#and it matters to the other characters' dynamics and choices and relationships!

[dialalagirl]

Of course the first game(HDB) is amazing and you said that your favorite one but if you have to rate the route how would you rate them?

(NOT YOU HITTING MY FAVOURITE TOPIC TO DISCUSS EVER. I AM AFRAID YOU OPENED UP A CAN OF WORMS. one caveat—I hate most of the heaven scenarios and will be subsequently ignoring them lul)

1. subaru: the reason i’m still in diahell, even after over a decade

subaru is the embodiment of nihilism and deeply internalized self-hatred—a walking scar shaped by a profoundly traumatic childhood. he doesn’t simply feel broken; he knows he is, and that knowledge poisons every one of his relationships. his worldview, darkened by the circumstances of his birth, becomes a rejection of traditional masculinity—especially those toxic, violent ideals often glorified (rape culture, dominance, control). and yet, he falters in that rejection, sometimes trying to perform (but ultimately failing) those very roles out of self-loathing—trying to affirm his “filthy” nature, as if leaning into it will make the pain mean something

what’s devastating is how aware he is of the damage he causes. the people around him are often just collateral in his spiral, and he knows it. despite that, his devotion to his mother is sincere—even when the pain of constantly being compared to his father threatens to shatter him. the dissociation is real, but he still chooses love. and when it comes to yui… god. watching him, in every route, brute-force his way toward protecting her—not because he believes he’s worthy of her, but because he chooses to, even in death? that’s the core of his tragic agency. especially in the brute ending, where he prevents her from being lost to cordelia—he doesn’t do it to play hero, he does it because she matters, not just as a symbol, but as a person

there’s something devastatingly beautiful in how he admires yui’s strength—not just her kindness or morality, but her unwavering sense of self. she could lean on god. she could lean on him. but she doesn’t. that restraint gives him the space to finally act—not out of obligation, not as a savior, but from choice. it’s the first time he’s not reliving his trauma with his mother, but creating something new

and that love scene in ecstasy 10? easily one of the most romantic things i’ve read in years. every word of it feels earned. not because it’s some idealized fantasy, but because it’s raw, hard-won, and honest. they don’t find salvation in each other—they find the freedom to choose one another

2. laito: my favourite depiction of him—i.e., he is unfixable here and I prefer him that way—oops

i think the best place to start is with a quote from shuu, who calls laito a “fake pervert.” and honestly? that’s the most incisive read anyone in-universe gives him. because laito isn’t just a pervert—he’s a performance of perversion. he wears whatever mask suits the moment, not just to seduce, but to displace his own self-hatred. his entire persona is constructed around this idea that if he can turn everything into a game—if he can reduce you to just another “bitch-chan” or “toy”—then maybe he can avoid confronting the rot underneath. connection doesn’t interest him. confirmation does. confirmation that mother was right about what he is. that closeness is always a kind of ruin. and that anyone who touches him will become tainted, too

that’s the genius of his character: you never really know where he stands. every word, every gesture is curated—part affection, part threat. his speech is so wrapped in sugar and teasing that you stop noticing how violent it is. he draws you in with a gentle voice, then says something cruel with a smile so soft it disorients you. and in that confusion, you start to bend. that’s the game. that’s the trap. he shifts the dynamic constantly, never letting you find solid ground. and in that process, you stop being a person. you become a role. a mirror. the stage he performs himself on

his end goal isn’t just ownership—it’s belief. he wants you to agree. to say the words back to him. to believe you were always his, that you were made for this, made for him. not because there’s anything tender beneath it, but because repetition can become reality. if he can make you speak the script often enough, maybe it’ll drown out that unbearable silence—the one he was left in after cordelia, after the abuse, after the world taught him that love is just another word for pain

3. shu: the practice of apathy to avoid feeling 

shuu doesn’t drift through life because he’s indifferent. he does it because apathy is safer. it’s a habit, not a flaw. a system he’s built over time to keep himself untouched. he’s not emotionally absent—he’s deliberately unreachable

after edgar’s death, he learned quickly that attachment only leads to loss, and feeling anything at all is a liability. since then, distance has been the rule. he stops participating, stops trying, lets the world move around him while he stays still. the laziness, the boredom—it’s a smokescreen. if he’s quiet enough, maybe no one will ask for more

yui doesn’t break this wall dramatically—she just doesn’t leave. and that, more than anything, forces him to adjust. she doesn’t push for access, she just stays present. and in doing so, she becomes an irritant. a reminder that time is still passing. that silence isn’t immunity—it’s stagnation

he keeps playing up yui’s “perverseness” because sex allows him a layer of detachment. physical contact without emotional exposure. it’s a way to keep control, to maintain boundaries even in intimacy. but despite the coldness, it’s clear her presence affects him. he doesn’t soften, but he registers her. bit by bit, her consistency forces him to acknowledge that he’s still capable of reacting. not changing—just reacting. it’s uncomfortable, and that discomfort is the point. she forces him to notice the gap between detachment and decay

and in the manservant ending, his confrontation with reiji reveals how far this quiet resistance goes. he’s not just fighting his brother’s control—he’s fighting the parts of himself that want to stay locked away in numbness. it’s not a victory or a breakthrough, but a refusal to disappear entirely. and at the heart of that refusal is the complicated, tangled connection he’s forged with yui—a connection built not on tenderness, but on distance, mistrust, and that carefully maintained apathy

4. reiji: the art of letting go of self-consuming obsession to confirmation from those who won’t give it

i know a lot of people put down the pigeon man, but i’m here to open thy mind. reiji’s story is one of relentless control and desperate need for approval—validation he chases but never truly receives. his fractured relationship with shuu, scarred by violent acts like burning edgar’s village, is both cause and effect of his obsession. it’s a tangled mix of rivalry, guilt, and the need to dominate the chaos within and around him

cordelia’s influence shapes much of reiji’s struggle. he once dreamed of resurrecting their mother, but he sacrifices that dream—not for power’s sake, but to protect yui from cordelia’s control. this sacrifice isn’t a simple act of surrender but a complicated choice blending duty, affection, and a rare willingness to give something up for someone else. eventually, he kills cordelia, ending her hold in a way that is both final and deeply personal

reiji’s relationship with yui is marked by tension and contradiction. he resists her disruptions to his order violently—even strangling her in the maniac route—but beneath his harsh control is a recognition that yui’s persistence isn’t like the demands of his mother or cordelia. she seeks to see the man beneath his armor, and that unsettles him far more than outright defiance

letting go for reiji means wrestling with a deeply ingrained obsession: the need to prove himself to those who won’t give him the confirmation he craves. it’s a battle to face vulnerability behind his precise control and cold exterior. it’s not surrender but a quiet, ongoing struggle—one that reveals the complexity of a man shaped by loss, duty, and unexpected connection

5. ayato: the complicated journey of being the best (which no one can be)

ayato’s relentless drive to be number one is both his greatest weapon and his heaviest burden. beneath the confident, teasing mask lies a fragile ego shaped by a childhood scarred by his mother’s brutal drowning—an attempt to purge ‘weakness’ that instead stifled his capacity for emotional connection and empathy. this trauma left him emotionally shut off, and his narcissism serves as a defensive armor for a deeply vulnerable self

yui often becomes a prop in ayato’s performance of superiority—her blood, her presence, a tool to prove he’s the best, the strongest. but his interactions with her are complicated, tinged with confusion: part prey, part prize, part threat. he struggles to decode his own feelings, often defaulting to seeing her through the lens of dominance and possession, unable to fully acknowledge the more complicated emotions underneath

his relationships with laito and shuu are defined by a constant push-and-pull—competitive, sometimes hostile, but underlined by unspoken needs for acceptance and validation that ayato rarely admits. as a child, ayato’s instinct for survival led him to distance himself from some of the darkest burdens within their family, leaving others—like laito—to carry them instead. this choice reveals the fragility beneath his fierce exterior.

his pursuit of being the best is a trap, chasing an impossible ideal born from trauma and fear. his mask cracks only rarely, and even then, the cost is high

6. kanato: creepy taxidermy write-off

i hate the fuckin’ gremlin, i am so sorry

the mood swings? unbearable. the constant screaming? exhausting. the creepy lolita trope? never worked for me, and probably never will. i get the appeal in theory—the eerie, porcelain-doll aesthetic mixed with unhinged trauma—but in execution, kanato often feels more grating than tragic. still, analyzing him? different story

as much as i can’t stand him, the psychological impact of cordelia’s abuse on kanato is fascinating. he’s what happens when sadism gets stripped of context, control, or charm. unlike ayato (who postures his sadism as dominance) or laito (who masks his under layers of flirtation and cruelty-as-survival), kanato is just pure volatility. there’s no filter, no strategy—just raw, unprocessed pain weaponized through childish tantrums and sexual violence. it’s all impulse, no restraint

and the thing is… he’s definitely more sex-crazed than laito. it tracks. he’s emotionally stunted and clings to teddy as both a trauma comfort object and a dead sibling stand-in. his concept of love and intimacy is so mangled by neglect and maternal oversexualization that it makes sense he’d swing into extremes. doesn’t mean i have to like it, though. and i don’t

[llycaons]

I know it doesn't always make sense for the author to stick close to the canon mama lan situation but I fundamentally disagree with making them a happy or in love couple by the time she died

[iwtv-az-hours]

Hi, can you maybe explain more about your tags under the armand + malik gifset? What Do you mean when you talk about armands gender and she/her pronouns? I'm in my late 30s and english is not my native language and I have trouble understanding what people mean when they say stuff like that, like lestat beeing she/her coded. And you seem to get it. Hope thats not a bother and thanks!

Hi! So basically I can only speak for myself here, and obviously if anyone else is reading this and has some throughts to add, feel free to.

I myself am nonbinary; genderfluid to be more precise. Also, I don't think I've ever tried to spell out what I'm about to attempt to, so bare with me.

I think this is mainly a thing among queer and genderqueer people, where we have this, almost an ability, to sense that there's something non-cishet happening? It's those fine little details that give you a sense of where someone's gender expression is at, at a certain moment.

It might seem crazy to someone who reads about this for the first time.. And obviously, I'm by no means making any assumption about the actors themselves, I'm saying this purely looking at the moments we see acted onscreen in character. And perhaps a lot of the times there's a level of projecting from our side when we say things like that - but it goes a bit hand in hand, because we simply recognize those traits and behaviours we're familiar with in ourselves and our friends. And the fact that it's the same moments - both for Lestat and Armand - where there's a lot of people noticing it and making those she/her, babygirl, Mother etc. comments individually, separatelly, on their own en masse sensing the same thing... that suggests to me that there's probably something true about all this :P

But yeah, generally speaking, it's difficult to describe what in particular it is that has us going "what I'm looking at is very she-coded (or he-/ they- coded)"... Whether it's something delicate about the movement of a wrist, or a melody in their voice, or the tilt of their head as they smile that you never see in a cis man... Maybe I'm actually touching on something here - maybe it's those small movements you know you almost never see in some people, but very often in others - and we're just more attuned to noticing them and registering them as transcending the usual cis behaviour

I went to put this in tags but maybe it's a good summary: generally speaking it boils down to "this character makes some choices and those choices are not ones you often see made by *insert their generally assumed identity*"

[aleksatia]

❄️Zayne - Seven Years Later

The fourth in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

⚠️ Important

This story is different. It’s for adults — not just because it contains an intimate scene, but because it deals in gray morality, layers, and choices that aren’t clean or easy. There are no clear heroes here, no black-and-white answers, no simple characters to love or hate. It hits hard. I’m more than aware this won’t be for everyone — and it’s definitely not a light bedtime read. Please take a moment to read the CW/TW carefully before diving in. Proceed at your own risk. The structure might feel a little odd at the beginning — I may have gone overboard, and Tumblr wouldn't let me post it with that many paragraphs, so I had to compress things a bit.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: emotional trauma, unresolved grief, morally gray relationships, abandonment, guilt, forgiveness, explicit sexual content (consensual, emotionally intense), medical trauma, physical injury, parental estrangement, bio-child created without consent through stored genetic material, complex mother-daughter dynamics, identity crisis, ambiguous morality.

Pairing: Zayne x ex-lover!you Genre: Cold-burn angst, medical intimacy, slow unthawing, grief-forged love, second chances carved from ruin. Summary: Seven years ago, you left without a word. Now, in a snowbound mountain town, fate hands you a child with your eyes, a man with your pulse, and a wound that never really healed. What begins with a lost glove and an impossible resemblance ends in a cabin, a scar, and the kind of truth that doesn’t ask for forgiveness — only a place to stay. Word Count: 16K

Snowcrest

You hadn’t meant to stay this long.

The wind is starting to pick up, curling around your ankles, stealing the warmth from your coat sleeves. The sun has dipped just behind the ridge, casting a deep, bruised blue across the snowbanks. Below, the valley falls away into a soft blur of pine and frost. Somewhere down there is the road you took seven years ago. Somewhere down there is the part of yourself you buried like contraband.

You cradle the paper cup tighter in your hands, now lukewarm. A snowflake melts against your knuckle.

Behind you, the wooden rail of the overlook creaks gently, just once. You don’t turn. Not at first.

“Your eyes,” a small voice says beside you, bright and matter-of-fact, “look like my mommy’s.”

You glance down. A girl — maybe five, maybe six — stands a few feet away, all pink puff and wool layers. Her beanie is lopsided, a ridiculous pompom tilting to one side. Her cheeks are wind-bitten, her boots dusted white.

“Do they?” you say.

She nods seriously, then frowns a little. “But you’re not her. Mommy’s not here. I came with my dad.”

“Where is your dad?”

“He went to get hot chocolate. I wanted to see the mountains first.” She says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Her mittens are too big. One slips halfway off as she points toward the café.

You smile, soft and automatic. “You shouldn’t wander off. He might get worried.”

She considers this. Then, very formally, she reaches out and takes your hand.

“Okay. Let’s go find him.”

The café’s windows glow faintly, gold against the evening blue. The inside is all timber and condensation, the kind of place that always smells like cinnamon and wet gloves. You push open the door with your shoulder, usher her in.

He’s there.

You see him before he sees you. A tall figure in a charcoal coat, leaning casually near the counter, one gloved hand curled around a paper cup. His posture is the same. That impossible stillness, like he’s already factored every variable in the room. Like he’s never been caught off guard in his life.

And then he turns.

The girl drops your hand without hesitation and runs to him, shouting, “Daddy! I found a friend! She has eyes like Mommy’s!”

He bends to meet her. His hand cups the back of her head automatically, instinctively. Not roughly, not tenderly either — just with a kind of understated precision, the way he does everything.

You stand frozen. Your lungs forget what to do. Your spine loses temperature.

Zayne looks at you. The moment lingers exactly three seconds too long.

Then he nods, once, like a man seeing a stranger on the street who looks faintly familiar.

“Thank you for helping her,” he says. His voice hasn’t changed. Smooth. Controlled. Every syllable clipped clean.

You open your mouth. Only a whisper makes it out.

“She was alone. I thought — her parents might be worried.”

He inclines his head. “I wasn’t. She doesn’t wander far.”

He reaches for the girl’s hand. She looks between you and him, confused but not frightened. Her chocolate sloshes slightly in his free hand.

You stand there, a full seven years collapsing in on themselves. Every hour, every unanswered question, every night you thought about him without letting yourself say his name. All of it rushes into the hollow space behind your ribs.

Zayne doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.

“Come on,” he tells the girl. “Let’s go watch the lights come in.”

And just like that, he walks past you. No hesitation. No second glance.

The door opens, and the wind catches it. Then it shuts behind them, clean as a scalpel stroke.

And you are left inside the warmth, holding nothing.

You don’t remember walking to the hotel bar. Only the sound of your boots on packed snow. The burn in your calves from the climb. The hum of your own name, suddenly useless, echoing somewhere deep inside you.

Now you sit at the far end of the counter, coat still on, fingers red from the cold. The bartender, young and quiet, gives you a look like he’s seen people run from more than just the wind.

You nod at your glass. He refills it without a word.

It’s your fourth. Maybe third. You’ve lost count, and the fact that you’ve lost count is the first real mercy of the night.

You lift it again. Swallow it in one breath.

The heat climbs slow, low. No sting. No flinch. It settles into your chest like a bruise, not a balm.

And still — your hands don’t shake. You keep seeing her face. The girl. Her eyes. Her eyes. Your eyes.

No, that’s impossible. That’s sentimental. That’s the kind of thing people like to believe when they’ve been drinking and when the sky outside is layered in violet and black and stars. That’s not Zayne.

But then again, you saw him.

And there was something about the way he touched her head, about how precisely he measured the moment, how quietly he acknowledged you with nothing but the edge of a nod — as if you were just another polite inconvenience to be managed.

You could’ve handled anger. Recrimination. Accusation.

But that? That… undid something.

You drink again.

The math won’t leave you alone. You’re not even trying to calculate, but your mind does it anyway. That same brutal, automatic clarity you once hated in him — now taking over you like second skin.

She’s almost six. Nearly. Maybe five and a half.

You do the subtraction. You try not to think about it. You fail.

He hadn’t hesitated — as if he’d been waiting for you to leave all along. That’s the thought that lands first. Loud. Stupid. Petty. But there.

You picture her mother. Not a fantasy — a memory. The woman you once saw with him. She looked like she belonged beside him. Like she understood him without needing to try. Smarter. Softer. Prettier than you ever were.

You’ve never been beautiful the way he liked beautiful things. His apartment always looked like a magazine. His meals — artful. His shelves — symmetrical. You always felt like a crooked painting on a perfect wall.

Maybe you never belonged there. Maybe he figured that out too.

You press your fingers to the side of your glass and drum lightly. The bartender glances over. You don’t even have to speak. When he brings the next pour, you cradle it a little longer. Let it rest in your palm like something you’re trying to keep alive.

You told yourself, back then, that leaving was the right thing. That it would give him freedom, space, a life not tethered to your mess.

You left so he could be happy.

And now, with the living proof of that happiness having just skipped across the room into his arms —

Why does it feel like your ribs are folding in on themselves? Why does it feel like punishment?

You tip the glass back again. The burn now feels right. Like penance.

Somewhere behind you, a group of tourists laughs. Glasses clink. The sound’s muffled by the snow-pressed windows, the heavy wood beams, the distant wind howling like something ancient just outside the walls.

You close your eyes. You’re supposed to feel numb. Instead, it feels like your chest is thawing too fast. Like something inside is waking up with a roar.

And the only thing you want is to drown it back into silence.

You were supposed to be up hours ago.

There had been a list. Alarms, laid out meticulously the night before. Layers folded on the chair by the radiator, boots lined up like loyal soldiers. You were going to be efficient. Controlled. Someone with purpose. Someone who didn’t dissolve into whisky and memory and the sharp sting of her own mistakes.

Instead, you wake sometime after eleven, swimming through a haze that isn’t quite sleep and not quite regret. The world tilts gently beneath you, and your mouth tastes of copper and last night.

You don’t take the painkillers. It feels important not to.

The sky outside is blank again, a hard white you’ve only seen in northern places — something between erasure and threat. You dress by instinct: thick jeans, a fleece-lined shirt, the coat with the broken zipper pull. Uggs still damp. You tie your hair back with cold fingers and don’t check the mirror before leaving.

The air outside is heavier today. Crisper. Snow crunches beneath your soles in that particular way it only does in subzero silence. You pass two hikers on the ridge trail — layers too new, faces too red. They nod, friendly. You don’t respond.

Dr. Noah’s house sits on the upper slope, just beyond the last bend, framed by black pines and the wide white hush of the valley. It’s larger than you remembered, but quieter too. A chalet-style lodge, all dark-stained timber and angled glass — broad eaves sagging gently under the weight of accumulated snow. The windows reflect the pale noon light like sheets of ice.

You approach from the side path. The one that wraps behind the slope of the porch and leads up past the kitchen garden, now skeletal and brittle with frost, to the private entrance: a cedarwood door, flush with the planks, unmarked save for a brass pull and the faint ghost of boot scuffs on the stone step.

You hesitate.

The reasons not to knock assemble themselves quickly, efficiently. He may not be here. Or he is, and he brought his family. Or worse: he’s here alone, and still as closed off and surgical and devastatingly calm as he was last night.

You raise your hand anyway. The door opens before your knuckles touch wood. He must’ve been just behind it.

The light hits him square — white coat, wire-frame glasses, the same posture that always made him seem even taller than he was. For a moment, he says nothing. Just looks at you. That stillness hasn’t faded with the years. If anything, it’s calcified.

You see it then — a flicker across his face, something so quick it’s probably nothing. Annoyance, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or some emotion too fast to name.

And then he speaks, voice even, expression impassive. "Not the best time. You should leave."

It’s a clean incision. No edges to hold onto.

You blink, caught between offense and disbelief, and say, “I’m here to see Dr. Noah. Not you.”

A pause. His gaze doesn’t move.

“He’s ill,” he replies, with that mechanical precision you’d nearly forgotten. “I’m covering his patients until he’s discharged.”

Your voice softens, almost without permission. “Is it serious?”

He shrugs. Not dismissively — just finally. The kind of gesture that says this is what it is, and nothing more.

You understand. You always understood him best in these silences.

There’s nothing you can say to that. Not about Noah. Not about age, or time, or inevitability. The snow shifts under your feet. You glance behind him into the house.

Pine beams. Slate flooring. A wide, open room stretching toward a set of panoramic windows that look out over the ridge. The light inside is softer than expected — muted amber, filtered through linen drapes and the faint movement of steam from something on the stove. The air smells like pine and black tea. The kind of house that invites you to sit down and fall apart.

He turns slightly, hand on the doorframe. “You can visit him at the hospital,” he says. “But I’m expecting someone now.”

