#all of these are from the razor route

[mecchantheotaku]

I don't know why I decided to compile these.

[strangelittlestories]

After the occupation, the princess was confined to the palace.

Once a month she'd be taken on a walk around the city, heavily guarded of course, to show the people that she still lived. It also served, of course, as a reminder of what they stood to lose if they made trouble. The princess did her best go wave and smile and give the people what encouragement she could.

The rest of the time, her life was spent in musty rooms and dusty towers. She filled most of her time scouring the castle for materials which she would sew into more and more elaborate outfits, which she would show off on the days when she was allowed outside.

Indeed, the public loved their princess and her dresses so much they'd often sketch or paint them along the route and pass the images on so that all could see the princess at least was well.

This pleased the occupiers for two reasons. First: it kept the princess out of trouble. Second: it gave them a reason to sneer and they did love a good sneer.

"What a vain creature she is!" They would remark.

"Doesn't even care we murdered her brothers so long as she gets enough satin to make her little dresses!" They squawked.

This was unfair, of course, for to call her creations "little dresses" was to call Queen Murderfun the Needlessly Genocidal "a tad piquey". Her dresses were gravity-defying wonders lace and pearl. They were thunderstorms captured in velvet and waterfalls summoned in silk. She was a wizard with silk.

Still, she bore their mockery with a tight smile and careful deference.

"Please, good sirs, my home, my people and my city now belong to you. Let me keep, at least, this one last joy."

And they sneered and they crowed most unpleasantly, but they let her keep her sewing room.

Of course, they would have known their mockery to be doubly unfair had they realised the true purpose of the princess's elaborate designs. For hidden in the intricate embroiderings across her gowns, jackets and fans, the princess had encoded secret (and very detailed) messages. When she would go on her monthly walk, the city's loyalists would line the route, sketching down the patterns to decode later.

Thus did the princess transmit all the occupiers' secrets (unearthed while supposedly 'searching the castle for old fabrics') to the city and thus did she build her resistance.

On the day the revolution finally came, she girded herself in armour of thick spider silk and whale bone. She cut a fine figure with a lacy handkerchief in her top pocket and a razor sharp knitting needle keeping her hair up.

As she waltzed through the castle to open the door for her army, the Usurper King tried to stop her and she simply unfolded her handkerchief and showed it to him.

Upon seeing the impossible arcane pattern emblazoned across it, he fell to the floor with blood streaming from his eyes.

She always had been a wizard with silk.

---

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to support my writing, you can do so at https://ko-fi.com/strangelittlestories

[misswynters]

Ambessa/Sevika ignoring you in public, affectionate in private

warnings. suggestive, ambessa lowkey crushing you on the bed but who cares,

requested by @schlagglovr (everyone thank them <3)

ambessa medarda

Murmurs and laughter spread across the grand. A sea of sharp-dressed politicians and councilors, their voices filling the room. Ambessa Medarda was in her element, towering over most of the crowd. With her presence commanding attention without even trying. You, on the other hand, were left to hover at her side, your hand occasionally brushing against hers. So desperate for a small chance of acknowledgment. But as always, Ambessa's focus was razor-sharp. Her words spilling out in calculated precision as she discussed trade routes and alliances. It was as if you weren't even there. Like a ghost.

She didn't glance at you, not even once. It caused a sting in your heart as her disregard grew sharper with every passing second. You swallowed your frustration, telling yourself it wasn't personal. That you knew her well enough to understand this was her battlefield, her war to win, and her affection couldn't bleed through here. Still, it didn't stop the ache in your chest as her laughter rang out. It was so warm and inviting but it was directed at someone who wasn't you.

Countless hours passed by and by the time the last diplomat was shown out, your patience was wearing thin. You slipped into your shared quarters ahead of her, fuming silently. But when the door finally creaked open, there she was. Discarding her armor as her gaze locked on you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. "Come here," she rumbled, her voice softer now, devoid of its earlier sharp edges.

You didn't hesitate, the fight draining out of you the moment her arms encircled your waist. Pulling you flush against her. "You ignored me all night," you muttered, your voice muffled against her chest.

"I know," she admitted, her lips brushing against your temple as she guided you to the bed. "I hate that I have to. However out there, I'm a general. Here.." Her hands tilted your chin up, her golden eyes meeting yours with a smoldering desire. "Here, I'm just yours."

She kissed you slowly with passion, her lips lingering as if to make up for every second of neglect. How much you missed her lips on yours.

Ambessa’s lips crushed against yours with an intensity that stole your breath, her hands large and possessive as they gripped your hips. The need between you was palpable, her every touch sparking something wild in you. With a low growl, she hoisted you effortlessly, your thighs wrapping tightly around her waist. The cold press of her armor against your skin was a stark contrast to the searing warmth of her body, and it only made you want her more.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” she rasped against your lips, her voice rough and dripping with hunger. Her teeth grazed your lower lip before she claimed your mouth again, deepening the kiss. She carried you toward the bed as if you weighed nothing, her presence utterly dominating.

“You’re the one doing this, Ambessa,” you breathed against her, your fingers tangling in her short hair, tugging hard enough to draw a soft groan from her. “I can feel how much you want me, right now.”

Her smirk was wicked, her lips finding the sensitive curve of your neck as her teeth scraped along your skin. “Oh, I don’t just want you,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing. “I’m going to have you, all of you.”

Your back hit the mattress, and Ambessa didn’t hesitate to press you down, her powerful body pinning you beneath her. The weight of her, the sheer strength in the way she handled you, made your pulse race. She leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear as her voice dropped to a sinful whisper. “Tell me, do you enjoy driving me to madness? Watching me lose control over you like this?”

“You’re the one who’s in control,” you replied, your voice trembling as her hands roamed your thighs, her thumbs digging into your skin to pull you closer. “You always are. Isn’t that how you like it?”

Her chuckle was dark and full of promise as her lips moved to your collarbone, her teeth nipping at the sensitive skin there. “Careful now,” she said, her voice dripping with suggestion. “Keep talking like that, and I might not stop at just kissing you.”

“Who says I want you to stop?” you countered boldly, your hands sliding over her broad shoulders, pulling her closer. The challenge in your voice made her pause, her dark eyes locking onto yours with a heat that stole your breath.

“Bold little one,” she said, her tone edged with a mix of warning warning and desire. Her hand slid up your thigh, gripping it firmly as she pinned you even tighter against the bed. "You're making it very hard for me to stay patient."

"Please don't," you whispered, your lips brushing against hers in a teasing kiss.

Ambessa growled, before claiming your mouth again with a ferocity that made your head spin. As her hands roamed your body and her weight pressed you deeper into the mattress, the world outside her chambers melted away. Here, underneath her, you were hers. There was no place you'd rather be.

Her hands roamed your chest, strong and steady. When you tried to pull away to tease her again, she caught your lower lip between her teeth, stopping you in your tracks. "Stop with the teasing, darling," she murmured, her voice low. "Just let me show you how much little patience i have."

sevika

Smoky haze filled The Last Drop. It was as suffocating as it was intensifying, the crowd's cheers echoed through the bar as Sevika sat at her usual corner table. Her sharp eyes scanning the room. She was stoic as always, her posture a mix of casual confidence and barely restrained menace. You sat at her side, nursing your drink in silence. Silently hoping for even the smallest flicker of recognition from her. But she didn't look your way. Not once.

Instead, Sevika was all business. Barking orders to her lackeys and exchanging brief words with Silco's former enforcers. The air around her was heavy and her mechanical arm was gleaming under the dim light as she tapped her cigarette against the ashtray. It was like you didn't exist at all. While you knew this was her world and her job, it didn't make it hurt any less. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, trying not to let the frustration show on your face. Unfortunately you hid it horribly. Much to your distaste.

When the meeting finally ended, Sevika stood and stretched, her gaze finally landing on you. "Come on," she said gruffly, motioning for you to follow. You bit back the urge to snap at her, deciding instead to trail behind her as she led you through the winding corridors to her private quarters.

The second the door shut behind you, the shift in her demeanor was quick. "Alright," she said, her voice softer now, her lips quirking up into a half-smile. "Let me have it."

"Let you have it?" you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. "You ignored me all night, Sev. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?"

She stepped closer, her warm hand curling around your wrist as she tugged you toward her. "Embarrassing, huh?" Her tone was teasing, but there was a glimmer of something genuine in her eyes as she leaned in towards you. Her breath warm against your cheek. "Didn't seem to bother you when you were sitting all pretty beside me."

"Don't start," you snapped, but your voice wavered as she closed the remaining distance between you. Her metal hand rising to trail a cold line down your arm. Her touch sent a shiver racing down your spine, and she knew it.

"You're cute when you're mad," she murmured, her voice dropping lower as her lips brushed the shell of your ear. "But I think you're forgetting something."

"And what's that?" you shot back, even as your breath hitched when her warm hand slid to your waist, pulling you against her.

"That you're mine," she growled, her lips crashing against yours before you could respond. The kiss was searing, her teeth grazing your bottom lip as her hands roamed your body. Her touch overwhelming as she backed you up against the wall. "I don't ignore you because I want to," she rasped, her lips trailing hot kisses along your jawline. "I ignored you because if I didn't, l'd drag you into my lap in front of everyone and let them know exactly who you belong to."

Your breath caught as her words sank in, her hands gripping your thighs to hoist you up against the wall. Instinctively you wrapped your legs around her waist, locking them together. "Sevika..." you whispered, your voice trembling as her mouth moved to your neck. Her teeth scraping against the sensitive skin below your jaw. “You're such a-"

"Say it," she demanded, her lips curving into a smirk against your skin. "Go on. Tell me how much you hate me right now."

You groaned, threading your fingers through her hair and tugging hard, earning a low growl from her. "I hate how good you are at this," you admitted, your words barely more than a breath as she bit down lightly, soothing the mark with her tongue.

Her laugh was low and dark, her breath fanning over your collarbone as she pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. "You love how good I am at this," she corrected, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

You rolled your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

"Maybe," you conceded, your voice softening as she set you down gently, her hands lingering on your hips.

"Definitely," she teased, brushing her lips against yours one more time before pulling away slightly, her forehead resting against yours. "Now, let me make up for tonight in a more proper manner."

taglist. @blckbny @ch-bl0gsss @b-lossm @fortluocha @ekkosh @limereance @wolfessa @themostlesbianever @simonapietra @1-800-fantasy @saikikittykusuo @sevikaishot @sugarplumz100 @chaostudi @wxwrites @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @robzo4 @puppyphia @xreadersarchive @boom58 @d3adbrainer @kylorey25 @slutmeoutfortoge @yaeil @sapphicarribean @randomperson291 @mvistl @hellokittyfeenie @literallyimthenerdemoji @nikaachuuuu @prettysupplicant @iamaboringrattat

[magnagaruzenmon]

Inbetween

Just a short little something after seeing these sexy pics

You were just putting the final card into your new Vanguard deck when your phone buzzed. A photo from Jiheon popped up — a blurry selfie of her sprawled on the couch, blanket tangled around her legs, hair in a loose bun. She looked pouty and bored. Underneath, a message:

“Come over. I’m lonely.”

You rolled your eyes, but already your keys were in your hand.

The drive to Jiheon’s place felt familiar — the kind of route your car could take blindfolded. You thought about how long you’d known her. Since your last year of college, and her second. You’d met by accident — you were sliding out of a seat in a lecture hall when she turned to you and said, “Why are you in this class? Isn’t this like, Intro 101?”

You’d raised an eyebrow and explained that her “intro” class was actually a right after for your higher-level course the course she just sat through. She blinked, then grinned.

“Oh. Okay, Mr. Smartypants.”

She’d called you that ever since.

From that moment on, she was a constant in your life. Bright-eyed, sarcastic, fiercely loyal. You’d seen her through all kinds of chaos — tear-stained breakups, half-baked get-rich schemes, failed job interviews and small personal triumphs that felt like gold medals. No matter what, Jiheon carried it all with a crooked smile and a razor-edged wit that never dulled.

You pulled into her complex and headed up without knocking. The apartment was quiet — suspiciously quiet. No Hayoung. No Nagyung. Not even Jiwon’s voice echoing off the kitchen walls. Just Jiheon.

You found her in the bathroom, sitting on the counter in a hoodie three sizes too big, idly brushing her hair. She looked up and beamed when she saw you.

“Ah! You came!”

You frowned at her, genuinely confused by her excitement.

“Yeah… you’re my friend? Why are you acting surprised?”

She gave you a look and tossed the brush down.

“Don’t get smart with me. You’ve been MIA. Work, your move — I haven’t seen you in, like, forever.”

You leaned against the doorframe with a sigh.

“That was two weeks ago. And all of last week you were busy with what’s-his-name. How’s that going, by the way?”

Jiheon’s expression faltered. She looked away for a second before muttering,

“I visited him at work. He was sleeping with his boss.”

The bathroom went quiet, save for the sound of the brush clattering on the counter. You winced.

“Damn. Well, fuck him. Honestly, he was forgettable anyway.”

