#with a crystal that Actually Resonates With Him

[kinsey3furry300]

Great analysis: might I add, I would not be surprised if Fizz is in a group chat for people who work at Ozzies, and given Verosika works there part time, she might also be in the same chat, so Veronica has a professional relationship with both Pringles's polycule AND Fizz.

Fizz knew in advance that Stolas was acquireing an Asmodian crystal as a gift for Blitzø because Ozzie asked him if it was okay first in "Oops". Ozzy also had a legit reson to inquire to Stolas if Blitzø had accepted the Asmodian crystal or not, as its kind of important to his work, given the whole "You'd technically be under his jurisdiction" line Stolas says when presenting it in Full Moon.

Verosika has two separate sets of work friends, the Ozzie staff and the incubi from the office opposite I.M.P, who would know in advance that Stolas was offering the crystal as a romantic gesture, and could immediately know if it went badly. And there are three separate ways the info could get out (Blitzø crys to Fizz, Ozzie asks Stolas, Pringles Overhears).

It would be almost more surprising if she didn't know the gesture went badly by the next day when she's only two degrees of separation from both Blitzø (Blitzø->Fizz->Her) Stolas (Stolas->Ozzie->her) and Pringles (Pringles->Polycule->her).

And while I do think she was low-key stalking Blitzø, and was pretty petty and cruel to send Stolas that invite the day after the breakup, she also knew the whole time about them illegally acssesing the human world, given she's one of the few demons who can legally acsses it, and she never ratted Blitzø out for the highly illegal business, so my headcanon is that while she is still angry at him, she's not actually trying to ruin his life, so much as support his exe's and, primarily, work through her own feelings. She never seeks him out or rubs the Halloween party in his face, (its been going on for years and he only finds out when Stolas tells him) he shows up in her space to bitch at her, not the other way around, and she never seeks an apology from him.

While she's clearly not over it, or over him regardless of what her song says, I don't think she bears Blitzø any ill will, I think she just seeks closure by collecting his various ex's for thier little anual catharsis ritual, weird as it may be. It's not a healthy coping mechanism, but it's better than Blitzø or Stolas's.

Again, everyone in this universe needs therapy.

Contexing the dots

Just got asked this elsewhere. And now I'm kinda worried that others might have missed how Verosika knows about the fight between Stolas and Blitz

So have this...

Apology Tour is only a few hours after Full Moon. Which could make it really odd that she thought they were dating, and now broken up.

But Verosika was working at Ozzie's the night of their disastrous first date.

And Stolas' head butler, Pringles, was also out with his polycule to Ozzie's the same night.

They could have been random hookups, except that Ozzie is always booked months in advance, and they have rule about couples only.

There's 6 people at Pringles table. So they're all on a date with him, and bend the rules for even number polycules.

Two of his dates are Kiki and Milky, who are part of the crew that worked with Verosika during spring break.

Kiki is one of the ones who attacks Moxxie, and backs Verosika up when Blitz suggest the demon duel.

And Milkie was working the crowd when Verosika's was singing.

Also Josh and Ace were on a date together at Ozzie's too.

Making it very likely that Pringles, Milkie, Kiki, Josh, Ace and Verosika would have all gossip together about what just happened, when Blitz and Stolas go home sad from their date.

Which gives Verosika a way to have tabs on Blitz and Stolas' relationship.

Pringles knews this is the big now or never moment to Stolas. He says "he'll die alone if things go bad tonight".

So yep he's assuming their on again off again relationship is over if things don't go well.

And things did not go well, with Blitz screaming through the house.

Something the whole staff probably heard. Assumed it meant another crap work day full of picking up bottles, again.

And Stolas is drinking wine first thing in the morning after all. So yer they probably had a very craptastic night already.

Can't tell me there wouldn't be a group chat between Pringles and the people he's seeing.

And another between Verosika and the people she previously worked with.

Yes, I do consider Verosika actions to be a type of stalking, because she's using this to keep tabs on her exe's relationship.

She only worked with these people as a freelancer for one week.

But she gotta making sure Stolas has it in mind that they are well and truly over.

Stolas just said he wanted some space from Blitz to get his head together, and that the invite made him feel awful.

So it's pretty unlikely he'd have went without Blitz turning up.

Stolas calls the whole thing immature, silly, and petty.

Only considering going because it annoys Blitz. Very petty😛

Verosika can't even wait for the post to send that invite, because she thinks she's saving people from the horror of dating Blitz.

So she's gotta slip in before even Blitz can scail that garden wall.

Also Blitz hasn't been home all night.

He's been just sat in the van, stressing about how to fix this. (It would have worried Loona if he'd come home early. With how hard she and M&M were trying to make sure it was a good night for him).

Blitz probably has a change of clothes in the van, because he was expecting to stay over.

And then spend the rest of the night and morning listening to love songs, and sending memes to try and get Stolas to text him back.

And then Blitz immediately jumps the wall and ran over when he saw Stolas was up.

Because Stolas always texts him back instantly, so what gives!

[notsofrozt]

An angsty QiJiu idea I had a while ago (is it basically a shameless rip-off of a NaruSasu fic I read? Yes)

YQY goes on a mission to a remote area in the borderlands and stops near a mysterious lake. Despite being close to the demon lands, the water is crystal clear, and the plants are lush, perhaps too vividly so. When he gets closer to investigate, a strange reflection appears on the surface, and he falls inside... But instead of feeling the coldness, he wakes up in his bed, on the peak, as if nothing had happened.

Except it looks wider, less empty, with a couple of vases of blooms and green details everywhere that indicate the presence of someone else in the space. Someone whose tastes he is familiar with.

His body is also lighter, the hum of his soul-bonded sword no longer resonating in his skull.

YQY knows there's something wrong, and he needs to get out of there; he's no fool after all. But a sweet "Qi-ge, you woke up late today" greeting him as soon as he steps out the door makes his resolution crumble like wet paper.

He knows is some sort of trap and he has to leave, but maybe, just maybe, he can stay a little bit longer. He is strong. He can spare a few more seconds just once...

I was inspired (very, very inspired... It is basically just ripping the plot, what can I say) by a Naruto fic, although in this case instead of killing its victim with drowning, the lake would drain their qi until the prey dies, keeping them underwater to feed their small ecosystem amid hostile lands, and thus attracting more victims.

But, YQY overestimated the lake's strength. The fake SQQ is so real, so warm, the poison missing behind the snarky remarks just enough to not feel hollow. He still tries to leave, but days go by, and he finds no way out.

Even knowing that he doesn't deserve any of that tenderness or smiles, the domesticity of everyday life ends up making him lose touch with reality, making him dip into this ideal life with a Xiao-jiu whom he did not fail.

Outside his happy ending/fluff fanfic, people start wondering what happened, and they manage to trace him back to that lake. The search party urgently summons several peak lords, including SQQ, because there is no visible way to get YQY out of the bottom of the lake. And despite YQY's strong spiritual power, he is getting consumed.

In the fic Sasuke believes he died and this is a kind of afterlife where he can be happy with Naruto, but I think here YQY knows that he is dying, and under the lake's influence he ends up fully believing that the person that matter to most to him won't miss him at all, so he decides to embrace the fantasy completely, even if it means death.

The lake sometimes shows flashes of the events happening inside. While everyone is still running in circles, SQQ approaches just to see YQY be all sad with fake!SJ, actually confessing about the caves and the nature of his sword (the only thing left in his chest before he dies). The reflection goes back to normal as soon as fake!SJ "I love you" back.

With (fake) Qijiu's first and last kiss, all the peak lords feel YQY's qi disappear, and SJ is left mourning for another broken promise, the last one...

Except there is no way he is letting YQY just die like that, in the arms of a fake. If he is going to mumble a half-ass apology like that, it better be to his real face!! Panicking and enraged, SJ jumps into the lake to rescue him, even if he knows YQY is too deep in, just to do something. To try to go back to him, like now he knows YQY tried to do all those years ago.

He barely makes it underwater before the other peak lords drag him back to shore, fearing that the lake would claim him as well.

Except the lake did claim him.

A very confused, wet and freshly transmigrated SY is the one that comes back out in SQQ's body.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #27

Danny wasn’t trying to become a supervillain’s protégé. Honestly, he was just trying to survive another semester at MIT without spontaneously combusting from stress. At nineteen, between triple-majoring in Astrophysics, Mechanical Engineering, and Paranormal Biochemistry—and moonlighting as the occasionally-glowy, occasionally-exploding, semi-competent vigilante known to the public as Phantom—Danny was hanging on by a thread. A very frayed, very caffeine-soaked thread. So when one of his professors suggested a special “independent study project” with a visiting Latverian dignitary-slash-scientist, Danny said yes without thinking. He needed the credits. He needed the money. He needed the free lunch vouchers. What he did not need, apparently, was to accidentally apprentice himself to Doctor Fucking’ Doom.

At first, he didn’t know. To Danny, “Victor” was just this weird, intense European dude with a crazy sense of fashion (who the hell wore a green cape in broad daylight?) and a laugh that definitely belonged in a villain origin story. But Victor paid well, never judged him for falling asleep mid-sentence, and always had the best coffee imported from who-knows-where. Danny figured he was just some rich old nerd with a lot of quirks. Maybe a little murder-y, but hey, Danny was from Amity Park. His standards for “dangerous mentor figure” were catastrophically low.

“Daniel,” Victor intoned one day, standing over a schematic that looked suspiciously like a laser death satellite. “Tell me: what improvements would you make to a mobile interdimensional particle cannon capable of vaporizing Manhattan?”

Danny, who hadn’t slept in three days and thought this was just a theoretical design, squinted at the blueprints and muttered, “Uh… you forgot the phase stabilizer. Without it, the cannon would rip itself apart before you could fire. Also, your aim’s gonna suck unless you recalibrate the gyroscopic system.”

Victor went unnaturally still. “Explain.”

Danny yawned so hard his jaw cracked. “M’kay, so if you adjust the vibrational harmonics here”—he drew all over the deadly weapon diagram with a crayon—“and rework the mana-infused crystal lattice to resonate at a higher frequency… boom. Stable, precise, terrifying. A+ on your murder machine, Professor Von Evilcape.”

Victor stared at him for a long time. Then he laughed. Not just any laugh. A full, villainous, booming laugh that echoed through the lab and set off three alarms in the next building over. Danny didn’t even blink. He just kept doodling tiny ghosts on the margins of the schematic.

From that moment onward, Victor—Doctor Doom, actual dictator of Latveria, sorcerer supreme wannabe, world-class narcissist—decided Danny was his heir apparent. His secret weapon. His beautiful chaotic son who understood him better than any of the clowns in Latveria ever had. He didn’t ask Danny if he wanted the role. He just started sending Danny increasingly absurd “assignments” that Danny, running on Monster Energy and bad life choices, completed without registering how criminally insane they were.

Case in point: one evening, Danny stumbled into the lab with a Red Bull in one hand and a half-eaten burrito in the other. Victor handed him a device.

“Install this at Stark Tower.”

Danny blinked at the tiny, harmless-looking black box. “Uh, what is it?”

“A signal booster for quantum research purposes.”

Danny, who trusted absolutely no one and also didn’t care because he had a paper due at midnight, shrugged. “Okay, cool.”

He broke into Stark Tower that night with the ease of a sleepwalking raccoon, installed the “signal booster” inside one of Tony Stark’s servers, and left. The next morning, the news was screaming about a massive data breach that almost triggered World War III. Danny was too busy trying to finish his midterm essay on quantum entanglement to notice.

“Good work, Daniel,” Victor said approvingly during their next meeting, clapping him on the back so hard he almost faceplanted into a dimensional rift. “You have the soul of a conqueror.”

“Thanks, man,” Danny mumbled, chugging coffee straight from the pot.

Victor took it a step further. He started introducing Danny at fancy functions. “This is Daniel. He is my most promising apprentice. One day he will inherit my empire.”

Danny, half-dead from exams and not paying attention, just nodded absently and said, “Yup. Love the Empire Strikes Back. Great movie. Big fan.”

Victor beamed.

It wasn’t until six months later, after the “Study Abroad” paperwork (actually an all-expenses-paid trip to Latveria) and the suspiciously grand laboratory gifted to him “for his brilliance,” that Danny realized something was deeply wrong.

He was skimming through some documents on Victor’s encrypted network—because of course Doom had an encrypted network called “DoomNet”—when he found it.

Last Will and Testament of Victor Von Doom: In the event of my death, all of Latveria, my scientific research, all proprietary technology, magical artifacts, nuclear launch codes, hidden doomsday devices, and the title of Supreme Monarch will pass to my chosen heir: Daniel Fenton, aka “Phantom,” aka “My Beautiful Disaster Child.”

Danny read it three times.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Am I—AM I A VILLAIN PRINCE?!”

Cue the world’s most pathetic breakdown.

“NO NO NO NO NO. I JUST WANTED A DAMN SCHOLARSHIP!” He hurled a coffee mug at the wall. It phased through because he lost control of his intangibility again. “THIS IS WHAT I GET FOR TRUSTING ANYONE IN A CAPE.”

