#but no because Link IS the relic

[gloryseized]

making you the patron saint of something

Link - patron saint of relics

patron saint of remembering. patron saint of holding something close. patron saint of holding on for too long. for a saint, a relic is often a part of the body, kept for some physical memento of their holiness. they are all in your hands, now: does it feel like remembrance? does it feel sanctified? are the dust and blood as precious as they're supposed to be?

tagged by : @missallanea tagging : @facelessreflections , @sapientiiae , @obraveyouth , @regnantlight, @mightiestbanana , @vigilantdesert , && anyone else in the loz rpc!!

[psalmsofpsychosis]

I saw a couple of people looking for it, and since the torrent i got it from has long since been pushing digital daisies in the internet graveyard, here is Mark Hamill's "Black Magic Woman" movie on google drive 💖✨️ may you gaze upon Mark's titties disrespectfully and hold them in high esteem as they deserve it

[velvetwyrme]

aHhh okay so the discussions of Titan!Megatron on @callsign-relic's blog have fully. FULLY taken over my brain and ive been drawing stuff for it for like the last few days nonstop

the tl;dr of this is AU is pretty much "what if Megatron got turned into a titan/cityformer as a form of penance/imprisonment and now roams the empty wasteland of Cybertron forever" plus "IDW Megatron has really fucked up internals so... what if that, but as a City?"

and of course since he's a Titan, that also means he has a cityspeaker... or three. One per sub-AU thing. Theres 3 options. 3 flavours of AU.

i have so much art to make. but in the meantime, for more info! check out the #titan au tag on Relic's blog :]!! (also uhh potential ns//fw warning for the link shfjbdkd)

Hi. My battery is running out once again so design and art notes get chucked here instead of an image.

The cuffs and collar are hardwired into Megatron, so I made the lights the same colour as his biolights!

I imagine that on the tops of his shoulders there are solar panels, even if you can't see them here lol.

I really wanted to keep the swirly bits on Megatron's chest from IDW

Other art notes:

The second picture with the seekers is (loosely) inspired by a discussion about whether or not Megatron gets visitors or not. I thought about who would visit him and well... I think this is as close as Starscream realistically gets to visiting him.

Extra detail about that piece is that Thundercracker and Skywarp are keeping watch from above! Also drawing Megatron took me like 8 hours because I was struggling with his legs really badly kshffkbfkdsbdk,, the background went much faster, funnily enough.

Optimus specifically isn't wearing his Autobot badge any more.

This isn't relevant in this series of images, but Ultra Magnus's eye markings are only on the Magnus armour. His other two forms do not have them :] (... until he begins to discard the armour, that is.)

Megatron is roughly 3200m/2 miles tall. Technically he could have clouds around his knees, but I thought this looked a little bit cooler lol.

Also, height chart! Him big. I didn't even attempt to put a human for scale because that'd be. near impossible with this scale.

[venus-haze]

Sick as a Dog (Soldier Boy x Reader)

Summary: Day 25 - Underwear stealing/sniffing. Soldier Boy is America's first superhero. The greatest man who ever lived. Larger than life itself. A sleazy chauvinist who's getting off on your panties in a motel bathroom. [AO3 link]

Note: Written for @cozycornerevents Kinktober! Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. I think this is my first Soldier Boy fic set in modern day…anyway it was fun writing mean and gross Soldier Boy🤭

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Soldier Boy-typical misogyny. Sexually explicit content involving masturbation, panty stealing/sniffing, degradation, voyeurism.

You couldn’t relax around Soldier Boy, not when Butcher and Hughie left you alone with him in that damn motel room. It was almost impossible to focus on the TV with him so blatantly eyeing you like a piece of meat. Tried to do the arm-over-the-shoulder move so he could grope your breast, and called you a prude under his breath when you scooted further down the couch. 

Sure, he was attractive, but you weren’t about to mix business with pleasure—especially not with a guy who, when introduced to you, asked Butcher if they only kept you around as “stress relief,” as if you weren’t even standing in front of him. Maybe you should have gone with MM and Annie after all.

“I gotta use the can,” he grumbled, scratching his crotch before standing up from the couch.

The tension slowly released from your body the further away he got from you. Picking up your phone from the coffee table, you saw a missed text from Hughie: Sorry to leave you on supe-sitting duty. Everything good?

You sighed, your thumbs hovering over the keys before sending back: Yeah. Nothing I can’t handle.

Threw in an emoji at the end so he wouldn’t feel too bad. It was kind of your own fault, anyway. You decided to go along with Butcher and Hughie because part of you still naively believed in Soldier Boy’s heroism, his authenticity. And then you actually met him. Heard the shockingly crass way he talked, a relic of a time you had no interest in reliving.

You were just about to text Annie when you heard it.

A name. Your name. Low and gruff and mean coming from his mouth.

Putting your phone down, you glanced in the direction of the bathroom. 

You knew your best option was to just ignore it when you heard him say your name again—turn up the volume on the TV and ignore the way heat flared up between your legs at the grunts he didn’t even try to keep down. Instead, you stood up, your heart beating faster with each step you took. The motel room wasn’t all that big, didn’t take very long at all to get to the bathroom door, look in where he’d left it open a crack. 

Had he been careless? Or did he want you to watch?  

You gaped openly at him, pumping his hard cock with a pair of your used panties bunched up in his hand, sliding it up and down his length. Black, satin with a little bow, it was one of your favorite pairs you brought with you, too, and you weren’t sure how to feel about him having chosen that one to get off with, to ruin. You looked back at your duffel bag, wide open and clearly rifled through. Supposed you were trying too hard not to pay attention to him to pay any mind to his violating your privacy.

“That’s right, take it, you fucking slut,” he growled. “You might not be their stress relief, but you’re gonna be mine.”

How the hell was this the same guy whose PSAs you watched throughout your school years, telling you to pledge allegiance to the flag and say no to drugs? He was sick, hypocritical, a symbol of the worst of American debauchery. Every subsequent word that came out of his mouth was vile, objectifying—should’ve repulsed you instead of going straight to your pussy. Your brain was screaming at you to go back to the couch and pretend you didn’t see anything, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

“I’ll make sure you can’t fucking walk tomorrow, have to carry you over my shoulder and tell everyone what a slut you are for my cock.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He squeezed his cock harder, his pumps more punishing, frustration radiating off of him as his precum soaked through your ruined panties. Could you even bear to wear them again, knowing all the things he said and did with them bunched up in his hand, picturing you in their place, bent over the motel room sink, or anywhere else he could think of in that deviant mind of his.

“How bad do you want it? C’mon, I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you whispered despite yourself.

“I know you’re out there,” he taunted, startling you. “I can hear you panting like a bitch in heat. Why don’t you come in and give me a hand?”

With a gasp, you found your legs again and ran back to the living area. Fell over yourself to get onto the couch and make the TV louder, anything to drown out the sound of his groans, your name mixed with curses as he came just a few feet away. 

Your face was on fire, and you sat with your hands folded between your legs, trying desperately to ignore the want that had overtaken you while watching him. You were better than that, better than debasing yourself for someone like him. Still, a shiver ran down your spine when you heard a gruff, drawn out “Fuck” over the sound of the stupid Vought A Burger commercial that was on.

The sink ran. Toilet flushed. Your head was pounding when he walked out of the bathroom and back to the couch. 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, throwing your panties at you.

The balled up garment landed on your lap, wet and heavy with his cum. With a reluctant, trembling hand, you pushed it onto the floor.

Your voice cracked as you half-heartedly told him, “You’re disgusting.”

He scoffed, his arm draped across the back of the couch, the tips of his fingers brushing your shoulder. “You should take it as a compliment. There’s plenty of other broads I could’ve jacked off to—Hayworth, Bardot, Fawcett—”

“But none of them had their panties lying around here, did they?”

“No, they didn’t.” He was silent for a moment before breaking into a grin. “I’m gonna get you to fold sooner or later. Then, I’m really gonna make you beg for it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” you mumbled.

[ink-n-shadow]

How does guests and demon!Ghost behave when they come to visit his place and see angel!reader? love your work btw

thank you for the love and request‼️ all the love on the demon!ghost au is making me so happy sjksjksjs

demon!ghost doesn’t have many guests over at his place, mainly because he’s been a recluse for centuries now and only has a handful of other Hell creatures that have been successful at worming their way into his life. the only people ghost has ever had over at his palace are incubus!johnny (a filthy demon who tried to jump ghost’s bones as soon as the fallen angel made his way down to hell; whether johnny was successful or not in his sexual conquest is unknown), the Devil’s right hand man!price (a demon with high status amongst Hell’s population due to his closeness to the Devil herself), and recently fallen!kyle (a young demon still figuring his way around Hell’s circles; has been taken under price’s wing).

when angel is first brought back to ghost’s palace and the demon decides to have his friends over one night, he doesn’t even bother introducing you to his friends, simply acting unbothered and cracking open the bottle of whiskey price brings as a housewarming gift as the other three men peer up at your hanging cage.

“pretty little birdie y’got here, ghost,” price is the first to point out the obvious, casting a narrowed glance at ghost who simply offers a grunt in response before tossing back a swig of alcohol. “does She know ‘bout this?”

ghost knows price means the Devil herself, but he simply pops some of the vertebrae in his neck and shrugs halfheartedly. “dunno, don’t fuckin’ care to.”

the demon only pops up and moves over to the cage when johnny’s trying to worm a thick hand between the bars, smacking the incubus on the back of his thick skull with an open palm. “hands to yer fuckin’ self, johnny. leave the thing alone—yer fuckin’ scarin’ ‘em.”

“aye! y’cannae have a pretty hen like ‘em in a cage and expect me not te try ‘n take a bite,” johnny whined petulantly as he rubs at the back of his neck, fiery eyes narrowed into slits as he lumbers back over to the couch and slumps down against the cushions. “s’like hanging meat from te bloody ceiling.”

kyle is mesmerized, eyeing your wings enviously and resisting the urge to brush a hand down across the broken one. he’s only brought out of his trance when price snaps his fingers, urging him to join the three of them on the couch.

once you’ve been at ghost’s palace for a while and are much more comfortable around him, he’s okay with lowering the cage and having you sit on his lap when the other demons are over, keeping a protective and thick arm wrapped around your tiny body and keeping you close.

and the time the men come around after you and ghost fight, ghost is comfortable letting you roam free, even letting them talk to you and engage with you more than ever. that’s how you end up showing kyle your collection of human relics, gifting him one of your embroidery hoops and some thread, or how you’re bounding after price and asking him an exorbitant amount of questions regarding the Underworld castle and how its run.

the only one demon!ghost really has to keep an eye on is johnny, knowing the incubus can’t resist himself from letting his palms caress your cool skin and weave his claws through your hair. johnny still catches a swat to the back of the head often, stern reprimands of “still my fuckin’ pet, johnny—don’t make me put you in the bloody cage instead.”

link to all my works in the demon!ghost au can be found here

[w1w2]

Toxic till the end

Minatozaki Sana x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 10k

Synopsis: Is this a game or is this love? Y/N’s whirlwind romance with Sana blurs the lines between passion and control, forcing her to confront the cost of losing herself in the name of love.

Rosé - toxic till the end "His favourite game is chess, who would ever guess? Playing with the pieces in my chest"

Notes: I'm not super happy with this, BUT here you go.

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Rain streaked down in cold rivulets, blurring the city skyline into a wash of shimmering lights. Y/N stood motionless on the empty sidewalk, her hands trembling as she clutched a delicate necklace. The silver chain, hung heavy with memories, each link a reminder of the bond she was desperately trying to break.

Her mind played the greatest hits of their time together: Sana’s radiant smile the day they met, the sound of her laughter echoing in Y/N’s ears like a melody she could never unlearn, and the countless whispered promises that once felt unshakable. But those tender moments were only half the story.

Closing her eyes, Y/N could almost hear the sharp edge of Sana’s voice during their fights, the manipulative way she twisted words to pull Y/N back when she tried to leave. Her fingers tightened around the necklace as the memory of their final argument surfaced. The moment Y/N knew she had to choose herself or lose everything that made her who she was.

The rain grew heavier, soaking through her coat and chilling her to the bone, but she didn’t move. Instead, she stared at the necklace dangling between her fingers. A relic of a relationship that had started with warmth and laughter but ended in chaos and heartbreak.

Y/N’s lips parted, her breath fogging in the cold night air as she whispered to herself: “How did we get here?”

Her mind wandered back to the beginning, to a night when fate or perhaps sheer misfortune, brought them together. It had been an ordinary evening, one she hadn’t thought much about at the time, but now it loomed in her memory like the first domino in a line that would inevitably topple.

The sun was nearly gone, leaving streaks of burnt orange and purple smeared across the horizon as Y/N’s car sputtered to a pitiful halt. The dashboard lights blinked angrily, and with a groan, she pulled over to the shoulder of the road.

“Great,” Y/N muttered, stepping out into the brisk evening air. The road stretched endlessly in both directions, barren except for the glow of distant streetlights and the occasional hum of passing cars. She popped the hood, peering uselessly at the engine as a wave of frustration bubbled up.

Just as she considered calling for help, her attention was drawn to a figure further down the road. A woman stood next to a vintage bike, pacing and waving her arms in what looked like an animated argument with herself. Her leather jacket gleamed faintly in the fading light, and her glossy hair was pulled into a messy bun, strands falling in soft waves around her face.

Before Y/N could decide what to do, the woman turned, spotted her, and waved with both hands like she was trying to flag down a rescue helicopter.

“Hey!” the stranger called out, her voice carrying easily over the stillness. “You don’t happen to have a toolkit, do you? Because my bike’s officially given up on life.”

Y/N hesitated for only a moment before walking toward her, chuckling under her breath. “Depends,” she called back. “You know anything about cars? Mine just gave up too.”

The woman’s laughter rang out like a melody. “So it’s not just me! Misery loves company, I guess.”

Up close, she was even more striking. Bright, almond-shaped eyes twinkled with mischief, and her wide, radiant smile could have melted ice. She stuck out a hand, unapologetically smudged with grease. “Sana,” she said with a grin that was equal parts charming and disarming.

“Y/N,” she replied, shaking her hand.

“Y/N,” Sana repeated, like she was testing the weight of the name on her tongue. “Nice to meet you. Terrible circumstances, though. You wouldn’t happen to have a magic wand in that car of yours, would you?”

“Unfortunately, no wand,” Y/N said, smirking. “But I do have some basic tools and a knack for pretending I know what I’m doing.”

“Good enough,” Sana said with a wink. “Fake it ‘til you make it, right?”

For the next hour, they worked side by side, troubleshooting their respective problems. Sana’s bike chain was hopelessly jammed, and Y/N’s engine refused to even pretend it wanted to cooperate. Despite the mounting evidence that neither vehicle would be salvaged anytime soon, they found themselves laughing through the frustration.

“So,” Sana asked, leaning against her bike with a crooked grin, “what brings you out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Y/N shrugged, brushing her hands against her jeans. “Just bad luck, I guess. My car decided to call it quits at the worst possible time.”

“Classic,” Sana said. “My bike’s just as dramatic. I swear, it waits for the exact moment when I’m miles from anywhere to throw a tantrum.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Well, at least we’re stranded together. Misery’s better with company.”

Sana’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, her smile softening. “You know, you’re pretty good at this whole silver-lining thing. It’s kind of nice.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, feeling a faint blush rise to her cheeks. There was something about Sana. Her energy, her presence, was magnetic.

As they packed up their tools and prepared to call for a tow, Sana tilted her head, studying Y/N with a teasing glint in her eyes. “You’re too nice for your own good, you know that?”

“What makes you say that?” Y/N asked, genuinely curious.

“Helping a complete stranger like me? That’s dangerous. Someone could take advantage of that.” Sana smirked, but there was something sharper, almost predatory, lurking beneath her playful tone.

Y/N chuckled nervously, brushing off the strange twist her words had taken. “Maybe, but I’d like to think the world needs a little more kindness.”

Sana’s smile widened, her teeth catching the dim light. “You keep that up, Y/N. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

It should have been a red flag, but instead, it felt oddly exciting. There was something about Sana’s intensity, her unpredictability, that drew Y/N in, like a moth to a flame.

As Y/N watched the tow truck pull away with her car, she stared down at her phone, where Sana’s name glowed on the screen. A part of her knew this chance meeting would change everything.

And it did.

It started with Sana’s camera. Their first official date turned into an impromptu photo shoot after Sana pulled a small vintage camera from her bag, insisting that Y/N pose in front of a mural they’d stumbled upon. Y/N had felt awkward at first, laughing nervously as Sana barked playful instructions and crouched to find the perfect angle. But when Sana showed her the first photo, a candid shot of Y/N mid-laugh, framed perfectly against the mural’s vibrant colors, something inside her shifted.

“You have a gift,” Y/N had said, genuinely impressed.

Sana grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Only when I have the right muse.”

Soon, weekends turned into photography adventures. Sana led Y/N through the city like a woman on a mission, chasing golden-hour light and wandering into alleys where broken windows and graffiti became their backdrop. Sana had an uncanny ability to find beauty in the unexpected, framing the world through her lens in ways that made even the mundane feel extraordinary.

“Just hold that pose,” Sana said one evening, crouching low with her camera to frame the shot. Y/N stood at the edge of a rooftop, the city skyline glowing behind her, the lights shimmering like a sea of stars. “Perfect. Now tilt your chin up—yeah, like that.”

Y/N laughed, feeling a mix of awkwardness and exhilaration. “Do I get a say in this, or am I just your mannequin?”

Sana lowered the camera, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “You’re not just a mannequin. You’re my masterpiece.”

The words hit Y/N like a jolt, warmth rushing to her cheeks. No one had ever looked at her the way Sana did, as if she were the only person in the world. Being Sana’s muse was intoxicating, like stepping into a spotlight that never dimmed. It wasn’t just the photos. It was the way Sana made her feel seen, adored, and wanted in ways she hadn’t known she craved.

The city became their playground. Laughter echoed under neon lights as Sana adjusted Y/N’s pose in the middle of a bustling street. They stole kisses in quiet parks, Sana’s camera dangling around her neck, the click of the shutter capturing moments Y/N thought would last forever.

But the camera wasn’t just an instrument of art, it was also a tool of control.

One afternoon, as they sprawled on a blanket in the park, Y/N scrolled through her phone while Sana tinkered with her camera settings. A notification popped up on Y/N’s screen, a message from a coworker, and Sana leaned over without warning.

“Who’s that?” she asked, her tone casual but her expression anything but.

