#he believed his purpose in life was to serve as a pawn

[moraxsthrone]

No thoughts head empty, just Kaeya gently running a hand through your hair as you both lie down on the couch with a warm blanket sharing stories and drinks. Body relaxed, mind at ease.

His thumb rubs at your arm lovingly with a tiny smile as you recount something funny that happened a few days ago. He loves seeing you smile, loves to hear your laugh and excited rambling.

He kisses your forehead and chuckles at the blush that blooms on your cheeks, but you just feel so happy, so warm.

This is nice...

hhhhhhhh crys!! you always put the prettiest, loveliest images in my mind of my faves.

just...spending quality time alone w kaeya like this, enjoying a couple of cocktails at home together while exchanging stories and laughs. mindlessly twirling a strand of his long, blue hair around your fingers as you recount and bemoan the sheer lack of competence you have to deal with at work some days. and he reminds you in his pleasant, melodic voice,

"just remember, my love...stupidity is job security,"

sending you into another fit of chuckles because he's so right?? then you shake your head while telling him how entertained you are by his way with words sometimes. and it makes him smile back at you bc hearing you say the things you like about him warms his once-icy heart. he secretly hopes that you never get tired of him and his cheeky antics, not knowing that his playfulness is one of the things that made you fall in love with him in the first place.

[americaswritings]

Voices of Roses and Ruin | Part II

Warnings: I haven't read the book (yet), Coriolanus thoughts, mentions of poverty, mentions of violence

Summary: Coriolanus thought he would never see you again after you won the Games and he got banished to the districts. But when he does, he is left to question whether or not he can imagine a life with(out) you.

Words: around 2k

Pairing: Young Coriolanus Snow x reader

A/N: You all asked for it so here it is: Part 2! Thank you so much for all the love on the first one. It truly blew me away!! I really hope you like this part just as much. I tried to capture Coriolanus inner conflict here. Also there will be a third and final part! :)

Can be read as Lucy Gray x Coriolanus Snow here

Part I | Masterlist

He hadn't thought he would ever see you again. Not after the gamemaster had sent for him once the games were over and he had found the evidence against him placed on a table.

Evidence that he had helped you, although the rules forbid it.

He had known. There was no denying that and it was below his dignity to pretend so. There was nothing he could say. Nothing he could do except stare at that evidence and wonder if it had been worth it.

If you had been worth it. Ruining his life.

As he had watched you crumble under his painfilled screams in the arena he had been sure to have ruined yours, but now he figured it might have been mutual.

It was what happened in the games, was a part of it. Only he had never been one and there was a sick feeling inside of him as he thought of how he had been used, had used you, had used resources to save you despite the knowledge that it crossed a line.

It was easy to watch the games and all the ways they manipulated people. Turned children into killers and brought out the deepest, darkest parts of humans. How they got manipulated in turn, by the gamemakers and the capitol. Even their mentors. And sometimes how they manipulated the public and the capitol in an act of quiet revolution.

It was oddly fascinating in a way, to see through those lies and perceptions and untangle them. Like they were all pieces on a chess board and he just had to watch them push each other around, taking out one by one.

But to find out that he had been a part of it too, that he had been played made him feel like just another pawn.

But you had won. Even if he would pay the price for it now, he had gotten you through the games. It filled him with pride and a little...relief to know that he had kept his promise.

He hated not knowing if you were safe now, but at least he had held his word. If something happened to you now, it wasn't on him.

But then why was there no comfort in that thought?

Why did there seem to be no comfort ever again, with you gone and his life torn to shreds. All his hopes and dreams crushed within one night.

Had it been worth it?

It didn't matter if he had done it for the scholarship or to save you. But then why did he suddenly feel filled with doubts?

All his life there had only been two colours: black and white. There was no grey, because he firmly believed in wright or wrong. He thought it pathetic when people weeped over the games and how tragic they were, yet found the uttermost entertainment in them.

The games served a purpose and they promised him one of his own, a university career, so he served them. It didn’t matter what he thought about it.

But now he seemed captured in between those two opposites. He knew rationally that it had been wrong to manipulate your chances so you could win. And he saw now where it had gotten him.

But wouldn't he do the same again?

Being with you, gazing into your eyes and wishing you were by his side was wrong. You came from two different worlds and the odds were against you. But then how had he turned into this man, thinking about a woman, letting his feelings guide his decisions and cloud his judgement?

And it went beyond the grey.

When you had stepped into his life you had introduced colours to it he had never seen before.

Red, not the university red, but the colours of your lips, the blood driping down your arms.

Blue, not the lifeless district blue, but the dress you had worn when you had sang during your interview and he haid laid in a hospital bed, mesmerized by your every word and sound.

Brown, the colour of dirt and poverty, but seemed to exist in uncountable shades on you.

And now that had all been ripped from him, just because he had played smarter than the other students.

His days as a peacekeeper were as dull and lonely as he had expected. He kept his gaze narrow, his weapon close and he didn't let his mind wander.

Because then he would mourn all he had lost and it would turn to anger. Fury. A turmoil of emotion he didn't know how to handle.

Sometimes he wondered if his life had only existed in polarity before and you had shown him spectra and ranges he had never learned to balance.

And it made him mad. At you. Because how dare you show him what love and lust felt like, how light it made him feel and how there seemed nothing else to exist in his thoughts anymore, only to rip it all away and show him the other side of it. The loss and the grief, the uncertanity and fear. The lacking.

Sometimes he wondered if he was going mad. Here he was damned to a life in the districts, a simple life, despite knowing he had been born for big things. It was in the name. Snow lands on top.

He pretended to be numb and hollow on the outside, but inside of him raged a storm of emotions that broke him bit by bit. Soon there would be not much left of his pride. To his sanity.

He had convinced himself he wasn't thinking about you anymore.

That his dreams of you were just evidence of his growing madness. And that the hopelessness he felt when he persuaded himself you were likely somewhere far away and not thinking of him anymore didn't exist.

But all the lies he had build opon came crashing down when he caught a glance of that blue, that red and brown and he knew. Knew without a doubt.

His hand was locked around your wrist before he could think about the movement and he dragged you away and into a dark alley, his big hand clasped over your mouth to swallow your screams and his body trapping yours against the wall.

His gaze flickered around to make sure no one saw you, then he allowed himself to look at you.

Your eyes were wide open, staring at him in a mixture of shock, fear and disbelief. Carefully he lowered his hand, his hand tangling in your hair. He had always wanted to do that.

But he didn't step away. He needed to make sure this was real, that you were real. “You're here."

You swallowed, eyes flickering over his face and then the uniform. You frowned, then carefully touched his head. "Your hair- it's gone."

"Not completely."

"It's short." You smiled and he felt his lips curve into one as well, all previous anger swallowed by the reality that you were here. That he hadn't lost everything. He had you know.

"Why are you here? Why are you one of them?" He ignored the way your tone changed and you practically spit out the word. "They found out how I helped you. It was against the rules."

He couldn't keep to himself any longer, not after he had fantasised about you for so long and his hand travelled over your neck, your jaw, cupped your cheek.

Finally, you were his.

He would have leaned down and kissed you, but the look in your eyes stopped him. "I thought you were hurt. I- I thought you were dead!"

Tears were shimmering in the soft light that the moon cast over your face and he caught them and wiped them away with his thumb when they spilled over your cheeks.

"It wasn't my voice in the arena. They used the birds to-" "I know that!" You let out a breath. "But everything they said- you said that to me. Word by word."

He waited silently for you to continue. "But then the screams-" "They weren't real", he tried to soothe you, but you shook your head. "But if everything else was, then...", you trailled of, but he knew what you thought anyway.

"They manipulated you. That's why they used my real words against you, to convince you that it was really me, my voice, so that you would believe everything."

"So they didn't-" You looked at him with so much fear that he almost smiled. "They didn't do anything to me. I sat there watching like I did the whole time."

"But then...how they did to it? And how did they listen to us all this time?"

He knew what you were really asking. Had he known? Had he known about it, but never thought it important enough to mention or worse had he intentionally not told you, because of his own motifs?

Shaking his head slightly he let out a sigh. "I don't know", he admittted. "How do they do anyting?"

You looked at him a second longer before nodding, deciding that you would trust him.

His hand ran down your arms now and he noted in satisfaction that you shivered under the touch. He was sure it had nothing to do with the cold.

"Where were you? After you won?"

After he had yelled at the game master to let you out. Many times.

"Here and there." You shrugged, but he wanted to know more. Needed to know more.

“That's not enough."

Would it ever be? Now that he was in the district and you were here too. Was that enough?

It wasn't the big house, the uniform and status. It wasn't Tigris smile. And it wasn't power.

It was just you and him, a whole lot of dirt, hunger and sickness. Lacking. Was that a life he could settle for?

Until now this had only been a station in his life. He would get back to the capitol and claim what belonged to him or else he would not see a future for himself.

But now things were different.

"I didn‘t know where to go. I thought after the games my life would be different, but I am still here and everything's the same except that I'm a killer.“

You closed your eyes and an expression of pain crossed your face. He let out a breath as he tried to soothe away the frown. "Don't say that." "But it's true." You looked at him with loathing in your eyes.

"You gave me the tools to kill and I used them. We’re both guilty."

"So? Everyone is. It's what needed to be done." He didn't get your fuss. All that mattered was you and him and you had gotten that.

"I would still make the same choices." "You would?" He nodded. "You matter more than them."

You frowned, heaviness in your eyes. "I don't." "To me you do."

It was true. He didn't know much, didn't understand these new feelings, but this one thing he could promise you was the truth.

Closing your eyes you leaned your foreheads against each other's, finding a glimmer of peace in each others presence. "To me you do too."

It was barely above a whisper, but he opened his eyes to search yours. For a moment you were locked in each other's gazes, but even though it felt like it in this moment, you would never have all the time in the world.

Cupping your cheek a final time Coriolanus closed the distance between you.

Your lips were dry and tasted a little like salt where the tears had touched them, but he savoured the feeling. Your body was trapped between the wall and his and he wanted to explore every part of it, make you completely and utterly his.

The kiss was all shades and ranges of colour he didn‘t know existed and he only knew he wanted more of it. It was addicting, this new feeling that only you seemed to hold the key to.

When you broke apart a sad smile hung on your lips. Before he could ask you about it you cast your eyes down. "They are talking about us. In the capitol. When they used your voice and I...fell for it- they made it into a whole story."

He closed his eyes. He had considered that possibility, yet he hated how he felt the control slipping from him. He had always contained an image and now he felt like other people were deciding it.

"They will forget about it." "They won't. You know it. I can't ever go back."

When he opened his eyes again he saw shock and understanding in yours. "But you...want to go back", you concluded and he didn't deny it. It had always been the scholarship for him, the way up.

He was a Snow, born into greatness. It was his duty to claim what should have been his all along.

You ducked away and took a step to the side, bringing a distance between your bodies he hated.

"This is not my life." You knew that, didn‘t you? Or had you expected him to give up everything for what…love? This feeling of lightness and colour and sweetness?

Even if it gave him a flicker of lust and the power he yearned for, it was not the same.

Because even if your love was strong enough, it would never exist without hunger, worry and a job below his worth. And he was tired, so tired of living like that.

That was why he had taken on the mentorship in the first place. Why he had even gone to such lengths to get the public to pay attention to you and then to save you.

For a different life. A better one. A life in the district was far from it.

Your eyes flickered around as you took in your own district. The one he had spent his last money on just for the possibility to see you again.

And you were standing right in front of him, yet you seemed even farer away now than you had in the arena.

"But it's mine."

Silence settled between you as both of you considered the meaning of your words.

"So all of this...for nothing? You say all these things to me, that you won't let me die and that I'm different and then you break the rules to save me only for what?!"

You shook your head furiously. Desperately. "So you can go back to the capitol and pretend this never happened?!"

He should have felt outrage, but for the first time since he had been sent to the gamemaster and learned his fate he felt numb inside.

"No."

You stared at him in bewilderment, your face a portrayal of the storm of emotion he had felt trapped inside of him for so long. "I would never pretend", he took a stride towards you.

“You changed me. And I think I changed you."

His hands found your face again and to his own surprise you let it happen. "We belong with each other."

You stared at him, a deep sadness in your eyes as you silently shook your head.

"Only not in this world", you whispered, ducking away from his touch and disappearing into the shadows without another word.

He stood there, staring at the spot you had vaished, a part of him leaving with you.

Part 3

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[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

It took 2 people to fully convince Crosshair to do a 180 on the Empire - but neither of those people were Bad Batch members.

They couldn't be. What would a squad of defective clones who had been disobeying orders since day 1 know about loyalty to an institution determined to establish order for the good of the galaxy? What would they know about finding purpose in being "good soldiers"?

Now, I DO think the seeds of Crosshair's eventual defection were planted by his brothers. Hunter pointing out that "Blind allegiance makes you a pawn" and then telling Crosshair "All you'll ever be to them is a number" are statements that are proven later to be true. But it takes Cody and Mayday to drive the lessons home.

Cody and Mayday share several characteristics that place them in unique positions to influence Crosshair:

Both are regs who accepted and befriended Crosshair - Cody says he specifically asked for Crosshair for the mission, and Mayday is upfront and friendly to Crosshair right from the start. (Contrast this to the other regs getting up to move tables when Crosshair sits to eat, or the other clone troopers who walk past Crosshair to get onto the shuttle without even sparing him a glance.)

Both are commanders. (I believe Crosshair ultimately respects authority for the most part: even when he was arguing with and challenging Hunter in "Aftermath," he still deferred to Hunter's orders until his inhibitor chip was intensified and he was then promoted to commander.)

Both are loyal soldiers who have served the Empire well - again, these regs are still commanders even under the new government. And we all know how important loyalty to the Empire is to Crosshair at this point.

Both save Crosshair's life during their missions.

In short, both are regs, but they are still soldiers Crosshair can quickly identify with and trust.

I think it's key that Crosshair encountered Cody before Mayday, though. And despite their similarities, both soldiers drive home different points.

CODY

Cody is one of the few regs we know Crosshair already respected - and still respects, given that Crosshair almost smiles when he recognizes him.

(Some proof in case it isn't apparent: Crosshair goes from frowny face...

...to relaxed almost-happy-if-you-squint-just-right face)

Anyway, while Cody does drop some hints early on that he has doubts about the Empire, he is willing to carry out the mission to rescue "Governor" Grotton, showing he will follow orders to a certain extent. However, he shows more restraint than Crosshair might have: he doesn't attack the civilians despite their obvious mistrust of the soldiers, he comes to an understanding with Tawni Ames, he's NOT willing to follow an order to execute her, and he is clearly dismayed and disappointed by her death.

