LA Knight - Otherworldly Writing

"Gale practically spends his trousers every time you hold his hand. His judgement is meritless in this arena. I, on the other hand, am an expert." "Astarion…" she sighed, the same old argument about to start. "I promise, I won't make this about how you are much too good for the likes of that sad sap." He gave her one of his rare, true smiles. A little peek of fang on one side, eyes soft and slightly lopsided. "No, this is about you." "It's not appropriate," she whispered. "I'm promised." "But not betrothed yet, are you? No contracts drawn. The wizard hasn't so much as seen your father from across the street." Astarion's voice dropped low, a rough and hungry edge to it. "It's one kiss, darling. And it will be Gale who will be reaping the rewards of your tiny indiscretion, is it not?" This was the problem with her beloved rogue; he could make the most untenable things sound perfectly reasonable. Feeling the full force of his seductive intent turned on her again for the first time since she'd told him no at the party by the river, she understood how he'd taken so many victims. She absolutely would have followed him to her death, she realized. His hand snaked under her chin, a gentle grab, but the press of his cold fingers into her felt like fire. She'd spent a hundred moments with Astarion that no chaperone would have ever allowed, but they'd never touched like this. Never beyond the tiniest incidentals and a few moments of handholding. Seen. That's what she felt under his gaze. Not her smooth skin or white teeth, but the parts of her that mattered. He saw every flaw she hid, and he wanted her in spite of every failure. "You know, now that I'm free to decide who I kiss," Astarion mused, his eyes flicking down to her lips and sending a sudden inferno through her body. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather start with." "This is a bad idea. A terrible idea," she said, silently begging him to ignore her, her own gaze falling to his lips, wondering if they would be as cool as his hands. "Natavia," he said her name like he was starving for her. "I will not kiss you without your permission." A palpable pull formed between them; she knew she should fight, but she let herself fall towards him, their foreheads touching before she whispered, "Then kiss me."

The Vibes

While the romance that unfolds between Nora and Astarion is certainly a focal part of the story, I'd argue that the central theme is about the ethics of autonomy, utilizing the concepts of choice versus destiny. The story is told mainly from Nora and Astarion's POV, changing in different scenes. Every character in the story faces situations, both large and small, where they have a destiny, or at least an expected outcome, but must ultimately choose the final outcome. The question Threadbare asks is: at what point are we responsible for the outcomes of our choices - especially when you lack full autonomy? Can you truly love someone destined to be your soulmate? Can you be held accountable for choices you make when your other option was a fate worse than death? Are you responsible for choices you can't even remember making? Or were too young to have the understanding of? Or when the necessary information was kept from you in order to understand the consequences? ✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎

Short snippet - from Chapter 8 - Venn Diagram

✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎

What other media inspired this fic?

It started with the very first BG3 fic I read: Part 2: Broken Bits: A Love Story. (You can start with part 2) by the fabulous MsAditu

Nora - wishing someone would give her a reason to unleash. But also, Nora herself is a character I designed for a real-world DnD game that was to placed in a modern campaign inspired the urban fantasty of Charles De Lint. The main BG3 fic that has directly inspired my plot is @Atsadiwrites fantastic series These Two Shitheads

While the plot hasn't been as much inspired, my prose has been heavily improved and inspired by stories such as @magmethius' Surround Sound, @Tavyliasin's entire body of work, @bloodinwine's Until You, @goodgirlgonebard's Dealbreaker, alcetryx's By Proxy, and probably a thousand more I no longer remember the titles of. I also have to give an enormous shoutout to the BW3 Writer's Discord Server for being incredibly supportive, with great concrit if you ask for it, and tons of resources and ideas. My dialogue has been greatly improved by @amischiefofmice's fantastic story Those Left Behind, as well as my understanding of Astarion's inner world in general. My understanding of the creature part of being a vampire - of the very notion of the undead experience - has been improved by @Raayide's body of work that explores this experience gorgeously, with some of the most lush and disturbing prose I've ever read. ✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎

Other Inspirations

On fighting and battles: The medieval swordfighting classes I've taken at Forenza Fitness in Chicago (highly highly recommend) helped me a lot with understanding the physicality of both fighting with blades as well as some of the experiences of battle.

As a middle aged, large women in middling shape, I can confirm this was a workout experience I not only enjoyed, but thrived in. Another helpful experience were the 15 years I spent commuting by train to the city of Chicago, and fighting through Union Station during rush hour. I stand on business that it isn't far from the crush of a battle.

Seriously - this was my life twice a day for FIFTEEN years. Some other things that have informed the story: My maternal ancestors' stories and tales of living in Appalachia, going back to the 1600s, passed down through generations of women trying to build strong women, which informed my understanding of Nora's childhood, being raised by her elderly grandmother.

A house similar to the historic cabin that Nora grew up in. Note the outhouse in the yard. These cabins weren't well insulated, and the upstairs sleeping areas had no windows.