Danny spent the next two hours panic-researching Victor Von Doom. It was bad. It was really bad. It was, like, world-endingly bad. Murder records. Wars. Kidnapping Reed Richards’ kids. Banning Beyoncé from Latveria because she rejected his dinner invitation. BAD.

And it was too late. Doom had gone on international television that morning and announced Danny’s name as his successor.

“I have chosen my heir,” Doom declared, standing proudly atop his gold-plated balcony while cameras flashed below. “The boy shall inherit everything I have built. Bow before your future king, Daniel Fenton!”

Meanwhile, in his MIT dorm room, Danny choked on his cereal.

“Oh my God,” Tucker screamed over Facetime. “YOU’RE DOOM JUNIOR!”

Jazz was furiously typing. “Danny, that’s treason. Like, actual treason.”

Sam just stared at him with unholy glee. “So… when are you conquering America?”

“NEVER,” Danny screeched.

Too late. The Avengers showed up at MIT the next day. It was not subtle.

Tony Stark crashed into Danny’s quantum physics lecture, kicked open the door, and pointed dramatically at him. “YOU!”

Danny, hunched over his notes and running on negative hours of sleep, blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah, you, Doom Boy,” Tony said, stomping down the aisle while half the class screamed and ducked for cover. “You hacked my servers, hijacked my satellites, and installed a literal doom-signal into my mainframe. Care to explain, junior dictator?”

Danny held up his hands. “Okay, look. In my defense, I thought it was a Wi-Fi booster.”

Steve Rogers leaned in. “Are you actively trying to destroy America?”

Danny’s eye twitched. “Sir, I am actively trying to pass Organic Chemistry.”

Natasha Romanoff clicked a pen menacingly. “Are you or are you not plotting to overthrow the world?”

Danny hesitated. “I mean… define ‘plotting’?”

There was a long, painful silence.

Tony sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Kid. You’re on, like, several different international watchlists. Half of SHIELD thinks you’re planning to nuke New York.”

Danny’s voice cracked. “I didn’t even know how to do laundry until last month.”

And thus began the most chaotic custody battle in history: Doom versus the Avengers versus Danny versus himself.

Victor, naturally, was thrilled. He sent Danny monogrammed armor. A custom throne. A letter that read “My son, all great rulers are hated before they are loved. However feat not. Seize your destiny.”

Danny sent it back with a post-it note that said “pls stop.”

Tony tried to recruit him instead. “Work for me. You like tech, you like coffee, you’re already better at hacking than Peter—”

“HEY,” Peter Parker shouted from across the hall.

Danny groaned into his hands. “I don’t want to work for anyone! I just want a nap!”

Sam Wilson patted him on the back sympathetically. “Welcome to adulthood, kid.”

Things escalated horrifyingly fast. Latverian officials tried to smuggle Danny out of Massachusetts under the cover of night. Doom built a life-sized gold statue of him in Latveria’s capital square. The Avengers started putting “Phantom Threat Level: High” on their briefing files. Nick Fury cornered him in a diner and deadpanned, “Son, you’re one bad day away from becoming an international incident.”

Danny, shoving pancakes in his mouth, muffled, “I don’t wanna.”

Of course, life didn’t let him off that easy.

When Doom inevitably “died”—allegedly vaporized by a malfunctioning time machine because of course he did—Danny woke up to find a legal team at his dorm room.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty,” the lead lawyer said with an evil smile. “You are now King of Latveria.”

Danny fainted on the spot.

He woke up fifteen minutes later to find Sam fanning him with a Doom flag and Tucker wearing a Latverian general’s hat he stole from one of the lawyers.

“So…” Tucker grinned. “Wanna invade Canada first?”

Danny screamed into his pillow.

And somewhere, deep in the void between worlds, Doom—very much alive and sipping espresso—chuckled darkly.

“Atta boy, Daniel,” he whispered. “Atta boy.”

[delicatewinterenthusiast]

"Call me"

That went to another voicemail. How long has it been? A week? The longest Sylus hasn't been able to find you. Considering he can monitor you wherever you are, it is just pissing him off. How could you go somewhere without informing him first? He doesn't care about you! it's about his resonance and the aether core.

He becomes restless because it's been fifteen fucking days and you cannot leave a damn message. What is wrong with you? Don't you understand you are affecting his work?

"Did you actually forget our deal? The absolute audacity to break the deal with me. Call me now! This is not a request"

It has been two weeks and he is starting to lose it a little bit. Anger? Disappointment? Sadness? He doesn't know.

Angry that you somehow managed to get out of his range and actually disappear.

Disappointed that he somehow managed to push you away just when you were warming up to him finally.

Sad that he cannot find you for two whole weeks. He cannot lose you again. He cannot take this loss.

Luke and Keiran haven't returned either. They went with you two weeks ago to fight a wanderer. What were those idiots actually doing without reporting every single move you make to Sylus? He will not give them their salary raise if once they get back.

"Call me please" followed by 7 whole seconds of silence was the last voicemail he left.

His phone started ringing exactly 24 days after you disappeared from his world. He tripped over the air to rush to get his phone.

"Hello"

"Hi, Sylus."

"Where were you? What happened to you? Were you thinking at all? How can you do this to me?" he asked you in a single breath

"You don't have to be mean about it. Luke and Keiran touched a little crystal resembling the Protocore. Turns out it was some artifact which trapped us in a space, not exactly in this world but I do not know where it was. Aren't you glad I am back? So many concerned voicemails!" You replied with a little bit of mirth in your tone.

"Tell me where you are I will come get you"

"Say please"

"...... Please. I missed you"

You weren't honestly expecting an answer from him.

It was like a punch to your gut. Him pleading and telling you he missed you in that tone? Were you dreaming? You quickly told him where you were.

He appeared in front of you before you even cut the call and engulfed you in a tight hug.

"I will tell you please a thousand times. Hell, want me to beg? I will get on my knees and do it. Just don't ever leave me again"

What else could you do than get closer and hug him tighter and wish you could stay in his embrace forever?

A/N- Not beta read . Sorry!

[excusemyobsessions]

Did you have a bad dream?

Zayne x MC/You

Genre:  Fluff, One Shot, Gender neutral reader POV

Word count: 1800 words

Little note: I'm sure this has been done a million times before by other authors but I was suddenly assaulted by the image of soft Zayne comforting you after a nightmare so here we are. Enjoy? haha

Warnings: Description of a nightmare, pet names (honey), teeth-rotting fluff

(Also posted on AO3)

In the middle of the night, you stirred.

Heavy eyelids fluttered open.

Visions of angry, black ice shards still danced behind your eyes. You had to blink them a few times to be able to focus on the present. On the actual sight before you. The empty bed, your fingers which gripped the covers. You curled in on yourself even further, hugged the comforter tight to your chest, against your heart which beat wildly against your ribcage. Your eyebrows furrowed for a moment, forming a crease in between them.

You had not fallen asleep by yourself yet when you reached out, Zayne's side of the bed was cold.

Slowly, you pushed off the covers.

“Zayne?” you called in a tiny voice, drowsy from sleep, sitting up to search for your big snowman whose warmth had been peeled away from you.

You could swear you could still feel the grip of his frozen fingers which held on to your hand in desperation in your dream. As his frame was engulfed in black crystals, you'd kept holding his hand, frantically trying to resonate with him to no avail. 

You watched it helplessly, unable to do anything as he was quickly cocooned within the grasp of that black plague. The last thing you saw were his eyes, those green orbs of the purest shade, haloed in gold; their shades of despair.

Your gaze went darting across the room, desperately searching for those green eyes which you could not find. Zayne wasn't in his room.

Once you got used to the darkness, you finally noticed the door was slightly open, a gentle yellow light shining through into the room.

There was a deep need inside your chest, this desperate tug. You had to see his face, had to hear his voice, the gentle, soothing sound of it. All you could hear in your mind was his screams of your name which your brain had conjured in your sleep.

You slipped out of bed and wrapped yourself up in the blanket which was draped over the bottom of the bed. Bare foot, you padded towards the light, out of the room and into Zayne's study room.

In his sleep attire, he sat on his office chair, typing away on his laptop, glasses perched on his nose. Work had clearly dragged him out of bed, a while ago it seemed because sleep had already left his eyes by now. You could tell he was tired by the way his shoulders curved and how his body was slightly hunched over. 

Your hands gripped the corners of the blanket just a little tighter, standing at the very entrance of the room.

“Zayne?” you called again.

His head instantly turned towards you, a little acknowledging hum rumbling from his throat in response to your calling. Yet the second his eyes found yours, one hand lifted up to remove his glasses, laying them down on the desk as he turned in his chair towards you.

“What's wrong?” He asked, concern very clear in his deep voice. “I'm sorry, one of the nurses called. They needed an urgent report.”

As he explained the situation, his free hand lifted, outstretched towards you, beaconing you in.

“That's okay,” you told him, voice still very little, so very unlike you.

You stepped into the room, reaching out to take his hand, letting him pull you onto his lap. 

His skin was warm against yours, a stark contrast of the cold you'd felt in your dream. As you sat down on his thighs, shoulder resting against his chest, you took that hand between both of yours, letting your fingers slip into the empty gaps between his fingers. And you kept it there, holding it tight, so tight it felt like your life depended on it.

“Did you have a bad dream?” he asked gently, alert eyes scrutinizing your features.

A little affirmative hum was all you mustered in response, nodding your head along with it.

His eyes were far too intense, so full of concern it was making you self-conscious. What a silly thing to be so choked up by a dream when you knew damn well it was just that; a dream. 

You averted your gaze then, dragging his hand up to your lips, placing a kiss against a scarred knuckle, letting your nose rub against his skin, basking in its warmth.

“Oh, honey,” he breathed out.

His grip tightened around you, dragging your closer against his chest, and you slotted your head on the curve of his neck. His hand stayed within yours, pressed against your chest as you felt him drop a tender kiss on the top of your head.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he encouraged, mouth still against your head.

You turned your head to nuzzle your nose against his collarbone, trying your absolute best to swallow down that very clear knot which your vocal chords had tied themselves into. His free hand lifted up to cradle your head and he soon began to run his fingers soothingly through your hair, deftly untangling any knots.

“It was you… you were in danger and I couldn't help you,” you told him in a low voice, your own fingers subconsciously gripping onto his hand tighter.

You heard him hum, felt the rumbling of the sound against your temple. You let your eyes close, focusing on just that, the sounds you could hear so clearly at this distance. When he took in a breath, you could hear the air circle in his lungs and feel his warm breath against your hair.

“Hmm, that seems to be a recurring theme in your nightmares,” he mused.

You once again responded with a little hum.

Zayne was very warm. His body heat radiated from him, and engulfed you in its tender embrace.

The way you nuzzled his neck was almost desperate, frantic until you found just the curve to nestle your nose and hide your face, breathing in his soothing scent; his body wash, the natural scent of his skin, the warmth of the bed which still lingered on his sleep clothes.

The more you sank into him, the tighter he held you, a little shuddering breath escaping him.

“Hey,” he whispered, all the gentleness in his heart gathered in his voice. “I'm right here, I'm okay. We're okay,” he told you.

Everything about him was just so reassuring. From the way he moved his free hand to run up and down your back, to the way he seemed to hunch in on you, as if trying to wrap himself around you and protect you from the world.

Zayne really was your safe space, your shelter. No one else in this world could ever make you feel like this; like you belonged. He made you feel like you were there for a reason, like he wanted you there.

“There's no one else I'd trust myself to. Your dreams are just that, dreams. In real life, you're more than capable of keeping me safe,” he said.

His voice was low, words spoken against the top of your head. There wasn’t an ounce of his usual mirth, not even a touch of sarcasm. He was sincere, so candid it made your heart tremble in your chest.

You moved away from his neck and both of you straightened up to look at each other. You hadn’t let go of his hand yet and you had no intentions of doing so. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’d started very gently running his thumb over your knuckle, slowly but surely alleviating the tightness of your grip.

His gaze was steady, locked in on yours. His eyes were gentle, two pools of calm waters, their shade of jade so warm and tender. You lifted up one hand to cup his cheek, run your thumb right under his eye and his lips curved into a soft smile.

Slowly, he lowered himself closer and closer until his forehead was resting against yours. You breathed him in, closing your eyes.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“There’s no need for that,” he responded instantly.

Your eyes fluttered open when you felt him move, only for them to close again when he tenderly placed his lips against your forehead. He kissed your skin once and then again, then your temple and your cheek. Under such tenderness, you felt yourself melt, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

When you opened your eyes again, he was watching you closely with a tiny smile plastered across his own lips. You reached up and kissed his cheek before returning to your spot, nestled up against his chest, resting your head on his shoulder. You could hear his little chuckle rumbling against your ear.

“Are you almost done?” you questioned, taking a peek at his screen.

In the meantime, it had locked itself in the idleness of the moment.

Zayne shifted a little, accommodating himself and you, ready to finally get back to his report.

