#this body cannot live on fanfic alone

[liljakonvalj]

Disney keeps doing "live action" remakes, while I've been waiting for Treasure planet 2 for 21 years.

[wannabespacesmuggler]

L.H. | When You Call My Name

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

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

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader

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

Word Count: 2.4K

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

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

No. 

It can’t be.

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

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

Cold. Alone. Suffering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you say his name again. 

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

“Did I hurt you?”

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

“No, Logan. I’m okay.”

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

“Where’d you go?”

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

“D.C., 1973.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know, you pulled me out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m nothing special, Logan.”

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

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

[latenightdaydreams]

Hi,hi😘🤗😄

Demon! König X Nun!Reader

First of all I honestly want to tell you that I really like your posts and the way you write your fanfics, every day the first thing I do after waking up is usually go to Tumblr, to check if you have posted anything.

Tôi thấy bạn đã từng viết về các linh mục! Konig X Nun! người đọc, sau đó tôi muốn khác biệt

The reader was awakened in the middle of the night by a strange noise outside the church, encountered a stranger drenched in the rain, because of her kindness and naivety, she gave the stranger shelter from the rain overnight and was raped.

Tôi sẽ vui cả ngày nếu bạn trả lời tôi về yêu cầu này, yêu bạn 😘😍🤩❤️❤️❤️

Thank you so much🥰 It always means to much when I get such sweet messages😭🩷 And yes!!

Demon!König x Nun!Reader (fem)

🚫MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING🚫

As always, please skip if you cannot handle or do not enjoy graphic topics! Your mental health matters! I hope you all have a great day💗

MDNI🔞

Master List✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, non-con, p in v, virginity loss, religious themes

1.7k word count

⛪

.

.

War has torn apart the village you live in, leaving only the solace of the Lord to get you through these dark and depressing times. You’re fast asleep in your bedroom within the church walls when a loud crashing sound wakes you up. Quickly, you stand, putting a scarf over your hair, then grab your purple robe and wrap it around your body. You pick up your flashlight as you walk through the dark church to inspect the noise.

You open up the front doors of the church and look around, shining the flashlight into the darkness as heavy rainfalls in front of you. Not exactly wanting to get wet, you decide to chalk the sound up to thunder. That’s when your eyes focus on the outline of a large individual. You shine your light on him to see it’s a man shivering from the icy rain. Instantly, you feel a strange feeling about this man. Where did he come from? You shake that feeling away, deciding to do what God would want you to do.

“Sir? Are you alright?” You call out to him.

König lifts his head as blonde hair falls over his face, his eyes roaming down your form hidden by your robe. Your voice sounds so sweet, almost as sweet as he’s sure you’ll taste. A little nun is left all alone when most villagers have gone off to war or died.

“Ja, I’m just lost.” He lies so effortlessly. “I lost contact with my family and I don’t know where I am.”

You look at him up and down. The man is massive and his Austrian accent is thick. With a quick glance around, you decide the holy thing to do is to let him inside, at least for the night. He could get sick in the rain and pass. That’s not something you could live with.

“Please, come inside for the night. I have a cot you could sleep on. Let yourself rest up as the rain passes.”

“Danke.”

König approaches the steps of the church, his tall stature towering over you as passes you to step inside the dark church. He looks around as you close the doors again, locking them once more. As you approach him again with the flashlight in hand, he gets to see your features up close, noting how delicate you look.

“I’m König.” He holds his hands out to shake yours.

“Sister y/n.” You place your much smaller dainty hand in his, his skin feeling warm to the touch.

His pale blue eyes linger on yours, seemingly reflecting in the darkness. The sight causes your heart to skip a beat, but you convince yourself it was a flash of lightning. König can smell your fear, your innocence. Such a tiny little thing, he will have fun ruining you.

“I have a cot and extra blankets that you can use for tonight. The priest might have left behind something you can fit into so you can let your uniform dry.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

As you walk forward into the back of the church, König follows closely behind; his eyes traveling up and down your body. You open up a door on the left, a closet where everything was kept. König lingers by the door as you bend over to grab blankets from the basket and then grab a cot.

“Let me, Sister.” König reaches out, grabbing the items from your arms.

“Thank you.” His kind gestures relax you and make you feel better about your decision to help him. “You can set up in the church and I’ll go to the old priest’s room to look for clothing.”

König nods, stepping back to allow you room to walk past. His eyes follow what direction you go in, lingering in his spot for a few seconds before dropping everything and following you. With quiet and careful steps, he follows you up a short staircase to the bedroom. The old wooden door creaks open. The room has a lantern lit showing a large cross with bloody Jesus hanging over the queen size bed.

You turn quickly to see König stepping inside, this time that deep sinking feeling isn’t as easy to shake away. He gets uncomfortably close, invading your personal space. One of his hands comes up and caresses the side of your face, slowly moving up to push your veil off and exposing your hair underneath. A light gasp leaves your lips as you turn to grab it, only to be stopped by his hand grabbing your arm.

“Please, let me go.” You whimper with fear in your voice.

“Sister y/n, so young and trusting. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to trust strange men?” He smiles, revealing his sharp teeth.

“Please, don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” His grip on your wrist tightens as he pulls you to him. “I’m going to make you feel amazing, Sister.”

König grabs a fistful of hair in his hand, pulling your head back. With his other hand he pulls at the ties of your robe, pulling the garment from your body to expose the thin white nightgown you have on below. His hands grope you, grabbing at your breasts through the fabric while you try your hardest to fight back against him. It was no use; he is so much stronger than you.

With little effort he drags your body to the bed, slamming you down on it. The breath gets knocked out of you as your eyes go wide looking at him. His once blue eyes, now pitch black as he smiles down at you with a wicked grin.

“Wh—what are you?”

“An angel.” He says mockingly as he laughs at your fear.

König leans down and licks your face, causing you to try and turn away in disgust. He bites your jaw, both of his hands bringing your wrist together above your head. In one hand he holds your wrist, pining you to the bed right where he wants you. His other hand slips beneath the hem of your gown and caresses your inner thigh.

With all of your might you try to close your legs and stop his hand from gliding up further. It’s no use, his fingers hook the fabric of your white cotton panties and pull them off of your body. His fingers squeeze your mound before slipping his fingers between your slit.

“Please stop! You can’t do this!”

“I can and I am.” He presses his lips against yours in a painful kiss as his hand rubs back and forth on your sensitive clit.

Your both writhes underneath his body as he touches you. Shameful moans leave you and are muffled into his mouth. His tongue swirls around yours before biting down painfully on your bottom lip. You cry out as the taste of cooper fills your mouth.

“Stand up, get undressed.”

König moves off of you and begins to pull off his black shirt and undo his pants. You stand, trembling as you take your nightgown off. As you stand naked in front of him, you begin to pray. He laughs loudly listening to your prayers. He grabs your hair harshly and drags you to the end of the bed, pushing you down.

The only think you see when you look up is Jesus Christ on the cross, looking down at you as he pulls your hair. You don’t stop praying as König slaps his cock on your ass. He presses himself against your asshole before dropping down to the entrance of your virgin pussy. As you pray to send the demon König away, his hips buck forward slipping his cock into your tight cunt.

“Oh, you feel so heavenly Sister.” König’s voice a low growl as he thrust his hips into you.

Streaks of blood left behind from his fat cock tearing your hymen. Your face scrunches in a shameful mix of pleasure and pain. His cock bullies its way deeply inside of you, making sure he completely fills you.

“Please God, save me—”

“Ja, beg your God to save you, Taube.” His hips slam harder into you, your pussy fluttering as you try to adjust to him. Your prayers don’t stop. As if truly thinking you matter. “Your god doesn’t care about you. You’re all alone. Here. With me. I’m your god now.”

“No!” Your fingers grab at the bedsheets and squeeze as you feel how wet you’re getting, your body betraying you and enjoying every painful thrust.

König pulls his cock out and yanks you back by your hair roughly. “Open.” You do as he asks, fear in your eyes as you look up at him. He slips his cock into your mouth, moving his body over yours so that you’re leaning back between his legs. His hips begin to thrust into your mouth, shoving himself down your throat.

You gag; your hands hit his ass trying to stop but it only encourages him more. Tears pour down your face as spit begins to bubble at the edges of your mouth and fall down your face. Your body tenses as you try to not vomit. The salty taste of his precum of coppery taste of your cunts blood mix and add to the unpleasant sensation.

He pulls back, slapping his slobbery cock on your face as your gasp for air. “Pray to me, pray I fuck you.”

As you’re gasping for air, you feel broken down. A demon entered the hold grounds and is breaking your vow to the lord. God nowhere to be found as you plea for his salvation. With trembling lips, you pray.

“Dear König, please fuck me. Please fuck my pussy.” Tears roll down your cheeks as you gaze up with puffy lips.

“Perfect Sister. Perfect.” He pushes you back onto the cold wooden floor as he crawls on top of you, shoving his cock back inside of you.

After that night, your faith in God has never been the same. There is no feeling of the Holy Spirit around you, only the empty and cold walls of an old building. The demon named König visits you in your dreams to torment you. You often spend your days staring blankly into space, waiting for König to come back and claim you again.