And so, at the end of a "successful" mission, Cody more plainly reveals the depth of his dissatisfaction with following orders against one's own moral scruples:

Hunter had said "Blind allegiance makes you a pawn." And Cody, unwilling to blindly and unquestioningly be a pawn - or act like a battle droid - any longer, goes AWOL.

But that lesson alone isn't enough to make Crosshair turn on the Empire. Instead, he needs Mayday to give him the final push.

MAYDAY

First, Mayday indicates how appalled he is by the idea of anyone leaving their own behind - which we know is a sore spot for Crosshair. But most importantly, Mayday has demonstrated since he was first introduced that he strongly believes in soldiers being loyal to and looking out for each other (which is far different than just being loyal to the Empire).

Second, Mayday unknowingly challenges Crosshair's belief that serving the Empire provides meaningful purpose. (Remember that one of Crosshair's main arguments to his brothers about joining the Empire was so they could "find purpose again.")

Then, he unwittingly goes for the jugular and rips apart the motto Crosshair had adopted.

And then, in case Crosshair has any lingering doubts about the answer to Mayday's rhetorical question, Nolan decidedly answers the question for him.

Hunter had said "All you'll ever be to them is a number," and he is proven right in the most heartbreaking way.

Crosshair had accused his brothers of not being loyal to him; unfortunately, now he sees what true disloyalty looks like. And for Crosshair - severe and unyielding - realizing that he has misplaced his loyalty by giving it to an entity that mocks him and casts him AND those he cares about aside for doing so... this is the final straw.

Thankfully, Crosshair has now rediscovered the people who are worthy of his loyalty.

[yandere-toons]

Yandere Klaus Hargreeves (Platonic & Romantic Headcanons)

Warnings: substance abuse, bloody violence, references to child abuse and neglect, self-harm and suicidal ideation, sexual references, mentions of religious concepts.

Platonic:

Hugs, where he snuggles up with his whole body, are his favourite way to greet the one he has so fondly dubbed his truest friend. Klaus shuts out all other communication and responsibility, preferring to laugh with them and grasp for any reason to keep the conversation going. He makes no apologies for his enthusiasm and, if only privately, ridicules those who frown on his behaviour.

A snack or nightcap that happened to be on hand serves as his excuse, but in reality, Klaus is looking for any opportunity to lean in and show how attentive he can be. Klaus will endure an inordinate amount of hostility before he recognises that it's more than a lapse of affection. Even so, he assumes the fault rests squarely on his shoulders and scrambles to be more forthright in his attempts to praise and help.

Sleep exhausts him more than life unless Klaus downs a shot of liquid courage and passes out on his friend, calling their heartbeat the best sedative. He finds comfort in entangling himself with them: then the slightest movement will alert him to a disturbance or an attempt to leave, and he won't have to wake up alone, wondering if he's hallucinated it all.

When his friend exits the room, Klaus jumps up from whatever compact position he's been sitting in and hurries after them. Even if his question about going out together fetches an unequivocal "no," Klaus reacts with joy, as if he's snagged a resounding "yes," and continues to follow at their heels until they reach their destination.

Whether it's throwing himself into the back seat of their car just before they drive off or physically clinging to them, Klaus insists on not being separated for even a minute. Anything longer than a few seconds of uninterrupted silence discomforts him, so he is eager to fill that time with stories of his bizarre visions.

If Klaus's friend lands in a scuffle, he enables them by shouting words of encouragement for them to hit the other. For Klaus to strike, the friend must either ask him to do so or catch him in a moment of extreme distress. Once the altercation is over and Klaus's friend emerges victorious, he approaches the opponent and taunts them quietly, if possible extinguishing his cigarette on their skin.

Suppose his friend loses or appears to be struggling. In that case, Klaus will call upon his brother Diego to intervene with deadly force. Klaus frames this as a personal favour between brothers, but Klaus has, at best, a tenuous intention of repaying Diego, unless what Diego asks for comes in the form of pills or powder. This becomes clear when Klaus decides not to stay for the end of the fight and leaves with his friend to pour a celebratory drink.

Being a bystander in the fight means staying behind Klaus while he holds out his arm like a seatbelt. Klaus believes he has failed to fulfil his sole purpose in life and is therefore unworthy to live, so at the first sign of danger, he will sacrifice himself for one of the few people who have not yet written him off.

Klaus enjoys swapping gossip and bad memories of questionable validity about how awful the person was. He even steals valuables from the person's house, small enough to fit in his coat pocket, and then splits the reward with his friend, distracting them with compliments and jokes in hopes that they won't confront him about the crime.

If the friend presses him hard, Klaus will hand over the stolen goods but will argue that he is thieving solely in their best interest. If you wait a day or more to ask him about it, Klaus will have the time he needs to pawn off all the stolen goods and double down on the lie that someone else is to blame.

Hearing a good song, Klaus will try to dance with his friend. Humour him or not, Klaus improvises a whole routine and "accidentally" plants his elbow in the ribs of everyone he suspects has the same dance partner in mind. He makes a point of swaying in his friend's line of sight and slides into the way each time they venture out.

Despite this, Klaus is the first to flee and invent insults against the others for smothering him. Should the people claim that Klaus is the real hanger-on, that his friend stays with him out of pity rather than necessity, he lashes out in a burst of verbal and physical rage at whoever said it last.

Acts of impulse serve as a cornerstone of his fragile attachment. In a more domestic setting, Klaus falls into their lap on the pretext that his family is hogging all the chairs. Kisses blown across the room, closer if his friend asks for such things, earn him much derision from his siblings.

No matter how much Ben gags in his ear, Klaus pays no mind to his antics and gradually isolates himself from those who challenge his view of the relationship. He has had enough of being expected to validate his every choice in his family's eyes and declares that he will never again bring his friend round the mansion. When questioned as to his motives, Klaus is unusually honest about his preference for them over his family.

Klaus jokes that, even in death, he will hold them to all the promises they made in life. He warns them not to bunk with other spirits, as he has dedicated a La-Z-Boy and a bottomless supply of pizza to them in his afterlife. One-on-one existence, where his dream could never again be taken from him, is his paradise, and the resurrection, the gasp of loneliness that comes with leaving such a world, takes more from his heart than any bullet.

As someone whom the dead haunt like a shadow, Klaus will continue to talk to his friend long after their death. Everyone else can only watch and guess at his condition as he chats with empty air about what to eat that day. Klaus is well aware that his friend is dead and that no one else can see them now, but it gives him more reason to include them in conversations with others.

This is how he soothes his grief and tells himself that despite the new barrier, he can still socialise with them and, at least for a few blissful minutes, pretend that everything is as it should be. If anyone is angry with him for this, Klaus teases them: in his eyes, they are shamelessly envious that he has such a loyal friend.

Romantic:

Playdates with his abrasive family are a necessary evil, but as soon as his partner leaves, Klaus waves goodbye to his siblings and follows. He packs his nonexistent bags and sets off, unable to trust that his partner won't realise he does more harm than good and abandon him while they're apart.

Klaus fears his attachment—he worries that by revealing its burning intensity and seeking appreciation, he is inviting future rejection. Every time Klaus takes such a risk, he anticipates problems in the relationship that will exceed his abilities and expose his incompetence. Consequently, he may attempt to sever the connection before it has the chance to evolve.

Throughout Klaus's existence, fortune has conspired against him, divine intervention has been a lie, and karma has overdosed him twentyfold before granting him another fleeting sense of hope. Any individual who treats Klaus as anything more than his father's failed experiment and values him for reasons beyond his powers which he so loathes must be clueless.

However, Klaus notes, they must also be a finer person than himself, one to whom he could never measure up, and for whose sake he would mutilate himself at a moment's notice. Anyone who hurts them is beneath contempt, a bastard whom he would gladly let burn in a fire of their own making.

Klaus dreams up an intricate history of conflict and pleasure in case he has to step into the role of a jilted ex and deliver a heart-wrenching story to win that coveted second chance. He dallies in places frequented by his partner to catch them alone, spilling his deepest affections, hoping that one day, even if a thousand lifetimes from this one, they will embrace him once more.

For Klaus, eye contact with his partner means that they find him the opposite of repulsive and are open to seeing more of him, a feat he cannot even allow himself. At the slightest hint of their presence, he casts a wistful stare that, when interrupted, turns listless and dejected. It is this ingrained hesitancy to trust his own judgement that causes him to doubt his right to exist until another sees him and proves that he deserves life.

Klaus chases this meaning as he often has the bottom of a bottle, languishing in every sense of the word until he may experience it again. Perhaps a glaring difference in interests leaves him at a loss as to how to bond, such as if his partner turns out to be a grease monkey. In this scenario, Klaus resorts to conning a mechanic's shop into giving them lessons.

He deliberately injures himself, making sure that some part of his body is streaming blood, and then claims that an employee assaulted him. The act is contrived to arouse sympathy for him and punishment for another, replete with tears, dramatised accounts of every blow dealt, and threats when no one else is listening.

Klaus pretends he is too disoriented from blood loss to walk on his own and insists he must hold on to his partner when he stands. He grossly exaggerates the time and energy needed to recover, suggesting they carry him in their arms and focus all their attention on him until he "feels better."

Claiming that insensitive siblings will only aggravate his fragile state, Klaus plays up the injury and groans his way into his partner's abode. There, in the bedroom or on the couch, he finds his strength, undresses with a quickness he previously thought lost, and makes every effort to seduce.

Each day reminds Klaus how readily most people dismiss him as a useless junkie, so much so that he struggles to see the point of recovery. He considers his perceived attractiveness to be his one redeeming quality or, at the very least, the only quality that elicits positive reinforcement from others. Thus, he often sees his body as all he can offer in terms of incentive to stay with him.

When an attempt fails or, worse, is so unsuccessful that the relationship is jeopardized, Klaus rushes to propose alternative forms of intimacy: sleeping in the same bed from now on or spooning for a couple of days. In the meantime, Klaus worries inwardly that he is no longer desirable and fears for his ability to maintain his partner's interest.

That afternoon, Klaus presents them with a cocktail he swiped from Reginald's stash or a local bar, dressed in clothes he snatched from their bedroom without asking. Klaus is down to share a bottle of hard liquor, but addiction is the price he alone must pay for all his mistakes.

When his partner has similar issues, he takes the bottle and pitches all the street drugs, forcing the substance into his own veins when he needs to remove it completely from their reach. Klaus would rather bear the pain of another overdose than risk that for his partner.

Suppose the two have five dollars between them; the partner wishes to use it for a packet of cigarettes, while Klaus wants to put it towards a rice cake to split. Given the risk of disappointing them or starving, Klaus will suffer an empty stomach until he keels over. Once they look pleased, he can always shoplift the odd armful of crisps from a convenience store.

As the days turn to weeks, Klaus finds that less and less of life brings him the high he feels when he is near his partner. Nothing inspires the same happiness, and everything that used to thrill him has dulled. For Klaus, the whole of his life's worth depends on whether his ardour is reciprocated. If not, if he has devoted so much only to humiliate himself again, then the world of the living is no place for him.

Seeing how his family treats him like a ghost, Klaus trusts no one would mourn him if he vanished and never found his way back. At least, in death, he could enjoy a moment's peace and await the day when the one in whose steady hand he put forth his heart, freshly torn from his chest, would visit him.

Gone is the will to eat save for a cold waffle here and there, drinking himself into a nonstop bender that aims to drive out his heartache but instead only deadens it. Wrapped in a memento he never takes off to keep up the semblance of closeness, Klaus lingers at their final resting place so as not to miss any effort at contact.

It is not at all uncommon to find Klaus hungover, musing that perhaps if he dies in the same place, he can follow them to the other side. The more breath leaves his body, the closer their touch, telling him if he falls a little deeper, he can be with them. Whether it's a pipe dream or a drug-induced flashback, which Klaus is no longer able to tell apart, he resists coming out of it until a defibrillator or stomach pump forces him back to reality.

Each time the Maker rides to him on Her dirt road, there comes the possibility of a reunion. At his lowest, Klaus stops his heart for this exact purpose, or rather, he welcomes a moment in the hereafter with one who eases his burden of life.

[captainhunnicutt]

I'm not going to get into the symbolism of how much blood is on Newsome's hands and scrubs vs BJ's because I think that's been talked about a lot. But what's also really telling about this scene in particular (and a later scene which I will get to), is how it really helps charts a timeline of BJ's denial about being a pawn in a militaristic chess game, wanting to do good and serve others, and his anger towards everything in general.

Despite everything, despite having had fits of undeniable rage - at this point, there's still a part of him that is clinging to the idea that he is going to come out of the war exactly who he was when he went in. He's openly admitted how angry he is, he's allowed the anger to escape and display itself physically, but he still believes if he does "the right thing," it will all end up as intended. He still thinks if everyone works together, if everyone does their best, if everyone accepts that they are in a situation completely not in their control - that the common ground they meet on will help propel them to the other side. Whether that "other side" be of an OR session or the end of the war is irrelevant. BJ is still hoping that having a plan and having a goal is enough. He hasn't yet realized that sometimes strength and perseverance may not always be enough.

Hawkeye gets it. By the sheer fact that he has been at this longer than BJ, Hawkeye sees the bigger picture while BJ is still collecting the pieces. In "BJ Papa San," Hawkeye wasn't at all surprised by BJ's outburst. He didn't flinch. He knew BJ had to come to the conclusions and realizations himself. Words from someone else were irrelevant. This time, Hawkeye and BJ both hear the exact same words, both see the exact same scene playout in front of them - but due to varying degrees of experiences and personal timelines... Hawkeye feels the fear before BJ does. BJ still hasn't shaken the idea that hope and strength is enough to get him out of this mess. That he'll be okay. Hawkeye realizes that none of that matters. It doesn't matter how strong you think you are, or how strong everyone else thinks you are. The stain is permanent and eventually it's going to show itself to the world. Excellent foreshadowing, but that's neither here nor there.

Then "Bombshells" happens. It took until nearly the end of the entire show for BJ to have his moment where he realizes "the right thing," and "hope" weren't enough. That he wasn't special. That he hadn't figured out the secret code. That ultimately, it didn't really matter what he did or didn't do. That even being "strong" and "brave," meant something totally different depending on who was watching or listening.

The military saw his acts as "brave" and "heroic." The words alone sickened BJ. What's so "brave" and "heroic" about not saving someone when that's the entire reason you were brought over? It didn't matter how "strong" he was in the eyes of anyone else. It didn't matter that he had made a tough decision and saved himself. What even is strength?