The town of Keystone, WV. Nora's hometown and not so different from the small towns my ancestors lived in. My own experiences with serious hikes, hunting, butchering, and backwoods camping. My special interests in linguistics, emergency medicine, airplane crashes, and true crime. My friends' special interests in mathematics, cryptography, and their lived experiences in the military. And, of course, I've done a ton of research trying to make this story as real as I could. ✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎

What character trait did you amplify or minimize to make your version of a character work for your story?

For Astarion's character, I minimized his self-awareness, a little. He lies to himself so constantly, for so long, that I feel like he'd be a little less self aware than he comes off in the main story sometimes. In addition, because I so greatly lengthened the timeline of their journey and the story - taking it almost a year from start to finish - His growth arc is both stretch and heightened. He is much further along by act 2 than in the game, but he also keeps that edge from Act 1 for far longer, often making downright cruel choices for seemingly no reason (there's a reason, there's ALWAYS a reason, but those reasons require you to really get in his head.) I also fleshed out some of the vagueness of his time in the palace, which I think necessarily informed his character in ways that are changes to the game.

✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎

How did your understanding of the characters change while writing this?

Well, I'm rewriting the entire story lol so many things changed. Nora is a lot quieter and more reserved than I wrote her the first time. She still has that loud, brash soldier inside of her, but she hides it from those she doesn't have that kind of trust of life or death with. It takes her a while to get to that place in the rewrite, which necessarily altered the early story. She's also far more sensitive. She's been hurt - A LOT - far more than anyone has treated her with care, and while she pretends she is above it, in reality there's a fragility to inner self that I didn't understand at first. My understanding of Karlach - who while not one of the main two is probably the most prominent and important of the other tadfools in the tale - really evolved. I originally understood her in a way I think most people get at first - the happy, warm, bon vivant who enjoys a fight and a drink but mostly loves people. I've come around to understanding that that persona isn't her inner nature - it's an active choice. An active choice that doesn't always come easily to her, either. Part of her will always be that person she became to survive Zariel and the Blood Wars, even if she'd rather it wasn't true.

✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎

What’s one thing you put in—trope, character beat, scene—that was just extra shamelessly self-indulgent?

At some point, Nora's gonna fold Astarion like a lawn chair and peg the Elf. Does it need to be in this story? No. It could work fine without it. But something about how it shows the level of trust she's been able to build with Astarion over the story just... chef's kiss, for me. ✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎

What’s the structural choice you made on purpose—POV, timeline, chaptering—that most shaped the story?

The timeline. Because of the massive canon divergence I've added - mainly Nora's story and the greater story of the upper city (ie what are Ulder, Cazador, Gortash, etc doing during Act 1 and 2) - I had to extend the timeline to make room for all the activities, challenges, and events. ✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎

Which theme emerged accidentally, and which one did you pursue deliberately?

I deliberately always wanted this story to be about informed consent and autonomy, I've accidentally also made it about the struggles of healing (i,e nonlinearly and not how you expect it to look.)

✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎ What was the biggest risk you took with this fic?

Uh, rewriting it when I was already on Chapter 83 and in Act 3? I think that might count? Yeah??? I had 134 subscribers and almost 100 bookmarks and went ... what if I just noped out and started over from scratch, after the popularity of the fandom has fallen, and there is so much more wonderful fic to compete with for attention?

But honestly, it was the best decision. I really feel like this time I'm telling exactly the story I had wanted to write the first time. It was my very first piece of fiction writing in my life, and I simply didn't have the skills or knowledge to do it right the first time. ✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎

In a hypothetical scenario where you are forced to rewrite the whole story from scratch, what would you do differently?

Well, it's not hypothetical. I'm doing it right now. Here are just some of the biggest changes. 1. The POV is now Astarion or Nora (except there will be a few rare scenes otherwise) 2. I changed Nora's character early on, which shifted the plot because she didn't reveal much about herself early on, which also meant the others were quieter with their secrets as well. 3. Nora ends up hooking up with Gale. Nora is a person who, in her life, very much uses casual sex like many people use alcohol or drugs - to forget, to feel better, or just to burn off anger. She knows Astarion is a giant red flag from the moment they meet, so she'd avoid him like the plague. The hot nerd, though? Right up her alley for a no-strings-attached fling. 4. The on-again-off-again thing with Astarion is going to be a bit less drama-filled and a bit more character-informed. 5. The visit to the feywild goes VERY differently. I was always deeply unhappy with that plot thread, and it never really worked later on for the payoff it was supposed to deliver. Now it really hooks into to that act 3 / Upper City plot line tightly. 6. I made Astarion a lot more, well, Astarion. Meaner, crueller, harder. That softness doesn't start to seep out for a long, long time, and he fights it at every single drop until he just cannot anymore. It's there the whole time, but the reader cannot see it much - because he hides it from the others, and lies to himself about it so much.

✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ ⋆✴︎

The monster, they said, would take you if you wandered.

You believed them, of course, until you got older. Until you saw what real monsters looked like.

