#and begins to forge a new and brighter future for itself

[iturbide]

same anon as the not exaggerated joke but not joke about robbing plegia. God I love awakening, I really love chrom and robin and all that. But I am also facinated by Gangrel and Validar (and to a lesser extent Henry and Tharja (and also Mustafa and to an even lesser extent the various plegian officers you fight) Like there could have easily been an interesting exploration of any of those characters. Gangrel's a much less subtle example of how an ATTEMPTED GENOCIDE affected him. He went mad and is lashing out at those who both caused and did not take accountability. Like there's a lot there to unpack and look at, especially when you consider his general dismissal of the grimleal cult. Validar is one I really wish we saw more of (Validad wishful thinking in my brain). He was likely a part of the grimleal since before the war, being a failed vessel; how did he view the genocide, was he moved by what happened to other plegians, did that give him conviction, did he care at all? Did he see grima, or his own child as a means of retribution or even as a saviour for his people. There is so much that could have been done there. Also maybe Tharja and Henry should have more to say about their country being brutalised in 3 whole wars. Also also, please just acknowledge Mustafa he was so fucking cool and deserved a larger role in the story, I'd love them as a continuous antagonist/anti-hero who RIGHTLY points out the hypocricy of the ylisseans while still showing himself to be an empathetic and just leader. Fuck it make him in charge, put him on a council with Validar. Can you imagine the political debates between those two?

Anyway I'm gonna start reading Affectionately Yours to stimulate the part of my brain that awakening didn't

Look, I am deeply and utterly fascinated by Plegia. I have been for a long time. Roughly half my Awakening works on AO3 hinge on some extensive Plegian worldbuilding because Awakening really didn't bother with it and I'm too fascinated to leave it alone.

I have a lot of thoughts about Gangrel. I have a lot of thoughts about Validar. I have a lot of thoughts about who they could have been in different situations, and why they turned out the way they did. I honestly think that Gangrel could have been handled better in Awakening canon: I think his mother was killed by bandits when he was young according to canon? But imagine how much more potent his role in the story becomes if he lost his mother in the attempted genocide -- he was a direct victim, and that unaddressed trauma festered and turned him into the Mad King. (I have a whole post of backstory headcanons about that.) And I think that Validar is underexplored as a character, especially considering that he outright admits he's a failed attempt at creating a vessel for Grima, and what something like that would do to a person. (I have yet another post of backstory headcanons for him.)

Henry...Henry not really having something to say doesn't surprise me. Henry was a victim of basically every system he'd ever been part of. He doesn't have a stake in society, but he's culturally Plegian because it's how he was generally brought up. Tharja, though -- she I think should have things to say about the situation, because even if she does adopt a measure of disinterest in the general situation, that's her home. She's lived through these nightmares and been a witness to their aftermath. The fact that her being Plegian and how that's affected her was entirely squandered is an absolute crime.

and don't get me started on Mustafa. I love Mustafa so much. Mustafa gets a role in basically all my fics, I love him so much. He's in Affectionately Yours. He's in Cursed Fate. He's in both Crown of Shadows and Shrouded Throne. He's in my works in progress, he's in my backburner stories, he's everywhere. I absolutely adore General Mustafa and what he says about Plegia as a country, even though the game tries to pretend that people like him don't exist as soon as we finish out Chapter 11.

I have a lot of Plegia thoughts okay. And a lot of Plegia stories.

also please let me know if you have any issues getting into the fics, I locked them as a precaution against AI data scraping but I am 100% willing to unlock them if you want to read but don't have an account

[lorspolairepeluche]

When they finally stand before her in the aetherial sea, Hydaelyn has tender words for each of her champions. How long has she watched them, whispered to them, wished she could comfort them in their darkest moments? And now, at the last, she can tell them what she has wanted to all along.

To Thybaltier, the knight, the defender, she says, "Thou hast found the true value of thine own self, and in doing so, found the strength to continue being both stalwart shield and dauntless sword to those thou lovest."

To Zieh'to, the inventor, the magician, she says, "With each new discovery begins the journey toward the next. Thou strivest not to sate thy hunger to learn, but to light the way for others."

To Vespersineaux, the healer, the haunted, she says, "Though thou hast been many a thing in thy time, ever has remained thy love for the star and those upon it. Thy healing hand hath always been a balm to all whom it toucheth."

To Doenlona, the pirate, the explorer, she says, "Ever thou pursueth joy and freedom, and ever dost thou strive to bring that joy to others. Through every storm, thou hast never lost sight of the horizon."

And to Oday, the defiant, the khagan, she says, "To love is to face loss, and this thou knowest better than many. Yet thy love burneth ever brighter for all thy family -- a beacon for any and all to follow thee in striving for a better future."

It’s Ressaunt she addresses with love as “my champion,” but in truth, all of them are her sword, her shield, her loves. As they are to each other. And with that bond of the Blessing of Light forged stronger than titanium, she knows that they can and will overcome despair itself.

[vinceviralfreak]

Title: Galactic Chronicles: The Wars of the Universe

Chapter 1: The Dawn of a New Era

In the year 5050, the galaxy stood on the precipice of a new era. The universe had expanded, and countless civilizations had risen and fallen. The once-distant stars were now interconnected through advanced technology, allowing for seamless travel and communication. However, with progress came conflict, and the galaxy found itself embroiled in a series of devastating wars.

Chapter 2: The Rise of the United Galactic Alliance

The United Galactic Alliance (UGA) emerged as a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. Comprised of various species and planets, the UGA sought to establish peace and order throughout the galaxy. Led by the charismatic General Aria Nova, the UGA quickly gained support from many civilizations, promising a future free from the ravages of war.

Chapter 3: The Shadow Syndicate's Threat

But as the UGA's influence grew, a dark force known as the Shadow Syndicate emerged from the shadows. Led by the enigmatic and ruthless Lord Malakar, the Syndicate sought to exploit the chaos for their own gain. Their advanced weaponry and cunning tactics posed a significant threat to the UGA's mission of peace.

Chapter 4: The Battle for Zephyr Prime

The first major conflict erupted on the planet Zephyr Prime, a strategic hub for trade and resources. The UGA, determined to protect this vital world, engaged the Shadow Syndicate in a fierce battle. The clash of advanced technology and the bravery of UGA soldiers painted the skies with fire and blood. The outcome of this battle would set the tone for the wars to come.

Chapter 5: The Discovery of Ancient Artifacts

Amidst the chaos, a team of UGA scientists made a groundbreaking discovery on a remote planet. They unearthed ancient artifacts that held immense power, capable of turning the tide of the war. As the UGA raced to unlock the secrets of these relics, the Shadow Syndicate grew desperate, launching a series of daring raids to seize the artifacts for themselves.

Chapter 6: The Battle of the Celestial Rift

The climax of the wars came in the form of the Battle of the Celestial Rift, a cataclysmic clash between the UGA and the Shadow Syndicate. The rift, a treacherous region of space, became the stage for an epic showdown. The fate of the galaxy hung in the balance as fleets clashed, heroes rose, and sacrifices were made.

Chapter 7: The Aftermath and the Path to Reconciliation

In the aftermath of the Battle of the Celestial Rift, the galaxy lay in ruins. Countless lives were lost, and civilizations were left shattered. The UGA, battered but not broken, embarked on a mission of rebuilding and reconciliation. They sought to heal the wounds of war, mending broken alliances and forging new ones.

Chapter 8: A New Beginning

As the year 5050 drew to a close, the galaxy stood on the cusp of a new beginning. The wars had forever changed the course of history, leaving scars that would never fully heal. But the lessons learned and the bonds forged in the crucible of conflict would guide the galaxy towards a brighter future, where peace and unity would prevail.

Epilogue: The Legacy of the Wars

The wars of the galaxy in the year 5050 left an indelible mark on the universe. They served as a reminder of the fragility of peace and the ever-present threat of conflict. The sacrifices made by countless individuals would be remembered, their stories etched into the annals of history. And as the galaxy moved forward, it would strive to learn from the mistakes of the past, ensuring that the horrors of war would never be repeated.

[factoryoutletlimited]

The Garment Industry of Bangladesh A Stitch in Time

Bangladesh has emerged as a global hub for the readymade garment (RMG) industry, and its meteoric rise in this sector has been nothing short of remarkable. Over the past few decades, the country has transformed itself from being a relatively insignificant player in the global garment market to one of the world's largest exporters of readymade garments. This article explores the growth, challenges, and significance of the RMG industry in Bangladesh.

A Tale of Transformation

The journey of Bangladesh's RMG industry began in the late 1970s when a few entrepreneurs ventured into the business of manufacturing garments for export. With its low labor costs and a large pool of unskilled and semi-skilled labor, Bangladesh soon attracted attention from international retailers and apparel brands looking for cost-effective manufacturing options. The industry's growth was further accelerated by trade agreements and favorable export policies.

By the 1990s, the RMG sector had become a cornerstone of Bangladesh's economy. Today, it accounts for a substantial portion of the country's GDP and employs millions of people, predominantly women, in both urban and rural areas. This industry has played a pivotal role in empowering women and improving their socio-economic status.

The readymade garment industry in Bangladesh has come a long way, from its humble beginnings to becoming a major player in the global apparel market. Its growth has significantly contributed to the country's economic development and has provided employment opportunities to millions. While challenges persist, Bangladesh's commitment to improving safety, sustainability, and worker conditions demonstrates its determination to secure a brighter future for this vital industry. As long as the industry continues to adapt and evolve, it is likely to remain a stitching success story for Bangladesh.

Technological Advancements: To enhance productivity and quality, the RMG industry in Bangladesh is increasingly investing in technology. Automation and digitalization are being integrated into various stages of production, from pattern making to cutting and sewing. These advancements not only improve efficiency but also reduce the industry's dependence on low-skilled labor.

https://folimited.com/frontend/assets/img/portfolio/FOL%20(36).jpg

Market Diversification: While the U

nited States and the European Union remain significant export destinations, Bangladesh is exploring new markets. It is forging trade agreements with emerging economies in Asia, Africa, and South America. This diversification helps mitigate risks associated with overdependence on a few key markets.

E-commerce: The rise of e-commerce has presented new opportunities for Bangladesh's RMG industry. Many local brands and manufacturers are establishing their online presence, allowing them to reach a broader global audience directly.

Sustainable Practices: Sustainability is a key focus for the industry. Many factories are adopting eco-friendly production methods, reducing water consumption, and implementing waste management systems. Sustainable sourcing of materials and ethical manufacturing practices are gaining traction, appealing to conscious consumers.

Skills and Training: Continuous skill development is essential to maintain a competitive edge. The government and industry stakeholders are collaborating to provide

For More Info:-

Readymade Garments In Bangladesh

Garment Stock Lot Suppliers In Bangladesh

Cloth Factory Outlet

[haadeswrites]

Elysium

god this fic took forever i’m so sorry!! but hey, first fic on the new blog! <33 also y’all should really thank @iwaasfairy who listened to me complain about this fic for a solid month, she’s the reason it got finished

Cult leader Oikawa Tooru x female reader

tw: indoctrination, extremely dubious consent, blood, yandere themes, religious themes, minor character death, implied abuse & drug use, mild smut, nsfw

The island itself is breathtaking

Pristine beaches with gleaming white sand, vast swathes of lush, green rainforest and waterfalls that cascade into shimmering pools of crystal clear water. Untouched, undisturbed; a paradise. At least, that’s how Ryuji had described it. 

Paradise, but only in the sense that a gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods is paradise to a lost and hungry child. 

He hadn’t been wrong. Bare feet sink into soft, white sand as you climb from the boat - the warmth just toeing the line between pleasant and burning. Gentle waves ebb and flow behind you, and there’s a light breeze that kisses your skin, the taste of seasalt carrying in the wind. Home, it seems to sing.

A laugh sounds somewhere in the distance, yet the only other figure on the beach is a man walking steadily towards you. He smiles when he sees you’ve noticed him; friendly, non-threatening. It’s a far cry from the swarming welcoming committee you’d been dreading, and you wonder if that’s somehow intentional as well. 

As the boat pushes back out to sea he comes to a stop before you, “I’m Makki,” he says, pushing the fringe of his hair back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. Whatever he sees must meet approval, because his grin only widens, “Welcome to the Commune.”

Ryuji wasn’t wrong; the island is a beautiful, deadly thing.

—

You’d never heard of the Commune before the phone call. 

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. You’ll be the first to admit you’re hardly an expert, but from what you do know, groups like the Commune – cults – don’t spring up out of thin air and start broadcasting their mistreatment and systematic abuse. 

They’re not the kind of people that have sweet old ladies clutching their pearls and mothers shepherding their children away – at least, not in the beginning. Not entirely. They’re not out to recruit extremists to further their cause, they choose to prey on the vulnerable, the lost and the disillusioned. Those easily manipulated. You suspect that’s why when you google the Commune, all you find is a website for what essentially looks like a long term luxury wellness retreat.

‘The Commune is about healing and harmony, about returning to nature, supporting one another to forge a brighter, more holistic future together… a self-sufficient community living apart from technology and other evils of modern society.’ 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you scroll through. There’s a whisper of philosophical teachings woven throughout, a page dedicated to their founder, Oikawa Tooru – smiling handsomely in every single picture, because what would a burgeoning cult be without a charismatic leader – but there’s not enough.

So here you are, on an island hundreds of miles away from home living amongst strangers; because Ryuji wouldn’t have sounded so terrified if this was just some alternate, free-loving bunch of hippies.

And even with all that he’d told you, everything you thought you’d be prepared for, the Commune is like nothing you could’ve imagined. 

Makki introduces you to Asuka, a woman only a few years older than yourself, dark haired and stunningly beautiful, and winks as he tells her to take you under her wing. She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls you into a heartfelt hug – as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

“We’re so glad you’re here!” she beams.

You’d like to hate her. 

It feels like you're supposed to, sometimes; when she gets that dreamy look in her eyes and starts talking about Oikawa and the Commune and how lucky everyone here on the island is. Yet there’s something about her – the genuine warmth she emanates maybe, or the kindness in her eyes – that makes it difficult for you not to like her.

“You should come to the gathering tomorrow,” she hums idly one afternoon, maybe a week or so after your arrival. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down into the water, tangled fishing nets to be repaired strewn between you.

“I always go,” you reply.

She laughs, fixing you with a knowing look, “And sit right at the very back, all but running off the moment we finish?” 

And your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“It’s okay to take things slowly,” she says. “We understand that being a part of the Commune is a big change from the life you knew, and that not everybody is able to see what we see and embrace those changes.” 

Asuka sets down the knot she’s working through and reaches for your hand, a gentle smile on her face, “But you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re meant to be here, I can feel it. You just need to stop fighting against it; surrender yourself to us, to the island, and everything’ll make sense, I promise.”

It’s dangerous territory. One wrong word could set off alarm bells, yet you can’t help pressing just a little.

“Do you ever miss it, then? Life outside the Commune?” 

Your family. Friends. The life you left behind before you came here to be brainwashed like all of the others.

“Why would I?” she answers without missing a beat, and it’s hard to ignore the bitter flicker of disappointment you feel at her answer. “The island provides for us, we don’t have to spend our days selling off tiny pieces of ourselves just to make ends meet. It’s paradise here, and we have Oikawa to thank for that. Why would I ever want to go back?”

Silence falls between you as you struggle to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Yet Asuka isn’t even looking at you, instead staring out at the water with a strangely pensive expression. 

“Did you know I was married once?” The words seemingly out of the blue, you can only shake your head. For a moment, she doesn’t reply, watching as the waves rise and crash offshore. And then;

“I was young, eighteen or so, fresh out of high school and he was a small town cop.” Her eyes flicker to yours, and your heart clenches at the sadness and pain echoing there. “I thought he was a good man, once upon a time.”

A chord strikes deep, your chest tightening involuntarily at her words. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, and yet… 

No. You stop the errant thought in its tracks. Groups like the Commune prey on the vulnerable, you know this. People like Ryuji, like Asuka, like–

Her fingers squeeze around yours, pulling you back to the present. “Come to the gathering tomorrow. Listen to Oikawa, it’ll help.”

—

She doesn’t give you a choice in the matter – dragging you by the hand to sit right at the front of the gathered crowd that very night.

Oikawa’s handsomer up close; tall and dark haired with pretty eyes and long, sweeping lashes that frame delicate cheekbones, it’s not hard for you to see how a man like him has amassed such an impassioned following. 

Once he starts actually speaking, however, you realise that his good looks and charming smile are just the tip of the iceberg. Oikawa’s utterly captivating as he preaches about the cycle of life and death and the paradise that awaits his faithful. Passionate and engaging, he speaks like he truly believes every word of the lies he’s spreading. 

And Asuka, her friends, the others gathered, they eat up every word like it’s gospel truth, resounding cheers and thunderous applause deafening around you. In the midst of the rapturous din, Oikawa’s eyes flit to yours.

Slowly, he smiles – a dazzling grin that makes your stomach flip – and everything; Asuka, the noise, the others swarming around you, it all fades away.

For one electrifying heartbeat, you’re frozen in place. Just you and Oikawa, trapped in the pull of each other’s gaze.

—

You can’t forget the reason you came.

But it’s… difficult, in a way you struggle to understand. You only have one purpose for being here, one goal; find Ryuji and bring him home. 

And yet, some days it’s like there’s a fog in your mind, and you have to focus to remember why you’re here at all. You catch yourself laughing with Asuka and her friends, the days passing by in a blur of endless, easy distractions. 

It barely feels like work when you’re sitting under the shade of the trees, eating the fruits you’ve picked by hand – ripe and sweet, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted – diving off waterfalls into the crystalline water and meandering down the shore collecting seashells. Even when you are working, mending clothes or cooking with the others, it fills you with a sense of contentment you can’t quite explain. 

Like you’re a part of something bigger. Like you’re doing something that matters.

Ryuji becomes a distant thought. A whisper in the back of your head, a niggling in your gut, easily brushed aside and ignored until there’s a moment of quiet. In the dead of night, the balmy summer night’s breeze kissing your bare skin, you lie awake, lost in memories of the last time you’d seen him. 

Fists angrily pounding at your door, the yelling that gave way to sobs and the hoarse, desperate pleas that followed. Ryuji’s face; pupils blown wide and eyes rimmed in red, darting restlessly around as he held you too tight and begged–

Rolling over in bed, you gaze out your window at the star flecked sky, the shadows of the forest that lie at your doorstep, and wonder what it is that scares you more; that you’ve lost track of the days you’ve been here, and saving Ryuji is starting to feel like an afterthought, or that you could so easily forget all of it, find a place here in the Commune and be happy.

‘The island, it–it fucks with your head.’

Ryuji’d told you that, and you’d brushed it off as paranoia. You need to find him. Find him and get the hell outta dodge.

You can deal with the fallout later.

—

Kiyoshi. 

He’d mentioned the name a few times amidst his rambling – a friend of his on the island. You’re annoyed with yourself for not thinking of it sooner, however much like Ryuji himself, trying to focus and remember the name is like wading through thick mud.

Once you do, though, finding him amongst the hundred and fifty or so inhabitants is the easy part. 

There’s no strict division between genders within the Commune, however Kyoshi, despite his somewhat lean stature, is among the builders of the island and his path doesn’t often cross with yours. 

From Asuka you find out that he’s been a part of the Commune for years now, before even she joined, and that he mostly sticks to himself, though you’ve seen him chatting quietly to a few of the other men, a perpetually angry looking blonde in particular.

It’s the last part that piques her interest, “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” she asks, her face lighting up as a sudden thought occurs. “Do you want me to introduce you two? To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be your type, if you’re interested, though…”

Cheeks aflame, you’re quick to shut her down. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just… seen him around and we’ve never really spoken, I guess.”

A lame excuse, though mercifully she lets the subject drop without too much prodding.

Therein, of course, lies the problem. Walking up to Kyoshi and casually trying to drop Ryuji into the conversation without raising red flags is risky, but what other options do you have? You’ve already spent too much time on this island.

Although, maybe Asuka has the right idea. 

While you hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t interested in Kyoshi in that way, nobody else knew that. Who would really look twice at the shy newbie striking up a conversation with the quiet, easygoing man? He wasn’t unattractive per se, and from the brief interactions you’d seen of him, he seemed kind enough.

You have enough patience (barely) to wait for dusk the following night. There’s a celebration, something about the full moon and a blessing on the island and the Commune– you hadn’t really been paying attention when Oikawa had spoken about it. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. With the fire pits crackling, and the dancing and music and the sweet honey wine flowing freely, nobody will be paying too much attention to what you’ll be doing. Hopefully, the alcohol will also serve to lower Kiyoshi’s guard, and perhaps if you’re really, really lucky, loosen his tongue as well. 

Of course, you’re not banking on him telling you exactly where Ryu is or what happened to him– and that’s assuming he actually knows – but at this point you’ll take anything over the nothing you currently have. A tiny slip up, that’s all you’re asking for. 

As the sun descends beyond the horizon, you play your role well, laughing and chatting amongst friends, sipping carefully at the cup of wine in your hand as you wait for an opening. And perhaps it’s your nerves working against you, but you find that it’s not just Kiyoshi your attention is drawn to. 

Up on the shore, away from the rabble, Oikawa lounges back with a cup of the same honeyed wine you’re pretending to drink. For the most part he seems deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, his right hand, but every once in a while he glances up, letting his gaze roam over the crowd of his followers.

Every inch a king and his general.

And it would seem benevolent, if not for the strange smile he wears – the one that widens when his eyes catch yours.

Swallowing tightly, you force yourself not to dwell on it, to ignore the odd sensation curling in your gut and the way your skin prickles under his attention. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Pushing all thoughts of Oikawa aside, you subtly scan the beach once more, only to find that Kiyoshi’s moved, sitting now on a piece of old driftwood near the bonfire. Alone for the first time tonight. 

Your legs are moving before the thought even fully registers. 

“Do you mind if I sit?” you ask, gesturing to the empty space on the log beside him. 

Kiyoshi smiles, the laugh lines at corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks.”

Taking another sip of your wine, you will your shoulders to relax, your racing pulse to slow. This has to seem natural, and so you force yourself to hold your tongue, let your head loll back and breathe deep, soaking it all in. You can hear the others in the distance, the music and the dancing, the happy laughter and shouts that beckon – you want to go join them. Even your blood seems to hum, a call of something other pulsing through your veins.

But you pay it no mind. There are more important things to worry about tonight. 

Indeed, steel blue eyes have been appraising you curiously for a while now. “This is your first Lunar blessing, isn’t it?” Kiyoshi asks after a moment.

You nod, humming in agreement. Less than a month; you’ve been here less than a month. Is that a good thing?

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

A harmless enough question, and again you nod your head. “Yeah, it’s…” you pause, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “It’s paradise. I feel like I need to pinch myself just to make sure it’s real.”

He smiles gently. “But?” he probes.

Grimly, you wonder whether Kiyoshi’s usually this perceptive, or if you’re just a really terrible actor. In a way, you suppose it really doesn’t make a difference; you’ve come too far to turn back now – at least not without raising suspicion. 

So you lie with a truth, and pray that it works.

“I had a friend I was supposed to meet here,” you confess quietly, gazing not at him but the crackling flames of the bonfire, the burning embers carried off into the night. “He was the one who said I should come, but now I’m here and he’s not and every time I catch myself enjoying this–”

“You feel guilty,” he surmises, cutting you off. “Because he’s not here to enjoy it with you.”