[lesbiansforboromir]

In a BoromirLives fanfic, Faramir must be forced to confront this line of his in particular; Whether he erred or no, of this I am sure: he died well, achieving some good thing. His face was more beautiful even than in life. It's vital to me that this is addressed. Because in Tolkien beauty is holy, they are intertwined inextricably, the holy will be beautiful.

Boromir did not live a beautiful holy life according to most, his life is not spoken of with uncomplicated worth by any but Denethor, Eomer, Theoden and Pippin (all either 'simple' or outwardly rebellious against god). But he did die a beautiful holy death, it is what most people praise him for and in Faramir's mystical dream where he sees Boromir's dead body floating down the river, this is his reaction. Boromir's corpse was more beautiful than his living body, because in death he was 'redeemed' and served his purpose in the great holy plan. He 'died well'.

This is horrifying right? It horrifies me when I read it. And I think it so concisely reveals how Faramir and many others viewed Boromir. I am essentially here to argue that this is all about piety, once again, yes I'm a one track record.

Gandalf, when hearing of Boromir's death from Aragorn, declares; It was a sore trial for such a man: a warrior, and a lord of men. Galadriel told me that he was in peril. But he escaped in the end. I am glad. It was not in vain that the young hobbits came with us, if only for Boromir’s sake.

Now, what is Gandalf saying here? Boromir did not escape, he died. Does he mean he escaped corruption? Well, no, since apparently this 'escape' had something to do with Merry and Pippin and Boromir shook off the pull of the Ring long before he was sent to find them. What role did Merry and Pippin play in this 'escape'? Well, Boromir died for them, he had too, there was no other way out of that ambush. So by process of elimination the only thing the 'young hobbits' did that was 'for Boromir's sake' was... to be there so he could die for them, right?

And remember, his death did not actually save them or really help in any way, the hobbits are still taken and the Uruk-hai's downfall has nothing to do with Boromir. In fact Aragorn squandered any time Boromir might have given him to catch up to the Uruk-hai by spending hours on his funeral. So, the death alone is what is being called 'good' here, what is beautiful. Boromir dies and that is beautiful and something to be glad for, according to Gandalf and Faramir.

But why do they think this? Faramir has his 'alas for Boromir, whom I too loved' and Gandalf laments 'poor Boromir', so they have at least some pity for him. What was 'good' to them about Boromir dying? Well we all know this one don't we, it's the accepted narrative of it all, Boromir 'redeemed' himself with this deed. He tried to take the Ring, and for this crime he needed redemption that he gained through vainly giving up his life to try and save Merry and Pippin.

But, in fact, Boromir himself has a slightly different way of phrasing it. Boromir says, of his own death; ‘I tried to take the Ring from Frodo,’ [-] ‘I am sorry. I have paid.’

He paid for it. To Boromir, in this cosmic exchange, he chose wrongly and paid for the offence with his death. This wasn't redemption, it was spiritual commerce, crime and punishment. Which is a perspective that once again demonstrates Boromir's enduring lack of 'faith' or spirituality. The powers of the west and Eru may exist, but they exist to him as forces of nature, some fact of the world we all must just live with, not something that fills him with hope or brings him nobility or meaning or a 'higher purpose'. Boromir does not want to be closer to divinity, he does not want to be beautiful or noble, he wants his people to be safe.

But of course, this is entirely opposite to Faramir's perspective, and if not downright heretical then at least unfaithful. So, when alive, Boromir cannot achieve 'beauty' in Faramir's mind, because he is unfaithful. It is only when he is dead, when 'fate' draws him into this spiritually good 'end' that sees him give up his life for a holy quest, when Boromir's life is no longer defined by him but by his death, that he can be beautiful.

And bringing this all the way back around, there are two ways you could do this in a boromirlives fic. Either, Boromir comes back but he does not look like he did in Faramir's dream. He did not pay, he is still alive to define who he is and Faramir finds himself slowly drawn into this terrible psychological horror as he realises he misses his brother's death more than he missed his actual brother.

Or Faramir needs to be confronted with a brother who looks dead to him. Boromir has come back and to Faramir's eyes he looks exactly as he did in the dream, but now this corpse moves and speaks and can no longer be confined to one perfect conceptual moment. And this also horrifies him. It is for authors to decide if this is just an aspect of Faramir's perspective, or if Boromir actually 'came back wrong' as it were, he did pay but somehow he came back anyway.

[rileyglas]

The List ~Pt. 1 - Creation~

Alastor (Hazbin Hotel) x Reader

This is my first-time writing fanfic but I literally cannot get the stories out of my brain so…why not make everyone else suffer. This is part one of a story I’ve been rolling around some time. I feel setting a good foundation for the reader/main character is super important, so I PROMISE this story gets better. Be prepared for the usual angst, mystery (Alastor), sassiness (Lucifer), fluff, eventual smut (yes horny readers bear with me we need some plot), and of course 18+ because….it’s Hazbin what do you expect?

Summary: f!reader finds themselves in Hell. Unable to accept your horrible fate you make it a point to continue being a bright soul surrounded by the darkness of Hell. With some higher advice, you create a list of rules to live. A short list to keep out danger and continue helping the lower sinners of Pentagram City. It’s the ONLY way you can survive (right?). Your list begins to crumble when you start helping Lucifer’s daughter with some hotel and a dream to redeem the same sinners you want to protect.

**sentences in italics are internal thoughts of the reader

1.5k Words

Part 1 (You're on it!) Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5  Part 6 Part 7 Part 7.A Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

Rumor was all sinners would spawn in hell with attributes related to their life and (untimely) death. Your gift power was proof of that.

“Everyone get inside! Come on before the exorcists see you.” You hurry the last of the smaller sinners inside a building. It kills you to see such fear from the souls. “Lock the door. I'll lure them away.”

How foolish you were. Somehow a heart of gold followed you to these depths after death...ironic how even the nicest people end up in hell. God really does have his favorites I suppose.

But that foolishness led you to the best thing to happen to you, so you thought. Dodging through the streets, maneuvering, anything to lead the "angels" away from even the worst of sinners. Cursing praying for their safety. It was only your second extermination, but you already caught onto their game. It was all too easy to get around their sloppiness. Needing a breather, you weave around some cars and dive behind a dumpster. Idiots can't even keep track of my thickass? Pathetic!

A few moments pass as it grows quiet. Your breath begins to steady when the softest whimper catches your attention. As quietly (and non-threatening) as possible, you turn the corner to approach a crying dark mass curled on the ground. Seeing their blood pooling sends your stomach into flips. Not another one. Fearing the worst you gently reach out. “Hey hey...shhh..." you utter, feeling her wince ever so slightly. "No don't panic I'm here to help. Where are you hurt?"

The young girl slowly uncrumples herself to show her wound...a massive "X" sliced hips to neck. It was so deep you couldn't believe she was still breathing let alone even moving. Fuck she's lost too much blood. "Come here let me try to stop the bleeding" you lied. You knew she had no chance. But your chest hurt at the thought of her dying (again) alone in some shit alley. With the last of her strength she curled into you, her white hair tickling your face. She had her textured locks pulled back tightly and black horns accenting the top of her head. Her tired red eyes relaxed, slowly closing as she leaned into you. Such a beautiful girl falling to such a terrible fate. With one hand on part of her wound, you used your other to softly stroke her head. “I'm so sorry young one...just breathe in and know you're not alone.” As her breathing shallows you gently kiss her forehead, bidding her soul a gentle goodbye.

The second your lips touch her skin, pure fire floods through your veins. Every nerve in your body feeling ripped apart. You spasm from the pain, clenching onto the girls now limp body. Just when the pain starts misting your vision you see flashes of...pink? "What the fuck!!" You grit through your teeth. What felt like hours of pain was merely a few seconds and it quickly dissipated from your body as did the pink light. Shit shit shit, there’s no way the exorcist didn’t hear OR SEE that! You stay perfectly still...listening to the silence with your mind reeling over what just happened.

A gasp breaks the deafening silence, pulling you back to reality. The young girl jolted out of your arms, gasping in as much air as she could. Looking down you notice her wounds were gone, only dry blood and tattered cloth remained from the laceration. You look at each other in panic and shock.

After inspecting her stomach she snaps out of her daze, remembering you two were still not safe.

"It's too dangerous to stay out here. Come with me - we aren’t far from the safehouse. I am sure my mother will want to meet you."

You follow without hesitation. Trust has always been a weakness. As you make your way through the city, she explains how she was out collecting angelic weapons with her sister when they got separated. After getting cornered she just accepted her fate...then you found her. "The name is Clara by the way. Clara Carmine. I usually just go by CC though."

You never intended to get into the Overlord game. You were merely trying to make the best, quiet life in hell if that was even possible. Guess things change when you save the daughter of Hells most prestigious Overlord. Who could say no to being taken in and protected by THE Carmilla Carmine.

