#Lantern’s struggles to draw clothing: the series

[thesealantern]

Been trying to (once again) figure out my Jsab au designs so here’s Cube way before he became a guardian

Mostly I just changed his attire, since this makes more sense for him as day to day attire but the more “sciency” fit or some variation of it will probably still show up? Honestly he’s the design that’ll change the least so here he is, I’m pretty happy with this but I’ll see if I have to simply it in the future :3

Story and personality wise I don’t want to spoil much but not much changes for him.

I already have ideas so expect a guardian outfit for him soon :D 👍

[alyssawolf2410]

Prologue - A Coin.

Well, I don't know who I made mad, but someone or something is angry at me. This morning didn't go as planned. First, my apartment building experienced some short-circuiting last night, which caused my alarm to reset and not go off. Consequently, I had to rush to get ready for work. However, when I went to get my clothes from the dryer, I discovered burned clothes due to the circuit issue and struggled to find something decent to wear. So, I ended up missing the bus, having to run to work, and being an hour late. The worst part? It rained on the way to work! but nevertheless, I made it .

As soon as I entered the main area my boss approached me. "Miss [Redacted]! I'm so sorry! You would not believe the morning I have had. But don't worry, once I dry myself off, I will start cleaning the rooms." I started but was interrupted by my boss. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, but we need to talk", she glances to her side as some of the other employees whisper to each other. " Preferably in my office," her eyes returned to me. "No, it's okay. We can talk here. If my lateness was the issue, I assure you it won't happen again!" I said, a little more desperately than I hoped for. I was praying it wasn't what I thought it was. Maybe she is going to promote me or wants me to transfer! "It's not about that. It's about our company's policy. Can you please come to my office?"she asked again. Grabbing my bag tight, I responded, " No. You can tell me here. " My boss sighs before saying, " Fine, I regret to inform you that you are being let go."

And now here I am. Walking home. In the rain. Without a job. Dang, I sound like a telenovela. I continue my dreary way home. This rain really came out of nowhere. I reached my city's little park, which seems to be hosting an event. Horrible timing on their part... Well, it's better than being out there in the rain.

As I approach a large tent, I carefully lift the flap and step inside, where a soft, golden light bathes the area. The glow from the lanterns illuminates a series of small booths lined up in front of me. Despite the pouring rain outside, the tent feels surprisingly spacious and inviting, yet I notice that there are only a handful of visitors scattered throughout. Some people wander over to the booths, their faces lit with curiosity as they examine the enticing offerings, while others stand back, watching the interactions with interest. The booths are filled with a delightful array of food, from warm, freshly baked pastries to savory snacks sizzling on hot grills. Colorful merchandise catches the eye, showcasing handmade crafts and unique souvenirs. Nearby, a games booth draws attention with the sounds of laughter and cheers, offering a chance to win prizes. The atmosphere buzzes with an undercurrent of excitement, contrasting the dreariness of the rainy day outside. This place is very lively. More than I thought it would be.

A lively group of children wandered from booth to booth, laughter echoing through the air, and the youngest among them spotted me. Her wide eyes sparkled with curiosity as she made her way over, her small feet shuffling across the pavement. With an innocent tilt of her head, she asked, “Why are you wet?” I glanced down at my damp clothes and replied, “Oh... it’s because it started to rain, and I didn’t have an umbrella.” Her brow furrowed in confusion as she persisted, “Why didn’t you bring one?” Caughting me off guard, I stammered, “Um, I didn’t know it was going to rain.” I noticed the attention of the other kids shifting, their playful chatter fading slightly as they realized that their youngest companion had strayed from the group.

The oldest girl catches sight of the little girl next to me and swiftly approaches us with a determined look on her face. She grabs the child’s arm, dragging her away as she delivers a stern lecture. “What did I tell you about wandering off!? Especially when you’re talking to a foreigner!?” Okay, rude. As the older girl pulls the younger one along, the little girl with soft brown hair glances back at me and waves goodbye, a small smile lighting up her face. I instinctively return her wave, feeling a bittersweet sense of connection.

Then, a gentle blue light flickers briefly in my peripheral vision. Curiosity piqued, I turn to my left and notice an empty booth, devoid of customers, with a solitary blue coin placed on its surface, gleaming in the light. Well, that's not suspicious at all. I make my way over to the booth and lean in to examine the coin closely. It stands out in its simplicity—smooth and featureless, without any design or markings. As I look around the deserted booth, I realize it hasn’t even been set up yet; the atmosphere is quiet... I scoop up the coin, and after a final glance around. I decide to pocket it and make my way out.

The rain had stopped, so I started to make my way home. I continued to examine the weird coin. But as I waited for the green light to cross the street. The light shines on the coin right to see "Make a Wish." A wish? So this might be for some wishing well at the event. Maybe I should have looked around a bit more before leaving. Hmm. What would I even wish for? Maybe a job? Nah, that's too boring! Let's put on my weeb for a moment. Okay, if I was some opening to an anime. Maybe I will be cliche and say I want to be stronger and destroy my enemies with the power of friendship! Hmm. If this is my protagonist moment, I want to be somewhat unique. Oh! I know! " I wish I could go to all my favorite fandoms! It would be cool to get to know the characters and explore their worlds!" I say as I flip my coin in the air. For a brief moment, the coin glows. Before I could catch the coin. Someone shoves me aside and grabs my purse. "Hey!"

Ba Bump, Ba Bump.

Everything around me seems to stretch and slow down, each second dragging out like a heavyweight. A surge of frustration courses through me as I try to chase after the figure who just vanished into the distance. My heart pounds in my chest, matching the urgency of my thoughts. Suddenly, without warning, a pair of dazzling headlights cut through the dimness, blinding me on my right side and enveloping my vision in a piercing glare. The brightness is overwhelming, leaving me momentarily disoriented. My mind races, a whirlwind of thoughts colliding – confusion, anger, regret. Drawn by the blinding light, I instinctively turn my head toward it, and in a rush of adrenaline, my body lunges forward, propelled by an urge I can’t quite comprehend. my head towards the light, my body moves forward.

Ba Bump, Ba Bump.

I heard the screech of tires as the driver slammed on the brakes, desperately trying to swerve away from me. But it was too late; everything seemed to freeze in that heartbeat as the world around me blurred. In the next instant, the powerful impact hit me like a wave, and the vehicle collided with me. The sound of metal crumpling and the sheer force of the crash resonated in my ears as everything went dark.

I jolt upright, my heart racing as I draw in a quick, sharp breath—air rushing in and out in frantic gasps. Memories flood back: the frantic chase, the blaring horn of the truck barreling toward me, and the overwhelming wave of pain that followed. Was that it? Am I dead? As I survey my surroundings, a sense of disorientation washes over me. I find myself in a dimly lit cavern, the walls rugged and jagged, glistening with moisture. The earthy scent of damp stone fills the air, and I can make out several dark tunnels branching off into unknown depths, each one a silent mystery leading to the shadows.

However, one of the tunnels has a faint blue glow. I stand up unsteadily and walk towards the gentle blue light. My steps are slow and shaky. At the end of the tunnel, I see an underground lake with all different types of blue crystals on the ceiling. Despite how beautiful it was, it was not what caught my eye.

It was the woman sitting on top of the lake. Which is already weird enough! She had a long blue gown with trims of gold all around it. It is so long that you can't even see her feet. She also had long dark blue hair that reminded me of waves crashing into each other. And on the top of her head is something close to a crown. It is attached to the back of her head with a circle headpiece that has two rings in it with many gems. Her dark skin is also decorated with gold. "You are here early." The woman softly spoke.

I jumped when she suddenly spoke as I wasn't expecting it. "You were supposed to help her. But I should have expected this since you humans are so flawed. I need to rework the plan for you to take her home when she comes of age." The lady stands. And turns to me. I finally get to see her face. She has the crown continue to the front of her face where it dangles. She has her eyes shut. Is she an anime character? The heck. Her lips are a dark blue. However, her eyelashes are light blue.

Dang, this woman really likes blue. "Since you have some time before you are needed, where do you want to go first?" I jumped again. Lord, I need to stop dozing off. Wait. "Huh?' I blinked slowly at her. Which she probably didn't even see.

"What do you mean? Actually, where am I? I'm dead...?" It's now just hitting me that I died. Pun not intended. "You are in the in-between. Yes, you died. Now, where do you wish to go?" She continues to speak softly and flatly. "The in-between? Like in-between death and life? Since you know, I have passed away." I am now curious about this in-between. "Yes and No. You are also in-between worlds but not. We are higher than gods, but not. We are just in-between." She whispered. "Do you wish to stay here? Or do you wish to go to another?" She continued.

"To another? Do you mean another world?" "Of course. You can go to any world you wish. Just tell me its name." "Wait! Am I about to be iskaied!? OMG! I even got hit by truck-kun! And I can choose which world I can go to!?" I screamed. "Their so many to choose from! I'm having my anime/manga mommet! Wait! Can I have powers?! Or love interests?!" I exclaimed. "You can have that if you use your wish coin. And even more." She has been taking steps closer to me without me realizing it. "But only once per world. So choose wisely. If you would like, I could choose a world for you to go into."

I take a step away from her. "Wish coin?" "Yes, a wish coin. It's how you got here." She snapped her fingers. And that familiar coin appeared in her hands. "When you took my wish coin. As well as making a wish with it. You accepted my deal. Thus making you my newest wish child. And until I need you. You may have your fun in the other worlds." "A deal? What deal?!" I asked. "I am bored of this conversation. I will be sending you to a random world now. I will talk again soon." She turned away from me and started to walk back to her lake. "Hey! I'm not done asking -"

Before I could finish my sentence, I noticed her raising her hand and snapping her fingers with a swift motion. Suddenly, a brilliant glow erupted beneath me, illuminating the dim surroundings. An overwhelming sensation of weightlessness swept over me as I felt myself plummeting through the air, enveloped in a radiant light that seemed to pulse with energy. Panic surged through my veins, and I let out a terrified scream as the familiar darkness of the underground cave faded away, making way for the expansive blue sky above. My mind raced with confusion and fear. Is she trying to kill me again!?!? I was caught in a surreal moment, suspended between the two worlds, as the ground rushed up to meet me. Most unexpectedly, I broke through the surface of cold water with a splash, the shock of the icy temperature jolting my senses and awakening my instincts.

"WHAT THE HECK LADY?!"

Next

[whispering-about-loki]

A Little theory regarding the Loki series

Warning! Image-heavy!

I am going to preface this by saying that this won’t happen. Well, maybe it won’t. Most of it won’t. Maybe some of it will. So SPOILER warning, in case it does. 

I’ll put some of my thought process in a note at the end.

---------

After Loki is arrested and brought before court to be charged for his part in certain time crimes, Mobius M. Mobius takes him “somewhere to talk”. He shows Loki snippets of how his life would have gone if he hadn’t skipped out with the Tesseract, then he tells him that he needs his help. Someone has been causing changes throughout history, making a myriad of variant timelines. Mobius believes that someone is taking advantage of their position in the TVA to cause this chaos; but his superiors refuse to believe that any of their ranks would behave in such a manner. So Mobius figures that if you want to handle chaos, you need to embrace chaos, and without consulting his superiors about it, he offers the God of Mischief a deal: help him find and bring back the rogue agent, and Loki will get his freedom. 