She laughed, but it was small and tired.

“Thanks, Smartypants.”

You smile and say, “Anytime.”

The two of you sit in the quiet hum of her apartment, the kind of silence only close friends can share without it feeling awkward. Jiheon leans her head against your shoulder, absently pulling the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands as the TV flickers in front of you, muted.

Her presence is warm, familiar. You’d sat like this a hundred times before — post-breakup, post-party, post-bad-days — but something in the air felt different now. Maybe it was the way her hair smelled faintly like vanilla shampoo, or how her fingers brushed against yours without pulling away.

A minute passes. Maybe two. You shift your weight, then stand up.

“Let’s go on a date.”

She blinks, turning toward you from where she’s curled up on the couch.

“Huh?”

The word drops out of her like a reflex — confused, caught off guard. Her brows knit, her lips part just slightly.

You look down at her, hands in your pockets, speaking more from instinct than plan.

“I dunno. It just seemed like a good idea.”

You watch as she processes. Her eyes search your face for a punchline, but find none. She sits up straighter now, not alarmed, but suddenly very alert — like she’s trying to make sense of a new rule in a game she thought she’d already mastered.

“You mean like—” she gestures vaguely between you, “—us? A real date?”

You nod once, not backing away from her gaze.

“Yeah. You and me. Dinner. A movie. We can even pretend we don’t already know each other’s favorite orders and the name of your fourth grade math teacher.”

She lets out a soft laugh at that, eyes wide but not retreating. There’s a long beat, and then she says, quieter now:

“Why now?”

You consider it for a moment. The easy answer would be “why not?” But you owe her honesty.

“Because… when you said you were lonely, I realized I’ve been lonely too. But not in the way I thought. I missed you. Not just the hanging out, or the games, or the texts. I missed us. And maybe we’ve been pretending for a while now that there’s nothing more here… but I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

She swallows, her mouth parting again like she wants to say something, but can’t quite find the words yet.

You smile gently and add, “We can keep sitting here like always. We can forget I said anything. But if there’s even a small part of you that wants to see where this could go… come with me.”

The pause that follows isn’t filled with tension — it’s filled with a quiet possibility, like the moment before the first card is played in a match that means something.

Then, finally, Jiheon stands too. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

“Okay,” she says.

“But you’re paying.”

You grin. “Obviously.”

She rolls her eyes, but her smile betrays her.

You don’t even make it ten minutes down the road before things start to go wrong.

First, the restaurant you chose — a cute little ramen place she once mentioned in passing — turns out to be closed for renovations. Jiheon gives you a pitying look as you stare at the locked door like it might open if you believe hard enough.

“Strong start,” she deadpans.

“Bold of you to assume I don’t plan my failures ahead of time,” you reply.

Plan B? Tacos. But the GPS reroutes you three times, and Jiheon is clearly trying not to comment on how you nearly drive into a bike lane twice. By the time you find parking, it starts raining.

She looks at the sky, then at you.

“I knew I should’ve brought a jacket. This is how I die, isn’t it?”

“If I knew you were this dramatic I never would’ve asked you out.”

“You’ve known me for years. You absolutely knew I was this dramatic.”

The two of you make it into the taqueria drenched and laughing, clothes sticking awkwardly. Inside, you find one table left — directly under an air conditioner blasting arctic wind. Jiheon’s teeth chatter as she unwraps her taco.

“Romantic,” she says. “Free hypothermia with every meal.”

You raise your cup of horchata in mock-toast.

“To suffering.”

Despite it all — or maybe because of it all — the night starts to feel fun. Familiar. Real.

You fall into your usual rhythm: teasing, inside jokes, shared memories. She laughs until she nearly spits out her drink when you remind her of that time she tried to dye your hair “silver fox” and turned it lavender instead.

“You looked like a K-pop idol who got kicked out of the group for tax evasion.”

“You said I looked distinguished.”

“I lied. I was trying to protect your dignity.”

After dinner, the movie theater you’d picked is sold out, and the only other one nearby is showing the worst-looking romcom imaginable — Jiheon raises an eyebrow at you and says,

“You sure you’re not trying to make me break up with you mid-date?”

But you buy the tickets anyway, and to your shared horror… the movie ends up being hilariously awful. By the halfway point, Jiheon’s whisper-commentary is making you wheeze with laughter.

“Why is this man allergic to shirts? Is that a plot point?”

“I think it’s his trauma. Or maybe his fashion choices are the trauma.”

“God, they’re about to kiss again. You owe me popcorn refills.”

You both stumble out of the theater an hour later, wheezing and half-crying with laughter. You can’t remember the last time you had this much fun.

Back in the car, parked outside her apartment, there’s a quiet lull as the engine ticks softly. Jiheon looks at you. Not with her usual smirk or a sarcastic quip — but something softer, unreadable at first.

“That was terrible,” she says finally.

You grin. “Completely cursed.”

“And I still had the best night I’ve had in months.”

Your grin fades into something gentler.

“Yeah. Me too.”

She doesn’t look away, doesn’t laugh it off this time. Instead, she leans in — just slightly. Testing. Inviting.

“So… second date?”

“God, yes.”

She smiles, and this time it isn’t crooked or teasing — it’s full.

And then, finally, she kisses you.

Disaster or not, this is the best date either of you have ever had.

You smile as she breaks the kiss, her breath still brushing against your skin. She looks at you for a moment longer than necessary, eyes lingering like she’s memorizing your face. Then, almost shyly, she murmurs,

“Wanna come inside?”

You follow her in.

The apartment is dimly lit, warm and familiar. Her jacket lands in a heap on the couch, and she kicks off her sneakers with the casual chaos of someone who lives alone and likes it that way.

You glance around, noticing something’s off.

“Where’s the gang?” you ask, referring to her usual group of friends — loud, opinionated, always draped across her furniture like they pay rent.

Jiheon shrugs, already halfway through rummaging for snacks in the kitchen.

“I think they mentioned something about a carnival and the night market downtown.”

You blink.

“That sounds like fun. Why didn’t you go?”

She bounces slightly on her heels as she emerges from the kitchen, chips in hand, a little sheepish.

“Um… I don’t know. It felt weird? Like, everyone was hyped about it and I just… kept thinking about how cool it’d be to hang out with you, tbh.”

You give her a look — the kind that says “you are so bad at hiding how sincere you are.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

She grins unabashed.

“And I was right! We had a fantastic night.” Her voice is high with excitement, like she’s still riding the buzz of the evening.

You smile, softer this time.

“So… what now?”

Jiheon looks at you with a mischievous glint, hopping backwards toward the couch.

“I sit on your lap and play Overwatch, obviously.”

You snort.

“Okay, that’s a weirdly specific fantasy.”

She winks.

“Give me Eighteen minutes. Timer starts now.”

You assume she’s joking.

But sure enough, seventeen minutes and some change later, you’re seated on her couch, a controller in one hand, the other arm awkwardly draped as Jiheon settles herself squarely in your lap — headset on, fully immersed in a competitive match. She leans back slightly, totally at ease, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

It should be weird. It should be.

But it’s… weirdly comfortable.

The warm weight of her. The sound of her muttering callouts under her breath. The flicker of game colors dancing across her walls. The hum of the console. The faint scent of her shampoo.

Somewhere between her shouting “PUSH POINT, YOU COWARDS” and your third yawn, your eyelids start to droop. You barely notice it. Your body relaxes under hers, lulled by her voice and the gentle rhythm of explosions and victory music.

Jiheon glances down once, mid-match, and smiles when she realizes you’ve dozed off — one hand still loosely around her waist. She doesn’t say anything. Just shifts slightly to let you breathe easier, and keeps playing.

You wake up two hours later on the same couch but Jiheon is gone. You look around for her until you hear moaning from her bathroom. At first you ignore it until she says your name. You rush to her to find her playing with herself. At first your speechless until she says

“Since you’re here, fuck me!”

You barely have time to think before you undo your pants and your stroking your cock for her. Her look is so intense and inviting you just can’t help it. You don’t even think about getting a rubber or doing anything like that.

You slide inside with mind numbing ease as she takes all of you. You groan

“Fuck Heoni you feel so good,” Jiheon turns her face to yours and says,

“You’re so big inside me,” as she backs her ass up into you. You groan as she convulses around your cock.

“Shit Jiheon,” you say as you start thrusting inside her. She coos and moans as she feels you hit her cervix,

“Fuck keep going!” She moans as you keeping ramming your cock. Her breath is ragged as her see through top invites you to slip your hands under the shirt and grab her perfect mounds.

She moans as your hands run all over her body. Her walls are velvet as the happily let you venture deeper into her tight snatch. Jiheon moans before staring back at you,

“This is gonna need to be an every weekend thing now!” You growl. Jiheon smirks

“Does Mr Smarty pants love my pussy?” She teased as she clenches around you,

You groan and say “yes! It’s perfect,” Jiheon smiled then adds,

“Well then as long as we can go on cute dates and I can play overwatch while sitting in your lap I’ll happily let you fuck me,”

You smile and say, “I love you,” Jiheon blushes at that before running into her wall of release. She groans as her pussy tightens around you despairing to milk you for all your worth before she squirts all over your cock. You groan as she moans trying to outlast her but she gives you that sultry needy look and you lose it.

Three hard pumps more and you’re flooding her pussy with cum. You can’t help it. Seeing her in the bathroom mirror so lost to pleasure just sets you off.

As the both of you come down the bathroom door opens and the rest of Jiheon’s crew find you balls deep inside her. Chaeyoung laughs and says, “Took you two long enough!”

[mariasont]

hi!!!!

I'm soooo in love your work. bimbo!assistantreader wil always have a special place in my heart!!!

Now i have this of idea that i think can work for either aaron or spencer, but basically bau!reader who kind of always wears the same type of outfit in the field that's always really modest. Buttttt when they kind of like "know" it's just going to be a paperwork day she likes to were skirts... short skirts and Aaron/Spencer are just feral for them...

Can either be fluff of smut... I trust you indefinitely xxx

Short Skirt, Long Day - A.H

a/n: hi hi hi hiiiiiii!!! ugh thank u sm i kinda took this an interesting route so let me know what you think!!!! im also heavily thinking about writing a smutty pt 2 for this but id love to hear everyone’s opinions

masterlist

pairings: perv!aaronhotchner x bau!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive content, aaron being a straight PERV!!! (im into idk man), aaron imagining scenarios he didn’t shouldn’t at work, idk this is quite different from my usual postings but i kinda fuck with it

wc: 1.4k

Aaron Hotchner loved paperwork day.

Days like these meant the ringing of phones and panicked conversations were replaced by the only the sound of air conditioning (when it worked) and the occasional sneeze or cough. It’s the kind of morning he appreciated — time to breathe, to recalibrate without the air of an active case breathing down his neck.

But that's not why his pulse is thrumming more than heavily beneath his skin.

Hotch glances at the clock on his desk. It's early, too early for most of the team to be here yet, save for a couple agents whose faces barely register in his peripheral vision. His focus is elsewhere, fixed on a singular thought. Or, rather, on a singular person.

You.

Hotch leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly as a shameful type of heat rises to his face. It's a little pathetic, he thinks, how predictable he's become, it's not the work that makes these mornings bearable anymore. It's the anticipation.

The knowledge that, any minute now, the elevator doors will part, and you'll step out, wearing something that will completely dismantle his carefully constructed composure.

Hotch had noticed a pattern (of course he did, that was his instinct honed to a razor's edge). In the field, your outfits are a study in practicality: slacks, fitted jackets, muted tones, professional to a T. Nothing flashy, nothing that would draw undue attention. He’d even go as far to say you dressed more modestly than most.

But in the office, when the cases are shelved, and the team is left to wade through stacks of paperwork... it's different.

And it drives him insane.

The image takes root before he can stop it: the curve of your thighs, tantalizingly framed by a skirt that seemed designed to test his limits. The way the fabric molds to you when you move, clinging in places that his eyes are all too quick to follow.

Hotch exhales sharply, clearing his throat as if that could somehow clear his mind. It's unprofessional, he knows this, knows better than to let his thoughts stray so far from where they belong but yet…

The ding of the elevator pulls his attention like a magnet, and there you are. His grip on the pen tightens instinctively, the knuckles blanching as his gaze locks on you.

You're wearing that skirt today — black, fitted, and infuriatingly short, hugging your hips in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination.

He tells himself to look away, and for a second, he manages it — his eyes dropping back to his desk, his breath coming out slow and measured. But that reprieve is fleeting. His gaze flicks back before he can stop it, drawn helplessly to the curve of your waist as you laugh at something one of the other agents say.

You're too good. Too sweet. Too damn oblivious to realize what you're doing to him.

And he knows it's wrong, knows he's toeing a line he has no business approaching. But the way his body reacts to you, the pull you have on him, is beyond reason. It's instinctual, raw, and completely out of his control.

He calls out your name. "Could you come in here for a moment?"

You turn, blinking at him with wide, curious eyes. "Yes, sir?"