Carmilla immediately began preparing you after hearing of the power you possessed. The power to heal with touch...of course it’s not that easy…it required pure intensions, coming from a place of love. Who the hell (pun intended) wrote this cruel joke for a sinner? How did the lowest of low get given such power just a few short years after arriving? It was your most precious secret. It had to be. If anyone of ill will found out - and come on, it's Hell - your soul would have been the most sought after in the pride ring. You wouldn’t last a day. Carmilla was indebted to you for saving Clara, so she made a deal to give you protection and mentorship as repayment. The first of many deals you’d make in Hell, growing the power you held.

In the years you've been under Carmilla's watch, you created a short list of rules to keep yourself out of harm’s way -

1. Never trust another Overlord

2. Never tell a soul what (or how much) power you have

3. Never bring anyone too close

4. Never let your weaknesses show

It was a simple enough list that had worked for you so far.

You chose to make deals with those who needed protection or help while navigating the dangerous afterlife. In your deals each soul was bound to secrecy as to who you were and what you provided. Contract details and fine print were your specialty. Your soul count was the highest Carmilla had ever seen for someone so new, so merciful. She would often mention only one other sinner ever rose the ranks as quick though his methods were…less than savory. She never bothered to say who. Every Overlord meeting the rumors spread of some "Saving Grace" sinner making their way into powerful ranks. A shadow giving vile hope. But just as quick as those rumors appeared - they were put to rest when no new faces ever appeared. Of course you were there - you needed to attend for information just as much as the next guy, but you never sat as an Overlord. Carmilla granted you a place off to the side as "the help" to serve tea or make notes as needed. No one ever batted an eye to someone considered just a worker bee in Carmilla's hive.

Every meeting was the same, though it seemed unease was rising after each extermination. Six years had passed since you fell into this hellhole (har har). Another extermination, another meeting. Sitting in your designated corner, you twirl your pen as the Overlords began taking their seats. Might as well be invisible - but you preferred it that way. As your mind slightly wonders to less important things, the quiet buzz of conversations around you fades away from your ears.

"—yes I know I’ve been absent some time. I'm sure you've ALL been wondering!"

Your attention snaps back with the sound of this charming new voice. The demon was dressed to the nines - red suit jacket, gloves, freshly pressed slacks. Your already preoccupied mind raced. Who the hell is that? Where has he been? Why does he have that shit eating grin?

He must hold some power to be sitting here after all these years…

"Not really. But welcome back in any case."

That dismissal from Camilla was enough for you to put aside any questions you had of the demon. You knew this meeting would be tense. Can't afford distractions when you needed to be all ears. As you began writing you felt something in the pit of your stomach. Was someone staring at you? You try to shake the feeling when Velvette made her grand entrance. With a sigh and eye roll you set aside your notebook. God damn this woman, no respect, no couth. Gonna be a long one today.

The sinking feeling returns, this time you catch the culprit. The (new to you) demon Overlord is staring at you as if you’re the only one in the room. You make eye contact hoping he moves his gaze, but it only fuels the intensity on you. That smile never faltering. Your ears ring and static pricks your ear drums. Can I fuckin help you sir? Wait no, you're just the help. Lower sinners would never even dream of speaking to an Overlord like such. Thankfully the eye contact breaks when Velvette tosses the head of an exorcist on the table.

Ah I suppose this will be quite a fascinating meeting…

[night-dazai]

Mine

Your legs were wide open with his Cock driving you and your hole crazy with his slow but powerful thrust. "Os..amu ....plss.." you blabber with wet eyes not yet crying . Dazai had been the first ever man to touch you and God it was heaven but... you being the perv wanted it rough . Millions of books and fanfics you have read where the girl is crying and begging them to stop or slow down. You never once had such a problem with dazai well other than Cumming again and again he was never once rough with you but tonight you wanted to change that and that's why you sat in your shared house with chuuya in the hall as Dazai sat opposite to you two .

It has been 2 hours as you kept rubbing your whole self on chuuya "is he that amusing ?"Dazai wondered trying to control his rising anger . "Y/n cannot see me angry noo. I cannot let her see the monster I am she will run. "He though running his fingers thourgh his hair in frustration ."Dazai can you take the dishes to the sink " you asked in a sweet voice holding chuuyas hands .Smiling he took them to the kitchen "calm down "He kept chanting like it was the only thing he knew .

Dazai hasn't said one word other than engaging very actively in the conversation you and chuua shared "is he not mad , how can he be like this . I am doing something I hate so much whyy .....does he not like me anymore??"thoughts flooded your brain as chuuya snapped you out of it "y/n it's enough "He said scratching the back of his head . "Thanks for agreeing to my stupid request "you said sending him off . Dazai walked back in wiping his hand dry "oh red head left ?? What manners is this not saying bye to me " He ranted on chuuya as you walked past him to the bed room quite . "Y/n what happened?" He asked confused following you as you did not say a word sitting on the bed hugging your pillow "do you even like me anymore?"you blurted making the brown head look at you horrified and so did you " ah...sorry for-"you were cut short seeing your bf .His hand trembling face horrified he kept talking " Sorry I am sorry ....sorry..i am...." "dazai look at me " you said trying to make him look at you . When you noticed his wet eyes all your doubts vanished all was left was guilt for hurting the poor man . You hugged him hard "realx ..breath please.. " you said instructing and soon he calmed down asking why on earth would you ask such a question , you were his reason to live , his light his everything. Feeling embarrassed you told him you got mad at the fact he was not mad at you for what happened with chuuya . " so you are saying you wan...nah ..Bella "His fingers ran across your ears to your jaw and slowly cupped your chin " you have no idea how mad I am and how much i want to funking destroy you " He said right into your ears . His words went straight to your core making you wet as he used his other hand to pull your head back and this time it hurt . The grip on your head hurt , even though you felt scared his eyes not the usual gentle one but mysterious and dark "Bella I am not jealous and will never be cause you are mine . You are not something I envey others off you are my territory and seems like a little recalling would help " He said harshly sucking your neck whole ripping your clothes apart . His eyes and body moments were fueled not by this incident alone but all the pervious times he wanted to corrupt you rose to the surface as his animalistic desire to runin you surfaced and that's when you realised your desire is fullfiled "mine "Dazai said spreading your legs wide and he has your hands cuffed and all naked for him "all mine " He growled entering your wet core.

[cure-orchid]

So I know the show recently ended, but I ended up binging through TGAMM and loved it! The Ghost Friends are all mood and the Mollie ship is adorable. Then I learned about the Chairman Ollie arc for the scrapped third season and IT WOULD HAVE BEEN SO COOL TO SEE!

I ended up writing down how I would imagine the story arc going down, and I headcanon that several of the planned season 3 eps (minus the ones that would clash with the finale) happened between JVTHM and The End (Ollie knowing about the wraith memory loss and how he says it could have hinted that it already occurred.)

My Chairman Ollie plotline: It starts with what was outlined in the already written scripts, and Ollie keeps spending more and more time in the Ghost World rather than on Earth. He’s becoming a little more forgetful as the episodes pass and has noticeable headaches. Things like his parents having a Root Beer Bar or the plot of the latest Country Pumpkin movie seem to surprise him when he should already know about them.

He’s missed a few dates with Molly and slipping on schoolwork so she takes an episode trying to talk to him at school but he keeps getting pulled away to fix something as the Chairman. The episode would really drive in how his human memories are failing even when he reconnects with his body and there’s a whole musical number on how Molly feels he’s growing distant. She finally catches up to him in the end and he looks partway between normal and being an empty shell(his hair is even losing the swoop!). She asks him out for ice cream but then we get a wham line “Sure, but… who are you?” Molly’s heart literally breaks as she discovers Ollie has lost all memory of her. He excuses himself and leaves Molly crying with Scratch and Libby coming to console her.

Next episode the remaining Ghost Friends are trying to figure out what’s wrong with him when June comes to Molly’s house trying not to panic. Ollie’s shell came home yesterday but not his wraith and he’s still not back. Molly, Libby and Darryl go to the Chen’s while Scratch goes to the Ghost World to see what’s keeping him. He finds Ollie still obsessively trying to engoodify the Ghost World and his orange glow is much more faded. Worse, when Scratch calls him by his name he asks who Ollie is. Libby manages to discover a page in her pop-up book that was stuck to another and reveals wraiths can lose their memories the longer they spend away from their body and without the will to live they cannot fully rejoin the two halves. Scratch arrives and with all they know they make a plan. Molly, Scratch and the Chen’s go to the Ghost World while Darryl and Libby keep an eye on their bodies. They get to Ollie and he doesn’t recognize anyone but Scratch, but has no emotional attachment to him. Big musical number as they all try to help Ollie remember but it doesn’t work. Everyone is devastated and it seems like Ollie might be gone forever.

Molly doesn’t give up, she pulls down his hood and cups his face, (this is where the drawing is) telling Ollie that she loves him and gives him their first kiss. Her yellow sparks course through him and his orange glow regains it’s color… and he regains his memories. When they pull away, Olly says her name and he’s pulled into a group hug as he says everyone’s names. He leaves the robe and hurries back into his body. A few hours later it’s just him, Molly and Scratch when the ghost council arrives. I haven’t come up with what happens to the robe but Ollie does relinquish his title as chairman and Scratch pulls the council away. Now alone, Ollie didn’t get to say it back in the ghost world, but he loves Molly too. They have another kiss and lean their foreheads together afterwards… and then Scratch comes back complaining that they already sucked faces once today already.

