#but this time it exists out in the world and I love that it does!!!

[nobodyfamousposts]

Scarlet Lady Top 10 Favorite Characters: Number 10

For @zoe-oneesama

Okay, I realized as I was writing these that there is way way WAY too much to each of these and why to be able to put them all into one post, so I'm breaking them down into individual essays focusing on each one to keep them palatable.

So without further ado....

Number 10: EVERYONE

Yeah, I know it may be cheating but at this point it was the only choice I could make.

I came to regret making this list, specifically because I couldn’t seem to make up my mind as far as who all would be on it. I reread the entire series. I kept switching people in and out as I was reminded of characters or scenes I loved. And I came to a realization that there is no character in the whole of this series I didn’t enjoy to some extent that they didn't deserve some love in this list and I kind of wish I could have added all of them just to give them all some spotlight.

Yes, it is partly because everyone is vastly improved compared to Canon. But as I reread the series, it came to mind that if Canon didn’t exist and I didn’t have the comparison between the characters, I still very much would have loved this series and everyone in it.

Cause and Effect Exist

It's important to have a setting in which the characters and their actions make sense for the world they live in. When the setting is supposed to be modern day earth, we need the people to be able to show that they are capable of surviving in it on a day to day basis without being so massively incompetent that they would do something like accidentally ingesting poison. Or forgetting how to breathe.

I would think it would be obvious, but sometimes Canon makes me wonder. Which is never a good look for a show that is supposed to have some level of seriousness and involve superheroes.

Here’s the thing Canon can’t seem to get: when a majority of the things that go wrong in a plot are because of everyone having to be stupid to make the plot work, you have a problem with the writing. Changing the material in a story so that younger people can enjoy it does NOT mean dumbing down the characters and throwing in arbitrary lessons with no real reason to them. Even if the show itself is geared towards kids, you can’t treat the audience like they’re stupid.

In Scarlet Lady, the people aren’t stupid.

Silly, yes. Wrong, often. Overdramatic, definitely. But while they may make stupid choices sometimes, they aren’t so dumb that anyone should have concerns about their ability to function at a higher level than an overcaffinated 2 year old.

They’re fooled initially the way many of us would be with a biased story that hits the news first. Oblivious to the problems in a situation that they logically wouldn’t have much direct insight into. Prone to making mistakes and incorrect judgement the way that anyone would. That's normal. That's expected.

But they’re not so incapable as to forget things that happen right in front of them between one day and the next. Or even between one scene and the next.

Things carry over. We see cause and effect. We see consequences—bad and good. And those consequences extend not only for the episode or season but for the entire series.

Aurore KNOWs Alec cheated her before and maintains a tight control over him and prevents more of his antics.

Adrien and Alya maintain a cold attitude towards Lila for some time after her reveal as a liar. And it even remains a point against her as used by Chloe as herself and as Scar to discount what she says.

The boys of the class remember Adrien’s “love letter to Marigold” and try to win him her merch because they’re bros like that. 

Adrien himself remembers the instances of his dad being a massive prick and instead of being surprised and “sad boi uwuwu” each time it happens like it’s supposed to be a surprise that the massive prick would choose to be a prick, he very clearly moves through the stages of grief to the point of a sort of acceptance that involves planning around and even for him.

Gabriel’s horrible parenting and general lack of concern for Adrien or his wellbeing as he ends up a casualty of various akuma attacks was played off for laughs when such incidents occurred. Then they were brutally called out against him in the Finale as a way to counter his claims of doing everything for Adrien’s sake. And the big reveal of the Birthday Scarf…utilized in the last way anyone would have wanted.

And Chloe is perhaps the biggest example as her antics ARE NOT forgotten or ignored by anyone. The classmates still interact with Chloe and are relatively nice to her, but they don’t just forget that she’s treated them horribly. They don’t act surprised when she does anything horrible. Nor does anyone just laugh it off or excuse it as “just who she is”. We see follow up to her behavior—the class fully expecting her to cause trouble and actively try to plan around it. People calling her out on past behaviors. And even bigger consequences as time goes on. Such as Adrien breaking off the friendship. And a blink and you miss it fridge logic moment in Ikari Gozen when you realize that when they said she was banned from all future Gabriel-involved competitions, they meant it.

The fact that by the time the big reveal happened that Chloe was Scarlet Lady, no one was shocked.

Story-wise, this is showing the passage of time and the effect the events of the story are having. It’s showing that there is lasting impact and that what happens to the characters matters.

Meta-wise, this is Zoe rewarding us for paying attention.

Continuity exists in Scarlet Lady. Time exists. The people exist. When anyone does anything, you get the sense that they aren’t operating in a vacuum. The things they do matter. There are consequences. There is an impact. And if there is an impact in the story, there will be an impact on the audience.

Which leads to…

Character Depth/Character Growth

Usually in TV shows of this nature, if there ARE character arcs for the side characters, they only occur over the course of a single episode devoted to focusing on them before moving on elsewhere. 

Canon didn’t give us that much at all in favor of having every episode that should focus on other characters learning and growing instead forcing Marinette to be wrong in some way and learn an arbitrary lesson that often would have better served for someone else.

In Scarlet Lady, the arcs we get are impressive for all that they’re relatively unobtrusive. They aren’t big. They aren’t world-ending. And the thing is, most change in life isn’t. It can just FEEL that way.

Like the way it felt for Kim when he first found out Ondine liked him and then had his confession to her screwed up.

And the way it felt for Kagami when she lost that first match against Adrien.

Then there’s the way it felt for Chloe when she was dismissed by her mother, had her popularity go downhill, and ended up losing her Miraculous.

…or the way it felt for Adrien when he discovered his dad was Hawk Moth.

The reactions we witness are in a great part due to actions outside of the characters’ control, but are ultimately a result of the experiences they have had and the ways they have changed as a result.

The question becomes: are the characters that we meet at the beginning pretty much identical to how they are at the end? Is the world?

The answer in Scarlet Lady is no.

Whether because the characters themselves change or our perception of them does, we can see that they have all undergone some sort of events that create a difference between the start and end points.

Not all of them HAVE to undergo some big emotional arc. Not all of them NEED to. But the characters still mostly go through some sort of growth by the end that I feel make them stronger and healthier people.

You’ve got the big life-altering changes like Lila and Sabrina.

You’ve got the little changes like Nino and Ivan.

You’ve even got the most minuscule, beginning stages of change in Chloe.

You’ve got growth that creates such perfect setup with Mylene when she starts off scared and traumatized by how things went with Stoneheart then is the one who confronts him in the end. And the parallel between the finale and the beginning when she returns him to normal by kissing him just like they did in that first episode to change him back then, too! (Just….GOD, I CANNOT GET OVER THIS!)

You’ve got them reaching out and making friends and relating to people they hadn’t before.

And by the end of it all, we get characters who feel like people rather than props.

They don’t all have to change. They don’t necessarily need to go through an entire emotional arc and back again. They just need to be part of the world they’re in.

Nino doesn’t just pop into existence when Adrien or Alya need someone to interact with. Kagami isn’t just a non-horrible or non-evil love rival for Adrien or a stepping stool for him to “practice“ at being in a relationship before it’s time for him to try the “real thing” with his endgame pairing. Luka isn’t just a decent guy who is the only actual form of support for the female lead and yet only lacking that precious “male lead” title or all around just not “Adrien enough” to fill the role.

Adrien isn’t just a “sad boy” meant to be a main love interest, Villain’s Morality Pet, and the one everyone idolizes and chases after just cuz he’s the male lead and that’s how you show he’s desirable I guess. Marinette isn’t the atlas keeping the story alive because no one else is apparently capable of learning lessons and changing, or even just the bare basics of functioning as individuals. Chloe isn’t just there to be horrible for no reason and get away with it so she can continue to be horrible until the writers suddenly need her to be sympathetic.

And the rest of the classmates aren’t just some Greek chorus there to fill the background.

We see them interact. We see them making jokes or jabs. We see them even…*gasp* having different opinions!

And on something as major and life-controlling as feelings about the “Hero of the City” no less! Why, that’s the sort of thing that would break up friendships and determine who you can sit next to at the cafeteria! The horror! The scandal!

And…oh hey. This puts the characters in different groups. It links them with characters other their Canonically designated pairings and groups. This lets them disagree on things and not need to vilify any of them. This creates implications that add depth to the story and to the people in it.

The characters can disagree without being enemies. They can be wrong without having to be evil. They can make mistakes without having to be stupid. And they can change and grow—both for better and worse.

And we see both and in different ways. SO many different ways.

Adrien goes from excited and impulsive to buckling under the forced responsibility and weight of a partner who hinders more than she helps.

Lila goes from selfishly bad and self-serving to selfish but friendly with better direction of her talents in a less self-serving way.

And Chloe just goes from selfish and bad to selfish and worse..

I mean, it says something that the combination of Lila’s growth and Chloe’s fall from grace resulted in Hawk Moth being unable to use Lila as a tool for his Heroes Day plot like he originally intended.

The key is that whether they necessarily grow or become better people, these characters are still IMPACTED by the events around them and AFFECTED as a natural result of the world they live in. 

You can’t help but feel for them in some way as a result. It’s part of why I love them.

The other part of why I love them is a bit more epic though…

Crowning Moments of Awesome

If there’s one thing I love, it’s seeing characters be awesome. I love it when characters get to be awesome. I would love to see more of it. Especially when the ones involved are characters you wouldn’t normally expect or get to see have a chance to shine.

And it’s when you see these characters be awesome that you really get the sense that yes, this character would work as a hero.

Seeing Max help against Robustus. Seeing Kim help against Odine. Alix stepping in during Pharaoh, calling out her brother’s fan fiction, and helping the heroes escape the security system at the Lourve. Alya stepping in during Copycat to clue Chat in to what’s going on and later keeping Anansi distracted to keep her away from Chat while he’s trapped. Rose kicking Nightmare!Chat in the face to defend Marinette even when she’s on the run from her own nightmares in Sandboy. Luka leading groups twice to stepping in and helping the heroes deal with akumas. Nathaniel standing up for Marinette and Sabrina when they’re accused in Rogercop and then helping the heroes in Reverser.

These little moments of support make such a big different and really make it make sense that the heroes would trust these people with magical jewelry to help them in battle.

And the little moments of characters being petty or strong or smart or turning the tables or just showing off what they’re capable of. Even without superpowers.

Adrien getting petty revenge for Nino and finding a tactic to counter Gabriel in the future.

The Police Force in Rogercop just saying “Nope” to obeying an obvious akuma. 

Zoe manipulating akumas twice to help the heroes. Her two Reasons You Suck Speeches to her mom and Bustier.

Every instance of payback that Tikki gets against Chloe.

Everyone in the Finale. Just…EVERYONE in the Finale. The characters who manage to avoid akumatization by either spotting the flaws in the illusion or refusing to give in to fear and even protecting others. Nora smacking any akuma that enters the home. Claudie pulling off Power Mom and ordering Max to stop attacking the city then helping to calm him down. Prince Ali and Juleka freeing Rose by kissing her! Chris, Ella, Etta, and Manon saving Mylene! Mylene saving Ivan with a kiss in a direct callback to how they first got together in Stoneheart! (Yes, I am still stuck on that!) Ondine saving Kim! Lila and Sabrina saving Alix! Luka facing Riposte alone and unarmed and then Kitty Section saving Kagami! ALL of the Heroes making a final comeback to help take down Hawk Moth for good! Just—AAAAAH!

How could Miraculous have peaked with this in Season 2 when this is Grand Finale material? Because there are few things more awesome than getting to see ALL the characters the heroes met and befriended and helped throughout the course of the story stepping up at the final battle to help take the Big Bad down!

Like…can we just take a moment to appreciate how everyone gets a chance to stand out in some way? Not all of them necessarily good, exactly (looking at you Andre). But still stand out and be memorable. Even characters who didn’t originally get much focus. Especially characters who were originally functioning as cardboard cutouts to fill a scene.

Anyone remember Aurore? How for the FIRST akuma in the pilot of the series and one who is quite frankly the most interesting and noteworthy, we don’t really get to see her again except in the background.

In Scarlet Lady, we got to actually look in to the contest and how she lost as well as the aftermath. She wasn’t some arrogant showoff who deserved to lose to the “sweet down to earth rival”, she was a girl who legitimately tried her best and had valid reason to be upset. Seeing her get revenge on Alec for cheating and humiliating her on live TV was well worth it.

Or how about the Photographer? Just there to take photos of Adrien in the park for a photo shoot or be the school photographer, but otherwise has no personality and is only remembered for his weird “spaghetti” line.

In Scarlet Lady, his role is two-fold. He acts as a sort of supporter for Adrien in his crush. Taking really good pictures of him being happy with the girl he likes. Taking more class photos at the behest of this girl for the sake of a friend who missed out on the class picture. And then there’s his OTHER role as a sort of antagonist to Chloe. He becomes one of the only ones in the early seasons willing and capable of dismissing her tantrums.

They’re both given more character. They get moments to stand out and BE awesome. So is everyone.

EVERYONE. From the classmates and big named characters we see regularly to the side characters who only appear once or twice. They all get some good scenes and focus that give them their own identities. All of them are memorable. None of them can really be ignored or forgotten. And part of what made making this list so difficult was that I found myself getting attached to pretty much everyone as I came across each of them that I couldn’t quite make up my mind.

Everyone in this fic has done something to make me happy and warrant my approval. Even the characters I normally wouldn’t like at all had their moments to shine and elicit an “okay, that was cool” from me.

Thus I grant this spot to everyone. To all the characters I don’t get the chance to mention. To all the ones I like albeit somewhat less than others. To all the ones I know are horrible but can’t help but like regardless. To all the ones I fought with myself for THREE MONTHS over which one would get this spot.

I love all of them.

[mysaldate]

Doesn't that sort of make sense though? Why would the characters make a big deal out of it if it's normal for them? It's kind of an issue I have with a lot of fantasy series, the characters are all from this world where magic exists but they have to act surprised and clueless about it for the audience's sake? That has always felt cheap and kinda lazy to me. Yes, act like it's normal because it is normal for you. Don't make a big deal out of it and let us figure it out. Yes, you run a risk of a lot of fandom glossing over it but imo, it's much better than breaking character just to coddle your audience.

On your age point... no, that doesn't really work. The game is originally a joseimuke, meaning for working-class women. Just because Aniplex and Disney US decided to dumb everything down for the English release doesn't mean teenagers are suddenly the intended audience. The characters are those ages because that's a popular trope and that's it, they might be 30 or 50 and they wouldn't change because the age label on fictional characters is arbitrary as they are not real. Yes, Disney JP still keeps certain things censored/safe but far less than whatever is going on in the EN release. In a similar vein, the whole "respect women juice" thing was added in the EN release while in JP, it was left at the fact that women are intimidating and more physically imposing which led to Leona and Ruggie trying to appease them even outside of their own culture (we wouldn't exactly call that respect, now would we? We don't say women irl respect men when they go out of their way to appease them because they are physically stronger).

This isn't about whether or not Jack has a knot lol. This is about how many features the characters do have that the fandom just explains away or even straight-up ignores. And it gets worse when it comes to cultures. The hyenas are mistreated in Sunset Savannah because they have a bad reputation (yes, it is a part of what happened with Scar but also for biological reasons) which then leads to them having to scavenge for food and use trickery which furthers the stereotypes even more. Leona's palace guards are all women because lionesses are usually the ones guarding a pride. Leona does roar or growl in the story on multiple occasions (and a roar is even one of his battle lines iirc).

Malleus was literally born from an egg, that's a pretty big thing imo, people even like this, they just don't like thinking about what that might mean for Meleanor. Also, dragon fae only being able to conceive with their true love? That's a pretty huge difference. The fae in general communicating by hisses and chittering noises? Yes, it's a language for them but at the same time, that's a pretty non-human thing to do. And despite Lilia adopting Silver, he never taught him the language so there's a question of whether full-blooded humans can even learn it.

I agree with you that this is a prevalent problem in media, I just don't think twst is as devoid of it as you seem to suggest. Yes, fandom is always there to explore things more and push them to their logical limits and conclusions but, again, I think twst gives us a ton to build off of. It makes sense to me that they don't make a big deal of it, much like they just off-handedly mention other parts of their world that are normal to them but alien to us, simply because it's no big deal or it is common knowledge for them ("By the Seven!" is an easy one. Nobody feels the need to explain it but we all know why that is, another example would include Mozus' off-hand mention of the discrimination against beastmen in the past, and obvsl there are more all over the place).

Anyway, this got long, sorry. I like discussing this sort of thing even if we don't come to an agreement. Personally, I like the way twst does it but I do get why people might want more obvious explanations and followups on things in way that are harder to disregard.

I need. Twisted Beastmen and the like. To be more animalistic. Not necessarily like, physically, I don't meant that in the furry sense. I mean that in the 'they're part animal and it'd not just for show' sense.

I want beastmen with claw like nails. Where the cat-like ones tend to walk on their toes when not wearing shoes because it feels right. Where their eyes and pupils reflect the animals that they're partly of. With fangs and teeth appropriate for their species.

Ruggie making laughing noises at the active prospect of food. Whooping when in a fight and needing backup. Lowing when excited for a fight.

Leona roaring to get the whole dorm's attention. Chuffing in greeting at people he considers part of his pride. (He'll sometimes grunt at Cheka like a mother would to her cubs but will deny it.)

Jack barking at danger to warn others and howling to try and figure out where his pack is (he forgets they can't howl back, but Ruggie will sometimes low at him and Yuu definitely tries to howl back.)

I want to see Azul with the tips of his limbs in human form retain some of his octopus natural ability to camouflage. I want to see his hands always moving, grabbing something, holding something. Azul who might not have bones in human form with how flexible he is??

The tweels who aren't very active naturally during the day but get really hyperactive at night. Who bare their teeth at people when excited.

Che'nya who lounges in the sun on lazy days. Who's great at stretching and popping everywhere in his body if he needs to, to a concerning degree.

GIMME FEY WHO DONT ACT HUMAN

Malleus who snorts smoke when he's angry. Malleus who wear gloves because he got claws. Malleus who has a tail and wings outside of his dragon form sometimes.

Lilia who gets just a bit too excited at the prospect of a fight and spilling blood. Who can recognize a person by the smell of their blood. Who makes inhuman noises when too excited and gives off a very eldritch horror kind of vibe if he lets loose.

Sebek who can be found eating rocks sometimes. Who finds quiet in thunder and lightning. Who can move so smoothly and silently you don't know he's there until he opens his maw. Who has a lot of really sharp teeth for someone with a human mouth.

Just- gimme some animal, like, REALISM. PLEASE.

[themareverine]

God Laughs | DoFP!Logan x fem!OC

synopsis: 'I'll love you in every time, Logan, that I know. Just say the word." So much hinged on so little, and it doesn’t make any damn sense. They all knew it—their moments, any of them, ceased to exist if he didn't do this—this unspeakable thing, the only thing that would keep any of them alive.

warnings: time travel elements, AU, pre-established relationship, some angst, a big age gap due to time travel, a little angst, unedited, will do later, PG-13. 🌶️🌶️🌶️

a/n: happy thirtieth birthday to me. 🎉🥂i am sorry this is so long, but i'm actually not, and this fic has been taking up space in my brain for like a month and a half. please enjoy.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION | TAGLIST🏷️ let me know if you want added!

Time in the ether is both cold, and slow. 

Being alive 200 years leaves Logan nowhere near shortchanged when it comes to dreams. Really the only peace a man who cannot die—a living weapon—finds is sleep, walking in and out of dreams. Digging graves to bury secrets, the horrors of living. Phantoms of his living moments, somehow though, manage to follow him into REM, into the colorful, twisting pictures of dreamstate—they rob him of purest joys. Highest highs. Through their boneless fingers he falls, time and again, even in his sleep—some nights, he doesn’t even rest. Barely breathes. Just wrestles with the things his mind shoves into dark recesses during daylight, vampires bleeding him dry. 

And much like the nightmares that find him as he fitfully sleeps, the ether between time is equally harrowing. A scythe that cuts slow and deep, through certainties and everything humans, once, thought they understood.

Nothing in the world like it, slipping through the sands of a timeglass—lives already lived, time already elapsed. Unable to fully blot from the universe moments already bled, God Himself, Logan is sure, laughs—laughs as he chases moments, daylights. Nights. Stretches of time in the bend of space the Almighty must just chuckle at. No more than a mouse chasing reward, trapped in the grand scheme of an oversized cat. 

He’d jumped through the waters of time before. Drowning in pain, his body fighting to stay alive and knit together when travel would otherwise viscerally rip apart.

Logan supposes it is not far removed from shaking a bottle, a tornado of contents spinning together to form some perfect union of chaos and beauty, bouncing off walls and wholly contained within units of matter. Hurricane on steroids, rushing to find somewhere to land, but in no hurry to do so all at the same damn time.

That is what the ether feels like—a hurried state of asystole, neverending, that somehow doesn’t seem to mind at all. And Logan has never felt more intimate, precise pain than he does here, filtering through time and space—everything hurts. Whitehot fire that laps at his spine, racking every thought, every movement, every cell with the finest, knife-edge agony.

