#they TRULY reclaimed EVERYTHING and i love them for it

[mymitochondriaforpresident]

Each other’s firsts and onlys. 💜💜

"I was just thinking, everybody's outside right now.." 💜💜

[harryspet]

well kept [5] r. cameron

[warnings] dark!ceo!rafe x reader, size difference, billionaire!older!rafe, shy!reader with low self-esteem, reader is a person who stutters, boss x personal assistant, heavy abuse of power, emotional/mental manipulation, little editing, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK 18+

A/N: even longer chapter :)

word count: 5.3k

In which Rafe presents you with his plan for your future and you question the true cost of his offer.

well kept masterlist

You breathed easy for the first time in a long while. You laughed, smiled, and your heart beat at a normal pace. You sipped your drink not from nervousness but from a desire to truly enjoy yourself. The evening was about fun and connection, and you were determined to embrace it.

The week following your cabin trip had been a deep pit of depression. Your friends, concerned by your obvious distress, had insisted you join them for the weekend. They only saw the stress of work weighing on you, Rafe’s hidden bruises were invisible to them. You had opted for jeans and a crop top, deliberately avoiding a dress that might reveal the lingering marks of his anger. 

It was an act of rebellion to wear something Rafe hadn’t picked out but it was freeing. It was time you accepted that he didn’t own you 24/7, he had no right to you two days out of the week.

You bought your friends drinks, a part of the new perk that came with having salary. You liked treating them but every swipe of your card reminded you of all you were putting up with to get it. 

What Rafe did to you, he did out of selfishness, no one who cared for you truly could treat you like he did. You certainly weren’t a couple like everyone in Rafe’s close circle assumed you were. You didn’t know much about relationships or what real love looked like, but you were certain of one thing: whatever you had with Rafe would never evolve into something warm and tender enough to be labeled as love. You were reclaiming some normalcy. Or at least, that was what you hoped for. 

The three of you had decided to move the party back to your apartment at 2 AM, and the city lights flickered like stars in the darkened sky. Imani, with her arm securely interlocked with yours, clung to you, her presence both comforting and grounding amidst the night’s chaos.

You squeezed into the backseat, chatter and laughter from the evening buzzed in your ears. Angel was making smalltalk with the driver because that was just the type of person she was. Closest to the window, you checked your phone for the first time all night. Three messages from Rafe. Your heart started to beat in the rattled way it had been, pressing against your ribcage in a way that made you feel like you couldn’t breathe. 

Two images of you. Outfits you’d sent him. Along with a message. 

For Monday and Tuesday. - R.C. 

Sent at ten the night before. Imani leaned closer and you locked your phone, shoving it between your legs. 

“He’s really texting you? It’s Saturday.”

“Sunday now,” You tried to not sound rattled as you met her eyes.

“Like that makes a difference,” You expected her tone to be light given the vodka on her breath and silly pop songs playing on the radio, “No wonder you’re going crazy.”

“Crazy?” You laughed but it came out hollow, “Y-You guys thought I was sad and now I’m going crazy?”

“Yes,” She spoke matter-of-factly, “And it’s strange that you won’t tell us anything about him.”

“I don’t wanna talk about this,” You said, realizing she wasn’t going to drop it.  You wondered if this was her plan, to get you drunk and then pry out all the gossip about your new boss.

“I’m really worried, Y/N,” She said, “You don’t have to tell us everything but at least … let us help. We can help, I promise.”

Angel tuned into the conversation, realizing it had gone serious, “Yeah, my Mom and Dad are literally cops, Y/N. Just say the word-” 

“I promise it’s not that serious, Angel,” you said, shaking your head. The idea of involving the police felt almost laughable given the magnitude of Rafe’s wealth and influence. “I told you g-g-g-guys, he’s just a demanding asshole.”

“If it’s not that serious than why has he been over at our apartment? If you’re not sleeping together or not dating?”

“It’s complicated,” You spoke robotically. 

“We want to be there for you,” Angel added. You wanted to believe that. If you told them the truth, you’d have to explain why you hadn’t walked away yet. Rafe had given you every reason to quit and yet here you were. 

“You guys are there for me. I-I-I appreciate this night so much. I’ve just b-b-b-been letting work consume me. You guys have pulled me out of my fog. This next wwww-week will be better because I’m actually taking care of myself.”

It was an excuse, a way to rationalize why you hadn’t walked away from Rafe yet. You started to believe it, convincing yourself that things would get better just because you were trying to take care of yourself now.

“Just because he’s rich doesn’t mean he gets to have your body,” The world seemed to go quiet after Imani spoke those words. The music quieted and both you and Angel stared at her, the heavy silence enveloping the three of you. 

“She’s right, you know,” Angel said softly. 

How had she seen so clearly what you were trying to hide? Why were they prying into your life? You were an adult, after all. You should have the right to make your own decisions, however flawed they might seem to others. But their concern felt invasive, as if they were prying into a private struggle you were barely managing to keep under control.

Pity. 

Your best friends pitied you, “Oh, y-you’re not serious,” You smiled crazily, “He’s not …I’m nnn-n-not …you both have it so so wrong.”

They stared at you, trying to guage your reaction, but your heart and brain were going crazy. You couldn’t pick what emotion to convey because you were feeling all of them. 

“I’m drunk,” You rested your head back, “I’m so drunk.”

As the rideshare pulled up to your apartment building, you fumbled with your seatbelt, eager to escape the heavy conversation, “Y/N, we didn’t mean to upset you,” You heard Angel say at they followed you out of the car. 

“I’m okay. So okay.”

You wanted to hurry inside the lobby but felt a hand wrap around your arm, “Y/N,” Imani stopped you. 

You whipped your head around, panicked, “I’m fine. I sss-said I’m fine.”

“You boss’s car is parked over there.”

You followed her pointed finger, and your blood ran cold. There it was—Rafe’s sleek black car, parked conspicuously outside your building. “Wha—” you stammered, unable to process the sight of it, “Oh.”

“Why the fuck is he here?” Imani cursed. 

“I’ll meet you guys inside–”

“Go talk to him but we’re standing right here until you’re done,” Imani crossed her arms in front of her and gave you pointed look. 

“Angel,” You looked at you other friend, pleading. 

She shook her head, “We’re standing here, Y/N.”

“Fine,” You whispered. It was a quiet declaration of your frustration, a statement of your internal struggle. 

They didn’t trust you. You could take care of yourself. This would upset Rafe, you knew it would. You took a deep breath as you wandered towards the small parking lot beside your building. His bright truck lights shined against the brick of the building and you saw his arm resting outside the window, fingers drumming nervous on the frame. You pulled at your crop top, wanting to force it to be longer, as you got closer. 

“Y/N,” His voice cut through the night air with a sharp edge. 

Tonight, Rafe’s blue eyes were wild. Instead of the usual darkness you saw behind his pupils, you saw wildness. Dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights, and his other hand was busy rubbing worried circles over his buzzed haircut, a nervous habit you hadn’t seen before.

“Rafe, wh-what are you doing out here?” You dropped the formalities. It felt wrong to address him with respect, more than it usually did, when he was sitting outside of your apartment at two in the morning. 

He looked you over once, before his door opened, and he climbed out. Dressed in a polo and khaki shorts, he left his car running, before he was standing in front of you. Only a foot away and already you weren’t breathing correctly. He moved closer but you said, “You shouldn’t touch me.”

Hurt, confused, he gave you a look you hadn’t seen before, “Why not?”

You gestured as subtly as you could, to your two friend who were settled under the awning that hung over your apartment buildings entrance, “My roommates are waiting for me.”

Rafe’s jaw ticked, before his hands found his hips, “Right,” He nodded before he laughed, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I just feel crazy tonight, you know?”

Yes, you knew. Now your crazy was starting to feel like nothing compared to whatever was building inside of your boss. He was different tonight, younger, and out of control, “What are you doing out here?” You asked again, “It’s two in the mmm-morning.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to show up like this. I just wanted to talk to you. I came earlier and you weren’t here and I … I started spiraling, you know? You’ve been out all night. I don’t like …I just felt fucking nervous.”

“Nervous b-because I went out with mmm-mmm-my friends?” Your words were cautious but you couldn’t help that your eyebrows raised in confusion. 

“I needed to see you.”

“You see me now,” You said, “What … what is it?”

Rafe took a breath, “I made a mistake at the cabin and I think, ever since then, you’ve been distant.”

You nodded as you tried to understand his meaning. He made a mistake when he spanked you with a belt, making two of his close acquaintances listen to you scream, and leaving you to cry yourself to sleep. The distance he now complained about was a direct result of his actions—a defense mechanism you’d put in place to protect yourself. And yet, here he was, expressing frustration over your response, as if your withdrawal was the real issue rather than his behavior.

“Rafe, honestly, this isn’t h-h-helping … I d-d-don’t know if I can handle this right now. I don’t know if I can be who you need me to be,” You took a step back and you were comforted by the fact that he couldn’t take a step towards you. He wouldn’t make a scene, not in front of your roommates. Maybe you could forgive their intrusiveness. 

Rafe seemed to tense at your words and you watched as his eyes wandered down the sidewalk towards your friends, “Okay, uhm …they say something to you?” His voice carried a note of suspicion, as if their presence was somehow a direct affront to him.

“They’re my friends,” you replied tersely, hoping that would be the end of it. Of course your friends had expressed their concerns about him. 

“Okay,” Rafe said, his voice edged with frustration. “I just … I’m here because I want to fix things.”

“C-Can we talk about it on Monday, please?” You asked, “I’ve been-”

“You’ve been drinking,” He filled in your words, more unamused than before, “It’s not safe, little girl like you, only your friends to protect you … there’s lots of bad, bad people in this city.” 

The way he said "little girl" stung. It wasn’t the first time he’d used it, but it felt more patronizing and condescending tonight.

“I can take care of myself,” you said firmly, taking another step back towards your building, trying to put more space between you and his imposing figure.

“Can you?” he taunted, the words heavy with mockery. “Alright, I’ll give you some space. You know what? Go ahead and take Monday off, you deserve it, sweetheart.” 

“Goodnight,” You said before you turned away from him. You jumped when you heard his truck door slam close but you didn’t look back. 

Your friends, witnessing the tense exchange from the corner of the awning, approached you with concern written on their faces. Angel reached out, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft but filled with worry.

“Fuck, that dude is crazy,” Imani said, “You have to quit. I’ll get another part time job. We both will while you look for something else. We’ll make it work.”

You should have cried in their arms, letting their comfort and love wash over you, but instead, all you felt was exhaustion and apathy. You didn’t have the energy to be comforted or to express your gratitude. Numb and drained, you trudged inside, your mind already longing for the softness of your pillow. Your friends followed quietly. 

Tuesday morning, your alarm didn’t wake you up. There was a pounding on your door before Imani stormed into your room. Heart racing, you lifted your head and checked your phone sitting on your side table. It was thirty minutes before your alarm was even supposed to go off, “What the-”

“Look!” Groggily, you sat up in your bed just as a crumpled white envelope was thrown at your chest. You held it up to the light trickling into your room from the window, and you easily saw red bold letters stamped across the top of the letter: EVICTION NOTICE. 

Without another thought, you ripped open the envelopement, “It’s probably a-a prank, Imani.”

“What is going on?” Angel stumbled into the room next, mouth full of foaming toothpaste. 

You held open the letter as you began to read carefully, “As per the terms of your lease agreement and in a-a-accordance with the state and local regulations, this letter serves as your official notice of eviction–”

“Fuck,” Imani cursed. 

“This decision has been mmmm-made in alignment with our current business strategy which includes renovating the apartment to increase its value and preparing the property for sale to a prospective buyer …”

“Someones buying our entire apartment building?” Angel asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

“This is fucked,” Imani added. 

You continued reading, “The termination for your lease w-w-w-will be affected sixty days from the date of this notice. Please ensure thhh-that you vacate the premises by this date …”

You read the letter over and over, trying to make sense of it. The signature at the bottom confirmed its legitimacy.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Imani sat down on the edge of your bed, head in the palm of her hands, “They can’t do this. It’s illegal! Where are we supposed to go?”

“Sixty days from now is right before the holidays start,” Angel leaned in the doorway, her eyes starting to well with tears, “I can’t go back home.”

Imani shook her head, “This apartment is my home.”

Determined, you climbed out of bed, pulling on the work clothes you had pre-selected. You kicked off your fuzzy socks, removed your bonnet, and began fixing your braids into a messy bun. “I’m going into the office,” you said resolutely. “I w-w-w-work for a real estate company. Rafe will know what to do. They can’t just do this. If anyone knows how to get out of this, he will.”

The two girls exchanged glances, their concern palpable. “We don’t need his help,” Imani said firmly.

“I don’t think I want it,” Angel added quietly.

You stared at them, incredulous. “He c-can help. You don’t know him like I do.”

“Y/N, is this really smart?” Angel asked, her voice tinged with worry.

“I can’t believe you guys. Get out, I’m getting ready,” you snapped, frustration rising. “Get out, now!”

As they left the room, their worried faces lingered in your mind, but you were focused on finding a solution.

Despite drunkenly conveying your uncertainties about your position with Rafe a few nights before, that morning, you were the epitome of perfection.  You wore exactly what he had chosen for you: a light blue dress embellished with sparkling sequins, pockets, and a Peter Pan collar. You even spent more than ten minutes putting on your makeup that morning, you looked flawless, more effort than you’d ever put in before.

You recited his entire schedule with only a slight stutter, had a steaming cup of coffee waiting for him at his desk, and arranged for lunch from one of his favorite restaurants. You allowed him to wrap his hand around your waist, to lean down and bury his face in your neck, to inhale your scent and press a gentle kiss against your skin.

It was like nothing had changed. Seeing Rafe outside of your apartment that night was frightening, a reminder of the presence he now had in your life, but you’d never seen him look so … desperate. Rafe Cameron was desperate for you, of all people. It dawned on you that perhaps there was room for negotiation. At the cabin, you had vehemently resisted his behavior, and his reaction had been explosively violent. But now, with him admitting to a mistake and showing a rare glimpse of vulnerability, you realized you might possess more leverage than you had previously imagined.

You spent the first few hours at work hyping yourself up to bring up the eviction notice to Rafe. All of his morning meetings went well and he didn’t have the usual cloud of darkness that was constantly over his head. When there was finally a lull in the day, you finally told him the news you’d learned that morning. However, his reaction made your face fall into a frown that you didn’t have the strength to correct.

“I’m not sure what the problem is. Don’t I pay you enough to be able to afford your own apartment?”

“My friends …” you began, struggling to find the right words. Mentioning your friends was wrong. You knew how he felt about the voices of reason in your life. 

“Right, your friends. What would you have me do?” His words continued to be indifferent and detached, as if he could want you so bad, but care nothing about the lives that were closest to you, “Offer them jobs? Pay for them to live as well?”

“No, that’s nnn-not what I mean,” It felt like he was purposefully miscontruing your words, and in turn, your character. Of course you didn’t expect for him to take care of your friends. Not letting him take advantage of the sea of emotions you were feeling, you recited your problem clearly, “I just want to know if you have any advice. For handling the situation. Something that’s in our control as tenants.”

“You don’t have much power at all, as tenants. You’re subject to the decisions made by the property management and the owners,” Before the reality of his words fully sunk in, he sighed, continuing, “You could look at your lease agreement and read it thoroughly to find any clauses that protect you. You could consult with a lawyer though that would be a pricy right to go down. You could talk to your landlord and try to get an extension to find a new place. That’s where I would start, sweetheart.”

Rafe’s hands folded together, looking up at you, as a smile graced his face. You nodded, “Okay,” You were grateful for a straight answer, but admittedly, you thought he would offer a better solution, “What should we look for in the lease? What would protect us?”

“Anything about early termination, language about renovations or changes in property management. Stipulations about how much notice is required before evicting you. If the landlord has violated any of those terms, it could be grounds for negotiation.”

“Huh,” you nodded, your heart filling with a small bit of hope, despite how out of reach some of his suggestions felt, “O-Okay, thank you. Yeah, I’ll t-t-talk to my roommates about it.”

“If it were me, I would be make sure I focused on my own safety and well being. You can’t really help your friends if you’re out on the street with them.” 

His words, rude and smart like always, stung but you didn’t dwell on them, “Thanks for the advice, sir.” 

For the rest of the morning, you shuffled between tasks and scrolling through your lease agreement. You searched it for the keywords that Rafe at mentioned and when that search wasn’t fruitful, you started to read it top to bottom. Your landlord was only required to give you sixty days notice for an eviction. You found absolutely nothing about property management changes. Hours passed and as lunchtime approach, you were sufficiently frustrated. 

You brought Rafe his lunch as he sat through a lunch time meeting but you made your way to the breakroom quickly afterwards.

Imani had called you a few time so you returned it. You’d texted your groupchat about all the steps that Rafe had mentioned. Imani had replied that he was probably withholding information. You weren’t quite sure why that idea hadn’t crossed your mind. 

“Hey, I still haven’t found anything–”

“Cameron Development is the one purchasing the apartment building, Y/N.”

Your heart sank and you plopped down on the breakroom’s leather couch with a heavy sigh, “Shit,” You whispered. 

“Shit is an understatement,” She replied, “Y/N, I’m starting to think you need to be really careful. Maybe we should go to the police.”

He’d lied to your face, unabashedly. 

"We'll talk about it later, I promise," You spoke before you hung up, not giving her a chance to argue.

It was much too late for careful. You should’ve ran after your first conversation with him but now … you were effectively trapped. Rafe had sex with you even when you didn’t want to. He hurt you and you held him for comfort after you. It had been weeks since you’d even felt like yourself. 

You leaned back to stare at the ceiling and you didn’t move for the next thirty minutes. Eleanor was the one who came to find you after you’d gone missing, “Y/N, Rafe’s been looking for you. What are you doing?”

“Did you know?” You asked her solemnly, your voice felt broken. 

She came to sit beside you and you felt her place a hand on your shoulder as she leaned closer, “Topper told me they rushed the deal. Offered twice the asking price. Said it was horrible idea, completely financially irresponsible, but Rafe insisted. ”

“Wh-What should I do?” You turned your head towards her, tears in your eyes, “I-I’ve never had sss-someone feel this way about me b-but th-this feels wrong.”

“What should you do?” She repeated, “I think he loves you.”

“L-Love?” You seemed to choke on the words. 

From what you could tell, it didn’t seem that Rafe was capable of loving anyone, “What does your gut tell you?”

This entire time, your gut had been telling you one thing, “T-To run?”

Even now, you were so unsure of yourself, “Makes sense, he’s suffocating you.”

You sat up in your spot, “Should I go now? Leave all my stuff? He p-paid for it, anyways.”

“I don’t think this is the time,” She squeezed your shoulder gently, her eyes soft as they fixed on you, “If you run, he’ll drag you back to his mansion kicking and screaming. Rafe just made this grand gesture to display his power. A huge fuck you to all the people you care about. He’s desperate. This is your time to get what you want from him. Tell him, you’re not going to be his little sex secretary anymore or follow him to the mountains, unless he changes.” 

“Y-You think he can change?”

“I didn’t think so before,” Eleanor said, her voice firm. “But now, seeing how desperate he is, I believe he’ll do anything to keep you.”

You could barely admit to yourself that part of you wished what she was saying was true. The notion that Rafe might have feelings for you, even if expressed through flawed and controlling actions, was both intoxicating and unsettling. Maybe you could take the bad with the good if the good started to outweigh the bad. But Rafe’s bad was more than bad. His soft gestures were often accompanied by demands and manipulations. 

There was no pros and cons list to be made. You looked at your situation objectively, Eleanor’s words having finally forced you to. If you ran, he’d come after you. If you ran, you’d have nothing. No apartment or salary to support yourself. You longed for a relationship where you felt safe and cared for and you wanted to live in a world where your friends were also taken care of. 

“I hope you’re not handling your personal business during workhours,” Rafe had said when you finally returned to the office. 

Ironic, given all the personal things you two had done together in that very office. 

“I’m not the one who made it personal,” You spoke easily, smoothly. 

You made your way to your desk. Your words seemed to bothered him but you didn’t glance at him long enough to take in his reaction. 

“And how did I make it personal?” You flipped through your personal calendar, taking a pen and marking down all of Rafe’s scheduled social events. 

“It’s not g-g-going to work. Using my friends to threaten me.”

“Oh?” That single word was dripping with venom.

“Just makes me think even www-worse of you. And I-I already had a poor opinion.”

“Yeah?” You wanted to look at him but you kept your eyes focused down, “What makes you think I give a fuck about your opinion of me?"

