hello there! welcome to my little corner of tumblr! you can call me mage, this is the place i ramble about how much i love fictional characters!
💋24 years of old💋
♦️any pronouns♦️
🍫system of 8🍫
note: i’m totally fine sharing! block me if needed
(interested? keep reading for more)
𝔬𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔤 𝔶𝔬𝔲’𝔩𝔩 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔡:
❣️my doodles and my writings all yume/self ship related
❣️writing & art commission info: open! (click here!)
❣️a few of my main romantic f/o’s include: kinger (TADC), sebastian michaelis (Black Butler), von lycaon (Zenless Zone Zero), ford pines (Gravity Falls), brahms heelshire (The Boy), zeke yeager (Attack On Titan), jeff the killer (Generalized Slendermansion AU), shigure sohma (Fruits Basket), the baron (The Cat Returns)… and more! ♥️
don’t be afraid to hit me up! i’ve been shipping myself with characters & inserting ever since i was a kid, i love making new friends! especially sharing f/os from the same source! this blog is a safe space unless directly noted, don’t be afraid of cringe ♥️
𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔞𝔫𝔱 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔰:
#soul doodles - my art
#soul writings - my stories & blurbs
#soul asks - questions & answers!
#soul system stuff - funny posts about my headmates & i! we color coordinate, so colors are assigned: 💚❤️💗💜💙💛🩵🤍
#soul musings - my original text posts
#other’s self ships - the name goes!
#moot tag: (insert name) - tags for my moots! :)
#f/o: (insert name) - tags for my romantic f/o’s! :)
credit to every divider goes to: @dollywons. please check her out! her bakery is absolutely gorgeous work, all made with love! 🥮
they notice the smudge on your glasses before you do. “how do you even see through these?” they murmur, already tugging them off your nose, cleaning them on their sleeve. when they slide them back on, their thumb lingers against your cheek. “there. better.”
reminder that you do not love your f/o any less for headcanoning them as an identity that doesn't match with their canon . you don't "not love the real version of your f/o" you don't "want your f/o to be different so you can like them" whatever , you just understand your f/o in a way that others don't ! and I'm sure that means a lot to them :]
description: grell eases kayla’s worries and anxieties on her wedding day
pairing: grell & kayla (platonic) but kayla x undertaker is an undercurrent
( ok to rb! )
“Hold still, darling! I can’t very well help you look your best with all that fidgeting!”
Grell sighs forcing the bride to be back in her seat for what seemed like the hundredth time this hour. Gently she tilts her friend’s head up to meet her gaze.
“You’ve been acting off all day. Honestly you’d think you’d be over the moon considering you’re about to be married!”
Said woman fidgets again fingers going over and over one another, a nervous habit of hers. Grell notices of course, why wouldn’t she considering how close the two were. She had been absolutely delighted in being given the role of her best friend’s maid of honor so she had been taking her role very seriously as the date approached.
“Mm. Something’s on your mind. What is it?”
Kayla sighs shoulders slumping as she looks up at her friend foot tapping nervously into the wooden floor.
“It’s just… this is a lot for me. I never thought I’d be the one actually marrying someone. The last time this was even a possibility I had no say in the matter. And I suppose now that it’s here I can’t help but feel anxious about it? It’s complicated…”
Grell hums taking in this new information and grabs her hands with her own gently squeezing.
“Tell me you love him, correct?”
“Of course!”
“You want to be with him always?”
“More than anything.”
“You chose to accept his proposal, didn’t you? Not because of some obligation but because that’s what you truly wanted, yes?”
A pause then a nod.
“Yes.”
Grell smiles and gently pats her hands.
“Then you have nothing to fret over. Now please stay still so I can make you the most beautiful bride there ever was!”
Said bride laughs at that and finally stays still worried eased thanks to her closest confidant allowing Grell to fuss and fret over how she should look hair and makeup wise.
It took a while and was a bit painful with all the poking and prodding but finally Grell seemed satisfied stepping back to admire her work nodding in approval.
“I think this is my best work yet. Well besides my own beautiful face. Come on up, up! Go see what you look like!”
Grell ushers her onto her feet and guides her over to the boudoir mirror and Kayla can’t believe her eyes. Was that really her? She had never felt so pretty in her entire life. She can feel her eyes getting misty.