“A friend,” Y/N said lightly, locking her phone. “We’re working on a project together.”

Sana’s eyes flickered with something Y/N couldn’t place. “Funny, I thought we were spending today together. Didn’t realize you had someone else waiting for your attention.”

The words landed like a sharp jab. Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Sana’s fingers brushed against her cheek, her voice softening. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I just… I don’t like sharing you.”

Y/N’s irritation melted under the weight of Sana’s gaze, and she found herself apologizing. “It’s nothing. I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

Still, a faint unease settled in Y/N’s chest, one she quickly brushed aside.

As the weeks went on, Sana’s possessiveness surfaced in subtler ways. Comments about Y/N’s schedule, questioning glances when Y/N mentioned spending time with friends. Over time, Y/N began canceling plans without even thinking about it, telling herself it was easier to avoid the tension.

“Work can wait,” Sana would say, pulling Y/N into her arms after another canceled meeting or skipped deadline. “You’re too important to me.”

And the truth was, Y/N loved it. She loved the way Sana’s attention enveloped her, the way it made her feel like she was all that mattered.

But there were moments Y/N couldn’t ignore, moments that lingered long after they ended. Like the evening at the diner.

The waiter had cracked a joke as he poured their coffee, something lighthearted and forgettable, but Y/N had laughed, really laughed, the kind that made her throw her head back. She didn’t notice the shift in Sana’s demeanor until the clink of her fork against the plate made her look up.

Sana’s expression was pleasant, her smile wide, but there was a tension in the set of her jaw that made Y/N’s stomach twist.

On the walk home, Sana was unusually quiet, her hand gripping Y/N’s just a little too tightly. “Do you think he was flirting with you?” she asked finally, her tone light but her words pointed.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t think so. I mean, it was just a joke.”

Sana stopped walking, turning to face her. “You didn’t have to laugh like that, though. It’s like you wanted him to think he had a chance.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest but stopped, her words catching in her throat. The idea that Sana was jealous, it should have bothered her, but instead, it gave her a strange sense of satisfaction. She liked knowing that Sana cared enough to feel threatened, even if it meant enduring moments like this.

“You’re right,” Y/N said finally, squeezing Sana’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

Sana’s smile returned, wide and genuine, her voice softening. “I just don’t want to lose you.”

Y/N felt her chest tighten with something she couldn’t quite name. “You won’t,” she promised, even as a quiet voice in the back of her mind wondered if this was what love was supposed to feel like.

The whirlwind of their romance made everything else fade into the background. Y/N found herself skipping happy hours, turning down invitations, and canceling plans to spend more time with Sana. Her friends noticed the change before she did, but Y/N brushed it off, what was wrong with being in love?

Still, the cracks showed in quiet, undeniable ways. The first real fracture came one evening at a dinner she hadn’t expected Sana to attend.

Y/N leaned back in her chair, laughter bubbling up as Lia recounted a story about a disastrous first date. The restaurant buzzed with energy, warm lights reflecting off glasses of wine and scattered silverware. It had been too long since she’d had a night like this, just her and her friends, the way it used to be.

She’d almost forgotten how much she missed this, Lia’s quick wit, Nayeon’s playful teasing, and Jeongyeon’s dry, deadpan humor that always landed perfectly. The familiar rhythm of their banter wrapped around her like a comforting blanket, making her feel grounded in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

The comfort shattered when she caught sight of a familiar figure standing at the entrance. Sana, dressed impeccably in a tailored coat and sleek boots, scanned the room with a look of calm confidence that set her apart from the bustling crowd.

Y/N blinked, startled. She hadn’t invited Sana, this was supposed to be a casual dinner with her friends, but there she was, striding toward their table as though she belonged there.

“Hey,” Sana said, leaning down to kiss Y/N on the cheek, her perfume subtly intoxicating. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

The table fell silent. Her friends exchanged glances, their conversation grinding to a halt as they absorbed the sudden intrusion.

“Uh, hi,” Y/N stammered, her confusion evident in her voice. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

“I figured I’d stop by,” Sana said breezily, sliding into the empty chair beside Y/N. “I wanted to meet the people you’re always talking about.”

Y/N forced a smile, her mind racing. Sana had never expressed much interest in meeting her friends before, and she certainly hadn’t mentioned coming tonight.

As the group tried to recover, Nayeon took the lead, extending a polite hand across the table. “Hi, I’m Nayeon. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Sana said, shaking her hand briefly before retreating into a more closed posture. Her smile was polite but tight, her gaze flicking around the table as if assessing each person.

The conversation resumed in fits and starts, but the easy flow from earlier was gone. Sana offered clipped answers when asked about herself, her tone cool and detached. When Jeongyeon tried to include her in the group’s inside jokes, she only smiled faintly and took a sip of her wine.

The warmth and charm Y/N had fallen for were nowhere to be found.

“She’s just shy,” Y/N told herself, laughing nervously as the tension mounted. She caught Lia’s raised eyebrow from across the table and shot her a tight smile, silently pleading with her to drop it.

But the evening dragged on, the awkwardness thickening like fog. By the end of the night, Y/N’s cheeks ached from forcing a smile, and her friends’ goodbyes were unusually subdued.

Lia lingered as the others filed out, her brow furrowed with concern. “Y/N,” she said gently, pulling her aside. “Are you okay? Sana seemed… off.”

“She’s fine,” Y/N said quickly, her voice a little too sharp. “She’s just not good with new people.”

“I don’t know,” Lia said, her tone cautious but insistent. “She seemed dismissive. And honestly? A little controlling.”

Y/N felt a flare of defensiveness rise in her chest. “You don’t know her like I do,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “She’s amazing once you get to know her. You’re just being judgmental.”

Lia’s expression fell, her shoulders sagging in defeat. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Y/N.”

“I don’t need you to,” Y/N said, her voice quieter but no less firm.

Lia nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Okay,” she said finally. “But if you ever need to talk, I’m here.”

Y/N watched her walk away, guilt twisting in her gut, but it was quickly swallowed by frustration. Her friends didn’t understand. They didn’t see the side of Sana that Y/N knew, the one who made her laugh until her stomach hurt, who held her in the quiet moments and made her feel like the center of the universe.

As Y/N walked to her car, she realized Sana hadn’t even said goodbye to the group before leaving. It was as if Sana had slipped out when no one was paying attention, leaving Y/N to smooth over the evening’s tension alone. The uneasiness lingered, but she told herself it wasn’t important. Sana loved her, that was all that mattered.

Later that night, Y/N stormed into Sana's apartment, her heart pounding with unresolved tension. She didn’t bother knocking, her key turned easily in the lock, a symbol of the trust they’d built and the boundaries Y/N had allowed to blur.

The place was dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of a single floor lamp. The faint smell of lavender hung in the air, almost soothing if not for the storm raging in Y/N’s chest. She kicked off her shoes without care, the sound sharp against the quiet. In the corner, a chessboard sat on the coffee table, the pieces scattered as if abandoned mid-game.

Y/N gestured toward the board, her voice tight with frustration. “Is this what tonight was to you? Another game?”

Sana looked up from the couch, where she was curled with a book in her lap. Her expression was calm but guarded, her eyes narrowing slightly at Y/N’s tone. “What are you talking about?”

“You crashed my dinner, Sana.” Y/N’s voice cracked, her emotions bubbling to the surface. “And then you didn’t even try to get to know my friends, you left without saying goodbye. You were so cold.”

Sana sighed softly, closing the book and setting it on the armrest. “I wasn’t trying to ruin anything,” she said, her voice low and soothing, as though trying to defuse a bomb. She rose to her feet, her movements slow and deliberate. “I just… I wanted to be part of your world. I wanted to see the people you care about.”

Y/N hesitated, her anger faltering. “You could’ve told me,” she said, her voice quieter now. “You didn’t have to just show up.”

“I thought it would be a nice surprise,” Sana said, stepping closer. Her eyes softened, and she reached out, her fingers brushing against Y/N’s arm. “I didn’t mean to make things awkward. I just.. sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in your life. Like maybe you don’t really want me there, that's why I left.”

The words landed like a punch to Y/N’s gut. She opened her mouth to speak but found herself caught in the vulnerability of Sana’s expression, the slight tremble of her lips, the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes.

“That’s not true,” Y/N said quickly, the anger evaporating under the weight of Sana’s emotions. “You know I want you in my life.”

Sana’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then why does it feel that way?” she asked, her voice soft but heavy with meaning.

Y/N’s shoulders slumped. She wanted to argue, to stand her ground, but the words didn’t come. Instead, guilt settled into the cracks of her resolve. Was I being too harsh? Did I really make her feel like she didn’t belong?

“I’m sorry,” Y/N said quietly, the fight leaving her entirely. “I should’ve made you feel more comfortable.”

Sana’s smile returned, soft and reassuring, as she stepped closer. She leaned in, resting her forehead against Y/N’s, her voice a whisper. “Thank you. I just don’t want to lose you.”

Y/N closed her eyes, letting the tension seep out of her as Sana’s arms wrapped around her. The familiar warmth of her embrace made Y/N’s chest tighten in a way she couldn’t explain.

The argument about the dinner was smoothed over like so many others before it, with apologies and reassurances that felt genuine in the moment. Yet, something lingered. A quiet imbalance that Y/N couldn’t quite name but chose to ignore.

Sana had a way of making her forget, whether with her laugh, her touch, or the small, thoughtful gestures that reminded Y/N why she fell in love in the first place. But Sana also had a way of winning.

It became clearer one rainy afternoon when Sana pulled the chessboard into their world.

“Have you ever played chess?” Sana asked, setting the board between them on the coffee table. Rain pattered softly against the windows, a gentle rhythm that seemed to amplify the quiet intimacy of the room. The dim light from outside cast long shadows, blending the edges of the space into soft darkness.

“Not really,” Y/N admitted, sitting cross-legged on the floor and pulling a blanket over her lap. “I’ve always been more of a checkers person.”

Sana smirked, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes as she began lining up the pieces with precise, deliberate movements. Y/N couldn’t help but smile at the seriousness with which she approached even something as simple as setting up a game.

“That’s because checkers is easy,” Sana said, her voice tinged with playful condescension. “Chess, on the other hand… it’s a game of strategy, patience, and power.”

The way she said power sent a strange shiver down Y/N’s spine, though she quickly brushed it off, leaning forward to watch Sana finish setting up the board.

“This,” Sana said, holding up the queen between her fingers, “is the most important piece. She has the most power, the most freedom. She can move in any direction and dominate the board.”

Y/N tilted her head. “And the king?”

Sana rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a smirk. “The king is useless. He can only move one square at a time. Honestly, the whole game is about protecting him while the queen does all the work.”

Y/N laughed, her shoulders relaxing as she tucked the blanket tighter around her legs. “Sounds about right.”

Sana leaned forward, placing the queen carefully in the center of the board, her movements slow and deliberate. “But the real fun is here.” She picked up a pawn, holding it delicately between her fingers as if it were more significant than it appeared.

“Pawns?” Y/N asked, her brow furrowing.

Sana nodded, her smile sharpening. “Pawns are weak on their own, but they can be useful if you know how to play them. They’re the ones who set things in motion.” She twirled the piece between her fingers before placing it on the board with a soft click.

Then she looked directly at Y/N, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Think of it like a relationship. Someone has to be the queen, and someone has to be the pawn.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing despite the strange tension curling in her chest. “Let me guess, you’re the queen?”

“Obviously,” Sana said, her grin widening as she settled back into her seat.

Y/N shook her head, laughing lightly. But something about the way Sana said it, the confidence, the finality, lingered like a shadow in the corners of her mind.

They played for hours, Sana walking Y/N through each move with a mixture of patience and authority. “Good,” Sana said as Y/N moved her knight, her lips curving into a satisfied smile. “You’re learning.”

When Y/N managed to capture her first pawn, she felt a rush of triumph that brought an uncontrollable grin to her face. “Look at that! I got you!”

But the feeling faded quickly when Sana countered with an unexpected strike, sweeping her queen across the board to take two of Y/N’s pieces in a single, calculated move.

Y/N blinked, her mouth falling open in disbelief. “How did you do that?”

Sana leaned back, her satisfied smile returning as she crossed her arms. “It’s not just about winning,” she said, her tone measured but tinged with something darker. “It’s about making sure your opponent doesn’t even see the win coming.”

Y/N laughed, but the comment lingered in her mind longer than she expected.

Over time, the metaphor seeped into their lives in ways Y/N couldn’t ignore.

It started subtly. Sana’s phone buzzed one evening as they lounged on the couch, her head resting on Y/N’s shoulder. The vibration broke the soft quiet of the room, drawing Y/N’s attention. Sana shifted slightly, glancing at the screen with an unreadable expression before flipping the phone over and setting it face-down on the coffee table.

Y/N felt a pang of something, curiosity, jealousy, or maybe both. She told herself it was nothing, but the casual way Sana dismissed it gnawed at her.

“What was that?” Y/N asked lightly, keeping her tone breezy.

Sana shrugged, her voice calm. “Just a friend. It’s not important.”

The answer didn’t sit well, but Y/N forced a smile and let it drop. Still, the moment stayed with her.

In the days that followed, Y/N began noticing other things. The way Sana always seemed to know when she received a message, even when her phone was across the room. The way certain names that used to pop up in her contacts seemed to vanish without explanation. It was small, almost imperceptible, so easy to brush aside, but it left Y/N unsettled in a way she couldn’t shake.

One evening, while Sana was in the shower, Y/N sat cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through her messages. She was looking for an old thread from a college friend she hadn’t spoken to in a while, but it was gone. Confused, she searched for the contact, only to find it missing entirely.

Her heart raced as she checked her blocked contacts. Her stomach dropped when she saw the name. It wasn’t just them, there were others, too. Friends she’d lost touch with, people she’d only recently realized had stopped reaching out.

Her hands trembled as she stared at the screen. Her mind raced, replaying moments that suddenly felt suspicious in retrospect. The way Sana had always known when she’d been messaging someone. The way she’d casually dismissed certain friends as “distractions.”

“Sana,” Y/N called, her voice sharp as she tried to steady herself.

Moments later, Sana appeared in the doorway, a towel wrapped around her, her expression calm but wary. “What’s wrong?”

Y/N held up her phone, her grip tightening around it. “Did you block my contacts?”

Sana didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look surprised. Instead, she crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I didn’t want them bothering you,” she said evenly. “You told me you don’t even talk to them anymore.”

“That’s not the point!” Y/N’s voice rose, her frustration spilling out. “You don’t get to decide who I talk to.”

Sana’s face softened, and she stepped forward, her voice low and soothing. “I wasn’t trying to control you,” she said, reaching out to place a hand on Y/N’s arm. “I just… I’ve seen the way they look at you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone trying to take you away from me.”

Y/N’s breath caught. The words were wrong, but the vulnerability in Sana’s tone made them feel almost right.

“You can’t just do that without telling me,” Y/N said, though her voice lacked the conviction it had a moment ago.

“I’m sorry,” Sana said, her hand sliding down to take Y/N’s. “I’ll unblock them if it bothers you. I just… I get scared sometimes. Scared of you leaving me.”

The fear in Sana’s voice disarmed Y/N, her anger melting into something softer, something she hated to admit was there.

“Okay,” Y/N said quietly, her shoulders slumping. “Just… don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” Sana said, pulling Y/N into an embrace. Her touch was warm, her grip firm but comforting. “Thank you. I just love you so much.”

Sana pulled back slightly, her eyes searching Y/N’s face as if looking for reassurance. Then, before Y/N could say anything more, Sana leaned in, pressing her lips softly against hers. The kiss was tender, almost desperate, as if Sana were trying to seal her promise with the gesture.

Y/N let herself sink into the moment, the warmth of Sana’s touch and the softness of her lips momentarily eclipsing the unease still lingering in her chest.

Later that night, as Y/N lay in bed, the weight of the conversation pressed against her chest. She stared at the ceiling, replaying the way Sana had looked at her, the way she had seemed so genuine, so afraid.

She just loves me that much, Y/N told herself. Isn’t that what we all want?

But even as she drifted to sleep, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered, This doesn’t feel right.

But the control wasn’t one-sided.

Sana’s attention had become something Y/N craved, like a drug she couldn’t go without. It wasn’t just the grand gestures or whispered words of affection, it was the way Sana looked at her, as if Y/N were the only person in the world who mattered. But in the rare moments when that gaze faltered, when Sana’s attention drifted to something or someone else, Y/N felt a hollowness that she didn’t want to acknowledge.

One evening, the two of them lounged in the living room, a playlist of soft acoustic songs filling the air. Sana sat on the armchair across from Y/N, her legs tucked beneath her, scrolling through her phone with a faint smile playing on her lips.

Y/N, sprawled across the couch, tried to focus on the book in her hands, but her eyes kept drifting back to Sana. Her fingers hovered over her phone screen, the way her lips twitched with quiet amusement, and the glimmer of a name in the reflection of her glasses, it all stirred something uneasy in Y/N.

“Who are you talking to?” Y/N asked, her voice light and teasing. She tilted her head, feigning playful curiosity.

Sana glanced up, her smile faint but distant. “Just a friend.”

Y/N sat up, abandoning her book. She moved to the arm of the chair and leaned closer, resting her chin on Sana’s shoulder. The scent of Sana’s perfume, warm and familiar, wrapped around her like a tether.

“Maybe I should start calling my old friends, too,” Y/N said lightly, her tone carefully casual.

Sana’s fingers paused over the screen. The smile faded from her lips, replaced by something harder to read. “You don’t need them,” she said softly, but there was a firmness beneath her words that made Y/N’s chest tighten. “You have me.”

Y/N pulled back slightly, blinking. Sana looked up at her, her expression soft but resolute, as if the matter was already settled.

The comment stayed with Y/N long after the moment passed, lingering like the faint trace of perfume on her clothes. She told herself Sana was right, what did she need anyone else for? Still, the thought gnawed at her, leaving a small hollow space she couldn’t quite fill.

Later that week, Y/N found herself scrolling through her contacts, aimlessly flicking past names she hadn’t thought about in months. Her thumb hovered over one in particular, an old flame. They hadn’t spoken in years, but seeing the name felt like a thread tugging at some forgotten part of herself.

She hesitated. Memories of late-night conversations and stolen moments came rushing back, mingling with the weight of Sana’s words.

You don’t need them. You have me.

The thought settled over her like a blanket, heavy but reassuring. Without giving herself time to reconsider, she tapped the screen, blocking the number with a single decisive motion.