Update 5/27: Yep, I’m turning this into a fanfic. I said I wouldn’t but I got the inspiration on how to do it! It’s called ‘Record of an Engoodifier’

Also bonus doodles:

[sleeplessdreamer14]

the sparrow and the butterfly

fandom: overwatch

relationship: (familial) genji shimada & sibling! reader

headcanons: years after your family falls apart, you’re given a chance to put it back together

contains: familial fluff, some angst, hurt/comfort, heavy plot

a/n: this is more of a fanfic I came up with like a month ago that I’m telling in the ‘you’ perspective. I might make a part 2 for hanzo if this gets enough notes.

˚˖𖤓˖˚ childhood

as the two younger siblings of the family, you and Genji were quite close

although he wasn’t initially thrilled at the idea of being a middle child, he quickly became enamored with you

you’re kind of his favorite

and you were a pretty good motivator for him to be a bit more respectful, to set a good standard for you

you had caught him sneaking out a few times, and promised not to tell on the condition he bought you lunch the next day

Genji’s not gonna let anyone slander your name btw

some of your dearest memories were made up on the roof of Shimada castle where you guys would watch fireworks together

Genji hoped that despite being born into the yakuza, you could live your life yourself when you grew up

ִ ࣪ ☾⋆ separation

anyway, as you got older, the two of you confided in each other that neither of you wanted any part in the family’s criminal empire

this became a major problem upon the untimely death of your father and responsibilities fell to you and your brothers

you still remember how sick you felt when you could overhear your brothers fighting until everything suddenly went quiet

once torn between your longing for a different life and your duty to your family, you fled that same night and left no trace

as much as you wanted to, you knew that looking back even once would making leaving even harder than it already was

so you’ve lost your family, your home, everything

words cannot describe how scary and lonely those first couple of years were for you

but after you spent enough time mourning, you got back on your feet, took time to make peace with your loss, and built a new life for yourself

after spending a couple years on your own, you embraced your newfound freedom to make your own choices and be entirely and unapologetically yourself

this involved getting a tattoo of a butterfly on your back, a sparrow on your right arm, and an arrow on your left (among other things)

you also collected about half a dozen aliases over the years

overall, you were proud of who you had become, only wishing that your family could see you

‎‧₊˚✧ meanwhile

when Angela brought Genji back, one of his first thoughts was ‘where is (name)?’

he worried that Hanzo might have killed you too which only worsened his mental health

it felt as though the sun had disappeared from the sky

once he was able to eat again, if he ever went somewhere you would have liked, he would get a second order in tribute to you and place it in front of his own

it took a long time, but he actually told Angela and Cassidy about you

whenever he saw fireworks, he took it as a good omen that you were out there somewhere, not only living, but thriving

since he was revived, he dreaded the thought that one day he might see you again and you would no longer recognize him as your brother

˚₊⋅𓅫 reunion 𐀔 ⋅₊˚

not long after the downfall of overwatch and your family’s empire, the stars aligned and lead you to your brother

Genji could not have been ready to see you again

whether he feared never seeing you again or your reaction to his new body more was anyone’s guess

and then you embraced him and sunk in that you didn’t love him any differently than you did before

that was the most vulnerable and safe he had felt in a very long time

finding no trace of disgust or malice in your eyes as you looked at him gave Genji hope

you later explained how you each spent the last several years

Genji was heartbroken to realize you were essentially alone since that tragic night, but at the same time was so proud of how well you did on your own

when you two eventually parted ways, you made sure to stay in contact this time

Zenyatta was pleased to finally meet you and mentioned that Genji spoke of you often

upon seeing your sparrow tattoo, Genji removed his mask to quickly wipe away his tears

‎‧₊˚ 𐀔 butterflies traditionally symbolize hope, faith, and change ‎𐀔 ˚₊‧

[11queensupreme11]

I have an idea of ​​what Percy and Loki's relationship might be/start 💚💀💚

just imagine that Loki is, even in his mythology, considered a cruel and unreliable God, he is certainly not very loved by the other gods, people fear or despise him for his humor and cruel pranks (Thor and Odin don't count)

nothing Interesting has happened for a long time and so he is the first to meet Poseidon's newly created daughter, she is a beautiful, adorable and CHAOTIC little girl

naturally he wants to build a non-consensual friendship with her to enjoy and watch all the confusion and chaos she accidentally causes just by breathing

but during this friendship he falls in love, how could he not when he has an adorable little girl looking at him with such admiration? little Percy laughs at his pranks, she is interested and enjoys hearing about his stories and adventures when was the last time someone looked at him with so much affection?When was the last time someone was so genuinely happy to see him?

We know he is loved by his uncle (Odin) and cousin/brother (Thor) but they are so stoic and serious that I doubt Loki feels fully included in the family dynamic

So when he finds someone he loves as intensely and genuinely as Percy does he can't help but feel drawn like a moth hovering around a flame, a delicate flame that can be snuffed out at any moment, whether by the mortality of aging or by some another threat

he wants to protect her, he wants to keep that fragile butterfly safe trapped between his fingers to protect her tie her to him to prevent her fragile heart from being hurt by the world to prevent her from loving another, avoid her looking away from him

gods love intensely obsessively, he is only worried since she is so naive manipulation, so delicate so weak, any careless touch can stain her tanned skin with purple and black bruises, any touch can tear those small, colorful wings with ease

gods don't love like humans they don't know how to differentiate love and obsession when you live so long the lines of what is good and evil get blurred feeling alone the desire to protect imprison the loved one is normal

The love of the gods tends to end in horrible tragedies sadness, Percy is just a beauty who doesn't know how the world works the horrible things the gods do in the name of love he's just protecting her all he wants in return is her love all he wants in return is her love her tears, moans, sweat, blood and sighs

he can't wait to have her in his arms holding her so tightly that their bodies will merge to the point where no one will be able to know where Percy begins and where Loki ends.

sorry for such a long comment, this ended up turning into a monologue, I just got carried away since I love your fanfic so much 😅🥰😅

this was so beautifully written bro omg 🤩🤩🤩🤩

I WANT TO RESPOND PROPERLY SOOOO BAD, TO TELL YOU IF YOU'RE RIGHT ABOUT THEIR DYNAMIC OR NOT, BUT I CAN'T CUZ OF SPOILERS!!!

all i can say is that i absolutely cannot wait until you read more about percy and loki's interactions 🤩

[bildad-the-shuhite-official]

Hurt/Comfort fanfic recommendations

A late night by wilywitchwahoo G, 400 words, h/c, insecure aziraphale, crying Crowley comforts his sad angel.

Your warmth is all I have by katterv T, 900 words, physical injury, mild blood, (gorgeous) fanart included Aziraphale is hurt, unconscious and so, so cold. Crowley hates it.

Morning Glory by HopeCoppice T, 1k, hurt/comfort, gender dysphoria, body dysmorphia, genderfluid crowley, fem-presenting Crowley, insecurity, body image Crowley wakes early; Aziraphale watches him worry.

Your Effervescent Tears Cleanse My Core by TotallySnowy G, 1.1k, panic attacks, cuddling, aziraphale needs a hug It all started on a rather normal day in southeastern Londen, at specifically 4:05 AM in the morning, Aziraphale awoke with a start. Very, very peculiar for an angel, lest a nobel one at that. What was even more peculiar is that Aziraphale could feel his face become flushed. Quite peculiar indeed.

Evening Star by HopeCoppice T, 1.6k, insecurity, body dysmorphia, hurt/comfort, cuddling, non sexual intimacy, non sexual nudity Aziraphale seems reluctant to join Crowley in bed, and Crowley is determined to get to the bottom of it.

All Good Hearts are Heavy by Sarah_hadeschild G, 1.8k, depression, depressed crowley, fluff, hurt/comfort, protective aziraphale Crowley has always dealt with bouts of depression-- periods in which he cannot bring himself to do much more than exist. Over the centuries, he grew accustomed to enduring these episodes on his own. But now, Aziraphale is with him. And although the angel cannot miracle away his lover's distress, he can try the only remedy he knows with any certainty. He can love him.

Counting on your love by that_angels_demon T, 2.2k, insecure Aziraphale, body dysmorphia, kissing, making out, asexual relationship, non-sexual intimacy Having finally confessed their feelings for each other after the (almost) Apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale explore the physicality they've always craved. But when long-internalized insecurities come to light, Aziraphale isn't so sure his demon will want this after all…

crack me open, feel me shatter by rattatatosk T, 2.7k, nightmares, Crowley’s fall, body horror, hurt/comfort Crowley dreams of the Fall. Aziraphale is there to catch him when he wakes.

To Exist and Love by IneffableDoll T, 3.1k, hurt/comfort, acephobia, asexuality, south downs cottage, hurt crowley, ace affirming, fluff Crowley runs into someone who says some bigoted nonsense about the asexual nature of his and Aziraphale’s relationship. It leaves him fuming, so when he returns home to his angel, they talk through it and navigate the complex feelings and hurts the interaction brings up. Basically: A very ace-affirming spite fic.

