#he really needed the time to heal and work on himself

[ramblingautisticman]

So, I haven't stopped thinking about this post I did talking about Logan being terrified of Wade going quiet because of the whole Stryker-sewing-his-mouth thing, so naturally I wrote a lil angsty thing for it.

(Also posted it to A03 here!)

(Also, @icarusredwings hope you enjoy, cause your little reblog of my post kind of inspired this lol!)

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It's this constant fear. This constant nagging in the back of his head. Logan can't help it.

Normally, he's fine. Wade is practically talking every minute of every day, but on the rare occasions he doesn't, it catches him out.

Wade doesn't need to know that though. Wade doesn't need to be burdened with more of his own stupid hang ups than he already is. So what if some of his nightmares are more focused on Wade than they are his X-Men? No one but him needs to know that.

Logan just subtly makes sure Wade is fine, reminds himself that "Stryker is dead Peanut, trust me. You made sure of that." and moves on with his day. Mostly. Usually.

And okay, yeah, maybe he should tell Wade. Maybe Wade has a right to know about what happened to the 'other' him. Maybe Logan wants to tell him purely for his own stupid reasons. Maybe he wants Wade to know that Logan won't ever let anyone do that to him. Not this time.

He can't bring himself to tell him though- instead just keeps it buried inside like most of his other trauma- and it works for awhile.

Up until Wade gets a cold and loses his voice.

It's fine. It's totally fine. He is totally fine. Logan definitely hasn't been staring at Wade's mouth just to make sure it's still there. He definitely hasn't woken up terrified and sweating because of the nightmares happening more often. He definitely hasn't had a panic attack because Wade couldn't respond to him. No. Not him. Never.

He could deal with it. Wade was just sick. It was his stupid shitty healing factor working over time to stop the cancer, and as a result he had a cold. It was fine. People got colds. People lost there voice. It wasn't the same. Stryker hadn't done this. He still had his mouth. He could still make noise- hell- he could still speak! It was just alittle croaky and quiet.

Logan knew it really shouldn't get to him this much. After all this time, he should be able to move on from that stupid shit, right? He was over 200 years old, he was grown ass man, he shouldn't be hovering near Wade to make sure he is still breathing out of his mouth. He shouldn't be sitting so close to him on the couch just to hear the tiny mutters he makes. He shouldn't be glaring at his mouth just to make sure he still fucking has one.

He knows this Wade- the Wade that saved him- never went through the Stryker bullshit, and he knows that should comfort him. He knows that should fill him with relief, and in a way it does. It means he never had the one thing he holds so dear taken away from him. It just also means that- that could still happen- couldn't it?

Sure, Stryker was dead, but that didn't mean anything. Laura was still made in a lab and experimented on. Wade was still tortured and traumatised. Just because the guy that started all this shit wasn't around anymore, didn't mean it still didn't happen. Logan couldn't help but think that, any day, someone was going to come and take Wade away. Someone was going to hurt him in a way he wasn't sure he could fix.

Wade wouldn't be Wade without his mouth. He was called 'The Merc With A Mouth' for a reason. Wade's whole thing was talking. He loved making his family laugh and using stupid pet names and telling Logan all about the lore of his favourite show. He loved reading to Al and helping Laura with her drama class. He loved coming up with quick comments and snarky remarks while he killed assholes on missions. Wade just wouldn't be the same if he couldn't talk. Logan knew that all to well- and the though that one day, it might still happen? It just didn't sit right with him.

Even after Wade's healing factor fully kicked back in again. Even after Wade was back to rambling about cartoon dogs and his latest mission. Even after Wade had killed someone with a stupid joke. Even after he started making gross sexual remarks again.

Logan still woke up from nightmares terrified that the Wade he was laying next to had a scar tissue covered mouth. Logan still had panic attacks where the only thing to sooth him would be Wade's soft voice. Logan still subconsciously found himself staring at Wade's mouth- just incase. Logan still hated when Wade was quiet while watching a movie or eating something.

He wasn't sure he would ever get over it. Not fully. He would probably get better with the nightmares, grow used to them in a way he had with the others that frequented his mind, but he would still make sure. Double checking.

He would get used to Wade going quiet when he focused on a show or if he had a mouth full of food, but his eyes would still drift to his lips, making sure they were still there.

He would be okay with Wade sometimes loosing his voice, but it would still send a wave of panic over him. It would still make him lean in alittle closer so he could make sure Wade was breathing through his mouth or muttering something.

Wade would probably never know, Logan would probably never tell him, but he would get better. He would remember that this Wade hadn't been touched by Stryker faster when he woke up. He would settle quicker as Wade mutterd a quiet "I got you baby" as he wrapped an arm around him. He would find comfort in the fact that this Wade- his Wade- would never shut up.

No matter how hard anyone tried.

[darknights-beloved]

King of Hearts!Diluc R. headcanons and ideas

wc ⸺ 1.4k

cw; just a heartbroken diluc. </3. not exactly a diluc x reader as in direct insert but rather doing a personality, appearance just to properly decide on his overall character. not exactly ooc though obviously its a different au so, you get it. also lots of bittersweetness ‎૮ ꒰ྀི╥ ᴗ ╥꒱ྀིა ultimately he is the sweetest hopeless romantic ever ♡

also if this was an xreader fic then it would be soulmates trope w/ a tinge of forbidden love. so there.

At first glance.

Diluc is a king with a broken heart.

He rules over a kingdom that grows more delicate and fragile as his heart weakens the more years he spends in his immortal life, lonely with exhaustive volumes of blood dirtying his hands.

The kingdom suffers a famine due to the power loss. He lies to himself, tries to trick himself into thinking he has it all under control.

He doesn't.

Perhaps in this case, he- the king - is the damsel in distress, waiting for the one he holds dear to hold his heart in her hands and kiss it until it heals.

Comes to life, eagerly. Thump thump thump...

He waits.

Personality , Traits, etc

Diluc's eyes are canonically [ ? ] sharp, I think. It's like a hooded gaze. Alert, ready...present. always making sure that no danger is in sight. As for koh Diluc? I'd like to believe his eyes are more weary, droopier. His eyebrows, however, are always etched in a furrow. But his eyes? His eyes are just sad. Canon Diluc's dominant emotion is anger (phlegmatic-choleric) and koh Diluc is more sad (melancholic-phlegmatic). It's really the long years of his immortality, fighting alone despite his army, men and all. (But he is also secretly very kind. Any tough demeanor remains a demeanor)

You know what? Now that we're talking about the temperaments. Why not just get all into it.

I believe koh diluc's pdb is

Intj (T) 6w5 ,, tri type 615 [?] ,, melancholic phlegmatic ,, Ni > Fi > Te > Se ,, sp/sx ,, neuroticism (?) please give ideas.

Koh Diluc is so, so much more exhausted. He falls asleep on his throne with his arms crossed sometimes and furrowed brows relax into a softer expression. His Guards don't dare make a sound or try to wake him up. They know how he works himself to the bone.

He's actually a little more quieter, the only time he'd usually speak is when he needs to give out another order to his men, soldiers or servants. Other than that, he's quite quiet and keeps to himself a lot /isolating

King of hearts Diluc loves desserts. He adores them. Tarts, cookies, coffee and cake - oh, he loves cake (especially red velvet/chocolate…a little self-indulgent there haha) – caramel, little toffees, pastries, chocolate.... Gods, you name it. It’s not much of a secret since at every feast and dinner table there’s always an overly generous number of deserts and sweet treats.

Despite his cold almost burnt out demeanour hes actually very soft. He love gardening a lot and tends to his flowers. He loves reading romance novels, he loves woodwork and crafting. And blade/weapon crafting too! Usually, he keeps himself occupied to distract his mind from a lot of things. Also he's immortal. so....yeah

Aesthetics / Appearance

His color palette is wine red, velvety crimson and all reds royal. Gold as well, but it's more of a light-silvery gold. He doesn't appreciate things too bright. He really likes dark colors. But he'd also appreciate the simplicity of saturated colors. (He’s a goth/victorian king.)