It’s only fair, she thought, her chest tightening. If Sana does it for me, why shouldn’t I do the same for her?

The logic felt sound, even comforting, but as she stared at the screen, a faint unease crept in. Y/N pushed it aside, telling herself that love was about compromise, about loyalty. Wasn’t it?

The days blurred into a cycle of quiet tension and fleeting moments of bliss. Y/N had learned to silence the voice in her head that questioned Sana’s behavior, telling herself that every couple had their struggles. And besides, when Sana was good, she was perfect, her laughter, her warmth, the way she made Y/N feel like the center of the universe.

But perfection came at a cost, one that Y/N wasn’t sure she could keep paying.

The breaking point came on a stormy evening when the truth they had been skirting around finally exploded.

Rain pounded against the windows as Y/N paced the living room, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. The dim light of the room flickered with each flash of lightning, shadows jumping across the walls like specters. The argument had started small, something about missed calls and unanswered texts, but had spiraled into something much bigger, something neither of them could control.

“You don’t trust me,” Y/N said, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and hurt. Her words cut through the rhythmic drumming of the rain, sharp and raw. “You never have.”

Sana stood near the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She looked unmovable, her silhouette stark against the storm outside. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was ice. “That’s not fair, and you know it,” she said coldly. “I’ve given you everything, Y/N. Everything. And this is how you treat me?”

Y/N let out a bitter laugh, hollow and brittle. It startled even her, the sound foreign in her own ears. “You’ve given me everything? Or taken everything?”

The words hung in the air like smoke, suffocating them both. For a moment, the only sound was the relentless rain, a distant roll of thunder punctuating the silence.

Sana’s shoulders slumped, her arms falling to her sides. Y/N thought she might leave the room, leave the conversation unfinished like so many others. But instead, Sana turned. Her expression softened, the coldness melting into something heartbreakingly vulnerable. Tears glistened in her eyes, catching the light of the storm outside.

“I just…” Sana’s voice cracked as she stepped closer. “I’m scared, okay? Scared of losing you.” Her hands fidgeted at her sides, fingers twisting nervously. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t know how to live without you.”

Y/N’s chest tightened, her anger faltering under the weight of Sana’s words. “Sana—”

“Please,” Sana interrupted, her voice breaking as she reached out to grab Y/N’s hands. Her touch was warm despite the chill of the room. “Don’t go. I’ll change. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just… don’t leave me.”

The rawness in Sana’s voice hit Y/N like a tidal wave, pulling at something deep and unspoken inside her. She wanted to hold on to her anger, to use it as a shield against the emotions threatening to drown her. But the sight of Sana, her tear-filled eyes, the trembling in her voice, made it impossible.

She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the conflicting emotions swirling in her chest. Her mind screamed at her to leave, to walk out the door and never look back. But another part, a darker, quieter part, thrived on the chaos.

The fights, the tears, the passionate makeups that followed, they made Y/N feel alive in a way she hadn’t before. There was something intoxicating about the intensity of it all, as if the turbulence was proof of how deeply they loved each other.

Toxic love is still love, she told herself, the thought echoing like a mantra in the storm.

When Y/N opened her eyes, Sana was staring at her, desperation etched into every line of her face. Y/N took a deep breath, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Relief washed over Sana’s face, her grip on Y/N’s hands tightening as if to anchor herself. “Thank you,” she said softly, pulling Y/N into an embrace. Her arms wrapped around Y/N like a lifeline, the storm outside forgotten in the stillness of the moment.

But Y/N wasn’t blameless.

The next morning, the tension lingered like a bruise, dull and aching but impossible to ignore. The kitchen was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft clinking of Sana’s movements as she made coffee. She hovered near the counter, her back to Y/N, the usual ease of her gestures replaced with something more hesitant.

Y/N sat at the table, her phone resting on the surface, though her eyes weren’t really focused on the screen. She could feel the weight of Sana’s presence, her tentative glances, the way her shoulders seemed to sag just slightly under the strain of the unresolved fight.

When Sana finally crossed the room and reached out to touch Y/N’s shoulder, Y/N pulled away instinctively, pretending to focus on a non-existent notification. The withdrawal was small, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to make Sana pause.

“Are we okay?” Sana asked softly, her voice laced with hesitation.

Y/N didn’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch long enough to sting. The delay was deliberate, calculated. She wanted Sana to feel the same uncertainty she had felt the night before.

“I don’t know,” Y/N said finally, her tone distant and measured.

Sana’s shoulders tensed, her hand falling back to her side. Her expression flickered, uncertainty, worry, and something else Y/N couldn’t quite name. For a brief moment, Y/N felt a twisted sense of satisfaction, as if she’d regained some of the power she so often felt slipping through her fingers.

But the feeling was fleeting, dissolving into a hollow ache as Sana stepped away without another word.

By evening, Sana had transformed the tension into something else entirely.

When Y/N walked into the apartment after work, she was greeted by the warm glow of candlelight flickering on every surface. The scent of her favorite dish wafted through the air, mingling with the soft hum of music playing in the background.

Sana stood in the kitchen, a glass of wine in hand, her smile soft but deliberate. She looked radiant, every detail meticulously arranged, from the careful curl of her hair to the delicate necklace Y/N had once said she loved.

“I just want us to be happy,” Sana said, handing Y/N a glass of wine as she gestured toward the table. It was set with care, the plates gleaming under the candlelight.

Y/N hesitated, the unease from the morning still gnawing at the edges of her mind. She wanted to argue, to confront Sana about the growing cracks in their relationship, but the effort felt monumental.

Sana’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Wait, before we eat, there’s something I want to give you.”

Y/N blinked, confused as Sana set her glass down and walked over to a small drawer. From it, she pulled out a small box, the kind that usually held jewelry. Her heart skipped as Sana returned, opening it to reveal a delicate necklace with a small pendant that sparkled in the candlelight.

“I saw this and thought of you,” Sana said, her voice soft and warm. She stepped closer, taking the necklace out of the box. “Let me.”

Y/N hesitated, the unease still there, but Sana’s expectant smile made it hard to refuse. She turned slightly, letting Sana clasp the necklace around her neck.

“There,” Sana said, stepping back to admire her work. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Y/N touched the pendant lightly, her chest tightening. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, though the words felt hollow in her mouth.

“It’s for us,” Sana said, her tone carrying an undercurrent of something Y/N couldn’t quite place.

And just like that, Y/N allowed herself to be pulled back in, the warmth of the moment smoothing over the jagged edges of her doubt.

Later, as Y/N lay in bed, the wine’s warmth still lingering in her veins, her thoughts drifted to their first meeting.

She remembered the way Sana had waved her down, her confidence magnetic even from a distance. At the time, it had felt serendipitous, like fate stepping in to bring them together. But now, with the clarity of hindsight, the memory was tinged with something darker.

The bike had seemed pristine, too pristine for a breakdown. The way Sana had leaned against it, casually frustrated, as if she’d been waiting for something or someone.

The pieces began to fall into place with chilling clarity. The perfect timing. The deliberate way Sana had drawn her in, weaving a story of chance and misfortune. Y/N’s mind filled in the gaps, connecting the dots she hadn’t dared to before.

She planned it.

The realization hit Y/N like a punch to the gut.

She stared at the ceiling, her breath catching in her throat. Anger surged through her at first, a sharp, white-hot wave of betrayal. But as it ebbed, it left something else in its wake.

A strange sense of inevitability settled over her, heavy but almost comforting. It was just another piece in the game Sana had been playing all along. A game she had been playing since the beginning.

And maybe, just maybe, it was a game Y/N didn’t want to stop playing.

She closed her eyes, the faint sound of Sana’s breathing beside her filling the quiet.

Toxic love is still love, she thought again, the mantra weaving itself into her dreams.

The dreams came in flashes. Y/N saw Sana’s smile from their first meeting, bright and full of promise. Then, the smile faded, replaced by the image of the chessboard, pieces scattered and mismatched. Somewhere in the haze, Y/N heard the mechanic’s voice, distant but clear “Looks like someone tampered with it.”

When she woke up, the early morning light spilling through the blinds. Her chest felt heavy, her mind tangled in memories and doubt. Y/N rubbed her temples, but the unease wouldn’t go away. She needed clarity, but instead, she found herself spiraling deeper into questions she didn’t want to answer.

But the answers came faster than she expected.

The fights came more frequently now, their once-perfect moments overshadowed by tension and unspoken resentment. It was during one of those fights, louder and crueler than any before, that Y/N finally walked out, slamming the door behind her and leaving Sana’s pleading voice echoing in her ears.

The dark clouds hung low, the occasional rumble of distant thunder reminding her that the storm hadn’t entirely passed. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles white, as her breath came in short bursts.

The argument replayed in her mind, vivid and unrelenting.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she had said, her voice trembling but carrying a firmness that surprised even herself.

Sana’s eyes had widened, tears glistening like glass. “You don’t mean that,” she’d replied, her voice breaking on the words. “You love me.”

Y/N had hesitated, the pull in her chest begging her to reconsider, but the weight of the tension between them pressed her forward. Without another word, she had turned and walked out, the sound of the door slamming behind her cutting through the quiet like a gunshot.

Now, sitting in the driver’s seat, Y/N tried to steady her breathing. The streets were nearly deserted, the dark asphalt glistening from the rain, reflecting faint halos of streetlights. She pulled out of the parking lot, her fingers gripping the wheel as if it were the only thing tethering her to reality.

The car’s engine hummed steadily at first, but as she drove down the dark, empty road, it sputtered and jerked. A guttural sound followed, like the car itself was protesting her escape. Then, with a final wheeze, the engine died completely.

“No, no, no,” Y/N muttered under her breath, guiding the car to the side of the road. She turned the key in the ignition, hoping against hope, but the car refused to respond.

She slammed her hands against the wheel, the familiar sense of frustration and helplessness bubbling up. The adrenaline from the fight hadn’t fully faded, and now it mixed with the sharp sting of being stranded.

Stepping out into the damp night air, Y/N shivered as her shoes sank slightly into the wet gravel. The air smelled of rain and earth, heavy and oppressive. She popped the hood, staring at the mess of wires and metal with a sinking feeling.

“This might as well be hieroglyphics,” she muttered, rubbing her arms against the chill.

Resigned, she pulled out her phone and called for a tow truck. The wait felt eternal, the silence inside the car pressing down on her. The only sounds were the occasional car passing in the distance and the soft tick of her hazard lights. Y/N leaned her head back against the seat, the exhaustion from the day threatening to pull her under.

The next day, Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, her phone pressed to her ear as the mechanic’s voice crackled through the line.

“Well, the good news is, it’s an easy fix,” he said, his tone light. “But it’s strange.. looks like someone deliberately tampered with your fuel line. Did you leave it parked somewhere sketchy?”

Y/N froze, her stomach flipping. “No,” she said slowly, her voice tight. “I… I don’t think so.”

“Hmm,” the mechanic said thoughtfully. “Well, whoever did it didn’t want to completely ruin your car. Just enough to strand you, I’d guess.”

The call ended, but the words echoed in her mind, gnawing at the edges of her thoughts.

Whoever did it…

Her hands trembled as she set her phone down, her mind racing through the possibilities. Flashes of memory rose unbidden, moments that had seemed inconsequential at the time but now took on a sinister edge.

Sana’s insistence on “checking” the car before Y/N went on long drives. The way she had offered to take it for errands, always with a breezy smile and a casual “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

It all lined up now in a way that made Y/N’s stomach twist painfully.

She wouldn’t, Y/N told herself, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. But deep down, in the quietest parts of her mind, she knew the truth.

Y/N confronted Sana that evening.

The apartment felt colder than usual, the dim light from the single floor lamp casting sharp shadows across the walls. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air, but it did nothing to soothe the tension coiling in Y/N’s chest. The chessboard sat in its usual place, the queen perfectly upright while the pawns lay scattered, toppled like casualties of a battle they hadn’t agreed to fight.

Sana sat on the couch, a book open in her lap, her posture relaxed in a way that felt almost mocking. She looked up when Y/N entered, her expression calm but curious.

“Did you do it?” Y/N’s voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Sana tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “Do what?”

Y/N stepped closer, her hands trembling at her sides. The anger simmering beneath her skin made her movements stiff, deliberate. “My car,” she said, her voice louder now, more forceful. “The fuel line. Did you tamper with it?”

For a moment, Sana’s face was blank, unreadable. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Then, slowly, she sighed, closing her book with deliberate care and setting it on the armrest. “You weren’t supposed to find out,” she said softly, her voice carrying an edge of regret.

Y/N’s heart sank, her breath catching in her throat. The confirmation felt like a physical blow, knocking the air out of her lungs. “Why?” she whispered, the single word laced with disbelief.

Sana stood, her movements measured, as if trying not to startle Y/N. She stepped closer, her voice cracking as she spoke. “Because I needed you to stay. You were leaving, Y/N. You were going to walk away from us, from everything we’ve built. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“That’s not love, Sana!” Y/N’s voice rose, shaking with anger and disbelief. Her hands balled into fists, her whole body trembling with the effort to keep herself together. “That’s manipulation. That’s control.”

“Everything I did was because I love you,” Sana said, tears spilling over as her voice broke. “You’re my everything. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Y/N shook her head, taking a step back as if putting physical distance between them could lessen the weight of Sana’s words. Her hands clutched the edge of the couch for support, her knuckles turning white.

“You can’t sabotage my life and call it love,” Y/N said, her voice dropping, quieter but no less firm. The exhaustion in her tone made Sana flinch.

“I’m sorry,” Sana whispered, her own tears falling freely now. She reached out, her hands trembling. “I just… I couldn’t lose you. Please don’t leave.”

For a moment, Y/N stood frozen, staring at the woman she had once thought she couldn’t live without. The desperation in Sana’s voice pulled at something deep inside her, something that still wanted to believe in the version of Sana who had once made her feel whole. But now, that version felt like a lie.

Even as the words hung in the air, Y/N could feel the pull. It was the same as it had always been, when she’d said it was over, Sana hadn’t heard her. Not really. All Sana had heard was, “Baby, can you pull me in closer?” And every time before, Y/N had let her.

But this time was different. It had to be.

Later that night, Y/N sat alone in the apartment. The only light came from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside, casting uneven shadows across the room.

Her thoughts were a chaotic tangle of anger, guilt, and exhaustion, each emotion crashing over her like relentless waves.

She wasn’t innocent in this, she realized. She had ignored her instincts, fed into Sana’s need for control because it made her feel wanted, needed. She had convinced herself that the intensity of their love, the highs that left her breathless and the lows that shattered her, was proof of something real, something worth fighting for.

She thought back to every moment she had brushed aside the red flags, every time she had excused Sana’s behavior with the same tired reasoning: She just loves me so much. But now, those excuses felt hollow, stripped of the power they once held.

This wasn’t love. This was a game Sana had been playing all along. And worse, it was a game Y/N had willingly joined, feeding into the chaos, finding her own twisted satisfaction in the drama and the thrill.

The apartment was silent except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, each second stretching endlessly before her.

Y/N leaned back against the couch, her head resting on the edge as she stared at the ceiling. “How did it get this bad?” she whispered to no one.

The only answer was the quiet hum of the city outside, a distant rhythm that seemed to echo the chaos in her heart. Y/N sat in the stillness, her gaze drifting back to the chessboard. The queen stood tall, unshaken, but the sight of it no longer felt like a challenge it felt like a cage.

The pieces weren’t scattered by chance, they were placed, deliberate and calculated. Y/N realized that as long as she stayed, the game would never end. She would keep losing herself, piece by piece, until there was nothing left to give.

Her chest tightened as the weight of her decision settled over her. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. Slowly, she rose from the couch, her movements hesitant at first but gaining strength with every step. She didn’t need all the answers yet. She just needed to take the first one. She had to leave.

In the days that followed, Y/N prepared quietly, methodically. She found a new apartment on the other side of town, small, simple, but hers. She made sure the lease was signed and the keys were in her hand before she packed her things. Every step of the process felt surreal, like she was watching someone else’s life unfold.

She packed in secret, careful not to draw Sana’s attention. It wasn’t just about leaving, it was about ensuring Sana couldn’t find her. The thought made Y/N’s chest ache with guilt, but she pushed it aside. She owed herself this clean break.

When the day came, Y/N returned to the apartment one last time to collect the rest of her things.

The apartment was eerily quiet as Y/N stood by the door, her suitcase by her side. The weight of her decision hung heavy in the air, every breath she took feeling like a step into uncharted territory. Sana stood a few feet away, her eyes red and swollen, her hands clenched tightly together as if she were physically holding herself back from reaching out.

“Please, Y/N,” Sana’s voice broke, thick with tears. “Don’t do this. I can change. I will change. Just… Please don’t leave me.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, the pain in Sana’s voice cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. For a moment, she hesitated, her hand hovering over the door handle. Memories flashed through her mind, Sana’s laughter, the way her eyes sparkled during their late-night conversations, the way she had once made Y/N feel like the center of the universe.

But then came the other memories: the fights, the manipulation, the moments of doubt and helplessness that had slowly eroded the foundation of their relationship.

Y/N closed her eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. “I can’t do this anymore, Sana,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “I’ve given you everything I had, and it still wasn’t enough. I can’t keep losing myself like this.”

Sana took a step forward, her hands outstretched. “You’re not losing yourself, you’re finding yourself with me. We can fix this, Y/N. Together.”

Y/N turned to face her, the sadness in Sana’s expression pulling at her heart. “I’ve been trying to fix this for months,” she said softly. “But the truth is, we’ve been breaking each other. I need to let go, Sana. I need to let myself heal.”

Tears streamed down Sana’s face as she whispered, “I love you.”

Y/N nodded, her own tears threatening to fall. “I know. But love isn’t supposed to hurt like this.”

She turned the handle and stepped out, closing the door behind her before the pull to stay became too strong.

Outside, the crisp evening air hit her like a wave, clearing the fog in her mind. Her suitcase rolled unevenly over the cracks in the pavement as she walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last.

When she reached the end of the block, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She stopped, her hands trembling slightly as she pulled it out.

The message was from Sana.

I know I’ve hurt you, but I can be better. Please give me one more chance. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work.

Y/N stared at the screen, her heart pounding in her chest. The words were everything she had wanted to hear for so long, everything she had hoped for during the countless nights she had spent doubting herself.

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, the urge to reply clawing at her. She could feel the pull, the desire to relive the highs of their relationship, to chase the fleeting moments of joy that had once made her believe in them.

