#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!!

[chongoblog]

WAIT

I JUST REMEMBERED HEARING AN ELON MUSK QUOTE WHERE HE TALKS ABOUT HOW HE BELIEVES CHESS IS "TOO SIMPLE" OR WHATEVER AND HE SAID HIS FAVORITE GAME WAS A GAME CALLED "POLYTOPIA"

I JUST REMEMBERED THAT IVE PLAYED POLYTOPIA

It being Elon's favorite game (or at least one so important to him that his biographer dedicates a lot of time to it) is.....really really funny.

Basically, imagine Civilization, but as a mobile game. So like if Civilization Revolution was even more dumbed down (that's a Civilization insult. That's devastating. It's devastated right now). For what it's worth, it's not a bad game. On the contrary, from what I could tell in the little bit of time I played it, it's a perfectly competent game with good design. But it's not a deep game by any means. I played through it once, won easily on my first go, then saw that the other playable characters had barely any differences between them.

Like, not to imply you can judge a book by its cover, but here's what it looks like

I came across an article by Dave Karpf discussing this exact thing, and I think it describes it wonderfully

[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.

[alabasterpickles]

I was going to wait to share these? Because I have like twenty more drawings in the works, but there’s too many to post all at once anyway, so in the meantime my Zelda palies can have a handful of doodles

Some of these are old and a LOT of theme need context so I’m gonna list them one at a time from top to bottom, ahem

1. So, my sister and I have it in our heads that Tulin and Josha would get on like a house fire, partly because they are the only characters that are the same-ish age and partly because they’re both tenacious little turkeys (pun intended, yes) with LOADS of spirit to spare

But also, I can see Tulin hanging out around her a lot now that he's a Sage and will be spending most of his time at Lookout Landing. Plus Josha is all into history and relics and she's a little bossy so it just makes SO much sense that he'd develop a crush on her

I think he'd appreciate the attention, too! if he's anything like his hero, Revali, or even Teba (which, like father like son) he's bound to be a bit of a show-off around the ladies

Teba is somewhere off screen facepalming because his son flirts like a plywood board

2. NUMBA TWO; I was playing skyward sword on the switch, thought about loftwings, thought about Rito and bam! Crimson loftwing Rito. That’s pretty much all there was to this one. Thought about drawing Zelda’s loftwing as his wife too!

3. OKAY ITS BECAUSE DARSTON WAS MY FAVE IN ECHOES OF WISDOM, so i drew him in BOTW’s style. I have no regrets (I loved the Gerudo Princess too!) see a pattern here? Yeah, neither do I.

4. That’s just Gomo the Goromand because I’m lowkey in love with him and his funny little ‘do.

5. Just Urbosa being a total badass as usual and because her AOC dialogue in the Thunderblight Ganon fight sequence guts me a little.

6-9. Sage Charm designs I started drawing ages ago and still want to finish (but they’ll have to wait because of school)! I promise Tulin is there, he’s just trapped in thumbnail form!!!

10. Oldie but goodie because I am hyped for age of imprisonment and really, really, really look forward to seeing more of the dynamic between Rauru and his granddaughter. And also?? I want more of Zelda and Mineru’s relationship too, because that girl waited 10,000 years, witnessed the sacrifice of her niece, lost her brother, sister-in-law and her friends, AND her body, to help Link and if that doesn’t make her the coolest sage I don’t know what does

[screamlet]

hi here's a prompt for you to ponder while i'm teaching my class: ♕ (holding hands)

GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! when i tell you this one prompt in particular has been haunting me since THE MOMENT!!!!! YOU SENT IT!!!!!! why are hands so hard?!?!?! fuck!!!! anyway here's ~650 words of established bucktommy future fic, kid fic, cavity-inducing fluff. AUGH from the nonsexual acts of intimacy prompt list

---

It was only when Tommy thought about reaching for a drink that he realized both his hands weren't his own.

It's movie night on the couch and Evan's in his usual spot on Tommy's right side, mile-long legs stretched out on the rest of the couch. For years now, years, he needed something to fidget with in his hands and when it wasn't his phone or his wedding ring or an actual fidget toy, it was probably Tommy's hand: linking their fingers together, stroking the pads of his fingers, idly flexing his fingers, looking down at the light faded scars here and there.

And now Andy, all of four years old, had picked up on the habit and grabbed Tommy's left hand so he could watch the movie, too. Tommy flexes his right hand to catch Evan's attention, motioning quickly to his other side where Andy was fascinated by an animated movie he'd seen a dozen times already. Tommy stays still as Evan slips his phone out and cranes his long arm to get a picture of Andy and Tommy. He gets the shot, but the little shutter sound also gets Andy's attention.