The monsters weren't ugly and uncivilized, the monsters were men. Men with polite smiles and cold hands. Men who drank too much and laughed when you said no. Men who looked at you like a prize instead of a person.

Compared to them, the thing in the forest felt almost… honest.

At least monsters didn’t pretend to be anything else.

You might have gone your whole life never knowing whether the tales were real, if not for the night Victor Frankenstein staggered through your front door drenched in rain and pure terror.

You found him on the road, mud splattered up his coat, eyes wide and bloodshot. You thought he was drunk at first, or maybe sick. Then, he clutched at your wrist when you reached for him.

“He’s coming,” Victor rasped. “Please. Please. I’ll pay anything. Just let me in. He’s coming.”

You should have turned him away, stranger ranting about some unseen threat—nothing good could follow. But the urgency and fear in his voice compelled you to open your door to him.

So you let him in anyway.

You always were too soft-hearted, as your father reminded. Too curious, too easily hooked by disaster or a firing gun.

He sat by the fire and shook like he was freezing from the inside out. As the hours passed and the wind howled outside, pieces of the story slipped out between trembling lips.

He was a doctor. No, more than that. A genius, he said. Brilliant. Visionary.

Arrogant. Pompous. Vain.

He spoke of graveyards and lightning and blasphemy dressed up as science. He told you he had built something, a man, almost, stitched from death and dragged screaming into life.

You would have laughed if he hadn’t looked so utterly, irrevocably haunted.

“He hates me,” Victor whispered, staring into the flames as if he saw something else there. “He should. I made him…and then I left him. I ran. I thought—I thought time would dull his rage.”

“How long has it been?” you asked.

He swallowed. “Years.”

“And now?”

Victor’s jaw clenched. “Now he’s found me again.”

There it was. The monster in flesh and blood, no longer a myth, but a man-made nightmare. You should have told Victor to leave, yet you didn’t.

You let him stay and sleep in your spare room. You tried to convince yourself the heaviness in the air was just a storm rolling in, not fate tightening its grip around your throat.

On the third night, the trees began to whisper.

You woke to a sound outside your window. Not an animal and certainly not the wind.

A footstep. Heavy. Measured. Terrifyingly calculated.

You crept to the glass as quietly as you could. The forest beyond your cottage was a dark mass of trunks and shadows, the moon a blurred coin behind clouds.

At first, you saw nothing.

Then the world shifted, and you realized the “tree” you’d been staring at…was breathing deeply and unevenly.

He stepped forward into the moonlight and every story you’d ever heard about monsters felt like a children’s rhyme compared to what stood before you.

Tall didn’t even begin to cover it. He towered. Massive shoulders, heavy arms, hands that could probably crush bone without effort. Scars crisscrossed his face and throat, some puckered, some clean like old surgical work. His hair was dark and tangled, dishevelled to match his ghastly appearance.

He was grotesque. He was beautiful. He was wrong.

His eyes found your window with unnatural precision and you froze. He just stared, standing motionless.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, locked in his gaze. Long enough for your breath to slow instead of quicken. Long enough to understand instinctively: he could see you. Really see you. Not just as another warm body in a lit room.

As you.

Then he turned his head slightly, like he heard something in the distance. You watched as his lips peeled back in a humourless hint of what you could only describe as a smile.

Without a word, he disappeared back into the trees. That night, you didn’t sleep.

Victor insisted in the morning you must have dreamt it. But you saw the way his hands shook when you mentioned a figure in the dark and you saw the sweat bead at his hairline.

“He won’t come near you,” Victor said too quickly. “He wants me. Only me.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to comfort or reassure himself. It did neither.

The next day, the villagers spoke of deep footprints at the forest edge. Broken branches and trunks. A cow had gone missing from its pasture.

By sunset, the sky bruised purple and black, and you felt it—like something in the air shifted, the tension drawn tighter.

You knew he was close.

You just didn’t expect him to walk straight out of the trees before your eyes under the darkening sky.

It happened near the clearing beyond your garden after Victor insisted on “getting some fresh air.” He nearly jumped out of his skin when a crow flapped its wings too close to him.

“Maybe we should go back insi—” The words died in his throat.

Because something was stepping out of the tree line. Not hurried. Not stealthy. Certain.

You recognized him.

That impossible body, that scar-drawn face, those eyes that looked less like an animal’s and more like a god who’d been dragged face-first through hell.

Adam.

You didn’t know how you knew his name. No one had spoken it. Maybe it was the way he carried it in his bones.

Victor stumbled backward. “No—no, no, no—”

Adam’s gaze slid right over him and landed on you.

This time, there was no glass between you. No safety. No distance. Just cold air, damp earth, and the weight of a creature whose existence should have been impossible staring at you like you’d been placed here for him.

“Victor,” Adam said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in your ribs. “You ran.”

Victor’s breath hitched. “Please...don’t—”

“I gave you time,” Adam went on, ignoring his plea. “Years. I learned. I watched. I waited. I asked myself if I could forgive you.” His eyes didn’t leave your face. “The answer was no.”