“Yes, just a little longer,” he answered.

He reached out to grab his glasses and perch them up on his nose again and you settled down against him. You could tell by now, all and any tension in your body had slowly drifted away. You were turned into a sleepy, mushy mess, shoulders slightly hunched over.

“Can I stay with you?” you mumbled against his shoulder.

He hummed affirmatively in response, eyes already locked on the screen.

“It might take me longer than expected, now that I only have one hand to work with,” he mused, a clear touch of teasing in his voice.

Oh.

His hand was very much still within yours, fingers still intertwined. You definitely did not want to let go but he was right wasn't he? It was the middle of the night and both of you needed rest.

You led his hand to your lips, hearing him shift his position. You kissed each knuckle under his attentive gaze, letting your eyes lock onto his when you kissed his ring finger. And then you reluctantly let go.

“You're right.” You nodded, getting ready to return to your spot against his shoulder.

However, before you could, his kissed fingers caught you by the chin and kept you there, with your face tilted upwards. He lowered himself down and dropped a kiss on your lips, slow and gentle. Dormant butterflies fluttered in your stomach.

“It won't take long,” he promised.

You nodded and returned your head to his shoulder, closing your eyes. Gripping onto the front of his shirt, you let him get back to work.

Wrapped up in his warmth and lulled by the sound of his steady breathing and the quick typing of his fingers against the keyboard, you soon drifted off to sleep.

[kowai-kabuki-tanuki]

"what if no one GETS it?"

Ok here's a tangent about writing: I often hear people hold up Miyazaki as an example of a filmmaker who doesn't constrain himself with "western" story structures/hero's journey formulas/beat sheets.

This is definitely true to some extent--he doesn't really ever write a screenplay, just goes straight to storyboards. He's a master of THEME and storytelling for sure...This is just me unpacking my thoughts about story structure and maybe I'm just superimposing a formula on him. Anyway.

Kiki's Delivery Service.

I think that a big chunk of the audience for this movie...y'know, kids...probably don't "get" a lot of the story. Even as an adult, I still feel like I'm always picking up different things when I watch it.

But I do think it follows a fairly direct arc? It's got an inciting incident, (she leaves home) rising action, (starts a delivery business/has adventures) but I think the last third(?) is where it gets interesting to me.

There's a pretty long section where she has a Crisis. She loses her powers and she has a whole dark night of the soul™️ where she doubts herself. She’s despondent, but when she goes to see the old women that she helped earlier and they give her a cake, that’s the turning point of the whole film?!

Even though Kiki’s struggled and she's depressed, these old women bake her a cake because they're grateful for her and they love her! It's not like some huge epic moment—but that's the thing that pushes Kiki into the finale. (WAH THIS SCENE SOMEHOW ALWAYS DESTORYS ME) Having been reminded that she’s made a positive impact on the world, Kiki musters her own inner strength and goes off and saves Tombo.

So in this quiet Crisis scene, Kiki completes her character arc. The Climax that follows (her flying again to save Tombo) is where she SHOWS how she's grown/changed through the story.

The Resolution™️ is everything after she catches him midair—she can fly again, she leaves her childhood uncertainties behind, (This is the stuff with Jjji—I love that she keeps him with her even if they can't talk anymore) and she writes to her family.

So...even if the movie sort of seems like a bunch of unconnected situations, I'd say that it actually follows a pretty clean structure?

Miyazaki doesn’t put in a blazing sign, or state the theme in a denouement. But it’s still there. (I feel like I never see other people talking about the scene with the cake?) So, yeah, some audience members will miss it and everyone has their own interpretations of his movies. But that’s ok! Not everyone has to leave the theater saying, “Kiki’s Delivery Service” is about x or “Spirited Away” means y.

As a writer, I worry that if I don’t make my point absolutely crystal clear, that I’ve failed to an extent. But I want to remind myself that a story can be opaque or vague or even confusing and still 100% land with the audience.

There’s value in theme and story arcs even if it goes unstated and even unnoticed in the final film. A person who watches Kiki, but doesn’t think it has a structure (with an antagonist and a protagonist goal) can still love the film. But ALSO, they DID receive the film’s message, even if they don’t yet (or ever) consciously understand it.

Creators don't have to bop their audiences over the head to make sure everyone “gets” what they are trying to do. It can still resonate. And, like, maybe the movie is better if it leaves some stuff up to interpretation.

[ghost-proofbaby]

It's summer for you, winter for me. Warm me up with strawberry fluff! As always, my muse, your muse, the one and only, Eddie.

Midsummer's night, because I don't have a lot to inspire you with. I'm thinking something cute but weird? Maybe some human body softness where Eddie is a bit of a freak and we love him for it. And we're told our bodies are lovely, even when they're doing weird shit.

I lalalove youuuuu. xo Rhi

RHI!!!! <3 i adore you. thank you for this prompt - i had far too many ideas for it, but ended up on settling for this one, which coincidentally feels like the most subtle of them all? either way, it definitely turned out being the softest. give me an eddie munson who just wants to sniff me like a dog. this definitely got a bit long but i hope you enjoy, my dear <3

the smell of you

warnings: weirdos in love? idk. i have a skewed sense of what is actually weird i think. mentions of death and coffins jokingly. eddie 'manhandles' reader sort of. not edited.

wc: 2.2k+

come enjoy a sweet summer treat with me <3

“Eddie?”

The entire apartment is quiet – too quiet – as you drop your keys into the old crystal bowl on the counter. The clink resonates through the air, louder than the soft murmur of the stereo static you can hear from down the hall. 

“You dead?” you call out again, slipping off your running shoes and tossing down your headphones onto the counter as well now, “Do I need to call the coroner?” 

Your tone is lilted, teasing with airiness as you continue to wander deeper into the apartment and head straight for the room you know Eddie has to be in. Like the waves pulled by the moon, there’s an incessant string tied around one end of your soul that connects you to his, and you follow it all the way down the hallway. The bedroom door is wide open, and you can hear his mumbled yell of a response without clarity before you even cross the threshold. 

You wouldn’t have even needed him to verbally respond to find him in this tiny apartment. You two could get separated on the streets of a bustling city, of a buzzing New York sidewalk, and you still wouldn’t properly lose him. It’s more than just soul ties and his gravity that keeps you pulled to him. 

Something unspoken. Something homely. 

“Sorry, what was that?” you hum as you spy him face-down in the bed, pillow muting him by the mouthful, “Say it one more time, and this time not into the pillow.” 

When he finally properly turns over, he’s a vision. Sleep lines folded into his skin and a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth, eyes squinting in irritation not at you but the sunlight flooding in through the bedroom window. Messy hair, messy shirt, messy everything. A kind of mess you just want to collapse into currently, curling up in all that he is from the day’s exhaustion. 

He’d mentioned wanting to take a nap before you’d left for the gym. Something about the summer heat draining him, trailing off as he’d rambled about how he’d probably thrive as a vampire. 

“I said,” he huffs, sitting up, the frizz of his hair becoming a makeshift halo, “If you call the coroner, request the comfiest coffin possible.”

“Why do you need a comfy coffin if you’re already dead?” 

“You dare deny me of being buried in tempurpedic memory foam? In my hour of need?” 

You roll your eyes as you huff out a little laugh, forcing yourself to turn away from him long enough to strip out of your socks. But just as you reach down for the pieces of clothing, you catch sight of the source of that stereo static flooding the room. 

Your shared record player, spinning a blood red pressing of one of your more recent vinyl purchases. The album has been played through, but the player no longer had an automatic stop mechanism, probably from years of use. 

The center of the record is probably scratched, and Eddie knows it, from how sheepish he looks when you glance over your shoulder at him. 

“Speaking of death,” you walk over quickly, purposefully, before carefully lifting the needle and cutting the static finally, “Care to explain why you’re burning scratches into my Momento Mori vinyl?” 

“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, nearly flinging himself off the bed as he scooches quickly to the end, clearly fully awake now, “I put it on and thought I’d just lay down for a quick second, but then the bed was so comfy, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick nap, and then…” he trails off, looking up at you through his lashes with big eyes already pleading for forgiveness, “I’ll buy you a new one. Swear it.” 

It’s impossible to be mad at him when he’s looking like this, inhumanely soft and easily forgiven, “You’re lucky you’re cute, or you really would be dead.” 

He doesn’t respond with words, but instead the outstretch of his hands, fingers flexing as he beckons to you. The needle rests on its perch, the vinyl left behind to gather dust for a few extra moments, as you go straight to him. 

When his palms slip beneath your old t-shirt and meet your skin, they’re pleasantly warm. 

“You were right,” you admit as his knees spread, delegating even more room for you to stand in front of him as your hand wanders to cradle the side of his face, fingers tangling in sweaty curls from his rest. Your thumb mimics his on your own skin instinctively, tracing a large arch right up over his cheekbone, “It’s hot as balls outside.” 

“Told you so,” he murmurs, smiling softly in satisfaction as he leans lazily into your touch. 

“You did,” you agree quietly, half-entranced by his relaxed face, no sight of pride in the room currently. 

He resembles a cat as he continues to preen under your gentle hand, and you almost expect him to start purring right before you find the strength to pull away, removing his hands from where they'd wandered to your lower back. 

One swipe of his finger along your sweaty spine, and you’d remembered what your original intentions had been immediately upon getting home. 

“Wai- Where are you going?” he’s seemingly brought back down to Earth the moment he loses the pattern your thumb had been tracing, the press of your fingertips into his scalp. When he reaches back out to latch onto you again, you take a step back, “Get back here-”

“I need to shower,” you laugh, shaking your head and smacking his hands away as he continues to barter, “I’m all sweaty and smelly, let me go clean up and then we can nap togeth-” 

“You can shower after we nap,” he nearly whines, finally catching your shirt between his fingers and tugging, uncaring for if he stretches the fabric. A small price to pay to have you close to him, “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you’re just as exhausted as I am.” 

You swear you meant to take another step backwards, but somehow, you end up back between his knees, “Did you not hear me, Munson? I stink.”

“Good.” 

He doesn’t give you any time to react – in an instant, he’s throwing his face forward, burying it against your stomach as you let out a gasp and immediately try to pry him away with far too gentle of hands in his hair. 

“Eddie!”

If it were anyone else, you’d probably be mortified. But Eddie just takes a dramatic deep breath in, nose buried just shy of your belly button, and when his shoulders start to shake with muted laughter, you can’t stop the smile from breaking. Your fingers are still twisted in his hair, still pulling back in an attempt to get him away from you, but he’s resilient. 

And all your faux resistance is weak in comparison. Soon enough, you’re back to melting into him. 

Only once you’re relaxed once more, no sign of trying to pull away again any time soon as his hands once more evade the space beneath your shirt to wander up and down your sticky skin without a care in the world, does he lift his face away from you long enough to breathe and speak, “I’ll have you know – I love your stink.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“I’m your idiot.” 

The game of banter is cut short when he goes back to pressing his nose into your clothes that surely can’t smell good. No amount of deodorant or perfume could erase that underlying stench of sweat. Hell, the shirt is still a bit moist from it all: from the walk to the gym, from your workout itself, from the walk home. It’d been through the ringer, and you’re back to tugging him away from you. 

“I refuse to believe you like how gross I smell right now,” you reinforce, eyes darting towards the bathroom connected to your master bedroom, “I promise I’ll be quick with the shower.” 

“Baby,” he fights back, wrapping his arms around you securely, no intention of losing this battle, “You remember that time we went to the fair, and you were complaining about how you were sweating, so I tried to lick your face?” 

Your nose scrunches quickly at the memory, “I do, unfortunately.”

“You really think I’d be willing to lick the sweat off your body but be afraid of you smelling a little bad while we cuddle?” his shoulders drop as he looks up at you, head tilted, almost as if amused with the conversation, “What kind of man do you take me for?” 

“The kind that gets off on annoying me.” 

His jaw drops, putting on a fake look of offense before he dramatically throws himself back onto the bed, laying flat as he makes a fist to mimic stabbing his chest, “You wound me.”

You’ve heard those words a thousand times in a hundred different ridiculous voices. You’ve seen this scene enough to have it mesmerized at this point, down to the over-exaggerated pout of his lips and the lingering of the fist against his sternum. 

You never grow tired of it. You never will. 

“Need me to kiss it better?” you joke as you prop a knee up on the bed, following the same script as always. 

And he hits his queue perfectly when he lifts his head eagerly at the expected response, wiggling his brows a bit. “Absolutely. Doctor’s orders, in fact.” 

“Great,” you see an opportunity, and take it, “I’ll get right to it, after my showe-” 

You don’t even get the final syllable of the word off your tongue before he’s clenching his thighs around your own, knees pressing hard before he wraps his legs the rest of the way around your waist to pull you in. A squeak of surprise leaves your lips as you begin to fall forward, but Eddie is quick to break the fall with ease. Catching you with his eager hands, maneuvering for you to half drop to the mattress while some of you still lands atop of him. 