Wordlessly, you nod – and maybe it isn’t so much of an act when your eyes begin to glisten, your smile wavering. 

Kiyoshi’s silent for a moment, and you take another sip of the honey wine to hide your nerves. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he says eventually. “Feel guilty, I mean. You belong here, with the Commune. You’re happy here. Paradise… isn’t for everybody.”

He doesn’t say it to be cruel, more like he’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it all the more unnerving. And it’s nothing you haven’t listened to Oikawa preach about time and time again. The Commune is for the devoted, the faithful – the lucky few – and you’ve never thought too hard about what he’d meant by that.

The Commune’s small, maybe a hundred and fifty or so people on the island. There’d been no initiation, no test of faith or trial period you’d had to pass when you arrived – at least, none that you’d been aware of. You simply stepped off the boat and they’d welcomed you with open arms. 

An uneasy sensation settles into your gut, goosebumps prickling at your skin despite the heat of the midsummer night. 

That… doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Absolute control’s too important in groups like this, they couldn’t just let anyone–

Kiyoshi speaks again, his calm voice pulling you from your thoughts. “What was his name?” 

You blink at him slowly – stupidly. “Sorry?”

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “What was his name?”

“Oh, um- Ryuji.”

Kiyoshi’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, but he merely shakes his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell, but like I said, not everyone who arrives stays with us for long.”

He looks you right in the eye as he says it.

You don’t understand the cold, foreboding that seeps through your veins, because he’s lying. He has to be. 

Ryuji was here. They were friends, Ryu’d told you that–

Why did you think this stupid plan would work anyway? That he’d tell you anything, much less the truth when this whole fucked up island is full of liars and those too indoctrinated to know the difference?

“You alright?” he asks when abruptly, you shoot to your feet beside him.

And it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to force an easy smile to your lips, raising your cup just a fraction, “Yeah, just gonna go get a refill. Thanks for the talk, Kiyoshi.”

Whether he notices that your wine’s barely touched or not, you don’t care – not as you turn on your heel without another word and head back up the beach. 

Your head is pounding, your body trembling – you don’t hear the call of your name until a hand reaches out and grasps at your wrist, spinning you around.

Asuka greets you with a wide grin, Makki and a tall, broad shouldered man you think is called Mattsun standing either side of her – the former’s arm slung casually over her shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “Come on, we’re gonna go swimming, it’s so pretty out there!”

You glance out towards the ocean. Moonlight bathes the inky blue water, light shimmering off the rippling tide; some of the others are already out there, splashing amongst the waves. 

“Clothing optional, of course,” Makki laughs, and Asuka tugs on your wrist once more. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

But you shake your head, slowly pulling your hand from her grip, “I’m not feeling great, I think I’m gonna head back.”

Asuka frowns, concern marring her pretty features. “Are you okay? Do you need us to call Mizo–”

“No,” you say, cutting her off. Healer Mizoguchi is the last person you need to see right now. “I just– I just need to go lie down for a bit. You guys go have fun – enjoy the blessing, I’ll be fine.”

Makki and Asuka share a fleeting look, but it’s Mattsun who interjects before either one of them can speak, “I’ll walk you back, then.”

Your stomach churns. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And the smart thing to do would be to accept his help; the walk from the beach to your villa isn’t far, and while you’re not as familiar with Mattsun as you are with Makki or Asuka, it’s not like he’s going to hurt you or anything, but–

“Really– you don’t need to, it’s fine,” you smile weakly, shuffling back as he reaches to offer you his arm. “Go swim, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Mattsun shrugs easily enough, falling back into line with the other two – yet there’s something in the way he grins and holds your gaze for a beat longer. A glimmer of amusement, as if there’s some joke you're not a part of. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

The heat that floods your cheeks clashes uncomfortably with the cloying heaviness in your stomach, but somehow you manage to stutter out one last goodbye before turning back to scamper off in the direction of your room.

–But not to lie down.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon’s bright. No need for a torch, not unless you decide to venture into the heart of the forest.

You’ve been a fool. Kiyoshi, Asuka, Makki, Mattsun; you can’t trust any of them to help you, even unwittingly. Ryuji’s here on the island – somewhere – and every second that slips away, every second that you allow yourself to forget puts him in further danger.

And so you cling to your discomfort, ground yourself in it. The prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the tightness in your chest as you slip past your villa, keeping low and quiet – they’re a reminder that there is something insidious here on the island, that you have to get out.

You and Ryuji.

He’s here. Away from the others, kept under lock and key as punishment, or maybe being forced to undergo whatever kind of glorified brainwashing they’ve got going on, but here. You need to be smart about this, because while you don’t intend to stop until you find him, tonight will be your best shot – while everyone’s distracted down on the beach. 

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you have a clear head. 

Creeping through the underbrush, you steer clear of the well trod pathways that lead towards habitation. You’ve been there, and to the docks, and the river. 

If they’re still keeping him here (and they are, you refuse to entertain the possibility that it could be otherwise) then it’s not somewhere out in the open. A bird cries out in the distance shattering the calm of the night, and you flinch – but it only serves as another reminder that your time tonight is limited; you cannot afford to delay. You wrack your brain, trying to dredge up memories of the last few weeks, surely you must have seen something–

“Lost?”

The single word, spoken in a deep, gruff voice has your blood running cold.

Slowly, you turn. 

Iwa stands behind you in the thicket, his face utterly impassive. Briefly, you contemplate whether it’s worth trying to bluff your way out of this, but Iwa’s eyes narrow, flashing in the dim light and you think better of it.

A sigh escapes you, your shoulders deflating. “Where is he– Ryuji?” you ask; a whisper rather than a demand.

Iwa’s expression gives nothing away. Did he know, or have you handed him the smoking gun of a crime that’d fallen through the cracks? Does it even matter anymore? You’re just–

You’re tired. 

Exhausted. In the space of a few moments all of that shining determination and resolve; it fled, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. This has to end, you can’t keep fighting against them forever. You can’t keep drowning in this guilt, feeling torn every second that you spend here on this stupid island. You just want to find Ryuji and go home.

… Right?

A tense beat passes as Iwa appraises you, and then; “Come with me.”

The hand he places on your shoulder doesn’t give you much choice. His grip isn’t what you’d describe as gentle, yet he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t trip or stumble as he marches you north. 

In the thick of the forest away from the beach, it’s eerily quiet. Every twig that snaps underfoot, every ragged breath you draw; it feels too loud. Out of place amongst the stillness of the midsummer night. 

And isn’t it ironic, that for the first time since you set foot in this paradise, you feel like you’re trespassing?

A bead of sweat trickles down from your temple and your mind unwittingly drifts back to Mattsun and Makki. Are they still swimming with Asuka? Probably, you reason. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since you left them on the beach, but surely no more than an hour.

And strangely, like water drawn from the depths of a well, an image comes to mind; the four of you standing in the waves, you perched atop Mattsun’s shoulders, screaming and giggling in delight as Asuka tries to knock you down again, two sets of eyes watching from the shore… 

You should have stayed on the beach.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You can ask,” he replies drily – humouring you, you suppose.

Your lips quirk upwards for the briefest of moments. “What happens on the Lunar blessing? Asuka, the others– no one told me what it was.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer you immediately, but you feel his fingers reflexively tighten on your shoulder. Likely it wasn’t the question he was expecting; surely there were others that you could have asked – but you don’t really want the answers to those.

If you’re being led like a lamb to proverbial slaughter, what good would it do you to know it? 

And yet as the seconds pass and no answer seems forthcoming from your captor, you resign yourself to the fact that your curiosity will remain unsated. You don’t even know what prompted you to ask in the first place; knowing Oikawa it’s probably some grand, meaningless spectacle. Pretty, hollow words spoken only to–

A heavy sigh draws you from your thoughts, and you falter in your step, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. Iwa’s quick to right you, urging you forward with a less than gentle nudge. “Walk straight,” he grunts, yet it lacks any true heat. Anticipation flutters through your veins, and he mutters a soft curse behind you. “Fine. It… it’s an exchange.” 

An exchange? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your eyebrows draw together, mouth opening to press the matter, but Iwa beats you to the punch.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now shut up.”

You have no response to that, so you do.

—

The two of you walk in silence for what feels like hours. Eventually, the terrain becomes steeper, the worn path you’re treading twisting and winding, and you realise you must be close to the mountains at the heart of the island. 

As your breath comes in heavy pants, your legs beginning to ache, you can’t help but be lost in the beauty of it all.

The flora’s different here, unlike any you’ve seen before. Flowers bursting from the bark of towering trees, blooms of vibrant hues; reds and purples and soft, baby pinks. Even the vines at your feet curl amongst pretty white buds that gleam invitingly under the moonlight. Your jaw falls open as you gaze around in wonderment. 

You forget why you’re walking, where it is that you’re heading. Iwa’s grip relaxes as a quiet gasp escapes you, and he doesn’t stop you when you stray from the path to take a closer look. You can’t resist reaching out to touch the silken petals, leaning in to smell their perfume. Soft and light and sweet, your eyes flutter shut, a smile creeping across your visage. 

It reminds you of home. Not your actual home – the rundown, tiny shoebox apartment you gave up before you came here – but something deeper.

Home, like the long summer days spent playing in your parents’ backyard. Home, like afternoons curled up by the window, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. 

Home, like the comfort of arms wrapped around you; two hearts beating in sync.

“C’mon,” Iwa interrupts after a minute or so, his voice a touch less gruff. “We’re almost there.”

Dazed, you find yourself nodding, allowing him to guide you back to the path. This time, he doesn’t grab you by the shoulder, seemingly content enough to walk by your side. 

True to his word, it’s only another few minutes before you see it; a wooden villa, four times the size of your own and far, far grander, set amongst a clearing of trees on the mountainside. Confused, your eyes flicker from the villa to Iwa and back again. Gossamer curtains billow lightly in the breeze, a warm, inviting glow spilling from the open windows. Surely this cannot be where he meant to lead you… and yet he merely stands at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, watching you expectantly. 

“You gonna make me carry you up there?” he asks, not unkindly.

Swallowing tightly, you shake your head. 

Another glance, and you catch a shadow lingering by the window. Your heart skips a beat, apprehension curling in your gut as you begin to walk, every step feels less steady than the last. You’re almost glad when Iwa takes you by the arm; if only so that you have something to focus on other than the growing tightness in your chest. The villa, with its pretty flowers and airy, elegant grandeur is far from the isolated cell you’d been afraid of, yet the uncertainty of what you’re walking into eats at you all the same.

Is this where they’ve been keeping Ryu, or has he brought you here for another reason?

Nothing, however, can prepare you for what you find inside. Warm light emanates from lanterns that bathe the room, and your eyes widen as you stare around you.

Strange, gold carvings inlaid with mother of pearl decorate the thick, woodens support beams, a pot of incense burns on a table overflowing with fresh fruit. There’s a jug of the same honeyed wine you’d drank earlier in the night and two cups set on an ornate stand nearby – just within arms reach of one of the chaise lounges.

Iwa affords you little time to gape, drawing you further in. Silken tapestries hang from the walls – you’re pulled along too quickly to truly take note, but the brief glimpses you get hint at a story; a divine being cast from his home, lost and wandering.

It tugs at something buried within you, and uncomfortable, you tear your eyes away.

The two of you reach a closed door at the end of the hall, and Iwa pulls you to a stop, knocking once.

“Come,” a familiar voice calls.

You stiffen, though perhaps you should have foreseen this outcome. Who else would Iwa bring you to but to him? Distantly, you register his grip relaxing, the sound of the door sweeping open and his voice at your ear.

“Go on.”

And it’s funny, you think, how two halves of yourself can be so at odds with each other. Because while your stomach twists itself into knots, goosebumps prickling at your skin, your legs stumble forward of their own accord.

Two steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a bedroom, that much you can deduce from the decor, but that’s not what captures your attention. Nor is it Oikawa, leaning against the bureau with a genial smile – at least not at first. 

No. In place of a back wall, there’s open space, not so much as a panel of glass obstructing the view before you. And what a view it is; from this height you can see the sprawling forest below, the coastline dotted with bonfires and the moonlit ocean shimmering beyond. Where the floorboards end, there are steps, you realise as you unwittingly inch closer, leading to a cascading spring – likely fed from the waterfall you can hear rushing nearby.

How easy it would be to brush aside your worries, you think, to shed your clothes, slip into the cool, calm water and lose yourself entirely. Even amongst all you’ve seen and experienced on the island so far, this is incomparable. 

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Oikawa murmurs, coming up behind you.

His voice startles you, yet when you turn, you find him not gazing out at the scenery but rather at you, that same strange, knowing smile curling at his lips.

“Some days, I admit, it’s hard to tear myself away,” he continues, unbothered by your stunned silence. “But even I can’t neglect my duties for too long.”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Confusion twists through you at the conversational tone, surely he hasn’t brought you here just to chat about the impressive views, yet there’s no hint of disapproval on his face, no indication that he’s anything less than pleased with you.

It’s unnerving to say the least, but you’ll play along with his game if that’s what Oikawa wants.

“Beautiful,” you say, though the words feel woefully inadequate even as you speak them.

He hums in agreement, something akin to pride flickers in his eyes at your assessment, “A labour of love, I suppose. But… everything you see here, everything I’ve built, it comes with a price. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry?” you stutter.

“Paradise,” he elaborates, his smile widening. “There’s no give without take. Those people down there,” he nods down at the beach, the tiny, ant-like figures still milling about, “the lost, the beaten, the abused – I gave them what they so desperately sought; a sanctuary. A life without struggle, without suffering.” He pauses for a moment, reaching forward to take your hand. You almost flinch, almost skitter across the room to put as much distance between you as you can, but you don’t–

His palm is warm as it envelops yours, a pleasant heat that seems to spread through your veins, easing your tense muscles. There’s nothing to fear from him, you’re safe with Oikawa.

“Aren’t you happy here?”

Yes.

“What about the price?” you ask instead, though it takes more concentration than it should to force the words out. 

Oikawa’s thumb sweeps along the back of your hand. “I never said it was your price to pay,” he soothes. 

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but another sharp knock at the door draws your attention before you can think too hard about it. You turn out of instinct, barely aware of the way his hand tightens fractionally around your own.  

A single finger at your jaw coaxes your attention back to him. “If you built a paradise, wouldn’t you give whatever necessary to ensure it flourished?”

Oikawa stares at you expectantly, deep brown eyes searching your face as he waits for an answer. Agreement would be the logical choice – the one he seems to want from you – but even as your lips part, the only sound that escapes is a breathless, confused noise. 

When you were a kid, maybe six or seven, your parents took you to the beach one day and you waded too far out into the water. The waves were bigger than you expected; all it took was one mistimed jump and you were dragged under.

It wasn’t for long, probably only seconds, and ultimately you were fine – but you remember those few seconds so vividly. The feeling of helplessly tumbling through the water, fighting to break the surface but not knowing which way was up. Your lungs crying out for oxygen, the disorientation and dizziness, the panic.

It feels like that now – like the floor’s dropped out from beneath you and you’re just hurtling through empty air, desperately trying to slow yourself down with nothing to grab onto.

None of this makes any sense. Your emotions are shot to pieces, too many parts of yourself being pulled in different directions and you’re not sure which ones you can trust anymore. How can you be? Oikawa’s still holding your hand, smiling at you, and you just want everything to stop for a second so you can right yourself and breathe–

The door opens.

Iwaizumi appears in your field of vision, dragging a bound, hooded figure behind him. And because this is all some big, cosmic joke, you get your wish. Both of them, actually. 

Time slows. 

Even with a burlap sack pulled over his head, you recognise the man Iwa shoves to the floor and sneers at. 

Hundreds of miles, weeks of uselessly traipsing around this fucking island, and finally– 

Finally, you’ve found Ryu.

There should be relief. Fear, considering his current state, yes, but Ryuji’s here and he’s alive and as the hood is ripped off his head Oikawa squeezes your hand and the only thing you feel is… anger.

Not a heated flash that surges through your blood. It’s slow and seething, insipid. You look at him, locked in place as empty, pleading eyes meet yours and all you can think is that all of this – everything – is his fault.

“Asuka told you why she came to me, didn’t she?” Oikawa asks.

Your brow furrows, why–why is he asking you that now, how did he even–

He slips closer behind you, letting your hand go in favour of your shoulder, his spare dragging lightly along the bare skin of your arm. “She was lost, in so much pain. The physical wounds, they heal after a while,” his voice is right in your ear, a low murmur that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

It isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“But the scars inside, well… sometimes those fester.”

Gagged and bound, kneeling at your feet, Ryu doesn’t even try to make a sound. 

He’s thinner than you remember. Face gaunt and bruised; there’s a half healed, mottled yellow one painted across the left side of his jaw, one eye purple and swollen. You glance at Iwa, standing stoically behind him, muscular arms folded across his chest. His work, you wonder, or others as well? You notice the tear tracks running down his face, catching the light of the lanterns, but it’s as if you’re seeing it all through a thick pane of glass. None of it reaches you, there’s nothing but that simmering, ugly feeling in your gut.

Oikawa hums, “I told you that Paradise wasn’t for everyone. It’s a haven, yes, but there are those who simply… don’t belong.”

His body’s so warm, pressed up against yours. Fingertips graze along your side, and this time you don’t bother biting back that tiny, breathless moan. Iwa briefly smirks at it, but there’s no embarrassment. Why should there be? Your eyes flit back to Ryu, bowed on the wooden floor.

Another memory resurfaces; A sharp crack and a ringing in your ears, Ryuji, eyes bloodshot and glazed, falling to his knees, clutching frantically at the leg of your pants as endless apologies spill from his lips. 

It wasn’t him. It was never him. 

“He hurt you,” Oikawa purrs. “He kept hurting you, I saw it.”

The words wash over you like waves breaking on the shore, but you find yourself nodding anyway. It was the truth, wasn’t it? A thousand tiny hurts, piled up on one another until you finally broke.

And you’d still come when he’d called.

Listened to him when he’d begged you not to hang up the phone.

“Iwa.” 

The brunet moves towards a grand chest of drawers pushed up against the western wall. An ornate dagger sits atop, strange and beautiful; the blade isn’t steel or any metal you’ve seen before, but some kind of black stone, the handle intricately carved ivory. You hadn’t even noticed it before, Oikawa’s room filled to the brim with odd trinkets and treasures, but now that you have, it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Iwa takes it and carries it over towards the two of you, holding it with the utmost care. 

“Obsidian,” Oikawa informs you as he accepts the blade from his friend, bringing it in front of you both to show it off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” And while you can’t see his face, you can hear the smile in his tone.

He isn’t wrong though. 

Ever so carefully you reach out, the soft pads of your fingertips running along the obsidian surface, surprisingly cool to the touch. The razor sharp edges – wavy and asymmetrical, leading to a tapered point – you’re careful to avoid, almost positive you’d draw blood with the slightest touch. 

“Take it,” he urges, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. 

Obediently, you turn your hand over, your fingers wrapping around the hilt when he presses it against your palm. And as long fingers curl around yours, you idly wonder how old the dagger is – there’s not so much as a scratch on it, yet there’s something about the weapon in your hand that feels ancient. It thrums under your combined touch.

Oikawa jerks his chin at Iwa, and with a short nod and one last, lingering glance cast your way, the latter exits once again. 

Leaving you and Oikawa alone with Ryuji.

“It’s almost time,” he remarks – though time for what, you’re not entirely sure. His lips press against your hair, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist, drawing you flush against him. “I know why you came to me, the lies that led you here.”

Both of you turn your attention back to Ryuji at that, the bound man now shaking with the force of his muffled sobs, snot dripping from his nose. That bitter resentment rears its ugly head again, soothed only by Oikawa’s pacifying hum, his thumb now rubbing slow circles at your side. “Shh, I’m not angry – none of that matters now. You’ve found a home here, no? You want to stay on the island with me.”

You swallow, nodding your head rapidly. The thought of having to leave now, of being forced out after everything you’ve seen and felt and experienced here, you– you can’t fathom it. You don’t want to. 

Ryuji’d wrought so much damage, but even before he’d swept through your life… had you ever been happy? Were you ever truly accepted – or loved, for that matter?

You can’t go back to that life. You won’t; he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the shore. The Commune is your home, this is where you belong. Here, with Oikawa.

“Good girl,” he croons, another kiss pressed to the crown of your head. You beam at the praise and Ryuji crumples a little further. “Death begets life, you understand now, don’t you?”

You glance at the obsidian dagger in your hand and then at Ryu, beaten and bruised, bowed in forced supplication before you, and nod.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Then do it.”

Leaning forward, you reach for Ryu, fingers lightly trailing down his ruined cheek, curling at his chin to coax his head upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain and regret etched over every inch of his face, but he doesn’t fight you. 

Baring his throat to your dagger, Ryuji’s pleas take the shape of your name.

Muffled, thanks to the gag, but unmistakable. And for one single moment, you falter. 

This… this is wrong; for all his faults, and god knows there were plenty, Ryu didn’t des–

A wave of calm washes over you, allaying your fears, your doubts. Your breath leaves you in a heavy gust, taking with it the tension in your shoulders, and Oikawa’s voice, smooth and honeyed, reaches your ears once more, “Nothing comes without a price, doesn’t he deserve to be the one to pay it?”

With your hand still tucked inside of his, your arm moves with a will of its own; slashing with inhuman grace.

The dagger cuts deep, Ryuji’s eyes snapping open in shock as a spray of warm blood hits you both. He chokes – a horrid, wet, gurgling sound – wide, pleading eyes frantically shifting between you and Oikawa. Every beat of his failing heart sends fresh blood spurting from the gaping wound. It drenches his front, splatters across your dress, your face, crimson pooling at the wooden floorboards at his knees. His mouth falls open and shut, trying and failing to form coherent sounds and you just stand there and watch, the dagger hanging limply at your side.

It doesn’t take long; seconds at the most. 

Ryuji’s slumps to the floor, his body finally growing still as the light fades from his eyes. There’s a beat of absolute silence, and then–

Oikawa shudders behind you, a strangled, drawn out moan leaving his lips. You try to turn, but his arms lock around you, every muscle tensing, his back arching. The dagger in your hand grows hot, burning the soft skin of your palm, but with his fingers still tightly entwined with yours you can only whimper and endure it.

With a hoarse, guttural roar, a pulse of pure energy surges through the room like a shockwave. Every cell in your body lights up, electrified, buzzing; a dizzying euphoria unlike any you’ve felt before coursing through your blood. 

Across the island, voices cry out in delight, a symphony of life. The trees tremble and shake, invigorated and renewed, fresh buds bursting from the forest floor, blooming under the light of the full moon.

The harvests flourish, even the river swells in response to the call.

Death begets life, just as he promised.

And with every inch of your body alight and singing with pleasure, you can barely think much less protest (and why would you want to?) as Oikawa roughly yanks you around, hungry lips crashing against your own as his fingers pull and tear at your bloodstained dress. He wastes no time with foreplay, and you suspect only begrudgingly takes a moment to hoist you up against him and carry you to his bed.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he hauls your hips to his, sheathing his cock inside of your warm, tight cunt with one savage thrust, but you don’t care.

