#thank you for your POV!

[valyrfia]

RE: this ask

Sorry about to go off on one, gender studies and online fan culture from an academic standpoint is a special interest of mine because being film and literature student wasn't annoying enough (participatory culture studies my beloved) 

From a general standpoint, I think the reason M/M ships in fiction have always been more popular is because male characters are historically more developed and complex. I think it’s only in recent years have their been an influx of popular F/F ships, with the added development of women on screen (e.g Clarke and Lexa, Kara and Lena, Regina and Emma, Nancy and Robin) - I think there is also a point to be made this has coincided with gender expression, genderqueerness and more general knowledge of being outside the typical gender spectrum. 

I can’t explicitly say that being in M/M fandom spaces encouraged my personal discovery of being transmasc but it certainly helped to have an avenue where I could project onto these “male” characters and see myself in them. I was so uncomfortable in my own body and what I didn’t know at the time as dysphoria, I can see why I didn’t go for F/F ships. 

There are of course a lot of “fandom elders” but young (early to late teens) afab people do make up a large bulk of it and I get why  it may be easier for them to fixate on M/M ships as a, sort of method of exploring their own sexuality and gender expression. F/F ships may hit too close to home and F/M ships are what they are trying to escape from so it leaves M/M ships to project onto. Which, unfortunately then can become warped by the persons own comphet and/or binary ideas about gender. 

A male character may have more stereotypically “feminine” traits (in terms of interests or emotional reactions) and I can see why people who also have those traits would project there own insecurities onto them, reinforcing the feminisation of the male character but not being comfortable enough in your own gender expression to genderbend the character or write them as trans. 

It’s the same reason I think mafia romance, dark romance etc etc is so popular with cishet women because they can read about a fantasy where instead of the very real every day misogyny and violence they face leading to abuse, assault and death, it brings “positives” ; protected, loved, a happy relationship. 

Which, side note. I think this has A Lot to do with y/n, self insert fics becoming “cringe”. Because, I think a lot of people just want to fuck/date a character and feel like they can’t write a self insert anymore, so just project massively onto one character, leading to a lot of these issues. I don’t think Tony Stark/Peter Parker would be as popular as it is if people just let young women write their self insert fic about being Tony Stark’s sugar baby and then we wouldn’t have the wildly mischaracterised version of Peter Parker that we do! 

But, all this being said. I’m talking about fiction. Dean Winchester isn’t actually affected if people online only talk about him in a stereotypically “female” way. 

RPF is a different kettle of fish (and I’m not going in RPF ethics that’s different - I have no issues with rpf creators/consumers to be clear, I am one) because a real person does become affected. Even if you are keeping your fan works and discussions to private spaces, it can leach over into how you speak about the actual person. That’s where it becomes so incredibly important to remember that your RPF version of celebrities are just as fictional as Dean Winchester is. 

sorry I used mr. supernatural as an example, 13 year old me is still alive and kicking in my head somewhere. 

I love to hear your perspective on it with a trans worldview (and academic credentials), and I do agree that that might be a big driver of some young people only wanting to engage with MLM fic and feeling uncomfortable with WLW fic. You've brought up so many great points so I'll try and address them all.

I can add the perspective of a lesbian who was closeted for the first two decades of my life, came out less than five years ago, and still struggles on and off with comphet now. MLM fics in my teens were a way to consume queer content and relationships without having to think about the implications of enjoying consuming WLW content, and I think that's true for a lot of young closeted teens so it's no surprise that some comphet/hetnorm/cisnorm stuff bleeds through there because it's a framework the authors haven't managed to detach themselves from yet.

But yeah, I agree the issue lies with people wanting characters to be self-inserts partially so that they can experience sex, sexuality, and romance without any of the hang ups of thinking about patriarchy. And I agree with your solution: make y/n fics cool again! The ability we have to hallucinate while we read is magic! You can put YOURSELF in as a character's love interest, how cool is that?

Ultimately, yeah. There's nothing wrong with RPF as long as it isn't actually affecting the person that the RPF is based off, but I've seen a lot of takes escaping containment so to say (ie. leaving this website) with takes about the actual racers so obviously picked up through RPF. The main culprits are Charles, Lando, Max in my experience.

[boygirlctommy]

i love the bit from oct 17 2020 when tommy and quackity trapped wilbur in a cobblestone box to keep him from pressing the button... wilbur punching through the blocks with his bare hand to try to get to the button... tommy frantically replacing the block in front of him yelling for quackity to do something... the moment when tommy stops, blocks the exit, and tells wilbur to do it. press the button. but then theyd die with him. quackitys like "wait, wait-" but tommy holds his ground and wilbur. ohh wilbur. "why'd you have to make it so hard?"

[spiderthread]

why don't you let yourself be gently peeled off the ground and tossed across the back of a horse like a sack of potatoes by the most handsome man in china, then maybe you'll calm down

(+ bonus:)

[iaminjail]

idc if he killed all those people he was swag as hell while doing it

[queerweewoo]

Eddie stumbles from his tangled bedsheets to go take his nightly piss—alarm clock beaming its 4:03 AM display directly onto his sleep-wrecked retinas, possibly for all of eternity—because being past the age of thirty is all fun and games. 

Bare feet padding as quietly as an exhausted still half-asleep one hundred and seventy-five pounds not far off six foot guy can manage, he's just about to pass the living room when he hears... something.  

He stops. Holds his breath. Listens. 

Buck is mumbling, talking in his sleep.

“And, man, I (something something) you. Because you always listen to me; never make me feel bad for (something something), always make me feel like I'm worth sticking around for, and I (something something) for that, Eddie.”

Buck is dreaming. Buck is dreaming about Eddie. Buck is dreaming about Eddie making Buck feel wanted. 

Eddie smiles—and before realising what he's doing he is in his living room, leaning over his couch, leaning over Buck, and pressing a soft kiss to Buck's birthmark as if he's done this a thousand times before. 

Buck wakes, blinks, smiles sleepily back at Eddie, cute as a bug, and is then craning his neck to peck his own soft kiss to the small mole underneath Eddie's left eye. 

With the speed of a gunshot or a lightning strike, Eddie suddenly doesn't know why the hell Buck is sleeping on his couch instead of in his bed, or why the hell he hasn't had the guts to tell Buck that he is so, so in love with him—especially after Buck split with Tommy a few weeks ago and started testing the water with Eddie (when Eddie grew a moustache and styled his hair a little differently and suggested they go to that gay club down on Burbank together to drink stupid amazing pink cocktails and dance the night away as if they didn't have a care in the world and—) 

Then, just as fast, he's thinking fuck it, and la vida es demasiado corta, and deciding to remedy the latter—with the hope it might help with the former—by saying, “It's ass o'clock in the morning, Buck, and I really fucking love you.” 

Eddie's best friend is at once wide a-fucking-wake, eyes the size of abuela’s best Talavera dinner plates, mouth doing a pretty great impression of a guppy as he gawps up at Eddie. 

