#head canons of rohan

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Someone asked me lately about Elfhild, Théodred's mom, and I'm procrastinating from other things so I wrote a ficlet (600ish words) about her. The summary of my Elfhild HC is that she was a musician/maker of instruments who was chosen to marry Théoden. They did eventually fall in love, and she was thrilled to be pregnant. But toward the end of her pregnancy, she was given some foresight into her impending death in childbirth. So I wrote this about how things went for her after she had that premonition, which she didn’t share with anyone else. Anywho. Here it is, the impulsive product of procrastination from other things!

***************

Elfhild thought first to tell her son all the most important things he would need to know about his life. That duty would always have to come first, but he should take care to find a refuge from the burdens of that duty. That history and tradition were valuable, but he needn’t be afraid of trusting his own instincts. That he would face many challenges, but if he treated others with kindness, he would have many allies to help him. She rushed through her lessons, determined to give him all the wisdom she had about how to make his way in this world that he wasn’t yet part of.

As time grew short, she decided many of the most important lessons were ones he would need to learn on his own, and so she began to tell him instead about herself, sharing things he might not ever hear otherwise. The words to songs that she had written just for him. How gazing at the stars and picking out shapes and figures in the night sky brought her peace and calm after difficult days. That she was proud to have a skilled trade that could have supported her in comfort even if she hadn’t simply been passed from one noble family to another. That although she loved his father deeply and would choose Théoden now without hesitation, she still wished she had been given the choice back when it mattered most. 

The end came ever nearer, but she always had more yet to say. Even as she struggled with aching joints and sleepless nights and painfully stretched skin and a constant burning in her chest, she begged him to stay with her for just a little longer. To let her endure the discomfort so that she could finish telling him all the things she needed him to understand. That she was infinitely grateful for the months they had shared. That she loved him above all else. That she wouldn’t regret giving her life for his. That none of this was his fault. Even if he could never remember what she said, she hoped that he would somehow still know in his heart that she had said it. And so she kept talking, resting a hand gently where she guessed his head to be and praying that the sound of her voice would reach his little ears. She talked to him until she no longer had breath to form her words or fill her lungs or keep her life. 

It was nearly forty-two long years before she would be able to speak to him again, and still she regretted that it was so soon. She wanted more for him, and the news that he was expected shortly brought her joy and sadness in equal measure. 

She took up an anxious watch, uncertain how to recognize someone who had spent his entire existence beyond her view. Someone whose history and fate were yet a mystery to her. Someone who would now be a man, tall and strong and proud and so different from the glistening infant she had barely glimpsed through the haze of her final seconds of life. But when he came at last, she knew him in an instant by the easing of her heart. The feeling of wholeness again. And when she called his name and he turned in her direction, she saw the light of recognition in his eyes, too. I know your voice, he said. Somehow I’ve always known it. 

The sound of his own voice was deep and warm and so much like his father’s, and she wept to hear it for the very first time. And then she sat by his side, this beloved stranger who had once been a part of her, and she held his hand and smiled and listened while he told his mother all the most important things she would need to know about his life.

***************

So those are my Elfhild thoughts. If you've read my Théodred stories, you’ll see that huge parts of his character directly reflect the stuff Elfhild expresses to him here (in some cases, he literally echoes her almost word for word) because he really did hear her, even if he never could have articulated it as such.

[lady-of-ithilien]

For the sensory headcanons, 3, 8, and 13 for Éowyn!

Thank you so much for these lovely prompts— I always appreciate the asks you send for these games and enjoy answering them so much!