“Don’t you dare start crying! It’ll ruin all my lovely work!”
She laughs and tries to pull herself together waving her hands in front of her face to force back the tears. Gently she turns to her friend, clearly still emotional, and hugs her tight.
“Thanks Grell. For everything. You’re the best friend a girl could ask for. You’re the only person I’d want as my Maid of Honor.
Grell sighs a laugh bubbling out of her mouth as she returns the hug clearly touched by her words.
“Oh don’t start that now you’ll have me crying and then we’ll both be messes right before your big day!”
Grell gives her one more comforting squeeze before letting go.
“You’ll do just fine. You’re marrying the man that makes your heart all aflutter! The person that makes you happiest!”
Kayla smiles and lets out a breath. Grell was right she really had nothing to worry about in the first place. She was marrying her beloved just as she always wanted.
More evidence that Bolaire is a character specifically made for me...
As a former museum curator, Bolaire is right. If you don't know exactly where a new item came from and it looks even slightly suspect, you DO NOT touch that shit with your bare hands. Depending on what you're dealing with, you might need to suit up, or even call in a specialist.
Many items have to be quarantined and tested for various hazards depending on what they're made of. Old taxidermy that was treated with arsenic. Items contaminated with mold or pests. Silver nitrate photo negatives that can spontaneously combust. Biohazardous items. Chemical hazards. Radioactive materials. I've even heard of museums receiving unexploded munitions from the World Wars and having to call the bomb squad.
Curses are honestly the least of your worries, lol. 😂
Secondary Song: Interdimensional by Cosmo Sheldrake
Pairing: Wicander/Mage (yume/self ship)
Warnings: cursing, horror themed angelic descriptions of torture, fantasy religion, Critical Role Campaign 4 (Episode 2) spoilers. Yearning, angst, and little bit of fluff at the end! Extra warning: it’s a long one!
Summary: How has someone as spineless as Wicander Halovar made it this far?
A/N: Brennan Lee Mulligan has revived my writing yet again. This is basically a love letter dedicated to Wicander (thank you, Sam Riegel for creating my favorite kind of character!) My best friend Malachai and their persona for the campaign are also included, much love to them. We both decided to be aasimar. Uh-oh! Please enjoy!
comms are open!
Malachai did not communicate, converse, or even speak casually with anyone outside of their immediate family, the Halovar house. It wasn’t a bad thing until it was thrown in their face, truly. A flying stone did not hurt until it impacted on target. Wicander was sure that his grandmother, uncle, and his father made sure that any interaction was halted past a pleasant hello—to anyone and everyone sewn in between.
This is why it came across as strange when his sibling, silent little Malachai, rushed across the yard of Thjazi Fang’s brother—Hal’s home—and was scooped into the arms of a woman dressed in white. During a funeral… of all things?
Wicander forced down a look of stagnant surprise, daring a null glance towards his demonic companion at his shoulder. However, after witnessing this, Tyranny (ever stoic in the face of something new), held a finger to her lips, signaling she’d explain later, ushering the cleric to the gathering of the funeral by the small of his back.
The moment between Malachai and this odd visitor was promptly forgotten, much like a dream, just about three minutes into wakefulness. This vision was never touched upon again, because all Wicander seemed to recall was short, soft, red hair—and a pinch of something sweet. There were quite a few people at the funeral with ridiculous red hair after all was said and done. Bolaire not included.
What stuck with Wicander… was the inability to wrap his mind around how tightly and how close his dearest sibling and this mystery man held each other. For a moment, the fleeting wish even crossed the cleric’s mind that he, too—wanted to be held that lovingly and that warm. That comfortably, maybe. Within less than a moment, Wicander craved it. Slice that hope down into a blip, and there was a thirst for respect and dignity in another that could express as freely as him, buried well and shallow in the remains of a pit of a heart that wasn’t blurred at the edges of luminosity.
Wicander swore he felt it sometimes. A hug, an embrace. Like two friends had reunited after years apart, or two lovers who met back after different sides of war. But blankets could not wrap the way arms do. So maybe… it was an angel.
No, no. Maybe not.
Not after… well. We all know what happened to Wicander’s grandfather now, don’t we?
Mage did too.