Not as you cling to him, fingernails raking along his shoulders as he presses your thighs further apart so he can fuck you deeper. It’s hard and rough and brutal, yet you moan for him all the same, his name a prayer swallowed up by feverish, claiming kisses.

Tonight, bathed in blood and the soft glow of moonlight, you offer your god everything.

—

“Look, look!” 

A small hand tugs at your skirt, and you glance down to find a little girl with pretty, dark curls holding up a crown of woven flowers.

“Do you like it?” she asks. 

Carefully, you take it from her, bringing it closer to examine. She watches you intently as you study it, lifting it this way and that to appraise her work, humming thoughtfully for good measure. “I think it’s beautiful work,” you tell her after a long enough pause, and you can’t help but smile at the way she lights up, preening under your praise. “Why don’t you go show your mama? I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.”

The girl nods rapidly, thanking you before skipping off in the direction of her parents. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, the fires already being readied for the night ahead. You’re not unaware of the watchful gaze that carefully monitors your every move, and the moves of anyone who ventures too close by. Soon enough, you’ll return home to the heart of the island – anticipation fluttering in your belly at the thought of what awaits you – but for now, you let your feet sink further into the sand, closing your eyes as you bask in the lingering warmth of the setting sun.

At least until the sound of your name being called draws you back to the present. Yet it’s not Iwaizumi approaching, but rather Makki, two strangers trailing along behind him. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” he grins, throwing a casual arm over your shoulders. “This is Kaneo,” he gestures to the man, “and his wife Manaka. They arrived this morning, I’ve been showing ‘em round.”

You turn to the couple, smiling sweetly as you extend a hand, “Welcome to the Commune.”

[lady-literature]

Found Family

holy shit did this one get way out of hand. Don’t expect them all to be this long because hot damn this is a monster compared to literally everything else but it just wouldn’t stop

(should I have expected this? probably. we all know how I am about found family.)

anyway enjoy 4.5k words ig

based on this post | @maribatmarch-2k21 | find more here

***

When Marinette had been chosen to intern with Monsieur Wayne’s PA, she hadn’t been expecting anything special. Sure, the Waynes were an odd breed and generally considered strange, but Marinette hadn’t actually expected to have much contact with them—if any at all.

She was here to earn credit for her business degree.

Instead, she has… well. She thinks she’s been somehow inducted into the Wayne family, mostly on accident and kind of as a joke.

That is, until it very much wasn’t.

***

Her first mistake, she supposes, was being too good at her job.

Marinette is an old hand at keeping track of multiple moving parts and riding herd on stubborn people who’d otherwise be too distracted or goofing off. (She was the Court’s leader for more than just being the latest in a long line of Ladybugs, after all.)

After the first two days shadowing Selina—“please, darling. Ms Kyle is so formal”—and learning the broad strokes of the job, Marinette felt confident enough to dig her nails in and get to work. Selina spent most of her time dedicated to international tasks and arranging Monsieur Waynes’ private affairs—all of which was highly classified and not discussed with Marinette—so she turned her attention to inter-company affairs.

Her first order of business was personally meeting with as many people in managerial positions as she could get. Not a requirement for the job per se, but these were people she’d have to interact with often and Maman had always stressed the importance of building connections in the workplace.

“People,” she would say, “are far more willing to do what you want them to when you’ve endeared yourself to them.”

So Marinette takes that advice and spends her breaks and lunches charming employees and giving baked goods to security guards and learning the names of the cleaning crew. She doesn’t speak to the department heads, because Selina handles their correspondences, but everyone else is free game as far as she’s concerned.

She becomes a well-recognized face astoundingly quickly.

***

Marinette probably should’ve seen the rumors coming.

It’s common practice in not only the Wayne family, but in most business conglomerates, for the children to quickly rise through the ranks of their company—if not just handed a high position right off the bat.

It took barely a month before the eldest was all but running Human Resources, and the second was placed as Head of Security practically out of nowhere. Monsieur Drake is the youngest (and most terrifyingly calculated) CEO to ever hold Wayne Enterprises, even if he does share the title with his father.

The other three are still too young or have yet to express an interest in the company, but people say it’s only a matter of time.

The track record speaks for itself, even if Marinette wishes it didn’t.

As a girl who’d come mostly out of nowhere and found herself with far more divisive sway in the company than she had any right to, it’s no wonder everyone thinks she’s some sort of secret Wayne finally coming out of hiding.

Marinette had nearly choked on her coffee when Selina dropped the bomb of that particular tidbit of company gossip.

“Most think you’ve been unofficially adopted,” Selina tells her, looking far too amused for Marinette’s liking. “Seeing as you’re too old for official avenues now.”

Marinette looks up warily from the schedule she’s rearranging. Selina had all but shoved the thing at her a month ago when she started suggesting more efficient ways of managing the CEOs’ valuable time.

“Only most? Does that mean the rest have common sense?”

Selina’s grin widens even further, if that’s possible, and Marinette regrets her question even before the older woman starts speaking.

“Oh, of course not!” she laughs delightedly. “The rest are hoping to hear news of wedding bells. It’s high time someone swept a Wayne off the market, don’t you think?”

***

“So you’re the new little sister I keep hearing about.”

Marinette stares up through narrowed eyes at the brightly smiling Dick Grayson. In her stomach, there are already the beginnings of resignation starting to form. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you!”

This man is going to bring her nothing but trouble. She can tell.

***

Dick takes a liking to her. And she, against her better judgment, finds herself doing the same to him.

It’s a little hard not to, if she’s being honest. He’s bright and bubbly and brings her bagels during his morning break without her ever having asked.

It takes practically no time at all before Marinette considers him a friend, relaxing when he’s near and laughing openly at his ridiculous jokes. Despite being the head of HR, he’s not great at the whole ‘professional’ thing and often employees will walk by to find him draped across a chair or balancing precariously on the edge of her desk while she tries and fails to get some work done while he’s around.

It really doesn't help all of the ‘Marinette is a Wayne’ rumors running around. Especially when Dick starts pointedly calling her every variation of ‘little sister’ that he can think of just to annoy her (and, she knows, because he thinks the entire situation hilarious).

***

Three weeks after befriending Dick, Selina all but shoves her into Monsieur Drake’s office and, in no uncertain words, says, “He’s your problem now.”

Marinette blinks at what she can describe as nothing other than a disaster area and just… sighs.

Tim blinks back at her.

The motion is somehow both completely blank and filled with an uncomfortable amount of knowing at the same time. There is also, she notices, a frankly ludicrous amount of concealer caked beneath his eyes and more coffee cups scattered on every flat surface than Marinette has ever seen in her life.

She knows his schedule like the back of her hand seeing as she spends hours of her day pouring over it to make sure everything runs smoothly. He has no prior engagements for the next three hours.

“You’re not going to take a nap just because I ask, are you?”

He snorts. “Absolutely not.”

She nods, having expected the answer; her phone was already at her ear before he even finished speaking. “Hey, Dick!” she greets, sounding brighter than she feels at the moment, and watches as Tim stiffens in front of her. “Yeah, no. I was just wondering if you’re busy right now.” She pauses. “Oh, good! Can you come up to Tim’s office for me? Yeah, I need you to knock him out so I can fix his dumpster fire of an office.”

Tim has since started waving his hands frantically at her, panic setting in behind his eyes.

Marinette stares at him, unmoved. “Thanks, Dick! You’re the best!”

The silence after she hangs up is deafening.

“I don’t know if I should be impressed by the ease you’re manipulating me or pissed off that you’re doing it in the first place.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Does your decision have any bearing on my future employment?”

His eyes squint. “…No.”

Marinette shrugs, mind already whirling with what she’ll need to get done first and calculating how long she’ll likely have to get it done. “Then I think you should skip right over both of those and land on resignation as quickly as possible, Monsieur, because you’re going to have to get used to it regardless.”

It’s silent for a long moment, and she worries for just a second that she’s severely crossed some sort of line. Then Tim bursts out laughing instead of, you know, firing her like he probably should have.

“Oh, yeah. You’re going to fit right in here.”

Marinette doesn’t ask where the ‘here’ is. She’s pretty sure she already knows.

***

It takes ten days for Marinette to wrangle Tim’s life into something resembling order. His office is clean and organized to his liking. She’s developed a system of filing so that all paperwork goes through her and is quickly sorted into ‘can be handled by Marinette’, ‘forge his signature and tell him about it later’, and ‘actually important enough to have Tim read through’.

His schedule is the most efficient it’s ever been and Marinette is quickly honing the skill of getting him properly dressed and out of his office in under thirty minutes. (Dick is, thankfully, a great teacher and has little to no qualms about giving her the key to all his little brother’s weaknesses.)

Selina stares at her when Marinette all but drags Tim from his office, a folder tucked neatly under his arm and the sugary monstrosity of a caffeinated beverage she’s bribed him with in her own, with a whole ten minutes to spare before his meeting with the Board.

“My dear,” she says solemnly, “you are positively magic.”

She doesn’t even look up from where she’s simultaneously wrangling Tim’s hair into submission and laying his tie down flat. “You have no idea.”

***

She knows Tim is capable of professionality. She’s seen the cool facade he pulls up in front of the Board members and the kind but impersonal smile he uses on the employees of Wayne Enterprises. (He is not the Ice Prince of the Wayne family, but Marinette believes he should have some equally ruthless sounding title.) He is aloof and sharp and every inch the businessman people praise him to be.

She’s seen it. And yet… 

“Monsieur. Why are all the Lexcorp contracts I gave you done in crayon?”

Tim doesn’t stop messing with his Rubix cube or even look up at her when he says, “Cause deadbeat fathers don’t deserve the respect of a pen.”

Marinette is very tired. She does not have time for this. “What are you talking about?”

“Lex is a bitchass absentee dad and I live to inconvenience him.”

“What about inconveniencing me?” she all but whines. “I can’t hand him these!”

That does make Tim look up at her, eyes wide with false innocence and mouth pouting up at her. “But sister dearest, I’m your little brother. It’s my job to inconvenience you.”

Growling in frustration is probably an inappropriate reaction to the situation.

But, Marinette thinks, so is the fact that both of the Waynes she associates with regularly seem hellbent on convincing the world that she too, is a Wayne, so.

(Is this how Alya felt dealing with the twins? Cause if so, Marinette takes back every joke she ever made—little siblings are a bitch.)

***

She meets Damian without warning.

Honestly, she never really expected to meet him at all but, well.

She finds him in Monsieur Wayne’s office, sitting at his father’s desk and doing something that she thinks is vaguely illegal, but she’s not about to tell her Boss a dozen times over how to parent his children.

Damian is a near-perfect copy of his father with darker skin and calculating green eyes. There’s also a more potent aura of danger around the child than there is around his father, like Damian hasn’t yet learned how to hide behind his public persona as his father had.

Or, Marinette looks at the teen thoughtfully, perhaps he just chooses not to.

“Monsieur Wayne,” she greets. Children like to be treated like adults, she knows, and Marinette doesn’t think this one is any different. “Selina hadn’t told me you’d be in the office today.”

“I don’t run my schedule by her,” he says flatly. A response she expected considering Dick’s stories.

“Of course not,” she agrees.

He finally deigns to look up at her and something flits across his expression, too fast for her to pick up on it. “Are those for Father? Bring them here, I’ll deal with them in his absence.”

Marinette raises her eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s wise Monsieur.”

Damian scowls and sticks his hand out. “I’m perfectly capable of forging Father’s signature. Give them here.”

She does not move and, instead, lets her lips quirk up into the smile she’s been fighting since she stepped in here.

“I don’t doubt it,” she tells him, and she doesn't. Forgery seems exactly like the kind of skill a child who broke into the CEO’s office of a multi-billion dollar company would have. “But you’ll find that all forging of signatures has been finished for the day and that these,” she shakes the sheaf of papers lightly, “actually require your father’s attention.”

He snorts disbelievingly and it says a lot about Marinette’s life up until now that the blatant display of disrespect doesn’t piss her off but instead reminds her of Chloé and of the fact that she still needs to reschedule their spa day. It's been too long since they spent time together in person.

“Well,” she pauses and eyes the papers thoughtfully. “‘Requires’ in the sense that its information needed to trounce the Board when they start spouting off greedy bullshit about cutting corners on our humanitarian efforts. I’m not sure how much of it is actually useful for anything besides that.” She shrugs. “But homework is homework, yes?”

That gets her a thoughtful once-over. His hand lowers and he then turns back to whatever he’s messing with on his father’s computers.

“Very well,” he concedes. “Father will be back in approximately thirteen minutes. You can leave the papers and I’ll inform him of their… importance.” He smirks, but it’s more like he’s letting her in on a joke than anything else.

Marinette smiles back as she sets the folder on the desk, feeling, oddly, like she’s passed some sort of test.

***

The day after, both Dick and Tim are waiting for her with what looks like an entire bakery laid out in her workspace.

“Uh,” she says eloquently, setting her purse down on her chair because there’s not a single open space on her desk not filled with some kind of pastry. “What’s all this?”

She looks up to find neither Dick nor Tim has stopped staring at her since she walked in. “We heard you met Damian yesterday,” Dick starts warily, like he’s scared of her reaction.

The response does not abate her confusion. 

“Yes, I did,” she says slowly. “That does not explain all… this.” She waves a hand, trying to encompass them as well as the state her desk is in.

The two brothers share a look.

“It’s a bribe,” Tim tells her simply and Marinette is taken aback for all of a second before her eyes suddenly narrow.

Dick cuts in hastily before she can say anything. “It’s more of an apology, really. For Damian’s behavior.”

But Marinette is confused and frustrated and just a bit offended by the apparent not-bribe at this point. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, but it only does so much.

“Damain’s behavior was fine,” she tells them with measured neutrality. “You two, on the other hand, are being weird and it’s freaking me out.” She crosses her arms expectantly. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

Appearing from out of nowhere, Selina drapes herself along Marinette’s shoulders and snags a raspberry scone. “I do believe,” she says as if sharing a secret, “That they are trying to keep you from quitting, kitten.”

Marinette wrinkles her nose. “Why would I quit? I like this job.”

She also likes the Waynes (in general, if not right then) and she likes Selina. The woman was a good mentor who didn’t shy away from the dirtier parts of the job and taught Marinette all she knew. (Even the bits, she noticed, that had little to nothing to do with being a personal assistant and were more likely to be found in the repertoire of a thief.

But, Marinette is in possession of her own sticky fingers and knows how to not ask questions, so. You know—curiosity killed the cat and all.)

She doesn’t voice any of that, but Selina, at least, knows it anyway. Marinette isn’t quiet about her gratitude after all.

“First meetings with the youngest Wayne don’t often go well,” Selina tells her. “In fact, I think he has a habit of making the interns cry.”

Dick makes some kind of offended noise. “Hey! He hasn’t done that since he was twelve!”

Tim elbows him in the ribs and Marinette makes a vaguely skeptical face at all three of them before deciding it wasn’t worth it. She has actual work to get done today and pastries to get rid of before she can even start.

She pats affectionately at Selina’s hand before grabbing as many boxes as she can hold. “Come on you two,” she says to the brothers. “You’re going to help me hand these out to the rest of the company.”

Dick immediately starts doing as told but Tim hesitates, humming thoughtfully. “You know that’s not going to help your whole ‘I’m not actually a Wayne’ thing, right?”

She glares at him. It doesn’t stop Tim from grinning like the utterly unrepentant little shit he is.

***

Things are quiet after the Damian Incident for a whole two weeks. It’s the longest lull Marinette has had since she first started and became somehow involved with the Waynes.

It ends because Dick finds out about the crush Marinette has been nursing on the Head of Security for three months now.

The Head of Security who is Jason Todd: second eldest Wayne sibling and Dick’s brother.

He takes it better than expected.

(Almost, she thinks later, a little too well.)

***

Despite her friendship with Dick and Tim—or perhaps because of it?—Jason had never seemed very interested in her. At first, Marinette had shrugged and counted it as a win; there was one Wayne, at least, who neither found her situation funny nor used it to poke fun at her.

They were on friendly terms, she supposed. Security has always been one of her more regular stops in the building, so she’d spoken to him often enough. He liked complaining that she spoiled his team rotten with all her treats.

But she also noticed that he likes her cherry danishes, so.

And then she noticed how crooked his grin was when he smiled. And how he seemed to have an arsenal of nicknames for everyone he knew. And the small collection of classic romance novels filled with sticky notes he tries and fails to hide in his desk. And, and, and.

It was around the time she began unconsciously memorizing his schedule based on when he was and was not there for her pastry deliveries, that she realized she may have made a misstep somewhere.

Jason was stubborn and passionate and flipped between overly proper and crass light a damn light switch. He was also, as stated, very much not interested in her.

Not that she would’ve pursued him anyway. He was a coworker as well as her friends’ brother.

Now if only one of said brothers could understand that.

“You should ask him out,” Dick suggests not for the first time and Marinette sighs, also not for the first time.

She loves Dick—she truly does—but he has been an aggravating level of unhelpful since he found out about Marinette’s latest romantic disaster.

“I’m definitely not doing that.”

Dick groans, like she’s being the unreasonable one. “Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

“Because I don’t like embarrassing myself?” she asks rhetorically. “Not everyone can have a fairy tale romance like you and Wally.”

He throws his coffee stirrer at her. “We are not a fairy tale.”

She shoots him a flat look. She’s heard Dick talk about Wally and Tim’s told her all the stories and she was there when he and Wally finally got their shit together. Dick was unbearable for an entire week with his gooey, lovestruck new lease on life.

“You two are the definition of fairy tale. You two make fairy tales look like trashy romance novels.”

He opens his mouth to argue the point before forcibly cutting himself off. “No. Stop distracting me. We’re not talking about that; we’re talking about you and Jason.”

“There is no ‘me and Jason’,” she reminds him through her clenched teeth.

“Not yet,” he says optimistically. Like it’s a fact, like he knows something she doesn’t.

He makes her want to slam her face into a wall. Truly, he does.

***

Dick stops running his HR papers up to her office. Instead, he’s somehow convinced Jason to play errand boy for him even though he literally never looks happy about it. What used to be a flimsy excuse for Dick to slack off for a few minutes and gossip with her has now turned into awkward silence as Jason drops off the papers and leaves without even a ‘hello’.

During their shared breaks, Dick takes to orchestrating ‘chance encounters’ between her and Jason, all but shoving them into each other (and even actually shoving that one time).  She catches Jason shooting dark looks at Dick every time he does it, and if she’d been holding any iota of hope at this point, it’s been smashed to dust. Jason obviously knows of his brother’s meddling and isn’t happy about it.

But Dick just can’t take the hint.

Every failed plan of his makes him steadily worse about it all—more frantic and frustrated and like he wants to strangle her for her stubbornness. (The last feeling being more than mutual.)

Dick’s meddling starts to make her and Jason’s previously friendly, if distant, relationship awkward and embarrassing. With every pointed comment, she gets closer to just punching Dick in the face. Or, maybe, she’ll just tell Wally who really ate all the chocolate strawberry macaroons she made; it’d certainly be more devastating.

***

It all comes to head on a Thursday, after most employees have left for the day. 

They run into each other in a breakroom, and she watches as Jason suddenly goes stiff, eyes flicking over her shoulder to no doubt scan for Dick. That single action makes her expression sour and she slams her empty mug down with more force than was necessary.

For Kwamis sake, he looks like a cornered animal. An image not helped by the way he jumps a foot in the air and stares at her like he’s worried she’ll suddenly lunge at him.

“Can we agree this is ridiculous?” she says abruptly. “I don’t know what Dick is trying to accomplish with his wingman schtick, but we both know it’s not going to work. Can we just… agree that he’s an idiot?”

A complicated look crosses Jason’s face before he snorts wryly. “Yeah, we can agree on that. Dickie-boy has always been a few sandwiches short a picnic.”

“I know things have been awkward between us lately, and I’m sorry about that, but I hope we can keep being friends?” she says hopefully.

“What in the world do you have to be sorry about?” he asks before she can start catastrophizing about the bewildered expression he makes at her words. “It’s not your fault.”

The smile she shoots him is rueful and she shakes her hand in an ‘ehh’ type gesture. “Kinda is. And I understand if the-” she makes a vague gesture between them that she hopes properly conveys ‘my giant, stupid crush on you’, “you know, is too much for you. Just say the word I’ll try and keep out of your way.”

She’s trying to be comforting or understanding or something like that, but all her words seem to do is make him upset. “Absolutely not,” he insists. “Sunshine, you are not going to change your routine just to make me feel better.”

Marinette crosses her arms, frowning up at him. “Why shouldn’t I? If I’m making you uncomfortable-”

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Uncomfort- Marinette. ” She jolts a bit at the use of her name. She doesn’t think he’s used it since her second week at W.E. “I’m not sure who made you think otherwise—and if it was Dick just tell me cause I’ll kick his ass —but barring the fact that I still enjoy your friendship regardless of any… feelings-” Marinette concentrates very hard on not showing emotion when he says that, “-it’s not your responsibility to deal with it.”

Okay, but… that makes no sense. Of course her feelings were her responsibility, that’s the whole point of them being hers.

“If it’s not mine, then whose responsibility is it then?” she asks, wondering where the hell his train of thought is running.

“Mine, obviously.”

She gives him a look, complete with narrowed eyes and thinly veiled judgment. “What? Is this some kind of gentleman’s martyr complex? Is that what’s happening right now?”

Jason huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in the sound. “If me taking responsibility for my own damn feelings is a martyr complex then sure,” he snarks, not unkindly. More like he’s trying to protect himself by retreating behind a sour attitude.

Her mouth is halfway around a retort when his words catch up to her brain and she freezes.

“Your feelings?” she repeats. “Your feelings for… me?”

His voice is carefully neutral when he says, “Those would be the ones.”

Her mouth opens and closes and opens again. “You like me? Seriously?”

His face spasms at the question, starting at anger before he properly looks at her and the surprised expression on her face. He pales.

“You didn’t know?”

“No!” she squeaks, something she hasn’t done since she was fifteen. “Well Dick said but I didn’t believe him!”

And fuck, she thinks. This means Dick knew the whole damn time, didn’t he? Oh, she is so going to kill him the second she gets the chance.

Jason runs a hand down his face, covering his mouth as he gathers his bearings. Suddenly, his eyes shoot back open and land on her. “Wait. If you didn't know, then what the hell were you talking about just now?”

She blushes to the tips of her ears and buries her face in her hands so she doesn’t have to look at him. It was easy when she thought he’d figured it out himself. It’s harder now that she has to tell him. “I- I was talking about my crush on you.”

He’s quiet for so long that she gets antsy and peeks out from behind her fingers to see his expression. He’s still looking at her, but now there’s a wide, crooked smile on his face. The expression softens something in her chest and she lowers her hands.

“Really?” he asks, leaning closer.

Marinette nods, feeling a small smile spread across her lips.

He jolts forward, hands reaching for her before suddenly stopping just shy of touching. She startles a bit at the motion but doesn’t move away.

Jason licks his lips, smile smaller but no less bright. “I- can I?”

She blinks. “Can you what?”

“Kiss you.”

The blush returns full force, but with it also comes a smile, giddy and bright. She nods and no sooner than she does, is he swooping down to pull her into a toe-curling kiss. His hands cup her face with a tenderness that makes her smile, makes her giddy, and it’s not long before they’re both smiling too wide to actually kiss and are forced to break apart.