"Pictures?" Andy asks. He clutches Tommy's hand tighter, excited, because Evan always takes the best pictures, makes the best faces and the silliest sounds, and Andy loves to play along. "Dad, smile, pictures." Tommy puts on a goofy smile as Evan gets a selfie of the three of them.

"Andy, hold up Dad's hand for the picture," Evan says. "Look, we caught him, like a big fish!"

Andy holds Tommy's hand to his chest and leans against Tommy. "We're watching movies and we hold hands with movies."

"We hold hands at the movies, exactly," Evan says excitedly. "Our baby's the smartest kid in the world. The smartest."

Andy preens, makes a little yay sound under his breath as he sits down again and cuddles against Tommy's side. Tommy's never getting that hand back; he's never giving that hand back. He leans down and kisses the top of Andy's head, then leans to his other side and gently headbutts Evan. "That means you're on hydrate-Dad duty."

"My time to shine," Evan announces as he scrambles off the couch and into the kitchen.

"Pause," Andy tells Tommy. "Dad's missing it."

"You got it. Movie: paused."

"Thank you," Andy whispers.

His new thing this week is please and thank you; they're not sure where he picked it up from, but he and Evan are enjoying this period where their son sounds like he wandered out of a toddler finishing school or something. It's too fucking cute.

Evan comes back with an ancient relic from their kitchen, a giant sparkly travel cup with a straw stuck in it. "Dad's gonna be the most hydrated," Evan says as he reclaims his spot on Tommy's other side. "Sip, don't slurp." Tommy shoots him a look as he sips from the straw, and gets an evil flick on his earlobe for it.

"Dads, movie, now," Andy says. "Please."

He's about to press play, but Evan has already settled back into his couch groove next to Tommy—that means he's taken back the remote and Tommy's right hand. Their eyes meet as Evan kisses the back of his hand, reverent as he lingers.

Tommy thinks all of this deserves reverence, this moment so quiet and incredible that it's hard to believe he's living it.

"Oh boy, I wonder what happens next," Evan says as he hits play.

Andy laughs with his whole body, knocking against Tommy's side. "We've seen it."

"Well I don't remember," Evan says playfully. "Dad, did we watch this already?"

"Shh, the part with the whale," Tommy says. Andy holds Tommy's hand even tighter, bending back one of his fingers too far until Tommy flexes and loosens his grip. "You love this part, huh?"

Andy sighs, big and exaggerated like both his dads, his arms swinging up and almost taking one of Tommy's eyes out. "I love every part."

"Me too," Tommy says, glancing at Evan.

Evan meets Tommy's eyes and kisses his hand again. "Me too."

[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.

[mothking-rising]

Got a rude response from someone I reblogged from so I'm making my own post about Ice Flight because um--

Hey Ice Flight can be pretty cool actually and be different from the rest of the flights, and this post is gonna be my two cents about it. I've seen people go around just summing it up as "cops" when just like every other Flight they can be so much more?

While first, I do agree that Ice’s aesthetic is kinda weak as is. Not a lot you can do with the same winter themes over and over with the occasional broken chain motif. I’d love to see people get creative to what they think Ice represents and how they contribute to Sornieth’s systems, cultures, and dragons as a whole.

I see ice flight specializing in stuff like collection and cataloguing as iirc before the map update it said those were things Ice Flight likes. I think where Earth is Uncovering What Was, Ice is about Preserving What Is.

They’re not entirely just cops (and even then stripping them to just the role of "cop" is a bad take). They’re also researchers of the things they fear, and of relics that need studying. In my head Ice would probably have the best museums, archives, and storage houses. What better way to preserve or trap something than in ice?

They’re a flight of Order, not so much in the sense of cops and law but a flight that bulks when there’s a sense of disorder or chaos, disorganization, and imperfection. If it’s uncategorized, unsorted, then it needs to be so in order to be learned. Where Lightning is stats and progression, Ice is pattern recognition (Tundra’s memory being linked to their smell may also reflect this) and tradition (Gaolers role system and lack of awareness about the state of Sornieth and not just the Ice Fields).

This can be extended then into interests, individual home cultures, businesses and what not. Why not start a collection of rocks? Or insects? They’d know best how to preserve it. Need something specific from the shop? Probably very easy to find if you know the qualities and traits you’re looking for. Need something preserved for safe keeping? They’ll do that, and they’ll do it awfully well. Perfectly. The systems have to be perfect. The line up has to be perfect and up-kept and looked after intensely— possibly so intense it’s evolving into passion. There can certainly be a sense of pride.