There's a concerningly long moment of silence, before Buck says, “Oh.” 

Like a champ, Eddie chooses to ignore the way his heart is trying to relocate to somewhere deep in his gut, because he's had to get pretty damn good at that, what with everything that has happened in his loco life, and he just smiles again, a little dimmer, a little more tight-lipped, while nodding his head and rolling his eyes in a yeah, silly ol’me, huh? sort of way, and is about to push himself upright with the hand gripping the top of the couch so that he can drag his sorry ass back to his bedroom and get a tension headache from not allowing himself to cry and getting zero sleep for what will probably be the rest his life— 

That's when Buck reaches out, a big hand grabbing at Eddie's waist. 

Eddie's gaze tears itself away from those beautiful Talavera eyes that are shining brightly in the thick darkness of his sleeping house, settling where Buck's hand is holding him in place, where the contact blazes; not like fire but like the ever-burning candle flame that's lived behind Eddie's ribcage for the past seven or so years.

“Eds, I’m—I wasn't, like, awake enough to, uh, to, to, to process that? And the thing is—” 

“Hey, no, Buck, it's okay, you don't need to explain.” Eddie's heart is falling, falling, falling, right to the very soles of his feet. “I shouldn't have just blurted that out at you, without any preamble—

“Eddie.”

“—and I definitely shouldn't have bothered you while your were—”  

“Eddie." 

“—sleeping, I just—

“Eddie, will you shut up!”  

Eddie's teeth clack as he dutifully swallows the rest of his rambling. 

“Can you please just listen to me for a sec?” Buck pleads.  

“I—yeah, Buck, sure. I'm sorry, ‘course. Sorry.”

Buck takes a breath. “You don't gotta be sorry, Eds, I was just trying to say: The thing is, I have said a lot of dumb things in my life—like a lot—but me saying ‘oh’ to you telling me that you love me? Yeah, no, that has to top the bill. Dumbest fucking thing that's ever left these lips.” Eddie can't help it when his gaze flickers to the pretty culprits; it's an involuntary action by this point. “Because,” and Buck is now licking at them—tongue wet and lush against plush red—before he's honest to Dios batting those beautiful blonde eyelashes of his right in Eddie's helpless direction, then breathing his next words right into Eddie's mouth as he leans up and pulls Eddie into him at the same time, fanning the flame in Eddie's chest by saying, “I really fucking love you too, Eds.”  

And then he's kissing Eddie again—only this time he's pressing his lips into Eddie's, and Eddie is right there with him, kissing Buck back as if they've done this a thousand times before. 

When Buck has to pull away, presumably to prevent a crick in his neck—Eddie cannot fathom even half of another good reason—Eddie goes to follow him down, so eager after so long, wanting to cover the entirety of Buck's body with the entirety of his own. But Buck is shaking his head, and saying, “No, wait, Eddie.”  

Before Eddie's heart can start digging its way down through the carpet and floorboards and foundations and dirt, to some place that resembles an old forgotten underground well, Buck is asking, “Can I come to bed with you?”  

Eddie has to will his heart from beating right out of his chest, then, with just how much happiness is bursting its way in there; with Buck bursting in, with all of his love, sharing it with Eddie, just like everything else in their lives.   

Eddie feels his cheeks flush when he says, “That's, uh—well, honestly, Buck? You'd kinda be making my best recurring dream come true, if you did.”

“Well, you shot my recurring dream down in flames by not listening to me for the very first time in seven literal years and talking right over my heartfelt love confession—even if I did still your line,” Buck tuts.“ You're a monster, Eddie Diaz,” he teases.  

Eddie pays back Buck's grin with added interest, because it's as infectious and unstoppable as the common cold.

“Firstly, you had just answered 'oh' when I told you that I loved you, and secondly, does this monster not get a pass seeing as we just got off a clusterfuck of a twenty-four and it's ass o'clock in the morning and I had presumed you were letting me down gently?” 

“Absolutely not, Firefighter Diaz—because you should never presume when it comes to a Buckley,” Buck follows that with a pointed look. “But, I might let you make it up to me,” he grins again, a hopeful sort of thing, “by agreeing to be the teaspoon to my tablespoon in your big, comfortable bed… Whadda ya say to that?” 

“I say yes sir, Firefighter Buckley,” Eddie agrees instantly, obviously, as he bends down and scoops Buck up and over his shoulder and into a very appropriate Evacuation Lift, Buck squealing hilariously when Eddie sets off for his bedroom at a pretty impressive pace, if you were to ask Eddie.

And after they've sunk beneath the tangled bedsheets at ass o'clock in the morning (4.12 AM to be precise), and as Buck wraps the entirety of his long self around the entirety of Eddie, in Eddie's bed—their bed, now, hopefully—Eddie breathes a full breath for the first time all summer, and allows himself to love and be loved.  

His next big breath is a couple of weeks later when Christopher comes home, rolling eyes at Eddie and Buck after they tell him they're together, merely giving them a finally! in that patented teenage tone before heading to his room to set up his gaming station, like he'd never been away.  

Oh, and in case anyone is wondering, it turns out Eddie really, really loves being the little spoon—almost as much as he and Buck love each other. 

.

(unedited; pls be forgiving!)

[theophagie]

Live reaction to the cloaca

[maxphilippa]

paper bag

[maesonc-artistic-adventures]

I’ve been scrolling through some of the Linked Universe tags the past few days and every so often I’ve come across your art, mostly of Warriors and Time and I just wanted to say I absolutely love it! Your art style is really cool and I love the way you colour the pieces you draw, it’s very nice! I hope you’re having an excellent day!

Thank you so much!! I’ve had so much fun drawing Warrior and Time shenanigans and it’s really helped push my art wrt character interactions

I’m so glad you’re enjoying it! 🥰🥰🥰

.

Time: So, what’s going on here?

Warriors: Not sure, but it definitely seems like something you should deal with.

[luxaofhesperides]

Post-Apocalypse + Soulmate AU ; requested by @burr-burr!

When Danny was a kid, he used to imagine how the world would end. It was never a zombie apocalypse or the fallout of a nuclear war, but the death of the sun, the expansion of their star in death that would swallow their planet whole, leaving no survivors.

It would have been nicer than the post-apocalyptic world he stands in now, knowing that it’s his fault the world has ended. 

He’s still struggling to wrap his head around it. To understand that all of this is his fault because he cheated on one test, desperate to pass after being unable to study for it with how exhausting and time consuming fighting ghosts is. Everywhere he looks, there’s more destruction. His own home is rubble, with only the partially untouched Ops Center remaining to let him know that this is where he once lived.

The rest of Amity Park is in worse shape. Buildings are hollowed out, the skeletons of their foundations visible, if they still remain standing. Most homes have been burned to the ground, leaving blackened corners of walls and nothing else. The roads are cracked and difficult to walk through, as if an earthquake tore through the city. Cars are scattered along the road, overturned or left abandoned, doors still open.