Like a blacksmith’s hammer beating to life creation from the hottest flame he burns, beat into oblivion while slowly knitting together something that resembles signs of life. 

 “Need you to do this, Pryde.”

Kitty had an overwhelming ability, he knew. Taxed her to the point of soul crushing. He’d rocketed through time, balancing in her hands, times before—and some part of him always felt her during the process, guiding and sifting his moments in the past through careful, graceful hands.

Truly gifted, Logan understood this was not a bowl of cherries request—he knew it would shave years off her life, steal heartbeats she’d never get back. Days of recovery, horrors of readjusting back to the present. Not a light lift for either of them—as he was ripped apart only to be stitched back together in a younger, former life, she was there, with nobody to put her back together as strain and pain played her like a drum. 

And as painful as it was, Logan knew Kitty—she would die for things like this, consequences be damned. Young and reckless, she’d skipped through the folds of the time space continuum for less than what he was asking, but one’s own desires were another thing entirely. Couldn’t fault her for that. If he were able to rip open the universe, go back to former days, well—he didn’t know. So many nightmares, so many phantoms.

Logan wasn’t even sure if he was whole, anymore. 

“And you’re sure you wanna do this, Logan?” 

Cigars had never tasted so flat, so sour. Maybe if he rolled it through his fingers harder, it would shapen up. But nothing could change the broil in his gut, the ripple of consequences hanging out on the edge of history. They all knew it—their moments, any of them, ceased to exist if he didn't do this—this unspeakable thing, this thing God had gifted. To ensure his future, the future of Charles Xavier, had never felt so—so cold. Dead. Excruciating. 

So much hinged on so little, and it doesn’t make any damn sense. And then the voice of reason, a cherubim amongst thieves. Stealing minutes, ripping away time none of them have. Light in a universe of darkness, his sun. Adonis to his Icharus, Aphrodite to his eternal, cold war—she’d looked as if the world had stopped, and in a way, it was not far off. His world had stopped spinning, their world. Threatened to collapse. 

“Kitty, we have to. We need to–if we don’t, we don’t have this conversation.” 

No other conviction necessary. Decided, on a whim—on the bleeding edge of should we? they’d made a plan. Go back decades, retrace steps already taken. Cool trails already blazed. Forge new irons, cast new stones—do everything to ensure this moment, this moment that cannot be barren, paralyzed. Do what God commissions, what heaven allows.

Follow me, Logan. 

A bed of stone had never felt more like a grave, and the very idea sends an unfamiliar shiver down his spine. Like a seance, candles burn in the darkness—easier for Pryde. But in some twisted way, Logan finds it fitting—fitting, this supernatural undertone. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wishes it were light. Prays for morning, for the innocence of blinding daylight streaming through open windows, the fresh bounce of sun on his skin. Something about this being dark, tucked under the earth, feels eerie. Backwards. Graven.

Man was not meant to live in the dirt, but to die there—man was not meant to venture alone. 

I'll love you in every time, Logan, that I know. Just say the word.

Pain in his chest had ripped him from the cool ether, snapped him awake in an arctic sweat. Pebbled with goosebumps and twisted in damp sheets, he’d ripped off the layers of blankets with gusto enough to carve canyons.

Rousted from apparent sleeping arrangements, the world swims as he attempts to scrub life back into his face—to feel. 

Parts of him were still sorting themselves out deep in his tissues, Logan could almost count his cells unscrambling. Never would he wish the kinesthetics of memories sorting themselves into brain matter on any man, enemy or otherwise.

One thing was painfully clear from the jump, a branding iron seared into the folds of his brain—her face. Her features. Every moment spent together, every sweet nothing she’d ever said. Honey salve on gaping wounds, he could smell her. Taste her, even in time.

It’s the one memory that doesn’t need sorting, that seems welded into his biology, his very being—her.

Her face, her name, her laugh. More a part of him than he’d ever know, he carries her in the low of his spine, a simmering heat that starves. A man could die, aching for a woman like he burns for her.

Aching in memories that feel foreign in this body, like dreams. But they are more real than he’ll ever confess—more real than sunlight or air, than scripture etched into faraway stones. The song of the world, the prayer of the universe.

Logan had never believed in soulmates—until fate had split him down the middle. He’d never known he was missing part of himself, until he’d tasted her goodness. Her sweetness. Her beauty and strength and insecurity that had fallen through his fingers like butter.

Time is his enemy, and there’s very little room to reminisce. That comes later. Much, much later.

Her presence a grounding rod to the now and here, excitement pistons through him like a locomotive. Logan wasn’t around in this period of her life, decades ago. He’d met her years after—in the blossoming glow of things to come. He can only fathom where she is, what she does in the twilight years of knowing him—of better, safer years.

Often he catches himself, watching her march through the days of their life together, wondering where she’d have gone, who she would’ve become if not for him. What better she’d have done in the world, what good she may have accomplished beyond his tether. 

Never lasts long, though. He mauls the high fantasy of letting her leave. Crushes the beastial part  of him that warns she’s better off without him, navigating life alone. Safer, whole. Selfishness always catapults his justifications, his rationales. She stays, she’s yours, and nobody else gets her. Just the way it is, and he’d worked hard to ensure it. Logan wears enough blood to fill a reservoir—blood she’d helped him spill. Lives he’d taken for her. The cost for her was higher, atmospheric—he’d rob hell to pay it, even today.

And in a way, he isn’t far off. 

Thoughts of her send him buzzing with a little thrill he hasn’t known since boyhood, pulses his brain. Windows in this room are his stage, daylight a rapturous, blinding audience that sparkles with anticipation. He breathes and feels her, somewhere, in this universe.

There’s a presence, an energy— the world is alive with the promise of her, things to come. He doesn’t know how, perhaps it’s cosmic, built into the foundations of God’s creation. Or maybe it’s divine, maybe supernatural. Maybe just biology. Whatever it is, it tastes sweet, pulses through him like a live wire strung tight on five thousand molten-lava volts. 

A groan slips through streaks of daylight crisscrossing the floor through floor-length, heavy curtains. Logan all but springboards from bed, about-facing with the poise and grace of a fighter much younger than himself, heart racing. Somehow he manages self-control—the claws don’t come. Instead, his arm draws back into a fist far quicker than he remembers, almost sending him off balance. His arm—it weighs next to nothing. 

Mind spinning, he remembers. Adamantium—no adamantium. It’s a foreign, blissful feeling. At this point in his lifetime he hadn’t been cursed with steel bones, hadn’t been ripped apart to be stitched back together into whatever atrocity hell had born across the earth. Hadn’t been anyone’s lab animal, a plaything. That would come, he imagines—and briefly, Logan wonders if he’ll remember this feeling. If it will crop up in memories when he returns to his time, when future Logan is put back in time, and this is all but a dream. 

It doesn’t matter—assumptions come to a burning halt when blonde hair flips from beneath the covers of his former grave, his resurrection site. Blonde spirals of curl, muffled from obvious extramarital affairs, spill over milky skin. A hit of perfume hangs out beneath his nose, but it’s seared like a branding iron with the familiar, unmistakable scent of sex. Orgasm rides the air like it’s a jet plane, and very quickly Logan can’t breathe.

Thoughts spin through his brain, a kaleidoscope of horror and shame and confusion, watching his bedmate rise into a stretch not all that far removed from a cat.

He doesn’t remember this. Oh, fuck, not even a little. His future self’s mind pistons for any recollection, any silver cord of remembrance of who she could be, but it comes up blank. Distressingly blank, pitifully void. A blackhole of lust and perverted nothingness, his stomach hollows. Pitches up against his esophagus. And Logan isn’t a man to easily toss his cookies, but—he’s not far off. His dick numbs as she glances over her shoulder. 

“You’re awake,” voice heavily tainted with sleep, his feet suddenly burn with the itch to move. Get the hell outta dodge. Eyes scout the room quickly, picking out pieces of clothing he can only pray belong to this version of himself. “It’s early, if you’re hungry I can make breakfast—” 

Unable to think of anything —get the hell out of here, Logan, “—no!” It’s more of a bark than it is an answer, and he bristles, fingers swiping at the discarded pants hanging out on the floor by his feet. Wrangles into them in time enough to split atoms. Hiking them up his legs, he works the belt, tongue suddenly thicker than winter molasses as it attacks his back molars, trying to raise some moisture in the Sahara his mouth has become. 

He doesn’t miss his bedfellow flinching, though. Her shoulder shifts a little sharply in reaction, and he curses himself. “Girls are sensitive creatures, Logan,” years from now, she’s suddenly so there in his brain matter. Cascaded by the sun, rapturous in white. He can feel her against his ribs, her smile cutting paths through territory unexplored in the dark chambers of him, “Be careful with us, love.” 

Spiraling blonde curl and bare shoulders say everything that clothes don’t have to, and he’d laugh if this wasn’t the most depraved thing he’d ever felt crawling through his gut, clawing like it’s hell. Future him remembers wandering through these mirages of life—mindless fucks, one-night stands that get him off, little more than cold graves of satisfaction. Briefly he wonders what the fuck, what happened to him. Once detached, now he’s tethered to starlight, stars to which he breathes to revolve.

Fingers burning, weightlessness threatens to topple him like Rome, conquering him slowly. 

Shifting her hair in front of her, he feels a twinge of appreciation run him through—but he isn’t surprised. In a different world, he’d move mountains for a girl with curls the color of how he takes the coffee she so faithfully makes; curls that flick and move in private dances for him, God’s perfect design, conceived among the canyons of time. It’s a foreign memory, amputated almost—umbilicated to nothing in this world to give it life, but he knows. He just feels them tangle through his fingers something perfect, in a way that hair never has.

Always a sucker for a girl with curls—they were different. Feral. Wild. 

His canines hit sharply on the plush of his bottom lip as the stranger angles to shift against the sheets, probably to face him. Logan  all but bullrushes the mattress to put a hand on her shoulder, “—sorry,” bumbling like an idiot, he sucks in a breath, “not real hungry, but thanks. ‘S early, go back to sleep—I gotta hit the road,” barely above a constrained whisper, adds a little pressure to his hand to encourage the behavior.

She complies, and he dives for his shirt and what he can only assume is his jacket tangled in the sheets of his side of the bed. 

Surprisingly, she says zilch. Content to let the subject drop, a mercy from God. Thank you God. He’s dressed. Barely registered that punch of hunger a good fuck always leaves behind before he’s out the door, palming his jeans for keys—bingo.

Fingers grazing sunglasses in his pocket, he slips them on the low of his nose. Shakes in his blood tell him he needs a smoke, booze, something for the cold edge peaking through his bones. 

Spinning keys to the punched-out and snowkissed Bronco on his finger, Logan slips out the door, fighting boots onto his feet as he skirts the curb, looking for his ride. 

It takes him a day to find her.

Well, more specifically, twenty-two hours—and finding isn’t the right word for it, either. He knows where she’ll be, she said so herself before he’d slipped into the sands. There’s only one place in the world she’d ever received formal education, property lines of a familiar farm and prairie grass amidst old farmhouses teaching her more than any public education ever could.

He’d been there, her childhood home, more than a dozen times. Been here, tasted this air. Watched the frost kick up on windows, slick up highways that have carried him all over farmland America, almost-Canada. The wilds of this place remain, scattered in and out of industrial complexes and pop up bedroom communities. 

She’d always hated it here, all the snow and cold — people. Made no sense, honestly. She’d loved their home in Alberta, where winter was, in a sense, arguably worse. Had fostered a love for that place unlike anyone he knew, and he was from there. Never complained, though.

Logan had always known, secretly, that she missed the States, its freedoms and culture, a pretty that rivaled none. Faithfully and with duty she’d followed him everywhere, skiptracing across the globe like it was a game of hopscotch and not a fight for life.

While he’d been running all his life, she’d been firmly rooted—but he’d be damned if she didn’t pluck roots to keep after him, to keep them alive. Together they’d rested their heads in some less than Eden hotspots, places phantoms wouldn’t even tread—places purity went to die, holiness turned its face. 

She’d counted it joy, just to scout the lines of living beside him. I’ll love you in every time, Logan.

If the tires on his Bronco could heave, they would. Twenty-two hours and no sleep, Logan could pretty well feel exhaustion lapping up the marrow of his bones, needling away at his eyes. Highway 7 signs, painted with snow and wobbling in straight winds greet him as he guides his Ford off the asphalt, out from between guiding lines that had shifted oh so many times the last day and a half—prophecy not much unlike his life.

And pushing the Bronco along the tree-lined lane, lights shining in the last fingers of fading night, Logan realizes that he’s white-knuckling the steerwheel. Maybe for the first time in his life. 

He’s never been an anxious soul. Never a point to it, anxiety was wasted emotion. But all the same he feels a pit open in the depth of his gut, a fierce burning not unlike a lake flaming with inferno heat rising up his spine. Feeling feverish, his palms pearl with moisture.

A quick glance in the rearview at the darkness hanging out under his eyes punches home the marriage of piglet pink rising beneath his unkempt shave, which is now a handful of days overgrown. Muttering, he guides the wheel with a knee, working fingers through his hair—it’s thick. Dark, darker than future him remembers, styled in a way he hasn’t worn in at least four decades. 

Popping the Ford to a stop in a parking spot overshadowed with packed, plowed snow, he snaps the shift into park. Sits there, in his leather jacket and jeans, staring at the front door of the college complex. A stone Goliath, it towers in the fading darkness, sunlight beginning to stretch the horizon to a new morning. There’s a few cars belonging to the overly ambitious, his eyes scan them. 

Logan remembers the plan, all the details of the debrief—of a dossier that came from her lips, to his ears. Not a stitch of paperwork, no documentation to erase. So unlike the old days.

The most informal of the informal, perched across his lap, topless and smiling as her nails pull sharply at the flesh stretched across his collarbones. Scarlet lines to match fake but not inexpensive nails, he forgets how she manages them in an apocalyptic world. Twilight their only audience, four walls conferenced them as she’d relay detail after sweet detail, his brain pulsing with the weight of her against his chest.

If he closes his eyes, he can feel her again—even in a body that doesn’t even know her. 

His dick twitches with a needy throb that reminds him where he is, where she isn’t. Absently his mind spins, his hand skates across the bench seat of the 70s Bronco, palming for her familiar presence. Void coldness ices over the space, and when the Wolverine opens his eyes, the cab is deceptively empty.

Forty years from now his brain weaves an image of her, flashing like a film reel. Supplants her in this seat next to him, smiling—-as young and beautiful as she was the day he met her, age hardly more than a number even as it joins itself at her hip. 

Hips bucking up off the bench out of habit, with rebellion, his head falls back over the seat. Sinks lower on the bench, knees kissing the dashboard as the heels of his boots dig into the floorboards, anchored to nothingness. Bone grating against bone on his back teeth, the growl he releases is animalistic.

Painful, sharp, it licks up the heat in his blood. He palms at his cock buried in his jeans, suffocating in heat. Her mouth, sucking at his pulse, tongue flicking against his—tasting like lipstick, like chap and sweat. How her hair brushes his shoulder, raises his skin like he doesn’t remember. Her little noises, breathy little moans. Praying his name as he feasts on her presence, consumes her closeness, union almost supernatural, galactic. Otherworldly, divine. 

And it hurts, his starvation for her. Loneliness he doesn’t remember cracks like a whip, canyons open his spine to perform surgeries that’ll leave him a barren, cold wasteland. Oh, fuck.

God, he missed her—hasn’t been gone but two days, and he misses her. An unmovable hunger mountains in the low of his belly, rearing an ugly head Logan knows won’t be turned but only one way.

A way that won’t exist for another decade, ten long years of arctic cold. 

You’re a sick fuck, Logan.

Eyes snap open, pops the latch on the door. Freezing wind chases in and smothers tornado heat kicked up in the cab, amongst the radio buttons and film developing on the windows from his hot breath. Slipping out, Logan bats the door closed behind him. Pockets his keys. Considers the landscape, it’s pretty, then looks to the front door.

Marching after it, his eyes sweep the parking lot—her car. It’s here, sentinelled, standing guard in an otherwise empty lot of asphalt and fading starlight. 

He chuckles, shakes his head. Much to his surprise when he tries the door, heavy doors open. Unlocked. Whisking inside like a silent shadow, Logan breaches the foyer. The first coordinator. Nobody is here, hallways as dark as skeletons in squirreled-away closets, the air stuffy with age and ventilated air.

An old smell creeps up and down the hallway, wraps around him—but it’s quiet. Serene. She said it would be, one of the happiest places of my youth, Lo, and she doesn’t really lie. It bleeds from walls like open arteries. 

Something hangs in the air, a sweet lightness, airlessness that he can breathe, but doesn’t know. When his finger brushes the wall, curiously, the earth doesn’t split open, the air doesn’t move—-it’s just still. Unmoving. Patient, like a lover. Fortressed between thick pines and Midwestern snow, it’s a sleeping giant Logan doesn’t know. When he pauses to listen, to think, he can feel it try to touch him—-that weightlessness, that solace.

He could sleep here a thousand years, felt like he could breathe for the first time in a century. 

Unsure where his feet point, but he knows where to go. Senior year, first class is theatre—-she’ll be in the auditorium.

One by one he ticks off the details in his brain, smoothing his hand over his mouth, trying not to miss his past, his future, whatever the hell it was. But parts of him claw to go back, memories that don’t belong in this body—and very suddenly, Logan wishes for the first time he were older, time wasn’t now. That he survived long enough for the day, ten years from now, that the rest of his life came marching through the doors of a dimly lit bar to rattle steel cages.

Wandering corridors eventually finds him standing outside the door. Metaphorically, crossing this threshold will change his life—it will ensure the future of everyone he’s come to care for, to know. It will ensure them, in a life far from now that feels faraway down and lightyears away.

He opens this door, crosses the place where carpet meets cheap linoleum, and he’d write in stone events that will play out forty years from now. 

And he hesitates, only briefly. Hand hovering over the knob of the double doors, waiting for something to tap him on the shoulder. Opportunity to rip him away, fate to call out behind him, stop, you fool. His blood sings with anticipation, ripping through his ears in a way that blocks out everything but him in the shadows, standing here.

Waiting has never felt so smothering, so earthquake. It’s hard to swallow, but he manages. About to open the door, movement behind makes him flinch. 

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow! Creeps in this petty pace from day to day—to the last syllable of recorded time—and all our yesterdays have lighted fools—” 

Oh, shit. If that doesn’t fit. 

For the first time in nearly 200 years, Logan’s heart stops functioning.

He forgets to breathe, the familiar weight of suffocation launching his lungs forward, pitching them against his ribs. Every part of him simmers with flames of ice he hadn’t known but only one other time in his life, fingers itching as they rest at his sides, motionless. Paralyzed.

But that twinge of ache, deep in his skeleton, rockets to life between the bones of his hand—-and Logan lifts one, to consider the claws. But there are none, they are still sheathed deep within himself, but they echo. They ring and shake, trembling as the speech continues again, restarts. This time louder, with more life—from the gut, it stirs him in a way that pays homage to curiosity killing cats. 

Carefully he pops open the door, peeks through. Light spills through the opening, warm tones that force him back, squinting as his eyes adjust. Washed in light and emptiness, the room is vast. Pitches down to a floorstage, theatrical seating a quiet giant waiting to throw stones.

Instead, the air is still, motionless among the seats. Only thing moving within the four walls is the body rearranging a rolling podium, collecting things off the floor. Running lines under rushed breath, bare feet so at home center stage that it is almost treacherous. 

He can’t breathe, every cell in his body pistons into an overdrive that sends his head reeling.

It’s her.

He shouldn’t be surprised, forty years in the future she’d told him she’d be here. Was always the first one here, in the auditorium, the only time I can use the stage, Logan, and the truth of it smacks him across the face as if he’s been whipped with a milkstrap.

Castor wheels on the stage are loud, rattle the air as the podium rolls back to reset, and Logan realizes he's standing stupidly in the center aisle, looking lost and enchanted with her—and he is.

Even as he slips into the last row, sitting low in a seat to observe, he aches in a way that only God designed for the most violent, deep love.

Even at distance, the detail of her springs after him like a predator. It overtakes him, powers him into corners of himself that Logan didn’t think to ready. The first thing that he thinks is that she’s young, so young, young in a way that even a decade from now couldn’t know.

You ain’t ready for who you’re going to find, honey, it was a warning, shadowed between kissing him and making love in a way that would imply the world’s end. 

When she told him he wouldn’t be ready for her, he thought she couldn’t be serious.

But she was righter than he is alive, he wasn’t prepared—innocence. Purity. Naivety. It spins around her in a dance he can almost taste, and his memories struggle to assimilate this precious little thing with the woman his heart knows, his body craves.

And Logan thinks it’s wrong, feels absolutely filthy, falling in love with her all over again, in the mere seconds he’d seen her standing there, reading from a frayed and tattered Macbeth.

How she’s the same person, he doesn't know—how she couldn’t be, is another thing entirely. 