It is, of course, against the rules; but Mobius is willing to bend the rules a bit, if it means ending the time incidents. Loki agrees, thinking he will be able to use the situation to escape. But Mobius understands Loki’s thought process and warns him that if he strays from his assignment, he will be brought right back to the TVA. Loki being Loki, though, does try to skip out; but after he is zipped right back to the TVA a couple times, he doesn’t try it again.

Loki then does what he agreed to, slipping through time with Mobius and looking for the cause of the chaos. Disconcertingly, though, Loki’s power and strength begin to diminish, to the point where simple attacks he should have been able to easily counter are enough to take him down. Mobius says he doesn’t know why it is happening.

After a while Mobius's superiors suspect he is up to something, so he begins sending Loki out on his own, staying behind at the TVA to keep the others off his trail. Loki still doesn't like being in someone's "servant", and he resents being kept on such a tight temporal leash; but he continues reporting back to Mobius. While on assignments, Loki occasionally ends up preventing disasters that the “Agent of Chaos” had set in motion; though he also can’t help but make some “small” changes to the timeline, himself.

Mobius tells him to be more careful, or he might cause unforeseen effects. When Loki scoffs at this, Mobius asks him if he wants to see the world where he “won” the battle of New York. Mobius doesn’t wait for Loki’s answer, but immediately ships Loki off to an apocalyptic-looking New York City. When Loki gets there, the air is cold to the point where he can see his own breath, and it is utterly silent. A result, it appears, of not only the Chitauri attack, but of the bomb that the Humans used to try to wipe out the invading army. Apparently, the only ones that got wiped out were the Humans -- Avengers and all.

Loki wanders around the desolation for a while, until he is at last found by a roving group of ragged men. They seem to recognize him and he is brought to the leader of the city, who happens to be himself. Boss-Loki has gone a bit around the bend, though. He has been stuck in this place for years since the attack, and has carved himself out a little “kingdom” in the ruins, based in an old arcade. Our Loki is shocked and almost disgusted to see how far he has fallen. When Boss-Loki’s men turn on him because of this other Loki’s presence, though, our Loki gets caught up in the fighting. He calls out to Mobius that he has made his point, and to get him out of there.

Loki goes on doing his “job” then, being more careful with time. At long last, he finds a strange object at the scene of one of the chaotic events, and he brings it back to Mobius, who recognizes it as something he had taken from one of the young agent recruits, a girl named Sylvie. Mobius explains that some of the agents in the TVA are clones (like himself), but that some are recruited at a young age by the TVA because they show special abilities. Sometimes these recruitments occur from outside the main timeline, which is where they found Sylvie. Not only was she a gifted individual, but the TVA records showed that she should not have existed in the first place; so they took her in to train her, and also so that her presence would not disrupt the flow of time. 

Mobius and Loki go to confront her in her room, but she is gone. Mobius feels responsible because it was he that “recruited” Sylvie. Additionally, he knew that she had a habit of slipping through time on “joy rides” and coming back with souvenirs, which was strictly against the rules. She always seemed innocent, though, so he went easy on her about it. Hidden in a drawer in her room, they find other “souvenirs”, and Loki notes that some of them have Asgardian runes on them. Mobius says that Sylvie is human, according to her genetic code, so he doesn’t understand what she is doing with the runes. 

As they ponder the meaning of this, an alarm sounds in the TVA headquarters, and they know something terrible is happening in some variant timeline. They leave Sylvie’s room to try to get to the portals to take them to the time-incident; but on the way, some TVA agents try to stop them. They claim that Loki is the rogue element that has been causing all of the chaos, and that he needs to be “erased” as soon as possible. 

Mobius pretends to be on the agents' side, then sets them off-guard so Loki can get to the scene of chaos. After fighting his way through the Minutemen that are guarding the portals, Loki arrives when/where Sylvie is--at a quarry mine--the moon is shattered and the fragments are falling to the Earth. 

Loki runs to get to safety, and the ground opens up as the mine before him collapses, blocking him off from the now-adult Sylvie, who is staring up at the falling moon. She turns and looks at him just as the ground completely falls out from underneath him.

Suddenly the world around him stills and he lands hard on the ground. He struggles to his feet and looks up to see that everything has frozen around him. As he is standing there, gaping in disbelief, he turns and sees Sylvie standing beside him. She is wearing clothing very similar to his old Asgardian outfit, and she is smiling at the destruction and chaos before them.

“Hello, Father,” she says. “Have I made you proud?”

-------

-------

Notes: 

SPOILERS below.

My main thought was that since Cailey Fleming is listed as playing “Young Sylvie”, that would imply the presence of an older Sylvie. Otherwise, she would have been listed as “Sylvie”. Sylvie Lushton being the girl that Loki, in the comics, empowered and/or created, and who later became a version of Enchantress. 

That is who I think Sophia Di Martino is playing as an adult, rather than Lady Loki, like I used to think. Her hair is the wrong color to be Loki, for one thing; and she has been shown filming in the same location as Tom Hiddleston, who was wearing an Agent outfit at the time. I’m not gonna put the set photos here, but you know the ones... the pictures where she is wearing just about the same outfit as Loki has in the past. And we know that this character is the one that is causing the chaos, because in those set photos she is wearing a certain pair of boots and fingerless gloves, both of which are freeze-frame bonusses on the “mystery figure” in the trailer (when she drops the lantern and lifts her hands to her hood).

I’d also like to point out that she is wearing what appears to be a sword on her hip:

Anyway, I figure it goes something like this: 

Sylvie exists because another version of Loki had adopted her when he discovered that she had talents close to his own. He had begun training her how to use magic; but he was not so good a teacher as Frigga was, and the training was complicated by her wily and independent nature. Loki in that timeline died, though, leaving Sylvie alone. 

The TVA (specifically, Mobius) took her in, but because of her abilities, she was naturally able to slip through time, create illusions, age herself up and down, etc. Eventually, she decided she would “make her father proud” by sowing chaos. The thing is, she has grown stronger and more chaotic since Loki showed up at the TVA, because she has been inadvertently drawing his power and life force from him -- basically depowering him to charge herself up (c’mon... he gets laid out by a Roomba...). In fact, the draining of his life-force was what killed her “father” in her own timeline, though she didn’t know it.

Additionally (and on another note), the Loki series is said to be a “crime thriller” with sci-fi aspects; so while Loki tracking down a rogue time-agent seems to be a pretty straightforward idea, it could be given a nice twist at the end by having the rogue element not be an agent, but someone of Loki’s own making. And it would be one hell of a cliffhanger for the next season.

And... that’s all I got for now.

[lake-arrius-caverns]

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 6: Ancestors

summary Luckily for Fahjoth, Ribyna is more than happy to assist him with his next assignment and he’s feeling positive. But will it go as well as they hope?

content warnings mild threat/violence

tag list @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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Not even the deep grey clouds that hung overhead the following morning could squash Fahjoth’s spirit as he trotted along the dusty path with Ribyna in tow. The fragmented sleep he had managed to achieve overnight had done little to soothe his aches and pains, but nonetheless, Fahjoth walked along with an evident spring in his step. It was hard not to let his excitement show, and in a stark contrast to the previous night, he had a near permanent grin etched onto his face. 

“You sure you know where you’re going?” Ribyna called, on the alert for aggressive wildlife or hostile thieves. Fahjoth turned to face Ribyna but continued walking, so that he was effectively walking backwards while addressing her. 

“Course I do! I remember the way to Seyda Neen. And from there we just need to find the t—“ 

His statement was abruptly cut off as he felt himself suddenly drop; his heart leapt up to his throat and his gut lurched as he plummeted backwards, before the world stopped spinning and his brief moment of weightlessness came to an end as he landed flat on his back. As the air was knocked out of his lungs, he lay there and stared up at the sky, wheezing, before Ribyna’s surly face suddenly obscured his view of the clouds.

“Well done, shit-for-brains.” 

With a groan, Fahjoth struggled to sit up and stared reproachfully at the small rock that he had tripped over. As he opened his mouth to reply to Ribyna’s taunt, he paused as a strange sound reached his ears. Ribyna seemed to have heard it as well, for she looked up and stared straight ahead into a mass of scrubby bushes nearby which rustled and twitched, despite there being very little wind to disturb them. He pulled himself to his feet as slowly as he could, while the quiet shhk of gliding metal indicated that Ribyna had drawn out her dagger. But before Fahjoth could make a move of his own, a large, broad head suddenly jutted out of the foliage. 

The creature it belonged to resembled some kind of reptile, with a large, domed forehead, tiny eyes and a noticeable underbite. As the rest of it followed, scaley hide glinting in the muted noon light, Fahjoth let out a laugh of joy as the creature began snuffling along the ground, tiny arms tucked against its chest. 

“Ahh! Ribyna, look!” Fahjoth cried, taking a tentative step forward. “It’s a guar!”

Ribyna sounded much less enamoured by the creature as she kept back and watched from a distance. “Well don’t get too close, it might bite!”

“Nah, if it was gonna bite, it would’ve by now,” Fahjoth reasoned, taking a tentative step forward. The guar looked up and he stopped, crouching down slightly to present himself as less of a threat. “Hey, buddy!” he crooned, holding out his hand as one would do to coax a dog. The guar turned to face Fahjoth, its nostrils twitching as it scented his hand. Once it realised that he carried nothing edible, it chuffed quietly and continued on its way. Fahjoth felt awestruck nonetheless. 

“Wow…” he breathed, straightening up and watching the guar toddle along the path. “Aren’t they brilliant?”

“Hm.” Ribyna sounded less than impressed as she stared with one brow cocked. “Anyway, let’s stop fucking about, come on! It’s gonna start hammering down soon and I’d rather not get soaked.”

“Okay, okay,” Fahjoth sighed, walking onwards with his twin but feeling strangely uplifted by the encounter. 

The rest of the trip south to Seyda Neen passed without event, and fortunately, the tomb was relatively easy to locate as well. A smaller path diverged from the main road, leading up to a visible door constructed into the side of a smooth grey rock face set into the hill. The siblings ascended the path — with Fahjoth lingering along the way to fawn over a nearby scrib before being forcibly dragged away by Ribyna — until they reached the weather-beaten wooden door, where they both came to a stop. 

They stood in front of the door, but for a few moments neither spoke a word. Eventually, Ribyna took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “Right, well, let’s go then,” she said, raising a hand towards the door but not yet making contact. Fahjoth knew and understood why; he was more than apprehensive about entering the tomb himself. But after appearing to mentally psyche herself up, Ribyna firmly pushed the door open, triggering a sudden cascade of silt and tiny rock fragments from the door frame above their heads. 

“Ugh—!” Ribyna spluttered as she frantically wafted the dust cloud away from her face, but Fahjoth was silent; with his hand held over his nose and mouth as he squinted into the shadows of the tomb, it was with the gift of hindsight that he wished he’d brought a torch or lantern. 

“Right… are you ready to go in?” he asked Ribyna, glancing at her with uncertainty. “It’s… kind of dark in there.” 

