#mender’s touch

[lizardinkart]

Saw that one post with the “tag your little guy” meme outfit and I have not been able to get me and @mewcoyote ‘s Coyote & Crow characters out of my brain.

Choogi (left, MewCoyote) and Nisi (right, Me). The one with the Tapir Spirit and a Mixtape, and the one whose healer power uses her like a battery.

They’re both Path of the Crow, and they both have:

✨Anxiety✨

I love them very much

[foxglove-fables]

I wanna get fucked

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Hi I hope it’s ok if i request this you really don’t have to do it. But a Xaden riorson fluff and angst where the reader gets really hurt but they are trying to help people so she hides it from Xaden and when he finds out he’s really mad at her but he’s really just scared of losing her and hates seeing her hurt with a happy ending. I hope this is ok and there is no pressure to do this I completely understand if you don’t want to.

warning: blood, injuries, death

Dangerous

Falling in love had been off the table for Xaden. Falling in love with a rebel witch, a coven leader hadn’t been on his bingo cards either . But there was something that had pulled him towards you. For months he pined over you, not letting his feelings take the best of him. Until he cracked and that one careless night after a stressful raid had changed his life forever.

“Your heart is beating fast”, you had muttered, kissing his shoulder as you laid wrapped around him still, only Xaden’s leather jacket he had pulled over you both keeping the chilly night away. He sighed deeply, “I’m tariffed”, he admitted, eyes falling onto you. ��Of me or this?”, you gestured between you both. “Of losing you now that I found you”, he muttered into the night. You had leaned in kissing all of his thoughts away. But Xaden knew that his fears matched yours too.

Now he felt like he lived two lives. The most important one was left in his old family home. It was tough being so far away but he constantly reassured himself that you were in good hands out there. But his arms grew lonely at night, thoughts swirling like shadows all around him. So he craved the nights he got to fly out to you. It was feeling like no other. Just like tonight as he quickly jumped off Sgaeyl. Just something felt different tonight.

“What is it?”, Garrick asked from behind him. Xaden simply lifted his hand, “Don’t you feel…”, but he didn’t get to finish his sentence as cries echoed from the main hall. The two males shared a quick look before rushing towards the sound. Just the view when they pushed through the door had made them both halt. There were bodies everywhere, littering the mats as healers rushed all around them.

Xaden’s stomach turned as he looked each of the bodies over, praying to not see your face among them. “Brennan”, he sighed as the male with a huge gash on his forehead came into view. “Xaden”, the male acknowledged him with a tight nod. “What happened?”, Xaden grunted, eyes still scanning the room. “She’s not here”, Brennan's voice washed over the storm within him. “she hasn’t…”, the mender coughed into his palm, “She hasn’t returned”. And here it was that deathly ringing in his head. “Was this an attack?”, Garrick asked, clasping a hand onto Xaden’s shoulder. “They came for witches. Killed half of the…”, but Xaden had turned, marching out of the hall. The iron stench in the air made him nauseous.

Stumbling into the courtyard Xaden was heartbeats away from mounting Sgaeyl when his eyes caught a glimpse of the wyvern not far away from the field that stretched across. His legs moved before he could think it all through. That didn’t have to be you but his rational mind was long gone. Stumbling through the long grass he was finally met with the oily black scales. And those familiar black eyes of your wyvern. “Hey, girl”, Xaden breathed, touching her neck before rounding the side of her. “Y/n”, he called out, heart hammering against his chest. He had lost too many of his friends like this. In fields. Right by their dragons. “Y/n”, he called out again. And then Azure turned her wing up, and there you stood. Hand braced against your wyvern. Dead eyes looking up at Xaden. “Love”, he stepped forward, hands reaching out to clasp your upper arm so he could steady you.

“I’m fine”, you grunted through gritted teeth, shaking his hand off. “You’re not and we both know that”, Xaden argued back. You took a shaky step forward before your legs bucked, hissing when Xaden wrapped his arms around your middle to steady you. His skin grew even more ashy when his fingers met the pudgy, warm material on your side. “Let me…”, he started, fear clouding his senses once more. “No”, you pushed against him.

“Yn”, Xaden said in warning, if he had to carry you out of this field he would. “Eight. Eight girls they murdered, Xaden”, you crocked out, sharp teeth glistening in the moonlight. “Bled into buckets for…”, a choked sob escaped you as you hit his chest. Over and over. But he stood there like a wall. Meeting punch after punch. Because he’s been there too. “I couldn’t save them”, you howled, head pressed into your lover’s chest as you pulled at his leathers.

“You did what you could. Your people need you now”, Xaden said, letting his fingers brush through your hair. “I should have died not them”, you shook your head but Xaden gripped your chin then, “Don’t you speak like that”, he grunted, “Don’t you ever say anything like that”. Your puffy eyes finally looked up at him. “I had been so close to setting that whole place on fire when I couldn’t find you”, Xaden admitted, “so don’t say shit like that because I might just”. You sank against him, finally letting your body sag, knowing that he was here. “I got you”, muttered against your ear, “Let me take care of you now, and then we will find the ones responsible”, he promised.

[yiiyiiwrites]

🗡️ | Relics and Ruin | 2 |

Part Two [Previous part] [series masterlist]

Summary: you're a mender in the dawn court, tasked with fixing cursed and broken relics. Azriel x dawn court reader 2,546words

Two days of staring at the truth-teller and it kept repeating the same word. Lies.

The dagger rattled on the table, your older sister pacing the free space in front of you. If you didn't know any better you'd think the relic wasn't fond of her hurried speech or tone either.

"Mother above," she snapped, her hand steadying the truth-teller. "You can't even talk about it, yet you're going down there with those people."

"I think they're more than capable to go there," you said swatting her away from the table.

Truth truth, the murmurs somehow reassuring your fears. You wondered what other energy surrounded the dagger, the thought pulling you to pick it up. The hilt warm against your skin, surprisingly light and it moulded to the curve of your palm as if it were meant to be.

Your sisters words were muffled, the sharp blade drawing your attention. The hold it had on you, intense. A dull twinge pierced your chest and you recognised the aching tug of longing. You'd felt it under the mountain, the burning desire to feel the sun upon your face and breeze washing over you.

A gloved hand circled your wrist and you gasped, truth-teller clinking to the table. Blinking back the blurry vision, shadows swarmed around you, the wind tracing your cheek. The hold on your wrist acted like an anchor, firm but light as you calmed your racing heart.

"Hello," a low, smooth voice spoke beside you. If there wasn't a weight clutching you, you'd think it was the shadows speaking.

Just like the truth-teller, it's owner seemed to tug and draw you in. His touch oddly welcome and familiar, it had been years since you'd allowed someone so close. You stared up at him, hazel eyes focused on your sister.

You slipped out of his grasp and stepped back, your hand shooing the wisps of darkness. Of course he'd look at your sister, so much light and love.

Lies, lies.

The difference was startling as Lena, your sister stood in the golden light of the sun. Her bronzed skin held a warmth you denied yourself, keeping yourself in your studio. Hair that reminded you of rising sun, long and swishing halfway down her back. You on the other hand had chopped your hair off as soon as you were free from under the mountain.

As Lena spoke to the Illyrian, you took the opportunity to study him. He's quiet, but his gaze focused on Lena's as he listened to her rambling on. His gloved hands tucked behind him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he knows you are admiring him.

He didn't say a word to your sister, but she's leaning closer and smiling up at him as if he's inviting her. Maybe that's why you feel a pull towards him, he's magnetic and drawing anyone in.

Lies, Lies.

Lena placed her palm on his arm, "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name." She'd been weaving through the court, denying her hand in marriage until she either met her mate or someone with high nobility.

You couldn't help but feel the burn, brows furrowing at your sister and the smooth action, something you'd never dare to do.

"Azriel," he said, stepping back and bowing his head slightly.

His gaze met yours and you looked away, finger following the woods grain of the table. The relics hoarding your studio were quiet, truth-teller the only one seeking your energy. The silence all too consuming, your thoughts flowing freely. Multiple energies were dulled since the dagger had been left in your possession, commanding you to face your mind or maybe your own truths.

Bidding your goodbyes to your sister, eyes trailing after her to make sure she left. As you turned back to your desk, you flinched away from the shadows. You hadn't realised how close he was, didn't hear him approach your workstation.

"What are you doing here?" You asked, regretting the harsh tone of your voice.

Azriel picked up his dagger, turning the blade over and inspecting it. His shadows snaked around his gloved hand and to the scripture on the hilt as if reading it aloud. "Just wanted to see if you'd familiarised yourself with the energy."

Lies,lies.

He tensed, wings twitching briefly, but you caught it. Could the truth-teller speak to him too? Truth, truth

"You lie." The words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them.

His brow arched, "so you have familiarised yourself. Truth-teller rarely calls or speaks to others, you must be special." You didn't say how his energy matched, how you felt the same tug to him. A reason you couldn't hold his gaze, didn't want to get lost in the possibilities of your emotions.

You shrugged, "I'm not, just merely open to an objects energy and have a well trained ear to seek them out." The one advantage of rotting under the mountain meant you could hone your mending abilities, not that you had any choice. Fifty years tethered to cursed objects and magical relics, haunted by touch alone.

"And what do the other relics tell you right now?" Azriel asked, once again distracting you from your thoughts and memories.

The energy you used to seek comfort in was nothing but a withering buzz. Even the cursed relics usual shrieking, underwhelming. “Truth-teller calls above them all, draws me in as if it’s the only thing that matters.”

Two sides of the same blade.

The boundary of the dawn court and the beginning of the middle was somewhere you vowed never to step over again. You glanced over your shoulder at the rising sun, as if you’d never see it again for another fifty years.

Your body moved on memory alone, legs carrying you through the large stones entrance hidden beneath the weaving branches of trees. All source of natural light vanished as you stepped over the threshold. Your boots squelched in the trickling water that ran down the caves wall.

A small ball of light floated in front of you, but you were the one guiding them through the maze of passageways. Your head tilted to the side, pointed ears straining to hear of anything beyond your path.

Under the mountain was a place no one had mapped out completely. This entrance however led to the least desirable section. Not intricately carved out like the main area or the throne room. Granted, you’d never been out of this quarter, only three times had you walked the narrow passageways. You’d always remember though, your memory being something you trained as well as your mending skills.

No one had uttered a single word, afraid to hear your voice echoing back to you or summoning something from the depths of the darkness.

As you rounded the corner, your steps faltered. The familiar dingy hallway, doors lining each side. It felt just like before, the deep rooted knot in your stomach twisting. You expected to be shoved forward, but a light touch pressed against your lower back and you leant into the warmth.

“Rhys will go in if you cannot face it.” Azriels whispered breath fanned against the shell of your ear. You’d gone over the plan with them over a hundred times, each time Azriel had reassured you that you were not alone. That you did not have to do anything you were not comfortable with.

You shook your head, retreating from his touch and away from the warmth. Seven doors down, you stopped outside and glanced to the one opposite, the one that still haunted you at night.

“This is the relic room, I will check the other.” Your hand hovered over the broken chain, the ward spelled over the wooden panel zapping your fingertip. Thesan had warded the room so that no one could steal the relics, Rhys learnt how to break and remake it from entering his mind.

Rhys nodded, “we’ll meet back out here, try to keep it quiet. Don’t want to wake anything lurking,” he said, his magic making easy work of dropping the ward. The energy of the spell fell like a sheet of liquid gold, particles disappearing into the gravel.

Halfway through the door opposite you paused, “oh, stick to the shadows and if you hear screaming do not follow the light. Stay in the darkness and do nothing.”

The floating light whizzed past you into the room, it followed your gaze and lit up the areas you searched. You took the gloves from your pocket and shoved them on, the one thing they never allowed you under the mountain.