Danny has yet to find any bodies. He doesn’t know if that’s a good sign or not. 

He’s only caught a few glimpses of his future self, the cause of all this, and can’t bring himself to chase after that monster. He feels sick to his stomach knowing what he’ll become. 

That monster has to be stopped. The world has already ended, but that doesn’t mean his future self can be allowed to go on like this. If there are any survivors, they need protection. They need to know they’ll be safe to try to start rebuilding, and that can only happen if his future self is dead.

Danny knows what he has to do; he has a responsibility to protect what little remains of Amity Park, and to do that, he needs to kill himself. 

But his head it spinning from the horror of the situation and his throat is tightening up the way it only does when he’s about to have a panic attack.

He needs to stop his future self, but he also can’t stay another second in the ruins of Amity Park without destroying himself.

The guilt sits heavy in his chest as he goes ghost and takes to the sky, flying blindly towards the setting sun. Danny doesn’t know where he’s going, and he doesn’t really care. He just needs to get away for a bit, until he can calm down and put together a plan of attack so he can take out his future self in one go.

He just…

He never thought he’d be a monster. But here they are.

Flying away from Amity Park reveals the truly harrowing extent to which this world has suffered under his future self’s hands. There are no intact cities or towns. Roads are broken beyond repair, highways littered with empty cars, most bridges crumbling into the rivers below them, and everything is covered in overgrowth. All signs of humanity’s careful cultivation of the world has been erased. The earth takes back what humans took from it, covering everything in green. 

There is no movement. No people. Barely any birds flying beneath him. 

What remains of the world is silence.

Danny is terrified that there’s no one left. That his future self has so thoroughly destroyed the earth that no human survivors remain. 

That gives his guidance, some idea of where to go: a big city. Any big city, really. 

He flies lower, searching for some sort of landmark, or a sign that will tell him where he’s going. A rusted over green sign farther down the road tells him that he’s 50 miles from Gotham.

Oh, Danny thinks, Maybe Batman can help me.

If anyone could survive the end of the world, it would be the superheroes, right? If anyone stands a chance at defeating his future self, it would be a superhero. Superman might have been a better choice, but Metropolis is the opposite direction and multiple states away; Danny’s not sure he can make it before his future self catches wind of him and hunts him down. 

Danny has no doubt about what would happen to him if he’s caught; there’s a reason he hasn’t seen any ghosts around, after all.

Gotham is a city of secrets and rumors. What little he’s heard of it is baffling and, frankly, insane. There’s no city in the country like it and Gothamites prefer it that way, stubbornly loving the home that will kill them. For all the manmade horrors they survive on the daily, they would be more prepared for the end of the world than anyone else. 

Gotham may be another casualty of his future self’s destruction, but it also offers him hope.

Danny follows the broken road towards Gotham, pushing himself to fly faster than he ever has before. What should have been a half hour flight is completed in fifteen minutes. 

As soon as the towering buildings of Gotham, dark and semi destroyed, come into view, Danny drops from the sky and returns to human form. The strain from pushing himself has exhausted him and he feels it like an ache in his chest, his heart twisting and trying to burst from how hard it’s beating. 

He collapses to his hands and knees and gasps for breath on the outskirts of Gotham. 

It takes a good few minutes to calm down and breathe normally, then another to gather his strength to stand up and begin walking. 

The world is eerily quiet as he enters the city, feeling the chill fall upon him as he is consumed by the shadows of tall buildings. It’s much more intact that Amity Park, but there’s no denying the destruction that still surrounds him. Buildings are empty and worn down, decaying and slowly being consumed by new growth. Burnt out husks of overturned cars fill the street, leaving Danny to carefully pick his way around them, unable to walk in a straight line. 

He feels like the only person in the world. He feels like he’s being watched by a hungry eyes. 

Danny shivers and walks faster. 

The deeper he goes into the city, the more he starts to hope that he’s not alone in this world. There’s small signs of life: the smell of smoke, recently burned, certain streets cleaned up, makeshift walls constructed from rubble to block access to certain areas of each block.

He swears he can see people move above his head, but anytime he looks up, the windows of every building are empty. 

“Batman,” he whispers to himself, “I just need to find Batman.”

He turns a corner and continues walking. Apartment buildings give way to stores and businesses, all with their windows broken and nothing on the shelves. Then the buildings end abruptly and he’s left staring at an overgrown park that resembles a jungle more than it does a part of the city.

The scent of something sweet lingers in the air. Fruit, perhaps, or flowers. 

If he was left in the aftermath of an apocalypse, he would go to where he could find growing food. If there’s anyone left in Gotham, he’s willing to bet they’re in here, surviving off of what food can be grown in the confines of the park. 

Danny crosses the road and takes three steps onto the grass before someone appears beside him and points an electrified baton at him.

“Who are you?” they demand, eyes hidden behind a cracked helmet, but the bottom half of their face is visible, revealing scars crossing on dark skin. 

Danny takes a step back, eyeing the electric baton warily, and lifts his hands to show he means no harm. “Danny. I came from out of town. I was hoping to find people here.”

“You don’t look like you’ve been traveling.”

His clothes are clean and intact and he has none of the world-weariness that weighs down this Gothamite. Danny winces, and says, “My situation is kinda complicated. But I did just get here. I’m looking for help, actually. Do you know where I could find Batman?”

There’s a long moment of tense silence, then he hears a quiet sigh and the helmet comes off. An exhausted looking man looks at him with one blind eye, turned a milky white, and his voice is low and stricken as he says, “Batman’s dead. But maybe I can help you.”

“Batman’s dead?!” Danny repeats, shocked.

“Yeah. Sacrificed himself in one of the last times Phantom attacked Gotham. Got me and Nightwing out of that encounter alive. We’re really the only heroes left in Gotham, not that there’s much need anymore with everyone trying to survive.”

Phantom killed Batman. His future self killed Batman. 

Danny feels sick to his stomach.

“Oh,” he manages to say. 

The man’s expression softens. “Don’t worry, we’ll help you as much as we can. Why don’t you come on in? Ivy can get you some food if you’re hungry.”

Danny nods numbly as he follows the man deeper into the park. He walks with ease, taking paths that only become visible when he walks them, leaving Danny to follow close behind. It takes some time before he realizes that the plants are moving out of their way just enough that they don’t trip, and when he looks back, the path is covered again, hidden from sight.

He’s taken to the heart of the forest, where the trees shift to the side to reveal a large encampment of survivors all living together. Beds are strung up as hammocks between trees and rope ladders dangle from branches to help people move up and down. The ground is full of small fire pits, a few in use to make make food, and sections in the back full of vegetable and herb patches, separated by berry bushes. 

The people here all look tired and worn down, but they still smile and speak in light voices, adjusted to a new life after surviving so much horror and destruction. He even spots a few people using powers, or just looking different, including one large man who looks like a crocodile. 