Logan realizes she’s been the same height practically forever, and that makes him smile. High heels tossed stage left beside a backpack in the shadows, what he wouldn’t give to see her conquer the world in thrift store heels the color of darkness. Familiar curves pull at denim jeans that take every ounce of his self-will not to notice, full hips on Hollywood display with the same leather belt and buckle she’d be wearing in ten years, when this body first makes eyes at her.

And her style hasn’t changed—high heels and jeans, a tucked-in tank top and left-open buttoned shirt that floats almost ethereally.  

And his head cants to the side, not unlike a curious dog—he could cry, he thinks. Probably.

Brunette curl spills down her back, nearly to her ass, a lazy slipknot hanging limp at the base of her neck. Righteous indignation rises up in him like a wild animal—in a decade, he’ll meet her with cropped hair, curls cut to not-even shoulder length. His stomach knots, solidifies like it’s concrete. Memories spinning—Logan realizes he’s never known her with long, full hair. Hair like this, curls that make him insane, almost threaten to send him up the wall with ferality. 

Insane, sick the way his mind immediately shoots to all the things he wants to do with it, with this little thing pacing downstage and back, humming and reading lines to what she thinks is open air.

Straight to hell with him, thinking about bending her over that stage and fucking her until she weeps. He won’t get the privilege of her taste for at least a decade, if not a few years after.

And that’s enough to gut him completely, punch a low moan from the base of his spine as blood rushes to take up space in his cock. 

Subliminally, he feels for the ring that’s been hanging out on his left hand for twenty years—alarm snaps his gaze to his hand, its absence alarming and unfamiliar. Takes a second for his heart rate to still, realizing it isn’t there—and that’s right. It won’t be for a while.

But it’s become an engrained thing, a usual part of his life—memories relay that he does this often times a day, it’s almost a coping mechanism. Hilarious how it so easily translates to this body, this time when it isn’t even reality. The ring probably isn’t even crafted, he’s missing something that doesn’t exist. 

“Excuse me, what are you doing in here?” 

Klaxon alarms rings through his blood like a warning shot, and Logan for a second considers that he has been shot, a burning hole through the center of him widening to swallow him almost body and soul.

A steel beam drops to replace his spine, and he catapults to his feet like he’s on fire—scrambles out of his chair like an upset cat. Heart pounding, heat flares across his skin like his life depends on it, palms riding up the denim on his thighs as he tries to wick away bubbled moisture.

Swallowing a shallow breath, he watches her gracefully hop off the platform, finding her feet as she tosses the book on the stage. 

Realizing she’s meeting him up the aisle, he steps to greet her halfway.

“This is a closed classroom,” her tone is firm, but not entirely uninviting—memory serves that he’s not unfamiliar with this, and won’t be, in their future together. “I’m running lines, did you need something?”

Her little way of always assuming the best of people—of prying without making it feel like she’s digging. God, she was good—-it’s no surprise to him that she’ll become a journalist, the nosiest person in the world, in but a few short years from this very moment. 

Even up close she glows with a radiance that alarms him. Wearing the makeup she always does, mascara that sets off icy blues like a plague, Logan fights his way out of the depths of her gaze. Claws for purchase at anything he can get his hands on, which at the moment, is a quicksilver smile this body knows. It’s worked well for him, disarming the opposite sex.

He knows he looks good, always has, and Logan has weaponized his sexuality for his betterment since years ago. It’s a toxic thing, one that this very girl will dismantle in about twenty years—-will continue dismantling, claiming, for the next forty. 

Absence of any reply has her taking more conversational territory. Her hand extends, she offers her name.

“I don’t know you,” no room for argument, God she’s still so forward, “are you a student here, or faculty?”

A polite way of asking what his old ass is doing at a college at ass o’clock in the morning, and very suddenly he realizes, off like a shot, he has no alibi. No backstory, no agenda for this moment.

Logan can’t even think past her bludgeoning pheromones and scent, much less the assault of her eyes. Like a wolf she takes him apart, plays with the carcass of his resolve like it’s a plaything. 

Never usually unprepared, he fumbles for words. Arms crossing over her chest, she waits. Stands there for all of a few seconds, before she does that thing that all girls, seemingly, do—she fills up the silence.

“You’re not Graingly’s theater buddy from Pensacola, are you?” The look on her face tells her that not being whoever such a person is probably isn't a good thing, the way her hip cocks and her jaw flicks with the tight of muscle.

She doesn’t wait, not even a second, “You’re not supposed to sub until Friday—I’m his student lecturer, I set that date.” 

Well there it is, his perfect in.

She won’t learn to interrogate and intimidate with silence for a while, and he finds her battle for dominance amusing. It’s even more raw and unpolished in her youth, she’d mastered it already in the years after this.

If he didn’t already know, he’d find it hard not to be curious how she’ll stonewall in the coming years—as she ages, matures. Instead, he just revels in her presence, in the floating feeling taking up space in the empty of his gut. He’d slaughter for a cigar but couldn’t move from his weld right here if the earth split open to consume him. 

Logan’s chuckle is low, off the base of his ribs. Even if it is a little weak, a little breathless and ashamed of the thoughts sounding off like nuclear bombs in the back of his head—their first meeting, in a crummy Canadian bar in May.

The first time he sees her cry, an awful first date ending with an argument, him at her door asking to see her again in the straightline winds of a near tornado. How he asks to marry her, that first look at her on the day he makes her his own. That look on her face when they move in together, when they buy their first house—when they spill first blood together.

Pain raptures him to new worlds when he realizes what she becomes, what he gives her—mutation that traps her in this world, this life for an indefinite future. 

And he can’t shake the reminiscence—their first fuck, her first time, his first time with someone so virginal, so holy and sweet and good. Burning through him like a branding rod dripping with white heat, he struggles to assimilate this young little thing with the woman, ten years in this body’s future, she’ll become.

And as legal as it may be, Logan can’t imagine touching her like he will, someday—she might break, such a fragile little thing. And yet all he can picture is taking her, right here and right now, unraveling the strands of time to hurry the fuck up what is meant for a decade from now. 

She’s still talking.

“Listen, I really think you should—-” agitated. She's pissy, that same edge he will walk well, that same edge he’ll teach her to teeter, to exaggerate.

It’s a beautiful thing, really, watching their life together unfold in his brain—it’s like a movie he never wants to get up from, a picture he creates.

It tastes good, it feels perfect. 

He puts up a hand, offering her an easy smile. Her mouth snaps closed, bingo.  

“I figured,” if you only knew. He extends his hand, “Logan,” and she shakes it, hers fitting in a way that confirms God’s very existence. “'M not a teacher, and sure as hell ain't from Pensacola.”  About three thousand miles north, actually—-a mountain house so pretty, we’re going to spend our honeymoon not leavin’ it. 

But of course, it hangs out in the open wound his heart has become, unsaid. 

That hits home, seems to fit the bill. Her posture loosens, and she crosses one leg over the other. Still does that, forty years from now, and he still finds it adorable.

“Good to meet ya,” and good God if she still drag her ‘o’s’ in that little Midwestern way that ticks up the corner of his mouth, amusingly. “Can I help you with anything?”

Again, always so willing—so naive. He could’ve been here to ruin her entire world and she’d help him do it, patient as a flower. 

“Yeah, actually,” he runs fingers through his facial hair, gestures to her. “Believe it or not, honey, I’m here to see you. Sent, actually.” It’s going to sound so ridiculous. Unbelievable, and at this point, it is.

More sci-fi than reality, no human in this universe is aware that time can be so manipulated. Kitty Pryde, his very vessel, isn’t even alive.

And that hollows him out like a canoe, bloodlets any confident air in his sails to the ground. It cries out unforgivingly, laughs at him. 

God was laughing at him, he was sure.

Her airy snort is dismissive, aggressively derisive. “Yeah, right,” she shakes her head, turns on the ball of her foot, “I don’t know any Logans. You can go, now,” turning back around, she backpedals away from him.

Hand flitting through the air, her chin lifts in an away gesture, “Like I said, closed classroom. Nice meeting you,” moving to the stage, she hauls herself back up, moving to retrieve the text she’d discarded. 

Stalking after her, Logan hauls up on the stage. Comes up on her, grabs her arm. Starting, she whirls around at speed, knocking into him. Fingers clamping around the muscle of her arm, the look on her face is horrified for all of a few seconds, fear skittering in and out of the blues that flash in her eyes like dreams he doesn’t want to rise from.

His hard look into her face is quelling, and she shrinks back. Pages fall from her hands, hitting the floor at their feet with a hard thunk. 

Logan can feel her heart throbbing, her blood singing with heat. Color creeps up her neck as she pulls at his grip, investigative. Eyes holding his gaze, they put up a fight—they disarm him in a way that he should fear, that shouldn’t be so difficult for a man that will endure the unthinkable.

Pain flashes between his ribs like a flare, lighting up his chest. Shuffling her a few steps closer, his other hand moves to loop a finger through a belt hoop, knuckle rubbing against the familiar leather. 

“What are you do—” 

He remembers what she told him to say, “I have a word for you,” it’s assured. Hard. Riddled with a confidence that bleeds out of him like his arteries have been sliced, pumping lifeblood onto the floor at his feet. He’ll beg, if necessary. Grovel at her beautiful feet like it’s worship, and in a way, she’s deserving.

Her eyes snap up from where he’s conjoined them, Logan watches her swallow a handful of shallow, doing-nothing breaths. “Sent to find you, darlin’.” 

Ripping her arm away, her brow mottles with scarlet heat and confusion that isn’t concrete, but instead unsure. She said she’d be confused, uncertain of him when he walked up out of nowhere and called her darlin’, a petname that meant something. The name, the one she conjured up in showers and feel asleep to. Logan knew it was her favorite; she’d told him so their first time, You had me at darlin’, Lo, and you always will.

Poetic justice, really—and maybe, now, this will be why.

He’ll be why she falls in love with that name, with how he says it, how he calls her. 

“I don’t understand,” she tries to make it sound strong. Logan releases her, expecting her to rear away like a upset horse—surprise lands in his gut when she doesn't.

Instead, she faces him. Draws her shoulders back. Lifts her chin and steps up to him, closing daylight. Her head cants slightly, eyes narrowing in that what’s up with you way that is curious, but hesitant.

Unsure rips off of her like heat he can only feel in every cell of his genetic makeup, in a way that regenerative mutation could only ever hope to heal. 

“You may not,” he challenges, it falls off a sigh as he upturns a hand. Offers it, kindly. “But try, honey. A whole lotta world needs you to try.” 

And she does. She tries. Business hours and daylight interrupt them, but she tries—and it’s a bloody fight, making her understand. Challenging every quip, every reasonable logic that she hurls at him like knives.

Moving to the auditorium’s lobby, then to the corridor, then up into the library. And  after an hour, when she really started believing him, he drags her out to his Bronco—where they can be alone. Thrive in the uninterrupted them.

Cranking the heat and turning to rest his back against the door, he accepts her denial. Any question she throws at him for another hour, every rabbit trail of You’re absolutely wrong and this is why.

She pauses to breathe and remember what class she’s blowing off, and oh does he love her. He’s already so in love with her that it hurts, bludgeons that space behind his ribs with the knowledge that soon, when this is over, he may not remember.

Multiple times Logan has had the thought to fuck everything and just run away with her, take her anywhere she wants to go and start their life right now, to explore and give life to memories he doesn’t already know.

No matter how much he rationalizes, that idea doesn’t leave him—the high fantasies of what she’d look like, attached to him at the hip.

Of who they could be, before adamantium, before the X-Men, before—

And questions finally metamorphosize. A standstill, like after a hurricane—her chest is heaving, curls sticky with sweat. Memory recall tells him that his normal for her—she’s argumentative, by nature. Defends what she believes, is not so open. Doesn’t back down from a fight, which is why, in years from now, she’ll be his perfect match. His soulmate.

The one God designed for him, since the foundation of the stars and the bends of time. 

It’s what makes her so her, a Wolverine. In a roundabout way. Another version of the same monster he becomes, but a holier one. If that’s possible—and he reminds himself it is, she becomes it. This young woman, on the cusp of living, will become everything Logan had only ever fantasized, more than he could ever conjure up in wild imaginations and greedy headdreams.

It’s surreal, sitting in this cab of this Bronco, watching windows film up with the heat of their breath. His knee knocks against the steering wheel, adjusting to glance at her milkwhite grip on the door handle. His eyes skate from hers to her grip, and he knocks his head back against the glass of the door’s window, a lazy smile turning up the corner of his mouth. 

“Still don’t believe me, huh?” 

After an eternity of silence, she side-eyes him.

“It’s only a little ridiculous,” exaggerated sarcasm drips like sour honey off her tongue, “I mean—put yourself in my shoes here, Logan.”

His heart flatlines and then resurrects—she’s called him Logan a handful of times, now. It sounds like it never has from anyone else—at points in his life before this, he’d always thought his name sounded so good, at its best coming from a woman he was balls deep in, hearing it chanted like a prayer.

But that’s gone, so anemic that it’s sick—it will only ever sound so orgasmic again if she says it. Nobody else is worthy, all graven images in comparison to the goddess she has become, him at her feet.

“It’s unbelievable.” 

Whatever else she’s said fails to land. He can’t stop hearing his name in her mouth, consonants and syllables so delicious it turns his spine to jelly, stirs up his cock in a way that makes him adjust his leg on the floorboards. Suddenly uncomfortable, sardined into a too-tight space crowded with her and everything he wants, he rolls down the window with a few pumps of his arm. Forces air in, underneath his collar.

Logan swears he’s boiling alive beneath his jacket and shirt, there will be medically evident boils when he’s finished with her. 

The Bronco rocks slightly with her moving to mirror his posture, back against her own door. Her knee knocks against the seatback, other leg bouncing anxiously against the floor.

Picking nervously at the buckle of her belt, Logan has to force himself to look up from the cut of her shirt, the way it pulls taut across her tits with the angle of how she’s sitting.

Aw, hell. Fuck him for being such a filthy, sexual creature. 

Fairly certain he will die if he doesn't have her, he repositions—sits up, leans his arms over the steering wheel to knuckle mindless patterns into the fog hanging out on the windshield. She manages an uneven sigh that may as well rip open the world—Logan cuts her a look from the corner of his eye. 

“You think I’m lyin’,” he sighs. Falls back against the seat. 

“Hell yeah I think you’re lying.”

And if that doesn't make him laugh. 

“You laugh, Logan-whoever-you-are, but—honestly. C’mon,” her hand extends to serve a point, “time travel? This isn’t Star Trek. You don’t just waltz up to someone and tell them that and expect it to be believable,” her hand flits, through the air, through whatever she uses to rationalize the anger creeping up into her words.

“And then, if that isn’t good enough, you tell me this, this Hollywood bullshit that I’m going to meet you in ten years in Canada, somewhere I’m not even ever planning to go—and that kicks off the next forty years and the survival of mutants in the future!”

Her hands fly into the air, as if trying to pull down reason from heaven, “That’s a bunch of bullshit, if you ask me.” 

It’s quite the line of reasoning—he can’t fault her for it. Just chuckles, shrugging as he leans forward to pluck sunglasses off his dashboard, slip them along the cut of his collar.

Arms crossed over her tits, her chest rises and falls with nervous breath after breath, eyeballing him with enough force to rip the sun from the canopy of sky. He flicks off the heater, sweat between his shoulder blades sign enough that it’s too warm in here—she’s already damp, sweat raising the makeup on her face. 

“That’s the highlights,” didn’t mention how you’re the love of my life, how I can’t hardly think straight with you sittin’ right there, he cards his fingers through his hair. “Not askin’ you for anything, sweetheart. I’m just telling you—it’s gonna happen, and when it does, you need to remember me, this moment right here, and trust that it works out.”

He lifts a shoulder, hand turning through the air in a so-so way, “It’s like—fuck. It’s kinda like a prophecy, right? I’m telling you what’s gonna happen, and you just gotta wait to see if it does.” 

“Prophecy? You’re mocking me now, right?” 

His sigh is excessive, roughs up the wind in the tissue of his lungs with more froce than he thought possible. Knitting his brow together, his fingers pull at the cartilage in the bridge of his nose.

Stubborn little thing, always, stubbornness was both a strength and a weakness—nevermoreso underestimated in her, right now, by him. 

He nods out the window.

“This is a Bible school, right? Yeah, I know it is—you graduate here, in the spring,” the look on her face implies that he’s backhanded her, hinge of her jaw failing entirely to instead, sit there. Agog.

Rolling his eyes, he holds out a hand, begins counting off his fingers, “I told you, honey. You graduate, you get a job working for some lowlife newspaper editor–you fall in love with mutants, in that sick and twisted ADHD way of yours that you obsess about everything, and—” he stops, mostly to breathe. Halfway to bludgeon everything he wants to tell her to the point of pain, “—just listen. If you’re as high an’ mighty as you say you are—and you are, I know that about you—then you can’t say you don’t at least believe in prophecy, darlin’.”

Knifing a sharp smirk over to her, his brow lifts. “And last I checked, a whole helluva lot of unbelievable stuff happens in God’s history book, sweetheart—but I ain’t the expert.” 

That’s why I have you, in a decade or so. 

There is absolutely no time for his words to land anywhere other than nowhere. 

Her dismissal happens swiftly, like sharp jabs. The laugh bites, more of a bark than anything. Bam.

“Oh, I so get it now.” She absolutely does not, but he tastes the first blood. Pow. “You’re a messenger from God—right. Yeah, yeah I’m sure,” her eyes roll. Angles to pop the latch on the door.

In one go she’s out of the Bronco, letting all the hot air and frustration of the moment out into the arctic wasteland the parking lot has become. Bam bam bam. 

“I don’t say this very often, and pardon my language, but—fuck off, asshole.” 

Shouldering her backpack, staring at him from the cresting daylight that bleeds into the cab from behind her—if Logan didn’t believe in the celestial, he would’ve, exactly now.

Near frantic—and Logan has never, in all his 200 years been frantic—his hand slaps at the door for his own latch, and he rips out of the Bronco like a shot, hustling to stalk after her marching across the parking lot to her car like a soldier with orders.

And he is.  

Not so fast, tiger—that ain’t right, nah. Wolverine, you’re a wolverine.

My Wolverine.

“Honey, listen—” 

He grabs for her arm again, but something whips her about-face of her own volition, stepping up into his chest like a powerhouse of pride, absolution.

Her eyes cut through his armor, what will someday be adamantium bones like knives, hot and thrilling as they grab him by the absolute balls. The ferocity at which her eyes scout through his is wild, sends his blood spinning through his ears. He can’t hear anything but the thrum of his heart and every one of the breaths she sucks into her chest. 

There she is. 

 “I am not your honey, so quiet calling me that,” she bites, and it’s venomous—snapping fangs that sink deep into his veins, slavering at this soul.

And Logan should be upset with her, he should shake some common sense into her. Scream in her face the logic that she so lacks—but he can’t. He can’t move beyond the boundaries her eyes set, deep pools that empty oceans and rival the very stars hanging in the universe.

She could echo jump, and he’d beg her to know how high—and that may make him a fool. A pathetic shadow of the man he was hours ago, laying in someone’s bed, getting all the tit he wanted, without waiting.

“You say all this, this stuff about me—ok. We meet in ten years, sure. I’ll give you that. You’re hardly forgettable,” her eyes narrow, and Logan can’t miss how she shivers—how her lip trembles in the cold air, how snow clings to her lashes and sticks to her hair, carries it away across her features.

“Explain to me how you know everything about my life forty years from now, Logan.” 

Oh, fuck. This entire thing could be wrong, but it feels so right. 

Her eyes skate over him—down, up, and then back to his face. Like she’s summing him up—maybe she is. It would be the first time, but never the last.

Logan weighs the words in his chest, wishing for the first time that his bones were adamantium—that way, they’d cut through what to say. They’d bear the weight of her statement and haul them up the mountain-ing uncertainty he feels rising against the tail of his spine.

He’s never been so out of control, felt so out of his element than he does right now in the ripping wind of Minnesota cold and sunlight. 

She’s lined up the shot for him. All he has to do is take it. 

He does.

“We marry,” barely there, it’s the only thing he thinks to say.  So much more happens, “A lot of shit happens, a lot of it bad, but a’lotta good— takes a while, but eventually I get my head outta my ass and marry you, like I should years before I actually do.” 

“What?” 

Logan isn’t ready for the look of surprise on her face, and she’d told him before that he wouldn’t be.

A series of emotions pass through her eyes that he’s able to earmark, he watches them fall like dominoes—denial. Anger. Disbelief and hurt and really? that knots his guts up like the Sesame gates.

And Logan could watch the revolution of the earth around the sun in her eyes for all eternity, but their clarity is clouded by a mist of tears that rise—-she drops her head away, reaching fingers to swipe at the sting in her eyes.

She goes to turn away, and that may as well rip every organ out of his body. 

His heart leaps up into his throat, he snags her arm. Coming back willfully, he can’t miss how freezing her hand is in his. Logan pulls her close, against his chest, wraps his arms first around her shoulders, then around her waist, fingers gently skimming the rise of her jeans, the leather of her belt.

Her heart against his ribcage pistons like a locomotive, and he fears if it beats any harder, it’ll drive him into an early grave. 