Victor shook his head, stepping between the two of you. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Adam tilted his head slightly, eyes glittering. “Is that so?”

He took one step closer.

You should have moved back, but you couldn't find the will to do so. Your body felt carved from stone and adrenaline, sown to the ground you were standing on.

Adam’s attention dropped, just for a heartbeat, to Victor’s hand where it hovered near you.

You saw how his jaw ticked and worked.

“Funny,” he said coldly. “He said the same thing about me once. ‘Nothing to do with this.’ A side effect. A mistake.”

He took another step.

Victor’s voice rose in pitch. “Please...if you must kill someone, kill me—”

Adam still didn’t look at him. “What’s your name?” he asked you, calm and low.

You swallowed, your mouth dry. You told him. He repeated it, like he was testing how it tasted in his mouth. You felt that more than you should have.

“Pretty,” he murmured. “Does he own you, too?”

“No,” you snapped before you could think. “No one owns me.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. “Good,” he said softly.

Victor grabbed your wrist. “Get inside. Now.”

Adam’s gaze dropped to where Victor touched you and the air changed immediately.

Slow and deliberate, he stepped around Victor like he was a piece of furniture and not a man. Victor tried to block him again, but Adam merely placed one large hand on his shoulder and pushed.

Victor flew.

He hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of him. Adam didn’t spare him even a flicker of a glance.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look up at him. Close enough that you could see the stitches at the edge of his jaw, the small irregularity in his left pupil, the faint scent of rain and forest and something metallic clinging to him.

Up close, the “monster” was less a horror and more…a collision of contradictions. Rage and restraint. Power and precision. Violence and, somehow, a thread of aching loneliness wound tightly beneath it all.

You realized, in that moment, that Victor hadn’t just created a monster. He’d created a man and then abandoned him.

Adam looked down at you like you were an equation he was solving.

“You let him stay in your home,” he said quietly. “You fixed his wounds. Fed him. Kept him warm.”

Your lips parted. How did he know?

“You watched me from your window,” he added calmly. “You didn’t scream.” His eyes searched yours. “You should have.”

“I wasn’t afraid,” you lied, watching as his mouth twitched.

“You were,” he said. “Just not the way you think.”

Your heart stuttered as Victor coughed behind you. “Please...leave her out—”

Adam’s expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped, dangerous and soft.

“Get up again,” he said without looking at Victor, “and I will break something in your precious body.”

Victor stayed on the ground while Adam’s attention shifted entirely to you.

“I’ve been watching him for a long time,” he murmured. “Running. Hiding. Lying.” His gaze dragged slowly down your body, then back up, not lecherous, not polite, just…assessing. Claiming. “And then I saw you.”

You swallowed. “So what, I’m a witness?”

His pupils thinned. “No,” he said. “You’re a variable.”

You didn’t know whether to shiver or scoff. “What do you want?”

A slow, dark smile ghosted across his lips. “I want to see something.”

You don’t know why that scared you more than any threat could have.

He took a step back from you, just enough that you could move if you wanted to. The forest loomed at his back, every tree suddenly feeling like part of him.

His eyes gleamed.

“Run,” he said.

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

He nodded toward the trees. “Run.”

Victor wheezed, “Don’t you touch her—”

Adam’s hand twitched once, annoyance flickering across his features. “This isn’t about you anymore,” he said flatly, still looking at you. “It’s about her.”

Your voice came out quiet. “Why?”

“Because I want to know,” he murmured, “what you do when you’re afraid.”

His tone was almost gentle and that made it worse, but still, you didn’t move.

You stood there, heart hammering, while every instinct screamed at you to obey and bolt—but there was something else, too. Something traitorous. A spark of heat in your chest that had nothing to do with fear.

He watched you, patient.

“Run,” he said again, this time softer, more dangerous. “Before I change my mind and skip straight to the part where I catch you.”

That got you moving.

You turned and sprinted toward the tree line, lungs seizing with cold air, skirts tangling around your legs. The forest swallowed you fast that the cottage vanished from sight, the world shrinking down to your beating heart, cracking twigs, and the rush of your own breath.

For a few fierce seconds, you could almost pretend this was just another late-night dash through the woods like you’d done as a child. You knew these trees, you knew these paths and if you could reach the creek, the old oak, the slope.

A low laugh rolled through the darkness behind you. You risked a glance over your shoulder. He was there. Of course he was there.

Not right behind you—no. That would have been mercy. He walked.

Effortless. Unhurried. His long strides ate up the ground with terrifying ease, but he didn’t run. He was holding back.

He was letting you widen the gap. Letting you think you were doing something. You simply pushed harder.

Branches whipped your face, roots lurked like traps beneath the leaves. The cold cut your lungs raw, causing a deep ache. Still, you ran. Because if you stopped, if you let yourself feel the way his gaze burned between your shoulder blades, you didn’t know what would happen.