“B-Because I drive you crazy. Because I’m the one person y-you want to control completely.”

“Maybe I wanted to make things easier for you. Maybe I know that you’ll outgrow your little friends soon and you need a push in the right direction. You have friends in higher places now, you know that?”

“Y-You don’t like that they tell me to quit. That they know sss-somethings wrong with you.”

“You’re wrong,” He shot back.

“You’ve done a good job b-because now I can’t leave without losing everything,” It took everything to keep your voice from breaking. Finally, you turned your heads toward him. You saw the way his chair was towards you, the way his grip was tight on the armrests of his chair.

“Maybe I’ve been selfish.”

You scoffed at that, “You’ve mmm-made it clear that you don’t care about my needs or mmm-my feelings.”

“I know your feelings, sweetheart. You wear them so clearly,” Rafe replied, you could see it in his face that he was trying to keep his tone subdued He leaned foreward slightly, eyes as intense as ever, “Tell me what needs I haven’t tended to. Let me fix things, yeah?”

His offered seemed genuine and exactly what you were hoping for, weren’t you? 

“You really want to fix things?”

“Yeah,” He said like the crimes he’d committed against you were something that could remedied, “I can’t change what I don’t know.”

“It’s not just about what you’ve done wrong. It’s a-about how you handle things from now on,” You started, choosing your words carefully, “It’s about allowing mmm-mmme to set boundaries and respecting them.”

“Boundaries?” His head twisted to the side like he wasn’t entirely familiar with the term, “There’s multiple?”

“First, I want you t-to do what you can to remedy this apartment situation. Then, I don’t want you to ever bring my friends into this again.”

“Fine, I’ll get them another apartment. I’ll even throw in free rent.”

“No,” You shook your head, “You own the building which means you let us stay. No renovations.”

“I made an investment. I have to make a profit–”

“I’m serious,” You countered, “Y-Y-You made your point. You have all the mmm-money in the world and we have nothing in comparison.”

Rafe sighed, fingers tapping against his leg, “Okay, they stay but you come to live with me.”

“What? Why?” It was another layer of control, not a solution. 

“Your friends will want nothing to do with me or my help. If you continue to work for me, they won’t want anything to do with you either. If you want to maintain those relationships, some space would be better. Let them see you happy and they’ll come to their senses about our relationship.”

The implication of his words was clear. He was offering you a way to keep your friends, but it came with the price of further entangling your life with his. It felt like a manipulative trade-off.  You thought about the way he had manipulated you before, using your friends as leverage, and it made you wary of his intentions.

“I won’t say yes right now,” You decided, “Sss-sss-since we’re talking about living situations. Next year, I want to stay in Charlotte.”

“That won’t work.”

What had Eleanor told you to do? Had she forgotten how stubborn he was? 

“Y-You’re asking me to move across the state with you. I-It’s t-t-t-to much. There will have to be another arrangement.”

“Hmm, I won’t say yes right now,” he repeated your wording with an edge of mockery. You scowled, feeling the frustration build up inside you.

“You just sss-said you wanted to fix things.”

“My intentions … my intentions are to leave the city and spend the next few years settling down. I’m getting to a certain age and I’ve been thinking about, you know, getting married and having kids. It feels like the right time,” The information is a shock to you, not the thought of Rafe wanting a wife and kids, but knowing immediately he was implying that you’d be filling that role, “It’s a beautiful area. I wouldn’t expect you to continue your role there. You’d fully be a stay-at home wife, you could pursue any hobbies you wanted, and of course you’d have access to even more money than I’ve been paying you.”

Rafe began to paint a picture of a gilded cage. On the surface, it was tempting: a life of comfort, stability, and freedom from financial worries. But the price was your independence and autonomy. The thought of becoming a stay-at-home wife, completely reliant on him and cut off from your own life in Charlotte, was suffocating.

“What if I d-d-don’t want that life? W-What if I want my own career?”

He hesitated, his gaze narrowing as he leaned back in his chair, “What career do you want? I’ll give it to you. You can do practically anything from home these days. If you want to spend the first years doing that, fine, I’m not expecting kids right away.”

You hadn’t realized it but your breath was starting to quicken. You placed a hand over your chest, all of that resolve you had going into the conversation starting to fade away, “This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Rafe seemed to talk to himself, “Hey, hey, calm down.” 

Your breath came out in quick shallow breaths. Rafe’s proposal pressed down on you as the room started to spin. You felt his arms around you before you could fall from your chair, “Eleanor, I need you here,” You heard clearly. For the next moments, you could only hear their muffled talking. You remembered seeing both of them, panicked look on Eleanor’s face, a hand rubbing down your back. Rafe was talking to you, his eyes trained on you intently. You remembered a glass of water coming to your lips and you tilted your head back, welcoming the liquid, thinking it might quell the fire inside your mind. 

Though your thoughts still raced, the room’s spinning slowed down, and the you heard Rafe dsay, “It’ll help you feel better.”

He stayed with you, rubbing soothing circles into the skin of your thighs, “Thank you,” You whispered though you hated that you found comfort in his touch. A wave of drowsiness overcame you and despite your best efforts to stay alert, you felt yourself lean forward until you were fully in Rafe’s arms, “Rafe–”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Rest,” Rafe murmured, his voice soft and reassuring as he held you close.

This got too long, gonna have to make another part! Pls pls pls reblog and let me know your thoughts and predictions!

[watermel0ns-dumb-cringe]

(,,uhuh tw. brief mentions/implications of s/a.)

DO YOU FUCKING KNOW WHAT ISNT TALKED ABOUT ENOUGH THAT INFURIATES ME??

Constance's arc in RTC. Literally nobody talks about it and waters her down to just being the nice mom friend™️ which completely undermines the arc she goes through of both

1. Reclaiming her innocence. Throughout the musical there's a LOT of moments that can represent that arc up until sugar cloud

2. How she wasn't happy with her life and didn't realize the good of it until her dying moments. plagued by that thought until she reaches true happiness now knowing she had a good life in sugar cloud

GGGGOD sometimes the blatant undermining of the arcs each character has (,,excluding Jane. I don't think she ever really had an arc; just. Left in despair only knowing her death and the mourning of something she can't remember, wondering if god itself had abandoned her) me so INFURRIATED LIKE RAGHAJRHRRRUJS THERE'S SO MUCH ANALYSIS POTENTIAL AND THEYRE ALL SO WELL WRITTEN TO BE RELATEABLE IN SOME SHAPE OR FORM

Connie was not all just sunshine & rainbows she was going through the mental WRINGER and struggling with her self-loathing & depression up until her death. She probably still dealt with it throughout the musical — now being plagued by even more secrets to keep & the self loathing of what happened just three hours before. (,,example is. the one scene after Ocean goes "We all died virgins" & Karnak pressures Constance a bit. God that scene makes me so ☹️)

She doesn't like. Fully reclaim her innocence & happiness until sugar cloud — which I like to personally think her letting her hair down is representation of her slowly starting to let go of it all. Just. Truly starting to feel happy, like a little kid again. Realizing she had a good life and appreciating what she had now that she's gone. What she went through doesn't define her. Therefore, she doesn't let it hold her back. Letting that inner child out for whats probably the first time in a LONG time.

And I think that's just. A really beautiful thing to her character that gets ignored a lot; which to me is one of the more relatable aspects of her character. Not realizing how much you love everything until something bad happens. From the smallest things like the feeling of getting into bed after a long day— your body finally relaxing after throbbing with pain & exhaustion all day, or even just seeing the smile on a family/friend's face after not seeing them for a while— to the more specific things such as seeing people being happy around you. Happy to be with you. All while knowing what you've gone through doesn't define who you are; letting that little kid inside of you out into the world to truly feel the warmth of the sun.

God sorry I just absolutely love Constance jawbreaker/sugar cloud had me BAWLING the first few times I heard it and I'm not prepared to sob over it again when I see RTC in february,, anyways THIS FUCKASS FANDOM NEEDS TO STOP UNDERMINING ARCS AND REALLY ANALYZE THE CHARACTERS MORE RAGGHHHHHHH

[ahhhsami]

Mizu’s Womanhood

I keep thinking about how well Mizu’s story was written. A huge factor that makes me love the show is how they show Mizu’s abilities during fight scenes, but don’t forget that she is a woman. On the surface level people could see these fights as amazing action sequences, but there’s so much story being told at the same time. And that’s what makes an action sequence truly great (Warrior HBO is another example of amazing storytelling through fight choreography. Ah Toy's fight against Cleaver and Hammer comes to mind right away when comparing). 

We start off by seeing Mizu tear through young men in Shindo Dojo. Her skills are showcased as agile, flexible, fast, and based on her ability to use her body in ways that are fluid. She’s tested as soon as Taigen enters the picture. He’s physically stronger than her, shown in a multitude of ways throughout the action sequence from him throwing her to him pushing her down to her knee, but she’s still more skilled. She uses his weight against him, which she will do in every fight during the series. Mizu beats him due to her agility and speed. On top of that, it is the first time we see a man assume victory be his downfall. And it will happen on multiple occasions.

Episode 2 comes around and Mizu is tested again, but this time by 4 opponents and one who is significantly larger and more trained (Chiaki). Mizu's smart, evaluates her situation, and changes her surroundings by jumping down onto the cliffside. It doesn’t put her at an advantage, but at least she’s not at a severe disadvantage. It allows her to fight mainly one-on-one which changes her circumstances. But it doesn’t win the fight for her. What does is her resilience, adaptability, and skill once more. Once again, in the fight, the man opens himself up for a counter during the finishing blow. Chiaki ran forward, his guard completely down because he was sure he’d won like Taigen.

Episode 5 is where we get to see Mizu struggle due to overwhelming numbers. She’s forced into a corner, but the weapon that saves her is the Naginata. Naginatajutsu has been most associated with female samurai. The added range was a huge advantage and allowed women to protect their homes when their samurai husband were gone. I love that Mizu's first time using the weapon extensively was in a situation where it wasn’t her own life on the line, but also the women of the brothel. It showcased the connection between the Naginata, women, and protection in a beautiful way. Also, her using it during these circumstance felt like she was reclaiming the weapon from the traumas she had experienced during Mikio's betrayal. The parallels of Mizu not just being demonized for her blue eyes, but also for being a woman was stunning in this episode.

In Episode 6, we see Mizu almost lose to the big club man (Okiyama). We see her completely overpowered by the size difference. Okiyama can pick her up easily, throw her, and she’s unable to parry him properly. For the first time we truly see the difference between a man’s strength and hers (which will also be present against Fowler). The fact that both Fowler and him pick her up, and attempt to crush her with their bare arms is so powerful and as a woman, it’s a striking parallel to the real world and the powers of men. She was going to lose the fight if not for her last ditch effort, that also could have resulted in her own death with the bomb. It shows her willingness to sacrifice everything for the quest she's on. And at the end of the episode, Fowler manhandles her completely. It doesn’t matter that she’s injured, it doesn’t matter that he has a gun. What matters in that scene is that he takes pleasure in using his power. He destroys the weak and he lords over them. He uses women as sex slaves. He cares for no one but himself. He is the perfect representation of what Mizu as a woman has to fight against. 

There’s no fight scene in Episode 7 of note, but what is important is Mizu’s acceptance of her appearance, whether it be the blue eyes and sharp features, or her womanly features, all of them had once been sources of pain for her. The heart sutra scene is stunning and one of my favorites of the entire series (even if her little toesies were most likely being burned to be so close to the makeshift forge).

And finally Episode 8. We get to see her fight Fowler. I have multiple gripes with the structure of this fight, but it still represents Mizu’s womanhood in a way that continues the flow of the series. Mizu has to use everything to take down Fowler and even when she does she is still overpowered by him. He mirrors Okiyama, easily lifting her and using his strength over her instead of skill. And the line “your bones break like a woman’s” shows the societal norm that men associate with women being weaker, fragile, and unable to withstand what men can. It's fitting of the time period, but also current day too.

But hubris is the man’s downfall in this series because as soon as he lets his guard down, she takes her chance. She breaks free, her rage, need for vengeance, and essential reason for being at this point drive her to beat him. The single line “Oh my dear, that’s your white half showing,” doesn’t just target her being mixed race, but also being a woman. Fowler doesn’t let up there though, he calls her eyes pretty. And not just because they’re blue, but because they’re of a woman’s. He brings up unwanted daughters and digs the knife deeper. And these last lines from Fowler represent everything that Mizu has been combating, everything that has been driving her. There’s so much to her character. The writing in this series shows how multiple compounding factors contribute to a person's drive. And in this instance, it shows how being a woman and half-white has lead to Mizu’s self-hatred and it’s beautiful in such a destructive way. 

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Destiny

Sorry all, megop angst has just been filling my head and I can't get it out. I promise more Astarion will be coming, more fluff Astarion but I need to get this angst out of the way first. I blame Transformers One for this brainrot.

Megatron rested his servo on the window, looking out at the sprawling landscape that was his domain. He watched as his army prepared for their next strike, the sound of engines revving and jets soaring through the sky filled his audials and bit back a sigh.

Why do you do this to me, Orion?

He unsheathed his blade, staring at the blade as his own reflection stared back. It wouldn't be the first time his blade would be stained with Energon, and it wouldn't be the last, but it would be the first time his blade would be stained with the Energon of one he loved so dearly.

Back in the gladiator pits, when he was Megatronus, he never allowed himself to get close to anyone, fearing that one day he might have to face them in the arena. Then the brightest star he'd ever seen in his life ducked into his quarters, calling himself Orion Pax. He'd kept the mech at bay initially, wary of anyone who was from the higher castes but the light the star gave off was far too alluring, and Megatron found himself opening up more and more, until he fell into the deep chasm called love.

He started to look forward to their meetings, started to look forward to seeing the shining pale blue optics, started to look forward to hearing the excited chatter as Orion talked about the bright future he envisioned for Cybertron, a future he wanted the gladiator to help bring to fruition. He wanted that future, but more importantly he wanted to spend that future alongside a certain bright star that had illuminated his life.

And then everything changed.

Orion had stood before the Council, the very same Council that had rejected him, and had been granted the title of a Prime. The mech had the audacity to accept the title, continue to uphold the very structure they were to tear down, and worst of all, had betrayed him.

As he left the building, Orion hadn't even bothered to call out to him. Instead, the mech had stood there, basking in the glory of his new title, leaving the one he considered more than a brother in the darkness, all alone.

Megatron ignored the pang in his spark, gritting his denta. Orion was gone now, replaced by the false Prime. The bright optimistic young data clerk had died the day Optimus Prime was born, and with him all hope for a future together. He powered up his fusion cannon, relishing in its low hum and stepped out the door, all trace of Megatronus left back in the privacy of his quarters. He'd have to kill his past young and naive self someday, or that weakness would be his downfall, and he would not be defeated, not by anyone. If Primus didn't want to give him the destiny he desired, then he would grab it with his own two servos and not let go. He didn't need anyone's aid to grasp what was his, he'd always been at it alone and this time would be no different.

The sound of engines roaring and weapons charging up sent his spark thrumming in anticipation. He could feel it in the air, his Decepticons were raring to go, eager to reclaim what was rightfully theirs, and who was he to deny them that? The Autobots would fall before them and know the wrath of the oppressed, they would know the cost of the lies they had been living in. They would be dragged from their towers, their positions of comfort and be forced to face the harsh reality of life — that they were no different from those they had looked down upon their whole lives. His Decepticons would rebuild Cybertron anew, usher it into a true Golden Age where there would be no false Primes, no caste system, no weak-minded fools deciding the fate of the whole population.

A Cybtertron where no one would ever be unwillingly made into entertainment for the masses. A Cybertron where only those who were truly strong would rule. A Decepticon Cybtertron.

Optimus Prime looked at his newly added weapons arsenal, anxiety gnawing away at him. He never wanted it to come to this, come to a war, but Megatron had been the one to declare it, and he could do nothing to stop the Decepticon leader's destruction except to fight him. Or so his officers said. He hated fighting, hated the sound of the battlefield where the groans of the dying mingled with the sound of weapons being fired, hated the smell of Energon that permeated the air. He hated watching as life faded from blue and red optics alike, hated the screams of pain that would sound all around him as he fought for his life. Most of all, he hated feeling powerless, a feeling that threatened to overwhelm him with each and every Autobot death.

He was their Prime, their leader. They looked up to him, looked to him for hope, and yet more of them died as the war raged on, their wishes going unfulfilled. He may not have killed them directly, but they were dead because he had pulled them into his war. Their Energon might as well be on his servos, no matter what the others told him.

He placed a servo on the window to his quarters, heaving a tired sigh. He wanted nothing more than to end this war, but he also knew he couldn't simply roll over and let Megatron have his way. The mech he once called more than a brother would stop at nothing to tear Cybertron apart, bend what remained of the planet to his will, his rule. He had to fight against such tyranny, it went against everything he stood for, everything he once thought Megatronus stood for. Maybe it had been, before Megatron cruelly killed him, burying the revolutionary gladiator beneath red optics.

His spark ached for the bygone days, the soft tender moments where it had just been Megatronus and Orion Pax, two forbidden lovers pining after each other. He missed the tender touches, the small laughs as they hid away from the world, nestled in each other's embrace. Now the same servos crushed all who stood in his way, the lips that once often quirked into a smile now twisted into a scowl of hate.

He knew the mech he faced on the battlefield was Megatron, not Megatronus, but every time his gaze met the red optics burning with fury, he couldn't help but see Megatronus, the mech he had fallen so hard for. He could never bring himself to pull the trigger, emotions overwhelming him every time he tried. The others chastised him for it, telling him that Megatronus was dead, but he couldn't shake the sight from his processor. Deep down, he yearned for them to be together again, even as destiny tore them apart with each step.

A quiet sob tore itself from his throat as the alarm was raised, shouts filling the base as his Autobots readied themselves for a fight they may not survive. Megatron had been sighted, the scouts reported, and Optimus knew he had to face his fears once more. Running a digit one over a piece of carved metal one last time, he snapped his battle mask into place, hiding the pain and sorrow behind a stoic facade and strode out of his quarters.

Had Megatron thrown out his piece already? Optimus found himself wondering. He couldn't bear to throw it away, not when it held such precious memories, and a small part of him hoped that Megatron still kept his. It would give him the sliver of hope he needed, a sign that the mech he had fallen for was still in there somewhere, but he doubted Megatron would ever tell him if he had kept his piece. For now, he had a battle to win, a war to fight for the future of a Cybertron he envisioned.

A Cybertron where all were treated fairly and justly. A Cybertron where all were equal. An Autobot Cybertron.

Megatron felt something prick his arm and frowned. A piece of carved metal, one he thought he had long lost. He stared at it for a moment, feeling buried emotions flare to life but quickly reburied them. He had no time to dig up the past, the only thing that awaited him was the future he was going to build.

With a flick of his wrist, he sent the piece of metal flying into the wasteland, and never looked back.

[vaguely-concerned]

listen I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore but on this playthrough of DA2 I found myself once more entranced and heartbroken to see hawke reenact their relationship with their mother with the entire cursed city of kirkwall. you can never do enough for leandra, and you can never do enough for kirkwall. leandra is proud of you, and kirkwall uplifts its champion, but no matter how hard you try for them you can't fix everything there that's broken, no one could, and even the fact that anyone would feel the burning responsibility to take that task on is a huge warning sign on its own. leandra will easily allow you to sacrifice yourself on the altar of the family's continued well-being again and again, even when she'll beg you to spare the twins from the same thing. it's such a sad, painfully realistic thing because I truly don't think leandra meant to fuck up her kids, and yet she primed her oldest for an abusive toxic codependent relationship with an entire ongoing dumpster fire of a city state better than she ever could have if she had meant to.

I think what leandra actually, deep down wants from you is something you can never ever give her and that is cruel to ask of anyone, but especially your kid -- to bring her back to a time when she was happy. to reclaim when you were all happy, when nothing was broken that couldn't be fixed, before malcolm died, before you had to leave behind bethany or carver's broken body on the ground. to get her childhood back from where she left it and found it all gone and in ruins when she returned. 'this is all your fault'. this is the tragedy of parenthood sometimes I think, that capacity to define a life: she said that once, in a moment of profound pain, and she probably wouldn't have said it under other circumstances and she apologizes later, but now hawke has to live with that forever. leandra can't bear her own emotions without letting them spill over onto someone else so she won't have to hold the discomfort of them anymore, and hawke is left to shoulder that burden and responsibility again and again, handed the impossible task of making it all okay again, somehow -- of stopping anything bad from ever happening again in the Nr 1 Bad Things Constantly Happening capital of thedas.

and then at the same time there's the mirror of how varric's whole family wants orzammar back (and to him orzammar is just a ghost he's seen in their eyes -- there's something in his voice when he says 'That stupid plate was the whole city of Orzammar to him' that gets me every time, how much he understands that he doesn't understand and how lonely that makes him among them, and on top of it all he's frustrated and ashamed and sad that he just doesn't get it and can't meet them on it -- like it's a betrayal that he actually belongs up here, when varric wants so badly to be loyal), just as the hawkes want happiness back. (I don't think it's Lothering in itself that longing is for, it's for being together. Lothering was just the place they stayed the longest.) they're all in exile, even as they try to make a new home out of that exile.