“Yeah, I can see that. Not scared of the dark now, are you, Fahji?” Ribyna crooned, and Fahjoth felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment. 

“No!” he protested, but a frown crept onto his face as he gazed into the gloom. “But I’m kind of scared of what might be in it.” 

Surprisingly, Ribyna didn’t seem to have a witty comeback to tease him with this time. She simply grimaced and nodded in understanding, then flashed him a wry grin. “Well, it’s lucky you’ve got me then, innit? Come on.” After giving a gentle tug on Fahjoth’s arm to encourage him, Ribyna strode on ahead into the crypt and Fahjoth hastened to catch up.

Even with the door of the tomb left open, the gloom seemed to envelop them within seconds. Fahjoth held out a hand as he edged along one step at a time, flinching as his fingertips brushed along the cold walls and fighting the urge to recoil his hand with every unexpected bump or notch in the stone, afraid of what he could potentially touch in the unyielding darkness. 

Then something brushed against his other hand and his breath caught in his throat, his heart immediately hammering against the inside of his chest as he whipped his arm back to safety — but as his brain caught up with his senses and he heard a gasp and a series of rapid footsteps, he realised that he had merely brushed his sibling’s shoulder. 

“Ugh, this is ridiculous!” he heard Ribyna hiss. “I’m gonna try something, hang on.” 

Fahjoth waited in silence, wondering what Ribyna was doing but appreciating the moment of pause, taking it as an opportunity to try and calm his nerves down again. He didn’t have to wait for long, however, as a small flame suddenly erupted into life in the darkness, casting a deep amber glow on the surrounding walls and illuminating their way forward, if only slightly. Ribyna’s face was lit up the most as she held out her palm, upon which a tiny flame danced and flickered away enthusiastically. 

“Yes!”

“Nice one!” Fahjoth praised. “Merrick would be proud—”

Too late did Fahjoth realise his mistake, and he cut himself off abruptly as he saw the grin immediately vanish from Ribyna’s face. She said nothing but instead continued walking on in silence, and Fahjoth hurried along in her wake and reached out for her shoulder as they went. 

“Sorry, Beebs,” he apologised, but he was still bothered by a feeling he couldn’t shake. In all the time they had been together, both in prison and later in Vvardenfell, not once had they discussed the event that had been the catalyst for their arrest. In fact, since reuniting, they had barely talked about any aspect of their old lives at all. But, in Fahjoth’s case, this wasn’t for lack of wanting to. “Look… are we ever gonna talk about—”

“No.”

“Ribyna—”

“I said no, Fahjoth. I don’t want to.”

As uncomfortable as Fahjoth felt, he knew better than to provoke Ribyna by antagonising her further. So he let the matter drop and quietly accepted that they would not broach the subject again any time soon. 

It was Ribyna who broke the silence next. “Eugh, can you smell that?”

Fahjoth cautiously sniffed the air, instinctively wrinkling his nose as a foul smell, putrid and oddly sweet, suddenly hit his senses. “Ew… well, we are in a tomb,” he pointed out. “It’s bound to smell a bit rank down here.”

“I suppose…” 

The path into the crypt continued on, angling down a mild incline, while Ribyna’s flame casted dancing shadows along the narrow corridor. As they went on, a quiet buzz reached Fahjoth’s ears, and the stomach-churning smell only continued to grow worse with every step. Finally, they reached a larger chamber at the base of the corridor, and from the light of the fire they were able to see the source.

Fahjoth recoiled as his eyes fell upon a large, dark shape lying prone on the floor, with indistinct black dots swarming around it — fleshflies. Ribyna raised her hand to angle the light more precisely on the mass, casting every wrinkle of clothing and detail of armour into sharp relief. The head was concealed by a leather helm, and for that, Fahjoth was grateful; only a withered, decaying hand crawling with insects gave any indication of the condition of the corpse underneath its garments. A dried, dark brown stain pooled out from beneath the body — whether as a result of old blood from a fatal wound or simply tissue decomposition, Fahjoth couldn’t tell. 

“Ew…” Ribyna said, drawing her scarf up to cover her mouth and nose in an attempt to ward off the smell. “Looks like we’re not the first ones here. Reckon your Orc woman sent him here to do her favour, too?”

Fahjoth was silent, staring at the cadaver with horror — a feeling which only vastly amplified as he watched Ribyna crouch down and, with a kind of repulsed detachment, tugged something out from under the body’s arm. 

“Ribyna, what the fuck are you—?!”

“Look, it’s a lantern,” Ribyna remarked, holding up the cracked glass casing and sounding so utterly nonchalant about stealing from a corpse that Fahjoth was floored. She popped open the door and held her conjured fire out towards the candle wick, letting it light before allowing the flame in her hand to die. “There, now I can stop wasting brainpower. I don’t have much of that to spare in the first place.”

Fahjoth was dumbstruck, and eventually managed to shake his head in total disbelief. “I can’t believe you sometimes,” he said, though he couldn’t hide a wry smile nonetheless. Ribyna simply flashed him a wicked grin in response before carrying on, holding the lantern out at arm’s length to light their path. 

The deeper they went into the tomb, the colder it seemed to become. A thin blanket of mist hung just above ground level, smokey tendrils creeping around doorways and stone caskets that bore collections of urns and jars. Some chambers featured circular pits set into the ground which contained mounds of ash, and judging by the shards of gleaming white jutting out of the grey dust, most of these held numerous bones. Fahjoth shivered, feeling the chill seeming to seep into his own bones, but Ribyna seemed to be handling it well, staring from wall to wall with curiosity on her face. 

“D’you reckon we’ve got an ancestral tomb somewhere?” she asked suddenly, her mind evidently in a much different place to Fahjoth’s. Momentarily stumped by the question, Fahjoth eventually responded with uncertainty. 

“I suppose so, I mean… Dad told us about his family before, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, but…” Ribyna grimaced, the next words appearing to cause her some discomfort. “They wouldn’t really be our ancestors, would they? Not properly.” She heaved a sigh, her breath appearing in the air before her in the form of a tiny cloud. “I dunno, it’s just… being called ‘outlander’ by every bastard makes me wonder if we even actually have any real ties here.”

Taken aback by Ribyna’s uncharacteristic poignancy, Fahjoth merely shook his head and shrugged. “I dunno, Beebs. I don’t suppose it really matters, we’re gonna get called outlanders either way. It’s definitely the accents,” he added as an irate afterthought, prompting a dry chuckle from Ribyna. 

“Yup. Oh well, suppose we’ll just have to d— Oh, Fahjoth, look!”

Ribyna’s exclamation was accompanied by a pointing of her finger as she drew Fahjoth’s attention to another pit of dust in the chamber just ahead; this one was set apart from the rest by the skull and dagger placed so meticulously on a stone stool situated just in front of the pit itself. Fahjoth trotted over alongside Ribyna and, as the two crouched down to get a closer look, Ribyna turned to look at Fahjoth expectantly. 

“Is this it, d’you reckon?”

“I think so...” He glanced back at his twin before focusing his attention back on the skull. Sure enough, it bore the telltale ritual markings that Sharn gra-Muzgob had described. “Only one way to find out, innit?” 

Despite his words, Fahjoth hesitated. Now that he had located his prize, all of his misgivings had returned and he was conscious of the weight of the enchanted sword that hung from his belt — surely it had been lent to him for a reason. 

If— no, when he picked up the skull, what would happen? Would he trigger a trap that would cause the roof to cave in over his and Ribyna’s heads? Would he suddenly be struck down by a powerful curse? Or perhaps he would wake the souls of the ancestors that rested here, and be besieged by an army of vengeful ghosts? 

Ribyna seemed to be getting impatient with Fahjoth’s dithering, for she suddenly gave his shoulder a rather forceful push. “Come on, what’s the hold up? Just pick it up, don’t be such a fucking pussy.”

“Alright, alright!” Fahjoth huffed, reaching into his pocket for the cloth sack he had brought for the occasion. He shuffled both hands into the sack, wearing it like an oversized mitten as he tentatively scooped up the skull and let the sack invert itself over it, still afraid of touching it with his bare skin. For a few seconds, he held his breath, remaining in a motionless crouch while he waited to see if anything would happen following the skull’s removal. The seconds ticked by and, to his elation, there was no cave-in, no sudden pox or plague upon him, and no horde of angry spirits rising to tear him limb from limb. Nothing untoward occurred whatsoever. They were safe! 

“There we are!” Ribyna jeered, patting Fahjoth roughly on the back as he stood up, feeling almost giddy with relief. While he bobbed on the spot, thrilled with this one tiny achievement, Ribyna crouched down to pick up the dagger that had been left behind on the stool. “I’d say that’s a job well done. Looks like you didn’t need me after a—”

Her words died in her throat as, with a subtle fshk, an arrow pierced the air between them — whizzing directly over Ribyna’s head — and ricocheted off the back wall of the chamber. Spinning frantically to locate the source, Fahjoth let out a choked gasp as he clapped eyes on their attacker.

“Fuck-a-doodle-doo!” Ribyna yelled, wide-eyed as she stared with horror at the skeleton while it drew another arrow into its bow, the telltale creaking of its bones providing a quiet hum that seemed to echo through the chamber. 

“Shit, not again—!” Fahjoth exclaimed, already beginning to descend into a state of panic. The chamber was cramped and, without much in the way of large objects to take cover behind, he and Ribyna were essentially sitting targets for the undead archer who was taking aim once more. 

“Ribyna, just keep moving!” Fahjoth yelped, using the limited space available to dart from spot to spot as erratically as he physically could. Ribyna, meanwhile, seemed to have other ideas. 

Fahjoth’s jaw nearly hit the ground as he watched his twin lunge and grasp a nearby urn tightly in both hands. He felt his stomach drop, knowing full well what was coming next. 

“Ribyna, don’t—!”

“Get fucked, you bony bastard!”

The urn was launched through the air, flying up in a graceful arc — spilling its ashy contents in a cloud of dust in the process — and collided with the skeleton’s skull, shattering both itself and the bone on impact. The skeleton crumpled, its bones falling apart as whatever magic had been fastening the joints together dissipated, filling the chamber with a deafening clattering as both bone and pottery shards went spilling onto the ground. 

As Fahjoth stared mutely at the chaotic scene, a thick silence fell upon the tomb for a second or two; until an eerie hissing began to reach his ears, seeming to turn his blood to ice in his veins. Was it just his eyes, or was the mist that drifted above the ground growing thicker? 

“Oh, Ribyna...!” Fahjoth groaned, turning to look at his twin with despairing exasperation. She merely stared back, wide-eyed and alarmed, before she snatched the lantern from where she’d put it down and rushed to grab Fahjoth’s hand. 

“Well, come on then!” she barked, rushing out of the chamber and dragging Fahjoth along in her wake. They barely made it to the next chamber up before they found a figure, pale green and gleaming with an ethereal glow, blocking their path. Bright smoke seemed to billow along their path as they glided towards the twins, reaching out with unnaturally long, spindly fingers topped with deadly sharp nails. 

“For fuck’s sake, you’ve woken the whole bloody tomb up!” Fahjoth complained, dropping a hand towards his sheathed weapon. But Ribyna got there first, whipping out her trusty chitin dagger and slashing it at the spirit — only to watch as the blade sailed right on through. 