“Pick up another stray?” a raspy voice asks, humor lighting the tone. They both turn to see a woman with long red hair and a green tint to her skin be lowered to the ground by a vine. She’s also heavily scarred and her right arm is completely gone, replaced by a wooden limb covered in moss that moves as if it’s always been a part of her body.

“Hey Ivy,” the man greets, “I don’t think this one is staying. He came to Gotham looking for Batman.”

The words make Ivy’s gaze sharpen, and Danny feels a trickle of dread go down his spine. She’s dangerous and standing before her feels as if he’s in the mouth of a hungry beast.

“Is that so,” she says, voice flat. “How interesting. I’ll let you two talk somewhere more private.” Her gaze flicks to the side, and when Danny turns to look, he can see some of the people in the encampment observing them warily, bodies tense and poised to either flee or attack.

Ivy turns and the plants part for her. Danny waits for the man to begin walking before he follows, trying not to feel trapped as the plants close the path behind him. She takes them to a small pond full of water lilies, gives the man a careful look, then leaves, swallowed up by the plants.

“Is everything okay?” Danny asks hesitantly. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

“Nah, you’re good,” the man replies, “It’s just that people don’t trust me much.”

“Why? You’ve been really nice.”

The man shrugs. “My soulmate is Phantom. He’s the one responsible for doing all this and killing almost everyone we love. I didn’t know until the first time I fought him, but they hate anything to do with Phantom, including me.”

Danny’s heart stutters in his chest. This is his soulmate.

Most people don’t subscribe to the belief that they’re meant to be with their soulmate. Meeting your soulmate is rare enough that most people don’t try, and plenty of people have spoken of how important it is to have a variety of relationships, to not close yourself off for the slightest chance of meeting your soulmate. 

Danny never looked for his; he didn’t want to subject them to his parents, and then he became a halfa and gave up on all dreams of having a normal life or any relationship with someone who didn’t know he was Phantom.

And now he’s here, in a ruined future, standing before his soulmate who understandably hates him for destroying the world. 

“You’re Phantom’s soulmate,” Danny breathes. His hands are shaking. He wants to cry.

The man sighs. “Yeah. I am. Not that it’s stopped him from trying to kill me. Don’t worry, kid, I’m not working with him. I swear.”

“He’s your soulmate and he hurt you.”

“He hurt everyone,” he says, then gestures at his blind eye. “This is barely a thing compared to what he did to other heroes.”

Danny can’t find the words to expression his horror at seeing the damage he did to his own soulmate. His future self is heartless and cruel and bloodthirsty. He has to be stopped.

He doesn’t want to kill his soulmate. 

“I came here for Batman,” Danny says, “Because I thought he could help me stop Phantom.”

“That’s rough, kid. Batman couldn’t beat Phantom. I don’t think anyone can. We’ve tried, but most heroes are dead and we can’t just go out there and risk the lives of everyone here. We gotta focus on survival, not revenge.”

“I have to stop Phantom.”

“Sorry kid, but that’s a terrible idea. Don’t go out there trying to be a hero. You can stay here, alright? Ivy will get you set up and the others will help you settle in.”

Danny takes a step back and shakes his head. “No. I have to stop him. It has to be me.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I’m Phantom,” Danny whispers. 

The man immediately reaches for his electric batons again, taking a step back. “Not funny, kid,” he says with a tense voice. 

“I’m not joking. I am Phantom, just from the past. I’m not supposed to be here.”

“You’re Phantom?” the man repeats. “You. You’re just a kid, and you’re going to destroy the world one day?”

“I don’t want this to happen! That’s why I need to go back, so I can stop the event that will set me down this path. And to go back, I need to defeat the Phantom that exists here.”

“He’ll kill you, kid.”

“That still solves the problem, doesn’t it? If I die here, then he’ll never live long enough to destroy the world. He’ll die too.”

The man stares at him with cold eyes, then turns away, dropping his hands away from the batons. “Don’t turn this into a suicide mission, kid,” he says. “The Phantom who’s here isn’t you. You don’t have to pay for his crimes. Just… stay here and I’ll go fight Phantom.”

“He already hurt you,” Danny says. 

“What’s a little more hurt? I can handle it.”

“No,” Danny says firmly. He shoves away the fear and hurt in his heart and finds his strength in determination. No more running away. No more hiding. 

The timeline should not exist. He can’t hesitate at the thought of erasing this version of his soulmate from existence; he’s tired and injured and an outcast in the only community that still exists in Gotham. He deserves better. Everyone here does.

And to give them a better life, Danny needs to stop this one from ever happening.

“This is my future. It’s my responsibility. I’ll stop it and make sure this never happens. And… I’m sorry for everything I did.”

“It’s not your fault, Danny. You’re not this version of Phantom.”

That’s not at all true, since Danny’s actions lead to the end of the world, but he’s not going to argue when he’s preparing to fight a stronger, more ruthless version of himself. He takes a deep breath, then goes ghost and floats into the air. 

“Before I go,” he begins, hesitantly, “What’s your name? Since you’re apparently my soulmate.”

The man smiles sadly and answers, “Duke. If we ever meet in your time, tell that version of me to look for my mom’s favorite book.”

It’s an odd request, but if it’s important enough to be asked for, then Danny will do it. “Your mom’s favorite book,” he repeats, “Got it.”

“Take care, Danny. Good luck out there.”

Danny nods and takes one last look at his soulmate, older and worn down, stubbornly getting through each long day, and swears to make things better.

Then he flies off, ready to fight his future self and make things right again. 

. . .

He thinks of his soulmate for years after he’s back in the present. The timeline where his future self exists is gone and the world is safe, but he still remembers the pain he caused Duke. 

When the time comes to apply to universities, Danny sets his sights on Gotham. His parents take him on a trip during spring break to tour the campus, and it’s after the tour, as he wanders around on his own, that he bumps into a student walking out of a building.

“Sorry,” they both say at the same time, reaching for each other to help each other keep their balance. 

As soon as their hands meet, it’s as if lightning runs through him. From the look on the other guy’s face, he felt it to. 

This is his soulmate.

“Duke,” Danny says, amazed and disbelieving all at once. And the request crosses his mind, something he wondered about almost every night since he returned to his time. “Look for your mom’s favorite book.”

“How—?”

“I met you in the future. You asked me to take back a message for the you that’s here. So: look for your mom’s favorite book. What does that mean, by the way? I never asked.”

Duke blinks, then slowly retracts his hands from Danny’s. “My mom’s favorite book was a hand bound journal from my dad. They were soulmates and he wrote about their first year in a relationship together. It’s full of pictures, and she loved it more than anything. That message is to remind me to have faith in soulmates, to believe that something good can happen to me.”

“Oh! That’s… wow, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry into something so personal.”

Duke shrugs. “It’s fine. I needed the reminder. I would have already run away by now if you didn’t say that. You already know my name, but I think now’s a good time to introduce ourselves.”

“Right!” Danny says, flustered. He sticks his hand out, which Duke shakes with an amused smile. “I’m Danny. Fenton. I’m coming here next semester.”

