#this is the way i cope with major character death

[eddiemunsonlove]

Some of the death predictions I’ve seen for the final season are actually bonkers. Like, they’re not going to kill Steve, why would they do that to Dustin? A major part of his arc this season is already going to be about coping with Eddie’s death. They’re not going to rip away another one of his male role models. Same with Will, there’s no way they’d put him through everything he’s endured over five seasons just to kill him off. It would seriously undercut the entire story. Honestly, I really doubt any core characters will die, besides possibly Eleven, but that would be a huge move for the Duffers, especially since they rarely kill main characters without bringing them back (looking at you, Hopper). If anyone’s going, I’d put money on Murray or Ted Wheeler.

[unmotivatedartistry]

mw2 got me a little insane. anyways

i felt silly in ther mw2 museum thingy. i also clipped when i killed soap and ghost in a devastated fury and sawe ghost's eyes. also photographed dead soap, ghost, roach, and makarov because pussy price and shepherd despawned too quick for me toi take pictures. also look at how gohst and soap died hehe. anyways roach dies alone just like in the actual game what a loser ( <- his death anmd the way he dies devastates me so much i xcant). also no good scope picture of makarov because the bitch should die for hwat he does in mwii. he can die and theres gyour picture of him. the first 6 are good pfrofilke pictuerws in my opinion. if you would liuke more of this insanity of mine feel free to say so

[horreurscopes]

the whole adhd going trendy thing that's now being discussed in, like, npr podcasts (insofar as tiktok is an extension of "the mainstream") is fascinating because that was basically a stage of self actualization that tumblr went through, like, at least three or four years ago. y'know; that's not a symptom of adhd, that's a common human experience. everyone forgets to eat produce in the fridge sometimes. everyone's mind occasionally wanders during a conversation, and so on.

but at least in circles of tumblr with critical thinking skills this has led to better insights, "culturally" (as in - people here don't have to go looking themselves for anti-psychiatry literature to encounter these ideas; it is something that can be absorbed via osmosis if one is interested in social justice and sees relevant topics on the dashboard, which i think is generally a good thing), about the systems of oppression that lead people to attach themselves to these medicalized labels; why, for example, a diagnosis that means "there is something broken in my biological make-up that makes me ontologically unable to complete tasks, and therefore it is not my fault, nor a moral reflection of my character, if i am unable to work myself to exhaustion" might be so appealing to so many people in a society where creating capital for the ruling class via wage slavery is a sign of virtue; and what incentives the psychiatric institution may have to both diagnose and medicate people to fix "can't work" syndrome.

(and yes, people here still debate to exhaustion what "actually adhd" vs, lets say, "culturally adhd" means; but that's not what this post is about. to me it is very similar to the chemical imbalance model of depression: is it likely there are certain individuals who one day, simply and for no reason, experience their ability to feel joy "turning off"; or even individuals who are more genetically vulnerable to becoming depressed when faced with adverse circumstances [the way a tendency towards alcoholism can be inherited]; but these are a small number in comparison to the great majority of depression sufferers who would not be labelled "mentally ill", were it not for the systemic circumstances one is unable to escape, and consequently, cope with.)

and yet now that this conversation has reached the "mainstream", it boggles the mind that the conclusion even the most liberal cultural outlets reach all basically amount to "we need better, more accurate diagnostic tools" and a call for more nuance in psychiatry, so as to better distinguish those "real" sufferers of broken brain disease, who are then allowed to use stimulant drugs to be shaped back into the rank and file (aka, people who have a magical brain that reacts in a special, morally acceptable way to stimulant drugs as long as they are not used recreationally), from the "fakers", who need to grit their teeth through their personal failure to make themselves do shit they would not choose to do were it not for the threat of starvation, homelessness and death, and pull themselves up by their bootstraps (aka, people who have normal non-magical brains which respond to stimulant drugs in dirty, hedonistic, cheating-the-system ways).

and not, you know, the fact that "working yourself to death doing dull boring punishing work" culture might be the biggest cause for people identifying with "really struggle to work myself to death doing dull boring punishing work" syndrome, or than an institution founded on categorizing people via their inability to conform to a set of social norms that do not exist in an apolitical vacuum, might have an incentive to create a label for it.

[sarahsmi13s]

Fever Dream

pairing: evan buckley x nash!reader

characters: evan 'buck' buckley, nash!reader, bobby nash, athena grant

warnings: CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR 8.15, mentions of religion, blood, panic attack, nightmare, major character death, xreader (this is how i'm coping okay?), i'm delulu and gonna feed my fellow fandom siblings delusions, if i missed any please let me know!

word count: ~2.1k

a/n: as mentioned in the warnings, this contains spoilers for episode 15 so please if you don't want spoilers don't read. i wrote this simply because is how i'm choosing to cope until the next episode airs. i hope everyone out there is doing okay (in a general sense, i know so many of us are fucking mad). i hope this can help feed delusions or just maybe bring comfort.

summary: being separated from your team, your family, is hard enough... add in a deadly super virus and cctv cameras to give you a perfect view of them, and it's going to haunt you in ways you may never expect

Your fingers dug into Buck’s turn out. Your shaking and gasping cries merged with his screams, desperate prayers vibrating against his arm.

His throat hurt. It was raw and felt like it was bleeding, a metallic taste building up on his tongue. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

This couldn’t be it. This can’t be happening. Bobby’s not supposed to die.

No! No… Bobby was fine. He had been right behind Buck as they were leaving. He made it out. 

He was walking and talking, barking out orders like it was breathing.

Bobby was breathing.

Now…  Now he was what?

Now he was pacing around a room, alone. Professing his love to Athena and pleading with her to believe he didn’t want this. He was using every ounce of his strength to fight away any doubt in her heart. He was apologizing. Buck could still hear how he apologized to you as you were drug away from your attempts to pry the door open. 

Now he was crawling on the floor, his organs beginning to fail as he coughed up blood – red splatters decorating the ash covered floor. He was sweating, body feverish as his immune system kept trying to save him.

But nothing can save him…

Now he’s dying. Praying on his knees until blood filled his mouth like a fatal elixir, a final communion. Blood was coating his tongue and teeth, staining his lips crimson as his head fell to the table and his chest slowed to a stop.

Now he was in a body bag… and Buck-

– jolted awake, a raw cry straining his vocal cords as he gripped the duvet in his lap.

“Buck? Buck! Evan!” He knew that voice – that soft, gentle voice. “Hey, hey, baby it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Gentle and warm hands cradled his face, tilting it up as thumbs wiped the tears away. He can barely make out anything through the tears and the panic scrambling his brain.

But those eyes… He knows those eyes. They’re safe. They’re home.

They’re you.

His entire body was shaking. Sweat dripped down his back, leaving goosebumps as the AC cooled his hot skin. Tears shone on his face in the dim lamplight, more spilling over his lash line to pool on your thumbs. His chest ached, it felt like he was trying suck in air from an empty oxygen tank.

“Breathe, Ev’. Breathe for me.”

He hit his chest to communicate that he was trying. Each gulp of air wheezed into his windpipe, barely giving him enough to speak. “I-I can’t…”

You nodded, moving his arms around you and pressing his hands flat against your back. “You can. You just gotta follow me, baby.”

He tried, he really tried. But his chest felt too tight, air snagged in his throat, scraping along what felt like open wounds lining his esophagus. All before getting forced out in broken, strangled sobs.

You only smiled softly at him, the expression warm and encouraging. Your thumbs brushed his cheeks gently, being careful not to rub his cheeks raw as your exhales cooled them. His hands were desperate and hard on your back, gripping at your sleep shirt as he tried to follow your breathing.

Neither of you knew how long it took before his chest expanded fully again. A full breath of air, accented by the scent of your shampoo, filled his lungs. He swallowed, nodding against you as he began to calm down.

You tilted your head, the movement small as you pushed his curl back from his damp forehead. There was no doubt this panic attack was the result of a nightmare. They weren’t uncommon in this line of work, but only a few brought on panic attacks.

Your hand rested at the back of his head, the other gently resting on the side of his neck. “What happened, Buck? What did you see?”

The question made his throat cinch up again, fresh waves of tears falling down his cheeks. He opened his mouth and the words tumbled out in broken, sob-ridden babbles.

You gently shushed him after a few moments, soothing the ache with the tender caress of your hands carding through his hair. His tears are hot against your skin as you tilted his chin up with your thumb. “Sweetheart, I need you to slow down.”

You weren’t upset with him, or frustrated in the slightest. If anything… you were scared and just wanted to help.

Buck swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to control himself. You pressed your lips to his head and gently rocked you both. It was a little awkward in this position, but all you cared about was making sure he was okay.

You pulled back to look at him, your hand moving back to his cheek to brush away the tears.

His eyes remained downcast, staring at where your knees pressed into his thighs. He gripped your shirt again as a soft cry fell from his lips.

“The lab…”

He felt you tense at the words. Your hands paused in their movements just long enough for him to catch it before you went right back to soothing him. 

A pang of guilt hit deep in his heart. 

“We-we had just got Hen and Chimney out, and everything was fine. But as I turned to Cap… he-” Buck bit his quivering lip, his eyes remaining fixated on your point of contact, not wanting to see the heartbreak in your eyes as he told you again what had happened in the damned lab. He hated to make you relive it, relive probably the worst day of your life. He wanted to take it back, take all of it back… but he kept going, knowing you wouldn’t just let him go back to sleep.

“He locked himself in… the hose line to his tank was torn in the explosion, he had been sick the whole time and no one knew. He sacrificed himself for Chimney… he’s gone.”

His voice cracked, sobs sending his trembling frame into your lap. Apologies tumbled past his lips and rumbled against your sternum. 

Your heart broke, frame rattling with the devastating cries of your boyfriend. You planted kisses on his head and rubbed his back. “Oh Evan, honey… it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not! He’s gone!” He pulled back swiftly, nearly headbutting you in the process. “Nothing is okay! How will it ever be okay?”

You held his face, fingers gently curling around his jaw to get him to look at you. “Baby, that was just a nightmare. He’s okay. He’s with Athena at their temporary apartment.”

Buck’s eyes met yours, his crystal blue eyes surrounded by red as his brow furrowed in confusion. “W-what? That-that’s impossible there was only one cure and we used that on Chimney. Bobby couldn’t have…” He trailed off, his voice giving way as he looked at you with pure desperation to understand.

Your thumbs rubbed under his eyes, tracing comforting crescents there. You couldn’t help the tears that stung your own eyes or how your lip quivered as you shook your head. “Baby, dad’s line was never compromised. His equipment was intact. He’s okay, I promise you.”

“But-”

You shushed him gently, adjusting how you were sitting to hold him. “I know… I know it felt real. Dreams like that always do. And it’s wild how, despite knowing the truth, your brain can twist reality so intricately that you wake up wondering which is which. Scared that the good life was the dream and the nightmare is your life…”

Buck sniffled, a small sound escaping his lips. His head was throbbing, pulsing alongside his heart as it crossed wires and memories. He was half-awake trying to make it all make sense.

“C’mon,” you said softly, sniffling as you kissed his damp forehead. You slipped out of the bed, grabbing Buck’s zip-up hoodie before pulling him to his feet. “Put this on and find your shoes.”

“Honey-”

“We’re going over there, right now.” 

Your words held a sense of authority, leaving no room for argument or questioning. Not that Buck needed to question you, he trusted you more than he trusted anyone.

The drive across town was a blur. Street lights and business signs merged together, nothing but bright neon streaks that went by too fast for anyone to process properly. 

Buck was fighting to stay awake, to pull himself out of his dream fog and focus. He felt stuck, constantly trying to decipher dream from reality.

A gentle squeeze to his hand felt like he was sucked back into his body. Everything around him clears, all becoming separate entities rather than a multi-colored blob. He could hear the low hum of the radio, the ambient sounds filling the space of the car in substitute of his voice.

Your lips brushed his knuckles as you reached across your body to put the car in park. “We’re here.” You could feel his hand trembling in yours just before you let go to exit the car.

He quickly got out after you, rounding the car and reaching for your hand again.

He needed it. He needed to be grounded. 

You both walked in, nodding to the doorman as you walked right past him to the elevator. 

After you got in and pressed the button you turned to Buck. He was bouncing on his toes, his unoccupied hand restless at his side.

“Baby, c’mere,” you said softly, tugging on his hand before wrapping your arms around him in a proper hug.

He immediately returned it, his arms pinning you to his chest desperately.

His voice was raspy as he spoke. “I’m so scared…” 

“I know, Ev’... I know. But I promise, he’s okay. You’ll see for yourself soon, I swear it.” 

The elevator slowed to a stop and you pulled apart as the doors opened. You took his hand again, gripping it tightly as you walked down the hall to your parents door.

Your knuckles rapped on the door in a rhythm that would signal to whoever was awake that it was you. Buck brought the concept up to Bobby back when you both began dating. It was just a silly little thing you did as a family, nothing serious.

But the sound of it made Buck’s stomach sink with anxiety.

What if Bobby would never hear that again? What if Buck would never hear Bobby knock like that again?

What if-

“Y/n? Buck?”

You smiled at Athena softly, a hint of an apology in it. “Hi, Athena…”

She wrapped her robe around her, yawning as she ushered you both inside. “It’s two in the morning, baby, what’re you doing here? Is everything okay?”

Her voice was laced with sleep and you almost felt bad for waking her up but there was a glass of water on the counter. She had been awake for a few minutes when you knocked.

Buck wiped at his eyes with his free hand as he squeezed yours.

You returned the gesture, rubbing your own eyes as you spoke.

“We umm… we need-”

“Bobby…” Buck’s frayed voice rattled through the kitchen, his shoulders dropping as if the strings keeping him so tense had been cut.

You and Athena looked up to see your dad walk out of the bedroom, stretching as he walked into the kitchen.

“Buck? Y/n? What’s going on? Everything okay?” He was slowly coming around to the idea of being awake at such an ungodly hour as he noticed the look on Buck’s face.

“Buck? What’s wrong?”

Without saying anything, Buck launched his 6’2” frame at your dad, curling into him like a child. He pressed his face into Bobby’s shoulder, crying in relief.

You noticed Athena glance at you from the corner of your eye as Bobby looked at you, hoping for an explanation.

You swallowed, arms wrapping around yourself as you leaned against the counter. “A nightmare… about the lab incident.”

Bobby gripped Buck tighter, realizing that being the only one not stuck in there must have taken a bigger toll on Buck than he thought.

Athena rubbed your arm, extending a comforting hand to you. Seeing Buck reacting so viscerally like this had to be affecting you too, she wanted you to know that you weren’t alone. 

You smiled at her appreciatively, resting your head on her shoulder as Buck pulled back from the hug.

“It-it felt so real… you died, Bobby. I-I thought we lost you.”

A deep frown pulled at your dad’s lips, his brow creasing as he gripped Buck’s shoulders.

“It was just a dream, son,” he said, pulling Buck back into a hug. “Everyone made it out. Everyone’s okay. I’m okay, and I don’t plan on changing that anytime soon.”

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i hope this could bring some comfort in, it was a huge comfort to write, and that it can hold you over until may 1...

and thank you to @startrekfangirl2233 for giving this a look over for me a giving some feedback!

also, happy easter to those who celebrate! i hope you're all having a great day!

tags (you can also follow @vinnys-recordcollection and turn on notifications ;p): @lovinglyeternal @bradleybeachbabe @achilles-rage @kmc1989 (tagged a few i thought might like it - apologies for anyone i missed, i gotta sort out taglists 😅)

[prickly-paprikash]

Castlevania Nocturne really stepped up its game in the second season.

I had two major complaints for the premiere season of CN:

The pacing was erratic. From episode 2 onwards, it seems as if the story is obsessed with giving us nonstop climactic battles, at the cost of letting the characters and pacing breathe. I understand that a central theme of the first season was loss—not just loss of loved ones and the grief that comes with it, but simply losing at every turn. They make the Vampire Messiah feel more like an inevitability, and it works to some extent. But one thing that the original Castlevania series did well was how it handled the flow of conversation and combat.