You exhale, more sound than breath. “Miss Deveraux, I assume,” you murmur, before you can decide not to.

His head tilts. A beat of calculation.

“You changed your name.”

You lift one shoulder. A shrug, a defense. He doesn’t get an answer. He already took all the ones that mattered.

You’re turning to go when something shifts. Not in his face, but in the air between you. Maybe professionalism. Maybe instinct. Maybe something older.

He steps aside. No invitation. Just an opening. You hesitate only a second. Then you walk through it.

Inside, the warmth hits hard. Your skin prickles. The space is wide but not cold — wood, stone, soft textiles in winter hues. A sheepskin throw over the back of a bench. Open shelving with hand-thrown mugs. A pile of well-worn paperbacks in the corner near a slate fireplace, still glowing faintly from a morning fire.

The heat is the kind that seeps under your skin and makes you remember things. Long nights. Herbal tea. The low sound of Miles Davis from the speakers in his kitchen. The kind of quiet that had nothing to do with peace.

Your boots leave wet prints on the floor.

“This way,” he says, and turns.

You follow him down the hall — wide-planked floors beneath your feet, the faint scent of cedar and lemon oil in the air.

The walls here are quiet. Not sterile, like the clinics you grew up in. But not quite lived-in either. Books in every alcove. Some dog-eared. Some untouched. A long-handled snowshoe mounted like art.

You pass a narrow window where wind-scattered shadows move across the snow. And you don’t ask where he’s taking you. You never did. Zayne walks ahead, and you follow.

Then he stops. Opens a door.

It’s the kind of room you’d expect in a place like this — clinical, but softened by the architecture. The walls are a shade too warm to be white. A reclaimed wood desk sits at an angle to a wide window with a view down the valley. There’s a folded wool blanket on the back of the armchair. A stethoscope rests near a mug gone cold.

And under the desk, a pair of small boots peeks out. Purple. Fur-trimmed. Familiar.

A moment later, a girl’s voice — muffled, stubborn — says, “I don’t want to read. Reading is boring.”

She’s curled beneath the desk, arms folded, cheeks flushed. Next to her, crouched on the floor in a cashmere sweater and soft leggings, is a woman — young, luminous, the kind of composed beauty you’ve only ever seen in galleries or dreams. Her hair is tucked into a braid, her voice calm as riverglass.

“Just one story,” she says gently. “Then we can go back to drawing. Promise.”

The child burrows deeper into the corner.

You stand frozen, caught somewhere between the clinical sterility of the room and the scene that could only be described as... domestic. They’re easy with each other, practiced. The woman places a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder, and the girl leans into it, just enough.

You feel something sink in your chest. That’s her, you think. The wife. The mother.

Zayne steps forward. His hand brushes the woman’s back — a touch so natural it’s almost intimate, but not indulgent. More... familiar. Trusted.

“She’s had enough for now,” he says, his voice soft but decisive. “Sweetheart, come on out.”

The girl peeks up at him. “Are you done working?”

He smiles — barely. “Almost. I need to finish this consultation. Then we can go look for rabbits.”

She considers this. Then, without a word, crawls out from under the desk and stands, brushing off imaginary dust. Her braid is loose over one shoulder, a little frayed at the end.

And then she sees you. Recognition flashes across her face — not quite shock, more like a slow realization. A dream remembered mid-afternoon.

“Hi,” she says brightly. “You’re the lady with Mommy’s eyes.”

You smile. “And you’re the girl who looks at mountains instead of drinking hot chocolate.”

She giggles. Then pauses. Tilts her head.

“What’s your favorite story?”

You blink, caught off guard. "East of the Sun and West of the Moon."

She wrinkles her nose, curious. “What’s it about?”

But before you can answer, Zayne cuts in, voice crisp. “A girl trades herself to a bear to save her family. She disobeys one rule, ruins everything, and spends the rest of the story chasing what she lost.”

The girl blinks. “Oh.”

“She finds him again,” you say quietly, stepping closer. “That part matters.”

Zayne doesn’t look at you. “Barely. And only after walking the ends of the earth.”

“Sometimes that’s what it takes,” you say.

There’s a pause. Something drifts in that space between interpretation and indictment.

The girl looks between you both, then smiles. “I want to read it.”

Zayne nods once, briskly. “We’ll find a copy.”

He looks to the young woman — the one whose name you still don’t know — and gives the barest nod. She stands, smooth and silent, and extends a hand. The girl takes it without hesitation, eyes still flicking back toward you.

“She has a thousand questions,” the woman says with a small smile. Her voice is lower than you expected. Kind.

“I imagine she does,” you murmur.

Then they’re gone. The door clicks shut with a soft finality.

You turn back. Zayne’s already pulling the chair into position. His face resets — back into the familiar neutrality of a doctor preparing to deliver something precise.

He gestures toward the patient’s stool.

“Sit,” he says, already reaching for the chart. “Let’s get this over with.”

And just like that, you’re no one again. Just a file. A diagnosis. Another thing to manage.

You sit.

The paper on the examination table crackles beneath you, loud in the hush of the room. Zayne doesn't look at you as he flips open the chart. His fingers move with the same exacting grace they always had — sharp, sure, impersonal.

There is no sign he knows you beyond your name. No flicker of recognition in the line of his jaw, no hesitation in the tone. Just one more consultation on a day too full.

He adjusts the light above you, then gestures. “Shirt.”

You pause.

The heater ticks somewhere behind you. The window throws pale afternoon across the floor — all snow and silence. Your hands rise, slow. The fabric sticks a little at your wrists.

When you unbutton the top three buttons, his eyes stay trained somewhere just over your shoulder. Not out of politeness. Control.

But his hand falters for half a second — just a twitch — when your collar falls open and the scar shows, clean and linear and unmistakable, running diagonally across your chest.

He doesn't comment. Instead, his voice shifts into that lower octave he used with unstable cases. “How long ago?”

You hesitate, eyes still fixed on the wall behind him. “Seven months.”

His gaze flicks up. Direct. Not curious. Clinical. “Cause?”

“Wanderer,” you say, too quickly.

You feel him still. Then the sound of the pen clicks sharply against the clipboard.

“You’re still in the field.”

It’s not a question.

You nod, barely. “I consult with Dr. Noah every month. He monitors me remotely.”

Zayne sets the chart aside with too much precision. “You took a core-impact injury to the thoracic cavity,” he says flatly. “That doesn’t require monitoring. That requires full diagnostic protocol. You should be in a central hospital. Not here. Not with a retired man in a chalet and a teapot.”

You bristle. “Noah’s been treating me years. He knows my profile.”

“His machines are ten years older than that.”

You flinch at his tone — not cruel, but surgical. The truth without kindness.

“I’ll refer you to the Linkon Diagnostic Center,” he continues, already reaching for the console. “They’ll run a complete bio-map and core sync within twenty-four hours. Dr. Reza is —”

You cut in, voice sharp. “You’re not offering?”

That stops him. Just for a moment. He meets your gaze. Something ancient flickers there, then shutters.

“I’m not your doctor,” he says.

He’s still listening to your heart, diaphragm pressed too close to skin, and suddenly you’re too bare. Too known. Too held open under his breath.

You pull back. Fast.

The stethoscope slips. You cover your chest with trembling hands and fumble for the buttons. “I’m not going back to Linkon,” you say tightly. “I’m fine.”

Your fingers shake. The top button won’t catch.

His voice doesn’t lift. “You’re not fine. You’re compensating.”

“I’ve been compensating since I was nine,” you snap.

That lands. You don’t know why you said it. Maybe because it’s the only way to hurt him — to remind him that you were already a scar before he ever touched you.

He steps back. Withdraws. The room feels wider again. Colder. Silence pools between you.

Then you speak, too soft to matter.

“She’s beautiful,” you say. “Your daughter.”

You force a small smile. “She looks like you.”

Zayne’s brow lifts, just a little. “You might want to get your vision checked. She looks exactly like her mother.”

You blink. The words hit like an off-key note.

“I didn’t notice,” you murmur, thinking — of the girl crouched beside her, warm and glowing and precisely the kind of woman you always assumed he’d marry. The kind who makes soup. The kind who waits. The kind who stays.

“She’s sweet,” you add. “And calm. I always thought you’d end up with someone like that. Someone who makes a home feel like tea and cinnamon and a blanket in the storm.”

His face tightens, just enough for you to see it before he hides it again. Then, sharply: “Are you done?”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

He turns, moves toward the desk. The professional mask slips back into place like it never cracked. “Come back tomorrow morning. I want your blood work. When you’re not hungover.”

Your face heats. A slow, miserable bloom. “I’m not —”

“You are,” he says simply. “I can smell it.”

You swallow, hard.

“It’s fine,” you lie. “The injury doesn’t bother me. I’m cleared for fieldwork. I just need you to sign the release.”

He doesn’t look up. “What release?”

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out the crumpled envelope. You place it on the edge of the desk.

He picks it up. Reads.

Then — without a word — he walks to the cabinet and slides it into a drawer sealed with a biometric lock. You hear the soft click as it closes.

“I won’t sign it,” he says. “Not until I’m sure.”

You stare at the drawer. Then at him.

There’s a pulse behind your ribs — not physical, not medical. Just heat. Something dangerously close to humiliation. You hadn’t expected softness, of course. But still, the stark refusal… It lands harder than you meant it to.

Your voice comes out quieter than planned. “You’re not serious.”

Zayne doesn’t look up from the chart. “I am.”

“I don’t need diagnostics,” you press. “I just need a signature.”

He flips to the next page, casually. “Then go ask someone who doesn’t know what they’re looking at.”

That stings. You laugh, a breathless, brittle sound. “So this is how it’s going to be.”

He meets your gaze then. Steady. Cold. "I treat what’s in front of me. And what I see is a patient with an unstable cardiac implant, signs of recent trauma, poor sleep, an irregular heartbeat, and a tendency toward self-endangerment."

You flinch. “Don’t analyze me.”

“I’m not,” he says, tone flat. “I’m reading you.”

The silence sharpens. You push off the exam table, standing fast enough that the paper beneath you rips.

“You don’t get to pretend you still have some claim to how I live.”

He blinks once. That’s it. “I never did.”

Your throat burns. “Then why won’t you sign the fucking form?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” he says, finally. The words are quiet, but they cut with such clean detachment, it almost feels surgical.

And just like that — the guilt in your chest shifts. You’d come here expecting control. Containment. What you weren’t ready for was this: being the villain in your own story.

Your voice cracks, more bitter than angry. “I didn’t ask you to care.”

“I know,” Zayne says. “You made that very clear. Seven years ago.”

That lands differently. Deeper. You close your eyes for a moment. The inside of your eyelids glow red.

“I thought leaving was the right thing,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t move. “For who?”

You look at him. He’s not angry. Not really. His voice is calm, clinical. The same voice he used with parents trying to argue with the numbers on a monitor.

And somehow that hurts worse.

You breathe in through your nose. The air smells like antiseptic and cedarwood and the past.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you say, voice low. “I wouldn’t.”

He sets the chart down. Calmly. No slam, no emphasis. It might as well be a napkin.

“You think this is about forgiveness?” he says. “This is about liability. You walked in here with a barely stabilized core and a goddamn hero complex. Forgiveness isn’t part of the chart.”

You laugh again — short, scorched. “God, you haven’t changed at all.”

Zayne’s expression doesn't shift. “And you have?”

You take a step forward. It feels dangerous — not because you think he’ll hurt you, but because of how much space you’ve already lost.

“You think I wanted to disappear?” you bite. “You think it was easy? You think I didn’t —”

He cuts in, voice colder than glass. “You didn’t.”

A pause.

“That’s the only part I believe.”

Your breath catches. You feel it in your spine, the way you used to feel a storm breaking inside your chest.

“You act like I broke you,” you snap.

“No,” he says, and his voice now is quieter. Worse. “You broke yourself. I just happened to be holding the pieces.”

You stand there, trembling. There are a thousand things you could say. But none of them are clean. None of them come without blood. So instead —

“Go to hell,” you spit, and you’re already at the door.

Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you the way a surgeon watches a flatline. And as your hand hits the latch, shaking —

“You should’ve stayed gone,” he says.

That does it. You don’t even feel the cold this time as you step out into the white. You don’t zip your coat. You don’t look back. You’re burning from the inside out. And the snow, for once, can’t touch it.

You visit Noah in the hospital that afternoon.

He looks better than he should. Alert. Hydrated. Too pleased to see you. He tries for a weak smile, a raspy breath, a trembling hand — all performative. You’ve known him too long to fall for it.

“Don’t do that,” you tell him flatly, settling beside the bed. “You’re not dying.”

He shrugs, pleased with himself. “Still worked.”

You narrow your eyes. “You invited him the moment you found out I was coming.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just adjusts his pillow like a man deeply proud of a long game finally paying off.

You don’t press further. What would be the point? You're here now. And Zayne — he's no longer a memory. He has breath. Mass. Velocity.

You walk back slowly as the sky folds in on itself, streaked with the shimmer of the aurora. It lights the town in green and violet smears, as though the heavens have been bruised.

At one point, you pause by a square, where someone proposes in the snow. There’s clapping. Flash photography. Squealing. A heart traced in frost by a stranger's boot.

You feel nothing. No. That’s not true. You feel everything.

You don’t sleep that night. You lie awake staring at the ceiling, counting the creaks of the old radiator like heartbeats. You get up at four. Shower. Wash your hair. You wear the least-wrinkled shirt you have and a coat that still smells like smoke from a bar you don’t remember leaving.

You’re not trying to look good. You just refuse to look ruined.

Still — no amount of water or concealer covers the circles under your eyes. You look exactly like what you are: someone who hasn’t let herself feel in seven years and is now bleeding out in quiet, ungraceful increments.

By the time you reach Noah’s house again, the sun has barely crested the horizon. The snow is high and dry, powder that cuts like sand.

And then impact. A snowball straight to your cheek. Hard.

You don’t have time to dodge. It lands just below your eye, wet and sharp and entirely undeserved.

You freeze, lips parted. A bloom of cold shock spreads across your face. A giggle follows. Small, delighted. Merciless.

Your hand rises to your cheek. Already hot, already red. You squint toward the source of your humiliation, ready to unleash something unkind —

Then you stop. It’s her. The girl. Pom-pom hat, mittens half-falling off. Grinning. Victorious.

And behind her, Zayne’s voice. Measured, mildly irritated: “Princess. I told you — not before breakfast.”

You turn, still rubbing your cheek.

He’s in the doorway, hair still damp, shirt sleeves pushed to the elbows. His expression hardens slightly when he sees the welt blooming on your face.

The girl looks up at him, wilting a little. He kneels, says something too low for you to catch. She nods solemnly and disappears inside.

You murmur, “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t answer. Just jerks his head toward the hall. “In the office. Wait there.”

You move past him. Your face still stings. Your pride more.

You sit. The room feels colder than yesterday. The chair, harder. You catch your reflection in the dark glass of the cabinet — the mark on your cheek already darkening. You lean in, touch it with one finger. There's a faint scratch beneath it. You blink. A tear hangs on your lower lash.

Zayne enters just as you wipe it away. You turn your face quickly, offer your arm like it’s a business transaction.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t comment.

The needle pricks deeper than necessary. It’s probably your fault — the tension in your muscles, the way your jaw locks when he touches you.

The vial fills in silence. The kind that makes you want to scream or laugh or break something clean in two. You choose the last.

A shaky breath escapes. A strange, quiet laugh follows. Zayne raises an eyebrow.

You don’t explain. Why would you?

It’s not every morning that both a man and his six-year-old daughter manage to draw blood from you before coffee.

He withdraws the needle, tapes you up with clinical speed. “You’ll have the results this evening. Depending on Noah’s system.”

You nod, preparing to leave. Then he moves — slower now — and steps close again. You see the cotton ball and antiseptic in his hand before you feel it.

You pull back instinctively. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. But he looks at you in that way he used to. Like every word is a waste of time, and still, he waits for you to finish.

Finally, he says, low: “Don’t be angry with her. She was trying to play.”

“I’m not angry,” you reply, eyes steady. “I just wasn’t expecting to be used for target practice before dawn.”

You’re almost out the door when there’s a knock. Then — she’s there again.

Only now, she’s different. Composed. Hair neatly brushed, her steps careful. No smugness, no bounce. She walks in with both hands wrapped around a large ceramic mug, steam curling from the surface.

“I made you something,” she says, with determined seriousness. “It’s hot chocolate. And I’m sorry for your face.”

Her voice is precise. That same gravity Zayne carries — but undercut by something lighter. A flicker. A spark.

You take the mug. The chocolate is cloyingly thick. Too much sugar. Not enough milk. Like a child’s attempt at comfort.

You drink it anyway. Because no one’s made you something in a long, long time.

And her eyes — when she looks at you like that — they remind you of someone. Not her mother. Not that woman from yesterday. Someone else. Someone in the mirror.

And something you’d buried starts to surface. Not yet. But soon. Very soon.

Behind you, there’s a soft shuffle of feet. The girl steps back, glancing up at Zayne.

“I said I was sorry,” she murmurs. 

Zayne raises an eyebrow. "Princess. Did you finish your breakfast?"

She folds her arms, expression thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

“I filled up on guilt,” she says brightly. “It’s very heavy.”

Zayne exhales, but there’s a flicker at the edge of his mouth. Something caught between annoyance and affection.

She leans slightly toward him, lowering her voice. “But if the lady stays for breakfast… I might be able to eat more. For company.”

It’s the kind of manipulation only a child can pull off — just enough honesty to disarm you, just enough calculation to know it’ll work. You glance at Zayne, caught between reluctance and something else — a crack, too thin to be a real opening, but present nonetheless.

“She’s persistent,” you murmur.

“She’s six,” Zayne replies dryly. “That’s their job.”

He doesn’t exactly invite you — but he doesn’t stop his daughter from taking your hand and leading you to the kitchen either.

The kitchen is warm. Simple, but elegant. Dark stone counters, exposed beams. A kettle hisses quietly on the stove. There’s a bowl of half-eaten oatmeal on the table, a spoon leaning precariously against its edge like a forgotten decision.

You sit, because she wants you to, because it’s easier than saying no.

Zayne stands by the counter, pouring coffee. He doesn’t look at you, but the silence between you feels more like thread than ice.

“Do you have a job?” the girl asks suddenly, crawling into her seat.

You nod. “I’m a Hunter.”

Her eyes go wide. “Of monsters?”

You smile. “Of all kinds.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. “Do you know my dad?”

The question lands a little off-balance, but you manage, “A long time. Since we were kids. I know Dr. Noah, too.”

She accepts this like a scholar collecting facts. Then, eyes sharper now:

“Do you have Evol?”

Zayne stiffens slightly across the room — not visibly. But you feel it.

“I do,” you say carefully.

“What kind?”

You hesitate. “It’s… not specific. Not like most. Mine adapts. It changes. Depending on the environment. Or the people around me.”

“Like resonance?”

You blink. “Yes. Exactly.”

She lights up, bouncing slightly. “Me too! Papa says it’s rare. He showed me how to make cold. Like little pockets. And seals.”

“Seals?”

She nods furiously, then jumps down from her chair. “Wait here!”

Before you can stop her, she’s gone — the soft thud of her feet disappearing down the hall. You sit in the quiet that follows. Your hands wrapped too tightly around your mug. Zayne still hasn’t spoken. Still hasn’t looked at you.

When she returns, she’s holding something in both palms like it’s sacred.

A small, rounded snow seal — compact and carefully shaped, like a snowball someone almost didn’t want to sculpt. Its body is smooth but imperfect, eyes made of something dark and glossy. It glitters faintly in her palms, but doesn’t melt.

“I made this yesterday,” she says shyly. “You can have it.”

You reach for it. And your hands tremble.

It’s identical. Not just similar — identical. To the one tucked away in a drawer you haven’t opened in years. A smooth, delicate snow seal. The first thing Zayne ever made for you, after that accidental dinner — back when things between you were still uncertain. Still unspoken. And you were trying, very hard, not to fall in love with him.

You stare at her. Then at the seal. Then at him. He’s watching you now. Not guarded. Not indifferent. Guilty.

The thought doesn’t land — it detonates. You can’t breathe.

You stand suddenly. The chair scrapes too loud against the floor. The seal trembles in your hand.

“I have to go,” you say, voice too tight.

“Wait —” Zayne takes a half-step forward, almost like he wants to explain something. But he doesn’t. He never does.

His face falters, just once — an expression you’ve never seen on him. Unspoken. Unnamed. But unmistakably wrong.

You shake your head. “Don’t.”

You don’t know what he was going to say, but you know you wouldn’t survive hearing it. You pull on your coat. Your hands don’t quite work. The zipper catches. You don’t look at him. Or her.

You leave. You leave fast.

The seal stays in your pocket, burning cold against your thigh. And the thought won’t leave you alone — she has your eyes. Not just the color.  The shape. The center. The way they narrow when something doesn’t make sense.

You breathe until your chest aches — deeper, faster, like you’re trying to outrun something curling under your ribs. But the thought stays: What if she isn’t like you? What if she is you?

You don’t remember deciding to leave the house.

At some point, your body just moved. One boot. Then the other. Coat half-zipped. Hat forgotten. Gloves in your pocket but not on your hands.

The door behind you closed with a soft latch, and no one stopped you. Maybe they didn’t see. Maybe they didn’t want to.

It’s noon when you start walking.

The streets are half-cleared. Locals move like shadows between wood-framed cafés and ski rentals, their faces red, layered, laughing. You hate the sound. You hate how it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the whole damn town who’s bleeding internally and pretending it’s just the weather.