When her head lifts to consider him, she isn’t crying. There’s a whimsical, faraway look on her face. He’s never seen it before, and somewhere deep inside the places you don’t show anyone but God, it terrifies him. Watches her swallow thickly, her tongue fill the pocket of her cheek. How it skips over her bottom lip, accompanies the way her eyes subliminally move back and forth, looking for him in the depths of his.

And Logan can see the thoughts spinning alive in her brain, wheels that have no place to go—that turn, over and over, looking for memories, thinking. Grasping at straws, clawing for the surface. 

Her eyes flick beyond him, back to the Bronco. Taking his hand as if she’d been doing it her entire life, she tugs him behind her, back to this Ford. Logan opens the door to tuck her inside.

Slipping in, she drops her backpack at her feet and shifts in the seat. And before he can bat the door closed, her fingers find the front of his leather jacket. Twisting into the leathers, she pulls him forward until his thighs brush the frame of the truck—until he’s flush against her chest, closer, somehow, than before.

A hairline moment and her lips find his, soft and curious but starving. 

Jumpstarted to life, every organ in his body flings forward against bone, fighting for air as she sucks the very breath from his lungs in the best way he could ever fathom.

He can tell she’s never kissed before. The way she moves, clumsy like a new calf. Can’t breathe. Her teeth knock against his, and despite how hard he tries to urge her tongue forward to meet his, it retreats. All thumbs and clumsy, it would be humorous if lightning bolts weren’t rocketing down his spine, if he wasn’t burning alive. 

And fuck, if it isn’t enough to wake up every part of him he’d been fighting to bury.

Insane, how even so foreign to him she could feel like home, like everything he’s ever been missing. His missing rib, created from dust.

Nothing aside from God’s grace keeps him composed, keeps his mutation leashed to the walls of his prison—God’s grace and how he absolutely is not actively ripping at the leather of the Bronco’s bench, nails buried so far that they ache.

Fingers find her hair, playing through brunette curls he knows will never be this long again—wraps them around his fists, nails gently pulling at her scalp in a way that makes her hiss, arches her forward against him. 

And if she doesn’t mean for that little mewl to be so lascivious, he’ll never know—it punches him low, in his dick, enough that rips a groan from the back of his throat, rattling around his teeth. She breaks first with a wet pop, a string of sticky saliva drawing him back to her in a way that leaves him stunned and breathless.

All traces of the frigid world gone, her skin coats with a sparkling sheen of slick sweat, she almost glistens. Racked with ache that he wouldn’t be able to admit in therapy, he drinks in every one of the shallow breaths she releases, as if it’s the air he needs to live.

It’s not far removed. 

Her eyes hold his captive, enraptured in his attention before they flick down to his mouth, the heave of his chest. Logan is fairly certain that fire laps up the heat in his blood, wolves eating away at the marrow of his bones, hungry in a way that nothing short of her will ever touch.

Her teeth snag her bottom lip, gnawing cautiously, and her fingers curling into his jacket are the only greenlight he requires—his hand at the back of her neck pulls her in for another kiss, a part two he’ll never stop writing, as his other hand slips behind her knee, gently guiding her down to the seat so he can slip in over her. 

It’s worship, how he crawls up her body—an altar that, memories recall, he worships at like it’s religion. She’s a fast learner, picks up the cues like a champ, finally allows him to French her in a way that should be unforgivable.

This him has never done this with her, doesn’t know her like he wants to—but memories. Fuck him, the memories; movies, their own future pornography feeds him just how she’ll react, what she likes.

In his mind, a life he's never lived, he can hear her crying out his name. Sobbing as he splits her wide open, body and soul—stares at her heart, takes everything God had given her. Greedily, he takes—he wants, desires, lusts for everything now, in a time that isn’t right, and can’t be, for the next decade. 

His hand anchored on her hip is enough to arch her back, her head tipping back into the leather of the bench, brow pulled taut into a hard line that makes his head reel. Keening, Logan angles to run his nose along her jaw, tongue lathing at the pulse pounding in her neck like a racehorse, steady like the sun.

And it takes willpower not to touch her the way his body demands, the way he lusts after. Instead his nails bite into the back of the seat, others far too busy playing with the hair he prays she never changes but knows she will. 

“Oh my god,” Logan isn’t sure it’s a prayer to him or heaven itself, but—he won’t complain how it rousts his blood, stirs his cock something good. “It’s—you’re, Logan—-shit,” His smile is wolfish, of the devil.

Perverse and twisted, he sinks his teeth into the words vampirically, rips the lifeblood from them like it’s soulworthy.

“I can’t breathe,” he knows she can’t. He knows, in some deep and faraway downs part of himself that this is all so new—so living color, so all over the place.

Part of him, a more rational Logan, knows that overstimulation stalks.

But he chuckles all the same, brushing aside the collar of her buttoned shirt to suck hard at the soft flesh of her collarbone. Lathes his tongue into its pool, tastes her sweat. Dies, resurrects to taste it again.

“You can and you will,” he prays it into her skin, hopes it takes, “hmmmm—-just feel, darlin’.” And it hurts, the way he absolutely wants. Knows he can, but won’t. Fuck, fuck,  “Fuck, yes—just, honey, just feel.” 

Her hands buried in the front of his shirt pull him back from the haze, from where he’s lost. Kiss him again. Again and again, he drinks at her well like a man who will die, and he will.

Logan will die if he doesn’t have her, if this isn't real and is nothing but a sick and feverish nightmare plagued upon him like the dead firstborn in Egypt. She’s already ripped open his chest and clawed out his heart, balancing it raw in her fingers where it bleeds out all of his will, his absolution. 

There’s a chance he doesn’t remember this.

If he dies from thirst of her, he’ll never know why.

That’s sick. 

Absently, his finger tugs over the waist of her jeans, dips beneath the denim. Grazes the buckle of her belt, investigative. She gasps, breath cut short as her back arches off the seat as his knuckle brushes her sensitive skin—she arches so far that he fears she’ll snap.

But the low of her belly is soft, inviting—inferno. He can feel her womb from here, the kiss of her cervix that memory serves is so good.

Breathless and hard, a light tug at the waist of her jeans makes him groan—all the way from the depths of his soul. It’s so familiar, so easy—he expects her to acquiesce, but it’s demonic. Torturous.

Fuck yes, this is right—

His drifting hand snaps her eyes wide open. She’s propped up on an elbow so quickly that it sends him for all of a heartbeat. Her hand shoves at his shoulder, off, and he falls back on his heels, breathing hard.

Unable to catch his breath, cut his eyes from the swell of tit peeking up over the top of that barely-there tank top she dares to call a piece of clothing. 

“No,” and there it is.

Absolution and righteousness that could strip him of his skin, if she desired.

Embarrassment sets in as she wrangles out from beneath him, to the farthest side of the Bronco that she can get. Unable to breathe, unable to think, her hand shakes as it settles over her stomach, her other propping her head up in the heel of her hand.

“Logan, I—” 

He knows. Doesn’t cure the sigh. Reaching behind him, he pulls the door closed and traps them both in the sex swirling through the Ford, unfilled and thick.

Guilt plants deep stakes into the soil of his soul, and he scrubs his hand down his face—looks out the window. Shifts against the seat, ignores the absolute agony of a hard cock festering low between his legs. 

They sit.

It’s a full silence ready to give birth, until she sweeps her hair up into a high knot, off her neck, twists to sit fully in the seat, fingers slipping through the slots on the steering wheel. He noticed when her breathing levels, when the cardio rhythm in her blood bleeds away into a normal heart rate—but it takes time. A full minute or two.

And he doesn’t know what to say, how to bridge this chasm—how to proceed from here. 

“What happens ten years from now?” She’s quiet, doesn’t look up from her hands for a few heartbeats, until sapphire eyes cut to him with a raised, interested brow. “You coming here to tell me this—does this change what happens to us when I find you, in the future?” 

The question of the ages, indeed.

“Dunno. Might not remember this, might not know you,” leaning across the seat, he moves his hand to take one of her curls, rubbing it gently between his fingers.

His other takes her hand, his thumb skipping over the familiar ring anchored firmly on her right hand—a ring she will gift him in the future, a ring that he will wear through time and space, should it be asked of him.

“Or I might. Not quite sure how the memory’s thing works when I wake up in our future, honey.” It doesn’t answer her question, and he knows that. He doesn’t have answers, never has. “Not sure how it works for you, either.” 

“Wow. You’re so helpful,” she teases.  

He cracks a small smile. “It don’t improve, trust me.” He gently brushes a knuckle over the apple of her cheek, her angling into the touch a little farther. “Still as pretty as you will be the first time I see you, sweetheart,” she said she’d need to hear this, that this alone will spare so much of the pain she has yet to live.

“You remember that, yeah? ‘Member that someone out there wants you, even if he doesn’t know it yet.” 

She slips across the seat to brush shoulders with him, her palm along his cheek guiding him for another kiss—this time, it’s what he expects. Soft, sweet, young. So her, so familiar. He could die a thousand deaths to experience this, over and over.

Softly carding his fingers back through her hair, she breaks firs. Curls a finger beneath his chin to draw his attention to her. He gives it, willingly, up unto the half of his soul and any kingdoms he possesses.

“Are you still in love with me?” Want me, Logan—do you want me? 

He smiles, nods. Presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist, her lifeblood. The very pulse that will bring her back to him, that carries him away.

“I’ll love you in every time, sweetheart. Just say the word.” 

taglist: @thevoicefromanotherworld @sidkneeeee @misscrissfemmefatale @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @eternallyfrustratedwriter@ayamenimthiriel @pandapetals

[ar-ghilas-vir-banal]

I’m so far down this spiral oh my God.

You’re Solas. You’ve had an existence of tragedy and pain and just… awful. So much awful. You’ve been hurt and you’ve hurt. You’ve ended the world. You had to. You never wanted this. You never wanted a body or to leave the Fade or to exist in this way. You wanted to be Wisdom.

Your friend branded you as a slave. She said you aren’t but… Why would she do such a thing? You try not to think about it.

Your friend convinced you to extinguish the magic and spark of an entire race. And you do it. And you’re sick. You’re sick and you can’t get well. But… it was what your friend wanted. And you loved her and… isn’t this how you love people?

She dies. You warned her, you begged her and she still… and they killed her. Her own family killed her. You’re rage. Rage and grief and you have to do something. Vengeance. Her blood calls out for it. And yours does too. The lyrium in your very bones sings for it.

And then it’s all… dead. Gone. Imprisoned. You’re nearly dead yourself. And so you sleep. For so very long, you sleep.

But now you’re walking the in the millennium aftermath of it all. You know you’re becoming something rotten not too long into this fight. Felassan fails. You don’t care about why. You don’t listen to him. Your rage rises up and you strike him.

And you’re truly alone now.

Perhaps you should’ve always been.

So you bear down and while you lack much of your former power… you find you aren’t above acquiring a tool for the job.

This admittedly horrible plan messes all the way up trying to fix what you’ve done and an innocent Dalish woman gets caught in the crossfire, one of the people who whom you’re hoping to return themselves, and now she’s got a piece of the Veil stuck in her hand.

Great. Well. Time to try to fix this enormous mess and refuse to admit that if you go through with your ultimate goal, the whole world’s going to look like this.

And then you start to fall for this woman. Not only is she a firebrand of simple goodness and kindness, she’s quite kind to you. She reaches out to you for wisdom and advice and talks with you, not at you. When you reach back to her, she meets you in the middle and tries her very best to understand. And then she protects you with the flimsy, unstable shield that your own mistake s have branded her with. She protects you in this world that hates elves and mages and apostate elven mages even more.

Your friend is bound and corrupted and she runs off to the Exalted Plains to help them. She weeps at your side as you grieve. She gives you space and then when you come back, she welcomes you with gladness. She tells you if ever you must grieve again, she’d like to be there.

She kisses you.

And you clutch her into your arms, and then again, because you suddenly realize your entire being has been yearning to touch and be touched by her for so long. You’ve never experienced anything like this. It’s intoxicating and agony and fire and the very air you need to breathe.

You are tempted to run but… you’d be without her. And you ask her to just sit and talk and she obliges, happily. She enjoys you. This mortal creature who you’ve branded with doom; she enjoys you.

You then start to wonder: has she always been this way? Maybe the Mark’s done something to her? Maybe it’s done something to me too; maybe it’s why I can’t stay away from her. So you ask and she just “mm. No, I’m me.” And you’re so incandescent about this that you shock yourself.

You tell her you’ve not forgotten the kiss. And she smiles like the dawn rising over the mountains. And you try to leave. “It would be kinder in the long run.” But she bids you stay…

You can’t fit her inside your body. But you try. You keep your hands from clawing their way into her clothes and skin but your arms lock around her like they were made to do that, and only that. You want to protect her too. You want to leave it all. You want to be Solas and her to be a simple Dalish woman and to live in the quiet woods with her and dance under the stars.

You get to. At Halamshiral, you draw her into your arms and dance until you forget you have feet and until the music is long abandoned to the sounds of night.

She does something so incredibly stupid at the Well. You want to claw your face off because she’s agreeing to what you did. She’s signing away her freedom… but then she tells you “I’ll use this to help this world as best I can”. And you feel… so seen by a person who can’t possibly see…

You will tell her. You’ll tell her everything. But when you stand in Crestwood, in the ruins of everything you did to get here… you can’t. You panic and you lie in that true way you have so it isn’t a lie but it isn’t what you meant to say. She lets you remove her culture, erase herself from who the people have become. She’s like you now. And oh whatever gods there be, she’s so beautiful that you feel like you could stare into her eyes for eternity… but… what have you done?

You’ve taken from her something she didn’t truly want to give up. You’ve made her change because you wanted her to. You’ve enforced your will on someone you told, you loved them. You’re Solas… you’re not Mythal.

You will not do this to her.

So you do then what you can only conclude is right by her. You break her heart and you break your own and there is somehow a worse pain than anything you’ve suffered before. She’s right there. All you need do it extend a hand, whisper one word. And the awful part, you’re so in love with her. You can’t help but watch her steps and listen for her voice and…

You need to leave.

You do. And you get to work. Two years crawl by. And you have your ear out for her still. It’s all part of the plan you tell yourself but you just want to keep a tether there in some form and you know you do.

Seeing her again is like falling on a spear. Shes dying. You knew she would. You knew she’d come too, curious and determined as ever. But you didn’t expect to hear her scream in pain and collapse in front of you. You go to your knees with her. You… you have to kiss her. Just one more. And you save her… you take her arm.

She tells you your love will endure and you could howl in anguish. She still loves you?! After all this? After what you’ve done? You watch the Fade bleed from her body. You ache to gather her up and take her with you. She even asked to go with you. But you know what the Evanuris were in their determined goals… what you’ll be by the time you’re done. Let her remember you as Solas… the apostate mage with stories and paint under his nails, who loved her helplessly.

You will not allow her to become another Felassan.

Eight years pass and while you’re at work, deeply committed, restless in your plans… she isn’t gone from you. Your sleep betrays you and you find yourself watching her. You watch her call out and search for you. You watch yourself, a dream, meet her and touch her and your mind burns with the hunger for just the brush of her hand. You listen to her weep over choices she made that haunt her, and you’re unable to comfort her. You can feel her terror as nightmares assail her, and if you weren’t a wolf in this form, you’d scream. You feel mad when you wake, tortured and raw and you’d run to her… but then you redouble your abstinence. Like opening a vein, you let the urge to drop everything and go find your Dalish heart and put her in your ribs where she belongs and never let her out. The truest horror of it all is she knows you’re there in all this. She can see you. She can see you refusing her, over and over and over. Ignoring her nightmares of being Blighted, ripped apart by Terrors and Shades, staring while she mourns the fallen who she sent to their deaths.

You’re a monster.

But then it’s all going to happen. Finally. And you don’t even feel energized by it. You simply think of her. You write almost automatically, as if your hand has a mind of its own. You tell her everything you wanted to scream in her dreams. Everything you wanted to in Crestwood.

Varric dies. No. No. You kill Varric.

You use Rook’s blood to make them see him. They loved him. He loved them. It’s… so cruel.

You’re a monster.

You repeat that to yourself on the steps in Minrathous. You’re barely able to keep your feet, your ribs feel pulped from the dragon’s teeth. Your skin feels hot and wet under your armor. You’re bleeding, so much so that you can taste it in your breath. The Blight burns on your lips. Your eye is blurred over with blood salt and tears.

And out of the night a voice speaks up to you that steals every single ounce of focus from your exhausted mind. You stare at her. She’s coming closer. “I forgive you!” she cries, her face pleading that you listen. She’s unarmed. She knows you killed Varric and she knows you could kill her. She knows you might. You can see it in the way she moves, the way her hands open at her sides as she moves closer.

Felassan’s face swims in your mind.

Please don’t you want to sob. Don’t make me hurt you. I’m a monster; I told you I didn’t want you to see me like this. So you try to explain again. To find some purchase on your own logic as to why this is still something you should do. Something she should allow. You look away, and you almost sigh in relief. She’s too bright; your eyes aren’t worthy of the sight of her anyway. You’ve hurt that woman so many times. And she’s still speaking of forgiveness?! FOR YOU?!

Morrigan?

Mythal.

You almost fall to your knees in front of her spirit. You can’t tell what the feeling is. Despair? Fear? Worship? Maybe all of them. But she tells you your sins are hers too. She took you from your home, twisted you… broke you. And you feel something slide off of you that somehow doesn’t make you stand straighter. You’re sick again. You’re collapsing. You’re a ruined wall, the last piece of a derelict castle on a crumbling mountain, and you’re giving way.

“Banal nadas. Ar lath ma, Vhenan.”

Mythal said that she broke you. Your being admits it. You weep, bowed, humbled… but free. You didn’t know you were shackled. But now that the chains are off, you feel it now. The chafed wounds where they’ve been locked for centuries. The sudden lack of weight that leaves you trembling and weak in its absence. You don’t remember them not being there.

But you do remember when you were able to ignore them. You remember how the Dalish woman refused to allow bigotry and hatred stop her from saving the world. You remember how she ran herself ragged for people who didn’t even care if she lived. You remember how she called them innocent.

You decide, or you are finally able to decide, that you want and perhaps have always wanted, to be like her.

So you shed your blood, not that you aren’t bleeding enough already, to ensure you’re bound to the Veil. Your life is its life.

“I will go and seek atonement.” You look into her eyes, as long as you can stand it. You hope she’ll be proud of you for finally being the hero she believed you could be. She looks back… so very beautiful. But no. No you’re not allowed to even think about that marvelous, bright creature like that.

“But you do not have to go alone.”

The touch of her hands makes you want to collapse. One of metal and wood, one of flesh and bone. She gives them both to you. Dumbly, you look at them. You’re touching her. This divine, unearthly thing is smiling at you, speaking to you. Holding your bloody, murderous, betrayer’s hands in hers. Your’s tremble and bleed. Her’s do not.

But what did she say? You don’t have to- No. No, Vhenan. Into that place? Into that prison? To war with madness and agony for eternity? No. You can’t…

“Ar ghilas vir banal.” You feel your heart crack and shatter as you say it. You’ll have to walk away from her again. You’ll have to leave her again. You’ll have to be alone, sundered from even her dreams… it’s what you deserve. And she deserves to be free of you. Finally.

But she just… keeps smiling. Her grip on your hands tightens. With a little shake of her head and a fondness on her face that you can’t begin to even fathom, she sings to you.

“Tel banal ar ama. Vir shiral la ma sa. Bellanaris.”

She comes nearer. Nearer. You wonder what she’s doing and then you realize like a slap to the face that you’re being offered a kiss.

A kiss.

You don’t think. You don’t even try. Your body screams as you bend spine and ribs and shoulder down to her. You’re filthy and bloody. She’s pristine. Gorgeous. She’s everything you aren’t.

She pauses. It’s a breath’s pause, eyes searching yours. And somehow, you know what the question in her’s means. “Do you want this?”

It’s almost hilarious.

You don’t hesitate. For the first time, you don’t. You close your eyes and let the moment wash over you. Perhaps she’ll change her mind in a little while. But for this one slice of time… you’re going to let this one thing be entirely good.

Her lips are everything your longing has has been good enough to remind you. Soft. Gentle. But also this is… so unlike anything you’ve experienced, even with her. It’s not like even the first kiss in the Fade. It’s so terribly tender that your throat tightens and your eyes burn. She’s so very gentle with you.

So you’re gentle back. You turn the Blight on your lips as far from hers as you can. You don’t yank her against you and bury yourself in her as you’d like to. You rub your thumbs over her knuckles. You caress her cheek with your nose. And when she withdraws with an even more angelic smile on her face than before…

You have to smile too. It’s as if her lips have infected your own.

Rook and Morrigan smile at the two of you. You can almost feel it, like the glow of flame. Warmth. You’ve been so cold for so long. You thank Rook. They smile at you, eyes tender. And your heart smiles at them too as you step toward the Veil. Knowing. Grateful.