But the pain wasn’t worth the promise of temporary happiness anymore. She couldn’t go back, not to Sana, and not to the version of herself who had allowed the cycle to continue.

Y/N took a deep breath, steadying herself. She didn’t reply.

Hours later, the city pulled her outside. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t stay within the confines of her new apartment, where the silence pressed down like a weight. She wandered aimlessly through the streets, her steps heavy, her mind a storm of memories she couldn’t stop replaying.

Somehow, her fingers found the necklace, tugging it free from her pocket. The cool metal was damp from her grip, the pendant swinging lightly as she walked. It felt heavier than it should, laden with the promises Sana had made, the ones Y/N had once believed.

The rain had started softly, almost unnoticed, but now it poured, streaking down in cold rivulets that blurred the city skyline into a wash of shimmering lights. Y/N stood frozen on the empty sidewalk, her hands trembling as she clutched the delicate necklace. The memories played on repeat, an unrelenting loop of love and chaos.

A sharp honk jolted her back to the present. She blinked, startled, realizing she had wandered into the edge of the street. A car sped past, the splash of water snapping her fully out of her thoughts.

She turned, her breath visible in the cold air as she glanced back at the skyline one last time. The city lights shimmered like the tears that threatened to spill over, but she swallowed hard, forcing herself to move.

At her apartment, Y/N stood in the quiet of her small kitchen, the necklace Sana had given her dangling from her hand. She turned it over, the delicate chain catching the light, its small pendant glinting like a final remnant of the life she was leaving behind.

For a moment, she considered keeping it, just as a memory, a token of what they’d shared. But even as she thought it, she knew it would be a weight she couldn’t carry.

With deliberate care, Y/N let the necklace fall into the trash. The sound it made as it hit the bottom was soft, almost imperceptible, but it felt like a thunderclap in her chest.

She stood there for a moment, staring into the trash as if expecting the necklace to call her back. When it didn’t, she closed the lid, the act feeling both final and liberating.

As she walked to the window, the city lights stretched out before her, vibrant and full of possibility. For the first time in what felt like years, Y/N felt a glimmer of hope, not for the love she had lost, but for the love she was beginning to find within herself.

The days that followed were slow and quiet, but Y/N welcomed the stillness. She filled the emptiness with small steps forward: rearranging her new apartment, picking up books she hadn’t read in years, and beginning to journal the thoughts that had weighed her down for so long.

Over time, the heaviness started to lift.

Months had passed since Y/N left, and the weight that had once pressed on her chest now felt lighter, manageable. She sat in the sunlit corner of her new apartment, a cup of tea in one hand and her journal in the other. The space was small but bright, with clean lines and open shelves, a far cry from the dimly lit apartment she had shared with Sana.

She set down her tea and picked up her pen, the journal’s pages already filled with reflections, questions, and truths she hadn’t been ready to face before. Therapy had helped her unpack the layers of their relationship, the highs that had made her stay, the lows that had broken her, and the role she had played in perpetuating it all.

“I was just as addicted to the chaos as she was,” Y/N wrote, her pen moving steadily across the page. “But now, I know better.”

The memories still surfaced sometimes, unbidden and sharp. She could still hear Sana’s voice in her head, the promises, the pleas. The lyrics from a song she’d heard recently echoed in her mind:

“You were plotting how to stay in my head, We were toxic till the end.”

Y/N set her pen down, closing her eyes. It was true, Sana had stayed in her head long after she’d left, but the hold was loosening.

Her gaze shifted to the canvas, the blankness of it inviting rather than intimidating. It was a stark contrast to the chessboard she had left behind, the rigid lines, the scattered pawns, the queen standing tall. The canvas didn’t ask her to play a role. It simply waited for her to decide what to create.

She picked up her journal again, flipping back to a page she had written weeks ago. She had reflected on the lessons she’d learned, the things she could forgive, and the things she couldn’t.

“I can forgive you for a lot of things,” she had written, quoting the song that had felt like a lifeline in her darkest moments. “For not giving me back my Tiffany rings. I’ll never forgive you for one thing, my dear. You wasted my prettiest years.”

But now, sitting in the soft glow of her new life, Y/N felt a shift. The bitterness wasn’t as sharp as it had been.

She turned to a fresh page and wrote.

“She wasted my prettiest years, but I taught myself how to cherish the rest of them.”

The words felt like closure, final and freeing.

As the sunlight poured in, Y/N set her journal aside and walked to the canvas. She picked up a brush, the blank space before her a promise of what could be.

For the first time in years, Y/N felt like she wasn’t playing a game or following someone else’s rules. She was creating something entirely her own.

[blueskittlesart]

ok apologies for lurking but in 2022 (!!) you wrote an answer to a question about AOC and in it you wrote that in BOTW link does not choose zelda over his duty to the kingdom and in AOC he chooses her over his duty. iirc (I don't) the calamity stuff in botw is only through diary entries etc....... how do we know that in botw he doesn't choose zelda (genuine question my botw copy is not with me rn :( )

ok i don't remember saying that exactly, but what i DO remember saying and what i'd continue to argue today is that AOC link made the choice to favor zelda over his duty much EARLIER than botw link, and that is the reason he was able to subvert his fate and remain alive to defeat the calamity in his own time. before the calamity hits and the time-travel fuckery really starts in aoc, it's implied that what we're witnessing is near 1-to-1 with the events that happen pre-calamity in botw, with a few key differences. The major difference is, of course, the existence of terrako, which sort of has a butterfly effect. Most importantly, terrako's initial interest in Link has him and zelda interacting much more closely much earlier on in the story. at the time that link and zelda meet and interact in AOC, link is a simple hylian soldier. he has either no rank or a very low rank, he's taking orders from captains and engaging in battle on basically the same level as every other solider. the first battle in the game is implied to be one of the first times he really grabs his superiors' attention with his skills in combat, specifically by taking down those moblins basically on his own. because he is the first one to run across terrako, he and zelda are given a reason to interact before either of them know what is in store for them, so their relationship has a foundation that is not built on the baggage and animosity that comes with that. In botw, in contrast, it's implied that the two of them never interacted without that baggage. what we know of their past is admittedly scarce, and most of it comes from zelda's diary. the first page reads:

After meeting with the Champions, I left to research the ancient technology, but nothing of note came of my research. The return of Ganon looms—a dark force taunting us from afar. I must learn all I can about the relics so we can stop him. If the fortune-teller's prophecy is to be believed, there isn't much time left… Ah, but turning over these thoughts in my head puts me ill at ease. I suppose I should turn in for the night. P.S. Tomorrow my father is assigning HIM as my appointed knight…

already this timeline is incongruous with what we see in AOC--in the botw timeline, link is not assigned to be zelda's knight until AFTER the champions have all been found, whereas in AOC, he accompanies her to meet with each one of them:

Lamenting the kingdom's plight, King Rhoam sent his daughter to gather pilots for the Divine Beasts. Alongside Link--whose brave conduct had earned him a role as her knight--Zelda would meet with the four candidates.

In later pages of her BOTW diary, zelda makes repeated reference to link as wielding the sword that seals the darkness, and in link's own memories he never interacts with her without it on his back. I'd wager that in the BOTW timeline, he is not appointed her knight until AFTER he has the sword. (this also accounts for the way she talks about him being appointed in her diary--she'd have no reason to be upset about it if she didn't already see him as being ahead of her in terms of prophecy progress.) This is important because this percieved slight on zelda's part colors every bit of their interactions in botw--they both percieve the other as standoffish and haughty, and thus it takes them an INCREDIBLY long time to actually communicate healthily with each other. In fact, the only time we REALLY see them communicate receptively with one another in botw is during the sanidin park memory, which is days if not hours before the calamity actually strikes. In AOC, in contrast, link and zelda behave much more like equals if not friends from the very beginning. Their interactions are of course still colored by their respective ranks, and Link is still obviously suffering from the communication issues that come with his mutism, but they very clearly have a better understanding of each other from the getgo because the foundation of their relationship was built before they knew the extent of their destinies in connection to one another.

All of this lays the foundation for the climax of their story thus far--the night of the calamity. we know how this goes in botw--Link and zelda, woefully underprepared and miles from hyrule castle, race desperately to the sanctum. it's implied that they get all the way to actually fighting calamity ganon, and only when they realize that they can't win does link take zelda's hand and run. By the time they get to fort hateno, link is ALREADY majorly wounded from their failed attempt to quell the calamity, so when he turns to face those guardians, both he and zelda know that there's no way he'll win. It's important to note that the guardians at fort hateno never actually hit link, zelda stops them in their tracks before they're able to fire, but he collapses anyway due to his previous wounds. he was already mortally wounded going into that battle, and no matter what zelda did at that point, he was always going to fall there.

In AOC, however, the story is different. the calamity comes while link and zelda are in the castle, and rather than attempting to fight it, link makes the decision to take zelda to safety immediately. Because of that choice, when we get to AOC link's "grave danger" moment with the reanimated blights, he is able to survive. the major story beats still play out the same way--confronted by an ambush of incredibly powerful enemies (this time the reanimated blights) which he likely cannot defeat on his own, link attempts to fight anyway to protect zelda, despite her protests. Zelda, terrified for link's life, reaches out to him and her power instinctively activates to save him. the difference is that, while aoc link likely couldn't have survived that fight without zelda's interference, he had no pre-existing wounds because he was not coming straight from another impossible fight. So in AOC, when zelda's power destroys the blights, link is unwounded and able to remain standing. there is no impossible decision to make regarding his life, and, crucially, he remains alive to seal calamity ganon in his current time now that zelda's power has finally awakened. None of this would have been possible had he not chosen to flee the castle during the initial strike instead of attempting to fight a losing battle anyway, and THAT is a decision he was unable to make in BOTW because, at the time of the initial strike, his fear of failure still outweighed his love for zelda.

[tinydefector]

TINY-DEFECTOR WORK MASTERLIST

RULES BELOW ⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️

REQUEST & ASK OPEN

Please feed me request they are keeping me sane.

information

1. I WRITE M/M GENDER NEUTRAL READERS OR CANON CHARACTERS I WILL WRITE TRANS MALE.

I am not a Fem writer

2. have the right to not do request if I don't want to.

3. I get a large number of requests, and sometimes they get lost in my inbox.

4. Every three months I will do an inbox clear out. And will save what I'm working on into my drafts.

5. I write as a hobby to keep myself busy.

it's been a long while since i've written on tumblr. I lost my last account, but I'm hoping to get back into writing fics or oneshots again. Mainly going to be Writing Transformers.

What I write for:

Transformers - Bumblebee

Transformers- ROTB

Transformers Prime

Transformers Gen 1

Transformers Mtmte, IDW

Transformers Skybound

Transformers Earthspark

Transformers One

Character list and links below ⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️

Requests & ask Rules:

I don't tend to close my request unless I get over 30+ of them.

- 1 character per request if you want a longish one shot fic.

- you can make requests for multiples with scenarios but but I tend to keep them short with a few headcannons added in.

- Specify if you want a continuation of a previous fic.

- I will do both human and Cybertronian and occasionally Experimental monster readers.

-if requesting Cybertronian for smut, they have both a valve and spike as I write all Cybertronians with both parts, all cybertronian characters I write have both parts. (I will accept request with the fem bots, I just don't write Fem readers)

- your more than welcome to ask for NSFW, SFW, Angst, fluff and all sorts. I'm pretty chill. All Smut and NSFW content is marked with #valveplug

I write: gender neutral, or Male characters, (I'm not good nor do I like writing fem character, I'm a guy, if I do get fem readers I'm going to write them as gender neutral)

I will do:

- Scenarios

- Yandere and possessive.

- family content

-disabilities (to the best of my knowledge)

- Fluff/Angst

- fearplay, mouthplay

-Vore: soft vore/ light vore (may experiment, but very light)

- NSFW, kink:

and Dub-con/ consensual Non-con

size kink 

skin fetish 

hair pulling 

Scent/ smell/ pheromones

Sex pollen/perfume.

silk and ribbon play

cum inflation 

breeding

pet play

Predator/prey

(On occasions will write Alpha/Omega/Beta, I write it rather differently to the classic AOB. But I will only write it on very rare occasions)

vore

fluid play and consumption (paint, energon, oil, cum, spit, lubricant,)

spiking warming

Heart and spark syncing 

new spike and Valve modifications to test on their human lover

(Just ask pretty much)

-Pregnancy

- death request are alright just keep it civil I won't go into details on the deaths.

- The AUs:

First Contact PotatooftheLand

Tasty AU of @callsign-relic

Energy fluid AU - (my silly energy drink transfluid ones)

Human effects series - (either characters for the main storyline or smut request spin off's just be specified)

Sparkeater AU

Human pet

Merformers

Wings of Primus AU

Domestic Cybertron AU

I will NOT do:

-Incest

-Pedophilia

- Self harm

-Minors (exceptions if they are children of the Bots and reader but only exception)

- Don't get angry if I'm not willing to write fem characters, I'm a guy, and I tend to stick with trans content, M/M, or gender neutral, but I'm leanent but respect my boundaries.

Slightly iffy:

- death of parents (I recently lost my mother in an accident so please be aware I that things one's sometimes I won't do due to my own feelings on these fics, while other time I may because it gives me comfort)

I enjoy making silly little one shots or even just sweet little things. I will eventually do up a master list for links once I make more stuff. (Pretty much anything you can think of up that alley I'm more than happy to do)

If you want a request of one who's not on the list, please submit it. These are just all the ones I can remember off the top of my head, people enjoy.

Ps I love writing silly little things too outside of the fics and even enjoy making art to go along with them when I feel up to drawing.

So nothing is too silly ask away over all the strange little things you want to know.

__________

All my art so far:

Tiny art dump

Art dump 2

My little spot for art

Art others have made off fics

_________

Works series

Marine Centre- Merformers Au

Human effects list

Transfluid headcannon

human and Cybertronian biology works

Rut cycle Masterlist

Kinktober 2024

______________________

Character list and links:

Arcee

Beachcomber

Blaster

Blurr

Brainstorm

Breakdown

Bumblebee

Bulkhead

Cyclonus

Drift

First aid

Ironhide

Jazz

Knockout

Megatron

Mirage

Optimus Prime

Perceptor

Pharma

Prowl

Ratchet

Rodimus

Rung

Starscream

Skyfire

Skywarp

Skids

Swerve

Soundwave

Shockwave

Swindle

Tailgate

Tarn

Tarantulas

Thundercracker

Ultra Magnus

Whirl

[frannyzooey]

On The Green: 5

Ezra Prospect x f!reader

Rating: M — some prospecting violence

A/N: I cannot even tell you how much this chapter kicked my rear end — it would have never been finished without the love and care and hand holding of @the-scandalorian and @the-ginger-hedge-witch ❤️ Both extremely insightful in their own ways, I am eternally grateful to each of them ❤️ Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

—

All morning he’s been watching you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

The weight of his gaze on your back every time you turn around, logic argues it’s because he’s guiding you into something he knows you’re nervous about. But in the end, shame wins out. It tells you that he knows what you were doing last night while he was in the shower. You contemplate just asking him directly, if only to relieve the feeling, to get it out in the open.

Instead, you keep your mouth closed and decide to put your focus where it should be in the first place.

“Go over it again,” you ask him.

He nods underneath the dome of his helmet, carefully picking his way along a nearly invisible path.

“It’s a wreck. Been one for a while. I came across it a few cycles back, but once I saw that she was no longer functional, I cut my losses. Went through her innards, took what I could – which,” he looks back at you, “mind you, wasn’t much.”

He faces forward again, holding a branch to the side for you to pass. You step carefully over a thick root, accepting the hand that he holds out for help.

“She had been long abandoned even then, so I don’t think we’ll encounter any unsavory protectors today.”

You can tell from the state of the path that he must be telling the truth. The indentation made by long ago steps is covered by overgrowth, a trench you can only feel rather than see. The ground slopes underneath the creeping vines, the crooked line of it hidden by lush leaves. You follow his yellow suit like a beacon, the color a distinct contrast against all the green.

With each step, nerves unfurl in your stomach at the idea that he might be wrong. That there might be another person there, just as eager to keep what’s theirs as you are to take it. The feeling creeps through your veins like the thick vines that crawl over the soil, and keeping your eyes on the familiar yellow in front of you, you squash down the nervousness with every break of one under your boot.

“Slow now. She’s close.”

He holds a gloved hand out to the side, and you peek around the curve of his shoulder. Just beyond the trees, there’s a pod covered in overgrowth, a relic left behind. The windows are yellowed with age, mildew growing over their oval openings.

The hatch is closed, and the area is silent and still.

He takes careful, scouting steps and you follow close behind him.

“Weapon out, Birdie.”

Your thrower already in your grasp, you tighten your hold on it.

You focus on his breathing for a moment, slow and steady through the speaker in your helmet.

“You good?” His voice crackles over the comm link.

When you look up, he meets your gaze with a level one of his own. Patient, checking in.

At the hesitation you can feel in your expression, he reassures. “I promise you, any occupants are long gone.” Reaching out, he lifts the barrel of your thrower. “Still though, can’t be too careful.”

You nod, and he takes the lead, shielding you.

The hatch takes some strength to pry open, and though you should be more nervous about what – or who — you might find inside, you’re temporarily distracted by the sound coming through your commlink. Heavy exhales, low grunts. A low groan of exertion as he pulls, followed by a breathless sound of relief.

The crux of your thighs throbs, and as he disappears into the hatch, you scramble up behind him, right on his heels. There is a tense moment as he rounds the corner, but when he gives you the all clear, your shoulders drop their pressured weight. Relaxed, you both study the disarray in front of you.

Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust: the shards of broken monitor glass scattered on the floor, the torn seats with stuffing spilling out, the stripped panels from the wall. It’s easy to find the compartment you’re looking for: a gaping hole in the middle of the floor, wires spilling from its depths.

You curse silently. “Someone’s been in there.”

“They take everything?” he asks. Using the tip of his pistol, he nudges the lid off the top of a storage compartment and peers inside.

“I’m not sure.”

Setting your thrower and gloves to the side, you get down on all fours and reach into the open compartment. A tangle of wires obstructs your view and your fingers sift through them all, searching by touch alone.

Your arm disappears all the way up to the shoulder before you locate the sharp edge of the circuit board. Grasping it, you lift it free with a sharp tug. It takes forever to ease it out, but when you do, a grin breaks over your face.

Two converters. Worse for wear, but it’s something. Not near what you need, but it still feels like a victory nonetheless. Carefully detaching them from the board, you hold them out for his inspection, cradled in your palm.