His hands fall to her back, practically engulfing her, and his chin drops onto her head. It’s warm and cozy and she thinks she could so very easily get used to this.

Later, they’re going to have to deal with Dick and Tim and Selina and the teasing they’ll no doubt have to endure—not to mention how much worse the rumors are going to get—but right now? Right now Marinette pulls Jason back down for another kiss and very pointedly doesn’t think about it.

[abbysfrenchbraid]

Kissed by a Wolf - Chapter 10

Masterlist

The Yuletide begins and the reader is in awe at the traditions and celebrations. They finally speak to Eda again. A terrible incident occurs.

Thank you all for your support, I wish you all the best for 2021!

CW for alcohol and food consumption, blood, death/loss, open wounds, animal sacrifice.

Inspo pic by @classicnovaproductions​

You woke up sore and cold the next morning, each muscle screaming at you as soon as you moved under the covers to feel around for Eivor. She was not next to you anymore. You sat up.

The room was empty, but there was a small note at the foot of the bed next to the curled up white cat. Birna rolled herself to the side when you reached out, expecting belly rubs, and you humbly obliged before finally grabbing the small piece of parchment. Next to it lay the small branch with dark red buds you had brought back from your walk yesterday.

My beautiful heather, my delicate dove, my strong, skilled warrior.

I received urgent message from a nearby village early this morning - they have been overrun by bandits and need our help. I took my men and hope to be back in time for the feast.

May the sun shine brightly on your face today and illuminate your spirit as the solstice blesses us all. Find Valka and join her in preparing the celebrations, she will take care of you. I leave my heart in your hands, keep it safe for me until I return.

Yours forever,

Eivor

You pressed the note and the branch to your chest. This was a love letter. A love letter from your rescuer, your suitor, your drengr , the woman who had devoted herself to you. No one had ever carried you the way Eivor did, literally and figuratively. You were sure now; she was the one for you. Tonight you would tell her. Tonight you would let her have you.

Energized and enthusiastic, you jumped out of bed and got dressed. You chose the beautiful dresses Eivor had bought you for your welcoming ceremony, the fabric a soft caress for your skin after days in prickly tunics and dirty pants on the training grounds. You combed out your hair, an easy task after Eivor had helped you detangle it in the bath.

Your thoughts wandered back to that evening in Valka’s warm tub, Eivor kneeling behind you and her soft fingers on your scalp. Her shaky breath on your forehead as you let your head fall backward, her quiet apologies for pulling on your hair, the water she poured over your head before stroking it with her big, warm hand.

Birna called you back to the present, giving you a judging look as you quickly put the comb down. You really were a lost case if a cat could make you all flustered and embarrassed about your feelings. Head over heels.

When you stepped outside, the sun really was shining down on you. The air was crisp and clear, the snow was glittering like tiny diamonds and everyone was already up and working. There was a gigantic pile of wood in front of the longhouse, people were hanging up decorations and candles everywhere, every house smelled like a different delicacy and you could hear singing in the longhouse.

You turned your back to the bustling village and made your way up to Valka’s cottage. She was crushing herbs in her mortar when you entered and let out a delighted sigh at your appearance.

“Y/N! You’re already dressed up, how wonderful! Will you help me today?”

“Good morning Valka. I am all yours.”

She shooed you around for the next few hours, binding together branches of pine and heather, making little bundles of incense and flowers, preparing things for the offering, and trying to teach you the songs that would be sung tonight.

“The winter solstice is my favorite day of the year,” she said, excitement in her eyes. “Everything that was dark will lighten up, everything that seemed dreadful and sad will show its good side, the days will get longer, the sun will shine brighter, we will feast and sing and laugh and forgive.”

“Forgive?”

“Yes, it is common in our clan to make your peace with the people you have quarreled with over the year, to give each other a new chance and let the returning sun melt away any resentment or hate.” She paused for a moment, then she gave you a side glance. “I think this could be an opportunity for you to speak to Randvi. Or to your friend, the lord’s daughter.”

You finished tying a knot around a bundle of herbs and wiped your hands on a rag.

“Do you think I need to? Randvi and I haven’t spoken in days, but there is no resentment left between us. And Eda seems to want to be without company.”

“No one truly wants to be alone. Besides, I do not think she was alone those last few days.”

You turned to her in surprise.

“What do you know?”

“Not much.” She smiled. “Randvi seemed less grey lately, less lonely and stone-faced. She is the one who gave Eda her freedom. I feel like they might have spent some time together.”

You had not thought of that, but she was right. Of course she was. Randvi had vanished for hours on end, leaving people asking for her all over the village since Eda was free, and she really did seem more cheerful. After all, they had a lot in common. Both instruments to their fathers’ politics, disregarded and to be married off for alliances. Both suddenly distanced from those they loved.

“I think you would do well to speak to Randvi and clear the air if you want to openly be with Eivor from now on.” The seeress gave you a knowing look and nodded. “Tonight is a perfect time to commit to this relationship.”

She took your hands into hers.

“I truly believe that you and Eivor are the perfect match. It would make me very happy to see you together.” She ran a hand through your hair. “Now, let me tame this mane for you, will you?”

You sat down obediently and Valka began to braid your hair, beginning with two small braids starting at your temple and running down and back along your hairline. A second braid on either side above the first one ran back the side of your head so only the top part of your hair was still free. Valka took some rosehip oil and massaged it into your scalp, then she took a wooden hairclip with a beautiful wolf carving and fastened it at the top of your head so your hair fell freely down your back without getting in your face.

Then she took some of the red powder she had used on you once already and dabbed it on your cheeks and lips.

“You look beautiful. Eivor will not be able to control herself.” Valka chuckled. You had to laugh, too. She had been so wise and mysterious, strange and stern when you had met her. Now you were joking and telling each other your secrets like actual close friends. It was so refreshing to not think about your every word and its consequences.

“Do you think so? Did you know she kissed me once already?” You looked down at your hands.

“I guessed it, but I knew you were still hurting after seeing her and Randvi together. You were right to make her wait. This way she knows you are serious about this and she can’t make any more mistakes.” She sighed and stared into the flames in the fireplace. “But I can assure you that Eivor would never hurt you or anyone purposely. She has a pure heart and by the way she looks at you, I can tell she will love and protect you until she takes her last breath.”

You folded your hands in your lap, your eyes still fixed on your fingers. How could anyone love someone this much? How did you deserve this, to be adored and cherished so purely and strongly?

“I will tell her tonight." Your voice was strong and unwavering now. "I am giving myself to her completely, no more hesitation and distance and uncertainty. I want to be hers.”

It felt like your heart was tearing itself apart in longing for Eivor. Now that she was gone, you could not wait to see her again, to feel her touch and hear her voice. Why had you waited so long? If only she was here right now, the things you would say and do…

“This night, the solstice, it has a special meaning. Special powers,” Valka interrupted your thoughts, “that can steer the course of the future.”

You shot her a questioning look. What was she hinting at? She gave you a smug smile.

“All I am saying is that a bond sealed during the solstice is charged with strength, luck, and resilience. Not only will the forging of the bond be… ecstatic, but it will have a lasting impact.”

Oh. She was talking about more than just telling Eivor you were hers. Your cheeks were burning now. Valka patted your hand and started looking for something on her large, cluttered table. Then she found a small tin and opened it to reveal the red paste that had stained your skin the night of your welcoming ceremony.

“Free your back for me, will you?”

You slipped out of your dress and crossed your arms to cover yourself. Valka dipped her digit into the mixture and gently began drawing on your warm skin. She seemed to write sigils, beginning at the back of your neck and then wandering down your spine, leaving a straight line of runes all the way from your head to your hips. Then she stepped in front of you and you lowered your arms so she could draw another rune between your breasts. She let the paint dry on your skin while she made some tea and handed you a jug, then she took a wet cloth and rubbed off the remainders, leaving behind perfect shapes on your skin.

“There. Now you are more than prepared for tonight. This will set everything in place.” Valka looked very satisfied. You got dressed and finished your tea.

“You were right. I should speak to Randvi.”

Valka nodded, then she handed you the gigantic linen sack filled with branches and decorations.

“Carry these to the longhouse for me, dear. They will know what to do with them. It is a good thing, burying your grievances and forgiving. A wise move.” She squeezed your hand, then you heaved the sack over your shoulder and set out for the longhouse.

The way down was slippery and you almost danced with death a few times, but you always managed to catch yourself and finally arrived at the longhouse unharmed. A woman at the entrance took the sack from you and ordered a few children to start hanging up the branches. You walked over to the map room, but it was deserted.

When you turned around, Norvid was standing before you. You instinctively threw your hands up in fright.

“Oh God, you scared me!” You pressed a hand to your chest and let out a shaky laugh.

“No need, my lady. I will not harass you like I did the other night. I just wanted to express my sincere apologies for bothering you like that. Eivor certainly taught me a lesson.” He looked seriously ashamed. You nodded.

“Thank you, Norvid. I appreciate you telling me. I have to admit, I was worried about the next time we might cross paths.”

He slapped his forehead dramatically and fell to one knee. You had to fight down a laugh.

“Please forgive me for my terrible demeanor. I will never lay so much as a finger on you again.” He looked up, batting his eyelashes at you. “Unless you want me to.”

You snorted.

“No need, thank you. Now get up, you sly dog.”

He stood up and wiped the dust from his trousers, then he grinned at you and gave you another small bow before excusing himself. You shook your head at so much boldness.

When you asked the woman at the front where Randvi was, she just gestured vaguely into the distance. You followed the direction of her finger and tried not to get run over by all the eager people preparing for tonight. It was already afternoon and soon the feast would begin. There was still no sign of Eivor.

Suddenly you heard bright laughter coming from between two huts to your right. It sounded very familiar. As you rounded the corner, you saw two women with their backs to you, cutting branches with dark thorny leaves and red berries from a tall bush. One had auburn hair and one dark brown. A branch cracked beneath your foot and Eda and Randvi turned around, the laughter leaving their faces.

You pressed your hands to your stomach, trying to keep your composure. Forgiveness. New beginnings. Solstice.

“Eda. Randvi. I was looking for you both. I wanted to speak to you.”

Eda furrowed her brows.

“Are you alright, Y/N?”

“Oh yes, I’m fine, wonderful actually. But we… our relationship, it is still strained from what happened in the last few weeks. Yuletide begins today and I… I thought maybe we could… find an understanding? Not just me and you, but also me and Randvi.”

You looked at the woman in blue and were relieved to find no anger or hatred in her eyes. There was actually a hint of a smile on her lips.

“As you may have guessed already, Eda and I have had some time to get to know each other,” she said and stepped forward. “Whatever you say to me, she can hear, too.”

Eda nodded. “The same goes for me.”

You took a deep breath and tried to still your shaky fingers.

“Well, Randvi, I just want to say that I am deeply sorry for all the pain my arrival here has caused you. Please know that I never intended to make things difficult for you. I had no idea what I was getting into. But now…”

Randvi came closer and placed a hand on your shoulder. She gave you a slightly pained smile.

“I know, Y/N. It is not your fault, neither is it Eivor’s or mine. I will heal, as we all do.” She quickly glanced over to Eda before sighing and putting her other hand on your shoulder as well. “I have seen the way she looks at you. I dream that one day someone will love me so fiercely, so unconditionally. Do you love her, too?”

“Yes, I do.” You just noticed now that tears had welled up in your eyes and quickly tried to wipe them away. “I really do.”

“Then it is only right that you two found your way into each other’s arms. I would be foolish to stand between you.”

Randvi lowered her gaze and stepped back. You turned to Eda, but before you could say anything, she took your hands in hers and spoke.

“Y/N, if there is an apology waiting on your tongue, spare it for the unlikely case you ever really wrong someone. I know I have put the weight of all my blame and resentment on you, but I was wrong. It was not your fault we were attacked and you had every right to try and start a better life here. I see that now.”

She squeezed your hands, smiling at you through tears.

“Randvi has shown me her world and even though she has walked a similar path to mine, she has the freedom to live as she pleases, she has power here and friends. I wish to have the same one day. The solstice shall be a new beginning for us all, and a chance for me to grow and open myself for new people, opportunities, and a new happiness.”

She wiped her cheek with her upper arm.

“It is what my mother would have wanted. It is what I want for Delia and Henry. It is only fair that I give you and myself the same chance.”

You pulled her in for a hug, the weight of a thousand stones falling off your shoulders. The pain of being hated by your closest friend had been unbearable. Thank God she had turned around and decided to give this life a try. You probably also had to thank Randvi, the countless hours she had spent with Eda and her endless patience and belief in the good.

“Thank you, Eda, thank you both for allowing me to reconcile with you. I do not want to quarrel with anyone here, no bad blood. This is my clan now, too.”

Randvi nodded and smiled, wrapping an arm around Eda’s shoulders as the dark-haired woman stepped back to her side.

“It is. You are both part of the family now.”

“You too?” you asked Eda, surprised. There had been no welcoming ritual for her yet. She gave you a shy smile.

“We had the ceremony last night. It was private.” She held out her arm with a golden bangle for you to see. Randvi pressed her lips together to stifle a grin.

Well, that was a surprise. A few weeks ago, Eda had cursed you for your interest in Eivor and now she was flirting with Randvi, a married woman? She really had turned around. Eda seemed to guess what you were thinking.

“Y/N, I apologize for my horrid comments when you first visited me. I understand now that things are different here, different than I was taught growing up. I’d be happy to talk about it with you later at the feast. I wronged you, and I am sincerely sorry. I wish you and Eivor all the best of luck.”

You could see pain flicker over Randvi’s face, but Eda tightened her grip around the auburn-haired woman’s waist and held your gaze. You nodded.

“Thank you.” You looked over to Randvi. “Is there any indication when they might be back?”

She sighed. “I hope they return before the celebrations begin. Yule can’t wait, but the ceremony will not be right without our drengrs . We’re just collecting some more decorations, but we will be back at the longhouse shortly. If you are idle, you could see if Sfáva needs help.”

As you walked back through the village, you noticed it was already getting darker. When would your drengr return to you? God forbid she was actually hurt or - no. You said a quick prayer, then you clapped your hands to shoo away your dark thoughts and focused on the path before you.

Just as you were about to cross the open space in front of the longhouse, making your way through the children admiring the gigantic woodpile for the bonfire, a horn sounded loudly from the docks. A wave of excitement went through the people in front of you and the children dropped everything to run to the docks and see the ship that had returned.

Looking behind you, you saw Valka rush down the hill with a big basket, looking worried. Did she sense a calamity? God, no. Please let Eivor be unharmed. Please, please return to me safely, my drengr.

You lifted your skirts and made your way down to the shore, surrounded by other women rushing to greet their husbands. The first warriors were already on solid ground.

They carried a wooden stretcher. Someone was lying on it, completely still. Your heart dropped.

You fought your way through the small crowd, craning your neck to try and find Eivor's blonde mane among the other men on the ship, but you could not see any specks of gold on the ship. The person on the stretcher however had light hair, long braids drenched in blood covering their face.

Someone let out a blood-curdling scream, loud enough to get through the rush of blood in your ears. A woman with flaming red hair stumbled forward. It was the Viking wife you had seen with Valka a while ago, the woman she had been infatuated with for a long time.

Even though you knew this was terrible, a tiny glimpse of hope sparked inside of you. Was it not Eivor after all on the stretcher? You finally made your way to the front when Valka pushed you aside and dropped her basket on the ground next to you before rushing to the woman’s side. The redhead had pushed the hair from the injured person’s face and revealed empty, staring eyes, a handsome, bearded face, and a terrible slash from his forehead down to his jaw.

Valka reached her just as she started wailing, wrapping her arms around the grieving woman and trying to soothe her. The men carrying the stretcher stood still, their eyes blank. The woman fell to her knees, cradling the dead man’s face and calling his name over and over again.

“He fought bravely and died a glorious death.” A loud, rough voice pierced the cacophony of chatter and crying and everyone immediately went quiet. You looked up to see Eivor standing at the foot of the stretcher. Her hair and most of her face were blackened with soot. Her eyes were full of sorrow.

“We sent him off to Valhalla and he shall wait there for all of us. Let us dedicate this solstice, this Yuletide to Alfarr and the glory he brought this clan. He will be dearly missed, never forgotten, and joyfully embraced when we join him in Valhalla.”

She nodded to the bearers of the stretcher and they set off toward the longhouse. Valka grabbed one arm of the woman that was still slumped on the ground and Eivor took the other, then they gently lifted her up and helped her walk behind the procession. It was quiet now, only a few sobs sounded through the clear night as the moon lit your path.

Eivor was alive. She had returned to you. You took a deep breath. Sigurd and Randvi were coming your way from the longhouse, followed by Eda. Randvi’s eyes widened at the sight before her and she dug her fingers into Sigurd’s arm, but the jarl kept his composure and just exchanged a silent nod with Eivor.

When you had reached the longhouse, a few younger men had already erected a table in one of the alcoves and put down linen sheets on it. Alfarr was lifted off the stretcher and placed on the table, his axe still fixed in his grip and laid down on his chest. Someone put down a tree stump on the ground next to his head and Valka and Eivor set his wife down on it. She was silent now, staring at her dead husband in disbelief.

It was curious. You knew she had been mistreated horribly by him, beaten and insulted until she had fled into Valka’s arms. Why was she so grief-stricken at his passing if she was in love with someone else and he had wronged her so terribly?

Valka looked up at you and gave you a knowing look. She would have answers for you later. Eivor’s gaze was fixed to the axe on Alfarr’s chest. She had not so much as glanced at you since her arrival. Did she even know you were here? You did not dare to go up to her and so you quietly retreated into the big hall where you sat down on one of the benches and put your hands into your head.

The childlike enthusiasm and excitement you had felt this morning had vanished. How was this evening going to play out now?

The wood of the bench creaked as someone sat down next to you. You looked up distractedly and found Norvid looking at you with a worried smile.

“How are you, my lady? Did you know Alfarr well?”

You rubbed your thighs and stared at the floor in front of you.

“No, I had never even seen him before. It’s just… I am not used to seeing this kind of violence. I witnessed it once, the night Williamsburg was raided. This is the first time since then.”

“I understand. It takes you back, does it not?” His hand hovered in the air between you, then he placed it on his knee. You nodded.

“You are a tough fighter,” he argued. “I have rarely seen someone learn so quickly and take to arms so well. If you wish to use those skills in the future, you must be prepared to see much more blood and death in the course of your life.”

You wanted to object, but then you realized that he was speaking the truth. If you were to become a warrior and fight at Eivor’s side, you would not only see violence, you would inflict it. That was the path you had chosen for yourself. You looked up at him and smiled.

“You’re right. Thank you for checking on me, I will be alright.” You touched his arm in a gesture of gratefulness and were just about to get up and look for Sfáva when you noticed a large figure in the corner of your eye.

Eivor was leaning against the wall next to the alcove, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed amidst the black paint. Her mouth was a straight line. When she caught your gaze, she pushed herself off the wall and strode to the entrance of the longhouse, vanishing before you could say anything. You jumped up and rushed after her, but she was nowhere to be seen.

You remembered the basket Valka had dropped down at the dock and made your way down to the water in hopes of retrieving it. As you came closer, you saw a dark-haired woman crouched over the spot, gathering items scattered on the snow and putting them back in the basket.

It was Eda, smiling when she noticed you coming toward her. You helped her pick up the last few strips of linen and leather sachets with herbs, then you offered to carry the basket, breaking the silence.

“What a terrible thing. Today, of all days.”

“Oh yes, a dreadful night for his poor wife,” Eda said. “I felt like all the blood in my veins froze when I saw him lying there, his wife sobbing for her dear beloved.”

Dear beloved? You were not so sure of that, but you dropped the thought.

“I felt the same. For a moment, I thought it was Eivor. My heart… it felt like the tiniest touch would make it shatter into a thousand pieces.”

“Now you know.” You could hear the pain in Eda’s voice. There was no bitterness or blame, only grief. “That’s what I felt that night.”

You took her hand and wove your fingers into hers.

“I still say a prayer for your mother every day. I am sure she is in a better place now, someone far away from all those who attempted to hold her prisoner. You will meet again one day and finally have peace together.”

“Thank you, Y/N.” Eda squeezed your hand. 

You separated at the longhouse and you went up to your hut. Maybe Eivor would be there. Your heart was beating hard against your ribcage and you had to force yourself to breathe steadily, not sure what to expect from her.

You knocked on the door and waited for a response, but there was none. When you entered, the hut was dark apart from a few smoldering coals in the fireplace. Birna was laying on a bundle of clothes on the floor, clothes you recognized as the ones Eivor had been wearing. You gave the cat a few light scratches under her chin, then you wrapped yourself in your fur coat and went back outside.

People were now coming to the longhouse from all directions and the windows were lit brightly. A few men could be heard singing a bittersweet song and someone was putting final touches on the woodpile outside. When you entered, most people were standing in small groups, talking, and drinking ale or mead. There was a big fire in the middle of the room, ready for the ox that was to be slaughtered. You saw Randvi, Eivor, and Valka huddled together next to the alcove entrance where Alfarr was lying. They were speaking in hushed voices, mixed emotions on their faces.

Eivor was clean again, her face bare except for a red rune on her forehead, definitely Valka’s work. You desperately wanted to go over to them and join the conversation, but you could not bring yourself to do it. The fear of rejection or being excluded was too great.

Suddenly Sigurd stood up on a table.

“My dear ravens, my drengrs , my family! Tonight, in the shortest night of the year, we experience the darkness, we are encased by it and it threatens to leak into our hearts. Today we have lost a great man to the darkness, but what keeps us hopeful is the certainty that he is in Valhalla now. Alfarr fought bravely and gloriously, he was welcomed by Odin with open arms!”

The other warriors cheered and raised their drinking horns.

“Let us now follow the lead of our wonderful seeress, our guide through the darkness, Valka! We shall make a sacrifice to the gods that will propitiate them and grant us light, warmth, and good fortune for the coming year. And then we shall feast, in tribute to all the drengrs that fought for this clan and in memory of Alfarr!”

Everyone started to make their way outside and you let the crowd carry you to the bonfire. A few men had led the village’s strongest, most prized ox to the open space. They had fastened the rope on its holster to a large metal nail which they had then hammered into the frozen ground right at the edge of the woodpile.

Valka stepped into the circle that the people had formed around the stacked wood. She looked glorious in the light of the torches, her golden headdress and her jewelry gleaming in the flames. She carried a large copper bowl and a beautiful, embezzled dagger. Sigurd stepped to her side and they stood at the head of the ox.

First, Valka sang a hauntingly beautiful song in Norwegian and Sigurd joined in for the last verse. He held another small speech in his mother tongue before taking the dagger from Valka. She held her hands over the ox’s head and blessed the animal. You made out the names of Odin and Freya, of Sigurd and Eivor, and some of the other drengrs .

Finally, Sigurd drew the dagger over the throat of the animal and you could see its eyes widening, but it could not cry out. Sigurd had made the perfect cut. Blood started spilling from its throat and Valka held her bowl under the thick read stream until she had filled the vessel. Then she stepped back and watched the blood run over the frozen ground, into the woodpile, and toward the longhouse.

She started singing another song and this time almost all of the Vikings joined in, lifting their hands over their heads and building a beautiful choir while the ox started to stagger. His front legs gave in first and he slowly fell to his knees, then he lay down completely, his ragged breaths making a gurgling sound as his body bled out.