Touch meant more to menders than any other fae. It being both creation and destruction. Normal fae were more inclined to destroy something they did not understand, whereas you studied and mended. Just couldn’t mend all the destruction they’d done to you.

You tried not to remember this room, the contents still exactly how it had been when you’d last been there. The bed unmade, desk strewn with papers and his messy cursive writing. He’d always have ink staining the side of his fingers, sometimes it’d transfer to your jaw or cheek.

“This was your room?” Azriel asked, sifting through the papers on the desk. His hazel eyes glistening in the dull light as he glanced to you.

Those eyes, you couldn’t quite hold for longer than second. “No, this is someone else’s.” You dropped to your knees and pressed your cheek to the ground, arm sweeping underneath the bed. A small silver box scraped towards you, lock sealed shut.

You didn’t miss the scrunch of Azriel’s brow or the burning gaze that trailed your movements. It’s like he’s in a trance, that or he’s trying to figure you out in a room that isn’t, wasn’t yours. You removed your gloves, the leather too stiff, the constant squeak unbearable in the silence.

He sidestepped you as soon as your hands traced the side of the desk and opened the drawer. Vials of ink rolled to the front, a set of keys jingling on a metal ring. You took the keys, knowing what each one was for.

“I have what I need, let’s go to the relic room,” you said, glancing over your shoulder one last time before you leave the room for good.

Azriel’s hand hovered behind you, but you can feel the warmth and energy alone without his touch. It calms your racing heart and gives you the strength to the meet the relics again.

Cassian’s gaze flicked from the box in your grasp and to Azriel who remained close to you. Rhys staring at the hoards of relics, eyes glazed as he tried to listen for the murmurs of the desired object.

Dark wisps tumbled over your shoulder and twisted around one another as they travelled towards a glimmering spec of light. You would have missed it, if it wasn't for the pesky shadows whirling around the hilt.

The moment your gaze latched onto the relic, a high screech tore through the room and you dropped the box, silver slipping through your fingers. You heard the echo of voices, they merged with the swords energy as if they were connected.

"We've got company."

Azriel spoke, but as you turned to look at him you were met with nothing but shadows. Rhys vanished in a blink of an eye, Cassian crossing the space between you. He balanced a small dagger, blade between his fingers waiting for you to take it. You shook your head and picked the small silver box from the floor.

You grabbed his wrist, "stay in the shadows, don't go to the light." The lock clicked open with the turn of the key, you hesitated with the clasp, steadying your breath for what was to come.

Before you could open the box, Azriel's heavy hand slammed into yours keeping the lid closed. "Together," he said, giving you a slight nod, keeping his promise of not doing anything alone. His shadows swarmed around the two of you, those Illyrian wings curling in as you opened the lid.

You did not know, nor did you ask what spirit lived within the box. Only knew that when you closed it again, you would summon it back to its dwelling it was contained to.

A grey mist snaked out of the top and dove towards the remaining light through the gap between Azriel's wings. The hair on the back of your neck stood up, goosebumps rippling your bare arms. An icy cool breeze hung in the spirits wake, but it seemed to drag Azriel's shadows with it.

The darkness cloaking Azriel and you faded, his grasp on your hand loosening. "Go, help your friends," you whispered. You don't know what possessed you, but your finger smoothed the line of tension settled on his forehead. Blue ink stained his forehead, your fingertips painted the same colour.

"Autumn guards are here, the darkness devours them," he said, more to himself than you. The screams in the passageway filtered through to the relics room, high pitched shrieks tugging at Azriel like his shadows were trying to draw him out to the destruction.

He moved as quick as the shadows, the floating ball of light flaring in front of you. You saw the darkness shift, felt the breeze knock you back a few steps.

Stumbling back, you crashed into a firm chest. Scorching heat enveloped around you, burning touch forcing your hands to close the lid before the spirit devoured your light. You leant into the embrace, eye's closing as you savoured the thousand sparks of energy spreading like wildfire through your body.

"Do not touch her," Cassian spat.

You opened your eyes, the three Illyrian's scowling at the one behind you. The one you knew so well, the one that knew you too well. He let go and you turned to face him.

"Vanserra," you whispered. Eris Vanserra smirked down at you, his hand picking yours up. Ink smudging his fingers, he glanced between your stained hands and the blue smeared across Azriel's forehead.

"It's good to see you," Eris crooned, lifting your chin with his ink splotched hand. "My little mender."

You hated the way your body betrayed you, the mark on your chest burning at his silent command. The tethered bond coaxing you to lean into his touch, despite the stinging burn. You couldn't bring yourself to look at the shadow-singer or his friends, but you knew from his silence that whatever he thought of you before, was nothing now. Why did it bother you so much though?

Before your lips could touch Eris's, he'd winnowed you away in a blur.

taglist: @rcarbo1, @st4r-girl-official,@azrielswhore, @cynthiesjmxazrielslover, @shizukestar, @wolfbc97

I'm already writing the next part, sorry for the long wait between the first part...I was sick so only just getting back to writing now -Yiiyii

[angstywaifu]

I Just Want To Talk To Them - Garrick Tavis x Reader

Prompt - “Who did this to you? I just want to talk to them” @fw-gt A/N: This is for the Garrick girls who love the cocky flirty side of him. Enjoy. Masterlist

I winced as the healer prodded around my now very broken nose. Cleaning up what she could of the blood that had run down my face. Which was a lot. The mender had fixed most of the damage, but had to use their abilities on other cadets. Meaning I still had some bruising and tenderness where I had taken the full force of an elbow to the face during a challenge.

It had been a stupid mistake. One I knew Garrick and Xaden would lecture me about later. I had dropped my guard and my opponent had seen it. I had lost the challenge because of it. My first one this year. Wrecking my streak of going undefeated for two years. So close to a perfect three year streak. Luckily neither had been at challenges to see what had happened. But there was no way I could hide what had happened. One cause my nose had been broken and couldn’t be fully healed. Two it would be the talk of the quadrant.

“Use this a few times a day, should clear up the bruising and tenderness in no time. If you have any trouble breathing or any issues just come back.” She says with a smile as she holds the healing balm out to me.

I nod a thanks and take it from her hands before pushing off the bed. I was half expecting Garrick or Xaden to be waiting for me as I leave. But I don’t see them anywhere. Meaning they hadn’t heard yet. Or they were waiting for me somewhere. Due to the last class of the day still being on the corridors are quiet. Meaning the bathrooms would be as well. I decide to head there, knowing the healer would have only got some of the blood off my face and clothes. And my suspicions are correct as I stare into the mirror in the bathroom. Most of the blood around my nose and mouth is gone, but the blood that had worked its way down my neck hadn’t been touched. It almost looked like I had bathed in blood if the rest of my skin and clothes weren’t free of blood. That would be a sight to see. I quickly scrub the blood off my neck. I should have gone to my room and grabbed new clothes and showered. But with training with the other marked ones tonight, showering now probably wasn’t my smartest idea. As I leave the bathroom the corridors are filled with people and chatter. The last class of the day clearly done. I quickly rush over to my room, avoiding any stares that might feed any rumours that had started. I open my door, quickly shutting it behind me as I lean up against it, closing my eyes and sighing in relief.

”Who did this to you?” A gruff stern voice says from my desk.

I jump and nearly drop the healing balm in my hands, awkwardly juggling it till I catch it. I look over to meet Garrick’s gaze. Garrick who is leaning back in my desk chair, his feet resting on the desk as he twirls a dagger between his fingers. If it wasn’t for the words that had left his mouth I would find it attractive. And honestly still did. But with the fire and anger in his eyes, a chill runs down my spine. Garrick had clearly heard I had lost my challenge and ended up in the healers quadrant, but not to who. His eyes lower to my neck and uniform where some of the blood still lingers.

”It was just a challenge. It doesn’t matter.” I tell him as I go to walk behind him and place the healing balm on my bedside table.

But Garrick moves with a speed I’ve never seen before as his feet drop from the desk, turning the chair to grab my wrist, pulling me to a stop. Despite him sitting, I feel small under his gaze. His eyes commanding me to give up the information. This was why he was a section leader. He embodied leadership and authority without even trying.

”It. Matters.” He emphasises each word. “Now, who did this to you?”

”Why does it matter?” I say back as sternly as I can.

With the look in his eyes I know if I give up the name it wont end well for them. Even if it was a challenge where the goal was to fight each other and come out the other side the victor. Garrick didn’t care. He had always been protective of me. More so than any other marked cadet.

”I just want to talk to them.” He says with a smile, a smile that showed he did not want to just talk to them.

”We both know that is not what you are going to do.” I tell him before removing my arm from his grip and walking over to my bedside table.

I hear his slight chuckle at my words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I turn to find him staring at me as I narrow my eyes at him. Garrick does his best attempt at a sweet smile, but with the anger still burning in his eyes contradicts it.

”You do. I can see it in your eyes. You do not want to just talk to them Gar. It was a challenge, they did what they were meant to do.”

”They hurt what I care about most.” He says as he stands, the chair sounding like it sighs in relief. He walks over and stands in front of me, grasping my chin between his fingers, forcing my face to look up at his. “So I will ask again sweet heart before I go find them another way. Who did this to you?”

My mind goes blank. Did… did Garrick just call me sweet heart? Wait. What he cares about most? I must look at him confused, as he smiles and chuckles at me He leans down, placing his mouth next to my ear.

”If you tell me who it is, I may just come back and reward you for it once I’m done talking.”

Before I can even think or register what I’ve done I blurt out the name of the cadet who I had been put up against for challenges. A sinister smirk gracing Garrick’s lips that has my heart fluttering.

”Good girl.” He whisper before kissing my cheek and walking out the door. Part 2

[bimb0fy]

— 03; i watched you change

pairings; luke castellan x hephaestus!reader

warnings; kissing, angst at the end, dark!luke, choking, mentions of swords, swearing, violent tendencies.

summary; luke castellan was always a saint, it was a wonder how he would date a hephaestus girl over the dozens of aphrodite girls wrapped around his finger, he saw you, and he loved you for it. you'd be an idiot if you said you didn't love him to, but something was going on, he was. changing.

word count; 2.07k words.

a/n; a part is kinda inspired by that one scene of nate jacobs and maddie perez, yes the one where he choked her, also I am on my last stray since I finished, then tumble deleted the whole thing which I loved, alsooo uh sorry for the late upload i had so many exams :((.

masterlist!! | navigation!!

i. I love everything you do, when you call me fucking dumb for the stupid shit I do.

— high-school sweethearts, melanie martinez.

You smiled as you sat down at the breakfast table, your hair in a bun and your were still in your pj's. It was your day off so you decided to take breakfast, then snuggle up to your new boyfriend's, Luke, cabin.

"Hey mender." Luke said as he sat down beside you, kissing your cheek as you smiled, you took a bite of your mac and cheese, Luke's hand wrapped around you.

"So, tell me, how's the best swordsman at camp huh?" You joked as he smiled. You both took your scraps, placing it into the fire before walking off back to the hermes cabin.

Even though most of the Campers lived in the hermes cabin, it somehow was always empty during the morning, most people going back during either lunch or at the end of the day.

So here you were, on the bed with Luke's mouth latched onto your neck.

Ever since that night, Luke was addicted to you, the way you tasted, the sweet noises that erupted your mouth whenever he touched that one spot on your skin.

"Luke. You'll make marks!" You giggled as he laughed, slowly raises his head to look at you.

"Too late baby." He winked before rasing your shirt, pressing soft kisses to your stomach as you laughed. You playfully shoved him as he smiled, looking up and laying down beside you, moving his hand so you'd lay on his chest. "Fine. You win mender."