“Look at you, my little channel rat.”

His levity sucks all of the remaining tension from the room.

You grimace. “What did you call me?”

“A channel rat. Your little scavenging fingers, digging through the depths of a ship for a treat.”

Dismissing his teasing smile, you shake your head. “Didn’t you tell me once that those things reeked of piss?”

He chuckles. “I did indeed.”

Going back to the hole in the floor, you study the wires left behind for possible scavenging. “If you call me that even one more time, I’ll shoot you in the back.”

His grin widens at your deadpan delivery.

“Deal.”

–

Back in the safety of your own pod, you pull in deep inhales of fresh air as soon as you lift your helmet off. There is a certain sort of pleasure to it, feeling the recycled air hit your cheeks. Inside the helmet, it’s humid and sticky, the blower pack in your suit not enough to combat the heat from your body. It’s built to keep you cool, but under the helmet, your hair sticks to your nape and your forehead with sweat. Under the helmet, your stale breath blows back into your face. Under the helmet, you feel like you can’t breathe sometimes - which is ironic, given the reason for it in the first place.

Ezra stands close, tossing his helmet down to fumble with the zipper of his suit.

That sound. You can hear it in your sleep. No different than the sound of your own zipper being tugged down, and yet, somehow, it is. You envision the entire scene with startling clarity every night: his bare fingers working the clasp, his suit falling away from his body, the sound underneath it all.

“You good?” He checks on you, and when you nod your head but don’t say anything, he bends his gaze to your level. The stark lighting of the pod makes his eyes look even darker, and his hand comes to rest on your shoulder. Right at the edge of your neckline, the heat of his palm brushes against your skin. “You sure?”

“Yea,” you reassure him, trying to ignore the weight behind your navel his touch brings. “It went good. Really good.”

“I think so,” he replies. “I’m impressed. Our first job as a duo, gone off without a hitch.”

He winks, squeezing your shoulder for a brief moment. When his hand slides away, you stop your body from chasing it.

“Here.” His voice pulls you from your reverie, a cleaning kit held outwards towards you. “You do this, and I’ll do dinner?”

Nodding, you take it from him.

Cross-legged on your cot, you enjoy the sounds of domesticity filling the pod: the gentle scrub of your steel cleaning brush, the clink of a metal pan on the stove, a spoon swirling along the bottom of the pan as Ezra stirs. His humming joins the din, and you glance up at him.

If there was something that you’d never have expected from your first confrontation with the man, a scene like this would be at the top of the list. When your attraction initially began, it used to eat you up inside thinking about how you didn’t know him. You felt immature and foolish thinking about how the feelings were rooted in loneliness, sprouting from a life lacking attention and flourishing in close proximity. However, as scenes like the one in front of you became more common, it was easier to accept it.

The want that you feel coats the space like the dust that lingers in the air outside; ever present, in every breath you take. You try to ignore it, a small pocket of embarrassment bubbling up every time you think about approaching him, though he seems like the type who would be into whatever arrangement you’d propose. Especially given how long he’s been alone. Not only that, but the way in which he carries himself suggests he’s ever fluid, open for whatever comes his way. Adaptable, a side effect of his lifestyle you’re sure.

You know better though.

His carefree conversation is practiced, a facade. One meant to disarm and distract. You’re fairly certain he’s past that stage with you, given not only the amount of time you’ve spent together, but also the way he looks at you. Unguarded, in the morning after he wakes or in the evening, right before he goes to bed. Distracted, letting himself slip into thought, his eyes hooded as his tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip.

Sometimes though, sometimes you see him looking at you in the same way he looks at others: like they are something to study, his eyes keenly assessing.

That look always gives you pause. No matter how much you know he’d probably say yes, his motives are the question you’d really want answered.

Picturing the bare skin along his ribs that rippled in his stretch the other day when he emerged from the shower, you silently flex your hand, mentally fitting your fingers along the velvet skin. Safe in the secrecy of your own mind, you let your daydreams flourish – a bubble that pops when he approaches your cot.

“Not a feast, by any means,” he says, sitting down next to you. “But it’ll do.”

You accept the bowl gratefully, steam rising from its contents. He blows on his spoon, taking a bite. The motion makes his jaw work, and when he swallows, you watch through the fringe of your eyelashes.

“You did good today.”

His easy praise just slips off his tongue, and for someone who has spent so much time in the darkness, you keen under its light.

You smile over at him, and he returns it - but only for a fraction before it drops.

He looks away, down at his food. “The next one might be a touch harder.”

“How come?” you ask, your mouth full.

“Because it’s occupied.”

You stop chewing.

His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Unattended pods are a thing of rarity. Most are occupied, and their inhabitants can be…”

You raise your eyebrows when he doesn’t finish the sentence. “Can be…?”

“Protective of what’s theirs.”

His statement hangs in the air, his expression sober.

Swallowing hard, you sit with it for a minute. “Makes sense, I guess.”

“Look,” he sighs, studying you. “I feel I should go alone, little bird.”

Frowning, you let your bowl rest in your lap. “What? Why? It’s too dangerous.”

He huffs in amusement. “You wound me with your lack of faith in my skills. I assure you, I’ve been navigating such situations alone for far longer than you’ve even been alive.”

The reminder of his age compared to yours should make you feel more at ease about his capabilities, but instead the statement temporarily distracts you. You take in his calloused hands, the lines that edge around the corners of his eyes, the grey flecks in his beard.

“I’ve taught you a lot,” he continues, “But letting the idea marinate, I believe it’s safer to keep you here.”

His suggestion catches you off guard. Everything about your arrangement has been with the word “partnership” in mind: he’s taught you how to dig, how to shoot, how to be aware of your surroundings. For him to want you to stay behind versus alongside him must mean there is something more dangerous about the situation than he’s letting on.

Not liking the idea of being separated from him, you press. “Trust me, I don’t doubt your skills. I’ve seen you in action.”

He sits up straighter, a proud smile stretching his cheeks, and you roll your eyes, undeterred.

“You’re the mechanic, I’m the muscle,” you mimic in his voice. “Weren’t those your words? If there is anyone there, you’ll deal with them so I can get the converters.”

“I’m afraid they won’t part with them as easily as your statement suggests.”

“I never thought they would.” You hold his gaze, searching. “Why don’t you want me there?”

He hesitates, and you can see a war within the depths of his eyes. Eventually, he answers, his voice softer. “I don’t want to subject you to…an avoidable confrontation. Not if I don’t have to.”

A beat of significant silence fills the space between you. Your dinners forgotten, the space around you shrinks to the size of the cot that you share. The urge to toss your bowl onto the ground and pull him to you builds the longer you sit with his statement, but there is something else about his words that tugs at the back of your mind.

You picture him walking into the Green alone, disappearing from your sight. Weeks with him at your side has you rejecting the mental image. Your stomach churns, your hand reaching out to cover his.

“If you go, I go.”

A grimace flashes over his features, the scar along his cheek highlighted for a moment. “I thought you’d say that.”

Rationally, you know he’s just trying to protect you, but you let your hand fall back, hurt. Busying yourself with your bowl again, you can feel him looking at you.

“Hey now,” he says, soft, but stern. “It’s not a lack of faith in your skills, trust me. It’s just that mercs out here are ruthless, raw. Their sensibilities have been swallowed whole by this place, and I don’t want you anywhere near them.”

His voice lowers even more, his tone gentle. “You remember what I said? About girls being rare in this place?”

You look up, and his gaze is fixed on yours, earnest and serious.

“I meant it.”

Apprehension flickers in your chest, but you remain firm in holding your ground. He can’t go alone.

“You really want to come with?” he asks.

You nod instantly. “Yes.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up, a hint of pride flashing through his eyes.

“Okay then, partner. Let’s talk about a plan.”

–

Ezra shifts on his cot, forcing his pillow into submission under his head.

“If you go, I go.”

Your words echo in his mind, your face appearing alongside. Your presence pulls at him from across the short distance between your cots, and he shifts again, rolling to face the wall.

He doesn’t want you to come with tomorrow.

He knows what this place is capable of, the way it carves out the morals of men to leave them shells of desperation. He himself has fallen victim to it, and though he hasn’t often found regret in his actions, he already regrets agreeing to let you come. He’s been here long enough to know that a partner is crucial to survival, but you…you’re unprecedented. You’re a girl. You’re something no one has seen in a long time, and he worries (an emotion he’s not used to) about how they’ll react when they see you.

If it’s anything like the way he reacts to you, you’re both in trouble.

You stir behind him, and he listens. You shift again, and he stills his breath.

The idea that you might be restless with the want you sated last night blossoms in his mind, heat pooling behind his navel. His fingers lightly scratch the wiry hair underneath it, just over where he aches. His cock twitches in interest, and distracting himself from the thought of everything that could go wrong tomorrow, he immerses himself in the thought of you.

You, right behind him, feet away.

You, trying to be quiet, slick need gathering between your thighs.

You, slipping your hand underneath the band of your leggings.

A phantom stickiness smears across the tips of his fingers, and they twitch against his skin. He teases at the band of his thermals, pretending his hand is yours. He moves it slowly, imagining your hesitation - eager, yet shy.

He thickens fully at the thought.

Unpracticed at hiding his attraction towards someone, he’s testing the limits of his self restraint with every minute spent in your presence. Constantly reminding himself of how vulnerable you are, the idea that you’d go along with any sort of proposition out of intimidation makes him sick. But you wanting it? You making the first move?

His hand (your hand) creeps a little lower, brushing against the base of his cock. It’s stiff to the touch, and he closes his eyes – only to be assaulted with the idea of someone else grabbing your hand to force it underneath their pants. His erection wanes, a series of images flashing through his mind: you screaming for help, you being forcibly dragged out of his sight, someone else taking from you what you never offered.

He softens.

His attachment to you is something like he’s never experienced before. This urge to keep you hidden from the world to protect you, while also helping you flourish. The need that coats him from the inside out, yet is forced to stay on a leash. It feels like a fever dream sometimes, the time he spends in the pod with you. A liminal place, a trapped sort of existence akin to hell itself in the way he wants you, but also something akin to heaven.

A companionship he’s missed, a presence he ached for and now has. Like you dropped from the sky, meant just for him.

He hears you shift again, and he frowns.

He should roll over and ask you if everything’s okay, but he knows it’s not. You’re probably worried about tomorrow and you should be. You’re as ready as you’ll ever be — as ready as this place will allow you to become before you’re thrown into the heat of the fire.

He also shouldn’t because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop himself. If he rolls over, he’ll see you — see your shadowed form in the darkness, the dips and curves of your body. He pictures himself being drawn to it, crawling the distance between your cots. Settling close to you, feeling the heat of your skin. Murmured, dulcet tones of soothing. His hands smoothing away your nerves.

His mouth being drawn to yours in the dark intimacy of the night.

He wants to tuck your face into the crook of his neck and tell you it will be fine.

But he doesn’t know if it will be, and so he stays still, guilt eating at his restless bones.

—

The pod stands alone in the clearing, silent and imposing.

Boot prints have tamped down the soil surrounding it, the greenery eaten away. The tracks are fresh, and they lead in every direction.

“How many do you think there are?”

Hidden in the green together, you speak lowly even though no one is tuned into your frequency but Ezra.

“Hard to say. I’d judge two, maybe three.” He shifts, trying to get a better view. “The size of their vessel doesn’t say much for numbers. Can’t be more than that.”

“Do you think they’re in there?”

Noting no sign of life surrounding the pod, you try to peer in the windows from afar to spot any movement.

He sighs, a heavy and resigned thing through your connection. He turns his head, and you do the same, facing each other.

“Unfortunately, Birdie, we won’t know until we open the door.”

He checks the charge on his pistol, flicking his eyes to your weapon in a motion for you to do the same. “You ready?”

Nodding, you grip your thrower. “Ready.”

Standing from your hidden spot, he takes an automatic lead in front of you. His slinking steps are careful, his breathing steady and measured. The dust motes surrounding you make the whole thing seem like a suspended dream, like you’re moving in slow motion along with them. For every step he takes, you do the same until you’re moving as mirror images, creeping closer and closer.

Anticipation and adrenaline have your entire body on high alert, yet the green around you remains eerily calm. There is no movement and no sound other than the gentle rustle of the trees, and while that would normally be muted underneath the dome of your helmet, your straining ears pick it up. A bead of sweat glides down the back of your neck, your eyes focused on Ezra’s back as he reaches the pod.

His gloved hand strokes down the smooth metal of the hatch, searching for an opening. When he finds it, you can hear a terse smile in his exhale of relief.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “You gonna open up for me?”

He works the latch open with force, and you spot check the edges of the clearing. Your heart is beating so fast you can feel it in your chest, and in contrast, Ezra seems as calm as ever. You think about your own pod in the middle of a similar clearing, and how your role has reversed in your weeks here. Once the trapped person inside, now the intruder seeking what belongs to someone else.

The hatch opens, and you crawl in behind him.

It’s empty inside, though clearly in use. Two cots are pushed against the wall, blankets and pillows crumpled on top of them. Thermals litter the floor, metal dishes are stacked next to the small sink, and there is a station of cleaning tools left out, as if someone stopped mid-task.

“Speed is of the essence, little bird.”

His voice grounds you, your eyes immediately scanning the floor. It takes a minute to find the sealed compartment, but you catch the edge of it underneath one of the cots.

“Help me move this,” you ask him, picking your way over to the panel. While you’re careful with your steps, he stomps without care on anything in his way: discarded papers on the floor, a dirty shirt. He lifts the cot with a grunt, and you drop to your knees.

The panel springs open and sifting through the wires, you wish you stopped to take your helmet off. It’s hard to get close enough to the floor with the dome limiting how close you can get, and a small huff of frustration slips from your mouth as you stick your arm down, down, down, stretching it as much as you can.

Just when you’ve reached your limit, you feel the edge of the panel.

“Anything there?” He delivers the question calmly, though you can hear the slight tone of urgency that slips through.

“Got it,” you grit through your teeth, tugging it free.

The edges of it catch on the neat wiring that surrounds it, and impatiently, you tear through it all. Lifting it from the floor, your eyes widen.

“Ten. There are ten, Ez.”

You look up at him in awestruck wonder, and he returns a tight smile.

“Speedy now. Show me how you use those nimble fingers of yours.”

You click them off with practiced precision, trying to tamp down the elation that you feel at the added weight of each one in the pouch attached to your hip. When you have all ten, you toss the panel back into the nest of wires and slip the lid back into place. Standing to get out of his way, you watch as Ezra unceremoniously drops the cot back onto the floor.

He smiles at you, a genuine one this time. “You did so good, Birdie. So good.”

Relief floods your chest at his praise. Your stomach has been in knots all morning, worsening as you sat in the bush and waited, and though you know you’re not out of danger yet, you take a moment to let your victory wash over you. A sudden, fierce wish to be back in your own pod with him takes you by surprise, a burning need to throw your helmet off and have him do the same so you can kiss him. Your body subconsciously leans forward, drawn to the idea and to him and to the need to have his praise breathed directly into your mouth for you to swallow.

A similar look flashes across his own dark features, and there is a beat of weighted tension. It swirls in the space between you, filling it — and breaking, when he grabs your hand.

He gives it a squeeze, leading you back towards the hatch. “Come on. Before they get back.”

Following the back of his suit out of the pod, you notice the surroundings of the clearing seem brighter, less ominous. The dust that floats through the air no longer seems threatening and nightmarish, but more like a pleasant dream. You take in the details for the first time today, your eyes fixed where the tops of the trees brush the sky – disappearing when you’re ripped from behind with a sudden, forceful jerk backwards.

“Ezra!”

Your thrower gets tossed from your hand, and the air is pushed from your lungs as your back hits the ground with a thud. You kick wildly and try to scramble up, and a sharp kick from behind keeps you trapped in place, forcing you onto your front.

Coughing, you lift your head under the helmet, but the edges of the dome obstruct your view. Straining, you squirm underneath the heavy pressure of a boot on your back, fighting to see where Ezra is. You can see only his boots, toe to toe with a stranger’s.

The voice above you is grizzled and deep. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Looking for something we need,” Ezra drawls, and though you can’t see his face, you can picture it. The truthful admission comes out slow and confident. “We found it, so we’ll be on our way.”

You hear the charge of a thrower above you, and Ezra’s boots shift slightly. It’s a special sort of hell to hear him through the comm link without being able to see him.

“Go in there and see what the fuck they took,” orders the man pinning you to the ground.

You see his partner's boots walk out of your sight, and hear him climb the ramp to the pod.

“You stay right there,” he warns Ezra. “One move and I’ll shoot your partner here.”

Lifting your torso with a grunt, you shift just enough to get Ezra in your sights before the boot on your back forces you back down. Even though you’re prone and he’s being held at gunpoint—both at the mercy of a stranger—reassurance floods through you at just being able to see his face.

“That would be…regrettable.”

The shift in Ezra’s expression is cold and menacing, his fingers flexing slightly on the grip of his pistol.

“That so?” the man teases. His boot wiggles, shoving you deeper into the soil. “Feels kinda scrawny. Can’t imagine what use he is to you for someone so small.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ezra counters.

“Let’s see him.”

The words take you by surprise, just like the swift jerk of your shoulders. He flips you faster than you can react, his boots coming down to step on your arms and the tip of his thrower aims directly at your face – his eyes wide with surprise right above it.

“Is this – is this a girl?”

Your boot flies up to kick him in the back, and he grunts but doesn’t budge. You do it again, and he presses the muzzle of his thrower into your chest.

“Do it again and see what happens.” Antsy, he glances up in the direction of the pod and yells to his partner. “What the fuck is taking you so long?”

Taking advantage of his split second of distraction, you use every ounce of strength you have to bow your back off the ground just enough to catch him by surprise. His boots falter, taking the pressure off your arms and you quickly sit up, driving your elbows into his thighs. He growls in frustration, trying to keep his thrower on you while also bending to swipe for your leg, and you scramble backwards in the soil. Your boots slide on the damp earth, your gloved fingers digging into the ground for purchase and there is a sharp crack in the air as Ezra aims his pistol at the man and misses. You flinch, crawling backwards to get out of the man’s reach, and panic cuts through you when you hear the stomp of boots coming down the ramp.

“What the hell –”

Those are the only words the man gets out before you hear more cracking shots, and then he’s falling backwards, dead, onto the ground.

“You son of a bitch!” The man who had you pinned lunges for Ezra, his thrower tossed to the side, a knife in his hand instead.