Seasons 1-3 were all mostly slow, deliberate episodes centered on talking. Characters would simply converse. The very first scene of Castlevania literally embodies this.

Lisa and Dracula, having an organic yet expertly crafted conversation that feels sharp, poignant, and immediately tells us everything we need to know about these two characters. We get one Lisa scene, and then she dies and yet it hits so hard because of how one conversation was written.

Nocturne's first season, many times, felt more like a quip-fest. Castlevania's humor was dry and morbid, to better fit the sarcastic and dark tone of the series. When characters like Trevor or Sypha or even Isaac cracked a joke, it never felt out of place. They had a cold, callous sense to them. Like their humor was a coping mechanism for the dreary and bleak reality they lived in.

Richter on the other hand felt like a Phase IV MCU lead, being unbearably sarcastic and "witty". Watching Nocturne again, I struggled to like Richter in the first half but he really came into his own after he meets Juste.

In the second season, however, the pacing really knuckles down. It becomes deliberate. And when a fight scene happens pre-episode 7, it feels more like OG Castlevania again. It isn't being treated with extreme weight, but it feels more like a part of every day life for Belmonts and their peers. Whenever Trevor, Sypha and Alucard get into a scrap with Night creatures, it actually had a sense of levity to them. This was a job. An occupational hazard. A logical result of living in Wallachia. In Nocturne season 1, fights were treated with more weight than they should have, while character work felt secondary, barring someone like Annette.

Here, it really allows me to fall for these characters more. Being an OG Drolta stan was so rewarding this season. I really also liked Maria and Tera more here, with Tera becoming a vampire creating a really interesting dynamic between the two and pushing their characters into directions that I didn't expect to enjoy as much as I did.

Mizrak, Olrox, and Richter were sidelined a bit more here, but it makes sense. These three dominated the first season, so it made sense to shift the focus on others and let their characters grow and shine. But just because they didn't take up most of the spotlight doesn't mean their characters were ignored.

Mizrak and Olrox's romance was developed in more subtle ways this time, which I appreciated. The writers let the unspoken heat and budding romance speak for themselves here, and I really enjoyed Olrox's sadness and Mizrak's regret and grief here, though of course the best scene between them was at the end. The way the writers made that finale, weaving feelings of heartbreak, lust, love, and fear into that one sentence was so, so good. Mizrak's fear of death and torment. Olrox simply saying that the devil was easy to cheat.

Ugh. That's the good shit.

And Richter? They still let him be the dry, sarcastic quipster, but I appreciate the restraint here. He doesn't crack jokes as much. Instead, they really focus on his feelings with Annette, to the point that he feels more like the love interest rather than the MC for a good chunk of the season.

And I'm not complaining. I enjoyed the budding romance between them in the first season, but with the deliberate pacing here, the writers really sold me on this soft, chaste, tender love story. Richter and Annette feel like young adults falling for the first time and I really fucked with it.

I'll talk about Annette in a separate post, but sufficed to say, she was the best character of this season. Hands down.

My second complaint was Erzsebet Báthory. She felt so... she felt like she paled in comparison to the three other villains of the season.

Drolta was exquisite. She oozed charisma and charm, and she stole every single scene she was in. The animators loved her and I could tell. She had the most costume changes. She had the sharpest lines. She was gorgeous. And even her death felt euphoric because she got to introduce Alucard into the mix. Like, seriously, they used her perfectly in the first season and she was easily the best character by far.

Olrox? Sexy. Gay. Kill me. Him and Mizrak? Perfection. His voice was so smooth and seductive. His dialogue? Smartly written. Every scene he's in, he feels like he's always holding back something.

Rage. Pain. Lust. Desire. Grief. Hatred. Remorse. It is always there, an undercurrent of emotions so thick you could feel it in every scene they placed him in.

Abbott? Worthless. Pathetic. Hypocrite. I hated him every single time he was onscreen, and that was exactly what he needed to be. A counterrevolutionary bible thumper that would elicit powerful memories of unlikable relatives at a reunion. No notes. Perfectly utilized villain, and I fucking cheered when he got burnt to a crisp by his daughter.

But Báthory felt so underwhelming.

So either the writers knew this specific complaint from the fans, or more likely wrote her this way to purposefully hide the true final boss of the series.

Drolta.

See, Báthory doesn't hold a candle to any previous villains of the Castlevania story. Not as complex as Isaac. Not as iconic and important as Dracula. Not as enjoyable to both hate and love as Carmilla. Not as hilarious and memorable as Death. She was just there. I thought it was a waste, and that I wanted to see more of her shine in season 2.

So when the only bit of character work she got was her mourning Drolta and her small flashback, I was disappointed.

Make no mistake, she made a great physical threat. But that was it. She felt more like one of Death's elite guards from season 4 than her own true brand of evil.

Not as hate-worthy as the Abbott. Not as conflicted as Olrox. Not as charismatic as Drolta.

So imagine my surprise and subsequent glee as to when Drolta takes the power for herself. Killing her in the sky. That was perfect.

Drolta, who served Sekhmet. Who broke down at the loss of her goddess, her fellow priestesses, and the people she cared for. Who, blinded by grief, sought to resurrect her goddess by becoming a vampire herself and searching high and low for a worthy vessel.

Drolta became even more interesting. Thinking herself as only a follower, never seeking to gain the goddesses' power for herself. Becoming the first Vampire/Night Creature that gave Alucard, the son of Dracula himself who was leagues above Báthory before she became the goddess, quite a lot of trouble.

The way every villain was handled in this season was excellent. From Abbott's death, to Richter proclaiming his desire to avenge his mother to Olrox's face right after they worked together to beat Drolta, but still letting him go afterwards as thanks—I'm sorry, but that was some raw ass writing right there.

The only thing I have to complain about? Nothing from the writers or animators or directors. It's the production that I hate.

Streaming services fucked everything up. 8-10 episodes for every single show is such a dumb move, and making us wait 2-3 years for every single one of them is horrible.

On top of the fact that they will cancel something on a whim.

Nocturne would be unquestionably a masterpiece had it been allowed to have 24 fucking episodes each season. We could explore France more. See deeper into the revolutionary setting of the show. Really see the world of Castlevania, but no. And now there's still a threat of cancellation when animation has been carrying Netflix's worthless ass for years? Especially through the pandemic?

Watch Castlevania Nocturne. Support the studio. Show Netflix that this is where their energies and money should be going towards.

Their live actions, barring something like the big names of Stranger Things and Squid Game, have been flops. They fumbled the Witcher series. They killed Kaos. They ended Shadow and Bone. They fuck up every single time and it has been animation that has pulled through.

Arcane. Castlevania. Blue Eye Samurai. She-Ra.

Support this show, please. I would love to keep this series going, but it needs the attention it so rightfully deserves.

Please. I need to see Old Man Coyote. I need to see Tera go further into the darkness. I want to believe in the possible Maria x Alucard romance that was in the games that could be written really well here. I want to see more of these characters. I want to dive deeper into this world. But most importantly, I want every single person who worked on this show to keep having a job. To be able to do what they do best and get better at it.

This show is great. It deserves more seasons. More sequel series to explore other Belmonts. Other countries. More sexy vampires. More sexy hunters.

Support animation.

[rockscanfly]

Noshir Dalal's (Charles Smith's VA and the man who largely shaped Charles into the singular character that he is, found here on tumblr @noshirdalal and on Cameo [in case you have your own questions you'd like answered]) beautiful response to my cameo prompt:

Q: You’ve mentioned before that Charles likes to read. What is his favorite book? Also, you’ve talked some about cowboy poetry and how you think it’s something Charles might have connected to. Can we get a favorite poem of his in his voice?

Besides the fact that this reading of "The Men That Don't Fit In" was just plain fantastic and moving as all get out, I really admire Noshir's choice of poem.

Similar to the poem’s author and his simultaneous celebration and castigation of the prototypical outlaw, Charles always came off to me as someone who loves his fellow gang members deeply but who didn't share their illusions about themselves or how they function within the larger context of the world around them.

Charles makes several remarks throughout the game ('Unpleasant? How do you rob and kill people pleasantly?' 'All this death and for what? Just so we can have enough money to be able to run from what we've done?' 'The amount of hell we raised, we’re owed some back') that indicate a high level of self-awareness about what it is the gang ACTUALLY does and how they're perceived by the outside world. 

Arthur makes some gestures at this understanding throughout the game, but his moral musings are undercut by his inability to stand his ground against Dutch throughout the numerous acts of outright cruelty his found-father perpetuates in Chapters 4-6 (Arthur barks, but he never bites).

Arthur and John have their gripes and moans, but ultimately the two of them stick it out until the bloody end. Charles is the first person to really break free of the fate the gang is hurtling towards.

In a tragedy built on the back of it's main cast's inability to cope with a changing world, Charles is arguably the character who exerts the most agency. He makes the decision in Chapter 6--when the circumstances that once tied him to the gang have dramatically altered--to cut loose.

Because of this choice, he lives.

To me, at least, this poem--and Noshir's brilliant delivery--isn't about Charles himself. Or at least not just about himself.

Its him talking about the Van der Linde gang. Arthur and John, his second family. Wild, brilliant, bold, true, free--and gone. With nothing but graves to show for the lives they lived.

Charles isn't reciting a poem--he's reciting a eulogy.

Transcript:

Hey Rocks. Um, thank you for your patience with all of this. 

Yeah, so we know that Charles reads and I know that we’ve talked before about a scene that apparently didn’t make it into the game, where after Charles’ interaction with Micah—and you know, yeeting him across the camp—Arthur comes upon him reading a book. 

That uh, that scene affected me in a major way and I think it's probably the reason I portray Charles the way I do. 

A guy who can physically manhandle pretty much anyone at camp having the mental and emotional maturity and self-regulation—if you can’t tell I’m a new dad [laughs]—to find a way to deal with his anger that doesn’t involve acting out and breaking stuff? 

Told me a tremendous amount about Charles, especially because what I’d been introduced to was the idea that Charles was a really violent, really angry maniac. 

And I love the idea that he’s really into poetry. I like poetry a lot. Actually when I was working on that latest skin for Yone (spl?) for League of Legends, I learned from the writing team that cowboy poetry is, like, a thing. 

And so I decided to look some up. And I like to think that maybe that this is a poem that Charles would have had in that book he was reading. 

The poem is called “The Men That Don’t Fit In” by Robert W. Service. Fitting, I think, especially for Charles for a number of reasons. I hope you like it. 

[Noshir goes into Charles’ voice and recites below poem by Robert W. Service (British-born Canadian Poet, 1874-1958), published in his book Songs of the Yukon (1907)]

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in, A race that can’t stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain’s crest; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don’t know how to rest. If they just went straight they might go far; They are strong and brave and true; But they’re always tired of the things that are, And they want the strange and new. They say: “Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!” So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake. And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead, In the glare of the truth at last. He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half. Life’s been a jolly good joke on him, And now is the time to laugh. Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win; He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone; He’s a man who won’t fit in.

[thecouchsofa]

It might be March, but better late than never!

While I posted more fic in 2024 (see my 2024 year in fic) than I ever have before, I also read an absolute shitload. Below the cut are some of my favourites that were published in 2024, arranged by word count.

As always, there is an absolute wealth of talent in this fandom and the amount of goodness we have here never ceases to amaze me. The fics below all really did it for me in a number of different ways. Though my opinion is subjective, I will happily vouch for all of them. Happy reading! 📚

❤️🩵💛💚

🌹Way to go, Tiger by @houndsinhades | G | 2k | 🌹

The time will arrive for the cruel and the mean You'll learn to bounce back just like your trampoline But now we'll curtail your curiosity In sweetness Way to go, Tiger Scorpius Malfoy's seventh birthday.

Read for: Scorpius at his best, Wholesome Parent/Child Relationship, Draco after the War

Note: This is technically a gen fic, but it gives major Drarry vibes so I’m putting it here anyway

🌺The game's the game by @hogwartsfirebolt | M | 3k | 🌺

Draco might be — definitely is — the world’s sorest loser, but he’s also the world’s biggest slut for Quidditch excellence, and he has it right here, holding him against his hotel room door.

Read for: Quidditch Rivals Harry and Draco, Friends with Benefits, a full story told expertly in a low word count

🌻 The sun between us by @eleadore | E | 7k | 🌻

Draco Malfoy, an omega. It was laughable until he was right in front of you, smelling like he was one shaky step from tripping into a heat.

Read for: Omegaverse, Snarky Banter, Good Characterisation (yes, I’m putting that on a PWP)

🌼 Apophenia by b6p592l11 | T | 12k |🌼

Out of the many things Sirius expected to happen after the war, having to deal with his godson dating a Death Eater was definitely not one of them.

Read for: Sirius Lives, Sirius POV, Draco/Regulus Parallels

🌷The Window by @hoko-onchi-writes | E | 15k |🌷

“I swear all you ever talk about is men.” Ron laughs and vanishes the last of the joint. “Sweet fucking Christ,” Harry says. “Remind me to never involve you in my life in any way, ever again.” He gives Harry a very handsome grin. “Padma said she saw him. At a Tesco’s.” “Who?” “Draco sodding Malfoy.” “At a Tesco’s,” Harry repeats. He’s very stoned, having an out-of-body experience imagining Draco Malfoy in a Tesco’s, holding a frozen dinner. He wonders, very briefly, what Malfoy’s been up to since the war. “I bet you wish you had a map of that Tesco’s. So you could track his name.” “Fuck off.” ~~ In which Harry grows up in darkness, falls in love, fucks up, learns some things, and falls in love again.

Note: this story also features Harry/Charlie, but it is endgame Drarry

Read for: Character Study (Harry), Adorable Scorpius, this line that I want tattooed on my prefrontal cortex: "There’s a very blond man with a laptop, and an equally blond toddler wearing a Wiggles t-shirt and brandishing a trashy romance novel like a weapon."

🪻Je te reverrai by @soliblomst and art by @kk1smet | E | 16k |🪻

When Beauxbatons visited Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament, Draco managed to control his attraction to fourteen-year-old Harry Potter. When Beauxbatons returns three years later for a cultural exchange, Draco's attraction to seventeen-year-old Harry Potter is impossible to curtail. In his defence, Harry's perfectly tailored blue robes, mixed signals, and French accent do not help.

Read for: Beauxbatons Harry, French Speaking Harry, Gorgeous Art

🌹Nine Days in Coventry by @sitaz | G | 16k |🌹

When a de-aged Draco Malfoy is discovered in Knockturn Alley, the Ministry appoints Family Liaison Officer Potter as his emergency guardian. Whisked away to a Muggle safehouse, Draco does not cope well, and Harry learns just how hard life can be when a five-year-old declares war on you.

Read for: De-aged Draco, Draco being a brat (but so cute), Harry taking care of Draco, Pre-Relationship

🌺 The most he’s ever said by @fastbrother | E | 16k |🌺

It takes them twenty years.

Read for: Down and Out to Redeemed and Competent Draco, Draco-centric, the Situationship of a Lifetime

Warning: Infidelity, but not between Drarry

🌻You And Me Against The World by @dracowillhearaboutthis | T | 17k |🌻

When Draco finally meets his soulmate, he doesn't want anything to do with Draco.

Read for: Soulmarks, Partial Canon Rewrite, Remus raises Harry, Draco and Theo friendship

🌼Equally Cursed and Blessed by @moonflower-rose | E | 18k |🌼

Harry's back at Hogwarts to attempt his final year, again. This time he's sure there'll be no shenanigans. Well. Maybe there'll be a few.

