#so i must whittle it down piece by piece

[phoenix-before-the-flame]

I have exactly one joke regardin Jellal and i'm never going to let it rest

[novelmonger]

Top five David Hodges songs

kljfg;asdkfjas;dklgjsd;fklj HOW DO I PICK ad;lkfja;sdkfjsd;kfljds;fklj

Shattered (Beauty and the Tragedy version)

Desert Lands (Beauty and the Tragedy version)

Jet Black Heart (Arrows to Athens version)

Time Machine

Ashes

[almostfoxglove]

HOLD STILL

written for @punkshort's AU August Challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) PAIRING: Bodyguard!Dave York x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.4k CW: Dave's filthy mouth, pwp, smut (cockwarming, unprotected piv, creampie, sorta soft-dom!dave but really he's just bossy, sorta praise kink, a couple pussy pronouns don’t look at me), and one nonsense tense switch just for the hell of it I guess.

SUMMARY: On your last night together, Dave agrees to compromise.

read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs

You want him, but he won’t fuck you. Not once, not even quickly, not even with just his hands. Dave York—ever stoic, unflinching—insists on doing his job and his job alone. And you, as he so enjoys reiterating, are not his job. Protecting you is. 

For three weeks you’ve smothered the calendar hung on the kitchen wall with another red X each morning, whittling the days until you give your polished testimony and say goodbye to him for good. Now the court date looms heavy on the horizon—it’ll rise tomorrow with the sun. 

In the meantime—these last, dwindling hours—you roam the grand rooms of an apartment rented for your protection, your anonymity, at the very skirt of the city where you’d surely have lost your mind if not for him. Stationed diligently at your side, hand never more than a twitch from the grip of his gun. So many hours spent alone you've memorized his form: how he looks scanning the curtained windows for any whisper of danger. How he's never complained when you choose cheesy reality shows from the TV guide. Teaching you how to play Spades with a deck of cards soft and worn—from his home, maybe, though you never ask—and letting you win the first hand, lips quirked when you call him out on it, then unapologetically wiping the floor with you for the rest of your isolation. 

Yes, you know him, though only in image. Broad and sturdy, shirts each neatly ironed and squarely tucked. The hard line of his jaw and the fullness of his bottom lip. His hair always swept neatly from his face, even when you know he’s recently woken up. Never scruffy, never stubbled. Clean shaven and the smell of nice hotel shampoo.

It’s wrong, how you try to prod him to no avail. No matter your efforts, he says nothing of the way you adorn your body: lacy slips and satin sets at night, hugging silhouettes during the day, hair always done, lipstick never out of place even though you can’t leave the apartment or stand too near the windows. Dave is the only one who sees you, save for the days or hours when he leaves you his clumsy understudy to step down from his post.

He must know you do it for him.

It’s wrong, but you asked once, early on. Tonight? 

And Dave’s mouth pinched into a flat, polite line. Unreadable, his face drained of its emotion. His declination drawled deep and heady, a voice that curled your toes and more than once kept you panting alone in your bed that’s not yours at all, just two doors away from his, fingers needy and swirling. No, honey. Not tonight.

Repeated in your mind until it warped like an overplayed tape.

No, honey.

Honey.

Honey.

Not tonight.

Tonight.

Tonight, he is gone—your last together before the trial—leaving you in the hollow apartment with his proxy, stung. Same dark clothes, same holstered gun, same little piece nestled in his ear, but not half of what you want. You want Dave: a man as solid as he is driven, immutable as he is tempting. Assigned to protect you until you deliver the account that’ll send a monster away.

Perhaps you’ve liked the game—how he watches you, but never gives in—but now it’s lost its shimmer.

Lights dimmed for the evening, all black curtains drawn, the vaulted ceilings of the kitchen feel miles high as you perch on a barstool at the breakfast counter to stare at the calendar taunting you across the quiet room. Beyond the pristine halls you’ve lapped all day like an anxious dog, the city serenades you. Traffic squealing through streets, sirens singing in the distance, the occasional shout of someone walking by outside, eight floors below. 

You are not, at night, permitted to part the curtains, lest someone get a glimpse of your illuminated face, but you long to open one now, see if Dave is out there, returning to your little castle turret one final time. Because it’s possible he won’t come back at all—that his coworker will escort you between lobby and truck, between truck and courthouse, between courthouse and whatever comes next. Maybe home. That you’ll never see Dave again, let alone throw caution to the wind and ask once more, tonight?

And then, just then, as your stomach begins to sink with disappointment, you hear the sudden crack of the front door unlocking and the creak of its surrender. You’ve conjured him, somehow, past the stroke of midnight. Then low, rumbled whispers, the unmistakable tone of Dave’s voice mumbling to his understudy. Your heart speeds as the door closes again and his stand-in retreats into the hall. How dizzying, the sound of locks settling into their rightful places, turned by Dave’s unerring hands. 

When he appears in the dining room behind you, bomber jacket hanging from one arm, he tucks a tiny apology into the twitch of his lips—or maybe it’s meant to be a smile. “It’s late,” he says, as your eyes drink him in. Polished as ever, despite the hour, not a stitch out of place. “Should be in bed.”

You shrug, hoping you might appear indifferent. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say, aware of how the satin of your robe slopes off your shoulder with no intention of righting it.

Does something darken in his face then, or do you imagine it? You can’t be sure, not in this umbra, at this time of night. Jaw ticking, Dave strides cautiously toward the dining table, drapes his jacket over the back of one glossy chair, and sinks into the seat at the head of the sleek table, same as usual. A quiet kind of reign, his claiming this position, always, for every meal. He scratches his cheek, slips the gun from the holster at his belt to rest on the table, and as he leans back you indulge yourself—how can you not—in the slight buck of his hips as he shifts to stretch out his legs. 

“Need your rest,” Dave chides softly. No edge to his tone.

Sighing before you can stop yourself, disappointed all over again as his gaze draws off you to the windows and drapes. On duty, still. On duty, always. Not you. Not tonight. “S’the last night,” you reply, staring at the calendar again. One little red X to go. “You weren’t here.”

Behind you, his deep and measured breath. The shiver of that unflappable restraint, you hope, but you don’t yet dare to look back. He might spook.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You don’t budge. Don’t move.

“You hear me?” Voice a little harder now, solidifying. When he speaks to you, you always look him in the eye—or you always have before.

Electric, your heart. Revving just a breath faster, just a hair harder, at the sound of him huffing in frustration. Your lips tick up in one corner, hidden, a secret meant only for you. When Dave says your name, your whole body purrs and you at last turn your head enough to let him glimpse your profile, still withholding your gaze.

“Pouting,” he scolds, this time meaning it. “That what this is?”

“Avoiding me,” you counter. “That where you were?”

Dave hmphs, darkness fading and softness returning to his tone. “Course not, honey.”

You look at him now, properly. Barstool spinning as you push off the counter to face him. Under the dusk of dimmed pendant lights over the dining table, Dave glows. In the time you’ve looked away, he’s unbuttoned his shirt one button lower than it’d been when he walked in.

One button lower than you’ve ever seen him wear before.

“Said I’m sorry,” he says again, head tilted. His foot comes out to nudge the leg of the chair beside his, angling it in your direction. “Come here.”

He means for you to sit, maybe play a hand of Spades, but as you slink off the barstool you have no intention of taking the seat. Warmth flushing in your chest, cool, conditioned air greeting your bare legs and collarbones, all the skin not covered by your sleekest sleep set. You swear he drinks the sight of you, for once, as you cross the kitchen toward him. Eyes dark not only from shadows, from the time. Or else you hope, as you come to a stop between Dave’s knees, that the way he’s not yet blinked means what you want it to.

Lips parting, a breath from speaking when you beat him to the punch and ask, “Tonight?” Your chin lowered and eyes searching his. It’s the last night. Might as well show your hand while you still can, before he slinks back into the underbelly of a city where you know he’s lived for years but you’ve never once glimpsed him, and not just because it’s busy.

Because invisible is what he’s paid to be, what he’s good at. Unseen until the fist of him is needed, the gun.

Pink striping his bottom lip, a swipe of his tongue, eyes boring into you. The slightest shake of his head, clean-shaven cheeks sharked in the shadow and golden light. “Honey.” Not a no, honey. Not a not tonight. Just honey, like you’ve imagined.

Emboldened, you caress of your fingertips across his shoulder, tracing the seam of his crisp, pale blue dress shirt. So handsome, always so handsome. A man who takes care of himself, who tidies and cleans without your needing to ask. Spotless, always. Reserved, always. Killing you, always, with every brush of his gaze. 

You draw your fingers towards his shirt collar.

“Can’t,” says Dave, softer still. Breathy, almost. You pet the knife-cut of his pressed collar, the button just below it, and his Adam’s apple bobs slowly in his throat. Again, he shakes his head so slightly it looks more like a twitch. A reflex to say no. Not a desire to. “Can’t fuck you, honey. Wouldn’t be right.”

You bite your lip, brows drawing together, not lifting your hand from the button placket of his shirt. “Just tonight,” you breathe, and bat your eyes a little.

At last Dave’s dark eyes drop from yours, scanning the length of you above him with searing precision. Consideration. You slant your head to one side as his gaze slides back up, hesitating on your silk-draped chest, and you suck a sharper breath before it returns to meet yours. He cuffs your wrist with his hand to halt your teasing as he shakes his head once more, licking his bottom lip again with greater meaning. A glint in his eyes, lust finally flaring. 

Pride swirls in your stomach, honeyed and wanting. Then he tugs you by the hips with such reflexes you hardly register the movement of his hands before you’re on him, straddling him in the chair, your thighs framing his hips. Held. Your robe fanning behind you, over his knees. Heart pounding dangerously close to a cardiac event.

Dave tsks softly, smirking when you whimper, trying to roll your hips over the heat of his crotch. Those careful, deadly hands lock them in a vice as he clicks his tongue. “Not gonna fuck you,” he murmurs, and you lean in to kiss him but he pulls his head away. “Not gonna kiss you either. Not right.”

You don’t care about right. Now you pout for real, forehead wrinkling, staring at his upturned lips. You feel the unmistakable twitch of him growing hard against you and your cunt throbs in reply, needy and slick. You try to wiggle again but Dave pinches your hips in warning. “Look at me,” he repeats, that edge to his voice that curls your toes, and your eyes snap to his.

“Good girl.”

You moan quietly, made liquid by the tender swipe of his thumb over the satin of your sleep shorts. Your eyes fluttering at such a tiny stroke, not even the meeting of skin. 

“You can’t move, okay? Only allowed to sit.” When you don’t answer, too lost to the throb of his cock against your begging core, Dave pinches you again, voice gravelly in a way you’ve not heard before. “You hear me?”

Nodding, you hum. Can’t quite get out the word. 

“Need to hear you, honey. Gonna hold still for me?”

“Mhm,” you whine, fighting your every instinct to grind down against him as you meet his lust-blown eyes. “Yes. Only allowed to sit.”

Dave puffs a hot breath out that sends a wake of goosebumps across your chest. “Good girl,” he coos, and your brows pinch at the praise. “Soaking me already, honey. Can’t sleep like this, can you? Just need to turn your brain off, hm?” The movement of his hips below yours is so slight you might imagine it, that tiny grind as his cock grows. You nod, whine softly, and both his thumbs stroke your hips gently before stilling again.

“Show me, honey.” So quiet. So little air between you, and yet too much.

You scan his face until he offers a small nod. Those brown eyes hooded by dark lashes, devouring you without need for the press of his mouth. It’d be soft, you’re certain. The caress of his lips. Maybe the rest of him is hard and deadly, but those would be tender, careful—they’d take you apart, breath by breath. With the same precision with which he darts between shadows and cleans his gun and beats you at cards and tucks your hair behind your ear when you’re falling asleep on the couch, he’d dissolve you kiss by kiss with a kind of grace.

It’s his lips on which you pin your gaze as you let one hand drift between your legs, dipping easily between silk and skin—your body made jelly so quickly and by so little contact, already wet. You pray you don’t imagine the sharpness of his breath when your knuckles accidentally graze against his slacks as you slip your fingers between dewy folds. Then: your hand rising in the dim light, shining, honeyed. Dave watching them, the corner of his mouth cracking just a little. Tensing into his cheek.

He grunts, good girl, and then he’s lifting you just enough to peel down the zip of his slacks, flick open the button, but when your eyes fall hopeful for a glimpse of him he tsks, hooks one finger beneath your chin to tilt your face up, whispers a soft eyes on me, honey as he pulls himself out where you can’t see.

As his knuckles brush against the wet gusset of your shorts, nudging them to the side. Finding no panties to move.

As the head of his cock—plush, warm, weeping—nudges against the ache of you, the thrum of your longing.

He grins, wicked.

Then pressure, a moan lost to the air you’re hardly conscious of and the stretch of him, the slow press in and the ache of your cunt swallowing his girth inch by inch. You whimper, eyelids shuddering like old film, catching only still frames of Dave’s expression as he lowers you gently, burying himself in your drooling heat until you come to rest at his base, flush and full.

So full. Light-headed, sparkling. Your hips must rock because he squeezes your waist. “Hold still, honey,” he coos. “Remember?”

The terms of his touch sounded alright just a breath ago, but now you can’t imagine how you ever agreed. How you’re supposed to stay still with him throbbing inside you like this, heavy and sweet, exactly what you need. A flicker in his eyes like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, how he’s scrubbing out every thought in your head. Cocky, yes. But earning it.

“Dave,” you sigh, breathy and desperate. Your cunt clenching and squeezing and pushing out slick, probably ruining his slacks but he won’t let you look down, just tilts your head up gently every time it hangs slack. “Please.”

His breathing catches for a beat, then it’s steady again. “I know, I know,” he murmurs, keeping his finger under your chin to keep your eyes on him—but he hardly needs to. You’d swear the whole world drained away the second he slid into you. There’s nothing else past your bodies, past this one dining room chair. Everything else disappears like magic. The trial, the dread, the drone of city noise. The slow leak of your heart knowing this is goodbye—all of it. Gone.

You’d have sworn it impossible to come like this, with no movement at all, but you will. You do. And months from now—safe in the swaddle of your actual apartment that for weeks has stood hollow and dusty, plants withering sadly on their windowsills—you’ll lie in bed longing, missing, remembering. Trying to recreate the swipe of his thick thumb on your clit as you replay this moment in your head. How you whined, wanna take care of you when Dave still wouldn’t let you move, even when you were close, just swiped and swiped his thumb until you were something more than alive, transcending.

How his pupils had set ablaze with your whispered plea. How you’d realized that was the point, for him. The begging and the not giving in.

How he’d growled, “Taking care of you is taking care of me. You don’t think I’m gonna come the second this pussy strangles my cock? ‘Cause I am. S’all I need, honey, just give it to me—”

His voice the thunder to your body’s crackle and lightning.

“Let her take care of me, that’a girl, that’s it, just like that honey, she’s so tight—fuck—so fuckin’ tight around me, just squeezin’ me, gonna come when you do, pretty girl, let me have it.”

How it hit you like a white bolt of heat and light, every cell in you tense and flaming, then melting, boneless on his lap as he murmured sweetly, grunted, tried to lift you off him just in time and you’d finally, finally touched him—lucid in an instant, hands slammed down on the muscle of his shoulders. Mumbling amidst your aftershocks, inside, inside, inside. Eyelids stuttering again, back to picture frames as your cunt seized and begged in tandem.

The snarl of his upper lip.

His knotted jaw.

Tongue sucked against his front teeth, resolve crumbling.

The allowance granted to your hands to stay right there, fisting his shirt collar as his locked your waist in a bruising vice. His hips bucking only once, grinding the head of his cock deeper, deliciously, almost too good to take. 

“Fuck, fuckfuck—yeah, that what she needs, honey? Needs me to fill her up?”

You’ll remember your own reply as you near a second-rate heaven in the nest of your duvet at home, all frantic hands and thrusting digits and eyes slammed shut, repainting him in your head. Golden in that gloomy light, hair straying out of position across his misted forehead for the first time. Yes. Please. Dave. Yes. Inside. Please—and his grunt, dark and sweet as caramel, as burnt brown sugar. That tiny grin dragging at his soft lips, pleased. You’d pleased him, surprised him maybe. 

That can make you sparkle now, to remember.

“Okay, honey. Okay—shit—gonna give it to you, hm? Gonna give you all of it, baby—she’s squeezing me so goddamn tight, fuck, wanna stay here all night—”

Then the granting of a wish, the heat of him spilling into your cunt, the unmistakable slide of slick leaking between your thighs and onto his; you didn’t have to look to know. You could feel it, that wholeness overflowing. You can almost feel it now; three fingers might be a poor attempt at recreation, but you fall off the cliff all the same, his name on your tongue, a cry in the night, all the curtains dark and drawn as you come down breathless and drowsy, your whole body limp and spent as it’d been that night with him—when he’d tucked himself away and petted your hair back from your face, so gentle with you, cooing that you did so good, honey. Such a good girl. Gonna get you into bed now, hm? Need your sleep, honey. Come on. 

Carrying you into your not-real bedroom, tucking you in so tenderly, like he hadn’t just taken you apart at the molecules. And Dave’s lips were just as plush as you’d imagined when they grazed your forehead, his big hand petting your cheek once more, then turning out the lights. That deep timbre whispering from the doorway, goodnight. The door clicking shut. All of it perfect. How you’d known you mattered more than a job for just one moment in time.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[butterfreetamer]

I was inspired by this piece of art by @tomatoplantoo

Cross posted to AO3 here.

Only Playing Dead

Today was a good day.  Stan was lounging on the deck whittling away at a hunk of wood that he was hoping to make into a pig.  It’d been a long time since he felt like he’d been able to just relax like this, pick up a new hobby for no reason other than he wanted to.  It was calm, which was a nice change of pace.

That was until his brother came dramatically swooping onto the deck.  “Ah!  Stanley, there you are!  Great, you’re not busy.  I need you to come with me to the lab.”

Stan sighed.  He sets down his project and gets up to follow Ford.  He’d rather ignore whatever Ford’s got going on right now, but the chances of him leaving Stan in peace seem pretty slim.  “What’s up, poindexter?”

Ford bounces impatiently as Stan pulls himself out of the lounge chair.  “I finished setting up for an experiment that requires your presence!”

Stan rolls his eyes.  “That’s not ominous or anything,” he mutters to himself as Ford corrals him into the cabin.  “Why exactly do you need me?”

“Well…”  Ford hesitates for a second.  “There is a spirit that has attached itself to you.”

“A spirit attached…”  He takes a moment to process.  “Wait, Ford, are you saying I’m haunted?!”

Ford looks a bit sheepish and then admits, “To put it simply, yes.  Given its activities it appears to be benign or benevolent, but it is still wise to investigate these things.”