Having fought for more than half of his immortal life, he had earned many scars. Printed on his skin, either a proud mark of his achievements, a proof of the brunt of his responsibilities or the shame that comes with being a king that his citizens fear.

He has claw gauntlets. They're silver and the claws are long, intricately and finely designed. Despite his battles against any corruption or evil that may seep into wonderland, the gauntlets almost remain unscathed. It was a show of both beauty and strength it held.

Also what if diluc had an army outfit. like im not sure what is called but omg

Diluc doesn't like his crown. It's heavy, flashy and it irks him more than he likes to admit. It was a crown crafted for royalty, gifted by the hands of fate. It was a sign of his responsibilities, the burdens he had to carry as a king with a broken heart. It's a striking gold crown. Adorned with the rarest gems of his world, but prominently rubies and garnets.

His cape is long, it's either a dark, commanding or an intense black. Hanging over his shoulders attractively, it trails behind him as he walks with such poised posture, and he never stutters in steps. Luxurious, soft fur drapes around his neck, coating the hood of his cape perfectly.

Diluc loves rings. He loves them, he loves them, he loves them. He has many of them, all beautifully designed for his liking. The intimacy of the beautiful piece of jewelry makes his heart thump. He's a romantic.

Secret Desires, Hidden Pain

He yearns to be a kinder, softer king to his citizens. But the fear of his vulnerability slipping, his heart crumbling, he wears a mask of stoicism. He already had a fragile, broken heart. If any enemies caught sight of his weakness, wonderland would be done for. Needless to say, the mask felt heavy and unnatural.

Because he's lonely there are times where he sits in the grand chair in the huge library, right across another, slightly shorter chair (fit for a queen). It remains empty and has remained empty for as long as he remembers. He sits in a deafening silence, letting his thoughts and the overwhelming gnawing of his emotions consume him. Before him lay a chess board, on the table. White faces against him while black faces the opposite side. A few pieces were scattered beside the wooden, intricate board. He moves a piece, slowly and deliberately as if time had melted away into a misty fog his  present couldn't make sense of. His feels as though his immortal life is killing him. He moves another piece- his rook- playing the two player game by himself. One day, he's sure all the turmoil would mount and he'd throw the board, send it flying across the room so that it hits the wall. Slowly, he moves yet another piece. The king's shoulders slump.

Koh Diluc feels like he misses someone. Feels like there is an ever lingering feeling his heart. Feels like some memories of him in his mind is blurred and surreal, something he can't make sense out of scientifically. He feels it. He feels a distant love. It's almost a dream, an illusion. But part of him vaguely knew it was a little secret of his soul shared with him - well, maybe. Or his mind playing cruel tricks on him, mocking him for his loneliness.

Another rather...personal Diluc headcanon! His heart (if healed and well, and hypothetically the famine is gone) can heal injuries of his (fated) beloved with a simple touch. Just a hug, just a kiss, just a brush of his fingers against her delicate skin...

Because Diluc and his dearest lover's heart beats as one.

Architecture of the His Majesty’s Castle + Other sights

His palace is a show of extravagance. How big it is. At first glance it may seem as though it would take two whole weeks to explore it fully. From the chandeliers that hung proudly on the ceiling to the velvet carpet on the floor. Every room, despite big or small, was created with purpose. The most beautiful paintings were pedestalized on the walls. They were adorned with golden frames, or silver ones or perhaps even a void-like noir.

Diluc harbours a library, abundant with books. Books with lacy covers and intricate designs. Each page would surely cost a fortune. The information it contained was almost prestigious, for the library held knowledge that can't be found easily outside its confines. Tall, grand shelves and and shacks filled to the brim with books. Despite the grandeur of it all, it had a comforting feel to it. Oh to be snugged up in a plump couch by the window of the castle, leisurely reading a book during the dark hours of the night...

He has a bountiful, grand and extensively handsome rose garden. The whole piece of land was designed elaborately, with the finest of care. He takes long walks in them whenever he gets the chance to, to simply take a breath and clear his thoughts even for a moment. And appreciate the beauty of the scenic area. Despite his strength and ferocity, he tends to all of them with nothing but gentleness. To say he loves roses is an understatement.

Identity, Status, Trivia, other...

It is no secret that this man is ridiculously, obnoxiously and impossibly rich. Diluc is typically rich, yes. But king of hearts Diluc? He's on a whole other level. He owns everything. Everything.

The king is a warrior. He has fought many battles in the past, taken part in wars against other worlds which threaten to rip apart the fabric of reality of Wonderland and claim it for themselves. Wonderland is whimsical, strange- truly a place fit for the curious who are either brave to delve into the world or too foolish.

This is a more personal-ish headcanon, but I'd like to think that his citizens are similar to the ones in Simulanka. While the world may [ ? ] have been not created by Alice or other mages, I just like to switch it up. A little.

I'm thinking...hamsters, bunnies, frogs, cats, dogs, horses and? May be other animals I have to research more.

okay but also wonderland diluc owns a black steed <3 he pampers it a lot lol and its the toughest horse in the land. both kinda have the same personality

Mermaids, colorful fish, knights (they have no body, their soul holds their armour together somehow), those nut-cracker like figures in simulanka? Maybe. This needs a little more work but hopefully you get the idea.

Want my wonderland to be more comforting.

also he genuinely has nerd-like interests in black (barred) owls and hooded owls. He admires them, and has many paintings of the creature in his castle.

all rights reserved @dilucidal @darknights-beloved

a/n: im open to ideas ok like 🥹♥️plis

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 38 - Between a Drow and a Slaver

The rogue comes to an impasse.

His leader rests heavy and loose against his front. Astarion keeps one arm looped around her—though the lizard’s gait is remarkable smooth and she hasn’t started to slide once. Still. Better caution and all. She’s fallen asleep again, which he thinks is a good sign? She needs rest to heal, and she seems untroubled?

The ground slopes down and down. They currently shuffle along a narrow switchback between huge, glowing crystal formations. He takes a moment to appreciate the color again. Check the underside of his left arm through the leather of the armor—still no knobs or lumps. He toys with the idea of asking the cleric about that. Chances of mushroom tendrils rooting around his undead flesh. Perhaps the druid, providing the freakishly big elf isn’t dead.

Decides his thoughts are turning maudlin, and he has his eyes and some time, and reaches down his front to find the delicate, golden chain.

Oh, his leader certainly was generous. The necklace is stunning. A waterfall of golden droplets, each one set with a dazzling, blue stone. Perhaps topaz? They glitter in the low light. He sets it down over his armor, admires the way it flows over his hidden collarbones. Imagines how stunning it would be against his skin.

He looks again to the dark head of hair rolling against him in time with the beast’s walking. She handed it over without a thought. This woman from another plane, with nothing and no one to her name, who collected a single ring for herself (her first finery, she’d said), and then gave it to the wizard to eat it. She could have kept this. It would have been just as stunning against her darker complexion. Would have stood out like the stars on a clear night.

But she’d let him have it. Freely. Because it was magical. Because he said he could learn it.

(They really ought to find her a prize of her own.)

Enchanted jewelry sometimes carries the spell words on it. It wouldn’t do to sell a piece no one knew how to use (though the higher-end stuff usually doesn’t, for that very reason; exclusivity and all). He wonders who this was made for, to be so exceptionally-crafted, but still carrying letters on the backside of the golden drops. Some foppish lord, perhaps. One of those with more money and ego than sense, who thought throwing gold around meant he could master magic.

To be fair, throwing money about tends to get people what they want.

Either way, Astarion unclasps the piece and flips it over. Traces his finger down each droplet, mouth working silently.

He knows one cantrip, how to mend his clothing, the way to position himself in a dim tavern to entice, and how to get on his back. He supposes the wizard would know these words and immediately raise that infuriating finger to state the name. The cleric would know it. The blade would know it. Hells, even the gith could probably work it out.