The singing slowly got quieter and finally died along with the animal’s last breath. Valka called out Sigurd, Randvi and Eivor and they stood next to each other, holding out their open palms as the seeress dipped her finger in the steaming blood and drew a different rune onto every one of them. Then she called out another name.

“Yngvor! Step forward and cleanse yourself of sorrow and grief. Begin this Yuletide with hope for the future, drenched in the glory of your husband and the blood of this sacrifice.”

The red-haired woman, her face still puffy and pale from crying, stood in front of Valka. The seeress gave her a sincere smile, then she wet her finger with blood again and drew a vertical line on each of Yngvor’s cheeks, resembling the streams of tears she had cried earlier. Then Valka drew a circle on her forehead and put a dot in the middle.

She stepped back and nodded. Randvi stretched out a hand and put it on the woman’s shoulder in support. Everyone sang another short song, then the ceremony seemed to be over. Everyone spread out, most people heading for the longhouse as Lewin and a few other men knelt next to the ox and started skinning and disemboweling it.

Inside everyone sat down along the long tables a first course of food was passed around, mead and ale were poured out and the first songs of praise sounded through the hall. You sat with Aelfric, Hal, and Eda. They were all excitedly debating the meaning of the ritual and its different components, the runes, and what might still come in this long night. In the meantime, the ox was carried in on a long spit by eight men and hung over the fire to roast.

You were distracted by your strange reunion with Eivor - you had not even spoken a word after being so close during the last weeks. Of course, she had lost one of her men and if you knew her at all, she probably blamed herself for his death. But then the interaction with Norvid and her reaction to it - what was that? Was she jealous? There was no reason for that. You were hers and hers only. She should know that.

You risked a look to her table and your heart cramped up in your chest. Eivor was not eating, her fists were balled up next to her plate and her eyes fixed on the table. Her face was a stony mask, no emotion breaking the surface. Sigurd and Randvi were deep in conversation and you could hear two of her men at her side speaking about Alfarr and how well he had fought today. All you wanted was to go up to Eivor, take her hand and hold her tight. But you feared that she would reject you after everything you had seen of her today.

Hal pulled out his dice game and immediately declared that he would never play against you again. Instead, you taught the game to Eda who had great fun but went down without a single win. She was a hopeless case.

“Mind if I join you?”

You looked up to see Norvid standing next to you, a plate of dried fruit in his hand.

“They are going to make the first cut on the beast soon, but I figured that if all the drengrs get their meat first, we still have some time to spare. At least three rounds.” He grinned and the others eagerly invited him to sit. Soon they were laughing and bickering about their wagers.

When the meat was cut, everyone was patiently waiting in line for their share. Norvid stood behind you.

“How are you liking your first Yule so far?” he asked, a friendly twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, it’s very impressive. I have never seen an animal being sacrificed in that manner. It seemed very peaceful. I can hardly wait for the bonfire later.” You smiled at the thought of the gigantic pile of wood that would be ablaze soon - the biggest fire you had ever seen.

The meat was delicious and there were sides of roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and pickled cabbage. When it was finally time for the fire, everyone flocked outside again. The ox’s blood had seeped into the ground, leaving frozen red streaks around and leading into the woodpile.

You stood next to Eda as Sigurd and Valka joined together for another speech, then a young, blonde Viking woman with beautiful, intricate braids carried a great torch from the longhouse and handed it to Sigurd. Their eyes met and their gazes stayed locked for just a moment too long. You looked over to Randvi; she had seen it, too. She looked just the slightest bit surprised, but not affronted or disappointed at all. Interesting. Eivor stood next to her, her face still completely devoid of emotion. She stared at the woodpile, or rather through it into the distance.

Sigurd said another few words in Norwegian, then he went around the pile and set fire to the wood in different places. Finally, he pushed the torch into the bottom of the pile and everyone watched in awe as the stack ignited, the wood cracking and shifting as sparks flew in all directions.

You turned to Eda to joke about her bad luck in the dice game earlier when you noticed her dreamy gaze into the distance, her expression languorous and enchanted as the light of the flames danced over her face. You followed her eyes and landed on Randvi, who showed the exact same countenance.

“Eda?” you asked and she snapped out of her reverie immediately, trying to look innocent.

“Yes, dear?”

“What is happening between you and Randvi?”

She grabbed your arm and shushed you even though you had barely mumbled the question. Then she pulled you back a few steps, out of the circle, and got closer to you.

“I do not know what nature the bond between us will turn out to be. But she is the reason I smile again, the reason I eat and speak, the reason I yet stand before you. Something about her is so… gentle, so kind and caring. I have never met someone as selfless as her.”

You fought down a bitter laugh. Randvi was many things, but endlessly selfless was not one of them. You left it up for Eda to learn that herself. Reminding yourself of Valka's words and your reconciliation with Randvi earlier, you hoped that maybe Randvi had really changed. You did not want Eda to go through any more pain. Sighing, you put an arm around your friend’s shoulders.

“I hope you find peace and happiness here. I know I am still searching for it.”

Eda raised her eyebrows at you.

“I thought you had Eivor?”

“Well, yes. I had her. But I was not yet ready to commit to her and now that I am…” Your eyes wandered over to the beautiful blonde standing next to Sigurd like a statue. “I am not sure she wants me anymore.”

“I refuse to believe that. Everyone who ever laid eyes on you two knows you are madly in love.” You looked at Eda in surprise and she laughed. “Oh Y/N, you are destined to be together. You will make all our lives hell if you don’t finally find your way into each other’s arms.”

She giggled, a sound you had last heard when you were but young girls sharing secrets hidden in the stables of Williamsburg.

“Maybe the reason Eivor acts strangely is because she cannot control herself around you any longer. Maybe it is your touch that will give her peace.”

“Eda!” you whispered and slapped her hand, trying to contain your own laughter. You could feel yourself blushing at her proposition.

People were spreading out now, some staying at the fire, some going back to the longhouse or vanishing into the dark to do God knew what. Eda hooked her arm under yours and you were joining the others that were going back in when Norvid came up from behind.

“Good evening, my ladies!” He was fairly drunk again, but before you could say anything, Eda had let go of you and pulled him between you. She linked arms with him and he followed her example on your side, tucking your arm under his. The three of you stumbled along the path together and maybe it was the ale you had had, or the wonderfully clear night, or how unbelievable all this seemed to you, but you threw your head back and laughed, deeply and heartily. You had found your place here.

Just as you were about to enter the longhouse, you saw Eivor standing on the side, beckoning you over. You felt a jump in your stomach and took a deep breath.

“Go ahead, I won’t be long,” you told the others, secretly hoping the opposite. Eda and Norvid went without asking why, and for a moment you stood still, watching them enter the brightly lit room. They both tripped over a fir branch on the floor and struggled to untangle their arms, but while Norvid hit the floor with a loud thump and more laughter, Eda fell right into Randvi’s arms. You smiled to yourself. She was in good hands.

You turned to Eivor and she rounded the corner of the longhouse, motioning for you to follow her. It was the same spot where you had once found Valka and Yngvor, the red-haired woman, in loving embrace. Your heartbeat quickened and you were just about to ask Eivor what she planned to do with you when she whirled around and pushed you against the wall, her pupils blown and hot wrath burning behind them.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” she snarled, “little dove?”

-

Author’s note: this just keeps getting longer and longer - I hope you aren't bored of me yet. I promise you a lot of smut for the next chapter. Please do let me know what you think if you're still reading!

[timextoxhajima]

Playlist Feels: SHORT SERIES PART 2

PART 1

Member: stripper juyeon

Genre: angst, drama

“i know it hurts to smile but you try to.”

the end.

it was almost traumatising -- no -- it was traumatising.

to see juyeon listen to your command. 

the last time you will see him was the view of his back, a single, lone tear dribbling down his left cheek as he looks back.

almost like he was looking back at your past with him. 

like he was bidding you a painful goodbye.

now, five years into the future, his eyes were different.

maybe it was the makeup, or the hair, or the clothes.

but this is not the juyeon you recognised. this is not the man you met in the library. almost ten years ago. 

he is stone cold, he is a professional at this job, even if it was a raunchy, controversial one. he is hardened concrete and he is a piece of stone that medusa looked at and turned to rock. 

he is a dead flower that you failed to care for. 

you’ve tried convincing yourself that it wasn’t your fault. that juyeon had, in fact, been a terrible boyfriend.

who leaves their girlfriend hanging on edge for days and then gets himself involved with another girl?

then again, your mistake on its own was one to be reckoned with. 

despite the reputation of the club you were sitting in, juyeon doesn’t take off a single piece of clothing. 

the skin of his neck and chest and occasionally, the skin on his arm when the shimmering outer layer falls over his shoulder, is pale under the spotlight. pale like it belongs on a corpse, and it takes you awhile to decide who felt more dead given the circumstances.

you wonder if he’s seen you, or recognised you or even let you have some kind of effect on you.

watching him dance wasn’t terribly new, but you’ve never seen him perform something of a similar genre or dancing technique ever. 

the material of his leather pants was wrapped so tightly and snug around his thighs, your eyes find trouble peeling themselves away from his legs. the whites of the shimmer on his clothes do no good from preventing your attention to gloss over his collarbones and his adams’ apple. 

your throat runs dry with anxiety when his dark orbs finally look up and they pierce through yours for a solid second. 

the eye contact sends violent shivers down your spine and throughout your body, not realising that your ears were naturally cancelling out the music because all you could pay attention to was that juyeon was having more of an effect on you that you’d like to admit.

it was terribly arduous a task to ignore the bitter taste of displeasure on your tongue when you notice the way your friends were looking at juyeon. 

he is no longer yours, and he is just doing his job. it is none of your business how people look at him.

but confusion overwhelms you like a spell being cast over your head, the witch condemning your demon back to hell and into the realm of truth which you’ve kept away in a coffin for so long.  

“you lie but i don’t let it define you.”

he is looking at you like he knows your secrets. the sharp edges of his eyes feel like knives against your neck and his hair makes him look like he has demon’s horns growing out of his head.

the red and black lighting makes you feel like you were truly in hell, and a strangling ache begins to crush your lungs. 

juyeon is dancing with every strand of emotion he has in his blood, and you feel it more than you know your friends were feeling it. 

he is moving with the music with the ripping of his heart he remembers when he saw you with sangyeon. 

he is reaching up into the air with the vulnerability he presented to you when he cried.

he is walking away with the reluctance you remember seeing printed all over his back when he leaves your dorm room.

your deep breath was shaky, at a complete loss of stability when you find yourself nearly choking up. your friends burst out into cat calls, standing up and applauding the performance. 

they scream something at you, probably encouraging you to stand up and clap too or something, but you don’t register it. not when he’s disappeared into the dark without even taking one last bow.

barely twenty minutes later, you were sat in a private room with a classy-looking karaoke set-up, and your friends were already on their third song, screaming the lyrics of The Weeknd and Post Malone like they were tone-deaf.

it distracts you every now and then, but the version of juyeon that’s strutting around in the building has buried itself in some burrow between the muscles of your brain. 

your friends down way too much beer for this amount of screaming, so they end up ditching you for the bathroom after they scold you for being such a spoil-sport.

they are almost tripping over one another on the way out, leaving you inside the private room with your phone, a disco-ball and some tracks playing in the background.

you hope looking through the documents you’ve got saved on your phone for work will pry your mind away from where you were, and it was working until the door clicks open again.

the brightness of your screen makes it difficult to identify the face that walks in, but it’s not too perplexing to recognise the height, the build, and the fact that he was alone.

medusa freezes you when his face comes under the light, and he pulls the blinds over the window on the door. 

“your friends paid me to do this, so just let me do my job.”

his voice reminds of you of something similar to a siren. sirens who sing and seduce shipmen to lure them into shipwreck.

when were the gender roles reversed?

just the way he looks at you in the dim lighting was enough to make your skin crawl. 

your phone remains lit up, in dire need of providing you a brighter source of illumination besides the television that was flashing on the wall of the room. 

reluctance was dripping off the edges of his clothes as he walks towards you, his costume unchanged and his makeup and hair looking like they were just reprinted onto his head altogether. 

his eyes glowed an eerie darkness in the lack of light, his fingers coming around your phone and gently pulling it away from you, locking it in the process as he places it on the table behind him.

had you not known this man, this might’ve been sexually appealing. but it was because it was juyeon, he knew all the right buttons to push. 

he knew where to gently brush his hand across your neck and cheek and he knew how much pressure to press into your skin to make goosebumps erupt all over your skin.

but now, he is running his hand up your arms like feathers, fingers gently brushing against the hairs on your arms with his neck right over your head, in a bid to make his provocative dance more exciting.

the scent washing off him slaps you back to when you hugged him for the first time, and it makes you realise he hasn’t changed his cologne since. 

the nauseating memory becomes a terrible reason for you to abruptly shove juyeon off you, and you back off to the other end of the sofa while he looks at you, surprised but not entirely amused. 

“i highly doubt you’re allowed to touch customers. female customers...” 

he runs an exasperated hand through his hair, looking away with such disdain, you wouldn’t have missed it even though you were in a dark room (which you were).

“it is part of my job, y/n. as long as i don’t touch any intimate parts or if the customer sounds out about being uncomfortable and i stop, i’m all good.”

it is a freeze frame again, the only things moving in the room were the circles of light reflected off the discoball in the room. 

“in any way,” he rubs his jawline with his thumb. “i was paid to spend thirty minutes with you, and i’m not allowed to compromise it after i receive payment.”

the air was filled with a horrid mixture of beer and cologne, his cologne, and you reprimand yourself for not being able to block him out. 

your sins have come back to haunt you, and it doesn’t seem like it was going to go away that easily.

“i’ll make sure nothing happens to your pay,” your legs come off the sofa and meet the floor, trying your best to maintain your composure while you reach for the cup of beer. “just don’t... don’t touch me.”

the television warrants your attention while you try your best to ignore him awkwardly standing at the edge of the C-shaped sofa lining the curved wall of the room. 

the uncomfortable atmosphere was making the beer churn in your gut like it was a washing machine. 

juyeon sits down by the edge of the sofa, a safe distance from you as he takes a can and cracks it open without asking.

“what are you doing here, juyeon?”

the question comes out sounding like a command instead of a query, a frown forging itself on your forehead without looking at him. 

neither does he look at you while he gulps down easily half the can of beer, and he sucks his lips between his teeth before placing it down on the table.

“part-time job.”

“does your day job not pay enough?”

“my day job doesn’t let me do what i like to do.”

you smirk to yourself, picking up your cup of beer and finishing what was left in it. 

“so you went to a dance academy for four years and graduated from it... only to not do something related?”

you watch as he turns to glare at you from the corner of your eye.

“fun.”

it feels like the witch living in the back of your skull was dribbling curses all over your tongue, making you say things you know you shouldn’t say, making you feel things you know he had every right to feel as well.

rage. jealousy. hurt. 

“i’m sorry, did i happen to miss something important here?”

“did you?”

he looks away, an exasperated smile of disbelief printed on his lips. his arm reaches out and rests on top of the backrest of the sofa, his thumb fiddling with the metal rings he had on his fingers. 

fingers that were once interlocked with yours; fingers that once caressed your cheeks and your eyes. 

“i can’t believe five years didn’t do much to your maturity.”

“maturity?” his words leave paper cuts on your skin. “you really want to talk about maturity?”

“oh, sure. definitely better than running off and sleeping with a club alumni, right?”

your body feels like a puppet being controlled by the resident witch in your head and she pulls you to your feet, your blood already beginning to boil like poison and potions in a large, black pot over a fire. 

juyeon is still sitting down, one leg crossed over the other as he looks at you. under the shitty lighting, you could see that he was hurt. he was in pain, from the sole reason that you were standing in front of him.

your deep breath was shaky, and your eyes flutter shut for a second in attempt to calm your nerves. your clenched fists were by your thighs, and the music in the private room was starting to wash out with everything that’s going on in your head.

juyeon was arguably the only person you’ve ever loved who wasn’t related to you by blood, so remembering how you ended things with him was one too torturous a deal to forget. 

“was he good in bed?”

it takes you awhile to process juyeon’s question, but it only pushes all the wrong buttons all over again.

“leave him out of this, sangyeon has nothing to do with it--”

“how does he have ‘nothing to do with it’ if he was the one who shoved his dick into my girlfriend--”

“your girlfriend? you disappeared off the face of earth for god knows how long--”

“i was busy and caught up with work--”

“and it leaves ‘your girlfriend’ no time but you had time to go out with someone else--”

“she was my project partner--”

“what project? a performance project? bet you had fun laughing the night away in the studio with her--”

“and i bet you had fun letting someone fuck your brains out when i wasn’t around to do it--”

“so you do know you weren’t around to do anything?”

juyeon turns away at your last blow, and you realise tears were collecting in the corners of your eyes. 

the roles really have reversed.

back then, he was the one who cried first because he caught you with another man. now, you’re the one breaking because you were feeling the hurt in the relationship before he did. his reaction just drowned your pain out back then. 

“where the hell were you when i needed you?”

silence. 

“we had a deal that you’d be there for me if i needed you, and even then i tried my best not to rely on you completely because i knew how much you wanted to get into that academy.”

no response. 

“i thought i was being unreasonable for wanting you to be around. but at some point of time, it really did feel like we weren’t together anymore. it felt like we had a break up and i didn’t know about it.”

the tears roll down your cheeks despite your efforts to keep them in your tear glands. the back of your hand meets your skin on your face and the wetness cools your eyes in the air-conditioned room.

“i blame myself for sleeping with sangyeon but it doesn’t feel like you’re blaming yourself for forgetting about me.”

you reverse in your steps to grab your purse, walking the other way round the table so you didn’t need to pass him on the way out. 

your heart was relentless in pushing out all your grief in the form of tears, and you push past your friends when they meet you in the hallway. 

they are shocked and surprised, probably worried that the stripper they hired was being inappropriate, but the security footage of the room would clear juyeon’s name anyway.

by the time you were home, you are exhausted. it feels like your soul had been sucked out and shoved back into your body with a complete absence of mercy.

it feels like your bones had been pried and yanked out from under your muscles and nerves, tendons and flesh being ripped and snapped with splatters of blood flying everywhere.

the witch has cursed you into some agonising dimension of pain and torture where you could see your own blood on the walls, where you’ve been picked apart like a lego artwork and then haphazardly put together again.

all because of juyeon.

it is ironic, to realise and to be fully aware that you are only feeling this magnitude of anguish because you still loved him. 

five years spent trying to let those feelings for him wear away, by convincing yourself that he was a shitty boyfriend for forgetting about you and then be angry when he realises you’ve replaced him.

you can’t deny it was your fault for sleeping with sangyeon, but had he shown a little more care and concern without frolicking about outside with another girl, you would’ve been more secure. you wouldn’t have opened your heart out to sangyeon, who was kind and caring and gentle.

so what if sangyeon was good in bed? 

so what if juyeon might be better?

he’ll never be able to provide you the same amount of safety and warmth sangyeon did, and he had proven it himself. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

to be continued

[sir-huffman]

Huffman | the Brave Knight, the First Chief Priest

TL;DR: self indulgent drabble of Huffman: the first priest sent to ask the Irminsul tree for wisdom and created the shrines and ruins that are known now as domains. the first bough keeper who learned the truth and secrets of this world that the celestial beings refused to speak about. the first to lay his crown down on what will become a mountain of Irminsul laurels, each one hiding a lifetime of secrets kept.

note: every time duke does a domain, duke stares at the ruins and at the tree at the end and just thinks “huffman spent his entire life creating every single one of these fucking things in his first reincarnations so that the future can one day stop this cycle.” And then cries over this stupid little headcanon. And by created, duke means legit carved every stone and wrote every letter into the stone with his own two visionless hands and...yeah...

Humanity.

Parasites in this land. They were born from the dirt beneath their feet. They had no grasp of the rules of the world around them. They were heathens surrounded by pure elemental beasts made up of the consecrated elements above. And they were nothing but the scraps, useless beings who had no place in this world.

However, even dirt can be purified - that much the celestial envoys knew. So as long as these savages could learn and listen, to not question their divine guidance, then even soil can be turned into gold. So these beings made from dirt (unpurified, unrefined, unclean) were given hope of ascension, to become pure and raw, who have aligned with the ideals of their celestial envoys...visions of their potential.

The celestial envoys gave the unclean souls wisdom. They allowed humanity to flourish. To give birth to life, to create things so that they could survive. They gave them the secrets of alchemy, but the humans were not intelligent as they could be. The savages had yet to understand how to refine dirt into chalk and from chalk into gold. And as such...the foolish beings started to question the heavenly guidance...

But the envoys continued to repeat the same words over and over again:

To stay silent and listen if they wished to learn. That the world would soon enter a new and brighter age. That this was predestined, and the future was immutable.

But it was never enough for those heathens. The humans continued to ask questions, and the heavenly envoys were silent: giving no answer. So, the people chose a chief priest and adorned his head with a crown of white branches. They sent him out into the deep places of the world to seek answers and enlightenment.

So here he was, staring up at the sky as he continued to travel across the world. How long has it been since he had last seen his homeland? The Irminsul crown adorned his head glowed as Huffman walked, guiding him towards the depths of the world where their questions will be answered. Blue eyes stared at the floating palace now but a speck of dust.

It had been months since he had been searching, banished from his kingdom until he had found the answers. What was a brave knight do when he was given the honor of being the chief priest to accomplish this journey humanity was too scared to do themselves. Huffman closed his eyes as he clutched his fist to his chest. Breath was drawn in as he calmed himself before continuing his journey.

He was a knight, given the burden of being the first to defy the gods. Being the first to question and seek knowledge that they should not know. Being the first to forge the way of countless journeys of future generations who will seek answers for questions refused by their celestial gods.

For six months, he would voyage across the land, making his way across the abyssal sea, before finding his answer. He had fought his way deep into the abyss, destroying everything in his path as the crown adorning his head guided him, pointing him in the right direction until he had found the center of the world.

A silver tree, an Irminsul tree, glowed a brilliant white.

It resonated with the crown that adorned his head. Blood and sweat caked his body as the brave knight fell to his knees. Sword dropped to the ground, staining the stone with blood as the knight stared up at the tree in all its glory. Tears dripped. Eyes closed. Lips curled back as the knight cried. The crown illuminated as the knight opened his mouth for the first time in months. But unintelligent noises spilled from his lips, voice hoarse as he had not spoken to anyone, body aching from fighting for his life just to make it here...to his destination...to the center of the abyss.

But as he screamed the question in his head, there was no answer.

He was met with silence. Silence. Just like when they asked those heavenly envoys. His journey was fruitless. His fight for survival was wasted. He had survived only to be met with the same answer...

Until everything made sense, the sudden clarity, the feeling of enlightenment made the knight open his eyes as he looked up at the tree. The tree held the knowledge that the envoys didn’t dare to speak. And he, Huffman, alone knew the truth of this world. He knew their destiny. He knew their future. And it was not a beautiful one. No. It was horrific. It was predestined since the beginning of time.

The truth of this world they lived in and what the heavenly envoys refused to speak. It was but a cycle, an everlasting eternity, one that recycled life and where they were destined to repeat it over and over again.

But...was this eternity worth living?

Blue eyes stared up at the tree as the knight looked up at the starry sea, understanding that this world was but a fraction of this universe. That his existence was as unimportant as the stars in the sky, so the question was now: what should he do with this knowledge?