Read for: Draco’s artsy porn collection, Humour, Harry and Ron’s ride or die friendship

🌷Goodbye, Old You by harDeehar (dryrsheet) | E | 19k |🌷

As an alpha, Harry Potter should not have been an assistant for the newly minted Diversity department, and he definitely should not have been working under Draco. Draco seemed to be the only person who thought Harry was suspicious, but he was used to taking care of things on his own, anyway. Luckily, Draco was not as alone as he thought, and his understanding of Harry's intentions turned out to not be the only misjudgement Draco made.

Read for: Omegaverse, Coworkers, Mpreg

🪻Raising Hell! by @wolfpants | E | 21k |🪻

Harry and Draco are sent undercover as a married couple to investigate a dodgy Muggle love cult. Something evil is lurking in Glastonbury… but to get to it, the reluctant partners must be initiated first. And this is, after all, a love cult…

Read for: Case Fic, Competent Draco, Muggle Sex Cults, Good Smut

🌹The Superfluous Man by peu_a_peu | E | 24k |🌹

A child for Harry Potter is a miracle of magic. And it's the second act of Draco Malfoy's sorry little life.

Read for: Mpreg, snappy writing style, a pre-2015 feel

🌺On the divine agony of longing by @flimsi | E | 25k |🌺

Speaking to Draco is like poking a beehive - and Harry is a glutton for punishment. In which Harry makes some serious blunders and then tries to fix it. Somehow. Draco’s eyes narrow and his mouth purses, pretty and pink and wet from whatever he’s been drinking. “Any mediocre time is better than whatever you can you offer, Head Auror Potter. We’ve had this conversation. I thought I made myself clear.”

Read for: Magically Powerful Harry, Possessive Pining Harry, Competent Draco

🌻Antelucan Ruins by @rainjulyx | E | 29k |🌻

From the bloody Prophet, Draco discovers Harry Potter’s death splashed in grey ink printed on the front page. Potter is dead before Draco gets to see him again to fulfil a half-spoken promise. And yet, these days Draco has the power to bend the world to his heart’s desires, and that includes fucking Harry Potter even after he personally saw Potter’s pale, lifeless body lying in a coffin before it got buried under the soil. — "Do you realise that you're just as pathetic and insane? You're so hung up on the idea of me that you'd fuck a ghost, Malfoy. You risked your life for it." Draco puts an arm around Potter's body, "Whoever says I am sane? Certainly not me. It's calculated risk with more success rate than failure. And you are dead, Potter. You refuse to move on to the next realm because you crave for my cock."

Read for: BAMF Draco, Ghost Harry, a surprisingly hopeful tone considering one of them is pretty dead

🌼The only thing worse than heartbreak is Vermont by @jtimu | E | 31k |🌼

In the aftermath of a failed relationship, Draco Malfoy found himself with three things. His pride (tattered), Theo's luggage (stolen), and an all-inclusive couples' vacation package to Vermont (awful).

Read for: Lumberjack Harry, Banter, International Location

🌷Skipping Stones by @whimsibeee | M | 34k |🌷

Draco receives his very own prophecy. If Harry Potter could leave him alone, he might be able to figure out what it means.

Read for: Coming of Age vibes, Cosy Atmospheric writing, Complicated Family Dynamics

🪻Obscuro by @stratigraphywrites | E | 35k |🪻

Draco is grieving. His conversation partner is here against his will. It's a shameless rip-off of an insipid Muggle reality dating show. Hardly the occasion for true love, if you ask Draco. feat. a cat named Marmalade, a bird named Mumble, Lee Jordan's answer to Love is Blind, and two best friends who only want their dads to be happy.

Read For: Game Show Format, Hidden Identity, Good Smut, Epilogue Compliant

🌹Invito by PrinceMalice | E | 36k |🌹

Draco mused on the possible first use of the charm. What had the wizard been calling for? The text didn’t specify. As for the etymology— the meaning of the word itself was derived from I call, I summon— or the Hungarian variation of the incantation… To invite. Or, Harry keeps inviting Draco places. Draco keeps turning him down… until he doesn't.

Read for: Eighth Year, the sweetest unfolding of a relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Party Games

🌺Gemini in Retrograde by @citrusses | T | 38k |🌺

Draco Malfoy doesn’t understand his son. Scorpius Malfoy doesn’t understand his father. It’s going to take more than one disastrous, body-swapping curse to change that.

Read for: Body Swapping, Alternating Scorpius/Draco POV, Draco being a good dad, Soft Harry, DADA Professor Harry

🌻No Harm by Tessa Crowley | E | 46k |🌻

After a long, bloody war, Draco Malfoy just wants to do something good with his life for a change, and resolves to become a healer. But magical society refuses to make it easy for him, and an increasingly dramatic series of events—all of them instigated by Harry Potter—get him kicked out of med school, force him to live in exile, and threaten to destroy the new life he’s trying so desperately to build. But Harry isn’t instigating anything—at least not on purpose. He’s just trying to work up the nerve to ask him out. His efforts don’t appear to be going great.

Read for: Down and out Draco, Pining Harry, same scenes from different perspectives

🌼Truth to Materials by lately & @toomuchplor | E | 54k | 🌼

In which Harry learns to appreciate art and other pleasures of the flesh.

Read for: Artist Draco, Paris, Good Smut

🌷Pillar of Salt by @epitomereally | E | 62k | 🌷

From the lake in the Room of Hidden Things, Draco knows three things: 1. Mirror universes exist, and he’s going to find the best one—the one where he did the right thing. 2. Harry Potter and him are awfully cosy in some of these other universes, whereas Potter in real life is starting to act very odd around him indeed. 3. Draco’s reflection—the mirror version of him, the worst version of him—seems to be growing crueler. And stronger.

Read for: Eighth Year, Alternate Universes (sort of), Magical Theory

🪻Behind Closed Doors by @stratigraphywrites | E | 77k | 🪻

Twelve years after Harry Potter disappeared from the wizarding world and from Draco's life, his daughter starts at Hogwarts.

Read for: Secret Child, Angst with a Happy Ending, Nonlinear Narrative

🌹A Soft Place to Fall by @amomorii | E | 142k | 🌹

When Harry arrives for his first year teaching at Hogwarts and is struck with a bizarre malignance, how on earth is he supposed to react when Draco Malfoy suddenly cares? Or; A darkness crawls out of Harry, and there's only so long he can keep it to himself.

Read for: Unique Concept, Managing Childhood Trauma, Reluctant Magical Coparenting (but it’s not what you think)

🌺The Star Splitter by @oflights | E | 219k |🌺

On a routine time travel assignment to the past, Draco stumbles upon 7-year-old Harry Potter and witnesses his neglect and mistreatment by the Dursleys. In the moment, there is only one solution, even if it goes against all his training as a Time Agent: he has to bring Harry back to the future with him. In which Draco burns his life down for the sake of his former school rival.

Read for: Time Travel, Draco taking care of Harry, Kid Fic

I hope you enjoy these fics as much as I did! If you read any, don't forget to show the creators some love ❤️🩵💛💚

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |1|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter One: Cold Plunge

warnings: major character death, grieving, suicidal intentions, physiological trauma, toxic codependency, and horrible horrible coping mechanisms

masterlist | prologue | next chapter

You wake to the sensation of something gritty beneath your fingernails, a metallic taste lingering on your tongue. The world comes into focus slowly – the canopy of trees above, filtered morning light, the hushed quiet of the forest floor. Your hands are crusted with dried blood and soil, dirt packed deep under your fingernails.

For a moment, there's just confusion. Then the weight in your chest returns, that familiar crushing pressure that's been there since... since...

"You're so fucking perfect, aren't you, Jackie?"

"And you're so good at being difficult."

"At least I feel something. At least I'm not pretending."

"I'm so tired of your mood swings. You're either all over me or you're—"

"What? What am I?"

"—impossible. You're impossible."

"I fucking hate you sometimes."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do. I hate you. I hate how good you are at being perfect, and I hate how bad I am at keeping my emotions bubbled."

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair!"

You can't remember how you got here, how your hands got this way. The last thing you recall is falling asleep in the cabin, Shauna's protective arm draped over you like a shield.

"There you are." Shauna's voice cuts through the haze. She's standing a few feet away, one hand resting on her slightly swollen belly, the other clutching a water canteen. "I've been looking everywhere."

You look down at your hands again, the rust-colored stains embedded in your skin's creases. "I don't remember..."

"You were sleepwalking again." Shauna kneels beside you, her movements careful, deliberate. She uncaps the canteen and takes your hands in hers, pouring water over them. The cold shock of it makes you gasp. "You were digging. By the grave."

Jackie's grave.

You watch as the water runs pink, then clear. Shauna's hands are gentle but firm, her fingertips tracing circles on your palms as she washes away the evidence of your nocturnal wandering.

"Did anyone see?" Your voice sounds foreign, distant.

"No. Just me." Shauna's eyes meet yours, dark and knowing. "I followed you. Like always."

The days bleed together. You move through them like a ghost, performing the motions of survival without truly participating. Hunting. Gathering. Eating just enough to keep Shauna from forcing more food into your mouth. Sleeping only when exhaustion overwhelms the fear of dreams.

"You need to talk to someone," Shauna says one evening as you sit by the fire, staring into the flames. "It doesn't have to be me, but—"

"There's nothing to say." Your voice is a blade, sharp and defensive.

"You're not the only one who lost her." Shauna's hand finds yours, squeezing gently.

But you are. You're the only one who knew what it was like to have Jackie's lips against yours in the dark, to feel her fingers tangled in your hair, to hear her whisper promises neither of you could keep. You're the only one who failed her so completely.

"I hate you for leaving me here alone."

The words echo in your mind, but you can't remember if you said them aloud that night or if they remained trapped inside, another thing left unsaid between you and Jackie.

You find yourself at her grave again, the small mound of earth and stones the only marker of where she lies. You've been coming here more frequently, speaking to her as if she can hear you. Sometimes you rail against her, screaming until your throat is raw. Other times, you whisper apologies like prayers.

Today, you simply sit, tracing patterns in the dirt with your finger.

"I keep thinking about what you said," you murmur. "About me being bad at keeping my emotions bubbled. You were right. I'm still bad at it."

Wind rustles through the trees, and for a moment, you imagine it's her response.

"Everything reminds me of you. The way the sun hits the water in the morning. That stupid fucking sweater Shauna keeps folded under her bed. The way the fire smells at night." Your voice cracks. "My heart bleeds every fucking day, Jackie. It won't stop bleeding."

You dig your fingers into the soil, letting it fill the spaces beneath your nails.

"I hate you for dying," you whisper. "I hate you for leaving me. I hate you for making me love you."

Shauna finds you there, hours later, curled on your side next to the grave. She doesn't say anything at first, just sits beside you, her pregnant belly a reminder of the life continuing despite everything.

"You can't keep doing this," she finally says, her voice soft but firm. "You can't keep punishing yourself."

"I'm not," you lie.

"You are." Shauna's hand finds yours, pulling it from the dirt. "You think I don't know what you're doing? You think I don't see you getting closer to that edge every day?"

You turn to look at her, surprised by the tears in her eyes.

"I'm terrified," she admits, her voice barely audible. "I'm terrified that one day I'll wake up and you'll be gone. That you'll have buried yourself right alongside her."

The truth of her words hits you like a physical blow. You've been fantasizing about it, haven't you? About lying down in the cold earth next to Jackie, about finally escaping the constant ache of her absence.

"I can't do this without you," Shauna continues, one hand on her belly. "I need you here. With me."

You sit up slowly, dirt falling from your clothes. "I don't know how to be here without her."

"Yes, you do." Shauna's grip on your hand tightens. "You just don't want to."

That night, you let Shauna wash your hands again, watch as she carefully cleans beneath your nails. The two of you have developed these rituals, these unspoken agreements. She keeps you tethered to the world of the living; you keep her connected to the memory of Jackie.

"Do you think she knew?" you ask as Shauna combs her fingers through your tangled hair.

"Knew what?"

"How much I loved her. Even when I said I hated her."

Shauna's hands pause briefly before resuming their gentle movements. "Yes," she says with certainty. "She knew. You're both so good at being troubled, but you were never good at hiding how you felt about each other."

You lean back against her, feeling the solid warmth of her body, the subtle movement of the life growing inside her.

"I dream about her," you confess. "But she's always just out of reach. Always walking away."

"She's not walking away," Shauna murmurs, her arms encircling you. "She's just somewhere else now. And we're still here."

We're still here.

The words settle into you like stones, heavy but somehow grounding. You close your eyes and for the first time in weeks, you don't immediately see Jackie's face, blue with cold, frozen in that final expression of hurt and betrayal. Instead, you see Shauna's dark eyes, filled with a determination that borders on desperation.

You're bound together now, you and Shauna, by shared grief and secrets and the memory of a girl you both loved in different ways. It's not healthy, this codependence that's forming between you – you clinging to her as your last connection to Jackie, she holding onto you as if you might disappear at any moment – but it's what you have.

"I'll try," you whisper, not specifying what exactly you're promising. To stop sleepwalking to Jackie's grave? To stop wishing you were buried alongside her? To start living again?

Shauna seems to understand anyway. She presses her lips to your temple, a ghost of a kiss.

"That's all I'm asking," she says, and you both pretend not to notice the way her voice breaks, the way her arms tighten around you like she's afraid you might slip away even now.

Outside, the wind whips through the trees, carrying with it the memory of Jackie's laughter, the echo of her voice saying your name. But inside, in this moment, there's just you and Shauna, heartbeats synchronized, breathing together in the dark.

It's not enough. It might never be enough. But for tonight, it's all you have.

[heartlogan]

the story ends

✮— logan x f!reader (set in xmen days of future past)

✮— summary: the day that logan lost you

✮— a/n: again, only my second time writing for logan so be gentle pls, i specialise in angst but this isn’t my best </3 (also, could be connected to all coming back to me — my first logan fic. no reading order!)

✮— warnings: probably ooc! MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, depictions of dying, it’s set in the original timeline so it is sad, talk of loss and death, one (1) moment of affection, major angst, guilt, sentinels, canon typical violence, & gore (ish, but to be safe), BLOOD, pronoun ‘she’ used, unspecified mutant reader, lmk if theres more!

MASTERLIST

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

There are so many things you had lived to regret in your life, so many things that you had dwindled on instead of simply moving forwards. And in the end, none of it had ever mattered. No matter what you had or hadn’t done, life had led you here — to the very end of the world.

You hadn’t fought in wars like Logan had, weren’t used to the brutality of it all. Fighting, and battles, all of that you were familiar with. But not this. This was on another level.

The X-Men had been helpless to fight against this, unable to resist such a tidal wave of hatred and murder. The Sentinels had destroyed so many of your kind already, that there were barely any of you left to fight anyway. And those of you who had lived through the initial slaughters had been scattered across the globe, made to search for one another while constantly trying to evade those seeking n you out to kill you.

It was exhausting. All of it. And it wasn’t only you who felt that way — those remaining were all tired. Tired of the constant movement, tired of the constant loss, tired of the neverending chase. You could see it on everyone’s faces — Charles looked as bad as you had ever seen him, struggling to cope with the loss of almost all of his students. And Ororo, you could tell, was fighting to hold herself together. She had lost too many people, too many friends. Magneto was no stranger to loss, especially like this, but it was written all over him, too.

And there was Logan.

Logan who, in all the time you had known him, had never stopped fighting. For all of that to be in vain was clawing at him, tearing him down. There was a new age to him, and you weren’t talking about the grey hairs that seeped from his temples. He seemed far too old to still be fighting, to still spend every living moment trying to stay alive, trying to keep those he cared about safe. Everyone had lost so much since the Sentinels appeared.

“How much longer do you think we can stay here?” You asked Storm, gazing out at the sky ahead of you, glancing back towards the jet that was stood on the makeshift runway. She stayed quiet long enough for you to grow concerned and look her way, and you saw the unease to her stance. “We need to leave, don’t we?”

“It’s not safe.” She replied distantly, looking out towards the cloudy sky. Your brows furrowed instantly, and you turned to look at the clouds once more.