“You’re fast,” his voice drifted through the trees. “For someone who’s never been hunted before.”

You nearly tripped at the sound. It was closer than it had any right to be.

“How—” you gasped, putting all your weight into climbing a small hill, “—are you...still talking?”

He chuckled and the sound was dark and almost joyful.

“You’re the one running,” he said. “I’m just enjoying my view.”

Heat flared in your chest. Anger. Embarrassment. A reluctant, unwanted thrill you didn’t have time to unpack. “You’re insane!” you shouted.

“Probably,” he called back. “Keep going. I want to see how far you think you can get.”

Your legs burned.

You veered left, deeper into the forest where the undergrowth grew thicker. You could hear water nearby, it was the stream. If you crossed it, maybe you could mask your scent, hide under the overhang near the rocks like you did as a child. You half-slid, half-stumbled down the incline toward the rushing sound.

The stream appeared in front of you, black and fast. You didn’t hesitate.

You splashed through, cold water biting into your boots, soaking your skirts. You reached the other side and scrambled up the muddy bank, fingers digging into damp earth. Your lungs screamed and your heart battered at your ribs.

You tucked yourself into the hollow under a large, tangled root system, the earth cool against your back. You stifled your breathing as best you could, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle the gasps.

Silence.

Then, a footstep.

On the other side of the water.

Your entire body went still.

You couldn’t see him from where you hid, you could only hear him. The deliberate slosh of boots through water, the slow crunch of leaves on your side of the stream.

He knew. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that would help. His voice came from far too close.

“Clever.”

You flinched.

“Most people run in a straight line,” he mused aloud, as if chatting with himself. “They don’t bother with cover. They think speed is enough.” A pause. “You broke my sightline. You crossed the water. You hid.”

Dry leaves shifted just beyond your hiding place.

“Very clever,” he repeated softly. “But you’re shaking the ground with your heartbeat, do you know that?”

You clamped your teeth down on your hand, hard enough to sting. He stopped right in front of your hiding spot. You didn’t breathe, couldn't breathe.

Time stretched. Hung. Trembled. Stopped altogether.

Then, with infuriating casualness, he crouched down and flipped the dangling roots aside like a curtain.

"Found you." He sang.

You stared up at him, chest heaving. He filled the entry, blocking the faint moonlight behind him. For a moment, neither of you dared to move.

His eyes roamed over you, taking in your damp clothes, mud-streaked knees, trembling fingers digging into the earth.

You expected mockery. Instead, he looked…pleased.

“You made it farther than he would have,” Adam said quietly. You didn’t have to ask who he meant, Victor probably already halfway to the next town over.

Coward.

“Let me go,” you managed, your voice hoarse. “You’ve proven your point.”

His head tilted. “Have I?”

“My heart is pounding, I’m filthy, I’m terrified. Congratulations.”

“Are you?” he asked. You frowned. “Am I what?”

“Terrified.”

Your throat tightened. “Yes.”

He reached in. You tried to kick, lash out, claw at him. It didn’t matter because his hand closed around your ankle with an unyielding grip, warm and solid.

He only had to tug once.

You slid straight out of your hiding place like prey dragged from a den.

You hit the ground on your back, air punching out from your lungs. Before you could scramble away, a shadow moved over you, and then he was there. One hand braced beside your head, the other still wrapped around your ankle, pinning you down with a fraction of his strength.

You could feel how careful that fraction was.

He leaned over you, his body heat seeping through your soaked clothes, the scent of damp earth and something electric clinging to his skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured.

You glared up at him. “Get off—”

“You’re shaking,” he cut in. “Breathing like you’ve swallowed the storm. Skin flushed. Eyes blown wide.” His gaze darkened. “You call it fear.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast and too uneven. “What else would you call it?”

His hand slid from your ankle to your calf, then to your knee, his touch slow, deliberate, never fully gentle. You felt every inch of contact like a spark.

“I’ve seen fear,” he said. “Real fear. The kind that stinks of sweat and piss and desperation.” His eyes burned into yours. “This isn’t that.”

You fought the urge to squirm. “Stop pretending I want this,” you snapped. “I didn’t ask—”

A harsh, humorless sound escaped him. “You didn’t say no either.”

Your breath stalled. “You told me to run.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “And you did. But not the way they do.” His eyes flicked down to your parted lips, then back up. “You looked back three times. Do you know that?”

You said nothing.

“You wanted to see me,” he murmured. “You wanted to know how close I was.”

“Because you’re hunting me,” you spat.

His mouth curved in a sinister way.

“Yes,” he admitted. “But tell me the truth.” His face lowered, his nose brushing the side of yours, his voice dropping to a rasp. “Did you really want me far away?”

Your heart slammed so hard it hurt.

You hated that he could read you. Hated that you couldn’t lie convincingly right now. Hated that somewhere beneath the panic and adrenaline there was a twisted, burning thrill at being seen like this by something so utterly, terrifyingly focused on you.