He has you right where he wants you, turning his head to be face to face with you, noses nearly brushing, “Unfortunately, the doc said you have to kiss it better now, or else you’ll be comfy coffin shopping.” 

“A fatal wound?” you gasp, nearly mocking him. It doesn’t offend him – if anything, his boyish grin only grows wider, “First, I’m smelly-”

“Again, I like when you’re smelly.”

“-And then I inflict a fatal wound upon my lover? Oh, how dare I.”

Slowly, all your insecurity of how you currently smell is simply fading. The entire ordeal has become an art of childlike, whimsical jokes – and Eddie is an artist. A professional at the dance, locked and loaded with his incomparable skill set equipped for disarming you this way. The ability to make someone feel loved, imperfections and weirdness aside. 

He likes you, even when you claim you don’t smell your best. And you like him, even when his hair is tangled beyond recognition and one of his socks is half-hanging off his foot from a nap.

You like him when he’s embarrassing you in public, tongue chasing after you with the threat of licking your sweat away, and he likes you when all you can do in response is a weak palm to his chest (that isn’t even making an effort to push him away) as you giggle relentlessly. 

You like each other on the good days, the bad days, the weird days. 

Disarmed entirely, you don’t even notice when his face conveniently slots itself far too close to your armpit as you two scooch further up into the bed. You’re more occupied with the way your legs tangle up, toeing each other’s socks off properly as he slings a heavy arm across your torso. 

“We’re gonna have to wash the sheets,” you mumble, exhaustion catching up as the two of you finally settle. 

He hums absentmindedly, nuzzling into your skin a bit further as he makes himself comfortable. “And wash away your sweet, sweet stink? I don’t think so, sweetheart.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, unbothered as your fingers start to trail up and down his back over the t-shirt, smoothing out wrinkles along the way, “I’m serious. We need to change them soon anyways, I think I got crumbs in the bed the other night with those crackers.” 

“Bury me in the crumbs of all your midnight snacks,” he almost slurs, clearly drifting back off. 

You snort in response, relaxing and letting your own eyes shut. Matching all your deep breaths with his own, a million different last words crossing your mind to whisper to the boy you’re sure is once again asleep. 

I love you.

I adore you. 

I would like to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me. 

And maybe some of those unspoken thoughts slip out without you realizing, because he squeezes you just a little bit tighter, presses his face just a little bit deeper into your skin as his scruff tickles you. 

The only actual thought you can know for certain that you say, though, is, “Do you think they actually make coffins with memory foam inside?” 

To your surprise, even despite the almost-snores that had been escaping him, he answers in a heartbeat. 

“Oh, definitely. We’ll order two.”

[seruadoric]

Will u do a getian fluff? (If ur still in the r1999 fandom ofc)

GETIAN , WHO ...

content warnings // fluff, various headcanon scenarios , romance ( can be perceived as platonic ) , gn!reader

notes // i absolutely fell in love with getian during notes on shuori, therefore i am very much ecstatic to write for him ♡ i actually have a lot more for him in mind, but i'm not going to be oversharing today ( im actually just too lazy to write )

word count // 580

GETIAN who wants to impress you - and he does that by playing music to you.

➜﹒due to his bone wand, getian is able to play multiple instruments at a time. he conducts a beautiful orchestra of harps, lutes, and drums. the music is extremely clear and loud, but it is beautiful all the same. he wants to share his passion of music with his loved one, and is delighted when you show a positive response.

you have never heard something quite like this, and it was as if he had put you in an infinite trance. the music is carefully orchestrated, harmonizing together perfectly. you'd doubt you would break out of this reverie before the music had come to a stop, the initial quietness returning.

getian's attentive eyes look towards you, in search of finding a reaction of some sort ... and he was delighted seeing your face light up, the soft sound of applause resonating. he cracked a smile, one that was barely even noticeable -

"your music never fails to put me at ease." you spoke, in which he replies with a nod. "i will be sure to play for you more, then"

GETIAN who invites you to fly with him, especially late at night.

➜﹒the nighttime is a perfect time to stretch his wings and get some fresh air. whether or not you have wings like him, he will invite you to fly to the highest building to have the best view of the city (or the wilderness).

"hold on tight, and don't let go." he warned, the sheer pressure of being so high up making his voice barely audible. getian's talons held onto the hem of your clothing, careful not to hurt you, or to rip them - "i won't be able to catch you if you fall."

you reckon you flew a few miles, before he finally placed you down. he perched on the branch of a tree only a few feet away, stretching his wings out. here, you could see the whole city in its glory - the lights of the streets, slowly flickering as time passed.

once each light dimmed down, it was only the moon and its stars to accompany you. he will eventually fly you back down, but for now he does not need to say a thing - just admire the stars in a comfortable silence.

GETIAN who gifts you trinkets and jewelries he might've found in the wilderness; they can vary from high-value objects or literal trash, but you will love them nonetheless.

➜﹒ there will be short periods of time where getian is away, which he makes it up to you by gifting the things he found on his adventures. really, they're just shiny and peculiar objects that he found tossed around, but he managed to make something good out of them. (by giving them to you!)

"emm ... getian, what's this?" your expression, tinged with both mystification and amusement, didn't go unnoticed by the feathered man. "for you." he pushed the trinkets to you, as if urging you to take them.

"help yourself, i have no need for them." he raises his wing to his face, letting you take your pick. among them, there were valuable stones like jade and crystals ... but what caught your eye was a makeshift ring; a pull-tab from a used can of dr. papper, long thrown away by its user.

"i'll take this one."

૮˶- ﻌ -˶ა⌒)ᦱ zᶻ

[maesterchill]

May Daily micros. Prompt 24: heated

Ongoing story. Prev parts: 1. key 2.black 3. coffee 4. pathetic 5.hang 6.floral 7. swell 8.crystal 9. puzzled 10. scene 11. forgotten 12. bear 13.beware 14. burning 15. future 16. match 17.waiting 18. eccentric 19. heavy 20. reverie 21.flicker 22.harsh 23. transparent

“So, it was true,” the Thrice-Barmy git crows, picking up the Elder wand. “Harry Potter did have access to all of the Hallows.” He chuckles. “Mr Malfoy's mind is so very generous when he’s unconscious.”

That bastard. No wonder Draco’s head was pounding when he came round. 

But Potter is here. He actually came. Even through blurred vision, and woozy from whatever potions they gave him, Draco would recognise that steely expression anywhere. 

“Ah, the resonance is exquisite,” the Chief Headcase is babbling, as he levitates the stone and the cloak to land gently in his upturned palms. The fabric ripples through his fingers, then slithers back into the box. 

“Such clever, complex magic,” he says reverently, turning the stone slowly, this way and that.

A pause. “Perhaps too clever.” 

He frowns, closes his eyes, then murmurs something. Seconds pass.

“Thrice-greatness?” one of the cultists asks—that Peregrine sycophant.

“Something is off.”

Finnigan jumps in quickly. “They’ve been hidden too long, y’see. Buried magic needs time to reacclimate to the air.”

The wizard’s face hardens. “You should not have tried to deceive us. He will pay for your dishonesty, not us.” 

He raises his hand.

A swirling, churning membrane expands in the air around his fingers, its surface an oil slick of oversaturated colours. The wizard yanks his hand back, and a barrier arcs out, an iridescent pulsing bubble surrounding the cult.

Auror spells burst and ricochet off it. Finnigan charges forward, but rebounds, thrown back into the grass.

Potter is heatedly shouting something, but it's muffled, warped, like he’s underwater. 

A hand clamps roughly onto Draco’s elbow.

And just like that, they’re gone.

[ballet-symphonie]

Hello and happy new year!

I have a question about dancer and the fit to a company style. Do you think that the best principals at major companies (Bolshoi, Royal Ballet, Paris Opera, Mariinsky, NYCB etc..) would all reach that level if they were at a different company with a different style. I can see some that I feel would make it anywhere, and also some companies (though maybe less these ones, more a slight level down) where it feels anyone could thrive - but then there are some dancers that feel they are so well suited to one style that they might not shine at a very different company - particularly where the company style is more set/distinctive. Would love your view on this and who you think would work well across (and could be really exciting to see in a different context), who is maybe perfect where they are but wouldn’t transition across well and which companies you think have the most fixed style that you need to conform to to make it?

Thank you!

I think Renata Shakirova would be everywhere if she was at the Royal Ballet. The artistic staff at the Royal does such a wonderful job of coaching a wider variety of body types and bringing storytelling to the forefront of their dancers' intentions. I think Renata could really blossom here from new insight on how to harness her power and energy instead of Mariinksy trying to shove her into molds of dancers that just don't fit sometimes.

I want Vladislav Lantratov at the Royal. He's such a powerful actor and has such great command of the stage, I want to see him in all the male-heavy MacMillian rep. Him in Mayerling, THE DRAMA? YES PLEASE.

I also think Kristina Shapran could do great things at Paris Opera. The exceptional cleanliness of her pointe work and her style of expression would mesh well with the crystalline imagery of ONP. Seymon Chudin can go with her and dance with more people who can actually do 5th position.

I actually think Ekaterina Kondaurova to ONP would be interesting, mostly because she's so wonderful and in my opinion has been woefully underused and I would love to see her stretched in a bigger variety of contemporary repertoire. She's absolutely not a French-style dancer, but her in Crystal Pite's work? Or Mats Ek? I want it yesterday.

Paul Marque could kick ass at Mariinsky, with his fluidity and classicism. I think he would be flying up the ranks even with Mariinky's glacial pace because they need competent men and he is exceptionally gifted. And I would like to see him dance some of the big classics in a version that's not Nureyev's overly crowded hodgepodge.

Melissa Hamilton to the Bolshoi, she's got the legs and with her stellar competition career, I think she would have been quickly promoted at Bolshoi. It would be interesting to see her in big dramatic Grigorovich productions...or Carmen!

Sae Eun Park and Fumi Kaneno can both go to the Mariinsky, you can't tell me this wouldn't be a stellar cast of Legend of Love or Corsaire or they can take turns in Scherezade.

Potentially controversial but I don't think Marianela Nunez would have been as successful at Mariinsky or Bolshoi, especially under the current administrations' aesthetic preferences. At Bolshoi, there is such pressure to be soloist level right at 18-19 or you just get buried. If you watch young videos of Marinela, she's obviously very talented but has nowhere near the finesse that she possesses now. And not that the Bolshoi is renowned for finesse and cleanliness but she would have lacked that, plus the hypermobility, plus the body type....I'm not sure it would have gone well for her.

I don't think Oksana Skorik would do as well anywhere outside the Mariinsky. She's most comfortable dancing at Mariinksy's slow (sometimes dirge) tempis and she's a very internal dancer. I don't think her strengths would resonate at Bolshoi or Royal which both demand stronger theatrical presences.

There are some shorter ROH dancers that I think would struggle to find success at Russian companies, primarily the men, but that's not super interesting to discuss stylistically.

And there are certain principals and leading soloists at Bolshoi I don't think would make it into the corps at ROH or ONP...I'll stop here, this was a fun question.

[worldstarz]

hiii,

just saw your post where you offered to write requests. if it's okay, i'd like to request a gn!knight!reader / kaeya in a platonic/acquitances relationship, please. something about the reader being closed-off and isolated due to their shyness, and kaeya bringing them out of their shell. only if you want to, ofc. <3

i wish you well. ♡

swords and death afternoon

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

pairing: platonic!kaeya + gn!reader

cw: alcohol use, vomiting (dw this is lighthearted i swear), idk how to write swordfights!

a/n: i’m SO sorry this took so long to finish!!!!!! turns out moving + being an engineering student is not for the weak (me)!! anyway i finally have some semblance of free time, so hopefully i can churn out the other requests. i love writing kaeya so i enjoyed every second of writing this mwah thank you anon

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

“oho, i’ve been wanting to cross blades with you.”

your grip around the wooden handle of your training sword slacked. after a long day of training, you were certain someone like kaeya would surely be easy to spar with.

this was long, long ago–before the two of you were considered actual knights. the instructors were weeding out the last of their candidates, and there was no way in hell you were going to group yourself with the half-assed knights-in-training. the captains felt certain kaeya would become a knight, much like his brother, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to grow lazy by the end of the day.

his firm, crystal blue eyes reflected the setting sun behind you, the two of you wrapping in a hazy, orange glow. 

“you prefer to speak with your sword, eh? well, come at me.” his cocky smirk aside, you knew better than to underestimate him. 

eyes were on you. ever so charismatic and unpredictable, you knew being in his presence always brought along attention, which is why you prefer not to associate with him.

your shoulders stiffen, heart beating rapidly in your chest, and yet you hadn’t even taken a step forward. the whispers around the two of you weighed heavy in your mind as you dig your heel into the ground. he would come to you, not the other way around.

a glint of acknowledgement in his eyes, he charges, his wooden sword ripping through the air. you were faster, pivoting on the heel of your foot to evade. his sword quickly angled diagonally, but came into contact with your block, a deep *thunk* resonating in the contact between the wood. 

your swords met again and again, and just when you thought you had the advantage, you failed to follow up with a parry.

he caught onto your miscalculation sooner than you, taking your moment of weakness to bring his sword down and strike at your ankle, causing you to lose your balance and fall backwards.