You drift from block to block without direction. Your breath fogs like smoke. You pass a group of tourists taking photos of the northern lights that have lingered since morning — low, green ribbons against a dim sky. They’re beautiful. You want to scream.

The seal is still in your coat pocket. You touched it once. Didn’t look. Didn’t dare.

You’ve been unraveling since morning. No, before that.

Since the girl smiled at you like she knew you. Since Zayne’s eyes refused to meet yours when your hands shook. Since you saw her eyes — your eyes — looking out from someone else’s face.

You want to scream again. You want to sleep for a year. You want to claw your way out of this body and this life and these feelings you tried so goddamn hard not to keep.

By afternoon, the clouds thicken. The wind picks up. You realize — vaguely, distantly — that you haven’t eaten. Your fingers are numb when you finally reach the base of the lift. It’s closed for the day. The town has shut down early. Weather advisory.

A bored attendant is locking the gate. “Slopes are off-limits,” he says. “Storm’s rolling in.”

You nod, smile thinly, and turn back like a good citizen. But you don’t leave. You wait.

You wait until he disappears back into the office. Until no one’s watching. Then — like it’s nothing — you climb over the fence and start walking up the service trail. Skis abandoned at the side rack. Rental. Yours now.

You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know you need to get higher.

Need to outrun the noise in your head — the thudding, rising, tightening thought that something isn’t adding up. That maybe it already added up and you’re just too afraid to see the sum.

That child. That seal. Those eyes. That look on Zayne’s face like he owed you something and didn’t know how to pay.

You reach the crest of the slope as the sky turns the color of a fresh bruise — deep violet, heavy with snow.

The wind howls. And still — you don’t turn back. You clip into the skis with fingers stiff and shaking. The trail beneath you is untouched. No tracks. No sound.

Just you. And the storm. You push off.

Zayne waits until the girl arrives — Noah’s niece, the one with calm hands and a patient voice, the one you mistook for something she wasn’t. She greets him with a warm smile and a quick update: oatmeal was eaten, hot chocolate spilled, the child is brushing her teeth. He nods, hands her a list with quiet instructions, then pulls on his coat without a word.

He tries your hotel first. The front desk confirms what he feared — no sign of you since morning. Your room untouched. Key not returned.

Something in his chest shifts.

He checks the ridge path. Nothing. The café. The overlook. Still nothing. His movements are methodical — too calm. It’s not control. It’s containment. If he slows down, even for a second, something in him will crack.

And then — near the rental stand — he finds it.

A glove. Dropped. Half-buried in snow, already stiff. He picks it up, turns it over. Recognizes the tear at the seam. Yours.

He asks the attendant without raising his voice.

Did anyone come through this afternoon? Alone? Female. Dark coat. Grey hat.

The man squints. "Yeah. Kinda reckless. Took off before I could stop her. Trail’s closed. She climb the ridge?”

Zayne doesn’t answer. His eyes have already locked on the faint trail of ski tracks, just visible past the fence. The wind’s been at them, but not enough to hide them completely.

He doesn’t ask to borrow the gear.

He takes the skis, the poles. The boots he forces on with too much pressure, and when the attendant stammers something about policy, Zayne pulls out his wallet and empties it. A week’s wages in a handful of bills.

“Keep it,” he says flatly. “If I don’t come back, file a report.”

Then he moves.

The snow is heavier now. The light fractured and thick. The trail beneath him vanishes in places, reappearing in erratic, uncertain intervals.

Zayne cuts across the slope with practiced economy — no hesitation, no excess motion. Just angles, just speed. His breath steady, heart loud in his throat.

He tells himself he isn’t afraid. He doesn’t allow that.

But every time the wind screams through the trees, he hears your name in it.

You shouldn’t be out here. Not alone. Not after what your body’s already been through. The last time he saw your vitals, they told him you were compensating — tightly, dangerously. He knows how you move. How far you can push. And how far you go past that, every time.

You’ve always mistaken endurance for strength. Always carried pain like it was proof of something noble.

He hated you for that once. He thinks, maybe, he still does. But it doesn’t stop him.

Then he sees it.

Two skis. Sticking upright from a drift.

And his body stops moving before his mind does. He’s off his own skis in seconds. Ripping off gloves. Digging.

He calls your name once. Quietly. Pointlessly.

The snow is deep. Heavy. He can’t move fast enough.

His fingers spark, and he lets his Evol loose — concentrated cold that carves through the snow in clean, precise arcs, exposing the shape beneath. A coat. A shoulder. A hand.

You’re there. Unconscious.

Face pale. Skin far too cold. But breathing. Your mouth parts in slow, shallow rhythm. The line of your pulse is barely visible in your throat.

He checks your pupils. Taps your cheek. You don’t stir.

Zayne exhales — not relief. Not yet. Just... air.

He pulls off his coat. Wraps it around you. Scarf next. Then his gloves. He doesn’t think. Just works. Every layer he has, onto you. Your pulse is slow, but consistent. Fingers pinkening. No slurring at the mouth, no skin rupture. Early-stage exposure. You’ll feel it later — pain like fire. But you’ll live.

You’ll live. You’ll live.

He cradles you upright, gathering your limbs in careful precision.

Turning back isn’t an option. The trail’s too steep, visibility falling. Wind rising.

But he remembers.

Three miles east. Maybe a little more. Tree line drops. Cabin near the base. Old ranger post. No electricity, but shelter. Wood. He’d seen it once, riding out on the snowmobile. Just a marker in the cold. Never thought he’d need it for real.

He adjusts your weight. Lifts you fully.

You don’t stir.

The snow stings his face like glass. He takes one step forward.

Then another. And another. And another…

Every muscle is screaming. But he doesn't stop.

Not even when the storm closes around you like a fist. Not even when his legs buckle slightly under the weight of you. Not even when he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stay upright.

Because this — this is the only direction that exists.

This is the cost of silence. This is the body he still remembers carrying once before. This is everything he couldn’t say compressed into the weight of you against his chest.

You open your eyes when the spoon touches your lips.

It’s not a dream, though your vision is still clouded. There’s something herbal and scalding and sharp on your tongue, and the taste cuts through the fog like citrus through smoke. You swallow reflexively.

The light around you is amber and low. Firelight.

There’s a crackle to your left — the sound of wood shifting in a stone hearth. You realize you’re lying on something soft, uneven. Furs. Blankets. The floor is warm beneath your back, too warm for snow.

Everything aches.

But it’s the hands you feel first. One bracing the back of your head, the other steadying the cup.

Zayne.

He’s kneeling beside you, his face cast in that flickering glow, brow furrowed but calm. He always looks calm. Even when he's breaking.

“Easy,” he murmurs, the same tone he uses with terrified patients. “One more sip.”

Your throat is raw when you speak. “Zayne…”

It comes out as a croak. Foreign. Barely yours.

His hand shifts, adjusting your weight. “You're okay,” he says. “You're safe. Just drink.”

You blink again, harder now. The room begins to resolve.

Rough-hewn walls. Low beams. A wooden table covered in old gear and folded wool. Two chairs. A rack of kindling. The window rattles in its frame, wind clawing at the glass.

You’re in a cabin.

The middle of nowhere. Snow hammering against the dark.

“I found you on the south slope,” he says. “Passed out. Cold to the core.” His voice stays even. “You should’ve been dead.”

You don’t respond. Not with words.

Your body is still catching up to the idea that it hasn’t been left behind.

“I need to get you warmer,” he says. “You’re not shivering anymore. That’s bad.”

You start to sit up. He stops you with a touch. His fingers are cold too — not numb, but close. You can feel the tremor under his restraint.

“You need to strip,” he says. “Your clothes are soaked. You won’t retain heat like this.”

You want to argue. Your brain wants to rebel. But your body betrays you — you’re shaking now, from the inside, from the marrow.

“I’ll help,” he says, already undoing the clasps at your coat.

You let him.

There’s no shame in the gesture. Only efficiency. Only silence.

He peels your clothes back layer by layer — coat, sweater, base layer — each one discarded near the fire. He’s methodical, but his fingers stumble once at the side of your ribs. You don’t flinch. Neither does he.

When he’s done, he does the same to himself. His hands are slower now. He’s soaked too. You see it in the way his shirt clings, the way his skin is flushed in patches, raw in others.

He says nothing. Neither do you.

The wind screams outside.

Then he lifts the furs. Slides in beside you.

Everything feels... detached. Like you’re still behind glass, still half-buried in snow. His body is there — you know that — but your skin won’t admit it yet. Cold lives in the marrow. It doesn’t release easily.

He doesn’t ask when he pulls you closer. Doesn’t explain as he hooks one leg over yours, his thigh anchoring you with clinical precision. Contact — pure and total. Every inch of skin aligned.

It’s about warmth. Nothing more.

You believe that. For now.

Your foot finds his under the covers. Slides along the ridge of his shin, searching. You lay your hands on his chest. Flat, tentative. He takes them in his — large, too cold — and brings them to his mouth. Breathes. Warms them with both palms, slowly rubbing life back into your fingers.

And then — you begin to shake.

Violently. But not only from the cold.

He starts to rub your back. Brisk. Practical. Hands flat, pressure deliberate. Not tender. Not yet. Just enough to pull you back into your body.

You respond without meaning to. You press against him — again, just for heat. That’s all. Your hands move instinctively, over his shoulders, his throat, lower. You start to trace the vertebrae at the center of his back.

Just to ground yourself. Just to hold on.

Your breasts are against his chest. Your nipples — hard to the point of pain — brush bone and breath.

He shudders.

From the cold? You don’t ask.

Because you’re no longer cold. Not really. But you’re not warm either. There’s only this flicker — a kindling at the base of your spine.

Not desire. Not yet. But something trying to become it.

His hand moves to your hair, finds the elastic, slides it free. Fingers comb through the strands, rough, reverent. His palm cups the back of your skull. Massages gently. The tension spills from your scalp like something breaking.

You make a sound — quiet, involuntary.

Your breath lands against his throat, hot, uneven.

He stills.

Then he shifts your face upward, thumb beneath your jaw. Not rough. Not asking. Just guiding. Until your eyes lock.

His gaze — green, always green — reflects the firelight in flickers. Cold forest. Flickering coals.

You can’t look away. You let him all the way in. Because he remembers the way. Because your walls were never walls with him — only doors you forgot how to close.

His voice is low, at your mouth: “You have no sense of self-preservation.”

You whisper back, “I forgot how to feel anything.”

Your throat tightens. “My heart’s been a shard of ice for years.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften.

“You didn’t even leave me that,” he murmurs. “Only the empty space where it used to be.”

“Zayne, I —”

But he hushes you, barely a breath. “Don’t speak. Not now. If we don’t warm up, we won’t make it to morning.”

“Then warm me,” you breathe.

Something in him breaks then — quietly.

His arms tighten around you. No hesitation. His fingers dig into your skin with bruising honesty. You feel it — the pressure, the edge, the claim — and it’s the first time pain feels like presence.

You welcome it.

“Harder,” you whisper. “Don’t hold anything back. Just… not now.”

He doesn’t.

In one breathless motion, he flips you onto your back — his body covering yours entirely, anchoring you to the furs and the warmth and the terrible, steady thud of his pulse.

He hovers over you, braced on his elbows, the lines of his frame drawn taut above yours. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch. Just studies your face like a map he’s not sure he has the right to read.

It’s not hesitation. It’s a final warning.

But your body has remembered how to feel again. Heat has bloomed across your skin — from your neck to your cheeks, now flushed and electric — then lower, spiraling into your belly, blooming with a weight that has nothing to do with cold.

He leans in, and his lips graze the pulse at your throat. Light. Measured. Then lower — the slope of your collarbone, the hollow of your shoulder — his breath leaving heat where ice had lived.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Directive. “Hold me tighter.”

Not a plea. Not an invitation. An order. The doctor, still.

You obey.

Your legs curl around his waist, locking him in place. Your arms wrap across his back, palms flattening against tense muscle, nails dragging instinctively down the blades of his shoulder, then lower — to his waist, the arc of his hips.

Your skin sings where he touches you.

His body over yours is no longer just weight — it’s voltage. It cracks through the ache and the shame and the frost, down to the deepest, most feral part of you that only ever belonged to him.

You dig your fingers into the curve of him — familiar, lost, found again too fast. Too desperately.

And still, he doesn’t kiss you.

You want him to. God, you want him to. You want the taste of his mouth. You want to remember what it felt like when kissing him made the world disappear.

But he doesn’t give you that. Because that would make this real.

Too real.

And you’re both still pretending this is about the cold. About survival. About anything but what it is.

So instead, he moves lower — mouth against your throat, fingers tightening at your waist, and your whole body arches up to meet him, wanting more, needing more, aching toward the inevitable.

And still — no lips on yours. Still that one small distance held like a line neither of you dares to cross.

His hand slides lower. Fingers between your thighs, slow and certain — finding you already wet, already aching. His touch is careful at first. A question. A warning.

Then he moves — stroking, circling, teasing — and you arch, sharp and sudden, breath caught on the edge of a moan.

Your hands clutch at his back, your hips rising to meet him, the last of your resistance dissolved into heat and want and memory.

“Zayne,” you whisper, voice broken and close to prayer. “Please. I need you now.”

Your lips brush his ear. The words land soft, but strike hard.

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts — deliberate, sure — as his knee presses yours open wider, as his body finally, finally finds yours.

The first moment of him inside you is too much and not enough. A slow, deliberate stretch. He’s holding back — you feel it. Every inch a battle between restraint and collapse.

When you are completely joined, your eyes fly open. So do his.

You both stop.

Breathless. Still. Time folds in on itself.

It feels like the first time. Like a dream pulled too close to waking. Like you’ve spent years underwater and have just now broken the surface.

He begins to move. Barely. Slow. Torturous. Deep.

And you watch him. Because this is the moment you see it — his detachment cracking, his control unraveling. Each movement chips away another piece.

Then his hands seize your hips harder, pulling you closer, holding you down as he thrusts deeper, faster — no longer gentle. His mouth finds your shoulder, your throat. His teeth graze your skin, just shy of pain.

You match him.

Your legs wrap around his back. Your hips rise to meet every stroke, faster, harder. Sweat beads at his temple. A low sound slips from his throat — one you’ve never heard before, and never want to forget.

You’re not cold anymore.

There’s heat building in your belly, pulsing, tightening. Each movement pushes you closer to something unbearable.

You can’t stay quiet. You don’t want to.

Your moans rise with the rhythm, faster, sharper, and when he angles just right, when his name leaves your mouth like a gasp turned to flame —

“Zayne — !”

The world shatters.

Pleasure crashes through you in waves — violent, relentless. You bite down on his shoulder, legs trembling, body clenching tight around him.

He groans — low and guttural — and flips you both, pulling you on top of him, still joined, still inside you.

You collapse against his chest, panting, ruined.

Your thighs still locked around his hips. Your pulse frantic. His heartbeat thunderous beneath your cheek.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

And in that stillness, something settles. Not comfort. Not safety.

But the truth of it: he’s not indifferent. Not detached. Not after all this time.

He still holds you like he remembers how you once broke apart beneath his hands — and how you came back, not even realizing it was for him.

The sound of his heartbeat, and the low, steady howl of the wind outside, lulled you eventually. Your body relaxed — finally — into sleep. But it wasn’t rest. Just disjointed images: whiteness, blurred edges, something aching and incomplete. A dream without a shape, just cold and distance and something you couldn’t reach.

When you woke, he was gone.

You were still wrapped in the weight of layered furs, tucked with clinical precision, your body cocooned like something fragile. You could still feel him on your skin — the imprint of his hands, the echo of his breath.

“Zayne?” you rasped, your throat dry and raw.

His voice came from somewhere behind the fire. “I’m here.”

A second later he emerged, bare-chested beneath a heavy wool throw slung over one shoulder like a makeshift toga. He held a steaming mug in both hands.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Headache? Nausea?”

“I’m fine.” You sat up, pulling the blanket to your chest. He handed you the tea. You took it without meeting his eyes.

That ridiculous throw was the only thing he’d bothered with — aside from the wool socks. And now that you noticed, the matching pair was on your feet too.

Your clothes hung near the fire, dripping onto the wooden floor in slow, defeated rhythms.

It was still dark outside. The blizzard had dulled to a whisper, snow tapping now instead of screaming. The only other sound was the slow collapse of wood in the hearth.

“Everything should be dry by midday,” he said evenly, eyes fixed on yours — calm, too calm. Doctor-Zayne calm. “Once it is, I’ll hike to the base. Should only take a few hours. I’ll bring back a snowmobile.”

“I can walk,” you muttered, wrapping the furs tighter.

“No,” he said flatly. “You’re one sneeze away from pneumonia.”

You sneezed.

Took a sip to hide it. The tea was bitter and hot and exactly what your throat needed. It didn’t help your pride.

He watched you for a long beat. Then, carefully:

“Tell me what possessed you to take the slope in a storm. Especially considering you’ve never been a particularly good skier.”

There was no judgment in his voice. That’s what made it worse.

You turned your head, eyes fixed on the fire. You didn’t want to talk about his daughter. You didn’t want to ask. Not while your body still remembered his breath on your neck. Not while your thighs still ached from being wrapped around him.

“You could’ve died,” he said. Softer now. There was a tremble, just barely.

“It’s not the first time,” you replied. Dry. Flat. “I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

His silence was sharp.

Then: “What does that mean?”

You shrugged. Shrugging was easier than explaining. Shrugging let you pretend this wasn’t tearing you open in layers.

His spine straightened. You knew that posture. You’d seen it in surgery. In argument. In loss.

“You think I wouldn’t care?”

“Do you?”

Still silence.

“Do you think it wouldn’t matter to me if you didn’t come back?” His voice was harder now — not loud, but precise. Measured like a scalpel.

You met his eyes, finally. “Do you care as my doctor? Or as Zayne?”

He stepped forward, just enough to catch the light on his face.

“Both.”

The word dropped between you like a stone.

“I deserve answers,” he said, tone cooling. “You’ve had seven years of silence. You don’t get to keep hiding.”

You flinched. “I’m not a puzzle for you to solve.”

“You’re not a stranger either.”

Your jaw clenched. “I have the right not to explain myself.”

“And I have the right to ask,” he said, his voice suddenly sharper — controlled, but frayed at the edges.

You looked at him then. Really looked.

He wasn’t the man you left behind. He wasn’t even the man you remembered.

His face was sharper now. Carved from something colder. His beauty had always been precise, but now it was almost inhuman — every emotion hidden behind faultless structure. The lines of him harder. His silence heavier.

He looked like someone who had survived something quietly. Someone who had burned and chosen to freeze instead.

And suddenly you wondered if he was asking because he was angry — or because he was afraid the answer would ruin him.

You set the cup down and rubbed your forehead — the gesture unconscious, familiar. The kind of motion you only made when faced with something unpleasant that required a decision.

You didn’t want to do this sitting. It made you feel small, like the version of yourself you’d spent the last seven years trying to grow out of.

So you rose, pulling the furs around you tightly, dragging their weight like a second skin, and stepped closer to the fire. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You stared at the flames instead — at the way the heat licked the logs and flared in quiet, devouring patterns.

Your palm stretched toward the warmth. The skin was hot, but inside you still felt the cold — like your bones had absorbed it, like it had settled somewhere marrow-deep.

A tremor passed through you.

“I’m not eager to dig up the past,” you said softly, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. “But I imagine you’re owed some kind of answer. Maybe I’ll even admit now that leaving the way I did was reckless. But at the time, I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting. Instinct, not intention.”

He said nothing. You kept your eyes on the fire.

“I’m actually surprised you didn’t put it together yourself,” you added. “But if you want me to say it out loud, then fine. I left because you fell in love with someone else. Because you cheated on me.”

Silence. And then —

“Excuse me?”

Zayne’s voice snapped across the space like the crack of a snapped branch. Not loud — but edged with something so sharp and disbelieving that it startled you into turning.

His face was a picture of stunned clarity. Not guilt. Not evasion.

Shock.

You’d seen Zayne process grief. Rage. Even loss. But not this.

“I can assure you,” he said with that same cold precision, “neither of those things ever happened. But by all means, continue. I’d love to know what led you to such an absurd conclusion.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t lying.

He never had been good at lying — not even white lies, not even to protect someone. If you’d asked him then, directly, all those years ago… He would’ve told you the truth.

No matter what it was.

But you hadn’t asked.

“Do you remember Caroline?” you said, voice thinner now. “Dr. Sharp, I think. She came to town for the fellowship project. You spent over a month working side-by-side. You were gone every night, back after midnight, gone before I woke. We barely saw each other.”

“That project was critical,” he said quietly. “And yes. I’ve often wondered if that’s what it was. That I didn’t make enough space for you.”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“I wouldn’t have left over time or distance,” you said. “That’s not me. Worst case, I would’ve had a meltdown. I would’ve yelled. Slammed doors. But what got under my skin… what stayed…”

You swallowed.

“We had dinner. All of us. One night. I watched the way she looked at you. The way she touched your hand like it was second nature. And the way you didn’t flinch. You were relaxed. Easy. Like she belonged next to you.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, lower: “She was my closest friend. For years.”

Was.

You didn’t miss the tense. Something final in it.

“I spiraled,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I started imagining things. Inventing whole conversations you never had. And then —” you drew in a breath, “— you were in the shower. And your phone lit up. I shouldn’t have looked. I know that. But I did.”

His face didn’t move.

“She texted you. Something about�� a kiss. I couldn’t unlock it, couldn’t read the rest. But I didn’t need to. That was enough.”

Your words hung between you like ash.

When you finally met his eyes, what you saw there wasn��t the same fire as before. It was rage now. Cold. Controlled. Ancient.

