❛ I want a life full of incredible adventures. ❜

❛ Let’s cause a little trouble. ❜

❛ Relax; it’s just magic. ❜

❛ I want to go home. ❜

❛ My heart belongs to you. ❜

❛ We are connected in a way that I can’t explain. ❜

❛ I am just as strange as you. ❜

❛ Feel like making a deal with the devil? ❜

❛ You were dead. Yet here you are. ❜

❛ I have loved you since we were children. ❜

❛ I will always find you. I promise. ❜

❛ I know what it’s like to be afraid of your own mind. ❜

❛ It’s you. It’s always been you. ❜

❛ You should be terrified of me. ❜

❛ I always get what I want. ❜

❛ Why are you the way you are? ❜

❛ You and I are so alike. ❜

❛ I could tear you apart if I wanted. ❜

❛ We make a really good team. ❜

❛ I will always be proud of you, my love. ❜

❛ Aren’t you a deadly little thing? ❜

❛ You were born to lead. ❜

❛ I have existed a long, long time. ❜

❛ Give me one good reason why I should wear this dress. ❜

❛ None of your scars can make me love you less. ❜

❛ Your friendship means the world to me. ❜

❛ Without you, I don’t exist. ❜

❛ For you, I’d leave it all behind. ❜

❛ You say witch like it’s a bad thing. ❜

❛ Maybe we can fix each other. ❜

❛ I’m afraid of what I’ve become. ❜

❛ Get the hell out of my head. ❜

❛ Do not tell me what I can and cannot do. ❜

❛ I do not need to be saved. ❜

❛ I want answers, goddamnit! ❜

❛ I don’t need a name. ❜

❛ Your existence gives me a headache. ❜

❛ Is there anything I can do for you? ❜

❛ This isn’t going to be like last time. ❜

❛ You took everything from me. ❜

❛ I just want to live my own life. ❜

❛ I have nowhere else to go. ❜

❛ You’re my best friend. I can’t lose you. ❜

❛ The most dangerous thing is to love. ❜

❛ I’m doing this for my family. ❜

❛ You have information that we need. Valuable information. ❜

❛ I lost everyone; I can’t lose you too! ❜

❛ You cannot destroy me. ❜

❛ It is my duty to protect you. ❜

❛ It’s only illegal if we get caught. ❜

❛ I have a weakness for you. ❜

❛ I will follow you into the dark. ❜

❛ Maybe I’m not the person everyone thinks I am. ❜

❛ Pretty armour doesn’t make a warrior. ❜

❛ We could get arrested for this. ❜

❛ You’re too good for this world. ❜

❛ I’ve been waiting a long time for you. ❜

❛ You must be mad, coming here like this. ❜

❛ We’re two halves of a whole idiot. ❜

❛ We were never welcome here. ❜

❛ Where you go, I go. ❜

❛ My brother never came back. ❜

❛ Be on your guard. ❜

❛ The light will always win over darkness. ❜

❛ Blaming is often easier than understanding. ❜

❛ I think that you will change the world some day. ❜

❛ Look at what you’ve done. ❜

❛ Your mind is playing tricks on you. ❜

❛ How can someone so evil be so kind? ❜

❛ You were nothing before you met me. ❜

#askbox meme #askbox prompt #rp ask meme #ask box #roleplay sentence meme #sentence starters #roleplay prompts #roleplay sentence starters #* sentence meme #rpc help

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weeb-polls-with-pip · 5 months ago

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Morally Questionable Anime Milfs Side A Round 3 Match 2

Propaganda:

Yuuko -

"Insanely powerful witch who has the power to controls time and space and granted wishes if one can afford to pay it and also a lazyass alcoholic who enjoys butting her large supernaturals into her assistant/future successor/personal punching bag/unofficial adopted son's love life and teaching him lessons by exposing the entirely of yokai population on his ass. She cannot do ANYTHING for anyone on her own term because she's the mediator between worlds and must stay ultimately neutral on all stances. She can equally leave you to death as well as save your soul from damnation."

Milsiril -

"She is Kabru's adoptive mom, and they love each other, but they have a strained relationship due to the circumstances of the adoption. She still doesn't fully see him as an adult, and because of the nature of an elf-human interspecies adoption, she might not ever see him as one. She's got issues hardcore from her youth in the Canaries, but she's doing her best to be a mother, even with her faults."