At least their tiefling can’t touch something like this without melting it (can she even read?).

He mouths the words (not breathing, best not to lest one accidentally set one’s face on fire) again, feels the shape of them on his tongue. It lurks on the periphery of his mind. A shape in the fog. Something he’s known—no. Something he’s seen. A charming man in the Blushing Mermaid once, down on his luck and looking for coin. He’d amused Astarion, in some way. He just can’t remember what it was. What he’d done that made that man rise from the corpse-laden bog in his memory.

Against him, his leader stirs. He inhales, catches a curl of her scent, which is immediately drowned out by the strong smell of cool water.

He straightens in the saddle. This is enough to jostle his slumbering leader, who makes a soft sound, and jerks up. Looks around.

They’re nearing the bottom of the switchback, now curled in over itself to form a tunnel. And at the very bottom, Astarion spies a flicker of light. Orange light, and the whiff of smoke. Not the usual, cheery scent of a merry wood fire in the main hall of a rowdy tavern. This is a salt smell, slightly acrid. That dried seaweed bundle his leader had been provisioned with by those finned fanatics.

His leader draws the lizard to a halt (he’s named it Fredrik in his mind). A shadow moves against the very flickering light.

Drow, in his limited experience, do not make fires. Not the Underdark ones. This is something else. His leader comes to the same conclusion. The tadpole wiggles behind his eye as she reaches out to the others of their merry band. Finds them still distant and grouped quite close together.

Not their companions, then.

“There’s water ahead,” Astarion says.

The fish beasts had said there was a village on the bank of their mother water. That shadow down there is angled in such a way as the light and whatever blocks it must be projecting down. Meaning a structure. A gate, he’d venture, if it’s a village.

His leader pulls up her bag of holding. Roots around and finds her last Potion of Tongues. She fiddles with it.

The bizarre, unpredictable underground air shifts a new scent to him, and the back of Astarion’s skull prickles even as ache slams through the roots of his fangs.

Death. Bowels. Blood.

“Drink it,” he says.

She glances at him over her armored shoulders, eyes narrowed and calculating (he’d rather like to kiss right between those furrowed brows) (only to make her frown harder, of course).

She drinks. Holds her grimace silently.

He starts to speak, remembers her hearing is far worse than his, and leans in close. “There’s been a fight just ahead.”

She shivers. Odd, she doesn’t usually spook at news like that.

“You picking up heartbeats?” she says. Gods, he’s missed how she sounds. How her accent twists the words and the way she structures them. Hearing her at full eloquence almost tickles.

But he’s a job to do. So he listens. Counts.

“One just beyond, two lurking in the wings. Another two? Possible three further in.”

Her finger rubs over her thumbnail. She swallows again. “Drow?”

“I doubt it.”

“You can tell from a pulse?”

He nearly snorts. Nearly lies, just to watch her blink at him. But, “I’m very good, darling, but not that good. Besides, these little blood bags have torches.”

Her jaw muscles clench. Then she nods (he does appreciate someone else being observant). There’s no other approach. No back way, no sneaking from this vantage, not with the drow still after them.

“Fuck,” she sighs, and nudges Fredrik on.

They emerge into the largest cavern yet, walled off by a crude, dilapidated gate shut fast. Well, as shut fast as something that shoddy can be. He’s rather sure an errant sneeze could bring the damned thing down. A decrepit village crawls along the top and sides of the walls, like a half-rotted growth. And upon that growth, short, dark figures. Duergar, he suspects.

One of them steps forward onto a platform overlooking the top of the gate. A venerable, grizzled sort with a huge battle ax clutched in his right hand.

“Two sun-scum on a drow lizard,” he says, voice low and gravelly as a child's imaginary deep dwarf cold hope to be. “Could hear you blinking back there. Noise like that gets you eaten down here.”

“And don’t we know it,” Astarion says, slipping on the easy charm.

Said charm slides right off the duergar, whose eyes narrow. “Reckon I ought to hush you before something hungry comes along.”

On the edge of Astarion’s hearing, the faint wail of a horn bounces around the tunnel behind them. But the old battle ax doesn’t seem to notice. Apparently their famous hearing isn’t as sharp as Astarion’s. At least not yet. Once they’re aware of the hunting party after his leader and him, the deep dwarves will keep that gate shut and let the drow have them.

So he lets himself smile wider than he usually does. Lets his fangs show in full. “Oh, I assure you, we’re far more trouble than that’s worth. Why don’t you be a darling and let us pass through, and we can all forget we ever saw each other, hmm? We promise not to get devoured in your vicinity.”

Two other duergar shift in the shadows, one on either flank above.

Old battle ax hums. “Don’t suppose you two have seen a deep gnome running around?”

Astarion feels his nose wrinkle. “Thankfully, no.”

He’s content to leave it at that—mouthy little beasts throw themselves underfoot and then have to gall to squawk when they get stepped on.

But he feels his leader’s own eyes narrow. Before he can stop her, “You looking for somebody in particular?”

Oh gods. She’s going to get involved. Astarion has a fair idea what’s at play here, and what, exactly, these duergar likely are. And he feels, quite distinctly, that she will not approve.

“Oh, just on a hunt,” the battle ax says. He should leave off there, but of course, he doesn’t, because the world likes to see Astarion suffer. “Gnome bitch ran off with the sergeant’s boots. Gonna kill the little fuck shite and fetch back the leather.”

Her mouth opens. She’s a sweetheart when it comes to the downtrodden. And to him. (He refuses to think about how those two may or may not overlap.) And she won’t let something like this go unchallenged. But they haven’t the time, so he claps a hand on her shoulder.

“Ah, well,” he says. “Best of luck, then.”

Her outrage is a magical flare in the dead of night. The flash blinds his mind for a moment.

“Hold now,” the battle ax says. Leather creaks and wood squeals as the other duergar take up position and ready weapons. At least one of them carries a bow.

Shit.

“You want passage,” the battle ax says. “So how’s about you do a job for us.”

Distant footsteps shush behind them. Fredrik is a swift beastie, and they’ve been moving since they broke free, stopping only when his leader needs to relieve herself. Yet from that sound, the drow are close. Very close. They must have been running this whole time.

Of course they’ve been running this whole time. His leader carries the last piece of knowledge that decides the future of their house. He should have realized.

“We’re quite pressed for time, actually—” he starts.

“Wasn’t asking,” the battle ax says. The archer draws. “One slave is as good as another. Either you bring us that gnome, or you take her place.”

Shit. They’ll have to find a way around. Quickly. Water laps just out of sight. Either a river or another lake or possibly, if this is the village, the mother water itself. All they have to do it get out of here and find the shore and follow it along.

“Now that you mention it, that is an enticing offer,” Astarion says.

Eleanor is a burning coal in his lap.

The duergar grins. “Thought so. I’m a reasonable man. Our gnome last we heard had holed up with them rot flowers. Them myconids. Seen ‘em?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“They’re hard to miss. Walking mushrooms. There’s a colony back the way you came. You find them, you find our quarry, and we can let a few sun-scum pass through.”

Footsteps echo behind them. Surely the infamous duergar ears should have caught on by now?

“Sounds simple,” Astarion says.

She’s going to do it. The shift twists through his leader, an iron gear grinding into motion less than a second before she speaks. But it’s too late to stop her. She’s gone focused again.

“They’re all dead,” his raging bonfire of a leader says.

The duergar blinks at her. Possibly just now notices her round, stubby ears. Not a drow, not even an elf, but a human perched upon the back of a drowic riding lizard.

“Your mushrooms,” she says. “They’re all dead.”

“Darling,” Astarion tries. He really does try.

She tugs on his tadpole. Those men are slavers. That thought is an iron blade pulled straight from a forge, the air shimmering around it from the heart blasting off.

Of gnomes. They enslave gnomes, not people like them, unless they anger the duergar which she’s well on her way to doing. No one cares about gnomes.