Combine with the lore that Ice is typically more hostile to outsiders due to their melting home I can see them being much more traditional and closed off. Not quite isolated, but having a more unique culture that’s a little more closed off from others and not quite as shared, trying to preserve what is left of their home and traditions.

What about urban legends and superstition? They’re guarding creatures and horrors in those prisons, surely the local resident dragons have folklore over that? What about fishing and hunting, two very popular ways to get food or supplies in climates like these? Where are the ice fisherman skins or hunters bound in furs? What about the fauna or flora found in the region we can probably make skins for that too.

Existential horror can also be fun; remember, relatively recently Gaolers learned that Sornieth has changed. Dragons of other flights have other magic not native to their elements and in addition the age old threat of Shade that seems to be making new problems for new times.

We have a flight literally dealing first hand with monsters and horrors existing already on the planet and in its own prisons and fighting against it, yet people relegate that to Arcane. 😔 Unlike Arcane, the unknown is already here in Ice.

You could easily take inspiration from the movie The Thing, too. It writes itself ngl.

Theres much to do and think about with Ice when you remember this is a region with its own people and culture and not just an aesthetic, and I’d like to see it dabbled in more. Even if it’s just headcanon, you can make it into a skin. That’s what people have done with Light with the whole angelic themes, so why not take creative spins on ice too?

Give ice some headcanon love like y’all do with Arcane and Light. Those flights aren’t about eldritch horror or angels but there’s endless skins for them about it. Give ice some of that same ole love too 💕

[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

[angstywaifu]

Black Dahlia - 46. Coffee Talk

Summary: Just some cute Dahlia and Garrick post RSC Land Nav. A/N: Another bonus post because you guys are ridiculous with the follows this year. Enjoy! Black Dahlia Masterlist | Masterlist | Links |

I shiver as something ghosts over my shoulder, rousing me from my sleep. I go to roll over to see what’s the cause of it, but my answer is given to me when a large arm drapes itself over my hip, pulling me back against a warm and hard chest.

I relax in their arms as the familiar scent of Garrick washes over me. “Maybe I need to get kidnapped more often.” I joke, Garrick’s arm tightening on me as he holds me against him.

”I’d rather you didn’t.” He grumbles against my shoulder before pressing another kiss to my bare shoulder. “Had me in a fucking panic till I realised you’re squad and Bodhi were all gone. Fucking RSC.”

I roll in his arms, finally getting a look at Garrick whose eyes soften as they meet mine. I note the slight shadows under his eyes, he looks exhausted. Though wouldn’t surprise me if he’d gotten very little sleep. It had only been a few weeks, but it hadn’t taken me long to notice how quickly and soundly Garrick slept when I was around. Especially when he’d just started staying in my room or taking me to his every night. Anytime I'd tried to kick him out or leave he'd practically manhandled me back to bed.

”I was fine. We got out mostly unscathed.” I tell him with a shrug, which has him narrowing his eyes at me.

”You nearly didn’t though. Want to explain that one?” He asks with a raised eyebrow, his body tensing up.

Shit. Of course he would have heard about that somehow. He probably ran into Bodhi or Imogen last night before coming to my room.

”I had it under control.” I explain.

”Then why did Proth and Cath have to burn that infantry cadet if you had it under control?” Garrick’s eyes narrowing at me as he questions me.

”Because sometimes violence isn’t always the answer. Didn’t exactly want my head on a silver platter because I killed an infantry cadet.” I tell him as I lower my eyes to his chest, raising my fingers to trace over the relic on his arm.

Garrick’s body relaxes under my touch, feeling the anger leave him as he raises his hand to cup my cheek. “He wasn’t just some infantry cadet though. Was he?”

My body goes rigid, something I know Garrick notices as I look up at him, seeing the questioning look in Garrick’s eyes. “How much did he tell you?”

It’s already clear it’s Bodhi he’s talked to based off his comment. Imogen hadn’t been close enough to hear most of the conversation, only coming in at the end to comment about not needing me to be like Dain.

”Just mentioned there was more to the incident and I should ask you.” He admits as his eyes search mine. At least Bodhi had kept his word in regards to letting me tell Garrick the story.