“Even if I did,” you whispered, “what difference does it make?”

Everything in his expression shifted.

He loosened his grip on your leg, only to slide his hand to your hip, fingers spreading as if measuring how much of you he could hold in his palm.

“It makes,” he said softly, “all the difference in the world.”

He lowered his head to your throat and you froze.

His nose brushed your skin, his breath warm against the rapid pulse hammering under the surface. He inhaled slowly, deeply, like he was committing your scent to memory.

A shiver tore through you. You couldn’t help it. He felt it too.

A low, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. “There,” he murmured. “That’s the truth.”

Your voice trembled. “You said you wanted Victor. Not me.”

“I wanted revenge,” he corrected, his lips ghosting over the hollow at the base of your throat without ever really touching you. “That’s different.” His grip on your hip tightened. “You, I want for something else.”

“Like what?” you asked, though part of you already knew.

His head lifted, his eyes locking onto yours.

“You really don’t know?” he asked, almost amused.

“I want to hear you say it,” you shot back, surprising even yourself with the challenge in your tone.

For a heartbeat, he just stared at you. Then the corner of his mouth lifted, not kindly. Dark. Wicked. Dangerous.

“Dangerous,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re dangerous.”

He shifted, his body settling more fully over yours, bracing his weight on his arms so he didn’t crush you but kept you pinned between him and the unyielding forest floor.

You were trapped.

“I’ve spent years alone,” he said, his voice growing rougher with every word. “Hiding in shadows. Watching life happen to everyone but me. Listening to their laughter, their pleasure, their cries.” His eyes flared. “Wanting. Always wanting. Never allowed to have.”

His hand slid up your side, fingers splaying against your ribs, the heat of his touch burning away some of the chill from the stream.

“And now…” He swallowed once, thickly. “Now you stand in front of me and tell me I should pretend I don’t want you?”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t—”

“But you didn’t tell me to stop,” he said. “You didn’t tell me to let you go. Even now,” he added softly, “you’re not telling me to get off you. You’re asking me questions.”

He leaned down until his lips hovered a breath away from yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, “and I will.”

The forest held its breath with you.

You stared up at him, every nerve lit, every rational thought drowned under the weight of his body, his voice, his attention. The world had shrunk to the space between his mouth and yours.

You could say it.

You could end this.

You could turn away from the cliff edge.

You parted your lips.

“…Don’t...don't stop,” you whispered.

His eyes flashed and for a moment, he looked almost startled. Then, slowly, something unmistakably feral slid into place behind his gaze.

“You are going to ruin me,” he said hoarsely.

His hand at your hip flexed, pulling you against him. His other braced by your head, fingers biting into the earth.

“Or I’m going to ruin you,” he added. “Maybe both.”

His forehead dropped to yours, the contact almost jarringly intimate.

“Say it again,” he murmured. “Tell me not to stop.”

You swallowed. “Don’t stop.” His jaw clenched.

“Once I start,” he said, voice shaking with a cocktail of hunger and warning, “I won’t want to stop. I won’t want to be gentle. I’ve never been given anything gently. Everything I’ve ever had, I’ve had to take.”

You held his gaze. “Then take me.”

Silence. Absolute, shattering silence. Then, something in him broke, quietly and completely.

“Gods,” he breathed. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

His mouth brushed your jaw, the corner of your lips, the edge of your throat. Each almost-touch made your body arch toward him of its own accord, seeking more.

His lips finally pressed firmly against your throat, not biting, but not soft either. His hand traveling your body drew your attention away from the cold, from the mud, from everything except the paths he traced.

The monster in the woods was worshiping you like a man starved.

The moment Adam caught the edge of your skirts, it was with a desperation that felt older than the grave. Fabric whispered and tore as he dragged it upward, his touch neither gentle nor hesitant, like a creature who had only just learned what wanting was.

Cold night air lashed your skin, raising gooseflesh that made you shiver. He noticed. Of course he noticed. There was nothing human left in his gaze now, only hunger, devotion, and something far more dangerous.

Moonlight broke through the clouds just long enough to illuminate the ruins of your clothes, scattered and ruined as he held you pinned between his body and the damp, trembling earth.

“This,” he growled, voice cracking like thunder, “was carved into my fate. I have earned it.”

He lowered his head, breathing in your arousal in like a man starved of warmth, starved of life itself. The air between you thickened, your own traitorous longing betraying every rational thought you’d ever clung to.

When your eyes met his, a crooked, sinful smile tugged at the edges of his mouth—too wicked for any mortal man.

“Scream,” he murmured. “No soul dares to wander far enough to save you from me.”

Then he claimed you, not with gentleness, but with the reverence of a worshipper kneeling before a forbidden altar. His touch was fevered, greedy, tasting, learning. His arm held you steady when your body tried to escape the intensity of him, though you no longer knew whether you wanted freedom or surrender.

Your breath hitched. Your voice broke. The world spun.