"I need you to grab something for me," he replies, his voice level, though every syllable felt like a tightly coiled spring. He motions towards the cabinet near the corner of the room. "The Marcus file. Bottom shelf."

He was a terrible terrible man.

Without hesitation, you step toward the cabinet, crouching slightly as you begin to sift through the lower shelf. The moment your body lowers, his eyes start trailing down where the hem of your skirt lifts, just barely revealing the soft curve of where your thighs meet your ass. 

Then, as you bend further, shifting your weight slightly to reach deeper on the shelf, the fabric stretches taut, clinging to your ass in a way that sends a jolt straight through him.

Hotch's throat feels tight, his breathing shallow as he drinks in the sight before him. You're so close, just feet away, and the angle offers him an unobstructed view. The shape of you, the smooth expanse of skin that's always just out of reach in the field, is right there, so achingly close he feels like his chest might explode.

He knows if you dipped any further, your panties would be on display and he couldn’t help but wonder what color you had on.

You’ve always had a meticulous attention to detail, choices leaning towards deliberate but understated at the same time. In the field, you favored muted tones — greys, blacks, navies. But here in the relative safety of the office you allow a little more personality, more femininity.

His mind turns to your preferences, pink, maybe.

Hotch swallows hard, pulse roaring in his ears. The thought gnaws at him, insistent and unrelenting, he needs to know.

“Careful,” he says, feigning concern. “You might need to check further back on the shelf. Sometimes the files get pushed out of sight.”

You glance over your shoulder at him and he swears he could combust. “Further back?”

He nods, leaning back in his chair to appear casual, though his grip on the armrests were anything but. “Yes.”

You turn back to the cabinet, shifting your weight again as you crouch lower, leaning further to search the back of the shelf. The motion sends the bottom of your skirt riding higher, and for a brief, heart stopping moment, the lace of your panties is on full display.

It was a pink barely there strip of fabric.

His mind betrays him, conjuring images he knows he shouldn't entertain. He imagines his hands on you, running over the curve of his hips, gripping your thighs, sliding that damn skirt higher until there's nothing left to hide. The thought of you like this, pliant and completely unaware of the effect you're having on him, makes his pulse pound in his ears. He wonders what you would do if he were to push those panties to the side and slide a finger in you.

You shift again, leaning deeper into the cabinet as your voice drifts back to him, murmuring something about not seeing it. His jaw locks, teeth pressing together as he fights to maintain control. His fingers dig into the armrests of his chair, the leather creaking faintly beneath the strain. It's a futile effort, though. The pressure building in his chest, his body, is relentless.

The heat pools low in his abdomen, simmering and insistent, a sharp pulse of arousal tightening every muscle in his body. He's painfully hard now, the evidence uncomfortably against his slacks, but he doesn't dare move. His mind a blur of want, what he wants to do to you, what he knows he shouldn't do, and the precarious line he's treading just watching you like this.

The tension in his body seems unbearable, and for a fleeting second, he considers how easy it would be to walk over, to let his hand graze your hip, to tilt your chin up so you'd look at him and see the wreckage you've left in your wake. 

But he doesn't. He can't.

Instead, he forces himself to remain still, staying rooted, the self-restraint biting and bitter. 

"Are you sure it's under here? I still don't see it."

Hotch's lips twitch, the smallest shadow of a smirk threatening to break free on his face. He leans forward, feigning surprise as he picks up the file from the corner of his desk.

"Ah," he says, waving the file. "Looks like it's been right here the whole time."

You straighten abruptly, brushing your hands down your skirt and turning towards him with a soft laugh. "Hotch! So I was practically upside down in that cabinet for nothing!"

He shakes his head, giving a small chuckle to match yours. Not for nothing. The satisfaction still simmers low in his chest, a private indulgence he knows you'll never suspect, the movement was far from wasted.

"My mistake."

"Well, I guess we all have our moments. Let me know if there's anything else you need, okay?"

When the door finally closes behind you, he exhales shakily, the breath spilling out like a confession. Leaning back in his chair, he presses his fingers to his temples, his entire body tense with the effort of restraint. He feels unmoored, like a man balancing on the edge of a precipice, one misstep away from losing everything he’s worked so hard to keep under control.

But for now, he’ll settle for watching, for imagining, for wishing, knowing full well that nothing could ever come of it. And yet, as he glances at the door where you’d just been, a part of him wonders how much longer he can hold out.

It’s going to be an impossibly long day, but the most troubling part of all is how much he’s starting to enjoy the torment.

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[blushingdread]

Knowing how the construct and Princess works makes playing the game a fun game of trying to figure out which voice did what to do this

The Razor route becomes even funnier because you're just watching Cheated stack the deck against himself. Like congratulations, you played yourself

Skeptic gets your ass trapped by fucking with the chain on the other side of Prisoner, which was ment to hold her other hand aka the Long Quiet, and THEN he gets you OUT by nitpicking about how the cabin should be changing if time is passing plus not thinking about how our not starving doesnt make sense!! Task failed successfully!!!

Cold is competely unintentionally fighting a one man war to keep the Princess as powerless as possible. All of Cold's Princesses are dead, except for Fury and Stencil. Stencil flicking between alive and dead, which is likely because of Opportunist's and Hero's thoughts being stronger than his, because in Wraith, she just stays dead. In Fury, he comes in late, and Stubbron already doesn't think she can die, so he doesnt effect her much. Cold's insistence that she's dead and easy to kill is at war with Hero's fear of ghosts and the Narrators insistence that she's alive. It's so funny when you realize that he's doing that

I always felt that Adversary!Fury was kinda overreacting. She seemed more disappointed in you. It felt really strange when she went full endless torture when thats kinda out of left field, but she makes so much more sense from Stubborn's pov!! He's the one that's supremely fucked up about the situation, he's the one yelling at Cold for his fucking audacity, he's the one who sees her in a new light after she beats you to death without a weapon when she just seemed scared and wanted to mercy kill you. Stubbon did that!!

Most princesses have a version of themselves but more. Needle to Adversary, Caged to Prisoner, Clarity to Nightmare, Den to Beast, Apotheosis to Tower, Razor, and I would say Wraith to Specter, and that's probably because the first voice you got thoughts were confirmed but now there's a second voice adding details. It's literally just confirmation bias, that's all that's happening here. Its really funny

Anyways i gotta ask what the fuck was going on in Hunted's and Opportunist's heads to make Wild? Like, I assume Hunted was thinking about when Beast dies, they'll return to nature together as one. Creating "We are a path in the woods,", but what the FUCK was oppy thinking to lead to this. Let me inside of your brain freak

[luvly-writer]

Aretia: A Cultured Duchess

Xaden Riorson x Gamlyn! Reader

Masterlist

Aretia Village Market – Late Morning

The small market just beyond the Riorson Estate buzzed with life—vendors calling out prices, colorful awnings fluttering in the wind, and the scent of grilled spices drifting from the food carts. Y/n strolled between the stalls, the breeze tugging at her curls, her smile easy and radiant.

It didn’t take long.

“Oh, gods above, look at her!” cried one of the elderly women selling embroidered shawls. “What a vision!”

“She’s so pretty,” another gasped, clasping her wrinkled hands like she was witnessing a blessing descend from the skies. “No wonder he’s so broody—had to keep her secret from the rest of us or we’d have stolen her!”

Y/n laughed, warm and sincere. “You’re all far too kind,” she said, cheeks flushing.

One of them—Mirey, the oldest—held up a bolt of deep red Tyrrish silk. “Come here, sweet girl. This color? It’s you. Let me tie it in your hair, just a little knot, like we used to in the old days. The Heir's Consort deserves it.”

Y/n blinked. “Oh—I’m not—”

“Yet,” another woman chimed in with a knowing smile. “We know that boy. Stubborn, but once he loves, it’s for life.”

They giggled and fussed, tying the silk delicately in her hair, offering little honeyed sweets wrapped in leaves, and pressing tiny bowls of spiced rice and pickled vegetables into her hands to “try, just try, darling.”

She was glowing by the time she made it back up to the estate.

Riorson Estate, War Room – Midday

Xaden stood at the edge of the table, arms crossed, listening intently as Brennan laid out troop supply routes on a large map. His focus was razor-sharp—until the door opened behind him.

He glanced up casually.

And his breath caught.

Y/n stepped in, wrapped in affection and color—golden silk glinting in her hair, laughter in her eyes, and the faintest shimmer of powdered sugar on her cheek. Behind her, two castle maids were whispering and giggling like they were watching a fairy tale unfold in real time.

Brennan followed his gaze and smirked. “You’re useless to me now,” he muttered under his breath.

Xaden didn’t even argue.

His eyes softened as she crossed the room, barely able to contain the smirk tugging at his mouth.

“What happened to you?” he asked, voice low and rough as he reached to brush a smudge of honey from the corner of her lips.

“The market,” she said sweetly. “Your people are very persuasive. I’ve had six kinds of food, three silk recommendations, and about twenty compliments on how handsome my broody Tyrrish heir is.”

He raised a brow. “Heir, huh?”

She shrugged, smirking. “Their words. I didn’t correct them.”

“Good,” he said, pulling her closer, his voice dropping to something only she could hear. “I wouldn’t want to remind them that I haven’t made it official yet. They might beat me to it and start planning a wedding without us.”

She laughed, resting a hand on his chest. “I think they already have.”

Behind them, Brennan sighed and rolled up the map. “I’m taking my rebellion and leaving. You two are gross.”

The maids giggled. Xaden kissed Y/n’s forehead, silk brushing his cheek, and didn’t let her go for the rest of the afternoon.

Aretia Village Market – Midafternoon

Y/n tugged gently on Xaden’s hand, lacing her fingers with his as she led him past the main gate, down the winding hill path that opened into the vibrant village square.

It was busy again—children weaving between carts, elders seated under bright canopies, the air fragrant with grilled meats and sweet dates. But this time, it was Xaden who was being fussed over.

“Well, well, look who came down from the mountain!” Mirey called out from her embroidery stand. “The Riorson boy himself!”

Xaden chuckled under his breath, the sound low and rare, as another elder grinned wide.

“Y/n, how did you manage this? The last time we saw him smile like this he was six and got two pastries instead of one.”

“He’s not as scary as he looks,” Y/n replied with a grin, squeezing his hand.

“Speak for yourself,” Xaden murmured to her, lips brushing her temple as he leaned in. “I am scary. Just... selectively.”

That got him a laugh, and even a playful swat from one of the women.

As they moved from stall to stall, the people eased around Xaden with a mix of respect and affection—offering updates, thanking him quietly for protection, inviting him to try spiced cider or fresh breads. And Y/n watched him, eyes soft. His usual edge dulled just enough for his warmth to bleed through. He wasn’t just a soldier or a rebellion leader here. He was home.

They passed by a stall of handwoven garments, and the vendor—a spry woman with salt-and-pepper braids—held up a cream and gold Tyrrish blouse with intricate embroidery at the neckline. She smiled at Y/n.

“This would look gorgeous on you, darling. That skin of yours? That smile? You’d be the sun in our whole damn valley.”

Y/n smiled kindly, hand brushing the fabric. “It’s beautiful, truly. But I don’t think I’d wear it. I’m usually in black rider leathers or... well, black rider leathers.”

The vendor smiled knowingly but didn’t push. Y/n stepped away.

Xaden didn’t.

He looked at the blouse. Then at Y/n, who was trying not to glance back. He knew she liked pretty things. His mouth quirked. He turned to the vendor and handed her a few coins without a word.

When Y/n looked back, he was already folding the blouse gently under his arm.

“Xaden—”

“You like it.”

“I said I wouldn’t—”

“You like it,” he repeated, and that crooked smirk was entirely too pleased with himself. “And just because you usually wear black leathers doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate you in this. Or out of it.”

“Xaden,” she hissed under her breath, cheeks flushing.

The vendor cackled. “Good gods, if your father and aunt could see you.”

Xaden just winked at her. “They'd be laughing too hard.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, but her smile was uncontainable. When they walked back up toward the estate, the blouse tucked under her arm, she reached out to lace their fingers again—and this time, Xaden was the one pulling her close.

Later That Night – Riorson Estate, Xaden’s Room

The manor had quieted. The halls, once bustling with meetings and the distant echo of sparring, now lay wrapped in silence, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace in Xaden’s room.

He had gone to the bathing room to wash off the dust of the day, leaving Y/n curled up on his bed, supposedly reading. But the moment the door shut behind him, her eyes flicked to the carefully folded blouse he’d placed on the edge of his dresser.

The cream fabric shimmered gently in the firelight, the gold thread almost glowing. Her fingers brushed it once. Twice. Then she stood.

It slipped over her head like it had been made for her—light, soft, adorned with delicate swirls and traditional Tyrrish motifs at the collar and cuffs. She glanced at herself in the mirror, turning a little.

Her lips quirked. Maybe he had a point.

The door creaked open.

She turned around just in time to see Xaden walk in, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Time froze.