Flight and Fight by Phantom531 T, 3.3k, panic attack, post season 2, hurt aziraphale, angry crowley, hurt/comfort, angst Aziraphale has a panic attack and reaches for the only person he ever needed. Unfortunately, Crowley is still REALLY angry.

Crossfire by NuriaSchnee M, 4.7k, locked, post Armageddon’t, love confessions, hurt/comfort, showering together, non-sexual intimacy, first kiss In which a shower can solve 6000 years of secrets and misunderstandings. Or: Aziraphale finally breaks down at Crowley's flat and Crowley takes care of him.

I Forgive You by Sparkling12 M, 6.3k, post season 2, hurt Aziraphale, aftermath of torture, hurt/comfort, love confessions, bathing, cuddling Crowley taking care of his traumatised angel, while plotting revenge on Metatron. Part of a series: -  I Forgive You

Come as you are by fruitygoblin M, 10k, body dysmorphia, insecurity, wall sex Aziraphale visits a modern art gallery, goes on a diet, and submits to the mortifying ordeal of being known. Not necessarily in that order.

Everything I've Had by AppleSeeds M, 12k, human AU, chronic illness, chronic pain, hurt/comfort, bathing/washing, domestic fluff, childhood friends to lovers After developing a chronic illness that leaves him unable to live alone, Crowley moves back home to London where he reunites with his childhood best friend Aziraphale. Aziraphale helps to take care of Crowley and keeps him company while he's in bed, bringing them closer together and reigniting old feelings.

Touch my Tears with Your Lips by IneffableDoll T, 27k, post season 2, season 2 fix it, hurt/comfort, understimulation, making up, trauma, touch starvation, south down cottage In Heaven, there was nothing to touch. Aziraphale re-tied the knot of his bowtie again and again and again. He was alone, and nothing was real, and he was alone, and nothing was real.

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

The first idea for a Worm fanfic that I had, before I even started reading Worm (remember, my entry into Worm was reading about Worm and the controversy about Amy in Ward and yada yada), but while I was reading Worm Fanfic, was an Amy Dallon Peggy Sue fic, but one a bit different from the small handful that I'd found and that hadn't lasted long.

Namely, I wanted one where after the end of Worm (i.e. after restoring Vicky's body and mind, or at least as much as she could, unwretching her, etc) Amy actually does leave Vicky alone, apart from a handful of times where they might accidentally end up in the same space during hero crises in the years after Gold Morning, etc. Eventually Amy moves extra far away from Vicky to reduce those chances.

The actual story opens with Amy on the eve of her 30th birthday. She's had a metric ton of Therapy, though she's hardly some perfectly functional person. She heals for a living, but to satisfy Shaper she has a whole greenhouse of modified plants and she only heals like 2-3 hours a day, barring emergencies. (Also, it's easier to do a task you hate - like healing - if you're getting paid a substantive wage for it, lbr). Anyway, Amy knows Vicky has ever right to not forgive her, given the mind influence and the rape (remember, hadn't read Worm at this point when the idea formed in my mind) and the wretching and stuff, but she can't help but want for her and Vicky to be able to be sisters again. She just doesn't act on that.

And then like, she opens an envelope as she walks into her home and it's an old picture from an old newspaper of Vicky and Amy as Glory Girl and Panacea from some publicity thing and she expresses some wish about if she could do it all again...

And then the next day, wakes up in her younger body, in her room at the Dallon house, back in 2011... the day after the Bank (i.e. the day the Undersiders face Bakuda at the storage place). Obviously at first it's a dream or a nightmare to her, etc etc, she's conflicted when she realizes it's real because now she can be sisters with Vicky again and make sure she never hurts her like she did but she still carries around all the guilt about what she did and feels like she believes she doesn't deserve to have that relationship with past Vicky (I have this whole vision of an early scene from Vicky's POV where she hears Amy going 'no, no, no, no' in her room - which is Amy realizing this isn't a dream and she's freaking out - and then Vicky, worried for Amy bursts in, breaking the door, Aura going wild and Amy feels fear (because the few times she and Vicky interacted after she dewretched her had Amy feeling fear from Vicky's aura) and Vicky realizes Amy is afraid of her, which of course makes Vicky wonder wtf is going on.

Anyway, cue Amy having to try and help save the world and prevent some of the shit that happens to Brockton Bay while only knowing some of what happened, so her ability to make things go better is limited. And wanting to maybe not have as many people die when they beat Scion this time and also maybe Taylor doesn't die, etc. Of course once she starts changing stuff unintended consequences, etc, etc.

And like, key to this fic would be all the guilt Amy carries around about raping Vicky.

And while I knew that the 'Amy raped Vicky' reading of the story was controversial and seen as a retcon by some, I wanted to work with it for this specific fic because it seemed like it would allow some really cool pathos and angst and dramatic reveals and stuff.

But having read 15.x now, I sit here and like - I cannot for the life of me see how to construct a chronicle of events using what we know of what happened where Amy's rape of Vicky actually works and makes sense and feels like something the character actually does.

15.x just... no. There's nothing there to work with.

Which kind of kills the entire idea as I conceived of it, since a key scene I had in mind did involve Amy trying to explain what happened to past Vicky - not giving excuses at all, just laying out what happened to get from point A (OG Amy as of the start of Worm) to point B (The girl who raped her sister)

(I have this vision in mind where Vicky is interrogating Amy trying to figure out what is going on with her [including an accusation of Amy being a stranger], eventually Amy mentions the 'I'm from the future' but Vicky's like 'why are you afraid of me and won't let me hug you and stuff' and Amy's like 'future you hates me for good reason' Vicky demands to know why, Amy, in a fit of high emotion and guilt and so forth screams 'I RAPED YOU!' and after bluescreening for a moment Vicky goes 'wait, so future me hates you because some sick, twisted Master controlled you and forced you to-' because of course Vicky of that point in time can't conceive of Amy ever doing that to her of her own free will and Amy is like 'No, no, you don't get to do that, I did that to myself too much in the past, but it's not true, as much as I might wish it was' or something)

But like, having read 15.x I try to imagine that scene now, Amy explaining the train of events from Bonesaw to Wretching and... I just can't quite figure out how it works.

I mean, if I ever write this and get that far, I can probably try to construct something (if I do write this, it won't be the first Wormfic I write) but like, when the idea first came to me, I knew that there was enough ambiguity in the text that large swaths of the readership genuinely didn't walk away from Worm thinking an actual physical sexual rape happened, but I figured there was something to work with, and there just really isn't.

[hellsingmongrel]

So, bit of ramblings on my Post-Trimax Wolfwood headcanons.

Man, one of my favorite tropes in media is a character who's spirit lingers on after they've died, but it's usually something you only see in fanfic, so I cannot get over how FUCKING FERAL I was when I realized that it was legit a thing in Trimax, and that Wolfwood was the one we actually got to see, legitimately talking to the people he'd left behind and confirming that ghosts in the canon weren't just hallucinations or something! Like yeah, we saw Tessla leading the boys to her body, but since her ghost was never mentioned again, it could have easily have been written off as a fluke, right?

NOPE. They are real and they linger after to watch over the people they care about or to send messages to the people who are still alive! And the fact that the character who had just wormed his way into being just as beloved to me as my favorite character (Which NEVER happens, I usually only have enough brain cells for one at a time!) and that we had just had our hearts ripped to shreds watching him die was also the one we got to know had definitely stayed behind to watch over the people he loved just makes me SO HAPPY! I rp that asshole from time to time, and I just love exploring the implications of it!

I play him like he's been there a LONG TIME. When he died, Rem was there, watching over Vash, but when Knives spent the last of his energy, she chose to move on with him, now that she knew Wolfwood would be there to keep watch over Vash, and he took it SERIOUSLY. He's been waiting so long, he's lost his sense of time, he thinks it's only been a couple decades when it's been CENTURIES. And the time has softened his own trauma, he's gone from being surly and angry and defensive to being at peace and finding comfort in the fact that its allowed him to see more of Vash's life than he ever would have been able to live long enough to see when he was alive. And it's given him time to notice just how unwell Vash is, how broken he is, watching over him when he thinks he's alone and lets himself break down.

But it's also made Wolfwood a bit unwell in his own way; as time went on and the people he knew in life began to pass away, too, his interest in paying attention to what the people around them were doing wained, and his dedication to watching over Vash until it was his time to pass on became a strange sort of dependence. He loses his sense of self, in a way, until the most important thing in his existence is being there for Vash, waiting for him, having long-since accepted that when the time comes, it'll be over and he's alright with that.

He's happy, but to the perspective of a living person, it would seem TWISTED in a way. He still thinks he's a damned soul, stealing more time than he's allowed and only damning himself further by doing so, and he just knows that when he gets to walk Vash into whatever comes after for them, they'll be separated again, for the last time, and there won't be any coming back from it that time, because Vash is too good, too kind, too HOLY to ever be damned. But it's fine. Wolfwood knew he was damned long before his death, and time has just given him the chance to make peace with it and simply be happy with the fact that at least he'll be able to be with Vash when he can move on to wherever good people go at the end. And yet when it happens, Vash feels the same way about himself, so certain that he's the one who's damned, and their reunion is wonderful and painful and terrifying for both of them in different ways.