She turns herself in the saddle. Twists right around and her face is carved of iron, her eyes are burning coals. “I do, asshole.”

“Dead how,” the old battle ax says.

The drow are coming down the switchback. Gods, they don’t even have time to turn and flee, now. They’re trapped.

“They got slaughtered by a band of drow,” his furious, foolish leader says.

Astarion is too far to catch the stink of fear sweat, but close enough the pulse of blood in their veins hooks his attention.

The battle ax seems to look at Fredrik in a new light. “Yeah? You lot know this how?”

“Don’t you dare,” Astarion says.

Eleanor smiles. He doesn’t even need to see her face to know it, to picture it: tight, almost polite, except it doesn’t reach anywhere near her eyes, which still burn. “Cause them same drow are about to swamp all y’all.”

The horn wails. A high, tremulous thing, like the dying squeal of some beast dredged up from the darkest caverns. The duergar snap straight and stare at the tunnel Astarion and his leader emerged from.

“Godsdamnit,” Astarion says.

“Shoot them!” the battle ax says.

Astarion is already unshouldering and stringing his bow, fetching two arrows and firing the first. He hits the stubby archer to the left through the eye. The vulgar thing tumbles off the edge of the wall.

“Go!” he says to his insufferable leader. “Up the wall!”

“The what?”

“These lizards can climb.”

She needs no further directions. Thumps her heels into Fredrik’s flanks and the beast shoots towards the wall. Astarion fires his second arrow at the duergar on the right—a flash of a crossbow—but the little shit ducks and the shot flies over his head.

“Holy shit fuck,” his leader says.

The lizard reaches the wall. Doesn’t even slow. It rears up and Astarion lunges forward to press himself and his leader to the saddle as the creature sprints vertically up.

He’s always wondered what this would be like. He’s heard stories of drow, obviously. And of their mounts. Trained teams can even skirt along the ceiling of a cavern. His stomach gives a giddy swoop and he giggles.

Duergar shout. Something hisses past his right ear. An arrow. But not shot from above or to the side, but from behind. And he doesn’t have to pluck the thing now embedded in the wall to know the barbed tip, likely coated in drowic poison.

“Shitfuck!” his leader says.

They fly up the wall. Ancient planks rattle under the force of the lizard’s climb. They shoot up and up, like a loosed arrow themselves, until they go weightless as Fredrik hits the top of the wall and leaps. Spreads his legs wide. Comes down with a thump and a rattle on a rotten walkway.

Astarion has enough time to look beyond—the vast cavern glowing blue under fields and fields of that blue moss on the ceiling. The deep, black sea lapping beneath it, the water darker than anything he’s ever seen. The thin strip of rocky beach where two docks jut out. And one boat, considerably more solid than anything in the village.

“Over there!” he says.

The instinct swoops out of nowhere. He doesn’t process it, isn’t even aware he’s doing it. He just grabs his leader and tackles them both to the side as something swooshes a hairs breadth from the side of his face.

The two of them hit the wooden walkway. His leader makes a nasty sound as the air punches out of her lungs.

Worse is the squeal of the lizard. The wet meat sound as the ax comes down again, and this time bone crunches. That beautiful beast gasps. It’s a last gasp, filled with death; the monster inside Astarion recognizes it.

Then Fredrik falls, practically decapitated. And the old battle ax of a duergar hefts up his ax once more.

“What the fuck have you shits brought to my men?” he snarls.

Astarion rolls to his feet as his erstwhile leader follows.

“Have it your way, darling,” he says. Draws his knives.  “Let’s kill them all.”

[aromantic-ace]

Humans Are Weird/SpaceOrcs: Human Skin

Imagine if, as opposed to many creatures on earth, aliens don't have skins, worse the average alien doesnt even know it can exist, now I imagine most alien would have scales or some kind of exoskeleton (or just a suit holding themselves in for maybe an ultra ultra tech specie that lost its shell after so many years not needing it). And then here come the humans, with all those weird fact about their skin (its regenerative effect, its stripes, patern on the hand etc).

Injuries were always something Po'Rox's specie was dreading, they were renowed for their shell and exoskeleton almost unbreakable that was extremely usefull in fights but when a Naaric shell finally breaks it take multiple cycle to heal the outside injury alone, bleeding wasn't a scary factor since a compress could solve that issue, no what was their doom were infections, a simple infection could nail a Naaric to bed for weeks and that was if the wound was correctly treated. It was kind of ironic how a specie that dreaded wounds so much ended up as one of the best fighter specie in the known universe.

And then the Humans arrive and the whole universe is shocked, not only does they have a fleshy shell but it apparently is incredibly resistant AND regenerate itself and Po'Rox couldn't believe it, luckily one of those humans were on the ship the Naaric was on so the multi shelled being decided to talk to the one concerned instead of trusting the rumors.

Walking toward the quarter of the interesting specimen, the titan reminded himself of what he knew about the human, it was a female named Kaete or Kayte he didn't know exactly, human name are hard to pronounce and remember. She also was a scientist, those that do science and not fights, Po'Rox knew they were usefull and not to be depreciated be he was raised to think with a gun or another weapon, not with words or science so he didn't know how to start the conversation with the scientist or how to not look like the brutes his people were described as.. he would do as usual and just ask the question probably.

Now was the time, he knocked on the door with a bit more stress than he wanted, was he the protector of the ship and experienced soldier being stressed ? I mean.. it was expectable after all, he was about to bluntly ask a question to a member of the specie that could become the deadliest and toughest warriors of the known universe, it was something to be cautious about. And then the door opened and he couldnt believe what he was seeing, she was small, like half the size of the walking shield and he wasn't himself part of the tallest of his specie, she had no scales nor did she have any exoskeleton, it really was just some kind of red or white colored shell if he has to use humans words. She only had two eyes one of which was covered by some kind of protective keratine based plant that was way overgrown and apparently black when he himself had three pairs of eyes allowing him to see in multiple direction. No visible claws and when she showed her teeth (maybe in some kind of greetings or warning message) she barely had any potentially dangerous ones.. was she really part of some apex predator specie that could be the fiercest fighters ? It was hard to believe but he had to admit that at leash she had the flesh shell so it wasn't a li-

Kate: Hello ? Can i help you ?

Right ! He was about to talk to her, luckily his translator worked and he only looked stupid for a brief moment before answering while trying to look smart.

Po'Rox: Hello ! Human Kaet. I come with question about this.

He pointed with one of its non clawed hands (as to not offend or looking threatening) the face of the human which.. simply showed more of her teeth (was it a good thing ?) Before correcting him.

Kate: it's Kate, and uhm.. are you asking about my nose ?

Po'Rox: No, no, i mean what is on your face, your shell, the red thing.

Kate: Oh ! You mean my skin right ? What about it ?

Po'Rox: Well.. is it true ? Can you regenerate wounds in less than a day ? How ? To have such speed it should be incredibly weak yet you arent dissolving or leaking flesh.

Kate: I mean.. yeah ? Is it that much of a big deal ? Of course it depend of the gravity of the wound but most go away in a day or two and it isnt that resistant a knife can easily wound us but at the same time its a quick recovery.

Po'Rox: Oh i understand, but what about the pain, and the infection, us Naarig have almost no pain sense but i heard it wasn't the case for you.

Kate: The pain ? We just forget it.

Po'Rox: ...sorry what ?

Kate: In situation of fear or danger our body produce a drug that make us forget about pain and sometime allow us to go beyond our bodies limitation so... we just forget about pain, our brain even sometime decide to make us forget about pain without that drug for as long as we aren't in a safe place.

Po'Rox:... Are humans the product of a geneticly engineered super specie ?

Kate: Nope, all natural.

Po'Rox: You.. you people are.. i can't even describe what you are..