“Oh, holy Moses.”  He’s haunted, and he didn’t know.  “How long do you think this thing’s been on me?”

“Well,”  Ford muses as they enter the lab, “I’ve never seen one so firmly attached to a person before, normally an attachment like this would only be to a place or an heirloom or such, and attachments get stronger with time, so it must be… at least a few decades old.”

“You’re telling me a ghost has been on me for decades???”

“Yes, I suppose I am.  You know, it doesn’t seem reminiscent of any of the ghosts I researched back in Gravity Falls.  It’s truly an anomaly!”  Ford has the gaul to look thrilled at this.

Why is his brother like this?  “I’m glad you’re having fun but can’t we just get this thing off of me?”

“Give me a moment.  With a ghost this firmly attached, it’s easier to exorcise if we can see and trap it first.  Though, as I said, given its behavior I do not believe we need to worry.”

“Right, behavior that you’ve been keeping track of!  How long have you known I was haunted before you said anything?!?”

“Only a few weeks, I didn’t want to compromise the data while I was still testing hypotheses,” he rattles off dispassionately as he digs through some papers on his desk.

Stan dragged a hand across his face, a few weeks before telling him.  “You’re impossible, Ford.”

“Yes, yes,” Ford waves him off dismissively.  “Ah, here’s my notes.  This spell should make it visible to us.  Here, hold this.”  He finishes rustling through some jars and hands him a weird smelling collection of herbs and twigs that remind him of Ma’s incense.

Stan sighs holding the bundle and lets Ford guide him into a circle of ruins Ford drew on the ground.  “Should I be worried about any of this magic nonsense you got set up?”

Ford rolls his eyes as he lights some candles.  “Please, Stanley, do you think I’d do something dangerous without warning you?”

Stan shoots his brother a look.  “You really want me to answer that?”

Ford glares back.  “There’s nothing to worry about, at most there might be a flash of light as the spell completes.”  He gives the scene in front of him a once over and nods approvingly.  “Well, we’re all set up, just need to read the incantation.  Are you ready, Stan?”

“Go ahead,” Stan sighs, gesturing for Ford to continue.

Ford nods and starts chanting in latin or something, before he knows it there’s a blinding flash.

The light clears and his vision is back and Ford has a look of surprised glee on his face staring at a space right over his left shoulder.  “Why hello there!  That explains why the spirit was so attached to you.”

There’s a hiss from behind his neck.  He tries to turn and see what’s behind him but whatever it is clinging close to him.  “Holy crap Ford, what’s going on?”

“Oh, yes, um, let me.”  Ford fishes out a mirror from his pile of supplies and turns it to face Stan.

There blue, glowing, translucent, and hovering right over the back of his shoulder was a grumpy old possum.  “Shanklin?”  He reaches up to hold the little guy and he jumps into Stanley’s arms.  “Buddy, you’ve been here this whole time?”  As Shanklin burrows his nose into the crook of his elbow affectionately, he can definitely feel his little pal, even if he’s not quite solid.  There’s a chill where Shanklin touches him but he can’t help but feel warm holding his old pet anyway.  Stan does his best to give him some affectionate scritches even if Shanklin doesn't have much in the way of tangibility.

“Definitely a benevolent spirit,” Ford says brightly as he jots down some notes.

“Benevolent!” Stan exclaims in faux outrage, “Don’t insult Shanklin like that!  He’s a no good miscreant!”  Shanklin hisses in agreement.

Ford rolls his eyes fondly.  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”  He looks back to his notepad and hums thoughtfully.  “Now, we need to figure out what to do with him.”

Stan’s eyes narrow suspiciously, he clutches his ghostly possum protectively.  “What do you mean ‘do with him’?”

Ford furrows his brow as he continues writing in his notepad.  “Well, he’s going to need a more permanent solution for visibility and tangibility.  I can’t imagine it was good for him to go ignored all these years, we’ll need to acclimate him to interaction.  Some method of communication might be helpful, I wonder if we could make that opossum translator we tried to invent that summer?  I also need to make sure any defenses I have against supernatural interference won’t get in Shanklin’s way.  We should test the bounds of the attachment as well, make sure it’s not dangerous to either of you.  Do you think he’d appreciate a cat bed?  We could pick one up next time we’re at port.”

Oh good, Ford wants to keep him too, Stan thinks to himself, relieved he won’t have to argue with his brother about this.  As Ford sorts out the logistics of keeping a ghost as a pet aloud, he smiles fondly at the ghost that is settling into a nap in his arms.

Stan has his brother, his boat and his possum, it’s all his eleven year old self could have dreamed of.  Yeah, today is a good day.

[obscuraimagines]

PLZZZ a kodiak piece w the prompt “I won’t bite. unless you’re into that kind of thing” and/or “watch your fucking mouth””… I beg

A/N: Thank you so much for this prompt Anon! It turned out longer than I expected but I had such a blast writing it. Hope you enjoy!

Bite Me

Summary: You're a Yellowjacket on guard duty and Kodiak has made it his personal mission to get under your skin.

Warnings: violence, choking, biting, smut, maybe dubcon if you squint.

You’d never expected to meet a new person again. Your world shrunk when the plane crashed, whittling downwards with every new death. Your memories of Home were getting hazy, muddled, the way dreams slipped away on waking. Only the Wilderness felt real. 

When three strangers appear in your camp, it feels like the world order is turning on its head. As far as you’re concerned, there are only thirteen other people left in the world. The appearance of strangers feels so cataclysmic that at first you think it must be a dream or a vision. 

And then one of the strangers yells and falls forwards. Your memories get jumbled after that. Lottie standing over him with an axe, her face striped with blood. A choked laugh. Nat’s scream. Something whistles past your face and behind you someone cries out in pain. The others start running and you run with them, tearing off your cloak, the night air singing past your ears. The hunt comes as a relief, a return to something you can understand. 

That’s the first time you see Kodiak: a dark figure blurred by firelight, a shadow flashing through the trees. 

The second time he’s being brought back to camp at gunpoint. You’re not disposed to like him: you’re sore from running, one knee skinned from a fall you don’t remember taking. The other prisoner, Hannah, looks almost like she could be one of you: big doe eyes and a round face that makes her look like a teenager. Even after trying to hide in a ditch, everything about her looks fresh, clean and new. 

Kodiak looks like he belongs here: he's tall, well-muscled, dressed in outdoor gear. There’s an economy to his movements that makes you think he must be a hunter. He has a gnarled scar on his neck, a jagged line through one eyebrow, and you see the start of another where his collar opens. Later you find yourself thinking about it; how he got it, how far it extends under his shirt. 

You gave up on the thought of going home so long ago you’re too stunned to accept it’s really happening. Then it isn’t. You watch Kodiak mouth off to Shauna and the world seems to go into slow motion, like the moment before an accident where you can only watch, frozen in horror. You feel a hand squeeze your arm in warning and realise you’ve taken a step forward without meaning to. Akilah looks at you like you’re insane. Maybe you are.

Despite your best efforts, your mind keeps drawing back to him like a magnet. You tell yourself he’s not that interesting, it’s only the novelty of a new person in camp. You ignore the fact you’re not thinking about Hannah. You wonder what kind of name Kodiak is, whether it’s first, or last, or just a nickname he’d picked up. Once you hear Hannah call him Kodi. You don’t though: it seems overfamiliar, considering you’re collectively holding him prisoner.

You notice him watching you. After a year out here, you’d forgotten what it was like to be looked at. Back in highschool you were always conscious of other people’s eyes on you. Out here, you’re free to move: no one cares if your shirt rides up, or stares when you bend over. You think nothing of walking from one hut to another in the oversized shirt you slept in, or stripping down to a sports bra and shorts while you haul water. The first time you catch him, you don’t even realise what he’s looking at; you go to the water bucket to check if there’s something on your face. The second time, you’re chopping wood: you meet his eyes and glare, grip tightening on the axe. He only chuckles to himself. You avoid him after that. 

Until it’s your turn on guard duty. Every time one of the prisoners needs to pee, someone has to take them into the woods at gunpoint. There’s a rule about not going too close to camp, so it’s not a quick trip. And that’s how you and Travis – him with the gun, you with the confiscated crossbow – end up escorting Kodiak into the woods. For reasons you don’t understand, the man seems to have made it his personal mission to antagonise anyone pointing a weapon at him. You wonder if he actually wants to die: if he saw what was left of Ben and decided he’d prefer a quick death to a slow one. 

After he’s done, he takes advantage of his hands being untied to shrug his overshirt off. You see twin scars across his arms, long and straight, almost surgical. He looks up from knotting his shirt around his waist and catches you staring. He holds your gaze, grins lazily. 

Travis shifts his weight so he’s between the two of you, adjusts his hold on the gun. You’re grateful he doesn’t make a big deal of it, grateful he has your back. You thought he was such an asshole when you met him, now it’s like he’s everyone’s older brother. (You try not to think about the space he’s trying to fill.)

“Hands,” he tells Kodiak. Kodiak rolls his eyes but complies for once. It doesn’t really bother you that he looks to Travis and ignores you – Travis is the longest serving hunter, you’re barely an assistant. But Kodiak looks straight past Nat and Shauna too. 

There’s a sound to your right. The three of you freeze and turn towards it. The deer is maybe a hundred yards away through the trees, pebbles showering where it stumbles on the rocky slope. 

“Can you make the shot?” you ask Travis, out of the side of your mouth, voice hushed. 

He shakes his head once, frustrated. 

“I can,” Kodiak says. “Give me the bow.”

You both give him identical flat looks. He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, let 400 lbs of meat just walk away. Good luck surviving winter.”

You hate that he has a point. You glance up the slope, to where the deer’s haunches flash in and out of view between the trees. Travis isn’t as good a shot as Nat but he’s the better tracker and he can stalk a deer for miles if he needs to. 

“Go,” you tell Travis. There’s no time to hesitate: you could lose sight of the deer any second. 

He looks from you, to Kodiak, then back to you. He doesn’t need to say what a bad idea it is, leaving you alone. You don’t need to tell him what happens when the food runs out. He goes.

As soon as Travis is gone, you realise your mistake. Kodiak’s hands are still untied. You don’t trust him to do it himself and you can’t put down the crossbow. He’s studying you – patient, calculating. The way you were just looking at the deer.

“You should have given me the bow.” 

You take a half step back, widening your stance to brace yourself, training his stolen weapon on him. You hope desperately that Travis will be back soon. 

“You still could, you know,” Kodiak adds, in a tone that’s almost friendly. He looks you up and down but there’s no interest in it this time: it’s purely professional, a predator weighing up where and when to strike. 

“Or I could just shoot you with it.”

Kodiak sighs. “Look, kid, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You only get one shot,” he explains, almost patiently, when you try to stare him out. “How fast can you reload?”

“I won’t miss.” You try to sound threatening but the truth is, you haven’t practised with the crossbow: the bolts are too precious to risk losing. 

He takes a cautious step towards you, hands raised. You’re not sure if he’s trying to placate you or just getting ready to grab your weapon. 

“If the others hear me scream–” you begin. You realise it's the wrong thing to say as you hear yourself say it. 

“Not so brave without your boyfriend, huh?”

“Travis is not my boyfriend,” you snap. Even the thought of it puts you on edge; one of the unspoken rules you all live by is that Travis is off-limits. 

Kodiak raises an eyebrow, aware he’s touched a nerve. 

“Figures. I mean I get why he doesn’t want to leave: stranded in the woods with a bunch of teenage girls…”

“Shut up.” You hate how childish you sound. The way he’s talking to you like some kid, not to mention his patronising smirk, gets under your skin. In the real world you would have graduated highschool by now, started college. You've grown into an adult out here instead. He has no idea what you’ve seen. What you’ve done. It’d be one thing if he was horrified or disgusted – you probably deserve it. But his dismissal rankles.

“Make me.” Kodiak brushes off your rage like it’s nothing. “I mean… It must be his own personal Girls Gone Wild.”

You don’t understand the reference but the leer behind it is unmistakable. His gaze locks with yours. You try to focus on the weapon in your hand, your finger on the trigger, not wanting to back down and break his gaze, not wanting to meet it either. 

“No, I mean, I get it. We interrupted your weird forest orgy or whatever.” He rakes his eyes over you, taking in your bare legs, tattered shorts, t-shirt worn so thin it’s almost see through, wild hair long since grown out of any kind of style. You feel his gaze trail back over your legs like a physical touch. “I could step in. If you like.”

It’s definitely a trap. He’s trying to confuse you, piss you off, get under your guard. It was stupid of you to think that he might want you after what he’s seen. After what you’ve done. 

“Throw you a bone.” His eyes linger on your hair. You realise with a jolt that the top part of your hair is twisted back with an animal bone in place of a hair stick, a detail so unremarkable to you you hadn’t thought about it. You think what you must look like to him: ragged clothes, sole peeling off one shoe, all the softness whittled out of you.

“Relax,” he tells you. He rolls his shoulders in a shrug that reminds you of a jungle cat. You’ve never actually been hunted. You wonder if this is what Natalie felt like when you hunted her. “I know an animal bone when I see one.”

There’s two ways out of this and neither of them are good: either he kills you or you kill him. The second one only means you die slower. It’s a miracle that anyone stumbled across your camp. He told the others that the rescue point was six days away: wherever you are, it must be remote. No one found you, no one’s going to find him, or Hannah or the other guy. If you were waiting for rescue, this is it. You won't get another chance. 

He takes another step towards you. You realise he’s been backing you into a tree. You sidestep, keeping the crossbow bolt pointed at his neck. 

Kodiak must be able to read the indecision on your face because he steps closer, his voice dropping low, persuasive. There’s no way you could miss him at this range. He’s close enough to grab the bow but he doesn’t. 

“What are you so scared of?” he asks, his tone deceptively soft, mocking you. “I don’t bite.” His mouth curves into a cruel smile. “I mean, unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

“Th–The others–” you stutter. You hate how scared your voice sounds. How young. 

Kodiak throws an exaggerated look back towards your camp. “They won’t get to you in time.”

“They’ll hunt you down.”

“They can try.”

“Shauna will–”

“Shauna’s the angry one, right?” Kodiak asks. “Isn’t she fucking that blonde I shot? Think I’ll be fine.”

So he's smart enough to pick up on that but he's completely misread everything else. Shauna Shipman cares about two people and both of them are dead. You don’t kid yourself that she’ll mourn you. But she’ll want revenge. Her rage is like a forest fire, all consuming. 

“You need to be careful how you talk to her,” you tell him. Obnoxious as he is, he’s your only real shot at rescue: you need him alive. “Shauna’s–”

“Shauna,” Kodiak loads the name with derision. “Is a teenage girl starving in the woods who’s too dumb to get out. You must all have Stockholm Syndrome for the fucking trees. But hey: you want to stay and die with her, be my guest.”

“You don’t know what she’s been through–” You're so used to making allowances that the words fall off your tongue, automatic. 

Kodiak rolls his eyes, looks up at the canopy above you as though something up there might make sense. “Oh I’m sorry. I didn’t realise being a cannibal gave you credibility.”

The word hits you like a slap. You’re all so careful not to say it. Sometimes you think there’s more meaning in the silence, the things you all only hint at, than there is in words. It’s like there’s meaning here that language cannot touch. Or maybe there’s something actually deeply wrong with Lottie and you’ve all just been out of your minds with hunger and desperation, communing with the sounds frogs make while they fuck. You hate Kodiak in that moment for being the one to make you see it. 

“Why don't you stop making excuses for the bitch queen of PMS–”

You slam into him. Because okay, Shauna is hateful and volatile and sometimes you kind of think she might want you all dead. But she’s still your leader. Your queen. He has no right to talk about her like that. He’s never had to carry a child’s too-light body home from a hunt. Never delivered a baby, blood and placenta smeared to the elbows. You’ve starved and scraped and hunted each other and he’s still talking about you like a bunch of dumb teenagers at sleepaway camp.

It’s clear from the way he stumbles that he wasn’t expecting you to be so fast. His back collides hard against the tree trunk, half winded, the crossbow bolt jabbed into the unprotected skin of his throat. 

“I thought I told you to watch your fucking mouth.” You stand on tiptoes to snarl directly into his face, arm braced on his for balance. “Do you realise you’re our only ticket out of here? And you can’t go five fucking minutes without antagonising–”

He sweeps your arm aside without warning. Your hand clenches in panic, the bolt misfiring. You realise your mistake too late: you should never have let him know you needed him. You jerk away from him but he sweeps your leg with his, tackling you to the ground. 

You fight, kicking out in panic but his legs are between yours, his torso pinning yours to the ground, one of your arms trapped between you. You buck your hips, trying to arch your back and throw him off. You claw at his eyes with your free hand and try to yell but all that comes out is a winded snarl. He catches your wrist, pinning it above your head, his other hand wrapped around your throat, his forearm pinning your shoulder. 

His hand tightens around your throat, black spots blurring the edges of your vision. Your heels scrabble uselessly against the forest floor. You can feel your blood pounding in your ears, your heartbeat fast and frantic. It’s getting harder and harder to move. 

“Go on.” His voice sounds like it’s coming from further away than it is. “Scream.”

You can’t. You don’t give him the satisfaction of trying to choke out any sound.

“Nod if you’re going to cooperate.”

You jerk your chin down once into his hand. 

“Good girl.” Kodiak loosens his grip just enough to stop you blacking out. You want to spit at him but your mouth is dry. 

Kodiak leans right down, so close you feel his breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His beard brushes against your temple. You can’t see his face at this angle, only the muscle and tendons of his throat. He blots out the sky and forest canopy above you. 

“Forget them,” he whispers, low and dangerous. “Worry about pissing me off.”

You can feel his voice vibrate in your chest, feel the warmth of his breath against your ear. Your breasts are squashed against the hard muscle of his chest, his body moulded to yours. 

Kodiak hums in the back of his throat, almost a growl. The side of his mouth grazes your temple when he speaks. “Are you ready to behave?”

You let yourself go limp. You feel Kodiak relax his grip just a little, still restraining you but in his mind the fight is over. He lets you choke in a ragged gasp of air, his hand resting over your throat like a warning.

“Thought you might–”

You spend the last of your strength to wrench upwards and bite the place his shoulder meets his neck. He recoils, letting out a startled yell. Blood floods your mouth, thick and metallic. 

“What the fuck?”

He’s not underestimating you anymore. You hook a leg around his knee, anchoring him to you. You know you can’t win but you don’t need to win, you only need to stop him from leaving. 

“Are all of you fucking insane?” he grunts, twisting a fistful of your hair around his hand and yanking your head backwards. You bare your teeth in an incoherent snarl, your mouth smeared with his blood. 