His eyes dragged over her—slow, reverent, darkening with something molten. The blouse fell to mid-thigh, brushing against her bare skin, and she swore she saw his chest rise, then fall, like he’d been punched with the sight of her.

“…Well?” she said, feigning innocence, hands smoothing the hem.

He blinked. Once. Then again.

“That is,” he said slowly, “not what I expected to walk into.”

“You bought it for me.”

“I did. And now I’m wondering if that was a mistake, because if this is how you look in it…” He trailed off, jaw clenched slightly. “I might never let you wear anything else again.”

She laughed, stepping forward, the blouse swaying with her hips.

“You like it?”

He didn’t answer with words. Just crossed the room in three strides and pulled her flush against him, his hands warm and steady on her hips. His lips brushed her jaw, then her neck.

“I adore it,” he whispered. “But not as much as I adore you.”

She smiled against his mouth as he kissed her, slow and soft, one hand drifting up to tangle in her hair.

“You’re so gone for me,” she teased.

“Utterly,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “And you in this blouse? Y/n… I’m doomed.”

A few days later – Riorson Estate Grounds

“Where the hell is she?” Ridoc muttered, scanning the tree line past the market trail for what felt like the fifth time. “She was supposed to be at sparring two hours ago.”

“She didn’t check in with Garrick either,” Rhiannon added, brows furrowed. “Xaden?”

He was already stalking through the courtyard, jaw tight, eyes stormy. “She was exhausted last night. I told her to rest.”

“But she’s not in her room,” Ridoc pressed. “And this is Y/n. She’s not you—she doesn’t skip out on training unless she has a reason.”

Xaden didn’t respond, just turned and headed toward the estate gate, frustration building in his spine, his chest. He hated this—this hollow ache of not knowing where she was, the way his hands had started to shake slightly as time passed. Y/n never vanished without a word.

Until now.

And he hated how much it terrified him.

They made it halfway down the trail toward the village when a familiar laugh, like sunshine through thick clouds, danced on the wind.

Xaden stopped.

There she was.

Coming up the dirt path, hair braided in delicate Tyrrish knots, brilliant red and golden silks woven between the strands. Her cheeks were rosy from the sun, her eyes sparkling as she walked with a small basket of pastries, a few rune-marked beads in her hand.

She paused when she saw them—Xaden, Ridoc, Rhiannon, Garrick, Bodhi—all frozen mid-mission.

Her smile faltered. “What’s wrong?”

“You disappeared,” Xaden said, voice low, controlled, but not quite hiding the panic that had been clawing at his ribs.

Y/n blinked, confused. “I told Kaia I was going to the market.”

“Kaia didn’t tell anyone,” Ridoc added quickly. “I thought something had happened.”

Her face softened with understanding, and she stepped closer, holding out her hand as if to say I’m here, I’m safe. “I’ve been going to the market between training when I can. Trying to learn the knots the weavers use. A few words of the language. The kids there have been helping me pronounce them right.” Her lips curled. “I’m still terrible.”

Xaden stepped closer, looking at the silks in her hair, the way the elder women had tied them with such care. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wanted it to be for me,” she said softly, “and for you. I don’t want to just love you, Xaden. I want to love the land that made you, the people who shaped you, the language that lives in your blood.”

He stared at her—no words, no breath—just awe.

Ridoc, from behind, muttered, “Good gods, she’s going to ruin him.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow at him, then looked back at Xaden, who finally took the last step forward and gently cupped her face, fingers brushing over the silks.

“She already has,” he whispered.

And then, without shame or care for the watching squad, he kissed her forehead and pressed his against hers, exhaling like her presence alone was air.

She smiled. “You’re not mad?”

“No,” he said. “But if you vanish like that again, I will send an aerial search.”

She laughed and kissed his cheek. “Duly noted.”

A few nights after – Riorson Estate, Their Room

The fire in the hearth was low, casting a soft amber glow across the stone walls. Y/n sat cross-legged on their bed, a worn Tyrrish book of runes and phrases resting in her lap, brows scrunched in concentration.

Xaden leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her mouth move as she whispered through the words under her breath.

“Shai’en dra vyr—” she tried again, frowning. “No, that doesn’t sound right.”

“It’s not,” Xaden said, voice low and amused. He pushed off the door and came to sit beside her on the bed, tugging the book gently from her hands. “You’re saying shadow rises in fire. What you want is Shai’en dra’vyr. The ‘vyr’ holds the emphasis.”

She looked at him, eyes narrowing. “And how would you know that?”

He arched a brow, smug. “I grew up speaking it, remember?”

She squinted, teasing. “Right, the Tyrrish heir with secret linguistic skills.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he murmured, brushing a curl off her cheek, “but I’ve been listening to you practice for weeks. It’s… kind of adorable.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Adorable?”

“Painfully so.” He opened the book and pointed at a line. “Here—try this one.”

Y/n sat up straighter and repeated it slowly. Her accent still bent some syllables, but she nailed the structure. He smiled, nodding.

“That was better.”

She beamed, clearly proud of herself. “Thanks, Professor Riorson.”

He rolled his eyes. “Do not call me that.”

“Oh, I absolutely will.”

Xaden leaned in close, his voice warm against her ear. “Keep teasing me and I’m going to start testing your conjugation mid-kiss.”

She laughed, turning her head to meet his gaze. “That a promise?”

He chuckled, resting his forehead against hers. “You learning Tyrrish… it means more to me than I can say.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to say it. I already know.”

He smiled softly, then reached for her hand and guided her finger across the script in the book. “Come on, vy’reh, let’s keep going.”

Y/n’s heart fluttered at the word—Tyrrish for beloved. She squeezed his hand.

“Okay. Teach me.”

They had settled down in their bed after Xaden had helped her practive a few times. The candlelight flickered gently, casting shadows that danced across the pages of the Tyrrish language book lying open on the floor beside the bed. Y/n was curled into Xaden’s side, her head resting on his chest, finger idly tracing one of his scars. The silence was warm—thick with the kind of peace that only came after hours of being wrapped in one another.

Then she stirred slightly, voice hesitant but hopeful.

“Vy’reh sai dra…” She paused, biting her lip.

Xaden tilted his head, brow quirked. “What was that?”

She sat up a little, cheeks already flushing. “I was trying to say something, but I think I butchered it.”

He reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Say it again.”

She took a breath and tried, slowly. “Vy’reh sai dra ven daren.”

He blinked, completely still.

She frowned. “Did I say it wrong? I meant—”

“You didn’t.” His voice was low, a little rough around the edges. “You said it right.”

Y/n tilted her head. “Really?”

He nodded, gently pulling her back into him. “You are my heart’s delight. That’s what you just said.”

She smiled shyly. “Yeah. That’s what I was trying to say.”

Xaden didn’t answer right away. He just pulled her closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck, lips brushing her skin. “Say it again.”

She giggled, whispering against his shoulder, “Vy’reh sai dra ven daren.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Gods, I’m never going to recover from that.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she teased.

“Only when it comes to you.”

He shifted so their foreheads touched, his eyes locked on hers. “One day, you’re going to say that to me in front of a full room, and I’ll drop to my knees.”

Y/n laughed softly. “Noted. I’ll keep practicing.”

“Please do. I want to hear it every day. A hundred different ways.”

Author's note: I have to be so honest, this chapter and the ones that follow are my absolute favorites! Like the absolute delight I got from writing them was incomparable.

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[knockknockitsnickels]

Day 7, the Razor! She was the last route I got on my first playthrough, which was one hell of a way to end the game

[neverpathia]

So the Slay the Princess community wanted to hear about Paranoid and Nightmare. Ask, and you shall receive.

They're a very toxic relationship.

So I'm looking at a lot of these Princess and Voice pairings, and I'm noticing that there's often a pretty distinct presence of affection from the Voice. Even the Opportunist says the Witch's a 'woman after his own heart', the Cheated says the Razor would be 'pretty cute', and Skeptic calls Cage (formerly the Prisoner) the 'missus'. The former two are actively hostile towards the Princess, while the latter's route has been particularly romance-free thus far.

With Paranoid and Nightmare? Can't say I see it that much on Para's end. The closest it gets is him panicking when Nightmare touches his face.

But Nightmare...well, even if she's not exactly 'affectionate' herself, she certainly does get a little touchy-feely and delight in your fear. And he is your fear.

They have a very distinct imbalance of power here, but where Broken acknowledges it and insists on surrender, Paranoid acknowledges it too—yet he resists. He's terrified but he's spiteful. It's not just panic we have over here—it's snark, anger, hatred.

Maybe she loves him, or maybe she doesn't, but one thing's certain: she wants him. She wants what he can give her: feeling, companionship, a cure against this endless loneliness that has defined too much of her life. (Side note: I feel like Cold and Nightmare would get along. They have all of those desires in common, plus they're both freaky anyway, but I digress.)

But he doesn't want to give it to her, and he most certainly doesn't want her. He hates what she wishes to see from him. Terror is the only thing she knows, but so is it for him. He was borne of it, driven to it, defined by it. It is thanks to this terror that he chooses to resist, to protect himself.

But the resistance of will can only stand for so long.

She pushes against him and he pulls away until he can't any longer. She desires and he despises; she takes and he snatches away until nothing's left but to give. But if he could choose, then he'd run from her forever. Were it possible—but it's not.

(Okay, it is in Wraith, sort of. But it's certainly not in MOC.)

In a Modern AU setting I have going on, Nightmare keeps trying to text Paranoid on several different accounts even after he's blocked her a million times. She's got separation anxiety, and he's got, well, literally any other kind of anxiety.

She threatens and teases and plays with him, but what she really wants is connection. And that's exactly what he believes he can't give her, because it's not safe, because she's always been a threat.

[after-witch]

To a Mouse [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: To a Mouse [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: The best laid escape plans of mice and men often go awry. 

Word Count: 2200ish

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, abusive behavior, drugging

You’ve been planning. Bad, bad thing that you are--not that Overhaul knows about the planning. Not that he knows you call him Overhaul, in your head, all the while “Kai” bubbles from your lips like sweet candy.

Not that he knows that while you obey and nod and pretend to go along with it, you’re screaming, plotting, fervently dreaming about the day that you’ll get away from him.

That day is today, in fact.

All thanks to two things: your penchant for drawing, and his penchant for closing his eyes while you change into your nightgowns.

The drawing is what earned you the box of pencils. They’re nice pencils, middle-of-the-road when it comes to quality. Better than the cheap pencils schoolchildren get, but a seasoned artist might not work with them. You, though, are no seasoned artist. You’re simply a kidnapping victim who liked to draw in their spare time before all this, and after weeks of behaving, he let you have a box of pencils and paper to keep in your room when he wasn’t there.

Because you were good. Because he trusted you.

His mistake.

That pencil is sharpened now, razor sharp or something close to it; it won’t kill him, you’re not that naive. But you’re sure that you can jab it into his flesh enough to hurt, enough to send him to his knees long enough for you to rush into his office and get one of the knives he keeps in his desk. And that’s what will kill him. That’s what will secure his death--and your freedom.

It’s his mistake, too, that he gives you a hint of privacy now and then. When you get dressed, especially. In the morning, when you change; in the evening, when you shower, then again when you change into your nightgown.

The pencil would be useless, without that hint of privacy. Because it had given you the opportunity to slip the pencil from your shirt sleeve and, quick as a bird, slide it underneath the comforter before he took you to the bathroom to shower.

And here you were, sitting in bed with a hand tucked under the comforter and holding onto that pencil; skin scrubbed raw and smelling of sterile soap. Clean. Fresh. Ready.

He’s still turned around, and you put an earnest smile into your voice.

“I’m dressed, Kai.” Dressed and ready to never call him Kai again. Dressed and trembling,  fingers tight around the pencil, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

The perfect time comes when he turns around, eyes crinkled in what must be a smile behind his mask, and approaches to tuck your blanket over you. It’s a soft think--pink and sweet, like he wants you to be.

His fingers are smoothing out the blanket, his words forming some sort of soothing goodnight message, when your arm whips around and you stab the pencil straight into his neck.

The pencil makes contact, you think. But it doesn’t plunge into his flesh the way you imagined it would. It scratches--leaving a jagged quickly -reddening gash--and Overhaul falls to one knee, giving you only a second to scamper off the bed and flee through the doorway connecting your room to his office.

He’s not down for the count, you can hear his steps, hear him shouting something--your thoughts are all jumbled and when your trembling hands grip the handle of his desk and yank at the drawer, it doesn’t budge. He locked it, today. Or maybe it was always locked and you were too stupid to realize it.

There’s no time to kill him, no time to attack--you can only run. So you do, socked feet scampering towards the door of his office, hoping it led to some sort of escape route. 

The door doesn’t budge, and you stupidly shove yourself against it, feeling hot, useless tears streaming down your face. Everything happens too fast and too slow all at the same time. It didn’t work, none of it worked, and you’re left pressing your back against the door and watching as an extremely pissed off Kai Chisaki stalks towards you.