“Fahjoth, we can’t touch them— Shit!”

The ghost, undeterred by Ribyna’s dagger, had retaliated with a vengeance by slashing its claw-like nails across her chest. She leapt back to avoid the strike, gasping as it left tangible scores in her leather armour and for a moment, in the mixed light from the lantern and the ghost’s cold luminescence, fear flashed across her face. 

“Fahjoth—!”

“Hold on, Ribyna—! Get back!” he cried, drawing his own sword from its sheath at last. His eyes widened as his face was suddenly bathed in the fierce heat of the flames that flickered along the blade, and in that moment, it clicked. He charged and swung the sword with a ferocious yell, watching as, with a searing blaze of scarlet fire, it carved a gash through the ghost’s midriff from which thick smoke began to spill. The spirit emitted an ear-splitting shriek, drifting towards Fahjoth again with its spectral features twisted into a grotesque snarl, but Fahjoth was ready this time. He sprung forward again and plunged the sword straight through the spirit’s chest, stopping it in its tracks and causing it to let out another piercing screech before it suddenly dissolved, disappearing in a matter of seconds and leaving behind nothing but a sinister puddle on the ground. 

As Fahjoth paused to catch his breath, he turned to Ribyna and held up the sword by means of explanation. “Enchanted,” he puffed. “The weapon’s got to be enchanted.” 

Ribyna opened her mouth to respond, but she was cut off by another chilling howl that echoed through the corridors behind them. Without a word the twins snatched each others’ hands once more and fled through the tomb, guided by the limited light of the lantern that Ribyna still carried and hounded by the sinister whispering and shrieking of infuriated spirits. After a mad dash through the crypt, the entrance was finally in sight, spilling glorious daylight into the otherwise pitch blackness ahead of them. 

With one last burst of speed they cleared the exit together, and once outside, Fahjoth slammed the tomb door behind them hard enough that it rattled in its frame before becoming still. With a cool rain now battering them, Fahjoth and Ribyna stood in silence, leaning against the damp stone wall on either side of the tomb door and panting as they struggled to catch their breath. Eventually, Fahjoth broke the silence. 

“I can’t believe you chucked someone’s grandma at a skeleton.”

Ribyna squinted, still leaning over with her hands on her knees and puffing heavily from a combination of exertion and adrenalin from their daring escape. Once her breathing had calmed, she finally straightened up and stared back at Fahjoth with her hands on her hips. 

“I s’pose the locals are right,” she said, her tone even and measured. “Turns out ancestors are useful.”

A moment of silence followed this statement, before Fahjoth couldn’t hold it in any longer. With a grin curling at the corners of his mouth he began to laugh, quietly at first but quickly coming down with hysterics at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Ribyna quickly followed suit, catching his contagious laughter and breaking out into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. 

Once the laughter died down, Fahjoth rolled his eyes and extended an arm towards Ribyna, who accepted his offer and linked it with her own. In unison they began the lengthy stroll back to Balmora, neither of them complaining about the drizzle leaving their clothes soaked through and their hair dripping and plastered to their faces.

Despite a few blunders, Fahjoth felt that his second task had been at least somewhat of a success. Emboldened by the little victories, it was then that he dared to hope that perhaps this Blades business wouldn’t be so bad after all — especially when he had good company to help him see it through. 

[imaginaryelle]

Take This Piece of Me as Part of You

For the day 5 Untamed Winterfest prompt, “ribbon.” ~3.5k, wangxian, post-canon. This one is rated Mature, mostly for implied offscreen things that accompany heavy kissing. There’s also some biting, and a marriage proposal.

This fic can also be read on AO3 and is part of the same series as Light a Fire They Can’t Put Out and Kiss Me, Keep Me (Never Leave Me), but does not require reading either of them. Many thanks to @roamingjaguar for giving this a quick read and setting my mind at ease, and to @soundsaboutrighttumblr for this lovely picture prompt.

Note: xingan (心肝), according to what I’ve read, is a quite serious term of endearment that means “heart and liver” or “one I cannot live without.”

Wangji commissions the forehead ribbon as soon as he’s sure, which corresponds roughly with his first night back in Cloud Recesses without Wei Ying.

He doesn’t sleep much. Even two short weeks of Wei Ying pressed against his side in the evenings, of warm skin and soft lips against his own and fingers trailing through his hair, is enough to change his habits. The Jingshi is too quiet. He finds himself listening for Wei Ying’s breath. Reaching for him in a space he’s never occupied. Expecting him to turn up with a fresh supply of water or some treat he’s purchased from a street seller, even though this is Cloud Recesses, and Wei Ying hasn’t so much as stepped across the threshold since Wangji was named Chief Cultivator over a year ago.

He meditates. He cleans his guqin. He thinks, quite seriously, about retrieving the rest of the Emperor’s Smile he’d hidden away and drinking some, just to pass the time, but he sets that aside fairly quickly. He combs his hair and polishes the pin and ornament, and dresses for the day, and waits.

At five, he leaves the Jingshi and makes his way to Lan Shu’s workshop. He brings tea, to facilitate matters.

Lan Shu listens to his request, and drinks the tea, and doesn’t ask questions. She hadn’t asked questions about the ribbon for Sizhui, either. And she’d never mentioned anything to Uncle.

“A marriage ribbon will take several months to complete,” she tells him, which he already knows. “I can’t guarantee delivery before Qingming.”

He won’t see Wei Ying until after Qingming anyway. It’s not an obstacle.

She gives him a long look, then shakes her head. “Go eat your breakfast, Chief Cultivator,” she says, setting down the tea. “I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

The weeks drag on. The Spring Festival is an extended trial that feels endless and is made longer by the sure knowledge that Wei Ying is in Yunmeng, not Gusu, or Lanling, or any of the other places the Chief Cultivator is required to be in the days leading up to New Year’s Eve. Xichen-ge agrees to break seclusion and help him hang decorations at the gentian cottage, and Sizhui returns just hours before the reunion dinner begins, but still Wangji feels keenly aware of a missing presence, despite the fact that Wei Ying has never spent the Spring Festival at Cloud Recesses and so he should have no expectation of such a thing.

Next year, he promises himself. Next year he and Wei Ying will clean and decorate the Jingshi together.

The close of the Lantern Festival brings a letter that speaks of Yunmeng’s beauty, of the promising young Jiang cultivators and their cleverness with fireworks, of papering over old wounds with new memories. There is also a gourd delicately painted with the Yunmeng lotus and several pages of sketches, but he hardly has a chance to savor them or think of writing back before he’s called away again, chasing rumors of something feeding on villagers and cultivators alike in the south.

It is a long, bloody hunt, and when he returns to Cloud Recesses to see the gourd still hanging where he left it and a new letter waiting, he knows it will be more than a year before Wei Ying joins him here. He will not make his father’s mistakes. He will not give less than all of himself, and he can offer nothing but a cold, empty room and his own repeated absence for as long as he remains Chief Cultivator.

He nearly resigns on the spot, but there is no one to replace him. The Jin sect is struggling to find its stride after a decade under Jin Guangyao with only the young, brash Jin Rulan to take on his duties. Xichen-ge has returned to seclusion and Wangji cannot fault him for it. Nie Hauisang insists on maintaining his distance from politics. Wangji doesn’t want to consider what might happen if Jiang Wanyin took the post. Perhaps he can start with the smaller clans, plant the seeds for a new shape of the world. One where a single cultivator can never again hold as much power as Wen Ruohan or Jin Guangyao, or at least one where more than one man might be held responsible for success and disaster.

Weeks turn to months. Long months, full of new duties and squabbles between cultivators who seem to have little else to do but pick fights and endlessly practice sword forms, waiting for spring thaws. He writes many letters, precious few of them to Wei Ying and nearly all of them terse and direct, but he receives new missives every day, complaints and ambitions and worries and petty rivalries besetting him on all sides from every household in the cultivation word. There are arguments to settle and ceremonies to plan, and to attend. Coming of Age ceremonies. Foundation laying ceremonies. Marriage ceremonies, which strike him as particularly unfair even though he’s told no one else of his intentions. The invitations threaten to engulf his writing desk. Worse are the genuine requests for aid, some of them from small clans scattered through the mountains and others from towns without a cultivation clan to protect them. He understands, quite thoroughly, why Jin Guangyao was so very insistent on setting up the watchtowers, but for all the man’s crimes and plans the system is still shockingly inefficient. Wangji spends more time visiting cultivators and convincing them to grant money, or food, or martial aid to their neighbors than he does actually night hunting himself. Worse, he does not have Jin Guangyao’s gift of pleasing words, and yet everywhere he goes people want to speak with him. Continuously. Exhaustively. No matter how far into silence he retreats or how firmly he refuses to adjust his position.

A week after Qingming, Lan Shu gives him a sandalwood box, subtly carved with clouds and mountains and symbols of longevity in love: butterflies, shuang-xi characters, and paired magpies. The ribbon inside is a close copy of his own, but the silk is freshly woven, the blue embroidery newly dyed; the embedded talismans glitter in the box’s shadowed confines.

He seals it away without touching it, slips the box gently into a qiankun pouch, and resigns himself to waiting.

Three years. That’s how long it takes him to get a working replacement for the post of Chief Cultivator in place. If Wei Ying thinks of marriage during those years, or if he resents the time Wangji spends on the rest of the world, he never shows it during their meetings. He could perhaps be described as clingy, when the weeks and months extend too long, but Wangji is no less possessive of their time together. He is sometimes melancholy, but neither of their lives has been easy and Wangji knows Wei Ying has regrets, for all that he rarely dwells on them. He takes hope from the fact that Wei Ying always returns to him. That his greeting is always welcoming, always eager. That even with so much time apart, his passions burn just as bright as Wangji’s. But hope is a poor substitute for certainty when such assurance is so immediately close to hand.

The sect leaders are displeased at his leavetaking, of course, but they’re always displeased. The ink is still wet on the agreement, red seals settling in cinnabar and silk, but Wangji makes it clear he will not be available for further discussion—he will return to Cloud Recesses for the official announcement, three days hence, and no sooner. In the meantime, they are all welcome to review the paperwork he’s accumulated. And even though it is already well past sundown, and even though his presence is not expected, he mounts Bichen and flies to meet Wei Ying as quickly as spiritual power will carry him.

It only occurs to him later, as he stands in the middle of the town’s main road, that he doesn’t know where, precisely, Wei Ying is staying, or even if he’s kept to the travel plans outlined in his latest letter.

The handful of people still out at night are very polite to him, but not very helpful. Despite years of night hunts, travel, and overlong political conferences, he is not nearly so efficient at soliciting information from strangers as Wei Ying is. Yes, they say, they remember a young man of that description. Yes he did appear to be a cultivator, though he carried no sword. He’d offered to look into a hungry ghost for one family, and disappearing ducks for another, and sold some protective talismans. No. They don’t know where he might be staying.

An inspection of the nearest inn’s stables shows no sign of Little Apple. Wangji grips Bichen tighter and hurries to check the next. Footsteps behind him suddenly speed up and he whirls, sword drawn.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying looks at him up the length of Bichen’s blade, a smile teasing at his lips. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a conference in Gusu?”