Kate: Oh it's not all, you see i know a bit about our skin, if the right condition are there it can grow on things that arent part of our bodies and make a whole new organ, a nose for exemple. It is constantly regenerating itself that's why we heal quickly, the skin is made of multiple layer of cell that just amass themselves in a specific formation and slowly get exposed on the outside, just by rubbing somewhere im withdrawing thousands of dead cell while exposing the fresh one, of course everything isnt dead on the surface, a lot of still active cell get away if we do that and it cause a minor wound that heal within minutes.

Po'Rox: I.. i need to lay down, i'm not even sure i wanna ask question anymore, you humans are really terrifying..

Po'Rox spent the next days realising how much weird the humans were, and how screwed they would be if they ever decided to declare war, if their scientist had this kind of body, he didnt even want to look at what their warrior looked like, for the first time in a long, long time past childhood he had felt fear, and the source wasn't an enemy.

[slytherinzz]

Scars of the past

Summary: after one of your late night rescues, they find themselves in the Room of Requirement to tend to their battle wounds. It has been two years since the event of fifth year, but Sebastian can't help but to think back at that awfull time after seeing the scars on MC's body. His scars.

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x F!reader

Warnings: A lil angst a lil fluff

The castle was quiet as Sebastian and MC trudged up the winding staircases of Hogwarts, their steps heavy with exhaustion. The faint light of the moon streamed through the tall, arched windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors. They had just returned from yet another escapade—clearing out a poacher camp and rescuing a pair of distressed mooncalves.

It had become a ritual for the two of them, these late-night missions. They both shared a deep-seated need to right the wrongs of the magical world after their 5th year, and somewhere along the line, their shared purpose had grown into something more.

Sebastian stole a glance at her as they ascended the final staircase to the Room of Requirement. Dirt smudged her cheeks, a faint streak of blood ran along her forearm, and her hair was in wild disarray. And yet, to him, she looked radiant.

“You’re quiet,” she said, giving him a sidelong look. “What’s on your mind?”

“Just wondering how many poachers we’ve pissed off this time,” he teased, though the smile on his lips didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Enough to ensure they won’t be coming back anytime soon.”

The wall before them shimmered as they approached, and the Room of Requirement opened to reveal a familiar, cozy space: a crackling fireplace, two plush couches, and a simple bed tucked away in the corner for nights like these when they didn’t dare risk sneaking back to their dorms.

Sebastian let out a sigh of relief, stepping inside and kicking off his boots. “Merlin’s beard, I think I’m too tired to move another muscle.”

“You and me both,” she agreed, plopping down onto one of the couches and wincing slightly as she stretched.

As they worked in companionable silence, patching up their injuries with Wiggenweld potions and quick healing charms, Sebastian couldn’t help but notice how her hands trembled slightly. She always tried to hide it after these missions, as if refusing to acknowledge the toll it took on her body would make it less real.

“You should let me take a look at that arm,” he said, nodding toward the shallow cut on her forearm.

“It’s fine, really—”

“Let me,” he insisted, his voice softer this time.

She relented, sitting beside him and holding out her arm. His fingers brushed her skin as he muttered a charm to clean the wound, and she shivered slightly under his touch. He felt his heart quicken, but he forced himself to focus.

“There,” he said after a moment, leaning back and admiring his work. “Good as new.”

She smiled at him, and for a moment, the room seemed to grow warmer. There was something unspoken between them, something that had been building for months but neither dared to address.

“You’re staring,” she said, breaking the tension with a teasing grin.

“Can you blame me?” he shot back, though the words held more weight than he intended. Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly stood to rummage through her bag.

“Ugh, I need to get out of these clothes,” she muttered, turning her back to him as she pulled her shirt over her head.

Sebastian’s gaze immediately dropped, his cheeks reddening as he tried to give her privacy. He’d seen her change before, in hurried moments during their missions, but it was different now. There was an intimacy in the air that hadn’t been there before, and it left him flustered.

He couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting upward, and that’s when he saw them—scars. Her back was littered with them, pale lines crisscrossing her skin like a map of battles fought and endured.

And then he saw it.

A jagged, lightning-shaped scar stretched diagonally across her back, angry and red even after two years. His breath caught in his throat as he recognized the distinct mark left by the Cruciatus Curse.

His Cruciatus Curse.

“Sebastian?” Her voice was quiet, unsure, as she glanced over her shoulder and caught the expression on his face.

“Did I do that to you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She turned fully to face him, clutching her shirt to her chest, her eyes softening. “Sebastian—”

“Did I do that to you?” he repeated, his voice breaking this time.

She hesitated, then nodded. “It happened that night in the Scriptorium. When you… when you cast the curse on me.”

He felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. He had tried so hard to atone for the mistakes of his fifth year, to make amends for the darkness he had embraced. But seeing the physical reminder of his actions carved into her skin—it was almost too much to bear.

“I—” His voice faltered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know… I didn’t realize—”

She stepped forward, placing a hand on his cheek. “Sebastian, stop. I’ve forgiven you. I forgave you a long time ago.”

“How can you forgive something like that?” he asked, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“Because I know who you are now,” she said simply. “And you’re not that boy anymore.”

She guided him to sit on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of him as she took his hands in hers.

“I don’t blame you for what happened,” she continued, her voice steady despite the weight of her words. “It was a dark time for both of us, and we’ve both made mistakes. But you’ve changed, Sebastian. You’ve become someone I trust, someone I… care about.”

He looked at her, his heart aching with a mixture of guilt and love. “I care about you too,” he admitted. “More than you know. And that’s why it kills me to see what I’ve done to you.”

She smiled softly, brushing a stray tear from his cheek. “You can’t change the past, but you’ve more than made up for it. And I wouldn’t be here without you.”

For a moment, they just sat there, the silence between them comfortable and warm. Finally, she stood, pulling him up with her and guiding him toward the bed.

“Come on,” she said, her voice light despite the heaviness of their conversation. “We both need some rest.”

He hesitated, glancing at her nervously. “Are you sure?”

“Sebastian,” she said with a small laugh, “you’ve slept here before. I’m not going to bite.”

As they lay side by side, the tension between them began to melt away. His arm found its way around her waist, and she didn’t protest. Instead, she shifted closer, resting her head on his chest.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the crackling fire.

“For what?”

“For forgiving me. For giving me a chance to make things right.”

She smiled against his chest, her eyes already drifting shut. “Always.”

As sleep claimed them, Sebastian pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, silently vowing to protect her from any harm—even from himself.

[pixieswashere]

First off, I agree with everything with what OP said here. I want to also add onto this that it makes no sense for AU!Jinx/Powder not to have her mental illness/psychosis, not only bc of the fact she had it since she was a child....but also bc in that universe.....Vi is dead...like SHE IS GONE. If anything the trauma and psychosis would still be there, if not worsen overtime.

Like at first when I started it, I didn't think much thinking that in this universe she had professionall help in coping with it healthily.....but then the Vi reveal and the fact we didnt see her having some hallucinations or voices is what ruined this......her ONLY last remaining family to her parents and who was very close to her clearly...is DEAD. Jinx loved her sister so much and had a mental breakdown as a kid when she LEFT her to go and find Vander. The only person who was there that BELIEVED in her, STUCK up for her, and practically raised her along Vander. You're telling me, Jinx wouldn't have any slightest of a breakdown or crisis over that??? At all??? Even when considering her mental state???

Adding to this for Viktor (bc I love him and I 100% agree that his character was fumbled)

Viktor NEVER hated himself in s1 let's get that straight. In S1, he makes a very big POINT to show that he has always carried himself and that in whatever he does, he is proud of it because he believed in himself enough to accept who he is and DOESN'T care about what others think of him

"When you're going to change the world don't ask for permission."

"I didn't have the benefits of a patron or a name, I simply....BELIEVED in MYSELF."