“Guess what? I do bite,” you pant, throwing his earlier jibe back at him. You manage to wrench your trapped arm free and go to jab his eye with your thumb. His reflexes are too good: he catches your wrist, pins it beside the other. His hand is big enough to hold both your wrists easily. You try to twist out from under him, buck your hips against him when it doesn't work. He shifts and you feel him hard against your thigh. You freeze, your mouth pulling into a shocked O. Kodiak stills and it takes him a second to read your expression before he growls in irritation. You feel it vibrate where his rib cage is pressed against yours and it seems to travel downwards, heat pooling low in your belly. 

“It’s your own fault for grinding on me,” he snarls. “Stop wriggling.”

You consider spitting his own blood back at him but decide against it. You swallow instead. You see his eyes trace the movement of your throat. Both of you are breathing hard, his arms striped with scratches, blood soaking into the sleeve of his singlet. Your scalp aches where he pulled your head away from his neck and you know you’ll feel bruised when the adrenaline wears off. Right now the exhilaration of the hunt is still in you, making you feel powerful. Kodiak looks at you with a new wariness. It’s not exactly respect but you’ll take it. He’s propped on his elbows, out of bite range, but your breasts still press against him with every ragged breath. Your heart’s beating so hard you can hear it, your senses on fire, full of energy with no place to go. You know you have to keep him here.

Something in you snaps. You surge upwards and kiss him with a bloody mouth. 

At first he jolts away from you, caught off guard. Then he’s kissing you back. There's real anger in it: the back of your head hits the forest floor with the force of his kiss. It's not romantic: all tongues and teeth, your nose crashing into his. You arch up into his kiss, the breathlessness leaving you dizzy. He seems to realise this isn't a pretext for another attack because he adjusts his grip on your neck, wrapping a hand around your jaw to tilt it upwards. He leaves his thumb resting against your windpipe, pressing just hard enough to remind you he’s in control.

You wonder if this is as transactional for him as it is for you. You don't think he's dumb enough to do this without at least some ulterior motive. But you can feel him hard against your thigh, and his heart is hammering your chest where he's pressed against you, echoing your own. 

You tell yourself you need to keep him here but the truth is, you don't want him to stop. You arch again, grinding your hips up into his again. You're only half aware of what you're doing but it seems to work because his breath hitches and he shifts, knocking your thighs wider with his hip. You part them for him, hooking your legs around his. 

He pulls back. Blood is smeared faintly across his jaw from your mouth. At first you think you've done something wrong but he's staring down at you, pupils blown with lust. 

Your hands are still crossed above your head, trapped under his. He traces the sensitive part of your wrist with a calloused thumb tip. His touch is breeze-light, a total contrast to how rough he's been with you. You shiver, unsure of where he's going but wanting to find out. 

“Are you going to be good?” He looks you in the eye and it's like his gaze is pinning you in place. 

“Do you want me to be good?” 

He grins crookedly at that, tracing calloused fingertips down the inside of your arm, pulling your loose shirt sleeve up with it. 

“Depends,” he says, close to your ear in a low voice that makes heat pool low in your belly. You feel slickness between your legs. “On whether you want me to go easy on you.” 

“I'm not going to be good,” you tell him, meeting his gaze with a challenge of your own. 

He makes a wordless noise of approval into your mouth as he kisses you again. He palms your breast with his free hand, and swallows your whimpering moan. The hand on your jaw travels to the back of your head, anchoring in your hair. He pulls your head aside, turning his attention to your jaw. You make a series of breathy noises no one else has ever managed to pull out of you. 

He sits back, pulling you with him. You whine in protest when you feel him let go but it’s only long enough to shove your shirt off your shoulders and peel your t-shirt over your head. You cross your arms over your chest, embarrassed by your tattered bra. 

“Oh, now you’re shy?” He pushes your arms aside, lowers his body onto yours. He reaches behind you for the clasp but it's been mended, badly, and won't come undone. Impatient, he makes do with slipping a hand under it instead, thumb flicking over a hardened nipple. You wrap your arms around him, fingertips tracing the scars across his arms by touch. His beard rasps against your skin and you realise he's sucking a lovebite onto your collarbone, the same spot you bit him. You try to pull back, worried about how you'll explain it later, but he holds you in place. 

“Payback’s a bitch, huh?” he mutters against your skin. You feel his teeth scrape against the newly sensitive skin, just hard enough to draw a gasp out of you. 

He trails kisses down your collarbone, over the swell of your breast. He bites you through the torn lace of your bra and you feel his smirk against your skin as you yelp. You grind your hips against his, taking satisfaction at the way his breath hitches. 

“Say you want this.” His hand finds the button of your shorts. You try to answer him with a kiss but he fixes you in place with his blue-eyed gaze. “I need an answer.”

You nod, breathless. He toys with the button, pulling away from you and holding you down when you try to follow him. “I want to hear it.” 

You’re not sure whether this is his attempt at being a gentleman, or if he just wants to hear you beg.

“I want this. I want you.” 

He grins wolfishly, teeth bared. “Good girl.” 

You scratch his bare shoulder in retaliation. But you don't mind so much this time: his words send a spike of something dark and guilty through you. You pull his singlet up his chest. You can't do much in this position but he decides to indulge you, yanking it off and discarding it on the forest floor before turning his attention back to you. You catch a glimpse of another scar stretching across his chest and long to map it with your tongue. 

Kodiak splays one hand across your breast bone, keeping you in place. The heel of his hand pressed against the tops of your breasts. With the other he unfastens the buttons of your shorts, shoving them down just enough to slip a hand inside. He takes his time, eyes never leaving yours. His fingers trail teasingly downwards, ghost over the soaked fabric of your underwear, before pushing them aside. 

His thumb traces a circle round your clit and you press a palm over your mouth just in time to stop yourself crying out. You can't be too loud. The thought of being discovered should terrify you but you wouldn't stop this now for anything. Kodiak smirks at that, enjoying the effect he's having on you. He slips one finger inside you, then another. He knows what he's doing and he's ruthless about it, making you writhe and moan beneath him. It's almost embarrassing, how easily he makes you fall apart. You bite your wrist when you come to muffle the sound. 

He pulls back, never breaking eye contact as he licks his fingers clean. There's still a faint smear of blood on his lip from where you kissed him. His eyes seem darker, pupils blown wide with lust. He kisses you, taking his time, making you taste yourself, and then gives you a moment, his forehead resting against yours, your breath mingling with his.

A distant gunshot tears the air. A flight of birds takes off from a nearby tree, filling the clearing with the sound of frantic wingbeats and their high, panicked cries. The two of you pull apart, startled. Kodiak shields you, to your surprise. A deer screams in the distance. Then a second shot. Then silence. 

“Fuck.” Kodiak sits back on his heels. His gaze lingers on you, spread out beneath him, before he wrenches it away. You kind of like how quickly he can snap back to himself, his body going tense, ready for danger. It makes you think that maybe he could understand you someday. “Fuck! How long until your friend comes looking for you?”

Probably not long. You reach for your shirt.  

“Fuck!” Kodiak says again with emphasis. “ Look: I’m not going back. You don’t have to either.”

“We should wait–” 

“That’s not the deal. Last train’s leaving the station. On or off.” 

He picks up the crossbow, tries to pull the bolt from the tree trunk where it’s lodged before giving it up for lost. It's so tempting to just leave with him. You're so sick of this life, always focusing on your own survival. You want to give up the weight of it for a while, let someone else take care of you. You desperately want to believe that he'll take care of you. 

You think of the others. There isn't a word for what you all are to each other now. The things you've been together have forged you into something wholly new. You don't think anyone could understand what you've been through unless it had happened to them. 

To his credit, Kodiak looks disappointed – maybe even sad – as he turns away. 

“I can get your shoes,” you blurt out. You can think quickly too and a plan is forming. You feel sick saying it. The lovebite feels like a brand on your shoulder, marking you as a traitor. You’re going to have to leave a lot of people behind – their loyalties are too uncertain to risk more. The ones you don’t bring will try to hunt you down. There’s a good chance you’ll both die, along with anyone you can convince to come with you. But maybe if you can save just a few – even just one – you'll be able to live with yourself afterwards. The odds are horrible. But you’ll take them over the slow certainty of winter. “I can get you the gun.”

That stops him in his tracks. You think, deep down, he knows he can’t make a six day hike barefoot and unarmed. Just like you know in your bones that you won’t survive another winter. He needs you as much as you need him. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’m listening.”

A/N: If you enjoyed reading this, please let me know. I'm not sure how much appetite there is for this character but I want to make the most of this hyperfixation while it lasts. Feel free to drop me a request if you'd like to see more.

[woradat]

HC on Throne and fall

NOTE - this will roughly summarize the relationship between reader and the main characters who play a major role in the story (will add more)

Proteus

That wretched name you so love to loathe

Yes, the Senate is a veritable parade of imbeciles draped in protocol—but Proteus, regrettably, is not among them. He is one of the rare few with teeth behind the smile, substance behind the speech. He arrived late, but how effortlessly he outshone the veterans. And now, you’re left wondering whether the contempt you feel stems from the humiliation of being outmaneuvered—or from the grudging admiration for a plan executed with such exquisite cruelty. That infuriatingly handsome, silver-tongued bot has whittled away your power with grace and precision, pulling you into his web, convinced that your voice can be bought

And it can

If you decide to sell

Every one of his smiles is a velvet-wrapped dagger whispering “I’m superior” and you smile right back "try me"—why wouldn’t you? He’s a charming fraud, a quick study, almost too adept for his own good. Had he not drawn first blood, you might’ve called him a worthy ally but this is the Senate we are talking about, not some tragic morality play penned for the weak of will

The irony? You would’ve done the same, had the roles been reversed

You despise being underestimated

And yet.. It’s proven advantageous

Dangerously so

Half the Senate now sings in Proteus’ choir— including you, for the moment. But tides turn, and yours is already rising.

You’ve obtained the decisive piece. The one move that will flip the board, tip the king, and redraw the game. It comes with risk, of course

(I thought it would be funny. The picture shows the overall relationship)

and if both senator have they own pawn.. Proteus got Sentinel, Shockwave have Orion Pax, then you have–

Megatron

Miner, fighter, poet, dreamer – a walking contradiction dressed in grime and fury. He’s dangerous in that maddening, electric way that makes your very circuits want to twist with anticipation. You’ve written him a part in your grand production, and now it’s your job to mold him into an actor worthy of the role. He lacks polish, control, even education—his innocence borders on poetic but that only makes him more tempting to shape

To steer

To direct

You’ve given him lines to speak, actions to perform. But deep down, you know—you’d be bored if he followed your script too well

Someone like him will never trust someone like you and that, deliciously, is what makes the fruit of your deception all the sweeter

Because he will think

He will doubt

He will grow

But not fast enough to see past you

And you must ensure he never turns the game on you once the curtains fall. That is non-negotiable. You will not allow it and should your little performance collapse in ruins, you hope the grave you dig for yourself will be a masterpiece—an elegant tombstone with your name etched in graceful script

…And then there’s

Shockwave

The ever-serene, ever-sterile paragon of logic. Perhaps the highest among you all—yes, including you. He speaks not to persuade, but to proclaim, and does so with such unflinching candor one might believe he has no idea how the game is played – too pristine, untainted to sit among serpents like you and Proteus and yet, that's precisely where your silent, inconvenient admiration begins

You mock him, of course—one must

But woven in your barbs is a thread of sincerity even he likely detects but never acknowledges

He should be in a cathedral. A laboratory. Anywhere but here, in this vulgar arena of power and duplicity

You know a little secret about him—a delicate, dangerous truth about that academy he claims was founded in memory of a dead mentor. A refuge for the rejected, the “outilers” the ones deemed unfit for the Functionist ideal

He knows you know and yet, you’ve never wielded it, never bartered, never threatened. Not yet

You, of all bots, who plans every step like a chessmaster with bloodied hands…

still hesitate

Not out of mercy

But out of uncertainty

And that is unusual. Disturbingly so

you hate that — Immensely

[hanayori89]

🪶🪶🪶Lesson 17: To Reveal the Heart of the Hero🪶🪶🪶

Could ghosts growl?

Not too long ago you weren't even aware ghosts existed.

Now you wanted to know if they could growl.

And the answer to that question would be yes. Or at least so you surmised by witnessing Fi turning her head over her shoulder slightly, the faintest grumble seeming to come from her transparent lips.

Of course, it was hard to hear anything with Groose fussing beside you.

"I can't believe you, Y/N. And Link— He pounded his fist into his open hand, swiveling it around in an action that you believed to represent Link's face.

"Zelda deserves a REAL man. I've said it before, and I'll say it again; Sissy boy is only strong because he just so happens to be related to some hero."

Link trotted in front of you with Fi trailing behind him. He didn't bother to turn around, despite Groose provoking him with a tone louder than his normal nails-against-a-chalkboard voice. You could see Link's head slightly bob up and down in agreeance with whatever Fi was whispering into his ear. It was very clear to you in that moment that Fi must have been the Groose equivalent of a nuisance.

"And Zelda—I mean, have you seen her? And dumbass is overhear rolling around sopping wet in the grass with a tomboy with anger issues. May as well roll around with a soaking wet remlit."

You knew you were the last person the goddess would answer a prayer from, but would she please shut Groose the hell up?

Link hadn't looked at you once since Groose caught you both. And you weren't sure if it had to do with fear of it getting back to Zelda or shame. 

Was it really so shameful to be interested in you?

Between the incessant yammering and empty threats coming from Groose, Link's aversion to you and his growling ghost girlfriend, you felt yourself on the precipice of a tantrum.

Until, thankfully, the familiar spiraling tiers of green you've come to know as the sacred grounds came into view.

Link stopped, putting his arm out before you and Groose.

"Master...?" Fi tilted her head, confused by his abruptness.

"I wish to have a word alone with Y/N." 

His statement made Groose snicker. "I'm sure you would. Finish what you started, eh bud?" Link's strength wasn't just unparalleled with the sword, but also his ability to not be swayed by pettiness.

You, on the other hand... have accepted being the weaker of you both. You grabbed a piece of Groose's flesh on his bicep, twisting it and causing him to yowl. Once again, birds escaped the piercing sound in droves. You were certain they probably couldn't wait to have their forest back from you obnoxious sky intruders.

"Master, we really don't have the—"

"Fi, all I ask is for a minute. And then we will return promptly to Skyloft. To Zelda." The way Link said Zelda's name, as if he were being served the same dinner the fifth night in a row. Zelda, again?

Without a single rebuttal, Fi vaporized back into Link's hilt. Groose sulked back toward the temple where Impa probably sat, hoping to see you and scold you about the hero's prophecy and how you were upending it. 

Link looked at you, finally, since the whole wet flesh-to-flesh rumpus. "You had asked me to check on Sava. Sava is safe. Karane is tending to her. And Karane..."

Suddenly you were enveloped by his arms. Each time Link hugged you, you seemed to whittle away, growing smaller and smaller compared to the superfluous sensation of brawn."Karane asked that I hug you." 

Something about the way Link held you told you it was more for him than her. He pulled away, the expression on his face stark with emotion. "Heed my warning, Y/N. I mean it this time. The dangers down here outweigh the wonders." 

You wanted to ask about what he said. It was more about being with him than being better than him. And you were beginning to find being with him was more of a challenge than being better ever was. 

But his eyes, they were cold. Distant. Sad. And you wondered why? Was it because of Groose possibly blabbering? Of Zelda getting the wrong idea? 

Sensing you could read the disconnect in his behavior, he turned his back and whistled for his loftwing. "Thank you, Link. I am relieved Sava is safe, and please tell Karane I miss her. Dearly."

"Y/N, there is one other thing... when you were in that temple. The Skyview Temple... did you encounter anyone other than Groose?"

You froze. You could feel your palms grow clammy. Was he asking if you saw Ghirahim?

"N-no. Just Groose. I'm fine, Link! Always the worrywart." 

"Well... ok. It's important to know if he is around. Especially when it comes to Zelda's safety. Zelda... is my duty."

Your throat felt scratchy, and your tongue dry like cotton. By trying to protect Link, you were going to harm Zelda.

I'll tell him eventually. He's going back to Skyloft anyway.

"I get it, Link. I promise to not be reckless anymore so that you can focus on your "duty."

The air between you was charged with something heavy and unspoken. You wanted Link to say something more. For him to look at you like he just did not too long ago. But he just jumped on his loftwing and flew off with nothing more than a dismissive wave.

"Zelda is your duty. But who is your heart?" You whispered to yourself. 

"Ah, yes, who indeed?" A gust of cold breath tickled your eardrum, and you didn't have to turn around to know who stood behind you.

The very man Link was trying to warn you about.

Ghirahim.

He began to clap. "My, I must say I haven't seen a soap opera like this in quite some time. Goddess loves hero. Hero is protecting the goddess, but instead of loving the goddess, loves childhood friend." 

He grabbed your shoulders and twirled you around to face him. "I can't wait for the next season!" 

"I-I knew it... you've been watching this whole time?"

Ghirahim let out a surprisingly deep, gut-rumbling laugh for a man who lacked gut. "Ah, are you shy about that little romantic lake scene? I thought the acting was superb!"

You wanted to scream. But what would that do? Groose couldn't take Ghirahim. The one who could had fled the surface to attend to a more important obligation. You whipped your pocketknife from your Skyloftian trousers. "I'm not tied up and helpless, so I suggest you stay back!" 

Ghirahim held his hands up in a false gesture of amnesty. "Now, now. Let's forget that little spider incident. Had I known you were so entertaining, maybe I would have shown you some grace. But you did insult my makeup."

He circled around you, his arms clasped behind his back while you remained with your knife wielded in front of you. "It seems my original plan... may work better as a plan B. Yes, after my research, it seems there is another plan. A plan that may interest you, frumpy sky child."

"Interest me? Nothing that comes from a man in a leotard interests me."

Ghirahim sighed. "I see you are not going to make this easy. Please, do not force the hand of the great demon prince."

With that admonishment, he teleported behind you, knocking your knife from your grip. His hand wrapped around your wrist and twisted it down, arm-locking you.

"Don't make me show you my power." You continued to fight against his grip; his face was angled so that his lips could graze against your ear. "Now, are you going to listen? I am offering you something that will be worth your while. I have never shown a sky child such generosity before."

"There's not a single thing you can offer me that—"

"A chance to reveal the heart of the hero?"

You stopped wiggling. Ghirahim released your wrist. You stood up right, holding the spot where his thumb imprint was meshed into your flesh.

"What... what are you—"

"Ah, so I see I was right. This does interest you, doesn't it? I'll even go so far as to indulge you more. What if..." He walked toward you and gripped your face between his palms. "What if you could be a goddess for a day? Wouldn't you like to know what it would feel like to be the hero's duty?"

"No—no matter what my own personal implications are with Link, I'd never do this to him. This is the action of someone with a weak heart."

"Love is not the action of someone with a weak heart."