Ezra abandons his own weapon, throwing himself at the stranger. You watch helplessly as two of them hit the ground, fighting for control of the knife. Crawling towards Ezra’s gun, you stretch your hand towards the weapon when you hear it.

“Just wait till I kill you,” the man warns between his teeth. “I’m gonna fuck that girl raw. Right here. Right next to your dead fucking –”

A grizzled choking sound cuts off the man’s words, and you whirl to face them just in time to see Ezra jerking the knife out of the man’s neck. Blood spurts across Ezra’s gloves, and he shoves the knife down again, and again. The force behind it is immense, Ezra’s face contorted in a look you’ve never seen before. His jabs are ruthless and quick, cutting and deep, and his arm speeds up, his face in a rage-filled trance, his eyes wild and cold all at the same time.

“Mine,” you hear him between heavy breaths, between each plunge. “She’s mine.”

Frozen, you watch in a morbid sort of fascination, but also in relief.

He doesn’t stop stabbing until the man is long dead.

—

The walk back to the pod is as quick as it can be, with Ezra’s weight leaning heavily on your side. All traces of joy and victory have long vanished, and the two of you say nothing to each other as you trudge along the hidden path.

His expression as he killed that man plays on repeat in your mind the whole way, along with his words.

“She’s mine.”

Though he’s trying to mask his pain, his grip on your hip tells you the truth, as does his labored breathing. You didn’t see it happen, but the man must have hit his mark at least once, judging from a telltale stain of dark red smeared across the front of Ezra’s suit. It seems to take forever to get back, and with every step, his wound gets worse and worse in your mind.

Finally back inside your pod, you strip and toss everything carelessly onto the ground.

“I need the med kit,” he groans, collapsing against the wall. His movements are jerky as he rips his helmet off, and then his gloves, using his teeth. “Fuck,” he sighs, his eyes pinched closed.

He’s pale, his sweat matted hair stuck to his forehead and you kneel in front of him with the kit, rifling through the contents.

“What do you need?”

His hand splays protectively over his lower stomach. “He got me through my suit, just here.” He shifts, a loud groan breaking free when he peels down the top of his suit. He rolls it to the waist, and gingerly pushing the fabric down, you see his thermals underneath, stained dark and saturated with blood.

He lifts it, and you wince.

“Looks worse than it is,” he breathes heavily, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“It looks pretty bad, Ez. Really bad.”

His stomach is matted and smeared with blood, and at the center of it all, a gash.

He holds his hand out for gauze, dabbing at the wound with a hiss. “See?” His stomach flinches, and he wipes it again before looking at you. “A stitch or two should do it.”

“You sure?” you ask, and he nods, letting his head fall to the side as he looks away.

“In you? Always.”

Your fingers tremble slightly when you flick open the med kit, and then rote memory takes over. You’ve done this – your father used to stumble home all the time with various gashes. Bar fights, brawls in alley ways. Prospectors are a rough crowd, and you’d stitched him up more than once. This is just like that, only better because you don’t have someone yelling at you to do it faster – but also worse, because you care about this person more. The thought leaps into your mind, and knowing you don’t have time to dwell on it, you shove it away.

Ezra flinches at the touch of your hand against his bare stomach, his muscles tensing under your fingers.

You pause, and he lets out a nervous laugh.

“Sorry. Cold hands.”

You give him an apologetic smile.

“Keep going.”

You take your time disinfecting the wound, making sure all traces of dirt are gone. Your hand sweeps across this skin more than once, trying not to think about all the ways you imagined touching his stomach for the first time. It’s soft under your fingertips, a slight round to his lean belly and though his neck is taut with tension, he remains still under your exploration. You want him to look at you: for reassurance, for acknowledgement of your hands on his skin – but he is resolute, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall.

Setting your rag down, you pick up the stapler.

“You ready?”

He nods.

Using one hand to pinch his flesh together, you brace the stapler against his skin, blood smearing on the metal. You punch the first one through, and he hisses, his hand gripping your wrist.

“Shit. Shit. Keep going.”

His breathing has turned into panting, his eyes clenched tight. You slide it along his skin an inch, and then punch another one.

The groan he lets out would be filthy, if not for the situation you’re in. It’s a strained, long thing — his head tipped back, veins highlighted along his neck and you toss the stapler to the side, pressing fresh gauze against the wound.

“All done. It’s done.”

He nods, a tired smile gracing his face. Leaning forward, he keeps one hand on his stomach and you watch nervously as he crawls onto his cot. He falls back onto his pillow, calmer now, but still pale.

“My thanks, Birdie.”

He slips into a stress-induced sleep, and you look at him for a moment before cleaning up.

At the sink, you notice his red hand print around your wrist. The blood had pooled between his fingers, the digits a slick slide over your small wrist and you brush your thumb over the marks he left behind. It looks violent, yet there is a part of you that likes it. Being branded with him, a part of him smeared into your skin.

You hesitate to wash it off.

—

He sleeps, and you keep watch.

You had worried for your father sometimes, but it was nothing like this. In the small amount of time that you’d come to know him, Ezra already meant more to you than your own father ever did.

In the dark, you finally let yourself dwell on the realization.

Your father had never truly been a father. He was more of a stranger, or a roommate at best. He dragged you down with him, keeping you close enough to use you when he needed. He was never invested in you, never cared what you thought or wanted. You never needed him for anything, but Ezra…Ezra you need. You need him to survive and get off this planet, but you also need him more than that. Deeper than that.

The respect and courtesy he treats you with is something that surprised you, given the way you met. In a short while though, you’ve come to realize it’s exactly what’s been missing from your life this whole time. His curiosity and interest is genuine, and his care for you — especially after the events of today — is obvious.

She’s mine.

Did he say that because it’s true? Or because he needs everyone else to believe it’s true?

His lashes flutter, a dream seemingly racing through his slumber and you watch the movement of his eyes under his lids. His fingers flex, and without thinking, you place your hand on top of his.

He stills, and so do you.

The minutes and hours slip by, the moon slowly making its way from one pod window to another and you keep your vigil all the while. He murmurs in his sleep, and you cradle the curve of his jaw. Even after he stops, you keep your hand in place.

Your thumb traces the line of the scar on his cheek - a hooked thing, violent. He never told you how he got it, and you long for him to wake up and regale you with the story. He’d make a meal out of it, you know he would.

When he doesn’t stir, you continue your exploration.

Delicate touches: a swipe over his silken eyelid, a trace down the line of his nose. The bristle of his moustache tickles the pad of your thumb, a direct contrast against the smooth patch of skin on his jawline where there is no hair.

He’s a killer, and you wonder how many have gotten as close as this.

She’s mine.

He’s right — you are. In a short while you have become his. The juxtaposition of the man you saw today versus the man in front of you now is jarring, as if he couldn’t be the same man at all. And maybe he’s not, for anyone else. But for you, he is.

You get both, and while you should have been scared by the way he savagely killed today, you instead find yourself proud. You find yourself drawn to it, admiration and assurance and a sense of protection swirling around in your mind.

He did that for you, something no one has ever done.

Emboldened by this knowledge and drawn to his profile in the dark, you rest on his firm chest, and your fingers splay outwards over his heart.

Leaning down, you press your lips lightly against his.

–

He’s been awake for a while.

He has wished for you like this so many times. Just like this, only he never imagined himself like this. Just his luck that his wish comes true, but at a cost.

You’re so close, your face hovering just above his. He can smell the sweetness of your breath, of your skin. The way you’re looking at him has been one he’s only ever seen in his dreams, and though his body aches with a hidden want that threatens to consume, he stays perfectly still, not wanting it to end.

He’s never been touched like this by anyone, and it takes everything he has to keep his eyes closed — until he feels you press your lips against his.

He responds instantly, his hand coming up to cup the crown of your head.

Your kiss is so soft — soft and delicate and vulnerable, just like you. Your mouth fits neatly against his own, and before he can truly savor it, it’s gone.

He opens his eyes and your shadowed form comes into focus, your proximity intoxicating. His dream come to life.

His hand slides down the back of your hair, settling on your neck. Holding you place, he can see the vulnerability that seeps out of your every pore, and he longs to soothe you. If he knew what he should soothe, he would.

He knows what he wants to soothe, but he waits.

“What are you doing, Birdie?” he whispers.

Your eyes flit between his, and you bite your lip, thinking. He watches as you war with yourself inside your head, and his touch drifts to cup your cheek. His thumb slides across the soft curve of it, and when his eyes dip to your mouth, he watches your expression change to something more assured.

Confident, resolute.

“This,” you whisper back, bending down for another kiss.

[flarefighters-fr]

The response to Everlux being deemed as "not Light Flight related" that's diligently important because everyone seems to forget fanon =/= canon material, even in the "let's disregard most canon anyway" game, because honestly not a lot of fanon is even similar between most players. I'm posting this publicly because I doubt everyone with this issue will actually go to the Dev Tracker and read this.

"Angels as the Light aesthetic or concept is fanon or head canon, not official canon.

Fanon/headcanons are valid for your own personal gameplay, but not what we base our development decisions on. We are also not responsible for player fanon or head canon.

Officially, Light Flight is about knowledge, scholarship, philosophy—not angels or seraphim. The Light dragons of the Sunbeam Ruins are philosophers. They prefer to be unbiased and logical, revealing the nature of the world as do the rays of the sun. Of all the dragons, Light dragons are the most scholarly, holding the pursuit of truth as the highest virtue a dragon might aspire to. Scrolls and relics are their favored treasures.

I should note here that many of your examples require the support of the accompanying lore articles and stories. Granted, Dusthide and Everlux currently don't have stories—and we plan on addressing that in the future—but even with just the breed articles, we can see where Everlux fit in.

They are bookwyrms. They are dedicated archivists. They live and move with grace, mindfulness, and elegance."

And also the link to the encyclopedia page to read for yourself

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

All Explicit Fic Recs: Alphabetically Sorted A-L

Note that most summaries in this list are shortened. Each link will lead to the fic's rec page where you can get full details, summaries, and links to read each story.

[Explicit M-Z collection] [Teen-Mature A-Z collection]

32 Questions That Lead To Love by ffonippop (32k, Explicit) Okay, fine. Crowley was 32-Questions-That-Lead-To-Love-ing Aziraphale. Sue him.

A Bathhouse Pretense by DoonaRose (17k, Explicit) Aziraphale seeks Crowley out in 38 BC Rome, finding him in a bathhouse which just so happens to be hosting an orgy.

A Billion Points of Light by akitsuko (50k, Explicit) Crowley has never been one for the whole ‘love at first sight’ business, but he may need to reassess after Aziraphale - a gorgeous firefighter - saves his life.

A Guarantee and Not a Promise by voluptatiscausa (16k, Explicit) But, God, it’s hard. It’s hard to be humble. It’s hard to stand here and remember that nothing is promised, that what he and Crowley have may be broken irrevocably. He just can’t seem to make himself believe it, not when Crowley’s love feels just the same as it always has.

A Little Life by GaiasEyes (71k, Explicit) When Professor of Botany Anthony Crowley met bookshop owner Ezra Fell one November afternoon both knew their lives had irrevocably changed.

A Tricky Situation (Entirely of his own making) by sixbynine (35k, Explicit) [Aziraphale's] been teaching at King College London for a long time now thank you very much and he does not take kindly to new Professors being sprung on him suddenly.

affection and other cravings by JustStandingHere (29k, Explicit) an examination vis-à-vis food and forgiveness

amaretto by goosewriting (67k, Explicit) Everything changes for [Aziraphale] when a unique occult relic falls into his hands and loops him into a contract with a mild-mannered (if a bit snarky) demon named Crowley.

angel and ash by ineffabildaddy (5k, Explicit) Crowley and Aziraphale’s attempts at physical intimacy through the ages have always been stilted, awkward and anticlimactic… but in this moment, Crowley is drawn even more strongly to Aziraphale than usual, and Aziraphale feels the same about Crowley.

because thinking makes it so by NaroMoreau, summerofspock (41k, Explicit) It’s supposed to be an exchange. An arrangement. Something to make them both feel better and less lonely. But Crowley’s never had the brightest ideas.

Big Name Feelings by ghostrat (100k, Explicit) Crowley is a BNF fic writer, and Aziraphale is a lurking artist who might be just a little parasocially in love with him. How they ever became friends is beyond him, but here they are

Bleating Hearts by HKBlack (186k, Explicit) Trip on over to Devil Doe’s Dairy and Goat Scaping Farm, where the cheese is always smooth, the goats climb roofs, and true love might just be around the corner.

Boyfriend Debut by snae_b (20k, Explicit) It’s fucking on camera. It’s not that complicated.

By Any Other Name by Tartan_Temptation (18k, Explicit) as the reality of his… situation hit him with all the gentleness of a punch to the face. He gripped the sides of his sink and looked his reflection in the eyes. You are a sugar baby. You have a sugar daddy. Crowley is your sugar daddy.

Can’t Fight Back, But I Can Take It by voluptatiscausa (10k, Explicit) …in those early years, when Crowley would slide a hand between his legs for some relief, the scenes in his mind showed an Aziraphale who gave Crowley what he wanted, yes, but gave it as a favour. As a punishment

Closer to You by TawnyOwl95 (44k, Explicit) Since his wife divorced him, A.J. Crowley makes good money writing romance novels. Sexual psychology student and cam worker Aziraphale enjoys understanding pleasure. But only from a safe distance. He’s too busy working on his PhD to fall in love.

Collaborative Activities by scullyphile (12k, Explicit) While on a corporate retreat, estranged co-workers Aziraphale and Crowley get teamed up together. They encounter something on their hike, something that brings a buried desire to the surface and transforms it into an unquenchable lust.

Come as you are by hiya_angel (4k, Explicit) “This is perfect, but I’m not… I don’t have…” Aziraphale blushed brightly, avoiding Crowley’s gaze, and suddenly Crowley understood. “Oh, angel, are you trans?” Aziraphale sniffed and nodded.

creature of mine by ineffabildaddy (21k, Explicit) Aziraphale buys Crowley a snake plant, hoping to please Crowley with the appealing smell of its flowers. Its effects on Crowley are far more extreme than Aziraphale anticipated, and it’s down to him to face them head-on.

Crowley the Camdemon by seashadows (58k full series, Explicit) Aziraphale discovers that Crowley satisfied his loneliness in the previous decade by posting intimate videos of himself online - videos that Aziraphale himself was never meant to see.

Despite Knowing Better… by ineffabildaddy (10k, Explicit) After the Ineffable Divorce, Aziraphale and fem!Crowley can’t stop fucking. They’ve laid out some ground rules, but, of course, they can’t help breaking them…

Doubt Thou The Stars Are Fire by Princip1914 (31k, Explicit) “Oh God,” Aziraphale said to the empty bookshop, pouring himself another drink, “Oh, Lord, tell me, if we had been humans together...Would we have fallen in love? Are you listening lord? If you hear me, give me a sign, please, I beg you.”

Dreaming of You by TawnyOwl95 (36k, Explicit) AJ Crowley likes helping people discover and heal the neglected parts of themselves. Even if that’s only for their scheduled session. He likes being a sex worker, although he’s started to dream of some genuine intimacy.

Epistolary by imposterssyndrome (93k, Explicit) Crowley discovers Aziraphale’s personal diaries. What starts as some light reading about the 14th century... slowly turns into something *much more* complex.

Exalt by hakunahistata (2k, Explicit) “Ooh, aren’t you brilliant,” that voice rumbles with the tonality of jest and slitted eyes that gleam gold...“Actually, I–I think getting us all in the cellar was very clever,” is what he says. Do you really think so? is what he doesn’t.

Fakes and Forgeries by Solimette, WaldosAkimbo (156k, Explicit) Aziraphale, a very competent art conservator who specializes in oil paintings...He is hired...to hunt down this forger, who had duped wealthy folks out of millions for recreations of van Dyck and Rubens paintings. They team up with Anthony Crowley, who has worked the circuit selling paintings and might have a clue on who is forging them (maybe because he’s the artist they’re looking for).

Falling For You by TawnyOwl95 (37k, Explicit) Anthony Crowley works too hard. The answer...might be a high-end escort who sells the fantasy of a relationship. Aziraphale has just nudged his way past thirty. He’s facing burnout and wants to get out of the business, but the thrill of a new client might be just what he needs to get some of his passion back. It seems like a convenient arrangement, until they both realise it’s not enough and they want something real.

For Loving One by TheScholarlyStrumpet (64k, Explicit) Father Fell has been living a quiet life in a small parish. Despite the looming fear of war, he thought he was content with his small pleasures. Until a mysterious stranger comes to town, turning that life on its head and awakening desires the Father thought he buried long, long ago...

How My Light is Spent by Azira_Amane (19k, Explicit) Navigating the dating world when you can’t see it can be tricky. For Crowley, that was never a problem; he’s usually too busy to contemplate a relationship. The same goes for Aziraphale, though he doesn’t have Crowley’s excuse - he just isn’t really all that much into people as a whole.

Hunger by AppleSeeds (87k, Explicit) Crowley is delighted when his next assignment as a Teaching Assistant involves helping to run Eco-Lit seminars with the hottest professor on campus, and even more so when Professor Fell seems quite receptive to his flirting. He's literally getting paid to ogle Aziraphale and listen to him read poetry, what could possibly be better than that?

I Will Get Up Now And Go About The City by drawlight (ripeteeth) (30k, Explicit) This is the story of six-thousand years and a borrowed jacket. (A tale told in vignettes.)

I’m Beginning to See the Light by ineffabildadddy (15k, Explicit) Aziraphale has quite the pash on his colleague Crowley, who seems resolutely disinterested in him. As their annual Christmas party progresses, it appears that Crowley may not be as disinterested as Aziraphale first thought.

In The Room Where You Sleep by ghostrat (27k, Explicit) “It’s a nice idea,” Crowley chirped, grinning a little wider and making the butterflies in Aziraphale’s stomach flutter a little harder. “Except for the part where, you know, monsters aren’t real.”

in your own time by ineffabildaddy (33k, Explicit) After almost twenty years spent away from his hometown, renowned botanist Crowley decides to come and visit Tadfield again at a moment’s notice; the purpose of his visit is to speak at a Careers Day for the school he and Aziraphale, now a beloved priest and a frequent helper at the school, attended. The twenty-four hours that follow will change both of their lives for ever.

It never hurts to keep looking for sunshine by Dervila and elf_on_the_shelf (63k, Explicit) After Adam’s parents die in a car crash, Aziraphale is forced to start taking care of him as more than just an uncle. Don’t get him wrong, he loves the little devil, it’s just that he is completely clueless and could rather use some help.