You could argue that while yes he is self-assured and confident, he still has some insecurities of how people close to him perceive him....and that could be true, but it's not really ever alluded. He DOES care about making connections but hes isolated himself bc of these judgements that its almost second nature if not a rarity. But he does value companionship, its just not something he is accustomed to a degree, and he sometimes without consideration distances himself from it if it gets in the way of his aspirations (Ex: Sky/Jayce, Heimerdinger/Singed.) In the latter acts of S1 he was DYING he wasn't hating himself because of his "terminal illness" that was killing him or his disability....He was in a vulnerable and solemn state because he felt like his accomplishments meant or achieved NOTHING. This is a character that is selfless, altruistic and a workaholic who worked his way up with dreams of something better and now after so many years in developing Hextech he's seeing that what he strived to achieve for the improvement of his home that's also DYING because of Piltover's ignorance and oppression, is unable to do NOTHING about it now.

He is angry that he has no CONTROL over his fate and the assuredness of his Legacy = helping those in need for the Undercity because of Jayce and Piltover's lack of understanding, especially after they had complied building the Hexgates for their trade disputes first.....over the disputes of lives. Viktor has contemplated death because he knows time is fleeting and he wants to make it count for something good, he doesnt want to be remembered as PERFECT, he wants to be remembered in the contributions that the people of Zaun will FINALLY heal/be helped after so long and not have to live short lives bc of unsafe work environments, manual labour, illnesses cause by toxic chemicals and etc.

He even brushes the idea of when he'll die off, and you could even add that he is ticked off by the fact that hes now being perceived as a "dead man" before he even died (Ex. Heimerdinger convo and Jayce in the hospital, etc). He doesn't like being seen as powerless or as his terminal illness now because he ISN'T and never was. Furthermore, he doesnt use the Hexcore to "PERFECT" himself, he's using it to heal himself of his terminal illness/expand his lifespan so that he can continue his research in helping Zaun.

If he is going to use Hexcore, he needs to make sure that it will work. So, to tests its capabilities, he tests it on HIMSELF. Only to find out that the same thing he created to HEAL ended up killing someone that meant a lot to him. He wasted NO TIME telling Jayce to destroy it bc it harmed someone and he finally realizes that ensuring a legacy = saving people....ended up at the cost of harming people in return.

P.s. sorry this was long. Hope you enjoyed reading it if u did !

I don't have perfect thoughts on it, but I do want to note that I'm not loving how Arcane handles disability.

Viktor hating his disability so deeply, feeling that it needs to be "fixed" so thoroughly, that he succumbs to ~ultimate eugenics for everyone ~ ?????? fucked up

Jinx's psychosis being a manifestation of her being "unhinged" and encouraging her to act out either to challenge or appease them, and then her psychosis magically disappearing in the "perfect" universe????? also fucked up

Vi's alcoholism and (albeit mild) psychotic symptoms never being brought up....ever???? just created as fodder to make her a more angsty and submissive lapdog to facism????? also also fucked up

Let me have my mad/cripple characters who have their shit recognized as parts of their humanity rather than trauma porn plot or things that need to be corrected or traits indicative of rash violence please

[greenelight]

in   terms   of   intimacy   &   relationships   ,   mason   is   a   hopeless   romantic   despite   always   trying   to   argue   against   anyone who tries to call him that.   he   wants   something   soft   &   romantic   with   a   man   ,   but   his   little   experience   with   dating   has   always   been   met   with   disappointment.   living   in   new   york   makes   it   much   harder   to   find   someone   with   the   same   ideas   ,   &   most   people   he's   met   in   the   city   want   flings   or   just   a   quick   fuck.   his   desire   to   find   someone   worsens   after   his   relationship   with   brad   crumbles   &   he   becomes   way   more   hesitant   about   trying   again   in   terms   of   dating   ,   as   that   bit   of   trust   is   gone   &   he   doesn't   want   to   be   left   vulnerable   again   like   he   was   with   brad.   it's   much   easier   for   him   to   fall   for   someone   he   befriends   first   ,   as   he   can   ease   into   that   trust   &   fall   for   someone   naturally   &   at   his   own   pace.

[seventh-district]

Sam: "Look at me. Hey- look at me a second. I know. I know you're tough. I know how strong you are. You have every right to be proud of that. But being able to handle somethin' doesn't mean you should have to. Least of all when I'm right here trying to help. Please let me help. If not for you then for me, because I don't like knowin' you're hurtin', especially when there's somethin' I can do about it."

Me, shaking my head, fighting back literal tears: "B-but it's gonna give you another headache!"

[i-wiggle-i-squirm-bc-i-am-a-worm]

Unnecessary discussion about Chat Noir and the Drums

There’s something I love so much about Chat playing the drums in Horrificator. This is something that’s been on my mind since I was 13, so hold on here.

First, obviously, Adrien also plays the piano - which obviously still has a lot of meaning!! - I’m not here to diss on the piano, there’s a lot of freedom of expression in every instrument type and music expression in general, but there’s a reason why some people are more inclined to different instruments, and I think there’s a lot more to it than just sound, but feeling as well. The role you play. How it feels to play it alone vs. playing it with others, if it’s typically something that you can play alone vs. in a group.

So first, the piano, and how I think it relates to Adrien’s character, plus how it relates to those points.

The piano, let’s be real, is something that a lot of us were forced to take lessons for at some point. It’s something that has ties to high society (there’s a HUGE discussion and so much more to say about that, but let’s not go there) and honestly?? I think it works pretty well with symbolizing the obsession with perfection that Gabriel shoves onto him. I’ve known many piano players, and while some genuinely loved playing it, it was always easier to somehow stumble onto someone with a deep hatred for it after being forced into lessons. Whenever I asked them why they hated it, I got almost the same answer every time: “I need to be perfect.” (Along with people saying that they were forced to lol)

Then there’s the role you play. You can play with people in a band, an orchestra, as an accompanist, a duet, at a bar with a bunch of people singing - whatever - music has many forms, and many different connections. But the piano is something you can play solo, no need for anyone else. It isn’t what you can do with other people that I’m focusing on for this, it’s the fact that you don’t need anyone. You can play alone, and it’ll still be fine. You can be alone, and you’re still fine - perfect even - which is something that Gabriel shoves down his throat, resistant to him playing with his friends by touching on this ideology.

Which is a glimpse into how he sees Adrien, and how Adrien experiences life. He can be alone, in fact he’s more perfect when he’s alone. And when other people are added, the attention to his perfection is taken away bit by bit, until he’s not good enough. He has to play solo in concert halls, on stage for everyone to watch, not in the back of a bar, playing with his friends.

Alright, so now we move to Chat Noir and the drums. The main play of this fake essay. 

It would be so easy to just ignore everything and just go “haha, he’s the energetic one, so ofc Ladybug gave him the drums! And they’re an easy instrument to play, etc.” but that’s far from the truth.

Ok, so I’m not a drum player or percussionist in any way, but I am a bass player, and genuinely love the drums so much because they’re incredibly important, and here’s my cheesy analogy: the drums are the heart of the band, keeping everyone on beat, it’s what you feel at the centre of it all. The band is nothing without the drums, without the percussion (The bass is what connects the band to the beat of the drums, kinda like the blood vessels, but sadly this ain’t about bass).  Like do you know how easy it is for a band to fall apart if they don’t have a drummer??? You need a drummer. You literally can’t survive without a drummer, because even if you manage to work together, use the bass as a backing, whatever you try, there’s still not much of a heart left.

But besides that, do you know how hard it is to play the drums??? You can’t just throw someone crazy, or energetic there just because “crazy drummers lol” you need someone who listens. Who can set the beat. Someone you can rely on, because they are the person in control, even if they aren’t as flashy as the guitar player. Reliable is the word that comes to mind. The drums can make or break a band.

And wanna know who that reminds me of?

Yeah. I highly doubt that the writers put this much thought into a random five second scene in an episode of season one, but it fits with Chat Noir SO well. 

Unlike the piano, the drums are almost solely played in a group setting - you need other people, and other people need you - he needs other people in his life, his friends are needed, but they also need him. Ladybug needs him, along with all the other heroes in Paris, whether he sees it or not. He seems to get in a state of thinking he’s not needed, but i do really think he’s the emotional glue that keeps the team connected, the heart that keeps them beating. If he’s isolated, he can’t quite reach his full potential that he can when he’s allowed to be around others, just like they can’t reach their own without him.