“Nowhere is safe, Ororo.” You stated firmly, trying not to let the emotion betray you in your voice. She seemed to come back to herself at your words, and you just about registered her turning to look at you. You hadn’t said anything that she didn’t already know to be true, but still, the delivery of the fact left her with a stinging feeling in her chest. An aching sort of pain, a longing for a home that none of you could ever return to.

She thought of the mansion, and tried to force her way past the memories of it torn apart, destroyed. It was easy to forget, in times like these, exactly how things had been before. But Storm could practically envision it all in her mind, the bustling halls between classes, the crackle of fire as the adults shared a drink after a rough battle, the constant noise of mutants embracing their powers.

That was meant to be a mutant safe haven, and it was gone. She knew you were right — nowhere was safe for your kind, not anymore.

“I know.”

You let her words settle, and chose to linger and look at the view, even as Storm turned and made her way back to the plane.

Admittedly, the view wasn’t much, but it was nice to see the sky without a plane of glass in the way. All of you spent so much time inside the jet now, barely able to land without Sentinels descending upon you. It was somewhat safer in the sky, although there had been some close calls.

The wind whistled in your ears, a welcome breath against your skin, and you easily preferred this to the way it usually whipped against the side of the jet.

You heard the shuffle of feet in your direction before you felt his presence, a warm hand coming to rest on the small of your back. It was soothing, warming you up as you let the cold breeze surround you.

“‘S almost time to go,” Logan told you, speaking quietly. His gruff voice still sent shivers down your spine, despite his warm hand on your back. He turned to look down at you after a second, eyes scanning over the entirety of you, analysing. “You ready?” He asked after another moment, knowing you always tried to take in as much of the fresh air as you could.

“I’ll just be a sec.” You responded calmly, breathing in deeply, finding comfort in the way his palm moved with your body. When he didn’t move, you turned to look at him, finding him still watching you. Despite everything, you couldn’t help but smile at his loving gaze, albeit somewhat weakly. You placed a hand on the side of his face, brows creasing. “Everything okay, Logan?” You asked, concerned, because he seemed off, even though everything in the world was off. It was something more than that.

He nodded as your thumb stroked his cheekbone, trying to provide some amount of comfort in a world where comfort didn’t exist.

“I’ll wait with you.”

You smiled, trailing your hand down from his face until you reached his own palm, which you gripped tightly.

Slowly, you noticed the sun beginning to shine on the horizon. You knew you needed to be gone before it had risen fully. “Don’t worry, I’m right behind you.” You said reassuringly, tilting your head and squeezing his palm tightly at his uncertain look. “Promise.” You added, and he hesitated for a moment longer, before turning away, squeezing your hand once in return before he let it go fully.

He seemed reluctant to leave your side, even as he walked away. You shook your head, grinning softly, glad for the few good things you had left in your life. Logan was everything to you — he had been for more than a few years.

You took one more glance at the rising sun, before turning away, ready to head after Logan. But then your head tilted, brows furrowing in confusion. There was a buzzing feeling in your hands, your heart speeding up its pace, and you looked around in concern.

That was when you saw it — the Sentinel heading straight for the jet on the right.

Ororo was closest, and she hadn’t seen it yet.

“Storm! On your right!” You yelled, desperation leaking into your voice as you watched her spin, finally noticing the murder bot creeping up on her. Even from this distance, you could see the way her eyes went white, lighting up as the wind picked up suddenly, rain slowly starting to leech from the clouds above that were quickly multiplying with the force of Storm’s power.

You couldn’t breathe a sigh of relief as she struck it with lightning, summoning winds to throw it over the edge of the cliff side, because you knew it wasn’t over — more were coming, if they weren’t already here.

Starting towards Logan, you only just registered the way his eyes widened and he moved towards you before it dawned on you.

You hadn’t checked your six.

Before you could even turn, you felt it.

When you looked down, you saw the Sentinel spearing you through the stomach, the wound far too big to comprehend.

Blood was tickling the back of your throat, and you couldn’t even swallow around it. It was too late, you noticed distantly, as you looked towards where Logan was trying to get to you, seeming as though he was moving in slow motion.

The Sentinel ripped its limb from your body, and your knees buckled, sending you to the ground.

It was a very far away realisation, the fact that you would die here, in mere moments. Instead, your main focus was Logan, watching the anguish and denial plaster his face. You barely heard the other Sentinels rising from the cliff side behind you, but you knew they were there.

And you knew that the others knew it too.

Storm had made her way towards Logan, and you hadn’t even noticed how close she was to him before then. She must’ve noticed the Sentinel approaching you at the same time he had. Her face was painted with grief, evident in every crease of her expression, in the very way she moved. She placed her palms against Logan’s chest, and pushed.

“Logan, it’s too late. Please. It’s too late. We need to go.” Ororo begged, her voice shaking with every word that left her mouth. She couldn’t bring herself to look at you, to see the blood that had started trickling from the corners of your mouth, painting your skin. She didn’t want to see the life leave your eyes.

“Logan!” Charles’ voice raised, trying to be heard over Storm’s power. Logan hadn’t even heard his wheelchair in the jet, too focused on the way you looked at him, your eyes dimming with every moment he couldn’t get to you.

He felt Erik before he had even realised the man had descended the ramp, felt the pull of his powers. The way he forced Logan’s skeleton to bend to his will, to step away from you. From the love of his life. The only thing he had managed to keep hold of in this apocalyptic world.

“No, no, no, no,” Logan begged, yelling for you, waiting for you to snap out of it, to just get up. “C’mon! C’mon, get up!” He yelled, trying to push against Erik’s power, but finding he couldn’t even take another step towards you. He felt Storm push harder on his chest, but he didn’t notice, too busy watching the way your head tilted, your eyes glassy, the way your lips lifted at the edges, showing just a flash of bloody teeth. You smiled at him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Storm said, as Erik finally managed to pull Logan some steps back, going up the ramp.

It was the hardest Logan had ever fought against his power, which made lifting the plane simultaneously all the more difficult. But Erik focused his mind, pulling the plane from the ground as Storm finally released Logan to press the button to lift the ramp.

“She’s gone, Logan.” Charles said sadly, feeling the way your consciousness drifted from his grasp.

Logan just caught the slump of your body to the ground through the swarm of Sentinels as the ramp closed fully. Erik allowed him to fall to his knees when he realised he had stopped fighting, but kept a loose grip on the adamantium in his skeleton out of fear that he might tear apart the plane to get to your body.

A sullen silence took over the jet, everybody resigned to loss by now, but for Logan this was different. He stared at the ramp, unable to get the image of your empty eyes out of his mind. Your body, slumped on the ground, left there to rot.

And all he could think was that if he had only stayed with you, you might still be here. If it weren’t for him, you might be alive.

[blackynsupremacy]

MISSING YOU

pairing: smallville!clark kent x black!fem!reader

fandom: smallville (2001-2011)

summary: your good friend, clark kent, is there for you after you experience a major loss.

contains: fluff, sensitive topics, heavy angst, mention of cancer, mention of death, coping mechanisms, based on true events, crying, self insert, grief, sadness, hugging, a kiss on the cheek, you can imagine this with any comfort character tbh.

a/n: hey, guys! i just want to say thank you all for the love, support, and condolences. it means a lot. this blurb does contain material that has happened to me irl and i’m writing as a way to cope with the recent loss of a family member that i was really close with, so please be kind. fun fact: my grandma actually used to play pac-man dowwwn and win. it was a memory that popped up while people were visiting after she died. if this is a sensitive topic for you, please DO NOT READ! requests are coming in slower than usual, so that’s why they’re closed. btw, fuck cancer.

taglist: @greengoblinswifey @hopefully-saturn @jkr820 @hoffmansgirl @austeenbootler @niteskysx @sabrinasopposite @thabiddie23 @hnch33rios @xoxoglittergossip @supaprettyg @motherismotheringggg @oscarisaackissmykitty @simply-lovley44 @elitesanjisimp @gxuxhdjdu @v3n1ce-bxtch @iamsebastiansstan @stargirl-mayaa @miguelspvssy @oliviaambs @artyandink @dulcescorderitas @ellethespaceunicorn

“thank you so much for coming, martha.” your mother commended with a sad smile as she took the dessert plate from martha kent’s hands who then brings her in for a warm, sympathetic embrace. clark and jonathan stood behind the women before their gaze shifted to the rest of your relatives and friends that were gathered at your grandmother’s house.

“i’m so sorry for your loss, dear.” martha whispered, her hand rubbing your mother’s back in a comforting caress. with a soft “thank you”, her and your mother pulled away from the hug before she’s greeted with hugs and condolences from the rest of the kent family. after she invites them all inside, she holds clark back by the front door.

“if you need to find y/n, she’s upstairs in my mama’s room—she’s been in there for a while. you’re her good friend, clark. perhaps, you can talk to her?” your mother’s pleading brown gaze matched his sincere baby blues. your mother was right after all, ever since you were kids, you and clark had been thick as thieves by hanging out in the loft, studying at the talon, solving the bizarre mysteries of smallville, and so much more, but things started to shift when your grandmother’s cancer had returned. her declining health condition rendered you distracted from your studies and friends as you made as much time as you could help take care of her while she was in hospice care. you spent time and took care of her as she did for you and others for most of your life. it all came crashing down when your aunt and cousin were watching her, assuming she was sleeping before she opened her eyes and took five shallow deep breaths until there was no more left to let go.

it was your responsibility to call the nurse, your hands and voice quivering as you informed her that your grandmother was unresponsive. your heart pounded in your chest, uncertain whether hers had stopped as well. thirty agonizing minutes had passed as your relatives, such as your brother, aunt, and uncle, came to assess the situation. the nurse had arrived, performed the standard procedure, and to your shattering disappointment, officially called the time of your grandmother’s death. it was a gut punch to say the least. all of the emotional and mental preparation couldn’t have really meant that you were ready to see her pass in real time. it couldn’t have meant that you were ready to live life without her. it certainly couldn’t have meant that she wouldn’t see you get married or have a family of your own like she did for your siblings and cousins. you walked out into the dark, windy night and you just screamed as the stream of hot tears ran down your face, your mother promptly came to console your doubled-over body. as you saw the funeral home take your grandmother away in a pristine hearse, that night made you sick to your stomach.

it all happened over the weekend, so you decided to take a few days off from school to process your loss. through small town word of mouth, clark and the rest of your friends heard of the news. lana, chloe, and pete each would send you emails or calls to offer their condolences as their schedules were too getting hectic to visit you in person. your mother, aunt, and uncle had arranged for one day where your other family and loved ones could gather to eat and converse of fond memories concerning your lost loved one at her home. you decided to wander off from the crowd and sneak off to your grandmother’s bedroom, a place of sanctuary that you’ve always known as a child.

clark was concerned for your well-being and he wanted to see you since you haven’t been at school. it hurt him to see you in any type of negative mood. it hurt him to see you so devastated. if clark was anything, he was a good friend— a good friend who wanted to be more, but was too cowardly to say anything. he brushed it off because this wasn’t the place nor the time, that could wait. right now, you needed a friend and he was going to be that. your mother pointed him in the direction of your location before he went on his way. he was a few feet away from the door until his heightened hearing picked up on a sound that resembled a quick, rhythmic "wakka wakka" noise with a somber, descending tone following shortly after.

clark deliberately stepped closer to follow the first sound he heard, pondering what you could possibly be doing in your grandmother’s room at an event like this. the door was cracked open, and he peered through to see that you were sitting on the edge of the bed, engrossed in a light blue cubed-shaped console with a silver joystick on top. your intense focus on the video game you were playing didn’t register his arrival. he glanced at the screen to see that you were playing none other than the iconic arcade classic, ms. pac-man. with a gentle touch, he tapped your shoulder, causing your hand to slip and mess up, resulting in your character to be defeated by the ghosts as you were on your last life.

“ugh, what!? look i just wanna be alo—“ your sentence was cut short when your brown eyes met with his blue ones that were full of the kindness and charm you always knew.

“clark? what—what are you doing here?” you asked, puzzled as you paused the game, not letting the console out of your grip. you didn’t mean to come off as brash as his presence did do you some relief. it’s just been a long week of bereavement for you. the farm boy stuffed his hands in his pockets, a sympathetic smile graced his lips.

“y’know i wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world.” your heart flutters at his words as he gestures towards the empty space next to you.

“may i?” he inquired. you nodded and scooted over to give him a good amount of space to sit next to you. before you knew it, he wrapped his arms around you in a amicable embrace.

“i’m so sorry for your loss.” he compassionately uttered into your ear. with one hand still on the console, your other arm reached to reciprocate the hug. the sound of his voice caused you to release a sigh and enough strength to verbally thank him before pulling away, a somber smile etched on your earth-toned face.

“lemme guess, my mom put you up to this, huh?” you quip, clark chuckled as he shook his head.

“partly, yes, but i’ve been wanting to see you and not just to bore you on all of the homework you’ve missed—it seems you’ve been preoccupied as it is.” clark comments, his eyes pointing towards the console in your hand. your eyes follow suit to the same item that you looked at with such sentiment.

“this was grandma’s. i remembered when she used to play this all the time and let me tell you— she was a badass!” at your words, you and clark laugh as you continued to explain how you went to her room to just think about her in solitude. that’s when the memories of her playing the game plagued your mind before you began to snoop through her closet. that’s when you found the familiar blue console of ms. pac-man. you crossed your fingers as you worked to hook it up to her old television. who knew that after a decade and some years, it worked as if it were brand new! from that point, you wanted to play and win the game as you never got to do so as a kid. you watched your grandmother play countless times and she let you give it a go, but you always ended up losing. it would discourage you because you really wanted to impress her, but she would always encourage you to keep going, reminding you that winning isn’t always everything in life.

“god, i wish i could just win this damn thing!” you exasperatedly sigh and sniffle, your thumb ghosting over the red button that would resume the game. clark’s eyes never pulled away from your profile, a few strands of your freshly braided hair fell in front of your face, he gingerly reached to push the braids back behind your ear only to see that your face was stained with tears. he called out your name.

“hey, hey—look at me. do you want to talk? y’know i’m always here to listen.” clark softly affirmed by placing his hand on your shoulder which relaxed under his touch. you turned your head towards him, sniffling as more tears rained down your now blushed cheeks.

“clark—it’s like i’ve seen this coming, but—“ you swallowed. “i can’t believe she’s not here. just six months ago, she was completely healthy. it’s just not fair!” the gut punch returned as her kind face flashed into your mind, the same face that would gaze at you with such content as she watched you grow from a baby to a young woman, even in her ailment. god, how you missed her so. you missed her style, her love, her kisses, her funny nicknames for you, her cooking, her laughter, but most of all, her presence. the reality of saying your final goodbye was biting at you. you sobbed, dropping the console to the floor as your arms found their place around clark’s torso.

not hesitating to wrap his arms around you, he rubbed circles on your back as you nuzzled your face within his signature flannel.

“i’ve got you. it’s going to be okay.” he reassured, cradling you in his embrace, his shirt getting so

he didn’t mind, he was going to be right here whenever you needed him and for that, you loved him immensely for it. in some situations, you always thought of clark as your hero, but even heroes have their limits, and in that moment, all you wanted was a piece of the past. you pulled away from him, wiping your tears with the back of your hand as you glanced at the console still in your hands. it was a relic from your grandmother's joy and your youth. although the game was paused, the bright colors of the ms. pac-man screen flickered like a beacon of nostalgia. you pursed your lips, cutting your puffy eyes to clark before clearing your throat to articulate the words.

“do you think—do you think i could still play, clark?” you questioned, your voice still trembling.

your best friend nodded, a gentle smile spreading across his handsome face.