The angel watched the future scion sleep many times before that day of truth arrived. It was definitely a little creepy. It became a hobby, a pastime, then personal responsibility. Bolaire was first to notice Mage’s new fixation, and she needn’t even nudge nose or write on pen and paper to request shroud of passage and a sliver of time for Wicander, Tyranny, and the others in the Villa Aurora. And there, Mage would watch, and offer their hand in help from shadow.
And these acts of immense ‘kindness’ weren’t limited to Mage’s favorites—he was an angel of charity. Among other things, like contrast… and revenge. Sparing anyone from their reassuring karmic miracles wrapped in an air of mystery and coincidence would be rude. It was like a ‘hello’ to the world from the tiny spot Mage got to stand.
And sure, their good acts of lighthearted humor carved into a meaningful lesson were blamed on the ‘Light’ sometimes. Most of the time, actually. Especially around here. The Candescent Creed really got its wings, stretched, and spread recently, hasn’t it? But when glass caught the sun the right way, it always made rainbows eventually. Even though that kind of thing usually happened early morning, or late afternoon when the sunlight was at its peak, but…
Sometimes you just had to be patient! That’s all. True intentions would all be revealed in time. Hahah, yes. True intentions. Right…
The overlooked workers of the Villa Aurora were usually blessed with safe travels. Agony (on occasion) got carefully lifted from the tile rather than the scruff and tossed. Mage enjoyed tending to the smallest things for Tyranny, watching Wicander… and Malachai.
Oh, right. Yes, right—Malachai. Originally, they were the only important reason to stay, an angel of kin like Mage, hidden within the world, and trapped in a cage. Oftentimes, this felt more like feeding a poor sickly thing through bars of an enclosure. But then, Mage realized that their own cage was simply gilded and shiny because he made it so. On top of this metaphor, Mage had simply built a string to pass food and gifts down like an extra hand. Hunger broiling inside of the holy sat on two extremes—it was either constant, growing into a biting itch, or numbness in the cold. Neither situation seemed promising.
That number of importance in the gloomy, lonesome spirits of the Villa Aurora only seemed to grow larger as Mage dipped his toes into the waters flickering edges of socialization. Always tucked around a corner, staring earnestly at conversation past and quiet, basking in the banter. The target of this accursed, hovering schedule was blamed on the starriest of faces in the room, more often than not. The offending trio of the Villa Aurora (the studying cleric and his angelic and demonic compatriots) that Mage checked on were beginning to go their separate ways as the moon waned high into the sky this night. For some reason, it felt colder than normal.
Nighttime was one of the only times when the halls were decently independent. Nighttime was the only time when the ‘Light’ actually scattered. This darkness was a place to hide and be discreet. In the darkness, a prism would not refract and reflect every color of the wheel—it remained stagnant. So Malachai suggested best for nighttime visits. Mage obliged hastily. Every crest of the week, just before the weekend arrived and preparations for events were in order.
So… Wednesday nights. It was perfect.
At the peak of stress, hard work, roundabout duties, in the middle of night when one would rest and heal in a lapse of unconsciousness—Mage would be there. Invisibly, she could offer Wicander and the others that glimmer of fresh breath they craved so desperately. If Mage could do it without revealing himself, it would be golden. But only if he never knew. Wicander could never know. Not about Mage’s existence, his assumed fate, following him, their—
Fuck. She didn’t know. It was better if Wicander thought of Mage as something exotic and extinct more than something very real, trying to reach out, and actively dying in the tranquility. As awful as that sounded…
The angel certainly blamed their linked, gracious, forevermore host Bolaire, first. When it came to these fickle, small winded things—the examining, the intrigue. Mage was not taught or shown ‘love’ as quickly as she was taught admiration, and alongside that, clinical dividends. Staring at the way Wicander’s hair fell, that sad look in his eyes, taking in and appreciating the finer things in life. Being greedy. Taking before giving, being selfish, like this? Even if it was something as minute as stealing an angle no one else appreciated on a devout’s face… it felt good.
Ugh, wait. ‘…appreciating the finer things in life’? Yes, like appreciating a misguided, bright, righteous, religious boy was the perfect subject for such a cause. Aha, this was stupid.