#tumblr polls #original poll #morally questionable anime milfs #xxxholic #yuko ichihara #ichihara yuko #yuuko ichihara #ichihara yuuko #dunmeshi #delicious in dungeon #dungeon meshi #milsiril

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shutupineedtothink · 2 months ago

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It’s about Self-actualization, not Sacrifice

I can’t overstate how much I Do Not Want Agatha to sacrifice herself and/or die at the end of this series, and tbh I’m mad that people are even floating that idea out in the ether.

I don’t care if her sacrificing herself for Billy or anyone else is making a different choice from how she couldn’t save Nicky or stealing witches’ powers, and is therefore “narratively satisfying.” I don’t care if her dying means she gets to be in some kind of eternity with Rio. I don’t care if she was some kind of ghost figure in the comics and we could see her specter in future projects. I do not want Force ghost Agatha.

I want living, breathing, transformed Agatha to come out of this more herself than she ever has been before. Freed from the hold her past and her limiting beliefs and her reputation has had on her for the last several centuries. I want this to be a new beginning of her journey, not the end.

Fortunately, I think Jac and the writers have my back on this. (Please, god)

The journey here on the Road is not about sacrifice. Because a) I don’t believe and have never believed that Agatha actually sacrificed Nicky for the Darkhold. Red herring, it didn’t happen that way. So there’s no narrative reversal to be had there in the first place. And b) the various deaths, the witches’ stories we’ve seen play out so far have not been about Sacrifice either, at least not primarily.

Alice ended up sacrificing her life to save Agatha, but that was not her story in that moment. That was not the narrative we were meant to see.

Alice saving Agatha in that moment was about her stepping into her power, her highest self, the Protection witch she was always meant to be free from the generational curse. Someone who cannot stand by and watch others in pain if she can do something about it. That’s her highest self.

Lilia’s sacrifice wasn’t her true journey either. Her story was about embracing her power, becoming the Traveler, playing out her story in the way she saw and accepting her gifts for what they are (your task is not to control but to see). She too, regained her full power, her full self in that moment, and took out at least five of the Seven with her. She took her power back from the fear that had been holding her for so long, and became the highest version of herself, the Queen of Cups.

Agatha’s journey isn’t about sacrifice either, it never was.

Agatha’s journey, as I’ve said in other posts, is about finding her true self, her true power, unmasking herself from all of the facades she’s worn over the years to protect herself and hide her pain. Answering the question, who IS Agatha, all along? It’s about dealing with her trauma so that she can exist as her true self, and be seen by others as her true self.

We’ll find out in the next couple episodes what that looks like but I can already tell you she’s NOT inherently evil, or inherently good. She is a woman shaped by heartbreak, grief, and sorrow. She has made choices, some bad, some good, and she is capable of making new choices. She is capable of transformation, of peeling away all the false versions of her to find who her truest self is — which I believe, is a leader, a mentor, a guide. The Mother, in many ways.

In that case, sacrificing herself for Billy or the coven or whatever isn’t the play here. It’s teaching Billy (probably, and maybe Jen) what he’s capable of and how to access his true power. It’s the same role she played for Wanda, only this time, when Billy realizes what he’s done (create the Road, probably) she’s going to help him, not fight him for his power. There’s probably also some element of them trusting each other and working together, having seen each other’s true selves.

I’m not going to try to predict the specifics, but my point is that Agatha dying at the end is simply not the move. And if she does, the only way it works is if it’s a dying on the Road to be reborn in the real world type of situation (so everyone else lives too). In which case, fine, I guess, but I still don’t want her to die. I want her to choose life. I think with everything she’s suffered, death is the easy choice. Living and changing and growing and letting people in is much harder.

Besides what an absolute fucking waste it would be of Kathryn Hahn’s talent to just kill off Agatha here and not have her show up later and irritate the shit out of some Avengers.

#Agatha all along #agatha harkness #yeah this got under my skin can you tell #AgathaRio #billy maximoff #No I don’t know how Rio plays into all this I don’t have that much brainpower today #she’s not dying ok that’s all I’m saying #this whole show is about dealing with trauma y’all we gotta get some breakthroughs here

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lowkeyrobin · 2 months ago

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Hii! I’m requesting a five hargreeves x reader? like even in every place, every timeline they always doesn’t end up together because they can’t for some reason?? maybe something angsty (i love angst omggogn). Thank you! 🫶

oooo okay okay! I can definitely try for you! :)) ; I'm not the best with angst but I'll give it a shot lol ; thanks for requesting, hope you enjoy! ; also this was super fun to write, and this song is so awfully tua core I cannot. ; also this is formatted in different timelines for each break, the origin is always the same though the events in each timeline are all kinda different to a point but still surround the shows umbrella academy just to clear up any confusion

FIVE HARGREEVES ; again and again

summary ; in every timeline, you and five don't make it to the finish line. it's not meant to be.

warnings ; language, talk of death/murder, child abuse, gun violence

track ; again and again, the bird and the bee

word count ; 1.3k

masterlist

Every single timeline led to your untimely demise. You could never just have a happy ending. Whether it be a death, betrayal, the never-ending apocolypse getting in your way, you and Five just couldn't have a moment in peace to just be happy and live.