He alone bared this burden. He alone knew the truth of this world, and his job of seeking out the truth was done. He had not been tasked to return, to share this knowledge, only that he may come back once he had found the answers. So...again, what should he do?

Hands reached up to take his crown, illuminating in the darkness as he stared at the glimmering branches. Eyes closed as he meditated, vowing that he will be the keeper of this secret. That he will become the first Bough Keeper and build the foundations so that the future can save the past. That the future can change their destiny. They were weak. They were not prepared to take on Celestia. No. Not in this lifetime. But in the next, perhaps they could. They were immortal. They were trapped in this eternity. He will sacrifice himself so that the future can forge a brighter path.

And here you now stand traveler, in antediluvian ruins and long-buried altars of sacrifice. Forged by the first chief priest who had ventured down into the depths of the world. Where you see branches of the silvery tree that grants you artifacts of power to arm yourself in preparation to challenge the heavens above.

Everything has been predestined, and now is the time to rise and challenge the celestial beings who had created this world. Now is the time to stop this eternal suffering. To prove that such humanity, although impure and unrefined, does not need to mold itself to fit the ideals of celestial beings who cannot truly give divine love (oh no, do not let them fool you).

They believe that the earth should not challenge the heavens. They believe that the soil should not touch their celestial souls. They believe that only a few are worthy, and the rest are dregs.

No. The first priest had set everything in place. Look around you, traveler. Look at all the fallen cities that had perished at the hands of Celestia. Look at all the lives lost in this endless paradise of suffering. Look at these antediluvian ruins and long-buried altars of sacrifice.

This is not the first cycle, but this will be the last. So please...please traveler, hear this prayer...prayer for springtime, prayer for illumination, prayer for destiny, and prayer for wisdom...

The brave knight Huffman kneels before the silver tree once again as he had done long ago. The Irminsul crown adorned his head is set down at the base as he knows his time is up. He had finished crafting the first domain, the first room, and in his next life, the next chief priest will build the next. Brilliant blue eyes, now ever-changing close as he leans against the base of the tree.

He was the creator of the antediluvian ruins. He was the one who bared the first title of Bough Keeper. He was the first priest sent to question Celestia’s silence. And he is but another nameless soul cursed in this land never to die, never achieve mortality.

So please...please...someone end this cycle.

[thepandapopo]

Promises - A Sylvix 2020 Holiday Fic

Summary:

When Felix learns that Sylvain has never had the chance to truly enjoy the Yule holiday (or any holiday for that matter), he makes it his personal mission to correct this injustice.

OR

Felix just really wants Sylvain to know that he's loved. What better way than to melt down his favorite sword into an engagement ring?

Posted for A Very Sylvix Holiday 2020

Warnings: N/A. Rated T for vague mentions of sex. 

Sylvain/Felix #Sylvix  Fluff | Proposals | Family/Found Family #sylvixholiday  4300 words https://archiveofourown.org/works/28086762  I hope y'all like my sylvix holiday oneshot! As usual kudos, likes, and RTs welcome :) I hope I can share a little joy with all of you this holiday.

It was no secret that Sylvain and Felix grew up together. In fact, it was something that the older boy liked to remind their mutual friends every chance he got how adorable little Fe used to follow him around like a lost duckling, clinging to him whenever something or the other inevitably made his eyes mist with tears.

But in all his years growing up with Sylvain, the full force of Sylvain’s absolute joy over the Yule holiday never really came up until the year after the war ended, only a few months into his official ‘move in’ to the Fraldarius castle and the freedom that came from saying a long overdue fuck you to Margrave Gautier, whom – Dimitri assured – was on the fast track to being unseated so that Sylvain could finally take over and begin peace talks with Sreng.

“You’re acting like you’ve never celebrated Yule before.” Felix deadpanned as he watched his boyfriend (and new housemate) string tinsel along the hallways, complete with a mistletoe at every door.

Instead of a reply, Sylvain merely stuck his tongue out at him in an eerily reminiscent way that made Felix’s head spin with memories of two younger children in days long past.

He never really got an answer as to Sylvain’s strange behavior.

The Yule holiday season came and went, and it was only halfway through the next year on a sleepy summer morning that Felix learned why in one of their rare early morning pillow talks.

“What do you mean your family didn’t celebrate holidays?”

A warm huff of breath tickled the hairs atop his head, “it’s exactly like it sounds, Fe. My family wasn’t exactly the type to sit around a dinner table and chat amicably. The only time we celebrated was when we were with company or if my father wanted to rub elbows with other nobles and sniff out a marriage candidate for me.”

Felix is very glad that his face is buried in Sylvain’s chest so that he can’t see the fury in his eyes or the way that his eyes scrunch against a familiar sting when the truth squeezes his heart in a death grip.

His arms must also tighten unconsciously because just as soon as Felix makes some absent calculations on how long it would take to ride to Gautier and castrate Sylvain’s father, the warm strong arms around him are pulling him in tighter in reciprocation and a large hand tangles itself into his unbound locks.

“It’s fine,” Sylvain mutters, lips moving in a whisper across Felix’s forehead. “After all, I’ve got you now, don’t I? Holidays are for spending time with family at home and you are my home, Fe.”

Well, fuck him three way to Ailell if the fool isn’t right. Sylvain’s home is with him, here in Fraldarius castle. Here in his room, in his bed, and in his arms.

And fuck it all even more if Felix doesn’t make every holiday from that day forth the best damn holiday Sylvain has ever had to make up for his lost childhood.

Which is exactly how Felix finds himself standing in front of the stall of his favourite blacksmith in Fhirdiad later that year on the first snowfall of the season.

(It is very important that he does not go to a blacksmith in Fraldarius for this particular task because Goddess forbid Sylvain catch wind of this secret order and bother him about it.)

The weight slung across his hip is a familiar one – the well worn scabbard an extension of his own body and the sword sheathed inside a friend that carried him through the war, but more importantly, also the savior of Sylvain’s life too many times to count.

It only seems appropriate that it continues to accompany them throughout their future together.

“Lord Fraldarius!” The blacksmith greets heartily when he ducks under the entrance flap. “Or should I say Your Grace, now?”

The heat is sweltering inside, but it is easily overshadowed by the thrill and excitement of seeing the wide assortment of sharp blades strewn about for display. But alas, that is not what Felix is here for and he cannot bring home any evidence of what he is up to.

“No need for formalities, Than. Just Felix is fine.”

“Well then, young master Felix, what can I do for you this day? Another sharpening? Or perhaps a new blade?”

It’s all very tempting, but that’s not the reason why Felix has laden his gold purse with a hefty sum before coming here today.

“Actually, I was hoping you would be able to take on a custom request for me…”

----

It takes exactly 53 days before Than finishes his order just in the nick of time when Sylvain and Felix travel to the Kingdom capital with an invitation from Dimitri to spend the holiday with him, Byleth, and basically every other friend from the war that he can send a missive to.

It’s easy enough for Felix to slip away to the blacksmith’s once again while Sylvain is busy catching up with Ashe who chatters non stop about the booming success of Dedue’s Duscur cuisine, much to the embarrassment of the quiet giant who looks like he is torn between wanting to change the subject and basking in the praise of his ‘close friend’ (Sylvain snorts at that one because anyone with eyes can see how smitten Dedue is with the archer and vice versa).

It’s even easier to conceal the little velvet box underneath the layers and layers of wool that protect him from the bitter winter winds that Faerghus is known for.

What isn’t easy, is dragging Dimitri and Annette away to tell them his intentions because the last-minute invitation from their King throws off his entire original plan.

“Oh Goddess! Felix, it’s beautiful.” Annette gushes and peers at the silver band nestled snugly within the ring box cushions.

He’s not too sure about beautiful – there are other things more fitting to the word, like the very man he wants to give this ring to – but he does know that it is breathtaking in its own simple way.

The silver shines brighter than any gem and catches the light no matter which way it is turned. Etched onto the surface of the band in delicate handiwork are swirling lines weaving the symbols of Fraldarius and Gautier together to become something wholly new, something wholly Sylvain and Felix.

“There’s more.”

Gently, Felix pulls the ring out to show his two soon-to-be accomplices the detailing on the inside.

“Don’t bend it,” Felix glares a warning at Dimitri as he places the ring on the outstretched palm of his king.

“I promise I will not,” Dimitri chuckles, but Felix can hear the nervousness buried underneath in a way that only an entire lifetime of friendship can uncover. Regardless, the boar does not close his hand or pick up the seemingly tiny ring dwarfed in his palm, choosing instead to rotate his whole hand so that him and Annette can peer at the graceful cursive inscribed on the inside.

In Life and Death

“I…” Felix swallows the lump of emotion in his throat before continuing quietly, “I had it made from the sword that I used throughout the war.”

Both of his friends gasp at his admission, the crackling fire in the hearth flickering shadows across their faces that twist their face into a deeper shade of shock.

“But Felix,” Annette chokes, “You loved that sword. It was your favourite sword.”

Beside her, Dimitri nods emphatically, “I believe the very words you had said were ‘I will take this sword to my grave’.”

“You carry it around everywhere whenever you travel.”

“Indeed. I have rarely seen you without the familiar scabbard by your side.”

“You literally visited the blacksmith every moon during the war to make sure the blade was upkept.”

“The number of late nights you’ve spent sharpening-“

“Enough.” Felix hisses at them. “I get it, already.”

It’s another heartbeat of silence before he can muster up the courage to verbalize the emotions that are currently running through him; that have always thrummed in his veins whenever Sylvain is by his side.

“It’s… it’s because of how important that sword was to me that I wanted to re-forge it into something that I could give to Sylvain.”

Golden eyes turn down to the floor and Felix has to fight the visceral urge to scuff his boots against the floor like a boy who was just caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or in Felix’s case, with his hand on his father’s ceremonial swords mounted high above the fireplace, requiring both him and Glenn to even reach it.

“He still thinks I’m going to disappear someday and become a mercenary.”

It stings to say out loud, but it’s the truth and Felix will be damned if he ever becomes so much of a coward that he cannot even face the facts in front of him.

A shaggy lock of blonde hair falls from Dimitri’s half updo as he shakes his head. “I’m sure Sylvain doesn’t think that, Felix. You told him that you had decided against that and he believes you.”

But that’s not how Sylvain is. Felix knows that even if Sylvain tells him that he believes that Felix is here to stay, there will always be demons and ghosts lingering in the darkest corners of his mind, whispering poisonous words and you’re not worthy of love’s in his heart.

“He does, but I know him. He’s still scared; I want to give him this to prove that our promise is more than just dying together.” It is more. It is so much more. “It’s… it’s about living together, too.”

Felix does not elaborate further because he doesn’t need to. Despite Dimitri technically being his oldest friend, Sylvain was always his closest and it is no secret that Felix would fight a hundred wars just to see him happy. In fact, fighting to rebuild a world where crests no longer ruled over everyday life was one of the biggest reasons why he had fought to begin with.

He wanted to build a world where Sylvain was free to be… just Sylvain.

Turns out fighting an entire imperial army and a whole legion of crazy cultists is a lot easier than arguing with Sylvain’s demons.

“Oh Felix,” Annette sighs wistfully, “He’s going to love it.”

Felix certainly hopes so, because if he doesn’t, Felix is not only down one extremely well crafted blade, but more importantly it proves that maybe Felix doesn’t know Sylvain as well as he thinks he does.

Dimitri nods his assent, “It suits you both. Even if he didn’t, which I find impossible, he will love it simply because it is coming from you, Felix.”

If his self discipline was ever in question, it is long cleared based solely on the fact that Felix is still standing here under the awed gazes of his king and irritatingly fond friend despite how much every vein in his body screams at him to run literally anywhere else, just to get away from their scrutiny and out of the limelight. But his purpose in dragging Dimitri and Annette away is twofold and he has merely completed the first part of his goal, leaving the second most important bit still hanging in the air.

Taking a deep breath, Felix fills himself with the same steely determination that he brings whenever he steps on the battlefield.

“I’m going to need your help.”

----

Felix hates balls. But Sylvain likes them, and Felix likes making Sylvain happy so somehow Felix always ends up going to them.

Will you dance with me, Fe? Sylvain always asks with that stupidly blinding smile that makes Felix’s heart feel three times too small for the amount of love he feels for the man. And even though he wants to say no, there isn’t an ounce of will in him to actively go against something that clearly means so much to Sylvain.

Each time without fail Felix ends up being twirled around on the dancefloor to the lilting notes of a waltz – or maybe it’s the quickstep? Not that it matters since Sylvain’s leading is graceful enough that even Felix can keep up.

Which is exactly what he banks on.

“Come on, Fe! You owe me a dance still.” Sylvain tugs the flute of champagne from his hand, slipping his own calloused fingers through Felix’s and drawing him gently towards the open floor.

In the sea of Faerghus blues and whites, Sylvain cuts through the slowly diminishing crowd of the Yule ball like the blazing dawn of a new day tugging Felix along by his heartstrings.

He must make a face, because soon enough he’s being bombarded with pouty honey browns and Felix is drowning and completely at the mercy of the man before him.

“Just one.” Felix huffs. He has to put on a show of his usual reluctance after all. Otherwise Sylvain will start to become suspicious.

Sylvain winks like he’s in on a big secret, “just one.”

(They both know it won’t be just one.)

From across the room, Felix nods subtly to Dimitri who is following them with watchful eyes, and immediately, the King disappears to put into motion their grand master plan. If all goes well, Annette should also be on the move rounding up all their friends and entreating the small string quartet to play a half dozen more songs, just enough for the remaining stragglers to retire for the night at the encouragement and behest of Dimitri, before ending the evening with one final song request.

Felix barely has enough time to quickly run through the rest of his plan in his head before warm hands circle his waist and tug him closer into a lungful of citrusy bergamot and earthy pine.

The weight of the small box in his pocket is heavy, but the way Sylvain’s eyes melt into warm chocolate and the encompassing warmth of belonging make Felix feel like he’s walking on air. The world falls away to nothing around them and Felix knows with a surety borne from walking alongside this man for his whole life, that Sylvain is also here in this moment with him.

I love you.

I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

I never want you to feel lonely ever again.

His heart is pounding but Felix does not know if it’s from nerves or from the suddenly overwhelming need to let Sylvain know just how much he is loved.

Steps flow into more steps, and yet it feels like no time at all passes before the world comes back into focus as the first lilting notes of Felix’s requested song (communicated by virtue of Annie) fill the room.

As planned, the hall is almost entirely empty now save for their close friends who loiter around the sides. A flash of bright orange in his periphery tells Felix that Annette is busy running proxy and filling their companions in on the plan.

Goddess knows what Dimitri is up to. Though Felix has a sinking suspicion that the stupidly soft-hearted boar is probably sniffing away happy tears somewhere behind a glass of sparkling cider.

The music swells and that is Felix’s cue.

“Sylvain.” He doesn’t dare speak any louder, lest he break the spell that they are under.

Hazy brown eyes focus slightly, even as Sylvain gives a distracted hum in response.

“I…” Goddess, why are words so hard? “I… I know that you never got to enjoy Yule or any other holiday really when you were growing up.”

“Hm?” Now he has Sylvain’s full attention. “Felix, are you still thinking about what I told you in the summer? It’s fine. Really. I have you now and that’s all that matters.”

“But it’s not okay,” Felix grouses out, still dancing. “It’s not okay that you were robbed of happiness so early in your life. It’s not okay that you never understood what it was like to be loved until we basically beat it into your thick skull at the academy.”

Insulting Sylvain is definitely not how Felix wants this to go, but he relaxes a little when Sylvain merely laughs, “that’s one way to tell me you love me, Fe.”

“I do.” Felix says, almost defiantly as he raises his gaze to meet Sylvain’s stunned one. “I love you more than you know and more than you believe, and it’s because I love you that I promise that I will make up for all those years that you should have been happy – I’ll make every year better than the last.”

It must look so odd, Felix thinks, how the more determined and steelier his face gets, the sappier and lovestruck Sylvain’s expression becomes.

“Fe,” Sylvain’s breath washes over Felix’s face as he presses a soft kiss to his lips. “You already make me so happy. Everyday with you is worth everything I’ve gone through and more. I truly… I truly don’t deserve you.” When Sylvain pulls away, there is a sad smile tugging at his face and a distant part of Felix wants to smack it right off.

“You do deserve me.” Felix snaps. The music is slowly dying away now and his voice comes out louder in the growing silence of the hall than he intends, but his heart is beating a mile a minute and there’s no stopping now, and so Felix decides to hurl himself headlong into the deep end.

“You deserve so much, Sylvain. So much more than I can give you, but I’ll be damned if I don’t at least try.” Felix pulls them to a stop in the middle of the dance floor and gathers both of Sylvain’s much larger ones in his.

He doesn’t dare look up at the love of his life, but their lives are so entwined that Felix can picture with crystal clarity the look of growing confusion and wide eyes that is surely adorning Sylvain’s expression.

“Sylvain Jose Gautier.” Felix likes the way the name rolls off his tongue, but he would like it even better if there was another name added to the end. “You are the biggest fool I’ve ever met. You throw yourself into danger to protect those that you love, yet you never consider yourself worthy of love in return.”

Felix builds enough courage now to look up at Sylvain to see the startled wild confusion grow in his eyes.

Eyes that widen even further as Felix sinks down to one knee with his hands still cradled in Felix’s left, as his right reaches into his coat pocket to pull out a simple velvet box.

“I know,” Felix swallows the lump in his throat and tightens his grip on Sylvain’s hands which are now physically trembling, “I know that you’ve never thought that you would be happy. That you deserved to be happy. But I want to prove you wrong.”

There are tears running down Sylvain’s face now as his mind finally puts the pieces together and the reality of the situation fully dawns upon him.

“I never want you to feel like you aren’t loved ever again. I never want you to feel lonely or like there is no one out there who has your back. I never want you to feel like your life is conditional and that you have to cripple who you are just to be accepted.”

Goddess. Sylvain truly is an ugly crier. Blast him for looking so handsome anyways even with his nose scrunched up and fat crocodile tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“I love you, Sylvain, and I want to spend the rest of our lives proving it to you, so will you marry me?”

The beat after the metaphorical ball drops is painfully long, but when time resumes again, Sylvain’s knees buckle beneath him and he collapses in a sobbing heap, his body leaning into Felix like he is touch starved and Felix holds the warmth of home in his arms.

“You-“ Sylvain’s voice is hoarse as he chokes the words out through his tears, “You… want to marry me? Marry me?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to.”

(Across the room, Dimitri has to hold Ingrid back from throwing a cup at Felix’s head)

“But, it’s me! Felix, I’m a mess. How could you ever want someone as broken as me?” There is desperation in Sylvain’s eyes, but it is wild, like Sylvain himself doesn’t know if he’s desperate for Felix to just take this last out he’s providing or to reassure him that yes, this is really happening and yes, Felix really wants to marry him.

“You idiot.” Felix huffs fondly, reaching up a pale scarred hand to gently thumb away the nonstop tears on Sylvain’s face. “I’ve wanted you since we were children. I will never stop wanting you. You might be a mess, but you’re my mess.”

Felix withdraws his grip slowly and finally opens the velvet box clutched in his hand. He doesn’t hear so much as feel the sharp inhale from Sylvain as he reveals the glittering silver ring nestled in the soft cushion.

“Do you remember the sword that I carried with me throughout the war?”

Sylvain scrubs his eyes and nods, “Yeah. I remember. Why? What happened-“

Brown eyes widen almost comically again and Sylvain stares at the ring with his mouth agape.

“Felix. Felix, don’t tell me…”

“If this doesn’t prove how serious I am, then I don’t know what will.”

“But Felix, you loved that sword.”

Felix doesn’t even pause to think before he retorts, “You truly are a fool if you think that I love a sword more than I love you.”

Felix does not expect for Sylvain to burst into sobs again, but rather than the irritation that he’s sure he would have felt under different circumstances, the only thing Felix can feel right now is warmth and love blooming in his chest.

“Sylvain,” Felix feels a small smile tug at the corner of his lips as he brings his hand up to frame Sylvain’s tearful face, “will you marry me?”

The crooked wobbly smile that graces Sylvain’s face next is one that Felix will remember for the rest of his life. It is the same one that he’s seen only a handful of times, but he knows what it means and Felix swears that he will dedicate the rest of his life finding ways to silence the demons and bring out that smile again and again and again.

“Yes.”

----

Neither of them remembers much of the celebration after Felix slips the ring on Sylvain’s finger.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of bottles upon bottles of champagne (the good stuff, according to Ashe who may have had a peek in the cellars) and laughter and congratulations.

But most importantly, it passes with Sylvain being surrounded by the people who have risked life and limb for him, and Felix hopes that this is at least a decent start to spending the rest of his life making his future husband happy.

---

It is only much later that night in the aftermath of rumpled sheets and whispers of pleasure that Felix succumbs to the incessant voice at the back of his mind, itching to ask what he already knows but wants reassurance of anyways.

“Did you… was this Yule better than last year?” His breath ghosts over the red hairs on Sylvain’s chest, stirring the owner to shift away ticklish and shuffle so that he can look down at his fiancé.

“Yeah, it was. It was absolutely wonderful.” Sylvain’s voice is quiet when he answers. Quiet enough that the sincerity of it strikes Felix through the heart and stirs the butterflies in his stomach. Above him, he can feel Sylvain’s muscles shifting as he examines his new engagement ring in the moonlight and Felix pointedly does not point out the fresh batch of tears that well up in Sylvain’s eyes when he finds the inscription carved on the inside.

Felix nods his head once in a jerky movement, the abruptness a stark contrast to the curl of satisfactory success blooming in his gut. Good. That’s one year down and an entire lifetime to go.

“I keep my promises, you know.”

He doesn’t need to say it, but the part of him that is finely tuned into the entity that is Sylvain tells him that these are words he needs to hear regardless of how difficult they are tripping up and out of his mouth.

“I promised that I would make up for all those shitty years that you never got to celebrate properly.”

Sylvain huffs a laugh into his hair, “well, you’re off to a strong start. I believe you also promised me that you would make each year better than the last.”

He’s teasing, but Felix hears the small sliver of shy hope that toes the open space between them timidly, almost as if the fool didn’t just hear him say that he keeps all his damn promises.

It will be a long and hard battle before Felix can officially claim victory over Sylvain’s doubts, but he’s no stranger to war and this is one that he already knows the outcome of.

“I will,” Felix whispers into a sweet kiss, “I promised.”

---

It comes as no surprise that Felix stays true to his word.

Either Felix is the most brilliant strategist in all of Fodlan or Sothis herself watches over them, for in a fortuitous twist of fate, the next Yule seasons brings Sylvain and Felix a beautiful baby girl that they lovingly name Sophia Gabriella Fraldarius-Gautier.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX Please follow me on my Twitter if you want to know my fic progress, when I put up new content, and sneak peeks!

[dwarf-vader-of-middle-earth]

OCtober Day 7: Cliff

Prompt by @oc-growth-and-development!! :D

Alex learned everything from this wintry cliff. Slate kicked him off its edge, trial-by-fire style, showing the man how to fly. Alex overlooked Kahsus, Mechtyra’s capital, and immediately knew this world would forever be home. Xefyr revealed himself before Alex during the midst of a raging blizzard, kneeling within the cliff’s thick snow almost drowning them both. Luminous taught Alex Mechtyra’s constellations by gazing at them from the lightly-powdered grass during a clear summer night. Alex discovered himself, dangling both legs over the cliff’s rocky edges, asking the Gods where he belonged while begging for family, only to find his place of belonging and family surrounded him already.