It’s Not the Fall (It’s the Landing) by Ginger_Cat (66k, Explicit) To save each other from Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale and Crowley become human. Things, predictably, do not go as planned.

Just Up the Stairs by foolishlovers, ineffabildaddy, omens_for_ophelia (39k, Explicit) On Valentine’s Day, amidst the chaos of handling work and university deadlines as a mature student, Crowley seeks solace with his neighbour Aziraphale. As they share a meal, their long-standing friendship begins to unravel, revealing hidden feelings they’ve harboured for six months. It’s a night that could change everything.

Like Best Friends Do by LittleLynn (21k, Explicit) As usual, Crowley had decided to open his mouth before thinking about what exactly it was that he was about to let spill forth from it. As a result of this, unsurprisingly, he was now in a spot of hot water. Boiling water. Possibly water so hot that it had gone ahead and become some kind of pyroclastic steam.

litany in which certain things are crossed out by Ayes (30k, Explicit) A beaten-down Aziraphale opens a bakery in the small town of Tadfield, where he finds an all-night greasy spoon and one fallen Crowley, who is making amends through various and increasingly ridiculous means of community service

Long Haul by snae_b (68k, Explicit) Anthony Crowley might have gotten out of Missouri, but he hasn’t escaped his past. He wears it like a cloak. When he crosses paths with a guardian angel, he starts to learn how to shed it.

love not given lightly by hakunahistata (3k, Explicit) When Aziraphale Fell met Anthony J. Crowley a little less than a year ago, several things were apparent instantly: he was gorgeous, he was angry, and he was very assuredly fine.

[Explicit M-Z collection] [Teen-Mature A-Z collection]

[chronologicalerrors]

Why Crowley Was an Archangel, And Why it Matters: A Fan Theory

Neil Gaiman has said that Season 2 is a bridging season, setting up what is to come in Season 3, which will be based on a story he and Pratchett outlined many years ago. This season is therefore moving characters into place and establishing facts and mechanics of the Good Omens universe that we need as an audience in order to understand what comes next. It moved Aziraphale back to Heaven, and removed Gabriel and Beelzebub. This season has also been heavy on the references to Crowley’s past as an angel.

Season 2 of Good Omens has been practically inviting us to speculate on who Crowley used to be. If we’d just been given that one glimpse of him in the first scene I wouldn’t make so much of it, but we also saw him return to heaven in disguise and reject an offer of being returned to full angelic status. We have to conclude that there’s been so many sustained hints at this because it will be important next season!

Some of this has already been suggested by others, but GO2 has taken over my brain and I need to write this all out. So, let’s have a look at what we already know about Crowley’s angelic past in-universe, and what else we might be able to guess at from that. 

What’s special about Crowley’s powers?

Crowley is the only demon or angel who is shown being able to stop time. When asked about this Pre-S2, Neil Gaiman said the following:

We first see him do this in Paris in 1793, and the second time to speak to Adam to avert the apocalypse at the end of S1. The first time was something he did casually, while the second required a huge burst of power – it needed to hold off Satan, after all - and happened at Aziraphale’s urging.

A: Come up with something or… or I'll never talk to you again.

(GIF from fyeahgoodomens. There’s a collection of gifs of Crowley stopping time through S1 here.)

When we see him stop time this season, in Edinburgh in 1827, it’s also directly at Aziraphale’s request:

This bit is absolutely key to me, as this establishes that stopping time is something Crowley can do that Aziraphale cannot.

This also seems tied to the crank handle of his Bentley. When Crowley has stopped time to hold off Satan, he is gripping the handle in the same way Aziraphale carried his flaming sword, and spins in when he comes to restart time.

C: I'm going to start time. You won't have long to do whatever you're going to do.

By itself, this doesn’t mean anything. Until we see the same handle at the start of Season 2, in the hands of Angel Crowley. He uses this to start up his nebula, as a tool for setting time into motion.

Is this the same handle? It certainly appears this way. Like Aziraphale’s flaming sword, was this a gift from God that he’s managed to hang on to for thousands of years (And it just miraculously happens to fit his Bentley)? It certainly seems that the Bentley crankshaft handle is more than it seems, and that Crowley can use it as a conduit for power – as he needed to when stopping time to hold off the ruler of Hell himself.

The link between this object, a relic from his time in heaven, and his rather unique ability to stop time, suggests that Crowley was once an angel of great power.

What rank did he hold?

We saw Crowley return to Heaven, in disguise, in S2 E6, with events hinting that he was once a very high-ranking angel:

So, we know for a fact he was above the level of Thrones and Dominions. So where does this place him on Heaven’s organisational chart? My analysis here is metatextual – I don’t think looking at external hierarchies of angels is that helpful to understanding the Good Omens universe, so I will only focus on what Neil Gaiman has confirmed when asked, or has been demonstrated within the world of the show itself.

Good Omens has its own Hierarchy of Heaven, but Neil Gaiman has clarified that the Archangels we see are amongst the most senior personnel in Heaven. This runs counter to many hierarchies of angels (which are often contradictory in and of themselves) but is consistent with the depiction in John Milton’s Paradise Lost as well as Jewish tradition, where the highest ranking Archangels are given the title of “princes” of heaven. “Prince of Heaven” is also a term that Metatron applies to Gabriel in S2 E6.

Of the heavenly entities mentioned in the show, we can infer the following angelic hierarchy:

God

Metatron (NG confirms here)

Supreme Archangel (Gabriel, now Aziraphale)

Other Archangels (Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, in that order – See NG here)

Cherubim (Aziraphale at the Garden of Eden, when he was the Angel of the Eastern Gate –NG Confirms here)

Thrones & Dominions

Principalities(?) (Aziraphale after the Garden of Eden – NG doesn’t state if this is a promotion or demotion, but it feels very demotion-y)

Other lower-ranking angels (As a Principality, Aziraphale was supposed to lead a platoon of angels into battle in S1 – so there must be many levels below him – see NG here)

Scrivners (Muriel and the level Gabriel would have been demoted to. Appears to be the lowest rank in Heaven, suggested by NG here)

There are likely many other levels in-between these that have not yet been mentioned onscreen. Saraqael, for example, seems lower down than an Archangel (addressing Michel and Uriel as “your beatitudes” before approaching them in Episode 1), but above Aziraphale. You’ll notice Seraphim aren’t in this list, because they’ve not been mentioned on screen – but I suspect they do exist in this universe and are a class below Archangels but above Cherubim.

This doesn’t necessarily mean that Crowley was an Archangel, but confirms pretty explicitly that he was once near the top.

So who was he?

Neil Gaiman has stated that his name when he was an angel was not Crowley/Crawley, and the first scene of Season 2 sees a bit of redirection when Aziraphale tries to get angel-Crowley’s name:

This is quite deliberate, and sets up his name as something important to be revealed later. However, I can’t see why his name would matter to the narrative, unless it’s something recognisable from biblical canon – or, that it’s not necessarily his name, but his rank as an angel that was important.

There are numerous pointed references throughout Season 2 to Archangels, in such a way that feels like the show is setting up for this to be revealed in the future. The misdirection about Angel-Crowley’s name may have been because Aziraphale was likely to have recognised the name of an Archangel.

More than this, I personally do think, that before his fall Crowley wasn’t just any old Archangel, but the Supreme Archangel. This is based on the following 7 points (you know God likes sevens):

The very deliberate way the camera pans to Crowley’s impassive face after Gabriel says “I’m the only first-order Archangel in the room or, you know, the universe.”

2. Metatron’s statement, “For one Prince of Heaven to be cast into the outer darkness makes a good story. For it to happen twice, makes it look like there is some kind of institutional problem.”

While it’s quite clear that we’re supposed to associate this line with Lucifer himself (and yes, I know NG confirms that's who this was alluding to!), it’s interesting that ‘Prince of Heaven’ is a title associated with Archangels in Jewish tradition and very specifically with Gabriel on screen in the universe of the series. That Jimbriel also repeats this line to Crowley in the bookshop specifically feels significant...

3. Crowley also recognises Metatron in the bookshop, where no other Archangel does. Metatron deliberately avoids using his name in this scene, calling him ‘demon’. Which is not inaccurate, but may suggest the Metatron remembers Crowley’s angelic name. It may also explain Metatron’s very dark look at Crowley as he exited the shop – the two of them have some history.

4. It’s never stated explicitly that Gabriel hasn’t always been the Supreme Archangel since the beginning, but there’s enough vagueness in the text to guess at this. When Michael and Uriel are discussing what to do in Gabriel’s absence, Michael and Uriel have this exchange:

M:There is, of course, no question of replacing the supreme archangel. I am the Archangel Michael, you are the Archangel Uriel. U: We aren't in charge. Right now, as of this moment, Heaven does not have a supreme archangel. M: There is always a supreme archangel.

“There is always a Supreme Archangel!” not “Gabriel has always been the Supreme Archangel!” According to some traditions, the Supreme Archangel was the first angel ever created, which would support Michael’s statement: There is always, and there always has been, a Supreme Archangel, since the time of creation. It’s possible that someone else held this role pre-Fall, and Gabriel was appointed as successor after the War in Heaven.

5. The way the other Archangels behave around him. There’s a wariness, but also a strange deference. On being discovered by Saraqael in heaven, they don’t immediately throw him out, but let him watch Gabriel’s trial – even ordering Muriel to show him it. Michael and Uriel then follow him back to Earth without much fuss, giving him quite a look, while Crowley seems to be enjoying himself:

(This also feeds into why I think Crowley looked so different during the Job segment. He knew he might encounter a few Archangels he’s not seen for a thousand years or so, and so appears in disguise.) 6. The lightening! I’ve seen someone point out that Crowley’s electric temper tantrum in S2E1 mirrors the lightening used by Gabriel to travel to Earth in S1E6. This could be a coincidence of VFX, or it could be a Clue.

7. That last conversation between Aziraphale and Crowley:

A: I don't think you understand what I'm offering you. C: I understand. I think I understand a whole lot better than you do.

That’s such a weighted statement, and could be interpreted in so many ways. But, viewed in this light, it sounds like a warning from a former angel who used to be very high up in Heaven indeed – and has absolutely no desire to return there.  

Why does any of this matter?

Obviously just theorising here…

The story is setting us up for a reveal here – Crowley’s status as an angel, and who he was before the Fall is clearly going to factor into Season 3 in some way. Why tease us with it so much and so often if it’s not important?

In terms of the narrative, a powerful revelation would be that Crowley used to have Aziraphale’s new job. That it led him to asking questions about the Almighty’s plan and then, ultimately, falling. And that the Supreme Archangel, for one reason for another, eventually turns against Heaven – it happened to Crowley, to Gabriel (after a few thousand years), and then will have to happen to Aziraphale too.

I could be way off here, but at some point the show needs to explain why Crowley is so different from other demons and has powers that no other demon or angel seems to possess. A reveal that he was once very, very senior in the organisation of Heaven, before asking too many questions and being cast out, would serve as a explanation and be a meaningful development to the narrative of Season 3.

I don’t think we’ll necessarily get a name (because we don’t need one) – but I do think we will get a rank or some idea about who he used to be, and that’s what’s going to be significant. TLDR: Supreme Archangel Crowley!?

[huellitaa]

defining your life (literally) ୭🧷✧˚. ᵎᵎ 🎀

okay so i know you've heard this a billion times before but you are the creator of ur life. and one of the biggest parts of life is language and communication. the words you use and the phrases you say and the way you speak, to others and to urself, can have such a huge impact.

firstly think ab ur philosophies and guiding principles in your life. what do you live by? what do you believe in? what guides you in your everyday decisions? why do you do these things? what do you hope to achieve? before you can change anything about yourself, you first need to figure out what "yourself" IS. you can't change something if there's nothing to be changed, otherwise ur flogging a dead horse.

linking back to what i said previously, words have power. as i've said many times before, our realities and beliefs are unique to us as individuals, which therefore makes them easily malleable because we as humans are easily malleable. we define our realities, and our words are a very important component in that. like a precious relic or prized treasure, they each hold their own meanings and values to each and every one of us. which is why it's so important yet so overlooked to truly take a moment and just think about what ur saying and what it means to you.

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 a few things you need to define before you go seeking:

🧸𓂃 ࣪˖ peace

something many people seek, but not many actually find. you cannot search for something if you do not know what it is that you're searching for. what is peace? is it the short lived silence of an empty house, or feeling truly and utterly content with your life? is it fleeting, like any other emotion, or is it a permanent state of which you can maintain over time? what does it mean?

🧁𓂃 ࣪˖ friends

who are the people you call your friends? who are the people you'd be proud to call your friends? are you proud of your current friends, if any? if none, what would they add to you? what are friends supposed to be like? are they supposed to embarrass you and put you down, or support you and make you smile and hype you up? is it genuine connection you're looking for and / or have, or is it short-lived attention from people who'll only hurt and leave you in the end?

✨𓂃 ࣪˖ happiness

is happiness the thrilling high of an irrational decision, or the long-term effect of maintaining ur health and becoming the person you always wanted to be? is happiness quick validation and dopamine hits, or is it the long lasting outcome of positive decisions and change in ur life? or is it just a feeling that comes and goes like any other? why is this the case? why do you believe this? how would you define happiness to another person?

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 a few things you need to define before you go giving:

💬𓂃 ࣪˖ love

how do u define love? romantic, platonic, familial, whatever u want. is it just a thrilling cycle of hurt, hurt, and more hurt, because that's all you've ever known, or is it learning to open ur heart no matter how scared you are to another person because despite ur fear, you have sincere and genuine trust in them that they care about you and the feeling is mutual? what would you define as love, truly?

🧁𓂃 ࣪˖ energy

is energy the life force that keeps the world going around, or the burst of life you get after a cup of coffee or tea in the morning? does it hold every fibre of your being inside it, a radiance specifically unique to you? does it become drained after hanging out with the wrong people, or is it just a word you've never put much thought into rather than the sugar high after a sweet treat?

⭐𓂃 ࣪˖ kindness

what is kindness? it's such a simple thing, but is it the act of sincere sweetness towards you that you're looking for, or is it short-lived attention from people who aren't gonna be there at your deathbed and only exist to cause obstacles and issues in ur life? is it sacrificing yourself for the world around you, or is it finding a balance between kindness to yourself and kindness to others?

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 a few things you need to define for ur peace of mind:

🧁𓂃 ࣪˖ family

do you believe family is solely a case of biological relation, or is it the emotional connection that's thicker than both blood and water? are the people you hang out with every day and love with your whole heart your family, or are the toxic mother and distant father your family? how do you define this?

🐇𓂃 ࣪˖ health

what is "healthy" to you? how would you define good health and bad health to another person, and for yourself, accustomed to your own personal needs and adjustments? do you want to be healthy? how does and/or would your life look if you were to work towards this?

🩷𓂃 ࣪˖ impossibility

what do you believe are the limits of your capabilities? are there any at all? are you happy with the limits you're placing on your life, or are they simply restraints placed on you by another? what do you believe you can do and why?

🫶🏼𓂃 ࣪˖ balance

a simple word, but one that our whole lives revolve around; or at least in my sense of the definition. how would you define balance? is it important? what in your life revolves around it? what does it mean?

all my love... 💬🎀🫶🏻💗

[she-whatshername]

Slight October shenanigans with Bodhi

A very small Bodhi shenanigans that turned into more of a oneshot. I cannot wait until we get into the NSFW of it all with Bodhi in drifted, lolol. Its coming soon!

Again, no real facts here, but I think Bodhi (and all the Marked Ones in some fashion) get a little turned on when their S/O or crush defends their honor in some way. I feel like for Bodhi, its a 100% turn on

Walk with me here

No one really fucks with Xaden in the quadrant. Scary dragon, scary shadows, scary wingleader authority. Yes, he has looks that could kill but he actually can kill so if someone was foolish enough to speak down upon him, Xaden himself or the other Marked Ones would just mop the floor with them

And then Garrick. Same thing, he's huge as fuck (lolol), strong, has a very classified and probably dangerous signet and is Xaden's right hand. Same thing, I assume very few people are going to speak down upon him

And then there's Bodhi. Our sweet lil angel of a human. I could absolutely see some cadets thinking he's the weakest link (bruh, are they wrong) and want to go after him instead. I also imagine he'd be the person who would just take it because he doesn't care enough to fight someone over words. But, if he sees you stand up for him, I bet he's fucking smitten over it

ANYWAYS back to the shenanigans

Picture it. He's walking in the quadrant and pauses just short of the arches to glance over at you and another female cadet in what seemed to be a serious discussion

"You're kidding. Durran? A Marked One? I'd rather take my chances with anyone else from First Wing." The blonde haired girl huffed.

You're eyes narrowed while you stepped forward slightly, "We need a strong team if we're going to beat the infantry unit in The Games. Why are you being so weird about this?"

"I know cadets like you get so smitten with what you've heard about people like Durran and the others. You can whore yourself out to them but I'm not going to be on a team with a fucking traitor. Its a disgrace to Navarre that people like him and all the other Marked Ones get to even step foot in this quadrant and bond with a dragon. If you put him on the team, I'm out."

"Well then, you're out." You said with a shrug of your shoulders. "Bodhi is a top ranked cadet with one of the fastest gauntlet times and top scores in class. He helped Marehaven to the infirmary when she tore a ligament in sparring sessions, he's kind. That's everything we need to win The Games this year and you're willing to risk our squads record because you can't get over a stupid relic?"

"You don't understand-"

"There's nothing traitorous about him, or any of the Marked Ones. They're cadets just like us. And what I am understanding is you're to distracted to think straight and I can't risk that on my team for The Games. You're out." You spoke the last two words with extra emphasis. So much so the female cadet across from began screaming profanities at you for the better part of a minute before she stormed away in the courtyard.

And Bodhi across the way is just staring at you like Amari herself has appeared in human form.

He doesn't need the protection from the glares and threats of the cadets. He has his own strength, and Garrick and Xaden when he needs it but, there was something enamoring about how angry you got at his name being mentioned with such distain

Oof. He's smitten

dangerously smitten

Later that afternoon when you ask him to join your team for The Games he accepts, not mentioning that he overheard you defending him

NSFW Begins here

And when your team does indeed win the The Games against the infantry unit Bodhi guides you to one of the secluded rotundas, capturing your lips in a heated kiss before dropping to his knees to worship your body in celebration of your victory and in admiration.