He never wanted to be a "soldier," and of course a large part of it is because he disagrees with everything about war and bloodshed, and the people that force others to take part in the acts. That's no secret. But personally, I think up until "Bombshells," BJ really thought he hadn't fallen victim to the same control that "soldiers" did. I think he really still believed that his vision of "right" and "wrong" was enough of a contrast from militaristic "right" and "wrong," to separate him. To not lump him into a category of men and boys whose sole purpose was to kill. That if he did what was expected of him, on his own terms, that somehow made him stronger than the machine forcing him and everyone else into the situations.

BJ's idea of "what was expected oh him" was always to survive - no matter what. He set that expectation on himself. He had to get home to his wife and daughter and the idealistic perfect life he was meticulously crafting, and if he could simultaneously do that while helping and saving others - than his idea of "strength" stayed in tact. Do what you're told/asked - but make it home not just alive, but unscathed. That's it. That was the goal.

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

A Tyrell in the Lion's Den (Part 2)

Part 1

Word count: 4.4k

Pairing: Tywin Lannister x Tyrell!reader

Summary: Y/n Tyrell carefully navigates the dangerous political landscape of King's Landing, balancing loyalty to Tywin Lannister while grappling with the growing uncertainty and peril that comes with playing the game of thrones.

My requests are open

________________________________________________________

In the weeks that followed, my relationship with Tywin became the most exhilarating secret of my life. Every glance, every whispered word exchanged in the corridors of the Red Keep, only served to heighten the thrill. But as much as I relished our clandestine encounters, a part of me couldn’t shake the unease that settled deep in my chest. Tywin Lannister was a man of power and calculation, and I knew that being involved with him meant treading a precarious path.

Our meetings grew more frequent, though always shrouded in secrecy. He would send a servant to deliver a note—a simple piece of parchment with a time and a place. Sometimes it would be his chambers, where we would talk late into the night about everything and nothing, the weight of our responsibilities momentarily forgotten. Other times, it was the godswood, where we would walk together in silence, the cool breeze carrying our unspoken thoughts.

And then there were the nights when we didn’t talk at all.

It was on one such night, as I lay beside him in the dim light of his chambers, that I allowed myself to wonder what it all meant. Tywin wasn’t the kind of man to indulge in frivolities; he was too focused, too driven. So why was he indulging in me? Was I truly more to him than a distraction, as he claimed? Or was I just another pawn in his grand game, destined to be discarded when I had served my purpose?

I turned to look at him, his face softened by sleep, the stern lines of his features relaxed in a way they never were during the day. For a moment, I was struck by how vulnerable he looked, and I felt a pang of something I couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t love—not yet, at least—but it was something close. Whatever it was, it terrified me.

The next morning, as we dressed in silence, I couldn’t stop myself from asking the question that had been gnawing at me.

“Tywin,” I began hesitantly, fastening the clasps of my dress. “What is this to you?”

He paused, turning to look at me with that unreadable expression I was beginning to dread. “What do you mean?”

“This,” I said, gesturing between us. “Us. What does it mean to you?”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, but I could see the wheels turning in his mind, calculating, measuring. Finally, he sighed and walked over to me, taking my hand in his.

“This… is something I did not expect,” he admitted quietly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “But it is something I find myself unwilling to give up.”

His words were a balm to my anxiety, but they also left me with more questions. “And what happens when this becomes… inconvenient?”

Tywin’s grip on my hand tightened slightly. “It won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”

I wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that this formidable man who had orchestrated so many intricate plots could somehow keep our relationship safe from the treacherous waters of court politics. But a part of me knew that no matter how careful we were, nothing stayed hidden in King’s Landing forever.

My thoughts must have shown on my face because Tywin’s expression softened in a way I rarely saw. “I care for you,” he said, his voice low but firm. “And I will do whatever is necessary to protect you.”

Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door. Tywin’s demeanor shifted instantly, the warmth in his eyes replaced by the cold calculation that so many feared. He released my hand and moved to open the door, his mask firmly in place.

It was a servant, delivering a message from the Small Council. Tywin took it without a word and dismissed the man, but I could see the change in him. The moment of vulnerability was gone, replaced by the Lord of Casterly Rock, the Hand of the King, the man who held the fate of the Seven Kingdoms in his hands.

“I should go,” I said, not wanting to overstay my welcome. “I’ll see you later.”

Tywin nodded, his attention already shifting to the message in his hand. I left his chambers, feeling a strange mixture of satisfaction and unease.

As I made my way back to my own rooms, I couldn’t help but think about what Olenna and Margaery had said. My grandmother’s warning about playing with fire echoed in my mind, and I wondered if I was indeed getting too close to the flames. But then I thought of Tywin’s words, his promise to protect me, and I felt a spark of hope. Maybe this wasn’t just a game. Maybe it was something more.

But even as I tried to reassure myself, a new fear crept into my heart. What if I was falling for Tywin Lannister? And what would that mean for me, for my family, for the future we had so carefully planned?

Days turned into weeks, and the tension in the capital continued to rise as Margaery’s wedding drew nearer. The city buzzed with preparations, the streets filled with merchants and nobles from all corners of the realm. It was a grand event, one that would cement the alliance between House Tyrell and House Lannister, and everyone was on edge.

Margaery, ever the consummate bride, handled it all with grace and poise, though I could see the strain in her eyes. We spent hours together, going over the final details of the ceremony, the feast, and the countless other events that surrounded the wedding. But even in the midst of all the chaos, she never missed a chance to tease me about my “distraction.”

“You’ve been awfully quiet about a certain someone lately,” she remarked one afternoon as we tried on our dresses for the wedding. “Has the lion finally lost his roar?”

I shot her a look, though I couldn’t help but smile. “Hardly. He’s just… busy.”

Margaery arched an eyebrow. “Too busy for you? I find that hard to believe.”

“He has a realm to run, sister,” I said, adjusting the delicate lace on my sleeve. “I’m hardly his top priority.”

“Perhaps not,” Margaery agreed, her tone thoughtful. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t matter to him.”

Her words made me pause. Did I matter to Tywin? Or was I just another complication in his already complicated life?

Before I could dwell on it too much, Olenna swept into the room, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of our attire. “Well, don’t you both look lovely,” she said, her tone approving. “It’s a wonder the entire court isn’t tripping over themselves to catch a glimpse of you.”

“Not all of us need to be the center of attention, Grandmother,” I said, earning a chuckle from her.

“True, true,” Olenna conceded. “But a little attention never hurt anyone. And speaking of attention, I trust you’re still keeping our dear Lord Tywin on his toes?”

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t suppress the warmth that spread through me at the thought of him. “I suppose you could say that.”

Olenna’s expression softened. “Just remember, my dear, that men like Tywin Lannister are not easily swayed. If you’ve captured his interest, it’s because you’ve shown him something he’s not used to seeing.”

“And what’s that?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Someone who isn’t afraid of him,” Olenna said with a knowing smile. “Someone who doesn’t cower in his presence or seek to curry his favor. That, my dear, is a rare thing indeed.”

I thought about her words long after we had finished our fittings and returned to our rooms. Was that why Tywin was drawn to me? Because I treated him like a man, not a monster? And if so, what did that mean for us?

The night before Margaery’s wedding, there was a grand feast in the Great Hall. The room was filled with the finest lords and ladies of the realm, all dressed in their most opulent attire, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. Music filled the hall, and laughter echoed off the walls, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to change.

Tywin was seated at the head table, his expression as inscrutable as ever. I caught his eye a few times throughout the evening, and each time, I felt a jolt of electricity run through me. But we were careful to keep our interactions to a minimum, knowing that the court’s eyes were always watching.

As the night wore on and the wine flowed more freely, I found myself slipping out of the hall, needing a moment of respite from the noise and the crowd. I made my way to the gardens, the cool night air a welcome relief from the stifling heat of the feast.

I wasn’t alone for long. A few minutes later, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me, and I turned to see Tywin approaching, his expression unreadable.

“Couldn’t stand the festivities any longer?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I smiled. “Something like that. And you? Surely the Hand of the King has more pressing matters to attend to.”

Tywin shook his head, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Not tonight.”

We stood there in silence for a moment, the tension between us palpable. Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer.

“Tywin,” I began, my voice trembling slightly. “What happens after the wedding? What happens to us?”

He looked at me, his gaze intense. “We continue as we have,” he said simply. “Unless… you want something more.”

I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest. “And if I do?”

Tywin’s expression softened, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “Then we will find a way.”

________________________________________________________

The wedding of Margaery and Joffrey was a spectacle unmatched by any in recent memory. The Great Sept of Baelor was adorned with garlands of flowers, the air thick with the scent of incense and the murmurs of the gathered nobility. As the High Septon pronounced the young couple husband and wife, the cheers from the crowd were deafening. Yet amidst the celebration, I felt a chill, as if the gods themselves were watching with bated breath.

The feast that followed was equally grand, with tables groaning under the weight of lavish dishes and endless goblets of wine. Joffrey, in his typical fashion, reveled in the attention, making crude jokes and ordering the musicians to play increasingly raucous tunes. Margaery played her part perfectly, smiling and laughing at her husband’s antics, though I could see the strain in her eyes. This was not the life she had dreamed of, but it was the one she had chosen—or rather, the one that had been chosen for her.

As the evening wore on, the atmosphere in the hall began to shift. The laughter became more forced, the smiles more brittle. Something was wrong, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I scanned the room, searching for the source of my unease, and my gaze landed on Tywin. He was watching Joffrey with an expression I couldn’t decipher—something between disdain and calculation.

And then it happened.

Joffrey, in the middle of a cruel jest, suddenly began to choke. At first, the guests thought it was part of the act, laughing along with the king’s apparent discomfort. But when he fell to the floor, gasping for breath, the laughter turned to screams. Chaos erupted as everyone scrambled to understand what was happening. Margaery knelt beside her husband, her face a mask of horror, while Cersei screamed for the maesters.

I stood frozen, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene unfolding before me. Joffrey’s face turned purple as he clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging with terror. It was a gruesome sight, and yet I couldn’t look away. I could hardly breathe myself, the shock of the moment pressing down on me like a weight.

Tywin remained seated, his expression unreadable, though I could see the tension in his posture. He was watching everything, taking it all in, and I realized that he must have known something like this could happen. Perhaps he had even expected it.

In the midst of the chaos, a thought struck me like a blow: this wasn’t just an accident. Someone had poisoned the king. And if Tywin had anticipated it, then he was either involved or already planning how to use this to his advantage.

The realization sent a shiver down my spine. If Tywin had a hand in this, then he was far more dangerous than I had ever imagined. But before I could dwell on it, Joffrey gave one final, convulsive gasp, and then he was still. The hall fell into a stunned silence, the only sound the ragged breathing of those closest to the king.

Cersei’s wail of grief shattered the silence, and she rounded on Tyrion, who had been holding the goblet Joffrey had drunk from. “He did this!” she screamed, pointing a trembling finger at her brother. “He poisoned my son!”

Chaos erupted once more as the guards seized Tyrion, and I felt a surge of panic. Tyrion couldn’t have done this—he wasn’t capable of such a thing. But as I looked at Tywin, still calm amidst the storm, I realized that the truth didn’t matter. What mattered was how this tragedy could be used, how the pieces of the game would move in response.

I needed to leave the hall. I needed to think, to understand what was happening and what it meant for my family, for Tywin, for the realm. But as I turned to go, I felt a hand on my arm. I looked up to see Margaery, her face pale and drawn.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Please, don’t leave me alone.”

I nodded, squeezing her hand in reassurance. Whatever was happening, we would face it together. We had no choice.

As the night wore on, the Great Hall became a place of mourning and fear. Joffrey’s body was taken away, and the guests were ushered out, leaving only the closest members of the royal family and their allies behind. Margaery and I sat together, our hands clasped tightly, while Olenna hovered nearby, her sharp eyes taking in every detail.

Tywin approached us, his face set in a grim mask. “Margaery,” he said softly, “you should rest. The day has been a long one.”

Margaery shook her head. “I can’t. Not until I know who did this.”

“We will find the culprit,” Tywin assured her, his tone as cold as ice. “But for now, you must take care of yourself. You are the queen now, and the realm will look to you for strength.”

The queen. The words hung in the air like a curse. Margaery had wanted to be queen, but not like this. Not with the blood of her husband still fresh in the minds of all who had witnessed his death.

Reluctantly, Margaery allowed herself to be led away, and I followed close behind, my mind racing. Tywin’s words had been carefully chosen, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than met the eye. He had a plan, of that I was certain, but what it was, I couldn’t yet fathom.

Back in our chambers, Margaery collapsed onto the bed, her composure finally breaking. “What do we do now?” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “What will happen to us?”

I knelt beside her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “We do what we must,” I said, though the words felt hollow. “We survive.”

Margaery nodded, though I could see the fear in her eyes. She was strong, but even she wasn’t prepared for the storm that was coming.

As I sat with her, trying to offer what little comfort I could, my thoughts kept drifting back to Tywin. What role had he played in this tragedy? And more importantly, what did he plan to do next? I had aligned myself with a man of immense power, but that power came with a price—a price I wasn’t sure I was willing to pay.

The days that followed were a blur of tension and uncertainty. Joffrey’s death had plunged the court into chaos, and the search for his killer consumed everyone’s thoughts. Tyrion was imprisoned, accused of regicide, though I knew in my heart that he was innocent. But proving that was another matter entirely.

Tywin took control of the situation with his usual ruthless efficiency, organizing the investigation and ensuring that the realm remained stable. But his actions only deepened my suspicions. He was too calm, too prepared. It was as if he had been expecting this all along.

One evening, as I made my way back to my chambers, I found myself face to face with Tywin. He was waiting for me, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low.

I nodded, following him into a nearby room where we could speak in private. Once the door was closed, I turned to him, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Did you know this was going to happen?” I asked, unable to keep the accusation out of my voice.

Tywin regarded me with a cool, measured gaze. “I suspected that something was afoot,” he admitted. “But I didn’t know the specifics.”

His words did little to ease my fears. “And you just let it happen? You let Joffrey die?”

Tywin’s expression hardened. “Joffrey was a liability,” he said bluntly. “His death, while unfortunate, opens up new opportunities for the realm. Tommen will be a better king—a more pliable one. The realm needs stability, and this is the way to achieve it.”

I stared at him, shocked by his callousness. “And what about Margaery? What about our family? Do we mean nothing to you?”

Tywin stepped closer, his gaze intense. “You mean more to me than you realize,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “But you must understand that this is the game we play. Power requires sacrifices—sometimes even those we care about.”

His words chilled me to the bone. I had known Tywin was a ruthless man, but this… this was something else entirely. He was willing to sacrifice anyone, anything, to maintain his grip on power. And I was beginning to wonder if I had made a terrible mistake by aligning myself with him.