You’ve never seen him like this--hives breaking out on his skin, one hand clutching his neck, eyes practically bulging out in anger and betrayal.

A gloved hand reaches down to grip your wrist, yanking you upward with an uncharacteristic force. You were delicate, a doll; an ornament to be cared for and cleaned. Or so he said, with words and actions. Which is why the tight grip, so harsh you wonder if your bones might snap, comes at you like a bucket of ice water.

“There will be consequences.”

The words are spit out, and your mind supplements the image of wispy saliva hitting the inside of his mask, a bitter poison. No sooner than he warns you, he grabs your arm, gloves slipping on your skin as he tightens his grip and yanks you upward.

Instinct tells you what he’s going to do, and your body tries to turn to lead, but there’s no escaping his grip in the moment. He drags you over to his desk and you see the inside of the drawer he pulls open--all manner of syringes and bottles and you already imagine a needle sliding into your skin, turning you to jelly.

It’s not the needle he grabs, but the handcuffs. And that makes your stomach twist worse.

The moment when you’re dragged back into your bedroom and tossed harshly onto your bed blurs over the next few hours. You will remember the feeling of hitting the mattress, the awkward way your arm bent as he held it down and snapped the cuff over your wrist and then over the pole of the bed. You will remember your heart pounding like a rabbit.

But you’re not sure exactly what Overhaul said--or if he said anything at all--or if you did anything but cry. Did you beg him not to hurt you? Did you tell him to fuck off? Did he tell you to go to sleep, or was it an implied command? 

It’s hard to say.

You’re not even sure if the later sound of hot steaming water from his office bathroom, the image of him scrubbing his skin where the pencil scraped it, is real or imagined. 

Sleep does not come for hours and when it does, you have a horrid nightmare of a large, unfathomable monster sitting on your arms, keeping you immobile. 

--

“You’ve lost the right to move without permission.”

There are many things you imagined Overhaul might do to you. You thought he would toss you back into that horrid room with its white walls and stripped toilet; or cut your meal to miniscule rations, to teach you to be grateful. Or make you sit in the damned clinic of his while he tested your blood to find some practical reason for your rebellion.

You didn’t imagine he would cuff your hands behind your back, and keep you on a chain that kept you leashed to the bed. It wasn’t even long enough to walk around the room, not that there was much to do anymore; when you woke up the morning after, your books, papers, pencils, had all been stripped away. 

It was a wonder he didn’t take the shelf with them.

“They will come off,” he says, gesturing with his hand towards the chain and cuffs, “only if I permit it. At meal times.” He pauses. “And bath time.” 

What relief might have come with the thought of being alone in the bath--those sweet moments of privacy--dissipates a few minutes afterward, when he leads you, hands uncuffed and sore, into the bathroom.

Only he doesn’t, as usual, usher you inside and give you privacy to change and wash yourself. He doesn’t even turn around. He simply stares at you, until anxiety forces you to speak, your voice a squeaky whisper.

“Aren’t you going to…” The full sentence doesn’t come. Aren’t you going to leave? Let me get undressed? Look away? 

He only blinks at you. 

“No.” The word is short and clipped and awful in its simplicity.  “You might try something. You’ve lost the right to privacy.”

Heat rises to your cheek and awful bile claws up your throat with it. He can’t--he wouldn’t look; that is one thing he never did, despite all his hovering and controlling. 

He must catch your thoughts, because from behind the mask comes an almost throaty murmur. “I’m not base. I’m only watching to make sure you don’t do something dangerous to yourself or others.” He swallows, his throat bobbing. “Don’t trouble yourself about that.”

Oh, but you do trouble yourself. Your hands shake as you pull off your nightgown, smelling of sweat from last night’s activities, and fold it carefully on the countertop. Shame crawls inside your stomach and you cover yourself as best you can, shifting positions as you step into the tub. 

Your hands reach instinctively to draw the curtain behind you, only to realize that the curtain that you usually pull for your showers is gone. 

“Take a bath,” he says, simply. “Until you’ve earned the curtain back.”

Something low rumbles in your stomach and you know it’s not hunger. Slowly, you lower yourself down into the tub, pulling your knees to your chest to cover as much as possible. Because he’s still just--staring at you.

He stares even as you turn on the water and begin to fill the tub and wash yourself, quickly as can be, with hot water and soap. Showering usually felt good; it was like taking away a layer of invisible grime that built up around him. But with his eyes on you the entire time, it’s like the grime sticks to your skin, no matter how much you scrub. 

The lack of commentary on your nakedness is somehow just as worse than his gaze upon it.

--

Life, such as it was, quickly turns to shit. 

Overhaul keeps you chained to the bed unless he’s in the room. And even then, there are times where he insists you stay cuffed or leashed to the bed like a wayward dog. 

“You can’t be trusted on your own,” is all he says, if you ask him about it. 

He doesn’t look away when you get dressed. When you bathe. Even when you go to the bathroom.

When you protest too much, when you squirm and kick at the chain and pull your hands harshly against the cuffs, he merely threatens to gag you; to tighten the chain; to leave you cuffed when you bathe and eat, which means he’ll be the one doing the scrubbing and the feeding.

You stop fighting, after that. The threat hits your chest hard and you’re forced to accept the new routine.

That’s what it is, after all. A routine. 

You accept it for what it is--life, now. A new reality.

It’s your new reality that you sleep in soft nightgowns with a cold chain around your ankle and a cuff on your wrist. It’s your new reality that Overhaul stands and stares while you bathe, taking in your body and occasionally critiquing your washing technique. 

It’s your new reality that you have no such thing as privacy, no such thing as softness or entertainment or the quiet enjoyment that comes (however unbidden) from reading your books in the afternoon or drawing on a fresh sheet of paper. 

Now, you have only yourself and Overhaul and the basic functions of life. 

--

“You’ve been behaving,” he remarks one day. A simple compliment for the simple act of no longer fighting against the cuffs, no longer tugging at the chain around your ankle. 

It’s true, though. You haven’t fought. Or argued about the new rules. And you haven’t so much as thought about another escape attempt. The last one was so futile, and look where it got you? Chained and stared at, like an animal in a zoo; hardly worth the effort.

But–but, but, but. When you go into the bathroom that morning, the shower curtain is back.

He doesn’t turn around when you change, and it doesn’t bother you because, after all---it’s a start.

And that night--

“The handcuffs will stay off,” he tells you mildly, locking the chain around your ankle, “if you continue to behave.”

You do behave.

The next week, it is the chain that will stay off--if you continue to behave. And you strive to behave, because the thrill of being able to properly toss and turn and curl up in bed is worth it. And it’s not as if misbehaving got you anywhere before, did it? 

And one blissful morning, you wake up to find your books returned. Your papers. And--not pencils, no. Large crayons, the kind you give to children. Still, still, it’s something.

You swear you can see his smile from behind the mask as you marvel at them, thinking of the ways you’ll be able to occupy yourself with the bright, waxy colors. 

“These will remain,” he says, “if you continue to behave.”

And you do--

You do behave.

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; haunted by the aftermath of your choices, a surprise visit unravels old wounds and buried emotions, as a tearful confession forces you to confront a tangled web of guilt, pain, and forgiveness.

⚠️ warnings; blood and graphic depictions of violence

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

Your eyes drifted to the ripples in the water, your thoughts sinking beneath the surface as you replayed the journey back to the coven.

König hadn’t hesitated. He had all but dragged you back, his grip firm yet careful, as though you might shatter if he let go. There was no stop to regroup, no pause to process—just a direct route home, the tension in his towering frame mirroring your own.

And so, the head sat on your lap the entire ride home, its weight a grim reminder of everything that had transpired. You refused to part with it, even as the blood seeped through the fabric, staining your clothes further. You hadn’t spoken a word, your focus locked on the bag as if it might come alive again.

Sybil had kept watch the whole way, her eyes scanning the passing horizon through the window as she curled protectively by your side. She didn’t whine, didn’t nudge you, only remained steadfast and silent, as though sensing the fragile thread you were hanging by.

Even now, you could feel the phantom weight of the bag on your lap, heavy and unrelenting, as though it had been branded into your skin.

Your thoughts drifted to the moment you had walked through the grand doors of the manor, every nerve in your body screaming with pain and exhaustion, yet your focus razor-sharp. You hadn’t paused to speak to anyone, hadn’t stopped to explain.

The staff had stared long and hard, their whispers trailing behind you like ghosts. It didn’t matter. Nothing did, except what needed to be done.

You had found her in the dining hall. Your Mother sat at the long table, elegant as ever, her posture immaculate as she shared a quiet dinner with your Mom and their familiars. The glow of candlelight softened the room, the quiet clink of cutlery the only sound as they ate in peaceful conversation.

That peace shattered the moment you entered.

Without a word, you stepped into the room and strode forward, your steps echoing sharply against the polished floor. Your Mother looked up, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly at your disheveled state, but before she could speak, you dropped the bloodied bag onto the floor with a dull, wet thud.

The room froze.

The maids gasped, their hands flying to their mouths as they stepped back. Your Mom’s fork clattered onto her plate, her face painted in shock.

Then the bag fell open. Cath Palug rose up and hissed, while Barghest simply stared.

The severed head rolled out, its lifeless eyes staring at nothing, and the room seemed to tilt with the collective intake of breath.

Your Mother’s expression didn’t falter—not entirely. Her gaze flickered between you and the grisly trophy at her feet, but her voice remained steady when she finally spoke. “So it’s done, then.”

You hadn’t answered. You couldn’t. The tightness in your chest made speaking impossible, and the burning in your throat made it clear you would break if you tried.

Instead, you turned on your heel and walked out, leaving behind the whispers, the questions, and the horror etched into their faces.

A soft knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. The sound was gentle, hesitant, as though whoever was on the other side knew how fragile the moment was.

“Come in,” you said, your voice hoarse from disuse.

The door creaked open, and your Mom wheeled herself into the room. She was alone—not with Horangi, not with your Mother, just her. The sight of her brought a lump to your throat. She stopped by the edge of the tub, her sharp eyes scanning you silently for a moment before she spoke.

“Figured you’d still be in here,” she said softly, her tone laced with a quiet understanding. “Thought I’d come check on you.”

You lowered your gaze, your knees pulling closer to your chest as the lukewarm water rippled around you.

She didn’t wait for a response, her hands working deftly as she reached into the bag hanging from the side of her wheelchair. From it, she pulled a clean towel and a small jar of salve. Her movements were steady, deliberate, as though trying to ground you through her actions.

“Let me see,” she said, her tone firm but gentle.

You didn’t argue. Slowly, you unfolded yourself, exposing the myriad of cuts and bruises that marred your skin. She leaned in, her hands careful as they traced over the wounds that had already been tended to.

Her attention lingered on the bite mark at your neck. Though it had been cleaned and treated, the faint outline of the fangs still remained, a cruel reminder of how close you had come.

Her fingers hovered just above the wound, her jaw tightening. “The venom was extracted in time,” she murmured, more to herself than to you. “Your nature did the rest. If you weren’t a witch…” Her voice trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavily between you.

You didn’t need her to finish. You knew. You would have turned—become one of them.

She sighed, sitting back slightly as she set the jar of salve on the edge of the tub. “You’re lucky, you know. Stubborn, reckless, but lucky.”

Her words made you blink, your gaze snapping to her face. There was no anger in her expression, no reprimand—just quiet understanding and something deeper, something that made your stomach twist.

“I need you to listen to me,” she said, her voice quieter now. “This is going to go against what your Mother wants, what we’ve always told you. But I can’t ignore what I see.”

You swallowed hard, her words settling heavily in your chest.

“If this isn’t what you want,” she continued, her sharp gaze meeting yours. “If you want to leave—to go back to the pack and leave the coven for good—I’ll help you.”

“I’ll make sure you’re safe,” she said continued. “I’ll make sure you get where you need to go. But it has to be what you want. Not what they want, not what I want, and not what anyone else expects from you.”

Her hand reached out, resting lightly over yours, her warmth grounding you. “Think about it. Really think about it. Whatever you decide, I’ll stand by you.”

You looked at her, really looked at her for the first time since you got back. She was… older. Older than you remembered. The lines around her eyes seemed deeper, her posture less rigid than it once was. The strength she always carried so effortlessly now seemed tempered, worn down by time and worry.

A flicker of emotion stirred in your chest—pity, maybe even sorrow. You tried to feel sorry for her, and you did, just a little. But it wasn’t enough to sway you.

Sitting up straighter in the lukewarm tub, the water sloshed against the sides as your gaze met hers, steady and unwavering.

“It’s too late,” you said quietly, but the conviction in your tone was unmistakable. “I’ve made my decision. Just like I told you and Mother before.”

Her expression faltered, a shadow of something unspoken crossing her face, but she said nothing. She only waited, her silence heavy with anticipation.

“I will become the new leader,” you continued, your voice firmer now. “This is what I’ve chosen. What I have to do.”

Her lips parted slightly, as though to speak, but the words never came. Instead, she exhaled softly, her shoulders sinking just a fraction as she studied you.