He didn’t speak. But his hands were clenched at his sides, the tendons tight. Not shaking. Just contained.

And that, more than anything, frightened you.

Finally, Zayne found his voice again. When he spoke, it was quieter — colder. Like he was holding himself together with wire.

“She kissed me,” he said. “I didn’t kiss her back. I asked her to leave. I never saw her again. End of story.”

You opened your mouth, but —

He raised a hand. “No. Don’t.”

You froze.

“Let’s summarize, shall we?” he said, and his tone was so steady it hurt. “You accepted my proposal. We were making plans. Booking venues. Looking at rings.”

He took a step toward you.

You stepped back. The fire was too close now — too hot. Your skin prickled.

“And then,” he continued, “you disappeared. No warning. No explanation. No note. Nothing. Just… gone.”

His eyes were locked on yours. And you’d never seen him like this — not in battle, not in chaos, not even in the quiet moments when he looked like he might finally break.

“You vanished because of a kiss that never happened. Because you saw something you didn’t understand. Because you didn’t ask.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

“I searched for you,” he said. “Do you know that?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I looked in every city I thought you might go. Called hospitals. Asked colleagues. Filed missing persons reports in seven countries. I didn’t sleep for weeks. I had to be pulled off rotation because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.”

Your breath hitched.

His voice was breaking now — not loud, not emotional. Just… broken. Controlled devastation.

“I thought you were dead.”

He let that hang there.

“I imagined you in rivers. In morgues. I dreamed it. Night after night. And every time the phone rang, I hoped it was you. I hoped you’d changed your mind. That it was all just a mistake, or a test, or a nightmare.”

Another step closer. His face was inches from yours now.

“And then at some point,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “I had to stop hoping. Because hoping was killing me.”

Your knees almost gave out.

“And now you stand here,” he went on, “telling me you left because you were jealous of a woman who meant nothing. Because you couldn’t bear to ask me a question I would’ve answered in one breath.”

His mouth twisted, just slightly — a flicker of something savage behind the calm.

“That’s not heartbreak. That’s cowardice.”

You said nothing. There was nothing to say.

His eyes didn’t soften. “I would’ve forgiven almost anything. A betrayal. A lie. Hell, even if you had loved someone else.”

A beat.

“But I don’t know how to forgive being erased.”

The final word landed like a gavel.

You looked at him — the man you loved, the man who once memorized the rhythm of your breath in sleep — and you didn’t see a stranger.

You saw someone who had carried your absence like a scar he didn’t let heal.

And now he was bleeding in front of you. But the blood wasn’t red. It was ice.

It came slowly. Too slowly.

Like thaw in the deepest part of winter — not warmth, but the ache that comes with returning sensation.

You’d spent so long clinging to the version of events you built inside your own head — a brittle, pathetic mythology — that you hadn’t once thought to challenge it.

You’d believed he betrayed you. And carried that lie like a wound for seven years. You let it harden inside you, let it dictate the terms of your survival.

You cried for him. Night after night, in rooms that never felt like home. Until you convinced yourself he had moved on. Married. Loved again. Raised someone else’s child in the light of a future that was supposed to be yours.

You tried to fill the space he left. But nothing fit.

And now that you knew the truth —

There was no relief. Only horror.

It crashed over you all at once — a cold so deep it numbed thought. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

It was like being buried again — not under snow this time, but under the weight of your own choices. The grief of what you did, of what you undid.

“Zayne…” you managed. “I— I made a mistake.”

He laughed.

Not loud. Not cruel. But sharp. Icy. Surgical.

“A mistake,” he repeated, voice dry as ash. “Of course.”

He took a slow step toward you, his expression unreadable, his tone too calm to be safe.

“Just a minor lapse in judgment. Nothing serious. Nothing irreversible.”

You flinched.

“Just —” he continued, tilting his head slightly, as if mocking even his own patience, “— disappearing without a trace. Letting me believe you were dead. Watching me lose everything. My sleep. My mind. My future.”

His gaze pinned you. “But hey. Who hasn’t made that kind of mistake?”

“Don’t say it like that —”

“What? Like it’s nothing?” His smile was thin, brittle. “Like it’s not the single most devastating thing anyone’s ever done to me?”

Your breath caught.

“You want me to be kind, is that it? After seven years of silence, you want — what? Mercy? Grace?” He gave a small, mirthless laugh. “I’m sorry. I seem to have misplaced those somewhere around year two.”

You closed your eyes, shaking. “Please, Zayne…”

He didn’t move.

“You want me to say I understand?” he asked. “That I forgive you?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, just slightly.

“You didn’t just leave,” he said. “You rewrote me. You made me the villain in a story I didn’t even know I was in.”

That was when something inside you cracked.

Your fists clenched at your sides, breath coming short. Rage rising not at him — not fully — but at yourself, and at him, and at everything you didn’t understand and didn’t ask and didn’t say.

And then you said it. Low, sharp, shaking.

“Oh, and what about you, Zayne?”

His brows lifted, almost imperceptibly.

“Let’s talk about you and your daughter.”

A flicker. Barely visible. A shift in the air.

You stepped closer. Voice rising.

“Let’s talk about why the hell she looks exactly like me.”

“Don’t you dare drag my daughter into this,” he said — clipped, sharp.

But his voice had shifted. You knew that tone. The one he used when he was cornered. When the truth was already rising in his throat, demanding release.

And that gave you strength.

You stepped forward, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Oh, no. Not this time.” Your voice was shaking. Not from fear. From fury. “You don’t get to bury this under silence.”

He didn’t move.

“Why does she have my eyes, Zayne?” Your voice rose. “Why does she and I share the same Evol signature? Why do I look at her and feel —” You choked, breath catching. “— nothing, when I should’ve felt everything?”

He met your gaze without flinching.

“She has nothing to do with you.”

That was the lie that broke you.

“Zayne!”

You almost screamed it. And finally — finally — he answered.

“I created her,” he said.

Each word landed like a fracture.

“I created her from the only part of you I had left. I broke every protocol, every ethical law, every barrier between grief and madness. I did it knowing exactly what it was. A moment of desperation. Of agony. Of self-destruction. Call it what you want.”

His voice trembled once, barely. Then steeled again.

“But once she existed — she was alive. And I was responsible.”

You couldn’t breathe.

It all clicked into place, hideously fast.

There had been a time — after a fight, after a wound — a battle that had torn more than just your skin. The damage to your abdomen had been bad. Serious enough that your fertility came into question. And so, in a haze of pain and fear and future-thinking, you and Zayne had made a decision.

You’d frozen your eggs. Just in case. Just in case there was ever time for life.

And then you vanished. And he —

Your knees gave out.

Because it wasn’t just theory now. It wasn’t data in a file. It wasn’t a long-ago clinic visit or a box ticked on a form.

It was her.

Your daughter.

A child you hadn’t known you’d had. Who’d taken her first breath, first steps, spoken her first word — all without you. A child whose face you’d looked into and seen nothing but unfamiliarity.

Because the thread between you was never tied.

Your vision blurred. Your hands clenched. And then, with a clarity that burned through the haze, you lifted your arm and slapped him.

Hard.

His head turned with the force of it.

But he didn’t step back. Didn’t retaliate. Just stood there, breathing. Something behind his eyes shifted — regret, maybe. Or something darker. Disappointment.

You didn’t care.

“You had no right,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, just as quietly. “But we can’t unmake what we did.”

Your legs were shaking. Your body had stopped regulating heat again — not from trauma, but from exhaustion. The flu or something close to it now tightening your throat, buzzing behind your eyes.

You didn’t speak again.

You just turned. Pulled the furs around your body. Curled up on the floor, facing away.

Everything inside you was vibrating. Screaming. And still — you didn’t make a sound.

Behind you, you heard him move. A step, maybe two. The start of a word, maybe a breath.

But then — silence.

The kind that didn’t soothe. The kind that hollowed.

You drifted in and out of a fevered half-sleep, somewhere between dreaming and remembering, while the sun crept higher in the sky.

You weren’t fully conscious, but you knew he was there.

You felt his hand on your forehead now and then — clinical, measuring. You remembered being lifted just enough to drink something warm, bitter. His arm braced behind your shoulders. His voice low, instructing, coaxing.

You remembered his arms around you when the shivering got worse.

Not tender. Not romantic. Just practical.

Because you were freezing. And he wasn’t going to let you freeze alone.

He didn’t crawl beneath the furs again. But he lay beside you, fully dressed, silent, a barrier against the cold.

Even now — after all the damage, all the wounds neither of you could cauterize — he still gave what little warmth he had left.

When your eyes opened again, the room had changed. The light was golden, brighter. Fire still burned in the hearth, lower now. The air felt clearer.

You tried to sit up too fast. A hand pressed gently against your shoulder, stopping you.

Zayne.

His face above yours — alert, shadowed by worry, but composed.

You looked at him, and what surprised you most was the stillness inside yourself. Not peace. Not comfort. Just… an absence of fight. A numb kind of calm.

It wasn’t forgiveness. And it wasn’t closure. It was the breath after the collapse.

“How long was I asleep?” you asked, or tried to — the sound barely made it out.

Your voice cracked, nearly gone. You reached for your throat.

He shook his head once. “Don’t talk.”

No gentleness. Just clarity.

“About six hours,” he said. “It’s nearly noon. The fever’s dropped. Your clothes are dry.”

You noticed now — he was fully dressed. Jacket zipped, gloves on, boots laced tight. Efficient. Ready.

“I need to hike out,” he said, crouching beside you. “Snowmobile station’s a few miles. I’ll be back within two hours.”

You didn’t answer. Just watched him — the way his brows stayed furrowed, the way his jaw kept clenching and unclenching like there was something in his mouth he didn’t trust himself to say.

Then he reached for your hand. His palm was warm. Solid.

“Listen to me,” he said. “We’ll talk. Properly. We’ll get to all of it. But right now — I need to know that you’re not going to do something reckless while I’m gone.”

You didn’t grip his hand. But you didn’t pull away either. Your fingers just rested in his — a neutral stillness that said not yet, but also not no.

“I promise,” you whispered.

Zayne lingered for half a second more. Then he did something you didn’t expect. He brought your hand to his mouth. Touched his lips to the tips of your fingers. Barely there.

And then he stood. Crossed the room and walked out into the snow.

The door closed behind him with a clean, final click. And you were alone.

But this time, not entirely lost.

Four hours later, Zayne was carrying you back through the doorway of Dr. Noah’s house.

The fever had returned somewhere on the snowmobile ride down. Your skin burned, and the world had begun to tilt. By the time he stepped through the threshold, your voice was gone again.

He didn’t speak. Just moved with quiet certainty.

Helped you out of your damp clothes. Pulled a fleece pajama set from the linen closet — a pale blue thing that smelled faintly of cedar — and dressed you with swift efficiency. You didn’t protest. Couldn’t.

He laid you down in one of the guest beds, layered with thick quilts, and disappeared only for a moment. When he returned, it was with a bag of supplies already slung over his shoulder, a prepped IV in one hand and a throat spray in the other.

Every motion was muscle memory. Smooth. Intentional. Engraved in his bones.

At one point, as he propped your head up to give you a sip of raspberry tea, your hand slipped forward, fingers closing weakly around his wrist.

“Zayne…” you rasped. “You have a fever too.”

He didn’t look at you. Just adjusted the angle of the mug.

“I’m fine,” he said.

He gathered your hair gently — fingers threading through the strands with ease — and twisted it into a loose knot, securing it with a black elastic he must’ve pulled from his pocket.

You stared at him, eyes glassy with heat and a kind of wounded awe.

He remembered.

You never liked sleeping with your hair down. He hadn’t forgotten.

He met your gaze briefly. Something flickered — not tenderness, but something heavier, older.

“I took something earlier,” he said. “But you, on the other hand, have pneumonia. So rest. You’ll feel better after the fluids.”

The next few days blurred.

You slept. Mostly.

Woke only for medicine, for slow sips of broth, for Zayne’s quiet instructions. You tried to get to the bathroom alone. Failed. Tried again. He never mocked you for it. Just kept close enough to catch you if you fell.

Sometimes he sat in the armchair across the room, reading. When you were lucid enough to focus, you asked — weakly, half-asleep:

“Read it out loud?”

He didn’t ask why. He just turned the page. Cleared his throat.

And began.

East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

His voice — calm, measured — filled the room like something remembered, not new. You watched him as he read. The cadence. The precision. The way he breathed between sentences like it mattered.

He read the whole thing. And when it ended, neither of you spoke for a long time.

It was you who finally broke the quiet.

“She breaks the rule,” you whispered. “Lights the candle. Looks at him when she wasn’t supposed to.”

Zayne rested the book on his knee, fingers still hooked between the pages.

“She ruins everything,” he said. Not accusing. Just observing.

You didn’t flinch. “And still goes after him.”

“She wouldn’t have had to, if she’d just listened.”

“She wanted to know him,” you said. “Not just love a shadow.”

He looked at you then. Something unreadable in his expression.

You swallowed, voice barely audible. “She made a mistake. A big one. And she didn’t wait for forgiveness. She fought to make it right.”

Zayne’s gaze dropped. “It was still selfish.”

“So is love,” you murmured.

The fire cracked between you — a sharp snap that echoed through the stillness.

“It’s a strange story,” you added. “The girl disobeys. The prince stays silent. They both fail. And then they both change.”

“And still find each other,” he said, finally. Quiet. Measured.

“But not the same way,” you whispered.

“No,” he agreed. “They come back different. Burned. But still… together.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

A week later, you felt strong enough to make it down the stairs.

The house still smelled like cedar and lemon soap, the way it always had. Dr. Noah’s niece — the woman you had once mistaken for Zayne’s wife — introduced herself properly over herbal tea and folded laundry. Her name was Marianne. She was kind. Warm in that easy, effortless way you’d never mastered.

She adored his daughter.

Your daughter.

They spent hours together — drawing, baking, building tiny snow forts that collapsed within minutes. And every time you watched them, a strange hollowness twisted in your chest.

You studied the girl constantly.

The resemblance, now that you knew, was undeniable. Your eyes. Your cheekbones. Your ridiculous inability to sit still for more than five seconds. But her hair — that inky black — was Zayne’s. And her quiet concentration when she built things from ice with pinched fingers? That was his too.

She was loud. Expressive. Curious. Always moving, always knocking something over. She danced through the house like a falling star — burning too fast, leaving marks.

And she wouldn’t leave you alone.

Every morning, she burst into your room like it was hers. Climbed up beside you. Chattered about everything — school, snow, cartoon cats, some child named Max who was apparently insufferable. And home.

God. Home.

That word stabbed deeper than anything else.

You let her talk. You smiled when you could. But you never reached for her. Never called her by name unless you had to.

You didn’t know how to feel.

Curiosity? Yes. Recognition? Slowly. Love? No. Not yet. 

Maybe not ever.

And wasn’t that its own kind of crime?

You moved around her like glass. Like she might break. Or worse — you might.

Then one morning, she stopped mid-sentence. Sat very still beside you, swinging her legs.

“Are you my mommy?”

It hit like a blow.

You froze. Words caught in your throat, the reflex to deny already gathering in your chest.

But you didn’t have to say it.

Zayne appeared in the doorway. One look — that infamous stillness — and the girl backed out of the room, cheeks red, eyes wide. She closed the door softly behind her.

But not before looking at you one last time.

And you knew you’d remember that look for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I’ll talk to her,” Zayne said, not looking at you. “Make sure she doesn’t bother you again.”

Then — practical, brisk, clinical: “Your labs are stable. Lungs are clear. I scheduled a follow-up ultrasound downtown. As for your heart —”

“Stop.” Your voice cracked. “Just stop.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapped your arms around them, and began to rock. A motion you didn’t recognize in yourself. Uncontrolled. Unmoored.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered. “I can’t.”

Zayne dropped to his haunches beside you. His hand settled on your knee.

“What was I supposed to say to her?” Your voice was rising now, frantic. “What am I even supposed to feel? I didn’t carry her. I didn’t raise her. I didn’t know she existed. She’s mine but not mine.”

You were trembling now.

“She has my DNA, but I’m not her mother. I’m a stranger. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Zayne didn’t speak. Just stayed there. Then — slowly — his hand slid away from your leg, and he bowed his head, pressing his palms to his face.

He stayed like that for a long time.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, uneven.

“Every day,” he said, “I live knowing I did something beautiful and unforgivable at the same time.”

You didn’t move.

“I carry the guilt in every breath,” he said. “But I’d do it again. I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world. Not my career. Not my name. Not even forgiveness.”

He looked up at you then.

“If you want to file a complaint,” he said, voice steadying, “if you want to take my license, ruin me — do it. I won’t fight. I’ll take it.”

���But I won’t ever be sorry she exists.”

Your mouth opened. But no words came.

Because something inside you had begun to thaw — not into love, not yet — but into something uglier.

Jealousy.

Jealousy of your own child.

Of how easily she clung to him. Of how naturally he held her. Of the years they’d had.

Without you.

The thought disgusted you. You wanted to slap yourself for even thinking it. You wanted to vanish again, just to avoid what that meant.

But it was there. And it was real.

“What kind of monster do you think I am, Zayne?” you asked, your voice raw, barely more than breath. “You think I came here to file reports? Tear your life apart on principle?”

He didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

“You already did that once,” he said, flatly.

You closed your eyes.

“Let’s not start listing sins,” you whispered. “We’ll be here until spring.”

Silence.

You exhaled slowly. “Yes. I left. And not just your life — I detonated my own. There’s no version of this where I walk away clean.”

You glanced toward the door, where her laughter had echoed just minutes ago.

“And if there’s a tiny version of me running through this house, it’s not just your doing. I lit the first match. I made the first cut. Maybe this is the price. The life that formed in the crater we made.”

Zayne turned, finally. Met your eyes.

There were no tears on your face. There hadn’t been for days. But in your chest, you were drowning. He knew it. He saw it.

“I don’t have an answer,” you said. “I don’t know how to stay. And I don’t feel like I have the right to leave. This —” your voice caught, “— this little family of yours… I’m not part of it. I’m just the fracture everything grew around.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t reach for you. 

He just studied your face for a long time, then said, “I can’t choose for you.”

A pause. And then —

“But if you decide to stay… even just to be near her, or me, or neither — on your own terms — then I won’t stop you.”

His voice was steady, but something caught in his throat at the end. Like he almost said more. Like he almost crossed a line that neither of you were ready to touch.

You nodded. You understood.

The door had opened.

Just a little.

And it would’ve been easier, if it were only him. If all you had to do was unlearn the years of distance, relearn the way he breathed, the way he touched, the shape of his voice when he said your name.

If it were only Zayne, you could try. You would try.

But there was her.

The girl who looked like you. Who trusted too easily. Who ran through the house with joy you hadn’t earned.

And she changed everything.

Because love with him had once been fire and failure and rebuilding.

But love with her… It required something else.

Patience. Forgiveness. Humility.

A different kind of bravery.

And if you failed again — you wouldn’t be the only one who paid for it.

So you sat there, still, the weight of the choice pressing against your chest, and thought:

What if I break her? What if I can’t be enough?

Another week passed. Your strength returned. So did the calls.

Work wouldn’t stop. Messages stacked in your inbox like pressure building behind a dam. You extended your leave. Zayne signed the clearance form. You knew he didn’t agree. But he didn’t protest. He just handed it over with that same stillness — the kind that told you: this is your decision now.

Physically, you were fit for the field. Emotionally, you were splinters.

He never said it, but you felt the way he watched you — not with judgment, but with expectation. Waiting. Hoping, maybe, that you'd stop wandering the halls like a ghost with a packed suitcase in her chest.

But the noise in your head never stopped. Not during the day. Not when you slept.

Especially not when you didn’t.

That night, you came down the stairs barefoot, the house asleep around you. Poured yourself a glass of wine. Stared at it. Sipped once.

No.

That wasn’t what you needed.

You left the glass untouched on the counter.

Walked the familiar hallway. Opened his door without knocking.

He was asleep on his back, face turned slightly toward the window. The moonlight cut through the blinds in silver bars, catching in the strands of his hair, casting lines across his throat.

You reached down. Brushed the edge of a curl from his forehead.

His hand caught your wrist before you could blink.

His eyes opened.

He didn’t speak. Your face said everything.

He pulled you down into him without hesitation. No questions. No ceremony.

His hands slid across your skin like he'd never forgotten its topography. His mouth moved from your neck to your shoulder, to the curve of your breast, the lines of your ribs, the hollow of your hip, and lower still.

But not your lips. Still not your lips.

And that — that was the answer.

At dawn, you dressed quietly. Zipped your bag. Didn’t wake him.

Your presence here had been a rupture. But now the world would settle again.

Zayne had his life — built carefully from grief and duty and love. You were an earthquake. He’d survived you once. He didn’t need to do it again.

At the door, your hand on the knob, a small voice stopped you.

“Are you going somewhere?”

You turned slowly.

She stood barefoot in her pajamas, hair a mess, eyes too wide. Her voice held no accusation. Only fact.

You swallowed. “Yes. I… I have to go back.”

“To the hotel?” she asked, stepping closer.

You crouched, tried to smile, tried to hold your own ribs together.

“No. I have a home. A job. Somewhere else.”

She nodded, thinking hard, then: “Then I’ll come with you.”

You blinked. “What?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll come too.”

“No, sweetheart. You can’t. Your dad would be really worried —”

“But you’re my mommy,” she said.

Soft. Certain.

Her small hand came up to your face. Her palm on your cheek burned hotter than the fever ever had.

“I heard you. You and Papa. I saw your picture.”

She reached into her pajama pocket, pulled out something worn and folded.

A photograph.