I nod slowly at him before pushing my self upright, leaning back against the headboard as Garrick moves to sit in front of me, giving me his full attention as I wrap my arms around my legs as I hold them to my chest. Garrick doesn’t blink an eye as I tell him the same story I told Bodhi, just sitting and listening as I get it all out. But I can feel the anger practically rolling off him in waves. I know how much he's holding back as his hands ball into fists. Telling Bodhi was somehow easier than telling Garrick. Bodhi had be a constant friend by my side all year. He'd seen right through any wall I'd put up. It was like Bodhi already knew me better than I knew myself. But opening myself up to Garrick was mildly terrifying. As if sensing my nerves he reaches out and clasps my hand in his as I finish my story.

”So you’ve been shunned since then, for something you didn’t even do? Your own father and brother?” Garrick asks me after a few moments of silence.

I give him a tight lipped smile and nod. “It took me years to realise no matter what I did to show I was sorry, to show that I would do anything to take back accepting that dare, that he would never accept me as his daughter again. Not even my own grandfather could convince him. And once he was taken care of, I had no one.”

”What do you mean taken care of?” Garrick asks, sitting up fully as if what I’ve said has peaked his interest.

”All I know is my father sent him and his squad out to an outpost. One nowhere near enemy activity that suddenly got over run. No survivors except for one dragon. Everyone else gone. They say it was Gryphon fliers, but…” I furrow my brow. What did I think happened? It was clear it wasn’t Gryphon’s. But we had no other enemies. No other kingdoms that could have travelled that far and caused that much damage for us to not be on high alert. And the only ones that could were fairy tales. Not real.

”But what?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. Something just doesn’t add up. Everytime I ask I get yelled at for meddling where it’s not needed. And Proth is vague on the details when I ask him.”

“What do you mean Proth won’t tell you?” Garrick probes as his hand tightens on mine.

”Proth was there.” I tell him. “Proth was the dragon that survied. My grandfathers dragon.”

For a split second I swear I see Garrick’s eyes widen before he catches himself. Almost as if the news of who my dragon belonged to interested him. He was probably just shocked to learn Proth had been part of my life long before I came here and bonded him. It was extremely rare for dragons to know their riders prior. Even rarer for them to bond within the same family. Something that seemed to concern leadership whenever the detail came up.

”Seems he’s your guardian angel.” Garrick jokes, slipping back into his usual joking tone as he pushes off the bed. “Now let’s go get you some food. You’re probably starving after RSC and I’m not being around you if you haven’t had coffee in your system.”

I roll my eyes at him before taking the hand he offers me as he pulls me from my bed. He wasn’t wrong. We’d had limited food while out on land nav, and I was in desperate need of a coffee. Bodhi had taken the brunt of my early morning anger on our second day of land nav when I didn’t have coffee. Imogen had pissed herself laughing when I’d snapped at him over a stupid comment he’d made.

It seems we’re the last to get to the dining hall, most of it starting to empty out already. Being a Sunday most people got in and out quickly to take advantage of a free day if we got it. It just so happened today was one of those days. Bodhi waves us over to a table that has most of our squad minus our first years, plus Imogen and Quinn who seemed to have joined them.

”About time you two joined us.” Imogen notes with a smile and wiggling her eyebrows at me, causing Quinn to snicker at her comment.

”Sorry, someone was worrying about where I’d been for the last two days.” I tell her as Garrick mumbles something behind me as we take our seats with everyone, Garrick pulling me into his side as he rests his arm around me. Possessive asshole.

Bodhi looks between us confused before shaking his head and standing as he grabs his mug and an empty one from the middle of the table. “Right. Anyway I’ll be back. How do you like it Dahlia?”

”Oh you know depends on my mood.” I start, playing along with Imogen’s implied comment even though I know what Bodhi is actually asking. “Sometimes just plain sex is fine, but sometimes you gotta mix it up with some choking or being tied up.”

Bodhi looks between Garrick and I in shock, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red. The rest of the table bursts into laughter, Kai nearly spitting his drink across the table, and Imogen looking like I’ve given her the best moment of her life as she smiles at me.

”You’re coffee Dahlia. I was asking about your coffee. I did not need to know what you and Garrick get up to in your room!” He exclaims, sending everyone into a fit of laughter.

”Oh we haven’t got there yet, but now I have some ideas for later. Thanks Durran.” Garrick quips as he reaches across and takes the apple sitting on Bodhi’s plate, smirking up at him before Bodhi walks off to get more coffee.