And yet it was not fear that hollowed you—it was something far sweeter, far more damning.

“I’ve decided,” he whispered against the tender skin of your thigh, breath uneven, “that I could spend eternity discovering you.”

He returned to your centre with slow, deliberate devotion, savouring every trembling moment. Your hands, dirt-streaked and shaking, flew to his hair, unsure if you meant to pull him closer or push him away.

Even you didn’t know.

“Harder,” he groaned, voice fraying at the edges. “If you wish to hurt me… then hurt me. I am yours to ruin.”

Stars burst behind your eyes like dying worlds, a pleasure you had never known until tonight. Adam rose in the moonlight, looking wild and starved and achingly alive. Hunger darkened his gaze as he captured your mouth with his, stealing whatever breath you had left.

This was wrong. This was sacrilege. You were betraying every law written for mortal souls.

“My creator,” Adam murmured against your throat, words sending a tremor through you, “must have shown me mercy.”

His weight shifted, his heat pressed to your hip, and your head tipped back with a gasp.

“I should have thanked him,” he said, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Because even after death, he left me the parts that make me a man.”

He didn’t let you answer, instead claiming you fully, and your body arched beneath him as the forest seemed to hold its breath. You clutched at his stitched, unholy skin, marking him with crescents of dirt and desperation, your claim etched into him like scripture.

The ground trembled. Birds erupted from their nests in panicked flight as Adam roared into the night, your bodies moving as though summoned by some ancient, terrible rhythm.

He pressed shuddering kisses along your neck, between gasped-out half-words, his voice a rough, reverent rasp in your ear.

“Mine.”

“Look at me.”

“Don’t hide from me.”

“Say my name.”

You didn’t know when you started saying it, but once you did, it didn’t stop.

“Adam.”

His body flinched the first time you whispered it.

No one had said it like that before. His breath hitched and his rhythm broke, but you didn’t care, you only clung to the dark, rising heat curling tight inside you, desperate now to chase it to its end.

You said his name again, and his control frayed further, his movements growing more desperate, more claiming. His hand tightened at your hip, his mouth hovering, then pressing, then dragging along your pulse.

You were both hanging off the edge by fingertips.

“You’re are mine,” he growled. “And I am yours.”

His hand closed around your throat with the helpless instinct of something made for ruin rather than tenderness. Through the blur of your tears, you managed only his name.

"Adam."

Then the two of you collided like storm-torn constellations, souls striking sparks in the dark as the sky twisted above you. His uneven breath tangled with yours, and an impossible, shattering pleasure unfurled between you as though the night itself had split open.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, tangled in breath and heat and half touches under the watchful shadows of the trees. Time had no meaning in that hollow. There was only the rise and fall of his chest and the frantic rhythm of your heart.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t because he wanted to.

It was because he had to.

He stayed close, kneeling beside you in the leaves, one hand still on your waist as if to reassure himself you were real.

Your clothes were damp, your hair was a mess, your throat felt raw.

You couldn't have cared less in this moment. Adam watched you like he was memorizing the sight.

“What now?” you asked quietly.

He looked toward the direction of the village, where faint distant lantern lights flickered between trees.

“Now,” he said, “I finish what I came here for.”

Cold crept back into your chest. “Victor,” you whispered.

Adam’s jaw hardened. “I could break his neck with two fingers.”

“Will you?” You asked. He was quiet for a moment.

“I wanted to,” he said. “For years. I thought about it every night. About how his skull would feel in my hands. How easy it would be.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tense. When he opened them again, the anger was still there, but something else had joined it.

“You changed that,” he admitted.

You blinked, thrown. “Me?”

“You’re the first person who didn’t scream when they saw me,” he said. “The first who didn’t pretend I was invisible. The first who didn’t try to use me or run from me without looking back over their shoulder like they wanted me to follow.”

His gaze softened in a way that felt dangerous. Manipulative.

“You gave me something more interesting than revenge,” he said. “That’s… inconvenient.”

You almost laughed. “Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be on my way back there right now to paint the trees with his blood.”

You shivered. Not entirely from fear. “What will you do instead?” you asked.

His fingers flexed on your waist. “I’ll let him live,” he said slowly. “For now.”

Relief and dread twisted together in your gut. “So you’ll leave?”

His hand tightened. “No.” The word dropped like a stone.

You stared. “Then what—” He leaned in again, his mouth hovering by your ear, his voice quiet and cruelly tender.

“I’m not leaving without you.” Your breath caught. “What?”

“You heard me.” You shook your head, trying to sit up fully. He let you, but stayed close, his presence a wall at your side.

“I can’t just disappear,” you said. “I have a life here. A home. People will—”

“Forget,” he said with a shrug. “They always do. Or they’ll tell stories about you the way they told stories about me. The woman the forest took.” His lips curled. “You’ll be a warning for children who think they can stray too far.”

“That’s not funny,” you snapped.

“I’m not joking.”

He cupped your face again, calloused thumb brushing the edge of your lip.