Standing alone for a moment feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. You almost lurch forward, considering the decision to leave her. To make her stay. But… no. You lack the strength to rip yourself away from her again. It would be cruel to reject her promise but… if it spared her…

Her hand weighs down on your shoulder. I’m here. Let’s go. Vhenan. You can feel the words, as if touch is enough for her to speak to you. Perhaps after sharing dreams for so long, it’s true. You dare not look at her. You might shove her away.

And then you’re passing into the Fade. And you’re not alone. And you feel her hope burst into a flame of unrepentant, inextinguishable joy. Joy because of you. Joy because you never have to be parted again. Joy that you finally, finally chose her after having chosen you so many times.

You could weep and you do, with how you know you’ve made her feel. But when your feet are upon solid ground again and she is surging toward you with a quiet cry of Vhenan… you catch her. You crush her to you and she laughs, sounding like the younger woman you abandoned, and she kisses you and you kiss her because you can’t bear to do anything else. And there’s no pulling away. Even as your knees give out and your body begins to betray the amount of damage you’ve suffered, you hold each other. Her tears mix with your own and your blood and she’s all you know and all you care about. She’s real and she’s here and she is with you.

Your mind stumbles over a cluster of words that reorganize into something coherent and you almost feel disgusted at them. But then… it’s true. You know it is. If it meant her, if it meant being cradled to her even in a prison made of regret and failure and pain… safe and loved and whole, in a terrible place unmade simply because of the person hiding you in the hollow of her body… It was all worth it.

[leighsartworks216]

hi :) if you are feeling it, for the showing comfort prompts, would you be up for writing one the below ones for zayne? ♡♡

soothing them back to sleep after a nightmare

holding them tightly, protectively

Just A Bad Dream

Zayne x gn!Reader

Thank you so much for sending these in!! This was so fun to write honestly <333

Prompts from this list

Warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship, nightmares, cuddling, literal sleeping together, forehead kisses

Word Count: 611

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Zayne startles awake. His whole body is tense, eyes wide open to stare at the ceiling. His heartbeat pounds heavy in his ears. His lungs don't seem to work for a while, long enough he feels like he's suffocating.

"...ne? Honey...?" A hand rubs his chest. He jumps, attention snapping to the source. You frown at him, eyes still squinted with sleep and pillow lines on your face. "What happened? What's wrong?"

You're patient. He's grateful for it. He stares at you for too long, but you don't say anything. You just keep rubbing soothing circles into his chest, over his racing heart. It takes a moment for him to fully believe you're here, that you're real. He half-expects black crystals to take over your body.

He shakes his head to dislodge the thought and turns his head away. He grabs your hand to hold it. "Just a nightmare," he murmurs. "I'm sorry I woke you."

You scoot closer to rest your cheek on his arm. "Hey, don't apologize. It's okay."

Zayne's nightmares aren't anything new. You've caught him sleeping many times with a frown and eyes flickering rapidly under his eyelids. He never talks about them. No matter how curious you are to know, you don't push. You can't bear the pained look that crosses his face when you do.

You pull away. He's torn from his daze to watch, some hint of that fear that you'll disappear lingering enough to strike through his heart like an icicle. You smile reassuringly at him as you settle into your pillow and open up your arms. "Come here."

He blinks dumbly at you. "What?"

"Come here. I'll protect you from your nightmares."

"That's-"

You put a finger over his lips, silencing his argument. "You need your sleep for tomorrow. I'll keep your nightmares away so you can get plenty of rest before you have to get up and get ready."

He huffs a soft laugh, composed of both disbelief and amusement. But you aren't going to back down from this, so what choice does he have?

He moves across the bed to fit into your arms. His arms wrap around your midsection to hold you close. You tangle your legs with his and hug him around his shoulders. His head finds a safe home on your chest. He can hear your heartbeat clearly. It beats strongly, with no strong signs of faltering.

You comb your fingers through his hair. It's slightly messy from where he moved around in his sleep, and damp by his forehead and neck from a cold sweat. Your nails scratch gently at his scalp. "Comfy?"

He nuzzles further into your chest. "Mhm..."

"Good. Now I can effectively protect you." You push back his bangs and press your lips to his forehead. "You hear that, you evil things? This brain is protected, so you better leave him alone!"

He laughs. It's so stupid, so silly, but it's exactly what he needs for the last remaining tension in his body to dissipate. "I think they heard you, my love." He leaves a kiss over your heart. "Thank you."

You kiss him again. "No need to thank me, just get some sleep now."

Zayne stays awake a while longer. Just listening. Soaking in your effortless comfort. Slowly, your hands stop playing with his hair. Your breaths even out, turning into soft snores that rumble in your chest. Your heart continues to beat on, with no end in sight.

For once, he doesn't dream of a world where you don't exist, where he's a serial killer, and where he's all alone. It's the best sleep he’s had in a long, long time.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @deepzombieyouth @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko

[jannwrites]

film ask meme : NOSFERATU (2024) directed by ROBERT EGGERS.

a selection of lines from the 2024 film nosferatu. modified for rp purposes.

you are not for the living. you are not for human kind.

do you swear it?

come here. there is nothing to be afraid of.

today is of the utmost importance for us.

it will be a great adventure for you.

why have you killed these beautiful flowers?

i must tell you my dream.

standing before me, all in black, was Death.

the stench of their bodies was horrible.

i had never been so happy as that moment, as i held hands with Death.

never speak these things aloud. never.

i wish you to have all you deserve.

it's worth celebrating your adventure. i envy you.

i fear their past melancholy is returning.

don't let them feed me to the monster!

remember, it's all for us.

you bring trouble with you.

beware his shadow. the shadow covers you in a nightmare.

you are late. the midnight hour is passed.

i fear we yet keep close many superstitions here that may seem backward to someone of your high learning.

they exhumed a corpse.

i might ease your wound.

come by the fire. your face shows you unwell.

why ever did you bring that here?

what can cheer this poor humor, my love?

do you ever feel, at times, as if you were not a person?

we all feel out of sorts, set apart, at times. small or alone.

you are fortunate in your love.

it is a black omen to journey in poor health.

no one. i am no one.

he loves the pretty ones best.

you are lost in his shadow.

remain here. his evil cannot enter this house of God.

soon i will be no more a shadow to you.

your spirit was never enough.

no matter. i miscalculated the stars.

hermes will not render my black sulfur gold this evening.

do not revel what is sacred to dogs.

does evil come from within us or from beyond?

this evil, what it it is, how it has been summoned - unleashed - i know not.

there is a dread storm rising.

your bond shall not survive me.

it is a force more powerful than evil. it is death itself.

i have wrestled with the devil as jacob wrestled the angel in peniel.

if we are to tame darkness, we must first face that it exists.

i told you, you are not of human kind.

i am an appetite. nothing more.

i cannot be sated without you.

remember how once we were?

you have never liked me.

nothing you can say will shake me - for there is a devil in this world, and i have met him.

don't touch me. i am not to be touched.

the grim reaper wields his heavy scythe with every change of wind.

your horror has rent our hearts, but you must hear us.

these nightmares do exist! they exist!

the monster left you to the wolves, and yet you prevailed.

we must know evil to be able to destroy it. we must discover it within ourselves.

i need no salvation.

you will put an end to all of this?

i feel his hold upon me this night.

i am ready. i bid you, come to me.

i relinquished him my soul.

god is beyond our morals.

[jellymochii]

My Angel

♱ pairings: Guardian Angel!Felix x F!Reader

♱ genre: fluff, angst, smut

♱ cw: smut, cunnilingus, religious themes, mentions of abuse/foster care system.

♱ wc: 4.1k

↪author's note: Hiya! I apologize in advance for any grammatical errors or if it seems rushed, I'm still a new author so any feedback is greatly appreciated! Hope you enjoy :)

**THIS IS PURELY A WORK OF FICTION AND DOES NOT REFLECT THE TRUE NATURE OF THE PEOPLE MENTIONED**

*Abrahamic-denoting any or all of the religions (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) that revere Abraham, the Biblical patriarch.

_______________

An angel's task was always difficult, yet fulfilling. Serving at the right hand of the Lord and doing everything possible to assist humans in gaining access into heaven. Some angels, however, we're granted one of the most difficult tasks of all– becoming a guardian to a human.

The tradition of every abrahamic* Religion states that at birth, a guardian angel is assigned to the human, overseeing the physical and spiritual protection of that individual, as well as encouraging them through various methods to turn back to God. While it can be a daunting task for many, especially the angels who were assigned reckless and bold humans, it was overall a beautiful and rewarding experience for many of the angels, watching their little humans grow and live life to their fullest. 

While it was quite normal for angels to grow quite fond of their little beings, and even experience love for them, becoming in love with them was something that was forbidden entirely, as it represented otherworldly and ungodly desires and lust not suited for the pure kingdom of God. This was something, of course, that a newer guardian angel would quickly learn.

_______________

Life would always find a way to kick you down, no matter how hard you tried to crawl your way back up. Not a single day in your life was free from pain, even on the day you were born.

Growing up in foster care was less than ideal, switching from house to house on a whim, leaving any friends you may have made in that town behind as you started fresh. Some of your foster parents and towns were much more pleasant than others, but living in a cycle of rejection of adoption from everyone led you to spend 18 years of your miserable life in the care of facilities and strangers. You were never wanted, not even by your own parents.

The only people you ever considered to be your true family were a pair of twins in the same boat as you, Hyunjin and Yeji. Much like you, the two never had any luck with getting adopted and struggled a lot with trusting others after what they'd been through, and yet, they welcomed you right in every time you found your way back to the facility after another failed fostering. Once all of you had turned 18, you collectively decided to scrape together moments from part time jobs and rent out a small apartment south of the city, where you'd been residing alongside the Hwang siblings for a while now.

Since the foster facility was highly faith-based, you were always subjected to weekly preachings and visits from the local pastor. He was kind, sure– but he always said that God had a path for all of us, and that everyone would find peace eventually, and that your guardian angel is always watching over you and protecting you. Despite listening intently every Sunday, that peace and protection from the world you were promised never seemed to make its way to you. You were cursed and cast out in the eyes of the Lord, left being the second option to everyone. There was no way in your eyes someone out there could truly love someone like you. And yet, you felt that there was someone out there who desired nothing more than you. It had to exist somewhere. Maybe somewhere, love was right next to you all along.

_________________

There you found yourself that day, umbrella in hand, taking the usual 10 minute commute to your part time job. The pouring downfall certainly wasn't ideal for walking in, but you trudged through nonetheless, passing through familiar streets that were usually bustling with life at this time of day. It felt quiet, unusually quiet. 

As you're about to place your headphones on, hoping to drown out the sound of pouring rain around you, a loud THUD coming from behind a coffee shop quickly grabbed your attention. Normally, you wouldn't give it a second thought. It could just be the usual raccoon rummaging through the dumpster, but something didn't feel quite right. Why did you feel so compelled to stop in your tracks and investigate? Perhaps it was a natural wave of curiosity or something compelling you to walk towards the source of the sound. As your feet dragged you towards the narrow alleyway, you felt something stronger than any rummaging dumpster critter could possibly make you feel, almost as if you were being pulled by a string of fate to peek behind the rundown bricks of the shop.

What you didn't expect to see, however, was a man with large wings rubbing his head in pain sitting on top of piled garbage bags in a dumpster.

You froze in your tracks at the sight as your mind raced. What the fuck was going on? Was your brain playing tricks on you again? Was this a lucid dream of sorts? Who is this guy?

The man’s eyes met yours, suddenly snapping out from his pained and confused state as his eyes widened as his face turned into a state of shock.

“Uhhh, Y/N, can you see me?” He said hesitantly.

Who is this guy? You thought. How does he know my name? And most importantly, how big are those fucking wings? Are they real?

“Who are you? How do you even know my name?!” You shouted, taking steps back out of fear.

“Wait...you CAN see me? Is this real?” The mysterious man questioned as he took notice of his large wings wrapped around him, now covered in dirt and torn white cloth from his attire. 

Admittedly, he was extremely beautiful. Warm brown eyes, long golden hair, and sun-kissed skin lathered in a constellation of frekels. Not to mention, the once delicate white fabric wrapped around his muscular arms.

“That doesn't answer my question, who are you and what's with the giant wings?” You retorted.

He paused for a moment as if contemplating his next thought.

“Felix...yeah, I'm Felix. I'm your guardian angel, Y/N.”

“My...what?” You questioned.

He hopped down from the garbage bags he sat on and approached you slowly. Every neuron in your mind was screaming at you to run away, to call for help, but your feet kept you planted as he crept forward, his hand gently cupping your face.

“I’m from the Kingdom of Heaven, I've been with you since the moment you were born, and God... you are so beautiful.” He spoke softly as he wrapped his arms and wings around you and pulled you into a tight hug.

Your mind still couldn't wrap around the fact that a gorgeous man in a dumpster with comically large wings was hugging you like his life depended on it. You felt your nostrils flare up as a stray feather from his wing fell on top of your nose, as your face twitched.

“AH-CHOO!” You sneezed. Okay, maybe the wings were real.

He quickly pulled back from you after the sneeze. “Oh, sorry about these, let me just-” he said as he quickly retracted his wings, almost making them vanish into thin air.

“So.” You said. “If you're really my guardian angel, and you're really from heaven, then why are you here?

“It's...a long story. I made a bit of a mistake, but hey- at least I'm here with you now!” He beamed.

“So then you've seen me this whole time? Everything I've gone through, and everything I've ever done?” You questioned, as you felt your cheeks flare with anger. How could he be real, and how could he let you suffer from rejection your whole life?

“Well, not everything you've ever done, most just the major ones-”

You cut him off quickly with a slap to the face.

“How could you ever let me go through hell and back?! You know all I ever wanted was to be loved, and yet you let me suffer?” You screamed, memories of the past flooding into your head.

Felix hunched over slightly, hand cupping his cheek from the sting you gave him. He crawled away slowly, like a rejected puppy, before he spoke.

“I really...tried my best Y/N. I know you've suffered so much, and it's my fault, really. I was still a young angel in heaven when you were born, and I got assigned to you. I felt every emotion you had and tried my best to keep you safe. It was for your own good...I promise.”

This was unbelievable to you. How was all of that for your own good? The countless lonely nights, praying to God that you'd finally get a loving family, only to be shut out and left to rot in the foster home until the cycle would repeat.

“My own good? How was any of this shit for my own good?! I suffered because of you, asshole!”

His heart shattered. You were everything to him, and yet it seemed like all his dedication to you was worthless.

“I'm done with this conversation, I need to get to work.” You declared as you began to walk back to the alleyway before a voice stopped you.

“Y/N...please. You can hate me forever, but just look at this, please?” He spoke with a whimper in his voice, holding up a soggy newspaper with 2 faces plastered on the front cover.

As much as you were frustrated, you decided to indulge him for once and take a look. The headline of the local paper issued in bold letters stated “BREAKING: FOSTER PARENTS ARRESTED FOR SERIAL CHILD NEGLECT AND ABUSE.” 

Once you actually saw the couple's faces, you felt the color in your face begin to fade. It was one of your foster couples. Your favorite one, in fact. The two seemed so sweet all those years ago, spoiling you with frequent gifts and homecooked meals that tasted amazing - it was the rejection that hurt the most because of how much it appeared like they loved you. Were they really monsters this whole time, and did Felix know about this?

Maybe you hadn't given him a fair chance.

“Did you know they were terrible people, Felix?” You asked, almost regretfully.

He nodded, head still tilted down in ache. 

“They were evil. They wanted to hurt you, I couldn't let them.”

“What about the rest of them, then? There were... some nice ones, I suppose.” You responded.

“No...none of them were ever good enough for you. They would never give you the life you deserved.”

You felt immense remove and guilt for the poor angel, covered in dirt and in pain from your harm. You'd heard so many horror stories from the Hwangs’ about cruel foster parents in and around the town, and maybe Felix was just doing his job. Maybe he did care.

“Hey, listen-uh, Felix. I'm sorry, I didn't know they were horrible. I shouldn't have slapped you.”

His head slowly rose, warm eyes locking into yours. “It's okay, Y/N. You didn't know. But man...I guess this is what pain feels like, huh?” He spoke as a smile crept back onto his face.

“Listen-forget work, okay? How about we just get a coffee or something.” You remarked.

“Oooh sounds fun! I've always wanted to try it!” He beamed.

________________________

You learned a lot that day, to say the least. Felix told you his life story–about how he died when he was only 5 from leukemia, rising up to heaven and living amongst the paradise of heaven, until he was assigned by the elder angels to become a guardian to a human, a high honor for such a young angel as him. At the very moment you took your first breath, Felix was there with you. While still young himself, he quickly matured and aged alongside you, almost as if you were going through everything with him. 

Felix began to tell you how he could sense when you were in danger with your life, and how we knew the moment your mother gave birth, you would be in harm's way with her, hence why she felt compelled to give you up to adoption.

He really did want to see you in a loving home, truly. Yet no one who welcomed you had the best intentions, he'd rather you be alone than in the house of monsters. Call it bad luck, or call it fate.

“So Felix, what grave mistake did you make to get kicked out? Did you try to murder one of my foster parents?” You asked, almost humorously as you sipped your coffee.

“Oh...just a fight with another angel, was all. Not supposed to fight in heaven, y'know?” He muttered.

He couldn't tell you the truth.

The truth that he was cast out of heaven by the elders for falling in love with you.

He's always adored everything about you as a young angel, but as the two of you grew together worlds apart, his feelings grew even more. However, his obsession didn't become out of control until recently. He loved everything about you, inside and out. He loved how you always had your nose stuffed inside a book when you weren't on the job. He loved how your sneeze was so high pitched it sounded like a mouse squeaking. He loved the way you walked, talked, and slept–to say he was a man possessed was an understatement.

Unfortunately, God was all-knowing. He could see his desire, and word quickly got around of a lust-filled angel. 

That's when this morning, after a long meeting with the elders to decide his punishment, he chose to come to earth, to be with you. It didn't matter that he would grow old and feel pain, he loved you, and he would do anything to simply bask in your presence.

You decided to keep him in your life. You let him follow you around and keep you company (as long as he promised not to have his giant wings out). At night, he'd find someplace to sleep, which during the cold and wet season broke your heart, so you let him slowly become accustomed to your shared apartment, introducing him as a friend you met at work. You gave him an allowance to buy whatever clothes/shoes he wanted (to which he quickly became addicted to shopping, spending the bare minimum on clothes while splurging on stuffed animals for the two of you.) 

You couldn't complain, truly. He was a ray of sunshine, and brought something new to your life.

________________

Time flew by quickly with your newfound friend by your side. While Yeji was a little unsure at first of him, Hyunjin quickly became inseparable to Felix, and frequently taught him how to play video games and cook for the house. Turns out, Felix had quite the knack for baking, specifically brownies, which tasted better than any dessert you'd ever had before. As quickly as Felix came into this world, he'd swiftly become the best thing that ever happened to you.

And yet, there was still something that was bugging you.

How could someone as perfect as Felix in every way ever possibly be cast out of heaven? He didn't have a mean bone in him, and surrounded everyone close to him with his graceful love and support. 

He had to have been lying to you about the fight.

One night, while he was enjoying some soup and TV, you decided to confront him. Something wasn't right.

“Felix, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, what's up?” He said as he patted the empty spot on the couch, giving space for you to sit beside him.

You sat down and took his hand in yours. You were desperate to know the truth.

“Be honest with me, please. Why did you actually get cast out from heaven?”

He froze in his spot, face becoming pale.

“Felix...you know I won't judge you, I promise. Hell, even if you murdered someone, I'd still forgive you since you've done so much for me.”

He breathed a heavy sigh, there was no turning back now. He had to know if you loved him the way he loved you.

“Ok…I'll tell you but promise me that this won't ruin our relationship, okay?”

“Of course, pinky promise.” You said as your pinky interlocked with his.

“Well–I love you, Y/N. That's why I was kicked out.” He muttered, face heating up his freckles with a rosy pink.

“What do you mean? I'm sure you do love and care for me, but how is that wrong?”

“No, Y/N. I'm...in love with you. I have been for a long time. You're everything to me, I love every detail about you in ways I shouldn't.”

He paused, catching his breath and staring into your now widened eyes.

“Guardian Angels aren't supposed to fall in love with their humans…” He stated. “It's considered Lust, which is a sin. I'll probably never be let back into heaven unless I repent to God, and to you. Even though I’m head over heels for you, I'll never deserve you.”

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he let go of your pinky, standing up and turning towards the door.

“I'm sorry Y/N, I've ruined everything, but I'll leave you alone now.” He whispered as he wrapped his hand around the doorknob preparing to leave.

Only to be stopped by you, as you spun him around and smashed your lips against his.

Your soft lips and gentle cusping of his face made his heart soar back to heaven, leaving him no other choice but to pull you closer and embrace you while your kiss continued.

You pulled back first, almost reluctantly. 

“I love you too, Felix. I actually have for quite-” Your speech was cut off by his lips fervorishly smacking back into yours.

A long, drawn out groan came from his lips as your kiss melted all his worries away, ever so romantic and tender, yet wanting more.