He's even worse with interacting with people, once he's forced to interact with the living. I play Wolfwood in a game where he stumbles into revealing himself after spending centuries never letting himself be seen, and he worries that going "silent" again will upset people. He's spent centuries being a silent shadow, certain that letting Vash know he was there would only cause more suffering for an already unwell mind, so he's forgotten how to interact with tact, blurting out whatever pops into his head because he's only had himself to talk to for all that time. He hurts people without meaning to, begins to suffer from the crisis of worrying that no matter what he does, he's a burden to the people who mourn him, he doesn't belong, his existence is nothing but a constant reminder of what's coming and will only cause the people around him pain. He's both able to be the kind, caring, loving person he might have been if the Eye of Michael had never taken him from the orphanage, and also a HUGE, ANXIOUS WRECK.

And the thing that makes it all worse for him is the fact that when he was dumped into the game I have him in, he was separated from the Vash of his timeline, and now lives in constant fear that he'll never see him again, that he won't be there when he passes on and there won't be anyone to greet him on the other side, alone and never knowing that he was waiting for him. He made a promise to Rem that he'd watch over him for her, that he'd lead him to his final destination where he could be with his family again, and now that he's lost that, what purpose does he have? He's terrified to let go himself, worried he'll pass onto the other side when Vash was right around the corner, but the thought of lingering without finding him again, missing his chance to be there for him when it's his turn, leaves him in an almost constant state of almost-panic.

I also just think it's kind of sweetly poetic, if in the end, he chose to continue the role he'd been forced into; take Vash where he's supposed to be. Only this time, it's his choice, and it won't be to his death. He wants to guide him to where he knows people are waiting for him, where he'll finally be happy and be at peace. He doesn't mind the fact that he's going to Hell, so long as he was able to be the one that leads Vash to the place where he won't have to be in pain ever again.

[weirdbeancurd]

In Sickness and Health- ULTRAKILL Fanfic

Can be seen as platonic or the start of something more :)

Summary: V1 and Gabriel have made a home for themselves on the Earth's surface, but are still wary of one another. Gabriel gets a cold, bringing up some not-so-fond memories of the council. V1 takes care of him, earning each other's trust in the process.

Being mortal brought on many new challenges. For one, Gabriel could no longer teleport, which sucked. He also had a newfound need for sleep and food, which took some getting used to. However, these inconveniences came with their own joys, many of which were brought on by the machine. V1 helped him realize the satisfaction of survival, to fight and claw your way out of death. And the struggle, oh the struggle. Before meeting the machine, he'd never once known hardship nor humility. Every battle was over before he had the chance to savor the fight. Each opponent was little more than a mere insect, quickly squashed beneath his heel. But the machine taught him failure: to give it your all and still not succeed. It was exhilarating, the drive, the need for overcoming an obstacle in one's path. And oh, he wanted more, but alas, his life would be cut short, severed by the council who granted him nothing but false hope. He mourned the life he would've held if he had more time. He would’ve lived for himself, white-knuckling survival and indulging in the simpler things. He could explore the surface, or admire the surviving greenery. Maybe he would've visited the machine. And so sat Gabriel, on his deathbed, grieving for a future that cannot be. But, like with so many other things, the council had lied.

He survived. It hurt like hell, don't get him wrong, but his heart stayed beating and his chest rose with every breath. After the last of the light left his body, Gabriel broke down laughing (which soon devolved into sobbing) at the sheer relief he had felt. Never had he been so grateful to be alive. And so, he did all the things he longed for. He gazed at the sunset, he counted the stars, he observed the morning dew. The surface was barren yet hauntingly beautiful, lingering memories of a society passed and the flora and fauna that arose from the ashes. Only one thing was missing: the machine.

Naturally, being the one to spark his epiphany, he sought them out. He expected the creature to be ripping apart mutant animals, not what he found instead. When Gabriel finally saw it, it was sitting peacefully on a pier, fishing rod in hand, no gore in sight. It took a certain amount of patience for a hobby like this, yet V1 seemed to like the monotony. It was a change of pace from the usual run and gun attitude it had. The way it kicked its legs while waiting was surprisingly endearing. Everything about it screamed human. And maybe he did as well. 

Ironically, their reunion started with a literal scream. V1 had suddenly whipped around, pulling the electric rail cannon from god knows where and shot him squarely in the chest. After the world stopped spinning, he managed to convince it not to slay him on the spot, and that they could have a symbiotic relationship of sorts. The machine was clearly running out of fuel (the fish it caught had too low of a blood content), and Gabriel needed to eat. Gabriel would provide the blood and V1 would fish for a meal. They started as enemies. They ended up as mutualists. Perhaps one day, they could be companions. Whatever that meant. 

It was surprisingly witty when it wanted to be, somehow conveying a variety of emotions through their body language and single optic alone. It also had a strong grasp of sarcasm, much to Gabriel's annoyance. Despite their positive qualities, Gabriel just could not get comfortable around it. If the council taught him anything, it was that vulnerability does no favors. Even before his "betrayal," they instilled in him the idea that the public cannot see him falter, lest they think of their savior as anything but perfect. He’d once worn an outfit that revealed a scar he’d gotten when he was young. The council chastised him, for the righteous hand of god should be seen as untouchable. Scars imply mistakes were made. The father does not make mistakes. Now that he had no audience (except the machine), his values held true, also for the sake of survival. Baring your neck to a predator would only encourage your demise.

And yet, here he is, in all his ill glory, far less than perfect. Currently, Gabriel feels like shit. A shiver ran through his body. Fatigue lapped at his eyes. A general feeling of unwell coursed through his veins. He must've gotten what humans called a "cold," his body was no longer immune to disease, so succumbing to illness was inevitable. He cursed his traitorous body.

Gabriel slowly got off of the couch, making his way through their base until it reached V1. A spar would do him good. It swiveled its head around to face him, seated at a desk they stole from the apartment next door, tinkering on the knuckleblaster arm.

"Machine. I was wondering if you'd like to spar."

They perked up, and he swore its eyes shone with mechanical glee. It nodded frantically. He smiled underneath his helm. That was something he admired about them: their fighting spirit. Never were they not in the mood for a friendly spar, which was great, because he needed something to do to distract him from the headache blooming within his skull. Gabriel winced when the machine’s optic shone directly in his eyes. Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea, he thought, but V1 had already gotten up to prepare for their fight. He watched them head out the door, guns in tow. His feet made steps to follow, but stopped at the doorway. The world spun sideways, vision tunneling for a second. It felt like his head was about to explode. Thankfully, after what felt like years of gripping the door frame for stability, it didn’t. He didn’t think it was this bad, nor did he expect his condition to decline so rapidly, but clearly this cold was fiercer than he thought. But Gabriel was better than this; he was above this. Nothing but combat was enough to make him falter. He was the righteous hand of- Gabriel cut himself off with a coughing fit. For a moment, the only thing that filled the silence was his labored breathing. The machine did not need to know about this. If it saw him weakened by something as miniscule as a cold, it may just put him out of his misery. Maybe it would be for the best, for what good was he if not for his fighting prowess? That’s what the council kept him for, anyways. The machine probably thought the same.

Gabriel dragged himself to their makeshift arena (more like a field), body aching as if he was already beaten ten times over. V1 came into view, enthusiastically waving to him on the other end. He was too tired to wave back. Its waving faltered, somehow radiating concern despite its lack of facial features.

“I’m fine. We can start now.” It shrugged, and paced left. He paced right, like how all their battles began, but was having trouble keeping up. Gabriel unsheathed Splendor. His practiced hands shook, tremors wracking his whole frame. With a pained grunt, he used what little strength he had to lunge at the machine. It immediately countered with the shotgun, bullets pelting him in the chest and propelling him backwards. Usually, he was able to catch himself by digging his heels into the ground, but his legs failed him. Gabriel landed on his back with a cry of pain. The corners of his vision were narrowing, tunneling once again. 

No. Nononono. He can’t show weakness, he still wants to fight, he still needs to prove himself. 

Gabriel sat up with difficulty. 

He can’t be useless.

He plants his sword in the ground, using it to wrench himself up. 

He can’t become obsolete. 

His hand slips. 

They’ll get rid of him.

He passes out. The last thing he sees before getting swallowed up by darkness is a blue figure rushing to his side.

Gabriel floats through a dreamless sleep until glimpses of the council pull in his attention. They tower over him while trembling with shame.

“This thing dares to squander the might of the father?” They say. “Heresy. Unspeakable. Heresy.” 

Their words are like stakes to the heart. His eyes anxiously flit around, peering at each of the council members. Their eyes betray nothing but disgust. He tries to defend himself, to assure them he means no disrespect to the father, but they shoot him down like the machine did moments before. Gabriel shuts his eyes just in time to feel the light being ripped from his body. His vessel is on fire, every nerve in agony. His voice is hoarse from screaming and his wings beat on the ground as if it’ll help soothe his screeching nerves. Before he can even catch his breath, everything goes white.