But even as I questioned my choices, a part of me was drawn to his strength, to his unwavering resolve. Tywin Lannister was a man who would stop at nothing to achieve his goals, and in a world as dangerous as this, perhaps that was exactly what I needed.

“Where does this leave us?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Tywin reached out, taking my hand in his. “It leaves us exactly where we were before,” he said. “You are still important to me, and I will protect you. But you must trust me, even when things seem uncertain.”

Trust. It was a dangerous word, especially in the world we lived in. But as I looked into Tywin’s eyes, I realized that I didn’t have a choice. If I wanted to survive, I had to trust him.

I nodded, though the doubt still lingered in my heart. “I understand,” I said quietly.

“Good,” Tywin replied, his grip on my hand tightening slightly. “We have much to do, and the game is far from over.”

________________________________________________________

The days following Joffrey’s death were consumed by a whirlwind of activity. The court was in a state of upheaval, with every noble and servant whispering about the poisoning and the ensuing chaos. The trial of Tyrion Lannister loomed large on the horizon, casting a shadow over everything. Cersei was relentless in her accusations, demanding justice for her son with a fury that brooked no dissent.

Margaery was a picture of stoic grief, playing the role of the mourning widow with impeccable grace. Yet behind closed doors, she was deeply troubled. The death of her husband, even one as detestable as Joffrey, had left her vulnerable, and she knew it. The power she had been so close to securing was slipping through her fingers, and there was little she could do to stop it.

One evening, as we sat together in her chambers, Margaery voiced her fears. “What will become of me now?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Joffrey is dead, and Tommen is just a boy. Cersei will do everything she can to keep me away from him.”

I took her hand, squeezing it gently. “Tommen is kind-hearted and easily influenced. With time, you can win him over. And remember, you have grandmother by your side. She is a formidable ally.”

Margaery nodded, though the uncertainty in her eyes remained. “But what if Cersei succeeds in keeping me away from Tommen? What if I’m cast aside like Sansa was?”

I hesitated, unsure of how to answer. The truth was that Margaery’s fears were not unfounded. Cersei was ruthless and would stop at nothing to protect her remaining son. But I couldn’t let Margaery lose hope. “You are the Queen, Margaery. You have the support of the Tyrells and the goodwill of the people. Cersei may be powerful, but she is not invincible.”

She gave me a small, sad smile. “Sometimes I wonder if I was ever truly meant to be queen. Joffrey’s death feels like a sign that I’m cursed.”

“Nonsense,” I replied firmly. “You have the strength and the intelligence to navigate this storm. And you have me. We will face whatever comes together.”

Margaery’s smile grew a little stronger, and she leaned her head against my shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

As we sat there in silence, I couldn’t help but wonder what Tywin’s next move would be. He had assured me that everything was under control, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there were more twists and turns ahead. I needed to be vigilant, to protect both Margaery and myself from the dangers that lurked in the shadows of the Red Keep.

A few days later, I received a summons to meet with Tywin. I wasn’t surprised—he had been unusually distant since our last conversation, and I knew that something was brewing. When I arrived at his chambers, he was seated at his desk, a map of Westeros spread out before him.

“Sit,” he said, not looking up as I entered. I obeyed, taking a seat across from him. For a moment, there was only the sound of the crackling fire, and then Tywin finally looked at me.

“The situation is more complicated than I anticipated,” he began, his voice as cold and calculated as ever. “Tyrion’s trial will be a spectacle, and Cersei will stop at nothing to see him executed. However, there are those who believe in his innocence—people who could prove troublesome if they were to act on their convictions.”

I nodded, understanding the implications of his words. “You want me to keep an eye on them?”

“Precisely,” Tywin said, leaning back in his chair. “You have a unique position within the court. You’re close to Margaery and the Tyrells, and people tend to underestimate you. Use that to your advantage. Find out who is sympathetic to Tyrion, and report back to me.”

It was a dangerous task he was asking of me, but I knew better than to refuse. “And what of Margaery?” I asked carefully. “She’s worried about her position now that Joffrey is dead.”

Tywin’s expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained calculating. “Margaery will be fine, as long as she remains useful to us. Tommen will need a queen, and Margaery is well-suited to that role. But she must not overstep her bounds. Cersei will be watching her closely.”

I swallowed, knowing that Margaery’s future depended on a delicate balance of power. “I’ll do what I can,” I promised.

Tywin nodded, his gaze piercing. “Good. Remember, loyalty to the Lannisters will be rewarded. Betrayal will not be tolerated.”

With that, he dismissed me, leaving me with the weight of his expectations on my shoulders. As I left his chambers, I couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of dread. The game of thrones was becoming more dangerous by the day, and I was walking a very thin line.

Over the next few weeks, I began to carry out Tywin’s orders, subtly gathering information from those around me. I listened carefully to the conversations in the court, noting who spoke in favor of Tyrion and who remained silent. It was a delicate dance, one that required me to be both discreet and cunning.

Margaery, meanwhile, was doing her best to maintain her position. She spent more time with Tommen, charming him with her kindness and winning over the young king’s trust. But Cersei was never far away, her presence a constant reminder of the danger that surrounded us.

One evening, as I was returning to my chambers, I was approached by a figure I hadn’t expected to see—Varys, the spymaster. He moved silently, his expression unreadable as he blocked my path.

“A word, if you please,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

I hesitated, glancing around to ensure we were alone. “What do you want?” I asked warily.

Varys smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been very active lately, gathering information for Lord Tywin. But I wonder, do you truly understand the game you’re playing?”

“I understand enough,” I replied, though my heart was pounding in my chest.

“Do you?” Varys’s tone was almost pitying. “Tywin Lannister is a powerful man, but his power is built on fear and manipulation. You are valuable to him now, but what happens when you’re no longer useful? The Lannisters are not known for their mercy.”

His words struck a nerve, and I felt a surge of anger. “What are you trying to say?”

Varys sighed, as if disappointed by my response. “I’m saying that you should be careful where you place your loyalties. The winds of change are coming, and when they do, those who are too close to the Lannisters may find themselves swept away.”

With that cryptic warning, Varys turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving me with more questions than answers. His words lingered in my mind, fueling the doubts that had been growing since Joffrey’s death.

[acourtofthought]

Just to address a few things first -

I love Feysand together and I don't hold their (Rhys's) past mistakes against them.

The way Tamlin spoke to Feyre at the High Lords meeting was petty and childish.

But for those who claim Lucien's actions with Hybern are unforgiveable and therefore will forever make it impossible for Elain to forgive him in order to accept their bond, I think we should compare two scenarios:

Rhys admits that he forced Feyre into their bargain as a way to defy Amarantha, a way to get back at Tamlin, and yes, a way to keep Feyre alive. Feyre acknowledges that she was a pawn in his schemes yet still fell in love with him.

Versus:

Lucien had no idea the sisters would be brought into things, that was all Ianthe.

He tells both Feyre and Elain that what happened was a mistake, that the sisters being brought in and how things went down was not their plan. One of Lucien's main goals was to try and save Feyre.

Rhys, in comparison, admits that it was his plan to use Feyre as a pawn to serve his purpose. There were aspects that benefitted her but most of it was for himself and his people.

Tamlin and Lucien believed Feyre was being brain washed and tortured, something she let Lucien continue believing when he found her in the woods, when she felt it was more important to protect the secret of who Rhys was under his mask. So they worked with Hybern in exactly the same way Rhys worked with Amarantha, with the end goal of protecting Feyre and helping their people:

The differences in these scenarios are:

Lucien and Tamlin never used Feyre or her sisters as a pawn versus Rhys who actively used Feyre as one. For good reasons yes but it doesn't change the facts.

There was no "Ianthe" in Rhys's situation. Rhys, as High Lord, made the decisions on his own and did not risk betrayal by sharing his schemes with others. He clearly made the smarter play compared to Tamlin who trusted Ianthe but.....

Lucien never liked Ianthe. Never really trusted her, never wanted her around. Just as Cassian, Az, etc. followed their HLs orders to hide Feyre's pregnancy, just as Amren and Mor chose to keep the mating bond a secret from Feyre, just as the IC all hid the information about Nesta's made weapons from her, those under a HL are subject to following the orders of said HL. It didn't matter if Lucien agreed with Tamlin about Hybern, about Ianthe, he had no power to challenge him. In the end, the decision to do what they did was not his call.

I think everyone in this fandom knows that the events of Hybern would truly not stand in the way of an Elucien endgame.

When Rhys used Feyre as a pawn on multiple occasions.

When Cassian told Nesta that everyone hated her and initially hid the knowledge of the swords from her.

When Bryce initially thought Hunt betrayed her in CC1.

When Rowan punched Aelin in the face and told her the world would have been better had she died as a child.

When Feyre fell in love with Tamlin even after he kidnapped her.

When Ruhn fell in love with Lidia despite the sins she committed for the Asteri.

I think everyone knows Elain's current behavior towards Lucien is not preventing an Elucien endgame.

Not when Nesta told Cassian she wanted nothing to do with him and slept with other males.

Not when Feyre was initially afraid of Rhys, said the night she kissed Tamlin was the happiest of her life, admits she wanted Rhys even UTM yet still accepted Tamlin's proposal.

Not when Yrene thought Chaol was to blame (by association) for the death of her family.

Not when you consider what Elide believed about Lorcans loyalty to Maeve.

Not when Aedion found out about Lysandra and Aelin's plot to deceive him in marriage and children.

Given the history of SJMs writing, there is nothing preventing an Elucien endgame aside from Elain's reticence over the bond and when an author like Diana Gabaldon turned an unwanted arranged marriage (for Claire) into a love story that has one of SJMs favorite male love interests, I think Elucien is going to be just fine.

[mamawasatesttube]

PLEASE say more about your lil guy from the Tim Gets Cloned and Everyone Has a Bad Time au

anon: "👀 tim gets cloned and no one has a good time au, you say? 👀"

YEAAAAAAH BOIIIII. this is one of the incredible aus that lives in my and @adjit's dms. <3

the premise: there's some aliens who really want a weapon that's stored in the fortress of solitude. of course, that door requires a kryptonian to open; the easiest way to get in would be to get a kryptonian to open the door for them. however, kryptonians are notoriously hard to clone. superman doesn't have any noted close human connections that he might bring up there, but supernova and red robin (or rook!) are a known couple. so they stalk, kidnap, clone, and replace tim.

the clone is given two things: an implant of all of tim's memories, so that he can act exactly like him, and a kill switch, so that the aliens can easily dispose of him once he's served his purpose to clean up loose ends. he just needs to keep up the charade and get kon to take him up to the fortress of solitude, the sooner the better.

now the thing is... a clone of tim, told to act just like tim, who knows that he's a pawn and will be killed soon whether he fulfills his purpose or not, will in fact act like a tim who is really, really depressed and just pretending he isn't. and he's conflicted. because he was made with the knowledge that his sacrifice is inevitable, that his life is nothing, that he needs to simply fulfill his purpose as a tool, all implanted in his head... but in the memories he was given from tim, he also has all these memories and all this knowledge of how kon was made, and how much tim loves kon, and how strongly tim feels about anyone who would treat kon this way, and how strongly kon feels about clones and their humanity and their rights, and he is... he gets real conflicted, real fast. he hides it, because tim would hide it, and he's going to imitate tim to the letter, but here's the problem:

kon knows tim really, really well.

he sees the signs of depression. he sees the conflict that tim-clone is pretending not to feel. he sees the uncertainty around affection. he sees the way "tim" just eats his ice cream, without separating out and carefully rationing the chocolate chunks in it to maintain a specific "chunks to cream" ratio. he sees the way "tim" slowly withdraws from him, as if every simple brush of their hands makes him guilty.

and over a scant few days, he puts it together. that's not tim.

he's immediately worried out of his mind (where is tim? what happened to him? who did this to him?), but he already knows that isn't this clone's fault. so when he goes to confront him... he's kind.

he corners him in the kitchen one day and says hey. you're not tim. who are you? and who did this to you?

and tim-clone freezes. the jig is up. he half-expects to be killed on the spot, except that he knows from tim's memories that kon doesn't kill. that kon is so, so kind to clones. and he realizes, concretely, for the first time in his short life that he doesn't want to die.

and he breaks down.

they're just sitting there on the kitchen floor and tim-clone is bawling his eyes out. (for the first time in his life!) he doesn't want to die, he doesn't want to keep deceiving and lying to the only person who's ever been kind to him, he doesn't want to die, he doesn't know what to do. and kon is like okay. well. first of all im going to give you the biggest hug. and then when you're feeling a little better, you can give me all the details of what Exactly is going on, who has tim, what they did to him and to you, and what they put in your head. and then i promise you i will fix this.

(it's one of those moments where you can really, really see that kon is a clone of superman. you can't help but believe that everything will be okay, because he believes everything will be okay, and you can't not believe him.)

anyway this post is getting so fucking long jesus christ okay let me try and wrap it up quick. they go on some wacky adventures to find and rescue tim. tim-clone is continually surprised that kon is so endlessly kind to him, even after he has tim back; he sees the way kon cradles tim so tenderly in his arms as tim sleeps off the stasis he's been in, the way kon strokes tim's hair back from his forehead and kisses his brow, and he yearns a bit. he doesn't know where he fits in with this whole situation. but kon turns to him and smiles and says hey, you should get some rest too. it's been a long day. there's some pasta in the fridge if you're hungry, too. and it's just a small moment of consideration, but it still takes him aback.

(there's a moment where he looks over to kon and admits, i don't know who i am. i'm not him, but if i'm not him who am i supposed to be? and kon smiles at him and says anybody you wanna be, buddy. that's the beauty of it. and timclone looks at him for a moment and then just quietly says ...you know, i can really see why he's so in love with you.)

when all is said and done, he and tim and kon all sit down to try and decide what he's gonna do now. they help him brainstorm names for himself; he decides he wants to name himself for the first person who ever made him feel hope: supernova. his name will be nova. and, sure, tim, robin as a middle name would be funny. nova robin. as for surname... should he be a drake? he doesn't really feel like a drake, but...

oh, that's easy! kon says. nova robin kent has a nice ring to it, don't you think?

and... yeah, nova says. yeah, it does.