The other angels were right, he needed more, a desire like no other was consuming him, making him hungry with lust. To him, just the chance to taste you was worth more than any eternal life he could have, because who needed Heaven when his Heaven was here in front of him? The more your tongue danced with his, the more something he'd never felt until a few months ago burned in his heart. He needed to taste you, he needed to worship the ground you walked on. He could feel his length hardening every second he spent engrossed in your presence, not claiming you as his was not an option anymore, he had to.

“Baby…” He whispered into the kiss. “...Please. I'll do anything you want, I'll make you feel so so good, j-just please let me have you.”

You parted your lips from his and looked deep into his eyes, now expanded from the love and lust consuming his system.

“Then take me Felix, I'm all yours.”

That was all it took for a switch to turn on inside of him, swiftly grabbing you and carrying you bridal style to your bedroom. He laid you down gently on your back, almost as if you were a delicate sculpture, eyeballing your figure attentively. 

“Can I?” He asks as he fiddles with the zipper of your jeans. You quickly nod and help him remove it from you, leaving only your delicate yet soaked panties exposed.

Felix wasted no time, as he quickly pressed the pad of his thumb to your clothed clit, rubbing circles at a torturously slow pace, causing you to whimper gently.

“Felix...please, I need more.” You whined.

“Oh, sorry love, I got a little carried away.” He giggled at himself, as he began to take off your panties, exposing him to your glistening and throbbing cunt.

It was more perfect than anything he could have ever dreamed of, and all he could ever want.

He looked up at you with pleading and glowing eyes like a puppy begging for its food, looking for any sign of approval to feast on you. 

“Go ahead Felix.” 

Without hesitation, his face dived into your needy pussy and began desperately licking stripes up your folds like a starved man. It was truly the sweetest nectar he had ever tasted, he needed all of it. Every last drop.

You felt almost helpless with him devouring you at this pace, a firm grip on both of your thighs as you squirm at his every touch. His tongue turns its attention to your clit, as his lips wrap around it and begin sucking it for dear life. Jolts of electricity were sent flying across your entire body as you let out a series of high pitched, whiny moans, making Felix suck even harder.

“Felix, p-please!I-Its too much!!” You cried out from overstimulation.

His lips released from your clit with a “pop” as he turned up to you. He looked disgustingly beautiful, with puffy lips dripping with your juices, and pupils dilated in an almost drunken state. 

“S-so good baby, you taste so good!” Felix said desperately. “Cum for me, please? I need it so bad, you have no idea.”

Soon enough, your fingers guide his head back down and begin tugging against his hair while you drive him deeper into your cunt. Felix can’t help but rut against the bedsheets to your moans, his eyes shutting from time to time from the friction of his cock and the sound of your voice as you cry out his name whenever his tongue hits a sweet spot. 

“Oh my god oh my god, Felix please! I'm gonna cum!” You cry out, earning a moan from Felix as he speeds up the already brutal pace, eating you out like it’s the greatest meal he’s ever had. His wings swiftly materialized to hold your thighs in place, allowing him space to bring your body closer to the edge.

One little peck to your clit was all it took to send you over the edge as you released the most guttural moan you'd ever cried out, your whole body trembling as your pussy released the sweet juices Felix desired so much. He wasted no time in licking every spot of your folds clean, drinking it all in as his whole body shook alongside yours.

Your breathing became erratic and heavy, trying to come down from what was possibly the greatest orgasms of your life- when you noticed Felix pulling himself up shakily from his position, taking notice to the newfound stain, and you see why. Right where he was lying down on your sheets, a puddle of warm liquid sat with some running down his leg, with underwear completely soaked. You couldn't help but giggle to yourself as you pulled him into a warm embrace, his breathing still heavy. 

“I love you...so fucking much Y/N.” He spoke softly, head tucked into your shoulder.

“I love you too Felix, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me.” You replied, placing a gentle kiss on his temple, rubbing his neck and scalp gently.

Even after only a few seconds, you heard a sniffle followed by a wet feeling on your neck.

“Felix, baby...what's wrong?” You whispered, tilting his chin up so his eyes could meet yours. Tears were streaming down his face, and his lip quivered violently.

“I'm the luckiest angel in the world.” He croaked out through his soft sobs. “I'm glad I get to spend the rest of my life here with you.”

As his soft wings wrapped gently around your body, you finally realized that maybe love was around you this whole time. A sweet boy who loved you and always did his best to protect you, even if you couldn't see it at the time. You were truly grateful to God for sending him to you, and you knew your story with him was far from over. No matter what, you knew he'd always be there for you, and see the best in everybody.

“You really are my sweet angel, Felix.”

[blondieeu]

easy lovers. yuji i.

yuji itadori who waits for you. he waits because he knows if he doesn't, he'd ruin everything.

yuji itadori waits for you out of respect for your relationship, because he listens when you tell him you seriously want to be with this guy - even if he knows that douche isn't the one, and he is.

yuji itadori admires you from a distance, just far enough that you don't notice how much you take his breath away. though, he's still close enough to relish in your beauty. you shined like the moon and didn't even realize it.

yuji itadori doesn't only see your beauty on the outside. every single day. even in the small moments when he gets a chance to be around you - he can see the beauty in your kindness and the way you act within the world. you were his universe.

sometimes, he wonders if he's making the right call. if he'd been too patient, or too kind with his heart. but every time he thinks about making a move, he just remembers what you said—how bad you wanted it to be that damned guy. he couldn't bare to be the reason you regret picking someone else, let alone him.

At times, he wonders if he should move on, and find a girlfriend of his own. it wouldn't be hard, he wasn't unattractive or anything - but it'd be even worse to make someone who loves him feel like they're the second choice because he knows he'll always end up picking you instead.

yuji itadori tries not to think of it, or even let it show, but sometimes when you look at him and talk about your boyfriend, it feels like someones squeezing all the air from his lungs, forcing him to breathe manually—in. out. in. out. in. in. in. Over and over. Until the weight feels absolutely unbearable. He wonders if the quiet ache in his chest will ever ease. How long will he have to keep pretending?

every now and again, he even pretends that when you're talking about your boyfriend, you're just talking about him. all the places he took you out, the snacks you shared, the love you made - but reality quickly sets in and his heart sinks when you mention his name.

yuji watches you, and wonders why you decided so quickly that it would be your boyfriend and not him. why couldn't it be yuji? what makes your boyfriend so special, or better than him? he listens to the way you talk about him, as if you're trying to convince yourself that you're 'destined to be.' yuji knows, deep down, that this isn't it. you deserve someone who sees you, and understands you the way he does. but he’s not the one to say it, so he waits for you to notice.

yuji itadori who waits for you with absolutely no expectations because he knows that love—true love—and when its real, doesn't need to be rushed. it just exists, like the quiet glow of the moon in the dead of night. soft, steady, and always there—for you, specifically—no matter what.

blondieeu xx

[finalgirlwillbyers]

Heyyy

I trust your judgment when it comes to proper characterization of Will and want to ask the following if you don’t mind 🎄

What are the chances that Will is going to start the season with a “love interest” already? I mean kind of like Steve was introduced to the audience - making out in school’s bathroom? I guess I am mainly curious if Will as a character could get with some random boy (let’s say from the basketball team) during the time skip? Let’s say someone attractive and relatively nice hits on him, would he get involved with the guy? Also, would he start some secret relationship with someone he does not feel emotionally connected to?

Thanks.

There is a 0% chance of Will starting the season with a new love interest (who I call Random Guy #9). There is a 0% chance of Will entertaining another guy, outside of it being a 10 second gag. There is a 0% chance of Will considering requited romance as a real possibility for himself.

Will entering a romantic relationship is payoff for his growth. Said growth isn't "complete" yet. Not only is Will introverted and shy, Will is also closed-off. You need to be open to be in a relationship.

When S4 ended, Will--

1. was in love with Mike and unable to articulate his feelings in a way Mike understood. Plot line unresolved.

2. shared that he felt like a mistake. Self-loathing has never been addressed in show. Plot line unresolved.

3. was called out for talking to Jonathan less. Will is still hiding and isolating. Plot line unresolved.

4. was unable to communicate his sexuality, fearing rejection. Plot line unresolved.

5. was burdened by his connection to the Upside Down and Vecna, left vulnerable to evil. Plot line unresolved.

He's a Byers, the show's masochists. They love pining when there's "no hope" and self-flagellation. No wonder Hopper is marrying in /j.

I like the idea of Will trying to "move on," taking chances, and exploring his sexuality beyond Mike. But, I also understand that this isn't possible with how the show is written. This is why fanfic exists.

Will is the character having extreme difficulty moving on from previous events. His supernatural trauma has compounded with his real world struggles. He hates himself, and he blames himself (for real or imagined and supernatural or natural reasons).

He isn't in a good place. Quite frankly, he needs to be in a bad place in order to follow in the footsteps of his predecessors. That's not just Billy and Vecna but also El and Max.

The Duffers need to write Will overcoming a myriad of emotional, psychological, and physical obstacles for a relationship with another person to be possible, even if it's Random Guy #9. It gets more complicated with Mike, but I digress.

Will is a lonely figure. He struggles to be seen truly by those around him. This isn't just because he's hiding but also because those around him are preoccupied with their own problems. With that in mind, it doesn't make sense that Random Guy #9 sees Will or that Will allows himself to be seen (prior to his coming-of-age).

[neetily]

hii! so glad to see one of my fav writers back and safe! can i request some soft somno with dom sebastian? tyy <3

this request is so old, i wonder if you still follow me hehe... thank you for waiting for me regardless, this was lovely to return back to writing with! thank you for your kindness <3 !

warnings: somnophilia, dubcon, thigh fucking wc: 2,146

It's not so unusual for him to be up so late at night. Beyond working well into the AM on his clients tedious projects, gaming with friends, and otherwise just existing online, he's usually the last to get into bed on any given night. Not that he minds that fact— part of him secretly loves knowing that at the end of a long and oftentimes stressful night, he's got you to consistently greet him under the sheets. And there's comfort in the mundane, he thinks. Though you may be asleep nine times outta ten, his cheeks always grow warm and his chest always tightens every single time without fail at the sight of you so peaceful, blissfully unaware of his presence as he quietly slips into bed to shuffle closer to you at the urging of his affections.

Moonlight flutters in through the barely drawn curtains, dancing across your snoozing form in such a pretty manner that he struggles with himself not to reach out and cover your cute little face in plentiful kisses. There won't be much moonlight left he imagines, huffing to himself as he checks the time on his phone with squinted eyes: 4:38am.

You'll be awake soon enough for the farm.

Which is fine, really! He knew what he was signing up for when he'd initially accepted your confession, and he'd be hard pressed to complain at the style of life you provide him. It's nice, if a bit taxing.

But oh, how he misses you dearly sometimes.

It's why he so strongly loves these quiet moments with you left unknowing. Hidden away in dream land for him to privately admire and adore upon you. You look so soft and sweet when under the sheets, all curled up and cosy without him. And the slight twinge of jealousy that pangs his full heart almost convinces him to tug the sheets away from your sleeping body to instead wrap himself around your frame— see how good he is at keeping you warm? How much better he is that that raggedy old blanket you refuse to replace?

And yet, he does nothing of the sort. Instead, merely admiring from afar with a dumb puppy smile upon his lips. Eagerly in love with you, consistently desperate to show and spill and sing and shout it at every opportunity he gets.

Even when you're fast asleep and lightly snoring beside him, he still finds you oh so adorable— cute puffy little cheeks, cute messy little bed head.

And as he lays side by side with you, he still misses you. Tenderly, like how a dog waits for its owner to get home. Metaphorical tail wagging behind him at the recognition of just how much he simply loves you. Enough to leave him wanting. A deep burning yearn in his chest at the sight of you laying there so sweetly, so pliantly. Without a single care in the world because you're knocked out cold from a hard days graft on the farm.

... He'd be a fool not to take advantage of that, right?

There have been prior talks of consent regarding his filthy thoughts, though the twitch in his pants could really care less in the moment, he's emboldened to know that you have no qualms with the way he feels tonight. Because he wouldn't want to hurt you, not ever. Including when you're passed out and when he could so easily do so, y'know? He appreciates all the trust you put in him more than anything.

So trust that he'll make you feel good tonight in your dreams too, okay?

It's a selfish thought at the root, though. A need to display his lewd affections for you in secrecy— because it's always hotter in private, right? Like his own little secret; not even shared with you! Tenting in his underwear at the simple thought of taking you unknowingly alone, indulging in his own perversions with the giddy excitement of a dirty virgin.

It doesn't help that you're literally what his wet dreams are made of too.

And it's so easy to convince himself to tug his boxers down. Took no convincing at all really, given the way you sleepily huff and sigh for him, like you can feel his weight on the sheets so close to you; and he hopes you're dreaming of him. Wanting him just as badly too, needy little thing just wants to feel good in her sleep, right? Needs him to look after you, and that's why you're currently crooning for him without realising, right?

Well, far be it for him to ignore his womans cries, thinking with his cock as a pearly bead of precum drips down his tip as if attempting to coax him closer. Not that he needed much convincing in the first place, nervously chewing down on his bottom lip to concentrate just long enough to slide his way closer to your sleeping body—because it's difficult to move fully with his boxers resting at his ankles like shackles—wiggling himself all the way until his tip brushes just gently against your exposed tummy (he briefly thanks the Gods for allowing your top to ride up a little, and for the fact that you're naked below the belt) and he chokes on a moan in response. Swallows it whole in fear of waking you, because while he just loves playing with you when you're awake absolutely, he can't deny the specific sweet edge that toying with the hem of your top when you're none the wiser provides him. Like he's doing something bad, acting out with consent. But the play pretend is enough to leave him more than a little breathless before you, taking shallow breaths so as to not disturb your peace too much, and so that he may selfishly enjoy the look of utter content upon your pretty face as he angles his cock down with a thumb at the base of it, only to gently smear the fat beads of precum you've thus far coaxed out of him against your soft and squishy thighs.

It's just all so exciting. Getting to crawl into bed when the whole town is likely fast asleep; well, perhaps except for Sam, he was just gaming with him moments prior. Shuffling as close as possible to the love of his life in the early hours of the morning, where no one excepts much of anything from him, let alone this. Letting a shaky breath escape him at the shiver that rolls down his spine when he allows his hips to roll against you impatiently... Just a little, like a small tease for himself. But fuck, if you aren't the prettiest thing in the world to him right now... And God, he's missed you so much as of late— been too busy with work himself, and he knows you to be the same.

So you can hardly blame him for getting so excited over relatively nothing tonight, right? Gripping at the base of his cock with his whole fist now as a way to try and release some of the built up tension he's grown in his balls after a few days of not cumming— he wanted to save it for you, y'know? And he's so ready for you tonight, shuddering under the sheets with barely contained excitement to dote on you in the privacy of your dreams.

"Are you asleep?" He whispers at you, suddenly worried with his cock throbbing in his fist that you might, in fact, just be pretending to sleep. And he'd be stuck with the embarrassment of acting like a pervert in front of you in the meantime... Though thankfully, you fail to respond with anything other than a silent sigh. Lips parted just slightly as if to tempt him some more, and oh, he'd love to give you so many kisses right now... Pepper compliments against your lips with smiles and sweet words, praise you for being such a good and obedient little girl in your sleep for him.

But he's lifting your thigh up instead in utter need for you. So fraught with it that he allows his nails to squeeze into the fat of them just a little, selfishly enjoying the meagre wobble in your lips at his small action. And he's so greedy with his touch, just a tad possessive as he juts hit hips forward to let his precum coated tip glide against your lower inner thigh before gently dropping the leg he's lifted mid-air back down into it's original position and— yeah, fuck, that's it—

So soft and tight between your legs, nice and padded and squishy for him to pulse against— and he can almost pretend that it's your cunt given how close his cock is in proximity to it. Riding up against your slit for him to drool precum against. Get you all nice and wet enough with the smallest of humps; and, he's also still a little scared about waking you up. Caught with his pants down, literally. God, could you imagine? Huffing right in front of you, biting his tongue to hold back the moans that want so bad to spill for you, cock tightly lodged between your cushy thighs and— fuck, the absolute state of him right now. So completely whipped for you that all he needs is the simple thought of you to get off, let alone to be currently humping his fat cock between your thighs with more confidence with every stroke, finding it increasingly difficult to withhold his lungs given just how much his tip spills for you. Resulting in such a sweet squelch as he leaves your inner thighs all messy and slicked up; which is perfect for him. Makes it soooo much easier to glide his cock against you, incidentally rocking his cock further against your by now sopping slit with every greedy hump and God. It feels so fucking good to be using you like this.

Like a little toy, tailor made for his own personal and selfish use. Creeping around at night to wait for you to pass out before wagging his cock against you like a bitch in heat. Ah, but he just can't get over himself. Too lost in how nice it feels to faux fuck you in your sleep, debasing your purity one hump against you at a time as he plants and shaky hand on your hip to rock you ever so gently back against his thrusts. As if you were actually reciprocating, but knowing that you aren't is what's hot to him. Being able to manhandle you into inadvertently fucking back against him just to selfishly improve the stimulation he oh so desperately needs so late at night, is hot. Turns him on more than anything to know that you haven't the faintest clue as to how he's touching you, loving you, and needing you right now. So caught by how smitten he is with you that he doesn't realise just how close he is from the minimal amount of petting he's endured until his hips instinctively pick up the pace on their own. Seeking a quick end to the pent up release he's reserved for you, and fuck he's just so close to you now, tugging and pulling on your soft skin while he fucks himself silly between the fat of your thighs, which are unfairly tight with the weight of sleep deep in your body, and yeah, God, right there—

All he can think to himself is that he's happy that you're still fast asleep as he cums embarrassingly fast, no doubt due to holding off for you for just a couple days. Either that, or you're convincingly faking it; he doesn't mind either way. Too busy focusing on how fucking good it feels to be shooting fat ropes between your thighs, milking himself empty in the cool air of the night without a single witness to gaze upon his misdeeds

Good, as it should be.

Just him, lazily humping the remainder of seed from his cum coated cock to let it drip down the back of your legs and onto your sheets in a sheer puddle, he's sure. Just him, and his prettily sleeping girl, who still yet adorns the most innocent of expressions after his lewd display of affection tonight. Just him, letting his cock slip free from your sleepy grip as he starts to soften and can finally relax with a heavy sigh escaping his burning lugs— too many moans held too close to his heart.

And he should really think about cleaning you up right about now, but... There's just something so enticing about leaving you with a sticky mess for the morning, y'know? Like his own perverted version of a surprise.

He's hopeful to wake up to his own when he eventually awakens in the afternoon.

[lvrstrsh]

the way this song is so fitting for the three arcane ships (caitvi, jayvik, timebomb) omg?? maybe not so much caitvi but during their breakup era yes a little bit.

"you're the best thing to ever happen to me but also the worst thing to ever happen to me. on that day when i met you, maybe i would rather that it never happened to me" is SOOOOOO JAYVIK CODED I'M ACTUALLY GONNA JUMP OUT A FUCKING WINDOW JAHHSWQO. viktor saved jayce from killing himself, helped him achieve his life's goal to channel magic. alternatively, jayce helped viktor to be more than just an assistant, gave him purpose and did with hextech what viktor always wanted to do: help people. HOWEVER, them meeting ultimately led to their deaths (actually erm i refuse to believe they're dead and prefer to believe they're in some higher form of existence giving each other cosmic backshots 💜). them meeting helped bring hextech to the world which, as it happens, was the beginning of the end. the formation of the hexcore, viktor turning into robotic jesus, starting the cult, the formation of the anomaly that sent jayce to the ruined dimension (poor guy also lost his mind) so although jayce was able to fulfill his life's dream, it also was the thing that ruined him. if they never met, this all could've been avoided, which is easily seen in the dimension ekko & heimerdinger were sent to. they were best friends, equals in the sense of intellect and generally just two halves of one whole (saw someone on insta relate them to the sin²x + cos ²x = 1 formula and gen crashed the fuck out) hence, the best and worst thing to ever happen to each other.

"why does hearing your name hurt me when it hides right there in the vicinity? what kind of emotion, is it hatred or pure sweetness when i hear your name?" we all know ekko and powder were childhood friends. due to a series of unfortunate events, powder was taken under silco's care — the same person who was the cause of vander's and benzo's death (who were like father figures to ekko). powder became jinx and was working for silco, who was using shimmer to exploit his own people. as ekko grew up, all he did was work to defeat the purpose jinx was working for. imagine how much it must hurt for him to know someone who meant sm to him is doing all this to his people. her name brings bitterness, but also the sweet press of memories of simpler times. then, obviously, ekko was sent to the other dimension. saw that other dimension have everything he ever wanted (except vi ☹️). powder was still HIS powder. his life was playing out just the way he wanted. however it wasn't REAL. he got a glimpse of what could've been. in that dimension ekko and powder grew up to fall in love. imagine coming from your reality where you're enemies, and the being sent to this one where you're lovers. but you can't stay, no matter how happy it makes you. he got a taste of the sweetness that could've been. then he had to go BACK to his reality, where he saw the same girl he could've fallen in love with try to kill herself. and, afterwards, when you've basically saved the world, you're left all alone and are led to believe she's dead (uhm which she's not trust 🙏)

i don't think i have to explain the 'worst of all blessings, the best of all curses' verse in relation to both the ships because AHHHHHWJWJWJWIWIWIWJSIQIQJWIIWIWSIJQIDBCIAOJW

alright guys anyways thank u for coming to my ted talk 😁

[vetochkarowan]

First love your comic I wish I could have a print of it tbh it’s just so pretty.And I have an angst question to ask so Astarion is basically immortal and that hint with the child and white bat may mean kids eventually… so does that mean eventually he’s going to have to watch Mac and his future daughter pass before him or is there a happy ending for that possible future?