"No way, I beat the Luke Castellan?" You teased as he rolled his eyes, placing a soft kiss to your forhead before taking out a scrap book you had made and a Polaroid.

"Cmon let's get your first win into our amazing book of memories." He snaped a picture as you giggled, he smiled at the picture as he glued it on.

Her first win!!

Luke castellan gets beat up by a woman half his size. NOT CLICKBATE. CANON EVENT!!

Baby wtf.

Luke closes the book, taking the pen and placing it on top of the book as he turned back to face you. He watched as you traced soft patterns onto his hand. "I love everything you do. You're mine, and I love that."

He pushed your hair to the side to see your giggling face. You couldn't help but smile, kissing his lips. "I'm all yours."

He grabbed your waist, pushing you down onto the mattress as you groaned. "Luke-. I have to go to work."

"And suddenly my names work." He jokes as he hugged your waist, placing soft kisses onto your neck. You giggled before wrapping your arms around the boy. "You mean the world to me. You know that right?"

"I know luke. I know." You whispered as you played with his hair. You sat in silence, playing with his hair as he closed his eyes, falling asleep on your chest. "Ten minutes."

Luke smiled at your words as he hugged you tighter. "Thirty and you got yourself a deal."

ii. just trust me, you'll be fine.

— end of beginning, djo

Chris smiled as he passed by you. It was weird being the center of attention now, everyone needed to figure out the hot gossip about Luke Castellan's new girlfriend, and to their shock, she wasn't an aphrodite girl.

Everyone knew that Hephaestus' daughters were rather, boyish, only because there were very little, being surrounded by men in a job that most people would assume a man to do was well, difficult.

Luke saw you. He saw who you were. Not what your sibling saw, not what camp saw. He saw what he wanted to see, and that was all of you.

You sat down by the docks, the same docks of that night. You two would always meet up there to catch up and spend time together, but here you were, an hour later still sitting alone on the dock.

You started to give up, standing up to walk away but you heard Luke's faint calls. You turned around to find a man you almost didn't recognise.

The once shining Luke had eyebags under his eyes that were bigger than yours. He was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, yet you could see tracs of sweat around it. He wasn't out of breath so he hadn't ran, maybe he did, what was going on?

"Luke? Heavens have you been sleeping?" You asked him as he held your hands away from his face. He gave he a small smile.

"I'm fine." He rasped. You shook your head, holding onto his cheek as you looked at him. "Don't."

"Luke." you scoffed as he shoved your arms off of him. You had a pained expression on your face, hugging yourself with your jacket as you looked at him. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before walking towards you, placing his hands onto your shoulders.

"I'm sorry I'm just, really tired." Luke muttered before hugging you. "And I'm sorry I was late, I uh, took a nap after training and lost track of time I suppose."

You hugged back, he quickly carried you which caused you to squeal as he set you down onto the dock. He smiled as he sat down in front of you, the picnic basket empty as he chuckled. "Someone was hungry."

"And someone was late." You giggled as he dramatically rolled his eyes, he smiled before taking your hand in his, looking out to the lake, clearly thinking about something. "Are you okay Luke?"

You waited for a response but he just stared out. You were starting to get worried, what the hell was going on? "Luke?"

"hm?" He said as he turned back to you. You could feel his arms tense around you, his breath hitched as you said his name. You needed to know what was going on.

"You know you can talk to me. Right baby?" You asked the boy who kissed your cheek before turning to the soft waves.

You didn't understand why he was keeping secrets from you, were you that bad? Were you not as supporting as you thought you were?

"I know mender. I know." He whispered in your ear as you melted into his grasp. A smile on your face.

He's fine, he says he's fine so he has to be. Right?

iii. Was it my August? Shit, I don't remember

— Gone gone/thank you, Tyler the creator.

"Where is he?" You asked Chris as he sat quietly, playing with his food. You glared at him, leaning onto the table as you glared at him, your eyes glowing orange, fire swimming in them.

Luke had been ignoring you for two weeks now, you had no clue if it was because you did something wrong, and if you did, you wanted to solve it.

That was until Max, your brother, had told you that he was giving Stacy Evans, aphrodite's prettiest daughter, extra sword fighting lessons.

"Hermes cabin bathroom." Chris muttered as you hummed in approval, walking off to find Luke.

Ever since your last interaction on the beach, you haven't seen him. Some would say you were worried, and if the right person asked, you were worried.

Little did you know, that Luke wasn't running from you. He was protecting you. From himself.

He did know how, how the he'll could everything about you agitate him. He hated it, he hated how every time he heard your name, he wanted to punch someone.

He hated how whenever he saw you laughing with your brothers, he wanted to smash your head against the wall, he wanted to hurt you.

He didn't know why. Why you out of everyone. You were a Saint, you were perfect to him, perfect for him. Suddenly, without warning now he's ignoring you.

You loved Luke, and Luke loved you, but now. Even at the mention of you, he wanted to stab you with his sword and watch you bleed.

You knocked on the door, hearing shuffling as you waited for him. Your eyes widened as you heard muttering coming from the other end of the door.

You barged in, finding Luke huddled up over the sink, clearly irritated by you. You glanced at the sword on the bathroom counter.

"What the fuck is wrong with you mender! You can't just barge into the men's bathroom." He spat out as you scoffed, you locked the door, walking towards him.

"What the fuck is wrong with me? What's wrong with you?!" You spat out as he let out an agitated sigh, clutching the sinks frame as his eye twitched. You shoved him to look at you, his breathe staggering as he stared at you.

"You know you're a real shit boyfriend you know! Missing out breakfast because im there, wow I mean. Master of communi-fucking-cation right!" You laughed as you watched his reaction. His eye twitched more, his mouth agap as he panted, he was controlling himself. He was on his last straw.

He wasn't even listening to what you were saying now. He was just trying to keep his thoughts at bay, he couldn't hurt you. If je hurts you, it was over.

"You really are your father's son huh?!" You spat out, that was all it took for him to lose his sense of control. He grabbed you by the throat, shoving you into the wall as he smashed your head against the wall, before wrapping his hand around your neck again.

He lifted you up, you kicked your feet as you tried to pry him off, stopping as he shoves you against the wall again, clearly agitated by the fact that you tried to pry him off.

"What the fuck is wrong with you. Don't you ever say that again you little bitch." He Luke spat. An evil laugh escaped his lips as he leaned in to face you. "You really are a pathetic whore huh. No wonder your mom left you."

Soft cries left your lips as he tightened his grip around your throat. You started to feel nauseous as you found it harder to breathe. Clawing at his hands.

"L...Luke..." You struggled under him, even though he was two times your size, even though you had no chance against him. You watched as the darkness in his eyes was replaced by realisation.

He let go, allowing you to fall on your knees as you sobbed and panted. The air suddenly returning to your lungs. Luke hovered over you, panting as he realised who was on her knees before him.

"Y/n." He breathed out, you shook your head at the mention of your name. He sighed grabbing a rag and before wetting it and holding it out for you.

You took it, holding it against the bruises that already formed.

He did it, he hurt you and he wanted to kill himself right at that moment.

"Mender. I... I." He didn't know what to say. You kept your gaze onto the floor as you cried. Unsure of what to do, what to say, as you rubbed the bruises. "Listen, I know you want to run of to Chiron and-."

"I won't. Don't worry." Your voice cracked as you looked up at him, standing up and walking to the door. But Luke's voice stopped you.

"Why?" Luke asked you as you shrugged. You hovered over the doorknob, sighing as you opened the door, leaving Luke alone in the bathroom.

He glanced at his hands, sobbing as he fell to his knees, he hurt you. He hurt you. He did the one thing he was afraid to do. The voices in his head won, he had lost you, the only thing that mattered to him.

He was weak, he allowed him to hurt you, he allowed this to happen. You were the best thing to ever happen to him, and somehow he messed it up.

You were special, not like the aphrodite girls who only cared about looks and who hooked up with who, most people saw him as Luke Castellan, most popular guy at camp.

In your eyes, he was Luke Castellan, another mediocre privileged guy, but he was yours, and you loved him for the good and bad in him.

Don't cry my child, it'll be over soon.

[dootdootwriting]

♡ SLEEPING with the HSR men ♡

featuring: dan heng; welt; sampo; gepard; jing yuan tw: some light cursing from me, sampo's is a bit suggestive type: fluff, a bit silly pronouns used: none a/n: recreating the genshin version of this post which went viral to announce that i'm now writing & accepting requests for HSR.... and not b*ha that was a moment of weakness sorry everyone LOL

utc for length!

DAN HENG

naps all the goddamn time

the astral express will be cruising along and he'll let out this giant yawn and march gives you the side-eye and you know. your boyfriend is about to gently grab your hand and sleepily lead you into his... room (?) for a power nap

these can last anywhere from fifteen minutes, where dan will just barely wrap his arms around you and close his eyes for a bit, to three hours, where his head will hit his unfortunately thin pillow, and he won't even have time to give you a kiss before he's down for the count

he's an incredibly heavy sleeper, which works to his benefit and his detriment

he gets nightmares relatively frequently. while they don't happen every time he gets the chance to rest, it's around a third of the time, and sometimes he'll even wake up in a cold sweat and flail around to make sure you're still with him

even if you don't wake easily, seeing your sleeping form nearby calms him down. he knows he's safe.

actually, just having you sleep next to him makes it less likely for the nightmares to appear, and eventually, he makes such a habit of getting you to come with him every time he goes to bed that he can't actually sleep without some part of his body touching you

if you're on a particular stop or for some reason you have to sleep away from him, dan heng gets little to no sleep. he clutches his pillow as a (not very effective) surrogate, and wakes up with a sore neck and less braincells than usual

he needs his beauty sleep.

if dan is asleep next to you, and you wake up before him while he's holding you, don't bother trying to get up. he won't stop you from leaving, but he'll do something even worse: he'll lightly grab your arm as you get up and look at you through one bleary eye with the haziest expression on his face, and he'll ask you to stay, please?

alright fine. after you use the bathroom. needy ass (affectionate)

WELT YANG

"i don't need sleep, i have coffee"

get into bed old man or i swear to god

welt tries to have a sleep schedule, honestly. he's just not very good at it

he's a chronic caffeine drinker, and while he knows it's not good for him, he's also a slight workaholic and when he gets into the groove of working on something, he needs to stay awake to see it through. unfortunately, this means he's often up until the early hours of the morning, and you're fast asleep in bed before he even realizes what time it is.

he makes it up to you. whenever this happens and he finds you conked out how you were waiting for him, he picks you up and puts you in a more comfortable position, and tucks you into the covers next to him once he joins you

he needs to realize that taking a nap with the love of his life is just as refreshing, if not more, than a mug with four shots of espresso is

(you have seen him go to a coffee shop and order a "quad espresso" with the most tired, deadpan expression and have the baristas look at him in awe and fear)

the type to tuck the both of you in and forget that he has his glasses on. luckily at this point pompom is an experienced glasses mender.

he has lost at least six pairs to this plight.

welt is an average sleeper, and he doesn't move around much, so despite his aversiveness to actually getting into bed, he is a good sleeping partner.