(varric and hawke's real 🤝 quality across all personalities, affinities and choices is 'parentified child' lmao. so much of varric's character makes perfect sense once you know he grew up supporting a mother who was an emotionally volatile alcoholic, honestly. between varric, the hawkes, isabela, seb if you have him and merrill's whole Situation with marethari I feel like DA2 covertly is to mommy issues what ME2 is to daddy issues fjsdjfa)

basically I think I'm trying to pick apart exactly why the fact that leandra is clearly proud of hawke and tells them so several times doesn't feel like it helps at all, almost feels more like a cage even though it's clearly meant well? and what I'm getting is that it's because my sense of what hawke actually needs, in general but especially from a parent, isn't admiration or approval but to be loved and supported and understood. I don't believe leandra ever quite understands them, and it scares her because it makes her think she maybe never even understood malcolm. (that's the subtext of a lot of what leandra will say about him in legacy, at least. he's slipping away from her as the years pass after his death and she fears she never really had him in the first place, if he had secrets like these.) she consistently treats her oldest more like a partner or peer than as her child, which considering hawke is always described as being very similar to their father… I mean I totally see how that could be easy to slip into for her after he died especially, but it doesn't make it any less fucked up or unfair.

the real leandra in legacy is. she is SO absurdly self-centered, if you really pay attention. I don't want to keep dunking on her because I don't think she's like this on purpose, but it boggles my mind. if you do the quest in act 1 she gets so upset and overwhelmed that the kids just sort of sit there like :( at the end, which adds to the trend that through the game you constantly see hawke comforting leandra, and you pretty much never see leandra comforting hawke, beyond some light vaguely encouraging comments in passing. if you do legacy in act 2 while she's still alive hawke comes to her, tentatively asking if malcolm ever spoke to her about any of it -- clearly requesting some sort of emotional support or help to make sense of it. she then expresses her side of it, but never once does she say anything to the effect of 'hey that was a lot to go through, are you okay after all that?'.

instead she essentially hands them the responsibility of having a good life, to repay what malcolm did for all of them. and in theory that's not the worst takeaway I suppose, malcolm probably would want them all to be happy, but in the moment it only feels like more expectation heaped upon you somehow? especially since you don't really get to express anything about how it made you feel before she goes to the 'ah no use complaining' zone (after SHE got to express her grief at feeling like she's losing more and more of that old life, and hawke barely got to say anything fhsfalkjfs). in general she really doesn't do much like. parenting, does she haha. there is so much love there in that relationship, and yet so little comfort. Oh, those days. All of us, in that simple place. Well, that's neither here nor there, is it. This life, we have to make the best of it. And thanks to you, and him, I will. Oh well, mum, I'm uh. I'm glad you feel better after that, at least. Nice to be of service.

it's varric's ghost-leandra who actually acknowledges what a burden hawke has taken on, that shows an understanding of why they're doing it, acknowledges the loss they've been through and also reassures them in their sense of belonging that still can't be taken from them, despite it all -- The best of him is still with you. The best of all of us. It's what makes you try so hard. You'll always have that. We'll always be family. (you can't take 'loved' away, huh.) you get a bit more of a reconciliation/reconnection between hawke and their dad's memory by being reminded he got like this too, you know (implicitly you're not alone). varric through leandra is the one who tells them what they probably would have wanted and needed to hear from a parent right then -- It's going to be alright. that's what Hawke, The Champion means to everyone else, and for once they get to be the one to hear it. except only in a kind dream that never really happened. I. it. hmmmmmm. crushing. that is crushing. but also so incredibly tender from varric's side, and so moving to me that he's seen all this stuff and so desperately wants to give them that comfort. anyway DA2 is about love in some of the realest and thus messiest and most human ways I've ever seen and it makes my brain go wild it's my favorite game of all time goodnight

[callsigns-haze]

Memories Fade VIII

Eris x Rhysand's Sister!Reader Summary: Not so long back Rhysand lost his sister. Years after Helion and Elain can raise her memories from the past to see what truly happened to Y/n. Warning: Mentions of death and drinking, mentions of violence, murder, blood, poison, CHARACTER DEATH

Part 1 here

Previous

The forest cabin stood silent and still, a stark contrast to the vibrant life that had once filled it. Eris sat on a worn wooden bench outside, a bottle of whiskey in hand, its contents steadily dwindling. His disheveled appearance mirrored the turmoil within him. His hair, once meticulously groomed, hung in tangled locks around his face, and dark circles shadowed his eyes, evidence of countless sleepless nights.

He took another long sip from the bottle, the whiskey burning its way down his throat, but it did little to numb the pain. The world had changed dramatically in the four months since Amarantha’s death at the hands of Feyre Archeron. The courts were free, the High Lords had reclaimed their power, and yet for Eris, nothing felt right. Everything had gone back to normal, but without Y/N, normal was a hollow, meaningless word.

The memories of her haunted him, vivid and painful. He could still see her smile, hear her laugh, feel the warmth of her presence. But now, all of that was gone, ripped away by the cruelty of Amarantha and the viciousness of fate. He stared out at the forest, the trees swaying gently in the breeze, their peaceful rustling a mockery of his inner turmoil.

The cabin had been their sanctuary, a place where they could escape the demands of their courts and just be together. Now, it was a mausoleum of memories, each corner a reminder of what he had lost. Eris took another swig of whiskey, the liquid sloshing in the bottle as his grip tightened. He could almost hear Y/N’s voice chiding him for drinking so much, for wallowing in his grief. But he couldn’t help it. The bond they had shared was a gaping wound in his soul, and nothing seemed to heal it.

A rustling in the trees caught his attention, and for a moment, a flicker of hope sparked in his chest. But it was only a deer, wandering through the forest, oblivious to his pain. He let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and broken in the quiet evening air.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I don’t know how to do this without you."

He leaned back against the cabin wall, closing his eyes as the weight of his grief settled over him like a suffocating blanket. The world had moved on, but he was stuck in the past, unable to let go of the love they had shared. The whiskey offered temporary oblivion, but it couldn’t fill the void left by her absence.

As night fell, the stars began to appear in the sky, twinkling coldly above. Eris stared up at them, remembering the nights they had spent together, lying on the grass, gazing at the constellations. He could almost feel her beside him, her hand in his, her laughter echoing in his ears.

But when he reached out, there was nothing. Just emptiness.

He took another drink, his eyes blurring with unshed tears. "I miss you," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Every day, I miss you."

The cabin and the forest bore witness to his sorrow, their silent presence a testament to the love and loss that had defined him. And as the night deepened, Eris sat alone, clutching the bottle of whiskey, drowning in the memories of a love that had been taken from him too soon.

Eris took a final, deep swig of whiskey before setting the bottle down with a heavy thud. The burn did nothing to ease the ache in his chest. He stood, swaying slightly, and ran a hand through his tangled hair. He couldn't stay here any longer, wallowing in his grief and guilt. He needed to talk to someone, anyone who might understand the torment he was going through.

With a determined, albeit unsteady, breath, he made his way down the familiar path that led to the village. His destination was the forge of his friend, a blacksmith named Garrick. Over the past few months, Eris had spent many evenings there, seeking solace in the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal and the quiet understanding of a friend who didn't press him for details.

The walk through the forest was a blur, his mind a swirling vortex of memories and regrets. By the time he reached the village, the sky was dark, and the forge's warm glow was a welcome beacon. Eris pushed open the door, the familiar smell of burning coal and hot metal filling his nostrils.

Garrick looked up from his work, his expression softening with concern when he saw Eris's disheveled state. "Eris," he greeted, setting down his hammer. "It's good to see you. Come in."

Eris nodded, the effort of a smile flickering briefly on his lips before disappearing. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The heat of the forge was a stark contrast to the cool evening air, and he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

Garrick gestured to a stool near the forge. "Sit down," he said gently. "What's on your mind?"

Eris sank onto the stool, his elbows resting on his knees as he buried his face in his hands. "I can't do this anymore, Garrick," he admitted, his voice muffled and raw with emotion. "The guilt, the pain... it’s too much."

Garrick wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned against his workbench, giving Eris his full attention. "You've been through a lot," he said carefully. "But talking about it helps. You've told me bits and pieces, but maybe it's time to let it all out."

Eris looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. "She died because of me," he whispered. "Because she was trying to protect my court. I should have been there. I should have saved her."

Garrick's gaze softened with sympathy. "You can't blame yourself for what Amarantha did," he said. "She was a monster. Y/N made her choices because she loved you, because she was brave and strong."

"But it's my fault she had to make those choices," Eris insisted, his voice breaking. "I feel like I’m drowning in this guilt. Every day, I wake up and I think about what I could have done differently."

Garrick sighed, placing a reassuring hand on Eris's shoulder. "Grief and guilt can eat away at you if you let them. You need to find a way to forgive yourself, Eris. Y/N wouldn’t want you to live like this."

Eris closed his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks. "I don’t know how to move on," he confessed. "It feels like a part of me died with her."

Garrick squeezed his shoulder gently. "Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting her," he said. "It means honoring her memory by living your life in a way that would make her proud. You’re stronger than you think, Eris."

Garrick watched Eris for a moment, his eyes filled with understanding and compassion. He took a deep breath before walking over to a chest in the corner of the forge. "Eris," he began, his voice steady, "there’s something I’ve been meaning to give you for months now. I’ve been waiting for the right moment, and I think it’s finally here."

Eris looked up, his brow furrowing in curiosity. "What is it?"

Garrick opened the chest and carefully lifted out a long, wrapped object. He brought it over to Eris, the weight of it evident in his careful handling. "This blade is forged from Illyrian metal, sparked in the Autumn Court," Garrick explained as he unwrapped it. The blade gleamed in the firelight, intricate engravings of phoenixes running along its length, their wings spread wide as if ready to take flight.

Eris’s breath caught in his throat as he took the blade, the craftsmanship exquisite and the symbolism profound. "It’s beautiful," he whispered, running his fingers over the phoenixes.

Garrick nodded. "I made it for you. The phoenixes... they’re a reminder of rebirth, of rising from the ashes stronger than before. You’ve been through hell, Eris, but you can find your way out."

Eris swallowed hard, the weight of the blade grounding him. "Why now?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly.

Garrick met his gaze, his expression serious. "Because I’ve seen the darkness you’ve been drowning in. This blade is a symbol, a way to channel your grief and guilt into something positive. But before you do anything drastic, I need you to do one thing."

Eris raised an eyebrow, waiting for Garrick to continue.

"Visit Y/N’s grave," Garrick said firmly. "Talk to her, let her memory guide you. You owe it to her, and to yourself, to find some measure of peace before you make any decisions you can’t take back."

Eris’s grip tightened on the blade, his mind a whirlwind of emotions. He nodded slowly, understanding the wisdom in Garrick’s words. "I will," he promised, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Thank you, Garrick."

Garrick offered a small, reassuring smile. "You’re not alone, Eris. Remember that. And remember, Y/N would want you to live, to find a way forward."

Eris stood, the blade feeling like an extension of himself as he sheathed it carefully. The journey to Y/N’s grave wouldn’t be easy, but it was a necessary step in his path to healing. With a final nod to Garrick, he set out from the forge, the night air cool against his skin.

--

The moon cast a silvery glow over the landscape as Eris made his way to the secluded grove where Y/N’s grave lay. Each step felt like a pilgrimage, a painful yet cathartic journey toward the heart of his grief.

When he finally reached the grave, he knelt beside it, the weight of the past months pressing heavily on his shoulders. He placed the blade gently on the ground before him, its phoenixes seeming to shimmer in the moonlight.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I’m so sorry. I should have been there, I should have protected you."

The wind rustled the leaves around him, a gentle reminder of the world’s ever-changing nature. He closed his eyes, letting the memories of Y/N wash over him—her laughter, her strength, her unwavering love.

"I miss you every day," he continued, his tears flowing freely now. "And I can’t bear it any longer."

With a trembling hand, he picked up the blade, its weight both comforting and condemning. "Garrick said this blade was a symbol of rebirth, but I... I don’t have the strength to rise from this."

He stood, the blade now a symbol of his final resolution. "I’m so sorry, Y/N. Forgive me."

With one swift, determined motion, Eris plunged the blade into his own heart. The pain was sharp and brief, a final release from the torment that had plagued him. He collapsed beside Y/N’s grave, his blood mingling with the earth that covered her.

As the night grew colder, the grove remained silent, a somber testament to the tragic end of a love that had been tested by fate and torn apart by cruelty. The phoenixes engraved on the blade glinted one last time in the moonlight, a haunting reminder of what could have been.

--------

Back in the room with Rhysand and the Inner Circle, the silence was palpable. The air was thick with shock and sorrow, each member processing the tragic end they had just witnessed through Eris’s memories. Rhysand's face was pale, his eyes reflecting the depth of his own guilt and grief.

Cassian was the first to break the silence, his voice hoarse. "I can't believe it... Eris..."

Feyre reached for Rhysand's hand, squeezing it tightly. "This is too much," she whispered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Helion, who had been watching the memories with them, stepped forward, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "There’s something wrong," he said, his tone more certain than questioning.

There was a beat of tense silence as everyone turned to Helion, a flicker of panic in their eyes. They then all looked to Rhysand for guidance, the weight of expectation heavy in the air.

Rhysand’s mind raced as the pieces began to fit together, the echoes of an ancient story surfacing. His eyes widened as the realization struck him. He took a deep breath, his voice barely more than a whisper yet filled with conviction.

"The Phoenii," he said, the words hanging in the air like a prophecy.

"They are alive."

A/n: Sequel anyone?????? because it's here! (link attached)

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@kmc1989

@hardballoonlove

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@marvel-molly

@lucky7rosie

@daughterofthemoons-stuff

@lilah-asteria

@crossfandomslut

@pit-and-the-pen

@inky-sun

@the-sweet-psycho

@why4anne

@bunnyredgirl

@rcarbo1

@pandabiiissh

@adalia-jaycee

[allthatmay]

so. totally unrelated fandom post.

i've only seen the first episode of the wizards of waverly place sequel (wizards beyond waverly place) but i have thoughts. the basic premise of the show is that justin russo has settled down with a non-wizarding wife (giada), has two kids, and has become an ordinary middle school teacher after being fired from wiztech. his life is upturned when his sister, alex, drops round with a delinquent young girl named billy who needs help learning magic—and, oh yeah, she's supposedly part of some big prophecy to save the world.

so far, all i've seen is criticism of the characters and the show in general, but i think a lot of it is unfair. i'll concede that replicating the character dynamics from the original show (with giada as theresa, justin as jerry, billy as alex, roman as justin, milo as max, etc) was a bad move, but justin's character in particular has received a lot of flack that i, personally, find unreasonable.

people say that justin wouldn't dare give up being a wizard; that the trajectory of his life makes no sense given his love of magic. but life doesn't always work out the way we imagine, even with meticulous planning and preparedness. we can't forget that justin's own father was very much the same; that jerry was a very skilled wizard who loved magic and could never imagine giving it up. given that, i think it makes sense for justin's character to settle down with a non-magical wife and become a school principal. he held on to magic the longest of the three siblings because he defined himself by his skill with it, but he learned, as he aged, that magic wasn't everything.

besides, seeing justin lose his magical lifestyle as his ages only to reclaim it again at the start of this series is a great, if obvious, analogy for what happens to most of us as we age. even those who hold on tightest to their younger years can find themselves losing the the magic felt in childhood; we have to reach out and take it back for ourselves. children are sometimes the best ones at showing us what we have lost, hence: justin teaches magical children and in doing so rediscovers his own magic.

(side note: being a middle school principal suits him for obvious reasons: his love of learning, love of rules, love of wonder. the whole "being fired from wiztech because of an incident with a unicorn" also makes sense to me because, as much as alex learned from him, he learned from alex, too.)

i have nothing to say about alex's character because selena gomez came back and fucking crushed it. the biggest problem is the delivery of the prophecy: she just drops it like "hey billy's the only one who can save the world" and then leaves. now, do i think this is bad writing? yes. but i also think it would make sense if this was utter bullshit; if alex only said this to justin to ensure he really, truly enveloped himself back into the magical world because she knows just how much he misses it. (it's just a prank, bro!)

what would i have changed? i'd probably have made it so that alex had a kid like justin, and justin had a kid like alex. i would not give justin two boys as i don't think that does anything for his character. i would include both jerry and harper, as their actors have a goddamn podcast about the show and deserve to be included. (not to mention how jerry's character, in mirroring justin's, could be very informative for the whole plot.) also, justin's wife? she's fine, but please at least address what happened to juliet. was it the whole "i'm a vampire and i don't grow old but you do" thing? because that only adds to the reasoning behind justin giving up his magical lifestyle.

(also, and this is a tiny thing, but people are wondering how justin the principal and his investigative reporter wife can afford their house? and, HELLO, we get told that max is now a billionaire—thanks to his sandwich enterprise, i think. he would've totally bought them a house after giada convinced justin to accept it.)

[icarusredwings]

Subway (b)Rat

Rated Explicit for sexy romantic comedy.

~6k words.

Consider this a gift for my Kinktober fans (I KNOW IT'S THE 29TH SHUT UP) and an apology on the behalf of @bougiebutchbinch for making you all so sad with THIS post.

Authors note: Mentions of cablepool because I think every time this man is mentioned, Logan feels the undying urge to reclaim Wade. The Summer's bloodline is intertwined with his too much, and it's ruining his life lmao. Summers is to Logan how Dinkleberg is to Timmy’s dad.

And yes, I'm aware this is pretty vanilla/Tame, but you know what? You're gonna read it anyway because I wrote it for you. And it would be rude if you didn't. Also, shout out to the font change method because I was STUCK stuck.

CW: Semi public, teasing, an unGODLY amount of kissing, choking, spanking, stretching, praise kink, mind breaking, biting, scratching, blood, cancerous cysts, prostate cancer, mentioned sub drop, physical exhaustion, Lovey dovey shit, Logan being a good top, drippy creampie, self hate talk, mentions of a dead pigeon, breath play, god what else uhhmm, puppy play if you squint, overstimulation, hair pulling, breeding kink, free use, light public humiliation, fourth wall break.

Thinking about how Wade sometimes insults himself too much to the point of comparing himself to a diseased subway rat with mange or a filthy gas station bathroom. How they stink are collectively hated, and everyone abuses them because of how disgustingly ugly they are.

This is Logan's breaking point. He's tired of hearing this. Tired of telling him to shut up. Tired of him truly thinking that he could only love him all dolled up. Well, guess what, honey? Maybe the Wolverine is into naked subway rats. They were scavengers, after all.

So he decided to do something about it. After a joke, when he compared himself to a dead pigeon on the tracks, Logan growled lowly in his throat. It was the final straw. Grabbing his wrist, he pulled him off of the locomotive and across the platform deck as he held their bags of household items and their lunch.

"Hey! Peanut, We're gonna miss our stop! I know you don't get the subway because of how old you are and everything but-"

Taking him into the bathroom, he threw him into a stall with a 'omph', slamming the door shut behind them.

"What? Am I in timeout or are you araid to piss by yourself, handsome? Kind of fitting that you picked the grossest one for me. There's piss on the floor right ther-"

Clamping a hand over his mouth, he growls close to his face. "SHUT. UP."

Of course, he only licked his palm. It's not like he cared, though. He's done far more nasty stuff before. And far uglier people.

Wade always thought that he was Sooooo bad. And soooo ugly, but in truth, he was just an annoyingly loveable idiot with cancer.

That's not his fault. Logan would never judge him for something that wasn't his fault and couldn't help. The only way he'd ever get better is if the CIA stopped killing everyone who cures cancer. Hank got close once, but he got told to stop immediately or else.

Letting him go, he put the bags on one of those purse hooks, moving them so that he was sitting and Wade was on his lap, his dirty white and black, improperly tied converse reaching the floor.