Like, he's pulling at the leather strings of your flight leathers with his teeth just to get to your skin.

His breath and mouth are hot on your skin, his fingers slightly chilled due to the crisp air. Its an unexpected temperature play and its amazing

You're finished in a matter of minutes. Yet Bodhi is relentless and by your third he's catching you when your legs give out.

Somehow he's managed to get his own flight jacket off and on the ground so when he sets you down your bare ass isn't hitting the stone floor. He's pulling you in his lap to kiss your lips. When you offer to return the favor he's shaking his head, "This is your victory. Let me celebrate you."

[maybe-boys-do-love]

SOTUS Review: Engineering the Bridge To BL

I'm not exactly a sucker for teen dramas. Miss me with Gossip Girl and Pretty Little Liars. Even less soapy shows like The OC or Dawson's Creek that I checked out because of their critical status in the genre were not shows that I felt compelled to finish after watching a few episodes. However, teen dramas were a rare space in media where queer characters were allowed to exist as secondary or tertiary characters, so in my young gayhood I searched amongst less popular shows for gay storylines like in Canada's Degrassi. I binge-watched Australia's Dance Acadamy until they killed off the gay character and sought out lists about groundbreaking shows from before my time like My So-Called Life.

The latter is not simply exceptional for its gay representation but for aiming higher than its teen soap peers for realist complexity in its characters. Later, shows like Freaks and Geeks and the UK's Skins would take up that torch, then Friday Night Lights, which had the genius to bring in the institution of American football culture in the South of the the US to ground its commentary on American racial and economic politics. Norway's Skam arrived in 2015 using the "Russ Bus" tradition for similar purposes--and used the strength of its writing to depict a globally celebrated queer story the same year as SOTUS. These elevated coming-of-age teen dramas I count among my favorite series ever in any genre.

I bring up all this TV history because I found no review yet that adequately conveys SOTUS's equivalent storytelling goals and prowess, nor do they fully indicate that SOTUS is one of the most compelling BLs to this day. Historically important, they read, but mediocre production values, primarily for straight women and homophobic, with a hazing setting that might be triggering for viewers, all implying its a relic of a less enlightened time in BL history that later shows will improve upon. While I'd recommend reading them to learn more about the history of the series that I'm less interested in covering here, these are not exactly rave reviews. What a surprise to begin the series and witness right out of the gate precision, complexity, and depth to its queer depictions that's equal to any Thai BL that followed in its groundbreaking wake.

The series manages to engineer (wah wah) bridges to blend the naturalistic elements of those other elevated teen drama precedents with the tropes and styles that populated Thai BL novels (like the pink milk from 2Moons2) and will define Thai BL series in the years to come. In Thailand, the series Love Sick came first in its BL focus, but, as lovely as Love Sick is, it sprawls across flatter characters in its focus and fails to celebrate the breadth of queerness in some harmful ways. On the other hand, SOTUS, in pacing, casting, characterization, and theme development, links BL to a plot-driven Western style and decidedly queer perspective. There's a reason it was the show to begin the more intense global interest in BL series.

Below the cut, you'll find my review about the qualities that made SOTUS so outstanding to me.

SOTUS initially struck me with the tightness of its dialogues and cuts, especially compared to many other Thai BLs that I've seen, which have a bawdy theatrical spaciousness in their tempo, more in line with broad comedy or soap opera, telenovela, and Thai lakorn. Not so in SOTUS. It gives time enough for its actors to emote but orients toward storytelling precision. Plot-forward Thai BL comparables I've seen so far might be Not Me or Moonlight Chicken. Unlike those series, SOTUS won't be any cinematography nerd's dream, clearly limited by its budget in this matter, but it works hard to keep the limits of a small budget from distracting. The cheaply licensed scoring music, for example, is surprisingly effective, its repeated pulsing dread adding to the momentum ignited by the SOTUS initiation of the freshman at Thai universities.

Senior year of high school, I selected universities for application based on my fear of hazing. No fraternities near campus for me. The gendered organization and reputation for homophobic cruelty were existential threats to me as a closeted teenager. For many gay men, including myself, frat houses and initiation ceremonies were also sites of homoerotic fantasy. Thus is the duality of gay experience.

The Thai hazing context differs from the US (no gender segregation, for example), but the series mines the same psychological tension between danger and eroticism with its controversial use of the real-life SOTUS hazing induction system--the abbreviation stands for Seniority, Order, Tradition, Unity, and Spirit--to ground its queer romance. The actual implementation of it at Thai universities has more issues than the show depicts and, while the series' hazing is a form of bullying that can trigger some, the mildness of the abuse depicted ought to be stated, especially when compared to American ideas about hazing abuse and queer media's depictions of homophobic violence. SOTUS portrays shouted verbal instructions and physical endurance trials as the means of degradation, with no physical violence and reprimands with consequences when its believed seniors have disrespected their charges or put them at risk.

Rather than a critique of the SOTUS system itself, the system provides the organizational hub for the series' broader societal commentary, and itts treatment elevates the show to the likes of Friday Night Lights or Skam. Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice title was taken from a line in Fanny Bruney's Cecilia about the two faults being both the cause of miseries and the reason for their termination. The series treats the SOTUS system and everything else within in the same manner: with complexity rather than binary keep-it-or-leave-it moralism. The S.O.T.U.S. values parallel the confines of a deeply imperfect society that when seen as strictly authoritarian pass down rules and pain from the elder generation to the the next. However, when viewed and practiced as the series encourages by the end of its story through a more nuanced understanding of the Asian filial philosophies at play, the values of seniority, order, tradition, unity, and spirit also invite compassion and affinity flowing in both directions across the generations.

The slowly emerging slight but significant age-gap romance between righteous freshman Kongpob and head 'hazer' Arthit is the central device for this exploration, but every element and scene, from the side couples to the food orders, develop our sense as viewers of the social order that the show wants to address. And the scenes move like well-lubricated assembly-line machinery toward their final purpose. It's obsession-inducing.

Despite the machinery of SOTUS's pacing, it delicately fashions its character and an environment gently permeated by homophobia and misogyny. Celebratory moments occurred to highlight themes without drawing attention to themselves, heterosexual coupling and marriages, for example, or a classmate coming out. Slurs surfaced casually, too, and old-fashioned masculinities were performed not as major plot points, spectacles of violence, or lessons for characters to immediately learn from, but to illustrate how inherited ignorance and constraints bear down almost invisibly on the characters. No one was demonized or ostracized for their ignorance, not because the writers view their actions positively but because they view their ignorance as a product of systematic failings, failings each generation can and will attempt to improve upon as they inherit the reigns. No one generation will make it all perfectly right. They are only human.

You can feel that humanity in the way the characters are written. All of the characters are distinguishable and interesting. They're written well and performed with heart. We have actual girls just chilling and being friends in a BL series, which was historically novel. Ingenues and horny girls and shy lesbians. The guys are recognizable guys, which is another feature Thai BL does exceptionally well. There are some dorks, some bros. The best friend in the freshman group is shy with strangers but open with his friends and fierce on the basketball court. I've known people like these. They are characters that are broad enough to recognize from a distance (or less screen time) but not simple stereotypes.

Then, on top of this you have the casual trans, gay, and nonbinary inclusion of bit parts and side characters that, to this day, only Thailand is doing in its shows to this extent. Its just impressive to see that their BL industry started off from the get-go at this level. But in SOTUS its not simply casual inclusion, either. These characters, unlike comparable characters in Love Sick, delineate moments of queer kindness that blur the understood hierarchical order of the initiation system and the heteronormative order holding our romantic leads back. In subtle ways they offer queer guidance and a model to Kong on his journey.

Then there's Kongpob and Arthit at the queer center of it all. Ugh! These two characters! These two performances! In Singto's watery sphynx-like eyes, in Krist's clinched jaw, in the electrified space between their bodies that the characters must restrain themselves against crossing, these are the heights of longing the romance genre can reach at its peak. There's an inner pain in these characters. That pain is old-school romance and its old-school queer pain.

I've read complaints about the physical intimacy in this show that I realize after watching the series are ignoring the characterizations of repression and inexperience that impact every interaction between Art and Kong, even their kisses. They aren't on the het timeline, instead having their first kiss and relationship in college, which is why SOTUS aligns with the teen drama genre so well despite its university setting. The greenness of their physical affection (we see it grow more competent and comfortable as the show progresses), however, belies an emotional chemistry that's intense, erotic, and intimate. Many more explicit BL scenes feel tame compared to Arthit grabbing Kong's shirt in rage or whispering in his ear in front of a waiting taxi.

I'm looking forward to SOTUS S and its Our Skyy episode to see more about KongArt's partnership, because their characters resist the seme/uke categorization of the BL genre they emerge from (which are also basically the stereotypes of top and bottom that gay men placed on themselves lol). Their ages and behaviors are reversed from the expected, first off. Kong, the younger, pursues, making him technically the seme and Arthit the uke, character definitions that also indicate sexual preferences of top and bottom. This wasn't unheard of in BL texts from what I've read, but less typical. Then there's the matter of Arthit being the one who initiates physical affection, partly due to Kong's regard for his challenges with internalized homophobia. Apparently, even the pronouns used between the pair are an intimate negotiation rather than an accepted order, returning us to the more complex ways the S.O.T.U.S. acronym can be enacted.

Plus, Kong's played by Singto with impressive power and confidence that's still soft-spoken, slippery, sibilant. To my trained eyes, its a character with mannerism and speech that are legibly gay. Not so legible that all his peers will notice, but he's clockable for queer eyes and worrisome for those afraid of deviation from the norm. For me, this is Thailand's biggest BL breakthrough (and its persisted down this path*) because, for many in the LGBT+ community, challenges begin well before anything to do with sexual attraction.

Gender deviance is the key issue. I was teased by a classmate at 8, well before I had a sexuality, that when I walk I move my hips like a f*gg*t. Don't worry. He wasn't totally wrong. I have a killer strut and I own it now. His antagonism wasn't about who I liked; it was my swish, my non-masculine behaviors. The hatred of gender deviance (and its misogynistic reasoning) is the underlying bogeyman for much of homophobia. Even plenty of men who are perfectly happy to have sex with men, at least where I live in the US, take issue with effeminacy. (Try finding the most overt lesbians on tv outside of OITNB, too!) That applies to audiovisual media, too. Unless comedic, consumers have tended to be more excited about queerness when the bodies and expressions appear in-line with gender expectations. The power of Thai BL and Singto's performance of Kong is how it opened space in the market and audience's minds to take queer affects seriously in young adult romance.

It's no surprise, then, that Kong forges friendships with the characters who are overtly LGBT during the series. The associations made between Kong and the fullness of the LGBT spectrum provides a more complex context for the show's choice to include him expressing the BL trope of 'only gay for you.' While it's a harmful concept broadly, the show seems to be using it subversively. How much more regressive it would've felt coming from Arthit! With Kong and all of his queer associations, it plays as the words of a gay romantic. With the diversity of coming-outs and identity-naming we now have in BL, Kong's moon-eyed statement made on the night his boyfriend comes out for him holds less of a harmful influence on the whole.

Context is just as important to the oft-critiqued scene where Kong says that he'll make Arthit his wife. Based on what I'd read and how impactful and problematic people felt it was, I thought the statement had been a romantic declaration late in the series. Imagine my surprise when it occurred in the first episode as an attempt by Kong to disrupt the patriarchal power of the seniors. Rather than illustrating the show's belief about gay relationships being the same as straight relationships, the scene points to the patriarchal assumptions the series intends by its end to disrupt. The exchange gets reenacted when the freshman decide to act it out at the faculty beach outing for everyone. The seniors interrupt, and the freshman fear they're about to be punished for disrespecting their elders only to find out they're being invited to finally celebrate their inclusion into the faculty. It's denied fruition as a tool to dis-empower and a true testament of Art and Kong's relationship.

It's at the beach where the freshman are given their gears, one of the many examples of how the series used symbols with significantly more depth than the copy-cats that tried to make bank by using the exact same motifs later. The proceeding BL engineers owe not a debt but an apology to SOTUS. The engineering faculty fit perfectly with the show's questions about systems and how individuals fit into them. We have these gears, which could simply be cogs in a machine that forces you to fit in and lose your humanity, but SOTUS envisions the gear as a heart, something unique, attempting to find its place and fit its grooves within a greater purpose. Its a symbol of authentic belonging.

The pink drink, which could've simply served--and has served in other series since--to be a symbol of pink gay girly tastes, is more fully used to emphasize Arthit's stubborn desire for familiarity, his inexperience (in trying other drinks), and a certain childishness in his preference for sweetness, a childishness that humanizes him to his freshman paramor. A trade even occurs with the drink, shifting all these meanings onto Kongpob as he begins to face his own prideful assumptions about his own righteousness.

Beyond all the English teacher symbolism and queer value, though, SOTUS is just the kind of well-told romance that will make you swoon. Despite a low budget and simple plot, its performances, editing, and most of all its script mesmerize. People shouldn't watch it as a history lesson. Its too entertaining to be relegated to that. Labeling it as simply historically important doesn't do it justice.

SOTUS stands tall among teen dramas, a literary work in a genre that doesn't require those heights; SOTUS stands tall among queer media peers, paving new lanes for queer storytelling and performances to walk down; and SOTUS stands tall among its BL peers. Clearly many of the greats in Thai BL, like 1000 Stars, Bad Buddy, and Until We Meet Again, aim to evoke their predecessor, more out of love and awe than an apology (as has been suggested by others). The ways they differ seem to be additions and diversification of queer narratives rather than a critique. SOTUS is simply one of those Great Stories. It inspires binging, revisits, investigations, and, most importantly, the biggest feels. Watch it now if you haven't. Watch it again if you have. Its not a piece of history. Its the kind of story that doesn't get old.

*Thank goodness for LITBC bringing Korea some overtly gay characters. Japan's got a few options--KENJI!--but not enough for my liking yet. I haven't seen enough of the other country's output to make a judgment.

Tagging @dropthedemiurge for being the biggest supporter of my new-found SOTUS obsession and @respectthepetty for the petty watch that got me over my lack of motivation to watch this series! Petty was half-joking but also so right about the kink undertones to this relationship!!!

There are certainly more versed BL history experts so feel free to let me know about any mistakes I made with my history! I'm just a broad and casual tv history and queer fiction and history fan tryna share my new-found BL joy.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

TotK DLC idea!

The screen is black. You don’t hear anything for a long time. Then, faintly, in the distance, you can hear it.

Link. Link. Open your eyes.

While the line echoes familiarity, the voice does not.

Or. Well. It does. Because while it isn’t Zelda, it’s a familiar man’s voice speaking gently, so gently you almost don’t recognize it because there’s no way he ever spoke like this in the main game.

But he is now. And instead of a golden light being the first image you see before the screen shows Link awakening… you see gloom floating in the air. The image cuts to a Hylian waking up who… doesn’t look like Link from TotK?? He’s different, still small in stature, with slightly tanner skin, platinum light blonde hair, and red eyes. But… something’s wrong with his forehead. There’s a weird line on it.

This new character you apparently are gonna be playing in the DLC blearily blinks his eyes open, clearly groggy and too weak to really move. But then that line on his forehead moves a hair, it splits apart, and you realize it’s a freaking eye, red and yellow and it’s like the ones on gloom hands and oh gosh what the hell is it doing on his forehead—

Link realizes something is off and his eyes blow wide, his hands reach for his forehead and he screams in agony and terror, only for someone to scoop him into a hug to soothe him.

And suddenly you realize why that voice was eerily familiar.

It’s Ganondorf. He resurrected you from the era of the Imprisoning War. You, who have a history with him and his family. You, who he wants to protect, who he views as his kid, who he calls a prince and says he’ll keep you safe by controlling your body with his dark magic if he has to.

Welcome to Tears of the Kingdom: Hero’s Shadow.

You have to play a long gone Hero who was resurrected. Ganondorf, who is still recovering his strength in preparation for killing the current Hero, tasks you with finding your betrothed, his daughter, as well as his wife. They’re buried somewhere in the Depths like you were. He wants you to find their burial sites so he can use his secret stone to resurrect them like he did you, and control them as well. Which is doubly bad when you realize his wife was the original Sage of Lightning. He gives you free reign to wander once you go through a tutorial (he tests you to see if you’ve recovered enough strength), because he knows you love wandering and collecting things. Your own personal objective, however, is trying to help Hyrule from the Depths, to break free from Ganondorf’s control, because Link would rather set himself on fire than let Ganondorf resurrect and control the love of his life and his mother-in-law. Your best hope is to find shards of the shattered Master Sword to try and stab the eye on Dark Link’s forehead and break the control Ganondorf has on you. Until you can, though, the monsters are your allies, you can teleport across the Depths by manifesting out of the gloom created by gloom hands (just like what Phantom Ganon does), and the world below is your oyster. If you get too close to sword shards when gloom hands are nearby, Ganondorf can see your attempt and immediately takes control of your body, and no matter what button you press Link just walks back to Ganondorf’s location and stays there until you get a chance to try again.

You start with three hearts, all empty looking like when gloom hurts you, and if you get injured they just shatter. Whenever they all shatter, you respawn at Ganondorf’s location because his gloom hands came and rescued you from dying. The only way you can get more hearts is by collecting poes and offering them to the statues in the Depths. You can communicate with the spirits of soldiers, who may give you combat tips or info about the area. If you gain enough of Ganondorf’s trust, he’ll let you command monsters, and he might even let you wander the Surface (under his supervision) during a blood moon.

You learn of Link’s and Ganondorf’s history through discovering ancient relics/texts that trigger memories. This connection between you and Ganondorf stems back to time before the war, well over ten thousand years ago. Link was engaged to Ganondorf’s daughter, but during the Imprisoning War the family fought against the demon king. Ganondorf did love his family, but he loved power more. Link sacrificed himself, letting himself get mortally wounded to save Rauru from a killing blow. Gan held him as he died, and it allowed Link to both beg him to stop and stab him in the heart with a light shard. The shard didn’t kill him, but it was what Rauru connected with when he hit him in the chest, allowing him to seal Ganondorf away. Ganondorf still wants the world, but his love for his family is still present, though now twisted, so he thinks he can control Link and everyone else with his dark magic in order to keep them safe and in line. Once the threat of the current Hero is eliminated, the world will be his, and his family will be safe. As such, he treats you, Link, the player, like a stubborn child, reeling you in, but does so in a horrific way, torturing Link by controlling him.

You have to break free of this and stop him, and the only hope you have is the distant call of a sword spirit…