“of course! she would’ve wanted you to play.” he reassured again, patting your shoulder. that was his own special signal of nudging to step into something that you would’ve seen as impossible.

with a deep breath, you picked up the console again, your fingers trembling as you pressed the start button to resume the game. the familiar sounds filled the room, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of your grandmother’s spirit and drive beside you as your hand began to move on the joystick. you were focused, determined to beat her high score, to feel that connection as you felt it all those years ago.

as the ghosts chased your ms. pac-man across the screen, you could almost hear your grandmother's infectious laughter encouraging you, urging you to keep going. you didn’t stop. with a furrowed gaze and a steady hand, every single white dot was disappearing into your grasp as you effortlessly dodged the ghosts. each time you consumed a fruit power-up, clark kent was there as your personal cheerleader.

“c’mon, y/n! you can do it!” clark encouraged, his voice an enthusiastic tone as he leaned forward to watch you move the pac-man like clockwork on the television screen. with each dot you devoured, the weight on your heart began to lift, and you found yourself grinning despite the warm tears still lingering in your eyes. finally, with one last maneuver, you cleared the maze of the white dots with no lives lost, the screen flashing in celebration. you had done it! you won the game for the first time in your life. your grandmother had been there for recitals, birthdays, and graduations, but this had to be one of your biggest achievements yet and she wasn’t here to see it happen.

“i—i did it! i really did it!” you exclaimed, laughter bubbling up through your tears. an array of emotions spread through you like they never did before, you couldn’t even describe how it felt in that moment. clark beamed at you, pride shining in his ocean eyes.

“i knew you could. i know that she’s so proud of you.”

overwhelmed with emotion, you turned to him, gratitude swelling within you, so you did the unthinkable, but not the impossible. you leaned in, wrapped your arms around his shoulders, and landed a lingering, tender kiss on his cheek.

“oooh! thank you, thank you, thank you, clark! for everything. you’re the best person a girl could ever wish for.”

it was slow at first, but nonetheless he smiled. to your amusement, the once pale skin of his cheeks were now painted a faint crimson as his gaze was awestruck for a second until you called his name to return him back to earth.

“a-anytime. y’know i’m always here for you.” clark stammered, but you both could tell he was sincere.” his palm reached out as a warm invitation for you to take.

“i have no doubt about that and i’d do the same for you in a heartbeat, clark.” you return the sentiment by taking his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. a sudden warm tingle surged through you, which was strange as you’ve held clark’s hand on other occasions—platonically of course. what was this feeling? you were dealing with so much, it was difficult to even pinpoint it. his tenor voice broke you out of your daze.

“now, let’s go back to your family. i’m sure they need you just as much as you need them.” you nod at his statement. this was going to be hard, but you were grateful to have someone like clark kent in your corner. like the gentleman he was, he carefully tugged you up from your seat on your grandmother’s bed, careful that you wouldn’t stumble.

hand in hand, you walked back into the warmth of your family downstairs, carrying a piece of your grandmother with you, and the strength of your connection with clark lighting the way for the funeral, burial, and whatever dark days may be ahead.

[jollyhunter]

THE BROKEN CIRCLE

Beau!Dean x hunter!reader

Characters: (mostly) Beau Arlen / (flashbacks) Dean Winchester x hunter!reader, also Denise and Cassie AU: "Supernatural" x "Big Sky" crossover, set after S15 of SPN

One Shot (???) UPDATE: A SEQUEL IS PLANNED. THANKS SO MUCH FOR ALL THE POSITIVE FEEDBACK!! 🧡🧡🧡

Warnings: - Major MC death mentioned (end of SPN spoiler), implied panic attack, angst and just buckets of tears (I'm coping with a certain someone's death here) - No use of Y/N - English is not my native language

Words: ~4,050

Setup: "Winchester" - That's the name you applied with at the police department, when you started a new life in Big Sky, Montana, 4 years ago. It's your deceased husband's name. Or rather, meant-to-be husband, since Dean died 2 weeks before he got to propose to you. Today you return from your one month time-out. But a lot has changed since you went to visit Sam; You've got a new sheriff.

And he's the same man you thought you'd never see again.

The Broken Circle

Cold.

In one word, that's your last memory of when you gingerly cupped Dean’s face. How your tender fingers caressed his bruised cheeks and wiped away the dirt from his battered skin. Shakily combed out the rubble from his damp brown hair and scrubbed the dry blood off his fingers.

The last time you squeezed Dean's lifeless hand before it slipped from your trembling fingers. Cold and busted lips scraped against yours when you gently kissed him goodbye for the last time in this life.

...Or so you hoped. Who knew what heaven had in stock for you two.

You just wished you could have been there, in that damn barn. Been with him in his last minutes. Could have held his hand next to Sam. Could have told him how much you loved him. Reassure him that you'd give up the hunting life like you both had planned. That you'd try and live a good life for him... and that you were sure you'd see each other again.

But instead you had to take leave of Dean's lifeless body. Hollow. Drained of everything that made him the man you loved and had planned to spend the rest of your life with.

Dean gave his life for so many innocent people – hell, for the entire world. But he never got to have his own life. Never got to live it the way he wished to.

It just seemed so damn unfair. You had so much planned for your future. Have yourself some rug rats, a dog maybe, a house, a garden with those ridiculous white picket fences. You’d live a cherry pie life once you’d leave the hunting life behind you.

Or so you liked to picture it in your heads. On those rare, peaceful nights where you'd rest in each others arms like an old couple. His fingers combing your hair while your thumb carefully stroked his battered knuckles. Whispers of daring dreams filling the silence.

But reality was cold. Bloody. Like an animal put down. With a last effort, put to rest on his bed in the bunker by Sam and you.

This image will haunt you for the rest of your life, you know it. It already did for the past 5 years. If only you could have —

"Winchester?"

You blink rapidly, your mind thrown off for a moment when you snap out of your spiraling thoughts.

Denise waves with a paper in front of you to get your attention back. "She was mutilated. And it wasn't a bear. Her heart had been cut out."

"Jesus," Cassie breathes with a look of shock and disgust, shifting uncomfortably next to you.

"Yeah," Denise's face grimaces into a painful one. Her eyes are darting from Cassie, down to the report and back up to your still slightly absent gaze. "What do you make of it, Winchester?"

"Sounds like a werewolf." Damn it. The words slipped your lips before you could fully snap out of your memories. “I mean, sounds like a bit far-fetched but I’ll let Sheriff Tubbs know.” You force a wry smile when you grab the piece of paper from Denise’s hands, ready to head out of this messed up conversation.

“Sheriff Arlen,” Cassie calls after you and you stop in your tracks to look back at them with arched eyebrows.

“Sheriff who?” You inquire with a puzzled look. How the hell could you have missed this much in just one month off duty?

“Sheriff Beau Arlen,” Cassie repeats and Denise quickly adds with a teasing hum, “And his ass is just- mmmh-” she makes a chef’s kiss hand gesture while Cassie rolls her eyes with an amused chuckle.

You let out a huff in mock-annoyance but can’t help the faint grin on your face. Maybe, one day you’d dare to befriend them. Maybe, whenever you’d feel ready for letting people into your life again. But not today.

Ready to pick up your work at the police department, your eyes immediately land on the new name on what used to be Sheriff Tubbs office. ‘Sheriff Beau Arlen’ is written in an arched, golden text across the door’s glass.

You raise a sceptical eyebrow at the name. “Beau” you spit out the name under your breath, already feeling a distaste for this new sheriff.

In your defence, it wasn’t personal. It is just in your nature to feel sceptical towards anything new, especially people. Perhaps you gave up your hunting life. But any hunter will tell you between a swig of whiskey and a loaded shotgun that you’ll never lose your hunter instincts, no matter how hard you try. That’s not how it works. You don’t end this business by walking out the door.

It ends you.

In some way you were like trained bloodhounds. Always one chase away of your next kill. Unable to ignore the smell of blood. You were painfully aware of that fact. You could never live a fully normal life without the occasional hunch or a nervous look over your shoulder.

But you’d learned to accept it and make the best of it.

Here you can still help people. Save people. And once in a while nudge the sheriff into the right direction when you suspected something more than a suicide. Or you’d discreetly plant anti-possession charms on people when you had a hunch that demons were involved in a case.

Yet Sam believes you had retired fully from hunting like he did. And you liked to belief so, too. But on some days you weren’t so sure whether you even wanted to.

In some twisted way, hunting will always connect you with Dean. And at the same time it pains you, like a slow poison. Because you know it’s what he hated and never wanted for you.

And what took him from you.

It is a walk on a tight rope, really.

With a little huff of defiance you push the door to the sheriff’s office open. Your eyes dart around the empty room as you lean slightly forward, “Sheriff Arlen?”

Nothing. Oh well. With a quick glance over your shoulder you decide to take the chance and just drop off the report. You step inside, your fingers tracing the edge of the paper as your mind is instinctively drawn back to the case. I’ll have to look into this… bloody werewolf —

“Ah, Deputy Winchester, ain’t it?”

You freeze in mid motion.

And so does time. The paper slowly slides from between your trembling fingers and flutters to the floor. The unmistakable voice jolting through your mind and body like a lightning bolt. Your breath is caught in your throat, your mind and body paralysed.

The world holds its breath.

This is impossible.

“...Winchester, innit?” he repeats as he steps into the office and casually walks up to you, a wide smile spread across his face.

It can’t – NO.

You don’t dare to turn around.

Not that your body would be capable of any movement anyway. Every muscle is tense, your spine’s gone completely rigid. And your heart’s hammering against your ribs like it’ll crack your chest open from the inside.

You stand there like a deer caught in headlights. Headlights of a ‘67 Chevy Impala called Baby.

It has to be my imagination.

“Ya got somethin’ for me there? Oh-” You feel his elbow briefly brush your side as he bends down to pick up the paper next to your foot.

You don’t move an inch and stare ahead.

He straightens up again and steps around you to place it down on his desk. When he finally moves into your view and turns around to face you with his warm smile – your heart stops.

Emerald green eyes look back at you. Deep and sparkling green oceans. Alive.

Your brain freezes. Your mind scrambling for an explanation but failing to come up with anything.

This can’t be.

After a moment of tense silence, the tremors of your bottom lip make way for what your mind refuses to believe in.

“Dean?”

His name slips you in a mere breathless murmur. Afraid that whatever this is, will shatter the moment you dare to breath again.

Beau raises a brow. “Dean?”

He repeats the name with such nonchalance, such valuelessness, like it’s just some random clerk who he’s got no business with. As if that name didn’t mean the world to you once. Still would. Still does.

But the way his name dropped from his lips…

It clogs your airways. And the question mark at the end was him ramming a dagger into your heart and twisting it, without him even realising.

“Uh, no ain’t that.” He gently shakes his head and his lips melt into a cheeky smile as if that would make his next words any less painful.

“I’m Beau.”

Silence. Once again you feel like the air’s sucked out of your lungs. Like someone had pushed you off a cliff.

Someone who is an imposter of your deceased husband.

Beau. Your jaw clenches. And the name bounces off your mind. Your initial reaction being immediate rejection. No, you’re not... Beau.

Your eyes flicker across the man in front of you.

He might look quite… changed. He’s got a beard, neatly trimmed even. His hair is longer and… soft. Gone was the rugged and calloused man you loved. But it is still him. His eyes with their hidden secrets lingering behind those intense glinting, emerald green pools. His bow legs you’d recognize out of a hundred. His voice, his features, his – everything. Everything on him seems much softer but still… in your eyes, it’s Dean. No doubt.

“Why are ya lookin’ like you saw a ghost?” Beau questions with a tilt of his head, leaning back against the edge of his desk.

His voice snaps you out of your intense gaze. Your mouth opens, but no words make it past your quivering lips. All words drowned out in a flood of a million questions. Your focus drifts off, your eyes darting around the office like you’re expecting Gabriel to pop up any second and laugh at you.

But the room stays reduced to the two of you.

You feel like you’re on a tipping point.

Hands clenched, one subtly moves back to your hidden silver dagger – you do what you were trained to do in situations like these; Your mind grips for the lifeline and kicks into hunter mode. You rattle off the list of possible monsters; Shapeshifter? Ghoul? Am I dreaming? Is it some sick game of a trickster God? —

“Darlin’? You alright?” he asks, his voice now more concerned. You look terrified. As pale as a sheet, the blood drained from your face. Close to a panic attack, he guesses by your rapid breaths. Beau reaches out with his hand, gently patting your arm to get your attention. “Hey… Easy, just breathe.”

At his touch you jolt and finally snap out of your state of shock. The hand hovering over the concealed weapon falters. His worried eyes lock with yours.

The life-line snaps. Your mind tips over. Enough to make your stomach twist and turn, about to throw up. With only one shared look, everything’s back; The pain, the poignant grief, the cold skin under your fingertips, Dean’s lifeless expression, emerald eyes gone dull, the stench of decay, of old blood and dirt and his burning flesh and-- it all crashes down on you. All the emotions and memories you had buried in the depths of your mind, now laid open.

Fresh and hungry. Slowly swallowing you whole. Again.

“I- I don’t feel so… good – sorry,” you sputter, your hand clutching your chest in an effort to keep it together. The same second you spin around on your heels and storm out of the office without looking back once.

Beau. His mere presence was suffocating.

You remember the moment you and Sam cleaned up Dean’s lifeless body. How your fingers brushed against a folded paper, carefully tucked away in his jacket’s inside pocket.

Sam’s face had contorted the moment you pulled it out. Clearly, he had known what secret the paper held and before you got to question his knowing look, he suddenly got up. While walking out, he said he’d give you some time alone with his brother.

Once you unfolded the notepaper halfway, your breath stopped. Your eyes slowly shifted from one scribbled word to the next, each of them hitting harder than the next, each of them taking more of your breath. You swallowed past the lump in your throat when the realization of what you’d been holding in your hand slowly set in.

They were notes of Dean. Notes for your upcoming anniversary in two weeks.

You unfolded the rest of it and your eyes widened. The paper began to crumple in your shaking hands while wet stains swallowed some of his jotted down keywords. When your burning eyes reached the last four words, it had felt like whatever was left of your broken heart had just been ripped out entirely.

The raw emotions rolled down your cheeks, your tears mixing with his last unspoken words…

“Will you marry me?”

Beau was left back staring at the slammed door in bewilderment and a little stunned. After a moment, he sighs and pushes off the desk to follow after you.

“Winchester!” He calls down the corridor, watching you stumble out the front door into the outside. He jogs after you, slightly panting, while his eyes dart around the parking lot in search for you.

The rain crashes down on him the moment he steps outside. His head briefly tilts up to face the grey sky with an annoyed groan. The raindrops are pattering against his creased forehead, running down his cheeks to pool at the tip of his beard.

But then he hears a muffled sniffle next to him. Strands of his soaked hair fall into his face when he whirls his head around, spotting you leaned against the wall.

“No- no – it can’t be you – Damn it – it can’t…” you mutter under your rapid breaths, somehow trying to fight your scrunched up, stinging eyes with words of common sense. Your chest feels constricted. Your heart’s hammering in your ears and your breath’s clipped, feeling like you might faint any moment of lack of oxygen.

Leaning back against the wet wall for some support, your mind’s on the brink of a breakdown. There’s no explanation for this. This can’t be happening.

Beau suddenly appears in front of you and before you get to react, he places a hand on your shoulder. You flinch but don’t pull away. His hand feels heavy against your soaked jacket, grounding, gentle – but casual, like you would with a stranger. You are strangers.

“Hey, hey take it easy. You’re gonna give yourself a panic attack. You’ll be okay.” He says as he crouches down to your level. He glances over your trembling body and how your eyes try to avoid his, your expression like you’d just witnessed a murder in slow-motion.

“Look at me, deep breaths.” Beau speaks in a firmer, yet gentle tone, trying to break through your panicked state.

When you refuse to look up, he tilts his head down to meet your eyes behind some soaked stray hair that sticks to your skin. He pushes them out of your face, his intense gaze searching your contorted face for some form of hint for what’s got you so spooked.