Ghirahim's slender, gloved thumbs trailed down your cheeks. "I could make your splotchy, plump cheeks taut and angled. Seraphic. A shape meant to be encompassed by the hero's hands."

You felt your skin begin to tingle, and you knew that he was incanting a spell upon you. His thumb rested upon your lips next. "And these, which are a tad too thick and chapped, can be pointed and supple so that they may fit the curved arch of the hero's own hungry lips. And the voice that comes from them, it shall be the voice of the goddess. A voice many gather to hear." 

Your skin grew flushed at the thought of Link's lips. "Ah, you like that, don't you?" Ghirahim praised.

"No, this is—this isn't—I don't want this!" But the voice that filled the air with protest was not your own. It was soothing like the melody of wind.

Next was your tangled, parched hair, which Ghirahim had mangled his hand through, pulling your head backward. "Oh! And this hair! Thick, glossy locks of gold, and they will flow with the currents of wind as you sail among the clouds."

The follicles on your scalp began to sting. The small slices of sunlight dotting your vision were eclipsed by Ghirahim's pale flesh as he bumped his face against yours. "These eyes... should the hero fall victim to lust ever again... he will be looking into the eyes of the goddess herself. These eyes are his religion and purpose. And so, they shall be blue, like the sky crafted by Hylia, and he will never escape the way they haunt him."

"Please..." Your body grew limp, and Ghirahim caught you as you hung to his chest. For as breathtaking as Zelda was, you liked being Y/N.

Y/N with the slightly knotted hair and small splashes of rosacea and thick fleshy lips. 

Your body was paralyzed by the sweeping sensation of hot pins and needles puncturing it. You clung to Ghirahim as you whimpered. "It hurts..."

"Beauty is pain, and I've made you the most beautiful of them all."

Ghirahim held a small mirror up to your face, and you were forced to meet the gaze of perhaps the one who had always truly been your rival. "Say goodbye to Y/N and hello to Zelda."

Edited: 3/11/25

[scripts4dreamers]

Leave a light on pt. 6

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Seven, Part Eight

Whatever she had been imagining, the prison of regret was ten times worse. It had taken conspicuously little power for Solas to open a door into the pocket dimension that was the prison and so their journey from the lighthouse was quick and painless. After all, the prison was designed to keep people like them in, not out.

People like them.

Amala shivered. It was cold in the prison, and unsettling, and dreary. The atmosphere made her feel as though she were being watched, as though the eyes of history itself were bearing down on her, eager to pick her to pieces and cast its judgment.

She looked up at Solas, his hand clasped in hers, warm and firm and real. She saw his anguish. His eyes were darting around, his breath was shallow and her resolve hardened.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered, even though there was no one around, “we’ll get through this.”

He tore his gaze away from the hated place, his whole body relaxing when he was reminded that she was with him.

“I know we will, Vhenan,” he promised, looking back up, “The question is where to start.”

The prison was a twisting, ephemeral maze of crumbling platforms, corridors to nowhere and staircases that bent over on themselves in ways that shouldn’t have been physically possible. It looked designed to tear you down, to whittle away your stamina and hope, keeping you frustrated at all times. There was no clear start and no clear end, just endless grey. Her chest pinched. Still, trying to be brave, Amala pointed to a spot northwest of where they were standing.

“What about th-”

Before she could finish the sentence the world exploded in a flash of stark light. She felt herself be ripped forward with brutal force. It felt like space twisted and contracted around her, crushing the air from her lungs. Just when she thought she might pass out she was flung down onto the stones, where she lay in a crumpled heap, dizzy and heaving. Her head was ringing. There were spots of light flashing in her eyes and everything felt…fuzzy. She clenched her hand and felt nothing.

“Solas?” she mumbled, forcing herself slowly to her feet as her head throbbed, “Solas?”

She looked around. She was alone on a crumbling grey island.

“Solas!” She shouted, feeling her already very thin veil of composure fraying, “Solas, where are you?”

There was no reply. No sound at all, not even the echo of the wind served as a response. The panic was almost choking her now. She searched the landscape with her eyes for any hint of the familiar tall figure, but was met with endless fields of grey. Slowly, as she searched, the reality of her situation sunk in. She was in a prison built from regret, and she was alone.

“Fenhedis,” she shouted, her fists clenched with rage.

She kicked at a nearby chunk of gravel, feeling a sense of grim satisfaction when it shot into a pillar and shattered. Her head ached. She could feel bruises forming on her elbows and shoulder blades. She was sore and fed up and afraid and she was alone. She was never supposed to be alone, that wasn’t the plan.

“Since when do our plans ever actually go to plan, hey Mol?”

She spun around, a combination of shock and elation shooting through her like an arrow.

“Varric?” She called.

“Woah, no need to yell, I’m right here.”

Amala turned again, letting out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a sigh when she saw her old friend Varric Tethras standing before her. He looked just how she remembered him, his long hair loose around his shoulders, Bianca strapped to his back and a look of casual roguish charm on his face. The sight of him soothed something in her and suddenly, rather than being on the verge of a panic attack, Amala was almost calm. Varric was here. Everything was going to be alright.

“Varric,” she said with relief, “I thought-”

The words died in her throat and the momentary rush of calm was swallowed by pain. Something must have shown in her face because Varric raised his arms apologetically.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Inquisitor. I didn’t ask for this either.”

“You’re dead,” she said, just to hear the words, “you’re not really here to help me because you’re dead. Solas killed you.”

“Accidentally,” Not Varric corrected, “but yeah. Sorry about that. I am here to help though. It’s why you brought me here.”

She shook her head, hating herself for the awful empty feeling that was opening in her chest. Hating the hot prick of tears in her eyes and the way her throat started to close like she was going to cry. Regret prisons. Never underestimate the cruelty of them.

“I didn’t bring you here. How can you help me?” she asked, surprising herself with how cold her voice sounded, “you’re gone. You’re not here.”

“But I was here for Rook,” he answered, “and most of the things you know about this place, you know from them. This may be a hell prison built by a tricky bastard, but it’s still the fade. It’s still going to warp itself in line with your expectations.”

Her shoulders loosened, the veneer of toughness cracking as a sliver of understanding wormed its way in.

“So, because on some level I expected you to be here…”

He spread his arms, pride sparkling in his warm eyes, “I’m here. See, I knew you’d get there.” He waved her over and started walking, “Now come on, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and I’m worried that if we leave that boyfriend of yours alone for too long he’ll go back to wanting to blow up the world.”

“Solas wouldn’t-”

“Mol, I’m a figment of your imagination and memories. If I’m saying it, at least some part of you is thinking it.”

“Or thinking you would be thinking it.” she pointed out.

“Now that’s the kind of thinking we need in a place like this.” He replied, shooting her a wink.

“We should say thinking more,” she teased.

Varric sighed, “Remind me why I’ve missed your dumb ass again?”

She shrugged, feeling comforted despite herself, “Beats me.”

He let out a low, familiar chuckle and the sound made her heart hurt so badly that Amala physically stopped walking and pressed her hand to her chest. Memories of long days trekking through the Western Approach flashed before her eyes, endless games of Wicked Grace, firm pats on the back whenever things became too much, and stories traded around makeshift campfires. Varric Tethras, the consummate storyteller and showman, weeping in a backroom where he thought no one could hear him when she came back from the fade and Hawke didn’t. She remembered how he’d never blamed her, how he’d quietly thanked Andraste for her safety even as his heart was breaking, how he’d kept up a brave face, only letting his true feelings show in the darkest, coldest hours of the night.

She would never get the chance to apologise, to thank him for his kindness, to tell him she liked his new novel, to just talk to him again. An eternity without Varric Tethras stretched out before her, a yawning, gaping maw she couldn’t hope to escape. Amala knew, better than most, that grief comes in waves and right then she felt like she was staring up at a tsunami waiting to bear down on her and crush her into dust.

“Not the time, kid,” Not Varric said gently, reaching up to give her shoulder a comforting squeeze, “you and I will have our chance to hash it out later.”

“Promise?” she asked with a rueful smile.

He didn’t respond. Luckily, or unluckily, she was extremely practiced at shoving her feelings aside to focus on the larger cause. As the pair navigated the endless, barren landscape together, Amala distracted herself by sifting through the memories of her life, wondering what she might be forced to face, which of her many scars would be sliced open again. It was pointless to wonder but, as the oppressive atmosphere started to weigh on her, and it started to feel like she was wading through a thick bog, she couldn’t stop herself. If Not Varric noticed her discomfort he made no indication of it and they continued on in companionable silence.

They walked together for an indeterminate amount of time before something changed. It started with a breeze. An icy breeze that cut to the bone. Amala noticed her breath coming out as steam and, as she stopped walking and looked around, she noticed that they were no longer alone. Instead, they stood at the base of a snowy hill. It looked like a giant anthill. Hints of wooden spikes poked through the snow here and there, there was the idea of a gate, a path with towering walls of snow on either side and everywhere else, statues. Hundreds of statues. Thousands of statues all facing them with blank, unseeing eyes. Most of the forms were humanoid but some were warped and twisted with large stone shards jutting out of misshapen bodies, gruesome and familiar in a way that made her hands fly immediately to the knives on her belt.

“Are those-” Not Varric asked.

“Red templars.” she agreed.

“And that makes this place-”

“Haven.”

As soon as the words had left her lips, she knew they were true. She could make out the shape of familiar buildings beneath the snow and the path, the one they were clearly supposed to walk through, was one she had walked a thousand times, going from the gate to the Chantry. Only there was no Chantry. Not anymore. They would have to walk the path with the statues bearing down on them like gargoyles to get wherever the prison was sending them. Being so exposed made her teeth itch. Slowly, as they walked, Amala gave in to her fear, unsheathing her daggers and settling into something like a combat crouch. She would do as the prison wanted, but she would also be prepared for anything.

“You buried us,” the templar statues spoke in grating, bellowing unison, “lost in the dark, in the cold. Our bodies burned from the lyrium, devouring us from the inside.” As Amala and Not Varric forged ahead the statues turned to face them with accusing eyes, “We knew not what we were doing. Following orders. One foot in front of the other. You buried us under the mountain. We were crushed. We were suffocated. We froze to death even as we clawed our way to the light.”

Amala closed her eyes, breathing deep to steady herself against the pang of guilt in her chest, “You were doomed the moment you started ingesting the red lyrium. It is Corypheus and your Commanders that are to blame for your deaths. They sent you here to destroy this town and kill the people under my protection.”

“You started the avalanche,” they replied, thousands of voices overlapping to form a cacophony echoing against the walls of compacted snow, “we died alone, in agony and afraid because of you.”

“We died for you,” new voices echoed, “We fought for you. We believed in you. You buried us just the same.”

They were nearly halfway up the path now and her chest was tightening with the horror of it all. The wind bit into her exposed skin. The metal of her knives grew colder and colder. They were Inquisition soldiers. Those that had been too injured to make it back to the Chantry, those who had been too low when the second avalanche was triggered. Cullen had never explicitly told her, but she knew they existed. She knew what she had done to them.

Another pang of sorrow, “I never wanted anyone to die for me,” she said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you all, but I had to make a choice. I had to do what I could to save Haven and then, when that failed, to save our people.”

“And you failed at that as well,” another familiar voice said.

She stopped dead in her tracks. There was a statue on the path before her, painfully lifelike, standing at attention, her stone eyes fixed on Amala.

“Flissa,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

The beautiful, clever, friendly barkeeper. The one who had been so kind to Amala, who had always greeted her, always stood up for her, who had never let anyone call her a knife-ear. She had spent so many nights in Flissa’s tavern, traded stories with her, shared jokes over ice cold pints. There were others gathered behind her as well. Men, women and children who she had known in Haven, those who had been killed by the Templars or were too weak to survive the trip to Skyhold. Innocent people who had died all because Amala Lavellan brought war to their doorstep.

“I believed in you,” Flissa’s voice echoed, “even as the building was burning down around me, even as I heard the templars closing in. Do you know what my last words were?”

Amala instinctively took a step back, fighting the urge to cover her ears as the guilt rolled over her in waves.

“The Herald will save us,” she continued, “that’s what I said. I swore you would come for us and yet…”

“Flissa-”

“You just ran right past me. You left me to die, Herald.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“You’re a failure,” the voices called in ghostly, tormenting unison, “You failed us.”

Amala shook her head, her mind twisting and stumbling over itself as she tried to formulate any sort of coherent response.

“It was chaos,” she started, “there were too many-Haven had no defenses-” she looked up at the statues that surrounded her, taking note of their faces and burning them into her mind, “It was an impossible situation. I made the best choice-the only choice-I could in the moment.”

“Who gave you the right?”

“Somebody had to make the call or every single one of us would have died,” she insisted, feeling the slightest bit of strength flow back into her, remembering the faces of all the people she did save, all the lives that weren’t lost, “I am so sorry that I couldn’t save all of you. Flissa, I-” her voice cracked, “you needed a divine herald, and all you got was me. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to do more, but I won’t be held responsible for Corypheus’ mistakes. He brought war to Haven. He brought death. It is him who should pay the price.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“And he did,” Flissa said, “you put an end to his scheming, to his murderous plans. You avenged Haven.”

“We are free from our suffering,” A red templar agreed, “we can be used no longer.”

“Pass,” Flissa said, “and do not allow our sacrifice to be forgotten.”

The statues didn’t move, per say. One moment they were there and the next…Amala and Not Varric were alone atop a snow covered hill with not even a footprint to mark the statues’ departure. For her part, Amala felt like someone had reached into her chest and scooped her insides out. She was left with nothing but a hollow ache and the promise that more pain was to come.

Not Varric whistled, “Damn, that was some heavy stuff. You need a minute?”

She shook her head, hastily wiping away the few stray tears that had fallen and frozen on her cheeks, “Let’s just keep moving.”

He sighed, “Whatever you say, boss.”

[sister-hawk]

HEY LOOK AT WHAT I MADE!!! I whittled this elephant out of a block of basswood, and then painted it by hand, as a gift for my lovely girlfriend, @potsiefaerie 😘♥️💖🩵 When we were still getting to know each other, she mentioned that she collects white elephant figures with her mother (after they found one at a white elephant sale), and I was like, "Wait, I've done a bit of whittling before. Surely I could make one, right???" And then it became my mission all through the spring, summer, and fall. And after a bit of a mad dash to the end, I was finally able to give it to her the first time we met in person 🥰

While it was in no way easy, crafting this elephant was an absolute joy, and it really (re)awakened in me a love for the art of whittling. I had only done some very basic whittling before, close to a decade and a half ago. So with very little experience, none of which was recent, I really impressed myself with how well this thing turned out. And while I'm no stranger to painting, I've never done detail like this before. That is just natural talent babey. I have definitely found my calling in this craft.

It's roughly 2 and 3/4 inches tall, and probably around 4 and 1/2 inches long. I have absolutely no idea how many hours it took start-to-finish. But it was a lot lol.

Process:

The first step was to find reference images of elephants online, from various angles. I used those to create basic drawings of an elephant mid-stride from 5 different angles (left, right, top, front, and back). I printed and cut those out of paper to create a simple stencil to trace the shape onto the block of wood (that's what you see in the first image.

The second step was to actually cut the rough shape of it out of the wood with a coping saw. Then I divided the bottom (where the legs are) in half, and used the drawing as a guide for removing the halves of the legs that weren't needed (since it is not symmetrical in its stance.) That gave me an extremely rough and blocky elephant shape.

Next came the whittling, and that was by far the majority of the work. Months were spent slowly shaving away little bits of wood, occasionally glancing at my reference images, until finally the final shape was achieved. Then it was sanded down so as to smooth out the facets created by the carving process, and to refine the shape a little more.

I also must mention that I did drop it at one point on a cement porch and snap one of the legs off at the knee. But! A bit of wood glue and a rubber band fixed that fairly easily.

Then came the painting process. First I used a glaze to help seal the wood. Wood is a very absorbent material. I knew that, in order to ensure that this piece would last as long as possible, it needed to be sealed so that the wood did not absorb moisture from the air, which could eventually lead to cracking as it expanded and shrank. But paint itself also poses some risk in this way, and the wood really wants to soak it up. So the glaze ensured that that wouldn't happen.

Then I put down three coats of white paint (with another touch-up coat), and then sealed that with another coat of the glaze. This was to protect the white underneath when I started painting with the blue, so that if I messed it up, I would have the chance to remove the blue without totally stripping the white.

Next was the detail work with the blue paint. The designs were first drawn on using a 4h graphite in a mechanical pencil (4h is pretty hard, so it wouldn't leave much behind. That made it easier to erase mistakes and cover with the paint). I did reference a couple mandalas that I found online for the ones on the forehead and back, but all of it was painted by hand with an extremely tiny brush and an enormous amount of patience. It requires very steady hands.

And the final step was two part. First, another coat of glaze to protect the blue paint so that it would not get smeared (not after I did all that hard work!!!). And finally, four coats of varnish to completely seal everything off. My hope is this thing will still be sitting on someone's shelf at least a few generations from now, so I did everything I could to protect it as much as possible.

Materials and tools:

3x3x6in block of basswood, from some website idk lol.

Coping saw from Lowe's.

Whittling tools from Beaver Craft.

120, 220, and 400 grit sandpaper from Lowe's.

Glaze, paints, and varnish from Jo Sonja's.

[astarionsilverbough]

astarion catches halsin whittling a bust of his head out of a palm-sized block of birchwood :} he doesn't recognize it :}

yo hey whoa WHOA

okay yeah let’s go

It happens about three days after they leave the Grove for the Creche.

They’re camping on the Risen Road near the river. Astarion and Gale disappear for their usual bath together - they stay in the pairs they’ve previously selected mostly out of ease, though Karlach joins Lae’zel and Halsin’s group - and Halsin, having already bathed, produces a block of wood from his pack.

It fits neatly in the frame of his hand. Three-fourths of the block have been carefully carved and coaxed away by the gentle sweeps of Halsin’s knife. He works in silence for a few minutes, losing himself so utterly in his task he hardly notices he’s not alone until Wyll is speaking.

“Good gods man,” the fighter says, peering over Halsin’s shoulder at the small piece, “you’ve captured Astarion perfectly. Karlach, look at this.”

“Oh, whoa! Halsin, that’s amazin’,”Karlach says wonderingly as she peers over Wyll’s shoulder while he peers over Halsin’s shoulder. “You’ve even captured his little, little smile lines! Oh!”

“What’s all this, then, why are we cooing over the druid?”

As it always does, Astarion's voice makes Halsin's heavy heart feel about two hundred times lighter and younger. Wyll and Karlach both step back and Halsin looks up at Astarion nears, his damp hair falling over his curiously furrowed brow.

"Oh," the vampire hums, sounding a bit... befuddled. Almost... apprehensive? "Well who's this... handsome young thing, then?"