@imtoanonymousforyou @simplyme-fornow @omalmal @lalaluch @wolfbc97 @leptitlu @fullmoon-94 @the-fandom-ness @fan-of-many-bands @awkardnerd @heeseungthel0ml @acourtofsmutandstarlight @fairchild06 @freyagallileaevans @pit-and-the-pen @hannraumari @elliot-rain @thestarseternaal @stupid-and-contagious01 @hyperfixation-train-station @lxnvmvrzx @thebreadisthetruevillian @red0202 @fangirling-galore @craftytrashprincess @taliyahvermillion @xadenswhore @fenixyrie @lagrandeourse @hellodarling1357 @iambored24601  @thegiftofacreativemind @fanfictionjunkie1112 @mysticalfuncollectorus @ohlookitsasinglepoeceofpopcorn @emoravenwolf

[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.

[requinoesis]

Can i ask you a stupid question? Are you,maybe,italian?? just because pretty much all your shark characters have italian names

Hehe, it's not a bad question, don't worry!

Although my maternal great-grandmother was Italian, I'm a typical Brazilian! hehe 🇧🇷✨

The names I use are inspired by common names in my country, where there is great cultural plurality. The regions and islands of the shark folk's world were baptized with names inspired by indigenous Brazilian languages, such as Aguazu, Paranagua, Marajoa, Ibirama, Borborema, Amandaba and Garoanda. One day I can tell you what each one means, if you like!

Simply put, I just think it's fun to use these names. But if you prefer a justification within the fictional universe, there is one: the names of modern sharks, such as Roberto, Tiago and Aria, came about after the influence of a human being who was among them around two thousand years ago.

This human carried a sketchbook, later known as the “Book of Shells”, in which he recorded names, stories and drawings at the request of the curious native sharkfolk. Over time, the book became a relic and thousands of copies were made. Every inhabitant had a copy, and it became something of a tradition to name the new children of Aguazu with the names contained in the book.

Before that, the names were more linked to elements of nature, with sounds similar to Hawaiian or Maori. This human influence was more marked only in Aguazu; the other regions of the world still preserve their original languages.

That's it, I hope you like it! 🦈✨

[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.

[iaminfourthwing]

The Generals Daughter

A/N: Finally a new chapter! Tell me, what you think about it 🐉👀

Chapter XVII

The rest of Threshing is just a blur of celebrations and getting our dragon relics. Mine is spread over my right side to the middle of my back. It’s really fucking huge. And absolutely gorgeous.

After dinner everyone is celebrating. Well, not everyone. The unbonded cadets are nowhere to be seen, probably planning on how to kill us freshly bonded to get a dragon after all. My bet is, Violet will be one of the prominent targets, as everyone seeing her still as the weakest link. Even though she has bonded two dragons AND is tethered to Xaden fucking Riorson. 

I got myself a drink and now I am on my way to find a place where no one is bothering me. Today drained the fuck outta me and my muscles ache. Killing people is not easy, but killing people who deserve it, is.

In a deserted corridor towards the dormitories I find a place on a stone ledge with a view over Basgiath.

If someone had told me before my first year here that I would bond a dragon, I wouldn't have been so sure. And now I have Innea.

‚One can almost hear your enthusiasm' she replies sarcastically.

'I'm more than happy that you chose me. I'm just glad that Barlow’s words didn't turn out to be true.' They still haunt me.

'What do you mean? Barlowe... is that the rider of Baide?' She asks. Baide? Why does that name sounds familiar?

'Uh, I don't know. Baide? I think Violet mentioned something about an orange dragon. To answer your first question, he said some time ago that my father or Codagh would make sure that I didn't return from Threshing without a dragon. And those words, well, stuck. I trust my abilities, but I don't trust my father. And certainly not the black beast.'

'Don't worry about that. I saw you at presentation and knew immediately that you would be my rider. I know that you felt me ​​in your mind. Neither Codagh nor his rider had anything to do with it, I chose you because I wanted to, not because I had to. Together we will achieve great things.' She finishes.

I smile. God, I won today with her bonding me. A wave of affection reaches my mind, calming me even more. I already love and appreciate her.

During the conversation with Innea I didn’t realize, that someone took the seat in front of me. 

I am even more startled when my eyes meet those gorgeous one of none other than Bodhi Durran. The shock must be written all over my face because he immediately starts to grin.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, but you were so lost in your thoughts that you didn't react to my words." I think... this is the first time I've ever heard his voice. And God, it's so deep and smooth, and so much softer than his cousin's.

I shake my head to clear my mind. Difficult, with this dream of a man in front of me. Am I really crushing on a marked one? Father would have a heart attack.

'I'm more likely to gag' echoes in my head.