He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. While his soothing words just keep coming, his voice now a lower whisper as he’s desperately trying to understand what is going on in that head of yours, “Hey, c’mon… talk to me, Winchester…”

Your eyes are burning from the tears that have been building up until now. Eyelashes heavy and clumped together by the droplets of the rain. And his intense eyes staring into yours, the very same eyes you fell in love with over 10 years ago, do nothing to ease your pain.

You try to tear your gaze away from his, but find yourself caught in them. It’s like you’re staring into a beautiful forest after years of living in a desert. They pull you in, and you feel like you are right back where you’d always longed to be. Home.

But a home that isn’t yours any more. The soul behind those eyes looks familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time. You thought you’d never see those eyes again – but those very same eyes hold no memory of you.

The same question keeps repeating in your head, ripping at your heart and soul like a Hellhound.

Dean… is this you?

His voice cuts through your thoughts like a soft knife. “Take deep breaths darlin’, it’s oka-”

“Please- just-” you cut him short, a painful, shaky breath rippling through your voice, “Just stop talking.” Beau’s voice is like a dagger to your heart, twisting it whenever he speaks up. Mocking your memories with that uncanny tone of his.

I’m just tired. You hear Dean’s voice in your head and just like him, you wished you didn’t feel a damn thing.

Beau raises a brow and tilts his head forward, studying your face. For a moment he opens his mouth about to speak again, but when he sees you flinch, he forces himself to shut it closed.

His jaw’s clenched from fighting the urge to talk and feeling a bit overwhelmed with the entire situation. Not knowing where to go with himself or what to do without making things worse. He isn’t sure what it is, but something about you tugs at his heart in a way he can’t quite understand. But he quickly dismisses it, for now.

His eyes snap up to the sky when the rain starts to increase. Heavy drops splatter off the both of you, coaxing a single tear to let go of the corner of your eye. It was like the sky cried for you. Eyes that parched exactly 5 years ago.

Without a word he moves closer, gently wrapping his free arm around your waist. But you stop him before his palm touches your side. Your hand's shaking as it clings to his wrist like a lifeline.

Beau’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t comment on it. His expression grows pensive and his eyebrows slightly furrow, watching your trembling form. Your chest's heaving heavily, like you’re struggling for air. And your eyes are out of focus, like they're reliving some nightmare.

He suddenly feels a strong protectiveness - decides to hold himself back, though, afraid he might make things worse. But it pains him terribly to see you this way, even if he might not know you, yet.

You don’t say anything. Unable to form the right words as nothing could express the storm of contradicting emotions you are trapped in. The wavering grip on his arm is clenching and unclenching subtly as if unsure whether you want to push him away or pull him in.

“Sorry,” you finally croak between shuddering breaths, unsure what you were even apologizing for, “I’m sorry…”

Why were you apologizing? A strange feeling settles in his guts, one of this being a lot bigger than he could comprehend.

Next moment you know, you’re pulled into a tight hug. Both his arms wrapping around you to pull you close and hold you together.

At first you stiffen. Standing there like a fragile, shaking tree. Your arms pressed against your sides, unable to comprehend any more what is happening.

But he keeps you in his embrace, murmuring soothing words, muffled by your hair and the heavy rain. You lift your head slightly, just enough for your wavering eyes to meet his again.

That’s when the realization hits you. He looks so whole. So unbroken. His skin and his hair was smooth and tender beneath that thin layer of rain. He lacks any form of scar, any edges or any memory of the horrors you and he had faced and committed. Your heart twists; This isn’t what a scarred hunter looks like. And at the same time you feel your heart sink at the next conclusion… Beau would have been Dean’s idea of a perfect life, without ever having been born into the hunting business.

And it makes you wonder whether he was granted that alternate life.

Beau feels your trembling body against him and how your gaze is searching his face for something he doesn't know. Why are you looking at him like that? A lump forms in his throat. His hand gently caresses your back in a circle motion, while his other keeps stroking your hair.

“It’s alright, s’okay. You’re okay.” Beau says in a soothing, comforting tone and he tugs you a little closer, allowing you to rest against him.

Your wet hair falls into your face once more when your head drops to his chest. You both stay still, the only sound being the pitter-patter from the raindrops against the hood of his truck and the puddles around you. Your ragged breath’s nearly drowned out by the rain. The world seems to have shrunk to the beat of his heart softly thudding against your ear.

And that breaks the dam. Tears it down as the floods of emotions search their way out. Your shoulders rise and buckle against his chest. The tears finally break free, streaming down your face, mixing with the rain soaking your clothings. Your body wracked with sobs – raw, desperate, painful. Liberating.

You begin to shake uncontrollably, the sobs growing more and more powerful. They start to rack through every fibre of your body. Your legs grow unsteady beneath you, daring to crumble from the weight of every emotion you had buried in the past 5 years released and unloading all at once.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll stay right here as long as ya need me to. C’mere…” He reassures you, and pulls you even closer. His chin comes to rest on top of your head, his facial hair brushing against your scalp and his warm breath wafting down at you. “Just let it out… you’re gonna be okay… you’re not alone, ‘kay?”

You clutch at his jacket tightly, holding onto him like you’re drowning. Like you’re afraid he might be a dream after all. Might disappear from your grasp at any moment. Everything spills out of you, incoherent words bubbling from your wet lips. “Y-y-you’re alive- you’re alive- a-alive- I missed you so much, Dean- so so much-”

Beau can’t exactly make out the words that are tumbling from your mouth, but he can feel you shaking against him terribly. He quickly takes his big jacket off to drape it over you, to try and keep the rain and cold off you.

His heart tightens at the sight of your curled-up body, clinging to him while shivering badly and breaking apart in his arms. He slowly begins to speak again, a hint of an encouraging smile on his face, “Hey, ‘m gonna pick ya up. Ya ain’t gonna stand that cold and rain. Ya’ll get sick.” He then places his arms on your back and under your thighs, before lifting you up off the ground in one smooth motion.

He holds you close against his chest, wrapping his jacket over you for extra warmth. The rain patters against the concrete floor while his boots splash through the puddles, carrying you over to his truck.

You don’t protest as your body was giving in at this point. Like a run down shed in a storm.

Your fingers slowly going numb from the death grip, the wet and cold. You choke on your sobs while the tears keep rolling down your reddened cheeks.

But from joy.

You don’t know whether he is Dean or not. Whether this is real or you finally lost it.

But in this very moment you didn’t care.

You let yourself drift back to the happiest place in your mind. One you hadn’t dared to visit for many years. Locked up and keys buried along your husband. Deep down in your broken heart.

When you close your eyes and press the side of your face against his chest, you can hear his heart pounding. When he speaks, you hear Dean’s voice above you, soft and peaceful.

And you feel his body through the drenched pieces of clothings between you.

He feels warm. Warm.

A/N: it was meant to be a drabble IT WAS MEANT TO BE A DRABBLE

I'M NOT CRYIN'- OKAY FINE I'm still coping with his death - I haven't even watched it since I'm still catching up with the seasons. GAWD I HTE THIS - I JUST NEEDED CLOSURE DAMN IT

Anyway, I just had to get this story off my chest before next year. I don’t know yet whether it deserves more parts but do let me know if you think so!

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@aylacavebear ❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Fill out this form!

[rowinablx]

Buckle up, because I’ve had it with the relentless toxicity from a certain subset of Buddie shippers who seem hell-bent on turning a fun fandom into a cesspool of harassment, bitterness, and entitlement—specifically aimed at BuckTommy shippers and Lou. This isn’t about all Buddie fans—many of you are lovely and just want to enjoy your ship in peace—but this is a loud, unhinged call-out to the vocal majority who’ve taken it way too far. You know who you are, and it’s time to sit down and listen.

First off, let’s talk about the sheer audacity of harassing BuckTommy shippers for simply liking a canon pairing. Buck and Tommy’s relationship became a thing in Season 7, and for a lot of us, it was a breath of fresh air—Buck exploring his bisexuality with a guy who’s got charm, depth, and a bit of grit. It’s not perfect, sure, but it’s real, and it’s happening on screen. Meanwhile, Buddie remains a fanon ship—beautifully crafted by fans over years, no doubt, but still not canon. And instead of just enjoying your headcanons, writing your fics, and letting others vibe with what the show’s giving us, some of you have decided that anyone who dares enjoy BuckTommy is a traitor, a fetishizer, or worse. The insults fly—calling us homophobic for liking a queer couple (ironic much?), accusing us of “settling” for a “lesser” ship, or claiming we don’t get the “true” story of Buck and Eddie. Newsflash: shipping isn’t a loyalty oath. People can like what they like without it being a personal attack on your dreams of Buddie domestic bliss. The fact that you’re out here bullying fans for vibing with a different pairing is pathetic—it’s not a competition, it’s a TV show.

But oh no, it doesn’t stop at fandom infighting. You’ve taken it to a whole other level by targeting Lou Ferrigno Jr. himself. This man is just doing his job, playing a character the writers gave him, and yet some of you have made it your mission to tear him apart. Death threats? Harassment on social media? Spreading baseless rumors about him? There’s chatter online about how you’ve bragged about running actresses off the show with your vitriol, and now you’ve got Lou in your crosshairs. What’s the crime here? That Tommy dared to kiss Buck instead of Eddie? That Lou had the gall to show up and act in scenes you didn’t personally approve? It’s unhinged. The guy took a break from social media during the hiatus between Seasons 7 and 8—gee, I wonder why—and instead of reflecting on how your actions might’ve contributed to that, some of you spun wild conspiracies about him being “hacked” by Buddie fans to make him look bad. No evidence, just vibes and a desperate need to villainize anyone who isn’t Ryan Guzman or Oliver Stark. It’s embarrassing.

And let’s not pretend this is about “protecting” the show’s integrity or some noble cause. This is about entitlement. You’ve built up Buddie in your heads for years—seven seasons of subtext, longing looks, and fanfics—and now that the show’s gone a different route with Buck’s arc, you’re throwing a tantrum. Tommy’s not “Eddie 2.0” or a “plot device” because you say so; he’s a character with his own history, flaws, and potential. But instead of engaging with that, you nitpick every line he says—“Oh, he didn’t dress up for the bachelor party!” “He made a daddy joke, how dare he!”—and twist it into proof he’s a terrible partner. Meanwhile, Eddie’s dry sarcasm or questionable dating history gets a free pass because he’s your golden boy. The double standard is glaring. You’re not mad because Tommy’s poorly written (he’s had as much development as most of Buck’s love interests); you’re mad because he’s not Eddie. And instead of coping with that like adults, you lash out at Lou, at BuckTommy fans, at anyone who doesn’t bow to your vision.

The hypocrisy kills me too. You’ll scream about how BuckTommy shippers are “toxic” for defending our corner, but you’re the ones sending hate mail, making call-out posts, and wishing death on a fictional character—and sometimes his actor—just to clear the path for your ship. I’ve seen posts on Twitter where people say they’ve turned against Buddie entirely because of how you’ve treated them for liking BuckTommy. You’re not just hurting your own cause; you’re alienating people who might’ve been neutral or even supportive. And for what? A ship that, as of 2025, still isn’t canon and might never be? The showrunners aren’t caving to your demands—they’ve doubled down on Buck’s journey with Tommy—so maybe it’s time to take a hint and chill.

Here’s the kicker: I get it. Buddie’s got a special spark—years of friendship, trust, and those heart-wrenching moments that make you root for them. I’ve read the fics, I’ve seen the edits, and I used to ship it. But that doesn’t give you a free pass to ruin everyone else’s fun. Multi-shipping exists. Liking BuckTommy doesn’t erase Buddie’s potential, and harassing Lou doesn’t make Eddie confess his love any faster. You’re not “saving” the show by attacking people; you’re poisoning a fandom that used to be about celebrating 9-1-1’s chaos and heart. So how about this: write your stories, make your art, and let the rest of us enjoy ours. Stop acting like you own Buck’s heart—or Lou’s career—and maybe, just maybe, we can all coexist without this endless ship war bullshit. Because right now? Your toxicity’s the real villain here, and it’s getting old.

[ohnoitstbskyen]

... y'all know Lae'zel is acting scared, right?

Video transcription: I've seen a lot of comments on my short about Lae'zel dismissing her entire character because she's mean and… I'm just checking in here… you guys know she's scared, right? She's terrified. She was kidnapped by the worst monster she knows, infected with the most horrifying death anyone in her culture can have, and then stranded on a hostile world, alone, with nothing to guide her except the dogmatic military cult indoctrination of a cruel lich demigod, telling her that her only hope of salvation is to follow Gith doctrine with total unyielding faith. And still she tries to save you. When she keeps insisting that you must get to the Githyanki crèche, it's our only hope, she's trying to guide you towards the only salvation she knows from the parasite, so she can share it with you. And Gith... aren't supposed to do that, saving an outsider is not part of the doctrine, she's breaking the rules trying to do right by you. None of that means she's not being an asshole, she's rude, dogmatic and unpleasant. But everything she does comes from a genuine, very misguided and abrasive, desire to do the right thing. It doesn't make her behaviour okay, but there is more to her character than just "being the mean one."

To expand on this a bit more than I can in a 60 second short, people acting from fear and from their damage is a major theme among the Baldur's Gate 3 companions.

Lae'zel is terrified and falling back on the only thing she believes will give her back some control over her situation, which is the dogma of the military cult she's in. Shadowheart is much the same, amnesiac and grasping on to the only solid thing she knows, which is her faith, which preaches deception, loss and duplicity as the only certain factors in life.

Gale is an inveterate people-pleaser desperately dependent on other people to help him feed his magic addiction, with his overtly affable exterior hiding a rolling boulder of guilt, ambition, greed, arrogance and legitimate hurt. Asterion is... well, no way to really lay out his deal without spoiling, but the boy has been through it and his self-destructive, hedonistic and selfish impulses are all coping mechanism and self-defense all the time.

None of that make their shitty behaviours okay, but in a fictional story, those kinds of flaws and toxic behaviours are what make for interesting stories and characters. I don't blame anyone for finding Lae'zel unpleasant and abrasive, but I do get a bit Old Man Yells At Cloud about people who casually brag about shoving her off a cliff-side, or murdering her because "she was a bitch" or whatever.

Like... being unable to face discomfort in your media is not a virtue, and lashing out reactively against fiction that doesn't validate your power fantasy isn't a flex.

Of course, I saw a lot of those reactions in YouTube comments and on social media, so my sample is biased by those algorithms, but still. A lot of people seem aggressively proud that they never engaged with her story because the terrified indoctrinated child-soldier wasn't immediately nice to them and I can't explain it but something about that reaction feels puritan to me.

[zirconika]

hii! i NEED daryl angst like where his partner gets bitten or something? or maybe she passes in child birth? It's up to you, just something on how he would react and cope ig? i love your writing! btw :)) 💗

happy ending

⇚ NAVIGATION || MASTERLIST

PAIRING: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader WORDS: 3k SUMMARY: Several times you thought you would die, and yet nothing could have prepared you for saying goodbye just when you finally have your little family with Daryl and your little ray of sunshine. WARNINGS: think about angst then double it and give it to yourself. major character death. talks of pregnancy and childbirth. SETTING: commonwealth A/N: definitely my most gut-wrenching fic so far. i love u nonnie thank u for ur kind words!!! reblogs are appreciated <3

Many times, death has attempted to recruit you into its care, beckoning you to stay. And in every single attempt, you managed to resist: the flu in prison, the uninfected arrow Dwight sent flying that hit your shoulder, and just a month ago when you brought your little girl into the world.

At the center of it all was Daryl Dixon. In every instance you thought it was your time to pass, Daryl was there. You’ve said goodbye more times than you can count, and you thought you were ready.

“Daryl?” you’d called out to him when you wavered in between life and death, your shoulder sore from the arrow hit. He’d held your hand the entire night, his eyes a little more wrinkled, a little more glassy. “I should’ve kissed you back then.”

It was always like that whenever you thought you were at the end of your life. Your time with Daryl was built on close goodbyes. You always managed to bounce back, always ended up surviving. 