Gabriel wakes up in a cold sweat, matting his hair to his forehead. He jolts forward and nearly loses consciousness again.  A chilled hand presses to his chest, preventing him from getting up. After a few moments of shallow breathing, he takes in his surroundings. He’s laying on the couch in only his tunics, his armor presumably in another room. Luckily, his helmet is still on. V1 is kneeling at the base of the couch with concern in its “eye.” 

“What… What happened?”

V1 moves its hands to sign. You passed out. Took off your armor. More comfortable. He suddenly notices the warmth under his skin, burning from within. Gabriel sighs. He has a fever. The motion of the machine’s arms grabs his attention. Are you okay?

What? Of course he’s okay. He’s more than okay, he is- was the righteous hand of the father! Gabriel could feel the panic building up, anxieties pooling at his feet. 

“I’m fine. I just tripped, that’s all.” The top half of V1’s optic flickered off,  giving the impression it was skeptical. 

“Really! It’s-” He cut himself off with another coughing fit. V1 pats him on the shoulder. He’s not exactly doing the best imitation of a healthy person at the moment. Some miserable panting later, Gabriel tries again. This time, he’s cut off by the machine holding its hand out as a sign to stop.

You are not okay, it signs. He begins to argue, to defend himself from these allegations that mean so much to him: his pride, his prowess, his own safety. V1 doesn’t let him finish. -And that’s okay.

For a moment, he is truly speechless. What does it mean, that’s okay? It isn’t, if he’s weak, there would be no use of him to the machine. Why would it care? And so he asks.

“...Why?” It seems V1 is having trouble getting its words out, too. It keeps positioning its hands to start signing and then lowering them to think of how to phrase its thoughts. 

At the start of their… symbiosis, it felt like it was just a parasite, gorging itself on his blood when need be. But as their relationship grew, it began to enjoy his company. It fished for food, Gabriel thanked it. Gabriel allowed himself to be fed on, but it always asked. It felt content when it was around him. It couldn’t imagine life without him. No longer was it just a leech, but… a friend? If Gabriel would let it call him that. It basically ruined his life, after all.

You make me happy. I want you to be happy, too. And healthy. There. That would suffice. Gabriel, on the other hand, was having a crisis, and the pounding in his head definitely wasn’t helping. Near delirious, he just could not wrap his fever-ridden head around what it was saying. The concept of genuine care just fell through his grasp.

“I don’t understand. If it’s a spar you want, I’ll be in working shape soon enough. In fact, I’ll-” Not what I meant. You’re more than just a weapon, you know. We both are. 

Oh. Its words pierced his cold exterior, coating his insides in sun-warmed honey. It was reassurance long due; in all his millennias, he was nothing but a tool, a means to an end. But with the machine? Maybe he was more. They both are, it said. Gabriel could feel his eyes begin to burn with stubbornly unshed tears. He took a shaky breath before speaking.

“I believe I owe you an explanation.” V1 cocked its head. “You’ve probably known this already, but I’ll have you know the council wasn’t exactly kind to me.” He glanced at the floor, fidgeting with his hands. “They despised weakness, specifically mine. The righteous hand of the father should not falter, after all.” V1 looked on with sympathy. “Any sign of vulnerability was a punishable offense. And their punishments were not to be taken lightly.” He shuddered. V1 placed their hand atop Gabriel's. His skin burned where their hands made contact, despite V1’s being cool metal. The tears were becoming harder to hold back.

You are very strong, physically, emotionally and more. He sucked in a shuddering breath through his teeth. But you don’t always have to be. Not anymore. The dam broke. Gabriel let out a gut wrenching sob, then another. His shoulders shook with every hiccuping wail, pent up from eons of emotional suppression. The hand that rested atop his reached over him and encased him in a hug, causing him to gasp. With the little energy he had left, Gabriel hugs them back, pressing his face into the crook of their neck. He didn’t deserve this, why was it being so nice to him? There was nothing it could get out of it! As if reading his thoughts, V1 brought its hands up to sign once more.

I’m not going to use you. Not like they did. Friends look out for each other, especially when they aren’t feeling their best. Gabriel nuzzled his face further into V1’s shoulder. Hm, friends. He liked the sound of that.

Im not sure if I like the ending, so I might repost this with edits later.

[readychilledwine]

Hey Liz! I've noticed you don't use MDNI for your smut. Can I ask why?

Warning - controversial opinions below cut and a long post

I have several reasons, but I want to start by saying that I respect everyone's opinions on this, and I hope that even if our opinions are different, we can discuss this like civilized humans.

To give you all some background:

I grew up in a fairly strict traditional midwest home. My parents held my purity to a very different standard than my brothers. My virtue was to be a gift to my future husband, and my body was to be a temple and treated with kindness and worship. We can get into my whole sexual awaking later, but I will tell you all, smut fanfics, lemons as they were once lovingly called, were part of my sexual education and how I learned my body was reacting normally as a teen. I lied about my age on fanfiction websites constantly because I have always preferred fanfiction smut over traditional porn. So, as someone who grew up in my background, let me first say, I can understand why a minor would make the choice to read on here instead of watching.

Anyways, to my reasonings:

1. The children I legally have responsibilities to and monitor are my daughter and occasionally my nephews and nieces when we are watching and caring for them. If my daughter came to me as a teen and said she found a smutty story online, we're going to discuss it and make a plan that best fits us regarding everything. As all parents should, from jump, when allowing children and teens access to the internet.

2. Legal ages are different everywhere. 18 to 19 is a good standard, but there are countries where teens as young as 16 are considered adults and countries where you are not considered an adult until 21. I ultimately am not creepy enough to stalk your page, ask where you live, figure out how old you are, and then look into majority laws in your country. That's how you end up on the registry.

3 - Putting MDNI will not stop a minor from reading my fics. They're going to do what they're going to do, and there are very few jurisdictions where I can legally be held liable for that due to the following reason:

4 - Nothing is preventing a minor from lying on their profile regarding their age. We've all done it. Let's be adults and admit that. As long as you are not actively sending "pornographic content" (which in itself is debatable as to what that means in different locations,) you normally cannot be held liable.

5 - Trying to message me is like pulling teeth from a bear right now, so I very rarely interact with people in my messages, and I am getting horrible regarding my comments (and I'm working on that, please know I see them and am always grateful.) The people I do actively message back, I do stalk you all a little (because i do love you and want to talk to you💕) and I do not actively send those people smut related things.

6 - video related porn is incredibly harmful to the young mind. That's coming from someone who has a sex positive lifestyle. Porn sets unrealistic expectations for teens and young adults regarding how sex should look, how it feels, and how it should sound. It's actually a huge topic of debate and discussion in the psychology and sex therapy world. I personally would rather have a teen read smut instead of watching porn. I could write an essay on this alone.

7 - Smut novels are also easy to purchase and access for teens. I do not see a difference in allowing in allowing a teen to read a smut novel versus smutty fanfiction. Again, AS LONG AS THE AUTHOR IS NOT DIRECTLY SENDING IT TO THEM.

8 - Using the "You are responsible for your own consumption" divider with my warnings and a cut is typically warning enough. By seeing that divider, seeing the warnings, and making the choice to open it and read any ways, the minor is now choosing to do something and accessing it by their own choice.

Is all of this to say I want minors actively interacting with my smut? Negative. Please don't.

I think it's very important to make sure you are marking it with something, but I do not think explicitly putting MDNI is going to do much more than just using the above divider.

Again, this post is NOT me saying minors should interact with my smut stuff or message me about it. Read in peace and don't tell me.

I'd like to leave you all with one of my favorites poems:

Fantastic Breasts and Where to Find Them by Brenna Twohy 💕

[ll-but-its-random]

A rare case of Fanfic, because I remember I used to write for the PJO and G2018 fandom in 2020:

Gonna be honest, this is an idea I've had for a short while and thought why not?

Fandom: Lorien Legacies.

Characters: Number Seven (Marina), Number Five, Others (Mentioned).

Warnings: Mentions of death (non-explicit). Dead characters.

Summary: Marina, dreaming to be at Eight's grave sees the last person she ever wanted to see again.

Post Return to Zero- One shot.

Marina stood alone at the mountain base, eyes glued to the ground in front of her. The etched headstone almost had her vision tunneling. Nothing really new about it. She didn't feel the wind or hear the noises of the forest behind her. The aura that New Lorien is constantly emitting is dull to her senses. It's not coming from here, it's coming from the outside.

She's in a dream. A quiet one at that, not that she's complaining much.

The tombstone here was identical to the real deal, two things carved on it. A circular symbol of a ring with small circles intertwining with it in two curves, almost like an orbit. Beneath that was a single loric word.

No actual body was buried here, but it felt fit to give Eight a grave in his own home. Where the Vishnu Nationalists Eight could come too, where he could be seen close to New Lorien. Marina cannot count how many times she visited; sometimes crying, sometimes silent, sometimes sitting next to the gold stone, pretending it was the same boy sitting next to her.

Sometimes- like now- she stands a few feet before it, gazing numbly. In silence.

"Don't you think it's time?"

Marina didn't look away. She didn't step back, she didn't flinch. But she was still angry at the interruption. Especially from him. The last time she's actually heard this voice was so long ago in an ear-splitting scream, but it circled her sometimes in her sleep, in the back of her head. In so many different tones. Malice, timidity, but probably most of all, lies. All from the same person.