But on top of that, I think the stereotypes of the drums actually works in his favour for the next part. 

Breaking free from his dad, and being his own person, letting that fame go and embracing what he wants... well, to some that would look stupid. 

Relating it to music, the piano is flashy, you can play it solo, it sounds impressive, looks impressive, and people won’t think you’re just hitting pots and pans in the garage when you say you play it. But the drums are underestimated, a lot of people think you don’t need much practice, that they’re just the guys who sit at the back of the stage, not doing much, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Just like Adrien finally being who he wants wouldn’t be stupid, it could never be stupid, but there’s a stigma. But letting go of his flashy, solo life, and being the heart of his friend group is something that I think makes him truly happy as Chat Noir, and hopefully he gets to be like that as Adrien too.

Like Plagg said, Chat Noir and Adrien are both the real him, and I think the drums capture that perfectly. The heart and freedom, the meticulousness (rather than perfection) and steadiness, those are good qualities of a drummer.

I dunno, I just think it fits.

(sdfghjklkjhgf again I should state that acoustic versions of songs exist, and you can play songs without a drum and it sounds fantastic, but I’m not going into that today. Just talking generalization, and playing in a group setting). 

[lankylunatic]

This is entirely self indulgent and made for an rp with a friend *sweating* Nai gets to live his cowboy dreams now that he is somewhat over killing humanity all in one go (now he just gets rid of the bad ones)

I'll talk more about this au if people are interested (and I have the guts to do it haaaaaaaaa)

[lil-oreo-crumbles]

You know back when the AU was a comic, I was able to gloss over so much of the politics of Mewni Creek I was not well equipped to handle and focus instead on the relationships and bonds that were important to the story going forward and explain the new governmental system of this combined world after it had been established and the masses calmed long down.

But now? Now that it’s a fic? Now that I have to essentially re-start the Ovelia establishment and better flesh out her blossoming friendships and connections to the main cast?

I’ve really gotta buckle down and write the politics and post-Cleaved chaos don’t I.

Man…

[screamingatmyfandom]

Tyler better come back next season and slowly heal from the abuse and grooming and toxic mindset he has while being tentatively adopted by the group like a feral coyote that hangs around your yard.

[thedragonagelesbian]

Doing legacy, night terrors, and dissent all right in a fucking row really is the anders nightmare train huh

[ghostsprincess]

I can't stop thinking about Ghost being a better boyfriend than your ex, even without establishing that title....

This is a continuation of part one.

warning: mention domestic abuse

💀

Simon was there every night you worked. You never gave him your schedule, but he'd show up and settle onto one of the stools like clockwork. Soap often joined him, and while they carried on like always, you knew Simon's gaze lingered on your body. You could practically feel the weight as you took drink orders and pulled pints. It wasn't unwelcome. In fact, it made everything easier knowing you weren't alone if your ex dared show his face.

When your shifts ended, Simon would walk you back to your new place. The one time you insisted he didn't need to do that, he grunted and said, "What if I want to?"

You didn't mention it again. Instead you got into a routine of giving him a fifteen minute warning when your shift was going to end, and you'd head out into the cold night with him at your side. He was mostly quiet while you chatted about whatever was on your mind. When you'd ask him about himself, he'd reroute the conversation back to you. Then he would wait while you unlocked your door and stepped inside.

You always had the urge to invite him in, but you were taking up so much of his time already. And what would you do with him anyway? This hulking military man with kind eyes? 

You thanked him and gave him a little wave before ducking inside, and you knew he always waited until he heard the sound of your door locking before he left. 

"Y' alright, love?" he asked one night when you were starting to feel particularly good about yourself again. Your split lip had healed which required less makeup. You felt stronger for having left your ex in the dust. You were wearing a new top that made you feel sexy.

"Yeah. I'm alright, Simon. I feel really good, actually."

You served him a drink and refused to let him pay. You really ought to make him stop tipping you at this rate. He was doing so much for you and getting nothing in return. He was doing all of the boyfriend duties just as he had promised, but he never so much as touched you other than the occasional hand hold.

What if you wanted more?

He broke into your thoughts as he said, "I can tell. Ya' been smiling more. Almost ready to go?"

Tonight you felt like you were floating along the dirty sidewalk with your hand tucked in Simon's massive paw. He was keeping you warm without doing anything, and he listened to your nervous rambling as you tried your best to work up your courage. But the two of you reached your front door all too quickly.

"Get inside," he said, voice deep and tender in spite of the command. "An' lock up."

When he started to pull his hand away, you didn't let him. And you didn't budge when one of his eyebrows inched higher. "Not quite yet," you whispered, toe tapping the cement step you were standing on which put you slightly closer to him in height. "I have to tell you something."

Simon's lips pressed together in a tight line, and his chin dipped in a slight nod. "I need to tell ya' something, too. Just don't want to."

"What?" you asked immediately, the lightness you'd been feeling instantly replaced with a lead brick inside you.

"I'm leaving. Late tomorrow night. Not until after I make sure ya' get home from the pub."

"Leaving?" you whispered, heart pounding faster. He was in the military. Some sort of special mission involvement. You knew that much. And you could read between the lines to know that someone who looked and behaved like he did was probably about to risk his life, not for the first time. "Simon, where are you going?" you asked with tears in your eyes even though you figured he wouldn't be able to tell you.

Simon shook his head, his lips curling into a soft smile. It was a rare sight, and it made you dizzy. "Pretty little thing like you shouldn't be worried 'bout me." You wanted to tell him you would be. You'd worry nonstop until you saw him again. You'd come to rely on him, but mostly you liked how you felt when he was around. "There'll be someone to walk ya' home from work every night. I can promise that."

You wanted to lean in and kiss him, but instead you threw your arms around his neck. He was so solid and warm, and the scrape of his facial hair on your cheek was somehow comforting. "But I'll see you tomorrow, right?" you asked, voice breaking on a sob.

"I'll see ya' tomorrow, love."

He didn't move an inch as you extracted yourself, and the sound of his receding footsteps could only be heard once you'd locked yourself inside.

💀

Part three

[tired-biscuit]

Logan would probably moan like he’s having the best sex of his life from just a shoulder massage. Do you think he’d deny he needs one? Or would you catch him off guard while he’s asleep?

18+ MDNI, fem!reader // cw: friends to lovers, unexpected mutual pining, logan realises he’s touch-starved after you offer to give him a backrub, and you both get turned on by it.

divider credit: div1nepetal

what if you’re, like… his friend, who’s grown to care deeply about him over the years and wants nothing else but to help him out a little from time to time in simpler, more ‘humanly’ ways because of said caring?

i mean, he’s got super fast healing and all that jazz, sure, however that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t get sore and thus — unbearably — cranky about it… and since you’ve known each other for so long, you’ve also gotten quite comfortable in each other’s company! so it wouldn’t be that odd if you were to offer to relieve the pain in your friend’s back when he swings by your place one random evening… right?

it’s really just to make him feel better, nothing else! because as soon as he flings himself onto his favoured spot on your worn out couch (a dent that he fucking made with the help of his heavy adamantium ass), you catch him repetitively stretching his neck from side to side and rolling his shoulders every so often with a furrowed brow and a tight-lipped expression that somehow manages to appear even grumpier than his usual neutral.

you steal glances because of it. listen intently to the laboured sighs he keeps letting out. and after leering at him and his struggles from the corner of your eye for a little while, not at all paying attention to the movie that you’re supposed to be watching with him, you finally succumb. you turn to the side and propose your offer whilst wiggling your magic fingers, as you like to call them, right in front of his face, and logan, as is expected, denies it by gently swatting your hand away.

taking over pretty much the entire space on the couch from how he’s manspreading, he doesn’t even peel his eyes from the television that — unlike you — he’s actually watching when he tells you that, “you don’t gotta worry about it” and that it’s not that bad, then. for some reason, he even feels the need to add that he can handle himself just fine.