There was no pride in her gaze, no triumphant acknowledgment of your strength. Only quiet resignation, a sadness that settled into the lines of her face.

For a moment, she simply sat there, the distance between you feeling both vast and unbearably close. Finally, she gave a small nod, her hand still resting lightly over yours.

“If that’s your choice,” she said, her voice calm but tinged with sorrow. “Then I’ll support it. Just know… it doesn’t have to be the only path.”

Her words lingered in the air, but you didn’t respond. You had already made your choice, and nothing would change that.

. . .

The day of your confirmation came with a grandeur that left little room for subtlety. The entire town, along with the coven, had spent weeks preparing for the festivities—a week-long celebration to mark your ascension as the coven’s first seat.

Witches of every background, from the powerful High Covens of the North to independent practitioners from distant lands, came to greet you, to confirm your role as the one who would inherit your mother’s seat when she chose to step down. Each arrival was marked with gifts, blessings, and no small amount of scrutiny, their curious gazes ever-present.

The town itself was open to all—a rare gesture meant to foster goodwill among practitioners and the mundane alike. Yet with the open gates came an unease you couldn’t quite shake. It was tradition, yes, but one that carried its risks.

Now, as the celebrations roared outside, you found solace in your new studio, tucked away from the crowd.

The room was an eclectic blend of past and present—a reflection of your position as both a keeper of old traditions and a harbinger of new leadership. Ancient tomes lined the shelves alongside sleek magical tools. The faint scent of lavender and sage lingered in the air, mingling with the soft scratch of a quill as you worked on a letter to one of the visiting covens.

Sybil lay sprawled near the large window, her silvery coat catching the golden light as she watched the festivities below with quiet vigilance.

The moment was broken by a firm knock at the door.

You glanced up and called out, setting down your pen. “Come on in.”

The door creaked open, and Fiona stepped inside, her expression a mix of annoyance and concern. Her crisp uniform was immaculate, as always, but the faint crease in her brow spoke of something out of the ordinary.

“There’s someone here to see you,” she said, her tone clipped but careful.

You frowned, unsure of who would bypass the usual process of introductions to demand your attention directly. “Who?”

The name hit you like a jolt. For a moment, you could only stare at her, your mind racing to make sense of what she’d said.

“What?” you echoed, disbelief thick in your voice.

Fiona nodded, her frown deepening. “She’s at the front door. Said she wanted to see you.”

Your stomach churned with a mix of emotions—shock, anger, and something dangerously close to relief. You tried to process the name that had haunted you for so long.

“Did she say why?” you asked quietly.

“No,” Fiona replied, her tone softer now. “Just that she won’t leave until she speaks with you.”

Sybil’s ears perked, her gaze shifting to you as if sensing the storm of emotions brewing within. She rose to her feet, padding silently to your side.

You took a deep breath, your hands tightening slightly on the desk before you pushed yourself to stand. “I’ll see her,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

Fiona hesitated. “Are you sure? I can—”

“I’ll handle it,” you interrupted gently, offering her a small smile.

Fiona gave you a lingering look, then nodded and stepped aside to let you pass.

With Sybil at your side, you made your way toward the main hall, each step heavy with anticipation. The hum of the festivities outside faded into the background as you approached the the entrance hall.

And there she was.

Leah stood there, framed by the warm glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the open door. She looked… different. Tired. Worn down by time and whatever journey had brought her here. And yet, she remained beautiful as the first time you saw her. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was heavy, laden with bad memories and unspoken questions.

“Leah,” you said finally, your voice calm despite the swirl of emotions beneath the surface. “What are you doing here?”

Her lips parted as though to respond, but no words came.

“I came to see you,” she said at last, her voice quiet but steady.

The words hung in the air, their simplicity belying the weight they carried. You stood there for a moment, studying Leah’s face, before finally gesturing toward the hallway. “Come with me,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling beneath the surface.

Leah hesitated, her eyes darting toward Sybil before nodding and following you. Sybil padded silently behind, her dark eyes watchful as always. Fiona herself watched the two of you go, a frown still set over her features.

As you led her back to your studio, the silence between you was heavy, punctuated only by the soft thud of footsteps on the wooden floors. She began chattering nervously, her voice quick and uneven, filling the quiet with fragmented observations and apologies.

“I wasn’t sure you’d even see me,” she said, her words tumbling over one another. “I mean, I didn’t know what else to do. I—this place, it’s beautiful, I—”

You didn’t respond. Your silence seemed to unnerve her further, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak, not yet.

When you reached your studio, you opened the door and stepped aside to let her in. “Apologies for the mess,” you murmured, though the room was hardly disorganized—save for the stacks of books and papers scattered across the desk.

Leah hovered uncertainly near the entrance, her hands wringing together. Sybil walked past her, settling back near the window but keeping her gaze trained on the two of you.

You crossed to a small bell on the desk and rang it once, summoning someone from the kitchen. “I’ll have some food brought up,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Leah opened her mouth to protest, shaking her head. “That’s not necessary, I—”

“Sit down,” you interrupted sternly, your eyes meeting hers. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Just sit.”

The weight of your tone silenced her, and she sank onto the nearest chair without further resistance. Her shoulders sagged as though the act of sitting had drained the last of her strength.

While you waited for the food to arrive, the room filled with a tense silence. You leaned against the edge of your desk, arms crossed, watching her carefully.

It was Leah who broke first.

She sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white as she stared down at them. She took a shaky breath before starting, her voice low and trembling.

“It started… months ago. I was out clubbing with some friends at Konni” she began, her gaze flickering briefly up to meet yours before dropping again. “We’d gone to celebrate something—maybe exams or someone’s birthday. I can’t even remember now. It’s all so foggy.”

Her fingers twisted together nervously. “That’s where I met him. Makarov. I didn’t know his name then—didn’t even know what he was. He was just… there. Charismatic, charming, and… different. He stood out.”

Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard, her eyes glistening. “I don’t even know how it happened, how he pulled me in. I just… I wasn’t myself anymore. He had this way of making you feel like everything you wanted was within reach, and I believed it. I believed him.”

You remained silent, letting her continue. Suddenly, Sybil was next to her, her snout nudging into Leah’s lap. She looked surprised for a second, before hesitantly moved to stroke Sybil’s fur.

You let Sybil be. She was always best at things like this.

“I didn’t even know how much time passed,” Leah admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “Weeks? Months? I lost track. It wasn’t until you and your mother found me—helped to heal me—that I even started to remember who I was.”

Her gaze lifted to yours, and you could see the tears pooling in her eyes. “B-but I remember when you came to the pack’s house to treat me. I was so out of it, but… when you were there, it was the first time I felt like me in weeks. Like I was finally waking up from this nightmare.”

Leah’s voice wavered as she continued. “And then I learned what was happening with the pack—how they’d been affected, how I’d twisted them…” Her voice faltered, and she shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I never slept with them. Not that it didn’t almost happen. There were moments…”

She shuddered, her shoulders trembling. “It haunts me. I can’t stop thinking about what could’ve happened, what almost did.”

Sybil nudged her hand gently, and Leah took a deep breath, her fingers curling around the Borzoi’s soft ears.

“I was just a student,” she said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. “I was in school, working toward my degree. I had friends, a life… and now it’s all gone. I disappeared without a trace. No one knows what happened to me. I’ve lost everything—my home, my friends, even school. I miss it all. I miss them. I miss the normalcy.”

The room fell silent except for the sound of Leah’s quiet sobs as she buried her face in her hands. Sybil stayed close, her presence steady and warm as Leah clung to her.

Leah’s hand stilled against Sybil’s fur, her voice trembling as she spoke again. “I’ve been staying with Laswell,” she said, her tone low and hesitant. “She’s been… kind. But it doesn’t feel like kindness, not really. It feels more like punishment. Like I’m a prisoner.”

Her gaze dropped, tears streaking silently down her cheeks. “And maybe I deserve it,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Her voice cracked under the weight of her words. “The pack… they treat me like a disease. Like I’m toxic, like just being near me will make everything worse.”

She took a shuddering breath, her tears falling faster now. “I get it. I do. I know where they’re coming from. I know what I… what Makarov did to them. But it still hurts.” Her voice broke completely, her shoulders trembling as she clung to her words. “It hurts so much.”

Leah’s gaze lifted to meet yours, her eyes red and swollen, her voice dropping into something almost too raw to bear. “But what hurts the most? What I did to you. To all of you.”

She pushed herself to her feet suddenly, the chair scraping back as she staggered toward you. Before you could stop her, she dropped to her knees in front of you, her hands reaching out desperately.

“Leah—” you started, but she didn’t let you finish.

Her hands found yours, gripping them tightly, and before you could pull away, she pressed her forehead against them, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“I didn’t know,” she choked out, her voice trembling with desperation. “I didn’t know what I was doing, how much damage I was causing. But it was me, wasn’t it? It was me, breaking your heart. Breaking their hearts.”

Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs, her words tumbling over each other in a rush. “Please, forgive me. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything, anything to make it right. Just… please, forgive me.”

Her raw sincerity hit you like a blow, her tears soaking into your hands as she clung to you with an almost unbearable desperation. Sybil rose from her spot beside her, letting out a soft whine as she nudged Leah’s shoulder gently, but she didn’t move.

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the sound of her quiet sobs, each one breaking the stillness like a fragile thread snapping. The weight of her plea lingered, heavy and unrelenting, settling over the space like a final, inescapable truth.

banner credit

[sleepyorchidmonster]

So, wouldn't it be fun if, when the Cataclysm happens, we temporarily enter a trial stage where we can see what the rest of Teyvat is doing while we're (presumably) in Khaenri'ah?

Like, Paimon makes an off-handed remark about how she hopes our friends are alright before we enter a domain, and next thing you know, we're playing as Jean back in Mondstadt, following her as she orders the knights to defend the city, before finding out to the Cathedral has been targeted and running up the flights of stairs alongside Lisa, Noelle, Mika and Eula. Once they reach the Cathedral, they rush to the basement alongside Barbara, only to find Albert rifling through priceless artifacts.

Then Albert reveals himself to be an Abyss Herald, saying how he spent the past years pretending to be an unsettling Barbara fan so he could be near the Cathedral and figure out the building's layout, as well as learn more about Barbatos.

We then beat him up for it. (I just want an excuse to beat up Albert). And, after the battle is over, Barbara wonders about Rosaria's whereabouts.

Rosaria is currently rushing through Springvale, trying to reach Wolvendom to see if Razor is alright. Diona, Bennet and Fischl are following her, alongside Draff and a few hunters.

They fight alongside Andrius and a pack of wolves, fending off the Abyss, especially the rifthounds (the people of Springvale evacuated to Mondstadt City).

And, just as the next wave of monsters appears, we cut to Dawn Winery, where Diluc, Kaeya and Amber are protecting the estate. (Assuming Kaeya is in Mond and not fighting his demons back in Khaenri'ah).

Meanwhile, in Dragonspine, Albedo, Mona, Klee and Sucrose are fending off a bunch of Abyssal monsters with the help of Albedo's siblings (there's an entire pack of rifthounds circling the group in a protective manner).

Then we hear an earth-shattering roar and a revived Durin suddenly takes to the sky, starting the final segment of the Mond Cataclysm fight, where we accompany Dvalin, Durin and Venti in a battle in the skies, the old foes now allies.

Then we jump from region to region, finding out how our friends are doing while the world burns to the ground.

Notable mentions that I'll probably include in another post at a later date include:

- Qiqi healing Millelith soldiers while Keqing fends off the Abyss;

- Hu tao, Shenhe and Baizhu dealing with restless spirits in Wuwang Hill;

- Rhodeia single-handledly protecting Qingce Village with a thousand Hydro mimics;

- The Akitsu Kimodameshi Youkai children attempting to protect other kids in Hanamizaka, and when that almost fails, Itto and Yoimiya swoop in to protect the kids;

- Sara, Heizou, Kokomi and Gorou working together to fend off monsters coming from the Dark Sea to Watatsumi, with Raiden on the frontlines;

- Yae sending out fox spirits to protect Narukami Island from atop the Shrine;

- Xiao, Yelan and Yanfei fighting at the Chasm;

- Wanderer fighting alongside the Pari before returning to Sumeru city to help Nahida;

- Nahida and the Aranara coordinating efforts to protect and guide all the people of Sumeru, be if by offering protection or providing oasis and safe havens;

- The Akasha being temporarily back so the entire regionof Sumeru is connected, with eremites and people from the rainforest sharing knowledge, be it the location of enemies, evacuation routes or first-aid tips. The children and elderly are also swapping stories, to calm each other down and avoid panicking;

- Nilou is guarding the Sanctuary of Surasthana, not that anyone is getting near Sumeru city, what with the green shield of Dendro and Apep looming in the background;

- Lyney and Lynette looking for Freminet, only to see a gigantic hydro construct of Pers fighting a Wolflord alongside the Salon Solitaire (Freminet and Furina besties agenda);

- Enemies such as Treasure Hoarders and Fatui fighting alongside the playable characters against the Abyss.