He was sitting right next to the headstone.

Marina didn't want to reply- the last thing she wants is that he continues to haunt her dreams. Though this doesn't feel like a fabrication of her head. It was really him.

Yet she answered, "Time for what?"

"To move on."

That is when she turns her gaze to him. He actually looks better than she remembers, watching him from afar. The black patches on his skin were gone. The eyepatch John and Nine described wasn't there, but he didn't look like he needs it, now that his eye socket isn't empty. Not as thin as before, but not round as he used to be. Whatever afterlife is waiting for all of them, it treated him well.

Marina was now glaring. "It's not your place to decide."

Five shrugged. "Surely not. It's the world's. it will push you there at one point or another." His tone was calm, voice levelled. Whatever he truly meant behind that, she refused to believe it's any good.

She took a long breath through her nose. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you."

"Because..."

"Because, I'm sorry. However little that means."

"So little."

They fell silent, and her eyes travelled back to Eight's symbol. Five looked straight at her before he too turned to the tombstone beside him. She could almost mistake him for someone alive. she once called him a ghost. Now he really was one.

"After I got off the island," he started. "I don't know if I was just trying to busy from it or actually moving on, but I learned to lived live with myself again. I lived with the fact he's dead. I stopped trying to beat myself over it." He turned to her again. "I still wanted to make it up with you, though. All of you."

Marina has no idea why she kept listening. If she willed it hard enough, maybe she can wake up, leave him, go see Eight's actual tomb. She didn't.

"I did a lot of things wrong, but if there was only one action I could take back, Marina, it would be this."

"You..." she replied, teeth grinding. Her anger from so long before boiled again. Boiled. Her legacy won't kill him again here. "You betrayed us, you worked for him, and were too stupid to realize it soon, you tried to end Nine." She ranted. "of course, after everything you get to move on."

Five sighed. "Yeah, I guess there is nothing that makes up for that to you guys."

At that he stood up, and for all the nerve of him, started walking towards her. It couldn't be more than a few months between them, but he'd always been on the short side. The few inches she's grown since the invasion now had her looking down at him.

He was next to her, and she yet has to move.

"What makes you believe that?"

"You think I wouldn't notice if I had a grave?"

That was true. Even now, over a year since the explosion, Ran Takeda's grave always seemed well-kept and occasionally visited by her friends. Five's grave was still the sky.

Marina saw his hand on her shoulder, and while she didn't feel its weight, it was as real as anything else here. He was suddenly so different, once again patched with black augmentation and missing an eye. Like the last time she'd actually seen him.

"You have to continue, Marina. Eight wants that for you." he said. "He says hi, by the way." He added with a smile.

She perked up, mouth agape. "He... what?"

Five looked up at her with a single eye. "He'll come to see you, I promise."

He faded out, and Marina woke up in tears.

[inquisimer]

which should I regret

A piece where Avexis refuses her Harrowing, for the prompt 'rite of tranquility' as part of @tranquilweek! Shout out to @kiastirling-fanfic for sparking the idea of an AU where Avexis takes Cole's place in Inquisition - it's only hinted at here, but more to come as the week goes on👀

read it on ao3 here

Avexis (Solo) | Rated T | 1255 words | cw: guilt, fear & despair, self-doubt, elective Tranquility

-

Avexis trembled as she stared down at the ornate font. Its surface was still and smooth, like glass, but it radiated a power that thrummed within her bones.

Pure lyrium.

Enough to send her into the Fade, where a demon waited to tempt her, test her, trick her. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. The first enchanter had been apologetic when they fetched her from the apprentice quarters; she wasn’t ready, and they both knew it. Under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn’t be put to the Harrowing for another few years, in her late teens, after more lessons and instruction and practice.

But hers were hardly ordinary circumstances. All things considered, she was lucky the Templars had given her as long as they had.

Not long enough, she thought desperately. Her gaze darted to the circle of Templars that trapped her here, stoic behind their faceless helms. Each held a downturned sword and one, she knew, bore the task of striking her down, should she take too long, or return as an abomination.

Even thinking the word brought bile to her throat. How could she not fail, with so many doubts? With her history? Surely this demon would see the fingerprints of blood magic that time could not erase, and immediately claim her for its own.

Since the Seeker returned her to the Circle, each day was an opportunity for every enchanter, every Templar to remind her: she was vulnerable. A beacon for demons. Susceptible. Their suspicions of her weakness lingered like fog on the Waking Sea—almost an expectation, an inevitability.

Despair dripped like ice down her spine. What was the point? The doubt coursing through every Templar and the observing senior enchanters rippled through the Fade and left a bitter, metallic taste on her tongue. They had decided she would fail. Those maleficar had decided it, when they stole a child from her bed, because she favored beasts. The Maker had decided it, when He gave her magic and allowed that to happen.

Desperately, she tried to step forward, to force movement from her quaking legs. Get it over with quickly. But she found she could not move; her body fought to live, even when she knew she was about to die.

“You cannot delay, apprentice,” intoned the Knight-Commander. “Make your choice.”

Between her pounding heart and racing emotions, Avexis nearly laughed. Choice? What choice was there to make? She never had a chance, let alone a choice.

Except—

There was a choice. And she found that, unlike when she’d been younger, the mere idea of Tranquility no longer choked her with dread. Rather, the persistent tremor of her hands stilled. The fear that permeated her every waking moment and pressed unbearable pain into her chest vanished with a single thought: she could be safe.

She could be safe, without being dead. Without giving whatever influence the maleficar had left in her mind even a chance to see the light of day.

For the first time since the Templars woke her, she drew a deep, full breath. Relief seeped through her. She looked up from the font of lyrium and locked eyes with the Knight-Commander.

“I refuse the Harrowing,” she said, clearly, if a bit quiet. Aborted gasps echoed through the cathedral-like chamber as the gathered enchanters stifled their shock. It was unthinkable to them—they would no sooner give up their magic than cut off a limb. But for Avexis, the gift had become a curse; dead weight that needed severing.

Knight-Commander Laroche’s gaze sharpened. “You know what that means.”

“I do.”

“And you accept those consequences?”

“I do.”

“Very well.” Laroche gestured. The aide at his side pulled a small lever and the floor beneath Avexis’ feet creaked and groaned. She flinched back as the stone under the lyrium font pulled apart. The device receded into the depths of the Spire, and where the floor sealed atop it, a tile mosaic of the Templar insignia slotted into place.

“Kneel, apprentice.” At the Knight-Commander’s order, feeling flooded back into Avexis’ legs. She stepped forward, one pace, two, and knelt atop the flaming sword. The tile pressed roughly against her knees, but she barely noticed.

Knight-Commander Laroche drew a long, gleaming brand from the forge built into the chamber wall. Magical blue flame licked at the narrow opening, heating the lyrium-infused sunburst. It gleamed and hissed in the cool air.

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,” he chanted, voice and footsteps booming off the walls as he descended from the dais and approached her. “Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children.”

The circle of Templars shifted and tightened, closing in on her with every step the Knight-Commander took. From the corner of her eye, Avexis thought she saw a scuffle, someone struggling to breach the barrier, but then they vanished, replaced in her periphery by Templar plate. The Knight-Commander’s shadow fell over her, then, and she forgot all else. Her focus narrowed to the pulse of the brand above.

Her heart thudded against the cage of her ribs, but she could no more look away from the lyrium-infused metal than she’d been able to look away from the font. Transfixed, she awaited the solace it offered.

“The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world; she shall know true peace.” Laroche held her gaze neutrally. If he passed judgment, one way or the other, for her magic, or her decision, or her history, it did not show in his face. “Do you repent?”

Avexis took a slow, calming breath. In that beat, she felt warmth, a hopefulness that slipped across the Veil and shielded her from the shadow of icy Despair. You don’t have to do this, it whispered.

“I do,” she said.

That comforting presence tinged with sorrow, but with understanding as well, and it soothed the ragged edges of her conscience that still had doubts. It curled tighter within her chest as Knight-Commander Laroche raised the brand. In tandem, the Templars drew closer as well, and a film coated her teeth as they pressed the Fade back from this place.

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” they all chanted. “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.”

The room went utterly still, a dozen Purges overlapping at once. In the silence, Avexis gasped—but she made no sound. She could not draw breath. That strange, hopeful something clenched once around her heart—

Laroche pressed the brand to her forehead.

She had expected pain. But after a brief spike when metal met skin, there was none. Only a hiss as the lyrium and the Templars’ not-magic worked its way through her, took root in her soul and sliced cleanly through her connection to the Fade. The warmth in her chest fled, along with the comfort it had offered, but so to did Despair from her throat, and the Fear that had haunted her for so many years. Like cotton in her ears, the world about her muted, faded to dull, unsaturated tones.

Comfort was gone, but she no longer needed it. She was safe. She would be useful.

Knight-Commander Laroche dropped the rod to his side, lyrium spent and cooling, and looked down at the newly branded Tranquil. Alone, in his deep baritone, he finished,

“In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

-

"tell me, father, which should I ask forgiveness for: what I am, or what I am not? tell me, mother, which should I regret: what I became, or what I did not?" -dvoyd