“It ended.” He sheathes his sword and studies Wei Ying, marking as many details as he can. His clothes are a little more worn than on their last meeting, months ago, but not badly so. His movements betray no sign of injury as he steps closer, a slight curve in his path and confusion drawing a line between his brows. He smells faintly of ginkgo and chrysanthemum, and his hands are slightly stained. Perhaps he has been gathering supplies.

He looks tired. Drawn thin, the bones of his face too-prominent.

“You’re not eating,” Wangji observes. Wei Ying rolls his eyes and leans in close enough to bump their shoulders together.

“I eat,” he insists, setting off again in a slow walk in the direction Wangji had been heading. “I eat plenty. I don’t need all that money you send me you know, I can earn my own.”

“You give it away,” Wangji reminds him, falling into step at his side. He’s witnessed Wei Ying’s generosity more than once.

“I do fine,” Wei Ying says, and then spins around to face him, walking backwards and changing the subject. “Lan Zhan, if anyone needs to take better care of themselves between us, it’s you. You’re letting all those Sect Leaders run you around, and then you still fly all the way here the same night? What were you going to do if I didn’t find you?”

“Keep looking,” Wangji says, both because it’s true and because he thinks it will make Wei Ying smile. It does.

“Even past nine?” he asks.

“Mn,” Wangji confirms, and Wei Ying laughs. He grabs Wangji’s sleeve and tugs him toward an inn’s brightly lit gate.

“You always wear so much white, Lan Zhan. People will think you’re a ghost come to haunt them.” His grin is teasing. “You should come inside with me so no one gets worried.”

It’s a ridiculous excuse. Wangji doesn’t bother to hold back his smile.

The inn is not the best in town, but it is clean and well-appointed, and the owner seems happy to supply a light meal despite the late hour. Wei Ying’s room is small, with little more than a table, a seating cushion and a bed, but Wangji hardly gets a chance to see it; as soon as the door slides closed behind them Wei Ying takes his face in his hands and kisses him, insistent and covetous like he thinks the opportunity will be snatched away.

It won’t be, but it wouldn’t be the first time that duty or disaster came unexpectedly calling.

“How long before you have to go back?” he asks, already slipping his hands under Wangji’s outer layer, pressing clever fingers down his sides to slide under his waist sash.

“Two days,” Wangji says, letting his own hands settle on Wei Ying’s waist and returning the kiss. But after that. After that... The qiankun pouch feels heavy in his sleeve. He wants to reveal it now. To know, immediately, but there’s a void opening up in his stomach, a swirling suction of doubts he can’t ignore any longer. Wei Ying may refuse him. He may be happy with what they have, despite his pout and the complaints of so soon, too soon, he’s muttering into Wangji’s chest. He may have a different vision of their future.

Later. He’ll ask later. For now he picks Wei Ying up—to a shout muffled against his shoulder—takes four steps, and spills the both of them onto the bed.

“Lan Zhan, if you tell me it’s nine already—”

“It’s not,” Wangji assures him, nuzzling his way up Wei Ying’s neck to his ear. “We have time.”

Wangji wakes at five, as usual. Wei Ying is asleep, curled in on himself with his back pressed warm against Wangji’s side. His eyelids flicker with dreams, and the dim light of the coming dawn paints him with soft gray shadows, smoothing away the worries he carries by day.

He’s beautiful.

He always has been.

Today, Wangji determines. He’ll ask today. This morning. As soon as Wei Ying wakes, or perhaps soon after, depending on his mood.

He allows himself a few moments to watch morning light move over Wei Ying’s skin as he breathes, to memorize, once again, the soft curve of his eyelashes and the gentle slope of his mouth. Then he sighs and sits up, ready to prepare for the day.

“Mnnnn, no, Lan Zhan, come back to bed.” Wei Ying rolls over and grabs him around the waist before he can stand.

“It’s five,” Wangji reminds him, even thought they have this conversation nearly every morning they wake up together and he knows that Wei Ying knows what time it is.

“This isn’t Gusu,” Wei Ying says against his back. Warm lips press against his skin. “Even the innkeeper’s family isn’t up yet. If you rise too soon you’ll disturb them.”

The statement is obviously untrue; Wangji woke to the sound of movement in the kitchens, and the both of them can clearly hear a child feeding the chickens and collecting eggs outside their window. But still, Wei Ying moves himself around on the bed until he can kiss Lan Wangji’s thigh and hip.

“It would be rude,” he says grinning and mischievous even as his hands slide over Lan Wangji’s stomach.

Wangji hesitates, which Wei Ying takes as surrender. He kisses his way up Wangji’s chest, to his lips. It’s a lingering, coaxing kiss that turns more heated as he slips himself into Wangji’s lap.

It makes a much better argument than anything to do with their hosts, and Wangji gives in easily, willingly. Wei Ying pushes at his shoulders until he lies back and then Wangji rolls them both over and catches Wei Ying’s hands between them. Wei Ying tugs at his grip, more playful than forceful, grinning wider and wrinkling his nose as Wangji’s hair tickles his face. He arches his back, seeking more contact, and rolls his hips and—and grabs the trailing end of Wangji’s forehead ribbon in his mouth.

Wangji bites his shoulder in retaliation and Wei Ying laughs through his teeth, no longer tugging at his hands, but wriggling as Wangji drags teeth and tongue over his chest and down his ribs, on his way to lick at his stomach and nip the curve of his hip bone. And then … then Wei Ying yanks his head a little too hard. The ribbon slides off Wanji’s forehead and keeps falling. The silver emblem smacks against his cheekbone on the way down, and then it and the rest of the fluttering white-and-blue length slips down to land on Wei Ying’s bare stomach.

“Ah!” Wei Ying spits out the ribbon end and looks immediately remorseful. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—here, I’ll—”

“Keep it.” The words slip out of his mouth without the permission of his rational mind, the weight of three years of longing and waiting pressing behind them, closing his throat to anything else.

Wei Ying goes still. His eyes are very wide.

Wangji is doing this wrong. This is not at all how a proposal is supposed to go, he’s certain, but he’s said it. He can’t take it back now. He can only keep going, struggling toward a future that suddenly feels as substantial as mist.

“Keep it,” he repeats, willing the intent to be understood, but Wei Ying is still staring. Wangji needs to do this properly. He wrenches himself off the bed despite Wei Ying’s wordless protest, finds the qiankun pouch, and shoves the sandalwood box rather unceremoniously into Wei Ying’s hands.

Wei Ying cradles it against his chest for a moment, Wangji’s ribbon still hanging from his fingers and his mouth slightly open, like he wants to speak but can’t think of what to say.

Wangji collects his own ribbon from Wei Ying’s unresisting grip and smooths it carefully. Then he kneels, and waits.

“What…?” Wei Ying sits up and looks down at the box, then frowns and looks closer. He holds it delicately, as if he thinks opening it could release a demon. Or perhaps like a firework that’s already been lit. But he must know what it means.

“This is for me?” he asks, the words sounding half-strangled.

“No,” Wangji corrects, holding out the ribbon he’s worn most of his life. “This is for you. If you want it.”

Wei Ying looks at the box again. His fingers trace over the carvings.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, almost at a whisper, “this is—Lan Zhan are you asking me to marry into the Lan clan?”

It occurs to Wangji, sudden and shocking as water from the Cold Spring, that he could have done this differently. They don’t have to follow the Lan clan’s customs in order to be cultivation partners. They could simply travel together. Live together. Perhaps start their own sect. They don’t have to go anywhere near Gusu or Cloud Recesses. He could have waited three days and then disappeared into the night with Wei Ying at his side and no one the wiser.

His hands clench tight around the ribbon. Cloud Recesses is his home, and being a Lan is woven into the fiber of his entire self. He wants to share that, not set it aside.

“Yes,” he says, trying to keep his eyes on Wei Ying’s face. “If you want it.”

Wei Ying sinks to the floor across from him. He reaches out, then pulls his hand back, as if he’s now afraid to touch the ribbon he’s touched so many times already. That he had in his mouth. He sets the box on the floor, almost reverently, and stares at it for a moment.

Then he laughs, the sound turned strange and high. “I don’t think I’ll make a very good Lan,” he says, as if it’s a joke.

Wangji thinks the void in his stomach might engulf him whole. He looks away. Down at his hands and the ribbon stretched between them. His throat aches with words that can only make this worse.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying’s hands are on his shoulders, a warm, strong grip. On his face, coaxing his chin upward.

“Xingan, don’t look like that.” Wei Ying is smiling. Wangji feels the ribbon pull free of his hands. “I accept, I accept, I just—” Wei Ying laughs wetly. There are tears slipping down his cheeks. “It’s just that you really should have been part of the Yunmeng-Jiang Sect, you know. Attempt the impossible.” He laughs again. “I just keep thinking of your uncle’s face when he sees—how am I supposed to wear this?”

Wangji can’t speak. He wants to say, Are you certain?, and I don’t care what Uncle thinks, but xingan is echoing through his head, blocking out everything but Wei Ying’s face as he clumsily tries to tie on Wangji’s forehead ribbon.

“It’s crooked.” He reaches up to straighten it and ends up retying it completely, intensely aware of Wei Ying’s breath against his arms and chest, and the soft touch of his hair, and a sort of whole-body tingling that makes him feel slightly unreal.

He draws back.

Wei Ying is wearing his forehead ribbon.

None of the marks he’s left on Wei Ying’s skin the last three years made him feel like this. Like his blood is heating up too quickly. Like he needs to kiss Wei Ying immediately, which he does, doing his best to claim him with lips and tongue and teeth.

Wei Ying, gratifyingly, climbs into his lap once more and melts against him, whining slightly as Wangji bites at the hinge of his jaw.

“Lan Zhan,” he pants as Wangji mouths down his neck. “Xingan,” he repeats, sending a full-body shudder through Wangji’s frame. “Am I supposed to give you the other one?”

“Later,” Wangji tells him.

He is not currently interested in self-restraint.

[shootybangbang]

[Talking Bird] Ch 15: In which a literal slow burn occurs

[Ao3 Link]

Before long, the forest gives way to the rolling plains of the Heartlands. Its white cliffs jut from the earth like masses of eroded bone, their pale spires gleaming between sheets of prairie rain. Below them the yellow grasses lay rippling, the long stalks flattening beneath each new sweep of wind. And above, with all the vastness of an approaching Leviathan, the indigo-bellied storm clouds miles away, lit up from beneath with thin white forks of lightning.

It feels as though you’ve been riding for hours already, so protracted has every painful minute spent through this endless downpour been.

Like the baptism of some cynical god, the rain has washed clean the last remnants of violence from your skin and clothes. Your shirt and trousers are plastered to your body like a second skin, clinging cold and heavy with water, and the chill of it already has you shivering hard, teeth chattering as you ride slumped forward, gripping the saddle horn with both hands to keep your balance. It’s an uncomfortable position, but your only other alternative is to lean backwards, against the man behind you — and frankly, you’d rather fall off the horse.

(Though it’s generous, you suppose, that he’s allowed you the faculty of your hands at all.)