"You're a fucking moron, you know that?"

"Aww thanks muffin, Oh wait-" He gasps, "Omg wolvie are you about to fuck me in a dirty bathroom!?"

"Shh! Not if you don't shut up."

"Loagie you know I can't. It's a medical condition." He says in a dead serious whine.

Logan smirked, scoffing as he put a hand on his L.A. idol's. (You know the ones with the rhinestone cross on the ass? Yeah. Something about making his 'butt look good' and how they were 'all the craze back in his day' so now whenever he found them at thrift stores he snatched a pair or two.) And another on his tattered gray New York hoodie, pulling his hood off as he grabbed the front.

Whining a bit, he tried to put the hood back up, but Logan pulled the strings so tight that he couldn't.

"Nice try. Not happenin' I like seein' yer pretty face." He smirks, pulling the strings so he is close to him, showing those canines of his as he smirked in triumph, having felt cocky for thinking a step ahead of him.

This only led him to use his arms instead, putting his face into them instead. "Nnooo... Stop lying to me.."

Rolling his eyes, Logan leaned back against the toilet, shifting his hand to grab at his arms, moving those too. "Are you really gonna fight me for a kiss?"

A small, cheeky nod.

"Alright. But remember, you started this, not me."

Giving his ass a good slap, Wade let out a yip, giving Logan enough time to grab him by the wrists, shifting to pin his back against the stall wall. With the other hand, he gave a little tug at the bottom of the oversized hoodie.

"Wait, is this mine?"

Wade giggled but still tried to hide in his shoulder, not wanting him to see at all and now that they've made it a game? Even better.

"Oh yeah? So that's how we're going to be? God, you're such a brat."

Another nod. "Nu-uh."

"Guess you won't mind if I flip ya then?"

"Huh?" Turning just slightly, Logan stole a peck, making him squeal and his face get darker, quickly shoving it back into his arm, giggling.

"That wasn't fair!" He whined, muffled from the fabric.

"Sorry, what was that? Can't hear you over how big of a pussy you're being."

Gasping again, he turned to scold him, only to be kissed yet again. "Wolvie!! Not fair!"

"Mmh.. so fair." He whispers, kissing down the part of the jawline, he let stay exposed, nipping his ear and working his way down.

The soft groans into the arms of the hoodie were nice, but he would rather them be clear. Flipping him over, he put his fingers over the side of the stall. "Keep them there, Got it?" He says, Letting a hand run over his sides and another over the hard plastic stones that covered his ass cheeks.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll stop and force you to wait until we get home."

"Hm..What happens when we get home?"

"You'd have to wait another 6 stops to find out. Do you really want that?"

Thinking for a moment, Wade loved a good tease, a nice edging, but 6 stops?? No, thank you. Far too long. He shook his head.

"So are you going to keep them there?"

A quick nod.

"Good." Again, he slapped him, one of the rougher ones that he always liked. They made him feel wanted and appreciated. Logan knew this because, as embarrassed and growly, he got it whenever Wade stole a slap, he felt the same warm feelings run up his spine into his chest.

"Eehh!! K-keep doing that and you won't even get to touch me." He teases.

"Man you're weird... did you just say if I hit you enough you'll cum?"

"Probably." He shrugs, jolting his hips forward a bit as Logan rubbed over the front.

"I don't know how you could cum at all in pants 2 sizes too small.." he mumbles, leaning his chin on his shoulder as one hand tried to slide in the back but barely could get his fingers half way in the seams.

"They aren't tight tight, I just have a big ass and a boner all the time."

"Or all that squat training you do."

"Mmmh yes... 'squat training’... hey you don't think we could-"

"Shut it. Do your job." Pushing a couple fingers in his mouth, Wade let out a groan, immediately beginning to work on them, sucking and licking all over, a bit of a chew once in a while. Oral fixation and whatnot.

While he did this, Logan began to unbutton the front, slowly unzipping the front, carefully as he knew damn well just by the feeling that he didn't have any underwear on. It's the whole reason they came out, actually. To get laundry detergent and dish soap.

But now he was letting him grind forward into his hand and back into his, less sparkly, rougher looking jeans. Pulling his fingers out a bit, Wade was quick to press them back in, nipping gently as he whined, not wanting him to take away his favorite chew toys.

"Yeah? You like those, don't you?" He asks, putting his nose into his neck.

"Mmmhm~" He was happy here, teased and doing a good job. He knew he was because those fingers were soaked and he hadn't even gagged yet.

He loved being touched and muttered too while pressed up against a wall. It was one of his favorite things. He didn't mind however long he wanted to tease him either but only could hope he'd let him return the favor.

Logan could touch him all he wanted, anywhere, for hours and still not let him touch him at all so when he did let him it was like throwing a dog a bone with meat still on it. A treat.

Taking his hand from between his legs, Wade whined in protest but didn't let him pull out the fingers just yet. He wasn't done with them. "W-mh wohlvie"

Running his hand up under his hoodie, Logan thumbed over every dip, scar, nook and cranny that he could possibly feel, kissing the back of his neck until the hand met him in the front. Grabbing him by the throat, he squeezed a bit.

"Drop'em." He breathed behind him.

Almost instantly, Wade moved a hand to push his jeans down to his knees, shimmying a bit for them to get off his thighs before returning his hands to the top of the stall.

He liked his pants snug. He said they felt like 'leg hugs'. Honestly, Logan thought it just made him look more like a wannabe emo, city boy. The kinds that wore studded belts but their panties still showed on their hips.

“Touch me, Peanut! Please?”

Logan was much different with his pants preferences. He liked his inseems deep, his waist high, and the bottom boot cut.

Putting pressure on his sides, he pushed him until his head laid back against him. "Didn't I tell you not to move those hands?! Hm!? Since when are you fucking deaf?!" The gravel in his voice was enough for Wade to moan through the fingers. "HOh mmh gohd-"

He never knew if he wanted him to completely fuck him up or not. It was only natural for him to feel scared. I mean, a big bad wolfie like Logan holding you by the neck, and within a second, he could shove those claws through your face with how deep his fingers were in his mouth? Almost touching the back of his throat if not curved perfectly? But at the same time, it only made him stand at attention.

When he took his hand away, Wade whined. "Nooo.. I'm sorry! I'll behave! Giv'em back, Wolvie. Please?"

"You sure?"

He nods.

"So you don't want me to shove these right up your ass?"

Pausing, he quickly shook his head. "I do want it."

"Want what?" He teases, drawing the fingers over the curve multiple times.

"I want you to shove'em in me!"

"Hmm..that's it?"

"Erm... please??" Glancing at him, he wasn't sure exactly what he wanted, but his back was already arching at the slightest touches.

Chuckling softly, Logan gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "What a good boy. I've trained you a bit too well with manners, haven't I? But that's not what I meant. You want me to fuckya?"

"Heh- Yeah. Obviously.... sooo...now?"

"Settle down. I'm getting there." He mutters, debating if he wanted to let go of his neck or not. Deciding against it, he went ahead and slid in a finger, the front of his own jeans becoming tight from the noise he made.

"I'm just saying. You're taking foreve-Ahoohoh...fuck."

"Mmh?"

"Mmhmm~"

"Mh... You planned this, didn't you?"

"N-ngh?" He whined questionably, biting his tongue to try to stay quiet, focusing on the fingers with that overly large shit eating grin on his face.

"Wade?"

"Hngh.." His eyes went up to the ceiling.

"You did it on purpose. You wanted me to bring you in here and tell you how much of a fucking liar you are, didn't you?"

Pressing back against them, Wade stepped his feet apart, trying to bend over a bit more. As much as he could in tight jeans and in such a small stall. But that's alright. He didn't mind. Only let him press up against him more.

Wade hadn't noticed much, but his hands slipped from the top of the wall again, still above his head, but now he was gripping his own wrist.

"I have no clue what's even going on.." He muttered, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back, grateful that while he pressed back, Logan pushed forward, curling his fingers as he used one to keep him open, The other two slowly pressing in and pulling out with pressure towards the bottom.

Yeah, okay, that checked out.

"Hey.. when you uhm.." Wade starts, as if he just remembered something.

"Yeah?"

"Could you.. oh god this is so embarrassing.. can you be extra rough on my...you know...c-Cancer stuff." He mumbles. "I know, It's disgusting. I'm so gross."

Stepping closer, He made his back bend a little deeper as he turned his head towards him. Kissing him, Logan grunted. "You're not gross.. but yeah. Show me where it hurts, darlin’, I’ll fuck away your pain.”

He blushes, embarrassed. “.. prostate?”

“Heh, sure, I can destroy your prostate for ya."

Wade giggled.

"Sure you wanna do that here, though?"

"I-i rather scream here than with Al yelling at me..." He admits. “She doesn't get it. Sometimes a guy just has to get violently fucked in the ass as part of his pain management plan.” He tells him.

Logan nods, agreeing with him. As stupid as it sounded, by helping his cysts pop, he felt a lot better. Though in Al's defense it did involve a lot screaming.

Sure, he'd help him with his dirty little curse but he wanted to hear those magic words.

“Well.. What do ya say princess?”

“Fuck me like you hate me?” he rubs himself against him further with a high pitched, demanding whine, already impatient.

Logan chuckles at the questioning tone, shaking his head softly.

“Not yet. I'm gonna take my time with you.”

Keeping him close, Logan matched his hand movements with his words, dragging them out if the phrase was elongated, quickly stuffing them back in if he thought he deserved it.

Various whispers of praise fell from his lips.

“Your ass is super tight, you know that?”

Okay maybe some were sweeter than others but come on, This meant much more to wade than just a “You're Beautiful.” though in truth he liked them both equally. He liked any attention even if he didn't believe it… or it wasn't good..

“You're so much hotter than a dead pigeon-”

“PFFT Your fingers are in my rectum and THAT'S what you lead with!? That's like.. the bare minimum! The bar is in HELL!” He laughs.

Embarrassed, he blushes deeply. “I never said I was good at words, damn it. Now shut up and listen.”

“Watch next he's gonna say I'm prettier then the pissy gas station bathroom..”

“No!!... though maybe I should have done this there- at least there was a lock.” He mumbles, knowing he wasn't talking to him rather than you.

Yeah. You.

You freak. Why are you even here? Just wash your hands and leave. God..rude.. Ever hear about privacy? No?? Good. Wade likes to give a good show. Sit down. Just.. watch the pee right there.. unless.. you know …you're into that. But this is New York so.. I hope you're up to date on all your shots!

“Wade!”

“What?” He asks, glancing back at him.

“Are you serious?”

“Huh? What? What did you say?” He blinks.

Logan grunts. “I just- Uugh I just gave this whole spiel about how sexy you are and how I wouldn't choose anyone else over you. How.. How did you miss that!?”

“Look we've talked about this, I don't know what's going on half the time, what do you want from me?”

About to scold him for not hearing a single word of his beautiful 5 full minute long speech, he just groans. “..Just give me all of you and I'll be happy. Okay?”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why me?”

“Oh shut the fuck up! You know I want you, it's not a secret I try to hide, okay!? Were fucking in a bathroom for crying out loud! Literally!”

Wade giggles a bit. “Sorry Wolvie.. Can you say some of the stuff again?”

“You're killing the mood, Mouth!” He growls, becoming a little frustrated seeing as it took a lot for him to put the words together in the first place.

“Oh pleeaasse, Peanut? Pretty please?” He bats those magic eyelashes.

“Fine… Are you listening?” He asks, curling his fingers up, deep within him.

“...You're the one I was meant to find in life. I was never truly happy where I was until you found me. I think you're an idiot for thinking you don't deserve to be loved because... you know you're sexy right? You're gorgeous. You're so damn pretty and you can't see a single bit of it. I mean- genuinely. But I don't even care about any of that and…and- you know what this is stupid..” he starts.

“No, no!! Please! I was almost there-”

“What? Oh- Wade!! What did I tell you about hands!?” Jerking his hand away, he pushes it to his back, growling. “Do you want me to bite it the fuck off!?”

He squeals, a little too excited. “Nooo!! Don't eat me Wolvie- Unless?”

“No, Wade! Bad!”

“Aww….. Anyway, what were you saying before you so rudely stopped me?”

Sighing, he pulls his hip back, wrapping an arm around his chest, holding him with his chin on his shoulder, listening to his breathing lining up with each curl and press of his fingers.

“and.. I love you. I really do. But I LIKE you too, H-heh.. You're funny, you're so smart even though you act like you and puppins share a brain cell.. and she has it most times.”

Wade giggles, which makes Logan smile, gaining enough confidence to keep going. “I love that stupid fucking smile you do when ever you make the most terrible joke in history- and I know- Im 206.”

Another giggle as Wade reached the hand that was on the stall back to wrap around Logan’s neck, Nuzzling him gently.

“I-i love your freaky bright eyes. I mean really, why do they look like that?”

He chuckles, truly listening to every word. Logan didn't speak much but when he asked for Wade's attention, he got it fully. “I really don't know… do you actually like them or..?” The nervousness in his voice made Logan's heart beat hitch, quickening.

“I really do. They're like nothing I've ever seen before… and they change colors. They're white, clear, and milky-”

“Ha! That's what she said-”

“Shut up…” He rolled his eyes but smiled, knowing he walked right into that one.

“I was GOING to say they're like my own personal moons to light my dark days, and when they are yellow they are like suns that shine on my face in the morning.. but…That's another thing. You get me… A lot..”

“Oh, Logan….stop..”

“No, I mean it. Really. They told me you were too immature for me but.. you're perfect. I'm tired of feeling old. I'm tired of feeling like there's no one who will be able to be lazy and lay with me when I need it but play around or be rough when I want too… until you.”

Swallowing, Wade pulled his hand from him, turning to stare at him with an oblivious look of realization.

“.. Holy shit.. You really think that.. a-all of it?”

He nods. “i-.. I wasn't done either..”

“There's more!?”

Blushing, the old fart nodded, semi embarrassed.

“Oh my god, baby you're gonna make me cry….Tell me you're lying..”

He shook his head. “No.. I won't. I refuse.”

Pulling him close, Logan hugs him tight, Wade squeezing him back around the back of his neck, teary eyed and trying not to ugly sob. For a few moments they stayed like this before he kissed him, the same way he planned to in a few months once he found a perfect ring.

“I'll never let you go. I want you to be with me until you get tired of me. And even then you'd have to get a restraining order.”

“Oh Wolvie… I could never get tired of you.”

“And you know how you feel right now? That's how I feel about you… Unfortunately..”

“... I love you, Logan.. you're too good to me.. I hope I'm enough for you.. I know you deserve better. To be happier…”

“As long as you're here with me, I'll have a smile on my face, princess.” He teases, leaning up to kiss him again (For the 50th time) “And if it was up to me I'd keep you just like this all day but-”

“Do it, coward.”

Logan snorts, giggling a bit. “You want fucked or not?”

“Yes!! I take it back, You're not a coward, Please fuck me, Mr. Wilde! Pound me with your huge poetic cock!”

Before he could shout anymore, Logan kissed him, shutting him up as he entered, being sure to stay still for a couple of seconds. The deeper the kiss got, the more he pressed in. This was until Wade pushed himself back, breaking the kiss and moaned.

“Hah~ Fuck, not so much of a peanut anymore, huh?”

To tease him, Logan pulls away just to slam back in. The squeal that came from him through the kiss pleased Logan greatly, doing this a couple more times.

Pulling away, his breath was already a little heavy from such tender intimacy. “You good?”

“Best I've ever been, Big boy!” He tells him, cheek against the wall, but something about his smell said he was lying.

“Mmh… spit on these.” He muttered, putting his fingers up to his mouth for Wade to spit, wiggling around back there. Gripping his hips to hold them still, he slipped the fingers in, spreading the slick around before pressing back in.

Wade lets a deep groan fall out of his mouth seeing as his jaw hasn't shut practically since they've been in here, drooly and excited. It wasn't often that Loagie wanted to fuck him in a public space. They already got caught in central park one night, and now were banned from the Subway down the street- the actual sandwich subway, not the public transportation system.

Picking up the pace, He tries to keep him quiet, shoving his fingers in his mouth, Telling him to shut up, shushing him between thrusts, covering his mouth and even (of course) kissing him.

Nothing seemed to work though, especially when Wade spread his legs, letting him have further access, his body just begging to be held down and used.

And who was Logan to deny that?

“Lo- Ooh shit- Oh shit- Oh fuck shit damn!” He calls through breathy moans and tries to keep his knees from buckling by shifting his weight, though Logan doesn't want any of that. Who does he think he is? Trying to get away now? Not going to happen.

Biting the side of his neck, he made an animalistic noise that made Wade's knees shake, the pain from both the teeth seeping blood out of his neck, and his ass being obliterated.

He can't help but smile through the skin in his teeth, letting out a huff of a chuckle. Really? Fuck shit damn?

“Ooh- Ow- Mmh fuck! Ow- Shit! Ohh mmMy God Loagie it hurts so good!” He whimpers, reaching up to hold the top of the stall, becoming still and instantly quiet.

This was always the part where Logan got nervous. Scared that he had actually hurt him somehow and he just didn't want to say anything in fear he'd be mad at him.

“yuh gud?” He asks through the mouthful.

Silence. His eyes were closed tight and he was tensing slightly, as if trying to hold still in this exact position.

Letting go of him, Logan slowed. Immediately Wade began to plead with him, begging him not to stop, pushing himself against him in hopes he'd get the gist.

“Are you-”

“Harder.” He says and immediately Logan understands, giving a nod. Adjusting himself, he holds him in place, thrusting up a few dozen times. Harder.

The squeak that came from Wade and watching him grit his teeth. It said all he needed to know. Kissing his shoulder blade, he listened to each quiet whine, felt each tense in his legs, and could smell the discomfort.

Logan has come to train himself that he was allowed to keep going, having usually backed off at even the slightest sign of pain but he understood that what he was doing was best for him. He’s seen the clots, boils and welts that happened so he could only imagine what this felt like on the inside. Just thinking about it made him want to stop. To tell him no more.

But this was Wade's request. And probably why he's felt so down here recently, it was hard to feel handsome or pretty when your insides hurt like this.

“Breathe.” He reminded him, feeling Wade hitch his breath and still, tensing his legs up as he let his head hang. This one hurt. He knew it did just by how he felt.

But he didn't.

“Wade?..Breathe for me.” He whispers, trying his best to get this over with as fast as he could. He knew how painful it was just from him shutting down, no longer moaning or even saying ‘ow’. Just silence.

The sound of slapping and the jangly hinges of the stall were all that was at the moment until He let out a large gasp, sounding more of a “Hah-” of relief.

Before you could blink, Logan stopped, pulling away as he held him up, beginning to kiss all over the back of his neck. “There's my good boy. Breathe. You're okay. I got you. Bit a blood never killed anybody.” He reassured him, noticing that more than usual was dripping down his leg, his dick covered in the hot infectious red slick.

Nuzzling his cheek, Wade had tears in his eyes, giggling a bit embarrassed but happy with the bit of praise and care he was receiving. “Sttoopp..” he whined. “You're so embarrassing..”

“Oh sure like I'm the one about to be screaming here in a minute-”

“What?”

He flips him around, shoving his back to the wall again as he kisses him, nipping at him and tugging at his lip.

Blushing, Wade squealed. “Jeez Wolvie! What, you got a blood kink or something? You freak!”

“I got a ‘helping you' kink, Asshole. There's a difference.” He grunts in between bites at his neck, sending his head back to give him a big moan.

The best part about busting a prostate cyst is that it meant what once was hiding it, was now gone. Meaning Logan could hit it as many times as he wanted.

Giggling, Wade yelped when picked up, hands placed on the back of the stall, his legs immediately retreating to around his waist. “What are you doing?!”

“Stay.” He growls, shifting his hands to get a better hold of him. “You know what I want.”

And with this, it started. The first couple of times, Wade gasped through, whimpering from the residing pain only to grin, letting his head lean back as tried to focus on holding the stall and not running his hands through those thick locks of his. “H-oH Fuck!”

As the moans flowed through each messy smooch, Giggles, praises, dirty talk, the whole nine yards in this tiny space of theirs, Logan didn't even stop when he heard someone walking in. Since the door had flown open a long time ago, He only glared at the passer byer who stopped for a second to look, Only to jump back and leave when full on snarled at. (Because if not you'd probably die today)

“What the fuck are you looking at!?”

In fact he only fucked him better, rolling his hips up to him, pulling Wade's hips into him enough to make him give a high pitched scream of joy and pleasure. “AAAH!! Logan!! Oh fuck- Logan! Logan, please- Please fuck me- No kiss me! Kiss- mMPhm mh, Mh, MHMmh!” Even though the kisses he'd let everyone in this station know who was fucking him.