3. Their favourite kind of view:

I think Éowyn delights in many landscapes and would probably have trouble picking just one sort of view that she loves; I imagine that her upbringing in the Riddermark makes her partial to those grasslands that unfold beneath wide open sky, and as I explored in my most recent WIP chapter, I think she also found great comfort and beauty in looking up at the high peaks of the White Mountains when she was living in Meduseld. That said, I think as she moves into her new life in the fourth age, Éowyn finds joy in all manner of new landscapes too: the light-filled woodlands and cool glens of Ithilien; her gardens at Emyn Arnen in the height of summer, overflowing with colorful flowers and textured greenery; the sight of the Anduin gleaming like copper in the sunset as it flows to the sea. I also imagine that Éowyn seizes opportunities to travel and fill her life with new places and experiences, after spending so many years yearning to escape from the confines of her role in the Golden Hall. She probably travels with Faramir to Dol Amroth and is astounded by the sight of the endless blue sea, and maybe also at some point she goes to the Shire, and after spending most of her life in the drier more rain-shadowed east, she is surprised by how the northwest of Middle Earth can contain so much green. So, that is quite a long answer, but I think the distillation of that is that Éowyn loves quite a number of different views, so long as they are wild and open, and filled with life (all things that grow and are not barren).

8. Their favourite scents:

The smell of damp earth after a sudden rain, the scent of dewy leaves on a summer morning in her garden, the smell of leather in the tack room, and the lingering scent of fire smoke that remains on her clothes and hair after a night spent around a fire under the stars

13. Their ideal climate and weather:

I strongly headcanon Éowyn as woman of sunlight and summer; I have a whole forthcoming essay on seasonal imagery that Tolkien uses in her character arc, but the Tl;dr is that I think Éowyn’s “winter” was always destined to melt into spring and then blossom into summer as she recovers from her trauma and finds new life and hope after the war of the ring. Thus, I imagine that she is someone who delights in sunlight and warmth. Given where she grew up, I envision her loving a warm, dry afternoon wind that blows down the mountains and over the plains. As I’ve also mentioned in my little ficlet a few weeks back, I think that Éowyn loves thunderstorms (she is “a fool for thunder” as @torchwood-99 so aptly put in their prompt to me!); she loves to dance in the rain and feel the raw energy and emotion that comes with the wildness of a thunderstorm; she sees aspects of her own self and emotional experience reflected in that and it gives her an opportunity to really let go and enjoy something with abandon (an experience that was not often afforded to her). Thus, I think she thrives in the warm climate of Ithilien, so long as she occasionally gets to dance in a storm.

Alright, that got a bit long, but thank you SO much for this lovely, lovely set of asks!! These were truly a treat to reflect on and answer. <3

[ketsuarting]

More on this: Rohan interacting with the Brugang (and their stands)

Bruno: tried to read him and failed. Sticky Fingers is actually a counter to Heavens Door, because Bruno can just Zipper Himself shut. Rohan interprets this as Bruno having zero taste, and reconciles Bruno's impeccable fashion sense and Italian sensibilities with him being a POSER!!!

Abbacchio: Feels about him similarly to Yukako, ergo: what a stupid bitch. You'd think as two queer icons they'd get along, but they're behaving like two skunks fighting for territory. Moody Blues however is MUCH more appreciated, with her ability to fully replay the past it allows Rohan a better reference for his art! How can such a genius stand be attached to such a boring brute?

Narancia: No strong feelings besides some mild repulsion. Narancia is whiney and annoying and really not fit to be relevant to this kind of Story. He's a kid inserting himself into the narrative and Rohan finds it easy to blend him out. Narancia on the other hand is FASCINATED and asks Rohan all kinds of benign questions. The witty dismissals of the mangaka go over his head. Narancia is like one of your younger cousins BEGGING YOU to draw Barbie, or Ariel, or themselves. Rohan complies of course, it's no effort for him to fulfill the many requests of the boy

Mista: What a compelling character! A TRUE protagonist! Rohan tries to read Mista once every day and has to be stopped by Bruno or Giorno or the little angel on his shoulder who looks ODDLY familiar.... Koichi is that you? Mista asks the REAL questions. What does human meat taste like? If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would that be? When is humanity running out of water? What if women had a dicks, would men die out? Scrap being a protagonist, Mista should start WRITING!

Mista doesn't really pay attention to Rohan. The man is neither friend nor enemy, which makes him a civilian that Mista doesn't consider in his calculations.

Fugo: Rohan looks at this boy and gets a particularly unpleasant de ja vu whenever he looks too closely. Fugo is a lot like Josuke, but very different in some key aspects. Not an uneducated hooligan but a snob removed from reality to the point of ignorance. he picks fights with fugo, and struggles to remind himself that it is in fact a 16 year old he is arguing with. It's a bit embarrassing whenever he remembers. Gigi can't stand Rohan, that's really it.