GEPARD LANDAU

gepard enjoys sleeping with you so much that bedtime is his favorite part of the day

well, for multiple reasons, actually. he really likes the intimacy that goes along with washing up together and getting ready for bed

he's one to lie awake with you for a few minutes and read or scroll through your phones or just talk to each other before you go to bed. it's his favorite time to unwind and destress from the duties of being captain.

he tries so hard to let you fall asleep first, but damn if he isn't exhausted. he usually ends up falling asleep before you.

gepard's sleep schedule is very strict and regular. he goes to bed probably between ten and eleven at night and has to wake up for work around five am (rest in peace)

this gives him anywhere between six and seven hours of sleep every night, which is just enough to get him through the day and back to you in the evening.

he's not exactly a light sleeper? he wakes pretty easily but it takes a few buzzes of his alarm before he realizes that he's supposed to be waking up then.

gepard wants so badly to be the partner who stays in bed "five more minutes" with you, or calls in sick from work just to stay in bed for the day. unfortunately, with his position, it just isn't possible, which breaks his heart every morning.

to make up for that, he leaves a note at his spot on the bed -- it's anything from "extra hard day today most likely. i'll miss you <3" to a silly, horrible doodle of him giving you a kiss

and then he's off to smack monsters over the head with his sister's guitar case

SAMPO KOSKI

"sampo koski always goes to bed on time!"

lies. or, well, he tries? i guess?

he means to, anyway... there's just always something to distract him, whether it be you, or social media, or some brand new business opportunity pinging him

being a traveler, the two of you often sleep in hotels or motels across belobog. it's not bad! sampo always reserves rooms in the nicest area nearby -- he likes to treat you to the nicest sheets and the best room service

i mean, you can't really have any fun if you're not comfortable~

smack him with a pillow please. or a brick!

doesn't have the tiniest bit of a bedtime routine. he decides he's tired, he flops on top of you, and he's out

sleeps like the dead. there is no waking sampo koski until it is time for him to wake up

the morning is when you remind him he has to shower and brush his teeth, to which he reluctantly agrees and smiles at you bashfully

which, actually, is kind of cute

this isn't to say he doesn't care about his appearance -- he DEFINITELY DOES. he just oftentimes forgets to wash up before he fals asleep.

he's another one who has to be touching you at all times while he rests. whether it be a hand, a foot, his head on your chest, your head on his chest... it doesn't matter. he likes the security he feels when he knows you're there with him.

JING YUAN

jing yuan always goes to sleep on time!

truth. he actually gets agitated when his sleep schedule is thrown off.

he has it written down in his head; his bodily clock is incredibly regimented. his sleeping times, eating times, and self-hygiene times all have to be the same every day, or his whole day feels off

he doesn't need an alarm clock. he wakes up at the same time every day, give or take a half hour. if he wakes up any earlier or later than his usual waking up zone, he goes into a sour mood as if he just knows the rest of the day will be bad.

he's another heavy sleeper. jing yuan prefers to sleep on his back and have you sleep on his chest. or on some occasions, he'll spoon you.

the lion sleeps at the foot of the bed

another part of his nightly routine is goodnight kisses and bedtime meat. he grabs a little chunk of chicken or beef for the kitty and gives each of you a kiss before he turns out the light and goes to sleep

if you prefer to stay up for a while doing your own things, he has no qualms with that, as long as it doesn't disturb his rest. things like having your phone out or a reading lamp on don't bother him -- he can go to sleep regardless of the lighting conditions.

i'm just imagining how fucked up he gets from jet lag. poor guy. aeons forbid he ever travel to a different planet with a separate passage of time

[galedekarios]

wyll: this was a hospital? feels more like a prison. gale: a common enough interpretation. sickness has a nasty habit of making you feel trapped, if only within the confines of your body. gale: i once spent weeks convalescing in the hospice of st. laupsenn after a nasty bout of ruddy pox. for all their kindness, leaving that place behind felt like freedom to me. wyll: i've always relied on the kindness of the healers and menders of the coast. better a cleric's healing touch than a chirurgeon's scalpel.

i'm assuming this banter is supposed to trigger upon entering the house of healing, but it hasn't triggered for me. still very much interesting. not only does it offer another insight into gale's past before the events of the game, but also the hospice he found himself in for weeks is interesting itself as well:

"The Hospice of St. Laupsenn (N73) is a Sancturary of Ilmater in the North Ward of Waterdeep. In the City of Splendors, worship of The Triad has long been subsumed by the Halls of Justice, Waterdeep’s temple of Tyr. After the Time of Troubles during the early stages of the Spellplague, large swaths of the citizenry were afflicted with fiendish plagues. While most recovered with clerical attention, for some the effects of the disease continued to linger, resistant to the healing effects of magic. As few Waterdhavians would have anything to do with the fiend-afflicted sufferers, for fear of catching the plague anew, the llmatari decided to create a place for the lepers. The Order of the Golden Cup erected the Hospice of St Laupsenn, named for the priest who tended those similarly affected in the aftermath of the Weeping War, and have continued in quiet service to this day. The hospice is funded by private charitable contributions (many of which come from the personal holdings of the Lords) and tithes from the Halls of Justice and the Order itself." [source]

i was at first playing around with the idea of gale suffering from such a long illness because he might have been affected by the spellplague. then again, the spellplague usually affected magic users mentally rather than physically, so this might really just be the pox, common in big cities and beyond of course, probably during his childhood.

if larian had kept to the lore and the timeline, the effects of the spellplague should have been more central to gale's childhood and made it much more harrowing, especially since he is so intrinsically connected and linked to the weave itself.

[renmorris]

Kim, the mender

I’ve been thinking so much about Kim navigating his own deep loneliness and touch starved-ness through caring for others, and what I feel are implicit statements made by the game that he studied emergency medical first response as his mandatory RCM civil service role

(his year working in body processing, him knowing how to keep Harry alive and able to walk after the tribunal, the morale healing pats on the back, even offering his jacket to Acele etc)

It’s unselfish and not something he has to justify to himself as an indulgence, it’s practical. It’s being a good coworker. Kim mentions repeatedly that gets seen officers in worst states than Harry and I don’t think Kim is unaware that Harry absolutely thrives on his reassurances and praise.

@1tbls has some Kim posts I mull over a lot (one of them is just the sentence 'Kim's horny little need to take care of Harry' because I really feel like that hits the nail on the head. another is the one about how Kim does seem to have self analyzed himself but in a kind of shallow way.) I really agree with that, it does feel like we're meeting Kim after he’s done some internal processing of his own. in the fashion police conversation he mentions that he used to be very uptight before he started wearing plainclothes etc

This is all to say that I know fandom is understandably wary of writing Kim as Harry’s caregiver and that’s good 👍 it’s very good to be aware of racist fandom trends and push against those. But for Kim there is textually, I think, the fact that he does thrive on caring for other people. It gives him a kind of authoritative position, and stability.

(It even ties into his tailoring hobby, he’s a mender of clothes and people, a mechanic, and wants to be that for the city so badly.)

There’s a lot of reasons why Kim wants to take care of Harry, why he believes that he can come back from all of this. Obviously one is that if Harry who is white, who works in this legendary precinct with his heroes, who puts in these impossible hours and burns himself alive for the RCM, who is ranked Double Yefreitor can be so easily left to die by the RCM…it means Kim never stood a chance. That his dwindling faith in the system means nothing and he has thrown his life away in this job.

(Likewise Kim also means this for Harry- If Kim is seen as disposable then there was never any point in being diligent and clean. Both paths are thankless and have left them to rot)

But the other I think is that this is how Kim copes, by taking care of others. He is so very careful about indulging himself in ways that he feels are extraneous. But this is a kind of closeness he is allowed to have, it does good for other people.

And over time this is and will be where Harry sneaks in past his defenses and takes care of him back. Get loved, idiot! Be cared for, bino! ❤️

[callsign-rogueone]

resson (garrick's version)

Garrick Tavis x reader a Garrick and Angel chapter! I need to re-number these at some point, but this happens between 1 and 2 — some of the events at Resson, and them going back to Aretia. written in Garrick’s pov, since Angel isn’t exactly conscious at the moment... words: 2.9k 🏷️: fourth wing spoilers, major character death, canon injury, allusions to hypothermia, writing as Garrick is hard but I tried, poor boy isn’t sure she’s gonna survive this (we know she does, since I wrote this out of order, but still), he takes good care of his girl, Sweetheart makes an appearance along with Darling Spark and Love, somewhat proofread but not really. I’m sorry this took me so long, but here it is. better late than never?

There’s a red dragon lying on the ground, wounded. It’s either Cosa or Deigh, but I can’t tell from this far out. Deigh, I realize when I’m close enough to see his horns, and he isn’t moving. If he’s dead, then Liam only has a few minutes left.

I make the jump too quickly, scrambling to get my feet underneath me, but I’m too late. Liam’s gone. His girlfriend is sobbing into his shoulder, Bodhi attempting to soothe her through his own tears. He has one arm held to his chest, the other rubbing her back gently. 

But there’s a second body slumped against Deigh’s side, and my heart nearly stops when I realize who it is. 

“Angel,” I breathe, kneeling down beside her, brushing my hands over her cheeks. She’s cold to the touch even in the July heat, her head lolled down onto her chest and her body completely limp, but she’s still breathing, thank the gods. I couldn’t bear to lose both her and Liam on the same day. It would destroy me. 

A quick inspection and confirmation from Tab tell me that she’s not wounded — a few scratches here and there, and some tender points that will be bruised tomorrow, but nothing major.

“She tried,” Bodhi tells me quietly. “There was nothing she could do, but she tried anyway, and…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, knowing that I can see it as well as he can.

I’ve seen her drained before, completely exhausted after a long day mending in the infirmary, unsteady on her feet and ready to flop facedown onto my bed and sleep it off, but this is several steps past that. It’s clear that she’d used absolutely everything she had in trying to keep Liam and Deigh alive, and I don’t know how long it will take her to recover. 

If she does recover, I think for a single second before crumpling the thought up like a piece of parchment and shoving it deep, deep down. She’s going to live. She’s going to recover. She has to. There is no way that the two of us could ever be separated like that. 

I have to do something, but what? Is sleeping it off followed by a giant bowl of pasta going to be enough this time, or does she need to see a healer? Could the healers even fix this? Is there a cure for burnout other than rest?

“The Lieutenant Colonel would know. He’s a mender as well.” 

Brennan would know. Him or Colonel Colbersy would be the best bets — but the idea of taking her back to that hellhole school right now is enough to light my blood on fire. Graduation is in less than a week, and I know they aren’t going to give her any time to recover before they transfer her across the continent to gods-know-where and expect her to start working.

I hook an arm under her knees, another behind her back, lifting her up from the dirt and gathering her into my lap. She’s too drained to speak, to open her eyes, but I feel a little flare of recognition from her as she leans into my chest — she knows it’s me. She’s still in there. 

I tuck her head into my shoulder, stroking a hand over her disheveled braids, because that’s all I can do right now.

Our little sister has silently slotted herself between me and Bodhi. She leans her head against my shoulder, sniffling quietly. She looks unharmed, but there’s dried blood coating her nose and upper lip, and her cuticles are shredded; she’s been peeling them since we left the school, as a nervous habit. Something’s bothering her, but I haven’t had time to ask what — though I have a suspicion that it has something to do with that little joker in Violet’s squad.

And now this. Liam had become her best friend, the first person her age that she was truly comfortable with, and now… I put my other arm around her, squeezing gently. She’s trembling, crying as quietly as possible — even in a situation like this, she doesn’t want to make a sound.

“I’m so sorry, kid,” I say softly, as if that will make it hurt any less.

She leans into me a little further. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” I promise her, “She’s gonna be fine in a day or two. She just needs rest — you know how it is.”

I pray to every higher power that exists that I’m right — that Angel will be fine, that our sister won’t lose yet another loved one. She’s finally coming out of her shell, starting to let people in, but I’m afraid that losing Liam might send her right back to square one: the girl I’d met six years ago, who was too scared to speak. I didn’t hear her voice for a week and a half — only timid nods or shakes of the head for yes or no questions.

My eyes widen as I see Xaden approach, a limp-looking Violet in his arms. She’s wheezing, black blood trickling from a wound in her side.