Logan.

“Don't be ashamed if you wanna scream my name, sweetheart~” he purrs into his neck, trying to keep his breaths stable and resist the urge to put more holes into him.

“Ah!! H-hah! Logan! There! Yes! Ohh- Yes! yesyesyesyes-” He grunts under his breath, now letting out whiny moans. “Oh Fuck!! Yes! Right there! Cable could never hit there-” he blurted out through his screaming whimpers of pleasure, clawing at the side of the bathroom stall as if Logan was trying to drag him down to hell.

For a split second he stopped, pulling his waist back, hand on his stomach as he positioned him in a certain way again.

Wade whines, assuming Logan quit, starting to complain in a high pitched voice of sexual frustration. “Nooo! That's not fair you know I can't contr-” Only to gasp loudly, like a thick new breath of air would help him any.

He failed.

Sinking his teeth in, Logan began to hit this spot on purpose, Over and over and over. He knew Wade didn't mean it. He said all sorts of random thoughts of his brain decided to say without his consent, but it still made him jealous enough to decide that he didn't give a fuck if anyone heard him anymore, he wanted to ease his brain into that numb state of babbling to him his own name.

How could he ever forget such a thing when someone so hot as Wade was screaming it?

“EEHHh!! Please! Please- Logan. Oh god oh god oh god- Fuck! Logan-” The screams grew quiet, evolving Into more of a pleading whimper, whispering under the harshness of the breath he was trying so desperately to keep and yet couldn't keep anything inside at the moment.

“Logan.. Logan please.. Logan fuck- Logan” he whispers, breathy moans into his face, letting his hands finally drop, coming to hold around his neck, scratching his back instead.

“Oh Logan please- please.. yes.. yes fuck- Logan, hold me- please..”

Logan could have come right then and there from the babbling. It was his favorite part. The perfect balance of his mind drifting into a deep subspace, being relieved from pain, and filled with intimacy.

He knew these moans were just for him, and only him. Quiet enough just so he could hear the sweet sympathy that his loving boy could make for him.

“Logan- Logan.. L-Logan! F-fuck- Logan please.”

He was close. He knew he was. He could feel it from how tightly the coil in his stomach was causing him to stiffen, he could already smell the precum, feel his toes curling in his converse, the hot blood still dripping from him onto his legs.

“Logan.. logan- fuck- Logan.. Logan!” He cried, breaths unevenly hitching as tears came to his eyes. It could be a lot. The pain, the intensity, the numbness in his mind that couldn't quite validate the reason for said pain and intense feeling in his lungs. Subconsciously he was asking for help, to regulate himself and his emotions.

The soft panic of overstimulation that was settling in made Logan slow a moment, taking his time to push himself into the perfect places. Kissing him gently yet hungry, letting out small purrs of appreciation to restart the brain, keep him leveled.

“Hi, bub.” He whispers, kissing away his tears knowing by now just how mindbroke he truly was. And he loved it. God he was so sexy like this. Calling his name, begging him to save him, worried that he'll drop. Both physically and metaphorically. “Shhh. You're alright. I won't drop ya, I got you… ready?”

Wade nods, practically salivating at the offer, arms tight around his neck and much happier despite knowing he would be a bit sore on the ride home.

Taking another bite out of him, He was shoved against the wall in a way that made him gasp and moan deeply, the other kind of sounds Logan adored. Sure, he liked the high pitched ones too but something about that deep voice of his made him go a bit insane, trusting into him like a buck in a rut FINALLY given what was his.

With every balls deep slap of skin, Wade groaned lowly. Shifting his hand position from on his back to placing one hand on his shoulder, the other on his head, petting him as he gripped A fistful of curls, pulling him closer. Pressing his teeth deeper into his skin as he decided to grunt and growl with each thrust, nails digging into Wade’s hips as if it were his birthright to breed him in a dirty subway bathroom.

“Ah fuck- gimmekitsgimmekits PLEASE gimmekits” he mumbles, gritting his teeth, closing his eyes as he held him, legs unwrapping to let him use him how he pleased, trusting him fully not to drop him.

The orgasm hit stronger than a shot of whiskey straight from the bottle. Logan kept their hips together, keeping him pinned, his ass almost touching the wall as he bucked a few more times, wanting as deep as possible. It was only natural for him to pump him full. Not like Wade minded either, having already made a mess on the hoodie and now was limp against the wall.

With his head back, he breathed heavily, beginning to chuckle, moaning at a final buck. Bringing his hands to his hair, Wade giggled, pulling his chin up for a sloppy kiss.

Moving to hold his cheeks in his hands, he smirked. “Who's a good boy?”

Logan scoffed, grumbling a bit, blushing.

“... me”

“That's right. My big strong boy~ Fucks me so good!” he coes, making Logan chuckle, shaking his head. “You're a freak..”

“I'm not the one that dragged me in here.”

“.. touché….. Alright. I guess we better get going before the cops come or something.”

“Why would the cops come?”

“Oh I don't know. Public indecency, you screaming your lungs out bloody murder, it looks like a crime scene in here, Wade.” he mutters, holding his thighs as he pulls out with a groan.

Almost immediately their foreheads came together to watch as the cum spilled out onto his jeans and continued to drop down his legs.

“Aw my pants..”

“Wouldn't be the first time.”

“Certainly not the last.” He commented, now glancing away. “Well uhm.. thanks for.. you know.. turning my guts into strawberry jam..”

He pulls his chin to face him, kissing him again with that shit eating grin that really made wish he could get pregnant just so his children could have the same stupid smirk.

“Darlin’ I'd do it even if you didn't ask me to.”

About 10 minutes later between Logan cleaning up his mess by licking up his thigh (only for more to just replace it seconds later), Helping a jelly legged Wade get dressed again, and slobbering all over him as he kissed him to death- Logan now stood with Wade on his hip, like holding an oversized sleepy toddler in his one arm, their shopping in the other.

Wade's tired snores into his neck was music to his ears as he snuggled up to him, used to the screeches of the train's brakes and nonsense being blared over the speakers.

At time's he would kiss his head, not minding the fact that they both now had Cum stained onto their fronts and just how soaked Wade's bottom was. Either way- He was beautiful like this. Happy, relieved of his pain, and filled to the brim with such love, mixed bodily fluids and- Logan had a feeling he was forgetting something.

He forgot their lunch bag...

“...well shit.”

Hello, if you made it this far, congratulations! ⭐️ you get a gold star. Thank you so much for reading ❤️ I hope you enjoyed it.

[muiitoloko]

Please have a sequel of "Perfume of Deceit" 😭

Title: The Return on Investment

Summary: Discovering infidelity, a woman transforms her anguish into a strategic plan to reclaim her power.

Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Jealousy, Revenge, Anger, Pain, and Angst.

Author's Notes: Y'all really like angst 😅

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

Lionel stood in front of the bathroom door, his hands clenched into fists as he listened to your anguished sobs. The sound of your pain tore at him, each cry a dagger to his heart. He brought his hands to his face, rubbing them over his eyes as if to wipe away the guilt that was etched into his very soul. With a heavy sigh, he sank to the floor, leaning his back against the door, feeling the cold wood press into his spine.

He knew he had screwed up—royally. He should have ended things with Stephanie the moment they began. It had been a mistake from the start, a slip that turned into a spiral of deceit and betrayal. He threw away his marriage for an illicit affair, and the realization made him feel sick to his core. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, squeezing his hair in frustration. "Why the hell couldn't I resist?"

You deserved so much more from him. So much more. The sacrifices you had made for him over the years, the dreams you had put aside, all to support his ambitions. And how had he repaid you? By falling into the arms of another woman. He tried to end things with Stephanie yesterday, he really tried, but she had a way of seducing him that he couldn't resist. Her touch, her scent—it was like a drug he couldn't quit. He even tried earlier that night, determined to put an end to the madness, but once again, he failed.

When he saw you outside his office, waiting for him with hope and love in your eyes, panic seized him. He felt disgusted with himself, a deep, gnawing shame that he couldn't escape. God, how could he do this to you? How could he betray the person who had given him everything?

Lionel squeezed his hair tighter, the pain a small penance for his sins. He still heard your crying, each sob a reminder of the hurt he had caused. A part of him, a dark, twisted part, wanted to blame you for his betrayal. "She doesn't dress up like she used to," he thought bitterly. "She's not sexy anymore. It's her fault I went looking elsewhere."

These thoughts were vile, and he knew it. They were the pathetic justifications of a weak man. But they gave him a way to deflect the blame, to avoid facing the full extent of his guilt. He remembered how things used to be, how you used to dress up for him, how you were always there, vibrant and beautiful. But over the years, that had changed. Life had taken its toll, and you had settled into a routine, a comfort that he had mistaken for complacency.

"Maybe if she had kept things exciting," he thought, the bitterness rising again. "Maybe if she had put in more effort, I wouldn't have looked elsewhere."

It was a lie, and he knew it. A dirty, self-serving lie. You had given up so much for him, and he had repaid you with betrayal. There was no excusing what he had done, no justifying the hurt he had caused. He was the one who had failed, who had let his desires override his vows, who had betrayed the trust you had placed in him.

Lionel leaned his head back against the door, closing his eyes as he tried to shut out the sound of your sobs. "I'm sorry," he whispered, knowing that no words could ever truly make up for what he had done. "I'm so sorry."

But deep down, he knew that sorry wasn't enough. He had broken something precious, something that might never be repaired. And as he sat there, torn between guilt and self-loathing, he realized that he had a long road ahead of him if he ever hoped to make things right. If he ever hoped to earn your forgiveness, he would have to face his demons, confront the dark parts of himself that had led him astray, and prove to you—and to himself—that he could be the man you deserved.

The next morning, Lionel woke up in pain from sleeping on the floor. He groaned, feeling sluggish as the memories of yesterday came rushing back. He glanced at the bathroom door, which was now open, and crawled there, wanting to talk to you. But you weren't inside anymore. Panic began to set in as he called out your name, receiving no response in return.

Fear gripped his heart as he staggered to his feet, leaning against the wall for support. "Did she leave?" he muttered, the thought sending a wave of dread through him. Desperation fueled his steps as he hurried upstairs to the bedroom, hoping to find some sign of you.

When he reached the bedroom, he froze in his tracks. Relief washed over him when he saw you standing in front of the mirror, applying lipstick. You looked stunning, dressed like you were going to an event, exuding an air of confidence and power that left Lionel confused.

Lionel stood in the doorway, utterly perplexed. You were a vision of confidence and poise, a stark contrast to the broken figure he expected to find after last night’s confrontation. Your red lipstick was bold, and your outfit was immaculate, accentuating every curve with a kind of power he had almost forgotten you possessed.

“Shouldn't you be suffering?” Lionel blurted out, unable to mask his confusion. “What are you doing?”

You paused, glancing at him in the mirror, your eyes cold and unreadable. Carefully, you capped your lipstick and tucked it into your purse, checking the contents of your wallet with deliberate calmness. “I’m leaving,” you said flatly, your voice devoid of the previous night's anguish.

Panic flared in Lionel’s chest. He took a hesitant step forward. “Leaving? Where are you going?”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you moved with calculated grace, adjusting your appearance and making sure every detail was perfect. When you finally turned to face him, your gaze was steely and determined.

“Last night, I realized something,” you began, your hands moving to smooth out the creases in his disheveled suit. “I’ve invested so much in you, Lionel. My time, my dreams, my love. And it’s high time I got my return on investment.”

Lionel’s face twisted with confusion and fear. “What are you talking about?”

You placed your hands firmly against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart under your palms. “You see, Lionel, you’re not just a husband. You’re an investment. One I’ve poured my entire life into. And now, it’s time for me to enjoy the returns.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing his ear as you spoke with a mixture of seduction and malice. “I’m going to take everything you hold dear. Your reputation, your comfort, your pride. I’m going to revel in the power I have over you. Every ounce of pain you’ve caused me, I’m going to repay tenfold.”

Lionel’s breath hitched, his baritone voice faltering. “You don’t mean that.”

You pulled back slightly, your smile cold and calculating. “Oh, but I do. It’s time for you to see what it feels like to be on the losing end, to watch everything you’ve built crumble. And I’m going to enjoy every single moment of it.”

He reached for you, desperation in his eyes. “Please, don’t do this. We can fix this. We can make things right.”

You shook your head, stepping out of his reach. “You made your choices, Lionel. Now, it’s my turn to make mine.”

With that, you turned and walked out of the room, your heels clicking against the floor with a finality that echoed through the silence. Lionel stood there, feeling the weight of your words settle over him like a shroud. He had always considered himself a lion, proud and untouchable. But now, for the first time, he felt truly vulnerable, stripped of his power and faced with the devastating reality of your revenge.

Meanwhile, you went to the garage, choosing one of the cars and starting it. As the engine roared to life, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what lay ahead. Just as your house disappeared in the rearview mirror, you allowed your tears to fall from your eyes, the pain and betrayal still fresh in your mind. But you quickly wiped them away, shaking your head. No, Lionel doesn’t deserve your tears. You would make him suffer, just like he did to you.

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, determination coursing through your veins. Today, you would start pampering yourself, something you hadn’t done in years. It was high time you used those joint cards. Let Lionel pay the invoice.

As you navigated the streets, the memories of your sacrifices and your dreams flooded your mind. The photography classes you never took, the children you never had—all because you had prioritized Lionel's ambitions over your own. But no more. Today, you would reclaim your life.

Your first stop was a luxurious spa. As you walked in, the soothing scent of lavender and eucalyptus enveloped you, calming your frazzled nerves. You approached the receptionist with a confident smile. “I’d like the full treatment, please,” you said, handing over the joint credit card.

The pampering began with a long, relaxing massage that eased the tension from your muscles. You let the therapist’s skilled hands work their magic, feeling the knots and stress of the past few days melt away. Next came a facial, the gentle scrubbing and moisturizing reviving your skin. You closed your eyes, letting yourself be transported to a place of tranquility.

Afterward, you moved on to a high-end boutique. You had always admired the beautiful clothes displayed in the windows but had rarely indulged yourself. Today was different. You walked through the aisles, selecting elegant dresses, stylish shoes, and accessories that made you feel like a queen.

In the dressing room, you admired your reflection. The new clothes fit perfectly, accentuating your figure and making you feel powerful and confident. You smiled at the thought of Lionel’s face when he saw the bill. Let him pay for once.

Next, you headed to a salon. The stylist greeted you warmly and you explained that you wanted a fresh look, something bold and empowering. As the stylist worked, you chatted, feeling a sense of camaraderie that you hadn’t felt in a long time. By the time they were finished, your hair was transformed, styled in a way that made you feel renewed.

The day continued with a visit to a jewelry store. You selected a few pieces that caught your eye—a delicate necklace, a pair of stunning earrings, and a bracelet that sparkled in the light. As you paid with the joint card, you felt a sense of satisfaction. This was just the beginning.

Your final stop was a fancy restaurant. You hadn’t dined out alone in years, but today was about reclaiming your independence. You chose a table by the window, ordered a glass of wine, and savored the exquisite meal. The food was delicious, each bite a reminder that you deserved to be treated well.

As you sat there, enjoying the view and the ambiance, you felt a sense of empowerment. Lionel had underestimated you, thinking he could betray you without consequences. But he was wrong. You were stronger than he knew, and you were determined to rebuild your life on your terms.

By the time you returned home, it was late evening. The house was dark and silent, a stark contrast to the lively day you had experienced. You felt a surge of satisfaction as you imagined Lionel’s reaction when he saw the charges. It was just a small taste of the payback he would receive.

You walked through the house, your heels clicking against the floor, a sound that now felt like a declaration of your newfound strength. You knew there would be difficult days ahead, moments of doubt and pain. But you also knew that you were ready to face them. You had taken the first step toward reclaiming your life, and nothing could stop you now.

Lionel heard your footsteps and immediately got up from the bed, his face a mix of concern and relief as he saw you entering the room with several shopping bags in tow. “It’s late,” he said, his baritone voice tinged with worry. “I was worried about you.”

You ignored him, walking past with an air of indifference, setting your bags down with deliberate calmness. “I’ll be sleeping in the guest room from now on,” you stated flatly, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Lionel’s eyes widened in shock, his hooked nose crinkling as he stepped closer. “I know you’re in pain, but please—”

You cut him off sharply, turning to face him with a fierce determination in your eyes. “You don’t know anything, Lionel. And frankly, I don’t care what you do from now on. If you want to have lovers, go ahead. Have as many as you want.”

Lionel’s face twisted with a mixture of confusion and hurt. “What do you mean? Are you saying—”

“Exactly what you heard,” you interrupted, your voice cold and unyielding. “You are not my husband anymore. You haven’t been for a long time. I will find men who can really satisfy me sexually, men who don’t just think about their own pleasure, who are not guided by their own dick.”

Lionel’s cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and anger. “And what does that mean?” he demanded, his voice rising.

“It means I will find someone younger, someone who will compliment me, appreciate me, take me to dinner, and fuck me in a way that you never could,” you said, your voice dripping with contempt. “Someone who doesn’t think he’s a lion just because he’s got a baritone voice and a hooked nose.”

Lionel’s eyes darkened with jealousy and a flicker of anger. “You think you can just find someone better? You think any man will satisfy you like I did?” he spat, stepping closer.

You met his gaze with a steely resolve. “Yes, Lionel. I will find men who know how to pleasure a woman, who don’t just rush to their own climax and leave their partner wanting. Men who will explore every inch of me, who will make me feel desired and appreciated, who won’t leave me cold and unsatisfied like you have.”

Lionel’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. The thought of you with other men, being touched and pleasured in ways he had failed to do, gnawed at him. He had always considered himself the best, the lion in your life. The idea of being replaced, of being outdone, infuriated him.

“Is that what you want?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “To be some cheap whore, sleeping around with whoever catches your eye?”

You smirked, a cruel glint in your eyes. “If that’s what it takes to find real satisfaction, then yes. I’ll be a whore, a slut, anything you want to call me. Because at least I’ll be getting what I need, what you’ve never been able to give me.”

Lionel’s face contorted with rage and jealousy. “You think you can just replace me? You think any man will ever measure up to me?” he shouted, his voice echoing through the room.

“I don’t need to think,” you replied coolly. “I know. And I will. I will find men who will make me scream with pleasure, who will make me forget you ever existed. And you will be left with your ego and your regrets.”

With that, you turned and walked out of the room, leaving Lionel standing there, seething with a mix of anger, jealousy, and fear. The image of you with other men, being pleasured and satisfied in ways he had never managed, tormented him. For the first time, Lionel felt the sting of his own inadequacies, and it burned deeper than he could have ever imagined.

Lionel followed you into the hallway, his face twisted with rage and desperation. “You think you can just run off and find satisfaction with other men?” he growled, his baritone voice echoing through the house. “They may satisfy you sexually, but they’ll never love you. You’ll never feel truly loved. If they stay with you, it will only be for your money.”

You turned to him, leaning casually against the door frame of the guest bedroom. A cold, mocking smile spread across your face as you began to laugh. “Is that so, Lionel?” you asked, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Are you speaking from experience?”

Lionel froze, his hooked nose crinkling in confusion and a hint of fear. Your laughter grew louder, filling the hallway with a cruel, mocking tone. “Who needs love when you have money, Lionel?” you continued, your eyes gleaming with malicious delight. “I think the term ‘Sugar Mommy’ suits me quite well, don’t you?”

Lionel’s face turned red with a mix of anger and embarrassment. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. The sight of him, so helpless and humiliated, only fueled your laughter. “You see, Lionel,” you said, stepping closer, your voice low and taunting, “I don’t need love. I need satisfaction. And I’m going to find it, no matter what it takes.”

With that, you turned and walked into the guest bedroom, closing the door behind you with a final, triumphant laugh. The sound echoed through the house, a reminder of the power shift that had just taken place. Lionel stood there, seething with a mix of anger, jealousy, and fear, knowing that he had lost control and that you were now the one holding all the cards.

In the weeks that followed, you transformed into a woman who loved spending money, living in luxury, and surrounding yourself with younger men. The days of being a faithful and devoted wife seemed like a distant memory. Lionel watched in silent agony as you flourished in your new lifestyle, flaunting your independence and the attention you received from attractive, younger suitors. He could hardly recognize the woman you had become, and it tore him apart.