More pressingly, the cut across your upper arm is beginning to present itself as a real problem. It asserts itself as a dull but constant ache that doubly renews itself with any sudden movement or exertion. Earlier, when Arthur pulled you by the arm to help you into the saddle, the shock of pain that followed had been so intense that you’d nearly choked.

But the discomfort offers a welcome reprieve from the burden of guilt. After all, it’s hard to ruminate on your own damnation under this trifecta of misery: cold, wet, wounded. You glance behind your shoulder, and turn your attention from the dead to the living.

Well. Arthur looks like shit.

The leather of his clothes and his wide brimmed hat have kept him somewhat drier in comparison, but his eyes are red with fatigue, his posture that of a man half-asleep in the saddle. He seems to stir as you continue to stare. “What?” he says, irritated but too exhausted to conjure up any real ire.

“Just wanted to give you a quick reminder that you’re not gonna get any money outta this if I get sick and die.”

“Ain’t no point in carrying dead weight,” he growls. “So if you’re gonna die that easy, do us both a favor and keel over now.”

So he’s alert enough to still be needlessly aggressive. That’s good.

“You planning on riding the whole night through?”

“Nah.” Arthur points towards a rock outcropping about half a mile out. “There’s a ledge over yonder that I’ve camped under before. Gonna wait the storm out there.”

———

Soon after, he reins Boadicea in beside a thin grove of cottonwood trees bordering the road. You open your mouth to ask what he’s doing, but he answers before you can get the words out.

“Kindling,” he says.

“But it’s wet,” you protest.

He ignores you and strips off a few of the dead lower branches of the trees, breaking a large bough in the process that showers him with a sudden spill of rainwater. Arthur ties the gathered bundle to the horse’s back, an area which only hours before, you’d been stowed much in the same manner.

———

The overhang itself yawns like a dark gash at the foot of the butte. Arthur dismounts to lead Boadicea inwards, and as he guides the horse beneath the rock ledge you have the distinct sensation of being swallowed by the earth itself.

Arthut rummages through the saddlebag and pulls out something that, as your eyes adjust to the dimness of the overhang, you recognize to be a flint. He unhooks the unused lantern from the saddle, and in the dark you see a sudden array of sparks, bright as topaz, as the oil wick behind the glass alights, then catches.

A sea of orange light floods the overhang, casting long and lurid shadows against the rock walls. Arthur sets the lantern down carefully against a small recess in the weathered stone, then straightens his back and turns towards you.

“There’s an oilcloth in there,” he says, gesturing towards the saddlebag. “See if you can find it.”

Your wet clothes weigh down your limbs like a leaden coat as you grope through the jumble of items. Your fingers make out the ridged metal of a can, the smooth face of a pocketwatch, a few assorted pencils of varying lengths… and finally, a small bundle wrapped in a square of oilcloth that you pull out from the mess the same way a man might draw a fish from a river.

“This?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Toss it here — got it.”

Arthur unwraps the cloth, then frowns. “Tinder’s damp,” he says.

“So no fire, then.”

“I didn’t say that.” He jerks his thumb towards the back corner of the shelter. “Get outta the way for a minute.”

You’re so exhausted that you practically fall off the horse when you dismount, landing with footing so unsteady that you have to catch the wall with your hand to keep from falling. Then you stagger to the cold stone wall, lean your back against it, and sink down until you can hug your knees to your chest.

Arthur unloads the bundle of wet branches from Boadicea’s backside and lets them fall clattering to the ground. He crouches down and picks up a piece of wood about the width of your wrist, then pulls his knife from its sheath. When you hear that familiar slither of metal against leather, you look up at him sharply, eyes wide - but he meets you with a steady, evenhanded gaze.

“Watch me,” he says, slipping the blade along the lateral edge of the branch. He splits it lengthwise to expose the core beneath the bark, then scrapes the knife against the pale, ragged edge, shaving off long, thin curls of wood that fall at his feet like snow.

“Wet wood won’t burn,” he explains. “But the inside’s dry. Cut it thin, like this, and we’ve got tinder.”

Arthur sheathes the knife and tosses it at your side, scabbard and all. “I’m gonna get some more wood to feed the fire,” he says, then points at the pile of kindling. “So make yourself useful in the meantime.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Are you stupid?”

“… ‘scuse me?”

“I tried to kill you earlier and you’re giving me a knife?”

“I got enough faith in your incompetence to not be too worried. And besides…” He taps the holstered pistol at his hip.

You press your lips into a flat line and glare at the ground. “Fair enough.”

Boadicea seems reluctant to step back into the downpour. She tosses her head and snorts when Arthur takes the reins in hand, but he speaks to her in a gentle murmur, with words too quiet for you to make out, then pulls a withered peach from his satchel.

“Good girl,” he says in an affectionate tone, feeding her by hand. “We’ll be back soon enough.”

Your stomach makes an obscene gurgling noise. Hunger beats out pride, and you grimace as you ask, “Can I also get fed?”

“You really think you deserve food after what you put me through today?”

Fortune favors the bold , you think to yourself. Yet another one of Feng’s much loved aphorisms. “Yeah. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Something resembling a smile quirks at the edge of his lips. “Get some of those sticks carved up. Then we’ll talk.”

He walks out from the rock shelter and into the rain, with Boadicea trotting faithfully beside him.

———

You’ve always been good at peeling apples.

The owner of the brothel where you’d been born had been fond of them, and as a kid you’d quickly learned to cut away the skin in a single, graceful red spiral. Doing so made it easier to scavenge for later, when you’d dig through the kitchen scraps to retrieve the discarded skin and core to gnaw on in secret.

Carving wood, you find, is not a dissimilar process. The same basic principles apply: angle the blade and gauge the resistance of the material to be shaved, then press down and slide the knife through.

Still, your first attempts are laughable at best. With fingers stiff and clumsy from cold, and an arm that aches persistently with rippling bites of pain, you struggle to gouge out anything more significant than a series of shallow pockmarks. The blade of the knife either deflects or bites too deep, cutting irregular chunks of wood that fall at your feet like dense breadcrumbs.

But the work warms your hands and brings blood circulating back beneath your skin. The jerky, unsteady cuts begin to melt into a steady, deliberate motion that takes all of your concentration to maintain. And soon the rhythmic chk chk of the knife with every downwards swipe becomes a wooden staccato, the constancy of it blurring the rain, the chill, the events of the day from your mind. Only this, the smooth burled handle of the knife in your fingers and the steadily growing pile of wood shavings.

“Having fun?”

You jump so hard that your thumb slips against the dull edge of the knife and you nearly cut yourself. “Jesus Christ , don’t do that to — my god man, did you just crawl out of a lake?”

“May as well have. Storm’s gettin’ close.”

He and Boadicea are both so soaked that the water drips from them in a constant stream, strewing a series of small puddles behind them as they make their way back beneath the ledge. Arthur takes off his hat and jacket, then hastily wipes his hands across the grass in an attempt to dry them.

You watch as he gathers the newly-made tinder into a circle, then stacks a few sticks of kindling around it in a cone-like fashion. His first attempts with the flint result in nothing but an impotent shower of sparks. But on the fifth try the tinder catches, producing a fledgling flame that shivers against the wind from the approaching storm.

It glows orange-white, pale and wavering. He cups his hand to it and blows, and from your vantage point, it looks as though he’s breathing life into it, like some sort of modern day Prometheus. Then, with a sudden blaze of light and warmth, the fire spreads to the cone of kindling, licking at the wood with a warm constancy.

“Finally,” Arthur sighs. He staggers back and all but collapses against the stone wall of the outcrop.

Seeing him like this — wrung out and bedraggled and just as exhausted as you are — sparks in you a reluctant sort of camaraderie. In the isolation of the overhang, both huddled close to the fire in wet clothes, it’s not hard to imagine him as just another sodden refugee seeking shelter from the storm.

Outside, the wind picks up and the fire flickers in its wake, flattening and twisting and casting a nervous ebb and flow of uncertain light against the cliff face. The chill of it settles deep, exacerbated by the cold, damp cloth clinging to your skin, and you curl into yourself, folding all four limbs in close as your body will allow.

Arthur clears his throat. He shifts uncomfortably in his own soaked clothes and won’t meet your eyes when you glance in his direction.

“Look,” he says. “I don’t like it anymore’n you do, but we’re both gonna get pneumonia if we don’t get outta these wet clothes.”

[inkstainedfanfics]

Sneak Peek

I’m struggling to decide if this will be a series or simply a really long story, but here’s a sneak peek of one of the requests I’ve been working on. Royalty AU

“When will I see you again?”

“Blink once and you’ll lose sight of me, then see me again.”

You roll your eyes, releasing Newt Scamander’s hand so you can brush away a bit of grass that’s tickling your nose. It’s a quiet morning on the outskirts of the village. The smell of cattle and dirt hang in the air, likely emanating from Newt’s dirty brown vest. Only you and Newt are out at this time, save for the shepherds that wander the fields far away, their lanterns little stars bobbing through the early morning dark. “You may as well be the court jester with a joke like that.”

Newt traces your cheekbone with a light touch, expression growing solemn. The peasant boy is lying in front of you, so close you can feel his gentle breath blow strands of hair off your forehead, a calming warmth to combat the cool air of the night’s end. “Stay. Just a little longer.” When you open your mouth to protest, he shakes his head, heart break clear in the way he tilts his head, beautiful eyes big and wide and pleading. “Please. Please don’t leave. We have time, right?”

“They’ll notice when I don’t show up for breakfast.” You hate it, saying that to him, especially when it makes him draw away from you, mouth turning down, shoulders slumping onto the bumpy hillside. It’s not as if you want to leave him behind on this hill, left to wonder if your heart is truly with him, not when it’s no secret there’s a search for the princess’s future spouse occurring throughout the kingdom. He’s mentioned it more than once, hands brushing at his threadbare clothes, knocking dirt off his cheek self-consciously, fingers brushing the callouses on his hands as though he knows that he’ll never be the one chosen for such a position. The actions paired with the knowledge that he thinks so little of himself makes your heart ache, but there’s little you can do. Any attempt to mention the village men is dashed immediately, whisked away by hearty laughs that your father and mother use to distract visiting dignitaries from your untraditional ways.

He sighs, hand dropping to cradle your cheek against his warm palm. “I know. But… Never mind.” His sentence ends quietly, words sinking under the deep blue of early morn, half hidden by the distant calls of sheep.

“But what?” You prompt, fingers lazily dragging up and down the rough cloth of his sleeve. So different from the silk that you wear, but you like it. His is warm, focused less on beauty and show and elegance and more on practicality, and wasn’t that what you’d always been prone to? Little princess, you’re much too practical for royalty.

His freckles crinkle with his nose, disappearing within the cute gesture. “No. I can’t.”

“Newt,” you huff, impatient. “Just tell me. Please.”

His green eyes search yours for a moment, looking for understanding, for trust, for the love you would give him in a moment if he would only ask for it, but he must not spot it as he drops your gaze, tangling his hand with yours. “I can’t. Sorry, love. It’s not a peasant’s job to drive his queen from the lands.”

“I’m not a queen,” you protest, but the words are mumbled, half-hearted. You’re far from being queen officially, but the years of your father and mother’s reign are nearing an end, and without any older siblings, you’ve felt the subtle pressure to enter meetings and invite new tailors that will craft elegant gowns that have no place outside of the castle.