“It has to be poison,” Imogen reasons, sounding more torn up about this than I thought she’d ever be. “Look at it! We have to get her back to Basgiath. Nolon might be able to help.”

“That’s a twelve-hour flight.” Xaden’s voice rises. “And I’m pretty sure her arm is broken.”

Is she going to make it that long?

“There’s somewhere closer,” he says quietly.

“You can’t be serious,” Ciaran interrupts.

“You’ll put everything at risk,” I warn.

Tairn roars in dissent.

“I wouldn’t say that again,” Imogen mutters, “or he’ll probably eat you. And don’t forget, if she dies, there’s a damn good chance Xaden does, too.”

“I’m not saying he shouldn’t, just reminding him what the stakes are.”

“I don’t give a fuck what happens to me!” Xaden yells. “We’re going, and that’s an order.”

Bodhi agrees without protest. “No need for orders, man. We’ll save her.” 

“You’re sure about this?” Imogen asks.

“Stop fucking asking him that,” I snap without thinking. “He made his decision. Support him or get the fuck out, Imogen.”

“And it’s a bad one.”

Bodhi turns his head to glare at him. “When you have a hundred and seven scars on your back, then you get to make the fucking decisions, Ciaran.”

Rocks crunch under a pair of boots as another of our friends approaches. She looks utterly defeated — her face, neck, and hair are splattered with wyvern blood, and the makeup she’d so carefully applied for the Reunification Day party is running in dark trails down her cheeks, her eyes swollen and red from crying. She’s unusually quiet as she speaks. “X is right. We need to lie low for a few days — get our wounded help, and…”

And bury Liam. Her little brother. 

A wave of guilt floods through me. I had been too focused on Angel to fully process the fact that Liam, Xaden’s little brother, who may as well be mine too, is gone forever. We have to bury him tomorrow. I’ll never hear him laugh again, never receive another one of his little wood carvings… Oh, fuck. Sloane. She’d been counting down until her conscription day, when she could see him again, but now she never will. 

“It’s settled, then,” another soft voice says — Bodhi’s wife. “We’re going home.”

Nobody dares to disagree with her.

I give our sister one last gentle squeeze before I rise from the ground, Angel in my arms, and carry her the hundred yards to the rest of the riot, who have been keeping watch over us.

Tab lowers his head, mournful and dejected. He must regret not cutting her off, blocking her out from his magic before she overdid it. She’d never forgive him if he had interfered with her efforts to save Liam, but if he had, she might still be lucid. 

It’s absolutely terrifying seeing her like this. 

Chradh nods in understanding before I can ask, lowering himself flat to the ground so I can climb up while still holding her. I know it’s a major no-no for a dragon to bear anyone but their rider, but all of ours understand the gravity of the situation — a few of us aren’t in condition to fly, and will need to double up with someone who is.

She’s still freezing cold, and I know that the altitude and wind on our flight home won’t help. I sit her up in front of me, removing my flight jacket one sleeve at a time. 

It’s like dressing a doll — she’s completely pliant in my arms, and I have to keep moving her to get the jacket on, guiding her hands through the sleeves and buttoning it closed on top of her own. I pull her goggles up so the wind won’t hurt her eyes, and turn her head to tuck her face into my neck. 

Chradh wraps an invisible band of power around us to help keep her in place. 

“Just hang on for me, Angel,” I murmur, my lips brushing her hairline. “We’re taking you home.”

———————————————

Every step up the staircase sends a wave of pain up my left leg. I fucked up my knee in my running landing, too panicked to think straight once I realized that one of the dragons was wounded so severely.

I can worry about myself later. Right now I need to get her in bed, and prepare her for Brennan’s assessment.

My magic works to open the doors here, too, so I don’t have to worry about dropping her while I get us inside. I sit in my desk chair and prop her up in my lap, the wood creaking under our combined weight. 

I get her out of my flight jacket, then hers, and assess the state of her base layers. I decide to get her out of her leathers, at least — those are terrible to sleep in, and she’s always been picky about “outside clothes” on the bed. 

She was cold to the touch even with the extra layers, but without them I realize exactly how icy her skin is. I leave her with shorts and a tank top, but I pull back the bed covers with one hand and lay her down, piling her with blankets to make up for the loss. As soon as I drape them over her body, I’m rewarded with a small sign of life — she burrows deeper into the covers, seeking warmth.

Maybe warming her back up will be enough to get her lucid again, like this is some kind of hypothermia. But how did that happen? It’s July, the warmest part of the year across the whole continent.

I drag my desk chair over to the edge of the bed, taking a seat. It’ll be a while yet before Brennan can check on her — it’s going to take a small miracle for him to get the poison out of Violet’s system. 

She’s turned her head away from me, so I occupy myself with fixing her braids. They’re undone in places, big strands pulled out by the wind. I untie the leather band at the bottom, setting it on the nightstand and gently undoing the plaits. 

I’ve been practicing, but I’m not skilled enough to do the style she usually wears. I settle for detangling as best I can with just my fingers, and gathering it all into a low ponytail. It’s a small comfort to see her looking less disheveled. This way I can almost pretend that there’s nothing wrong, that she’s just taking a nap in my bed on a winter afternoon, piled up with blankets. 

“Can you ask Tab to keep an eye on her while I shower?”

“He won’t be taking his eye off of her anytime soon.”

If Tab can still feel her, that’s a good sign, I guess. I’ll take anything normal as a good sign right now. I cast one last long glance at her before I slip into the bathroom, keeping the door open just in case.

I look like shit after nearly two full days of flight and combat, but a shower and some real sleep should help. The water here is warmer than at Basgiath — though that’s a very low bar — and the pressure isn’t terrible. It’s almost nice. It would be a welcome reprieve, if I wasn’t so worried about her and Violet and all of our friends. I’m pretty sure Bodhi broke an arm back there, and our sister looked so shaken… she’d disappeared as soon as we got home. I need to check on her in the morning.

I haven’t heard anything from the bedroom, which is either a good sign or a bad one, but when I peek my head out, I can see the pile of blankets still rising and falling with her slow breaths. I dry off as quickly as I can and begin the search for clean clothes.

My old pajama pants are loose enough to accommodate the extra inches I’ve put on my thighs in three years as a dragon rider, but I can’t fit my arms through the sleeves of the first shirt I find. I make a quick modification with one of my smaller knives before tugging it over my head and settling back down beside her.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

Brennan looks absolutely exhausted, but he waves a hand at me in dismissal as I rise from the creaking desk chair and offer it to him. Stubborn fucking Sorrengails. 

He examines her for a minute, his eyebrows drawn together the way I’ve seen them when he’s looking over a battle map as he checks her pulse. Her breaths become even slower as he wraps his hand around her wrist, her body relaxing. 

“How long has she been like this?”

“Since we left Resson,” I answer. “She didn’t wake up on the flight.”

He blows out a breath. “I can fix the smaller stuff, but I don’t know what made her this way. I’ve seen burnout before, but this isn’t it.” He pauses, and his voice is strained as he continues. “It’s like she siphoned half her life away to try to save him.”

I can’t help but wince, knowing how his friend had done just that in the battle of Aretia five years ago — only Naolin had given up not just half his life, but the whole of it. And him being reminded of that on the day that he’d finally reunited with his little sister, who is currently residing on Malek’s doormat… 

I break the silence after a moment. “She’s not a siphoner, though. She’s a mender, like you.”

“That explains it, I guess. The loss of Deigh’s power is what ended Liam’s life, but we can’t mend magic. There’s nothing she could have done, but she kept trying anyway, and it was too much for her.”

Again, he sounds pained. 

I tread carefully with my next question. “Have you seen it happen before? A rider lose their dragon?”

“Yes. I tried as hard as I could to save her, but it was futile. I felt utterly useless.”

“How long did it take you to recover?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t need to. I was fine, just a little shaken.”

I exhale. “She’s always had issues with her signet. It’s easy for her to overwork herself, but I’ve never seen it this bad.”

He lets go of her wrist, setting her arm down gently, and I hear a soft sound of discomfort leave her lips. Why is she in pain? He’d just mended all of her visible injuries away, and I didn’t see anything under her clothes when I’d gotten her into bed. Maybe it’s the sudden cold — being mended always feels warm, and she’s still freezing.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” I say softly. “Thank you.”

He nods, looking ready to head up a flight to his own room and collapse.

The sun has set, the warm dusk we’d landed in now replaced with dark night, and I’m absolutely exhausted. I lift up a few of the half dozen blankets, slotting myself in next to her. My entire body relaxes as soon as I’m horizontal on a real mattress, the pressure taken off of my legs. 

She curls into me with a soft sigh, and it takes an effort not to flinch at how cold she still is even through the layers of blankets, but I wrap my arms around her, trying to warm her up. “Angel?” I ask softly.

No response — not even a hum. How long is she going to be like this?

“I love you,” I say quietly, even though it’s doubtful she can hear me. “Get some rest, okay? You need to recover. You have to recover. I need you. We all need you.”

Another sleepy sigh as she shifts over a little, resting her head over my heart like she always does. It’s probably just muscle memory from sleeping like this every night for years, but part of me wonders if it’s her telling me that she loves me too, and that she’ll be okay.

“Sleep,” Chradh encourages. “We’ll watch her.”

I don’t respond, my eyes already closing. Shitty circumstances aside, it’s nice to be home again, curled up with her in my — our — own bed, away from the demands of that infernal school. 

We can sleep as late as we want tomorrow morning.

[demifiendrsa]

South of Midnight | Official Gameplay Trailer

South of Midnight will launch for Xbox Series and PC (Steam, Microsoft Store) in 2025. It will also be available via Xbox Game Pass.

Title Logo

Key visual

Screenshots

Overview

About

From the creators of Contrast and We Happy Few, South of Midnight is a spellbinding third-person action adventure game set in the American Deep South.

As Hazel, you will explore the mythos and encounter creatures of Southern folklore in a macabre and fantastical world. When disaster strikes her hometown, Hazel is called to become a Weaver: a magical mender of broken bonds and spirits. Imbued with these new abilities, Hazel will confront and subdue dangerous creatures, untangle the webs of her own family’s shared past and -if she’s lucky – find her way to a place that feels like home.

Key Features

A Dark Modern Folktale – When a hurricane rips through Prospero, Hazel is pulled into a Southern Gothic world where reality and fantasy are interwoven, and ancient creatures from folklore emerge. In this coming-of-age adventure, Hazel journeys forth to rescue her mother and delves into a haunting web of folklore and family secrets, untangling her own identity.

Confront Mythical Creatures – Wield an ancient power to restore creatures and uncover the traumas that consume them. Cast weaving magic to fight destructive Haints, explore the diverse regions of the South, and reweave the tears in the Grand Tapestry.

Haunting Beauty of the Gothic South – Discover the lush, decayed county of Prospero and its locals. Experience a crafted visual style, touching storytelling, and immersive music inspired by the complex and rich history of the South.

[wishfulimaginings]

Signets- Part One

Fourth Wing spoilers ahead

All the signets I've discovered so far

Xaden can command shadows.

Vi can wield lightning

Rhi can summon

Ridoc can weild Ice

Sawyer is a metallurgist

Liam has farsight

Imogen can mind wipe recent memories

Dain has retrocognition

Heaton can breathe underwater

Emery can control wind

Quin can astral project

Nadine can unweave wards.

Jack barlowe has some sort of pain infliction by touch thing going on

Brennan was a mender

Naolin could absorb energies

Nolan is also a mender

Commander Sorrengail can weild storms

Mira can project shields

Whatshisface (Melgren) can see the outcome of battles

Professor Kaori has holographic projections

Please feel free to add to it. I shall update as I figure out / remember more.