He's being entirely genuine. He doesn't recognize himself - but Wyll and Karlach, who barely know the man, did. It does look like him, then. Halsin knows it does - he's carved Astarion's face a thousand times over the last two hundred years, after all. He could carve it in the dark.

Karlach rolls her eyes. "Oh, come off it," she says with a laugh, gently smacking the back of Astarion's shoulder. "You don't have to play coy. You're bloody gorgeous, Astarion."

Astarion's eyebrows shoot up as it occurs to Halsin that vampires... Vampires can't see their reflection. Not even in water. His chest grows almost immeasurably tight. It must show on his face, because Wyll clears his throat then and says, "we ought to get the fire going, aye? It's getting chilly out here for those of us not running on infernal engines!"

"Wh -?" Karlach manages, but then Wyll is all but frog-marching her away and Halsin's world shrinks down to Astarion and only Astarion.

A relief.

If he could keep the world this small, he would.

"Is this... Is this really me, darling?"

Astarion sounds... His voice is more vulnerable than Halsin's heard it yet. Oh, but there were no words in any language to describe what was happening within the great former archdruid as he takes in Astarion's expression; it's one of an almost awestruck grief, of curious hope and something approaching the innocence he once embodied when he was younger and unafraid.

"Yes," Halsin utters on a breath. "Yes, little star, it is."

The vampire's eyes are swelling with tears. His bottom lip quivers even as his mouth curves into a soft, wondering smile.

"Me... now?"

"That is the only you I see," Halsin says quietly. "The Astarion you have always been and will always be."

"Oh," Astarion whimpers. When Halsin offers up the carving for Astarion to hold, to memorize with fingertips and thumbs, Astarion falters for a moment before he takes it so carefully Halsin almost shatters then and there.

"Huh," the vampire breathes, gazing down at his own carefully crafted visage with tears streaming down the real article, "well. I... I look more like him, don't I? Like father."

"You look like Astraea when you smile," Halsin murmurs, clambering to his feet. He sweeps a curled finger under Astarion's chin to catch the tears beading there and thumbs over the taper of it.

"And you have her eyes," the druid says. Astarion lifts those sunset eyes to meet his and before he can protest, Halsin bows to kiss the argument off his tongue. Astarion grips the carving in one hand and slides his arms around Halsin's neck; the bigger elf catches him in the crook of his elbow and draws him close, as close as he possibly can.

It's never close enough.

"But when I look at you," Halsin says in elvish, taking a step back towards his tent, "I see Astarion. I see the way your hair curls around your ears and the way your eyes wrinkle when you laugh. The way your lips part right before you're about to be kissed."

Astarion's ears go pink. "Oh - stop," he protests weakly against Halsin's lips, squirming as Halsin lifts him effortlessly from the ground. "Enough poetry, just tell me I'm beautiful so we can move onto the exciting part."

Stepping back through the flaps of his own tent, Halsin catches Astarion in another gasping kiss and turns on his heel. Astarion doesn't flail or cry out when Halsin moves to get him down on the cot; he trusts Halsin with the same ease he always has, fingers carding nimbly through the druid's hair as he kisses over Halsin's jaw and noses at his ear.

"Beautiful," Halsin says, leaning up on his palms to look down at the vampire. Soft dusk light filters through the canvas of Halsin's tent, lighting Astarion up in shades of burnished gold. The breath punches gently out of Halsin and he shakes his head. Catching Astarion gently by the jaw, the druid bows and kisses him in the way that makes the blood run hot enough to tempt the change.

"I would invent a new word for you if I only knew how," Halsin says against Astarion's lips. "You are solar storms and hurricanes, Astarion Ancunin - you are the sea beneath a fractured sky and the first winter freeze."

Astarion trembles. "I distinctly remember telling you no more poetry" he manages, "only moments ago, even. You can't have forgotten already. I hope you haven't, or we have bigger problems than - mmhmm..."

He licks the words off Astarion's tongue. The vampire melts beneath him, tears dripping down his temples and into the snowfall of his hair.

"Astarion," Halsin breathes achingly. "Astarion."

"There it is," Astarion whispers, "your new word. Every time you say my name - every time you say my name, I know how beautiful you think I am."

A pause.

"But the carving certainly helps. Feel free to make more. Of any part of me, in fact."

Halsin grins against Astarion's teeth and gathers him close, finally skin to skin.

It's almost close enough.

"Oh, I will," the druid burrs as Astarion scrapes a heavy, needy gaze over his face, lips parted against Halsin's like he's a snake poised to swallow a mouse. Halsin slides a hand between his thighs and the elf whines.

"Good," Astarion groans.

And he does. Only once he's done some thorough research, of course.

Astarion insists.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

not only did her relationship with joe go from feeling like a sacred oasis to imprisonment but i actually think that going from warmth and safety to carelessness and neglect was probably taylor’s actual idea of the Bad Place. like what a cruel twist of fate for the lover girly who only ever wants to bask in companionship to be stuck in a relationship where she felt completely abandoned. so many lyrics in so many songs expressing how excluded and lonely and drained she felt and yet the fact that it once was such a loving shelter for her made it so hard to let go of. i think that was the stuff of nightmares for her.

Yeah like. Idk these days I’m feeling less inclined to rehash it too much because I think everything that could have been said about it has been. (But watch me come out with an essay about it tomorrow lmao.) Part of that is “all breakups are the same” in that… for most relationships at some point the safety of your home becomes a minefield, for whatever reason, which is why it ends. Unfortunately for Taylor that safety of the home is layered with SO many other issues (eg the retreat due to her “cancellation” and mental health and other issues) so it would have been even harder to unpack — and come to terms with — if I had to guess.

But yes, when it comes down to it, it must have been devastating to realize that the safe space of her home actually began to feel like the thing that was *causing* her pain. You’re Losing Me is such a great example of this with, “remember looking at this room? We loved it ‘cause of the light / Now I just sit in the dark and wonder if it’s time.” Like, the home is the physical space in the song, but it’s also the metaphor. The place that once brought so much joy to both of them (light) is the place where she now feels loneliest (dark). And yeah, the idea that she felt at one point that she had finally gotten her life together, in that she managed to build this home life with someone she loved and envisioned a future with, with timelines and plans, only for it to be whittled away piece by piece? The stuff of nightmares for sure.

I mentioned this a while back but I watched “Someone Great” for the first time a few months ago kind of as a joke, thinking “surely a Netflix movie can’t have really inspired the greatness that is Death By a Thousand Cuts”” and within five minutes of the movie starting I was like “Oh I know EXACTLY why this movie triggered her so badly 🥴”. Anyway I highly recommend it for anyone who wants a glimpse into what we mean by “all breakups are the same” because it’s essentially the very sanitized version of Joever (and by that I mean, every breakdown of a LTR in one’s early 30s).

[sideprince]

What are your thoughts on Snape's parents/childhood/upbringing ?

Sorry it's taken me ages to get to this ask! I wrote a meta post about Eileen Prince recently ("recently." It sat in my drafts for about a month as I whittled away at it) but I can go off a bit on Tobias and the kind of home a young Severus might have lived in, though it'll be a bit of a messier convergence of meta and headcannon, probably.

The tl;dr of the Eileen meta post is that I think she may have come from a family with reasonable wealth and reputation, and ended up stuck with Tobias as the result of an accidental out of wedlock pregnancy that led her family to disown her. @vulnus-sanare left one of my favorite comments on that post, which I'm just going to quote in full:

"It is hard to not think that Severus may have been the outcome of an unwanted pregnancy. It is harder to believe that "love" was ever in the foundation of the Snape family. My theory is that Eileen and Tobias had a fling, it had consequences, the Princes disowned Eileen for getting impregnated by a Muggle, and Tobias was forced to marry her out ... Patriarchal honor. However, the first time Eileen and Tobias had a violent argument, Eileen threatened him with her wand for defense. He didn't sleep at home that night. The next morning, Eileen found her wand split into two unsalvageable pieces on her bedside table. Tobias was home. And there would be no more magic."

My personal take is that we see clear statements in the books that depression can sap a witch/wizard of their powers (Merope Gaunt), and also that existing powers can't be suppressed, they'll find a way to come out and with terrible consequences if bottled up for too long (Ariana Dumbledore, and basically every underage wizard). Because of this, my own interpretation is that Eileen probably lost much of her powers due to despair. We see Severus in a memory shooting down flies with his wand alone in his room as a teen, and that casual use of magic makes me think that the Ministry still had magical activity registered at that residence on Eileen's account, otherwise Severus would have had to deal with the repercussions of violating the Statute of Secrecy and, if that was the case, he certainly wouldn't have used his wand and done magic so nonchalantly. Eileen's magic would have been too weak to stand up to Tobias, but still enough to warrant the Ministry thinking there was an active witch at their house.

Nevertheless, I love the idea that Tobias split her wand! It's a striking and complex statement on what that relationship might have looked like. Tobias must have been insecure (secure people don't tend to abuse their loved ones). Eileen had power over him that he would never be able to match. Even so, every person with power has a vulnerability - for any wizard it would be that their power must be channeled through a wand to be effective. A wand which, despite the power of the witch or wizards who wields it, can easily be snapped in two. What might its core have been? Would Tobias have been surprised to find it wasn't merely a stick carved on a lathe, that there was something running through its center that he couldn't identify? I love the irony of such a mundane, muggle act stopping the power of magic in its tracks. And, after all, if Eileen had no money of her own and she and Tobias had little to live on, she wouldn't have been able to buy a new wand. Or perhaps she eventually did, but her powers remained weak (or perhaps she bought a cheaper wand she could afford, maybe even secondhand, and it never worked as well as her own had). As for her magic struggling to get out without a proper way to channel it, perhaps her wand's destruction may have been the final straw for her spirit, which broke as a result of her isolation from her family and her world, and her being tethered to such a man.

As for Tobias, I think that while he may have had a proclivity towards abuse, it didn't truly come out until sometime after Severus' birth. I think he was always working class, and possibly fought in WWII like every man of his generation, but that the crippling poverty of the family was brought on by some kind of workplace accident that left him unable to work and dependent on welfare. Eileen wouldn't have worked, having few skills and weak magic, but back in the 60s many working class families only had one breadwinner. There are signs that Severus was both poor and also neglected, particularly his ill fitting, mismatched, hand-me-down clothes that no one even attempted to sew to size for him (let alone use magic to do so). Eileen would have made sure Severus was out of the house as much as possible, if Tobias was home most of of the time, and tried to take the brunt of Tobias' anger when possible. Severus wouldn't have understood this for a long time, and would have felt rejected and isolated as a result.

As Severus grew older, got a wand, and expanded his knowledge of magic, he would have stood up to Tobias more in the weeks he was home from school. He wouldn't have trusted his father, and would have eventually realized that their power balance had shifted. I think there may be a parallel with Voldemort there, too: as Dumbledore says, all tyrants fear that one day someone will rise up against them. I think perhaps Severus felt more able to be that person and undermine Voldemort, because he had already done so with his own father. He had learnt, firsthand, that terrifying people, people who intimidate with violence and brutality, are not infallible. It makes sense for his character: throughout his school years we see Severus reject his bullies and fight back against them, even though they attack him four against one.

As for his own experience of growing up in that small house on Spinner's End, I think Severus must have been a lonely child. We see the way he feels the need to pick his moment when first meeting Lily; he doesn't have the confidence of a child who's been able to spend much time playing with others. His parents fought a lot, and if his mother tried to protect him, he would have spent a lot of time alone in his room listening to them do so. We see him as a teen shooting down flies with his wand, in a dark room, alone. I think his world at home was small and often painful. Like many children of abuse, he wouldn't even have been aware how much pain he was in, or how constant it was, it was just a part of his internal wallpaper. I don't imagine he had much of a relationship with his dad, though the need for approval from him would have been buried in him somewhere. Perhaps, as he grew older, his relationship with his mother grew more complex and there was a bond.

My own headcanon is that Tobias, a middle aged, disabled, working class man on the dole, wouldn't have survived austerity under Thatcher. I like to think that Severus, living on a teacher's salary in a prestigious school and not needing much beyond the room and board that his job provides, would have used his savings to take care of a widowed Eileen. Perhaps he visited her once or twice a year. They were never sentimental, and talked very little. They would have a cup of tea and a game of chess, or maybe even Gobstones. When Voldemort returned, Severus would have made sure that, if he should die, Eileen would be taken care of. He would not have been able to leave her a letter or any kind of explanation, for fear of it being found. She would have been proud to learn he had been appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts, though he would not have taken pride in it, knowing it was a tactical appointment, and not an earned one. She would have been prouder still, maybe, to learn of his heroism after his death.

[simplyyspring]

Memories

Liam Mairi x Fem!OC, Xaden Riorson x Fem!OC (platonic)

Summary: Genevieve Tavis has lost the most important person in her life and her older brother's best friend, Xaden, attempts to help her through her grief.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI!!! smut, death, grief, angst, hurt (with comfort), me not knowing how to properly portray Xaden. FOURTH WING SPOILERS, please don't read if you haven't read the first book I will not be responsible for the emotional damage.

Word Count: 9k

A/N: This is not the first fic I have ever written but it IS the first fic I've ever posted. I already rewrote it because I hated the first version, and the only proofreading that this version has received is grammarly spell/grammar check so bear with me! This fic was inspired by @saintsanddevils "Unravel Me" fic so please read that as well, it's amazing! I've debated expanding on Gen's story but have not decided, please do tell me if you'd like to see that! Anyways, let's get into all the angst (I did cry a few times writing this).

✰✰✰✰✰✰

The sky has an orange hue as I sit on a ledge outside the Riorson house. My eyes study the waves of hills and rigid peaks of mountains in the distance — this has always been one of my favorite views. I grew familiar with it from all the summers I’d spent here while my brother visited his best friend. I catch the scent of pine trees in the wind, and the familiar rustle of the grass beneath gives a sense of nostalgia. It almost brings a smile to my face. Almost.

My hand finds the small wooden sculpture of Eilidh that Liam had whittled months ago in the pocket of my flight jacket. He had done it for everyone, but Eilidh was his first — likely because she had let him close enough to truly study her. Of course she had. She had a soft spot for Liam, though she was reluctant to voice it often. She understood our connection long before anyone else. Eilidh’s grief when Deigh died wasn’t just for him — it was for his rider as well. 

I pull the sculpture out of my pocket, my thumb brushing over the details as I study the shape of Eilidh — one I know like the back of my hand. When he had given the sculpture to me, I didn’t know what to say. It was the most beautiful thing anyone had given me — the kindest thing a person had done for me. Although I can go outside and see her whenever I please, there was something intimate about somebody turning the most important being in my life into a piece of art. I feel a knot building in my throat as the memory floods back, my eyes beginning to well with tears.

“I made you something.” 

Liam’s voice brought me out of my studying trance, causing me to look up at him. He was fiddling with something in his hands — a piece of wood? Some sort of sculpture? And he looked… nervous? I raised a brow as he handed the sculpture over to me. I took the piece, studying it for a moment. My heart nearly stopped as I recognized the features.

The wood was rough — almost as if it was supposed to represent her scales. It painted an image of her mid-flight, her wings spread wide. He must have seen her from a distance, or maybe during flight maneuvers and gotten the idea. And he’d gone through with it. Butterflies began to flutter in my stomach.

“It’s Eilidh,” he said, sheepish. 

I met his gaze, trying to find the words to say. My mouth opened, then closed — no words came out. Nobody had ever done something so personal for me. His smile faltered for a moment, and my heart almost stopped once again as I noticed his confidence starting to slip. 

“I love it,” The words were rushed as they left my lips. My ears heated with embarrassment but I managed to ignore it. 

“You do?” Liam let out a breathy sound that sounded suspiciously like relief. 

I nodded as my gaze fell back down to the sculpture, a small smile forming on my lips. “I think she’d love it too.”

“It’s alright, I suppose.” Eilidh’s voice echoed in my head, her tone playful. I let out a soft laugh. 

“She said she loves it,” I could almost hear her eyes rolling. 

I pocketed the sculpture and glanced back up at Liam. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.” I didn’t know what else to say. My feelings were all over the place — and I was never good at voicing those. Rejection and I had become good friends, but that was against my will.

“You think he’s beautiful,” Eilidh’s teasing tone echoed once again. The heat from my ears began to spread to my face. She wasn’t necessarily wrong… but that’s not the point. Either Liam didn’t notice or he chose to ignore it — thankfully.

“Of course. And tell her I said thank you,” Liam said with a grin that made my heart skip a beat, settling into the seat beside me. His knee brushed against mine, the butterflies going wild now. “I just… I like doing things for other people, and she’s always been nice to me. She never threatens to scorch me when I get too close.”

“Not that you know of.” The corner of my lips tugged upwards. 

“Noted,” A small laugh escaped his lips. He was quiet for a moment, then, “Do you need any help?” His gaze flickered down toward the books in front of me, then back up at me. 

I stared at him for a moment, my brain slowly processing his question. It happened often — I short circuited whenever he was around. I didn’t really need his help, but who was I to deny myself the pleasure of his company? “I’d love some help.”

Liam scooted closer, the scent of oak and leather filling my senses. My lips tugged up into a smile again as we began studying together.

The soft crunch of footsteps pulls me back to the present, the weight of the past few days settling into my bones. I don’t look up. There are very few people who would venture out to find me — even fewer who would know where to find me. Sure, I have quite a group of friends, but they know I’m typically fine after some time to myself. Something tells me this time is different.

My gaze finally lifts toward the large figure as they drop onto the ledge beside me. I’m half surprised that it’s not my brother, Garrick, but his best friend that takes the space. I study him for a moment. He’s dressed more relaxed than usual, but his muscles are still tense. I fully expected him to be occupied, considering the woman he loves is inside, healing. But he’s right here. Making sure I’m okay. I suppose she hasn’t woken up yet.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Xaden’s voice breaks the silence as his dark eyes meet mine. The silence stretches once again. Do I want to talk to him about this? Should I? There was a point in time where the simple thought of him brought a blush to my face. He’s Garrick’s best friend, which means Garrick found him decent enough to be close to him. We’d grown up with him, after all. He’s always been so passionate — and that passion shines through in everything he does. Even now, a leader of a revolution, it’s hard not to be drawn to him. But this is a vulnerable topic. It’s not often that I voice my feelings.

“He’s really gone.” I try to tame the shake in my voice before the words leave my lips but I don’t have any success. Xaden tenses beside me, clenching his jaw, and I look back toward the mountains. He and Liam had been placed in the same foster home — he’d trained him and watched him grow. He’d helped turn him into the boy I fell in love with.