“Duke Thomas. I’m a freshman here and I’d really love to get your number.”

He’s not hitting on Danny, not really, but it still makes him blush. The way Duke looks at him is full of light and laughter, so different from the exhausted and wary way he looked in the future now rewritten. 

This is what the future version of himself tried to kill. He doesn’t understand how anyone could ever hurt Duke when he’s so full of life. 

But he’s safe now. Everyone is; Danny changed the future and what lies ahead is wholly unknown to him.

The world is safe and full of promise. 

No matter what comes, Danny is sure he and Duke are going to be just fine.

[demaparbat-hp]

Even if zuko has a plan to end the war, making katara work amongst people who likely hold racism towards her and aided and supported the genocide of her people is still weird, especially since zuko benefits from the fire nations oppression of people throughout s1 when hunting the Avatar. Not good choices to make in a zutara au :/

Believe me, I've made these arguments against myself over and over again.

I know I'm putting Katara in an extremely difficult and unjust position in this AU with—from an outsider's point of view—little to no reason other than "I just wanted to see her in Fire Nation armor and kicking ass" and no consideration for the context. I'm not trying to somehow forgive nor redeem the Fire Nation's actions in war just because...well...just because. Not at all. People who've read Soundless (or any other of my wips, really) know that's not the case. On the contrary—I always do my best to see the war through a realistic, mature lense. And that includes everything that makes the Fire Nation so terrible in the first place.

That being said, there are some things I considered when deciding to make Katara side with them (even if her true motives lie elsewhere) in this AU. And they are not excuses. Just, different layers of context.

First of all, she was desperate. By this point in her life, her mother was dead, her father had left to fight the war, her brother followed behind a few years after, and she was left filling the empty spaces when, by all means, she wasn't ready for the responsibility. She had been feeling helpless and hopeless for years, and ached to do anything to help her people beyond doing chores and taking care for the children.

Let it be known that Aang's apparent betrayal comes from a place of trauma and misplaced anger on Katara's part. Much like how she put the Fire Nation's sins on Zuko's shoulders in S3. She is not on the right here, but this is her natural way to process and understand grief. There are many different aspects of her development as a child involved in how she views the Avatar—and, by extension, Aang—but more on this later.

Katara was young, and reckless, and she had just been "betrayed" by the first person who ever looked at her and saw more than the perfect caretaker she was forced to be. She was not in the right state of mind to make a decision like that and, to be honest, she couldn't have predicted the consequences. She saw a clear path to contribute to the end of the war, and by La she would take it.

On Zuko's end, you might argue that he should have known better than to let her join him and, well, you would be right. But there were many things about Katara's trauma response and state of mind that—unless he had known her for a long time—he couldn't have known. He will definitely blame himself later on, when the racism and cruelty towards Katara begins, and especially when word reaches her family at sea.

It's Katara's job to smack some sense into him from time to time and tell him that, yes, he should have tried harder to stop her (and she would probably be better off because of it) but what's done is done. And, by all means, the decision was hers to make. If anything, it's their fault, not his alone.

Now, Katara doesn't suffer the entire AU. That would just be cruel.

Zuko's crew was handpicked by Uncle Iroh, so you can expect dissidents, traitors and a few White Lotus agents who were smart enough to keep their true opinions quiet. There are...mixed opinions in that bunch, of course, but that's expected and, to be honest, rather easily dealt with. They are mostly honourable people just doing their best to end the war from the inside.

The real problem comes when they cross paths with, say, Zhao's fleet (or Hakoda's, let's be real).

And you may ask why Zuko is hunting down Aang, then, if he's secretly a goody-two-shoes himself... I'll explain that later in depth, so stay tuned.

In short, I know the decisions I've made, as a creator, are debatable at best, and downright blasfemous at worst. But they're deliberate.

I want the readers to feel conflicted about Katara's choices in this AU. I want people to have mixed opinions about the war, the (apparent lack of) morality, the characters, you name it!

I'm not trying to glorify a victim of war joining the side of the ones responsible for her people's genocide, even if it's just for show and she's actually set on destroying their government from within. Not at all.

Katara made a stupid, horrible decision, and she's going to suffer the consequences. But she's also going to fight to reach her goals, because she's stubborn like that.

I know most people may have a little trouble understanding where I'm coming from, because they don't have all the information necessary to make a full opinion.

I'm really thankful for these kind of asks. They let me explore these concepts and AUs in depth, and see what you think about them. I'm only human—my opinions are not infalible, nor The Right Ones, and this is a kind of discussion that I love to have.

So, keep the asks coming!!!

[hogans-heroes]

Branded

Crossposted on AO3

Brady POV. Inspired by discussion on this post about Gale's neck bruises.

_____________________________________________________________

There must have been something Brady could have done to stop it.

But there were some new guards now, ones that were harsher and fresher from training, who hadn’t been softened by familiarity with the prisoners, yet one was particularly brutal, with a temper quick with blows and other punishments. He had everyone on edge, and it was really only a matter of time, but why did it have to be Buck? Of course it was, though, he was always somehow in front of the other prisoners, the one to speak up or negotiate on their behalf, toeing that fragile line of mediation with his chin held high and starved-scrawny fists clenched behind his back.

They presented their requests weekly at the little deck at the entrance to the mess hall, clustering loosely as the prisoners and guard leaders talked out their needs and issues. Buck was commonly the representative speaker—certainly the most level headed choice—yet this time things had gone different. That new brutal guard towered over them, yelling and ranting and generally escalating the situation. Brady had been hanging back, eyeing the group fringes, when without warning the guard hauled off and struck Buck hard enough to make him stumble back. Before he could catch his footing, the guard seized his neck and bent him backward over the deck railing.

The small group of prisoners shouted in alarm, jostling forward on instinct, but Brady could only stand rooted to the ground, breath snatched right out of his lungs. Crank had lunged forward, nearly reaching Buck before the other guards leveled their rifles at all of them, screaming commands and forcing them to freeze in their steps, to stare in horror as the big guard growled, red in the face as he dug his fingers into Buck’s neck and pressed him farther down. Buck made a choked sound as the railing dug into his back, hands scrabbing on the man’s arm and feet slipping from under him. 

The guard shouted something else, then grabbed his pistol from its holster and jammed the barrel against the side of Gale’s head. A cold horror choked Brady and his vision tunneled, world narrowing to the hatred and rage on the man’s face as he forced his prey down and squeezed . Buck’s grip faltered. His body began to go slack, arms falling from his attacker's arm, and a scream lodged itself in Brady’s throat, limbs trembling with the need to run, to fight.