Trish: oh she and Rohan hit it off immediately. They bond over their shared dislike for the boys antics and also a shared enjoyment of fashion, culture and entertainment. Rohan isn't a very paternal figure, but he absolutely feels like she is worth protecting. He's probably consider her a great female lead/ Lancer, with her strong character (which he sees the potential of since day one) and he mysterious past. Trish finds solace in Rohan. He is eccentric, but reasonably so for a world famous comic artist. She never read his comics before, but he shows her some manuscripts and she is enamoured. She doesn't like the idea of being read, however.

Giorno: Rohan thinks he'd make a better antagonist and needles Giorno to embrace his own character more. He has some knowledge on the Dio situation and is somewhat biased. Giorno rejects the notion and considers himself someone who wants to help people. That couldn't be the motivation of a an Antagonist right?

Someone write that fic where Rohan goes to Italy instead of Koichi and then just tags along with Giorno and then gets super obsessed with reading Diavolo pls

[tathrin]

Okay so obviously, ridiculously tall longshanks Aragorn a.k.a. Strider a.k.a. Wingfoot a.k.a. Telcontar first-of-his-house-of-really-freaking-long-legs-go-ahead-try-and-keep-up is not only canonical, but also excellent.

But. Consider:

Arwen is the daughter of Elrond, a descendant of Thingol (freakishly tall even for the Tall Elves Of The First Age), and the granddaughter of Galadriel, a very powerful lady from a lineage that famously has some significantly Tall Folks floating around in it.

And sure, Aragorn is also a descendant of half of those same people, but he's thousands and thousands of years removed from their origins with Absurdly Longshanks King Thingol et al. Whereas Arwen can count the generations between her and him on one hand. Which means:

Very, very good evidence that Arwen is likely even taller.

So imagine, if you will, the faces of the gobsmacked Gondorians when their new queen-to-be rides up to the city with her host of elvish escorts (already an overwhelming thing!) and ridiculously powerful, famous relations (omfg is that Galadriel!???), the very picture of the Evening Of Elvendom In Middle-Earth, and dismounts gracefully from her horse...

And stands there towering over their already-quite-tall king, whose winged crown just barely reaches past the top of her head with its little white tips, while Aragorn beams around at everything like a man whose dreams have all come true (because they have) and the Gondorian nobility look up at Arwen, and down at their little Hobbit saviors, and up at Arwen, and up and up...

And go, er. welcome to Minas Tirith, my lady. We promise we'll get the doors in the royal wing enlarged asap I mean hi, yes, great to meet you, you say you're riding out to Rohan as soon as the wedding is completed? What, no, not asking for any reason, just...wondering how fast we can get the carpenters working on making a new and much longer bed for the royal chambers I mean uhhhh wow what a lovely dress, is that the style in Rivendell these days? Absolutely stunning! Have some wine?

Join me in picturing this vision, pls.

[lesbiansforboromir]

Alright, I was holding off for journalistic integrity but now that I've seen the WotR film I can make posts about it without restraint.

Jesus christ the racial politics of this film are atrocious. Some character might as well just tell Wulf 'not to play the race card'. Wulf is a liberal snowflake who blames racism for all his troubles and can't pull himself up by his bootstraps and he is also brown-skinned and obsessively pursues our PORCLAIN white dainty-drawn female protagonist with both romantic and murderous intent. Oppression of dunlendings by the Rohirrim exists only in Wulf's head apparently, though it can be tasted in every spat 'dunlending' perjorative that comes from Helm or Haleth's mouth. But Hera has absolutely no racism within her of course! She refuses Wulf because she doesnt want to marry anyone and Wulf just assumes it's because his dunlending blood disgusts her, so entitled of him!

But also maybe the racism is '''justified'''? If it exists? Which it doesn't! But IF it did, don't worry because ONCE AGAIN all the dunlendings are just greedy, clutching, unwashed, skull wearing, violent barbarians with no unique culture to speak of and no reasons to be making war on Rohan except to sieze what isn't theirs (ignoring the fact that it totally was theirs until Rohan seized it from them and OH BOY are we ignorin' that) And the only dunlending we see not frothing at the mouth for violence or showing any introspective depth at all is General Targg who is the mouthpiece with which we get to hear 'the girl (Hera) is right' whereupon he is promptly killed by Wulf.