[nadas-dirthalen]

she, the mender; he, the break (1)

solas/lavellan, rated T.

synopsis: The one unfortunate enough to take in the Mark has, astoundingly, survived it. Whether that is a miracle or a terrible omen remains to be seen.

content warnings: canon-typical violence, depiction of a canonical seizure, canon-typical profanity, canon-typical religious references, canon-typical depictions of depression.

read on ao3!

One Solas

Four hours after a Dalish mage stumbles from a tear in the Veil, a thumb runs across her limp palm. Its wielder furrows his brow.

A pair of eyes seeks to burn a hole between his shoulder blades, judging by the force of the glare behind him.

“I have no answers,” he tells the human without looking over a shoulder, though it’s not what she—or anyone who knows what befell the Conclave—wants to hear. It’s true enough, at least.

He has no answers as to how this Dalish mage survived what he knows, with grim certainty, should have killed her. Would have killed her lessers. He had counted on it: that his focus, pent up with millennia’s worth of neglected, unspent energy, would eliminate the one unfortunate enough to open it.

The first survivor is enough of a loose end. A walking, talking threat of peril upon all Thedas.

The second is a miracle, for she, at least, is mortal.

Probably.

Under his touch, the mark of his magic thrums, rattling up her nerve. Mercifully unconscious, she does not stir—but even through the thick robe covering most of her form, the summer-grass glow brightens her arm enough for the Seeker behind him to audibly wince.

The magic, from what he can tell, forges deeper into her tissue. Whether to twine with the fabric of her being or rip it apart at the seams, he cannot rightly say.

In these early hours, the only clue she gives is the quick rise and fall of her chest, her breaths shallow. Kept on the floor of a cell, robbed of dignity that she cannot fight to keep, much of her pale blonde hair has fallen free of its high braid. Sweat beads on her forehead one minute, only to cool before the hour’s up.

“You have no answers?” the Seeker behind him prods.

He forces his shoulders not to tighten, knelt by the Dalish’s side as he is. Smiles falsely, even where the Seeker cannot see, so his tone stays congenial. “Not yet.”

Would that he were alone, that he could knock on the bounds of this survivor’s dreams and ask.

What would she offer him, if he did? Would she confess to what ails her, or turn her nose up at his unmarked face, as so many of her kin? Or, so far from home, would she turn a kinder eye to the human behind him, paying an elven apostate no heed?

In the Fade, none might delay him much: none left alive can rightly keep the skies of their dreams from darkening with their unspoken fear. And when the realm folds around them, confounding mortal senses, none can truly flee far.

Whatever the truth of her prognosis, one thing is certain. Even under the press of his thumb, summoned by his silent call, the magic of his focus will not uncoil from her bones.

Whatever the Dread Wolf of her people’s legend has unwillingly given her, she is doomed to the consequence.

He could almost call it irony.

~

As day lapses into night, the Dalish survivor is unaware that every witness within a mile bickers over her fate.

They are calling her a miracle. They are calling her a monster.

It has not dawned on any of them that she could ever be a victim.

He has, in spite of the Seeker’s objections to flame and ammunition, been generously afforded a candle. Its light throws long shadows over the survivor’s drawn expression. Like this, he must lower himself from resting on his heels to squint, inches from her face, in order to track the movement of her eyes behind their lids.

She is dreaming. At least there is that.

His mark has buried itself into her left hand, the green of rifts lighting a slice in her palm despite her skin remaining unbroken. Thus he sits on her left, now, furthest from the cell door. A better vantage for the Seeker, who has left to argue, to scowl at him from all evening.

A poorer vantage to scowl back unseen, but one must accept their occasional losses.

At least like this, his back can rest against the cell’s rear wall, and he can watch the door when he is not watching over the survivor. He keeps it in his periphery while his gaze lowers, half-lidded, as he once again puts two fingers to her wrist to measure her pulse.

Two hours ago, he insisted to the human healer that he could count it perfectly well. The healer looked down at the survivor’s valasslin while he passed over a clipboard, mumbling a request that her pulse be measured and recorded every hour through the night.

That human healer neglected to leave any thanks.

The Dalish’s heartbeat is almost furious against his touch, pounding as though her limp body is sprinting: a pulse that would roar in her ears, if she could hear it. He counts sixty beats in thirty seconds, ignoring the twist of his insides when he releases her to record the finding.

Ten higher than last count. A battle her body has begun to lose.

The healer should be measuring more than her pulse, but his efforts are farcical at best: make a play of trying to keep the survivor alive, keep meticulous record of all the ways this prison has failed her, justify her death was unpreventable because so many watched it unfold. To those yelling over the Dalish’s fate beyond this row of cells, that would be enough to satisfy.

It would assuage their worry, to watch her fade to nothing. To some, it would provide relief. Their Chantry, no longer under threat—nor scrutiny.

They should be measuring her temperature. Whether she perspires. Whether, and how often, she stirs.

It is due diligence—and perhaps atonement—that an elven apostate from nowhere does all three in their stead.

Her brow is warm against his knuckles, but less than it was. Her body adapts to fight the mark. In the harsher chill of night, the cell damp and lightless, her brow is free of sweat, the loose curls once plastered to it hanging free over her temples.

He thinks the barest trace of a frown passes over her at his touch, but it vanishes, her face again serene at rest, too fast for his tired eyes to register.

Once he makes record of all three, writing in the margins of the healer’s notes, he rests his head on the cool stone behind him, allowing his eyes to fall shut until the next hour demands he rise anew.

~

The survivor screams before the sun can crest the mountains.

He must give her credit: it earns her the attention of all those who’d been content to debate her survival from afar. Within moments, the cell is crowded with everyone endowed with both local renown and an opinion.

The Seeker’s voice is loudest. He supposes he should have expected as much.

“Surely you know what this means, Adan?”

The healer—Adan—is clearly in the Seeker’s good graces enough that his sneer doesn’t earn him retribution. “I don’t understand. Her pulse is normal now. Her fever, gone. And the screaming comes in fits… but why?”

Then, naturally, he turns his puzzled frustration on the nearest apostate.

“You wrote her pulse was high through the night.”

That nearest apostate, still knelt at her side, commendably ignoring the bruising on his tailbone, keeps his voice perfectly level. “I did.”

“And that it didn’t change until the thrashing began.”

“I did, yes.”

“And after administering elfroot to hasten her wakening, it had stopped—”

“Very observant.”

That earns him a scowl from the Seeker and more than a fair few muttered insults from the other half-dozen people inside the cell. More soldiers, someone in Chantry robes convincingly pretending not to tremble behind them.

“Don’t play coy with me, elf,” Adan sneers, pulling the apostate’s attention back.

Before he can brace for some spit curse, the survivor’s hand jerks out from under his. Her spine arches, her ear scraping over the stone when her neck follows suit. His palm lands gently on her shoulder before she can tip herself onto her back, but does nothing to stop the kick of her leg.

“The grey,” she slurs, lips catching the dirt of the cell floor. “The grey…”

“Maker’s fucking breath,” Adan hisses, reeling back. “What is she…?”

“The grey,” the survivor groans again, muscles still tense, unconscious eyes screwed shut.

Every gaze in the room finds his mark on her palm—save for hers. The magic lights stronger, rift-green blazing up the veins of her wrist. Only when it dims do her convulsions ease.

“So it is true,” the Chantry member mutters, soft as prayer. “She is chosen.”

“Chosen?” Adan echoes, whipping back long enough to fire off what is probably a scowl. By the time his attention returns to the Dalish survivor, a more dangerous sort of ire has hardened on his features. “No. This—this mage shit cannot be a sign of anything good.”

“Is that what you call it?” Indignation burns up the apostate’s throat before he can think to smother it. “What you belittle with the profane may well be the only hope you have against the demons amassing beyond these doors.”

“Watch yourself, apostate,” the Seeker warns, a hand on the pommel of her blade.

This time, he meets her glare. “Are you so sure that I am wrong?”

“Enough of this fucking charade,” Adan declares, throwing up his hands in distaste. “Andraste’s ass—there’s not a healer alive who could understand what so possesses her. If she makes it past midday, someone pry me from my drink.”

With that, he shoves through a half-dozen humans, neither sword nor glare leveled against him on the way out. Instead, the prattling Chantry member follows on the healer’s heels, and the Seeker on the Chantry’s, and the soldiers on the Seeker’s.

With them gone, the cell falls silent. Not for the first time, death and the Dread Wolf loom together over the body of a mortal.

The next spasm starts: rigid spine, arching neck. This time, his hand finds not her shoulder, but her wrist. Thumb driven deep into the meat of her palm, he feeds the mark a morsel of his own magic, a beacon sent out over the churning forces inside the survivor’s skin.

A flare of dull green light, and the spasm stops.

Rather than a scream, she surrenders a murmur. “The grey…”

He eases her onto her back, careful not to relinquish her marked palm. Smooths hair from her face with his free hand, another sliver of his magic employed to mend her abraded ear. Dignities the Chantry, the Seeker, and the prison guards, for all their talk of prophecy, still do not afford their Dalish charge.

“I know. I know, lethallan,” he answers, once he is sure no human ears are near enough to question his tongue. “Ir abelas.”

~

The first attempt on the survivor’s life comes, brazenly, at dusk on the second day.

While the apostate takes a meal a floor above her cell—only at the Seeker’s stubborn insistence—the cell lies guarded by another. When he returns, that other is bent over her motionless body, a dagger unsheathed from their belt.

At his shout, the Seeker barrels down the stairwell past him, shield drawn. She collides with the would-be assailant a second after the noise turns their attention away from the survivor, pinning their body to the floor. Another soldier clamps manacles around the assailant’s wrists, but murmurs assurances that certainly, all was done with the best of intentions.

It is all the apostate can do to quell the urge to send a streak of rift-green sailing past both their faces, goading them to speak their so-called assurances for all the fortress to hear.

As they draw close to move up the stairwell, he meets the assailant’s gaze and mutters, “You know not what you trifle with.”

The Seeker, though she is in earshot, does not listen to the assailant’s bitter retort. Rather, she faces the apostate after several moments, dark circles under her topaz eyes, a hand raking through her short mop of dark hair.

“Do you really think…” she pauses, folding her arms. “Do you really think she could be our only hope?”

She will not look at the survivor, so he does. His mark burns bright even across the room, steadier now. If it hasn’t killed her by now, it won’t.

“I am certain,” he answers. Then, because it is what most everyone here has already decided: “She is a miracle.”

But they have not lived to see millennia wax and wane. They forget a crucial detail.

Miracles, be they borne of flesh or circumstance, have one thing in common.

They should never have been real.

~

The second attempt on the survivor’s life comes far past nightfall, when the apostate’s eyes are closed.

This time, her would-be killer is the very soldier to have clamped manacles on the first.

When heavy footfalls thunder down the stairwell in answer to the screaming, the apostate watches as they rush toward the soldier—only to reel back when their torchlight glints in the ice pinning their comrade to the wall.

The apostate claims it was self-defense with hardly more than a shrug, failing to flinch in the face of six pointed blades.

Afterward, the Seeker only leaves the cell to sleep.

~

The dawn of the third day is the last he has the survivor alone.

Bleary-eyed, he parts her lips with the knuckle of his thumb to administer three more drops of elf-root tincture on her tongue, disparaging the common name. When he does, he whispers its name in the language her people have taught her—vhenanalas, heart-root—because it is similar enough to the one he knows.

Once, it was said that all elvhen would wake to their own tongue, like a mother calling children home.

All the Dalish survivor has done, thus far, is frown.

Through the night, the roar of demons from beyond the cell climbed louder. Whiling away the hours, pretending not to hear, he found that the magic of his mark swims through her veins to follow his touch, unless he wills it not to.