“I can’t—I can’t do this anymore,” you had muttered to Daryl, your eyelids begging to shelter your eyes into oblivion.

“Nah,” Daryl shook his head, forbidding you to die on him as Tomi instructed you to breathe in between your pushes. He held your hand with a tighter grip, with a plea somewhere in his grasp. “Please, [Y/N]. I know ‘ya can do this.”

You could remember how gentle his kiss had been on your forehead.

You could recall the desperation in his voice, his eyes, and his touch as he begged you to have the little family you’d been planning to have together.

You thought it was your time to go when you went into labor, and he refused to let you go then. You doubt he’d ever let you. 

This time, though, the moment the bite on your shoulder made its mark on your skin, you knew you were done for. In your mind, you pictured an hourglass with its sand draining minute by minute… 

Any other day, you would have been prepared to surrender to the horde of walkers closing in on you. There was no use wiping off the bite on your shoulder, but you could use at least one more day with Daryl and the little asskicker you’d brought into the world together.

With adrenaline pumping through your veins, you powered through. The next thing you knew, you were holding Rosita’s hand on your way up, your mind only focused on seeing your Daryl and your baby girl one last time.

You were grateful you had entrusted her under Carol’s care. You would never have been able to forgive yourself had you lost her while holding her…

Glad that nobody noticed, you ransacked a closet for a thick jacket, simply stating you wanted to take extra safety measures, internally scolding yourself that you should have done so earlier. You had watched Rosita caressing Coco’s head, pressing a kiss against her baby girl’s forehead.

Your heart broke at the sight. You’d never see your daughter grow up, nor will you get to grow old with her daunting father. 

When you were reunited with Daryl, you found yourself clinging to him a little tighter than you should have, breathing in the scent of him as if you would be able to bring at least that piece of him with you to your grave.

He held you just as tight, and you let him.

“Our baby—?”

“She’s fine,” he whispered to your ear. “Ya have no idea how relieved I am that ya made it. I’ve never been so damn terrified.”

Your heart sank.

How would you ever be able to tell him? 

This was final. It wasn’t something you could just heal from or have chopped off or survive. It was real this time, and there was no escaping it.

You were just having a hard time accepting it and finding the right words to break it to him, if there were even any.

The following day after the grand win, you felt the celebration all over the town. You took it all in: the food laid out on the table that would have looked more appetizing to you had you not gotten yourself into this situation; your friends laughing together, both the ones you’ve known right from the start and the ones you’ve only recently met; and most of all, your little family.

You watched as Daryl came from the room, having just finished his turn on changing your baby’s diaper. You couldn’t help but giggle at the way he looked so natural carrying her.

You hated that the world was robbing you of seeing more variations of the scene. You thought back to the prison when Daryl first carried baby Judith. Though the two of you hadn’t given into your feelings for each other then, some part of you knew he’d be a good father.

And here he was now, entertaining your little ray of sunshine. He looked from her to you, telling her,  “Say hi to yer mama, pretty girl!”

You watched as she cooed, her eyes seemingly taking in the world around her. She probably couldn’t process anything yet, much less perceive anything, but you set that common knowledge aside.

You smiled at your baby, taking her from Daryl’s grasp and pressing her against your chest. “Hi, sunshine.”

You felt Daryl’s eyes on you, and you watched as his face shifted from contentment to contemplation. He leaned forward, pressing the back of his hand to your neck.

“Are ya alright? I can take her off your hands if yer tired. Ya don’t gotta force it if—”

“I’m okay,” you told the archer, but your pale lips and sunken eyes said so otherwise. But you were running out of time. You considered the right way to handle it. “Actually, I need to talk to you.”

“Sure, sunshine, anythin’.” 

It was sinking in. It was becoming realer and realer every time you got closer to confessing about it. “No, I—I wanna talk to you outside. Alone.”

Before Daryl could even peep a question, you called out to Rosita, the nearest companion within the vicinity you could entrust with your daughter. She picked her up with no question, happy to be able to help. 

Confused, Daryl followed you out the door. 

“Ya ain’t breakin’ up with me, aren’t ‘ya? ‘Cause that’d be stinking shitty of ‘ya,” he joked, but you could tell he was nervous. You laughed nonetheless, longing for this normalcy for longer than you had.

“No, idiot, I wish.”

Daryl laughed, too. And he pulled you into an embrace. You took the opportunity to breathe him in again as deep and as much as you could. He reeked of Daryl.

And as you remained in this embrace of his, you couldn’t help but let your defenses shatter and let your eyes let go of the heavy dam of tears it had been fighting to contain for the past several hours.

He pulled you away from his chest. “Hey, hey. S’wrong?”

Just rip off the band-aid. Just rip off the band-aid.

So you do. Reeling yourself for what was to come next, you uttered the words you’d been denying to say in fear that saying it would make it real, even though it already was: “I got bit.”

The words were rolling boulders in his hike. He didn’t know what to make of himself, of the world. Everything and nothing seemed to run through his troubled mind as he looked at you with something you couldn’t describe.

“Daryl,” you manage to say, your sorrow getting a hold of your voice. “Please say something.”

He looked away in desperate search for a solution as if he’d find it in a tree from a distance. Daryl looked back at you. “How long? We still might have time to cut it off.”

“Daryl…”

Three seconds.

You looked at each other in those three long seconds that felt like eternity, but it would never be enough. Nothing could make up for the goodbye you had yet to say to each other. No amount of previous farewells could conclude this one with justice. 

You pulled down the back of your sweater to reveal the bite mark just below your neck, right where he loved to kiss you.

“S’not that deep,” he said hopelessly. “S’probably not even enough to— to—”

“Daryl…” You watched as he had to step back, his world spinning as he thought of ways to save this, to save you. He ran his hand through his hair and down his face, then rubbing his eyes as if it would push back the tears he wanted to contain. It couldn’t.

“Nah, nah,” he said over and over, pacing in the same spot of grass he stood on, racking his mind on potential solutions. There weren’t any, both of you knew that. “Ya ain’t gonna— Yer not gonna go. It ain’t time. You—! Fucking—!”

Daryl held you again, and you let him as you felt his chest rise and fall unsteadily from the lurching grief from inside him. You felt him cover his mouth while he embraced you in his poor attempt at concealing his sobs.

“I’m sorry,” you said as you cried against his chest. It reminded you of all the times he held your hand in every single instance you thought it was your time to go. “I love you more than anything, I love you, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“I love ya too, please don’t leave us.” Daryl felt selfish asking you such an impossible favor, but he felt he had to try. It wasn’t meant to be a request for you to fulfill, but rather a plea to anyone who was listening who could, by chance and by miracle, possibly give you more time together. 

Maybe there was someone listening, hence your time kept being delayed. Now it ends here.

That day, it wasn’t just Daryl you bid farewell to. You said goodbye to all your friends one by one, embracing each and every one of them as tight as you could.

You were finally ready, you think.

As Daryl lay you in bed, giving you your little girl to cuddle for your last moments, he knew he’d never recover. He sat opposite you, watching as you rocked your sleeping daughter.

He looked away, the lump in his throat threatening to be responsible for another downpour of his cries. 

“Hey,” you said, sorrow just as present in your eyes as you reached out to put one hand on top of his. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Although you were assuring Daryl, you were also trying to assure yourself.

“Nah, it ain’t,” he said. “I’m—Shit. What makes ya think I can go on a day without you? I shoulda been there with ya, keepin’ ya safe and sound. M’sorry.”

Daryl laced his fingers with yours, pressing an apologetic kiss against the back of your hand. You used it to cup his face, feeling every inch of it. 

“It’s not your fault,” you told him. “Daryl, the past two years and way back have meant so much to me. I love you.”

He shook his head, still unable to accept what was to come. “I should’ve told ya sooner what ya meant to me. Spent too much time dilly dallying, thinkin’ there’d be more time. Maybe then we could’ve—! I never even got to give ya the wedding ya wanted. I was plannin’ for it, y’know? I’d already talked to Gabriel ‘bout stuff, asked Carol the best… I should’ve—”

“Daryl,” you cut him off. “I regret nothing. I love our story. And you’ll tell it to the little ass kicker here once she’s old enough, you understand?”

Your heart broke at the sight of your heart broken dearest. 

“Daryl, I need you to promise me.” You brought his hand to your cheek, pleading with him. “Tell our story. No covers, no fixes, nothing. I want you to tell it to her bare.”

He nodded. 

“A part of me wishes that it had been my time all those years ago, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much now.” Looking down at your baby, you couldn’t help but sigh. This was the last time. She wouldn’t even be able to remember you. “But then we wouldn’t be having this little family now and I just end up thanking every force of nature that I was lucky enough to have this even though it’s at my end.” You look up to you to see Daryl, his eyes glassy and forlorn. “I love you. I wish I told you sooner, too. I hope you felt it even before I could say it.”

“I did,” he raised your hand to his lips again and he kissed it with so much more love than you could possibly even imagine. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do, don’t wanna spend the rest of my life mournin’ ya than being with ya.”

He say closer to your right, and you felt his warmth emanating from his presence. He hung his arm over your shoulder, caressing it and paying no mind to the bite that your shirt covered. Daryl looked down on you and your baby.

“She looks like ya,” he commented. “M’grateful she does. She’s gonna see her face and know how beautiful her mama is.”

You noticed he didn’t say was. Your heart ached.

“I left you two something,” you told him. “While you were asleep last night I… It’s in our closet. There’s the rolls of films from the disposable camera I planned on having developed but never did.” You laughed, remembering something. “We have pictures there together that you could maybe show to her.”

Daryl kept pressing little kisses on your hair, breathing you in every single time. “I love you,” he said as he kissed the same spot over and over.

“I don’t wanna go,” you confessed. You had no intention of breaking down in front of your husband for his sake. You didn’t want him to feel helpless, but… It was all so real, so final already that it scared you. “I thought I was ready, I’ve said goodbye to you more times than I can count and—Daryl, I want to watch her grow up with you. It’s so unfair I—I thought we'd eventually get a happy ending!”

He held you as you whimpered. Daryl was just as terrified, but he could tell you needed him to be strong. He held you again, his eyes looking down at your baby.  “S’alright, S’gonna be fine. I’m here. We’re here.”

Daryl wanted to cry, to break down. He didn’t want to do it in front of you. He could wait. 

“I don’t wanna say goodbye, either,” he said, moving away so you could see each other better. 

“So let’s not.” You looked at Daryl and your baby, thinking of all the times you’ve said goodbye to your husband way before. “We’ll say ‘Till next time.’”

The two of you shared your last laugh together, but you needed it untainted. You refused to cry now. You wanted your last memories to be happy.

“Daryl,” you started, “I can do it, okay? You don’t have to—”

“Shh, s’okay. M’here for ya. I ain’t gonna leave you on your last minute.”

“Thank you.” You smiled at him before looking back down to your still asleep baby girl. “Till next time, baby. I hope I have to wait long before I see you again.”

You press a kiss on her little forehead, willing her to live a long life for you. Feeling your eyes sinking into a deep sleep, you nodded to Daryl, who then took your baby off your hands. 

You watched as he carried her out of the door, handing her over to Carol who gave you a warm smile from the doorway. You smiled at her as well before she left to cradle your baby.

Daryl grabbed the knife from the bedside table and sat next to you. His heart broke at the sight of you. You were pale, drained, and dying.

“Can I lean on you and pretend I’m just sleeping?” you asked him. Daryl nodded m and found the right position for himself. He let you lean on his chest, his arm wrapping from under your neck. “Till next time, Daryl Dixon.”

“Till next time,” he nodded. He let you lean on his chest for so long. You let your eyelids close, its weight too heavy to keep open, letting yourself sink into the comfort of your husband. 

Daryl didn’t want to do it, but he knew he had to. He tried to keep his breaths stable so as to not wake you.

With one last kiss against your head, he plunged the sharp end of the knife against the side of your head. He kept his lips right there on your head, and he let go of the knife to fully embrace you. 

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but someone eventually had to come in and tell him it was time.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Daryl Dixon mastered the skill of cradling his daughter to sleep. And when he did, he forced himself to face the monster in the closet he’d been avoiding facing.

Upon opening the closet, he found a child’s caboodle. He hurriedly opened it, desperate for a trace of you, and you were right.

You appreciated Carl’s last words to everyone, and you realized you wanted to do the same. Daryl ran his finger through the envelopes tucked inside. He knew there was a letter for him and your baby in there somewhere, but he didn’t think it was the time just yet.

He didn’t want to read it just yet for the sake of having something new to hear from you a little ways down the road. 

What Daryl did, though, was hurriedly bring the three disposable cameras to get it developed. 

Soon, he’d be delighted to see you again. The cameras were from back when he was training with Mercer. You and Judith took the free time as means to spend it together and make memories. 

Soon, Daryl would find pictures of you and the kids. He’d also find photos of you and your baby. What would really make him a little less heartbroken, though, was a picture of the three of you.

But right now, he was just grateful to feel the surface of the caboodle, knowing your hands had once carressed it as he whispered to the box, “Till next time, sunshine.”

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[synchodai]

Give Karlach Character Flaws

My problem with how most fics write Karlach, especially when she isn't a major player, is that it seems as if she's never allowed to be selfish. She's always there to be big Mama K, ready to support and tank damage for everyone else, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have any self-interest at all. While I enjoy reading about her forcing Tav to confront their feelings and whatnot, I also want her dragging Tav along to some romp to distract them from dealing with the more difficult emotions because honestly, that's what Karlach does herself.

The very fact that she refuses to go back to Avernus, even for a short while, shows she would rather not face her fears than prevent her friends' grief. In this instance, her terror at confronting her situation trumps the care and concern she has for her friends. You can argue that she has the same attitude when you ask her about the Soul Coins. "There's no saving them and planning long-term, so we might as well use them for instant gratification and a momentary boost." She would rather not think about things than fix them. She's the "this is fine" dog.

If we go back to her time as Gortash's bodyguard, we can see this as well. Gortash built his fortune and reputation through arms dealing (and slaving), so it's hard to believe Karlach thought she was protecting an innocent guy who would never hurt anyone. We know she's insightful and not at all dumb. She most likely knew his business was shady, but choose to keep taking his coin because she was young, orphaned, and needed the money. The players never think about her complicity in any of his crimes because that would mar our image of her as a self-sacrificing precious cinnamon roll. There had to have been smoke everywhere and she went "this is fine" until she got consumed by the flames and couldn't escape.

I still think Karlach is ultimately a good person. My point here is that for a barbarian who's supposed to charge headlong into their problems, she is extremely avoidant and that part of her personality seems to be largely glossed over. It's defeatist and cowardly to accept death when there are clearly ways she could keep living. I would have liked Karlach's story to have emphasized that, making it clearer to the player that sometimes we do have to make that choice to go back into the Hell that traumatized us if we want to fully live our lives, because avoiding it and letting yourself explode means the devil wins.

I don't blame her for not wanting to. It's a very scary thing to do, and my primary coping mechanisms are all avoidant as well. But I hate how characters have dialogue in-game about how Karlach's so brave to face her death when the real radical act of courage would have been fighting to live.

[mother-above]

All the Time in the World

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel and his family are reminded that even fae don't have all the time in the world.

*I've made some edits! (nothing major)

Warnings: fluff, angst, death, swearing, grief (this is my formal apology to you all)

*masterlist*

Everything happens for a reason.

Those are five words people say to cope and rationalize why bad or good things happen. Azriel, Rhysand, Cassian, Morrigan, and Amren are no strangers to those five words. They thought about it daily, sometimes it was their first thought after waking up. You were always in their dreams, sometimes frolicking in a meadow, they wouldn’t see your face, but they knew your body, how your hair blew in the wind, how your arms lifted to feel the sun's warmth. Sometimes you were the main character of their dreams. So vibrant and full of life while tugging their hands to make them hurry and keep up with you whether it was running errands in Velaris or on a mission.