Suddenly the prisoners’s senior officer and the kommandant’s aide burst onto the scene, and rapid-fire arguing followed. One by one, the guards lowered their rifles, and after more arguing the big guard finally hauled Buck back up by the neck, and threw him off the deck. It wasn’t a big drop, only one step, but Buck still went down like a ton of bricks. His head hit the dirt and Brady flew the few yards over to him, knees skidding on the ground as he dropped beside him. Buck was coughing and wheezing—pale as a sheet—and Brady nearly vomited, but the adrenaline and newly-bubbling anger swamped all his senses as he and Crank hauled their leader to his feet.

“It’s alright,” Buck rasped, patting their frantically hovering arms even as he swayed a little. His voice was absolutely wrecked, and on either side of his neck were rapidly-darkening bruises in the shape of a thumb and fingers. 

“Fuck,” Crank hissed. “Bucky’s gonna lose his shit.”

.....

Bucky did, indeed, lose his shit.

When they entered the barracks it took barely a second for Bucky to spot them and take in the scene, eyes lasering on Gale’s bruises like a cat on the hunt. Sequences of shock, panic, then thunderous anger crossed his face and he lunged with his full height towards them, so much like an avenging angel Brady half-expected mighty, soot-covered wings to swoop out from his back. With fiery eyes he snatched Buck from them and sat him on the edge of the table.

“What happened?” he spat, the Major voice taking over. “Who did it?”

“Usual negotiations went bad,” said Crank. “New guard hit him and choked him.”

Bucky cursed viciously under his breath, which for some reason made the corner of Buck’s lips quirk into a grin. This seemed to make Bucky angrier. He could have levelled the room with it, and Brady resisted the urge to step back. 

“Was he unconscious at all?” Bucky asked.

“I don’t think fully, but he went limp for a bit.”

Brady could have sworn Bucky’s eyes went black, hands gripping the lapels of Buck’s coat. Buck swayed a little, lifting a hand to rub his neck, and Bucky’s gaze darted back to him. One side of Buck’s hair was messed up a little from where the gun had been shoved, and Brady had to lean on the nearest bunk to stop the room from spinning.

“He had him at gunpoint,” he said, voice dazed to his own ears.

“What do you mean he had him at gunpoint?” Bucky snapped.

“He had a pistol against his head alright?” Brady burst out, vision blurring. He vaguely heard Buck muttering it’s alright before DeMarco appeared from nowhere, grabbing Brady’s arm and pulling him out the door into the barrack hallway. He closed the door behind them and firmly but gently pushed Brady against the wall, stepping close with his hands gripping his shoulders. 

“Breathe, Johnny.”

Brady choked, then sucked in a breath, trying to keep the rolling panic at bay. He had seen other men shot in the camp, gunned down as an afterthought by guards who hardly needed a reason, but it could have been Buck, it could have been Buck , it very nearly was, and the image of his gentle friend going limp as the guard crushed his neck had seared painfully into his mind. 

“ Johnny ,” DeMarco begged, hands now gripping either side of Brady’s head. “It’s ok, just breathe.”

“Sorry,” Brady forced out, scrubbing his face roughly, but DeMarco shook his head.

“Don’t be. It was horrible, no one will get over it,” he said, and it made Brady pause.

They wouldn’t, would they? Of course Bucky wouldn’t—if he wasn’t unhinged before he certainly would be now, and Brady felt a spike of sick terror at the thought—and Buck would act like he was alright, but the glassy sheen on his eyes would get thicker and he would become even quieter, walking like his own body was too heavy to bear. 

DeMarco swallowed, eyes understanding, but before he could say anything a panicked shout came from the other room. They bolted back in to find Bucky’s face painted with raw fear and Buck draped limp against him.

“He’s…he’s not…” Bucky panted. “Get the doc!”

DeMarco ran out, and without being conscious of moving Brady found himself at Bucky’s side, helping him lift Buck into the nearest bunk. Buck was unresponsive, eyes half closed and head rolling a little as they laid him down, and Bucky’s hands shook where they gripped his body. His expression shuttered, jaw clenched and lips pressed together as his chest heaved with breaths he struggled to control. 

With aching lungs Brady grasped him by the collar and gently pulled him down, tucking Bucky's head under his chin, and Bucky made a keening sound that stabbed Brady’s gut. He held him like that for a while—let him gasp brokenly into Brady’s chest with his hands still fisted in Buck’s coat—until Brady was more or less sure he wouldn’t shatter into irreparable pieces on the dirty floor.

When Bucky finally, hesitantly, pulled back, his eyes were wet and he released one hand from Buck to scrub at them, schooling his face back into composure with disarrayed curls falling over his forehead. He looked like such a lost little boy that Brady’s heart cracked again. 

“He’s gonna be alright,” Brady murmured. 

Bucky nodded, inhaling a deep breath and unable to meet Brady’s gaze.

......

The “doc” gave Gale more or less a clean bill of health. The bruising wasn’t too bad, probably no damage to the trachea, but in Buck’s weak state even a small time deprived of oxygen would take a toll. He just had to rest. He regained coherence fairly quickly and was fussed over by everyone in the barrack until nightfall. By lights out the tension and panic hadn’t quite faded, but eventually they all settled, dropping off to sleep one by one. 

All except the two majors, and Brady, who couldn’t quite tear his eyes from the bunk where their leaders lay intertwined, Bucky cradling Gale in his arms without a trace of shyness. Vaguely Brady found it strange he had been thinking of Buck as Gale now, but Bucky had said it softly so many times that day that it had begun to cement itself in Brady’s mind. It felt too intimate, somehow, and opened another small wound in Brady’s chest.

He pulled the blanket to his chin and curled up a little more, watching Bucky smooth Gale’s hair and push it back from his face, stroking Gale’s cheek with his thumb. After a moment he ran a hand down Gale’s arm and wrapped it around his back, leaning in to tuck his face under Gale’s jaw. Gale’s hand shifted a little against Bucky’s waist but he stayed otherwise still as Bucky pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the worst mark. He then moved his face under the other side of Gale’s head, nuzzling to lift Gale’s chin just enough to reach that side of his neck, and Brady realized he was kissing both bruises. The simple tenderness was so uncharacteristic of the brash major that it drowned Brady’s chest in a swell of affection and tightened his throat. Bucky’s hand flexed against Gale’s back. His jaw worked where it was hidden in the crook of Gale’s neck, drawing a soft inhale from him, and Brady quietly rolled over to face the wall. 

The next morning, the tense lines on Buck’s face had faded. And if the marks on his neck were slightly different shapes and a little deeper shade, Brady didn’t mention it.

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XXII

Find all previous parts on Ao3 :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @sad-scarred-sassy who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere / @the-darkestminds /

There was something about the music that was making Lucien’s head ache. The string instruments were off-kilter, an odd mix of sounds, the drums pounding to the beat of his heart. The blood in his veins seemed to be moving slower than normal, the room was spinning. 

Eyes clenched shut, Lucien placed a hand on his temple, the mask permanently stuck to his brow in the way. The cold metal bit into the skin of his palm, sharp as any knife’s blade. His breath caught in his throat, the air around him seemed stale. 

He had forgotten. 