“I’m sorry–”

“Don’t be,” He cuts me off. “If that’s what you need to talk about… then we’ll talk.” He gives me a nod before going quiet. I don’t break the silence. I don’t know what to say. I know he’s doing the same thing I am — studying the view, taking it in. I know he misses it more than any of us, and that, on top of the grief of losing his brother… Gods, I can’t imagine what he’s feeling.

I look at him again, and his eyes find mine. The typical glare they usually hold is missing, replaced by something softer and kinder. I see it often. He’s always had a soft spot for me, though he never outright admits it. 

“Gen…” Xaden’s voice is soft, his eyes scanning my face as if searching for the words to say. “You loved him… didn’t you?” The words feel like a punch to the gut. I haven’t spoken much about my feelings — certainly not with Garrick or Xaden, and certainly not with Liam himself. I’ve wanted to, but the words get stuck in my throat any time I start.

“I…” My voice trails off. There they go, getting stuck again. Part of me wants to deny it, keep it for myself, and hold on to the feeling of being in love for the life of me. My heart has been ripped to shreds, and the only person who could mend it isn’t here. Tears begin to brim my eyes as my gaze falls back on the scenery ahead. Xaden is silent, which isn’t unusual, but I know he’s waiting for me to continue. 

“I never got to tell him…” I finally whisper, my voice cracking ever so slightly. I’ve never been one to show much emotion, but recently, I haven’t had much control. I’ve been distancing myself, knowing I’ll either lash out or break down if anyone gets too close. My jaw clenches as my vision begins to blur. “... How I felt, what I thought of him. How much I appreciate him. How much I appreciate everything he’s done for me.” I shake my head, attempting to blink away the tears, but the action only causes a few of them to stream down my cheeks. 

“He knows.” The older boy nods, certainty bleeding through his tone. “He knows all of it now… and I’d bet quite a bit of gold that he felt the same.” A very small smile touches his lips as my eyes find him again. I don’t understand how he can seem so… fine after everything that’s happened. We’d been set up to die. Violet almost died. Liam did die. Xaden’s ability to be the calm in the storm will always be something I admire; it’s always drawn me to him. Sometimes, he used that ability to his advantage. He can be deadly when he truly wants to be. 

“Can I tell you something?” I ask softly, my eyes catching on the scar on his brow for a moment, admiring it. Although the feelings I once had are no longer there, I can’t deny how attractive he is. “I haven’t really been able to… talk about anything with anyone.” More like I haven’t tried to.

Xaden leans back on his hands, keeping his eyes on me as he nods, urging me to continue. I’m sure he knows all the information I’m about to spew at him, but it’ll be nice to finally let something out for once. 

My gaze lingers on him for a moment before I lick my lips and continue, “Before him, I thought I already knew what love was.” My voice goes quieter as my eyes fall to my lap, and I start to fiddle with my fingers. “I thought a… childhood crush was love. I thought it was everything I’d been looking for. I thought I was completely screwed because the man I supposedly loved saw me as nothing more than a little sister.” My eyes dart toward him as I hear him snicker, watching as he shakes his head, giving me a knowing look.

“I’m not an idiot, Tavis.” I raise a brow, ready to argue against that statement, but he continues, “And before you get defensive, I’m not judging. I would never judge you. I knew for longer than you think I did.” Xaden’s eyes leave mine, shaking his head. I can tell he’s trying to figure out what to say next. “Just because feelings aren’t… reciprocated… doesn’t mean they’re not real. It may not have been love in the sense that you know it now, but it was still an experience.” He finally finishes, giving me a slight nod. 

My eyes narrow for a moment as I listen to what he says, then I shake my head. “Okay, thanks.” I nod, “But that’s not the point.” I speak slowly, a little baffled by his response, then continue, “The point is that I felt much stronger things for him.” Liam and I had been friends before going into the Rider’s Quadrant due to Garrick and I visiting after we were placed in our foster homes, but we’d grown closer after crossing parapet. Thankfully, my brother and I weren’t placed far from each other like Liam and his sister, Sloane, had been — otherwise, I likely wouldn’t have met him.

“When we first joined the quadrant, everything changed. We immediately became really good friends.” I nodded slowly as I recalled everything, and Xaden sat quietly, listening intently. “We spent every moment we could together. Sure, eventually, I met Vi, Ridoc, Sawyer, and Rhi… they’re all amazing. But Liam and I had this… connection that I never had with anyone else.” I feel tears beginning to fill my eyes as well, and I don’t attempt to hide it this time. 

“One day, we were sparring together. We were alone… it was late. One thing led to another, and… he kissed me.” Tears left wet trails down my cheeks as I stared off, recalling the memory. 

“Quite the position you’ve got me in here, Mairi,” I spoke breathlessly as he hovered above me, his hips pinning mine to the mat and his hands pinning my wrists above my head. I couldn’t lie; I enjoyed being in this position with him. I could feel his body heat against me — and I was very aware of how his training tee outlined his muscles. I’d let my soul meet Malek before ever admitting that to him.

“You flustered, Tavis?” Liam arched a brow as his gaze focused on my features with a grin. I couldn’t tell what that look meant — Was he thinking the same thing I was? Was the fact that our bodies were touching in such intimate places driving him crazy, too? Or was he simply trying to catch me off guard?

“Me? Flustered?” I let out a scoff, fighting to deny the accusation. Admitting anything would only give him the upper hand. “In your dreams, Mairi.” I shook my head, and his grin only widened. 

I studied his features as I laid beneath him, letting my eyes fall on his lips for a moment. I noticed the catch in his breath, the way he faltered — even if it was just a little. An idea sparked in my mind. Although I enjoyed being in this position with him, I could still have some fun with the rest of the sparring match. His gaze then followed a path similar to my own, glancing down at my lips. I felt his body relax on top of mine.

As soon as I knew his guard was down, I quickly moved my wrists out of his grip and took his wrists into my own grip. I then used all my body weight to flip us over, pinning him in a very similar position. Realistically, I knew he could turn it back around if he really wanted to. But he didn’t.

“Quite the position you’ve got me in here, Tavis.” His grin was still huge, and he raised a brow as his blue eyes met mine. He was obviously enjoying all of this. I was suddenly very aware of just how easy it would be to place my thighs on either side of him and have my way with him. My skin heated at the thought, but I managed to push it away before it could become an issue.

“You flustered, Mairi?” I questioned, raising a brow back at him. I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest. 

“And if I was?” My body tensed above him. Had I heard him correctly? My eyes were trained on the freckles that littered his face, once again questioning if he was trying to throw me off for the win. Something in those beautiful blue eyes told me he wasn’t. 

I didn’t reply, but neither of us moved either. We laid there, me pinning him to the sparring mat, our breathing syncing. Suddenly — as if acting on impulse — Liam tilted his head up and closed the gap between us, pressing his lips against mine. Stunned, I froze for a moment before kissing him back.

Fireworks set off in my stomach as I moved my hands from his wrists to cup his face. Liam let out a soft hum against my lips as he deepened the kiss, and I followed, moving to bury one of my hands in his hair. I could feel his hands on my body, roaming along my waist, and his body pressed up against mine. It made me feral — something nobody ever made me feel. I’d never let anyone touch me beyond kissing and a few roaming hands. Nothing more than a make-out session. If this continued, I had a feeling it would turn into much more.

Moments later, we heard the gym doors open, causing both of us to jump and remove ourselves from each other. Our lips were swollen, his hair was a mess, and there was absolutely no denying what had happened, even if the culprit hadn’t already seen it. Heat rushed to my face, and our eyes darted toward the door to see who had interrupted. Then, we found the Wing Leader staring at us with raised brows. He muttered something about first years under his breath before shaking his head and immediately retreating back into the hallway.

Xaden’s soft hum pulls me away from the memory. “You forget that I walked in on that.” I look over at him to see his nose scrunching up in mock disgust. “I’m still scarred,” he adds, and I roll my eyes playfully, letting out a soft laugh. It almost takes me by surprise; I haven’t heard myself laugh since the night of reunification — before everything went to shit. 

“It’s your fault for walking in,” I joke, raising a brow at him.

The older boy lets out a scoff, furrowing his brows. “You act like it isn’t a space open to the entire quadrant.”

“You had no business being there that late.” I playfully glare at him, causing him to laugh and shake his head. I almost feel lighter, like all my problems have disappeared. He doesn’t say anything further as the two of us fall into a content silence. 

“You scared the shit out of him, y’know.” I break the silence after a moment, laughing quietly as the memory of Liam panicking over Xaden finding us resurfaces.

We finally reached my bedroom door after deciding that our sparring session was over. The embarrassment of being caught — and by Xaden, of all people — was like being dunked in a bucket of ice-cold water. We wouldn’t have been able to focus if we’d continued.

Liam seemed more freaked out by the event than I had expected. I was just embarrassed — he looked as if his world was coming to its inevitable end. He fidgeted with his hands, his brow tightly knit, unusually quiet. I let him sit in silence for a while, but the anticipation of not knowing how he felt was starting to wear on me. Did he regret the kiss?

I pushed the door open and stepped into my room, gently grabbing Liam by the arm to tug him through the ward that Xaden and Garrick had insisted be put in place. I had complained about the overprotective nature of it, but I admit that I appreciated the extra layer of protection in this hellhole.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him, closing the door before watching as he fell into his usual spot in the chair beside my desk. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his body wound tight with tension and his mind obviously reeling. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in my room — we’d had countless study sessions in here — so it was a comfortable space for this inevitable talk.

“What’s wrong?” Liam repeated, his brows shooting upward as he let his body fall back into the chair. “Xaden just walked in on us kissing, and you’re asking me what’s wrong?” His hands were moving frantically, mirroring his panic. I still couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he was panicking, though.

“I’m sure Xaden has seen more traumatizing things.” I joked and let out a soft laugh. I studied his features — his blonde hair, his blue eyes, the freckles that decorated his face. It was something that I did often, though I tried to be subtle about it. He was beautiful.

“What if he tells Garrick?” His tone was now exasperated. I furrowed my brows at the question. He was worried about my brother finding out? I walked over to sit on the edge of my bed, across from his chair, keeping my gaze on him.

“Would that be so bad?” I questioned, letting out a small laugh. Sure, Garrick could be overprotective, but he was reasonable, at least. I never had an issue of him interfering with my love life. He trusted me to make the right choices — and come to him if they turned out to be the wrong ones.

“You don’t get it.” Liam sighed and ran his hands down his face. I tried my hardest not to focus on the veins that made their way from his forearms to his hands as he did so. “You’re not an older brother.” My face softened as I heard the words. He was looking at this from the perspective of Garrick himself — how he would feel if someone he trusted and considered a friend had seemingly gone behind his back and kissed his little sister.

“But you are,” I said, giving him a small nod as I leaned back on my hands. “How would you react to Sloane kissing someone you were friends with?” I raised a brow, keeping my eyes on him as I waited for his response. 

“I would be furious.” He scoffs, bringing a hand up to run through his hair before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees once again. He was still fidgeting. “And if I fuck up? What happens? Do I lose two important people in my life?” An ache blossomed in my chest, and I wanted to kiss him until he was breathless and assured that nothing he could ever do would cause him to lose me. But I could tell he was gathering himself, reeling himself back in from the panic, so I didn’t. 

“But I guess I’d come around eventually — if she really liked them.” Liam’s blue eyes met mine as he broke the silence, causing a small smile to grow on my face. We fell into a comfortable silence as I allowed him to sort through his thoughts more, and he eventually leaned back in the chair again as he relaxed. 

“I write her letters all the time.” His voice was softer now as he glued his eyes to the floor. My heart skipped at the admission. “I know I can’t send them, and she’ll already be here by the time I’m able to… but fuck, there’s so much I want her to know, so much I don’t want to forget. So much I want to prepare her for.” The ache in my chest returned as I listened to him. I could tell he was terrified for her to join the quadrant, and it was obvious how much he missed her. He’d brought her up quite a few times in passing. I couldn’t help but wonder if Garrick had felt similarly during his first year.

“I promise there are just as many things she wants you to know.” I smiled small and gave him a nod, speaking from experience. The age gap between Garrick and I was larger, so we were able to write letters back and forth before I joined, but nothing could beat talking to him in person. Although there had always been a sense of dread about joining the riders quadrant, there was also a sense of relief that I would see the people I loved again. 

A small smile grew on Liam’s lips as his eyes drifted to meet mine again. “Do you think he’ll tell him?” He asked. Xaden was just as protective as Garrick. He wouldn’t rush off to tell him immediately, but he certainly wouldn’t pass up the chance to mention it the first chance he got. 

“I think it’s very likely.” A chuckle escaped my lips as I nodded, causing him to tilt his head back against the chair and let out a dramatic groan. “But I don’t think it will be as big of a deal as you’re making it out to me.” I shook my head, watching him in amusement. 

“Why’s that?” Liam raised an eyebrow as he turned his head toward me, still tilting it back against the chair.

I went quiet for a moment, my heart and my brain having a silent debate. One of them — my heart — told me to tell him the truth, to spill all of my feelings to him. My brain was telling me to keep it to myself — that chances are, he didn’t feel the same, and it was a spur-of-the-moment kiss. But the fact that he was so anxious told me otherwise.

“Because to him, I’m an open book.” My shoulders shrugged, and I paused for a moment, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “I’ve thought about you for… a while now. And he knows that. I’m sure he’d be pretty understanding.” My heart pounded as I kept my attention on him.

Liam froze as he listened to me. Shit. Did I make a mistake? Had I read him wrong? Did he not feel the same way about me? Was the kiss not good for him? I couldn’t stop my thoughts from spiraling — now I was the one panicking.

“A while, huh?” His voice brought me out of my thoughts. He had noticeably relaxed in a matter of seconds, his voice teasing now. Heat began to creep up my face once again. “Do you have a crush on me, Genevieve?”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. There was no way this was the same man who was freaking out just minutes before. “You’re insufferable,” I said with a soft chuckle. 

“I take pride in it.” A grin grew on his face. “You want to tell me just how long this little crush has been going on?” He raised a brow, and I could feel his eyes studying me.

I groaned, falling backward on my bed. “Insufferable,” I repeated, causing him to let out a laugh from deep within his stomach — a real one. The sound brought a smile to my face.

My chest aches as his laugh echoes in my head.

I stay quiet for a moment, my lips rubbing together. “He definitely wasn’t my first kiss, but he was my first for a lot of other things.” I nod slowly. I can feel Xaden’s gaze on me but I don’t meet it.

“I know you don’t want to hear about that, but the connection… I don’t know that I could find that anywhere else.” I stare off for a moment, attempting to ignore the sting that threatens to return to my eyes. One would think I didn’t have any tears left to cry, but I’m actively proving that wrong.

“Are you sure about this?” Liam questioned as he hovered above me, both of our shirts already discarded and thrown somewhere in the room. It was late, after another sparring session, and we were in my room. A make-out session had gotten a little too heated, and well, here we were on my bed.

I nodded, allowing my eyes to study his freckles for a moment — they were almost like constellations. My gaze then fell to his lips, already swollen from kisses. He was beautiful like this, disheveled, his guard down as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure in my life.” A small smile came onto my lips, which was quickly returned by the boy. 

Liam bit his lip as he slowly trailed a hand down along my body, mapping every curve. I felt my breath hitch in response, the heat in my lower stomach only intensifying from the anticipation. I gasped quietly as he slid his hand under the waistband of my pants, then my underwear, running a finger along my already slick core and causing me to let out a soft moan. Nobody had ever touched me like this.

“So fucking wet for me,” he muttered as he began toying with my clit, adding another finger and drawing more moans out of me. “So fucking beautiful.” Liam’s words shot right to my core, only adding to the pleasure. He had to know what he was doing to me.

I felt two of his fingers circle around my entrance before sliding into me with ease, causing me to gasp and toss my head back against the pillow. The feeling. The stretch. It was overwhelming — so much better than doing it myself, imagining it was someone else touching the most intimate parts of my body.

Liam grinned as he began pumping his fingers slowly, keeping his eyes on my face. “Such a good girl,” he cooed as I felt his thumb press against my clit, adding a delicious amount of pressure. 

“F-fuck,” I moaned out, looking up at him as white-hot pleasure coursed through my body. I could feel him everywhere — his presence was maddening, and the fact that all his focus was on me even more so. It felt like too much and not enough at the same time.

Liam’s fingers began to pump faster, curling and hitting that delicious spot inside me. He mumbled praises under his breath, each of them only intensifying the pleasure. I began to feel a knot building in my lower stomach, grinding my hips up toward his hand. My back bows, the lewd sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of me filling the room. 

“I-I think I’m gonna–” My words are cut off by another loud moan. 

“I know, baby,” His voice was soft, the sloshing of his fingers pumping into me growing louder as he pumped faster. “Let it out for me. I’m right here with you. Show me how good I make you feel.” He coaxed. 

I felt him begin to kiss along my chest before attaching his lips to one of my nipples, and he only added more pressure to my clit. The pleasure grew more intense with the added sensation, my moans growing louder as I squeezed my eyes shut. My body shook against his as the knot in my stomach began to unravel. Moments later, I moan out his name as I release around his fingers, my walls pulsating around them.

“That’s it,” Liam cooed against my skin, “Such a good girl for me, look at you cumming all over my fingers.”

The words felt like a blanket over me as he rode out my orgasm, and I relaxed beneath him, breathing heavily. He lifted his head before planting gentle kisses on my neck, removing his fingers from me. I whimpered at the loss, squirming beneath him. Liam chuckled low against my skin as he trailed kisses further down my body, and I looked down as he began to work my pants off. 

“What are you–” I’m cut off by his shushing. 

“Let me take care of you,” He muttered against my skin. The heat in my stomach ignited once again as he tugged my pants down before tossing them to the floor. He then wasted no time diving in between my thighs, drawing loud moans from me again.

I blink and feel a tear roll down my cheek. I realize I’m still sitting on the ledge with Xaden rather than in my room back in Basgiath with Liam.

Xaden’s eyes scan over me with a sorrowful look. “I didn’t know you guys were so intimate…” He spoke softly, his tone more comforting than usual. I bring my hands up to wipe my eyes. I’m so tired of crying. 

I let out a soft hum in response. “We didn’t see any point in screaming it from the rooftops.” I shook my head slightly. “We never made anything official. The only conversation we really had was regarding whether or not we were exclusive.” I nod my head slightly, bringing a hand up to run through my hair.

We were exclusive. We’d decided that after I’d gotten jealous of some girl trying to make a move. I almost laugh at the memory of how dramatic I’d been.

I walked out of battle brief without saying a word to Liam. In fact, that’s how I’d been walking out of every class for the past week. I played it off as having somewhere to be, but truthfully, I simply didn’t want to face the storm brewing inside me.

“Gen!” I could hear him calling out for me. Why was he chasing after me now? Why hadn’t he done it sooner? Did he truly care, or did he just want to make sure he could still get laid? I hated myself for thinking that, but I couldn’t help it. I always thought jealousy was pitiful — pathetic, even — but then I saw her talking to him, twirling her blonde hair around her finger. His smile. Now, it had plagued me like a disease.