And that’s what Mage told himself on repeat on Wednesdays. The sunset reminded the aasimar of Wicander more than any sunrise. They waited for the amber sink below the horizon. He waited until stars speckled murky clouds, and waited to prepare for a peaceful tonight.
They both needed a divot to hide in if Wicander’s family were to reveal the truth to him, and in rite of passage and eerie traveler, Mage—by next day. Soft and gentle, not as forceful and rough and ‘in-your-face’ as the past few cycles have felt. Thjazi had just died. Wicander had indeed tried. Learning the limit to your own hands was frustrating enough when it was not coated in your own legacy’s white blood.
Mage did their rounds across the Villa Aurora, spotting his familiar, pink, horned friend snoozing away at a desk for a little nap in her sulfur pricked corner of her wing. The next half an hour was spent locating Malachai, who was perched at their bay window, gazing out and up at the moon again. Or perhaps her friend was searching for some magical bridge past a celestial body they could see. Some sort of proof for… this. Whatever this was.
Mage drifted across empty, cathedral aisles and slipped behind pillars in a flurry of ivory and flowers. A single missing feather that turned to dust as soon as it touched tile was all that was lost to get to Wicander. In the grand scheme of things, this was a small feat in the treat of finding these three breathing and in one piece. After the repetition of this plan and all these years, sneaking around felt much easier than trying to be seen.
Mage crept over Wicander’s still body once they found him in his bedroom instead of his office that night, and lay in the bed beside him. The mattress would never dip from her ghostly weight, but a new wrinkle was added into the lovingly crafted quilt thrown over Wicander’s slouch, tucking himself in like he belonged. Mage made sure to adjust the blanket where it fell, careful not to graze the cloudless man’s skin. Just in case.
Heh, ‘just in case’. That sounded like Bolaire. Ever the skeptic, ever the careful deliverer. How Mage loved mortals.
Mage loved Wicander.
Ah. Shit.
The aasimar’s hand fell, knuckles creasing to curl against bitten, dry, worried lips. There were no jokes between your own consciousness when you lied to yourself. Oh, Mage couldn’t do that. Not love, not another. Even if celestials’ standards transcended mortals’ own, they still wouldn’t handle it very well. Romantic in nature, or… anything. Mage could not place another in prominent danger. Not him, not… Wicander.
Mage was not supposed to care. And here she was, caring far too much. Again. Again, and again, and again, for mortals that would not even glance their way.
Wicander snorted in his sleep, stirring slightly. He stilled soon after, but such an act in a bout of sleep should not have been that charming.
That’s all Mage could think of, how nice he looked. The amount of things they could do for him without much rhyme or reason would be irrational as it would be impulsively ignorant. And treacherous, purely for some satisfaction of praise.
With one pale cheek on pillow, the redhead would always take minutes to hours to follow shapes and contours on Wicander’s face, like he was a little treasure all for herself. He was lovely. Tan skin, smooth, a wrinkle and a line pressed in from worry in an interesting spot here and there. Perhaps one day, Mage could have a little slice of Wicander too. Just a little one. To be noticed or to cause a new dimple in his cheek for a better reason than stress. The angel tucked a piece of the seafoam hair flickering over the cleric’s brow back over his head. With no headpiece, no garments attached, he wouldn’t have to twitch much at the sensation.
Mage left at three hours past midnight.
The spot in the center of Wicander’s brow felt balmy and tingly the next morning, like a kiss was lost from a floating soul in his dream minutes prior. During breakfast, all Wicander could do was stare at the way the tablecloth crinkled, and rub his forehead.
That night was the final time the angel visited Wicander on his own divine violation, because Mage learned about the Halovar’s truths behind the vast door of the Villa Aurora basement less than twelve hours after he decided to kiss a cleric’s temple. Mage was nearly spotted from the sheer power and roar of Wicander’s angelic grandfather; restrained, tied, knotted, bared dry like bone within the gilded, smooth, beautiful, shiny, iron maiden. She left shortly afterward.