Thank you so much! I really hope I can quickly sort out the printing process, and we’ll have a real book in our hands.💛

As for the angst question: oh, what a sad but inevitable topic. You know, one of the first comics I thought of about Baldur’s Gate was precisely on this subject—that the price of love and happiness isn’t giving up power or control, but accepting the inevitability of the end. And yet… I couldn’t bring myself to draw it. Maybe one day I will.

But let’s approach it from another angle, starting with hope: unlike our world, the world of BG3 (including the AU world) is kind because it has unconditional magic. And that means there’s hope—there’s existence after death, there are reincarnations. Magic doesn’t just give people colorful lights and portals; magic gives people possibilities. Possibilities to overcome the inevitable (to quote a rather popular book: “And the last enemy that will be destroyed is death.”).

So, here’s how I see it: Mac is 41 now, and half-elves live about 150 years (and the lifespan of dhampirs is another story entirely). They have a hundred years to figure something out—to turn the world upside down, to journey to other realms, to find a cure for vampirism, to seek the Philosopher’s Stone, to raise their children (which, in its own way, is a continuation of life).

And, in my imagination, alternate universes (like Modernbat) are precisely what happens after death—or rather, instead of death. It’s where you meet your loved ones again in other worlds.

So, honestly, I don’t know the ending yet, and I don’t know if there will even be an ending. But I’d like to conclude with a free translation of a Czech poem, which, in my view, has become Mac’s signature song:

„It’s not yet autumn!

If I can bear, as autumn

bears its rain-drenched woes,

The sadness of what once had been,

I know: tomorrow blooms and grows.

I’ll shelve a thousand plans for later,

For tomorrow waits with time to spare.

My coffin hums among the woods—

A tree, still holding nests with care.“

[occasionalsnippets]

I’m curious about Tim and MC’s relationship.

Like, is Tim grateful for the fact that MC took care of him?

Does he know that MC took his shifts as Robin so he wouldn’t deal with B’s bad days/nights?

Does he know that Jack and Janet didn’t really like MC?

How much does he resent Jack and Janet?

How does he bond/show his love for his sibling?

Also, how would the members of the Batfam bond with MC? (Before and After Damian snitched)

And what do the Batfam think of MC?

- Storm.Anon

Focusing on just Tim for this! Send another ask for other Batfam members owo because I do want to individually dig into each relationship.

Taglist: @dragondevinity, @lonely-star2044, @sheep-from-rad, @ilxandra, @thethingwiththefeathers, @star-wars-lycanwing-bat, @sackofsadstuff, @zonked-times, @paastaboi, @venfia, @fantasy-angelo, @linaisadream, @shirp-collector-of-fixations

Their relationship is both less complicated and more complicated than it should be. On one hand, you’re Tim's older sister-caretaker-parental figure-best friend- who can’t be categorized neatly into any singular category. On the other hand, none of those categories matter when you are the person he trusts more than anyone else in the world. More than he trusts himself.

Your parents do not hate you. You were an accident (huge, immensely big, giant accident) but they do care for you in some nebulous, difficult to discern, rich-people kind of way. They give you all the money you could want. They teach you the rules of high society and how to deal with the company. They try. Sometimes.

In many ways, you are their protege and student before a lot of things but you are still your mother’s child. A reflection of Janet Drake in every way that matters with a mind like a steel trap and a mouth that murmurs sweet poison. It is one of the main things Tim notes as a child when he thinks of you and mother.

The biggest mark against your parents, really, is the neglect. Their children weren’t their number one priority and both you and Tim knew. They could be worse. They could be better. C+ parenting all around.

Tim’s view on Jack and Janet are a bit fickle? Inconsistent? Complicated? He had wished for a very long time when he was younger for them to come home more often but he never really processed the whole situation until you forced everyone to get therapy. There’s quiet sadness in his feelings about his parents but not really resentment, not like you.

Not that those feelings have anywhere to go anymore. Both of you still grieved during their funerals.

Tim gives you gifts on mother and father's day and overtime the message written in the cards attached get longer and sillier. He still remembers the stillness of your initial reaction when he first presented you with a card.

He hadn't really noticed how much you did behind the scenes until he got older and realized you were internalizing a hell of a lot of things. His early days of existence are marked by your ever encompassing presence in his life. His parents leave. You stay. You always stay even as he digs himself into the pit that is becoming Robin.

He can always rely on you. If there is any truth in his life then it is that you will always be there for him. So, when you tell him with dark shadows cast upon your face that he shouldn't go out as Robin tonight, he accepts with minor protests.

You keep detailed reports on patrol to keep everyone updated when you're filling in as Robin and the ones from Tim's early days are... rough. Tim reads them because of course he does, and talks with you about it. A lot. You insist that he shouldn't have to deal with Batman because Tim is like 13 and Tim keeps saying that he chose this. So, the two of you compromise on it. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?

No one else really reads the old patrol reports. What happens during the early days stays between you and Tim and Bruce. Tim thinks Bruce still feels guilty about it, about both him and you.

Tim shows affection for you the same way you show affection. He'll go to company meetings in your steed. He learns to cook and bring meals to you when you're too busy. He orders materials for your hobbies whenever he notices you're running out.

Your relationship is not immune to normal sibling shenanigans though. You yell, you fight, he stands a centimetre away from the entrance of your room for no apparent reason, the two of you want to kill each other sometimes because "mother and father always liked you better-" and "I never wanted to raise you-"

You and Tim are so crazily co-dependent even if it isn't obvious. You're a bit less dependent than he is but you've also revolved your life around him and everything you do is basically for him so how true that statement is can be debated.

Sometimes you think you need him in order to be allowed to exist. There is no role for you except in reference to him, to your little brother who you'd give the world to.

Tim literally doesn't know how he'd survive or live without you. You taught him unconditional love. You're his favourite person. You've always protected him. He can't fathom the idea of existing without you.

You're impossible to separate from him and him from you. Aren't the two of you one and the same? Where does one end and the other begin? Who is he if not a reflection of you and who you raised him to be?

Alsjfjak so yeah. The Siblings. Them.

[renownedagent]

so, i've spent a few days thinking over what i'd like to do for the blog in 2025. i've been looking at ways to consolidate the blog & make sure i'm still giving equal attention to all my lovely moots & i'm making sure that i'm enjoying marcus & writing him in threads, headcanons, content etc.

going forward as part of this lil psa / announcement / software update or whatever you want to call these on tumblr dot com, i plan to do the following things:

i know this decision might upset some people but i plan to focus more on marcus being a single ship with @diapathy & @psybl4de so any existing usfw/nsfw or romantic ships will move to being platonic or additionally, you can reach out via ims / dms if yould like to plot a specific non-romantic dynamic. i ask that you respect my decision as this decision did not come lightly. i do still wish to write with you all & i believe it will be easier for me to manage on a mental note. however, this does not mean i'm cutting off marcus for world building and dynamics.

secondly, i may look into reviewing affiliates/mains as part of a clean up. if you're interested in staying mains/affiliates or want to be an affiliate, i'll post a affiliate call shortly for those interested.

i know these decisions may upset some people, but i want to apologize ahead of time for any inconvenience I might have caused by making these decisions as I want to continue making marcus a character I passionately enjoy writing & still being able to write with you all & deliver great writing & content.

that's my ted talk, thank you so much for reading.

apollo xo

ps. never using xo ever again, doesn't fit mine or marcus vibe.

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: Something to Sink Your Teeth Into 30/35

Pairing: Buck/Tommy

Vampire/Witch!AU

Read on AO3 (current chapter)

Read on AO3 (from beginning)

Why didn’t you tell me? You can’t expect me to believe she forbade you to speak immediately. From the very first?

Sally tried very, very hard to keep her voice calm, even. Tried not to let judgement creep into her tone, tried not to let a hint of the panic that was clawing up her own throat, choking her breath, show in her words or her manner. Sebastian was a weeping mess in front of her, nearly plucking his own feathers out in his despair.

I’m sorry! he wailed, his wings fluttering and flapping as he struggled to rein in his wild emotions. I swear to you, I never thought it would go this far. He wasn’t…he wasn’t like this at first. She thought she could handle it, she thought they could work through it, that he loved her enough to change. And then…and then when it got worse she was afraid of what it would mean for the coven, for her parents. For Evan. You know his family could make life even more difficult for Evan; we couldn’t…we didn’t want to risk it. I begged her, Sally! Please believe me, I begged her to ask for help. She bound me to keep silent the first time he left a mark. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!

Sebastian dissolved once again into great, hiccoughing sobs, and Sally was struck anew by just how damned young he was. One of the youngest familiars in the coven. Maddie Buckley was his first witch. His first experience with the sacred duty to guide and protect the practitioners of the magic they served that all familiars took up when they took physical form in the human world. His first experience, and he had to contend with…this.

She had never liked Doug Kendall. She knew his type—too in love with power and prestige and his own image for the meat beneath the veneer to be anything good. She’d counseled her witch’s sister to look elsewhere for a match as best she could, but Maddie had been too eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere of her parents’ house and her parents had been too eager to curry favor with the Kendall coven. Maddie Buckley, sadly, was not the first young witch to be offered up on the altar of coven politics and she would not be the last. Sally had not expected her marriage to be happy.

But she had not expected it to be violent, either.

She’d been arrogant, she saw now. So certain in her ability to take the weight and measure of any witch after so long on this plane of existence. Stupid. Stupid.

Anger warred with the panic that wanted to overtake her, her magic crackling and snapping beneath her skin. Fury like she hadn’t known in centuries pulsed in her heart, so intense she barely knew what to do with it. She could almost hear her mentors from centuries past whispering in her ear. Who does anger serve Sally? What does anger help Sally? Channel it, Sally. Make it productive. Anger wouldn’t help anyone right now…but it was better than the panic.

The problem was the obvious target for her anger was already dead…and so she was left to keep it from splashing all over every other available target.

She was angry with Sebastian. A familiar’s first duty was to protect their witch. There was no getting around the fact that he’d judged the situation between Maddie Buckley and her husband poorly; let Maddie’s desires outweigh what he had to have known was the best course of action and had failed in his duty.

She was angry with herself for not seeing signs that she absolutely should have recognized if she was so damned smart and observant. For not stepping in to help the woman she’d watched grow up, the woman her witch adored above all others in his life, even herself. For not realizing the desperate, foolish plan her witch had come up with to protect his sister until it was too late.

Heaven help her, she was angry at Evan. Why hadn’t he called to her when he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to just drive to his sister’s house and bring her back to their parents’ home? Why hadn’t he called? He knew she would have come. He knew there was nothing she would not risk, nothing she would not give up to protect him. Maddie had had no choice but to defend herself, and she would have stood proudly by her witch to testify to that fact. He had to know that. She was one of the few beings in the state that had the clout to even begin to mount a defense for Maddie, though it mightn’t have been enough. The laws around using your magic to take another witch’s life were strict and all but merciless, for good reason, but…

No.

No, she knew exactly why Evan hadn’t called for her.

She could have done more for his sister than just about everyone else in their coven, but there was still a very large chance that Maddie would be executed. She could not truly guarantee that Maddie would not have faced the death penalty, particularly with a coven and family as politically powerful as the Kendalls on the warpath, seeking revenge for their son’s death. Evan…Evan was still technically a child, by human and coven law. There were those on the Pennsylvania high coven that would push for his execution, as close to the age of majority as he was, but Sally was confident that they would be outnumbered by those who favored banishment.

Banishment.

Evan was facing banishment.

Her witch. Her little love. Grown so tall and broad now, but forever small in her eyes. The boy she’d practically raised—alongside his sister—since he was ten years old. And banishment was the best case scenario. She was confident that the high coven would not vote to execute a seventeen-year-old boy…but she had been confident that Doug Kendall was only a political animal. Not a monster.

Foolish. Sebastian had been so foolish not to tell anyone the first time Doug Kendall lashed out at his wife in anger. Maddie had not recorded any evidence of the abuse she suffered with the human authorities, using her own magic and training to treat the worst of her wounds and hiding the rest until they faded from view. She had never come to her coven for protection, had never lodged any complaint that her marriage—an alliance between the Buckley and Kendall covens first and foremost, with certain rights and protections guaranteed to her because of it—was causing her harm. There was no paper trail, no evidence, nothing they could use to claim Maddie was justified in killing her husband. Intellectually, Sally understood. Oh she understood how well shame and fear and despair could work to silence even the strongest person. But Evan was in danger now. She cared for Maddie, but Evan was hers.

Pull yourself together Bastian, she said firmly, forcing her anger and fear back under her control by sheer force of will. Neither would help her witch. There must…there must be some way out of this.

There had to be.

How? Sebastian sniffled, shaking himself again and heaving in great gulps of air, visibly trying to regain his composure. Neither of us were there to witness. Maddie…Maddie’s still ill from the drain defending herself put on her magic, but Phillip and Margaret are already spinning a story of her having a breakdown over Doug’s death and her brother’s supposed betrayal. With Evan already confessing, no one will push to question her before she’s recovered—there won’t be any evidence that she’s the one who expended the magic to kill him.

And Evan was well-known to be a powerful witch. A powerful witch trained by a veteran of the Annihilation, no less. No one would question why Evan was not an insensate heap on the ground after murdering another witch. Maddie was in no condition to call her brother’s story into question or confess herself, and by the time she was…

Lying to the authority of the high coven was not as serious a crime as murder…but it was not far off.

Sally had only seen her witch briefly before he was hauled off for questioning by the high coven. If she lived another thousand years, she knew the sight of him would be burned indelibly into her heart and mind. Pale and shaking, hunched in over himself so that even with his great height he seemed little more than a child. Bound and shackled like the worst kind of criminal, left to stew in his own fear in a hastily warded room in his parents’ house while the local covens worked together to ensure that the true nature of Doug Kendall’s death was hidden from the human authorities. Neither of his parents had even deigned to come sit with him.

To her dying day, she would never be able to recall the pain in his eyes when she approached him, the way they’d instantly filled with tears, the way he’d breathed her name like the sight of her was the only comfort he had left in the world to cling to.

And in the next breath, he’d forbidden her to help him. Bound her in silence the way Maddie had done to Sebastian. Tears spilling from his eyes, shaking like a leaf—but his voice had been steady and sure. He’d known exactly what he was doing, exactly what it meant. He’d had to have known she would wait to speak to him before she did anything, would want the full story so she could decide how best to approach his defense; minimize the risk to Maddie.

At every turn, Evan had orchestrated everything to protect his sister. Terrified and traumatized, well aware that he was risking death or banishment, he’d taken the terrible, terrible cards he’d been dealt and played them all perfectly in service of making sure Maddie wouldn’t suffer any consequence for defending herself. In any other circumstance, she would have been bursting with pride.

As it was, all she could be was worried.

Sebastian looked around the attic space where he’d spent years training Maddie Buckley, misery in every line of his body. Seven years ago, in this very room, Sally had first laid eyes properly on her witch…and felt something about him call to her in a way that no Buckley witch had in over fifty years. She’d known in that moment that he was hers. She was meant to train him, to protect him, to make sure he was ready.

Ready for what, she’d never been able to tell. Divination, true divination, was a rare gift…even moreso in this day and age, and one that had never run in the covens to which she’d pledged her magic. It was true, though, that all familiars were at least a little sensitive to the whims of fate. You had to be, when your entire purpose in existence was to guide young witches in service of magic. The currents of magic that flowed around Evan and off into whatever fate had planned for him were so peculiar. She’d noticed it the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. Logic would dictate that what she’d sensed were the remains of the terrible thing his parents had tried to do when he was only a baby—but Sally had never felt like that was it. Or at least, that was not all.

All she knew was that Evan was meant to be her witch. That she was meant to make him strong, that he needed the kind of training that only a familiar of her age and experience would have been able to provide. There had been many in the coven that looked at her strangely for the way she trained Evan. And the heavens knew she’d clashed often with Margaret and Phillip over the perceived old-fashioned nature of the education she was giving their son. None of it mattered. She knew in her heart she was doing what was best for her witch. Her finest and most favorite witch she had ever bonded with, in all the hundred of years that she’d been training witches.

She could only pray that she had done enough; that Evan would be strong enough to face whatever the currents of magic were pushing him towards.

Sally, Sebastian said miserably. What are we going to do?

For the first time in what felt like forever, Sally had no answer.

*

She had known what it would mean when—not if, she had never let herself entertain the notion that Evan would be executed—Evan was banished. She thought she had prepared herself for it. Told herself that as long as he was still alive, that was all that mattered. She was, when all was said and done, a product of war…even as old as she was, more of her life had been spent in conflict than out. She well understood that hope was only gone when you were dead. As long as Evan was alive, she could have faith that there was some way to fix this mess. As long as her little love lived, she could still have hope. When the high coven handed down the sentence, though, the full enormity of what she would have to do hit her.

She had lost witches before. Of course she had lost witches. Many. Some to age and sickness. Some to accidents. Some…some had died far, far too young, screaming their pain and defiance as they lost their lives to another damnable coven war. She had lost her first coven, her entire coven, in one of the opening salvos of the Annihilation and that pain had never left her. That wound had never closed. She knew the pain of coven bonds going dark. Slowly and gently as her witch left this world for the next at the end of a long life. Harshly and violently as the bond did not fade, but broke, a jagged, pulsing injury that left her reeling for days on end. It was not an unfamiliar pain.

But never, in all her centuries, had she had to sever the bond herself.

She sat in a vestibule of the Pennsylvania high coven’s meeting hall, separated from her witch as she had been from the moment formal charges were brought against him. Nearly a month since she had been allowed to speak to him, see him, comfort and guide him. Their bond felt stretched to the breaking point, for all that she knew that was mostly in her head. She had spent her days trying to project calm and reassurance to Evan, even as she grew more and more frantic in her search for some way to prove that Evan had not murdered his brother-in-law within the directive her witch had bound her to, to not speak of it.

She could not even encourage the investigators indirectly to look for other explanations—the investigation had been a farce. Over so quickly that it was obvious they had not even entertained the possibility of another explanation than the one Evan gave. Especially after Maddie was questioned and confirmed Evan’s version of events.

Sally didn’t blame her. Well. She was trying not to blame her. By the time Phillip and Margaret had allowed the high coven investigators to talk to her, the lie had already taken root. Confessing what she had done would have resulted in her death and Evan would have possibly been banished anyway. The purely practical part of her—forged to diamond-like hardness in the fires of the Annihilation—understood that Maddie had not had a choice but to go along with the story, and also acknowledged that Maddie was sick with guilt over it. She regretted dragging her brother into the mess with every fiber of her being and even if things somehow, somehow turned out all right, Sally knew that guilt would stay with Maddie until the day she died. There was only one person responsible for this entire mess, and he was dead.

Sitting here, flanked by the Pennsylvania high coven’s familiars, flanked by Doug fucking Kendall’s familiar as witnesses to what she was now required to do…it was hard to remember that.

Evan was banished. It was forbidden for a familiar to remain bonded to a covenless witch.

My lady, the sentencing is over, one of the high coven familiars said, his voice quiet. She was older than all of the familiars surrounding her by at least a couple of centuries. Most of them knew her by reputation at the very least, and their discomfort was obvious in every interaction. At least they had been respectful.

Hrmph, Doug Kendall’s former familiar, a creature named Ichabod that had taken the form of a copperhead snake. The younger familiars tended to be more free with the forms they took—eschewing older generations’ habits of choosing common, innocuous animals like cats, dogs, and native birds. One of the high coven familiars sat in the form of a peacock in the middle of Pennsylvania. At least Ichabod had chosen a native animal for his form. Banishment. Too good for the bastard.

Sally’s eyes found his, and she stared at him coldly until he shifted in discomfort and slithered further away from her. It was a terrible thing to lose one’s witch to death. Even the long-expected death of old age was difficult. To lose your witch to violence was a pain Sally would not wish on anyone…but nor did Ichabod inspire an ounce of her sympathy. Not when she had no idea if Doug Kendall had bound him to silence over his treatment of Maddie, or if the creature simply didn’t care. Not when he was so damned gleeful over Evan’s trial, over the possibility that he would be executed for Doug Kendall’s death.

My lady, the high coven familiar—Joseph? Jeffrey? He’d introduced himself, but she couldn’t remember his name for the life of her—said again, dipping his head in a small bow that somehow managed to convey both sympathy and an implacable expectation that she would do what he had been charged with witnessing her do. He was nearly as old as she was, probably a veteran of the Annihilation himself, and spoke in a stiffly formal, old-fashioned manner that she hadn’t heard for a very long time. No one had called her a “lady” in over a hundred years. You must sever your bond with the boy.