“I’ve spent years wandering alone,” he said. “I’m done.” His eyes burned. “You ran from me, and then you told me not to stop. You said my name like it meant something.”

“It does,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His breath hitched. "Then you understand,” he said. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“And if I say no?” you asked quietly.

He considered that, really considered it. You saw the war flicker across his expression.

“I don’t want to force you,” he said at last, voice raw. “I’ve had enough of being forced my entire existence.”

“But?” you pressed. He swallowed, his nostrils flaring.

“But if you stay,” he said, “they’ll hurt you. Not the villagers, the world. Men like him. Men worse than him.” He nodded vaguely toward where Victor might still lay. “They’ll see you, and they’ll want you, and they’ll try to take from you what you offered me freely.”

His eyes went black.

“I’ll feel it,” he whispered. “Even from miles away, I’ll feel it. And I’ll come back here and tear this place apart. I’ll kill them all.” His fingers dug into your jaw. “And it will be your fault.”

Your blood ran cold. “That’s not fair,” you said.

“I know,” he replied. “I never said I was fair.”

Silence hung between you, heavy and terrible.

“You’re asking me to choose,” you said. “Between my home and… you.”

“I’m not asking,” he said. “I’m telling you what happens either way.” Your chest hurt. “And if I go with you?”

His grip gentled and he stroked your cheek once, almost reverent.

“Then I’ll burn for you instead of the world,” he said simply. “I’ll be your monster. Your shield. Your ruin. I’ll give you every violent, ugly, precious part of me that no one else wanted.” His mouth hovered above yours again, close enough to feel the warmth. “And I won’t let anything touch you unless you ask for it.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, bruising. “I don’t even know what that life looks like,” you whispered.

His smile was sharp and soft at once. “Neither do I,” he said. “We’ll find out.”

He straightened then, towering over you once more. He held out a hand as the forest watched.

The cottage stood somewhere behind you, full of fear and lies and the same grey days you’d always known.

In front of you, a monster who wanted you with unapologetic, terrifying clarity. A man stitched from rage and loneliness who’d decided you were the one thing he wouldn’t let the world keep from him.

He wouldn’t beg.

He wouldn’t promise you safety.

He wouldn’t promise you sanity.

What he offered instead was devotion sharpened into a weapon, and a life lived at the edge of the firelight.

You took a breath and you put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours, firm and absolute. Something like relief flickered across his face before he smothered it.

“Good,” he said, voice low. “Very good.”

He pulled you to your feet and didn’t let go.

You walked back through the trees together, his grip steady, his frame a shadow at your side. The cottage came into view, lantern light flickering weakly against the dark.

Victor still sat there, hunched and small on the ground near the clearing like a discarded marionette.

He looked up as you emerged. His eyes widened, darting from Adam’s hand around yours to your face.

“You can’t...” he croaked. “You can’t go with him. He’s a monster. He’ll...he’ll destroy you.”

You glanced at Adam as he watched Victor with the same sort of detached irritation one might reserve for a buzzing fly.

“You had your chance to care about what happened to me,” Adam said mildly. “You chose yourself.”

His gaze slid back to you.

“You’re sure?” he asked quietly enough that Victor couldn’t hear. “You can still say no.”

“And you’ll leave me alone?” you asked.

His jaw flexed once.

“No,” he said honestly. “I’ll just leave you. The rest of this place?” His eyes flicked to Victor. “I make no promises.”

You believed him as the weight of your choice settled in your bones like cold iron.

You squeezed his hand tighter. “I’m sure,” you said.

He nodded once. No smile. No grand display of joy. Just a small, precise shift in his posture, like something inside him finally unclenched.

He turned to Victor.

“You get to live,” Adam said. “You’ll tell them whatever story you like about what happened here. You always were good at lying.” He tilted his head. “But if I hear you’ve tried to chase us, to take her back, to drag her name through the dirt,”

He stepped forward, and Victor shrank back. “I won’t be nearly as merciful next time.”

Victor opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out, but Adam didn’t wait for one, instead he tugged your hand.

“Come,” he said. “Before I change my mind and kill him anyway.”

Miss Feyre, sailing into Grymforge, already tired of this shit.

Animal: Black Mamba - A snake that is considered beautiful and also offputting, it is one of the most dangerous snakes. Generally shy, but becomes one of the most aggressive attackers when threatened.

Colour: Lavender - it's the color of her eyes

Food: Cornbread - Nora hails from Keystone, West Virginia. It had to be cornbread, fatback, or soup beans.

Drink: Bourbon - Smooth Ambler is a favorite brand, but any half-decent one will do. She drinks it neat, usually from a jelly jar, or straight from the bottle in a pinch.

Movie: V for Vendetta - Her favorite movie, although she liked the graphic novel better.

Inspo: The women in my own family history who were the reason my line survived long enough to make me, and who made the world just a smidge better while they were at it. This is not one of them - but is a pretty valid image if I had pictures of them.