Three days, and still he does not know if the mark pains her, or if she’ll do more than knot her brows together or press her lips white-thin when she’s conscious of the new power in her marrow. What he does know is that each hourly administration of elf-root twists her face the same way. When she stirs enough to tilt her jaw, the digits of her right hand curl, but not her left. When the mark of his magic flares brighter, a noise always rises from her throat—one that stops sooner if he makes a single sound, like it had only been seeking an answer. Any answer, he found, once he’d made a series of unintelligible syllables in reply to test the theory.

She fights it on her own, now, even though he no longer risks the press of his thumb over the gash-shaped green. He does not know her name, and yet is powerless to deny her stubborn will.

“Perhaps that is why they have marked you for the Keeper of Secrets,” he mutters to no one, watching the blood-markings beneath her lower lip smooth as she falls motionless once more.

No tip of the jaw, no curled fingers on right hand or left. She slips into relative peace, the ailment of his magic overcome, for now.

He almost laughs, but the sound cuts short. Instead, he whispers, “You will need that stubborn streak, with what lies ahead.”

She never gives him an answer. The next time she frowns, and the next and the next, he speaks in her language until the Seeker wakes.

Vhenanalas. Vhenanalas. Vhenanalas.

Ir abelas. Ir abelas. Ir abelas.

~

Demons encroach too close to the prison, nearer by the hour. The derisive look the Seeker snaps to him says that where she goes, so, too, will he.

He leaves the survivor because there is more he can do to ensure she lives by holding back the horde outside these walls. He swears she stirs at his hushed goodbye, mouth hanging parted the last time he looks back.

The sun strikes him too brightly, after days without it, worse for its glint on the snow outdoors. The first demon to fall before him collapses with a splinter of ice through its core, and the apology he cannot speak aloud sticks thorns in his chest. There is nothing he can do for it, or anyone, without the focus he’d so callously lost.

By the fifth, a haze settles over his awareness, a guard against the lapping tide of remorse.

The thrum of his magic outside his skin pulls him out of it. Every shriek of these unwilling spirits, painful against his eardrums. Worse, when crossbow bolts find their mark, when the Seeker’s sword sings as it is pulled from her sheath.

He cannot turn with a shade pressing its advantage, instead forced to arc his staff and pull forth the power behind another icy blast. The green of his mark careens into his periphery while he stands rooted, and then the survivor pulls it back—

To shove a lone blade through the demon with her opposite hand, crackling with violet energy. 

Then, with his vision still blurred, his ears still ringing… quiet. The last demon of this rift, vanquished. Only his erratic pulse and the remains of his focus thrumming in time with it from the gash-shaped glow in the survivor’s palm.

“Quickly,” he gasps, already moving. Just enough to alert her to what is to come. “Before more come through!”

He has no time to process that she is awake, standing, before his grip curls around her wrist, thumb pressed into the soft of her palm. As with each time before, the magic within—his magic—follows his touch.

In a mockery of his every hope for the Veil, a verdant ray erupts from her skin. Its power plunges into the rift above them both and, under his guidance, sews it shut.

After, only wintry sky remains in its place: no touch of Fade nor lick of its magic. This time there is no great urgency to the quiet that falls. Only the rhythm of the survivor’s ragged breath, as fast it had been the first night.

She slips the mark—her hand—from his grasp. A sliver of warmth leaves his core as it goes.

When he pries his eyes from where the rift once existed, she is already peering up at him. The sight drives another guilty lance through his sternum before any haze can dull the blow.

The green of rifts is threaded around her pupils, tainting even her otherwise stone-grey gaze. His mark—the one that’ll end her life—rooted in her every inch.

Her white-blonde hair is still streaked with the dirt of her cell floor. Her ear’s still red from where he mended scrapes. Dark circles beneath her eyes betray the weakness these days have awarded her.

And under, her panting mouth curves into a disbelieving smile.

“What did you do?”

“I did nothing,” he answers, too fast, avoiding the Seeker’s cutting stare that looms behind the survivor. He neglects to append save for cause the curse that’ll end your life. Instead, amid the stench of slain demons, heedless of the cries of battle still raging on ahead, he summons a pleasing smile. “The credit is all yours.”

The Dalish lowers her eyes, brow furrowing. His world narrows on the way she studies her palm, her own thumb running over the mark, following the curve his had just taken. She concentrates on the motion, repeating it, a thin press to her mouth not unlike the one she makes when heart-root lands on her tongue.

Calculating, now that she is conscious. No longer a simple show of distaste, but an equation she visibly puzzles over.

Her eyes lift to greet his again, something in them hardened now. “You mean this.”

He tries to ignore the way the mark’s thrum strengthens in response to his own dogged pulse. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” he says, just as he’d told the Seeker hours ago. He leaves out and I’m sorry for my role in it. “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake—and it seems I was correct.”

The Seeker seems just as pleased now as then: barely. “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.”

“Possibly,” he says, just true enough. Something guaranteed, from millennia of knowing, is indeed also possible.

The survivor, meanwhile, watches him still with open curiosity—the sort that borders dangerously on hope. The expression is a dozen questions in itself.

He scrapes another apology from his tongue, searching for some other answer to her wordless prying. Something that will buy them all a little more peace, a little more time. 

He manages, if only just, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know!” the dwarf from the cells near theirs interjects, striding closer to the survivor in spite of how her muscles tense. Bearing a wide grin, he jests, “I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

The survivor flexes her fingers around the hilt of her dagger, a mirror of the way her right hand would curl in discomfort. Deliberate, now. Alive. Alive.

The dwarf goes on, “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

The wink he gives the Seeker is met with a scowl.

“It’s…” Blearily, the survivor manages a nod, a new set to her jaw she hadn’t had the mind to employ before. The line of it is sharper as she forces a smile. “Good to meet you, Varric.”

She hadn’t heard his idle chatter in the cell, then—or anything else, apology or otherwise. 

“You may reconsider that stance, in time,” the apostate asserts, suppressing a flinch at the line he knows he’s toed. He affixes that careful smile to his face as three sets of eyes land upon him, though only watches the survivor’s.

He’d assumed something of her. Too much. He looks for disdain in her raised brow, or perhaps for ire in the line of her mouth.

“Awww,” Varric mocks, wrenching him from the study. “I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

Chuckles, in truth, can do no else but blink, just once. The survivor weighs the expression, watching in silence—whether a haze like his, simple fatigue, or something else.

“Absolutely not,” the Seeker takes over, voice stern. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but…”

The raven blood-marked in the Dalish’s face shifts as she borders on a smirk. Haughty, irreverent, when it is her braids pulled half-free from days of unconscious tumult, her ill-fitting armor stained with all manner of dirt and damp.

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?” the dwarf goes on a distant two steps away. Neither the apostate or the survivor turn to watch. “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

“Ugh.”

“My name is Solas,” spills from the apostate’s mouth, heedless of his will, near an entire minute too late. “If there are to be introductions.”

Varric and the Seeker stop to raise their brows in unison. The survivor, understandably, fails to mask her confusion.

“I am…” Pinned under three stares, he has no hope of uttering even a false explanation, nor an apology, nor anything to explain away the same dirt and damp staining his coat, three days and nights of foregone hygiene. “Pleased to see you still live.”

Pleased does not touch the bone-deep relief, nor the chill of dread that none of them can hope to grasp, but he still does not know her name. This will have to suffice.

Varric only laughs sharper, grins wider. “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

That, too, Solas supposes.

The survivor hums the beginnings of a laugh, low in her throat. Her crooked smile dimples a cheek, undeterred by the biting wind tousling the knotted strands of her hair. The green of his mark blazes in her eyes, crinkled at their corners. “Then I owe you my thanks.”

And her wrath, but that seems inconsequential, with demons in uproar higher on the hill.

Everything does, outside of the fact that she still draws breath. That all this might yet be undone.

“Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process,” he tells her. And, because three days and nights with her life in his hands is too long not to know: “Tell me your name.”

~

Ithalia.

One of the many names rippling across Haven on whispering tongues. Ithalia Haleir Lavellan. Herald. Miracle. Divine.

They can afford to whisper, to do anything but run for their lives, because it is she—without his touch—that has sealed the Breach and mended the heavens.

Three more days and nights she sleeps, but this time, no seed of doubt roots in Solas’ core.

He is certain: she will live long enough to mend the very world he aims to break, before it can be made whole again.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Hope you’re doing okay. Migraines are the worst 🙁 Loved the HC you posted awhile back with Garrick taking on Xaden’s gf as his sister. Got me all in my Garrick feels 💙 I have a request for some Garrick x reader hurt/comfort.

Hurt

I don’t know if it’s out of fear or love or care or amazing obsession skills or a mix of it all but this man can read you like the ink on paper. He notices your moods. He says it’s your eyes that give you away but in reality, it’s your body language, especially the way you play with your fingers or how you clean around the room you both share even if everything is already clean. And he knows how to make these things easier. Can feel when you need space. So he lets you breathe in the space alone. He trains with Xaden then, goes for a run. He knows when to hold you. To drop it all and wrap you up in his arms. Letting you cling to him as if he is the only lifeline.

It’s the other things, physical things, he can’t prepare. Garrick’s whole body goes numb. The voices around him turn to mush as he sees you walking through the gates. Walking is a genuine way of saying it. “Hold it”, he shoves the papers towards one of the recruits that had been running through formation details with him. “I said fucking hold it”, he shoves harder before pushing past him.

His palms are tingling, almost going numb. As he watches you trying to keep a straight face. You’re here, he keeps telling himself, you’re here and you’re breathing. But it’s the slightest trembling in your hand, the pale color draining your usual rosy cheeks. It feels like forever that handful of steps towards you. As if someone is stretching the distance between you both on purpose.

“What hurts?”, The first words he’s saying to you as he finally gets to touch you. Hands bracing you up by your elbows. “It’s all okay”, you shake your head as you walk alongside him. “Don’t you it’s okay me”, he grunts, trying to put as much of your weight on him so you could walk easier.

“Give me the hand”, he gestures to the hand you have wrapped around your middle. “I can’t…”, you mutter. Garrick frowns, “What do you mean you…”, his fingers reach for your hand, palm brushing over the damp leather. Leather that leaves his fingers red. “Love…”, he whispers, eyes darting up to you. “Just need a healer, a mender anything”, you say through gritted teeth, feeling the tremors starting to shake your body. Garrick simply gives you a clipped nod, reaching to bring you into his arms.

You had lost consciousness halfway to the medical wing. The healers had been reassuring him ever since that it was all gonna be okay but he just didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. Not until he saw your eyes again. He had watched over the healer’s shoulder the whole time as he worked on your wound. Had pulled rank so he could stay in the room. Had hissed every single time he thought the male was handling it rougher than he should have.

“Hey”, his head snaps up so fast, that he nearly falls back with the whole chair. And here they are. His favorite eyes, looking back at him. Tired but alive. He lets out a breath one he didn’t even know he was holding. “What happened to your hair?”, you ask with a slight frown. “You…”, his words die midway, “You”, he tries again but his eyes close this time as he lets his head fall.

You reach out for him instantly, letting your fingers brush over his wrists, the hands that are covering his face. “My love”, you muse, watching him shake his head. “You should have seen the other guy”, you try to joke, “He won’t be walking”.

Garrick’s head shots up, “You were attacked? Who the fuck attacked you?”, you can see the fire in his eyes, the promise to bring nothing but pain to the ones that hurt you. “It doesn’t matter now”, you whisper. He opens his mouth to argue but you reach out for him, muttering a quiet, “Please”. Garrick watches you for a moment before his fingers wrap around your palm, as he brings it closer to his face, nuzzling into it. Letting the now warm skin slowly melt the fear away.