[bestworstcase]

iirc in the past you’ve said tai might be the cowardly lion, but now that you’ve switched his allusion do you have thoughts on who the cowardly lion is?

cowardly lion in the same sense that lionheart is or that jaune is the white rabbit in v9, i.e. there are pop cultural references in conversation with the more substantive allusions to the actual text (jaune believes he’s the white rabbit—always frantic and running around crazed to attend to his very important life-and-death Duties—but he’s really the hatter, who murdered the time and has been lost and stuck spinning in circles ever since, and who is later punished for a crime he hasn’t committed yet by a queen who remembers everything backwards) (lionheart evokes the lion, but the lion is a coward only in his own mind; in actuality, lionheart is the soldier with green whiskers, who flees his post with a whimper and surrenders the emerald city to jinjur uncontested)

the thing about the cowardly lion is he isn’t in the marvelous land of oz. (he does appear in the third book, ozma of oz.) so tai’s superficial resemblance to the cowardly lion serves a similar purpose to theodore’s turn as dorothy, in that theodore flags that, with respect to the ozian narrative, vacuo isn’t in oz (it’s the desert surrounding oz and theodore is the lost slippers) and in tai’s turn as the lion he signals that the lion Isn’t Participating in this story (dorothy has gone home, but ozma hasn’t yet been found; the lion is minding his own business at home in the forest).

note the dovetailing here too with the "lions" being 1. the soldier with green whiskers (surrenders EC to jinjur) and 2. jellia jamb (shifts her loyalty to jinjur until she’s forced to become a pawn in mombi’s schemes); unlike the lion (who confuses his fear for cowardice but is in fact quite brave) neither lionheart nor tai are especially courageous, but lionheart is straightforwardly a traitor and tai is (likely) sticking around vale for summer. they’re both What The Lion Is Not, and their deeper/textual ozian allusion connects both of them to jinjur’s coup, and thence to summer and salem.

all that to say i don’t think there is a "real" lion allusion (eg in the way that alyx is the true white rabbit in v9), because the cowardly lion isn’t a character in marvelous land of oz.

[synthetickitsune]

Can i request a Gwi fluff with human!reader with the prompt “Forever is a long time, are you sure you can handle it?”? Something like human!reader asking him to turn her into a vampire, so she can be with him forever. I know he's not immortal, but yk he can live a long life and she wants to always be by his side for however long he lives.

Tweaked it a little bit bcs I'm a firm believer that no matter the intention, asking him for this would make Gwi flip askjdhds

Gwi (Scholar Who Walks The Night) | Devotion fluff-ish | 0.7k | gn!reader

They truly have no idea. You’ve always had a feeling that’s how it was, but seeing it in front of you, plainly, clearly, you want to laugh. Laugh or cry, you’re not sure.

And you’re sure they feel the same too, standing there, getting red in the face. They throw all these accusing words around without looking inward, without thinking about their king. Offering him their daughters, themselves, their sons to use as pawns in exchange for power. All those sad existences who could never serve him like you do.

When you feel the cold blade at your throat, so sharp and close that all it’d take for you to get cut would be to swallow, and yet you stay still, you think some of them might get it.

Gwi doesn’t move a muscle you’re sure, lounging on his throne and watching the play unfold. How many times he’s seen it before, you wonder, which number was the one he finally realized his boredom.

“Will you bleed for me?” he asks. A clear voice breaking the silence, different from the white noise of the officials’ cacophony of despair.

“Yes.” The answer is as natural as the slow trickle of blood down your throat where the blade broke the skin. The irrelevant offender stands still but his entire body tenses. You’ve gotten good at noticing the subtlest of reactions. Not an easy skill to develop, but a necessary one to live by the vampire’s side.

There’s noise again, like flies buzzing around your head, and once more you don’t listen to them. As if you were deaf to the voices of those who are not him. 

“Will you die for me?” his voice breaks through and it’s amused. Yet the answer is as natural as before. No decision or thinking needs to be made, you only need to obey. There's freedom in it - freedom in the blind trust you put in him.

Before you can lean into the blade held firmly at your neck, you’re yanked back, roughly, by your hair. You stay completely limp in his hold, recognizing the strength and sharp claws at your scalp. You keep your face relaxed through the pain. He always demands attention, and you give it willingly, looking up from where you now kneel at his feet. Gwi seems satisfied; you could not ask for a better compliment.

The conversation, the noise, doesn’t come as easily with the vampire so near. It’s quiet, as it should be before the king. The one who held the blade at your throat seems deathly pale. But their ruler is not even paying attention to them - his dark eyes are set on you, boring into your eyes like his fangs bury into your skin.

“Would you be reborn for me?” his voice drops lower but his hands don’t get rougher nor gentler.

“Yes.”

It really is that simple. You don’t understand what the other humans find so difficult to comprehend about it. You know they call it madness, but you’re perfectly sane. You need to be sane to serve him well.

“How would you live your eternal life?” he disregards the officials once more.

“In your servitude. Forever,” you can’t help the wistful smile from stretching your lips. His smirk is not as loving, yet you adore it.

“Forever is a long time, are you sure you can handle it?” he tightens his grip as he speaks. It hurts more than the bleeding cut. From the corner of your eye, you see the men grow nervous and more hateful. They’ve never seen Gwi hold back from blood - unless it was you. 

“If I lose my purpose, the last thing I will do is serve you nonetheless,” you speak calmly, with badly hidden pride in your voice. If there is one thing your king enjoys more than playing with humans, it’s slaying others of his kind. Cleansing the weak.

“Foolish fragile human,” the vampire speaks lowly, the corner of his lip raising so much it exposes one of his fangs. Despite the words he looks towards the officials as if challenging them.

They look away in shame.

What else can they do when they do not know their place?

[cefalodankovsky]

Kaeya's story would have a pretty big plothole if he's telling the truth (Or in other words why Kaeya is probably lying his ass off) An analysis.

Major spoilers for caribert and Kaeya's character story.

Addendum : This is mostly for fun and to explore Kaeya's character and interactions, I'm not God, I can be wrong about things.

Important things are marked in orange and specific commentary on some elements of text is marked in purple.

Also while I do believe Kaeya is lying in Caribert and is generally an unreliable narrator, if you believe otherwise and can still make sense of his story please tell me, I would like to know other points of view or things I might have missed.

It is first said in Kaeya's vision story, he fought with diluc the day his father died. The reason why is quite simple, he told Diluc he was an agent (or pawn, depending on the nuance of the translation) planted by Khaenri'ah to serve their interests (and by the wording of the text, he had an idea of what the "ancient plot" meant). He comes clean and then fights Diluc as "his true self".

There was a side to Kaeya that he kept hidden from the world: In truth, he was an agent of Khaenri'ah, placed in Mondstadt to serve their interests. His father had abandoned him in this strange and unknown land to fulfill this mission, and it was Master Crepus and the city of Mondstadt that had welcomed him with open arms when they found him.

If Khaenri'ah and Mondstadt went to war, which side should he support? To whom should he offer his assistance: his birth father, who had ruthlessly abandoned him? Or his adoptive father, who had loved him and raised him?-

Quite a dramatic thought, makes it sound as if his mission will inevitably end in a war between the both of them, partly backed by Mona's voiceline

As a brother, he should have shared in Diluc's grief, and yet as their father lay dying on the ground, he had hung back behind his brother, that ancient plot running through his mind.

The use of that ancient plot instead of the ancient plot, or an ancient plot. makes it sound as if there are multiple ancient plots he is aware about, perhaps not the actual intended meaning but it's a fun thought, like how many ancient plots is Khaenri'ah directly involved in??? (probably a lot)

Consumed by guilt, Kaeya knocked on Diluc's door. As the rain poured down, the shroud of secrecy was washed away and all lies were revealed. Kaeya had finally come clean.

This is all fine and makes sense, Diluc feels betrayed and out of anger and residual sadness from his father's death, and strikes against someone he considered a brother, this causes a big rift between them and is a focal point in their relationship. Let's see how this character story is contradicted by the Caribert story quest, probably on purpose.

In Caribert Kaeya claims his father sent him to mondstadt to perhaps find happiness.

Kaeya: My life had less and less to do with Khaenri'ah as I grew up, and so I started caring less as well.

Kaeya: I used to believe that I had inherited some sort of duty from my father..

Kaeya: But then I began to wonder... Maybe my father left me in the peaceful land of Mondstadt for no other reason than simply to give me a happier life...

Then he didn't ruthlessly abandon him or send him to mondstadt to fulfill Khaenri'ah's goals, which contradicts everything previously established.

Kaeya: A happy life sounds good to me, of course. Even if it means being cut off from... certain things.

He sounds unsure, it's unclear If he wants to be cut off or not from those certain things, but what is he talking about?, If he doesn't know about the Alberich's involvement in the abyss order then what is he being cut off of according to him?.

It is implied Kaeya is just sugar-coating things, partly out of denial, partly out of a need to not reveal all his cards to the traveller, so I'm not going too in-depth with this section individually, as I believe it to be a clear cut lie in story.

And then the conversation with Dainsleif happens, and things get even messier.

Dainsleif: Tell me... what do you know about the significance of that name, "Alberich"?

Kaeya: Ah, you've decided to join us? I was wondering how long you planned on listening in. I believe I've seen you before in Mondstadt... Dainsleif, if I'm not mistaken?

Nice deflection buddy, almost as if he knows that If Dainsleif continues with that line of thought then some uncomfortable things will be revealed

Dainsleif: So you remember me (was he in Mondstadt to stalk Kaeya?). Then we are already acquainted, Kaeya Alberich... descendant of the Abyss Order's founder.

This means two things, first while the abyss is older than Khaenri'ah, the abyss order is a direct product of it, the sinners that are all that's left of Khaenri'ah according to Kaeya?

Kaeya: ...

Traveller: The Abyss Order...?

Paimon: What!?

Dainsleif: I take it that you weren't aware of this until now, Kaeya, or you wouldn't have been so forthcoming with your surname.

This is the part that always fucks me up, it makes a point for Kaeya being unaware of the implications of his surname, but also if Kaeya is telling the truth about not knowing anything about his father's motivation or goals for leaving him in Mondstadt, then what is his character story talking about, what the hell did he tell Diluc.

Do the character stories have information the character in story doesn't?, who's narrating the stories then?, Are they impartial?, are those kaeya's thoughts about his father's motivation?, Because that also contradicts what he says in Caribert. Or did he think his father was just working for Khaenri'ah which in his mind was a completely different thing from the Abyss order???, Then why did he have suspicious information explicitly from the abyss order like the title of the leader?, Which no other character apart from Dainsleif has (who would obviously know that)

I generally just take this as Dainsleif taunting Kaeya and trying to make him fall into a trap, because it makes the most sense.

Kaeya: Oh, my... that's quite a lot of baggage for a surname, isn't it? Though I must say, it does confirm an old suspicion of mine. I suppose that was why my father left me in Mondstadt after all... (How does that confirm anything, How does it improve your understanding of the ancient plot your father sent you to fulfill, in text it is said he was aware of the mission and was an agent or pawn, you already knew why your father left you)

Dainsleif: I'm surprised that you take me at my word without the faintest hint of skepticism... (Aka why are you lying you obviously knew this)

Kaeya: Well, perhaps what you told me just happens to answer some questions I carry in my memories. And, in any case... I recognize your eyes...(nice change of topic)

Okay the nicest interpretation I can give is maybe he knew his father was part of the abyss order but not that he was the descendant of the creator of the abyss order, but then what is the ancient plot he was sent to complete and why him?

Kaeya: You're a pure-blood Khaenri'ahn, aren't you?

I'm not even going to get into the, is Kaeya a full blooded Khaenriahn? thing or not because frankly I lack the information of the traits of a full blooded Khaenriahn. And in the best case scenario it just gives extra information on his mission.

Dainsleif: Very clever. (Thanks Dainsleif for actually being concise, even if you are most definitely hiding shit as well) Forgive me for being direct, but I sincerely hope this new knowledge doesn't change anything. If you've already let go of your ties to the past... then keep it that way.

This is just a barely hidden threat, if it's a don't get involved threat or keeping up the charade and clearly stating you are against the abyss order threat, is left up to interpretation

Paimon: Kaeya... You're not involved with the Abyss Order in any way, are you...?

Kaeya: Hey, hold on now. This conversation has taken a rather sudden turn for the deadly serious... and I'm afraid that as someone from Mondstadt, I'm not accustomed to this sort of atmosphere...

Deflection again, and identifies himself as someone from Mondstadt which in this conversation is also a double way of saying, I'm not a threat.

Kaeya: So what if I know my ancestry? Do I strike you as the type who would be bound by that kind of thing?

He changes his position again, "well even If I knew I wouldn't do anything for the Abyss order", which is weird because even by the kindest of interpretations he is terribly conflicted (Mona's voiceline, His character story, the fact this conversation is taking place to begin with)

Kaeya: Relax. I'll be just as delighted to hunt down the Abyss Order tomorrow as I have always been.

And how delighted are you, really?, And does this really make no change to you, almost as if you already took this into account?.

Traveler option 1: I trust you, Kaeya.

Traveler option 2:I think... I guess.

The real problem with the Idea that Kaeya is fully genuine about having no connections to Khaenri'ah or knowing about the Abyss order is that apart of all his info from his character story being wrong or unexplainable apart from the excuse of, well he had absolutely 0 context about anything , which would be strange especially for a character as Kaeya known for always having the upper hand info-wise. But that his fight with Diluc would make no sense. What did he tell Diluc?, That he was from Khaenri'ah and his father left him in Mondstadt to try to maybe make sure his son has a happy life far from the stress of Khaenri'ah (Stress like a mission or an ancient plot)?, How would that be a betrayal of any type, and how would that revelation show a hidden part of his true self?. If Kaeya knows nothing about this, then the emotional core of his story is ruined, because he would have never been conflicted when Crepus died, He would have no reason to be loyal to Khaenri'ah or the abyss order apart from his father being from Khaenri'ah, a father which abandoned him ruthlessly (or maybe not, who knows), The sinner's are all that's left of Khaenri'ah voiceline would just be meanspirited for no reason (because if those sinners were working for the abyss order, then it would make sense that he were critical of them), and His fight with Diluc would make no sense.

So in accordance to this, I believe Kaeya is lying about not being aware of the implications of his surname and the reason he was sent to mondstadt.

Thanks for reading if you have made it this far, and correct me if I'm wrong about something.

[incorrecttowerofgodquotes]

The Two Books in G-Witch

In Witch From Mercury, two books make a repeated showing in the series, each linked to a specific character. The fourth Elan reads A World of Will and Representation by Arthur Schopenhauer and Norea has her red sketchbook.

In Schopenhauer’s book, he states that a person’s world is limited to themselves alone, that a person can only understand something in how it relates to them and not the real truth of the matter. He states that essence of everything is the will, a force outside of space and time, and free of multiplicity. Schopenhauer states that true redemption can only come from the ascetic negation to the “will of life.” And in short, he states that all nature is an expression of the will, and that the will (a force present in everything) causes all of human suffering. Aesthetic pleasures can only create temporary escape from the will, and if a human wants to escape the will’s influence, they must become an ascetic being.