"I'm sorry, I was a bit... distracted" I say, a little shyly, absolutely in awe of this man in front of me.

„I see. Your dragon?“ I nod.

"Sgaeyl wasn't really happy that your dragon bonded. And Xaden doesn't know what to think about it either." he admits. Oh? I mean, I already knew that Xaden doesn't trust me at all.

"I guess my last name isn't particularly trustworthy either. And my lineage." I grin.

I can completely understand why they're so unsure of me. But it's not like I'm going to run to my father and spill the beans, like he actually wants me to. That's not going to happen.

"It's... difficult. I admit that. But so far you haven't given anyone of our wing a reason to dislike you. Quite the opposite. What I've observed says anything but that. You help your squad and even beyond that, you help your wing. With history, battle brief, sparring, everything. And we've all seen what the general is capable of, even towards his own flesh and blood." He grimaces. It almost seems as if he is … pitying me. Well, I don't need that.

"I don't need pity. The way my father treats me is nothing new. It's just that he's never shown it in public before. That was actually something new, something I absolutely didn't expect."

I let my gaze wander over Basgiath. From here you have a clear view of the Parapet. Meanwhile, I feel his deep gaze on me, which makes me nervous. Damn, why does he have such a strong effect on me?

„I- uhm, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you! I just-" he sighs deep, not knowing how to explain himself.

„We all were really shocked, when we realized the relationship between you and your father. We all had our opinions on you without even knowing you, I admit that. But after that evening, with, you know, the injury on your neck, and now the scene on the flightfield... I apologize on behalf of all of us marked ones. We find it difficult to see this whole thing objectively. All of us are just trying to survive, which is hard as it is, but coming here without prejudice was practically impossible. We know what our parents and siblings fought and died for, so it’s not really easy. Some of us are still blinded by the anger and pain left behind by the loss of our loved ones. We try, especially for our squad and wing, but many of us struggle really hard with the emotions. Especially because people like Imogen, for example, are only guided by the pain. She tries, but with an Aetos, a Sorrengail and... well, a Melgren in the squad, it is three times as difficult." He takes a deep breath, clearly effected by his own words.

I am oddly touched by his little speech. I understand how hard it must be for them, I definitely don’t blame them. Their pain and anger is something I can relate to, even though on a different base. We all lost something in the past. 

"Thank you for your words. I can't imagine how difficult it must be for you here in Basgiath. You can feel the hatred of some of the other cadets and riders, but believe me... I'm one of the last people to judge someone for their past. And if we're being completely honest..." I look around to make sure we're alone. "I don't trust the history the way it's told. I have my doubts about various things. And I certainly don't trust my father, nor some other people. But other than that I can assure you that as long as no one gives me reasons, I will treat you with the same respect that I expect from y’all. We can all learn from and help each other, because at the end of the day we're all just trying to survive. I'm glad I ended up in Fourth Wing, because I much prefer Xaden as wing leader than someone like Amber Mavis." We both have to laugh.

The whole thing must give an awkward picture. A marked one and the daughter of the most feared general on the continent sitting together and laughing. We should hate each other, from the bottom of our hearts. But that's not how I see him at all. He seems to be someone who thinks a lot, rather than feeling direct dislike. And I'm grateful for that. He could have used my mental absence earlier, when I was talking to Innea, to kill me. Or knock me out. But he didn't. That's a start, isn't it?

"Yes, that's true, I also prefer Xaden much more, and that has nothing to do with the fact that we are family. I'm glad that I'm in the same wing as my closest friends, it makes things a lot easier. And who knows what friendships could develop," he says, looking deep into my eyes. Oh God, don't embarrass yourself now...

'He's not that wrong. I'm curious to see if you two will stay friends. Your thoughts say otherwise, you're really smitten with Cuirs rider.' I start to blush while looking shyly at him, trying to ignore Inneas words.

'What else could come of it other than friendship? He would never find a Melgren interesting.' I deny her words, for my own sanity.

'I'm not so sure about that,' she replies, chuckling deep.

I pull a face, confusion taking me over and Bodhi also seems to be communicating with his dragon.

'What are you talking about? I'm lost.' What the hell is she suggesting? Why shouldn't we just be friends? 

Bodhi’s head whips in my direction, shock and something else in his eyes as they find mine.

'Cuir and I are mates.'

WHAT?!

Taglist: @puttyly @lxnvmvrzx @freyagallileaevans @aroacemushroom @dragonsandrinks @mariahoedt @read-write-sleep-startover

[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