Lionel missed your touch, your laugh, your warmth. He missed the way you used to look at him, with love and admiration in your eyes. But his pride kept him from admitting how much he was suffering. He couldn't bring himself to tell you how much he missed you, how much he regretted his betrayal. Instead, he bottled up his pain, watching from the sidelines as you lived your life without him.

One particular day, Lionel was in the office, seated at the head of the table in the meeting room. A shareholder had called an urgent meeting, and Lionel was forced to participate, despite the turmoil in his personal life. As the room filled with the other shareholders, Lionel tried to focus on the agenda, but his mind kept drifting back to you.

Just as the meeting was about to begin, the door swung open, and you walked in, removing your sunglasses and placing your designer bag aside. A tall, younger, blond man followed closely behind you. The room fell silent, and all eyes turned to you. With a playful smirk, you questioned, "Why is this meeting happening without me?"

Lionel blinked in confusion, struggling to process your sudden appearance. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, his baritone voice tinged with annoyance and bewilderment.

You sauntered up to him, ignoring Stephanie, his secretary, who stood nearby, ready to take notes. Leaning in, you kissed Lionel's cheek, your voice dripping with condescension. "Did you forget, silly husband? I own 50% of Shahbandar Corporation."

You turned and walked to the table, the blond man quickly pulling out a chair for you. "Isn't he cute?" you remarked with a smile, taking your seat.

Lionel's mind raced. He had always taken care of your share in the company, managing it with the same meticulous care he gave to his own. But now, things were different. The blond man seated next to you was a clear sign of the changes you had made.

"Everyone, this is Sinclair Bryant, my new secretary," you announced, your tone confident and authoritative. "He'll be handling everything related to my part in the company since, let's be honest, I don't know anything about it. Let the men work, right?"

The room remained silent, the tension palpable. Lionel's eyes narrowed as he studied Sinclair, who sat confidently beside you. This was a challenge to his authority, a statement that you were no longer content to let him manage your affairs.

Trying to regain control of the situation, Lionel cleared his throat. "Very well," he said, his voice strained. "Let's proceed with the meeting."

As the discussion continued, Lionel couldn't shake the feeling of unease. Your presence, and the introduction of Sinclair, signaled a shift in the balance of power. You were no longer the devoted spouse who stayed in the background. You were now a force to be reckoned with, and Lionel realized that he had severely underestimated you.

Throughout the meeting, Lionel struggled to focus, his mind plagued by thoughts of you with Sinclair. The jealousy and anger boiled beneath the surface, but he forced himself to remain composed. He knew he had lost control, and the realization gnawed at him.

After the meeting, as the other shareholders filed out of the room, Lionel approached you and Sinclair. "We need to talk," he said, his voice low and serious.

You looked up at him, your expression calm and collected. "About what, Lionel? My business affairs are being handled just fine by Sinclair."

Lionel's hooked nose crinkled in frustration. "This isn't just about business. We need to talk about us."

You dismissed him dismissively, grabbing Sinclair's arm as you told Lionel that the two of you could talk at home. “We have an urgent appointment,” you said, your voice dripping with condescension. “A business meeting, you know.” You winked maliciously towards Lionel, pulling Sinclair with you into the elevator. As the doors closed, you gave Lionel one last taunting smile.

Lionel felt another crack in his heart, the pain almost unbearable. He laughed bitterly, a sound filled with disbelief and anguish. He couldn't believe how far things had fallen apart, how the woman he once cherished had transformed into a force he couldn't control.

He walked back to his office, each step heavy with the weight of his emotions. Stephanie followed closely behind, her eyes filled with concern and a hint of desperation. She reached out to touch his arm, but Lionel shook her off, his face contorted with a mixture of pain and anger.

“Please, Lionel,” Stephanie began, her voice soft and imploring. “Let me help you.”

Lionel turned to face her, his hooked nose crinkling in frustration and sorrow. “Help me? How can you help me, Stephanie? Do you think a few kind words will fix this?” His baritone voice was raw with emotion, each word cutting through the air like a knife.

Stephanie's eyes welled up with tears, but she held her ground. “I know I can't fix everything, but I care about you. I hate seeing you like this.”

Lionel's laugh was hollow and devoid of humor. “Care about me? You’re just another reminder of my failures, Stephanie. Another mistake in a long list of them.” He turned away, walking to his desk and collapsing into his chair, his head in his hands.

Stephanie stood there, her heart breaking for him. She had never seen Lionel so defeated, so vulnerable. She wanted to reach out, to comfort him, but she knew that her presence only added to his pain.

Lionel’s mind was a storm of thoughts and emotions. He couldn’t stop thinking about you and Sinclair, about the way you had dismissed him so easily, about the malicious glint in your eyes. The jealousy and rage boiled within him, but so did the deep, gnawing guilt. He had brought this upon himself, and now he was paying the price.

“Get out, Stephanie,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Lionel, please—”

“Get out!” he roared, his baritone voice echoing through the office. Stephanie flinched, but she didn’t argue. She turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Lionel sat in silence, his mind replaying the events of the past weeks. He had always thought of himself as a lion, proud and untouchable. But now, he felt like a wounded animal, trapped and cornered. The woman he had once thought of as his partner, his confidant, had become his adversary, and he had no one to blame but himself.

Lionel clung to his desk, feeling the weight of his mistakes crashing down on him. He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. His mind drifted back to the early days of their relationship, a time when life was simpler and love was pure.

He remembered the tiny apartment they had shared, barely more than a single room with a small kitchenette. They had next to nothing, but they had each other. He could still see the look of determination on your face as you insisted on splitting a single meal in half, making sure he stayed well-fed despite your own hunger. "You need your strength, Lionel," you had said, pushing the larger portion onto his plate. "You have dreams to chase."

Lionel's heart ached at the memory of your selflessness, the way you always put him first. He recalled the joy you both felt when you managed to buy your first sofa, a secondhand piece that was worn but comfortable. You had spent an entire weekend cleaning and rearranging the apartment to make it fit, and the pride in your eyes when you finally sat on it together was unforgettable.

One memory, in particular, stood out. It was a warm summer day, and you had decided to take a walk through the park. You were laughing and talking, so carefree and in love. But halfway through, you had twisted your ankle, the pain bringing tears to your eyes. Without hesitation, Lionel had knelt down and offered you his back, carrying you all the way home.

As you clung to him, murmuring apologies in his ear, he had felt a surge of protectiveness and love. "I'm sorry, Lionel," you had whispered, your voice trembling. "I didn't mean to ruin our day."

"Don't be silly," he had replied, his baritone voice gentle and reassuring. "I'd carry you to the ends of the earth if I had to. You're worth it."

The memory was so vivid, so filled with love and tenderness, that it broke Lionel's heart all over again. He had thrown all of that away for an affair with his secretary. What had he been thinking? How could he have been so foolish, so selfish?

Tears finally spilled over, and Lionel let them fall, his body shaking with the force of his sobs. He had always considered himself a lion, proud and untouchable. But now, he felt like a lost cub, abandoned and alone. The man who had once been cheeky and mischievous, who had carried you on his back and shared dreams of a bright future, was now broken by his own betrayal.

Meanwhile, outside the building, you let go of Sinclair's arm and offered him a sincere apology. Sinclair blinked in surprise, tilting his head to the side like a curious puppy. The gesture made you realize how much he reminded you of a Golden Retriever—cute, loyal, and a bit naive.

"Why are you apologizing?" Sinclair asked, his confusion evident.

You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "I feel bad for using you like that against Lionel," you explained. "I needed to make a point, and you were the perfect person to help me do that. But it wasn't fair to you."

Sinclair murmured an understanding “ah” as he opened the door of his car for you, addressing you as Mrs. Shahbandar. “Are you trying to make your husband jealous?” he asked, his eyes full of curiosity.

You got into the car and shook your head. “Please, just call me by my first name,” you said. “And it’s not about making him jealous. It’s about hurting him, making him feel the pain he inflicted on me.”

Sinclair got in on the driver’s side, his face reflecting a mixture of empathy and confusion. “I don’t understand,” he said, turning to look at you. “Why go through all this trouble?”

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the past few weeks pressing down on you. “Lionel cheated on me,” you explained, your voice trembling with emotion. “With his secretary, the only other woman in the meeting room. I found out a few weeks ago.”

Sinclair’s expression softened, a pained look crossing his face. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice sincere.

You shook your head, rejecting his apology. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

The car fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Sinclair attempted to start the car, but it sputtered and refused to turn over. He broke the silence with a frustrated sigh. “Great, just what we needed.”

You chuckled dryly at the irony of the situation. “Seems like we’re both having a run of bad luck.”

Sinclair glanced at you, his eyes filled with understanding. “You know, I was cheated on too,” he admitted, his voice soft. “By my ex-wife. We’re in the process of getting a divorce now.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” you said, genuinely feeling for him.

He shrugged, a sad smile on his face. “It’s been tough, but I’m trying to move on. Hearing your story... it just hit close to home.”

You both sat in silence for a moment, sharing an unspoken bond over your shared experiences of betrayal. It was a strange comfort, knowing you weren’t alone in your pain.

“I guess we’re both trying to find our way through the mess,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

Sinclair nodded, his expression one of determination. “Yeah, and maybe we can help each other. At least we understand what the other is going through.”

You smiled, feeling a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. “Maybe we can,” you agreed. “Thank you, Sinclair. For everything.”

He returned your smile, his brown eyes filled with warmth. “Anytime. We’ll get through this, one step at a time.”

With that, Sinclair tried the ignition once more, and this time, the car roared to life. As you drove away, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of camaraderie with the young man beside you. Despite the pain and betrayal, you were determined to reclaim your life, and knowing you had someone who understood made the journey a little less daunting.

Lionel arrived home later that night, the smell of alcohol preceding him as he stumbled through the front door. You sat on the couch, engrossed in a bridal reality show, carefully filing your nails. The soft glow of the TV illuminated the room, casting a warm light over your focused expression.

Lionel swayed slightly as he made his way to the living room, his baritone voice slurring as he greeted you. “Evening, love,” he mumbled, his hooked nose crinkling in a sad attempt at a smile.

You didn’t bother looking up, your attention fixed on the TV. “Stay away, Lionel,” you said flatly, continuing to file your nails. The anger and betrayal still simmered beneath the surface, your heart hardened by the events of the past weeks.

Ignoring your command, Lionel collapsed onto the couch beside you, his body heavy with the weight of his guilt and alcohol. He laid his head on your lap, his arms wrapping around your waist in a desperate embrace. “Please, just for tonight,” he begged, his voice cracking with emotion. “Let me stay like this. You can hate me again tomorrow, but tonight, I just need to be close to you.”

You tensed, your initial reaction to push him away. “Go find comfort with your lover,” you spat, your voice filled with bitterness. But something in his eyes, a deep, vulnerable pain, made you hesitate. Despite everything, a part of you still loved this man.

Lionel clung to you, his body trembling with a mixture of desperation and the effects of alcohol. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the silent plea for forgiveness that he couldn’t quite vocalize. With a sigh, you gave in, allowing a truce for now. You rested a hand on his back, rubbing gently, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. He settled more into you, burying his face in your stomach, seeking solace in your touch.

“Please,” Lionel mumbled, his voice muffled against your clothes, “tell me you didn’t hook up with that idiot you brought to the meeting.”

You rolled your eyes, the bitterness in your heart surfacing again. “What does it matter?” you retorted, your voice flat and unyielding.

Lionel lifted his face to look at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of desperation and sorrow. “It matters because you promised,” he said, his voice cracking. “When we were younger, you promised that I would be your first and last. You swore that to me.”

You scoffed, the irony of his words not lost on you. “And you promised the same, Lionel. You promised that I was your first and would be your last. But you clearly didn’t keep that promise, did you?”

His hooked nose crinkled with remorse, and he averted his gaze, unable to meet your accusing eyes. “I know I broke my promise,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t mean that I stopped loving you.”

Your heart ached at his words, the conflict of love and betrayal tearing at you. “Love?” you repeated bitterly. “Is that what you call it? Betraying me with your secretary? Making a mockery of everything we built together?”

Lionel’s eyes filled with tears, his baritone voice trembling as he spoke. “I was stupid and selfish. I let my pride and desires get in the way. But you—you're still my everything. I can’t bear the thought of you being with someone else.”

You shook your head, the weight of his words pressing down on you. “You don’t get to decide that, Lionel. You lost that right when you betrayed me.”

He buried his face in your lap again, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I need to know that you didn’t give yourself to another man. That I’m still the only one.”

You felt a pang of pity for Lionel, despite your anger. The truth was, you hadn't given yourself to another man. Lionel had been your one and only for a long time, and now the idea of sleeping with someone else felt foreign and strange to you. But Lionel didn't need to know that. In fact, this was the perfect opportunity to hurt him, to get back at him for all the pain he had caused you. And you weren't going to let that opportunity pass you by.

You ran your fingers through his hair, your touch deceptively tender. "Lionel," you began softly, feeling his body tense in anticipation. "Do you really think I would just sit here and wait for you to come to your senses?"

Lionel looked up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and dread. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You met his gaze, your eyes cold and unyielding. "You think you're the only one who can seek comfort elsewhere? The only one who can feel desire?" you said, each word deliberate and sharp, like a knife twisting in his heart.

His face contorted with a mix of pain and jealousy. "No... please, no," he whispered, his hooked nose crinkling in distress.

You let out a bitter laugh, a sound devoid of warmth. "Oh, Lionel, you really are naive," you said, shaking your head. "I've had my fun too. And guess what? They were more satisfying than you ever were."

Lionel recoiled as if struck, his baritone voice breaking. "How could you? After everything we've been through?"

You shrugged, your expression indifferent. "I had to find out what I was missing," you said coolly. "And let me tell you, I wasn't disappointed. They knew how to make me feel desired, appreciated, in ways you never could."

Tears welled up in Lionel's eyes, and he clung to you more tightly. "Please, don't say that," he begged, his voice trembling. "I can't bear the thought of you with someone else."

You leaned in, your voice low and venomous. "Why not? You didn't seem to have any trouble when you were with Stephanie. Did you think I would just sit here and cry while you had your fun?"

Lionel's shoulders shook with silent sobs, his grip on you tightening. "I made a mistake," he whispered. "A terrible mistake. But you were supposed to be my one and only."

You pulled away slightly, looking down at him with cold detachment. "And you were supposed to be mine," you said harshly. "But you broke that promise, Lionel. And now, you have to live with the consequences."

He buried his face in your lap again, his body wracked with sobs. "I'm sorry," he kept repeating, his voice muffled and filled with anguish. "I'm so sorry."

You placed a hand on his head, more to steady yourself than to comfort him. "You should be," you said quietly, your voice devoid of emotion. "Because you've lost me, Lionel. I’m no longer your wife. You’re not my husband anymore. You’re my investment, nothing more."

With that, you pushed him away, standing up and leaving him on the couch, a broken man. As you walked away, you felt a sense of cold satisfaction. Lionel had hurt you deeply, but now he knew what it felt like. The pain you had inflicted on him was a small measure of justice for the betrayal you had endured.

As you entered the guest bedroom and closed the door behind you, you took a deep breath. The road ahead would be long and challenging, but for the first time in weeks, you felt a sense of control. You were no longer the victim in this story. You were the one holding the power, and Lionel would have to learn to live with the consequences of his actions.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hello lovely!! I’m so happy you are getting more and more followers! You deserve the praise and so much more!!

I was curious how you thought the members of clone force 99 would act when jealous. And do they maybe act differently in the bedroom after if you catch my drift 👀

You do not have to do all! Just whoever comes to mind 🥰 Love ya and thank you as always!

Hey! You’re seriously so sweet!! Thank you so much. My recently follower growth has been crazy. I haven’t had the chance with my health being poor to sit down and take the time to go through it all. But I appreciate everyone who has given my a follow or are interacting with my work. Thank you to every single one of you. I’m so grateful.

Oh, Clone Force 99. I would say they’re my favorite copy and paste men but truly my heart is with Captain Rex. Still adore them though. Now, I’ll keep this short and sweet, but I also totally catch your drift. This is going to fall on the tamer side (sorry OP), but you should be able to read between the lines…if you catch my drift. :)

Written with gn!reader in mind.

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): jealous behavior, fluff, brief suggestive themes

Word Count: 436

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has submitted requests for the 1k follower event. This event is currently closed and I am no longer taking requests. Thank you!

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // 1k follower event masterlist

Hunter:

Hunter would sense it before it even happens.

He’d see the person starting to walk toward you and Hunter isn’t even going to allow them to try.

He is going to divert them elsewhere—either with his words or with some physical persuasion.

And he’s absolutely sticking by your side the rest of the time. Arm around your waist, hand on your thigh, or hand at the base of your neck.

Might be a bit more needy/rough with you than usual when it comes to down the physical.

Wrecker:

Knows immediately in the moment what’s happening.

Angry, but not with you.

Wrecker would absolute be rough with the individual trying to move in. He’s used to using his size and strength as an intimidation tactic. And he will do that here.

Would cause a scene unless you interfere.

Afterward, would become soft with you privately, mainly needing some physical reassurance that everything is good.

Tech:

Would have no idea what’s happening in the moment.

The rest of the Batch would have to point it out to him first.

Tech would be respectful and say that you can “handle yourself.”

When it’s clear that the intruder doesn’t get the hint, Tech will step in, and while he’d be polite, he’d also be very straightforward.

Might (or might not) need backup—depending on how receptive the other person.

Would not require physical reassurance afterward, but might ask for some verbal affirmations.

Crosshair:

Crosshair’s jealousy is subtle. He’s not one to rage or throw fists.

He might see someone making a move from across the room but instead of interfering right away, he’s going to observe from afar.

Crosshair already knows what’s happening, and he’s going to be as dramatic as possible in the confrontation.

Crosshair will wait, and will absolutely use his sniper skills to his advantage (and no he’s not going to kill anyone over this but someone might lose a finger)

Possible scenario: someone is hitting on you at the cantina and Crosshair shoots the person’s drink out of their hand from across the cantina. Like I said, dramatic.

Afterward, he might need to be a little rough in reclaiming what he believes is his.

Echo:

Echo would step in immediately. He’s not risking anything.

Would create a physical barrier, either stepping between you and the person encroaching, or he might even pull you away from the person.

He’d give them a verbal warning, and if that isn’t respected, he might be a bit more forceful even if he isn’t looking for a fight.

Afterward, Echo will certainly need some physical closeness. Lots of cuddling.

taglist:

@glassgulls @childofyuggoth @foxxy-126 @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet

@singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @coffeecaketornado @padawancat97 @garfunklevibes2012

@miaraei @cherryofdeath @tulipsun-flower @enfppuff @ninman82

@pigeonmama @beebeechaos @hantheconqueror

[moirindeclermont]

Daily thread about BridgertonS3 and this might be unpopular but I love, love, that in the end Pen was on her own when delivery her speech as LW. That's because it was her moment, her column, her purpose on the line, and she needed to stand up for herself on her own terms.

I see your "Colin should have been beside her" and while it would have been sweet, it would negate all her character arch. The point was that she needs to reclaim her identity as Pen & LW, because lie Colin said they are one voice. Colin, the man he is, still supports her but finally understand that there are obstacles in life that her wife must face alone.

Let me tell you, I love a man who can understand when he needs to be on your side and when you need to do things on your own. It's not like he doesn't love her or support her. In being on the sideline, he's doing exactly what she asked him to do.

A true partnership works exactly like this. There are things you do alone and things you do together. Knowing, even when you do it alone, that at the end if the day, your partner is still there to support you.

Especially because Pen doesn't need Colin. She wants him. She chose him. But she doesn't need him to have a purpose in life. She can take care of herself. She can do everything on her own. At the end, Pen and Colin are truly equals in the relationship. They both have agency, they both have power. Hell, maybe she has more power than him.

But Colin, being Colin, now understand that the fact she does have more power doesn't mean he doesn't serve a purpose in the relationship. He just needs to love her. I think it's rare and beautiful that they end up in such a equal place, especially in the context of that society.

It's a beautiful, beautiful message to give to the viewer of what a healthy partnership is. And that's another reason of why I love them so much!

[nimcoconut]

the thing is, jegulus makes perfect sense to me genuinely. And I understand the gripes that people have with it, so i'm going to try and outline my thought process. i could talk about how good of a ship this is for HOURS.