I felt a hand grip my arm before I could round a corner, yanking me into an empty classroom. I furrowed my brows, eyes darting around to ensure nobody was present before focusing on Liam. 

“What the hell are you doing?” I hated the way my body relaxed at the sight of him, the way my voice couldn’t be as strong as I willed it to be. The effect he had on me was always undeniable. My heart and my brain were fighting over how to feel — currently, my brain was winning, but my heart was putting up a damned good fight. 

“Why haven’t you been talking to me?” Liam asked with furrowed brows, concern lining his face and filling his eyes as he studied me. It was silly, really. I shouldn’t have been avoiding him like this. Who was I to be jealous of some girl?

“I’ve had the same question,” Eilidh’s voice echoed in my head. “You don’t have time for these pathetic and petty acts.” She was right. I had bigger things to worry about, but I couldn’t help it. He deserved proper communication, though.

I stayed quiet, my eyes glued to the wall behind him before meeting his gaze. “I saw you last week. You were… talking to someone. Some girl. She seemed nice, and you seemed quite interested in her.” My voice was soft, almost shy. I never got jealous. I had no reason to. We never agreed to be exclusive. 

“Are you jealous, Tavis?” Liam raised a brow, amusement washing over his face as he watched me.

I sighed quietly, looking away from him again. I didn’t want him to think I was possessive. I didn’t want to be that girl who held him back. He had never been the kind of guy to settle on one girl. 

“Gen,” He spoke up softly after a moment, keeping his eyes on me. I didn’t answer, not wanting to deepen my own embarrassment. 

“Genevieve.” I finally looked up at him, and he brought his hands up to cradle my face. “Nothing happened with her.”

“It sure seemed like something was happening,” I spat back, my tone more angry than I cared to admit I was. Gods, I was so pathetic. 

“She was trying, but if you had stuck around a little longer, you would have seen me walk away and find Xaden.” His blue eyes focused on my hazel eyes. My brows furrowed. 

“Xaden?” 

He nodded. “I didn’t want anyone else. I didn’t know how to deal with it. So I went to Xaden.” Liam scrunched his nose slightly, his thumbs gently brushing against my cheeks. I felt myself relax more at his touch, finding comfort in how gentle he was with his rough hands.

“And what did Xaden say?” I raised a brow as I studied him, focusing on his freckles — Gods, I loved his freckles — and taking in his beautiful blue eyes.

“He basically said I’m stupid for being so scared about it.” He laughed quietly. “A little rich coming from him considering how often he denies his feelings for Violet.”

I let out a soft laugh and shook my head, feeling a weight fall off my shoulders. I moved my arms to wrap around his shoulders and allowed my body to relax into his. 

“You could have talked to me,” Liam spoke up softly as he tilted his head down to look at me. “Probably would have cleared everything up pretty quickly.” A small laugh escaped his lips, causing me to roll my eyes. He was right, but I wouldn’t admit that.

“I didn’t think you’d want anything more.” I shook my head slightly, hating myself for how stupid I’d been.

“I don’t know what I want.” He shook his head as well. “All I know is I don’t want to do it with anyone else. This doesn’t have to be some… crazy declaration. But we can agree not to see other people if that’s what you want.”

I saw something as I looked into those beautiful eyes of his. Hope. Yearning. A million things being left unsaid. He knew I had an issue with commitment, and he was trying to navigate it the best he could.

“I’d like that,” I said with a nod, a smile forming on both of our lips. The world stilled for a moment as we held each other’s gaze. Before much else could be said, Liam leaned in to gently press his lips against mine. It didn’t take long for that kiss to turn into something much more heated.

“I remember him coming to me in a panic about not wanting anyone else,” Xaden’s laugh and his voice pull me back to reality. “I think he was just scared of getting hurt, which anyone can relate to.”

I nodded a little, staying quiet. I couldn’t think of a response. After that conversation, Liam and I spent every possible moment together. We were together the night of reunification day, the last real moment we had alone before being sent to Athebyne. The last real moment we had before Resson.

I took in a deep breath, the scent of oak and leather wrapping around my senses as Liam wrapped himself around me, his arm draped over my waist. We must have fallen asleep after our… activities that night. Xaden had finally let him have a break from being Violet’s body guard since he had decided to be with her tonight. Every one of my instincts told me to stay like this forever — wrapped up in his sheets — but that wouldn’t be realistic. 

Liam moved his arm to gently rub his hand along the bare skin of my waist, and I shifted to lay on my back, a soft smile growing on my lips as I looked up at him. His hand now rested on my bare stomach, and I lifted my own to gently run through his hair before slowly tracing my finger down along his jawline.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice came out soft and groggy from just waking up. It almost ignited that flame in my lower stomach once again, but I just wanted to lay here with him for a while longer. I went quiet for a moment, deciphering how to form my thoughts into words. 

“What things would be like if we weren’t… here.” I finally spoke up quietly. I could almost see it — sleeping in late, finding him shirtless in the kitchen making breakfast. Holding his hand just because I could, kissing him without worrying if it may be the last. The late nights spent with our friends, the laughter. The joy. Maybe in this other life, I wouldn’t feel the need to guard my love so stubbornly and could tell him how I truly felt. Some of these things were obtainable, but it was difficult to have them when we never knew if we would survive to see next week.

Liam let out a soft hum in response, his index finger tracing shapes on my skin. “What, if we weren’t forced into a death sentence?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, though we both knew there was truth to it. That’s exactly what it was supposed to be for us marked ones — a death sentence. Leadership hated it when we moved up the ranks with ease, like Xaden and Garrick, but there wasn’t much they could do. They couldn’t deny how much of an asset some of us were to the continent.

“Somethin’ like that,” I said with a soft laugh, studying the freckles that painted his face as if I didn’t already know them like the back of my hand. He was so beautiful — like a work of art. All of him. Sure, his body was absolutely divine, but he was arguably the kindest person I had met and definitely the most patient. Liam was confided in often, and yet he never complained — nor did he judge. He was the kind of person to put everyone before himself.

His head dipped to bury his face in my neck, planting gentle kisses. “And what would things be like?” Liam asked teasingly as he nipped at my ear. That flame simmered below the surface, ready to ignite any second if he continued. I drew in a deep breath as his lips trailed down along my skin. 

I held back a breathy moan, my thighs pressing together like the traitors they were. “You’re gonna tire us both out again if you keep on with that,” I told him, resisting the urge to squirm beneath him.

“I don’t see a problem with that,” Liam responded, “the best sleep aid known to man.” He began leaving open-mouthed, wet kisses along my collarbones. I let out a sensual sigh, wetting my lips with my tongue. 

“You’re insufferable.” My voice came out shakier than intended. I had a love-hate relationship with the way he affected me — or my body, I suppose — it gave him far too much control. I allowed it, though, because the love tended to override the hate. Liam knew the effect he had, and he took advantage of it every chance he could.

“And I take pride in it,” Liam said with a teasing laugh, his lips now moving up along my neck toward my own. 

“Now answer my question.” He grinned as he pecked my lips. “What would things be like?” 

I opened my mouth to speak, but I was interrupted by an urgent pounding on the door. “I know you’re in there, Mairi!” A voice called from the other side. Bodhi? “We’re being called to formation.”

Liam and I both let out a groan as he let his head fall to rest on my chest. Bodhi pounded on the door again before Liam let out a deep sigh and got out of bed, grabbing his underwear from the floor and shuffling it back on. I pulled the sheets over my body and tried not to focus on how the muscles in his back rippled with every movement as he walked over and opened the door. 

Bodhi was standing there, already dressed in his leathers and ready to go. He looked into the room and made eye contact with me, his brows shooting up toward his hairline.

“My bad for interrupting,” He spoke up and averted his gaze from mine, looking back at Liam. His face was solemn, and he didn’t make a teasing remark like he usually would. A beat passed before he spoke again as if gathering his thoughts. “We’re under attack. Get to formation. Now.”

My heart dropped to my ass as Bodhi rushed away, and Liam closed the door before anyone else could see us. Under attack? On reunification day? How the fuck does that happen? That couldn’t be a coincidence. Liam turned to look at me, his wide eyes meeting mine, and then we both scrambled to get our clothes on.

Liam turned to me once we finished, stalking over before gently taking my face in his hands. He leaned in to kiss me before mumbling, “We can finish this talk later.” A small grin made its way onto his face. “I’d love to hear that answer.”

His voice echoes in my mind. I’d love to hear that answer. The answer I never had the chance to give him. I squeeze my hand around the wooden sculpture of Eilidh. I can feel her at the back of my mind, quiet but waiting in case I need her. I don’t know what I need. 

“He got better with it.” I smile softly. Though we never said those three words, he was always very vocal about how he felt — consistently reassuring me I was the only one he wanted, telling me how amazing I looked even when I was a sweaty mess after challenges or sparring sessions.

“I was going to tell him the last night we were together, the night of reunification. Being called to formation kind of ruined that.” I let out a dry laugh, almost a scoff. “It still fucks with me that they told us we were under attack when it was really fucking war games.” 

Xaden grunts in response. “Had to be realistic, I guess. Wanted the adrenaline rush to see how we’d do if it were real.” This time, I let out a real scoff but don’t respond because he’s right. That’s exactly what it was, a test to see how quickly we’d react. 

“And then they sent us to our deaths,” I say quietly. Xaden doesn’t respond, but I notice how his jaw clenches. I know he feels like he failed us that day — failed Violet, Liam, and Soleil especially. I want to tell him it isn’t true, that he couldn’t have controlled what happened to us that day, but I know it would fall on deaf ears. 

“I can’t get it out of my head.” My voice falls to a whisper. “He was… fine. He was healthy. He was fighting, didn’t miss a beat, and then suddenly…” I trail off, chewing on the inside of my cheek. An ache comes creeping into my chest. I’ve debated numerous times asking Imogen to wipe the memory of him, but I know that wouldn’t be beneficial.

My feet hit the ground as I dismounted Eilidh. I could hear Deigh’s cries from a mile away. Surely he was just injured — surely he’d be fine. My eyes searched the area before finding Violet’s half-silver hair, my brows furrowing as I took in the sight of her on the ground. What the hell was happening? Why wasn’t Eilidh speaking to me? Had she shut me out? Did I do something?

I rush over, the breath leaving my lungs as I take in the sight before me. Liam was lying in her arms. No color to his face. Barely awake, his breathing shallow. I couldn’t see any blood; his body seemed fine, but he obviously wasn’t. 

“Oh my Gods, what happened?” I managed to get out as I fell to my knees beside her. Violet was kind enough to gently move Liam toward me, allowing me to gently wrap my arms around him. 

“Deigh…” Liam’s voice was strained. He’d hardly managed to get the words out before coughing. I shook my head slightly in a silent plea for him to save his energy, gently caressing my thumb along his cheek. He looked so tired. So weak. I looked up at Violet and met her gaze. There were tears streaming down her face.

“He was attacked… gutted,” Violet spoke very softly. “He was… he was protecting Tairn and I. He… he didn’t make it, Gen.” My breath caught in my throat at her words. A sudden wave of grief fell over me, partially my own but primarily Eilidh’s. Her shield must have fallen. If Deigh was dead, Liam only had minutes before he followed. If that.

My eyes fell back down to Liam, whose blue eyes studied my features like they had done a million times before. 

“I’m so sorry,” I choked out, and I couldn’t stop the tears that flooded from my eyes. This would be the last time I could hold him, the last time I could look at his beautiful eyes. The last time I could admire those freckles I loved so much. 

“It’s o-okay,” He nodded, tears brimming his own eyes. “Everything will be okay.”

I shook my head as I listened to what he said. Everything would not be okay, not without him. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. I should have told him how I felt. I should have told him how much I loved him. But my voice fell into a void, and I cursed myself for it. 

“Listen to me.” There was a shake in Liam’s voice. His energy was depleting — and quickly. “No matter what happens right now, you fight. Do you understand me? Don’t let this pull you into the dark; you fight it. You fight them. And you win. This is just a battle. We can still win the war.” His hand grasped mine as he met my tearful gaze. I stared down at him for a moment before nodding.

I would make every dark wielder pay for this. Who were they to take him from me? Who were they to attack us and assume there would be no consequence? This wouldn’t be over until every last one of them met the same fate. I’d make sure of it. 

“I promise. I’ll fight. For you, for Deigh.” I nodded again. “I promise.” And I meant it. That’s a promise I would keep. 

Liam gave me a small, weak smile. I tilted my head down and planted a gentle kiss on his lips, then one on his forehead, before Xaden landed on Sgaeyl beside us. He dismounted as quickly as possible and rushed over. My vision was blurred, my hearing muffled. I couldn’t focus on anything other than the ache forming in my chest. My body was frozen. All I could hear was Xaden’s voice as he said, “I know, brother,” before Liam was lifted from my arms and carried over to Deigh. I should have said a proper goodbye, but my heart wouldn’t let me.

I let out a deep, shaky breath as my eyes glued themselves to the grass below me, the spot where he’d been lying in my arms. I managed to blink away some of the tears before lifting my head to watch Xaden and Liam. I allowed myself to sit and wallow in the grief for a moment.

Don’t let this pull you into the dark. His voice echoed in my head. I would never be able to get over this — to get over him. I’d never be able to let go.

“You don’t have to let go of anything.” Eilidh’s voice finally sounded in my head. “But you do have to fight through it. We have people depending on us, Brave One.” 

I let out a slow breath, attempting to stabilize myself, and stood up. She was right. We did have people depending on us. I couldn’t wallow in my grief; I didn’t have time for that. Not yet, at least. 

So I looked out to where our friends were fighting. I studied them for a moment and assessed my surroundings, beginning to create a game plan in my head. I then quickly mounted Eilidh once again before she took off. I had a promise to fulfill.

“I don’t think that’s something any of us are going to get out of our heads.” Xaden shakes his head as he looks forward, not wanting to look me in the eye. It’s a sore subject for all of us, especially so soon after. 

“And that’s okay. You should remember him; all of us should…” His voice trails off as he pauses for a moment as if thinking about how he should continue. “But we have to remember that people die in war, Gen. If we let it eat us alive… if we let it hold us back, then they’d have died in vain. 

His words sink into my bones as I take my bottom lip between my teeth. He’s right. Liam isn’t the only one we lost in that battle. Xaden has always been great with speeches and motivational talks, but I’m not typically someone who needs them. Guess there’s a first time for everything. I don’t notice the silence until he breaks it again.

“And he wouldn’t want you to hold anything back.” The older boy speaks softly, his onyx eyes finally meeting mine once again. I can’t tell where he’s about to take this conversation.

“It won’t happen now, but eventually… eventually you’ll find someone who makes you feel loved and appreciated. And I know for a fact he would want you to do what makes you happy. No matter what that is, no matter who it is, he would want you to be happy.

I close my eyes, going quiet as I chew on my bottom lip. I don’t want to think about being with anyone else — I can’t imagine loving anybody else. The idea of giving myself to someone else makes my stomach churn.

“Thanks for the talk.” I give him a slight nod, not acknowledging what he had said. I push the idea of potentially falling in love with someone else away. It’s not an option. Not right now. I’m not sure it ever could be. 

“I should get back inside before Violet wakes up and I’m not there.” Xaden runs his fingers through his onyx locks before moving to stand up from the ledge. He reaches his hand down to give my shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Let me know if you need anything.” 

I don’t respond as he walks away I look back down at my hands in my lap, staring at the wooden dragon in my hands. My thumb traces over the ridges of Eilidh’s features, about a thousand emotions swirling inside me. I take a moment for myself before standing from the ledge and following Xaden into the Riorson house.

[starswornoaths]

2. Horizon

Myrina never fully learned how to make connections with the people closest to her. Never quite learned how to open up the door to her heart all the way without them having to let themselves in.

It is well that those that love her knock anyway. Would that she could let them know her. When her daughter stumbles upon a piece of Myrina's past, she will have to settle for a half truth as an end result.

word count: 3,628

-

Myrina had lived in the Shroud long enough to know that thunderstorms posed a particular threat here—with the tree canopy so dense as to blot out the sun in most places, even the scent of rain on the wind was enough for most villages to begin to prepare for the worst case scenario. 

Local volunteer firefighters and town watchtowers would remain on high alert, ready with countermeasures should lightning strike the treeline. As ever, she would be among them, covering the older trees and thatching rooves even as the storm so often caught them in the middle of their preparations.

On one such afternoon, a particularly brutal storm swept through their little Elmvale. The trees offered little and less protection from the rain pratically pelting the firefighters in horizontal sheets as they wrestled with the howling wind. Visibility was shot: even in the shade of the canopy, the tumultuous clouds overhead made it almost dark as night.

But the day was relatively kind, for all their efforts: but a single lightning bolt struck through the canopy and burned a hole large enough to fit a chocobo through before they had managed to smother the flames but beyond that, the village suffered no lasting damage.

That hole in the canopy line became something of a fascination for Myrina’s children even into the next day, after the smoke had thinned and the skies had begun to clear.

“Bet Rhalgr sent it,” her son, Uthengentle chirped as he hopped from one puddle to the next.

They were making a game of it; from what Myrina could parse, they were avoiding anywhere that wasn’t a puddle.

“The lightning?” asked her daughter, Serella, as she jumped after him.

“Yeah! That’s like his whole thing!” Uthengentle said with a pump of his fist in the air on his next leap. “He sends stuff like that down all the time! That’s what my Pops used to say! I bet it was a message!”

At that, Serella stood still in the next puddle she landed on and turned her head toward the newly formed gap in the treeline. Gray, overcast sky peered in on the village with its cosmic indifference from through the lingering smoke trails.

“Whoa,” she whispered, eyes wide in awe.

Even later that evening, with supper sorted and everyone settled in, Myrina still caught her daughter peering out of the window in the upstairs hallway, staring out toward the burned away boughs. It took little and less to shoo her gently to bed. Thus, Myrina slept soundly, certain that her daughter’s curiosity would be sated ere long.

She didn’t see much of Serella the next morning after breakfast, though the overcast day meant the family settled inside, content in their own spaces with only the sounds of fiddling hands to fill the gentle quiet. 

Eventually, though, she heard the telltale march of little feet down the steps sometime in the late afternoon. She couldn’t help but smile at the sound: she knew it was her daughter in the way she jumped with both feet off the last step. It gave her away every time.

But there was a rustle of paper with each step, something Myrina hadn’t anticipated. Serella must have busy making something up in her room.

Sure enough, her daughter’s beautiful head of hair bounced in just above the kitchen table with her expression the very picture of seriousness and a loose sheet of paper fluttering in her grip.

“Have you seen Da?” she asked.