You and Zayne. Seven years younger. Arms around each other, faces pressed close, eyes alight. You didn’t even remember the moment it was taken.

But she had carried it. Hidden it. Believed it.

You stared at her. At the picture. At those impossible, familiar eyes.

And something inside you cracked.

“Baby,” you said, your voice breaking. “I’m not — I can’t be the mom you think I am. I want to. I do. But I didn’t raise you. I wasn’t there. And I don’t know how to do this right.”

Her lower lip trembled. But she nodded. Like she understood, in the way only children do — by feeling it.

You reached out. Brushed a tear from her cheek.

“Be happy, little one,” you whispered. “That’s all I want for you.”

Then you stood. Opened the door. And walked into the snowlight, where the car already waited.

Zayne couldn’t remember the last time he drove this fast. Especially not with his daughter in the back seat.

She’d been there before he was even fully dressed. Still in socks, wide-eyed, breathless.

“She left,” she said. “Mommy left.”

She’d been crying.

And her tears — that — he would never forgive you for.

He didn’t know what he expected to do when he got there. Look into your eyes? See if your soul was still inside them? Drop to his knees and beg?

A few hours ago, you had still been in his arms. He’d almost believed. Almost let himself be happy again.

He parked illegally, didn’t even glance at the signs. Checked his daughter’s jacket, zipped it tighter, then scooped her into his arms and ran.

The platform was already half-empty.

The train was gone. Five minutes too late.

And something inside him gave way — not with noise, but with silence. A collapsing lung. A skipped heartbeat. A life rerouted.

This was what it would be, then.

A life with a hollow in it. Until the universe finally had the decency to take him.

He heard a soft sound, like water breaking on glass.

At first he thought it was her — his daughter — but she was quiet now. Blinking up at him.

He followed her gaze.

And saw you.

Sitting on your suitcase. Face in your hands. Sobbing like something inside you had torn loose. The tiny snow seal rests on your knees — absurdly delicate against the wreckage of you.

For a heartbeat, he wanted to strangle you. The next — he only wanted to hold you and never let go again.

But he wasn’t alone anymore.

“Go,” he said gently, lowering her to the ground. “She needs you.”

She ran without hesitation.

You didn’t hesitate either — just opened your arms and pulled her in, holding her like you could fold the whole world into that embrace.

He couldn’t hear what you said. It was yours. It was between you.

He waited. Waited until the tears began to fade from your cheeks.

Then stepped closer.

“You chickened out?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you half-laughed, half-hiccuped. “I got scared you’d never kiss me again.”

He arched a brow, and his look said everything: What, exactly, do you think I spent all of last night doing?

You licked your lips. His shoulders trembled with silent laughter.

“All that?” he said. “A full-scale emotional catastrophe for one unfinished kiss?”

“It’s worse,” you muttered, deadpan. “It’s agony.”

Zayne looked at your daughter, who still clung to your coat. Her eyes darted between you — between home and hope.

He bent down, pressed a folded note of cash into her palm.

“Two hot chocolates,” he whispered. “Get them inside. Mama loves hers with cinnamon.”

She bolted. No questions.

And then his hands were on your face, warm and certain.

“I don’t make a habit of kissing strangers,” he said.

“Zayne —”

“I only kiss one woman.” His voice caught, barely — but it did. “Mine.”

Then he stepped in — deliberate, steady — and kissed you. Not like a doctor. Not like a ghost from your past.

But like a man who remembered every breath you'd ever stolen from him. Like someone claiming what he'd mourned for too long.

His hand slid to your jaw, fingers anchoring just enough to say: You’re not leaving again.

His mouth was warm and certain and slow, like the end of winter breaking. And when you kissed him back — really kissed him — something locked into place.

Not resolution. But return.

He drew back just enough to speak, thumb brushing the wet beneath your eyes.

“Remember this,” he whispered. “These lips aren’t just for kissing. They’re for questions. Even the scary ones.”

You nodded. Then, just barely —

“Then let me ask one.”

Your hand rose to his jaw, your fingers brushing that impossible edge.

“Is there any chance,” you whispered, “that you could… ever love me again?”

Zayne looked at you.

Then shook his head — not in denial, but disbelief. At the question. At you.

“I never stopped.”

He took your suitcase. Slipped his arm around your waist.

Together, you walked back to your daughter. To cocoa. To warmth. To the beginning.

[barbwritesstuff]

I'm struck with a sudden and unprovoked need to explain the romantic dynamics in Blood Moon and Thicker Than. I don't know why, and will not be taking questions at this time.

There are eight romanacable characters in Blood Moon.

Marco

Carrie

Vicky

Ed

Sergi

Shawnie

Roe

Farro

And nine in Thicker Than.

Tracy

Marcel

Erin

Nathan

Iliya

Freya

Ravima

Chris

Minjo

Starting with the werewolves...

Marco's whole shtick is the best friend. He's the goofy, kinda scrappy golden retriever guy who is fun, a little awkward, and prone to running his mouth. That dynamic doesn't change if you romance him. When it comes to the bedroom, he's super versatile. Top? Bottom? Rough? Gentle? Left? Right? No matter your preference, he's game.

Carrie brings the baggage so you don't have to. She needs a lot of love and understanding, especially at first, but if you're kind to her she'll let her guard down and open up. I wanted her dynamic with the MC to be all about that trust and that extends into the romantic and intimate scenes. Carrie's banter with the MC is her way of feeling safe... so yeah, that's in the sexy bits too.

Vicky is my Batman. Strong, stoic, silent... even when perhaps she shouldn't be. She's been through hell and back and her number one mission in life is to make sure no one she loves has to experience what she did. She also knows kungfu, because of course she does. Her romantic scenes are very, very gentle.

Ed is a sassy wee sweetheart. A genuinely good, and really smart guy who has to try so hard not to roll his eyes at the antics of some of the other werewolves. He's never dated anyone before, so the romantic dynamic is a little slower, a little sweeter, and a little softer. Because he's a virgin he'll set some boundaries in the bedroom. After all, he's still figuring it all out.

Sergi is a little late edition to the Blood Moon love interest roster. When I first invented the character, he was originally going to be way more of a background character than he ended up being. There's a bit of an age gap here, as Serge is a little older than the MC, and the relationship develops right at the end of the game. It's a kinda messy dynamic, a lot of trauma, helping each other recover through love, etc.

Shawnie is hot and she knows it. Curvy, sexy, playful, fun. Because the other female love interests lean a little bit bleaker, I wanted Shawnie to be for people who wanted a lighter, bubblier, more fun romance. That doesn't mean she's shallow or simple, but that she takes her fun where there is fun to be taken.

Roe is the alpha of the other pack and has some pretty intense feelings about power and being in charge. Expect some tussling in the bedroom. They've been an alpha for only a little while and have only recently started to realise how lonely it can be at the top. A lot of their romance is them realising they have that wall around themselves and figuring out how to navigate around it.

Farro is the only love interest in Blood Moon who is 'missable'. I.E. Depending on your choices, you may not meet him at all. He looks like a werewolf, even among werewolves, big and muscular with long hair and a beard. He's also a dad, a widower, and super introverted. However, behind closed doors, he's rather intense.

And now for the vampires (and non vampires) of Thicker Than...

Tracy is a bitch with a heart of gold. She's using you to escape the clutches of the cult that she's been trapped in for decades, and isn't quite sure if she can trust you either. But, despite all her sharp edges, she's the most ride-or-die person in the world. She needs some tenderness, but isn't shy about desire or romance.

Marcel does a really good job of acting the part of the scary, shadowy vampire lord, but the truth is, he's rather too easily charmed by plucky fledglings who push back against the system. He's also kinda a freak in the bedroom.

Erin is complicated. She's been fighting against the vampire court for decades and is a figurehead of the revolution... even though, in some ways, she doesn't really believe in it any more. I haven't written her intimate scenes yet, but the vibe I'm reaching for is a little messy, a little angry, just like she is. Also lowkey thinking of adding a threesome in with her and her human girlfriend in Chapter Four. I dunno.

Nathan is the vampire hunter, so if I had to give him a trope, it'd be enemies to lovers. He's kinda a badarse, but also really bad at looking after his own arse. He is, after all, catching feelings for a vampire. Also, he 100% doesn't get enough sunlight. The vibe is I-don't-know-if-I-should-kill-you-or-kiss-you.

Iliya is one big walking cliche, and that's why I love him. I wanted him to be the bodyguard romance, and he is that. He's also kind of a bastard in a I-will-betray-you-but-then-maybe-unbetray-you kinda way. Big, a little cheeky, and very hungry.

Freya is soft and kind and very trusting in almost every way. Unfortunately, that makes her a little (occasionally a lot) gullible. She wants to believe the best in people, even when sometimes it puts her in danger. My intension with her character was to contrast it with her witchy powers. She's a sucker, but she's also one of the most powerful necromancers alive (and is capable of consulting with some of the dead ones). Her romance is, like everything else about her, very soft and cosy. She will only use her powers on you if you're into it.

Ravima is perhaps my most classic vampire romance. They're dark, they're sinister, they're obsessed with art, with knowledge, with anything that will make immortality a little less boring. They also kinda want to eat you, but they also want to fuck you, and that's kinda the whole vibe.

Chris is my first (and last because oh holy hell the coding is hard) gender selectable love interest. They're only available to players who select the divorcee origin at the start of the game. That's because, they're the main character's ex spouse. Perhaps obviously, the romance route is very second chance romance.

Minjo has the weird honour of having the most Romeo and Juliet romance I've ever written. She's team werewolf, and you're a vampire. She's also a total MILF, and only available to characters who are also parents. Bond over being single and raising kids. I wanted to give her a dry sense of humour, and a down to earth sorta charm.

Anyway.

My number one goal with these romances was to make them all unique. I didn't want to copy paste the love scenes and change the names. I wanted them to all feel like different people and for their romance routes to feel different and unique to them. I don't know if I've fully achieved that. There's some that do overlap with each other, but I think I've managed to hit a few different spots on the love interest spectrum.

[deception-united]

hello fellow human

i wanna write smut but I suck at writing in general

Hi, thanks for asking!

Writing Smut

1. Describe, but don't get too poetic.

It's always important to have sentences that flow well and use descriptive language no matter what it is you're writing:

Ex: Rather than "He kissed her. She gasped. He touched her thigh," use more sensory language like "His mouth traced a slow path upwards, heat following in its wake. She exhaled sharply, fingers curling into his shirt" etc.

However, something I've noticed some writers tend to do is get too metaphorical with it, and as a reader, it frankly makes me uncomfortable when I read things like 'their bodies tangled together in mother nature's sexual slow dance' or idk.

2. Know your characters.

Smut isn’t one-size-fits-all. When writing a scene, consider their personalities, history, experience, and emotional state, and make it reflect that. For example, a shy character usually won’t become dominant all of a sudden unless there’s a reason; or a guarded character who typically resists vulnerability might be more awkward, unsure, or reluctant at first. Also consider their communication style (are they verbal? Do they tease? Do they hesitate or take control?) Bottom line is, make it more character-driven.

3. Avoid getting overly clinical.

Focus on sensory details rather than the mechanics: don't just list actions like a biology textbook. "He inserted X into Y" isn't hot—describe feelings instead (heat pooling in the stomach, the burn of a touch, hitch of breath, rustle of fabric, etc.).

4. Consent & power dynamics

Even in dark or rougher scenes or the wildest fantasy settings, it's important to have clarity on consent (unless the lack of it is the point). If your character's don't communicate at all, or if something feels off, the scene can easily turn uncomfortable or confusing. A character might want to be overpowered or controlled—but the reader should always know it’s wanted.

5. Word choices matter.

Avoid overly clinical words like "member", but also avoid purple prose. You don’t need to turn into a thesaurus and call it "his throbbing sword of love and desire" (please) but you also don’t want to be so vague that no one knows what’s happening. Overall, keep it natural; if you’re cringing while writing, reconsider.

6. Before & after

Have some buildup. If they go from casual conversation to ripping each other’s clothes off with zero transition, it’s gonna feel flat and likely confusing.

Aftercare is important as well. Once it's over, add a little moment of tenderness, teasing, a shared cigarette, something. Or maybe they don't bask in the moment and immediately get dressed like nothing happened and go their separate ways (it all depends on your characters, their relationship, and the narrative).

___

Aside from all this, it's important to get comfortable with writing first. If you feel like you suck at it, smut might not necessarily be the best starting point—you're not just describing bodies, but have to take into account the pacing, emotion, tension, flow of action, all that. You don’t need to be a literary genius, but it's good to have some sort of a foundation. If you feel unprepared, try practicing with writing simple, mundane scenes, like a character drinking coffee or two people arguing over something petty. If you can describe that in an engaging way, describing more complex scenes will seem much less daunting. Critically reading similar scenes to what you want to write in books or fanfics can also help gain a better grasp of the whole thing.

Hope this helped! Happy writing ❤

Previous | Next

[h-worksrambles]

HUGE endgame spoilers for Expedition 33 below. Do not read if you haven’t completed the game.

The most heart wrenching thing about Clair Obscur’s ending is that no matter what you pick, the whole scenario is set up so that someone gets screwed over. Maelle and Verso’s respective traumas have shaped them in such a way that their ideals are completely at an impasse. To side with one is to rob the other of agency, even if it may well be doing what is best for them.

If you pick Verso, he is finally freed from the shackles of his immortality. Remember not only was this entire Canvas made specifically for him, he isn’t even truly Verso. And he’s been trapped in that existential nightmare for too long. Bound to memories that he knows aren’t his. And we finally let him claim agency over his mortality and let him go out on his own terms. But at what cost?

The Dessendres, as an outlet for their grief, made an entire world of living, thinking people, and consigned them to a ticking clock apocalypse because they got caught up in their creators’ family drama. And you’ve spent dozens of hours in this world connecting with it, coming to love these characters and fighting to give them a future. And just when it seems they finally have one, Verso takes it away. To take Verso’s side is to agree with Renoir, that this painted world isn’t real and doesn’t matter.

I love that the game makes you linger on every member of your party as they Gommage. Monoco and Esquie have known Verso longest and they saw this coming. They simply hug him and fade away without complaint. Sciel, despite how hard she fought to save this world has had enough experience with death to understand why Verso did what he did, and wordlessly empathises with him. But Lune? She just sits there. Coldly. She doesn’t offer sympathy. She doesn't offer forgiveness. Because Verso lied to her. Again. Despite getting attached, he stabbed everyone he’s come to bond with in the back (and those were relationships you developed and fostered as a gameplay mechanic).

And what about Maelle? Yes, rationally, this is the correct choice. Leaving the canvas gives her a shot at healing. And at Verso’s funeral we can see glimpses that maybe the fractured family has a chance to reconcile. But we have to rob Maelle of all agency. To force her back into a world of pain, consign her to a life altering disability. Maelle treasures her family as both Alicia and Maelle equally. But she is ultimately giving up a family either way. Her birth family or her painted one. But she didn’t even get the luxury of choice, after we just fought so hard to give her the agency her father denied her. So we basically sacrificed the very world we fought to save, just for the slim chance that Maelle might get therapy.

So does that make the Maelle ending better? Unfortunately no, because Christ this is a horror story (and the one I got on my playthrough). On the one hand, it seems like the one where everyone got what they wanted. Gustave, Sophie and all those who Gommaged are restored. All these people whose chances at life were stolen from them by the machinations of the Dessendres get a chance at life. And Maelle has clearly given Verso the ability to age, so he will one day die as he wishes, but can live a full life until that happens.

And yet, we come back to that point. The Dessendres are basically gods to the Canvas. That fact can never be put back in the box. Maelle’s relationship with her loved ones will never be the same. However much she loves them, however benevolent her intentions, they’re always going to puppets playing out their existence to make her happy. Letting Verso age might be a kindness in the same way sending Maelle back to her family was, but in the same way, it strips him of any agency. He’s literally performing for her on a stage. Symbolic of how that power dynamic of Painter and Painted will forever linger over them. She will never truly have her brother back.

Furthermore, that (absolutely terrifying) smash cut to Maelle with painted eyes like the Paintress shows the true horror of this. If choosing Verso meant validating Renoir, then choosing Maelle calls Aline to mind. Maelle, like Aline, is left drowning herself in a dream, chasing catharsis in a world she controls. It’s a gentle rule, but a rule nonetheless. She will always be a god, and her found family will always be her creations, and that may well drive her to lose herself as it did her mother.

Verso’s ending was a cruel vivisection, one where the treatment was arguably more extreme than the result. Cutting everything away chasing an uncertain future. Maelle’s ending preserves life, but offers only stagnation. Even after defeating both Aline, and Renoir, both Maelle and Verso were ultimately shaped by their parents, and repeat their perspectives. Even at this final choice one that is theoretically theirs without their parents’ influences, they can’t shake off their legacy of grief and pain. As such, there is no golden ending for these two traumatised souls. It’s too late for that. There is only cruel necessity or gentle delusion.

Both endings come with their share of disturbing implications, and both can make sense to a player at the time. A player might agree with one of the two in the moment but be horrified at the consequences. Like Verso said ‘we’re all hypocrites’ none of these choices are pleasant. The Dessendres’ grief, and the lives they toyed with as a result, will have consequences one way or another.

Ultimately, I would pick Verso’s ending as the lesser evil, if only because it offers some kind of hope that SOMETHING good may come with this. Maybe the family really can move on. Maybe tomorrow will finally come, as the game’s been constantly saying. But you as the player, are still gonna have to carry the weight of Lune’s cold, judgemental stare. Remember how much you threw for even the slimmest chance at another outcome. Is that arguably better than leaving Maelle to a prison of her own making, to nothing but stagnation? Maybe, but that doesn’t make the alternative any less pleasant…

Verso’s ending left me at least hoping that something good may come from it, while wondering if it was worth the cost. Maelle’s ending left me hollow, realising that nothing good could come from this.

Clair Obscur’s ending is definitely hitting notes I’ve seen in other stories and even other RPGs. The need to accept suffering as an inevitable part of life and not hide away from it in fantasy. The fact that the first step to moving on from grief is acceptance. The way parents shape their children and how crucial it is to let them make their own decisions. How easy it is to cling to control after grappling with loss. But the way it leverages the player’s attachment to the world and people of the canvas makes for one of the most thoughtful examples of that narrative. Even if the people of the canvas aren’t ‘real’ they’re still people with hopes and dreams and rich inner lives. And the fact that their only options are oblivion or to forcibly play house with their well meaning but misguided teenage god is a horrible prospect.

Clair Obscur is about grief. It’s about its cyclical nature. About how if we don’t learn to move on from it, it will ripple onwards to our children. But it’s also about how grief causes us to affect the world around us. The horrific cruelty of the canvas’ fate (Verso included) reminds us how we can end up treating others when we’re blinded by our own inner demons.

It’s a brilliantly done conflict to wrap up a brilliantly made game. And one that will likely go down as one of my favourites.

[zomquette]

Let Em' Dream

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female!Reader

Genre: Protective Daryl / established relationship / Angst & Comfort / Survival Tension / Flirty Banter

Warnings: Language, tense power dynamics, creepy men (Claimers, ew), implied past trauma, protective behavior, mild violence, emotional vulnerability, implied sexy vibes but no smut.

Summary: You and Daryl joined the Claimers for safety. That safety came with a price. Leers, comments, tension you can cut with a knife. But you’re not weak—and you’re not alone. Daryl’s love language might be grunts and glares, but when it comes to keeping you safe, he’s louder than words.

Era: Post-Prison / Pre-Terminus

Long-ass Author’s Note: I really wanted to write a fic involving the Claimers because… well, no one really does. And when they do, it’s often the same tired formula: the reader is heavily objectified, used as a plot device to elevate the male character or trigger protective instincts. That kind of storytelling not only feels lazy but can be genuinely harmful. It reduces women to props for drama and reinforces the idea that being mistreated is somehow part of the fantasy. That’s not what I wanted here.

I know—it’s just a fic. A silly little story. But even in these kinds of spaces, the way we write about objectification and misogyny matters. I didn’t want to center the reader’s value in how much pain she could endure or how much she needed saving. I wanted her to be capable, complex, angry, soft, and human. And yeah, I couldn’t resist adding a bit of fluff at the end too. Sue me.

On a more personal note, this fic hit close to home. The kind of treatment the reader faces here—subtle, persistent, exhausting—is something I (and so many other women and girls) know all too well. It’s isolating. It makes you second-guess your own instincts. And sometimes, you forget that it’s not your fault. I wish someone had told me that earlier. So if you’re reading this and any of it resonates—please know you’re not alone. None of this is okay, and it never was.

Anyway, I’ll shut up now. Hope you enjoy. :)

**************************************************************

It was the kind of cold that settled in your teeth. Dry air, dry land. Smoke from a cooking fire clung to your jacket like something alive, and every step crunched like bone underfoot.

You stayed close to the tree line while Daryl walked ahead, crossbow slung low on his back, posture half-feral. The others trailed nearby—Joe, Len, Billy, and whatever stragglers they'd picked up since the last camp. The Claimers. They called themselves that with pride, like they weren't just scavengers with vocabulary.

They weren’t so bad at first. Talkative. Friendly. The kind of friendliness that came with teeth.

You and Daryl joined up a few days ago. Not by choice - not really. You needed the strength in numbers if you guys wanted to sleep at night without two eyes open. It was simply smarter to travel in groups, or at least that's what you kept telling yourself. The rules were simple: don’t take what’s been claimed, and don’t walk away.

That last one was never spoken aloud. But you could feel it, like being circled by wolves that hadn’t decided whether to bare their teeth. This was only temporary. This first chance we get we are hightailing it and we never see these assfucks again. You could only dream of that moment for now.