Somehow, in every timeline, you'd wind up together, no questions asked, not romantically, at least. Events and trigger points always kept you light years apart.

Since the ripe age of thirteen, he'd been fighting to get his way home. He spent damn near fifty years trapped in an apocalyptic world, searching for any answers, or just an escape. He cried by his siblings' dead bodies for years, watching as they rotted into the dead Earth. He trained himself into the deadliest assassin on the planet, his DNA being mixed with those of serial killers to enhance himself, which was not run by him first.

You spent most of your life trapped in a facility, being trained as a child soldier, working your way into a government weapon. You never knew anything until Five rescued you. You could barely interact with people like a normal person. All you knew was harm, violence, people looking at you, expecting something out of you. It took you forever to realize that Five and his siblings weren't like everyone you'd ever known inside a lab, they were family.

You were both science experiments until you'd found your ways out.

But just because you flee one bad decision doesn't mean you escaped them all.

"Y/n!" Five shouts, lunging toward you, trying to protect you from The Handler's automatic weapon.

Though, no one could survive five shots to the face and chest.

You fall on your face, an arm reaching out toward him before he also falls alongside his siblings. He lays next to you, the powerful strikes having both knocked you back. He struggles to breathe, gasping for any last bit of life to keep him long enough, calling for anything he had left inside to save himself.

"I'm glad you're still alive," she smiles deviously, glancing over the bloody mess she'd caused, standing over him, pressing the weapon to his forehead. "You got to see how this all played out,"

He slowly turns his head, looking at your lifeless expression, eyes half opened, staring at him as blood trails from your lips. The Handler chuckles, amused by his infatuation with you. God, he'd ruin any timeline for you.

"It'll be okay, Five. I can keep the world spinning just fine without you."

Bang!

"Five!?" you scream frantically, barely able to keep yourself afloat in the deep oceanic water. It was fucking freezing and it burned your eyes to the point you'd rather rip them out yourself.

You gasp, choking up some saltwater before wading up to the shore, slightly unaware of the previous events. One moment you and Five were fighting some mysterious, comical super-villain with powers and the next moment you were halfway drowning in the deep water down the cliff. How you hadn't died was beyond you.

You sit on the sandy shore, laying on your back, eyes closed to protect yourself from the burning sun above. Anything to just feel warm again.

You spread your jacket over a rock, waiting for it to slowly dry in the sun. You rest your boots next to it, resting your feet up on the rock while you lay the rest of yourself on the sand.

With your mind so foggy and your eyesight so dizzy, you end up falling asleep on the sandy shore without the presence of Five. Jesus Christ, you'd completely forgotten about the dinner you set up that evening. Screw any plans to try and confess to him, then.

When you wake up at the break of dawn the next morning, you realize that Five is no longer by your side, nor was he in the first place when you saved yourself from the water. You scramble into the sea, looking for him like maybe he was able to survive underwater for twelve hours.

After frantic searching with no leads, you fall to your knees, soaking yourself once more.

You spent the next three decades waiting for him on that shore. You visited every day you could, waiting for him for hours when you had nothing better to do, waiting for the tides to bring him back to you.

You didn't know why you kept your hopes up all those years, believing he'd appear from the sea like he'd been protected by magical creatures beneath the deep blue. You just couldn't accept that the water had become his tomb and you couldn't help it.

The haunting sounds of waves crashing on land and the sound of seagulls fill your ears in your sleep while you dream up nightmares of finding his skeleton on the beach, accompanied by his tattered uniform.

Your arms were open as you await his return, whenever, wherever, it would be.

"This finally the end of the apocalypses?" you ask, a drink resting in your hand as you sit beside Five at the bar.

He shrugs. "Guess so. We can't fix it, there's no hope" he sighs, taking a shot. "I love you, Y/n,"

"Love you too, dude" you reply casually, taking a shot after him. You glance back at Sloane and Luther, watching them live up their last night together. "Wanna go spend whatever time we have left together?"