“dammit!” you hissed as you made contact with the ground, your sword escaping your grip. Kaeya triumphantly stood over you with his perpetual smirk, tapping your forehead with the tip of the sword. “well played. i believe this is the first time i’ve heard your voice.” 

he pulled his sword back, reaching out to you with his other hand to help you up. begrudgingly, you accept, but you don’t respond to his last comment. 

“perhaps i overestimated your abilities?” he says, walking alongside your futile attempt to leave the grounds on your own. your expression hardens, and he laughs. “don’t look at me like that, i’m only teasing!”

ignoring the way your eyebrows furrow, kaeya continues. “i worked up quite a sweat against you. how about we spar together more often?”

he’s met with silence. 

his eyebrow quirks. “nervous? don’t be. what about a new, polished sword in exchange for your time on the field?”

you stop in your tracks.

it’s a deal.

you’ve always been very perceptive of your surroundings. while kaeya wasn’t anyone special, you noticed the way he was able to talk his way through almost anything–including your tough exterior, which you realized far too late. 

“nooo, i can handle one more, come on!!” if it weren’t for the bustling weekend crowd, the drunkards across the tavern would’ve been able to hear kaeya’s whines.

“you’ve drank enough. rosaria, i’m cutting off your drinks too,” diluc, the more composed of the two ragnivindr brothers, smoothly took the bottle of “death afternoon” off the counter as he continued on his way to the storage room.

sat between your two alcoholic friends, you mark a tally on your notepad—a thin, straight stroke to go along with the 13 other tallies under rosaria’s side. a measly eight strokes adorned kaeya’s side. he was about 13 drinks in, with the 14th taken by his “fun-spoiling” brother, but with his speech beginning to slur at the 8th drink, you decided that was his mark of defeat. 

“rosaria wins. again.” you state this with no emphasis, no surprise. it was impossible for rosaria to get drunk, no matter how many drinking competitions kaeya begs to have with her.

rosaria, completely unphased, took another sip of her drink. “you would think he learned his lesson by now.” 

meanwhile, kaeya’s drunken rambles grow increasingly fervent. “how—my own brother! this is so unfairrr!” he complains rather dramatically, his arms waving around over the bar.

“kaeya, it’s your bedtime,” you tease, stepping down from your seat off the counter, slipping your coat on.  he protests and whines, but his intoxicated self does little to fight back as you drag him away from the bar. rosaria gives you an apologetic look as the both of you nod your goodbyes to each other. 

“are y’gonna read me a bedtime story?” kaeya’s words slur, a mischievous glint in his (now singular) eye. 

you roll your eyes, supporting his stumbling frame against your shoulder. “whatever. keep moving.”

he continues to ramble about how much diluc spoils all of his fun, and how he’s “for sure” going to win against rosaria next week. he keeps himself plenty entertained, even with your lack of responses. 

suddenly, he stops, holding an arm over his stomach.

this isn’t the first time, and likely not the last. 

cursing under your breath, you hurriedly lead him to a hidden alleyway. almost instantly, he keels over, the contents of his stomach dumping out into the dirt.

you move his hair away from his face with one hand and soothingly pat his back with the other. “you overdid it again,” you mumble, the acidic scent of vomit and pungent alcohol.

you look behind you at the street, then back to kaeya. “don’t worry, no ladies are around.”

his response of a weak laugh is cut off by another heave, though nothing comes out. 

a slight tinge of guilt rests in the bottom of your stomach, and it begins to rise to the back of your throat. 

with another laugh, more sober than before, he keeps his head low, a trail of saliva falling from his lips to the earth below. “i’m glad you’re here.” 

“where’s that coming from?” you can’t really make out his expression. you let go of his hair, tearing fabric from your coat, then offering it to him.

with a bit of hesitation, he accepts, using the fabric to wipe his face. “you didn’t have to.”

“it’s fine. i’m…sorry. i should’ve stopped you after the eighth drink.”

“no need for an apology,” he chuckles, lifting his head. “how about you tag along in my rematch against rosaria?” 

how childish. ignoring the corners of your lips quirking up, you stand up, offering a hand to kaeya. “let’s go home first.” 

[simonsquest]

Given that TRFSB is a Simon's Quest-centric fic, the whole thing is a game reference. But there may be some references from the game that aren't as obvious to a reader, but were intentional choices by me. I'll compile them here. :)

First, the map. All of the locations from the fic, and their placement in approximation to one another, is based entirely on the map from Nintendo Power. I've shared this once before in an older post when I was only 40 chapters in. I've since updated it below. This is the route Simon takes on his quest in the present-day chapters. :)

See more fun facts under the cut.

In Chapter 7, Aljiba, Simon is pulled into the water while crossing Yuba Lake, and emerges in Rover Mansion in the following chapter. This is a reference to kneeling with the blue crystal by the water to reveal the underwater path to Rover mansion.

In Chapter 16, Laruba, we're introduced to Simon's use of laurels as anti-poison. In-game, laurels grant temporary invincibility, and they're used to cross poisonous marshes.

Also in Chapter 16 - Vampira's face twisting is a reference to how her mask looks in-game.

In Chapter 28, Yomi, Simon hallucinates speaking to an elderly woman. Her dialogue is actually inspired by a Castlevania 2 romhack I played earlier last year. You can get this dialogue by speaking to her after collecting all of Dracula's parts. It really impacted me!

In Chapter 40, Ondol, Simon gets the Morning Star whip upgrade from a vampire hunter. In-game, he can get the Morning Star upgrade from a salesman within the same town.

In Chapter 48, Alba, the woman who approaches and "flirts" with Simon uses dialogue from the game.

In Chapter 52, The Dead River, Simon reveals the heart to the ferryman. In-game, you have to equip the heart before speaking to the ferryman in order to be taken to Brahm mansion.

In Chapter 55, this line of internal dialogue references the in-game track titled The Silence of the Daylight:

For the whip to resonate and draw Laurent to this holy place stirs a rage in him he didn’t think possible. What wretched foe dares to walk upon the graves of his respected ancestors? In the silence of the daylight, no less?

In Chapter 56, Brahm Mansion, Simon doesn't fight Death. In-game, you can just walk under him and not engage and still get Dracula's eye.

Additionally in Chapter 56, Simon gets the Golden Knife item - it's "dropped" beside him. That's a reference to Death dropping the same weapon if you *do* defeat him in-game.

In the fic, Simon uses a dagger to stab the orbs in the mansions. He uses single-use stakes in-game, and I opted for his dagger subweapon more for convenience/re-usability more than anything. But the stabbing is the same! :P

Simon's injury through his back is a direct reference to him getting his curse wound on his back from the Japanese manual. (I just took liberties with how brutal of an injury it was, hahaha.)

I'll add onto this as more potentially obscure references come up. :)

[uncreative-cryptid]

time to absolutely word vomit (almost) everything i have learned about the wuwa characters, TDs, and the tacet marks. i will not shut up about this lmao

YUANWU

yuanwu had crystal like structures form on his hands after the awakening of his forte, along with scarring on the skin, but this has since stabalized.

based on yuanwu's overclocking diagnostic report, overclocking might also be tied to the emotional state of a resonator, as it seems his near overclocking event was actually tied to emotional distress.

SANHUA

sanhua is canonically blind in both eyes, but her forte allows her to properly see things through frequencies.

between sanhua and yuanwu, based on how they classify a resonator as a "mutant" or a "natural" resonator is based on the rabelle's curve. i have no idea what this means but it sounds important and im sure they explained it once before and i just forgot.

sanhua is always using her forte because she's blind, and depending on her forte to actually see (99% accurate vision apparently). she's always at risk of overclocking despite being stable. this woman is one bad day away from just losing her shit really. she's got court mandated therapy.

MORTEFI

the last illusive realm event showed that mortefi hates being on stage, actually. seems like he might dream often of the science fairs he participated in as a kid.

xiangli yao lives rent free in his head. sounds kinda suss mortefi, especially with the way he can "sweet talk" you.

i know what you are, mortefi.

his forte is also influenced by his emotional state. it's fascinating, unfortunately for him, how strong his annoyance is. jinzhou's #1 hater is mortefi, he'll hate things for you. good luck with that 100 step weapon btw.

TACET DISCORDS

the mourning aix is very intelligent, and seems to actively still mourn it's partner. the quest of the mourning aix still makes me sad thinking about it and i think of it often.

during the mourning aix quest, one of the logs mentioned that tacet discords look for frequencies, as they devour these frequencies. this also means that they'll get into fights with each other in an attempt to devour the frequencies - this is probably why we see so many fighting around the areas we explore.

based on some random interactions during some quests (such as when we first meet scar at the village ...) it seems that strong enough frequencies can remain in or on these tacet discords. if they're devouring them, they're probably just repeating them. doesn't make it any less haunting to think the voice of someone you once knew could die to a tacet discord and their voice and conviction remain.

annihilation (2018) bear anyone??? terrifying to think about, give me more.

TACET MARKS

it seems pretty randomized as to where these will show up, but i think they're fascinating to look at casually.

the tacet marks are constantly moving, likely to show a resonator's connection to the world around them and the frequencies they continue to channel this ability.

the awakening of a forte is not really known, though there are some parallels and common factors.

environment, emotional, and physical, seem to be the main 3 things that affect a resonator and how they come to be - or how they overclock.

sanhua, changli, and calcharo, are probably the best examples of a forte being overused/overclocked often enough that it does physical, irrepairable damage.

yuanwu, mortefi, and jiyan, are probably the most obvious resonators where their forte awakening has physically marked them in some way or another yet does not seem to be consistently growing/causing problems at this point in time.

CONCLUSION

i have an obsession.

[syndrossi]

resonant ch32 dvd commentary

This chapter I rushed to get out on Thursday as I juggled Thanksgiving preparations (four pies! bad idea! remind me not to do this again!) and obligations. I wasn't entirely pleased with it--I didn't having pacing concerns like I did the previous chapter, there were just some rough patches in terms of prose/transitions.

Fortunately, I was able to give it a smoothing pass today and I'm much happier now, so let the DVD commentary commence!

Favorite line(s):

There is a man whose honor lives between his legs, Jon thought, and some of the sentiment must have made its way onto his face, because Cole’s smile turned narrow-eyed frown when they crossed gazes.

Jon throwing shade/judgment is always a joy, and I love the phrasing of his contempt here. 😂 He really just said "man thinks with his dick" but in a fancy way, and...that's Cole in a nutshell (pun intended).

The inside of the sept was hazy with burning incense, the light of the sun hitting the crystals of the windows and then scattering into the faint smoke above, turning it bright with beams of color.

As much as Jon dislikes the sept (and as rough as it is on Rhaegar being there), it's such a striking building to write about. There's some commentary to be had, perhaps, on how evoking a feeling of awe goes into designing a place of worship, and you can't deny the Faith is good at that much!

Favorite Details

Crown Prince Rhaegar

Jon’s sole source of amusement that afternoon was the way every visiting lord and petitioner mistook Rhaegar for the king’s eldest son, rather than the bored, constantly whispering Aegon. The king did not bother to correct them, and Jon could see the growing clench in Hightower’s jaw.

IDK the hilarity of Viserys just going "well, don't mind if they do." It's a good thing Daemon wasn't there, or he'd be just as outraged as Otto, albeit for very different reasons. (How dare anyone compare his son to one of the Hightower spawn? How dare Viserys pretend that Rhaegar is his son?)

I didn't want to zoom in too deep for this comedic bit, but you can imagine Aegon being the most bored child of all time, wanting to be anywhere else, while Rhaegar listens attentively to each petitioner/lord, mentally quizzing himself on what they seek / their house alliances/interests, guessing the king's response, guessing Otto's response, thinking about how he would have responded, and then judging the final package. This was excellent enrichment for Rhaegar, who is usually quite bored in their morning lessons!

If Jon hadn't been so cranky about Rhaegar's manuevering, he probably would have found at least some of the petitions interesting!

Crown Prince Rhaegar pt2

Rhaegar giving Jon a tiny taste of how unpleasant it can be to make yourself his enemy. He knows exactly what leverage to apply, which pieces to move into play this time to thwart Jon's extracurricular activities. Jon's paranoia is well-founded: it was pretty much 100% his interference.

But just as Jon's secrecy is about protecting Rhaegar, this is also more about Rhaegar trying to force Jon's hand so that he does tell him. It's just...very subtle. If Rhaegar confronted Jon directly, that might actually be more effective. But he keeps dancing around it, partly because he fears to learn why Jon won't tell him--that it's because Jon doesn't trust him or doesn't think he's capable of being an asset and is only a liability.

So instead Rhaegar's playing 4D chess while Jon's playing checkers, and they just keep playing around one another. And of course the final ploy backfires on Rhaegar and his worst fears are confirmed.