The nights were the worst. You always woke up before sunrise, not from noise, but from the quiet. The wrong kind. Like someone holding their breath near your ear.

You felt eyes on you. Not Daryl’s. His, you were used to. His gaze was steady, grounding, always followed by the warmth of his palm finding yours under the blanket.

No, the others were different.

Joe had a habit of watching too long and saying too little when it came to you. Always quiet, always smiling, always sitting just close enough to be noticed. Len, on the other hand, didn't hide his thoughts. He'd whistle when you walked by, crack jokes about "needing a good woman to stick around." The worst was Billy, who once asked if Daryl "shared well."

You laughed it off, quickly stepping in front of Daryl so he wouldn't tear the guy's eyes out. Sure, that would be fun to watch, but two against eight weren't odds you would gamble on. Besides, you knew that was what they wanted; to see you snap - that would be like stepping into a trap. And at this rate, Daryl would be at his breaking point sooner or later.

But every word, every look, chipped away at your reserve. You started wearing Daryl's clothes over your own, stopped washing your hair so often, and kept your gun closer than usual. You felt like you were betraying yourself, smothering who you were to appease others. This wasn't you; cowering under others' stares while you shrug your hood over your face. No, you would think let em' dream while you strutted by them, swaying your hips like Shakira. And if someone did decide to be dumb and mouth off, you would show them why that was dumb - no need for scary boyfriend Daryl to shoo them away. Maybe everything really was weighing down on you; the loss of the prison, of Hershel, of your group, of… Beth. Maybe that person was left behind at the prison, and here you were left trying to scramble for the pieces, rithing at how vulnerable you felt… it made you sick with fury.

And Daryl felt it, too.

He noticed the change in you. The way your body tensed when someone said your name. The way you touched his arm a second longer when someone else was near. He didn’t need you to say it out loud. He didn’t need to see it happen. He knew, and it twisted something in him.

He wasn’t used to this—to feeling this much. He didn’t always have the words for it, didn’t even always understand it himself. But when it came to you, it showed up in the way he watched. The way he kept near and his eyes stayed on the backs of men too long, like he was calculating angles.

He knew you could handle yourself. Had seen it. Trusted it. That wasn’t why he hovered. It was because his body didn’t know how not to. Because loving you made his instincts loud, louder than they’d ever been. Protection wasn’t a comment on your strength. It was a confession of his. That he couldn’t bear to lose the one thing that made this hell of a world feel like something worth enduring.

The air of your camp for the night had the taste of rust and smoke, thick with campfire. A good place as any - being in the woods was better than out in the open on the road. You excused yourself quietly, weaving through the abandoned, rusty cars that some of the guys had settled into, and stepped over the metal wiresu descended into the woods for some privacy surrounding the makeshift camp, which created a perimeter as yo. Daryl watched you go with a look that said everything—be quick, be careful, be back. 

You felt him before you heard him. Len.

The crunch of leaves behind you was too heavy, definitely intentional. You slowed after a few minutes of walking, every nerve on alert, gaze sweeping the shadows. It was a full moon tonight, silver light catching on the blade at your belt. At least you weren't caught with your pants down. 

“Didn’t think we were doin’ shifts,” you called out flatly, not turning around.

He chuckled behind you, smug and slow. “Just makin’ sure a lady like yourself doesn’t get turned around. It’s dangerous out here.”

You turned. Not startled. Not shaken. Just done. So done with this bullshit. The apocalypse was so effective in wiping out most of the population, why couldn't it have included the entitled pricks like shit-for-brains here?

Len had his thumbs hooked in his belt loops like he owned the night air itself. You stood your ground, arms crossed, weight shifted to one hip.

“You got about three seconds to turn around and walk back to camp," you said, voice cold. "Or I start making souvenirs outta your fingers."

He smiled, eyebrows raising, taking a step closer.

"Oooh," he drawled. "Small thing talks a big game."

"You'd be surprised what a small thing like me can do with such a small tool,” you shot back, taking out your knife to admire it. “Course you know all about that, don't ya, Lenny?”

“C’mon now,” he said, mock-wounded. “We've been travelling companions together, ain’t we? Breakin’ bread, sharin’ fire. That’s gotta mean somethin’.”

“Oh sure. It means i havent slit your throat yet,” you replied, flashing your dazzling smile and twirling your knife.

He didn’t laugh this time.

You saw it then—the flicker of frustration. The way men like him hate being reminded they’re not owed anything. Especially not you.

He moved fast, hand going to your arm.

Your knife was faster. Your leg shot out and swept his leg from under him when it came into contact with the back of his, making him take a knee. It happened so fast, he went from reaching for your arm to now kneeling with you behind him. Oh, and the small tool you mentioned earlier was now pressed against his neck so harshly it was like you were going to peel his skin off like a potato.

“Try that again,” you say quietly into his ears, sending shivers down his spine. “I dare you.”

He blinked, neck taut against the blade, and for the first time, Len looked small.

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble,” he muttered.

“No?” you snapped, voice going slightly higher, effectively taunting him with the situation he was in. A chick has you by the throat, gonna cry bitch boy? “Well then, don’t go sniffin’ where you’re not wanted. I ain't a prize, and I sure as hell ain’t yours.”

You pressed the knife just enough to nick the skin, drawing some blood. A sweet reminder for later.

Then you stepped back, shoving him into the dirt to tower above him.

“And you can go ahead and tell your little buddies that, too. You want someone to own get a damn dog.”

Len didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just lay there, butt hurt trying to process what just happened, lips thin, pride in tatters.

You walked away first, and you didn’t look back. And for the first time in a while, when turning in for the night, you didn't feel like you had something weighing on your chest.

______________________________________________________

The car creaked gently as the wind rocked it. Daryl’s arms had settled heavily around your shoulders, spooning you in the backseat, one hand tracing slow lines along your arm. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t peaceful either. It hovered, like both of you were trying to name something you’d carried too long.

You shifted against him, voice barely above the hum of cicadas. “It’s weird, y’know? The world ended, and for a while… men weren’t the main problem anymore. Just walkers. Just hunger. Then suddenly, it’s back. That same old look. The kind that makes your skin crawl.” 

Your eyes glued to the car ceiling, lost in thought. Part of you didn't wanna say these things to him. Wouldn't it just make him sad? It was one thing to feel completely helpless as a woman in a disgustingly testosterone environment; the last thing you needed was a pity party. But that wasn't how Daryl worked. “Makes you think… maybe it’s better to be hungry than desirable.” 

He didn’t speak right away. Just rubbed his thumb along your arm, like he could erase the tension coiled there.

“You think you’re past it,” you added, voice so quiet it was just short of a whisper. “Then someone stares too long, or gets too close, and it’s like muscle memory. You always watch for it, and the moment you catch on, everything just stops. And you think ‘how the fuck am i gonna get out of here?’ and that feeling hasnt left since we got stuck with these assholes”

Daryl didn’t need you to explain it — he’d already seen it in the way you were always on edge around the Claimers. And still, hearing it cracked something in him. It was one thing to know you were tense — it was another to know you were expecting it. Bracing for it like it was routine. You had to prepare yourself for the way men looked at you. The idea that those bastards had you scanning exits, holding your breath — that they got to live in your mind rent-free like that — it made him sick. You were the best thing in this goddamn world. Tough, loyal, quick as hell, and his — which he still had trouble wrapping his head around half the time. And still, they had the audacity to think about you like that. To make you feel like something to be claimed. He didn’t know how to carry that — didn’t know how to fix it — but he’d be damned if he let you carry it alone.

“Merle used to say somethin’,” he said finally, breaking the heavy silence. “Said, ‘Ain’t nobody gonna care for you but me.’ Like… that was supposed to be enough. Like givin’ a damn made you weak.”

You turned your body to look up at him slowly, your brow furrowed.

“I believed him,” Daryl admitted. “For a long time, I did. Thought the only way to survive was keepin’ your distance. Keepin’ everybody out.”

His hand moved from your arm to your back, warm and steady.

“But you… You make me wanna stay close. Make me wanna care. And I ain’t scared of that no more. Not if it means ya feel safe… Not if it means I can carry some of that for you.”

Your throat went tight—not because you were afraid, but because it was the first time in a long time that someone wanted to share the weight.

You leaned into him, letting your forehead find it’s place in the crook of his neck.

“I gotcha,” he murmured, rubbing your back. “Long as I’m breathin’, ain’t nobody layin’ a hand on ya.”

You huffed a soft laugh against his skin. “Kinda melodramatic, Dixon. ‘Ain’t nobody touchin ma woman ya hear?!’.” you mocked in a hushed voice, face scrunching exactly like his signature scowl.

He grunted, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… you bring it outta me.” 

He hugged you tighter, his arms closing around your frame and locking you to him in the most wonderful way and kissed your head as he nuzzled into your hair. 

______________________________________________________

The morning air was crisp, tinged with dew and the fading smoke of last night’s fire. You wandered down to the creek with a change of clothes tucked under your arm and sleep still clinging to your bones. It was rare to be alone these days, but you needed a moment. The water was cold, biting at your fingers as you crouched by the edge and scrubbed the grime from your skin. You let out a slow breath, staring at your reflection. Jeez, I look like a Tim Burton character.

Behind you, Daryl lingered.

He was meant to be back at camp, but he stayed just a few metres away by a tree, crossbow slung on his shoulder, eyes never leaving your form. Watching, but not invading. There was a quiet reverence in the way he kept his distance. Not because he thought you needed protecting, but because he needed to know he was there if things went sideways.

And things almost did.

Two of the Claimers had peeled away from the group. They tiptoed away from them and made their way towards the creek. Towards you. Their faces dropped instantly when instead of finding you, they found a irratable redneck. One of them let out a short laugh that didn’t reach his eyes, and Daryl’s stance shifted.

“You best turn around,” he said before they got too close.

The two men froze. One of them — a lanky guy with a toothpick — tried to play it off with a smirk.

“We ain’t doin’ nothin’,” he said, face blank.

“Didn’t ask what you were doin’. I said turn around.”

The tension stretched thin as fishing wire.

The bigger of the two men — the one with the beer-can crush of a face — squared his shoulders like he thought he had something to prove. “You always this twitchy, Dixon? She’s just takin’ a bath.”

Daryl stepped forward. “And you’re just about ready to take bolt to the ass. So, unless you wanna get an extra hole, I suggest you walk.”

That did it. They backed off, muttering curses under their breath, but Daryl didn’t move until the last boot crunched out of sight.

You walked back over, hair dripping and a towel hanging off your shoulder, oblivious to the tension that had just slunk off into the trees.

Daryl was leaned against a tree like he’d been relaxing the whole damn time — one foot crossed over the other, arms folded, face like stone.

“Everything alright?” you chirped, side-eyeing him as you wrung water from your ends.

“Uh huh,” he said, nodding once. “Just enjoyin’ the view.”

You paused. “…The creek?”

He smirked, eyes skating over your figure. “Among other things.”

You narrowed your eyes, smiling as you stalked towards him. “That right?”

“Mhmm,” he muttered, straightening up. “Nature’s real pretty this time of mornin’.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, shaking your head. Then — crack — you snapped the towel against his thigh with a mischievous grin.

He jerked back. “The hell, woman?!”

“That’s for being a creep,” you laughed, already backing up.

He lunged like he might chase you, but you squealed and darted ahead. “Don’t start nothin’ you can’t finish-” he hollered after you, boots thudding in pursuit.

You glanced back with a grin. “Baby, I finish everything I start. You of all people should know that”

“Don’t go bringin’ that up unless you’re plannin’ on finishin’ somethin’ right now.”  He closed in on you, shoulders now relaxed. “cmon, I'm hungry for breakfast.” He motioned for you to walk beside him, playfully patting your ass to move, which of course earned him a scowl from you. "You better be talking about game, Dixon. I ain't servin' up anything else." You looked over to him to see his face, now sporting a cunning smile, and that look in his eyes which you only saw when you guys were alone. You dropped your head in disbelief, a big smile growing on your face as you whipped him with your towel again. "keep dreamin' Dixon."

The earlier tension was now forgotten, or at least tucked behind the sly grin he wore only for you.

**************************************************************

Let me know what you think 🥴🤭

[devourable]

⚘ the boys next door

sfwish, mdni | tags ; poly!male yanderes x gn reader (no prns used but 'you'), manipulation, yan behavior, slight fetishization of virginity

originally this was just gonna be one character so thank mazzy for convincing me to make him a poly duo instead lmfao. ik i have things to finish but like,,, boys 🫶

not too proud of this one so ill probs revise it or make a part two at a l8r time when im feeling less rusty

the boys next door were the two that everyone knew of as a pair.

sebastian and tobias grew up together, learned together, played together, and shared absolutely everything practically since they were born. they were what people thought of when the words 'best friends' came to mind.

nothing could or would ever come between the two boys, everyone said.

so it was no shock that when you came in and quite literally got between them — by virtue of moving into the vacancies that separated their homes — their instant mutual attraction to you would do nothing but strengthen the bond between them.

it was odd. any additions to their relationship was unheard of, but...

the boys next door shared everything. you didn't think that'd exclude you, did you?

toby and sebastian were quick to befriend you when you entered their life. you were around their age, practically the only other child in the area at that; but unlike the children at school who they'd turn away from in favor of each other, they readily made you part of their dynamic.

they didn't quite understand the feelings you gave them at first, they were too young to. all they really knew is that they liked being around you, they liked talking about you, and they wanted you to themselves.

when you were young, everything became about you. their favorite games involved them being your loyal knights, or bodyguards, or any other role that involved protecting you from whatever threat their little minds could imagine up.

and when you grew tired of playing the damsel in distress? they were fine with it. whatever you wanted from them, you got. sebastian's gaming console was practically yours with how much he pushed you to play on it. toby would beg his parents to get him any toy he'd seen you show interest in; and he'd always eventually get them for you.

they didn't want you to ever be bored around them. you'd always have a good time on their watch, and they spoiled you relentlessly to the best of their abilities.

you were theirs, now! and you took care of what was yours, no matter what. that's what both of them were taught.

they grew up with you. learned with you. played with you, and of course, they shared you — even as the three of you grew up.

everyone around you saw how much they adored you, too. when asked, the two boys would proclaim how they'd both marry you in the future. it was so cute! no one saw an issue with how they always took up as much time and attention as they could from you. or how you never really seemed to be able to make friends with other kids at your school...

you had your best friends, so it didn't matter. they were all you needed.

the pair grew to love their constant close proximity to you. it ensured that they'd know what was going on in your life at all times as you grew and developed. when you weren't all hanging out together, it wouldn't be unusual for the pair to simply watch your home from their windows, glimpsing into your windows to watch you go about your life.

you were turning into a fine young adult. but you still needed their protection! they both easily surpassed you in size as you all grew up — sebastian in particular, who's height was staggering compared to both you and toby. he liked the edge it gave him, and how intimidating he could be when needed. tobias didn't have that advantage, but everyone liked him enough to respect you as his territory anyway. you were so small and sweet, what if someone saw you the way they did? they couldn't have that, they had no choice but to keep you to themselves.

it felt like you always had at least one of the two at your side at all times. so much so that it felt odd when you were without either of them. sebastian and toby being by your side was as natural as breathing and you grew to never really question their behavior.

they were just making sure you were okay when they insisted on keeping you company when you were home alone. when toby took your first kiss, it was because it only made sense — it should go to someone you trust and care about, right? and when you told the two that you were still a virgin well into adulthood (which they knew, of course), they insisted on being your first.

they knew you better than anyone, they'd know how to make you feel good. and who better to give your virginity to than your best friends?

getting to claim your body, inside and out, was one of the best moments of their lives. no one would ever get to have you the way they did.

no matter what you'd do, where you'd go, you'd always be effected by them in some way — and that's exactly how they wanted it. they'd always be your first best friends, your first boyfriends, your first everything. and you'd always be theirs.

the boys next door would always be entangled in your life. but you wouldn't have it any other way, would you?

they know you better than anyone, after all.

[prideprejudce]

I think alot more people would enjoy the show if they learned to see Rhaenyra and Alicent as Unreliable Narrators, and characters who are supposed to have glaring flaws and weaknesses.

Mandatory preface- There are Issues™️ with season 2 that are its own other ask- but the complaints ive seen about character assassination on both women kind of tells me ppl just wanted to see the two just GirlBossing around, not being tragic characters trapped in their own circumstances.

For Alicent specifically- she just isn't written to be Cersei 2.0, and while it was really interesting to see motherhood from cersei's point of view, its already been done!! I actually prefer seeing Alicent's mercurial clinging to and abandoning motherhood- its interesting!! She was made a mother at what- 15? An age where you truly arent mentally developed enough to raise 3 kids, AND be a child bride, AND be a queen, (AND be a lesbian).

Alicent is interesting to me because she's stunted at 15 years old, she's an adult woman who talks to and sometimes bullies her kids as if they are her peers, and is obsessed with her childhood crush(es). She hasn't built any new relationships* past the ones she was entangled with as a teenager, she's obsessed with both acting out to make SOMEONE see that shes suffering, (she's honestly pretty blatant for someone who prides themselves on being the Temperate Voice of Reason) but also to erase herself and reset to before she had to marry the king, before aemma died.

I think most of her 'bad out of character' decisions are just these two impulses winning out, her trying to force a reset, go back to a time where none of this had happened yet, when things were simpler and she had love and every day wasn't the worst day of her life™️.

She sleeps with cole, the man she thought was pretty at 15 (her last uncomplicated attraction just before it all went wrong and aemma died) -she doesnt seem to like it that much, but she does seem compelled to seek him out, esp when upset- shes obsessed with, and desperate to reconnect with Rhaenyra, her childhood best friend (and first love) and get back to where they were as kids, AND she still treats and asks her father for absolution as if he's still the only authority that matters to her just like she did at 15. Alot of her 'victim complex/bewildered they took it so far' behaviour in the plotting of rhaenyra's usurption reads to me like a teenager in over her head, she talked big game and now its real and shes panicking!! She's tragic BECAUSE she's still a teenager- so stunted shes unable to meaningfully grow up and learn to make healthier choices for herself, or move on and stop trying to grasp at the 'if i could just go back' urge.

As a mother, I think this creates an interesting dynamic as well, and I do like that in the casting even, she seems closer in age to her kids than rhaenyra does to hers. I think the contrast ppl are drawing with Alicent Protecting Her Kids in season1 compared to her giving them up in season two isn't bad writing to me, just massive differences in context. Sure she protected Aemond in driftmark, but we cant ignore that she probably felt humiliated by her husband choosing rhaenyra's side over hers in front of everyone, did it seem like a grown woman fighting for her son?? or a teenager furious with her ex winning one over her again? or both!! both sides twisted together is still interesting! When she protected Aegon from Rhaenys, is stepping in front of her son the king to protect him from the enemies dragon fire not the most romantic daydream of a deserving death a child bride could come up with?? Was it the impulse to protect the son she couldnt decide if she loved or hated, or was it to have the most heroic death possible to escape the reality that she sees coming. And if Rhaenyra hears about how Brave she was in the face of a dragons maw, and cries about it forever and feels sooo bad and regrets it til the day she dies, thats an added bonus. I think Alicent loves her kids, but is teenager selfish about HOW she loves and protects her kids, and is unable to be a mature, consistant, protective mother to them when she also sees them as having ruined her life. I think in season 2 when she 'gives them up' shes relieved, and once again following the compulsion of 'if i reset to when Rhaenyra was heir, i had no sons, and i wasn't married or queen, everything will be better'. I think theres complexity to it, i think she does love her sons and feels insane about it, but I think Alicent has been trying to Go Back in more and more Intense ways ever since she got married, and we might be giving her sanity more credit than it deserves when it comes to the need to wipe the board clean and go back to being 15.

hey anon are you trying to get married to me or what

[velvetalliances-if]

🕊️ VELVET ALLIANCES

A high medieval interactive fiction story of legacy, betrayal, power.

“If you wish to survive in court, speak softly, marry smartly, and never show them where it hurts. I’ve buried more men than you’ve shaken hands with, I know what ends a legacy and I won’t see ours crumble for sentiment.”

- Lady Virelda Rovathar, your Grandmother

🏰 The Story

Set in the shadowed grandeur of the Valderith Empire, Velvet Alliances tells the story of House Rovathar, a once proud noble house nestled in the mountainous heart of the empire. Known for its mines and smiths, the house has endured, but never recovered, from a scandal that shattered its foundation twelve years ago.

A beloved wife lost.

A bastard child revealed.

A father turned cold.

Now, Lord Malrik Rovathar, rigid and embittered, seeks to change the ancient laws of succession, risking family stability, loyalty, and the delicate order of the court. His children, each scarred in their own way by grief and impossible expectations, begin to turn on one another, pulled by love, ambition, and old wounds.

And soon, they will have no choice but to play their roles before the entire empire.

For a grand festival within the imperial capital of Viremont draws near, held in celebration of the crown prince’s 20th birthday. Every noble house is expected to attend. What was once a quiet family struggle will now unfold beneath the gaze of the emperor, as well as your fellow noble families.

In the flickering light of courtly celebration, alliances will be forged, secrets uncovered, and legacies tested.

🎭 Your Role

You are the third-born child of House Rovathar, caught at the heart of the family’s unraveling. You’ve been overlooked, underestimated, and quietly shaped by the chaos around you.

 It’s a story of velvet words and iron consequences.

Will you try to save your family's legacy or tarnish it further?

Will you bind the family together, or let it tear itself apart?

🔹 Features

Deeply branching character-driven narrative

Complex family relationships & moral dilemmas

Court intrigue, noble alliances, and personal betrayal

Optional romance, friendship and rivalry arcs

Customizable MC

💪 Stats

Here is a link that discusses how your MC's stats are going to work.