This connects to El4n’s character as he is a disposable pawn. Someone made to only serve his purpose (as chosen by an unseen AI, possibly a stand in for the will) and then be scrapped. At the beginning, El4n follows Schopenhauer’s doctrine of detaching himself from worldly pleasures, however when Suletta shows up and El4n is confronted with the fact that there could be a person like him or a way to save himself from his fate, he becomes much more attached to life. This attachment is what leads to him being executed due to him no longer having any use to Peil (Schopenhauer also states that death isn’t a rejection of the will, just another form of it)

Norea’s sketchbook is a humble leather bound book filled with her sketches, and it’s meant to reflect her mental state. The oldest drawing of hers we see is a calm lake surrounded by foliage. A gathering of life in a calming environment, drawn with light pencil strokes. However, soon the pictures become much more macabre. Torn down buildings, rotting carcasses, and when after Sophie’s death, just indecipherable black scribbles. Her grief, rage, and anxiety are all charted down onto the pages.

While these two books have gained focus, both of their recipients are dead, so how do they factor in now? Well, I think both of these books link to El5n’s character. As of the recent episode, El5n has come into possession of Norea’s sketchbook. And while we haven’t seen him hold it in the anime, in the second cour’s promotional material, he’s holding close to his chest. I believe these two books represent the choice El5n must make.

Holding onto El4n’s would mean El5n would decide to stay trapped in his past of suffering and the inescapable fate dictated by a higher being. If chooses to wallow in his grief and take revenge, not just against Peil, but against everyone else, he’ll only be acting in accordance to the will that set up his life of suffering in the first place.

Meanwhile, Norea’s sketchbook represents hope of a better life. As he said to her in the latest episode, El5n wanted Norea to take him to the places she drew. As someone who presumably spent almost his entire life (or at least from what he can remember) inside a laboratory. For him, seeing the great outdoors and beauty of nature would be something completely new. He wanted to start a new life, one separate from the pain and suffering he underwent as a child. If he doesn’t become enveloped by his need for revenge, and instead moves forward into the future, he can see the beautiful world Norea sketched out.

Ultimately, El5n has to choose between past or future, suffering or hope. I hope he chooses the right choice and moves forward in his life, but knowing Gundam, he’ll probably only realize it when he’s already dying

[arisenreborn]

∞ Arisen & Pawn Character Introductions

Part 3 (of 3)!!! The long Q&A stuff for Emrys. Got pulled into telling stories instead of just answering the question again oops. (Part 1 || Part 2) [template]

1. What was their life like prior to being summoned by their Arisen?

Olivia is not 'his Arisen'. His Arisen was a man named Nikolai, who had lost his brother to the dragon - Emrys was named after that brother whom he resembled. This was the beginning of his life, and it was... decent. He traveled with Nikolai and his beloved, Lorraine, who was a skilled sorceress and childhood friend to both brothers. As it was, the relationship between the three was sometimes strained. They projected and deluded themselves at times into hoping Emrys was truly back, and other times resented him for not being what they deceived themselves into believing. One day he would be a cherished and beloved brother, others an accursed, empty vessel. On top of this, Nikolai had mixed feelings about his brother in life as well, often jealous of the other man. So he sometimes took his frustrations out on Emrys, never beating him or anything quite so extreme, but often making him their pack mule or asking him to do demeaning tasks, as if reaffirming to both of them that this was not his brother - or perhaps seeking to see his brother in misery. Other times, however, Nikolai would sit and talk with Emrys by the campfire, sharing the journey like a true comrade and brother. He'd tell him of his plans once they finally defeated the dragon; to wed Lorraine and have a dozen sons and daughters. "And you..." he would falter in his words, "you'll be an uncle to them." Emrys himself didn't always understand, but it was in those moments he felt a stirring in his breast, a hope that those days Nikolai spoke of would come to pass. Yet all things said and done, after some many months of traveling and preparing, they seemed close to finally confronting the dragon. Emrys, however, had begun to act very strangely. He began snapping back at Nikolai's cruelties, insulting them both and disobeying orders. He doesn't remember much about those days. They're caught between dream and nightmare for him; it was his first taste of freedom though, he remembers that. And he remembers coming at some point after; their campsite a ruin, bits and pieces of Nikolai and Lorraine spread to the winds, himself covered in blood and wounds. Thereafter he was changed. Between an incomplete (and uncertain) Bestowal of Spirit and the ravages of whatever precisely the dragonsplague did to him, he did indeed possess a spark of his own will - tainted, however, and far from being worth anything more than the discomfort of his soul. Not enough to act on with any real purpose, but enough to make him well aware of his own lacking and wrongness. For hundreds of years he roamed the world and the Rift, working alongside Arisen, mercenaries, bandits and soldiers. He came to see them all to be as lacking as he was. Selfish, self-serving, desiring only their own pleasures. He watched Arisen in other worlds die vain, useless deaths, or sacrifice their beloveds. Saw nobles sell daughters and wives, saw men trade men as slaves. Such a worthless, pitiful world it was. Still he found some pleasure in 'freedom'. In traveling, more or less, wheresoever he pleased so long as no damnable Arisen called upon him. In the comfort of ale or lovers, in finding treasure and having gold to call his own, in living, even a little. And then, one rueful day, he was caught under the power of the Godsway, and shipped off to the Battahli excavation site. And then, one damnable day there while working himself to the bone, the Arisen came along.

2. What is their opinion on the Arisen? How do they view their relationship?

He has a grudge against all Arisen, and any who would become the Arisen of his world most of all. He deeply resents the idea of being beholden to anyone or anything, and yet... He cannot deny a wretched part of him longs for it. Like a dog waiting for it's master, that part of his nature as a Pawn cannot be wholly denied. Which only makes him hate it all the more. As for Olivia? He put on the same act with her he would anyone else, of a simple pawn of simple joys. That's not entirely false after all, it is however just the surface layer. He resented her, but treated her fairly enough - though wherever possible he'd leave looking after her to other Pawns. It's only after Olivia comes to learn of his 'broken' nature that his opinion of her is given enough wiggle room to begin to grow. She is, in some ways similar to him; placed in positions she begrudges, wanting to do things others won't allow her - doing them anyway. (And he loathes her for that, too: the fact that she can.) It's a messy relationship, not helped by his contrary nature and reluctance to yield: because his contrariness is proof of his will, after all. Proof he's not entirely a lapdog wagging its tail for the good master. Unfortunately she's also a lot of fun to be around, indulges him in his pleasures, and is beautiful and great in bed and encourages his pursuit of freedom and self-hood to boot. He never really had a chance.

3. Is there anything about the Arisen they find troublesome? Be it a small quirk or bad habit? (Or are they obviously flawless?)

...So much. But mostly just the fact that she IS the Arisen. The 'trust' in their relationship goes through quite a few ups and downs; she has to learn to trust he won't lie to her, and he has to trust she won't abuse her power as Arisen over him. But sometimes she does; while it's not her first inclination, she will absolutely order him if the situation demands it, and he despises it, no matter how smart a call it may have been. (Her quirks and habits are largely things he shares like drinking too much and fucking around so alas those are [unfortunately for him] plus points for her they get to bond over.) ...And he supposes he thinks she should get more rest. And stop trying to 'prove herself' by putting herself in terrible danger all the time. And getting hurt. He supposes.

4. What is their specialization and is there any story behind how they cultivated that skill set?

He's a Logistician, which initially comes from being his former masters pack mule most of the time. Later, however, he served similar roles for soldiers and brigands alike, and it proved useful for various Arisen, so, it's just a skill that grew over time out of necessity and usefulness mostly. He does secretly take pride in a well-assembled and organized pack though.

5. Do they have any thoughts on the politics of the world and their place in it as a Pawn - or how Pawns are treated?

Oh, ample thoughts. More thoughts perhaps than your average pawn, though surely he's far from the only one (at least he desperately hopes so). The only reason Pawns are favored in Vermund after all is because the Arisen is favored in Vermund, and that is far from the case throughout the rest of the world. Thus, again, his 'status' depends entirely on the Arisen. He feels slightly 'apart' from his fellow pawns, which is uncomfortable for him, but doesn't see himself as above them at all, certainly not. He's a 'broken' pawn, after all, if anything he's beneath them. But he absolutely loathes how pawns are treated throughout much of the world and for the life of him avoided regions like Battahl as much as reasonably possible. There may be some part of him that 'hopes' for better, but it's so deeply buried beneath the mud of understanding how the world works and eagerly crushes people underfoot, he hasn't considered that in ages... Not until Olivia comes along, damn her.

6. Does their journey with the Arisen change them in any significant way and how?

Unfortunately. He finally starts to get a chance to be more honest, and as the bitterness and years of loathing and spite gradually begin to wash away, he... well, beneath all that he's still really depressed. He's broken, incomplete - a mess of a Pawn who murdered his former master, who still feels the ravages of the Dragonsplague and whatever it 'left' festering and rotting inside of him. He begins to fear the Dragonsplague as whispers of it begin to circulate again, which never happened before - it was a huge unknown back then, so that makes it somehow even more frightening now. And he has to come to terms with what that fear means, what freedom and losing control of himself means, what 'himself' means. It's easier some days to just lay in bed with Olivia and pretend there isn't a dragon looming over them. Bitterly ironic though, that: that his source of solace becomes the one person he (thought he) loathed the most. Eventually, he does start to grow though it though, beginning to trust and accept Olivia more - though he still absolutely has to throw some snark her way sometimes when he's feeling too sappy. (She can totally see through him and just teases him about it.)

7. Is there a reason they chose their preferred vocation?

Archery is just a great vocation for a guy who likes to travel around and be self-sufficient: he can forage for his own food, sell what he doesn't need, hire himself out with those skills. As for thieving, there's some allure to being able to disappear into the shadows and move about quickly and quietly. (Especially when he's working with thieves and brigands). For both he also likes the 'control' and 'freedom' of being able to maneuver around the battlefield as the situation and his assessment dictate, unlike being front-and-center all the time as a fighter might require, and he just has a slight aversion/difficulty with magic so that's not really for him.

8. Do they have any hobbies or preferred past-times?

Hunting, foraging, camping - pretty good for a pawn, huh? :'''D Yeah, he tries not to think about that too much. He genuinely enjoys being out in nature and seeing the world live and breath around him. On the flip side, despite whatever he may claim about disliking humans and their ilk, he enjoys the bustle of cities and the way they live and breath around him - and ideally, the way he can be apart of that. From drinking in taverns, laughing and telling jokes or even occasionally getting into a drunken brawl, it's nice to live in the moment and not have to think too deeply about anything. To forget who he is for a little bit. (Also visiting the bordelrie but he stays classy about it.) When Olivia tells him he needs to get better hobbies he takes offense, (especially when she's not much better) but eventually lands on bird watching. It's soothing, and asks him to stop and take his time, pay attention, and it gives him a sense of peace.

[starreadssstuff]

Burning betrayal - Geto Suguru

warnings- Strong language and themes of anger and betrayal, Death, fire, arson? killing w fire. please be careful reading this! And as always LMK

Authors note- this is the first “scary” sort of thing I written EVER, so I do hope I did well! As always let me know how to improve and if you enjoyed the fic! love,star 💜

The streets were shrouded in darkness as you made your way through the desolate alleyways. Your heart pounded with a mixture of anticipation and anger, your mind filled with thoughts of revenge. The person you once trusted with your life had betrayed you in the worst possible way. Geto Suguru, the man who had claimed to love you, had turned out to be a monster in disguise.

Every step you took was fueled by a burning rage that threatened to consume you. How could he have played with your emotions so callously? The memories of your time together haunted your mind, each one a painful reminder of the lies and deceit that had been woven into the fabric of your relationship.

You remembered the first time you met Geto. His charming smile and warm demeanor had drawn you in like a moth to a flame. He had promised to protect you, to always be there by your side. And you had believed him, wholeheartedly.

But now, as you stood outside his hideout, the truth was crystal clear. Geto had used you as a pawn in his twisted game, manipulating your emotions to further his own sinister agenda. Anger surged through your veins as you clenched your fists, vowing to make him pay for his betrayal.

Pushing open the door, you stepped inside, the dimly lit room filled with the scent of stale air and malice. Geto turned to face you, his eyes widening with surprise at your unexpected arrival. His lips curved into a smirk, but you could see the flicker of unease behind his mask of arrogance.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice dripping with false innocence.

"You think you can just use me and discard me like a pawn?" you spat, your voice trembling with anger. "Well, think again, Geto. I won't let you get away with this."

Geto's smirk faltered, his eyes narrowing as he realized the depth of your fury. "You're overreacting. I did what was necessary for the greater good."

"The greater good?" you scoffed, your voice laced with bitterness. "Is that what you call it? Sacrificing innocent lives for your own selfish ambitions? You've lost sight of everything that's good and right."

His mask of confidence shattered, replaced by a flicker of guilt that you relished seeing. "You don't understand," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

"No, I understand perfectly," you retorted, your voice sharp as a blade. "You used me, Geto. You took advantage of my trust and manipulated me to serve your own twisted purpose. But I won't be your puppet any longer."

As you spoke, your anger grew, consuming every inch of your being. Flames danced in your eyes as you summoned your own power, the force of your rage manifesting as a fiery aura around you. The room trembled, the air crackling with electricity.

Geto's eyes widened in disbelief, his composure crumbling under the weight of your fury. "No... this can't be happening," he stammered, his voice laced with fear.

"You should have thought about the consequences before betraying me," you hissed, your voice cutting through the tension. "Now, you will pay for your sins."

With a wave of your hand, flames erupted from your fingertips, engulfing Geto in a blaze of wrath. He screamed in agony, his body writhing as the flames licked at his skin. The room filled with the acrid smell of burning flesh, a macabre testament to the price of betrayal.

As the flames subsided, you stood over the charred remains of Geto Suguru, a mix of satisfaction and emptiness filling your heart. The anger that had consumed you had been quelled, but the scars of betrayal would forever mar your soul.

With one final look at the twisted figure before you, you turned your back on the ashes of your past. It was time to rebuild, to find solace in the knowledge that you had broken free from the chains of deceit. And though your heart may forever bear the scars of anger, you would rise above the ashes, stronger than ever before.

[generation1point5]

Sword and Shield

“Do you understand why I chose Providentius over any other Admiral?”

Koter blinked, and glanced over to the human who addressed him. He stared at a cold and dark gaze wreathed in the shadows of the dark safe house they lingered in for the time being. 

“Because you’re never one to back down from a challenge,” Koter supposed. Aeos shook his head.

“Nothing so petty. I have observed him and determined him to be the weakest among all the others of the Hierarchy, the most easily levied in times of crisis.”