Lord Commander Jon Targaryen

Rhaegar's not the only hypercompetent person this chapter, of course! Jon Little Lord Commanders the shit out of a solid chunk of the harbor records, and because Daemon thinks this shit is normal and Laenor isn't around to remind him that holy fuck Daemon an eight-year-old should be doodling in the margins of papers not producing an indexed summary of his findings after spending two hours sifting through poorly sanitized data, he just goes "aww, my little master of whisperers, so much better than Reyne 🥰."

(I mean, I'm sure Daemon thinks it's a little unusual, but again, his brain generally goes "well, my sons being supremely gifted is only logical," with a side of "they grew up trying to please that fucker Allard, and applied themselves too hard scholastically" and maybe even a dash of "they are like my father and uncle, who I never knew as children so presumably they were just like this.")

Dynamics

Rhaegar and his family

This little bean is going through a lot this chapter, and coping with it by going full crown prince, as mentioned earlier. He's hyperanalyzing Daemon, doing a thousand small tests to figure out how much influence he's under, how subtle the signs are, etc. Both times with the map, he's fishing to see if Daemon feels the pull in any particular direction, given how eagerly he dragged Rhaegar to Caraxes in ch31. He's building up his powerbase as quickly as he can behind the scenes, hoping to have the influence he needs to protect his family.

And with Jon, it's a mess. As I said, his greatest fear is that Jon doesn't trust him, doesn't view him as a peer, but as a burden. He views the bracelet Jon gave him for their name day as a sacred promise: we are in this together, your fight is my fight, we face our battles together. And what he keeps getting back from Jon is silence, deflection, stubborn determination not to tell him anything. He's not even given a chance to plead his case, or prove that he can be an asset! Jon has effectively written him off.

And Rhaegar lets himself believe that maybe it's the candle's influence, that it's distancing Jon from him, but at the very end of the chapter, that bubble is burst and it is as he feared: Jon doesn't trust him.

Jon and his trust issues

It's a doozy! You can even argue some of it is merited or at least reinforced by recent events. He was forced to trust Daemon to handle getting rid of the candle, and Daemon was ensnared by it, turned from the one adult they can trust to the one they can must question and protect. He relied on Viserys (and Daemon) to guard the candle, and it was left within easy reach and stolen. He has to beg Viserys to do things that seem obvious courses of action to Jon, like assigning a guard to protect Daemon. His Valyrian maester is useless. Cole is a petty bitch. Ser Steffon is negligence personified.

All of which reinforces to Jon that the one person he can truly rely on is himself. And his distrust of Rhaegar, such as it is, is more born of fear than actual distrust. Yes, there is the possibility that Rhaegar could become compromised like Daemon, but it hasn't happened yet. But Jon was so convinced that he was an aura of ultimate protection, only for Daemon's ensorcellment and his and Rhaegar's nightmares to shatter that illusion. (Is it a fair expectation that individuals with trauma like their family's won't have natural nightmares? Probably not, you can't guard against brain chemistry, Jon.)

And he's lost so much and so many people, especially siblings and father figures. And who is most at risk here? His brother and his father.

So it's all as perfectly understandable as it is frustrating to see Jon starting down along Viserys's path of deciding he knows what's best for everyone and is most qualified to handle matters, and that secrets must be kept from those who aren't qualified to know them.

Jon and Jon

Jon's barriers between himself and Jon Redfort have taken a beating in all the stress and trauma, and we've seen several signs of it over the past few chapters. Whereas before it was usually Jon Redfort's emotions heightening Jon's, this time Jon is actually experiencing Jon Redfort's emotions, even when they are unlike his. And whereas before, Jon had almost no memories of his childhood, several have been trickling into conscious thought recently.

What the end result will be, who can say...

(I wanted to do an Alicent section too, but I'm running out of steam! This is quite long already. 😅)

Quick hitters

As I've crowed before, we've had the biggest time passage since ch11: five whole days!

There was quite a bit of subtle setup this chapter that we'll see come into play later...

I have way too much fun figuring out how secret doorways might be constructed. I didn't do any research here, I just sort of put on my DM hat and sketched a few things until I had something I liked. I don't know if the prose makes it entirely clear how the panel doorway works, but I thought it was clever at least! 😂

There's one thread that people sort of picked up last chapter but less so this chapter (tho tbf I think only 2-3 people are avidly trying to puzzle out the candle business and willing to present their theories to me); it was subtler this time, but it's the Big Clue about how the candle's most diabolical influence works and is ITSELF a clue for something else. Sorry, sorry, this is vague as shit, I know.

Why hasn't Daemon let the boys swing Dark Sister before now? I think it's a combination of injuries, being distracted, and the initial sword trauma when he nearly bisected Rhaegar at Castle Cox.

Jon using puppy training tactics on Shadow 🥺. The ham treats, the yelping upon being bit...

This is the first time the boys have actually been alone in the Red Keep outer grounds. (I don't count the times in the holdfast, or when they were wandering the secret tunnels.) Daemon would 100% have a meltdown if he knew.

I had a lot of fun with the Valyrian children's book, at least coming up with one of the stories, because it involves thinking about what morals/lessons the dragonlords of Valyria would want to instill in their children. In a society where dragon bloodlines were just as important/guarded, stealing a dragon egg must have been a heavily punished crime, so that's reflected in the story. (The boy tries it, the boy dies.) We'll see what other stories show up there!

Writing Jaehaerys and Daemon subtly butting heads, even in mere recollection, never gets old

[narklos]

Half-Lore #2: The G-Man Theories

This topic was the second-most voted in the poll! If there's any others you'd like me to cover, just let me know. Without further ado, here's all we know about the G-Man's identity! Take a peek below the cut:

Let me start by saying that not even Valve really knows what the G-Man is. His identity, which has been hinted at throughout the series, has changed significantly throughout the 25 years that Half-Life itself has existed. To get a full grasp of what each theory means, I'm going to give you a rundown of his history in the game's development. I'd say a quick rundown, but I'd be lying to your face. Here we go!

Half-Life The name 'G-Man' actually comes from this game as it's what his model was called. This is a shorthand for 'government man', a shady figure who works within the USA's top-secret projects. Earlier models of G-Man actually featured the Department of Defence logo on his briefcase, indicating that the G-Man was tied to them somehow (or at least pretending to be tied to the government).

It was also heavily implied that the G-Man was the administrator of Black Mesa, as another one of his models from the Goldsource era features the Black Mesa logo on the briefcase. The administrator's role in the game was primarily conveyed through letters, signed with the name L.M. Here's one of the letters, which is welcoming Gordon to the facility (and also confirms that Gordon can speak?):

The G-Man was said to have 'gone to great lengths' to get the Xen crystal sample that caused the Resonance Cascade, which was our first clue that he was responsible for the Xenian invasion from the beginning. Hints from the Nihilanth also tell us that quite a few others are aware of the G-Man's meddling- as well as try to warn Gordon that the G-Man's not human, and that he's not an ally.

You can see the shift away from the administrator identity in Opposing Force, when Adrian Shepard's diary talks of a strange man that showed up a few days ago, and was talking with his superiors. This gives us the sense that the G-Man wasn't a force working from inside of Black Mesa, but rather without it. The veracity of this sighting is a bit up in the air though, as most of Opposing Force has been retconned.

It's safe to say that the G-Man's identity wasn't solid, even from the beginning. So where the hell does that leave us?

Half-Life 2 During development of HL2, the G-Man was still going to be the former administrator of Black Mesa; Breen and the G-Man's characters have always been quite tied up due to their dual development. The face model for G-Man, a therapist named Frank Sheldon, was actually slated to be for Breen's character instead. However, after a Valve employee did a quick edit to the facial captures for Breen, it was decided to give Frank Sheldon's face to the G-Man instead.

At this point, the administrator L.M was retconned, being replaced as the administrator of Black Mesa by Dr. Wallace Breen. L.M essentially underwent a weird sort of meiosis and two characters spawned from one.

We know for a fact that Gordon's 'contract' with the G-Man was something passed around by important players in the G-Man's plan, and bidded on. Breen is aware of Gordon, and believed that he has bought Gordon out, therefore preventing him from futhering the rebellion against the Combine. However, the G-Man was double-crossing him, and Breen died in the final battle when Mossman betrayed Breen and set Gordon free. Though, I wonder what Breen bid for the contract?

Although this means that we got an incredibly well-written and tragic villain, it also means that we're back to square one in terms of G-Man's identity. No more L.M, no more government ties, no more Black Mesa. So what does Half-Life 2 give us instead?

As I mentioned earlier, it was always implied that G-Man wasn't human. The alien identity is played more strongly in HL2, where the link between the G-Man and the shu'ulathoi (Combine advisors) is established. The Vortigaunts are able to hide away from the psychic powers of the shu'ulathoi, as their connection to the Vortessence allows them to take actions the shu'u cannot see or prevent. They also refer to the advisors as shu'ulathoi, as it's a language the shu'u can't comprehend.

The Vorts are the only force shown to be capable of preventing the G-Man from reaching Gordon. During Episode 1, the Vorts save Gordon from stasis, and for the duration of the episode (and for the first part of episode 2, when Gordon is still under the protection of the Vorts), we don't see G-Man at all. Any actions that Gordon takes is completely free of any G-related meddling. It's implied, therefore, that the G-Man's true origin is a shu'ulathoi.

Breengrub The G-Man - shu'ulathoi ties are made even stronger in Marc Laidlaw's Breengrub account. There, Breen, whose conscience has been transferred to a shu'ulathoi host body (the one he mentioned in a conversation with another combine advisor at the end of HL2), recounts the world of the shu'ulathoi.

Powerfully psychic, they could hatch into any form they wished when they left the larval phase. They are referred to as dreamers and philosphers, a society where ideas are currency. At some point, they fell ill to a parasite, making them weaker and easier to conquer. The Combine did so, and kept the shu'u in their grub phases in order to better exploit their powers and prevent them from fighting back. It's implied that the Combine planted this parasite in the first place. It caused the shu'ulathoi to destroy their own minds and culture.

Breengrub explains that a few shu'ulathoi remain on the home planet, hidden and slumbering. A few were even able to escape the Combine invasion. It's heavily implied that G-Man was one of these grubs to escape the invasion. He hatched into the form of a human, and made his way to Earth, orchestrating the Resonance Cascade in order to bring about the ultimate downfall of the Combine at the hands of Gordon Freeman. His 'employers' are implied to be the slumbering shu'ulathoi that remain on his home planet.

So, that's it, right? He's a shu'ulathoi!

Well, not really. This is a rough draft of what Episode 3 could've touched upon, and this isn't anywhere close to canon, as Marc no longer works for Valve (so stop pestering him with emails!). It's safe to say that whatever they were planning back in 2007 isn't anywhere close to their intentions with the G-Man nearly over two decades later, when they released Half-Life: Alyx. Speaking of which!

Half-Life: Alyx I'd like you to keep in mind that HLA was considered a 'soft reboot' of the Half-Life franchise. Rectons were made, new characters introduced, and Eli got a sick new jacket. We can't exactly apply the old canon to this fresher chapter, but we can make inferences. As you all know, the G-Man was captured by the Combine, five years before Gordon was released from statis. His power was so great that they had to literally heft up an entire apartment block to contain him. We don't see him in person for the majority of the game, but we do see him in the Vortigaunt murals, which depict their enslavement at the hands of the Nihilanth, and the G-Man's meddling in Gordon's fate.

(Fun fact! He was originally meant to be there against his own will. Here's some of the concept art that explored this idea!)

Vortigaunts are used to contain his power, and their own Vortessence is sapped in substations to ensure that he can't escape. Whether this is still referring to the shu'ulathoi theory or just tapping into Episode 1's revelations is still unknown.

Something interesting to note is that Eli mentions that "...whatever's in the Vault really hates the Combine". We've therefore established that this soft reboot of the franchise is more clearly establishing the G-Man's vendetta against the Combine. His hatred for Vortigaunts can also be connected to his imprisonment- it's implied he was tortured with their energy!

Hahn, labelled in the files as 'Contractor', is adamant that they "...move the [Vault]" when it's clear that Alyx is going to set him free. She's also implied to be higher on the Combine pecking order than Breen. Her role in the franchise is, as of yet, unknown, but Erik Wolpaw has told us that they've got 'plans' for her. She's clearly aware of the G-Man's role in the rescas, as well as what he's capable of. Maybe she was present at Black Mesa? Maybe the two have made a deal in the past? Maybe she's simply been told that he's dangerous? We still don't know.

"This is great and all, Narklos." I hear you say, rather loudly, at your computer screen. "But what in the Nine Hells does this mean for his identity?"

Truth be told, my inquisitive reader, this reboot has completely thrown any and all theories we may have up into the air. The nature of a reboot is that anything we may know isn't something we can take for granted anymore. Alyx is now under the G-Man's employ, Eli's still alive, and for all we know, Russell could be the next villain. It's an exciting time for theorycrafters who want to unravel gaming's biggest mystery, but for lore sticklers, it's a bit of a dead end.