There was a warning shiver that crawled up his spine as he attempted to remove the mask from its place, the binding magic painfully familiar. His golden eye clicked before it whirred softly and he cast a careful glance around the throne room. 

There was a crowd assembled in the large space, sparkling chandeliers casting all the faeries in a strange light. Had he not known better, he would have assumed they all possessed fangs. Viper like smiles flashed, canines sharp enough to draw blood pressed against rose red lips. 

Lucien easily spotted members of the Spring Court, their own masks glittering, looking like starlight. He could not recognise any of their faces, their features mixed together until he frowned from the effort. 

There was no starlight Under the Mountain, Lucien remembered, nothing but darkness. 

A sigh was pulled from his lips and Lucien rubbed a broad hand on his chest, stopping just above his ribs, the fabric of his jacket cheap enough to scratch at his skin. Leaning back into his seat, he let his fingers trace the carved black stone of the arm rest. He much preferred the maple thrones of the Autumn Court, they were far more comfortable, familiar despite the decades that had passed. 

A laugh shattered the illusion that Lucien was sitting alone.

Like the point of a sword dragging sharply against marble, Amarantha laughed again and he winced at the nearness of the sound. 

Lucien was going to throw up, he felt the burning in his throat as he realised how close he was to the wretched female, so unbelievably close. He was so nervous, he could not even find it within himself to be embarrassed by the whimper that he made as a response to noticing that he and Amarantha were on a dais overlooking the 

crowd. 

They were sitting on twin thrones, snakes carved into the stone of the legs. This was everything like the Court of Nightmares was in his imagination, there was nothing worse than being trapped prisoner beneath a mountain. Lucien shuddered, knowing exactly whose place he was in.

Where was Tamlin? 

The thought was jarring, enough so that Lucien felt his jaw clench in anxiety. He bit his tongue to keep himself from asking the question out loud, tasting the sharp iron of blood. 

Amarantha laughed once more, a chorus of giggles and cackles rising from the assembled crowd. The sound echoed in Lucien’s mind as the attendees split a clear path in the middle of the floor. 

The Attor had entered the space and the creature slinked its way towards its queen. Wings flared as it flashed a wicked smile in Lucien’s direction, the grey flesh around its mouth pulled taut. 

The Attor was not alone. 

Claws gripped a cloaked figure, golden curls shone bright as sunlight beneath brown fabric. A girl — a human — was being dragged towards the raised platform. She was looking down, eyes following the pattern of the marble beneath her slippered feet. 

Lucien felt as panic choked him, as he lunged from his seat only to fall onto his knees. Something sparked within his chest, a thunderous snap urging him to move. 

“My mate,” he said softly, like it was a prayer. No one could have heard, and yet the girl looked up.

Brown eyes, the rich colour of a fawn’s coat, met his across the throne room. A shining thread gleamed to life, shooting towards the girl like a star, from Lucien’s heart to hers. His golden eye was the only witness to such magic before it disappeared. He was instantly pulled towards her, was ready to crawl on his hands and knees to get to her. 

Amarantha gripped his shoulder tightly, her sharp nails cut through the fabric of his shirt, split skin. Lucien spared her only a moment’s glance before he twisted his head to look sharply at the Attor, at the girl who was thrown in a careless heap to the ground. 

Elain Archeron, Lady of Roses. 

The thought washed over him like a wave crashing against a rocky shore. 

Lucien would have known her, their bond strong enough to sharpen his senses into remembering. 

The Attor pulled at her hood to reveal rounded ears, cheeks pale with fear, eyes wide as she openly stared at Lucien. 

“Elain,” he called out, but there was no recognition in that lovely gaze. As though he were a stone thrown into a lake, he felt himself sinking. 

Falling. 

Lucien jolted awake with his mate’s name still on his tongue. 

He was clutching the pillow beneath his head tightly, knuckles white. It was dark, perhaps very late in the night considering there were only embers in the fireplace. Cool, fresh air filtered into the small space and he distantly remembered leaving one of the arched windows open. 

For a moment, Lucien had forgotten where he was. He rubbed at his eyes, regaining a sense of his surroundings. His golden eye clicked into place and he froze, all the muscles in his body tense when he noticed the empty side of the bed.

Elain was gone, but her scent was everywhere. 

Jasmine and green grass, so out of place within the Autumn Court. It lingered on his skin, on his clothes, and Lucien realised she must have been holding onto him as they slept. 

Lucien’s hand reached out involuntarily to pat at the wrinkled sheets. The fabric was still warm, a phantom imprint of her head still on the fluffy pillows. He breathed in deeply, mind a whirl as he wondered where she might be. 

Or who might have taken her. 

Lucien lurched into a sitting position, breath caught in his chest as his head snapped towards the open windows. 

“Elain,” he whispered softly, an unspoken well of emotions as he uttered her name into the silence. 

She had pulled one of the comfortable armchairs right up to the sill. Her chin was in her hands, her full lips turned down slightly in the corners. Not exactly a frown, but she seemed lost in thought, pensive. She was looking up towards the sky, searching for something she had yet to find. 

“You can’t see the moon,” she said, voice clear as river water. “Through the trees, I mean.” Elain turned to face him and Lucien felt his cheeks warm, a blush rising to the tips of his pointed ears. 

A couple of days had passed, and they not yet spoken about the kiss they had shared. There was no awkwardness between them, no feelings of regret that he could feel from her end of the bond. If anything, their friendship was stronger, the bridge between their souls thrumming just beneath his rib cage. 

“You alright?” Lucien asked, voice quiet, hoping that she would answer honestly. 

Elain sighed, her shoulders dropping in defeat. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. She played with the end of her braid, a nervous edge to the gesture. 

Lucien said nothing, simply waited for her to continue. 

Elain sighed once more, placed a hand onto her forehead. “I’ve been having these dreams,” she mumbled. He could tell from the anxiety that leaked into her tone that there was more to it all than she was currently choosing to share. “They’re very strange dreams, Lucien.” 

He tried to calm her steadily rising panic through the bond, keeping his voice soft as he addressed her. “Nightmares?” 

Elain shook her head, a few stray curls fell from her braid with the movement. “Visions,” she whispered, the word barely a hissed breath falling from behind gritted teeth. 

Lucien’s blood ran cold at his memories of her from the war, the shell of a person that she had become while lost in images of the future. “Don’t worry,” he attempted to reassure her, but Elain’s eyes were wide with fear. He was glad she had spoken quietly, suddenly paranoid that someone might be listening. “We’ll figure it out, Elain, don’t worry.” 

“I don’t understand them,” Elain muttered, more to herself than to him. She looked like a withered flower, as though thinking about what she saw was enough to seep life from her. 

Lucien wanted her to close the window. He weaved a simple spell around them, to ensure that no one could hear what else they might have said. The sounds of nature fell silent, unnerving to his ears even though it was of his own doing. “Come back to bed,” he offered, wondering why no one had taken it upon themselves in the Night Court to teach her, to help her when it came to her abilities. 