Koter narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

Aeos stepped from the shadows, his hard and unyielding stare no lesser for having been revealed in the harsh lighting. Dark hair parted over a sharp brow, a neutral expression made severe for a narrow and piercing gaze, a killer’s intent. “The Hierarchy’s strength relies upon the discipline of its soldiers,” Aeos began. “They must be willing to follow orders of their commanders, or else the coordination of their numbers and firepower will shatter and fall to the cunning of their enemies. A leader of thousands will know that casualties and sacrifice are inevitable, and must instill this willingness to die in their subordinates, even as they themselves must be insulated from such risk. Should they refuse, the loss of leadership will quickly degrade the coordination of their fighting force, even if they retain sufficient numbers to continue fighting. But Providentius refuses this maxim, priding himself on never having lost a unit in combat. He is unwilling to face the realities of his duty in a true conflict, and instead risks his own life than that of his men. He cares surprisingly little for the fact that he would leave his entire fleet rudderless should he die in the attempt. His noble spirit is a liability, not a benefit.”

“In other words,” Koter supposed, “his mind is more valuable than his life, or the lives of everyone it leads.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Aeos agreed with a nod. “A commander worth their salt should know that good intentions are not a rule for winning wars.”

“You are wrong.”

An amused chuckle escaped Aeos. “Oh? And what about my assessment is wrong?”

Koter crossed his arms and regarded his handler with a narrow gaze. “You see the Hierarchy as a cohesive society pursuing its self-interest, sacrificing a limb to save the greater body; as if it were so different from the Alliance in that respect. But you are mistaken; the giving of oneself in our society is shared by both master and servant, by both head and foot. In this, Providentius is the most fearsome admiral of all. Everyone who serves him knows that they are not pawns to be thrown into the fire for some greater purpose they cannot truly believe in; he breaks the barrier between those who leader and follower, knowing the needs of those who fight for him as one who fights alongside them. Not a single turian among his ranks can serve him in a way Providentius himself will not do for them, and he has devoted the entirety of his being to the well-being of his people. They would give their lives for him not out of duty, but of their own free will. His greatest weakness is not his love for his men; it is his greatest strength. He is surrounded by men whose loyalty he has earned.”

Aeos turned to face Koter square in the eye. “Does that include you? Take yourself for an example; you are killed more easily than he is; yet for your sake, he would surrender himself, and become all the easier target for it. You become his greatest weakness.”

Koter did not shrink back, but crossed his arms over his chest. “Have I served under you for so long that I have become a fragile thing in your eyes? Or do you consider me a thing you must protect much the same way you think Providentius himself does?”

This time, Aeos was silent. Smiling a little, Koter continued.

“Our weaknesses are not so different, such that is common to all flesh and blood. They seem to be only to those who don’t understand what makes it our strength. You didn’t choose Providentius because he was an easy target; you chose him because he is more like yourself than you want to admit. But I think that is a strength, not a weakness.”

[wonder-in-wings]

TIMING: Early August LOCATION: The Worm Row Alleys PARTIES: Felix (@recoveringdreamer and Parker (@wonder-in-wings SUMMARY: A few days after the Fight, Parker tries to return to the scene of the attempted mugging to collect his remaining tools but he can’t figure out which alley it was. Felix happens to be in the area. CONTENT WARNINGS: Drug Manipulation [reference to sedatives before]

Day 5. He was getting fed up. This was the sixth alley he’d been to and his search came up empty. Again. All the alleys in that cesspool of the town looked the damn same. And this was ignoring the part where his tools could’ve been picked up and sold for spare cash at the pawn shop - it’d been several days since he last visited. Parker refused to believe that that could be the case, not when there were three bodies there ripe for the choosing and he was further back in that alley. Not to mention searching for his tools was one of the only drives he had at that juncture.

Parker exited the space, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, ignoring the people passing by him and casting a venomous glare to anyone who dared say anything or even look at him wrong. The forming scar on his face seemed to be a good deterrent after all, even if it wasn’t his choice to receive. Nonetheless, he couldn’t afford to start another altercation, not for the fifth time that week in public, never mind the completely vapid and incredibly unreasonable breakdowns he’d suffered in the privacy of his own home. He started crying three evenings ago because he ran out of salt. Salt. And that was even after he checked his cabinet to find that he still had some, he just needed to refill his salt shaker.

It was quickly reaching a point where Parker was becoming consumed with these aspects of control that were constantly slipping out of his grasp. It came so naturally to him before and he figured he’d allowed himself enough time to rest and recover from that night. The lack of being able to shut down core facets of his humanity, the ability to become robotic if it served the purpose of his nature as an observer and a collector was starting to get him into trouble. He kept trying to go back to work and every time he went, something innocuous would incense him and he’d snap and be subsequently sent home. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to snap at people for things he didn’t like about them. Even the thought of being out of control threatened to send him spiraling, a self-fulfilling prophecy of getting upset about the lack of control then losing it then getting upset at losing it. Parker took a deep breath, closing his eyes and clenching his fists until the knuckles were white. Exhale. Unclench. Relax his shoulders. He opened his blue eyes again and stepped aside from the sidewalk, allowing himself some space and he went to the next alley.

—

The ground felt a little steadier under their feet than it had before. It was an adjustment, coming back from a full shift. Especially when shifting hadn’t been their choice, when the jaguar had taken control in a moment of terror and danger and kept them away from their life for days after. Their bosses were angry, of course, were punishing them any way they saw fit, and that meant Felix had been scheduled for back to back fights since their return to the Pit, everything they’d missed during the jaguar’s turn at the wheel rescheduled for the first moment they didn’t have another fight. They were run ragged, barely functioning, and still they knew they’d been lucky. They still had their tail. They still had their life. They tried to focus on that.

Even if Leo also had them taking out the trash now. 

It was a taunt, they knew; a way of displaying just how much control the Pit had over the balam. Take the garbage to the dumpster across the street. Don’t complain — you’re lucky we don’t have you in a cage in the basement after the shit you pulled. There’s nothing worse than a flight risk, Fe. You know we can’t afford that… and neither can you. 

So here they were. Lugging a garbage bag full of they didn’t want to know what to a dumpster away from the Grit Pit, for ‘liability issues.’ Felix wasn’t even sure if the reasoning was genuine or if Leo just wanted to make them walk farther. It probably didn’t matter. It wasn’t like they could say no either way.

They made it to the dumpster and lifted the bag inside, grunting with the weight of it. Their arm was still sore where the warden had stabbed them with the sedative, the slashes he’d left on their arms back when they were a jaguar’s leg still present. They thought about werewolves, of the enhanced healing granted to them with the full moon. Lucky bastards. 

Hearing footsteps at the mouth of the alley, Felix hurried to close the dumpster. If there really was something worth hiding in those bags, they didn’t want to be caught with them. They turned, ready to duck their head and trudge out of the alley…

Only to freeze when they spotted a familiar face at the mouth of it.

Immediately, their heard jumped into their throat. The jaguar stirred, sensing the anxiety, and they tried to force it down. They couldn’t afford to disappear right now, no matter how much they might want to. “Leave me alone,” they said, hating the way their voice shook. “I — I mean it.”

—

Wondering why he didn’t bother to carry a map with him so he could mark off inconsequential spots, Parker approached the next alley and examined his knuckles, which were still bruised from the altercation a few days ago. That was one of the things he was missing, his spiked iron knuckles. They were one of his oldest tools, most reliable friends, his defender. An attacker. He figured when he dropped them in favor of going bare-fisted, they slid under a nearby dumpster even though he couldn’t quite recall if there was a dumpster in the particular alley that he retreated into. He was stopped shortly as he turned the corner, however, and Parker glanced up when he was spoken to; by the fourth alley he’d been to where there wasn’t anyone there to ask him what he was doing, he chalked the experience up to luck as he wasn’t in the mood to entertain. This one wasn’t empty though, obviously, and whoever it was sounded afraid. Fortunately for the stranger, Parker’s being hearing-deficient combined with how he’d never been particularly skilled at vocal recognition meant that he didn’t know who it was at first and he could feel the latent irritation that threatened to turn into fury already starting to bubble in his gut. Unfortunately for the stranger, Parker’s eyes were much more proficient to compensate and he could pick a face from a lineup after seeing the assailant once in passing. As the Warden was heading into this alley to search for a set of spiked iron knuckles, he had almost run into a familiar face, indeed. Unlike the past couple of times though, a rush of adrenaline shot through him and for the first time in his memory, he had to resist the urge to run from the unassuming shifter that turned into something so close to ruining his life, managing to leave a lasting mark on the Warden’s face. The thought mortified him. “Where are your ears, kitty cat?” Parker asked, glancing down. “Or your tail?” His tone, while usually flat and clinical, took a sarcastic edge to it, subtle though it was. He was displaying a false sense of bravado as internally, he was calming himself down, keeping himself from bolting like a prey animal under the scrutinizing stalk of an apex predator. The roles should’ve been reversed.

But they weren’t, not right now.

—

It felt too much like it had the last time they’d run into the warden. An alley, two figures occupying it. If Felix tried to run, would the hunter shove him to the ground again? Had he brought those knives with him, the ones with the drugs inside? Had he come here looking for Felix, to either get the tail he’d been so obsessive about or to seek revenge for whatever the jaguar had done to him? There was a fresh scar across his face that looked like a clawmark had left it there, and Felix wondered if it had been his claws that carved it out. But the nymph at the lake, she’d had a similar experience with this warden, hadn’t she? How many people did he attempt to mutilate? How often did he target people like Felix, who’d just been minding their own business? 

The warden was speaking, and he sounded different. Less flat than he had been before. Was it anger? Rage towards someone who’d hurt him? Felix’s heart was pounding in their chest, the jaguar at the ready. He wanted out again, wanted to finish what he’d started, but Felix didn’t want any more blood on their hands, didn’t want to kill anyone. They shoved the feeling down, tried to calm themself even as the warden’s words injected more fear into them. 

Or your tail. 

Just hearing him question it sent a shiver down the balam’s spine. “If you ever touch me again, I’ll leave you with a lot worse than a scratch on your face,” they warned, though the way their voice trembled just a little seemed to take away from the intimidation they were going for. “I — I don’t have to go full jaguar to break out my claws. Remember that.”

— The other individual opened their mouth and the Warden was somehow expecting a complete shift in demeanor; he was expecting a rumbling strength, an actual threat. He was expecting the claws to come out as a show of dominance. Instead, none of that happened. Instead, the sense of fear, that primal urge to turn and bolt as fast and as far as his legs could carry him subsided rather easily as the shifter, who Parker now knew was called ‘Felix’, attempted their own form of bravado but it came out with much less confidence. One of the Warden’s eyes twitched in response as his hands balled into fists again, quivering slightly with the energy that flared up inside of him at the audacity. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the jaguar was a crutch. There was no respect there. There was only fear; fear for what they housed inside them, fear from a lack of control since apparently the jaguar had thoughts of its own, fear undoubtedly regarding Parker himself. “Maybe not.” The slightly taller man flared his nostrils as he couldn’t keep his expression from flashing with an emotion that was alien on his face. He took a step towards the shifter; his own fear was gone and only a frothing pit of anger and daring remained at his particular moment. His fists clenched and unclenched, the sound of his knuckles cracking pinging against the metal dumpster they stood near. 

He took another step forward, his head tilting slightly as he kept his blue eyes on the other individual. “Show me.” His voice came out in a hiss, low, venomous; he wasn’t sure what the shifter was but he figured they had the hearing of an animal so he didn’t bother making himself more clear. Parker wasn’t even there for the shifter, why did everyone assume that he was anywhere for them? Couldn’t he simply have his own time, goals, priorities? He was challenging them. “Show me.” He repeated. “Will you strike first? Can you strike first? I won’t fight you right now; you have my word.” A dangerous, rare thing, for Parker to give anyone his word, even if he wasn’t talking to a fae but though it wasn’t binding, Parker was a man of his word. He wasn’t a liar. Just another thing for people to misunderstand about him. He was used to it. “Come on, kitty cat. Fall back on the jaguar to fight for you, shifter. ” Parker was playing a dangerous game, one that he wasn’t sure he would be able to win with his current mindset. Then again, the current mindset was what got him into this particular scenario; if he had just stayed calm, stoic, emotionless, and controlled, he wouldn’t need to have come back, wandering aimlessly as he didn’t know where one of his greatest non-fae treasures was. “Show me your claws, Felix.”

—

There was something different about the warden. It wasn’t just his tone — his entire demeanor had shifted. Before, he’d been a blank slate. No emotion in his eyes, no sign that he was a person at all. An empty vessel, a robotic creature with no thoughts or feelings outside his goal, and no room to argue with anyone who didn’t want him to achieve it. But this was different. There was anger dancing behind his eyes now. Had Felix put it there? Had the jaguar’s attack caused this man to shift from the robotic state he’d existed in before to something more fiery, something angrier? If so, was that anger reserved for Felix, or had they unleashed it upon the town?

And, perhaps more jarringly, which was scarier? Was it better to be accosted by an emotionless husk of a man, one who was single-minded in his goals but wouldn’t work outside of them, or was it more preferable to be attacked by someone so blinded with rage that he might slip up in a way that calculated warden from the other night wouldn’t have? 

Felix was terrified now, just as he had been before. His heart was pounding, and he ached with it. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were the predator. Why did they always feel like the prey?

The challenge caught them off guard. They weren’t expecting it, because why would they be? He’d seen their claws once — up close and personal, if the new scar on his face was any indication. But Felix wasn’t intimidating when they were themself. It was the jaguar that was the threat, the beast that made people tremble. Felix could hold their own in the ring, but they didn’t much like fighting outside of it. And threats weren’t really their forte. There were no threats in the ring, after all — you just fought. It was simple.

But there was nothing simple about this. 

The warden promised he wouldn’t fight them, and Felix’s eyes darted to the space behind him. “If you don’t want to fight, then I’ll leave,” they said, inching towards the mouth of the alley. “I’m not — I don’t want to fight you, either. Just leave me alone. Stay away from me, and I’ll go.”