With the history of the G-Man's various identities in mind, let's go through some of the most famous (and infamous) G-Man theories from the past 25 years.

G-Man is Gordon from the future This is an earlier theory. Obviously the link can be made between Gordon Freeman and the G-Man's names. A funny theory made by players in the noughties, with not much value behind it.

G-Man is Alyx's grandfather This was more of a joke theory talked about by some Valve developers. It was brought about, most likely, when the players discussed how familial G-Man seemed to Alyx, having saved her as a baby. He also seems to really care for her wellbeing, and implores Gordon to get Alyx safely to White Forest. G-Man also calls Alyx "my dear". While it isn't entirely impossible, considering all we know, this theory is definitely false. Still though, it's a nice little analysis of how the G-Man is capable of expression emotions other than smug superiority and quiet rage.

G-Man is a Shu'ulathoi This one's still the most prevalent theory we have today. It's the one most subscribe to due to the amount of evidence, both from the games and from other sources, that we have to draw from. G-Man was a shu'ulathoi that escaped his home planet after the Combine invaded. His employers are the slumbering shu'ulathoi that remain, safe from Combine meddling. He's orchestrated the events of the series and beyond to get revenge for the destruction of his homeworld and kin. G-Man hatched into the form of a human to fool others, and his psychic powers can be attributed to the psychic nature of the shu'u. His strange breathing patterns are due to the shu'ulathoi being unable to breathe in Earth's atmosphere, hence why they all wear breathing apperatus (and at one point in development, the Combine were meant to be replacing the atmosphere with toxic fumes that allowed the shu'u to breathe). Though we've got the most evidence for this one, considering the direction the series has taken, I wouldn't fully subscribe to this anymore, as there's still so much that we could find out.

G-Man is Valve Again, another early/joke theory. G-Man is the embodiment of the Valve developers, following the player around and putting them into 'statis' (i.e: ending the game) when they reach the end of the campaign.

G-Man runs the Combine Another weird one. This probably came about from the confusion behind G-Man's motives in the second game, and how he never seems to fully help the rebels.

G-Man is a Nihilanth This is one of the earlier theories that I can remember, at least. Because the Nihilanth is such a powerful alien, many speculated that the G-Man was also a Nihilanth in another form. However, this theory fell apart when it was revealed that the Nihilanth was actually the last of its species.

And really, that's all we know. The G-Man has been, and will most likely remain, one of the most famous figures in gaming. Ironic, considering how little we truly know about him. We don't even know his name- the one we refer to him by now is simply what his model is called!

Who's to say what we'll find out in the future? Will we ever get what we're searching for? Do we really need to know? Isn't the beauty of a character like the G-Man that we know enough to guess, but we don't know enough to understand? I'll leave that up to you.

If you've read to the bottom, thank you! Here's a video of the G-Man and Kleiner beating the shit out of each other.

[irrelechan]

The Last Ember’s Light - Chapter 2

The Apprentice

The sanctum emptied slowly after her acceptance. The other apprentices scattered like leaves as stone wards hummed themselves back to sleep. Gale neither dismissed her nor lingered ceremoniously. Instead, he gathered his belongings methodically and gestured toward one of the tower’s many archways.

“Right, this way,” he said, his tone still carrying a quiet, unreadable warmth. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”

It was only once she followed Gale that she realized how little of the tower she’d actually seen. The grand halls were impressive, probably designed to intimidate lesser mages, she thought. However, the inner corridors breathed a distinct air. Warmth lingered in the stone. The magic was subtle, more thoughtfully placed, and absent of the grandeur she’d expected.

They moved past warded doors etched with sharp sigils, past alcoves where crystalline orbs floated in lazy orbits around something unseen. One chamber they passed seemed impossibly larger than the space it occupied. Seraphyne caught glimpses of suspended constellations beyond an open doorway, diagrams of stars casting faint violet and blue light across shelves stacked with weathered tomes.

“Astral observatory,” Gale offered, noting her brief and curious glance. “Arguably the most impressive room in the Tower, as well as my favorite. Very useful if one cares to court dangerous ideas at midnight.”

She raised a brow. “Do you?”

“I’ve learned to be more selective with my midnight company.” There was no accusation in his voice, just a self-awareness that stung far less than she expected from a man with his reputation.

They took a narrow stairway lined with alcoves of pastel, glowing crystals. As she followed, they faltered—not rejection, but a momentary pause, like someone at the edge of a forgotten name. He slowed only once, pausing beneath a massive archway carved with delicate spirals of silver.

“We’re still in the lower quarters,” he said. “The wards here are not as guarded, but if you find any of them speaking to you… I’d highly suggest listening before you act. Some can be… a tad temperamental.”

“Most things worth listening to rarely speak,” she replied.

That earned her one of those near-smiles again, but genuine enough to soften her guard despite the tower’s ever-present chill.

When they finally stopped at an unassuming wooden door in a hallway far quieter than the others, he placed two fingers against the sigil on the frame. The latch clicked open with a soft hum.

“It isn’t grand by any means, but it’s yours to do with as you wish.”

She stepped inside, taking stock of sparse, simple, but well-made furnishings. Polished stone walls were etched with minor protective wards, a small writing desk sat pressed against the wall next to the large window, and shelves on the wall next to the bed were eager for clutter to occupy the space. The word ‘yours’ resonated deep within her as she processed its depth. It meant that she was no longer a prisoner in the back streets of Waterdeep.

Mine. Warded. A blank canvas, to become anything I wanted it to be.

“Well, I’ll leave you to settle then,” Gale said, casually. “Someone will bring you a list of tower protocols. Not all of them are worth following, to be perfectly honest. But, you seem the type to figure out which is which.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, a flicker of something between caution and curiosity crossing her features.

“…Am I allowed to ward the door?”

He became preoccupied with his thoughts momentarily, then turned to her. “It’s your space, claim it however you see fit.”

And with that, he left her. The room wasn’t large or luxurious, but it was hers, and she was more than grateful for that fact. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Seraphyne exhaled in relief. Not from exhaustion—although she felt plenty of it—but from restraint. The breath she exhaled was the kind you don’t realize you’re holding in until your body believes it’s safe.

She looked out of the high-arched window that framed Waterdeep’s skyline like a painting, then to a basin in the corner that shimmered faintly with a cleaning enchantment. Probably older than most living mages. She thought.

The bed seemed comfortable, if untested. She dropped her satchel on the floor and unpacked it with careful consideration. She set down a few scrolls, along with her cracked mirror and a tarnished silver ring, carefully on the desk. After rummaging around in her satchel, she found her tiny pouch of powdered ruby for a spell she didn’t yet know how to cast. She placed each object with care, in peaceful reverence. Each one proved to herself that she had survived and made it here to Blackstaff.

Then, she took out a stub of chalk and traced a sigil on the wall above her bed—one of shielding. The Weave shimmered faintly in response, recognizing its speaker. Not resisting at all, it yielded its magic to the sigil.

She whispered. “Let’s see if this place can hold me.”

—

The Tower never slept.

Even when the halls were quiet and the sconces dimmed to twilight hues at night, the Weave hummed just beneath the stone—subtle, patient, like a machine that never stopped running.

Seraphyne awoke to that hum, her breath slow, her eyes adjusting to the soft interplay of light through her window. Sunbeams filtered in, warped by enchantments on the glass. It painted the stone floor in shifting hues of violet, gold, and a soft, unnatural white. She took in a deep breath and smelled the faint traces of lavender and old parchment.

Her body remained tense despite the softness of the bed. Comfort, in her experience, was often a prelude to disappointment, but she hoped she’d grow accustomed to it over time. The hush of the room was too complete. No tavern noise. No boots stomping past her door. Magic, like silk threads in a tapestry, wove itself into every inch of her surroundings.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and took in her room again. It still felt sparse and silent, but now hers. She moved to the desk, where a tray had appeared. Breakfast—fresh fruit, dark bread, and a cup of tea still warm—waited for her.

A welcome gift for my first day?

Opening her wardrobe, she found apprentice robes that weren’t opulent, but well-made. As she braided her hair and fastened the familiar talismans around her neck, she spotted a folded note that had slipped under her door.

Library Annex. Third Tier. Shelf 17C. – G.D.

No friendly greetings were included in the note. No signature flourishes. Just very specific directions.

Smirking at the brevity, she tucked the note carefully into her sleeve. She left the room without hesitation, but not without caution. By the time she reached the hallway, Blackstaff Tower had changed. It greeted her like wind through a veil. Veins of magic pulsed slowly beneath the granite, their rhythm almost aligning with her own. The sconces flared faintly as she passed, acknowledging her presence with acceptance. Statues that hadn’t moved yesterday now shifted when she turned her back. The Tower was non-threatening; it solely observed.

It maintained its structure for the most part, though she suspected it could change even more if it wanted to. Its energy, along with the changing corridors and structural walls, shifted in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

By the time she reached the Library Annex, the sun had climbed behind large, enchanted glass. Warm beams of refracted color danced through the air, catching dust and illuminating the gilded lettering of floating books. The annex was hushed, yet buzzing with arcane curiosity. Apprentices moved with a determined focus. Some drifted in low conversation about theoretical evocations; Others hunched over scrolls, hovering beside enchanted carts that glided toward their destinations. The Tower felt alive now, less testing and more conversational. As for the other apprentices, no one spared her more than a glance.

At least, not openly.

Word of her appointment had already spread throughout the Tower. A few apprentices—mostly those of noble lineage—cast judgmental glances her way. Some looked confused. Others, resentful. One didn’t even bother hiding a scoff.

The clause invoked to appoint her was an ancient law for “exceptional, unaffiliated talent,” with the Archmage’s direct endorsement. The law hadn’t been used in nearly a century. And never for someone like her. Other applicants, especially those of noble birth, had been furious. Some called it favoritism. Others believed it to be heresy. But the Tower’s leadership had made its judgment. And the law had technically overruled the rest.

Staircases moved of their own accord. The ladders wandered. The bookshelves whispered to each other in ancient tongues. As she rounded a corner lined with crystal-lit alcoves, two apprentices stood talking just out of reach of a scrying orb’s passive field. They didn’t notice her approach, at least not at first.

“Did you hear? She hasn’t even attended the Evocation Trials. That’s a first-year requirement.”

“Doesn’t need to, it was ‘Archmage privilege.’ Must’ve impressed him with some backroom spellcraft, if you know what I mean.”

A pause. Then a laugh, low and bitter.

Seraphyne didn’t stop walking or flinch at their words. But she did feel the air thicken as she passed—like walking through steam that didn’t burn.

Shelf 17C stood tall and unassuming, its wooden frame darker than the others, slick with age.

Nestled between crumbling tomes on planar convergence and spell-field collapse, a single scroll tied with a simple black ribbon waited to be opened. No markings of note, no sigils to guard it. She stared at it, fingers hovering just above the ribbon. This wasn’t how things worked, not for people like her. She was more accustomed to snatched knowledge, borrowed scrolls, and eavesdropped lessons. Not spellcraft knowledge given voluntarily. Her instincts hissed warnings of caution in her mind. Yet, her curiosity ignored them. For a moment longer, she hesitated, then unrolled it, holding her breath.

The scroll unfurled as if it had been waiting for her. Not a lesson from what she could tell. A spell—and an unfinished one, at that. Glyph work twisted across the parchment in spirals of potential. Notes in Gale’s handwriting threaded between the symbols, probing for answers.

“What purpose does this binding serve if not for containment?”

“What happens when the sigil here is inverted?”

“Would the Weave bend or break?”

His questions weren’t rhetorical. They weren’t traps, either. She looked around the library, then back at his questions. Am I to answer these?

Seraphyne’s heart beat faster from wariness. She felt too exposed. She wasn’t used to being given room to think, to question the things that surrounded her. Even as her fingers curled tighter around the scroll’s edge, something muted inside her stirred.

She sat cross-legged in an isolated corner of the annex and pulled out a stub of chalk. She didn’t trust herself to write in ink just yet.

She drew a circle of warding around herself, more habit than necessity, then began anxiously tracing variations of the sigils in her notebook. Her thoughts formed a dozen questions about the sigil, unspoken and half-formed. She almost wrote one down before stopping herself to recheck her work.

Word spread. That she was working on that scroll.

They watched her like an unstable rune—fascinated, cautious, half-expecting failure. At first, it was sideways glances. Apprentices passing by pretending to shelve something or recheck notes. But by mid-afternoon, more had gathered. Some took nearby tables; others hovered near shelves with clear views. A few whispered openly. Her name passed between them rapidly. Some showed interest, some held disdain, others had a wary sort of respect. No one interrupted her directly. But they watched. And when she adjusted the warding circle or paused to squint at a sigil, they leaned in, measuring her progress.

They had expected a fraud. Or a fluke. Instead, they saw someone still here, still working, not pretending, or failing.

They watched, whispered, and returned.