And now, beneath starlight, Alex sat upon the cliff once more, grass covered with almost one foot of snow. Winter, the man recognized. Mechtyra’s calendar and seasons still made little sense to him, even after spending a full year there. Although, one Mechtyrian year lasted that of nearly three Earth ones.

How much time had truly passed?

Shaking the question away, Alex simply lay down, body indenting itself within the snow as he looked upon the stars.

Each dot was given the name of some grand figure within Mechtyra’s history. Together, they formed clusters--constellations--those of the Gods for whom they were named. Mechtyra’s Gods considered Themselves one with the people, existing to serve and defend every citizen, and thus, were seen being conglomerated from them directly.

For just one moment, Alex caught a glimpse of the cliff beneath himself, body indented within its thick snow, before he blinked and found his gaze fixated upon the stars above once more. He shuddered, then sat upright.

A perfect outline forging the man’s body, catching his indented limbs, spine, and head, illuminated itself against Mechtyra’s starlight where Alex had lain.

Alex lifted himself off the ground and hovered above the cliff. Turning around, he looked upon his indent against the snow--an absolute perfect copy of himself, flaws and everything. And within it, stars shone their light bouncing off each crystal like the indent itself had become a constellation. Therein, the man smiled. He shifted toward the feet, and dipped a finger into the bottom of each to form small pinholes. Directly below these holes, he scrawled a short text with the Mechtyrian alphabet. Next, he moved toward the hands, repeating this process with new text following suit. His shoulders were third, their texts also differing from the others. Last, Alex placed one hole above his indent’s head, then, using his entire hand, he dug out four large letters with the planet’s alphabet.

Alex shifted away from his indent, and flew high above the cliff. Looking down upon it, he saw the copy of himself, connected by dots each bearing a name:

Xefyr. Luminous. Slate. Raider. Rasten. Gladrious.

Above them all lay the largest of names, conglomerated by each beneath him forming the figure together:

Alex.

A constellation himself, made from everybody who lead Alex into his future, here and now, upon this cliff and free from his confines on Earth.

Knowledge, peace, family, and home, all lay within the cliff and its snow now, just as Alex himself had.

Within this moment, it seemed the stars shone brighter upon the snow. Alex shook this thought away, but the light never faded from his constellation.

This cliff was more than just a mass of land overlooking Mechtyra and its capital. It was the onset of the God of Beginnings, Alex Sendale, forged by his makers who rescued him and taught the man that life is always worth living.

[sungmee]

my first foray into good omens fic~ crowley/aziraphale, G [read on ao3]

i. sun

There is an afternoon that Aziraphale turns a corner and finds Crowley asleep. This isn’t in itself out of the ordinary, as Aziraphale has found Crowley asleep plenty of times and in plenty of places before. But before, he wouldn’t usually sleep away time they spent together, careful and limited as it was. But before, he hadn’t ever looked quite so at ease, even nestled among a familiar place like Aziraphale’s shelves. But before, there hadn’t been freedom from opposing sides, no longer a carefully-stepped dance between them, and Aziraphale would never have let himself so openly look.

Crowley is draped over a chair by one of the bookshop’s windows, long limbs in a sprawl that still manages to look dignified. His glasses are on a stack of books nearby, and his jacket is tossed over the back of the chair, shed in the wake of the sunlight currently pouring in from the window.

The light warms the air and gives it an orange-tinted kind of glow, something almost hazy and romantic about the way it fills the space. Aziraphale watches the dust particles float in the air for a moment, before, like a compass drawn north, his eyes are drawn to Crowley. The sunlight dips over him like liquid, pooling in the angles of his face and lighting up all his edges, making soft where he’s normally sharp. It spills into his hair, turns it to fire, to gold, and Aziraphale finds his breath leaving him in a rush.

Aziraphale knows love. He’s an angel and that’s just a part of what they are, how they were created. He’s been on earth long enough to have felt all the different ways people feel love; for other people, of course, lovers and families and friends, but also for things, for places, for concepts and memories and dreams.

Aziraphale knows love. He loves humanity and food and books and peaceful days. He loves widely with his whole being and lets it hum like background noise, settles it around him for all the millennia he has been alive. But to be in love is something else entirely. It is deep and overwhelming, terrifying and beautiful, like standing on a mountaintop while a thunderstorm is rolling in. Aziraphale knows love and he knows being in love, and the distinction has never really been more clear than when he’s standing in the doorway watching Crowley sleep in his bookshop like it is the safest place in the world.

There are markers of a shared existence all over - his shop, his living space, Crowley’s flat - if he looks. Little things: mugs and clothing and spaces cleared for the other, plants beside first editions and books in the flat. Their lives overlap now more than ever, and Aziraphale finds he is no longer surprised when Crowley is beside him while he’s in the kitchen, or at his own comfort among the stark walls at Crowley’s place. Sunlight curves around them both now, a moment of stillness in this strange new thing they’ve built between them, and Aziraphale manages to catch his breath.

Aziraphale knows love, and it is all the little ways Crowley has slotted himself into Aziraphale’s life like he’s belonged there since the beginning.

ii. moon

There is a night that Crowley finds himself wandering into the park alone. He meanders lazily down a familiar path, letting his legs take him where they want while his mind drifts. He’s feeling restless, enough to go walking in the middle of the night, head too full of thoughts that won’t settle. Part of him wants to go find Aziraphale, to wrap himself in the comforting familiarity of the angel’s presence and let himself forget about the rest of the world. But another part can’t sit still, especially since the angel in question is to blame for his mood.

Crowley passes the bench they had shared just the day prior, and makes it maybe four steps past before he turns back. He stares at the unassuming structure, simple and worn and utterly unremarkable, except for the fact that Aziraphale had been sat there when he had abruptly tilted Crowley’s world on its axis.

‘You know, my dear,’ he had said casually, peering up at the sky, ‘I rather think we might be like the sun and moon.’

Crowley had only eyed him skeptically, huffing, ‘How poetic. And of course you’re the sun, angel-’

‘Oh no,’ Aziraphale had murmured primly, ‘no, I rather think you’re the sun.’

Crowley had gaped, flustered and a little lost over whatever Aziraphale was trying to say, but the angel hadn’t elaborated, smiling and changing the subject, and Crowley had been too thrown to pursue it.

So now he stood in that same spot, still turning Aziraphale’s words over in his head and not finding any more sense in them than he had before. Crowley had no idea where Aziraphale was coming from, claiming him as the sun between the two of them. Crowley was a demon, he was evil and darkness and hellfire, he was Fallen. Aziraphale was light and goodness, so bright it almost hurt to look at. How the angel could think Crowley was the sun was beyond him.

With an aggravated sigh, Crowley dropped onto the bench and tilted his head back to stare at the moon, which, of course, was the moment Crowley heard footsteps approaching. Suppressing a groan, he tilted his head to see who was invading his quiet moment, and promptly sat up straight.

Aziraphale was walking towards him, his usual coat making him stand out sharply in the moonlit night. Crowley could only watch as Aziraphale approached, a hundred questions running through his mind. ‘how did he find me what is he doing here I didn’t tell him where I was-’, all of which quieted when Aziraphale finally stood before him, and none of which he actually voiced. He only stared, astonished.

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale begins, soft and fond and so very gentle that Crowley feels something twisting in his chest. ‘Crowley.’ Aziraphale says again, a little firmer, like there’s intent behind every syllable, and stops there.

Crowley can only keep staring, tracing the outline of Aziraphale with his eyes. The light of the full moon shines off the white and cream and tan of his clothes, blurring him at the edges, and giving him a soft sort of glow. His hair too, is bright in the moon’s light,  and there’s almost something of a halo around him, and its like all his ethereal presence is leaking out of him, too much for a mere human body to contain. Aziraphale always radiates light, lets it come tumbling from his hands, his heart, his smile, like he doesn’t know the sublimity of it, how overwhelming it can be.  Crowley can only stand before it and hope he doesn’t crumble.

Aziraphale takes a seat beside him, and despite his conflicted thoughts of earlier, it’s easy to be here, next to Aziraphale. It is, Crowley assumes, the result of six thousand years, of knowing the other in ways no other being did, in the comfort of a single constant, of reliability. Of ineffability really, because a demon and angel should have been enemies but instead became friends, and no one really knows why, least of all them. All of human history stretches out behind them, but in front of them now as well, because they looked the end of the world in the face and watched as it was thwarted by an eleven year old, and the future was suddenly something they could have.  

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hands between both of his, grounds him to the moment with the contact, reminds him that that future has so much to offer, if only he takes a chance. The world seems to still, a pivotal choice looming, and maybe he’s wrong, but he really doesn’t think he is. Crowley takes a deep breath and makes a leap of faith.

‘You said I was the sun.’

Crowley’s words break the quiet between them, almost intrusive, but Aziraphale’s eyes jump to meet his, open and inviting, and Crowley forges on.

‘You said I was the sun.’ Crowley repeats, ‘I don’t-, what did you mean?’

Aziraphale watches him for a moment, something piercing in his gaze that seems to cut right through Crowley’s defenses.

‘What I meant,’ Aziraphale says at last, ‘is that I would be lost in the dark without you, my dear.’

He says it with so much sincerity, with conviction, like he’s stating a fact as sure as gravity, and Crowley feels like he’s breaking open. He took a leap of faith and Aziraphale caught him.

Moonlight catches in Aziraphale’s eyes, turns the blue nearly silver, and makes them shine even brighter. Aziraphale is something vast and ancient and powerful, wrapped in tartan and tea. Aziraphale is soft and quiet, a candlelit dinner, low music drifting from the distance. He is a gentle touch in the darkness, reassurance and a steady presence, dappled moonlight in the park, and Crowley blazes all the more brightly in return.

iii. stars

Crowley had hung the stars once, dusted his hands in galaxies and traced the orbits of planets. Dragged his hand through empty space and left gleaming trails of color, nebulas blooming beneath his palm.

Crowley still loved the stars, stared up at the sky sometimes with something like wistfulness on his face. Occasionally, Aziraphale or him would find reason for both of them to venture outside the city, where light pollution vanished and the presence of human life thinned. The world opened wide above them, and Crowley drank it in like the finest of wines.

Aziraphale knew this, just like he knew that there was very little Crowley remembered from before he fell, and how much he still ached several thousand years later. Aziraphale also knew Crowely clung to the stars because it was something beautiful he had helped create, and that mattered to him.

There were nights they lay in bed together, Aziraphale tucked against Crowley’s chest, head under his chin, and Crowley would trace his fingers over Aziraphale’s back. His touch was gentle, but sure, marking points and lines across Aziraphale’s shoulders, down his spine. He would quietly whisper the names of constellations into Aziraphale’s hair, and Aziraphale would stare into the darkness of the room, wondering about the sky, the earth; about falling. He would think about Alpha Centauri.

Crowley draws a star map onto his back with nothing more than his memory and his touch, but the soft, careful way he does it is like fire trailing from his fingertips. He presses feather-light kisses on Aziraphale’s skin; collarbone, jawline, temple. His lips feel like burning, like Crowley is dropping new stars from his tongue with each point of contact, and Aziraphale is a blank canvas, empty sky for Crowley to fill however he pleases.

Aziraphale wants to say something, something affirming or sentimental, wants to tell Crowley he would have run away with him, really, but he had had to try. He wants to say 'you're the center of my universe and I'm caught in your orbit'. He wants to say 'everything in my life up until now has been worth it just for this'. He wants to say 'I love you, have always loved you, will love you until the end of everything and planets collide and stars collapse', but Crowley kisses at his pulse point and steals the words before they can form.

Aziraphale has thought before about falling, about what might send him tumbling from grace. He has wondered in the deep recesses of his mind, if he might be damned already, with how he's let himself get so tangled up in Crowley, they can't possibly break away. He wondered, some small part of him, if he would regret it, falling for the sin of loving a demon, and terrifying himself with not knowing the answer. But love surely couldn't be wrong and he hasn't fallen yet, and anyway, it was all irrelevant now. They were their own side, and the realization of what that meant had sent them spinning headlong into something beyond heaven and hell.

Here, nestled in darkness like its a universe still being born, they make their own sky. Crowley, Aziraphale, and the burning bright newness of this tender intimacy between them. The sun, the moon, the stars. Crowley looks like fire, all red hair and gold eyes in the dim light of the room, and Aziraphale wants to be consumed. There is no falling when they're here, together, suspended in time and space. Like the vast span of the universe, like infinity is all spun down into the breaths between them, everything could fall away and the two of them would remain.

[nola-unchained]

STATS

Name: Abigail Avalos-Barrera Gender/pronouns: She/her Age: 32 Species: witch Occupation: Journalist / Part Time Healer Faceclaim: Diane Guerrero

HISTORY: 

There exist a strange phenomenon even in this demimonde, a curious occurrence born within the bones of the Avalos-Barrera women. They are each of them powerful creatures for more reasons than one. Magic saturates their blood, envelops flesh and bone weaving itself into all that they are stretching back into the beginning. A multi-generational collection of the extraordinarily gifted, mothers, sisters, and daughters all bound by blood and the title of family. Gifted as they are, as strong and resilient as women, they are incredibly so, what beats inside their chest is a miraculous wonder. That muscle buried in that cavity is what makes these witches who have existed to protect, heal, and act as guardians - that little thing is the source of their humanity. That is what makes those supernatural women even closer to their human cousins in a way few embraces. It adds another level to their already ethereal and otherworldly nature. One cannot help but admire them - wonder about them how curious it is that they could remain as they are even in this day and age. Their matriarch and leader of their coven will tell you that perhaps it is because each generation of their women is stronger than the next capable of facing the rising odds. In broken English with bony and trembling fingers, she will point to one as the living example of this proposed theory. Leticia Avalos will gesture to her great-granddaughter, and when you hear the name Abigail Avalos-Barrera you almost immediately understand how true that statement is. When has there ever existed a soul quite like hers? Leticia will tell you its because Abigail is uniquely designed and capable of facing the day, but Abigail will say to you a slightly altered story. On a handful of accounts, Abigail will agree with Leticia, but the young woman doesn’t credit her magical capabilities or her strength of heart to having been born special. With a soft smile and raise of a sharp brow, Abby will tell you her power comes from the women who raised her. It comes from the people around her and the unique environment in which she was raised. No one is born knowing what sort of person they will be or the level of their respective talents - credit is due to the people who help each person become what they were always meant to be. Had any of the people who contributed to form her ideas of self and the world around her not been a part of her formative years, Abigail, with absolute certainty, wouldn’t be all that she is now. 

That is not to say that Abigail wasn’t something else entirely as a child. Perhaps the reason Leticia believes her great-granddaughter is so special is because of the nature of her birth. Isabella Avalos loved passionately the man she married - soulmates they were, and Abigail’s father was a good man. Good men in New Orleans were very hard to find and, unfortunately, not easy to keep alive or corrupt. Isabella, her mother, and great grandmother have never told the story of how Rafael Barrera died, but the rest of their coven have always spoken highly of him. He died very bravely protecting another family - the sort of man who ran toward the danger - instead of away from it. Isabella was inconsolable, as it would seem until Tia Rosa and her visions spoke of the piece of Rafael still living. ‘You carry a precious piece of the one you love’ Tia Rosa spoke non-nonchalantly ‘I have seen it.’ It was not an easy pregnancy, but if it weren’t for the women who made up her family, who knows what would’ve happened. Thankfully - she was born happy, healthy, and with the strength of generations of women behind her to help raise her into maturity. 

Things would not always go according to plan with as rapidly as Abby would come into her own. Especially the day she stole Cassidy Bolton’s heart. The two of them were small little things barely out of diapers when it happened. From that moment on, it didn’t seem as if there would ever be two more attached individuals in the world. It wasn’t uncommon at all for her family to wonder where she is and inquire next door to find her practicing her skills with Cassidy or sitting up talking about their grand escape to faraway places. There was nothing hidden between them; every plan the two had ever made they shared from college into the wild forever. The young woman was already practically a Bolton; the two were so close, eventually falling into dating at the young age of thirteen. At the time in her heart - Abigail Avalos-Barrera could’ve sworn she couldn’t even imagine life without him. Two years later. A positive pregnancy test would overturn every dream they’d had for each grand adventure they were to take. She was going to be a mother when most girls were having quinceaneras or planning sweet sixteens. Part of her couldn’t help but feel like she was holding them back, but she would never regret creating the most beautiful little boy. Aiden, as she would always come to tell her son, was and will always be the light of her life. 

What two young parents weren’t aware of even if they had some idea of the commitment it would take that his arrival would be the beginning of the division between the two of them. The Avalos-Barrera women and the Bolton family were incredibly supportive before and after Aiden’s appearance but in a toxic combination of their age, sleepless nights, bills, and anything under the sun that could pose a problem Abigail fought tooth and nail with her most beloved. If it was not one issue, it was another, and when Abby pursued college, things came to a disastrous head. To this day, Abigail isn’t sure what spurred her on into another man’s arms. Perhaps it was the heat of the moment, and as emotional, as young mother was, there was no controlling the urge. Maybe it was because he was handsome? Perhaps she saw someone who was there - who wasn’t going to argue with her - who wanted her. No matter her flawed reasoning Abigail slept with another man. An argument for ending all disputes ensued, words were said one could never take back, and Cassidy found out what she had done. Abigail broke her first love’s heart, and to date, it remains the only thing she ever regrets doing. If only she knew what it would do to him. For Aiden’s sake, for the sake of the friendship, they’d always had the couple called it quits and agreed to split custody between the two of them. 

Again while the world would turn on its head, New Orleans would serve eternally as the backdrop for the continuation of Abigail’s story things were different now. The one saving grace of their mutual break was that Cassidy loved her enough to keep her cheating to themselves. As beloved as Abigail always was - this bright shimmering star of incredible potential - he couldn’t ruin her like that. So when Cassidy fell into the ways that would ultimately lead all of them where they were today, Abigail had no right to tell him Riley was no good for him. To say to the man, it was a foolish mistake, but each of them dealt with the death of their romance in different ways. He partied and slept around in a downward spiral of debauchery and drugs. Abigail - Abigail devoted herself to Aiden and tried to breathe life into fractured fairytales and old dreams they’d planned for with his elder brother. 

Always the artist soul, one who never saw the world like others did full of death and despair - kaleidoscope eyes desired to show others they way objects appeared to her. Traveling was out of the question. Aiden needed one parent to be firm and steadfast - she needed to stay the course and be a better person for her son. Abigail, then, began to prove just exactly what she was made of. To show great grandmother correctly that Abby had been made to weather the storm and shine brighter than ever before - respected and admired by almost everyone she met. Who could say they weren’t affected by the young mother’s determination and resilience to forge ahead and how there was always room in her heart to put the needs of others before herself. It didn’t stop Abigail from being flawed, from having human emotions and struggling in her way. No one claimed it would be easy to raise a boy who was just like his father or to pursue journalism and master an ancient craft all at the same time. No one would be able to tell her how many sleepless nights there were to come or the trials and tribulations there were to follow each new day. Tia Rosa’s gift wasn’t all it was cracked up to be anymore, and her predictions for the future were vague and in riddles most days. If not Tia Rosa’s puzzling prophecies, Great Grandmother Leticia’s declining health, or the score of other problems her family and coven encountered, there was still Cassidy. Her first everything and while the dynamic was different, she was still as there as one could be. 

By this time, Aiden was well into being a teenager. He was driving, working, and dating several girls. Abigail was an incomparable healer and talented journalist for one of the major newspapers in the area. Despite ups and downs and fights, she found herself once again to Cassidy’s best friend. Close enough to be a surrogate mother figure to his other children. Abigail was close enough to see him fall in love with Cassandra. Abigail was there to see her first love genuinely fall in love. She’d always had a fondness for humans herself, and Abigail greatly admired the woman - it took a particular sort of person to capture Cass’ heart, and the Avalos-Barrera woman thoroughly approved of her. It stung a little due to her pride, but he wasn’t her love anymore, but he was her family, however forever and always. The other shoe then dropped, and Cassidy nearly died. If not for his mother’s magic, all of them would’ve lost a most irreplaceable being that night. More so than that, Tia Rosa’s visions turned more bizarre full of coming darkness and for the young woman who saw the world so differently - Abigail couldn’t help but believe dangerous times were ahead. Things have calmed now - if only slightly. Abigail expends herself ever consistently to help take care of those she loves and lend assistance where she can to take care of Cassidy’s other children. Part of her has the deepest desire to speak with Cassandra, and the other would love to knock Riley into the next century. It’s not the wisest thing to do - challenging an alpha werewolf or a woman who hasn’t had the most beautiful life experiences, but some days the saint of a woman would like to try. The gifted young witch, the powerful woman strong in heart and mind, grapples with decisions that could again change the world. If danger is on the horizon Abigail is afraid of all she is willing to do to protect the small slivers of peace they hold onto and just what lengths she’d prepared to ensure the safety of her family. A journalist can only wait for the story to break. An amateur photographer can only hold for the perfect shot. Most importantly of all, a gifted witch can only hope her magic is enough or that the draw to darker things isn’t strong enough to pull her from the light when the time comes. Only an Abby can be all these things as great grandmother whispers into the dark that it should be afraid of a strong heart.

PERSONALITY:

+ motherly, perspicacious, resilient, passionate

- opinionated, willful, overly protective, guarded

Abigail is played by Eden

[purple-comet-hurricane]

OH BOY NEW OC. this is more of a sona if anything but, this my new girl Heartbreaker! she’s a doctor/mnemosurgeon seeker who’s very goal is defy everything it means to be a seeker. (bio under cut)

Name: Stellarus of Vos Nicknames: Heartbreaker (Common designation), Sizequeen (Mercenary alias), Turbo Rabbit, Bunny, Stella, Starlight

Mental Age: 21 Sexuality: Bisexual, Mech-leaning Height: Slightly shorter than average Seeker size Altmode: Cybertronian Tetrajet / F-35 Lightning II Faction: Decepticon

Occupation: Doctor/Mnemosurgeon, Wartime Mercenary for hire

Creation: Forged

Sparkplace: Vos Hotspot Identity: Vosian Education: Iaconian Academy of Medicine Frame type: Seeker Personality: Cold, stubborn, conniving and even a little bit flirty, Heartbreaker was once a strong-willed rebel who wanted to do nothing more than help those around her who suffered under the Senate and to change Cybertron’s society for a better, brighter future. A one-percenter from Vos, she had empathy stronger than any other like her, but with a spark so tender, life wasn’t the sweetest towards it. With repeated harshness and disappointment, Heartbreaker grew cold, closed off even. Nobody knows much about her before the war, but what people do know is that she’s out for nobody but herself. Her own secret agenda with a long checklist, the Seeker will stop at nothing once she sets her eyes on something. Stubborn as a leader-class bot, she won’t let anything go until it’s dealt with accordingly. However despite her exponential processor power and her calculated approach towards everything, even she is not immune to the folly of cybertronians. A side many seemed to know intimately, Heartbreaker was no stranger to Cybertron’s many pleasures in life. Often flirtatious towards those in a higher position than her own, recruits and even her own victims, nobody is safe from Heartbreaker’s insatiable drive. Either way, Heartbreaker is considered a mysterious enigma who strayed to far from her own light.