“Rumors say you will be. Soon.”

[yeolsmuffin]

Married to a Monster || Drabble - 13th Birthday

Pairing: readerXjongin

Genre: Fluffy Fluff 

Word Count: 2k

Summary: Jongin shows his affection for you on your thirteenth birthday and makes you feel special when you’re struggling to find your own identity while in the shadow of your older sister.

Read the series here!

“What am I supposed to get her?” Jongin said looking at Hani hopelessly while the pair walked around the shopping mall.

Hani flicked her gaze over at him, “Are you seriously asking me?”

Jongin shook his head and pointed to a guy with a beard who was manning a sunglasses stand, “No, I was asking him,” he replied sarcastically.

She smacked him, “You’re such a shit.”

“Seriously, Han. I need a good gift. She only has a thirteenth birthday once.”

She scoffed out a laugh, “What does she see in you?”

Jongin rolled his eyes, “What do you see in me?”

Licking her lips, she sighed and cast her gaze off in the distance. “Jongin-”

He waved his hands in the air, “I know. We aren’t supposed to talk about it. I was just saying. She probably sees whatever you see in me.”

“No, she sees more Jongin. I know she’s young and her crush should be laughable at our age, but she’s so bright and mature. You need to cherish her and protect her because she sees so much in you that you don’t even see,” Hani said with a sigh.

“That’s why this gift is important,” he simply stated.

“Yes, you’re right,” Hani nodded and trailed beside Jongin. “but don’t think about it too much. You know her better than I do.”

Jongin opened his mouth to speak but closed it quickly when his eyes panned over an art supply store.

Hani smiled to herself. “And as long as you follow that heart, you’ll be led in the right direction,” she whispered.

⇻☆☆☆⇺

The living room was decorated with pink and yellow balloons, streamers, and paper lanterns. You smiled as you ran a hand across the fireplace and looked at the pictures that were surrounded by streamers. Various pictures of your family and ones that included Jongin.

Jongin.

You sighed.

Oh, how you had such a stupid crush on the older boy.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t a crush anymore. It was love. It had to be love. You couldn’t imagine a crush being this intense.

He was fifteen and while the age difference was only two years and a handful of months, most boys his age saw you as a child - well, Jongin never did.

Maybe that’s what fueled this crush more than it needed it be.

It was embarrassing to love him the way you did. After all, Hani was much more interesting than you. Longer hair, longer legs, brighter eyes, and just more filled out than you. Jongin would never see you when you were standing in her shadow.

You weren’t having a big birthday party. Just your family, Jongin’s family, and Jongin. You didn’t like many people from school and you preferred to keep to yourself. Besides, most kids at school picked on you for the constant paint stains on your clothes.

You had plenty of clothes, sure. You had some idea of how wealthy your parents were but it didn’t matter how much clothes they bought you - the clothes would eventually be covered in paint from your constant need to work on a new canvas. Art was your only friend besides Jongin and Hani but you were okay with it.

You liked the flecks of paint on your bedroom floor and your clothes. And well, so did Jongin.

Or at least you thought so as he once told you that you were cute with paint stains on your cheeks and your favorite purple dress.

“What are you looking at?” you heard Jongin’s voice behind you and you quickly spun around. His bright smile shined at you and you felt your heart ache.

“Just these pictures of us,” you said pointing to one of you, Jongin, and Hani by a waterfall.

Jongin smiled and walked towards you. He was wearing a black t-shirt and blue jeans but he looked as good as ever. You couldn’t help but shake as he neared you. Lookin briefly at the picture, he looked back at you. “You look nice,” he said carefully as he eyed you.

Giving him a confused look, you looked down at yourself. Of course you looked nice. Of course he liked how you looked. You were wearing one of Hani’s sundresses. He thought you looked nice because of Hani’s clothes - not because of you. Unintentionally, you let out a sigh.

“What’s wrong?” he asked and you swore his hand reached out towards you but it quickly dropped.

You shrugged, “This is Hani’s dress. She looks so much better in it than me.”

Jongin scoffed, “Why do you always compare yourself to her?”

Looking up at him, your eyes met and warmth spread throughout your body and right down to your toes. “Well because we’re a lot alike except she’s like version 2.0.”

“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said. You guys are hardly alike and even in the ways you are, she’s not better than you. You’re different, Y/N. Okay? Just because your wearing her dress doesn’t make it her dress. I happen to think you look better in it,” his gaze felt too intense so you had to look away.

“You don’t have to say that to flatter me. I know Hani is the cool one. The one everyone likes,” you picked at your nails. “even you.” and once the words were out, you covered your mouth.

Silence surrounded the two of you for a moment and you wanted to drown in Hani’s dress. “You say that as if I don’t like you,” Jongin said with offense thick in his tone.

You shrugged. “I know everyone will always prefer Hani.”

“Well, I prefer you,” he replied quietly.

Your heart pounded against your chest and even though his words sounded sure, you didn’t fully believe them. Jongin would never feel the way you felt and that was enough to ruin any good feeling he gave you.

⇻☆☆☆⇺

It was late that night when you finally got Jongin’s present. 

All through opening presents from your parents, sister, aunts, uncles, and Jongin’s family, Jongin kept you waiting. Even after cake and while you spent some time with everyone, he refused to let you have it.

Jongin waited until everyone was gone before he snuck into your room after Hani and your parents were fast asleep. He was staying the night and was supposed to be in the guest bedroom, but most nights he would come to your room anyway.

“Nini,” you whispered from where you sat cross-legged on your bed sketching on the new sketch pad that his parents had got you. He closed the door gently and the two of you were encompassed in the darkness of the night apart from the two candles you had lit to draw next to.

Crawling up on your bed with you, Jongin held a pink bag. “Ready for the best birthday presents ever?” he asked with an eyebrow raised. 

Putting your pencil down, you give him a smile. “Technically my birthday is basically over.”

Jongin smacked one of your legs gently, “It’s not even eleven. I would have been here sooner but Hani’s light was on forever,” he groaned.

“Why can’t Hani know you are in my room?” you wondered.

He gave you a look, “Because she’s Hani and she’s annoying. Besides, we don’t have to tell Hani everything.”

Chill spread through out your body as Jongin handed you the bag.

“Go on.”

Dumping the contents on the bed, Jongin rolled his eyes at you as you looked at what he had gotten to you.

You gasped when your hand ran over a large box of brand new oil pastels since the last ones you had, Jongin had stepped on one night when he had come into your room to bring you chocolate cake after everyone had fallen asleep.

Alongside the pastels was a packet of incense which made you grin over at Jongin who was watching you with an amused look. He was the only one who knew about your newest addiction to lighting incense when you painted since sometimes the smell would mingle with your paint and stick to your canvas. They were scented with a woodsy scent called Oak Forest but somehow the smell of Oak Forest, smelled a lot like Jongin. 

The last thing in the bag was something about the size of your hand and wrapped neatly in a white gift paper. Opening it just as carefully as you were sure it had been wrapped, you were shocked when the paper had come all the way off.

It was a painting of you and Jongin - just you and Jongin, no Hani.

It was a small but detailed painting of you and Jongin dressed up for one of your middle school dances. His arm was gently wrapped around your waist as you smiled the biggest you probably ever had. He had taken a picture with Hani but in that picture, you knew he didn’t hold her waist - which made you happier than it should since it probably didn’t mean much. The two of you almost looked like a couple and the painting somehow displayed that much better than the original picture. The painting brought the two of you to life in a way that gave you goosebumps.

Could you guys ever be a couple?

While you had a lot of growing up left to do, you couldn’t imagine life without Jongin.

Looking at Jongin, his eyes seemed to sparkle at you. “Do you like it?”

You nodded slowly, “But why just us? There were plenty of pictures of the three of us?” You wanted to smack yourself. Why would you ask that? Couldn’t you just be happy that Hani wasn’t apart of it? As much as you loved your sister, there were times when you wished you could have Jongin all to yourself.

Pushing your oil pastels and incense back in the bag, Jongin dropped the bag to the floor and crawled on next to you, pushing you over slightly and tucking his legs under the covers with you. “Sometimes it will be just you and me. Hani doesn’t always have to be included, silly girl,” he said ruffling your hair and putting his arm on your shoulders when he finished.

“I just feel like maybe you’d rather spend time with her,” you said as you turned the painting around in your hands.

Jongin tightened his hold around your shoulders. “If I wanted to spend time with her, I’d be in her room,” he whispered.

“But-”

He groaned, took the painting from your hands and tossed it into the gift bag. “Do you ever listen to me? I have no reason to lie to you. If I was only interested in Hani, why would I be in your room 95% of the time I’m here?” Dropping your sketch pad down to the floor, you shrugged. “Y/N, you mean the world to me. Now can we get some sleep? I spent all day looking for the perfect gifts for you.”

His words made you smile as you nodded slowly.

With that, Jongin pulled you down next to him and pulled up the covers over the two of you. You didn’t cuddle but you might have well had because Jongin kept his hand resting on one of your shoulders all night and that was enough to make you feel warm.

That was enough to make you forget that he probably liked Hani more than you.

At least for the night.

masterlist

a/n: a gift to all of my readers who have been so patient with me. I wrote this to help me get back in the swing with MtaM so I thought I should share it with you guys! I hope you like it and you can expect MtaM final chapters and more drabbles soon. I love you guys. <3

[keepersreprise]

“From Hell” Review

31 Days of Tarot Halloween - Day One

“Journey”

In this blog I will be discussing my own personal insights into the popular movie From Hell, its dark story and origins, tantamount themes, and then discussing the theme as presented in the Major Arcana Tarot Card “Journey” pulled from my Dreams of Gaia deck.

OVERVIEW

From Hell is a gorgeous piece of symbolism, that tells the familiar tale of famous serial killer Jack the Ripper, in London of 1888, from the months of August to November.

Jack the Ripper targeted, tortured, and disemboweled a total of five victims - all prostitutes - within that time, before suddenly disappearing. Many theories in the last one hundred-twenty-nine years have arisen regarding who this man was, and what his motives may have been.

Loosely based off the graphic novel by Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell, From Hell is a dark and gritty tale that primarily follows respected and swarthy inspector Frederick Adderline (Johnny Depp) and struggling, sweet-hearted prostitute Mary Kelley (Heather Graham), as they face the terrifying silhouette that was Jack the Ripper.

This film’s vision itself was based off of a theory that the women were targeted as part of a conspiracy to cover the fact that Prince Albert Victor married a common girl name Annie Cook. However, although popular, the theory has been widely discredited.

THEMES

Social Class

Much of the film is cast in a dark and dreary era of London, shortly before the turn of the century. In a time where there was still a great division between the working-class, and well-educated socialites. In fact, many influential men beat it over Inspector Adderline’s head (and the watchers’) that no “well-bred” or respectable man would commit such atrocities.

When Adderline states that he believes the murders were committed with the precision and knowledge of anatomy of a professional surgeon, it is suggested instead that the murders are nothing more than the work of a butcher. Or even a rich tradesman.