When she noticed the time was now dusk, chalk covered her hands, and the scroll had curled at the edges beside her. She stared at it again, the space beneath Gale’s final note. She considered what it meant to be allowed to write something there. Far above, unnoticed in the shadowed arch of the annex’s upper level, Gale watched her with patience. He made himself unobtrusive, as he was hopeful, giving her space to try, without his presence looming near would make her more comfortable.

She hadn’t just passed a test. She had answered his invitation—partially, but answered nonetheless, according to his observation.

She felt him before she saw him. His stride was barely audible. What gave him away was the air in the room. It seemed to change when Gale entered. The Tower was always aware, but when he was near, it tuned itself differently, like a note striking true against a string she hadn’t realized was playing. Seraphyne didn’t turn right away, but her spine straightened. Not from fear, but from reflex and old habits of self-preservation. In her past, attention meant consequences.

The scroll lay beside her on the table, wrapped neatly and re-tied with the original black ribbon. She had set it there deliberately, as if she could delay its departure. The work she had done still marked her hands. Faint ink smeared along the knuckles, and smudges of chalk remained under her nails. The stillness that held her wasn’t fatigue. It held a strange expectancy. The kind that lingers before unwrapping a gift.

“Ah, the brave survivor of the Annex. I was beginning to think the place had swallowed you whole.” Gale emerged from behind a narrow shelf of codices, mantle slung with effortless carelessness. Not like a proper Archmage, more like a man who’d wandered off mid-thought and hadn’t yet returned.

Her eyes turned to the scroll. “Was this a test?”

“Hardly.” He sat across from her without ceremony, voice even but laced with wryness. “If it were, I’d have told you how to fail. Much kinder that way.”

He gestured toward the scroll, almost fondly. “No, that was an open thread—a riddle I’ve yet to untangle. The diagram is a theory in search of its proof. One that has been rattling around in my mind for some time now.”

She gave him a sharp, analytical look. “You wrote on it like you expected someone to write back.”

“I wrote on it like I hoped someone would. You, Seraphyne, are the first who has.”

She studied him, uncertain of the current beneath his words.

“You engaged of your own accord—and that, more than talent or titles, is what the Tower listens for. Most attempt to impress me. Some even flatter it.” He gave a small, knowing smile. “But you asked the right questions—and more importantly, you acted on the answers.”

Her jaw shifted, with a tic of discomfort. She didn’t reply, but something inside her shifted. The silence that followed didn’t feel stiff. It carried thought, then, a tap of her ink-stained finger against the parchment.

“Your containment glyph was redundant.”

His expression remained unreadable, but his tone turned breezy. “Didn’t I mention it was unfinished? But by all means, do carry on. It’s refreshing to be corrected.”

She gave him a pointed look. “You implied I’d invert the structure. That would’ve caused a backlash spiral.”

“And you didn’t,” he said mildly.

“Barely.”

He tilted his head. “Still avoided it, no?”

Her eyes narrowed, sharp with incredulity. “That was reckless!” Then, more measured—but no less fierce, “Respectfully…”

“It was trust,” he replied, without flourish or defense. Just the truth.

She leaned back slowly, eyes still on him. The scroll between them was long since set aside, but it might as well have carved itself into the table.

After a moment, she asked, “Is this how you teach? With cryptic scrolls tucked into corners and backhanded compliments laced with risk?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Only when an apprentice earns the right to a cryptic scroll. They’re not as affordable these days to just be handed to anyone.”

A spark flickered in her expression. “And when they don’t?”

“Ah,” he said with mock regret. “Then it’s lectures. Dreadfully boring ones, people would pay to not attend.”

Laughter passed between them, light as dust. Then he quieted, and so did she.

“You know,” he said, voice easy but trimmed with intent, “Curiosity isn’t restricted to spell work, Seraphyne. You’re allowed to ask questions of me, even.

Something in her chest pulled taut. She nodded once, quick and clipped. Not ready to speak further. He didn’t press.

Gale rose unhurriedly and turned toward the archway. At its threshold, he paused, head slightly turned.

“Next time,” he said, not quite looking back, “Break the ward first. Let the resistance teach you something interesting.”

As he stepped away, something stirred above. A soft flutter of wings cut through the silence. A winged cat with a blue stone collar glided down from a high bookcase. It landed lightly on his shoulder, curling around his neck as if it had always belonged there. It blinked at Seraphyne once, its eyes sharp with a strange, assessing intelligence, then turned its head with an almost regal air.

Seraphyne blinked, momentarily caught off guard. What is a tressym doing in here? I hadn’t noticed it before—had it been watching me this whole time?

The Tower returned to stillness. Lost in the shadows of the upper alcoves and mezzanines, a handful of apprentices feigned study, their gazes secretly following each word, their ears catching every whispered nuance. A chilling silence hung in the air; None dared to challenge the Archmage’s power. Not like that. And yet, she wasn’t disciplined or dismissed. There was no thunderwave, no unraveling of flesh from bone. Just a conversation. A challenge met without punishment.

The whispers resumed, quieter now, lined with something unfamiliar.

Curiosity.

She stayed where she was, her hand moving unconsciously, sketching a slow, spiraling glyph into the wood with a bit of chalk. Her breath wavered in its rhythm. His words lingered like a chime, faint but constant, echoing in a part of her she hadn’t realized was listening.

The idea of asking questions pressed gently against old defenses. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a trap.

The Tower still listened, yes. But not like a warden, as when she first came. More like a teacher, or a new friend waiting for the next line in a conversation that had finally begun. She remained seated, one hand unconsciously sketching a slow, spiral glyph into the wood with a bit of chalk.

You’re allowed to ask questions.

His words stirred something she hadn’t wanted to wake. Not yet. It felt too large, too sharp around the edges. A fragile thing, waking up in the dark recesses of her consciousness.

She rose from her seat, more out of restlessness than intention. Her boots made very little sound on the stone as she moved deeper into the shelves, drawn not to any title in particular, but to the silence between them.

“I’m not sure what to ask,” she whispered.

Gale had told her once that there was no need to search for what you needed. If something was for you, it would find you. And it did.

As she walked, running her fingers down the book spines for comfort, a slim book eased from the shelf beside her, stopping her in her tracks. It looked like a feather caught in a breeze, hovering weightlessly before descending in a slow arc until it landed at her feet with a low thump.

Seraphyne stared at the fallen book.

It had no title, no sigil, or seal. Just a smooth, dark leather cover, worn at the edges in a way that suggested hands had held it often and with care.

She crouched and lifted it, as if it might break if not handled with gentle hands. Notably warm, not magically so—at least, not overtly. It carried the warmth of something that had been waiting, almost like a book set down by a hearth, expecting its owner to return. The Tower didn’t speak. But she felt it speak. It wasn’t a whisper in her ear or a command in her mind.

She opened the book carefully. Inside, the first page was blank. And then, with the subtle grace of ink drawing itself into shape, words appeared in that same flowing script she had seen before on her note by the door:

Then, begin by writing the questions down.

No fanfare. No summons. Just a simple answer to her spoken question. The realization that the Tower was not only magical but alive enough to respond to her musings made her stomach clench in a way she couldn’t explain.

Seraphyne sat down on the floor slowly, the book cradled in her lap as if it were a sacred object. Her quill hovered over the page as her throat tightened, and her hand hesitated. Internally, she fought the trepidation that had long protected her. Her hesitation stemmed less from fear now and more from the ache of recognition. That someone—or—something was asking her to speak when she had spent so long teaching herself not to.

She took a deep breath, then lowered the quill and let it rest in the groove of the book’s spine. She did not feel ready. But she would be one day soon. She sensed that she just needed more time. The Tower had not merely acknowledged her. It had made room for her. And that, she realized, was more dangerous than any spell: being seen.

—

Dawn hadn’t thoroughly claimed the sky. The light filtering through the clerestory windows was a pale blue, barely warm enough to illuminate the room. Seraphyne emerged from her quarters, her eyes adjusting, and her boots silent on the floor. To her surprise, no summons had come. Yet, something had pulled her from sleep with the same gentle insistence as the air in her lungs. At the base of the inner stairs, a single ribbon of pale vellum curled like a fallen petal. She picked it up with caution.

The surface remained wordless. Only a diagram, drawn circular and incomplete, like the beginning of a glyph meant to expand when finished. Beneath it, an arrow pointed outward toward the exit.

She hesitated.

In the days since arriving, not once had she stepped outside the Tower’s main keep. The doors remained unlocked, but she hadn’t tested them, either. The Tower suggested—and she followed.

The vast double doors creaked open before she could push them. Not loudly, just old hinges stretching like waking limbs. The air outside was cool and sprinkled with dew. Mist clung low across the grass, curling in the soft morning breeze like the smoke of a lazy spell. She stepped through it, trailing no more sound than a breath, looking over her shoulder from time to time. The Tower behind her felt suddenly immense, as though its silence watched her go with mild curiosity. Like a stone giant trailing her at a slow, patient pace.

She followed the path instinctively—past the low herb beds, through the trellised arches where flowering vines blinked sleepily with dew. At the edge of the grounds, she found a clearing ringed with seven standing stones. They looked ancient and were scored with symbols. The grounds felt like a place that should be untouched by design.

And there, waiting on the flat stone bench in the center, was another book. It was slim, hand-bound, with no title, similar to the book Seraphyne had been given in the library. Its pages fluttered in the morning breeze. Seraphyne approached the book with caution. The stones didn’t hum or pulse under her feet.

She opened the book and flattened it on the bench. This time, no ink formed on its own. Instead, inside the cover bore a note with a single line, scrawled in handwriting she recognized—Gale’s, precise but impatiently written:

Finish the glyph. Let the land respond. — G.D

She stared at it. No lesson plan or rubric was provided. Just space to try.

A piece of chalk was left beside the book, pale and waiting for her hand. She knelt, fingers already tingling with the itch of spell craft. This wasn’t about control. It was about trust—in the Tower, in herself, and magic.

She took a deep breath and began to draw. The lines of the glyph flowed as her hand moved, shaping not what she knew but what she sensed around her. The circle grew with each drawn line. Morning wind rose and curled around her, as if eager to follow her movements.

And when she closed the final loop, something answered.

The mist stirred inward and through her, condensing into a soft, shimmering pulse that resonated beneath her fingertips. The grass rippled. A soft hum, like a note drawn from stone and soil, thrummed underfoot. It was the sound of completion. Seraphyne exhaled slowly, her body warmed from excitement despite the chill. The glyph was fading, but the echo remained. A simple spell. A question was asked, and it was answered.

Behind her, she looked back at the Tower that loomed quietly above. The glow faded from the circle as the glyph dissolved into the stone. Stillness followed, and it felt saturated with meaning. Seraphyne sat back on her heels, her breath visible in the cool air. Her fingertips tingled from contact with raw, responding magic. The power wasn’t imposing, but was exchanged willingly by the Weave.

She didn’t hear him approach at first. She felt him, like the change in pressure before a storm breaks.

“I wondered if you’d come,” came Gale’s voice, low and steady behind her. Not surprised—more pleased than anything.

“Is this another one of your unfinished theories?” She asked curiously.

“Not this time. This one was complete. I simply wasn’t sure if you were ready to finish it.” He offered a small, knowing smile. “Turns out, my hesitation was the only thing misplaced.

His footsteps were hushed by moss and stone as he approached.

She rose slowly, brushing her fingers against the edge of the stone as if to anchor herself. “How do you decide that?”

“I occasionally don’t,” he said with a faint shrug. “The Tower decided your practice today,” he added, pointing back to the ancient stone structure.

They stood side by side in the open. The stones towering around them like sentinels. The fog began to lift, revealing glimpses of distant hills, forest edges, and the long, serpentine path that circled the Tower’s outer grounds.

“You’re changing how you teach me… why?” she said after a moment of thought.

“You’re changing how you listen.”

That made her pause. “I didn’t realize I was that obvious…”

He looked at her, not appraising, but waiting for her to step forward. “You’re not,” he said. “The Tower noticed. And it… decided to invite. The choice is now yours to make.”

She studied how the rising sun caught his brown hair, slightly gilding the edges like metal left too long in the light. While already tall, Gale possessed a composure that made him seem taller than he was, an ease that filled silence without disturbing it. His features were fine and balanced, as though deliberately drawn—but it was the way he moved, aligned so precisely with the Tower’s rhythm, that made her pause. Sometimes, she could hardly tell where he ended and the Tower began.

He glanced toward the woods. “There’s an old trail beyond the standing stones. Overgrown but walkable. Care to join me?”

She followed his gaze. “Another lesson?”

“No.” A pause. “Just pleasant company and conversation.”

She hesitated. Then nodded once.

They began walking side by side, not quite in rhythm, but not out of step, either. The path roughened in places, vines tangling across old flagstones, but neither minded. The quiet wasn’t strained, but companionable. Seraphyne welcomed it after the rush of completing the diagram.

Gale offered no pressure, and to her surprise, she felt no urge to leave. She was still learning how to stand in someone’s gaze without bristling. Still learning that being given space doesn’t mean being abandoned later. That sometimes, permission can be a type of kindness freely given.