[its-cartooncrazy]

[Image description: a list of all tarot cards in the major arcana, along with their meanings. They have been matched to a vessel from slay the princess, using the drawings from the memories page. Full text ID under the cut.]

Hello I spent like a week being abnormal about this (no I did not know the tarot cards by heart before this, yes I do now) so here is my definitive list of which princess matches which tarot card. If you disagree with me then you're wrong (joking, please feel free to tell me with your reasoning, I'd love to hear it!!)

Full list of my reasonings under the cut (scroll to the big text saying "Reasonings" to skip the ID)

[Full ID: three columns, listing first the tarot number and name, then card meanings, then the princess. They are as follows:

0. The Fool. cycle of life, birth & death, hope, optimism, childish, spontaneous, lateral thinking. The Damsel

1. The Magician. practical, success, witty, at home, central nervous system & lungs & senses, unemotional, over analyses. The Moment of Clarity

2. The High Priestess. heightened perception, unknown, mystery, occult, patience, intuition, strong independent woman, unable to control or dominate. The Wraith

3. The Empress. powerful women, creativity, growth, beauty, birth, fertility, warm, loving, sensual, enjoys life to the full. The Adversary

4. The Emperor. structure & power, competitive, achievement, authority, hierarchy, dominance. The Tower

5. The Hierophant. status quo, appearances, marriage, teaching, interpreting, structure, routine. Happily Ever After

6. The Lovers. love, romance, union, soulmates, resolved inner conflict, choice. The Wild

7. The Chariot. reward, victory hard won, don’t give up, try again, vehicles, overcoming obstacles, self discipline, hard work, focus. The Beast

8. Justice. logical decision, balanced mind, negotiation, truth, honesty, integrity. The Spectre

9. The Hermit. Solitude, thinking, introspection, learning, teaching. The Prisoner

10. The Wheel of Fortune. Fate, coincidence, luck, cycles, confusion. The Stranger

11. Strength. generous, loving, courage, conviction, optimism, resolve, generous, antagonism resolved, animals (loving). The Den

12. The Hanged Man. unable to move, temporary pause, patience, self limiting, trapped, sacrifice, wait for info. The Cage

13. Death. cycle of death & rebirth, transformation, something is ending, confronting smth alarming, major change. The Eye of the Needle

14. Temperance. balanced, adaptable, see both sides, calm, solve disputes, works well in a team, mixing opposites, blending, time. The Princess and the Dragon

15. The Devil. material world, buying love, material security, mental health, powerlessness, violence, obsession, secrecy. The Witch

16. The Tower. disruptive, violent, necessary change, enlightenment, trauma, loss, upheaval, tragedy. The Fury

17. The Star. hope, new life, fresh insight, phys or ment wounds heal, heal & inspire others, help, human rights, nature, equality. The Thorn

18. The Moon. dreams, imagination, subconscious, illusion, vagueness, deception, fear, anxiety. The Nightmare

19. The Sun. happiness & vitality, energy, confidence, children, freedom, fun, self expression. The Razor

20. Judgement. decisions, awakening, rebirth, healing, homesickness, celebrate success, self evaluation, blame. The Grey

21. The World. end of a cycle, accomplishment, journey, belonging, wholeness. The Apotheosis

End ID]

Reasonings

The Fool I put the damsel down for pretty early, just because of the childish optimism, but later I was thinking about the damsel route and why it wouldn't fit the Lovers and I said the damsel is more about how they are rushing into it. And then I remembered the Fool is about rushing in lol. I couldn't really consider anything else after that

The Magician mentions the central nervous system and lungs, so I considered putting the nightmare here for paranoids mantra, but the card didn't really fit her that well and the central nervous system is different to the autonomous nervous system anyway so. The Moment of Clarity gets this spot for her practical breaking of you, and the success it brings her. Not one of my easiest placements but I'm still pretty happy with it

The high Priestess was hard to place because she's about the occult, and powerful women who don't need a man. If only there was a princess who fit that mold... (/s if it wasn't clear) so yeah. Half the princesses were written down here at one point. The Wraith gets this spot because I found other places for all the others I guess and also because "She could not find her strength in others, so she found it in herself."

The empress is again a powerful woman, but a loving and nurturing one, who encourages growth. It was both the growth and the partnership she has that gave her the adversary

The Emperor is about hierarchy and dominance. I knew very early on that the tower would fit best here. "This one is dominance."

The hierophant is about structure, appearances, and also marriage. Happily Ever After is all about being trapped within this structure, with ties specifically to marriage. Literally tell me I'm wrong?

The Lovers. Okay. So there's a few this could be. The Damsel, with the voice of the smitten? Not really as equal a partnership, as I mentioned in the Fool section. They don't really know each other. The Thorn, where you can kiss her? Well that ignores like. The entire rest of the route so no. Happily ever after? Maybe, but I prefer her in hierophant. The adversary, with your equal partnership in kicking each others asses? Easily, but I also put her elsewhere. Ironically, the Lovers was one of the last two cards I placed, and the only princesses left were the wild and the grey, and unfortunately I couldn't agree with the drowned grey going here. The wild has you literally being one, achieving a common goal. It's not my favourite placement but I dont hate it so.

The chariot is about putting in the hard work and seeing it through, and she does make an effort to capture you (swallow you whole) and bring you to the door so she can escape. Also it's about vehicles, and she literally acts as a vehicle for you. That idea was too funny to not do tbh

Justice is one of three cards that mention balance, so I wanted one of the ones where you merge to go here. Much like the scales of justice, it is about considering all sides and picking fairly, so it had to go to the spectre, who gets justice for her murder when you help her out. The spectre was written down for like half the cards on this list though my god

The hermit is about solitude and self introspection. The prisoner, sitting in silence for millenia, felt very fitting. I also wanted the cage to be here, because the image of the hermit is him holding up a lantern, and having the cage holding her head like that would be fun, but she fit better in the hanged man so.

The wheel of fortune was one of my later picks. Fate, and also cycles. Its a little vague, and can fit with quite a few princesses, but I put the stranger here. Is it the vibes? Something about coincidences and not meeting her feels similar, but I cant put my finger on it so if you can explain please do.

Strength, but of the inner sort. The Den didn't really have anywhere better to go, I don't know if instinct matches with any of the cards. I felt confidence in ones self was pretty similar to instinct, plus it has ties to animals.

The hanged man is self restrictions. I would have liked to put the thorn here, honestly, hanging from her vines. Ultimately it was the best choice for the cage, though, and I had another good option for the thorn. Anyway, the cage can be hanging from all those chains and hooks. "This one is a body that convinced herself she was only a set of eyes." Sounds like her limits are self imposed for sure!

Death and the tower have similar meanings in that things are coming to an end, and both of them I felt were good fits for both eye of the needle and the Fury. Ultimately I put eotn here because its more cyclical, and when she was the adversary she wanted to continue fighting over and over again.

Temperance is the second balance card, specifically about blending this time. Opposites merging, solving disputes. Felt very much like the princess and the dragon chapter. "This one is perspectives bleeding into one."

The Devil is a person tricking you, but also material security. I only ever put the witch down for this one, and I only ever put her down for one card lol. The mutual trickery and betrayal in her chapter felt too fitting. "A trick behind your back, and a trick behind mine."

The tower, like I said, is similar to death in that they are both about things ending. But the tower is more dramatic, about the sudden upheaval, so I thought thematically it matched with the Fury better, who is very upset and very taking it out on you. This is one of the cards I knew the meaning of from the beginning, so unfortunately there was never a point in which the tower was matched with the tower :(

The star is hope and healing. One of many that the spectre could have matched with. (I wanted to make her star shaped wound be the star... oh well). The Thorn fits well here, if you both choose to end the cycle of violence and leave together. The star also has ties to nature, which fits with the thorns... thorns... I would have preferred her at the hanged man for her self limiting, being trapped in her own thorns, but this is also a very good choice so I'm not too mad lol

The moon is fear and anxiety. Plus the moon only comes out at night, when everyone is sleeping, when you have nightmares! But mostly it's the vagueness, mystery and anxiety stuff.

The sun being joy meant I knew I wanted the razor here from the beginning. I briefly considered putting her at death (for the cycles, and also the uh, death) but I think the dying part of her route is not actually that important? Anyway the razor is my wife and I'm glad she's enjoying herself. "She is cruelty. But she is also joy." See, shifty gets it!

Judgement is where you look back on everything and judge yourself. It was one of the last two cards to be assigned, and the wild did not fit here at all. Plus the grey sort of punishes you for your actions? It's unavoidable, is my point.

The world is accomplishment, wholeness. She is as close to becoming the goddess she truly is as any vessel ever comes. "This one sits at the cusp of awakening." Shifty says. Also Apotheosis literally means climax so I had to put her at the end of the tarot, you understand.

So yeah that's that. Thanks for reading, if you managed to get through all that. Feel free to debate different interpretations at me, I'd love to hear em!

[theegyal]

Hush [ Annie x Smoke ]

Chapter 10 : The Plan

12: 40 AM

Joy and love filled the white room — fragile yet too strong to carry. For an instant, there was no Colonel Manson, no Olivia, no foreclosure.

There was only the weight of Lois sleeping on Annie's chest, the rasp of Elijah's breathing, and the scent of vanilla and shea butter mixing with the sterile bite of antiseptic.

Elijah's hand was still on Annie's face, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. His memory was still a blank map with roads that led nowhere, but the route back to Annie revealed itself.

He remembered her scent before he remembered her name. He remembered the high sound of her laugh in his chest before he could recall her face.

"I wanted to give up," Annie whispered, trembling. "Every day I prayed for your safety...they told me you'd died there..I just... I didn't know how to breathe."

"Love, I'm here now," he brushed over her skin, caressing the corner of her eyes and her nose, "I'm here."

The door opened, the unwelcome visitor didn't bother knocking.

That nurse, the one who allowed Olivia in before Stack and her—not the kind doctor from before, stepped in holding a clipboard.

"Mr. Moore, we're glad to see you're awake. Your wife, Olivia, was very concerned. She's arranging for a specialist to come down and oversee your continued care."

The air shifted. Annie's back went rigid. Elijah's hand fell from her face, his expression hardening into a cold mask.

The name 'Olivia' was a key turning in a lock : the night he assaulted her, the scene Annie told him she caused, how she talked about their child—Lois.

"That woman ain't my wife," Elijah stated, his Delta accent cutting through the air, sharp as a razor. "My wife, right here. Her name is Annie Moore."

The nurse's smile dropped. She glanced at her clipboard, confused. "Sir, our records, upon admission to the program, list—"

"Your records are wrong," Annie intervened. She stood up, shifting Lois carefully to her shoulder. "And we're leaving."

"Ma'am, I can't let you do that. The patient just experienced a significant seizure. He needs to be monitored. Against medical advice—"

"He needs to be with his family," Annie shot back, her voice low and steady. "And away from the people who put him in here. I'm a pharmacist. I would manage"

Elijah was ready to move. He started pulling the IV from his arm, wincing as the needle pulled out.

"We ain't stay here."

But the nurse was already backing out of the room, her hand reaching for the phone. "I—I have to call security."

1:20 PM

Carol was coming. They got more hands to deal with the Manson. Oddly, Stack didn't think about that mission —for a minute at least. His whole mind drove fast to the possibly re-meeting with the woman he'd left rotten in prison.

Back days ago, when they bumped into each other's at club, he was surprised to see her in Chicago — called her Ol' flame to mask his burning shame— Nobody told him she had been freed from jail. And now he would possibly pulled her into deeper shit. Dirtier than years behind Delta's bars and rows.

Classified documents ; They needed to put a hand on them. Delete all evidence of their desertion and then take care of Manson.

The plan was too simple to not hold any wrongs : He would get Carol in Manson house, she'd pass as a worker or something more easier. She'd look for and get the documents. She'd make copies, it would be dangerous to steal them all the way.

With his chica—no former chica, Carol, they used to do such qualitative errands for people. Drugs were the most safe work they did—and still...

Stack looked at the rainy streets through the window door, Olivia was making her way out. Arrogance shimmering from her bruised face.

"Damn Annie you went damn hard" he chuckled.

The Manson girl turned her car on. The young twin knew better than following her himself. He scrolled through his contacts then stopped on one: 'Pops'. An old-timer who ran a garage over on the West Side, a man who had more eyes and ears on the street than the CPD.

He dialed. It rang once.

"Yeah." A rough voice waiting for him behind the line.

"Pops, it's Stack."

"Elias Moore. So you ain't rotting six feet under."

"Need a favor. A big one," Stack said, cutting to the chase. "There's a Black XJ8 Jaguar coming your way, West Side. There's a white woman in it. Blonde, emerald eyes. Follow her."

"How big ?"

"No blood. Keep an eye, she on her way to a private clinic off Mich.Ave"

"And who's she ?"

"Manson. Colonel Octavio Manson daughter." Stack answered bluntly.