This screaming that Mage witnessed, no—Mage could understand it. It was not just screaming, and not word by word, but by coherent urgency. Barking and snapping like a mad dog instead of anything holy or—
No. This angel was calling for help. Even now. In a slurry bit of human, mortal, safely common tongue, mingled into a celestial chant. This was no natural beg. This was a plea for release, that death was too good and kind a gift even with pain. Anything and everything heard and did nothing. Help me, please, help me, please, help me, help, please, please, ple—
Mage’s lip quivered the moment the anger and wrath began, and then they dispersed out of sight, out of mind. But the ancient’s voice did not leave their sternum, and neither did that old language in the back of her vision. The aasimar could close his eyes and see familiar teeth gnashing, strewn wings and the appearance of muscle, thinning feathers. Dried blood. Nothing fresh, nothing wet. It had been far too scabbed over by now.
And all too familiar to Mage, just because he knew that if she too dared to speak, the flood gates would open. Too many words, too much, in a language barely understood. All this power, all this determination, all this intensity and integrity and perseverance to protect those who need and stall the inevitable for what? Eventually, yes. Mage would be revered.
And what came after that? Your destined ‘gold’. Minerals in rich, praises in further of comatose. This was her fate underneath the Light. Yes, because this was the Light. The very thing Wicander showered and bathed in, remnants of the fallen onto his skin. His fallen, too. Naive? Yes. Mutilation—all the same. So instead, Mage would be a God among men who took a vow of silence in this ugly truth. Preservation never felt as wrenching as it did now. They would not become something like that, an angel past the point of no return. Not if they could help it. If attention to her presence resulted in a dehydrated, saturated state of a rendered trophy—he would be no part of it. Slavery would not even begin to paint a correct visage.
Even if that night was decreed absolute that the angel would never show face around those halls again… this was not the last time Mage was in the Villa Aurora. In fact, they learned something new about the extent of their power that began to annoy him the longer one pondered on it. Bolaire used it before, but… no one else had been able to until now.
Whenever Mage was prayed to, she was summoned. And that meant someone believed in her.
This room Mage foresaw looked exactly like Wicander’s office. Not his bedroom, with tiny pinpricks of light to cut through the dark to touch his face under that damned, worn quilt. Now, in this literature, biblical scripture filled expanse of falsified space, the cleric was kneeled down across his secondary resting spot, a chaise lounge, a throw blanket tilted across the arm rest. Wicander’s elbows dug into the velvet, eyes scrunched shut, raw, dry, tears furiously wiped and replaced with more. The aasimar thought of his priest’s image in earnest so strongly, they witnessed their desire cut straight to him. Mage swore that he saw… Wicander, just for a moment, but—
Wic?
The future scion jolted in response. The candles in his office flickered. Three went out.
“Ah!” he gasped. “Who said—?”
Mage blinked, taking in the surroundings. Wicander Halovar’s office, yes—the last place someone like her wanted to be right now. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours since the angel’s cry. And yet here stood Wicander. Staring at them. Teary eyed, fingers curled over an invisible sphere like they’d been clasped together in prayer, lips parted until lungs refilled.
“Y-you!” Wicander cried, straightening up. He stumbled over his tunic, nightwear and comfortable silks pressed and folded neatly with sashes, “It’s—it’s you!”
He sounded… happy. Relieved, almost. How? Mage couldn’t piece it together, confusion plucked into the center of his face, but moved towards the man despite, treading like they were both in the wild. He did not have his cane, so the aasimar’s scarred forearms became the first purchase in sight.
“I’ve—I’ve been praying to you—no, sorry! Sorry,” Wicander shook his head, breathless, hands splayed out. “I have been asking for the company and grace of… what ever pure, holy entity of the Light that has been aiding me, ah… a-as of late.”
Huh? Mage cocked their head.
“Finally. It looks like something has worked.”
Finally? How long had…?
Half of the angel’s mind that stood before Wicander assumed he was joking. He wasn’t supposed to notice his own dark (light) passenger, wasn’t supposed to hope and wish to see her, nonetheless to…
Wicander wasn’t supposed to want Mage. Anything but this. Actually, this might’ve been worst case scenario, but… a prayer answered, he supposed. Someone’s prayer. The other half of this wretched, winged thing felt life was breathed into their soul. Like suddenly, they were real. Real, like Wicander was. And it took all of two split seconds for Mage to gather and decide that being ‘real’ was horrible. It was horrendous, gross, ugly, revolting, and being noticed made them think that they immediately reeked to anyone in the vicinity. Her body was shaking. The facet of doubt to check the room for anymore peering eyes trickled into the angel’s nervous system like a stream. Was this… self consciousness?