Myrina had in fact seen Hanvesh. He was in the den, likely reading or whittling if the lack of plucking strings was any indicator. But a small part of her felt hurt that she wasn’t asked regarding whatever little mystery their daughter got into this time.

Setting down her screwdriver and the clock she had been repairing, she said, “He might be in the den. Is there something I can help with?”

Alright, maybe a little more than a little hurt.

Her daughter demured at that, staring down at her own feet and shuffling her weight between them. 

“Pro’bly not.” she mumbled at her own socks.

A far larger part of Myrina hurt at that. She fought a wince.

“I might be, you never know!” she tried again with a shaky smile, even as the words felt awkward and too loud.

But she hadn’t known how to connect with her daughter just yet; poor Uthengentle had been easy to bond with because something horrid and unjust had happened to him, too. Serella had no such loss to grapple with, sweet and earnest and untouched by the world as she was. Myrina felt shame that that was what it took for her to connect with either of her children. She felt shame that it was all she had to connect with anyone.

But her daughter’s eyes had never clouded over in haunted memories. In fighting so hard to shelter her daughter, she had made herself a stranger. She knew not how to engage with the unmarred and the innocent, even when they were her blood.

“...Nah, it’s okay. Got to do with stars and stuff, so, uhh...I’ll go check with him. Thanks, Ma!” Serella chirped, ignorant of her mother’s struggle as she skipped out of the kitchen in search of her father.

But it was a small house, just big enough for their little family. It was impossible not to hear them in the next room as she resumed her fiddling.

“I found a new constellation!” Serella told her father.

“A new constellation? You’re certain?” she heard her husband say with the right amount of awe in his voice for a child with a new discovery.

Because he knew how to connect with their children. With anyone. With everyone. Because that was the sort of person he was. He knew all about all kinds of things because he knew just how to ask. 

Myrina didn’t know how to do that. She knew all the same things of people by silent observation, but never learned how to say things softly.

“I checked all the books in the library and all the star charts you gave me, and I didn’t see anything like this!” Serella declared with the sound of paper being smacked onto a table. “I can see it at night through that hole in the trees! Uthen thinks Rhalgr wanted us to see it!”

Myrina could picture her daughter’s face perfectly: she always got this bright gleam in her mismatched eyes when she had a mystery to solve, with a big smile that showed all her little baby teeth in an expression that dared the gods themselves to tell her she couldn’t find the answer.

Serella was her father’s daughter, after all.

The screwdriver Myrina had in her hand was far too large for the next step in repairs. She busied herself with finding one of her smaller tools in her bag.

“That’s quite the effort—well, now.” Hanvesh mused with the sound of shuffling paper.

In her mind’s eye, Myrina was sat across from her husband in the den, watching the way his brow would quirk the way it always did when something caught his attention. His head would always angle toward the opposite side as the eyebrow that arched, without fail, and she could see the way it tilted in that moment he picked up the paper and examined it.

“I don’t think I’ve seen this star pattern ‘afore in all my life, Little Acorn!” he said, though Myrina had known him long enough to tell when he was hiding something. “Say, do you mind if I keep this to take a look for myself later?”

“‘Kay!” she chirped.

That had been the end of it, apparently. Serella ran off to play, and Hanvesh followed not long after, ambling out with his cane thumping in time with him.

A bad pain day, then. Myrina set the pot on the stove and began to brew his medicinal tea for when he came in.

Except she hadn’t even finished steeping it before she heard him head straight for the kitchen.

She turned just in time to see Hanvesh join her, still holding that paper in his free hand. His expression was a queer one; it hovered somewhere between serious and playful, in that strange liminal space he occupied when he intended to butter her up for something important.

As if he needed to.

“You’ll never guess what our daughter has discovered,” Hanvesh said conversationally. 

“A new constellation, by all accounts.” Myrina answered plainly.

At that, he snorted a laugh and said, “Aye, that’s what she believes. But would you believe me if I told you you’d recognize it better than I?”

As he asked this, he revealed the drawing on the paper: less a sketch and more a series of scribbled stars, one for each light she saw through the treeline.

Far too many to be a constellation; easily over a dozen dots, all arranged in a strange pyramid.

“Says she saw these after that storm the other day. Funny, the angle from the village points north, too far out to be the Shroud—”

Ah. Myrina might have known. Little wonder why she would need “buttering up,” then.

“Not a constellation, then.” she sighed and handed the paper back.

Hanvesh did not take it from her. “It’d be good to hear it from you, you know. What it really is.”

Who you really are, he did not add.

Of course it would be. If she knew how to do that. If she knew how to be a mother and a partner and a person—

“I don’t know, meri jaan,” she said around a heavy sigh.

She hadn’t even finished the exhale before he reached for her hands, gentle and sweet, as he leaned on his good leg to press close.

“Would it be so horrible if she knew her mother, mon cœur?” he asked, not unkindly and half into her cheek before he planted a kiss there.

If anyone would understand why Myrina might insist that yes, it would be so horrible, it would be her husband. That he would ask regardless meant he didn’t intend to let this go.

That it was important enough not to. That it mattered.

“I shan’t say a word,” he promised her, and when he squeezed her hands it became clear she had hidden her panic poorly. “Ultimately, it is your story to tell, mon cher.”

There was never a time he left her side without a kiss to her forehead, and this time was no exception. Cane in hand, he began to make his way back to the study.

Hovering near the window in the den on his way, he said aloud and certainly to no one in particular, “Methinks the sky’ll clear ‘round sunset, give or take a bell or two.”

He left it at that. She hated that he had, just a little, even as she knew he had the right of it.

Hanvesh had made rabbit stew out of her catch that night for dinner, and their little ones had been eager to help her make bread. 

The conversation at the dinner table never veered toward Serella’s “constellation,” lively as ever though it was. It was nice, always, to sit and watch her family happily chatter about their day. To bask in the warmth they exuded, the warmth they folded her into. 

But her thoughts were malms away from the table in that moment. Despite not having set foot there in almost a decade, a massive gate of wrought iron and stone cast a looming shadow over her thoughts. 

Realistically, she knew she could not keep her children from knowing forever—even if she did not tell them, their school would doubtless be covering broader Eorzean maps and history any day now. Though her name would not be there, the shape of the place would be unmistakable, and then the questions would follow; chief among them, the question of the household’s secrecy surrounding it. 

Nay, better to at least try.

There was about a two-bell span in the evening, after the house had gone to sleep, that Myrina knew her daughter would often shove pillows under her blankets and sneak down to the study, where all those star charts and fairytales were within her grasp, with time uninterrupted and free. Doubtless, Serella was eager to be nose-deep in some map or other, still dedicated to her new discovery.

Myrina knew a better mother might try to reign that in, to stamp down a bad habit the moment it was found. But she had been one such child once, scurrying in the shadows of her own home, delighting in the thrill of sneaking without true fear of harm. She could find no good in denying her daughter the chance to befriend the dark.

Tonight, though, she could give her daughter something better: an answer.

As expected, her ears perked at the sound of little feet trying to cling to the sides of the stair steps to reduce their creaking. In an effort to startle her daughter the least, Myrina waited until the footsteps hit the bottom before slipping out .

And, as expected, Serella spun around with such shock that she nearly sent herself to the floor when she met her mother’s eyes from the top of the stairs.

“You’re not in trouble,” she promised her daughter around the lump in her throat, holding up her hands as if to show she was unarmed. “There’s something I wanted to show you.”

Her daughter regarded her with wide eyes, watching her as she closed the distance.

“What do you mean?” Serella asked hesitantly, her whole body already bent in the shape of cornered prey.

Hard not to wince at that, but Myrina managed.

“I heard,” she said, and produced her daughter’s crude star map, “that you found yourself a constellation?”

Serella looked at her own drawing like she was somehow in trouble.

“Well…yeah. I mean,” she said in a halting voice that snagged on her own nerves. “I can’t find it in any of the books or maps I’ve been able to check. It’s up in the sky. What else could it be?”

Before she could talk herself out of it again, Myrina asked, “Would you like to know?”

That got a look of surprise on her daughter’s face, her spine unfurling as the fear left her. 

Then, as though the two of them were conspiring, she leaned in an whispered, “Do you know, Ma?”

At that, Myrina couldn’t help but crack a smile as she motioned with her head toward the front door and said, “Something like that. C’mon— get your shoes, and I’ll show you.”

With that, she led her curious daughter out through the front door and toward the treeline.

When she stopped in front of the tree that had been struck, she peered up through the burned branches.

Had she not known what those little twinkling lights were, she might also have thought they were stars; even with this hole, the trees above hadn’t thinned so much that the sky was in unobscured view.

“This one, right?” she asked, pointing at the gap.

When Serella nodded, Myrina mirrored the gesture, knelt before her daughter, and offered an open arm.

“Here, hang on to me.” Myrina instructed.

When Serella tilted her head in clear confusion, Myrina’s smile returned as she said, “We’re going to fly for just a moment. So hang on tight.”

Gasping and gawking, her daughter scrambled, her little arms wrapping around her shoulders and squeezing. 

For as unfamiliar as she was with laying her heart bare with her children, she knew without conscious thought how to swing her daughter onto her hip, arm wrapped around her like she was a toddler all over again.

It had been a while since Myrina had properly ridden the wind…but dragons never forget how to spread their wings. They who have supped on that selfsame aether were no exception.

Just as well. Short though the trip might have been, it still required a few hops around the dense canopy branches so as to hit the bigger ones, though just before breaking through the treeline, she made sure to wind up her leap as far and as high as she possibly could.

Might as well give her daughter a good view—nay, the best view she could.

Bursting through the treeline felt almost like breaking through the surface of water—for as much as she had come to love Gridania, its dense treeline made it easy to forget the world beyond and above it. It was easy to drown in the leaves. 

Now, though, the whole world stretched out in every direction further than the eye could see. Shaded treetops stretching out as far as they eye could see.

And above that, all, the glittering canopy hung higher than any tree. The stars welcomed her and her daughter into the rest of the world in that moment. The moon fair set the world alight that they might see its splendor.

Dragoons were ever taught to land lightly and hover on the barest of points, and much like their penchant for moments of flight, it was a muscle that never truly fell out of practice.

So it was nothing for her to perch on the natural “net” of the treetops, so dense as to support their weight on one of the highest branches as she settled in and set her daughter on her lap.

For so long as she drew breath, Myrina would never forget the look on Serella’s face, staring straight up at the sky—nowhere near where her newfound “constellation” was, mind, but just staring, unblinking, at the expanse of the universe with tears rolling down her cheeks as she took in the width and breadth of the night sky for the first time in her life.

“Wow…” Serella whispered. “I’ve seen it in pictures, but…”

Her words trailed off in a sniffle, even as she did nothing to wipe her tears away.

Myrina let her process this new discovery, her head on a swivel as if she would never see the sky again and had to commit it to memory. 

With a little lean toward her daughter, she murmured, “Just ahead of us. There’s your constellation—but look closer.”

Following Myrina’s outstretched hand, Serella at last scrubbed her face of tears and looked out, out, out beyond the treeline, on the far edge of the horizon. Dozens of lights twinkled back, all concentrated in the shape of a spire.

Or more accurately, several spires.

“It’s…a building…?” Serella trailed off, squinting at the outline that encased her newly discovered stars and leaning in as though it will help her see.

Eyes widening as she straightened again, she squeaked,  “...No, it’s a castle!”

Oh, how far and near to the truth she was. The truth might well break her heart. 

Despite everything, Myrina couldn’t help but smile as she said, “Something like that. It’s where I’m from.”

Serella’s head had never whipped toward her so fast.

“You came from over there?!” she exclaimed.

“Of a certainty. It’s—”

In her mind, Ishgard was as constant as the Twelveswood itself. Two homes, alike in cruelty, tumultuous as a roiling tide; made of the same waters and always destined to crash together but never unite. 

Myrina could not tell that to her child. Not when she looked up at her with such wide, inquisitive eyes. She could not be the first one to take that away from her.

“The…castle, you called it? It sits on a mountaintop with the surrounding town. It’s called Ishgard.”

Serella repeated the name slowly, as if she were testing its authenticity.

“What’s it like, Ma?” she asked.

Just as Myrina had feared. 

Slowly, she found the words to skirt around the horrid nature of the Theocracy. Staring out at the myriad lights that flickered so far away, her tone almost carried her voice to those windowsills she had so often pressed her nose against.

“The people there—they’re warm and kind. For the most part, that is,” Myrina started slowly, because that was true enough. “But they’re…it’s…”

Swallowing, she tried again, “No one is allowed to be their truest selves, unless they are inherently cruel. No one is able to truly be friends—with one another or with those not from there. It is a place cursed with loneliness and strife.”

As she expected, Serella’s tear-glossed eyes widened in shock and hurt at this revelation. Of course her tender little heart couldn’t bear the thought of such a place.

Rather than a fresh wave of tears, she shifted in her mother’s lap to face her fully as she asked, “Then we can make friends with everyone! Then they won’t be lonely anymore! Oh, can’t we go mom? Please?”

Myrina knew that look on her daughter’s face. That bright gleam in her mismatched eyes with a big smile that showed all her little baby teeth in an expression that dared the gods themselves to tell her she couldn’t fix an entire town with love.

Her sweet, innocent little girl. May she never know the harsh truths of the world—or may she defy them upon discovery.

With that little prayer in the back of her mind, she kissed the crown on her daughter’s head and promised her, “When you’re old enough to hold a sword and draw a bow, sweetheart, we’ll go together.”

Time had a funny way of half-breaking most promises and poorly keeping the rest. Twenty and two summers later, Serella would cross the Arc of the Worthy, driven there by the harshest truths and the cruelest lies of the world and trying not to wonder what her mother might make of it all.

[sierrawitch]

Manifestation of the Spoken Word

by autumn sierra

Manifestations aren’t always the product of ritual, or even a spell. Many times witches and people outside the community akin manifestations to actions bringing about the desired outcome, whether magickal or mundane. In my case, I did nothing but use the spoken word.

We as a people vastly underestimate the power of language. Whether we see it as inherently magickal or as an amazing evolution of ancient communication, language has a very important role in each life and in many ways. For someone living in the mundanity of our world, language is a means of communication and an outlet for creativity, an escape from the outside and a retreat into the vividness of the imagination. It’s also used to further education and community.

In witchcraft, we understand that language is all these things and more. We understand that in order to speak, we need to first think about what we’re going to say, and in order to do that we must conjure thought from a void within ourselves. In conjure or manifestation work, something is created from nothing, or at least by using limited tools to achieve the desired outcome. Some use tools like herbs and crystals, coins and fire. In my case (and in the case of others I’m sure) the tools were whittled down simply to the spoken word.

For the past few weeks, among my numerous hobbies I began practicing sewing and tailoring for my own growth and benefit. My younger sister realized I was doing this, and asked me to tailor her clothes, which then turned into paid commissions completely transforming old clothing into new pieces for her wardrobe. Doing all of this by hand, I often exasperatedly cried out “if only I had a sewing machine!” or “just wait until I get a sewing machine”. I said things like this over and over, usually in frustration and with fatigue, but also in excitement of the possibility of what I could achieve without needing to stitch everything by hand.

Was it my pure intention to manifest a sewing machine? Absolutely not. I did no fancy ritual work or spell casting. Nothing was set in motion physically for me to obtain one. I even recognized that I needed to put that want on hold for lack of space! And yet, my words became the catalyst of my desire. My frustration, hope, and pride in my own work fueled those words and suddenly, I found myself waking up to a text from my aunt. She had found a sewing machine at a yard sale. It was selling for $10, when it originally retailed for $130-250. She offered to give it to me free of charge. Flabbergasted, I accepted, and within the afternoon it was in my hands.

Have I found a place for my new sewing machine? No. But I have realized the immense power of the spoken word. Not only were thoughts conjured from a void within me, but my purest desires fueled with emotion were put out into the world. They were spoken of over and over again, until they came to fruition 2 weeks later.

The power of the spoken word is not limited to your native tongue. Magick is attached to languages of ancient times, like Latin, Gaeilge, Gàidhlig, Egyptian, Greek, Chinese, Ainu, Inuktut, and many more through tradition, culture, and generations of ancestral knowledge. By incorporating ancient language into witchcraft practices, we connect with those who came before and call upon the wisdom of the living word in whichever circumstance we find ourselves in. They can be used in prayer, ritual, offering, spell work, ancestor work, deity work, and manifestation. Simply using the language imbued with history and memory to commune with the world around us is magick.

So even if you’re not trying to manifest a sewing machine, consider how the words you speak so passionately could affect your life. They say “be careful what you say” and “be careful what you wish for”. Little do they know just what can be spoken into being.

[yakool-foolio]

During pre-release, Seth was shaped up to be quite the antagonist. Since chapter 1 was heavily advertised through trailers and other promotional videos, Seth ended up getting even more spotlight than Yomi! There were interesting bits and pieces that caught the Twitter Rain Code community's attention, prompting several theories. I was one of those theorists, believing Seth to potentially be a redeemable antagonist who overly relied on Amaterasu's production of medication for what was presumed to be his illness, subservient to the corporation in order to get the medicine he needed.

However, no one's theories really turned out to have much merit. What was once a highly anticipated antagonist was actually to a 'villain of the day' that was hardly even the main focus of the chapter he appeared in. It's a shame, really. Same can be said for a lot of the other peacekeepers, but I want to focus on Seth for now. There is a good foundation to build off of for a way to improve on Seth as a character (and antagonist by extension). It all starts by subverting expectations.

In chapter 0 and throughout most of chapter 1, there's a clear pattern set that there will be a select group of suspects that will whittle down with gathered evidence until it concludes with a final deduction for the true perpetrator(s). For chapter 0, it's the detectives on the train, and for chapter 1, it's the members of the church. However, what if that pattern was already broken by making Seth the Nail Man? The player assumes that since the church members have been the main focus, that must mean one of them is the culprit. But once more evidence is used to inch closer to the truth, it turns out that the player has been aiming at the wrong target!

Seth could also have a unique motive if he were to be the real Nail Man. It could fit into his family motto of 'silence is golden,' because as the Nail Man, he'd be (eternally) silencing those who've wronged others, which could hint at his own backstory of how he was forced to keep quiet while something horrible in his family happened, so now he's 'providing justice' to those who may not be able to speak up for themselves like himself. And yet, he still falls back into the motif of silence by keeping his 'justful' murders a secret. He bribes the church to keep his own murders under lock and key, without them even knowing it was him that committed them. Seth abuses his power to do what he believes is the right thing, standing up for helpless citizens who remind him of himself. He's got good intentions, but the absolutely wrong way to carry them out.

I'm thinking about incorporating this idea into my Death Knight AU, since it's something I'd love to include and wouldn't intrude with the main plot. Spice things up a bit more, y'know?