Bio: Fliers weren’t anything new to Cybertron, many Cybertronians were fliers. However there was a specific frame of such that have always been an enigma to the planet. Seekers. In their prime they were Cold Constructed soldiers for the Decepticons, fashioned in the image that of their leader Starscream. However Seekers weren’t unheard of prior to the great war. Perhaps rarer, but not unheard of. However unlike Starscream, their frames differed bit by bit, as many forged sparks would take it. Stellarus of Vos was no different.

One of the few hundred or so Seekers to be forged rather than constructed, Stellarus was rather unique. Many other Seekers existed but compared to them the femme was considered gifted. Special. But in the eyes of the Senate, she was nothing but another commodity. Seekers were considered nothing short than novelty, pretty little things whose only job was to act. Many seekers were showmen, flying in troupes to perform for Cybertron’s populace. The Vosian Seeker Academy was basically that, a school made to shape Seekers into the small mold of a perfect citizen and perfect entertainer. Initially Stellarus didn’t have a big problem with her studies. She liked the feel of wind against her wings and nose cone when she practiced her routines but she could care less for the history lessons she had to learn. Seekers were good for two things from what she discovered. Librarians or performers. Nothing else. However quickly did the young Vosian learn that none of the aforementioned professions interested her in any capacity. She wanted something more fulfilling. While she liked flying, she didn’t want that to be her job. However, she didn’t know what she wanted. She was an ace student, of course. Her academics were nothing short of incredible. But it was a bore.

But

She discovered her passion by passing. A small mistake. A bump in the shoulder.

The femme wasn’t as tall as the other Seekers, and even then, Seekers weren’t exactly large to begin with, They were slim, agile. Larger than minicons and cassettes of course, but compared to the average common class, they were shorter. Stellarus? She was shorter by a foot, give or take. So when she bumped into a larger mech down in Iacon on a retreat, he didn’t exactly expect to see a shortstuff seeker in his way.

Stellarus wasn’t timid at all, however. She was fierce, stubborn, feisty even. However when she saw the red cross on the Mech’s shoulder and the datapads he carried, her hostile demeanor changed. What is that? Where are you going? This mech could of brushed her off and left her in the dust, but instead he indulged in her questions. She was a medic in training studying at Iacon’s most prestigious medical school. Her optics widened and in that moment she realized what she wanted to do. She wanted to pursue medicine.

What made Stellarus so special. What made her so unique among the rest. She was empathetic. Heavily empathetic. So empathetic she can actual detect the strength of one’s spark. What was wrong with it. And how to fix it. She wasn’t any Cybertronian, she was a One-Percenter.

Her powerful empathy made her extremely compassionate for others. A young spark who wanted to see everyone on common ground. She knew personally how rough society is towards those lower on the caste. How the Senate will force your function until the day your spark snuffs itself. She wouldn’t have any of it. After that fateful encounter, day after day, Stellarus would sneak out of her dormitory and head to Iaconian libraries. There she’d pile datapads of medical textbooks and read. If she had any chance of becoming altmode exempt and attending the Medical Institute of Iacon, she had to prove that she at least had the spark and passion for it. And after repeated denial from the Senate, she finally earned her exemption and strided towards the medical academy. However getting into MIOI wasn’t easy. At the back of her processor she figured the reason they finally granted her exemptment was because they knew how hard it was to get into the academy and that she would eventually give up and go back to Vos. But they underestimated Stellarus and her extreme stubbornness. Once she sets her optics on something there is no going back. She WILL get into the Medical Institute of Iacon whether it takes a stellar cycle or an ano-cycle. Society wasn’t kind to Stellarus. It worked against her and her goals to help others. With prejudice from her ability to prejudice of her frame. Everything was harder than it should of been. She failed again and again, yet she never gave up. But perhaps she became bitter, cynical of a goal she worked for. Her views went from peaceful to a bit anarchistic. Those higher up on the caste didn’t matter. Many said they’d support the abolishment of the functionist caste and create equality yet she saw them do nothing to help her and the many other miners and industrial workers who slave away for the Senate and higher caste workers to function. Anger boiled up in her as she repeated hit a wall and eventually, all her stress and attempts paid off. After a little over a deca-cycle the board finally gave Stellarus admission to their school. She was nothing short of ecstatic to finally have all those cycles in the library pay off and finally help those around her. All the miners and workers who get injured building Cybertron’s infrastructure and enduring the prejudices set by the government, she can at least be there to help fix their wounds. Just like her time at the Vos Academy, she was a star student. Nothing but high scores and impressive marks. However something changed during her time at the academy. Despite finally making it, students and even professors still had some sort of problem with Stellarus. Whether they realized it or not. It didn’t even matter if she told them how wrong they were being, high caste bots won’t change. However despite the low expectations the school had on her, she excelled farther than any flier before her. She also began to grow defensive as well, her feisty nature manifesting into a locked down reclusive interior and a hotheaded exterior. There were two types of mechs who approached her. Those who had something to say, and those who believed what they say about Seekers. Either way, Stellarus had two ways of dealing with them. Shutting them down the harshest way she knew, or stringing them along and using them for her own gain. Either way, by the time she graduated, she was given the designation ‘Heartbreaker’.

Heartbreaker, as everyone referred to her now, wanted to help those on the lower end of the caste. Could she work at one of the reputable medical centers in Iacon or Praxus? Perhaps. But she chose to hop between clinics in the Dead End. If she wanted to say she worked at a hospital, she supposed she worked at the one in Kaon.

The Kaonian hospitals weren’t terrible but they were… Extremely understaffed and extremely under budgeted. She knew it wasn’t the hospital’s fault, but the Senate. But she knew that she could do little to change it on her own. So for the time being she just tried to help as many lives as she could. However with such an esteemed doctor working in Kaon, it drew the attention of the senate once more.

Many Cybertronians were familiar with the rumors and conspiracies surrounding the secret government-ran facility, The Institute. From word of mouth to shock value news, many speculated on what the Institute did, if it even existed. Many people who were theorized to have wronged the Senate were thought to be sent there, never to return. At least, never the same. One night when working a late shift at the hospital, Heartbreaker was approached by a man claiming to be a representative of one council member. He requested an audience with Heartbreaker. Skeptical at first, Heartbreaker nearly declined. But if this person really did represent a member of the Senate, maybe this is her chance to start doing more to help those in need.

What she expected was the usual ‘why is a Seeker like you working in a hospital.’ But instead, she was greeted with acknowledgement and praise on her achievements. A stark different from the demeaning and ridicule she received when attempting to speak with the senators. Something was wrong. She quietly listened to the mech talk of her attributes and even pull up a datapad with a file of her. Eventually he concluded with his little monologue with a proposition.

How would you like to work for the Senate?

Heartbreaker’s optics widened as she glanced around the small room.

What did he mean work for the Senate.

Oh, the Institute of course.

She’s heard of The Institute. Everyone has. The horrors that went down there. Most of the victims were revolutionaries who fought against the system, who tried to overthrow authority. Low castes who couldn’t catch a break. She couldn’t… She couldn’t do that to them.

However the senator’s brow ridge raised at her lack of an answer. He left her to think on it for a while. Leaving Heartbreaker a number to call if and when she decided she’d do it.

Of course, it was a harsh battle of morality and ethics. On one hand if she works for the senate, perhaps she can pull the strings like a shadow puppetmaster and influence their decisions on eliminating the caste system. But on the other… She’d be sacrificing many freedom fighers in the process.

But, she supposed, that was a sacrifice willing to be made in the eyes of progress.

Her work at the Institute was hard cut for her. Empurata, Shadowplay. Her hands were retrofitted with Mnemosurgery grade spikes. Over time she became desensitized almost to the act. Something that scared her to think about. But she had to look past these heinous operations in order to gain the trust of the Senate. Mnemosurgery is the act of viewing one’s memories and given the opportunity to edit them. She could even rewrite someone’s personality if she really wanted too. If her suggestions couldn’t sway the Senate, then perhaps she can attempt something in a more forceful manner.

In the eyes of Heartbreaker nothing seemed wrong, nothing she did could be at fault. She was fighting to abolish the functionist caste yet, was it really worth all these lives?

When the riots and war broke out, Heartbreaker saw herself aligning with the Decepticons. Megatron’s ideologies and speeches spoke to her on such a personal level. And with her abilities she was almost a needed asset for the Decepticons. However with the progression of war, so does come change within organized factions.

She put down her bandages and picked up weapons. She used her ability to hurt, not heal. She set aside her empathy and sought to eliminate those who stood between her and a perfect, equal, Cybertron.

Young Heartbreaker wouldn’t do this. But young Heartbreaker was naive and didn’t know how cruel the world could be.

Sure she realized how skewed the Decepticon cause became. From protesting a corrupt government to trying to form one, she still had a sense of humanity in herself. While she didn’t leave the Decepticons, she took a more neutral approach to the war. A mercenary. Or an assassin, whichever one a person needed. With an extended arsenal of weaponry and abilities, she was a force to be reckoned with. She was everything needed for a terrifying killer. Sneaky, conniving, and cruel. She didn’t just kill her targets, no. She was a mnemosurgeon after all, she had her due before any energon was spilled.

She was a hollow shell of the hopeful, charismatic and moral Stellarus. To the Decepticons she was Heartbreaker, a cold and calculated doctor who served her own agenda. But to everyone else, she was a mercenary who didn’t hesitate to take what she wanted along with your spark.

[stevenuniversallyreviews]

Episode 100: Beta

“Earth can set you free.”

Bismuth is the first two-part episode in the series that was structured as a single long episode. Beta and Earthlings should have been the second.

This isn’t the first time the first half of a two-parter has ended abruptly (here’s lookin’ at you, It Could’ve Been Great), but there’s a difference between wrapping up a story without much resolution and just cutting to commercial midway through the story, and Beta does the latter. It’s not even a cliffhanger, it’s the beginning of a new scene that pauses for effect and starts exactly where it left off in Earthlings. In most regions they premiered back to back, and could be confused for a single unit if not for the title card.

This isn’t an actual complaint: it’s a harmless distinction to have Bismuth as one episode and Beta and Earthlings as two, especially because Zuke’n’Florido boarded this one and Molisee’n’Villeco boarded the next. But when you’re writing episodic reviews, you have to take the segments as they’re presented, and it is really difficult to review the first half of this story as a discrete unit. The rough equivalent would be writing about Bismuth up until they exit the forge and just stopping there. 

I’m not gonna cheat and review Beta and Earthlings at the same time, despite them literally being one story. I could dig in hard to my view that they’re more connected than Mirror Gem/Ocean Gem, The Return/Jailbreak, It Could’ve Been Great/Message Received, and Super Watermelon Island/Gem Drill, but that wouldn’t change that they’re technically two different episodes, and I’m not changing the goal of this blog (to review the series episodically as parts of a whole) out of convenience.

But I am gonna cheat and pull my header quote from Earthlings. Because despite Peridot getting that wonderful moment then, it’s really about what’s happening now. 

You can apply a three-act structure to just about any story if you try hard enough, but Beta is more smoothly divided into halves: Steven and friends at the barn, and Steven and friends at the Beta Kindergarten. The second half is fine. It’s honestly more than fine. We’ll talk about it, of course. But the first half is one of my favorite things in the world.

Amethyst’s arc continues to benefit from its funky flow. Our very first shot is of her whip cracking, outfitted with Bismuth’s upgrade, evoking both Bismuth and, well, Crack the Whip. Steven is still helping her out from Steven vs. Amethyst, and just like in that episode, his encouragement is only hurting: he compliments Amethyst’s whippery (and to be fair, he’s doing it more genuinely than in their video game fight), but she reveals that she’s still down on herself. In less than thirty seconds, we’re right back into the swing of things after a huge episode that had something but not everything to do with Amethyst’s insecurities.

And then we get to the barn.

The Meep Morp Exhibit is Florido’n’Zuke’s finest hour, and I’m saying that as a huge fan of Last One Out of Beach City. It’s everything I want in hangout comedy on this show, and thank goodness it has time to stretch, because every second counts. Like It Could’ve Been Great, we get a first half with a killer opening featuring Peridot, but this time we benefit from spending about half the episode basking in its glory.

(As tempting as it is to spend the rest of the post just telling each joke and intermittently saying “that was so funny,” I’m gonna write about the characters instead of the events. I know, I know, nothing is more entertaining than reading an over-analysis of comedy that threatens to take all the joy out of one of the most joyous sequences in the series, but you’ll just have to deal with it.)

I haven’t talked much about Jennifer Paz yet, but that’s because I’ve been saving it for now: it’s easy to argue she has better showcases than Beta (Can’t Go Back is likely her best episode, and The New Crystal Gems shows off her impersonation skills), but this is a terrific medley of all things Lapis Lazuli. We get sweet and earnest Lapis, pleased as punch to see Steven. We get hesitant but assertive Lapis, smiling while delivering a pitch-perfect “No” to Peridot’s request to fly everyone into the barn. We get Daria Lapis, dry as a bone as she talks about Meep Morps (a rare honest-to-god alien joke in a show about aliens). And we get Lapis as a comedy partner with Peridot; the Paz Pic above is the other half of the image I used for Shelby Rabara in Catch and Release, and like their characters they’re unstoppable together. It’s so great to see Lapis and Peridot getting along, considering we last saw them in a tentative truce, and the new status quo we establish here pays major dividends in the future.

In lesser hands, the tonal fluidity between sincere and sarcastic could have made Lapis seem inconsistent, but Paz has mastered both sides of the equation to the point where it all feels real. This dual nature fuels the best joke of the episode—Lapis correcting Steven’s analysis of a Camp Pining Hearts teen repeating “I just feel trapped” while surrounded by mirrors by saying she just likes the show—because it’s impossible to tell if she’s just messing with us (sorry, had to throw one joke analysis in there). It’s brilliant that a character who has been ambiguous from the start can retain this trait while shifting towards the side of our heroes.

And it makes her a great foil to Peridot, the straightest shooter in the series (not because she wants to be, but because she’s so unsavvy that it’s impossible for her to hide her emotions from us). She’s the consummate host here, openly admitting her desire to impress their guests and snooty without shame as she presents her Morps by name and tells us what they represent. Her bowtie is a wonderful gag by itself, but it gets even better when we see the doll she won in Too Short to Ride, whose bowtie has clearly been ripped out, floating helplessly in the water without comment (okay, last joke analysis, I promise). 

Amethyst’s antsy desire to leave and focus on Jasper keeps us grounded: I could watch an entire episode about Lapis and Peridot showing off their exhibit without any conflict, but we have to keep the ball rolling on Amethyst’s story. Her loud lack of enthusiasm may seem mean (and it is), but showing her reject repurposed junk reveals just how out of it our trash-loving heroine really is. Plus, as she points out on their walk over, she has no reason to think much of Lapis, whose only interactions with Amethyst have been fights or playing baseball as gloomily as possible. Her attitude isn’t enough to put a damper on one of the best scenes in the series, but skillfully keeps us from drifting too far into the majestic realm of Gem Art.

In terms of the immediate plot, the actual goal here is getting Amethyst in the same room as Peridot, who’s the key to resolving her arc in two ways: she has actual answers in regards to Jasper, and she shares a history with Amethyst involving their mutual feelings of inadequacy. We get references to both Too Short to Ride and Too Far here as they talk about size and Kindergartens, and it’s a natural step in Amethyst’s growth to be helped by someone she once helped. This is a Peridot who’s aware of Amethyst’s issues with how she was made, who’s confident and even proud of her short stature, who’s a total ham with her developing metal powers, and who gives casual nicknames and pep talks when her friends are down. None of that would have been possible without her friendship with Amethyst, and it’s time for her to return the favor.

The Beta Kindergarten’s red sandstone has a warmer, brighter feel than the Kindergarten we know and fear, and we can actually see the sky. So while Amethyst’s cheerful attitude in On the Run acts as a contrast to the unsettling setting, Peridot’s snotty appraisal leans comedic. Shelby Rabara’s mean girl delivery of lines like “It was obviously a total rush job” is entertaining, sure, but it also shows a cute implied influence from Camp Pining Hearts and Lapis in her manner of speaking: it’s the same disdain we’ve seen from her throughout the series, but now through the filter of a haughty teen. We could have gotten away with a straight exposition dump about the Beta location’s role in the rebellion, because it’s fascinating lore and Peridot can be mechanical, but as ever, the opportunity is taken to characterize.

As the tour continues, that classic Kindergarten feeling creeps up on us. The eerie instrumentation that accompanies the Prime location quietly emerges as Steven takes a long look at a broken injector, and ominous percussion plays as we finally see Jasper’s hole, taking the wind out of Peridot’s rambling for a moment of whispered terror. Her attitude soon returns (I love that she dismissively refers to the enormous Jasper as “tall”), but is muted once again when we learn the cleverest plot point of Amethyst’s arc.

We know that Amethyst emerged late and small, and that she was an exception in the otherwise sterling track record of the Prime Kindergarten. But now, after minutes of pointing out how all the denizens of Beta were a mess, we realize that Jasper is Amethyst’s polar opposite: a single massive success in a sea of mediocrity. She’s not just good, she’s perfect, born right on time and flexing her muscles all the way out. It’s worth repeating that a handful of episodes ago there was zero connection between Amethyst and Jasper, but thanks to some seriously elegant writing the pair now feels fully intertwined. 

There isn’t an actual resolution to Beta, but the closest we get is Amethyst’s newfound resolve to beat Jasper. After an entire episode spent sulking, our hero is finally revved back up and brimming with enthusiasm, which leaves Peridot picking up the buzzkill baton. Amethyst may be in a better place, and her kinship with the messy offspring of Beta is heartwarming, but she still thinks the only road to satisfaction is defeating her rival in single combat. It’s a mindset that befits her quartz heritage, but I’m glad that it’s Peridot, who got out of her own slump with help from Amethyst, who feels comfortable pointing out that it’s not a realistic goal. Steven’s input has been consistent throughout the episode, and Peridot (who was once told not to focus on what she can’t do by a certain purple Gem) could have been drawn in by Amethyst’s zeal. But for all her artistic sensibilities, this is still a blunt realist, and after going out of her way to try and prove Jasper’s inferiority she’s still forced to admit that Amethyst’s goal is a pipe dream.

Steven keeps to the background here, due to that consistent input. Obviously he’s still charming and helpful, but Beta is more about Amethyst and Peridot in the grand scheme of things. It shows his continuing growth as a leader, realizing that a kindred spirit like Peridot could help Amethyst out, and he still gets a brief pep talk that gets the ball rolling on Amethyst’s rekindled desire to fight Jasper. But he’ll get more focus after the commercial break. For now, we realize that the strange holes are cages for Corrupted Gems, then Jasper emerges from behind a sand cloud, then Amethyst pulls out her whip, then

Future Vision!

We actually meet the Beta Kindergarteners that Amethyst was hyping up in That Will Be All, including Skinny and the Carnelian that Peridot mentioned.

I’ve never been to this…how do you say…school?

Dude, spoilers that Peridot’s gonna become a farmer!

We’re the one, we’re the ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!

It’s our hundredth episode! And that means a new expansion of the top list from fifteen to twenty! When It Rains, Catch and Release, Chille Tid, and Keeping It Together return to the higher heights, while Bismuth squeezes right in in the sixteenth slot. We’ll be expanding again to a top 25 at episode 125 to maintain the percentage of glory for another moment.

As for Beta itself, it was a tough call. But if I’m being honest with myself, I love the opening scene so much that it makes up for it only being half a story. I’ve watched that scene alone so many times and it still satisfies.

Top Twenty

Steven and the Stevens

Hit the Diamond

Mirror Gem

Lion 3: Straight to Video

Alone Together

The Return

Jailbreak

The Answer

Sworn to the Sword

Rose’s Scabbard

Mr. Greg

Coach Steven

Giant Woman

Beach City Drift

Winter Forecast

Bismuth

When It Rains

Catch and Release

Chille Tid

Keeping It Together

Love ‘em

Laser Light Cannon

Bubble Buddies

Tiger Millionaire

Lion 2: The Movie

Rose’s Room

An Indirect Kiss

Ocean Gem

Space Race

Garnet’s Universe

Warp Tour

The Test

Future Vision

On the Run

Maximum Capacity

Marble Madness

Political Power

Full Disclosure

Joy Ride

We Need to Talk

Cry for Help

Keystone Motel

Back to the Barn

Steven’s Birthday

It Could’ve Been Great

Message Received

Log Date 7 15 2

Same Old World

The New Lars

Monster Reunion

Alone at Sea

Crack the Whip

Beta

Like ‘em

Gem Glow

Frybo

Arcade Mania

So Many Birthdays

Lars and the Cool Kids

Onion Trade

Steven the Sword Fighter

Beach Party

Monster Buddies

Keep Beach City Weird

Watermelon Steven

The Message

Open Book

Story for Steven

Shirt Club

Love Letters

Reformed

Rising Tides, Crashing Tides

Onion Friend

Historical Friction

Friend Ship

Nightmare Hospital

Too Far

Barn Mates

Steven Floats

Drop Beat Dad

Too Short to Ride

Restaurant Wars

Kiki’s Pizza Delivery Service

Greg the Babysitter

Gem Hunt

Steven vs. Amethyst

Enh

Cheeseburger Backpack

Together Breakfast

Cat Fingers

Serious Steven

Steven’s Lion

Joking Victim

Secret Team

Say Uncle

Super Watermelon Island

Gem Drill

No Thanks!

     5. Horror Club      4. Fusion Cuisine      3. House Guest      2. Sadie’s Song      1. Island Adventure

[healthycoffeeguy]

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Packed with nearly six hours of historical material,The Last Days of the Civil War provides a fascinating study of a nation in the painful throes of transition. The five History Channel programs compiled here effectively combine to form a multifaceted account of the pivotal events of 1864-65, when the bloodshed of civil war slowly brought forth a government (in the words of President Abraham Lincoln) "of the people by the people for the people," that would define the United States as it progressed toward the 20th century. The cornerstone of this two-disc set is "April 1865: The Month That Changed America," which thoroughly examines the most tumultuous month in U.S. history, encompassing Gen. Robert E. Lee's ill-fated campaigns including carnage at Sailor's Creek and eventual retreat from Richmond, Virginia, and Confederate surrender to Gen. U.S. Grant at Appomattox on April 9, 1865. Add the brutal efficiency of Sherman's March, Booth's plot to assassinate Lincoln, and administrative mistakes that put Lee at a strategic disadvantage, and you begin to see (with input from authoritative scholars, authors, and historians) how Union victory was purely a matter of circumstance.

While the factual details and expert interviews grow somewhat redundant (as does the repeated use of archival photos and documents), the sheer accumulation of historical detail makes this set a perfect complement to Ken Burns's epic documentary The Civil War, which clearly influenced these programs. "The Tragedy at Cold Harbor" examines the war's lesser-known catastrophic battle, while biographical portraits of Lincoln, Lee, and Confederate president Jefferson Davis reflect major events through the lives of the war's most influential leaders, north and south. Geared toward viewers with a basic awareness of Civil War history, these programs depict the inevitable chaos of an erratic war, unleashed in a country that needed to rip itself apart before it could reunite to forge a new and brighter future.