"I don't dance," he chuckles.

"Oh, come on," you roll your eyes, "We're gonna die for good, enjoy life while you can." you hold out a hand for him, waiting for him to take it as you flash puppy dog eyes at him.

He sighs, setting his glass down, taking your hand. He allows you to drag him onto the dance floor, joining the couples and Viktor, Ben, and Klaus as Kehlani's Vegas plays over the stereo. You both drunkenly dance together, enjoying the solemn, mutual love between you two one last time.

Unrequited love, my favorite trope.

You dance the night away until you fade into the fabric of the universe, joining the other Hargreeves as you're mushed into dust, creating mere stars in the sky, surrounded by billions of others.

You'd see each other again someday.

You squeeze Five's hand tightly, keeping your eyes glued on him as the glowing durango-marigold soup ooze surrounds your ankles. The family shares defeated looks, enjoying their last moments together.

Five stares at you with tears in his eyes, his cheeks slightly red. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I couldn't protect you in any universe."

You raise an eyebrow, wondering what he was talking about. Maybe more about that diner he found in that subway he kept blinking to.

"The diner. Every timeline ends with an apocalypse because of us, because of the marigold," he shakes his head. "And in every one, I couldn't save you,"

You search his eyes, looking for dishonesty, which you couldn't find. "...There had to be a timeline where I couldn't save you, Five. You tried. I tried. We tried."

He looks down at the rising ooze, watching and feeling as it eats his waist. He's silent, defeated in himself, knowing he couldn't do anything right. He couldn't save his family, he couldn't save his love, he couldn't even confess to them. He was dying, knowing that he failed. He failed everyone he ever gave a fuck about.

He squeezes your hand, feeling his neck start to be consumed, looking up at the ceiling with the others. Some of the roof had been torn away, exposing the night sky.

He softly smiles, glancing over at you. "There's Sagittarius,"

You smile, recognizing the pattern of stars above.

"See you guys in the next timeline?" Allison sniffles.

You nod. "See you in a minute,"

"Where are we meeting, again? It's not gonna be this shithole" Viktor chuckles.

"How about somewhere peaceful? Anywhere" Five replies.

"Tropical," Klaus suggests with a soft smile. "Tropical sounds nice,"

"Tropical it is, then."

#lowkeyrobin #gn reader #gender neutral reader #they/them reader #tua x reader #the umbrella academy x reader #umbrella academy x reader #five hargreeves oneshot #five x reader #five hargreeves x reader #aiden gallagher x reader #someone get the sleep token reference #hint hint its telomeres #“let the tides carry you back to me”#pls guys #again and again #five hargreeves x you

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vir-tanadahl · 2 months ago

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The Burden of the Dread Wolf

Summary: Solavellan ending told from Solas' POV. Obviously, Veilguard spoilers.

Solas—no, the Dread Wolf—stands battered and broken, bruises blooming like shadows on his skin, a dull ache thrumming through him with every breath. After all these years, he’s so tired. How could these last ten years weigh on him more than a millennium of existence? He, the Dread Wolf, has sacrificed so much to come this far. To claw back the power stolen from his people. To avenge the death of Mythal.

The regrets have always clawed at him. He regrets leaving the Fade. He regrets not stopping Mythal from becoming a god, from following the path that led her to death. Most of all, he regrets… not saving her. She called to him, once, asking for his aid. And he came, heart open, reverent. His love for her was beyond romance, something ancient and deep, an adoration etched into his very being. Her death was the final twist of the knife that cleaved wisdom from pride.

He regrets claiming her power, believing he could mend a shattered world, erase the pain he himself had wrought. He regrets the blood he spilled, even Mythal’s vessel, to seize the strength he thought he needed. He regrets the death of Varric, another thread severed in his relentless pursuit. And he regrets not staying by his vhenan’s side—his heart, the Inquisitor. His light.

He regrets his betrayal of Felassan. Of Rook.

Yet here he stands, the Dread Wolf, carrying the weight of those choices, haunted by the choices he has made.

"Please, Rook. I don't want to fight you." His voice trembles, a rare crack in his guarded tone, pleading and raw. There's no deception in his words this time, no clever twist or hidden intent.

Rook tries desperately to reach him, her words filled with a pleading urgency. Rook tries to reason with him, pleading with him to see the pain caused by Elgar’nan and Ghilian’nain. She tries to pull him back, to make him understand the cost of his path.