She swallowed, closing her eyes briefly as she tried to draw on the strength that had carried her through the centuries. Through war and death and fear and chaos. Through the world changing all around her in ways she could never have imagined when she first took physical form on this plane. Through every trial and challenge she had ever faced. She had lost witches before.

But not like this. Never like this.

It was Evan.

It was wrong. It went against everything she stood for as a familiar, every vow she’d sworn to the Buckley coven to be fair and impartial, to be a guide and always treat her witches the same…but Evan had always been different. She’d loved all her witches, it was true, but Evan had worked his way into her heart in a manner that none of the others ever had. None of the others had ever needed her the way that lost, lonely little boy had. None of the others had ever called to her the way Evan did. He was hers. He was hers.

Well? Ichabod scoffed, a greedy, satisfied light glittering in his eyes. He was enjoying this. Reveling in the fact that Evan was about to lose everything. Get on with it.

Ichabod, the high coven familiar—Joseph, his name was Joseph, it came to her—said, a hint of reproach in his tone. Give her a moment.

Ichabod hissed, raising himself up to sway menacingly back and forth like a striking cobra instead of a copperhead. Why should I? Her bastard of a witch is banished! He deserves every bit of what’s coming!

Bite your tongue, Sally warned, her body going still, her magic churning within her. Ichabod whirled on her, scoffing again.

What? Can’t stand the truth? Perhaps if you’d accepted the rot in him sooner, like the rest of the coven, he wouldn’t have— The rest of his sentence was cut off with a choked cry as Sally flashed forward, faster than he was expecting, faster than any of them were expecting judging by the startled cries that went up around her. Between one breath and the next, Ichabod was pinned to the floor, her claws digging into his throat as he hissed and thrashed.

Bite. Your. Tongue. Or I’ll do it for you,she said, her voice deadly even.

My lady, Joseph interceded, stepping cautiously closer to her. My lady, this isn’t going to help anything.

She glared down at Ichabod, at this creature who had known what his witch was doing to Maddie Buckley. Even if he was bound to silence, even if he didn’t realize that it was Maddie who killed Doug Kendall and not Evan…he had to know that Kendall had deserved it. She pressed down harder on his throat, just to watch his eyes widen, just to watch the fear start to creep into his gaze as he thrashed helplessly under her. Then she released him, stepping back to sit primly down and wrap her tail around her feet.

Out, she said, the cold of the between dripping from the word. All of you. Joseph will witness when I sever the bond. She sat herself up ramrod straight, meeting each of the high coven familiars’ gazes unflinchingly while Ichabod sputtered and spit, hissing in fury.

Agreed, Joseph said immediately, nodding sharply at his companions. Sally watched in silence as Ichabod was escorted out of the room. Only when she and Joseph were alone did she let her shoulders slump, her head hanging.

I…apologize, she said softly. It has been a difficult month.

I’m not sorry to see that asshole put in his place, Joseph replied with a small smile. His witch had been one of the strongest voices on the high coven advocating for leniency for Evan, and Sally found herself comfortable in his presence in a way she only really felt with familiars around her own age. For what it’s worth, I don’t believe justice is being served here. Your witch…Randall and I both have our suspicions about what happened, and why you’ve not contested his account. If it had been almost any family but the Kendalls…

The players change, but somehow the story always remains the same, she said tiredly.

Joseph was silent a moment. Then, You love him as a mother loves her child, my lady. That’s a dangerous position for any familiar to be in.

She laughed, and Joseph was politely silent in the face of how wet and ragged it sounded. If fate had given him a better mother, perhaps I wouldn’t have felt the need to put myself in that position. But I did. And I do not regret it.

I am sorry, Joseph said, and he sounded sincere. He bowed his head again, and then said gently, It’s better not to draw it out.

Sally closed her eyes again, taking a deep, shuddering breath. I know.

There was no other choice. Regardless of her age or power, regardless of whether or not the law was just or fair or even still useful, she had to follow it. A familiar could not be bound to a covenless witch. She had to let Evan go. Her eyes stinging with unshed tears, she reached for the bond that had burned in the back of her mind for seven years, brighter and truer and more important than any of the bonds she’d had in her long life. She curled herself around its warmth for just one moment more, wishing, wishing, wishing that she could see Evan again. Talk to him. Tell him that she forgave him…that she understood why he did what he did, and that no matter what she was proud of him for defending his sister so fiercely.

Evan would be kept under guard for the seven days and seven nights he had to vacate the Pennsylvania high coven’s territory. He would not be allowed to see or speak to any of his coven except for the last night, when he’d be allowed to choose one member of his coven to accompany him to the edges of their territory…if any member of his coven was willing. It would not be wise, given the optics of the situation, but she knew Maddie would be the one to take that journey with him. They’d find a way to hide it, somehow. It had to be Maddie, however much she knew that Evan would want them both. It could only be one of them, and she would never take the chance to say goodbye from either of them.

Even if it meant she would not be able to say goodbye herself.

The bond between a witch and familiar was not quite an empathetic link. She could not share her thoughts with Evan, or even much more than vague emotions. She opened herself to the bond now, concentrating on the love she felt for her witch—as Joseph had said, a mother’s love for her child. She just hoped he could feel it. That he would understand.

I’m sorry, little love, she thought to herself. She steeled herself.

Took one more moment to bask in the light of her bond with her witch.

And then severed it.

*

She had been loyal to the Buckley coven for over three hundred years.

Once upon a time, she had thought she would be loyal to them until the day she left this plane of existence. They had taken her in when she was still reeling from the destruction of her first coven in the beginnings of the Annihilation—given her a home, a purpose, a coven again. They had been friends, family. She had trained many witches in their line. Even…even when things started to go wrong; when she started to notice a growing preoccupation with reputation, prestige, and power among the coven leaders. Even when she found herself turning away from the idea of training any of the young witches coming up in the coven, instead devoting herself to mentoring new familiars that found themselves called by the magic they all served to take physical form on this plane.

She had still thought she would stay with the Buckley coven.

When she found Evan, she thought she had at last found a reason to become more fully integrated in the coven again. She’d been aware of the boy, of course—she knew all the young witches in the coven. She’d even been vaguely aware that his parents and some ranking members of the coven seemed to think there was something wrong with him. Or at least, they seemed put off by him. A few of her friends among the coven familiars attributed it to Evan having been born shortly before Philip and Margaret’s other son had died, and it had seemed a logical explanation. Awful. But logical.

And then she’d followed one of the young familiars she was mentoring to his family’s house, after he’d announced that his witch was calling for him and it felt like she was frightened. She’d had no idea how much that single night would change.

She had learned so much about the current state of the Buckley coven since that night. More specifically, she had learned much about what certain members of her coven were willing to sink to in desperation…and what other members of her coven were willing to cover up in pursuit of maintaining an image.

If she had not already bonded with Evan when she discovered that Philip and Margaret Buckley had used a forbidden ritual in an attempt to save Daniel Buckley’s life, she would have left the coven that night. What they had tried to do was a relic from some of the darkest times in history for witches…and should have remained there. Even when Sally had been young, covens had gone to war over such rituals. That they had been willing to sacrifice their child…that they had conceived Evan solely to be a sacrifice…

She might still have reported them to the high coven if she’d had any faith that Evan and Maddie would not have suffered any consequence. If she’d had any faith that the coven would have taken care of Evan the way he deserved to be taken care of, that he would not have been blamed for something that was never, never his fault. She didn’t, though. The fact that coven leadership had been willing to sweep Philip and Margaret’s actions under the rug to preserve the coven’s reputation was proof enough of that.

She…she had no faith in the coven anymore.

She had planned to wait until Evan turned eighteen, until he was able to be out on his own in the world before she did anything. But with her bond with Evan broken, with her witch already out in the world alone…what was she staying here for?

Maddie and Sebastian were the only ones she’d even spoken to with any regularity in the three months since Evan’s banishment. She tried to be gentle and understanding, but the truth was talking with Maddie was painful for her. There was too much guilt, too much uncertainty between them and Sally…Sally knew she should be the one to breach the wall that had sprung up between them. For Evan’s sake, for the boy they both loved so much, had worked together to raise. She couldn’t bring herself to do it, though. It hurt too much. She couldn’t bear to even look at Philip and Margaret. Ignored any overtures that Philip’s familiar tried to make. The other members of their coven seemed not to know how to even approach her.

Why was she staying?

The coven that had taken her in and given her a home during the worst moments of her life had changed almost beyond all recognition. What was keeping her here? What was she being loyal to?

She could move on to a new coven. Any would take her, would be glad of the chance to add a familiar of her power and experience to their ranks. She could start over somewhere new. Couldn’t she? Or…

Or.

The thought came to her in the late hours of the night as she restlessly paced the perimeter of the Buckley coven lands. And once it came, it would not leave. It was forbidden for a familiar to stay bonded to a covenless witch—and familiars needed a coven bond as much as witches did. Without a coven bond, a witch’s power would eventually fade and die, and until then the strain of casting would grow ever, ever harder to bear. For a familiar? A being made of pure magic? For a familiar to be covenless would eventually mean death. A return to the source of the magic they wielded. Death.

Peace.

Rest.

Sally had walked this plane for over four hundred years. It would take a long, long time for her magic to fade to the point she could no longer maintain a physical form. Years. Decades, even. She would have her magic long after even Evan’s faded.

Hadn’t she always sensed that Evan would be her last witch?

Evan needed her. From the very first, something about him had called to her, told her he needed her. She had sworn to answer that call—sworn to protect him and guide him for as long as he lived. He was her witch. He was her witch, and he was all alone in the world. She might not be able to maintain this form for the rest of his life, but she would not fade for a good long while. Hadn’t…hadn’t she served magic for long enough? Hadn’t she done her part to guide young witches, bring stability to her covens, mentored young familiars?

Couldn’t she give herself over to a life lived with her last witch?

The idea would not leave her.

She had no way of contacting Evan. Maddie said he had promised her he would call when his magic faded…the girl had some notion of giving up her own coven bonds to make her way in the world with her brother. A beautiful idea, but Sally was skeptical that the Buckley and Kendall covens would allow her to leave so easily. Besides—it would be years yet before Evan lost the last of his magic. There were scrying spells, locator charms, but all of those worked best in fairly localized areas. If Evan had traveled more than a few hundred miles away—and in her heart, she knew he would be forced to be on the move fairly constantly, always driven away from coven territories as soon as they realized his banished status—most spells would be about as useful as picking random cities and asking people on the street if they had seen a young man with a birthmark. There had to be a way. There had to.

As Evan’s familiar, there had been no distance too great for her to be able to sense him. Find him. He would have been able to call to her from halfway across the world and she would have felt it. She could have followed him anywhere. Without the familiar bond, he was lost to her. She could no longer sense his presence, his magic.

Perhaps it was fate that the answer came to her on the day of Evan’s eighteenth birthday.

For years, Evan’s birthday had been mostly a private celebration between him and Maddie. No gigantic parties attended by the whole coven. Occasionally he would gather friends from school and go out for movies or pizza. Mostly, though, he and Maddie would pile into her car and spend the day together—sometimes they went shopping, or to arcades or amusement parks, or just out to dinner at Evan’s favorite restaurant. She and Sebastian would follow along at discreet distances, content to just watch their witches be happy together.

Evan’s eighteenth birthday was supposed to be a day of celebration for all of them. The day Evan was finally free to make a life of his own choosing, the day Sally had planned to finally make sure his parents paid for the horrific thing they had done to him when he was helpless and dependent on them, the day that was supposed to be the start of the rest of his life. Instead, Maddie was forced to pretend not to acknowledge the day at all. The Kendall coven was still circling around her like vultures, under the pretense of ‘helping her through her grief.’ Gloria Kendall, Doug Kendall’s mother, was particularly…intense around Maddie. Sally wondered if the woman didn’t suspect the truth of what had happened to her son, and was just looking for some kind of proof to bring punishment down on Maddie’s head. She knew Sebastian was almost afraid to leave his witch’s side these days.

The other familiars of the coven were avoiding her, barely able to meet her eyes when they did happen to cross paths. Once, it might have wounded her deeply—but there was nothing that could hurt as much as knowing her witch was waking up to a world that would barely acknowledge his existence, let alone his birthday.

She didn’t know why she found herself in the attic where she and Sebastian had spent so many years teaching Evan and Maddie. Philip and Margaret didn’t like her showing up at their house anymore, though Hepzibah and Gregor rarely made an issue of it. There were other places that held the same kind of memories for her, other places that made her feel close to Evan just by being there. Better places, even, as Evan had never been truly happy in this house, however much she and Maddie had worked to make it otherwise. The attic was where it all began, where she had truly been introduced to Evan, where his magic—so much stronger than it ever should have been for such a terrible reason—had called to her for the first time.

She wondered, sometimes, what would have happened if Maddie had never chosen to try and cheer her brother up by casting with him that night. Would she have come across Evan in some other way? She’d always been aware of the children of the cove, of course, but she had not been looking for another witch to train at the time. She’d even had vague thoughts of officially announcing that she would only be mentoring the coven familiars from then on, fading into the background of the coven’s day-today life even more. If the finding spell Evan had cast that night had never gotten so tangled in the outsized magic that Evan wielded…

The realization was like being struck by lightning.

She had been curled up on the threadbare carpet where she’d sat with Evan so many times, teaching him how to harness the magic inside him, how to channel the immense power he held, but now she leapt to her feet. Her eyes darted around the expanse of the attic, her magic curling within her and reaching outwards. Evan was eighteen now. An adult, by coven and human law. And that meant…

The spell he’d cast that night Sally had first met him would have found its anchor and solidified between them.

Any other witch, any other witch, and any other familiar, it would have been madness to even try. The echoes of years and years of magic and spells were thick in the attic, layers upon layers of Buckley magic that never quite faded from such an established focal point. To try and find the echoes of a singular spell…to try and follow it. But Evan’s magic was stronger and brighter than anyone else’s in the coven. Sally was stronger and older than any other familiar in the coven. This. This was the way she could find him.

The finding spell he’d cast when he was just a child…a powerful tether he’d unwittingly created with a child’s simple wish to be loved and a level of power that ought to have been impossible. The spell had spiraled out of control in Evan’s untrained hands, but it had been cast. Sally had always known that eventually Evan would be drawn to the person the spell had tethered him to. It had never worried her—it had been a foolish spell for Maddie to attempt, but Evan’s innocence would actually have acted as a shield against many of the ways it could have gone wrong. The spell as Evan had cast it really would find the person it was meant to—someone who would love her witch the way he deserved to be loved. Someone who would take care of him and protect him the way he deserved to be taken care of and protected. How could she be worried about that?

If she meant to do this—she would have to commit. She would have to give up her coven bonds. She would have to take the risk that the tether that bound Evan to the person he was meant for would lead her far, far away. And she would have to follow it to that person. Trying to trace the magic back to Evan himself had far less of a chance of success when he was all but guaranteed to be constantly on the move. Once the spell led him to where it had anchored, there would be nothing left for her to follow…she could waste all of the time she had constantly playing catchup to him. No…no, better to find the anchor point. It would still be like searching out a needle in a haystack—heaven help her, it might take years to follow such an ephemeral thread of magic—but at least it was less likely to be a moving needle.

If she meant to do this…

She did. She did.

She had never seen the value in dithering over a decision once it was made. This place, this coven—it was not home anymore. Home was with her witch, her little love…wherever that ended up being. Even taking the time to tell Maddie and Sebastian what she intended to do seemed an unnecessary delay. They might try to talk her out of it—might even insist on trying to come with her. As much as she cared for Maddie, the purely pragmatic part of her was forced to acknowledge that she had to play the part she was playing right now. It was not safe for her to leave her coven and seek her brother out. It might not be safe for a very long time. Still…she would not be so cruel as to simply vanish, not when she knew exactly how important having any kind of connection to Evan would be to Maddie right now.

She didn’t dare leave anything so mundane as a note on the table—Philip and Margaret did not seem to venture up here often, but they did occasionally make their presence known. Sebastian knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t simply leave with no warning, though…and he would know to look in the between. A simple mimic burst, spelled into the between in the attic—something no one but someone who knew her well would think to look for. Something only Sebastian and Maddie would want to look for.

How had the coven she had loved for over three hundred years come to this?

There was nothing she could do about it now, though…and Evan needed her.

She closed her eyes, breathing deep, and concentrated on the echoes of magic that swirled through the room, seeking out the remains of the wild burst of magic that had first drawn her to her witch’s side. She poured all of her power into her senses, clawed for the echoes of the tether that would eventually lead her to her witch’s side once more. Her heart beat wildly when she found it, a shining thread of magic that she could follow. It was faint to her senses—and she could tell that wherever the other end of the tether was, it was very far away. But it was there. It was there.

Sally stood in the quiet of the attic, contemplating what she was about to do—what she was about to give up. This had been her home, her coven for almost four hundred years. It should be a harder decision, shouldn’t it? She should feel some reluctance, she thought. Some apprehension. But no…

No.

This course of action would lead her back to her witch’s side, where she belonged. Where she would always belong. What could compare to that?

Sally gathered her power and reached for the connection that bound her to the Buckley coven, and had for centuries. Allowing her focus to shift to the faint tether that would take her to the person Evan was destined to be drawn to, she closed her eyes…and let go of her coven.

Then she plunged into the between.

[moutainrusing]

lips

743 words, no warnings, @dorlenemicroficprompts

This pillow. This pillow was where Marlene would live forever, where she would bury her face and scream for all eternity, because Dorcas was driving her insane.

More specifically, Dorcas’s lips were driving her insane, because why did Dorcas have to do that and this and that with her lips all the time?! The lip-point, a common gesture in many cultures, typically attributed to Southeast Asia, South America, Africa, Oceania… it made sense, of course – it was a gesture that Dorcas was raised with, except it made Marlene look at Dorcas’s lips, and then Marlene couldn’t stop looking, because she was a creep!

The problem was Marlene. Actually, not Marlene, just the small section of her brain that seemed to think Dorcas was the most attractive thing in existence, which was quite factually true, so Marlene couldn’t argue with it, but she was supposed to keep it to herself! Not start staring at Dorcas’s pouting lips whenever she pointed to something with them!

Marlene was about to start crying into this pillow.

She breathed into it, thought about how Dorcas’s lips were very pillowy—

No, but when Dorcas pointed with them, it was like she was kissing the air. Her lips were a soft, pillowy cloud of pink, like burgundy candy floss, and it was a blessing to be pointed at by them. They were a symbol of intimacy, so when Dorcas turned her head and subtly gestured her lips towards something, she was showering it with love, like butterfly kisses, fluttering from the cusps of opening flowers, seeing the world through rose gold tinted glasses, a warm, hazy state of easy love.

Marlene wished Dorcas would point at her with her lips.

Head still in the pillow, she heard the door open.

“Hi,” Dorcas greeted, and Marlene immediately lifted her head to see Dorcas smiling. (With her lips.) (Because people smiled with their lips.) (Be normal, Marlene.)

“Hi!” Marlene beamed, and, Fuck me, my voice was so high-pitched.

Dorcas’s lips twitched in amusement. (Why, lips?! Stupid, stupid lips. Marlene needed to stop looking.)

“We were looking for you, I wanted you to see this cool rune we found in the common room.” Dorcas turned her head (and gave Marlene a glorious view of her side-profile), and gestured with her lips to the common room, and that was a pout Marlene really wanted to kiss, and also, her brain should shut up.

Think about something else instead, like… lip-pointing was very respectful, when one thought about it, because it was considered rude to point fingers, but with a little tilt of the chin and a quirk of the lips, people could still point out what they wanted to, and it’d be softer and warmer, because they’d be pointing with their lips, like how Dorcas did, with her pretty pouting lips—

Marlene’s eyes had been glued to Dorcas’s lips for way too long. A flush seeped into her cheeks, and with painful awkwardness, she pulled her gaze upwards in order to gauge the expression on Dorcas’s face.

Dorcas also looked frozen. They were both locked in a heavy stare, the air around them too hot for comfort and too hot to breathe. To compensate for the sudden lack of oxygen, Marlene’s heart was trying to beat itself into cardiac arrest. “Um,” she said, and, Fuck me, why does my voice sound so breathless?

The sound seemed to bring Dorcas to life, and she stepped forward, until she was standing over Marlene, and they were still staring at each other. The trusty pillow was in Marlene’s hands, but she was losing her grip on it.

It fell to the floor, landing on Dorcas’s feet, and Marlene looked down, but Dorcas put a warm hand on her chin and brought her gaze back up. Everything was so warm, hot and dry as if they’d been a desert for days without water. Dorcas licked her bottom lip, and there it was, a strip of water, shiny like the oasis where Marlene would live forever, burying her face into it. Suddenly, she was surging forward, crashing into Dorcas’s mouth like breaking the surface of a lake, drinking from it as if she’d die from dehydration if she stopped. Dorcas was drinking from her, too.

As in, Dorcas was kissing her back. Kissing her back? It felt as though they were drinking from each other. Whatever it was, Marlene was officially an addict. She gladly succumbed to her fate.