♥️ MC’s Romance

You’ll have the opportunity to pursue one of four (planned) romances options.

Séraphan Viremont, 20 M

Eveline Lysvenna, 23 F

Kaelen Branthorne, 24 M

Céline Marleaux, 21 F

There may also be the opportunity for some flings with some other characters as well.

💒 Side Romance

Your young half sister has a heart of her own, and her eye has fallen on someone close to the court. Will you encourage her budding feelings, try to dissuade her, or try to pursue the object of her affection for yourself?

If you do not want to see spoilers on who her romance is with please block the tag Lirael<3.

Character Introductions

World Map - In development

Map of Valderith

Demo - TBD

💬 Dev Note:

Velvet Alliances is currently in early development. This blog will serve as a place for updates, worldbuilding posts, character reveals, and story previews. Asks are open, and feedback is more than welcome.

⚠️ Content Warnings for Velvet Alliances

Velvet Alliances is a character-driven, narrative-focused story that includes mature themes. Players should be advised of the following subject matter, which may appear in the game:

Velvet Alliances will be 18 plus for optional nsfw content.

Sexism and gender-based succession issues (this will be in no way glorified)

Parental neglect and emotionally distant parenting

Psychological manipulation and coercion

Violence and mentions of death

Emotional abuse and toxic family dynamics

Some mention of infidelity

If there is any warning I may have missed please do not hesitate to let me know and I will add it to the content warnings list. I aim to create a positive and safe space for readers to navigate the complex world I have created, and I will not tolerate bullying of any kind in any space I moderate. My inbox will always remain open for anyone who has questions or concerns.

[stackslip]

I wanna ask what’s going on with arcane but I feel like I’m opening pandora’s box 😅

the thing about arcane s1's writing, is that every plot beat flowed naturally from characters' choices, and every one of the characters' choices made sense in the context of who that character was, where they came from and what information they are working with at the time they make that decision. it felt like a tightly written tragedy where on a rewatch, it all feels completely inevitable that things would end this way because it made sense to who we learned these characters were. and said characters were layered, much time was devoted to giving them a certain degree of depth and believability (bar cait). you can criticize other aspects of s1's writing such as liberal wishwashiness but s1 of arcane was a *good* tragedy with a genuinely compelling cast! the final scene of the show is a confrontation between three major players who were all working with different information and whose motivations are completely at odds but who have a deeply personal tie, it's about jinx as the end result of the zaun-piltover conflict, it's about vi and silco being two deeply broken people who see her in an idealized version they deeply love and want her to remain this static thing they can be comfortable with until it turns out she can't be and she shatters and at the same time irreversably destroys her relationship to both, leading her in her despair to set off the ticking time bomb that is piltover and zaun's inevitable conflict!

so like, s1 has its flaws but its finale imo was perfect and made the whole thing self contained. i was ok with s2 happening. the only thing i wanted was more the dynamic character writing. i expected wishy washy politcs. and act 1 of s2 already struggled with character, but at least the plot beats were interesting and while not earned, made sense according to the characters we'd left in s1.

s2 act 2 is an absolute catastrophe, even compared to the previous act, nevermind compared to s1. it's not just that the plot beats don't feel earned, it's not just that it's missing connective tissue between them--it's that all the most interesting conflicts and dynamics just cease to exist. they don't get "resolved", they either are completely forgotten or are just waved away magically to pave the way for an utterly stupid, shlocky, wannabe shock value emotional final ten minutes of episode 6 that is honestly infuriating in how it's trying to push you to have feelings about it. i don't have any feelings besides revulsion and bafflement frankly. even before these final ten minutes of ep 6, the sheer lack of buildup or of character moments, the way characters are basically willed by the plot to be there at specific points for plot to happen to them instead of them arriving at it naturally--the way it reframes interesting aspects of s1 and s2 act 1 into shlocky, tropey bullshit--it's honestly near mesmerizing? it's like they brought in whole different new writers specifically for this who decided to back down on ANYTHING the show did that was interesting to try to instead push to the league's status quo instead, no matter how little sense it makes. i'm almost in awe. how do you mess up so badly.

this isn't just like, the plot is rushed and we need to get there as fast as possible--none of these resolutions make SENSE. jinx and vi's relationship was the core of season one, and suddenly magically jinx shows up at vi's door and vi bitches a little and then they go hunt vander down together and then they all hug because he was their father too <333 isha. i'm supposed to have emotions about isha? she sacrifices herself for.... forwhat? what? why? it's like they knew they had to kill her off to give jinx feelings and do so in the most stupid and absurd way possible, i was laughing hysterically when the music came in. it was so blatantly manipulative and uncalled for. ok i guess! sevika helps jinx and then once she's served her plot purpose she just vanishes! doesn't she wanna meet vander??? ekko's disappearance doesn't both people much i guess even his own firelights. ambessa says a single line about mel disappearing, and can i say i'm kinda infuriated that two out of three of the main black characters are just locked away from the plot and main cast for a large period of time. jayce--i guess they'll give us an explanation as to why but here it's like he just...... shows up angry and "ruins" things and that's it. whatever there was to ruin lmfao sky and viktor's heterosexuality mind palace leading to him being cyborg satan or some shit? cait finally FINALLY gets some personality, something interesting to her, she is openly a reactionary fascist who gassed half the undercity to sniff out jinx, and then she meets vi and within a solid minute is now back to being Nice and helping out jinx. i guess. silco and vander's backstory kind of completely destroys a lot of the stuff that made vander and silco's relationship to vi and jinx interesting and goes for a Family Is 5ever approach i guess.

just. i don't think there's a single thing there that's redeemable or interesting. it's comically bad. vi has no personality or motivation. she just does things. she got an emo trauma amv so that we get that she's sad but it might as well not have happened bc she barely is a character. jinx is a sad manic pixie dream girl. her psychosis is gone or barely there now apparently. sevika is plot and then vanishes when her part is done. ambessa is not a mastermind as act 1 hinted at but the most stupid comical villain alive. mel is--is she just going to come back to do a big plot thing in act 3 and then that's it? ekko the same? we have no idea what jayce is even doing or what or why. piltover and zaun are gonna ally now i guess lol. ok sure why not. why anything. why do anything at all! what's the point!

it's funny bc i was willing to give this season a chance despite act 1 being so rushed bc again, the plot points were interesting and while the characters needed more time fleshed out for their decisions to make sense i COULD see the characters making these choices and it was just a question of missing buildup. here it's like everyone is a zombie of their actual self. there's no point to anything. it's so stupid. it tries hard to play the emotion part but why should i feel any emotion except befuddlement? why are caitvi shippers happy? i'd be insulted. i feel insulted. i heard via a friend that riot had intervened in the writing more and so far i hadn't felt it but now i'm wondering if that's not exactly what happened bc it genuinely feels like the writers were fired right after act 1. what the fuck lol. i don't think i even wanna watch act 3 after this, i feel genuinely insulted that i should be expected to think this is the same show as s1 or that i should feel any kind of positive feelings about it. fuck this show so bad lmfao i'm sticking to s1 and pretending nothing happened after it. maybe grabbing some act 1 plot points for fun and that's it. it's so bad

[redvexillum]

PSA: RACISM, BIGOTRY, ENTITLEMENT IN HAZBIN HOTEL FANDOM

CONTENT WARNING: Inflammatory hate speech, White hate, political baiting, gaslighting, racism, death threats

The messages I’ve received and am addressing below contain upsetting and harmful language that has no place in any community. If these topics are distressing to you, please prioritize your well-being and feel free to stop reading here. Thank you for taking care of yourself.

I never imagined I would find myself addressing this, but here we are. This post is regarding my recent story, Stay With Me, which has stirred up unexpected controversy due to my decision to imply the reader’s race as white. I want to clarify that this choice was made purely for plot purposes.

The story is set in 1920s Louisiana, a time and place where racial and class dynamics were deeply significant. This backdrop was essential to the narrative’s themes of tension and forbidden love, as it explores the societal barriers that would have made a relationship between Alastor and the reader virtually impossible. The decision to depict the reader as an upper-class white individual was not arbitrary—it was intentional, aimed at heightening the drama and emotional weight of their story.

I deeply value the Hazbin Hotel fandom and the x-reader community. Writing for this space has brought me immense joy, and I’ve formed wonderful connections with both readers and fellow writers. That’s why receiving such hateful and inflammatory messages has been incredibly disheartening. The accusations of racism, the vitriol, and the twisting of my creative choices into something they were never meant to be—this has shaken me more than I can express.

To the anonymous senders of these messages: I want to make it clear that my work comes from a place of love and passion. My intention has always been to tell compelling stories that explore complex emotions, societal norms, and the human condition—stories that resonate with readers on a deeper level. To reduce my work to a political agenda or an act of prejudice is deeply hurtful and entirely unfounded.

I want to echo sentiments shared by Kit (please check out her explanation here), another writer in the fandom, who also explored the racial and class dynamics between characters. Like them, I am fascinated by the tension and drama that arise from star-crossed love stories, particularly when societal laws and prejudices forbid such relationships. Writing the reader as white in this context wasn’t about excluding or favoring anyone—it was about creating an authentic narrative rooted in the realities of the era.

For those questioning why I made this choice, I ask: if you can suspend disbelief to fall in love with a cannibalistic, asexual deer demon, why is the reader’s race—chosen for specific plot reasons—the line you cannot cross? My goal as a writer is to craft stories that make sense within their own context. The entitlement to demand otherwise, or to impose personal prejudices onto my work, is unfair and unwarranted.

I hate that I’ve had to turn off anonymous asks. Some of the most heartfelt and hilarious messages I’ve received have come from anonymous users, and losing that connection with my readers pains me. But unfortunately, the actions of a loud, hateful minority have left me with no choice. I will not entertain further discourse on this matter after this post.

To those who have supported me, who have read my stories and shared kind words: thank you. Your encouragement is what keeps me going. Writing for this fandom has been a labor of love, and I pour my heart and soul into every piece I create—for free, might I add. It’s devastating to feel that love overshadowed by hostility.

I won’t let this stop me from creating, but I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t made me question my place here. To anyone who feels entitled to tear down what others create out of hatred or spite: I hope you take a moment to reflect on the harm your words can cause.

To my true supporters: I appreciate you more than words can express. Your kindness reminds me why I love writing in the first place. Thank you for standing by me.

[createserenity]

Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship dynamic fascinates me and what fascinates me even more is how people perceive them, partly because I seem to have a much more optimistic view of their dynamic than a lot of what I read suggests they do.

With that in mind I started trying to unpick how I see their dynamic and why and what I ended up with was a series of rambles on various aspects, including confidence, trust, silliness and what they ask of each other. This one is about what they ask of each other and why their relationship isn't some weird one-sided thing where Crowley gives Aziraphale everything he could possibly want or ask for.

I see a lot of posts and things suggesting Crowley always rolls over and does anything Aziraphale asks of him. I don’t know to what extent most people really believe this or if it’s just a fun joke (and I’m not saying that’s bad, I think it’s a fun joke too, I love reading all that stuff and it makes me laugh). The point I wanted to make here though is that I don’t think it’s true and also why I don’t think it’s true.

Everything from here on out is my opinion, but I won’t keep stating that in order to make it more easily readable, just take it as a given. If your opinion is different that’s absolutely fine, I love that we can all see this stuff in different ways depending on our experiences and personalities, it’s why the fandom is so fun. (It’s also why my opinion on so many things in season two ricochets wildly from one theory to another).

So back to Crowley and Aziraphale – I don’t think Aziraphale walks all over Crowley, or certainly not to the extent that people sometimes think he does. Also Crowley doesn’t and wouldn’t allow himself to be walked all over anyway. Why is this even relevant? Because I’ve seen people say that in the final 15 minutes Aziraphale finally asked Crowley to do something that pushed him over the edge and that Aziraphale was shocked when Crowley didn’t roll over and do it because Crowley always does what Aziraphale asks. This isn’t at all true for a start, but also this view tends to include a second assumption, which is that their relationship is one-sided and Aziraphale never does anything for Crowley, that he dismisses him and takes him for granted, which also is not true in a lot of ways. I think it’s a fundamental misinterpretation of their relationship dynamic.  

First of all why can Crowley’s actions be interpreted as just rolling over and doing whatever Aziraphale wants? Well, the answer to that is three-fold – firstly Crowley is a genuinely unselfish in many ways, he does things for people because that’s the way he is, it doesn’t make him a pushover, it just makes him nice. Secondly he loves Aziraphale deeply. Whether he knows it or not doesn’t matter, he cares for Aziraphale and wants him to be happy. This isn’t the same as being a complete doormat, it’s simply compromising with the person you are in a relationship with and occasionally prioritising them over yourself. Both these things come together in the third thing, which is that Crowley’s love language is acts of service – he enjoys doing nice things for Aziraphale, he enjoys rescuing him, or going along with him and letting him have his own way, so why not do it? The point is he’s never railroaded into it by Aziraphale, it’s always a deliberate choice. He is literally saying, I will do this thing for you because I love you and I enjoy making you happy and this is something I feel I can give to you.

How does Aziraphale see this behaviour?

Well that’s a tricky one, because in many ways Aziraphale is the more complex character, not least because he changes the most over the course of their history together. Is there a slight element of him taking Crowley for granted in some of their interactions, especially in season two? Possibly, but mostly I don’t think that’s it at all. When someone gives you things because their love language is acts of service you develop a (mostly sub-conscious) confidence in that relationship dynamic and if you also have confidence in yourself (which Aziraphale absolutely does – I’ll write more on this another time) then when you want something you ask for things. You ask not because you learn to expect, but because you think you’re worthy of asking and you think that your relationship is strong enough to stand up to the ask. I ask my husband for things all the time, sometimes they’re things I know he’ll give me – these are easy asks (I don’t just mean physical objects, I also mean acts of service such as helping me with something), sometimes though I’ll ask for things knowing he probably won’t give me that thing or without having a clue what his answer will be – these are harder asks, the sort you don’t do early on in relationships because they might break it either in one go or over time. Sometimes a hard ask results in me getting what I want, sometimes it results in a bit of back and forth before I get what I want, sometimes I get a no and I’m temporarily annoyed or upset, sometimes I get a no and I accept it because I knew it was the most likely outcome.

The point is that I ask, and so does Aziraphale. You ask because you have confidence that you are worthy of the ask and also that your relationship is strong enough to bear the request, even if the answer is no. Can a no still be annoying or upsetting? Yes absolutely. Can a no still be wrong on the part of the other person? Also yes. The point is that sometimes the no isn’t wrong and it doesn’t necessarily break the relationship. By the time season two comes along Aziraphale is confident enough in his relationship with Crowley to feel it can bear the weight of him asking.

So what happens when he asks? Does Crowley roll over?

Well no, he doesn’t. One big example of this is right at the beginning of the series, in episode one. Here Aziraphale makes a massive ask of Crowley and he knows it’s a big ask. Even before he tells Crowley what the problem is he’s aware of the possibility of a no. “Is it something I can help you with?” Crowley sayss, and Aziraphale merely shrugs. It’s not because Nina is there, she’s gone by that point. It’s also not because he doesn’t have faith in Crowley’s ability to help him, he always has faith in Crowley’s abilities (this is a whole other thing on trust). What he’s doubting is whether Crowley will help him. It’s why they’re meeting in the café, not the bookshop. He wants to break this one to Crowley a bit at a time – there’s a problem and I need help. I want your help, it’s why I called you, but you aren’t going to like it and I’m not even sure whether you will help so I’m establishing that I need help first, rather than showing you Gabriel immediately, so that you aren’t completely surprised when I present the whole problem to you.

Once they go to the bookshop and Crowley is confronted with Gabriel he offers the help he feels able to give by saying that he’ll drive Gabriel somewhere and dump him. He’s stating his willingness to help (which is important later), but for now he’ll only help in one specific way. What he isn’t willing to do is any more than that, not even for Aziraphale.

Help me take care of Gabriel. Help me sort this mess out, Aziraphale says, and what does Crowley say? No. Absolutely not. You’re on your own with this one. Even after Aziraphale practically begs him for help, complete with puppy dog eyes and the magic word, “I’d love you to help me,” Crowley still says no. That is not the reply of someone who lets themselves be walked all over or who rolls over every time the angel they’re in love with flutters their eyelashes.

Okay so what about the fact that he returns? Well, the stakes have been raised: for a start Aziraphale is now directly in danger, which alters the balance in favour of helping him, and remember he was already willing to help, he said as much, but he was previously only willing to help in one way. Now that’s changed. Doing things you wouldn’t normally do for someone you love when the stakes are raised is a perfectly normal rection in a relationship and does not indicate an unhealthy dynamic. Crowley has now realised that getting rid of Gabriel is no longer an option - his preferred plan (dumping Gabriel somewhere) will no longer work, so the only choice is now Aziraphale’s plan of keeping him in the bookshop and taking care of him.

This is why he returns.

A quick note on the call

Just backtracking a bit here – when Aziraphale calls Crowley to ask him for help Crowley agrees to be over in two minutes. It’s instant, no questions asked and at first glance looks like Aziraphale calls and Crowley comes running just because. But nope. Later we are very clearly told that Crowley knows something is wrong the moment he picks up the phone and Aziraphale starts speaking, “This was your ‘Something’s Wrong’ voice.” Crowley already knows there’s a problem and what do you do when your closest friend calls you and tells you about a problem? You try to help. Whether that’s advice, comfort, physically going around to help out or whatever the situation calls for. Of course Crowley says he’ll be there in two minutes, he doesn’t exactly have anything else on and his friend has just indirectly told him something is wrong. He’d be a pretty shitty person/entity if he didn’t agree to drop round and try to help.

So what about the 'I was wrong' dance?

This whole interaction, that many people say indicates how under the thumb he is actually shows us the exact opposite. What’s the first thing Crowley says when Aziraphale asks him to do the dance? “I don’t do the dance.” This tells us a hell of a lot about their relationship dynamic up to this point – for a start Aziraphale has clearly done the dance before, at Crowley’s request, and he lists off the occasions. The dance is silly and slightly demeaning and Aziraphale has done it several times for Crowley, whilst Crowley has never done it, yet somehow we read this whole scene as Crowley being the whipped one? Um. No. Also heavily implied in Crowley’s, “I don’t do the dance” statement is, You’ve asked me to do this before, I’ve always said no because I don’t want to. You’ve always accepted my no before and I want (expect!) you to accept it this time.

But this time Aziraphale doesn’t accept the no. Just like Crowley wouldn’t go along with his plan earlier, Aziraphale now won’t go along with Crowley’s no. Clearly he has done so in the past, but this time their dynamics are different. They’ve been much more open about their friendship for the past four years, they’ve both accepted that they are at least close friends, if not more. They’ve saved the world together and saved each other. They both acknowledge they “carved (this existence) out for ourselves” and that brings strength to their relationship. Now that Aziraphale has more confidence in what they are to each other, he takes that confidence and tests the limits of what Crowley will do for him, to push them more towards equality. Why should he always be the one to do the dance? Crowley responds by acquiescing not because he would just roll over and do anything for Aziraphale but because he recognises three things. Firstly that Aziraphale is pushing and that this is new and that this means something to him in the context of their relationship, secondly because he reluctantly accepts Aziraphale’s point that it isn’t really fair that he never does it, and finally because the request for him to do the dance isn’t about him refusing to help (Aziraphale was never certain he would), it’s about the fact that he’s broken Aziraphale’s trust by refusing to help (which is a slightly and very subtly different thing). To illustrate this, right before Crowley does the dance, just after he says “fine,” he gets this very brief, soft look on his face – this is him acknowledging to himself that Aziraphale deserves this dance, that he loves the angel and that he’s doing this because of both those things – he could have continued to insist on a no, he clearly has before, but this time he chooses not to.

I will do this thing for you because I love you and I enjoy making you happy and this is something I feel I can give to you.

All right, what about the car thing?

What about it? Lending your car to the person you love is very normal. Ok so the car means more to Crowley than a normal car does to us, but the point still stands. Aziraphale is making a reasonable request here. Does he expect a yes? Absolutely, because he also knows it’s a reasonable request given where their relationship is. Does he flirt to get his own way? Hell, yes. Does Crowley know exactly what Aziraphale is playing at? Also a hell yes. And Crowley totally plays up to it, he’s not as opposed to it as he claims. He’s playing up his “no” and his grumpiness for effect, to encourage Aziraphale’s silly flirtiness. Look at the difference between this no and the no he gave Aziraphale earlier. There’s no anger here, there’s no real sense that he thinks Aziraphale is asking too much, he’s playing a role in their relationship and they’ve both played this game before. Look at that little slap of the hand, which Aziraphale responds to equally playfully. The game even continues after Muriel turns up at the shop, when it’s already quite clear that Crowley is going to let Aziraphale use the car (he’s already taking the plants out). Even in the back-room Crowley still teasingly grumbles about trains whilst Aziraphale smiles flirtily, and Crowley playfully withholds the car keys when Muriel interrupts them. They both know Aziraphale is going to end up with them, there’s no point to him not directly handing them over in spite of the interruption, it’s just an excuse to tease Aziraphale back. I mean, look at him – he spends the rest of the conversation wiggling his hips, grinning smugly and confidently handling the Muriel problem by talking about love. Aziraphale’s very overt reaction tells you all you need to know about the dynamic of this one.

Two can play at this flirting game, angel.

But he follows him around like a little puppy!

Well, yes and no. Sure he follows him around whilst he goes around asking all the shopkeepers to the meeting, but he does that because it’s fun for him. He’s curious, Aziraphale is acting oddly, doing something he’s never done before and Crowley wants to know what it is. He’s always found him fascinating – what silly and ridiculous thing is the angel up to now?