But Rook doesn’t realize he carries a burden heavier than just their sins. He believes he broke the world—because he is the one who broke it—and only he can restore it. Unbreak it. He feels that duty, thrumming in his very bones. He has to make it right. He will make it right.

Yet, he can’t see what lies just beyond his reach. His wisdom, once clear and guiding, has been twisted into something darker. Pride whispers that he can undo this mistake, that he alone can reshape what was lost. But true wisdom would show him beauty even in the scars of his unintended creation. The Dread Wolf has been trapped in his own prison of regrets long before he was accidentally trapped in the prison he created for the Gods.

“Destroying everything won’t fix your mistakes,” Rook says firmly, her gaze steady as she extends his lyrium dagger toward him. “If you want to save this world, bind yourself to the very thing you’re trying to erase.” Her voice is low but resolute, her outstretched hand unwavering. Another regret, he thinks, already settling like a weight in his chest.

The Dread Wolf takes a deep breath, turning slowly toward the place where the ritual will begin. His head falls forward, and he closes his eyes. “I… I cannot.” His voice is strained, heavy with exhaustion. “To stop now would dishonor everyone I’ve wronged to get here.” The terrible things he’s done, the lives he’s destroyed—they press down on him like shadows, demanding he see this through. If he stops now, what meaning would all that suffering hold?

“Even if…” Her voice, barely a whisper, cuts through his thoughts, and he turns, feeling his heart twist at the sound. “Even if those you’ve wronged asked you to stop?”

He knows that voice. His breath catches sharply, a tremor of recognition running through him as he meets her gaze. The dagger slips lower in his hand, almost forgotten, as he turns further to face her, his mouth parted in stunned silence. “Vhenan…” Solas breathes, the word heavy with disbelief. His voice wavers, pride crumbling as the guarded walls around his heart begin to fall, leaving him raw and exposed in her presence. His chest tightens, a tremor passing through him as he struggles to comprehend the impossible—she is here, standing before him

She is the woman he never meant to love but couldn’t help himself. The one who helped him see worth in this world he’d crafted out of his own wounded heart. She saw him—truly saw him—for who he was, asking questions that peeled back the layers he’d hidden behind for centuries, curious and kind.

“You think you’re beyond saving, but you’re wrong.” Her voice is soft, coaxing, her words weaving into his mind like a lifeline. “I’m here, walking the dinan’shiral with you.”

Pain and confusion cloud his gaze, and Solas bows his head, his voice rough. “I lied to you. I betrayed you.” Shame ripples through him, and he dares not meet her eyes.

She steps closer, her voice unwavering. “I forgive you. All you have to do… is stop.” He turns fully to her, his expression strained, the weight of regret etched across his face. “Ir abelas, vhenan,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he lowers his head again. “But… I cannot.”

Solas turns back toward the ritual site, his shoulders slumped. “Long before I met you, I failed my oldest friend. She died because of that failure. If I leave the Veil in place, I am destroying the world she wanted. And I will have…” his voice trails for a moment. “She would have died for nothing.”

He lifts the dagger, preparing to begin the ritual, when a raven’s sharp caw cuts through the silence. The bird swoops down, shifting midair into a figure cloaked in shadow and mystery.

“And whose fault is that, Dread Wolf?”

Solas whirls, momentarily stunned. “Morrigan?” Surprise flashes across his face as he tries to reconcile the sudden appearance of the Witch of the Wilds.

“One appellation among many I wear,” she replies, her voice smooth and enigmatic. “Advisor to Orlais, Witch of the Wilds, Daughter of Flemeth…” She pauses, her gaze piercing. “And once, long ago, an old friend.”

Solas’s gaze shifts, realizing he’s now surrounded by three women. Rook steps forward, her expression resolute as she lifts a small statuette of Mythal. “Mythal lives on in her,” she says quietly, “and in this.” She places the statuette in Morrigan’s outstretched hand, who, with a knowing glance, activates it.

A soft, ancient glow pulses from the statuette, filling the air with an ethereal light. Memories rush forward—fragments of Mythal, fragments of that fateful moment of betrayal when he failed her. Solas stands frozen, the weight of the past pressing down upon him, as Mythal’s essence shimmers, a reminder of the failure he made.

He gasps, his breath hitching as his gaze falls upon the form of Mythal as he once knew her, luminous and fierce, yet filled with a serenity that pierces his soul. His head lowers slightly, his mouth parted in silent reverence. “Mythal…” he manages, his voice barely a whisper, as if any louder would shatter this fragile moment.