The series of events that lead to the murders revolves around the Prince Albert’s secret marriage to commoner and prostitute Ann Cook, and the subsequent birth of their child. As a result, Ann is kidnapped and questioned, then lobotomized and sequestered in an asylum. The Queen Alexandra of Denmark herself sets trusted Freemason Sir William Gull the task of eliminating the witnesses without any conscious regard to the women’s lives, nor the mass hysteria the killings stir amongst her subjects. And perhaps more telling, is that William Gull - the Ripper - is lobotomized and sealed away himself once he has completed this task.

COLOR SCHEMES

The color red is a prominent theme, often starkly contrasting or complimenting the gloom and dreariness that rests like a translucent veil over London during this time. The color is not solely present in the scenes of grisly murder. It can also be found in other significant scenes and moments throughout the film.

Most notably Mary Kelly has vibrant red hair and alluring green eyes. While all the prostitutes wear brighter clothing than most people we see - setting them apart as women of character and diversity - Mary Kelly’s hair is a physical representation of who she herself is. Red is often associated with fiery temperaments, passion, lust, anger, and violence.

In a scene where Adderline is in the tub after drinking absinthe and is taking a clairvoyant journey, there is a red phonograph playing a sonorous tune. The film then switches to another scene where the serial killer is cutting into a raw piece of meat, with a black phonograph playing in the room as well; symbolizing a connection between the two men. In this instance however, the red phonograph represents Adderline’s passion and love as he uses his clairvoyance to relive a memory with his wife, wherein she tells him she’s pregnant. The transition to Gull enjoying a bloody meal with a black phonograph instead depicts the man’s cold-hearted and meticulous nature.

Green is also a prominent color in the film. A few select scenes take place outside or in parts of London where the pall of doom is pushed back for a time. Yet, even in the first instance, when the women are present at the first victim, Martha’s funeral, the watcher is reminded to not allow the moment of beauty to disillusion them. The breaking of the coffin as its lowered and reveal of Martha’s waxy face, is followed by the ravaging laugh of a crow. The second instance of greenery is when Adderline reveals the tragic fates of his wife and child to Mary Kelley on a park bench, while gazing into Mary’s attentively sympathetic green eyes. The last instance in the film shows a happy Mary Kelly raising the throne’s heir in a beautiful cottage by the sea. Yet there is a sadness in her eyes, even as Adderline is using opium far away, to watch the woman he loves waiting for him, just before he dies.

Just as with the color red, there is a balance to green as well. It is prominently present in scenes with Jack the Ripper; highlighting the wall beyond his silhouette. The lanterns of his carriage burn a sickly pulsing green rather than the normal orange-red of fire. Historically, Mary Kelly was the last of Ripper’s victims. The presence of green - the color of comfort, of life, but also of envy and magic - may have been alluding to her presumed fate.

"JOURNEY"

The Major Arcana card Journey is the representation of a path tread; of ourselves, not just physically. It signifies personal growth and strength of conviction. I will discuss each character’s personal journey throughout the film.

Ann Cook: I wanted to begin with Ann Cook, because although her presence in the movie is brief, it was her transformation from simple prostitute to the secret wife and mother of the throne’s heir that began Jack the Ripper’s rampage at the Queen’s behest.

Ann was a sweet and young girl, whose talents and innocence (despite her reviled profession) attracted the attentions of Prince Albert Victor. Within a short time, Albert and Ann were married in a little church with her friends as witness, and although a couple of them envied her newfound easy lifestyle, it is clear that Ann’s charm could make most anyone love her.

She is unexpectedly kidnapped by the Freemasons under the royal family’s orders and questioned. However, she either never knew her husband was the heir, or lied in hopes of protecting herself and her child. She is lobotomized by Dr. Ferral and locked away. Adderline and Mary visit her, where she is found with glassy blue eyes, proclaiming herself a queen. We never hear any more of poor Ann Cook.

What I found interesting about Ann is that part of me wondered if perhaps she in fact, DID know who Albert was the entire time. We only see the two together while having sex in bed, and the prince has the saucer eyes of a man hypnotized by lust. The prince is also revealed to have syphilis. Considering the detrimental effects it can have on the brain, this may attribute to why he married a commoner in secret.

Frederick Adderline: A renown inspector that is called into Whitechapel after the grotesque murder of Martha. While efficient and respected, Adderline’s methods and acceptance of the belief that any man is capable of anything, in a time where the poor and the Juwes are always the villains, isolate him as an aberrant eccentric. Adderline uses his intelligence and astute eye for detail to wriggle out the secrets of the case like prying worms out from beneath a rock.

At the beginning of the film he is standoffish, and even his sarcastic comments are delivered in a dry tone. Although he uses opium to gain visions of his cases, Frederick never tries to explain why or how this happens. Rather, he is a man that accepts things as they come. However, he does seem to hold to some superstitious beliefs, such as when he pressed two coins over the prostitute Dark Annie’s eyes to pay death’s ferryman so that her soul would find rest.

As the film progresses and he progressively fails to solve the case, the watcher sees the man’s frustration at his inability to protect these women manifest. And as he develops an emotionally charged bond with the resilient prostitute Mary Kelly, we see the inspector’s stark demeanor fold in on itself. We learn of his wife, and in the moment where Mary Kelly becomes defensive after he rejects her, Adderline presses her to the wall in his own passion. From here Frederick’s course begins to steer from the paved road of a law up-keeping, prim man, to a bumpy back alley of shadowy movements. When he is suspended from the case for wanting to preserve elegant words scrawled by Jack the Ripper that hints at his identity, he pieced together the mystery with the diligence of a man ruled by his own morals, and confronts the suspect himself. Going so far even, as to draw a gun on the man. He is, however, incapacitated. Yet even when the inspector is faced with what is presumed to be Mary Kelly’s horrifically mutilated corpse, his strength never falters. He doesn’t shy away, showing us that he is not, in fact, broken. Just heartbroken. Once the killings are complete, Frederick decides he can never risk leading the Freemasons to Mary Kelly and Alice’s location. In the end we see that he has returned to his opium addiction. But now he has been using it for years to watch the woman he loves raise a child not her own, in a little cottage by the sea, waiting for him. He is found dead by the sergeant, with two coins in his hand to pay the ferryman.

Mary Kelly: The moment we meet Mary, we see her sweet and compassionate side; almost entirely at odds with what we may expect of someone with such fiery red hair. Even as a prostitute, she is a strong woman of self-worth, that recognizes that she is, in fact, still a woman despite her profession, with needs of her own.

Mary Kelly is a dual-natured character, much like the others. While kind and sweet, caring for and raising Ann’s child, she is also hot-tempered and challenges other people’s views of who she is. Not much is revealed of her past, except that after her mother died when she was eight in Ireland, her family fled to London, where they were “Starving. Starving, but in fresh air”. She dreams languidly of living in a little cottage by the sea, becoming an old plump woman with a skinny husband and many children. Although Mary is obviously a dreamer, she never speaks of how she means to obtain these dreams. This indicates that she may realize just how unlikely they are.

Mary Kelly begins her story trying to raise enough money to pay a local gang. When Ann Cook offers to get her friends the money from her husband, she is bears witness to Ann’s kidnapping. As her friends are murdered one by one, Mary decides to place her trust in inspector Frederick Adderline. The two become very close, with Mary Kelly kissing him in an alleyway after he offers her money to keep herself safe. In this moment, if the watcher had any doubts about Mary Kelly (like one of her prostitutes friends did), her motives towards Adderline are clarified with words fueled by a life persecution and judgement.

How long Mary Kelly has been a prostitute is unclear, but she is quick to defer to officials, and even names herself “unfortunate”. At one point she says to Frederick that “Oh, I’m sorry. England doesn’t have whores. Just a great mass of unlucky women.” This shows her derivative opinion of the social class, and a glimpse that, despite her defiance, Mary Kelly may view herself in this negative manner herself. Or even fear that all that’s said about whores is true, and she cannot escape it.

It’s through her trust and love for Frederick Adderline, that Mary Kelly finally DOES escape it though. She takes Alice and lives in her cottage, raising the child as her own. Yet, even as she watches the girl fondly, there is a telling sadness in her eyes and the watcher knows she is waiting for Frederick. And that, unlike her love, who can travel upon an opium cloud to watch her, she will never know what became of him.

Jack the Ripper: The serial killer’s story begins as that of any other in fiction. A shadowy unknown figure that haunts the characters. And our minds. His actions appall us, drive a wedge between our willingness and ability to sympathize with such an atrocious human being.

When Ripper is nothing more than a silhouette against an eerie sky or hunched over the form of his latest victim, he is the boogeyman. The devil. That which we feared cannot be stopped. We imagine him with a horrid snarling face, fangs that drip blood and hands that are never clean. But really, we know he is just a man.

Before his identity is revealed, we are given glimpses into the man’s life and daily activities. We know that he is, in fact, a “well-bred” man, that eats delicately, wears prim suits, takes good care of a traveling amputation kit he uses on his victims, educated and precise; in stark contrast to what Frederick Adderline is persuaded to believe. Ripper even displays the touch of a poetic hand at one point, which results in Adderline being removed from the case.

However, it becomes quickly apparent that there is something more sinister about the man. His operations are ritualistic. Green fire glows in his lanterns. Although this is never addressed, it could simply be a symbolic method used to ring the bell in the watcher’s head to let them know when they’re following the developments of Jack the Ripper.

As the murders continue, Adderline recognizes signs that the acts are being committed in a ritualistic fashion. The bodies are arranged in a pentacle star shape throughout the city, the women’s items arranged near their corpses in a similar fashion, the organs that are removed so precisely and deliberately. At one point a letter accompanies a box with half a kidney, where Ripper proclaims to have eaten the other half.

Jack the Ripper’s true identity is revealed to be that of Sir William Gull; a respected Freemason and surgeon that is working under the orders of the Queen Alexandra to dispose of the witnesses to Albert’s marriage to commoner Ann. Gull expresses obvious love and concern for the Prince Albert, who is suffering from syphilis. When we first meet him, Gull is a small, kindly man in his seventies, that greets inspector Frederick Adderline at a show, and willingly provides crucial information about the killings and weapons used. However, he quickly deters Adderline from suspecting him by revealing he had a stroke that caused tremors (obviously untrue).

As the tale progresses and Adderline confronts Gull, we see a literal transformation overcome him. As he turns around to face the inspector, the man’s twinkly, kind eyes turn as cold and black as two coals. His voice becomes deeper, his shoulders squared, and his back straighter. His prestigious mind and meticulous words become dark, despondent. Frightening. He claims that the mitre and the pentacle are symbols that course with energy and meaning and that HE is that energy and meaning. That he will be remembered for ushering in a new century.

When at last William Gull believes he commits his final murder, he is placed before a jury of Freemasons. The devil is gone from his eyes, the deep bass from his voice, and suddenly he looks small again as we watch the scene flip between his trial, and the Queen discussing the mission she had given him. The watcher realizes then that in a way, Sir William Gull, Jack the Ripper, was also just a victim of circumstance and social hierarchy. Even as he is being judged and sentenced, William Gull believes that his actions were the true actions of a believer, and that it is only the “Great Architect” that can declare judgement on him. The man is then lobotomized in the same fashion as Ann Cook, and locked away alone and naked, with the glassy blue eyes of the forgotten.