Sometimes, they would whisper, “Everything happens for a reason” before they slept. They would go about their day and even if it were filled with love, happiness, and laughter there was always a missing piece, a void that could never be filled. 

You were an enigma. So powerful, so enchanting, the nobles in Hewn City knew to keep you hidden away. But someone like you could never go unnoticed, especially when you could manipulate the elements. You’d been surrounded by earth and rock all your life. You just knew there was something more, you felt it when you touched the granite walls, the stone told you of the sun beating down, of the wind and water that battered the outer layers of the mountain. 

Fae with your powers could never be contained for too long, the Court of Nightmares was a prison you were bound to escape. The nobles trained you like a warrior, Keir hoped to use you to usurp the High Lord, but he acted too late, your power had grown.

When Rhysand became High Lord, he caught wind of your presence, a flourishing beacon of power trapped underground. Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian took it upon themselves to investigate where this power was coming from. When they landed on the mountain, they were met by a female who paid no attention to the Illyrian warriors. 

Your head was thrown back as you savored the hot kiss of the sun for the first time. Around you was granite rubble, and when they looked fifty feet to the right, a gaping hole came straight from the mountain's depths. You had dug yourself out and the Illyrians had no idea how.

Finally acknowledging the three brothers, you eyed the male with violet irises. “They told me your name is Rhysand. That I have to kill you.”

Azriel and Cassian’s siphons flared as they drew their weapons and pointed them menacingly toward you.

That was the first time you met the young High Lord and his brothers. All it took was for Rhysand to read your unguarded mind to see what you are and how you’ve been raised. To Azriel and Cassian’s surprise, Rhysand invited you to live with them. Shortly after that, you were acquainted with Morrigan who you’ve seen around before, and this ancient creature named Amren. The six of you became a family that supported each other through thick and thin. Under their care, you developed your powers and could manipulate nature's elements in any way you could imagine. 

Your type of power has never been seen before and you were dangerous only when you needed to be. Despite your rough upbringing, you were good, you were the sunshine that graced every room you entered. The only unstable part of you was how your moods could sway the environment around you, like the time that idiotic male cheated on you, and landslides affected the mountains around Illyria. On your 250th birthday, the inner circle threw you a surprise party and you were so happy, the next few days were unusually warm and sunny for the middle of winter. There was also that time Cassian pissed you off during training for pushing you too hard, a bolt of lightning and thunder cracked right above the House of Wind’s training ring. You don’t think you’ve heard Cassian scream like that before.

One would think the High Lords of the other courts hated you, but they didn’t. Yes, you were a threat because you were another powerful individual who was loyal to Rhysand, but they couldn’t hate you, it was impossible to. Amren credited you for being the reason the other courts haven’t waged war on the Night Court, your presence was soothing, and you had a way to compromise like no other. You were such a good courtier that Beron tolerated you. It also didn’t help that your laughter was infectious, Thesan and Helion made sure you were invited to every big event.

You were accomplished, sociable, and a capable elemental manipulator but you always thought your greatest achievement was bringing Azriel out of his shell. At first, the shadowsinger was apprehensive about you living with them but that quickly changed, his shadows found you interesting and you coaxed him out of the shadows. In a way, he felt obligated to help you, all your life was spent in Hewn City and even then, you were more isolated than Morrigan. He knew you were stuck in the darkness, and he wanted to show you the light. At the time, he didn’t know he needed you more.

Azriel loved to replay the memory of taking you on your first flight tour of Velaris, you gripped his neck and shoulders as you shrieked in glee. He would never be able to forget how your scent overwhelmed him that day, pine and cherry blossoms forever embedded in his consciousness. He landed by the Sidra, and you leaped from his arms and headed straight to the water. You slipped the sandals off and dipped your toes into the cool water and a wide grin spread across your face. 

“Azriel! Come here!”

He obliged, he found it difficult to say no to you. He stood by the bank and found comfort from the sound of rushing water. All was calm until water splashed his shirt, and his eyes snapped open to see you with a mischievous smile, perfect spheres of water floated above your hands. With a flick of your wrist, they collided with his body, the water sticking his black shirt onto his muscular torso. You had approximately 2 seconds to admire him before a large splash headed your way. Azriel grinned as he watched you stand there in shock. 

“Don’t start things you can’t finish,” smirked Azriel. 

Then the water fight started and the two of you never gave up, it was elemental magic versus a strapping warrior. You called a truce and both of you walked to the townhouse soaking wet, Mor wouldn’t let you into the house till you stopped dripping so you and Azriel sat on the front steps and watched faeries of all kinds pass by. Azriel caught himself smiling at you whenever you talked, he felt safe with you, like you would never judge him for his scars or dark past. He found it easy to talk to you, you never pressured him to talk like his brothers and Mor would do. Over time, one glance was all it took for you to understand what he needed.

The two of you danced around each other for decades, neither of you brave enough to take the next step. You saw Rhysand and Cassian as your brothers but when it came to Azriel, it felt different, there was unspoken tension, a different love that ran deep and made you blush. Every time he brought a female home, jealousy filled you and the clouds became grey and stormy. Azriel felt the same way when you started dating. No one ever stuck for more than a few months, but he hated every one of the males, they would never be good enough for you. What stung the most was Azriel didn’t think he was good enough for you either. 

One day, you and Morrigan were sitting at the table having breakfast. She remembers this day so clearly because she had never seen you blush that color red. Azriel stopped by to eat a banana before training, Morrigan watched you not so discreetly check Azriel out in his Illyrian leathers. When he was done eating, Azriel threw you a wink before he bounded up the stairs to the training ring.

“Have you guys fucked yet?”

You choked on the yogurt causing you to have a coughing fit. “Mor!” you hissed. “Why would you ask that?”

“The two of you work well together, you understand each other.”

You shrugged as you drank water. “He’s my best friend, how else am I supposed to act around him?”

Mor looked at you incredulously. “Do best friends check each other out? Give each other massages after a long mission? Lay their heads on each other’s laps when they read? Kiss each other on the cheek constantly? Fall asleep together on the couch? Do they-”

“Okay!” you exclaimed. “You’ve made your point!”

Your cheeks and ears were cherry red, they burned as you stared at your breakfast.

“The two of you are single right now. I think you should tell him how you feel. Azriel… is Azriel, I think he’s too scared to make the first move, he’s always been more insecure,” said Mor. 

“What if he says no and I ruin our entire relationship?”

Mor looked at your beautiful features and softly laughed. “He would be lying to himself.”

A week later, you finally dared to talk to Azriel about your feelings. He was standing on the balcony nursing a glass of whiskey, staring at the distant storm clouds. You leaned against the railing and looked at him, your heart pounding.

“Are you okay?” Azriel focused on you, his eyes scanning for anything amiss. 

You breathed deeply and fully turned to him. “Azriel… you’re my best friend and I wouldn’t want to change a thing, but I want more and… I think you do too.”

Azriel stared at you, his eyes wide as he tried to convince himself that this wasn’t a dream. 

“Oh, gods. You don’t feel the same way and I just ruined everything, haven’t I?” Your hands covered your face as you spun around to make a run for it.

Scarred hands clamped down on your shoulders and moved you to face him. Gently peeling your hands away from your cherry-red face, he smiled as his hands cupped your cheek. “You didn’t give me time to process.” 

Your lips parted in shock. “So you want more?”

Azriel leaned closer to you, his breath blowing across your face. “I want to be with you.”

Going on your toes, you met him halfway. He remembered how soft your lips were, how you tasted like the wine you had been drinking to gather your courage. Your arms wound around his neck to pull him in closer, his large hands grabbed your waist and lifted you to sit on the railing.

A giggle stopped him from kissing you. “I might fall!”

Azriel’s arms wrapped around your body. “Then I’ll catch you.”

You beamed at him and Azriel’s heart felt full, you were the light he had been chasing all his life. He pressed his lips against yours and you melted against him, a small moan of contentment escaped your lips and Azriel grinned. He needed to hear that sound from you again.

“Ahem.”

You leaned to the side to see Amren smirking at the two of you. “Fucking finally. I thought we’d have to wait two hundred more years for this to happen.”

Azriel growled. “Is there a reason why you’re interrupting us?”

“High Lord Kallias sent out a distress message, I don’t know what kind of emergency so be prepared for anything. We leave in 5 minutes.”

Azriel let out a frustrated sigh and laid his head on your shoulder. “Such bad timing.”

Your fingers went to stroke the hairs on the nape of his neck. “I know,” you purred. “We can finish this when we get back. We’ll talk more about our future and what we want.”

Azriel lifted himself and looked in your gaze, so warm and full of life. The pad of his thumb ran over your bottom lip and that’s when he felt it. That golden thread unraveled itself and snapped into place. He was startled as he looked at you, your features oblivious to the mate bond.

He blinked as he realized it had yet to snap for you. You looked at him with so much adoration that for once in his life, he didn’t doubt your feelings. Your eyebrows scrunched when you noticed a shift within Azriel.

“Nothing,” he said as he pecked your cheek and helped you down from the railing. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Okay, we have all the time in the world,” you said as you tugged his arm to get ready. 

How the enemy was able to transport a Middengard worm to Winter Court still made faeries scratch their heads to this day. There were also enemy soldiers to worry about, but Rhysand ordered you to help with the monster. According to Rhysand, it was the largest he had ever seen, and its skin was thick and impenetrable. It was getting closer to the city and no matter what the courts shot at it, it never faltered. You joined Kallias and the other fae with ice-manipulation powers to do anything to get the worm away from the city. You slammed a foot down onto the ground and the frozen earth shot upwards hundreds of feet into the sky, creating a barrier for the city. 

Kallias grinned at you, and you threw him a wink, you loved using your powers. Running full force toward the worm, you conjured large razor-sharp spears from the snow and made them jut out in the ground in hopes the Middengard would impale itself. It turned out you all severely underestimated the creature, it grew in height and then slammed itself onto the earth allowing it to burrow and move underground. Your jaw dropped in horror as it quickly made its way to the city, the wall you built would not be able to withstand its power. You looked at the gleaming lights of the city and your heart dropped. There were millions of faeries in danger. 

Your mind whirred as you looked at all your options and the only thing you could think of didn’t look too good for you.

Rhysand could still remember the panic he felt when his Daemati talons slammed against your thoughts. You were so concentrated; your mental walls were halfway down. 

Please don’t do that! It’s too dangerous, there must be another way.

Rhysand’s fae sight let him see your soft smile, your eyes already lined with silver tears.

That’s a whole city, Rhys. you would do the same. Thank you for everything. Tell Azriel I love him.

Rhysand started screaming your name but that didn’t stop you from sprinting toward the Middengard and getting as close as you could. The moment you could detect the worm underneath you, you let out a strangled scream as you used every ounce of your power. Your arms were lifted and when your hands tightened into fists, the earth around you and the worm caved inwards. The giant earth wall that blocked the city crumbled down as you used all the materials available to bury yourself and the Middengard into the depths of Hel. 

High Lord Kallias will never forget the sounds of your family screaming for you, he could still hear it in his nightmares. He remembered Morrigan throwing up and the spymaster dumbfoundedly staring into the soil you disappeared in. 

*** 

Your death shattered the inner circle’s life, they were never able to recover your body making them feel even worse. It was too deep into the earth; the High Lords couldn’t even sense the Middengard worm.  Amren had stayed behind to guard Velaris, so she was the last one to find out. No one had ever seen Amren cry but when her family winnowed in without you, looking shaken and pale, she crumpled onto the floor and let out a wail that shook the townhouse. Rhysand built a beautiful memorial for you by the edge of the city, and upon Azriel’s request, it was placed near the Sidra. 

Everything had turned upside down. It rained for a whole month, and it certainly helped no one's mood. The day you died became a court holiday, the people of Velaris mourned you, even some in Illyria and Hewn City. Every year on your death anniversary, the High Lords came to visit your memorial, they brought flowers or expensive bottles of wine that you liked. Tamlin never showed up, but he always sent a courtier to deliver an extravagant wreath made of spring flowers bursting with color. You had once complimented the peonies that lined his estate and he never forgot about it. 

Every time Azriel opened his eyes in the morning, he wished for sleep because, in his dreams, you were still alive. Your favorite phrase in the world was “Everything happens for a reason”, it helped you cope with your childhood and the inner circle had adopted it as their mantra. Azriel hated it. He refused to believe that what happened to you was written in the stars. He hated that you had to sacrifice yourself. Why you? Why his mate? He had loved you for so long yet so much time was wasted on others when you could have been together. The pain he felt when the golden thread disappeared was unlike anything he had felt before. Azriel thought he was dead until he saw the earth cave in with you in the middle of it. His shadows were screaming but he was numb, he couldn’t believe you were gone just like that.

Azriel swore the birds had stopped singing in Velaris, his family thought he was crazy but then they noticed it too. There were these songbirds that sang every morning and if you heard it, you whistled back and they’d respond. It was like the natural world knew you were gone. Life without you was dull, the stars didn’t shine as bright, and the sky wasn’t as blue as it used to be. 

Like most things, time was the only remedy. With each year that passed, the pain slowly became bearable. Azriel was encouraged to see other people after a hundred years had gone by but nothing went past the first date, no one was ever going to compare to you. He couldn’t touch another female without feeling sick.

The inner circle had gone through so much since you died, and like clockwork, Cassian went to your memorial to sit and give you updates every week.

 ‘Rhys is stuck Under The Mountain. Azriel is being a pain in the ass about going to Illyria. Rhys came back from Under The Mountain. Azriel misses you. Rhys found his mate but she’s with Tamlin. Feyre threw a shoe at Rhysand. He met Feyre’s sisters. We miss you. A war with Hybern was coming. I have a suspicion my mate is Nesta Archeron. The High Lords are having a meeting and we all wish you could be there to contain everyone. I was forced to see Bryaxis, again.’

Sometimes Cassian came with other members of the family but most of the time, it was just him talking to you. 

One day, Rhysand brought Feyre to your memorial, and she gasped at how beautiful it was. Using his Daemati powers, he showed his mate his most precious memories of you. You had befriended a beast in the mountains of Illyria. It was a horned creature and Rhysand had almost obliterated the monster but your delighted laugh stopped him. Yes, the beast was running at you but Rhys failed to notice your outstretched arms and bright grin. You were never scared. 

Feyre squeezed Rhy’s hand as she admired the fresh flowers and gifts that were placed around.

“She was so beautiful and so kind-hearted. I wish I met her.”

“Me too,” he whispered. “You would have loved her.”

The war with Hybern was brutal. If you were still there, you would have tipped the scale and Prythian would have been winning from the get-go. Amren had to unbind herself from her body to save everyone, she was scared in her last few moments but then remembered how selfless and brave you were. The war was over but then Rhysand passed as well, sacrificing himself for the greater good, your last words to him ringing in his ears. 

Feyre begged the High Lords to revive her mate and they did, her anguish reminding them of the loss they all felt when a certain Night Court member had passed. With Rhysand alive, he nodded toward the Cauldron, telling them that Amren was there too. Morrigan and Varian fished her out and Amren came out sputtering and desperately trying to gain control of her body. She kept coughing up water, so she furiously pointed to the Cauldron. 

“What is it?” cried out Morrigan.

Silver tears started streaming down Amren’s face as she attempted to crawl. “I saw her, she’s in there!” she said desperately. “Get her out before she drowns!”

Every faerie looked at her like she was crazy. Who else would be in there? 

Her head swiveled around until she locked into Azriel’s gaze. “She is in there.”

Azriel’s legs carried him toward the Cauldron and not a second later, Morrigan joined him as they blindly reached in. Morrigan started swearing as she felt a limp arm in there, finding the torso, Azriel helped heave the body out of the Cauldron. The female's body thrashed as she coughed out all the water she had swallowed. The High Lords and their courts burst into chaos when Azriel brushed the female’s hair off her face.

Still dressed in Illyrian leathers, there you lay sprawled and gasping for air.

a/n: thank you for reading! please let me know what thought in the comments! xoxo

Part 2