The essence of Mythal stands before him, her form imposing yet gentle. “I pulled you from the Fade you cherished and thrust you into war. I turned your wisdom into a weapon…” She pauses, her eyes softened by an ancient sorrow. “And it broke you.”

Solas bows his head, shame tightening his posture, his voice trembling with regret. “The things I have done…” His words are heavy, laced with anguish and remorse.

But Mythal raises a hand, stopping him gently. “Are not yours to bear alone, my friend,” she says, her voice warm and kind. “The wrongs we committed, we committed together.” She reaches out, resting a hand on his shoulder, and a warmth spreads through him—her forgiveness, her absolution.

Solas’s shoulders slump, his head low, his hands trembling as he holds the dagger close to his chest. It’s the very blade that severed her life, a symbol of his failure and the pain he’s carried.

“I release you from my service,” she commands softly, her voice both gentle and resolute before disappearing. He no longer needs to be the Dread Wolf.

A shudder passes through him as the words sink in, releasing a weight he’s held for far too long. He leans forward, hands braced on his knees, head bowed, processing the unexpected mercy she has offered. Pain lingers, but beneath it… a flicker of relief, tentative and bittersweet.

The Inquisitor kneels beside him, her presence steady and warm as she places a gentle hand on his arm. “There is no fate but the love we share,” she murmurs, her voice soft and unwavering. Her words hit him like a tidal wave, and his breath falters, a tremor running through him as he clutches his chest, feeling the sharp ache of despair radiate through his being. He closes his eyes briefly, the weight of his choices pressing down on him.

Slowly, he rises, shoulders still hunched beneath the burden he carries. He turns, his gaze trailing over the tears in the Veil that continue to spread, multiplying like dark wounds in the sky—a reminder of his failures, his responsibility.

With a final look at the three women before him, he raises the lyrium dagger and, with grim resolve, slices the palm of his hand, letting his blood flow to complete the ritual. His voice is quiet but steady as he speaks, binding himself to the Veil. “My life force now sustains the Veil. With every breath I take, I will shield the innocent from the consequences of my past failures.”

He feels the connection take hold, a bond now woven between himself and the Veil, and though he stands, he feels as if a part of him has willingly surrendered to bear this eternal penance. “The Titans’ dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the blight, but I can help to soothe its anger.” He tells them as he hands the lyrium dagger to Rook.

“I will go and seek atonement,” he says quietly, turning back toward the gaping tears in the Veil, the rifts he has sworn to mend.

“But you don’t have to go alone.” Her voice, gentle yet resolute, pulls him back, stirring something fragile within him. His heart clenches as he twists to face her, disbelief clouding his expression. That she would even suggest such a thing… after everything he’s done, everything he’s caused. And yet, her hand slips into his, warm and grounding.

He shakes his head, his voice laced with quiet desperation. “Where I’m going is terrible,” he whispers, pleading for her to understand. But her gaze remains steady, unwavering, filled with a fierce, unyielding love.

“It won’t be terrible if I’m with you,” she replies, her voice filled with a soft strength. “We’ll make this journey together, always.”

Before he can protest, she draws him close, her arms wrapping around him as she presses her lips to his, a kiss filled with love and a vow of loyalty he can hardly believe. He’s overcome, struggling to comprehend that she would willingly join him in his path of penance—and yet, a surge of gratitude and wonder swells within him, easing the shadows of doubt and despair he has carried alone for so long.

They pull apart, his gaze lingering on her for a heartbeat longer before he turns to face Rook. “Thank you, Rook,” he says softly, his voice full of gratitude and respect. He holds her gaze a moment, then, with a final nod, turns toward the largest tear in the Veil, his path stretching out before him.

Fear gnaws at him—fear that, at the last moment, she might choose not to follow, that the enormity of what lies ahead might make her hesitate. He keeps his eyes forward, too afraid to turn back, his heart pounding with the uncertainty.

But then, he feels it: her hand resting firmly on his shoulder, the warmth of her fingers curling around his forearm, grounding him. A quiet strength flows from her touch, and he closes his eyes briefly, a wave of relief washing over him. She is here, unyielding, choosing this path with him.

Together, they step forward and vanishing into the Fade.

#solavellan #solas x lavellan #vir writes #dragon age solas #solas x inquisitor #solas #dragon age #dragon age veilguard #veilguard spoilers #solas veilguard #datv #datv spoilers #solavellan hell #solasmance #solasmancer

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