• Regulus and James would have constantly been in each other's orbit at Hogwarts. Think about it. They're both on the Hogwarts quidditch teams (regardless of if jenes was a seeker or chaser ik it's up for debate) we all know how serious James Potter took quidditch. they would've been marking each other in games, taking notes of tactics etcetc. Plus with Sirius being James' best friend he would've been even more acutely aware of Regulus, like come on. If nothing else, then because of the arguments the black brothers would get into at hogwarts. And the stories Sirius would tell him in their first few years at Hogwarts, because hello, before Sirius went to Hogwarts who was his closest ally? who did he survive an abusive home life with? REGULUS. so james knew of him, DEFINITELY was introduced to him on the hogwarts express during second year (before slyhtherin sorting).

• James being Sirius' best friend and ultimately in Regulus' eyes, the person who replaced him as Sirius' best friend. He would've resented him, because before him and Sirius fell apart, they were all each other had and SUDDENLY sirius has this other rock, this but that he admires so much. You're telling me he wouldn't be raging at being replaced? On high alert of awareness, not only for his brother that he was steadily losing but on his best friend who replaced him???? the tension?? hello?? And once they got to know each other and he has that "oh so this is what he saw in you. oh wow" Moment??

•James potter, sunshine reincarnate, who believed in others even when it came to his own detriment would 100% try to save regulus. Believe he could. A lot of people say this doesn't fit James' character because he "wouldn't lie to his friends" But I think you guys are putting him in a box. I think he's just as capable of keeping a secret as anyone else. Especially when he thinks it's for a bigger purpose.

•I love the idea of a love greater than Regulus' loyalties to his families being what inspired him to take the horcrux. Like The symmetry of both Black brothers being guided by James into the light?? That his love saves them both in different ways?? How is it not the perfect ship.

Enemies to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, regulus falling first but james falling harder, the COMPLICATED nature of it. how much of this is vindictiveness towards sirius and trying to take something away from him, of reclaiming and how much is just pure admiration for someone so good and selfless? How much is this about James' saviour complex? You anti jegulus people are not seeing the bigger picture.

ALSO HOW IS IT ANY DIFFERENT TO DRARRY??? Its the PERFECT foil to drarry. Because this truly is a world where history repeats itself. Pressured into the dark arts by his family's expectations but couldn't stomach pushing through when it actually came down to it? And his beautiful sunshine boyfriend who embodies the GOOD in the world despite everything. Give me 10 more of it right now.

[vyl3tpwny]

Music Genres

When I was kid, you would have probably heard me say something like “I don’t believe in genre labels”. To a degree, there is still something about that sentiment that I agree with; I don’t think you can really put music and styles of music in neat little boxes. But otherwise, I was pretty much wrong about everything else.

Let’s go over that.

pictured: Mala, one of the godfathers of roots Dubstep

—

To be blunt, “genre” isn’t just about approximating what a song sounds like. If you say “I love pop music”, that honestly doesn’t mean much. The more specific you get, the more you will approach something someone can imagine like “I like experimental progressive noise pop music”. Ok, I can start to imagine things that likely approach what you're talking about, but even then it will usually not help someone fully understand what something truly is. In categorizing and approximating music styles, genres only go so far. So what makes them important then?

Well, not to say that approximating a style when describing an artist to someone is a bad thing or that doing so isn’t meant to be valued, but it’s hardly the only reason these labels exist. Importantly, “genre” helps establish culture, history, and a musical identity. So when you're trying to tell someone you're listening to a "progressive rock” project, you’re not just imagining odd time-signatures and complex riffs, you’re also meant to understand and consider that whatever is being described as to you has some sort of relevance or importance with regards to the history behind progressive rock; the culture of college bands in the UK, the sound that the punk movement revolted against, the progression of musical storytelling in rock music since the late 60’s and early 70’s, stuff like that. There’s a distinct culture and history you can pinpoint and understand when you describe something as being progressive rock and you can’t just go around calling any complex electric guitar oriented music "progressive rock" unless it has those specific ties as well as understanding and iteration of the roots.

pictured: Genesis, because progressive rock mention

—

Genre labels help to clarify what kind of culture and histories a music project is being associated itself with and where a lot of its inspiration comes from. This is much more compelling reason for underlining the importance of genre labels and why they should be used correctly.

So, there is something I need to get off my chest then. There are a lot of misuses of genre labels all over the place, especially online. And I’m not talking about saying something is “Alternative Rock” when it’s clearly some kind of “Folk Rock” record instead. What I’m talking about is something like “Dubstep”.

Even as recent as a few years ago, I started personally reclaiming the term “Dubstep” as a genre label to describe any bass-adjacent music. At the time I did this, I thought it was cool, because the term Dubstep had been dubbed (pun intended) to be cringeworthy lexicon to some people. And while I feel that’s a noble reason to reclaim something like that, because some weirdos think it's cringe, in this case I actually think it’s wrong.

The term “Brostep” has been used to describe any non-roots bass-oriented music that originates from the proper roots Dubstep. It’s a term I didn’t like FOREVER, especially because the phrase was derived as a generalization of the kind of people who tend to listen to it. However, I actually think that Brostep is a title that people should be more comfortable and confident with labeling things as.

The original Dubstep came as a result of Jamaican immigrants bringing Dub music to the UK, which then fused with the remnants of 2-Step Garage which was prominent in the 90’s just years prior. Timbah.On.Toast made a great video called All My Homies Hate Skrillex and it is a really good breakdown of what separates roots Dubstep from the Americanized Brostep, which came after it. I think everyone knows by now that I have a deep, deep love for EDM based Broste and I am the biggest Skrillex fangirl alive. So being both a Brostep and Skrillex superfan, please understand that I think the video is one of the most important things you can watch as an EDM enjoyer.

Conflating the term Dubstep with things that aren’t actually Dubstep is honestly a slap in the face to all of the pioneers of Dub and Dubstep, which famously were both pretty much ENTIRELY invented by black people. I think it’s fair to say that incorrectly labeling music in this way has racist implications. It dishonours and twists the legacy of the music. You can find og Dubstep to listen to on the RYM Ultimate Box Set > Dubstep page. Check some of that out, then listen to some 2010, 2011 Skrillex and see how different things really went.

It confused me at first when I was a teenager, I didn't understand why so many people hated Skrillex back in the day. I came to realize so much of the hate wasn’t even really with regards music itself, but the total lack of understanding or care for the roots of the genre, which all of his work was founded upon and he then subsequently bastardized without caring at all. It was pure disrespect, it was practically cultural erasure and so many people will now only know of Dubstep as “that Skrillex transformer screech music”. Yeah. It actually fucking sucks.

But there is a LONG history of black music being erased from history and being undermined, whether entirely intentional or due to systemic unawareness.

I saw a post the other day talking about how it sucks that so much music is just lumped into being “video game music” when so much of this stuff has deep roots and cultural significance. The first example pointed how a lot of acid jazz music is just described as “Persona music” by the layperson now. Meanwhile, Acid Jazz as a genre is a huge development on things like roots jazz, disco, funk, and hip hop music. You know. All genres that were invented by black people. Fascinating, right?

Jungle music was also mentioned. And this one is very particular for me. Jungle music, when not being generalized as "PS1 Music", is often just called drum & bass or breakcore (also please Google the difference between breakbeat and breakcore, thanks) which are all fundamentally misunderstanding what Jungle music even is. Much of Jungle music, AS MANY THINGS DO, finds VERY prominent roots in Reggae, Dub, and sound system culture in Jamaica as well as countless other prominently black communities in the UK.

But it doesn’t stop there.

If you’re unfamiliar, there is a genre called “IDM”, otherwise known as Intelligent Dance Music. When I was a kid, and I first heard that word, I immediately was like “that is the most pretentious, stupid thing I’ve ever heard”. Eventually as I grew up, I just stopped thinking about that and started referring to more music as IDM. This style of music is generally characterized with “complexity” and being “not much danceable”. While I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the music that is called IDM, I do think there’s everything wrong with the term IDM, intelligent dance music.

When asked how he feels about being labeled as an IDM artist, Aphex Twin responded:

"I just think it's really funny to have terms like that. It's [basically] saying 'this is intelligent and everything else is STUPID.' It's really nasty to everyone else's music."

pictured: Aphex Twin, the funnyman himself

—

I think most people would agree with this sentiment. It’s so strange to call one kind of music “intelligent”, out of the hundreds of thousands of genres out there. But let’s bring this back to Jungle music. The reality is that IDM started to become a term around the same time that Jungle music became prominent, in the 90's. Both styles of music are complex, introspective, skittery, and chaotic (but refined and often disciplined) genres. Except, of these two, Jungle music was the one pioneered primarily by black artists. IDM was a sort in competition with Jungle. To therefore call IDM “intelligent” in comparison to Jungle music ... well. I don’t feel like I really have to explain why that’s fucked up.

A lot of people have proposed different names for IDM. A quick look on reddit yields things like “Experimental Electronic” and “Brain Dance” (which was coined by Aphex Twin's label). Me personally, the term “Electro-Prog” comes to mind. Sounds cool.

Similar conversations are presently being had about the term “Riddim”. This brings us back to the dubstep side of this discussion again. Riddim, as an EDM genre, is an offshoot of Brostep music that focuses a lot on repetition over the downbeat, maintaining an insanely distorted sound design, a lot more than the average Brostep song. However, the term “riddim” originates — yet again — from the Jamaican Patois for “rhythm”. And Riddim as a musical style in Jamaica is actually more associated with things like dancehall and reggae, rather than the commercialized "Riddim" that is several hundred times removed from its own roots.

Last year, musician INFEKT proposed that what most EDM listeners call “riddim” should be referred to instead as “Trench” in an article on their website. This proposed name is derived from Getter’s use of the term on his 2014 record “Trenchlords Vol. 1”. I don’t personally know how much I resonate with the term, but whatever the consensus is, I don’t think we should be conflating a westernized, commercialized, and EDM-centric genre like this to Jamaican roots music. Over and over again, it seems that black music is constantly overwritten by developments like this, so I think more care needs to be taken in not allowing that to happen.

As a side note, a lot of people online seem very keen on appropriating Jamaican Patois quite often? There are so many examples of this. When the term “Bomboclaat” started making the rounds on Twitter a few years ago, so many white people were quick to either talk wildly about the term and trend or otherwise start saying it as well. There was a fucking article that sought to answer “The Bomboclaat >> Meme << Meaning Explained”, like they’re not dissecting an element of Jamaican slang lol. Then there was a period of time where people were constantly saying things like “On Jah?” as a stand-in for “On God?” even though this, again, is Jamaican Patois. And even now, you have tons and tons of non-black people going everywhere being like “what is blud waffling about?”, the phrase “blud” ONCE AGAIN also being Jamaican in origin.

I shouldn’t even have to explain what makes these kinds of appropriations weird and messed up. But black people lose jobs and are denied basic things in life over their hair styles, their expressions and slang, and so many other things that a white person can just appropriate and face zero consequences whatsoever for.

That aside, aside. Understanding and labeling genres correctly is such a big part of music history and highlighting and preserving cultures worldwide. When efforts are made to undermine the meaning of a genre label or otherwise use it incorrectly, so much damage is done to the communities and people groups that innovate and pioneer this art to begin with.

For these reasons, I will gladly use the term Brostep. I will happily call things Electro-Prog. And when you talk about genres like Jungle and Dubstep, say it with your whole chest. Be proud of the human race, show respect and love for the people who have forged the greatest parts of music with their bare hands. We will always stand on the shoulders of giants as musicians, so instead of pretending you yourself are the giant, build monuments and maintain the history of these people. You as an artist are nothing without them.

pictured: Augustus Pablo, one of the most important innovators of Dub. Without him, and without many of his contemporaries, I would reckon that half or more of all modern music would simply not exist.

CONTENT WARNING FOR THIS FINAL SECTION, THERE ARE LIKE LOTS OF STRANGE SLURS AND RACIST VIBES.

—

One last thing I wanna mention, this is slightly tangential but I think it's relevant to this conversation. It's always weird how lots of websites categorize things like this:

From Big Fish Audio... "G**sy*? "World/Ethnic Loops & Samples"? What the fuck are you talking about. Seems like racism to me.

On Loopmasters they have a "World" section. Any Americanized genre gets its own category, but the entire continents of Africa and Asia as well as the country of India and region of the Middle East (which are part of Asia, hope this helps btw) and lastly South America are stuffed into the nebulous "World Label". Seems like racism to me. Are you telling me you weirdos can't figure out a better way to represent these things?

But then Psy Trance gets its whole entire own category? Aren't there only like five people who listen to Psy Trance? /hj . But like come on.

Shoutout to WA Productions for categorizing a universe of suspiciously mostly black music as """Urban"""". And this company is a dime a dozen, hundreds of corpos do this shit.

East fucking West, what is this dude. There is a racism happening, I just know it. Please give me a count of how many poc are on payroll at your company, I am so curious.

And while we're at it, East West, what is this. Tell me. Fucking tell me.

Thanks for reading.

[aarafox]

I've been playing the last 5 min of the ep on loop for more than an hour and holy shit. I have so much to talk about.

At first Blitz’s attitude towards Stolas reclaiming the book is understandable, from a business POV: he needs the book to perform his job! It makes sense he gets a little desperate, tries to keep up the bargain, begs for Stolas to rethink.

But then. Then Stolas gives him the crystal, in one of the sweetest ways possible.

Like a marriage proposal.

The crystal is supposed to be everything Blitz wants, because, supposedly, fucking Stolas is just part of the deal… in any other situation, with any other person, he would’ve been like sure! Cool, thanks :)

But not for a single second he looks happy with this. We all know it’s because deep down he feels the same way… But he gets upset, worried, afraid. From the get-go.

And Stolas is telling him the loveliest things. He’s pouring his absolute heart out. I don’t think I expected him to tell Blitz exactly how he feels but he does. Just like in his texts, he’s completely honest with him:

“Blitz, I’m giving you this because… I care... VERY deeply for you. And I have for some time.”

How he places the crystal on his wrist like a ring on a fiancée’s finger. This is Stolas’ absolute biggest gesture of love. He’s setting Blitz free! From this transactional thing… That’s what Blitz wants… right?

“I want you to continue to… be who you are. Your business!” This was such a kind thing to say. In his eyes, Blitz is perfect as he is and I wonder how often - perhaps if ever - Blitz has heard something like this. The music reflects Stolas’ honesty and affection, the soft and beautiful melody that we know so well… This is Stolas’ big moment, his declaration of love.

“You don’t have to stay here with me... But... I want you to. I want you to stay here with me. Because you want to. Only if you want to.”

And honestly… the shock on Blitz’ face when Stolas says that first line (the "you don't have to stay" one):

Like seriously?? Biggest shock so far? Blitz doesn’t want to separate from Stolas! He wants to stay with him! But when Stolas reveals his truth… that he wants Blitz to stay because Blitz himself wants to and not for any deal or arrangement…

And Blitz, who still can’t believe someone could genuinely love him, responds in the only way he thinks he should: in their “business language”, the language of sex. Because he cannot let the truth sink into his heart.

Of course this hurts Stolas, for whom this reaction is only proof that his feelings are unrequited. If Blitz can’t respond to him in any other way than this, there’s little chance he feels the same…

And still, he is so so kind:

“Thank you Blitz. For… awakening me. For making me… so happy… if only for a little while.”

He was trapped in an unhappy, abusive marriage for so long and Blitz saved him from that. Thanks to Blitz, Stolas had a chance to find out who he was, change his life for the better, and experience true happiness. But if Blitz can’t give Stolas what he needs emotionally, then this is where it has to end.

And Blitz retaliates in the only way he knows how: self-protection. He doesn’t want this to end, but he also never expected Stolas to feel genuine love for him. He HAS no time to think about this, in his eyes Stolas is ending this on his own terms. But he doesn’t have the full words; he hasn’t faced his own feelings and, if he can’t even be genuine with himself, how can he be genuine with Stolas?

But his words, that he’s saying partly because he truly believes them but likely also because he wants to protect himself from the pain, cut Stolas like knives. Stolas flinches when Blitz calls him "asshole" and "bitch":

Blitz's words... shatter his heart.

Stolas has been on the receiving end of hate for a long time. But to hear this from the one he loves so much... It's simply too much to handle. So he sends Blitz away.

As Blitz’s apology still echoes through the air.

[vir-tanadahl]

The Herald and the Wolf

Summary: AU. After Felassan fails to secure the eluvian password, Solas summons him to Haven to assist in addressing the rising threat of Corypheus. When the situation takes a dire turn, Felassan accompanies Solas in joining the Inquisition. It isn’t long before Felassan recognizes that Marel Lavellan holds the key to saving this world—and possibly to altering Solas’s own plans. Find on Ao3!

The Fade shimmered around them, ethereal wisps of green and gold dancing in the air as Solas's piercing violet eyes bore into Felassan. The elf's jaw clenched, his lean frame rigid with barely contained fury. "You failed me, Felassan," Solas spat, his voice low and dangerous. "The eluvian password was within our reach, and yet you allowed it to slip through your fingers." Felassan lifted an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a sardonic smile. "Ah, yes, the infamous password to unleash your grand design. But tell me, old friend—have you ever paused to consider that this world might not be as disposable as you’ve convinced yourself?"

Solas's nostrils flared, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "This world is but a shadow of what it once was. Our people deserve to reclaim their birthright—their magic, their immortality. How can you not see the significance of this?"

"Oh, I see it," Felassan replied, his tone light but his violet eyes sharp. "I see a man so fixated on the past that he's blind to the present." He gestured around them, at the swirling mists of the Fade. "This world, flawed as it is, holds its own worth, Solas. Can you truly justify casting it all aside?"

Solas took a step forward, his voice dropping to a hiss. "I am prepared to do whatever is required to restore our people to their former glory. Your failure risks unraveling everything we have strived to achieve." Felassan's mind raced, weighing his words carefully. He had long served Solas, but doubts had been gnawing at him, growing stronger with each passing day. The world Solas envisioned seemed increasingly hollow, a fantasy built on the ruins of a vibrant, if flawed, reality.

"And what of the people who inhabit this world?" Felassan challenged, his usual playful demeanor giving way to genuine concern. "Their lives, their stories, their loves and losses—are they all meaningless to you? Tell me, Solas, is your perfect world truly worth erasing theirs?"

Solas's eyes flashed dangerously. "You forget yourself, Felassan. Our duty is to our people—to the true elves. This world is a mistake, a tragedy born of my own folly. It falls to me to set it right."

Felassan felt the weight of millennia pressing down on him, the burden of secrets and half-truths. He sighed, running a hand through his chestnut hair. "Perhaps, old friend. But tell me—on this path to correct the mistakes of the past, have you stopped to wonder if you’re about to commit a far greater one?" The tension between them crackled like lightning, two immovable forces locked in a battle of wills. Solas's grand design hung in the balance, and Felassan found himself teetering on the edge of a precipice, unsure if he could follow his friend into the abyss that awaited.

Solas's piercing violet eyes softened, a flicker of uncertainty passing across his angular features. He turned away, gazing into the swirling mists of the Fade. "Your doubts are not without merit, Felassan," Solas conceded, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. "But we cannot waver now. The road ahead is perilous, and I need your strength beside me."

Felassan raised an eyebrow, a ghost of his usual smirk playing on his lips. "Oh? And here I thought you were about to turn me into a rather dashing statue." Solas released a tired chuckle, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Your wit remains as sharp as ever, I see. But no, my friend—I have a far more pressing task in mind for you. The Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes—you must meet me in a village called Haven. Corypheus seeks to unlock my orb, and once he does, we must be ready to reclaim it."

Felassan's violet eyes widened. "Corypheus? The ancient magistrate? Fenedhis, Solas, what have you done?"

"What was necessary," Solas said, his tone grim. "Now go. Time is against us, and the fate of our people rests on what comes next." As Felassan vanished from the Fade, Solas's words echoed in his thoughts, a warning of the impending turmoil.

* * *

Marel's eyes snapped open, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Pain lanced through her left hand, a searing agony that threatened to consume her. She struggled to focus, to make sense of her surroundings. "Where...?" she croaked, her throat raw and parched.

The heavy wooden door slammed open, jarring Marel from her thoughts. Two women strode in, their faces etched with suspicion and barely contained anger. The taller one, clad in Seeker armor, circled Marel like a predator stalking its prey. Her voice rumbled like thunder, thick with a heavy Nevarran accent that dripped with suspicion and accusation. "Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now," she demanded, her eyes narrowing in mistrust as she clenched her fists at her sides

Marel's heart raced, but she kept her face impassive. "I don't understand. What's happening?" she asked, trying to hide the fear in her voice. The other woman, hooded and cloaked in shadow, stepped forward. Her voice, low and deliberate, sliced through the tension like a blade. "The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.” She paused, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air, "Except for you.”