“I thought that… thought this was…”, he frowns, shaking his head. “I’m right here, with you”, you smile at him weakly, “Drained some blood but isn’t it good for you sometimes?”, “Don’t joke about it for fucks sake” Garrick grunts, shooting you a look. “I love you”, you mutter, “I’m sorry for scaring you”. Garrick lets out a sigh, leaning in to press his forehead against yours, “I love you so much. I’m never letting you out on a mission alone”. You chuckle slightly, “I don’t doubt that”.

[yiiyiiwrites]

🗡️ | Relics and Ruins | 4 |

Part 4 [series masterlist]

Summary: you’re a mender from the dawn court specialised in cursed or broken relics. When Azriel enters the dawn court the truth-teller is silent, it’s not till he asks for your help that realises who you are. 2121words [not edited yet] Azriel’s PoV 😌

The first thing Azriel did after under the mountain was take the ancient sword back to Velaris. He knew that Rhys’s order was one to keep him distracted, one to shield him from gazing upon his mate in the arms of a Vanserra.

When he returned to the Dawn court mere seconds later, he’d caught a glimpse of her hands linked to Eris’s. He took one stride forward, halting at his high lords words invading his mind. A command for him to wait for them to leave.

He wondered if she felt the same anger raging through her, his shadows snarling in his ears, urging him to follow.

The little connection she did send down the mating bond subtle, as if he held a seashell against his ear. It calmed him, but he wondered what depths he’d drown in when the bond snapped.

Would she want to tread the choppy waters or sink down?

Azriel squinted in the morning sun, dark wisps hissing around him trying to hide in the shade of his tucked wings.

The dawn court just as beautiful as her, sweet aroma of cherry blossoms, blush pink petals falling from above and he inhaled the scent, the same one that filled his senses whenever she was with him. He caught a few petals in his gloved hand, not as sweet as hers though so he released them.

He leant against the marble balcony, watching the clouds sweep below him. Minutes felt like centuries waiting for her, now that he knew where she was and with who. That smarmy bastard’s touch roaming all over her, the way she looked at him fuelling his anger.

A sudden jolt of pain spread through his chest, he rubbed the spot pausing as he realised it was her anger surging through him. So much rage beneath the calm, but it was gone before he could delve into the bond. He cursed himself for not comforting her, didn’t want to ignite that raw emotion or push her too far.

Murmuring shadows dove from the sanctuary of his wings and danced by his ears. Telling him that Eris wasn’t far, he turned to face the archway. Eris winnowing as soon as he stepped out on the summoning platform. The smirk not playing on his lips, a hard line settling on his forehead.

Cassian and Rhys emerged from the veiled drapes, silent, never a good stance in the face of his shadows. Dark wisps tore towards Cassian, the one that normally folded so easily but he swatted the pesky buggers away.

Before Azriel could ask what happened, she walked out onto the balcony. He could have sworn she commanded the sun, the way it escaped the clouds and laid upon her like a spotlight. Her bronzed skin glimmering, amber eyes of melted honey sliding to meet his hazel ones.

She moved with the wind, sheer cape floating along with her as she let it carry herself towards him. The blood rushed to his ears, thumping of his heartbeat overpowering the dark wisps that murmured around him, they tried to conceal his face but vanished as if scared of her approach.

A hard shove shifted his weight, "I can hear your heartbeat from here brother," he teased, Cassian’s laugh stealing him away from his trance.

So captivating, the way she drew him in.

His hazel eyes flitted back to hers, breath catching in his throat as she stood before him.

Could she feel the thread between them, the tight knot like a game of tug of war. Him trying to lightly pluck it and her straightening it out, only making him want to go closer. He remained in his spot, not wanting to scare her.

“You’ll be travelling with Azriel,” Rhys said, grabbing Cassian’s arm and winnowing away.

Azriel didn’t miss the tremble jutting her chest, the way she looked for someone else. Looked for Eris instead on him. A jolt stabbed his chest, what he’d do for her to search the lands for him.

“Ready,” he said, holding a gloved hand out. She hesitated, small hand taking his much larger one. He hooked his arm under her legs and held her against his chest.

He stepped back into the shadows. Like walking through a black veil, the darkness cool against his skin beckoning them further into the unknown, but he’d mastered it every time. She clutched on to him, eyes squeezed shut and fingers clutching the hair at the nape of his neck. He bit back a groan.

Silvery lights flickered beyond, the night sky appearing through the edges of darkness. The mist of clouds skimmed his cheeks, wind in his wings reminding him to be careful.

As he landed, his eyes fell on the side of her face, the curve of her nose reminding him how close she got to Eris. He couldn’t stop thinking about her with him.

Setting her down on the balcony, one hand on her back steadying her and the other trailing from her shoulder to her wrist. She was quick to slip out of his hold, arms tucked behind her back.

Azriel pushed the disappointment away, he stepped back allowing her more space. The furrow of her brow deepening, she took a hesitant step towards him, but he knew it was just the bond and not her wanting to. He'd wait, wait for her to seek him out when she truly wanted to.

“Welcome to Velaris,” he said, he couldn’t help but smile back at her, the ache of his stretched lips where he’d smiled so much in her presence.

She bowed her head, “thank you,” she said. Hair falling in front of her, a stray shadow escaping her short locks.

The stray shadowy wisp lifted her chin, her lips parting as she looked up at him.

“You do not have to bow to me.”

She swayed at his words, the back of her hand flicking the dark wisp from under her chin, knuckles leaving red marks under her neck as she rubbed the area.

Azriel stilled, the tattoo, one of a bargain. The autumn court tree marred with patches of puckered skin. Scars he too was familiar with.

“So she made a bargain with him?” Azriel paced the floor in front of Rhys’s desk. Wings tucked, hands moving in motion with his words. His shadows swirled around the back of his neck, as if protecting where she’d last touched.

They didn’t speak of the burns on her arm, nor did they ask her.

“Yes,” Rhys nodded, his eyes trailed his friend. “Under the mountain. She hasn’t said what exactly, but there seems to be a strong connection between them.” Feyre perched on his lap, silent as she took all the new information in. She nodded along, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

Part of him didn’t want to know what the bargain entailed, the thought alone made his shadows spiral. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear the reason out loud yet. He doubted she’d share it with him either.

Cassian had chosen to keep the mender company, the anger still rolling off of him at the mention of Eris. He hadn’t spoken to Azriel since they’d left under the mountain and he knew it best to let him stew, he’d work it out later.

“You think that’s why she’s unsure around me. The bargain confusing the bond between us?” Azriel could sense the confusion, the back and forth reactions that unfolded whenever she was with him. He too, hesitant to reach out or speak first, only following her lead.

“It could be, I suppose only time will tell,” Feyre said, she pushed out of Rhys's arms, her fingers tracing his shoulders as she walked to Azriel.

Everything ached for Azriel, seeing his two brother's with their mates. It had never bothered him before, but seeing them have another person to go home to, someone to hold and talk to it made him want it more too. For centuries he'd thrown himself into his work, convincing himself that he wasn't meant to have a mate, but when he saw her that all came undone. He came undone.

“Tread carefully, we still have work to do. I don’t need the two of you distracted.” Rhys warned him, leaning back in his chair and sifting through the paperwork on his desk.

Azriel nodded, he understood the importance of the work they had to do and was willing to put his own feelings aside in order to get it done. He just hoped the bond didn't snap for her during that time, later on when things were settled and he knew the situation better he'd explore the depths of their bond.

“Maybe spend some time with her, she can get a feel for the energy you both share. Make her comfortable and wait for her to make the first move.” Feyre said, she took up space beside him as they exited Rhys's office and stepped into the hallway.

If he didn't know any better he could have sworn she was enjoying his torment, her words pushing him towards the mender. The exact opposite of Rhys's advice. His shadows murmuring for him to listen to his high lady.

"I can't wait to meet her," Feyre said, turning to him and walking backwards. "Introduce me?" She clasped her hands under her chin as if begging him to do so. She halted, eyes glazing over.

"Loverboy calling you?" Azriel smirked, the slight nod of her head making him chuckle.

Feyre squeezed past him, "you'll understand soon enough, Az," she called over her shoulder. He watched her disappear down the hallway and slip back into the office.

Azriel would thank Rhys later for the lucky escape, not wanting to overwhelm his mate by meeting the whole inner circle at once. He was glad Amren and Mor were busy with other tasks. He wondered what kind of friends she surrounded herself with, if they would welcome him like his friends would her.

As Azriel rounded the corner, he heard the echoes of Cassian's laugh, but it was her hand on his arm that made him stop. Sitting on the small sofa by the fire, her body angled to his and lips curved a smile. Cassian's gaze swept to him, smirking, the bastard knowing full well how he'd feel seeing them so close.

"Oh," she said pushing her back against the arm of the chair to create some distance, hand dropping as if she'd been burnt. "Azriel." Her brows furrowed, it seemed to be something she always did when she noticed him. Her arm tucked behind her back once again, heat darkening her cheeks.

"Az will show you to your room," Cassian stumbled over his words, rushing them out as he stood up. "Nesta sorted your belongings, they'll be waiting for you." A genuine smile plastered on his face at the mention of his mate.

"Thank you," she said, head bowing slightly.

Cassian walked to Azriel, palm slapping his back as he leant in to whisper. "Room opposite yours, Nesta's idea."

Azriel nodded, the glare he gave his brother earning a toothy grin in return. Nesta and her romance books, not a good mix when he's longing for a person he cant really have at the moment. He nudged his head to the hallway, the mender following him in silence.

The silence never used to be a problem for him, he frequently sought it after a long day with the inner circle, but with her he wanted to fill it. Wanted to ask her a million questions, discover what type of person she was and what she liked in others. If she'd like him.

He wondered if she were biting her tongue too.

"This is your room," Azriel said, pushing the door open for her. She entered, gaze flitting back to his as he leant against the doorframe. "My room is opposite if you need anything, but the house is sentient so you can ask it for stuff too."

She walked over to him, hand slipping into his and amber eyes connecting with his. "Thank you, Azriel. I hope we can work well together whilst I'm here."

He patted her hand, unable to say anything before he retreated to his own room. God's it was going to be harder than he thought, he had to leave before he walked into her room and said too much. He collapsed face first into his bed, thinking about her hands in his hair and her breath on the side of his neck. His senses clouded by that cherry blossom scent, that he just wanted to dream about her.

Would she dream of him too? Hopefully they'd meet there, too.

taglist:@rcarbo1, @st4r-girl-official,@azrielswhore, @cynthiesjmxazrielslover, @shizukestar, @wolfbc97, @thecraziestcrayon, @i-am-infinite Thanks for all your lovely comments and for reading, Hope you like this chapter :) Azriel is down baaad - Yiiyii

[lizardinkart]

“This is not a horror campaign” I say to myself, lying

So we briefly dipped our Coyote and Crow characters into a world beyond their own (the D&D rule system) and having played in C&C for so long, it was really weird and cool to have the more “familiar” system suddenly feel alien and hostile.

Being able to measure the pros and cons of the systems in real time as characters and players was great, and offered a lot of perspective as to why we hold D&D as the standard ttrpg system when it has its own shortcomings and limitations that are very often overlooked. Character wise through all this, my character Nisi, a healer with the Mender’s Touch ability that uses up her health to heal others, had complicated feelings about spell slots not knocking her out and being able to heal herself.

The OTHER thing she had complicated feelings about were the Illithids… because when you believe in the preservation and sanctity of all life, what do you do with a whole species that exists through forced hijacking of someone’s entire body, mind, and spirit? If this is what magic does, why would anyone ever want it? Something something horrors and evils beyond comprehension etc etc. Hope y’all like tonight’s mini storyboards!