“I was doing so well,” Elain said to him, tears bright as silver shining along her eyes. “I hadn’t seen any since the war, it’s been years.” There was frustration in her statement, the legs of the chair scratched along the stone floor as she stood abruptly. 

“Elain,” Lucien began, licking his lips as he watched her. “Magic doesn’t work like that, you need to use whatever power you have or it consumes you.” She stood as still as a predator, listening carefully to his every word. It gave him the courage to continue, to at least warn her how dangerous her actions were. “Magic needs release and suppressing it only makes things worse.” 

Elain looked just about ready to break down into sobs. “I didn’t know,” she mumbled, fingers working the fabric of her night gown. 

“That’s alright,” Lucien said quietly, putting out his hand towards her. He was struggling not to blame the Inner Circle for their silent disregard of her abilities, of the sheer amount of power they chose to forget that she possessed. “Like I said, we’ll figure it out.” 

Elain eyed him, but she no longer looked so devastated. She inched towards him, slowly but surely. “I have no clue what the visions could mean, none at all.” 

Once she laced her fingers with his, Lucien flashed her a small smile. “Maybe I can help you work them out, I am known to be quite clever.” 

When Elain returned his smile, sitting on the mattress beside him, Lucien’s relief was overwhelming. She told him about how she had had no visions, no whisper of any other magic emerging. She had wrongly assumed that along with the destruction of the cauldron, her abilities had disappeared. 

By the time Elain was finished revealing the many details of her dreams, they were lying down beneath the covers. Facing each other, close enough their noses were nearly touching, Elain continued to express how worried she was. 

“The bones worry me the most,” she murmured. “What else could they mean but death?” 

Lucien nearly flinched as he considered her visions. He also had no idea what they could mean, but even he could not argue with her observation. “We’ll search the library, I’m sure we can find some answers there, maybe even a book on deciphering dreams.” 

Elain hummed in agreement, and although she still seemed worried, there seemed to be a huge weight lifted from her shoulders. She fell silent, her eyes fluttering shut, and Lucien assumed it was time for them to sleep. 

Elain moved closer to him, their legs a tangled mess beneath the sheets. “What were you dreaming about?” Her question had him snapping his eyes open, he traced the curve of her jaw with his eyes as he shrugged. 

“Amarantha,” he answered, knowing she would recognise the name. He hoped she would not ask for more information, he was still not used to speaking about all that had occurred Under the Mountain. 

Nails sharp as any blade. 

Unbearable pain shooting through his head. 

Blood on the marble floors. 

Lucien was pulled back to the present as he heard the animalistic snarl that fell from Elain’s pretty mouth. Almost as though she knew exactly what awful place his mind had taken him to. 

Eyes locked, Elain reached out hesitantly. Lucien noticed a slight shaking to her hand and he held his breath, waiting, anticipating her touch. 

Elain’s hand hovered in the space between them. He was usually more aware, careful of his scar and his eye, keeping them covered beneath the curtain of his hair or turned away from those around him.

Lucien had forgotten himself, had fallen onto the pillows unthinkingly. Elain could see him perfectly. 

There was a pause, a moment in time where the world seemed to stop its spinning.

Lucien dipped his chin in a silent nod, giving Elain the permission she was seeking. With gentle fingers, she traced the scar where it began, just above his brow. He heard the soft way Elain’s breath caught in her throat, felt as horror at what had been done to him slowly leak down the bond. 

“I would have liked to see her death,” Elain mumbled, the promise of violence in her tone. She moved even closer to him, each of her breaths ragged. 

Lucien said nothing, could hardly stand the look of absolute rage falling over her features. Beneath it all, he saw that she cared, and it frightened him unlike anything else.

Lucien let his eyes flutter shut, Elain’s soft touch an anchor. 

Everyone always thought it was best to ignore the scar, to divert their eyes as quickly as possible. They would look away from him, perhaps in an attempt to be polite. 

Lucien could not bear it, had wanted to shout that the scar was there to stay, that they should look at him. 

Look at me. 

Elain continued to map out the features of his face, to stroke at his split auburn brow before she inched towards his eyelid. The skin there was so thin, it was surprising that the healers and Dawn had been able to save it all, and she softened her touch even more. 

Light as a feather, her thumb brushed his eyelashes. 

Elain did not stop, did not even pause as she pressed her palm to his cheek. The most brutal of his scars, the one everyone flinched away from.  Faeries, with their ability to heal hardly ever had any marks that lasted the test of time. He had only ever seen a few permanent marks — the ones on his brothers’ backs. Everything else would fade, return to how it once was, unless the wound had been particularly harsh. 

Elain though, had a human heart, and as Lucien had come to learn, humans were creatures that could embrace change and thrive. 

Elain finally stopped once she had traced the smaller scar that cut across his lips. She pressed a gentle kiss there, nothing but a sweet brush of their mouths. 

Lucien shifted, pulled her close so that he might kiss her again. She smiled against him, threading her fingers into his hair. His hand was on her waist, and they were kissing, his tongue past the seam of her lips. 

Elain was not as shy this time, falling onto his chest when Lucien laid down onto his back. She gasped when he dragged his teeth along her full bottom lip, returning the kiss as she cupped his face with both her hands. 

Lucien let her decide what she wanted to do next, and was surprised at the way she moved against him. He ran his hands from her waist, up her back, and towards her hip, urging her to do as she pleased. 

Elain took her time, kissing him sweetly on the mouth one last time. Then she kissed his cheek, lips like silk. Finally, she kissed his eyebrow, pulling away to gauge his expression. 

Even in the dark, Lucien could see that she was blushing. He smiled up at her, and she seemed to realise that she was leaning on him with all of her weight.

Elain breathed a small laugh, falling onto her side of the bed. He heard her giggle into the pillows as she turned to face the opposite direction. She pressed her back against him, and Lucien threw an arm over her, waiting to see if she would ask him to move. 

Elain simply relaxed into his hold. “Good night, Lucien,” she said softly.

“Good night,” Lucien murmured, falling asleep as he thought about the gentle way Elain had traced his scar with her fingers. 

[r3db3ans]

Here some Kabb contents for now.

thank you for the support guys!! It mean a lot !! I'm still having fun at reading all of your reblogs hashtags and all, i still have a big smile on my face when i read this

[lyr-caelum]

CHAPTER 8: History!

Finaly up! 💫

[hopingforcoordinates]

genuinely so obsessed with neil thinking andrew suddenly hates him and in reality andrew is just. unbearably horny. just horrifically tortured. he’s simply down so fucking bad.

Miscommunication so bad I had to write two povs RIP

[bonefall]

NEVER STOP!!! everytime I get mad over DOTC I just come onto your page and read your Gray Wing slander and immediately feel better, thanks muchly! 😌✨️

I am but a humble DOTC Slander ranger, riding across the sunlit horizon with a big iron on my hip, putting every hater's formless frustration into the words you felt but did not realize how to say ✨️