—

The silence between them was palpable as Parker’s eyes wavered for a long moment, every muscle in his body tightening like a coiled spring ready to strike… but he wasn’t going to. He stared the shifter down, his pupils contracting and dilating with the light that wavered above them. He waited to absorb the shock from a blow, he waited to be struck by four more claws where the first one came from as they were on a human hand this time instead of the massive paw of the jaguar. He waited. He waited. But Felix disengaged. Maybe that was most of the reason why Parker felt so confident, even as his body pulsed with adrenaline to prepare him for whatever might’ve come; this scenario had a predetermined outcome. Despite everything that’d transpired between the two from the incident with the idiomimics to a few days ago, both of them knew that Felix wasn’t going to start a fight outside the Grit Pit, not on purpose and not with conviction. Felix wasn’t a fighter or a killer. Felix was a young shifter with poor luck and a desire to coexist. Underneath the obsession, underneath the single-minded desire, a small flicker of acknowledgment licked at Parker’s brain. ‘My son, be gentle for me.’ He exhaled, feeling himself deflate like a balloon as his body caught up with his brain’s realization that he wasn’t going to have to defend himself against anyone today, for once. His gaze fell from Felix’ face and the fear that painted it and he took a few shaky steps back, his eyes suddenly doing everything in their power to keep from meeting the shifter’s. “I won’t hurt you.” He said in a quiet breath. “I’m…” What, sorry? No, Parker couldn’t be sorry. The Warden didn’t hold regrets, only causes, effects and lessons to learn next time. He blinked, furrowing his brow and looking at the ground, leaning back against the opposite wall. The pendulum was swinging in the opposite direction now as a wave of uncharacteristic guilt washed over him. “I won’t hurt you.”

—

Felix tensed, waiting for the warden to attack. To grab them by the shoulder the way he had before, to force them to the ground with a knife in his hand. His heart was in his throat and he waited, and wasn’t the waiting the worst part? In the Grit Pit, at least, things were simple. A bell sounded, and the violence began. Fights were contained between the ringing of that bell, even if there were no referees to stop those fights from ending with blood soaking every inch of the ring. But out here? Out here, violence was unpredictable. Someone could push drugs into your system and try to cut pieces off of you, and there was no bell, no warning. 

The warden seemed hesitant in a way he hadn’t been before, but what were the odds that was anything more than a trick? What were the chances that he didn’t intend Felix any harm? He said I won’t hurt you, and for a moment, Felix was back in the alley outside the Grit Pit instead of in this one, was on the ground with a heavy weight on top of him and no one to hear his desperate screams. I don’t want to hurt you, the warden had said then. I don’t want you dead. But he’d still put that knife into Felix’s arm. He’d still pushed those drugs into their system. He still would have taken part of him like a trophy if the jaguar hadn’t intervened. 

Panic gripped them, and they didn’t even realize they were doing it until it happened. The subtle partial shift, the claws on their fingers and that tail that had started it all breaking free as it moved back and forth, swaying. The language in the tail was that of a jaguar stalking its prey, but Felix still wasn’t much of a predator. Their breath was a panicked gasp, their heartbeat a desperate flutter. 

“Don’t say that,” they said. “Don’t say that. You said that before, and it isn’t true. I — I hurt someone because of you.”

—

Parker was still leaning against the wall, his hands now on his knees that jutted out in a makeshift sitting position, swallowing the overwhelming guilt that shivered through his system like a viral infection; his body fighting and trying to reject the strain, making his stomach turn over, strangling his breath as he struggled not to break down as his mother’s voice echoed in his head. She was always the reasonable one, as mothers of that era tended to be; deadly and proficient but also able to draw from the deepest wells of compassion and patience. His brother had inherited the best traits from both parents, Parker could only learn the worst. So when the Warden backed off, releasing the pent-up energy that came with the anticipation of an immediate threat kicking his body into fight-or-flight mode, it was Felix’ turn to reciprocate. Parker hadn’t noticed anything different either until the shifter began to speak and red-rimmed blue eyes were lifted to see the look on Felix’ face… and then they fell onto the tail again. The damned tail, the treasure that lit the flames in Parker’s mind, the tail that wasn’t there when he looked down only to find it swaying mockingly in his freshly-scarred face when he looked back up. A sharp inhale was sucked into Parker’s lungs through half-gritted teeth and his breathing accelerated, the rush of desire and obsession storming through his brain. He heard what Felix said but for an agonizingly long moment, he wanted to disregard everything that he was feeling, everything in his mind that kept him rooted to the spot. Advance. Try again. Succeed. He pulled himself away from the wall roughly, as though he were yanked forward by an invisible tether and he started to advance towards the shifter only to abruptly turn to where he was facing the nearby garbage can. With all his might, he kicked the thing and the clanging metal, the awful scrape of the bottom as it was pushed along the pavement, sent needles in his skin. “Put the tail away.” Parker grunted as he cradled his arms to his stomach to keep them from reaching around and attempting to throttle Felix. He couldn’t look at them. Wouldn’t look at them. He had to breathe. “Put the tail away. I don’t… want to hurt you.” Parker’s voice carried effort into it, almost as though he were speaking between bouts of pushing a boulder up a hill. It was true. It was true. It was always true. “Keep the claws, put the tail away.” He repeated, his tone almost pleading; it was an unusual sound, one so unfamiliar that Parker didn’t know that’s what it was. He couldn’t explain why. He couldn’t explain anything.

—

They could hear the warden’s reaction to the subtle shift. The way his heartbeat picked up, the way his breath quickened. Desire was a physical thing overtaking him, and Felix felt sick at the implication. Fear and anxiety swirled in their chest, making the tail sway faster and faster behind them. They wanted to hide it away, wanted to tuck it wherever it went when they weren’t shifted at all, but control was hard to come by when emotions ran high like this. It was all he could do to keep the jaguar from taking over entirely, all he could manage to stay as human as he was.

They blinked, eyes yellow and catlike when they opened them. Their senses became sharper and, with it, new aspects of the situation began wrapping cool fingers around Felix’s throat. Parker’s sharp inhale was deafening, the want in his eyes as they fell on the tail impossible to miss. The alley was so full of fear, and Felix couldn’t tell who it belonged to. Was that Parker’s lungs drawing breath so quick it bordered on hyperventilation, or was it their own? Whose heartbeat was drowning out the sound of the town around them?

The warden took a rough step forward, and then another. Felix shrank backwards in response, trying to make themself smaller while still trying to appear as a threat. A predator’s instincts were at war with an abused mind, leaving them with a strange sense of limbo. Fight, flight, freeze. Somehow, Felix seemed to be doing all three.

Surprisingly, the warden stopped before he got to them. He kicked a garbage can, and Felix flinched at the sound, jerking backwards violently. He told them to put the tail away, and that was strange, wasn’t it? He couldn’t cut it off if it wasn’t there, and wasn’t that the only thing he’d wanted to do since he saw it? It was a trick, Felix knew. It had to be a trick. Still, he tried desperately to comply. He tried to convince the tail to go, tried to blink his eyes back to human and draw his claws back into his fingers, but nothing was listening.

And again, the man was claiming he didn’t want to hurt them. As if everything he had done didn’t prove the very opposite. “You drugged me,” Felix spat, gasping for breath. “You — you tried to cut a piece off of me. You don’t want to hurt me? You already did!” Faster and faster the tail swished behind them. More and more Felix willed it to go back to where it belonged. But the jaguar didn’t listen; he never did, these days. Angry at the mess Felix had gotten them into, they suspected. Angry that they only ever made it worse. “Just — Just get out of here! Go!”

—

The Warden didn’t turn back around to see if the tail had, indeed, been put away for a long moment, instead taking another step further into the alley with his back to the shifter. Parker’s mind was simultaneously on fire and dipped into icy water. He wanted to run. He wanted to fight. He wanted to harvest, to apologize, to scream, cry, beat his fists into someone’s face until they were unrecognizable, vomit. The weight of conflict was pressing too hard on him, slicking his forehead in a sheen of sweat, clamping down on his stomach. Parker kept trying to catch his breath, gulping for air like a fish on a sunscorched dock. He wasn’t sure what this feeling was that locked his muscles and made him feel like instead of anything else, he was about to pass out but when Felix started talking again, the words instead just expounded on the overwhelming sensation and he straightened up, squaring his shoulders and clenching his fists so tightly that his nails were cutting into his palms. He turned on a heel in a motion just a little too deft for a regular human as he closed the distance between the two with a misplaced grace and fluidity. In what seemed like a blur, Parker hovered his face mere inches away from the shifter, to the point that his pointed nose could’ve grazed the tip of the other. He locked tired, yet alert blue eyes that were spiked with tears onto the shifter’s sharp, feline gaze. He had to keep his eyes on the others, not let them waver even though he felt the allure, a hook in his mind. How much bravado the shifter had once Parker’s back was turned and he promised that he wouldn’t hurt them. How bold they were, hiding behind the jungle cat who did all the work for them even now. Felix wasn’t about to strike but the Warden had gotten wise to the assumption that Felix and the jaguar were not the same person. “I did. That’s what you want to hear.” He finally spoke after an indefinite amount of time glaring unblinkingly into the eyes of the other, staying there even if the shifter tried to disengage, breathing heavily through his nose as his head felt like it was swimming. “I did.” He repeated, his voice a low mutter through gritted teeth that tightened his jaw. “And I don’t want to do it again.” The tears that welled in his eyes now trickled down his face, catching in the folds of his fresh scar from the shifter he now stared down. “I’m not leaving. I lost something.” Another pause. “So get your jaguar to fight for you again, Felix. I said I wouldn’t.”

—

They were almost… worried, for a moment. The warden was sweating, was gasping, was looking less and less like the face from Felix’s nightmares and more and more like an unstable man in an alley that needed help. Felix took an uncertain step forward, kind and optimistic and stupid enough to almost ask if the warden was okay in spite of everything. In spite of their own trembling hands and their own stuttering heart, in spite of the way their tail twitched and curled around them, in spite of the memory of cement digging into their back as they screamed for a rescue that wouldn’t come. 

But just as Felix was prepared to swallow their fear and check on the man, the warden was moving. Fast as a strike of lightning, and just as dangerous, he advanced on the balam and Felix shot backwards, his back hitting the bricks behind him as he ran out of places to retreat to. The warden’s face was so close to theirs, and Felix felt the man’s breath against their skin, felt it like a hand clamped around their throat. 

He hurt them, and he was admitting it. Was this what they wanted to hear? Not really. They didn’t want an assurance that he didn’t ‘want’ to do it again when he’d claimed he didn’t ‘want’ to do it as it was happening. They didn’t want much of anything at all except for the warden to leave, but that wasn’t happening. He was close, he was suffocating, he was somehow scarier than he’d been before. 

Felix reached out their hands and shoved. Hard. They wouldn’t bring the jaguar out if they could help it, didn’t want to lose more days and face more consequences, but they didn’t want to stay in the alley with the warden, either. 

—

It wasn’t claws, it wasn’t the jaguar that pushed Parker out of the face of the stressed shifter. The Warden, every fiber in his being tense and coiled like the serpent he was related to sometimes, felt the energy of movement, the weight of Felix’ hands pressing against him forcefully. And while he didn’t have to, content to be an immovable object to the shifter’s supposed unstoppable force, he allowed himself to take a few stumbling steps back as though he weren’t expecting the effort. As he did so, he straightened up again and reached behind himself to make sure that he didn’t hit the other wall. All the while, Parker kept his steely stare on the shifter, narrowing his gaze; he wouldn’t look at the tail. He couldn’t. If he did so, he’d be gripped by obsession again, throwing the words he’d said previously out of the window. Proving that he was weak. Unable to keep his word. He reached up and roughly wiped the tears and sweat off one half of his face but suddenly slowed down as he reached the other side, much more careful as his middle finger traced the raw scar that was still forming on his cheek slowly, eliciting the faintest hint of a wince. He didn’t have the tools. He didn’t have the energy, the patience, the calm, calculated processes. Thankfully, the shove from Felix managed to stabilize Parker and the latter found his breathing deeper, steadier. The tempest of emotions that churned inside him, oil mixing with water that left him disoriented and split on what to do and which decision to make had seemingly been calmed by the show of aggression, if only temporarily. The Warden could wrap intangible hands around the wheel of control once more. He exhaled and closed his eyes, the frothing storm of extremes that didn’t belong to him settling. In. Out. As he opened his eyes once more, his expression softening, his gaze lowered from where they glared at the shifter before and drifted down to the feet of the dumpster. Slowly, and perhaps the most genuinely that he had in a while, he let a smile creep onto his face as his exhaustedly sharp eyes found the glimmering ghosts of light bouncing off his iron spiked knuckle-duster. Wordlessly, not caring how Felix might’ve reacted to him, Parker approached the dumpster one more time, dropping to a kneel as he reached under it. He collected the object in his hands gently, fondly, though he was retrieving a kitten instead of a heavy iron weapon. “I won’t hurt you again.” He was looking at the barbed knuckle-duster but he was speaking to Felix. “You don’t have to believe me.” Parker’s gaze flickered to the shifter’s face before looking back down at the weapon, slipping it onto his fingers as though to make sure it was really his. Of course it was. He made them himself. “Learn how to put the tail away. It’ll get you into trouble.” He added vaguely but he either couldn’t or wouldn’t elaborate further, unwilling to view himself critically at the moment lest he fall into another unwarranted and humiliating breakdown. With one last, rather earnest look at Felix, staring into their catlike eyes, Parker took the iron knuckles off his hand, slipped them into one of his jeans pockets and skulked out of the alley. He was going home. He’d reached his limit that day.

—

There was a moment after Felix shoved the warden where time stood suspended. There was a moment where they couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe as they watched the man stumble backwards. Had they signed their own death warrant with that shove, they wondered? Would this be the thing to break the hunter free of whatever strange spell he seemed to be under, the thing that would make him look back at Felix again the way he had before, when he’d shoved him to the ground and held him there, when he’d injected a sedative into their veins to make them more pliable? 

But the hunter only smiled. Felix felt sick with it, the unnaturalness. He stepped forward again, and Felix was already so tense that it hurt but they tensed further at the movement. Like a wild animal, their wide eyes tracked every move the hunter made. The way he knelt, the way he reached under the dumpster. They swallowed when he came back with shining metal, thinking again of a knife in their shoulder and a drug pulling them under.

I won’t hurt you again, the hunter said, but Felix didn’t believe him. They couldn’t. Not when the damage had been done, not when there was blood on their hands because of what this man had done. They stood, just as tense, as the man spoke, tail wrapping protectively around their body as if the jaguar was trying to offer some comfort even as they had it locked away. Learn to put that tail away, as if it was easy. It’ll get you into trouble, as if it was their fault. As if having a tail gave someone permission to take it, as if existing meant accepting that people would want you dead for doing so.

Felix said nothing. No words would come to them, no response seemed right. They watched as the hunter removed the iron knuckles from his hand, watched him slip them into his pocket instead. They watched him leave without moving, without blinking, without saying a word. They listened until his ragged breath was far away, until they couldn’t hear his footsteps even with the jaguar’s assistance. 

And only when he was gone did they allow themself to collapse in the alley. Only when he could no longer see them did they allow themself to fall apart.