Pops went  silent for a long moment. Stack could almost hear the old man weighing the risk against a debt from long ago. "Manson, you say? That's a heavy name, son."

"I know," Stack retorted, jaws clenching "But the man she's with is family. And they tryin' to take him away from us."

"See what it is. Ok, considered it done,"

HANG.

1:45 PM

Inside the hospital, confrontation came faster than expected.

Two men in deep grey suits stood before Annie and Elijah as they were walking out the healthcare building.

Behind them stood the nervous nurse who kept mistaking that white chick as his wife, and a man in a hospital administrator's uniform.

"Mr. Moore," the administrator began, his voice oozing false concern. "We can't allow you to leave. Your condition is unstable. Your wife, Mrs. Olivia Moore, has expressed extreme concern for your well-being."

"I told you," Elijah growled, his tone rising dangerously. "My wife is fucking there." He pointing at Annie, who stayed glued at his right side. "She ain't got a name starting with O. She's Annie. Annie Moore, can't you hear me ?"

One of the suited men stepped forward. He moved with the quiet, predatory confidence of military intelligence. "Sir, our information states you are a ward of a government reintegration program under the authority of Colonel Octavio Manson. Until the Colonel says otherwise, you're not going anywhere."

He wasn't talking to Elijah. He was talking to Annie. It was a threat. Lois, sensing the tension, began to whimper, her small cries cutting through the standoff.

Annie clutched her daughter tighter.

They were trapped. They could fight, but these men wouldn't hesitate to use force, to declare Elijah mentally incompetent and drag him away right in front of his child.

They thought that intimidation would work on her. Too bad for them, Annie got something in her sleeve and she was ready to use it.

"He got pushed into the program without his family consent. His brother got coerced into agreeing, —never to flying him out the state though." She asserted while patting Lois' head.

Annie brushed Elijah out her way, approached the men in black, closer, then whispered spitefully "Got Dr. Roberts putting him on solid drugs, sedatives and no single med for memory recovery on sight...mmh. I don't even think the system can protect Sir Octavio if all these informations...accidentally leaked."

She was gambling with their lives. Hoping these two brutes ain't know about the twins being deserters.

They took the bait.

Fear and anguish changed side. The men exchanged a stare before stepping backward.

"Let them go."

Elijah squinted his eyes, looking at his beautiful wife. He didn't recall her being this strong and commanding.

"We go home papa" she offered him a smile, her droopy eyes candidly closed.

5: 30 PM

Olivia stood by the window, watching the storm roll in. Her pearls were gone. Face bruised. Lips cut, the natural pink of her lips replacing the red of her lipstick.

Dr. Roberts paced behind her like a mouse in a glue trap.

"I got visited by his brother, the man is crazy, he threatened my family. Moreover, Elijah Moore already recovering" he hissed. "You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly," Olivia said coolly. "You think this is still about love. I mean you right, he's my man and only mine. But this whole mess—"

She turned, her eyes glinting. "This ain't about him. This is about what happens if he talks. If the media ever learns we pumped a soldier, son of this country,  full of mind-numbing shit so he could forget his black wife and child—"

"Ms Manson—"

"My father risked everything, everything, to protect our family from that embarrassment. I won't let it come undone because your conscience grew a pair of balls."

She stepped closer, pinning him with her gaze. "We can still control this. Give me one clean dose. Just one. I'll do the rest."

"I—I'm sorry I can't help you—my family—please get out my office"

"You really think this negro will leave your little poor wife and children alone ? Trust me you'll pay the high price Roberts"

She threw him a cold gaze and slammed the door closed.

Shadows followed Olivia as she jumped in her Jaguar. They trailed her for interminable hours, until she parked in front of a huge mansion.

Pops minions sent few words to Stack.

'Left the clinic an hour ago. Parked on 7th ***. Robert went other way'

6 : 00 PM

It was not his first time walking in this house since he had lost memory. Still, the new fresh smell of freedom mixed with lavender and Santal woods gave him comfort.

"When did they stopped by ?" Elijah asked, grazing at the boxes

Annie, on her way to change Lois diapers responded, her tone heavily anxious, "three or four days ago. We got 'til the month's end."

Elijah furrowed his eyebrows, moving slow to the living room counter. Bunch of papers including a colorful paper laid there.

"And what is this ?" He asked genuinely curious

"Oh nothing. Days ago was Lois first year anniversary. Before going to war, you told us, we'll throw a party, inviting the neighbors..."

He laughed, joy and mischief sparkling in his brown eyes.

"And did you ?"

Annie lowered her head, a veil of sadness passing over her face.

"Nobody came. Well, let's say I did try. I mean—anyway it's all behind now !" She disappeared inside the nursery

Elijah sat a moment, his eyes suddenly red of anger. He was thinking. Indeed Annie had been left all by herself for almost a month now, while he was recovering from some schemes fuckers put onto him.

The bank, this shitty neighborhood or even that bitch Olivia. These people had hurt his family. Now he was back, things were about to change. He would take care of them and fly back to Delta with Annie and Lois.

2:00 AM

The bottle of Jim Beam sweat in Stack's hand. Night had fallen over Chicago, draping the city in it usual lights and noises.

Standing next to the bar, topless, the corded muscles of his back and shoulders tight, wearing only a pair of grey jogging pants that hung low on his hips, he took a long pull from the bottle, the amber liquid flowing down his throat.

His high-standing appartement was now empty, Elijah went home with Annie, he had sent him a text to tell him so. Stack was now, totally alone — drowning in this luxury.

The apartment doorbell rang. One then twice. He climbed upstairs to check the security cameras.

The black and white footage nearly made him fall down—

"Ca—Carol ?" He couldn't believe his eyes. Yes she was supposed to come to Chicago but he ain't expecting her at his fucking doorway.

"Shit." He took the stairs two at a time on his way down, forgetting to wear a shirt.

He cracked the door open. Here stood Miss Jalapeña.

"Who done ordered el picante?" Carol hissed.

The hallway seemed to tighten around her figure. Her clear eyes deliberately sweep of him—his bare muscular chest, the expensive apartment with marble tiled floor, the bottle of Jim Beam on the bar.

"You livin' good, huh," she said, her voice a low murmur. "Long damns way from da roachy-ass motel you used to sneak off an' meet me for yo' lil' deals"

Tag List

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A/N : I’m offering you these gifs to ask for forgiveness 😞 I experienced a writer block with this story I had to read it twice at least to gather ideas, I listen “What is love” by V. Bozeman the song really help me with Stack and Carol side story but more with Elijah getting back his home with full memory.

I’m kinda sad cause that story comes to end, I already wrote the final chapter (yes I do that to almost all my stories if not I’m going to write write and sheeesh never ending and I hate to not have an ending to my stories )

[snapdragonessart]

Kinda went crazy on dragon teeth anatomy! Biology geeking out under the cut

Bogsneak dragons are very crocodilian in appearance, and the fact that they prefer swampy environments definitely lends to this. Out of all the crocodilians, I’d say they resemble alligators the most due to the thicker, rounded snout, and the way the upper teeth poke out from their jaws; Crocodiles visually show both upper and lower teeth when the mouth is closed, while alligators only show upper teeth. Their teeth structure is like alligators; they’d possess around 74-80 sturdy, razor-sharp teeth specialized for vice-gripping their prey. Unlike alligators, Bogsneaks possess a forked tongue. It reminds me very much of a Komodo dragon's tongue, and I imagine they would use it to taste air as well. Bogsneaks eat meat and plants. Alligators are carnivores, but they have also been reported to eat various fruits as well!

Coatls are easy in one sense; they’re obviously snake dragons, but the question is… what snake? I’d argue that they’re visually similar to cobras, with the feather crest resembling a cobra hood, the head being vaguely cobra-shaped, and the fangs poking out of their mouth (cobras have permanently erect fangs). There’s two big differences here though; for one, Coatls are not said to possess venom. For another, Coatls only eat seafood, while cobras eat terrestrial and semi-aquatic prey. However, there are several snakes in the Elapidae family (cobra family) that eat seafood… sea snakes! In fact, there is one type of sea snake that is nonvenomous, but it only eats fish eggs; Coatls would have a diet more similar to other sea snakes, which eat fish, eels, marine gastropods, and other marine invertebrates. Coatl dentition would be a mix of cobras and sea snakes; they’d have the big fangs in the front with several smaller teeth behind the fangs on the upper jaw. 

Fae dragons are insectivorous, and I think they’re most similar to geckos in terms of diet and dentition, as geckos are also insectivores. Faes would have rows of small, sharp, conical teeth on both the upper and lower jaws. I specifically researched geckos for Fae dragons, but if you wanted to go the more mammalian route, I’d say shrews are the best fit.

Fathom dragons are an interesting case. They have external ears like a pinniped, echolocate underwater like cetaceans, have amphibious gills, and travel in pods. I’d say they’re dentition is a mix of sea lions and orcas. They’d have the big canines that sea lions have, but the rest of their teeth would be more similar to orcas; interlocking and conical. However, Fathom dragons are omnivorous and eat plants and seafood; sea lions and orcas are both purely carnivorous and have not been seen eating plant matter of any kind. The plant part of their diet I think would be similar to manatees, which graze on seagrasses and other aquatic plants.

Like Bogsneaks, Guardian dragons look quite crocodilian in their tooth structure. I’d say they lean more towards crocodiles due to their teeth poking from both the upper and lower jaws when the mouth is closed. They’d also have big canines similar to leopard seals. Guardians will eat just about anything; plants, flesh or bugs. Crocodiles mainly eat insects when they’re juveniles, slowly transitioning to bigger prey as they age. Like alligators, they also occasionally consume fruit.

Imperial dragons always looked very fox-like to me, and like foxes they have a diverse diet. Foxes eat mammals, birds, insects, fruits, grains and veggies. Some red foxes have even been observed fishing! That ticks off all the boxes for the Imperial diet. They’d have dentition like a canid as well, with pronounced carnassials for shearing and canines for gripping prey.

There’s a few things to take note of when it comes to Mirrors: they hunt in packs, they run their prey down, they are carnivorous and they originate from The Abiding Boneyard - an arid wasteland. I’d say they’re opportunistic predators, and will scavenge as well as hunt. Their diet and tooth structure would be similar to that of hyenas, and they’d possess bone-crushing premolars that spotted hyenas are well known for. Spotted hyenas also hunt in packs, and are known for their endurance when they hunt, chasing down prey until their quarry is exhausted; a perfect match-up for Mirrors. Their canines would be pointier than a spotted hyenas, and would be more similar to a jackal or wolf in appearance.

Nocturnes are based on bats, which is apparent based on their diet and overall appearance. I think their dentition would be most similar to the spectral bat, the largest carnivorous bat in the world. It consumes birds and rodents as well as insects, which perfectly lines up with Nocturnes!

[bubblybloob]

I have a feeling, and bear with me here, that each of the voices’ own chapters are where they’re their worst selves.

Think about it. Hunted plays right in the Beast’s hands, yet he is incredibly useful in dodging Razor and kind of acts like a predator instead of prey in Eye of the Needle. Skeptic overanalyzes every minute detail that he can in Prisoner and his encouragement ends in us getting a shackle around our neck, but in Den and Eye of the Needle he is an integral part of the plan to lure the princess out.

This is why it’s hard to tell what’s really up with some voices, for example let’s look at Broken. Broken is actively working against us in Tower, yet is rather gentle in Wild. I believe the only other two instances he appears in is in the two “Everyone is here” chapters where he is overshadowed and is literally called by Opportunist the worst of the bunch in Clarity, which isn’t necessarily inaccurate but it only serves to worsen his reputation when he doesn’t seem all that bad when he’s our secondary voice to show up in Wild. Though again, Wild is our only example of him being like this, and all voices brought into the Wild seem a little too passive. I wonder if there was another chapter where he was our secondary voice and with no huge “everyone is here” event, he’d act differently.

Paranoid is a toss up because he spends most of Nightmare being unable to speak up, he’s too busy trying to keep you alive, and when he does speak he usually says something generally useful, like getting the narrator to shut up or theorizing His control over their situation. Though to be fair his whole existence as a voice of paranoia in our head gets dampened by the absolute insane situation we’re forced into in every route, so most of what he says ends up sounding relatively reasonable despite what his title implies. I’m pretty sure anyone would be paranoid if they kept coming back to life and are forced to kill the same woman who continues evolving in how she looks and behaves.

Cheated is like if Broken’s problems and Paranoids problems were mixed together. His own string of chapters is a big “everyone is here” adventure, so obviously attention gets diverted away from him to make room for the others. Even then, this is where he’s at his worst, so what about where he’s at his best? Sadly, he is actually a little hard to get given the situations you have to enact that most players won’t follow on. I myself have never gotten him outside of Razor. I wonder how much we’re all actually aware of what he’s like at his best instead of his worst.

I do remember Black Tabby Games saying something along the lines of them wanting voices to be more useful outside of their own chapters, so I wonder if that contributed to this feeling I’ve been getting from them.