it all makes your eyes roll.

and instead of listening, you rather choose to persist. he’s a wall whenever he makes up his mind on something, you know this, but you also know that if you nag him and scold him for long enough, prodding and picking at the cracks between phantom bricks, he’ll have no choice but to give in and give you what you want just to make you stop… though not without adding a snide comment or two himself during it because he can’t help but act like a dick sometimes around the people he’s fond of, it’s just the way he is!

as you tell him to scooch over and lay on his stomach, you feel just a little bit bad that you had to resort to annoying him in order to being allowed to help him. however, the guilt isn’t nearly as strong as is the sense of victory that you’ve just achieved, so you allow it to curl the corners of your lips into a satisfied, cat-like smile while you busy yourself by straddling the small of his back. he can’t see your face anyway, so what’s the issue?

meanwhile, logan lets out a tired exhale, smushing one cheek against the decorative pillow that he’s folded his arms under so that he can still watch the tv while you work your supposed magic. he listens to your sheepish apology and request to tell you if you’re too heavy, to which he responds by calling it nonsense and that you’re insulting him by thinking you’re heavy whilst sitting on top of a guy who’s literally filled with metal.

and filled with metal he is, indeed! it’s not long before you realize just how much freaking pressure you have to apply to his shoulders and back in order to make him feel something. how much physical strength you have to put into it, to the point that you’re nearly sweating because of it. popping a bone in order to ease some of the tension is literally impossible, so you aim your focus onto the taut cords of muscle instead.

you can see them even through the thin white shirt that he’s wearing — they’re that profound. flexed and attractive, attained with hard work. but they become even more visible when he reluctantly lets you roll the hem of his shirt up towards the collar, unfolding his arms just so that he can lift the upper half of his body, and you right along with him, with no visible effort whatsoever.

the air in the room shifts a little after that; it gets kind of tense. because all of a sudden, you’re skin to skin. his should be covered in scars, but he’s lucky enough to have them all healed and smoothed away by his power. and while he may not be able to feel relief in his adamantium-covered bones, he sure as hell can feel the warmth of your palms running down the slopes of his broad shoulders, the grazing of your nails that nearly makes him shiver when they reach a particularly ticklish part on the nape of his neck, the heat between your legs as you continue to sit on him, dressed in nothing else but a pair of comfortable and tiny shorts…

forcing himself to be a loner, logan isn’t used to being touched like this all that much, and it makes him sensitive. and as a result, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut and groan in absolute pleasure when you readjust by wiggling your hips on top of him and lean in super close to really dig your fingers into his strong back.

you pause at the sound; he can hear your breathing hitch a little before it continues to fan his shoulder blade. he’s already halfway on opening his mouth to say something in order to avoid things from getting too awkward even if he’s not the kind of man who minds if they do, when all of a sudden it hits him.

it’s barely there, just the faintest whiff of something sticky and sweet. it would be impossible to catch by a normal human, but he isn’t a normal human, now is he? no, he’s a mutant — a primal one, at that — and because of it, his nose is more than capable of catching a scent like this.

you’re… aroused. have gotten turned on by the sound he just made. are getting wetter between the legs by the second. and he can smell it.

fuck.

logan chooses not to say anything even if the pheromones that he’s steadily inhaling now are making his blood grow feverish to dangerous levels. meanwhile, you choose to remain quiet as well, simply continuing your ministrations as if nothing has happened.

something that does change, however, is the way you touch him. from that hiccup onward, you get more, should you say, intimate with it; even daring to comb your fingers through his rich, dark hair at some point and experimentally tugging at the roots, making him actually shiver this time.

he doesn’t just shiver, though. the action is so freaking good that it also causes his eyes to roll into the back of his head — he silently prays that he’s managed to squeeze them shut for a second time before you could catch it.

and that’s not all there is to it either. by now, his cock has become painfully hard in his pants. thick, hot and leaking pre-cum from how excited he’s getting. it makes laying down on his stomach extremely uncomfortable, but he thinks it’s better to suffer through it than enabling you to see what you’re doing to him both physically and mentally.

mind fogged by a mixture of your and now his own lust, he’s getting so horny that all he wants to do is rut into the couch while you continue to touch him. he doesn’t, of course, he’s been around for over two centuries so he’s pretty good at restraining himself, however that doesn’t mean that he likes doing it.

so he remains decent… well, somewhat. he pants a little bit, and he grunts and curses under his breath in a way that makes him sound like he’s balls deep in your cunt, folding you in a mating press and pounding away until you’re nothing but a whiny mess and his cum is trickling down your thighs, but he still tries his very best.

by the time you pat him on the shoulders and tell him you’ve finished, he fears he did, too.

[amu-says-hav-says]

I can’t believe I went through all of Season 2 assuming Nina was the stand-in for Crowley when you actually pay attention it’s so CLEAR that she’s Aziraphale. I was tricked by her spiky, sarcastic, cynical outer shell and lulled into a false sense of security by Maggie’s bubbly optimism and wholesome goodness, because on the surface they reflect the ineffable husbands perfectly, in their personalities, their aesthetics, even many of their actions and morals. but not, and this is the real key, when it comes to their “relationship”. but those first impressions really had me damn fooled. 

I missed the blatantness of Nina’s “we’re just friends. actually we’re not friends. we barely know each other.” the same thing Aziraphale said in season 1.  the way he still struggles to quantify their friendship when Nina asks. Nina’s sarcasm when Crowley asks about rain and awnings because it worked for him (we all know it LMAO). hell, that whole convo the girls have in the rain is so AziraCrow (“I know. I’m not your type” “...You have no idea” hits so much harder the second time, help meeeee.) “Lindsay” maybe being symbolic of Heaven and Aziraphale’s toxic relationship with them and their abuse? (the handwritten text messages in red pen make me think of angry notes on paperwork, anyone else?) because Crowley has never actually cared about what Hell thinks of him, just not getting into trouble (or him or Aziraphale getting hurt). Maggie is always chasing Nina. NINA NEVER GOES IN THE RECORD STORE. Just like Crowley always goes to the bookstore, to Aziraphale, Zira NEVER WENT TO THE FLAT (apart from The Swap but that doesn’t count imo). Crowley has always chased Zira, not the other way around. Always there to rescue him, always going to him for company, always relying on their shared connection, always US. OUR SIDE. All through season one, he comes to Zira every time to work together, never trying to work alongside Hell in any way that isn’t to save their skins or Earth, while Zira hides things from Crowley because he STILL thinks Heaven is ultimately good and will do the right thing if he can just show them. fix it from the inside. 

Maggie working up the courage to finally say something, to put herself out there, while Nina is utterly oblivious and then when she does realise Maggie has feelings, becoming standoffish, putting up that barrier, fighting it, denying it, ITS SO CROWLEY AND AZIRAPHALE IN THAT ORDER. the way I was fooled into thinking Nina’s trust issues are Crowley because he does have trust issues ofc he does BUT Crowley has ALWAYS TRUSTED AZIRAPHALE. has always relied on him. has always been hurt when Aziraphale doesn’t immediately reciprocate the way he expects (the holy water request, the bandstand, the “off in the stars” etc). he’s always the one putting himself forward. Aziraphale has always been the one to second guess everything, to fight their connection, their similarities, their friendship. the girls really made me think it was going to be okay when they sat Crowley down, even as my inner sirens were going haywire about Metatron interfering, they were telling Crowley he just needs to open up and it’ll all work out BUT HE’S ALREADY AT THAT POINT. he may not say it, and by gosh is that part of their damn problem, but he’s always SHOWN IT. he’s not Nina who needs time to heal and recover from her broken trust, he’s always been Maggie believing it doesn’t matter, they’ll end up together in the end anyway AND I WALKED RIGHT INTO THE TRAP THAT THIS MEANT THEY WERE GOING TO BE OKAYYYYYYYYYYY