Leliana. The name came unasked to Marel's mind, though she couldn't recall how she knew it. "That's not possible," Marel said, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her chest. "I would never—"

"Explain this," Cassandra demanded, her voice sharp as steel. She seized Marel's hand, her grip firm and unrelenting. The moment their skin touched, the strange mark burned to life, flaring with an otherworldly green light. It pulsed and flickered, casting eerie shadows across their faces, as if the light itself responded to her challenge.

Marel winced, pulling her hand back. "I... I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" Cassandra's voice cut through the room, sharp and rising with frustration. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening as her fingers curled into fists at her sides. The tension radiating from her was palpable, her dwindling patience crackling in the air like a storm about to break. "I don’t know what that is or how it got there," Marel said firmly, her voice steady despite the turmoil beneath. She knew she was innocent—of that, she was certain. But how could she convince them? How could she make them see the truth?

Leliana’s voice sliced through the charged silence, cool and sharp as a blade. "You're lying," she said, her calm tone laced with an edge of certainty. Her piercing gaze locked onto her target, unflinching, as if daring them to deny it. Marel held her ground, her green eyes steady and unwavering as they locked onto the other woman's. "I'm not," she said, her voice firm despite the tension in the air. "I have no idea what's going on." The raw honesty in her tone matched the defiance in her gaze, unflinching even under scrutiny.

"I can't believe it," she murmured, more to herself than her interrogators. "All those people... dead?" Something in her tone must have reached Leilana, for the her stance softened slightly. "Do you remember what happened? How this began?"

Marel closed her eyes, her brow furrowing as she searched the fragments of her memory. "I remember running," she said slowly, her voice tinged with uncertainty. Her hands tightened in her chains as the images flickered in her mind. "There were... things chasing me. And then..." Her breath hitched. "A woman. I think." Her words trailed off, the memory slipping away like sand through her fingers.

"A woman?" Leliana's interest was piqued. Marel opened her mouth to say more, but Cassandra stepped forward, cutting her off with a commanding tone. "Go to the forward camp, Leliana," she ordered, her gaze flicking briefly to the spymaster before returning to Marel. "I will take her to the rift." There was no room for debate in her words, her presence sharp and unyielding, like a blade poised to strike.

As Cassandra led her out, Marel’s fingers twitched, brushing against the hum of magic thrumming beneath her skin. It was familiar, steady—like a heartbeat grounding her in the chaos. But beneath that comforting pulse, something deeper stirred, ancient and vast, like a whisper from a time long forgotten. The sensation sent a shiver through her, both unnerving and intriguing. Whatever caused the mark on her palm, it was old magic.

* * *

The air crackled with arcane energy as Marel stumbled forward, her marked hand pulsing in rhythm with the writhing rift before her. Suddenly, a crossbow bolt whizzed past her ear, followed by a throaty laugh.

"Ha! Got you, you ugly bastard!"

Marel spun around to face a stocky dwarf who was in the midst of reloading a formidable crossbow. Flanking him were two agile elves, one with a solemn expression and the other with an almost playful twinkle in his striking violet eyes. Felassan grinned and called out, "Solas, on your left!" His movements were fluid and almost playful as he sidestepped the demon’s swipe, twirling his staff with an effortless flourish to knock its claws aside. "Come on now, try to keep up!" he teased, a spark of amusement in his voice despite the chaos.

The bald elf—Solas—responded with a graceful pivot, encasing the demon in ice. "Thank you, Felassan. Though I might value fewer remarks and more spells."

Marel's fingers were restless, eager to jump into the fray; however, uncertainty restrained her. These unfamiliar individuals seamlessly coordinated their movements. Felassan caught her eye, grinning as he dispatched another demon. “Well, aren’t you a sight?” He flirted, “Care to join the fray, or should I keep the party going on my own?" His light-heartedness was jarring against the chaos.

"It seems we have very different ideas of what makes a party," Marel said dryly, stepping forward with deliberate grace. She raised her staff, its faint glow illuminating the chaos around them. Solas moved beside her, his steady presence grounding her in the storm’s midst. "Your mark," Solas said, his voice low and urgent as his gaze flicked to her glowing hand. "It may be the key to closing the rift." Marel’s grip tightened on her staff, her brow furrowing. "How can you be sure?"

"I am not," he admitted, his tone steady even as he raised a shimmering barrier to deflect a demon’s claws. The air crackled with tension as his sharp eyes locked on hers. "But we must try. Allow me."

Before she could respond, Solas stepped forward, his hand encircling hers with surprising firmness. He guided her marked hand toward the pulsing rift, its chaotic light casting jagged shadows across his determined expression. A searing pain shot up Marel’s arm, pulling a sharp gasp from her lips. Yet beneath the agony, a surge of raw, unrelenting power rushed through her veins, wild and untamed. Her knees threatened to buckle, but Solas’s grip remained steady, grounding her as the mark blazed with a brilliance that seemed to defy the rift’s overwhelming force.

‘Is this what it feels like to touch the Fade itself?’ The thought swept through Marel’s mind, a whirlwind of awe and terror. The raw power coursing through her mark was unlike anything she had ever known—wild, infinite, and almost alive. It was as though the very fabric of the Fade pressed against her soul, overwhelming and wonder. The rift surged before them, its jagged edges pulsing erratically, expanding and contracting like a living, breathing entity on the verge of breaking free. Its light spilled across the battlefield in blinding waves, and for a heart-stopping moment, Marel felt the crushing weight of its pull. The air itself seemed to tremble, thick with the promise of chaos.

A flicker of panic gripped her chest. Then came the crack—a sharp, deafening sound that split the air, reverberating in her bones. The rift convulsed violently, its pulsating energy twisting inward before stabilizing into a jagged tear. The relentless stream of demons halted, their forms dissolving into nothingness as silence fell, oppressive and final. Marel stumbled, her chest heaving, the mark dimming on her hand as the otherworldly power slipped away, leaving only the ghost of its presence behind.

Solas released her hand with deliberate care, his shoulders easing as a wave of relief softened his sharp features. For a moment, his usual composure faltered, and a faint smile flickered across his lips. "It seems my theory was correct," he said, his voice quieter now, almost admiring. Marel flexed her fingers, the mark still thrumming with an otherworldly energy that sent shivers up her arm. Her brow furrowed as she turned her hand over, the faint glow still pulsing beneath her skin. "What did you do?" she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion and curiosity.

"I did nothing," Solas replied, his gaze unwavering, the intensity in his eyes making her breath catch. "The credit is yours. The mark—it resonates with you alone. You wielded its power." His tone was calm, yet there was something beneath it—a flicker of admiration, perhaps, or respect for what she had just accomplished. Cassandra stepped forward, her brows furrowed in thought, “Meaning it could also close the breach itself?” She asked.

Solas turned to face Cassandra. “Possibly,” he replied before turning back to Marel. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he remarked. The dwarf with the intricate crossbow adds, “Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever,” His tone is both serious and playful as he introduced himself. “Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong,” he said with a wink directed at Cassandra.

Marel stared at the dwarf. “Are you with the chantry or…?” she asks hesitantly. Solas chuckled, “Was that a serious question?” he asked. Varric shrugged casually, tugging at the cuff of his jacket as though discussing the weather instead of his predicament. “Technically, I’m a prisoner, just like you,” he said, his tone light but edged with a wry humor.

Cassandra crossed her arms, her frown deepening. “I brought you here to recount a story for the Divine. Clearly, that plan no longer holds.” Varric’s grin widened, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “And yet, here I am,” he said, gesturing broadly as though to emphasize his presence. “Lucky for you, too, considering… well, current events.” His voice carried an unmistakable hint of smugness, as though even imprisonment hadn’t diminished his knack for being indispensable.

Marel watched their exchange in silence, her gaze thoughtful but guarded. Finally, she offered a small nod and said, “It’s good to meet you, Varric.”

Solas, standing just beside her, folded his arms with a faint smirk. “You may find reason to reconsider that sentiment… in time.”

Varric let out a low chuckle, leaning casually on his crossbow. “Aww, don’t be like that, Chuckles. I’m sure we’ll be the best of friends by the time we’re done with this valley.” His grin widened as he tilted his head toward Marel.

“My name is Solas,” he said, his voice calm and measured as he stepped forward, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. “If there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live,” His tone carried a faint undercurrent of curiosity, as though already appraising the significance of her survival. Varric raised a hand, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm. “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

Marel’s eyes shifted from Varric to Solas, her expression calm but searching. She tilted her head slightly, her curiosity evident as she met his steady gaze. “You seem to know a great deal about it all,” she remarked, her voice soft but laced with quiet intrigue. Cassandra’s tone was clipped as she addressed Marel. “Like you, Solas and his companion are apostates.”

Solas responded with a nonchalant shrug, his demeanor calm but unyielding. “Technically, Cassandra, all mages are apostates now,” he said, his words carrying an air of inevitability. His gaze turned toward the breach, its chaotic energy casting harsh shadows across his sharp features. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any circle mage.” He shifted his focus back to the group, his voice steady but grave. “I came to offer what help I can. If the breach is not closed, it will consume us all. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

Felassan leaned on his staff, a playful glint in his violet eyes. “Felassan,” he said with a lazy smile, inclining his head just enough to seem polite. “Witty observer, occasional meddler, and—lucky for you—an expert at surviving all manner of unpleasantness.” He glanced at Marel, one brow lifting. “I have to say, you’re handling this whole ‘catastrophic disaster’ thing remarkably well. First time, or are you a veteran of world-ending chaos?” He paused, his smirk widening as his gaze flicked to Solas. “And before you ask—no, I’m not with the Chantry either. Too many rules.”

“I am Marel.” Marel’s lips curved into a faint, wry smile at Felassan’s remark. "First time, actually. But at this rate, I might end up an expert before too long."

Felassan’s smirk widened, his violet eyes glinting with amusement. “Ah, a quick learner. Good—Thedas could always use another expert in impending doom. Though, fair warning, the job comes with long hours and questionable company.” Cassandra made a disgusted noise. "This is hardly the time for jests," she said, her hand tightening on the hilt of her sword. "We must reach the forward camp quickly."

The group trudged through the snow-covered valley, their footsteps crunching with each step. Solas broke the silence by initiating conversation. "You are Dalish, yet clearly away from the rest of your clan," Solas observed, his violet eyes studying her intently. "Did they send you here?" The question caught Marel off-guard. She hesitated, memories of her clan—of home—flooding her mind. "No," she replied softly. A lie. "I came of my own accord. To observe the Conclave, to understand what was happening in the world beyond our that could impact the People."

‘And now I'm at the center of it all’, she thought, a wave of loneliness threatening to overwhelm her. Marel took a deep breath, steadying herself. The weight of recent events pressed upon her, but curiosity sparked in her eyes as she regarded Solas. "What do you know of the Dalish?" she asked, her voice a mixture of challenge and genuine interest.

Solas's expression shifted, a flicker of something—regret or possibly frustration—passing over his features before settling into a mask of polite neutrality. "I have wandered many roads in my time," he replied, his tone measured, "and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion." As he spoke, Marel found herself studying the apostate elf more closely. His posture, the way he held himself apart—it spoke of years of solitary travel. She wondered what encounters he might have had with her people, what stories lay behind his carefully chosen words. Your people, not our. ‘There's more he isn't saying’, she thought, noting the slight tension in his jaw. “What do you mean by ‘crossed paths,’ then?” Marel pressed, her tone quiet but insistent, her sharp gaze fixed on Solas as they walked.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable but tinged with a faint bitterness. “I mean,” he began evenly, “that I offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition.” His voice carried a measured calm, but a flicker of disdain crossed his face. His words hung in the air, a subtle edge of frustration underlying his otherwise composed demeanor. Felassan shook his head with a dramatic sigh, glancing at Marel. “What he means to say is, people tend to overreact when faced with someone who uses ‘sharing knowledge’ as a conversational icebreaker. A tragic flaw of his, really.” he remarked, glancing at Solas with a faint smirk.

Marel’s expression remained calm, but her green eyes sharpened with quiet intensity, as if peeling back the layers of his words. “Sharing knowledge is meant to build trust, not provoke conflict,” she said, her tone steady yet probing. “So what was different this time?”

Solas opened his mouth to respond, but Felassan cut in with a chuckle. "Oh, I'm sure our wandering friend here has tales aplenty. But perhaps we should save the cultural exchange for when we're not standing in the shadow of impending doom, hmm?"

Varric cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence that had fallen over the group. His eyes darted between Solas and Marel, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Can't you elves just play nice for once?" he quipped, his tone light but tinged with exasperation. Marel felt a flush creep up her neck, suddenly aware of how the conversation must have sounded to outsiders. "You’re right," she said, her posture straightening with resolve. "We should keep moving." Her green eyes met Solas’s, steady and thoughtful. "But later, if you’re willing, I’d like to hear more about your travels."

"Oh, Varric," Felassan drawled, his violet eyes sparkling with barely contained amusement. "Where is the fun? Centuries of cultural confusion make for the best stories—and even better awkward silences at the table." He cast Marel a conspiratorial wink, the corners of her lips twitching despite the weight of the moment. ‘How does he manage to diffuse tension so effortlessly?’ Marel wondered, studying Felassan's relaxed posture. His relaxed posture stood in stark contrast to the tension thick in the air, as if the looming threat of the Breach above them was little more than a passing inconvenience.

Solas, for his part, looked less than amused. His brow furrowed slightly as he regarded Felassan, a silent exchange passing between them that Marel couldn't quite decipher. She felt a pang of curiosity about their relationship, sensing layers of history and unspoken words beneath the surface. “Perhaps,” Marel interjected, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade, “we could save the cultural debates for when we’re not standing in the middle of a demon-infested ruin?” She lifted her marked hand, the green energy rippling faintly along her fingers, its pulse eerily not synchronized with her heartbeat, but someone else’s. Her gaze shifted between the others, calm but firm, a silent reminder of the more immediate threat surrounding them.

* * *

The air was thick with the hum of magic, the pulsing green rift tearing into the world like a festering wound as they enter the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Marel stood at its edge, her staff gripped tightly in one hand, the mark on her other hand burning faintly as if responding to the nearness of the rift. The energy was familiar, almost intimate, as though it recognized her. A shiver ran down her spine. Solas stepped closer, his voice soft but pointed. “This is where it began. You feel the echoes of it, don’t you?”

Marel nodded, her eyes fixed on the rift. The closer she got, the clearer the world around her seemed to shift. The present blurred with something… else.

“Someone help me,” a voice called out, “You must stop him.”

Cassandra’s breath hitched, her eyes widening as if struck by a sudden revelation. “That voice…” she gasped, her words laced with both awe and disbelief. “It’s Divine Justinia!”

Felassan, lounging a few paces behind, straightened slightly, his lighthearted tone cutting through the tension. “Echoes, memories, ancient magic—always so dramatic, aren’t they?”

Marel glanced over at him, her demeanor calm yet cautious. "I hope you're not taking this lightly," she said with a hint of concern in her voice. Felassan tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Lightly? Never. I simply find that a well-timed joke makes impending doom so much more bearable." His violet eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was a flicker of something deeper beneath his playful tone. Without hesitation, she stepped closer to the rift. The others—Cassandra, Varric, Solas, and Felassan—watched, wary but unwilling to interfere. Her own voice echoed in the ruins of the temple: “What’s going on here?” The mark on her hand flared to life as she reached out, the green light pulling her into its depths.

Cassandra gasped, “That was your voice! Most-holy called out to you, but…”

The Fade surged around Marel, not the vibrant realm of dreams she knew, but a fractured, chaotic reflection of the world. A woman, robed in white and gold, bound in shimmering chains of light, knelt before an imposing male figure shrouded in shadow. The woman—Divine Justinia V—lifted her head, her gaze piercing through the haze.

“Run while you can! Warn them!” the Divine called to her. The imposing male figure shrouded in shadow spoke, “We have an intruder. Slay the elf.” The vision fades with a blast of power.

Cassandra turned towards her, voice sharp with urgency. "You were there! Who was the attacker? And what about the Divine? Is she...? Was the vision we saw real? What does it mean?"

“I don’t know—I don’t remember!” Marel said, her voice steady but laced with frustration, as if trying to grasp at something just out of reach. Solas spoke, his tone deliberate and reflective. "What we witnessed may well have been a memory, preserved within the Fade—a fragment of events from when the Breach first tore through this place. The Fade's presence here is unmistakable, seeping into the world around us."

Felassan, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, his usual grin replaced by a rare seriousness. “If it’s a memory, why doesn’t she remember it? The mark on her hand ties her to all this, doesn’t it?”

"Or it was taken from her," Solas replied, his gaze narrowing as it fixed on the rift. "This rift is not sealed, merely closed... for now. With the mark, I believe it can be reopened and then properly sealed—safely. However, doing so will almost certainly draw attention from the other side."

Cassandra nods and signals to the soldiers around them, her voice calm but urgent. "That means demons. Stand ready!"

The rift loomed ahead, its luminous aura flickering and distorting the air around it. Marel Lavellan stood at the front, her marked hand pulsing with a fiery glow as she neared the rift. Its powerful magic seemed to call out to her, in sync with the rhythm of her heartbeat. Determined, she extended her marked hand towards the rift and the light intensified, blinding and intense. The ground beneath them rumbled, and a deafening roar echoed from within the rift. A massive figure began to emerge—a hulking Pride demon wreathed in green fire, its form twisted and grotesque. Its prideful eyes gleamed as it surveyed the group.

As the mark on her arm flared with pain, Marel stumbled backwards and the demon advanced towards her. "Get your weapons ready!" Cassandra commanded, lifting her shield and charging forward without hesitation. The fight commenced. Cassandra blocked a swipe of the demon’s massive claws, the force of the blow driving her to one knee. “Marel, we can’t hold this thing forever!” she called out, swinging her sword to deflect another strike. Varric let out a low whistle as he fired bolts at the demon’s exposed side.

Solas raised his staff, a blast of ice struck the demon’s flaming arm, causing it to recoil with a howl. Felassan darted around the battlefield with surprising grace, flinging bursts of magic at the demon’s head. “Keep its attention off her!” he yelled, pointing toward Marel. “She’s the one who can end this.”

Marel’s heart pounded as she staggered closer to the rift, the mark on her hand blazing painfully bright. The closer she got, the more the rift seemed to pull at her, as though trying to consume her entirely. “Focus, Marel,” Felassan called, his usual teasing tone replaced with rare urgency. “It’s you or the demon—decide quickly.” The mark connected with the rift, sending a blast of green energy rippling outward. The Pride demon roared in pain, momentarily stunned as the rift’s power turned against it.

“Now!” Cassandra shouted, driving her blade into the demon’s leg. Solas and Felassan unleashed coordinated bursts of magic, striking at the demon’s weakened form. Varric’s bolts embedded themselves in its chest, one after another. Marel poured everything she had into the mark, her vision narrowing as the rift began to respond. The demon howled again, its form flickering like a flame in a storm. It lashed out wildly, sending Cassandra sprawling and nearly catching Varric with its claws.

“It’s weakening!” Solas called. “Hold it off a little longer!”

Marel gritted her teeth, stepping closer to the rift despite the searing pain in her arm. She could feel the power pulling at her, but she refused to let go. “Just… a little more!” The Pride demon made one final lunge toward her, its claws outstretched. Felassan intercepted with a blast of energy that sent it reeling. “Now!” he yelled. Marel let out a cry as she channeled the mark's power into the rift. The energy exploded outward, enveloping the Pride demon and pulling it back into the tear. The rift trembled violently, its glow intensifying before imploding with a deafening snap. Marel's sight dimmed as she channeled the last of her energy into the mark, her body quaking under the intense surge of power. The final burst of magic closed the portal, pulling the Pride demon into oblivion, but it drained her completely. And then, everything went dark.

* * *

As they made their way through the gates, a sense of heavy burden enveloped the group. The looming threat of the Breach weighed heavily on their minds, serving as a constant reminder of the chaos that awaited them. Felassan's attention was drawn to Cassandra carrying the unconscious body of Marel, her marked hand clenching tightly without her even realizing it. Felassan came to a realization: she was the key. Not only in sealing the rifts, but in altering the course of everything. Even for Solas.

"We face an uncertain path," Solas said softly, his eyes on the distant horizon. "But with determination and wisdom, we may yet prevail."

Felassan snorted. "Always the optimist, aren't you?" But his tone lacked its usual bite. Instead, he found himself studying Marel, noting the steel in her spine, the quiet resolve in her eyes. ‘Perhaps’, he thought, ‘there's hope for us all yet.’