Still, Mage offered up her hands. But even as time slowed, palms facing up, the space between his wrists were filled. Wicander pulled Mage into a hug, snug and sinking into gaps left, thankful for curves and bountiful, crudely ostentatious clothing. Angels dressed rather dramatically, didn’t they? A choked noise muffled down into a swallowed lump in Wicander’s throat, and fearfully possessive fingers laced into ruby hair, buried into the pillows of a dress. Mage’s feathers ruffled, coverts rippling until the bow of his wings’ arcs curled in. Chest to chest, heart to heart.
Wicander closed his eyes. Angels did not smell clean, and did not smell lustfully magnetizing. Malachai was his constant, Mage was simply this proof. Not too much, and not too overpowering. The Beam that reached these transcended beings blessed them with different aspects of the filament. In summarized terminology: everyone was still unique.
However… angels smelt like the earth. They smelt like the dirt, the air. The tones of sweetness came from petals and fruits rather than anything sharp. Tyranny tasted like ozone after a rainstorm, and lightning condensed into a glass jar lid in the hearth of a kitchen. In the mornings before study, Wicander could recall the duality of his finest aspirant and apprentice, the demon and angel themselves, like the cardamom and the spice cabinet; cinnamon, bark, malt, birch. Nature and harmony did not dim the Light, and naturally neither did the holy. What nobility carried hand in hand with innocence of these creatures of the world. Fresh creeks, and grass, and dew. Humidity within their partnered humility. Paper, ink, age. Feather and the bitter twang of seed. Angels smelt like nothing, and yet everything all at once, tangible aspects that whipped and cracked memory into reality.
To Wicander’s relief, not man made.
This particular angel’s guidance, esteem, duty, and namesake were a very specific part of the earth. What this aasimar ruled over was a very specific part of this world.
Mage smelt like time.
The four seasons and transitions in between, the forgotten and remembered phases of a moon cycle, color, mirrors, wood… change. Time meant change, and right now, Wicander only gleamed this once something familiar settled across his senses from bundle of concepts in his arms. Sandalwood musk could only be the product of lingering root and vanilla rolled into one. The time of the year was upon the cusp of fall and winter. Wicander was inside, and the weight on his chest was gone. It smelt like home and anticipation. Tyranny and her sisters had not arrived yet. Malachai was asleep. There was a warm drink in his hands, and the entirety of the Villa Aurora was silent. He was the only one awake, and therefore, he was safe. This was the closest feeling to safety this man had ever received, even with these authentic, fail safe walls.
Once Wicander blew his candles out tonight, he would remember Mage by the lingering sense of smoke, patchouli, and magnolia blossoms. So he buried his nose into this angel’s neck, tickled by hair and feather alike.
Ahh, Wic. He knew who Mage was. Of course he did. He believed in her. Or… something like Mage. An anomaly, some being or extraterrestrial looking down on him and delivering a higher power of alteration into the world. Mage would not be written off as a creature of the night, but rather, Light. If only it hadn’t been so hard to get here. But Mage was here. Falsities or not.
Their arms did not take the cleric in, not immediately. This faithful priest’s breath was embers, and a being of magic’s ice, an intake and exhale of bearings and malevolent force that was… all Wicander’s. At least for the night. He got to keep this all to himself. Mage’s fingers crept and tugged at his gown, testing its physicality before spooling threading into fingernail. The moment still did not last long enough.
“I-I had no idea you were here!” Wicander stumbled, pulling back just enough to take in what little he could of this apparition draped in wedding garb. “All this time…?”
Mage’s lips didn’t move, but her voice may have been one of the most tactical and orderly of grievances that have ever entered Wicander’s mind.
All you had to do was ask. he replied, tucking a strand of Wicander’s hair behind his ear. It flushed easily.
Saying anything else would tarnish the perception of a devoted guardian angel, so Mage stayed silent.
your f/o is thinking of you! theyre walking around and thinking of you and how much they love you and- awh fuck they felled down. they falled over. auh shit they're on the ground cause they fall over. awh. shit man. they're ok they just took a tumble. and also they love you