Also wanting to hang out with the person you are in love with isn’t at all strange or a sign you are in some sort of weird relationship where only one of you calls the shots. It’s normal. Crowley knows Aziraphale has a tendency to be silly or do unexpected things and he wants to watch him do them and also flirt with him whilst he’s doing them. Looking grumpy and reacting to Aziraphale’s silliness with disbelief is how Crowley flirts-without-flirting. Both of them know, understand and like that dynamic, and he has that role not because he’s unhealthy levels enthralled with everything Aziraphale does but because of the levels of trust they have spent millennia establishing.

What Crowley doesn’t do is wait around for Aziraphale. Look at the scene where Aziraphale daydreams about Job. In that scene he’s aware Aziraphale has something else to show him (the record clue), but he doesn’t stick around whilst Aziraphale ignores him. He could have sat down somewhere in the shop and waited – he’s got an eternity, waiting an hour or so is no big deal, but waiting around like that would suggest he really is a doormat, just waiting for the next time Aziraphale shows him any attention. He doesn’t do that, instead he goes off and does… well, something. There’s a lot of speculation over what it is, but whether he goes off to read Pride and Prejudice or just wanders off to find something more interesting to look at than the back of Aziraphale’s head, he’s clearly saying here that he has a life outside of whatever Aziraphale wants to do.

Also side note - you know what else he doesn’t do for Aziraphale? Adjust his driving style. Aziraphale clearly hates it, it makes him nervous and he even asks Crowley to change several times whilst they’re in the car together, but Crowley never does. This is how I am angel, accept it or don’t, but this is the line and I’m not changing this for you. Related to this is his refusal to accept Aziraphale altering the Bentley. Aziraphale tries to persuade him, “But it’s pretty,” and Crowley really isn’t having it. It’s another hard line and he’s not going to let Aziraphale cross it.

Anything else?

There’s a few other examples that I’ve seen listed in the, “Crowley does whatever Aziraphale says/wants” evidence piles. Things like Aziraphale assuming he’s going to get the drinks in the pub. Well, someone has to get them, and it makes perfect sense that they both assume it’s Crowley here because he’s the one more comfortable with pubs. Having a role that you take on within certain situations in a relationship is healthy and normal, imagine how exhausting it would be to debate who is going to do every little thing all of the time.

In the first series the coat cleaning is another example often cited, but this is something Crowley is perfectly happy to do. Aziraphale is flirting, which is delightful, and he’s not being asked to do anything difficult or dangerous. I will do this thing for you because I love you and I enjoy making you happy and this is something I feel I can give to you, which is totally different from, you always ask, I always give, and you always take.

What about Aziraphale. When does he give?

All the damn time. We just don’t notice it as much because Crowley asks different things of him. His love language is acts of service towards others, but he doesn’t really ask or require them in return. Sometimes he gets them from Aziraphale anyway (Holy water anyone?) Also notably in the Globe Theatre when he’s clearly the one pushing the Arrangement, and Aziraphale more or less agrees to do his work for him (“That doesn’t sound like hard work”) even before he’s asked, before they’ve gone through their little dance of Crowley pushing and Aziraphale supposedly-reluctantly agreeing.

The other things Aziraphale gives Crowley are much more nuanced, and much less measurable to us as the audience, but he gives them constantly, or more or less constantly, throughout their relationship. He gives him acceptance (although he occasionally partially withdraws it, such as in the bandstand scene), his silliness (which is more important than it first appears), a safe space (not just the bookshop, but also a safe space for Crowley to air his real views without fear of consequence, which is important irrespective of whether or not he persuades Aziraphale to agree with him), his physicality (by 1826 he’s really in Crowley’s space so much of the time) and most importantly he gives Crowley himself. Crowley constantly pushes Aziraphale to grow as a person, it’s one of the original reasons he entertains developing a friendship with him. What he asks of Aziraphale is for Aziraphale to think – really think – about what he believes. And Aziraphale does so, but only for Crowley. Humans have constantly questioned religious beliefs throughout history, they’ve written books, made speeches and even had wars over religious doctrine and the problems, inconsistencies and absurdities within it. Crowley is saying nothing to Aziraphale that he won’t already have indirectly heard from humans and dismissed or ignored. But when Crowley says it, he thinks and he changes. That’s what Crowley asks of Aziraphale and it’s what Aziraphale gives him.

What was the point of all this waffle?

Well, honestly there isn’t much of one. Only that their relationship is much more balanced than some suggest and I think I just wanted to spell that out. It also has an implication for the final 15 minutes. There’s no way Aziraphale goes into that with some sort of fake confidence that he can persuade Crowley to follow him to heaven simply because Crowley always follows him – Crowley doesn’t, he has very clear limits that he enforces with Aziraphale and Aziraphale knows this. He might feel confident for other reasons (such as thinking Crowley will be happy to be an angel again) or something else entirely different might be happening (so many theories!) but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing to do with thinking Crowley always does what he asks, because he very clearly doesn’t.

It's also why Crowley waits around afterwards to watch Aziraphale leave. It’s a way indirectly of saying one final time, I love you and I enjoy making you happy… but this is something I cannot give to you.

[ourfag]

one of my favorite dimensions of ed’s character is this restless, cringing, dissatisfied image he has of himself as not-a-good-person. not a good guy. (is it significant that he never identifies himself as a bad person but always in terms defined by the ideal he feels unable to meet? maybe idk)

as far as i recall he’s the only character on the show who engages with the concept of being a good/bad person at all, outside of 1 line from pete (Pete. who questions whether a certain course of action might make them…. bad….. people….? concurrently with ed being out there in a boat with fang and struggling with the exact same thought about himself) and 1 line from stede to & about ed (right after meeting ed for the first time, as reflexive and unconditional as if he was offering ed a glass of water)

when ed says “i’m not a good person; that’s why i don’t have any friends” stede responds “i’m your friend.” doesn’t bother addressing the first part of that statement at all, bc on top of being too subjective a judgment to contradict in a way that matters, it’s just…. not that important. we don't care about that. "you're a good man, ed" was entirely there to show us the dynamic forming between him and stede and its immense contrast to how ed's used to interacting with other people. the plan that pete questioned goes through, they leave those poor suckers tied to the mast, and it's a victory. fang's advice in the face of ed's "what do i Do to Atone how do i Reverse the Bad that i Committed" spiral is to try being with himself in a non-combative, non-avoidant way. the narrative doesn't seem to give nearly half a shit about characters being Good People as it does about characters making an effort to be true to themselves. honoring the desires they know will make them happy. those are the choices that determine whether the people in their lives and their relationships with those people flourish or suffer.

in the same way stede keeps coming back to "oh god everything i do seems to hurt people. how do i prevent my existence from hurting people" ed keeps coming back to “i’m not a good person. i want to be a good person. how do i be a good person???” and finally the story answers with “WHO CAAAAARES!!!!!!! GO TOWARDS LOVE!!! QUIT TRYING TO CHECK BOXES JUST FOCUS ON LOVING AND BEING LOVED!!!!!! THE REST WILL FOLLOW!!!!!!!” and it does!!!!! it does follow. is ed teach a good person? what a useless question. ed teach is a person who chooses to love.

and im not cinema-literate enough to discern whether any of that was intended to be like a coherent intentional statement but if it is then i think it's a fucking delightful one

[softantlers]

natalie as daddy meta (part 1)

(happy father's day to this depressed italian!)

okay, okay, okay. silly title aside, something that has really been tugging at me with regard to natalie scatorccio is the concept of fatherhood. ever since season 3 aired, i've been seeing a lot of callbacks to natalie's upbringing and her dad's death. interestingly, much of the discussion has centered around nat's relationship with coach ben & tends to position ben as another father figure to nat (thus making her move to kill him all the more tragic).

and yes, yes, GO OFF. however, i think a more fruitful examination of nat's relationship to fatherhood can be explored by considering nat as never actually being fathered (not even by coach ben). rather, nat is character who, by virtue of her own trauma, naturally seeks to fill in the gaps left by shitty fathers. she's a character who understands deeply a father's capacity for disappointment, for abandonment, and even for violence. and the way she moves through this intuition is to become a type of caregiver, to become a protector, & to essentially adopt the role of father in the wilderness (as far as it will let her).

to this end, i would even argue coach ben is not a father figure to natalie-- she's actually a father figure to him.

(the crowd GASPS.)

okay, okay stay with me.

a little note on language

i think it's important for this conversation to consider nat's relationship to becoming a father figure (more on this, i promise) as a gendered thing. yes, "parent" could work just as well, but the show is naturally attuned to the absence of man as the structures & hierarchies of home collapse under the yellowjackets' experience in the wilderness. the notion that teenage girls now have the autonomy to take on roles that they would never normally be expected to in the outside world is meaningful, and the ways the yellowjackets expand and grow past the social limitations they left when they entered the wilderness is a big fucking deal. therefore, natalie adopting a position as father really needs that gendered texture to drive home its significance, which is why i'm avoiding neutral language like "caregiver" and expressly moving away from "mother."

nat is becoming a father.

coach ben didn't want this

okay, but what the fuck do i mean? well, the absence of dad is a huge theme in yellowjackets. as soon as the plane crashes, it's just the girls. all probable father figures are dead or injured, and there was no adult woman on the plane to play mother. coach ben's leg is fucked, and coach martinez was impaled by a tree. the only people left to make choices on how to survive are the girls, and you see them moving with (and against) each other to do so.

when ben finally comes to, he's totally checked out. it makes sense, given what he's lost, but all the same, he's not a leader for quite a bit. instead, he's processing what's happened to his leg & he's letting the girls lead the way. when taissa discovers the lake, he expresses some passive suicidal ideation, suggesting that they could just leave him behind. the offshoot of that is... well, what the fuck, dude? you're the adult here. yes, yes, he is going THROUGH IT. but comments such as this begin to cement a particular dynamic for the yellowjackets: they can't depend on ben. ben isn't who they can look to. he's more or less telling them he isn't the adult in the room.

for nat, this isn't too much of a change of pace. she grew up with a violent alcoholic father and a mother who was tapped out and passively letting the abuse happen (therefore, complicit). she's a fiercely independent person by virtue of the terrible parenting she received. honestly, when i think of natalie scatorccio the certainty that "no one is going to save you" comes to mind. i think this principle is what drives nat to be such a proactive presence in the wilderness. she has already learned not to rely on dad, or anyone, and so it's natural for her to step up & take matters into her own hands.

the gun as fatherhood

it's actually a bit sad because in s1e4 (bear down) we get our first glimpse into nat's trauma, and it starts with her dream about the plane. we have imagery of all of the yellowjackets freaking out as the plane begins to crash, and nat is looking horrified and her hand flies out. she reaches out for something, and what she gets is terrible.

there is the briefest flash of relief in nat's gasp of "dad" before her father turns and becomes a fucking nightmare. no reassurance for natalie scatorccio-- that was never her father's role. instead, he's there to show her how hopeless the situation really is, invoking the darkest parts of her own trauma in the very moment she reached for some comfort.

the gun is a potent symbol of fatherhood to nat because the gun is what defined and ended her own father. and here it's actually been put in her hands as the plane goes down and they descend into the wilderness. nat has fatherhood in her hands, and her reaction is absolute fear, panic, before it all settles into a slow steadying breath as the chaos of the plane and the screaming continues around her.

to me, this is the moment of handoff. natalie is taking the central figure of her trauma (the gun = her father) and she's resolving herself into something. "no one is coming to save me. i am what i am and what i've done. i have to keep going."

so later in the same episode, we have coach ben acknowledging his limitations. he is trying to step up despite his earlier crashout, but there's no way around it: he can't be the hunter. and so he's offering up his knowledge (interestingly, knowledge handed down from his own father) to one of the yellowjackets. essentially, ben is saying one of you is going to have to adopt this responsibility that should more naturally be associated with me. one of you is going to have to become an extension of me. one of you will be chosen to provide, to hunt, and if you take the gun as a symbol of fatherhood (as well as ben's stilted attempt to express this caregiving), here we are: one of you has to help me actualize father. because i can't do it on my own.

and natalie, despite her trauma, despite everything that should put her far far far FAR away from guns, is the one who pushes past the flashbacks and the pain and the fear, and steps up. in that moment, she's moving toward ben & saying, "i can do this for you. we're going to do this." and they move forward as co-fathers of the group.

handing off the mantle

so here's the thing about dads and father figures. there's a specific form of abandonment that people in these roles can inflict without actually leaving. a father is a father. a father is NOT your brother. a father is NOT your peer. a father is DEFINITELY NOT your child.

it's a common theme with immature father figures to abdicate responsibility by turning the child figure into a peer, a sibling, and at the very worst, inversing the father-child relationship altogether. let me be clear here: ben did not sign up to be a father! he's a young man that never expected to lose his leg in a plane crash and get stranded in the wilderness with a pack of teenage girls.

all the same, i would argue that his failed attempts at fathering and his quiet resignation to stop trying altogether have a similar trajectory into abandonment. with regard to nat specifically, ben forfeits the father role and becomes the child altogether.

flight of the bumblebee

i think a really interesting example of ben's movement into the child figure is when nat approaches him by the stream and clocks the ever-loving shit out of him!! this is during s1e8 (flight of the bumblebee), so they've settled into nat's dynamic as the primary hunter by now.

she sets down her rifle, teases him about misty, before getting right to it: "you like guys, right?" at first, ben is totally freaking out ("what the hell, nat?") but the panic doesn't last very long. because now nat's sitting down next to him and playing it sweet and reassuring. she's shrugging and smiling and telling him she thinks it's cool...

this is... peak good dad behavior??? honestly, if you were ben and you were concerned about coming out to your family--certain even that they would not accept you--an interaction like this would be all that you could have ever hoped for.

the way nat reassures ben, shows a bit of interest in who he is & who he's dating, and makes that quiet spot by the stream a safe space... this is the kind of coming out that ben never got to have with his parents. this is a gift he never expected from a teenage girl, and yet here it is. nat opened the conversation and gave him the freedom to self-actualize in that moment. it's a big fucking deal. and it's also a vulnerable exchange that brings ben down to her level. he's not a towering, untouchable father figure. he's something smaller. he's almost, dare i say it, a little brother...? and when ben shares that he's fearful of this getting out, big sibling nat promises she won't tell.

doomcoming

nat and ben's shifting dynamic continues into s1e9 (doomcoming). like i said, following the gun training and nat taking on the role as hunter, she and ben have basically moved forward in the group as co-fathers. when they have their moment alone together during the doomcoming celebration, nat is passing ben some hooch she found under the cabin porch and they're sitting together like old friends-- there's very much a peer-to-peer or a siblings vibe going on versus a father-daughter one.

there's a moment when ben offers the drink back to nat, and nat reveals that actually she's doing okay sober... honestly, there's some vulnerability in nat's statement, but i'm not sure that it breaks through to ben how significant it is that she's saying no to the drink. instead, he raises his eyebrows and essentially says "more for me!" for me, this scene is interesting because it seems like nat is reaching for something... maybe some sort of encouragement about what she's doing? but ben is just a peer. he's not a dad. and he's not really in the position to say that he's proud of her. he doesn't.

immediately after this interaction, nat prods ben about his "secret boyfriend" approach to dealing with misty, which is admittedly a bit immature and probably not a wise way to approach the advances of a minor!! in any case, he deflects by bringing up her relationship with travis and nat laments their recent tension, but before ben can give any advice the shrooms kick in. he starts to freak out a little bit but nat's aware that they're tripping. she doesn't seem concerned at all and this seems to soothe ben. they spiral into the trip together, but nat's the steady hand, the older sibling... you get the vibe it would have been a lot more scary for ben if she wasn't there.

ben's spiral into becoming the child

okay, so if season 1 showed nat and ben moving into a peer relationship (with moments of nat subbing in as an almost older sibling figure for ben), then season 2-3 tracks the reversal of the father-child dynamic altogether.

following the cannibalization of jackie and the yellowjackets surviving through the winter, ben is clearly not good. there's just not enough space here to go into a deep dive about his mental health and the ways he begins to untether himself from being a guardian to the girls, but suffice it to say, ben is no longer a figure of any sort of authority. on the one hand, he's beginning to be othered for not eating jackie (and for casting judgment about it), and on the other, he's starting to lose the plot entirely and is spending days on end laying in bed, starving, and hallucinating.

meanwhile, nat is hunting. she's having confrontations with lottie. she's making difficult decisions that are (in her view) for the betterment of her peers. she's still a teenager, and not all of the decisions she makes are mature! when she lies to travis about javi in order to get him to stop looking, she has to deal with it later when travis loses trust in her. when she plays into the hunting game with lottie, she has to stomach the fact that everything went sideways when they needed to work together most to retrieve the moose. nat is doing her very best. she's going out every day. she's trying to bring back food. she's taking jackie's bones to the plane. she's trying to make a map of the wilderness...

but nat's very best isn't appreciated by the group. she's trying, and really she's trying alone, because ben just isn't present. and really, if you take nat and ben as co-fathers of the group, it boils down to this. nat is a father who is staying and striving despite the struggle. she's still working for the kids. ben? is not. he's checking out. he's done. he's losing the willpower to keep going.

letting down shauna

a pretty brutal example of the disparity between nat and ben is shauna's miscarriage. nat literally drags ben to shauna during the delivery. she says, "ben, we need your help. come on!" he tries to tell her he can't help, and she says no. she doesn't let him bail out of this. she's begging him to snap out of it, to be there for them. and when his reaction is such a wildly apparent "oh shit" that's likely to scare the hell out of everyone (including shauna), you can see the disappointment in nat's face.

ben says, "shauna, i'm sorry," and nat gasps "no." he can't be doing this to them. he can't be doing this to her. this is the moment where it all falls apart. ben isn't the father. he's isn't even a peer. he's abandoning shauna obviously, but what i think gets overlooked in this scene is that he's abandoning nat. they were supposed to be doing this together. that was the deal when she took on the rifle. that was the deal when she sat by him by the stream.

but ben's letting her down. and that is fucking that! nat rushes away from ben and tells shauna to ignore him! she reassures her that women have been having babies forever. shauna is going to be fine. she's going to be fine!

nat tells shauna to breathe. from a positional standpoint, she is very much looking like a father during the midst of a delivery. she is at the mother's side, she is offering encouragement, she has water at the ready. this is the moment of transmutation: ben isn't the father anymore. and natalie is.

"you don't belong here, coach."

the handoff during shauna's miscarriage guides nat and ben's relationship through the end of season 2. while ben was off discovering his escape route from the yellowjackets, nat stayed behind. she never left the children. she was even ready to sacrifice herself for the children during the queen hunt, but she's still just a teenager. when travis broke the circle and everything went to shit, she ran. nat's just a fucking kid after all. all the same, she weathered javi's death (and the escalation of the wilderness) with the rest of the yellowjackets while ben was gone.

when the yellowjackets return to the cabin, nat is walking with resolve. she tells travis that the wilderness chose (although whether she believes this is debatable) and she works with tai, van, and shauna to prepare javi for the butchering. ben returns back to this absolute-fucking-nightmare, and he can't do it. he can't deal with this. he turns to see nat and he offers her an escape route.

she says no. because at the end of the day, the yellowjackets need natalie. she's the hunter. in ben's absence, she's the father. she has to stay because the children need her. she has to stay because she's like the children. ben, on the other hand? he's not cut out for this. nat understands this and she sees it and after shauna's miscarriage? well, she knows not to expect anything of ben anymore.

so, nat relinquishes him of his duties. she lets him run off into the wilderness, an abdicated child scampering away. this cements their dynamic moving forward: ben is now the child, nat is now the father. he's not what she needed him to be, but she doesn't hate him for it. instead, she spends the rest of season 3 trying to protect him as best she can, wearily wielding the leadership that he was never cut out for.

putting a child to rest

as we move into season 3, we learn that nat has guided the yellowjackets through the cabin burning down and into the spring. she's taught others like gen how to hunt (mimicking fatherhood as it started with ben's father and then was handed down to nat), and under her leadership, the yellowjackets have cultivated and organized a functioning society that requires no cannibalism. nat is firmly in the father role now, and it's definitely wearing her down (the camp counselor bit with mari and shauna fighting). she's by no means a perfect leader, but she never rats out ben (in the same way she never outs him).

there's a lot, a lot, a lot i could go into here about how nat plays father within group dynamics in season 3, but i'm going to save that for a part 2 on this meta. focusing on her relationship with ben specifically, we see the lengths that nat tries to go to protect him and how she ultimately fails when shauna encourages the group to vote for his execution.

as it turns out, akilah's prophecy convinces the group to keep ben alive, but now nat is in the position of seeing her former co-father, her peer, her little brother, and now someone who seems as weak as a frail child suffer for weeks or months on end. she tries to play into the group's wishes, she tries to focus on the hope of it all. when she speaks to ben and he expresses suicidality, she tries to be authoritative and tell him it'll pass. she tries to be strict and tells him to eat as you would a petulant kid.

but it's all taking it's toll on nat. she can't watch ben wither away like this. and so in the end, she takes him into her arms. this is not the positioning of peers... this is not the positioning of a daughter and her father. this is the positioning of a father and a sick child. this is the loving care of being with someone so small and so weak and guiding them to their rest. being strong for someone who isn't strong enough to drive a knife into their own chest. at its root, nat is fathering ben when she kills him. it has the vibe of a father who has spent months caring for a sick child only to realize the time as come. the only thing nat can do for ben now is be there for him and hold him as he passes.

nat was never supposed to be ben's father figure. but also their plane was never meant to crash. so be it.