Oh but of course, what else could Helm have done? Freca was some greedy FAT man (boy does everyone love calling him fat, happy to lean into THAT aspect of canon) whose lands were too prosperous for his own good (hang on isn't keeping your lands prosperous the platonic ideal of lordship?) And he called a 'Witan' (no he didn't, he came to one of the regular councils of lords that Helm called himself) just to make a scene about how Helm was going to marry Hera to a lord of gondor which is bad because Gondor has some nebulous hold over Rohan so Hera should marry Wulf instead (literally none of that, Freca simply asked Helm to wed his daughter to Wulf, his son, a completely normal and legitimate political strategy to secure a better relationship with the King's family since Helm already mistrusted him for having dunlending blood. Freca is a lord of Rohan, he is rich, he traces his ancestry back to King Freawine, this could not be a more reasonable suggestion in canon.)

SO OBVIOUSLY Helm had to get angry and call Freca fat again (true he did do that) and THEN claim that Freca only wanted his throne (there was never any suggestion of this in the books, it was just the offer of marriage which insulted Helm) to which Freca answered "Old kings that refuse a proffered staff may fall on their knees," and Helm is like okay lets take this outside.

And now THIS change is actually so important in understanding the extreme nature of the Rohir/Helm favouritism that is the main focus of this film. In the film Helm pretty much immediately takes Freca outside, he reassures Frealaf that Freca just needs to be shown his place, this is the only way to settle the matter, if he doesn't embarass him here then Freca will try to take his crown and slay his family apparently, his hunch ig etc etc. Freca punches Helm three times in full view of the whole of Edoras including Freca's two men who came with him, then Helm punches him back and he is knocked out cold and dead by the time he hits the ground. Film!Helm does not realise he has done this and tells Freca to get up, Wulf realises his father is dead and threatens Helm with revenge, swords are draw against him which he tries to calm before Wulf attacks him. Helm incapacitates Wulf, his sons draw THEIR swords and Helm exiles Wulf for drawing his sword on his king. Messy right? Like not a good thing to do, generally brawling with your lords is a bad idea full stop, but if you fear for the lives of your children then idk maybe it's excusable? And then it's just an unfortunate series of events right? And Freca was rude and insulting to a king in his own halls, heat of the moment etc etc

I feel so comfortable in telling you that Helm murders Freca in cold blood in the books, fully intending that to be the outcome.

He does not take him outside initially, Book!Helm tells Freca that this marriage dispute isn't important and they will deal with it later. And then;

When the council was over, Helm stood up and laid his great hand on Freca’s shoulder, saying: "The king does not permit brawls in his house, but men are freer outside"; and he forced Freca to walk before him out from Edoras into the field. To Freca’s men that came up he said: "Be off ! We need no hearers. We are going to speak of a private matter alone. Go and talk to my men!" And they looked and saw that the king’s men and his friends far outnumbered them, and they drew back. "Now, Dunlending," said the king, "you have only Helm to deal with, alone and unarmed. But you have said much already, and it is my turn to speak. Freca, your folly has grown with your belly. You talk of a staff! If Helm dislikes a crooked staff that is thrust on him, he breaks it. So!" With that he smote Freca such a blow with his fist that he fell back stunned, and died soon after. Helm then proclaimed Freca’s son and near kin the king’s enemies; and they fled, for at once Helm sent many men riding to the west marches.

(Appendices, 'The House of Eorl', emphasis mine)

I think we can all agree that forcing someone out of your city, isolating them away from their fellows with threats of violence, telling them you will break them, killing them in one blow and then proclaiming their kin your enemies and forcing them to flee to escape a murderous pursuit, is pretty clearly premeditated murder. There is not much nuance here, Freca tresspassed over a line with Helm that Dunlendings are not allowed to cross and Helm killed him for it.

And listen like, the description of this whole story within the appendices is barely more than three pages. This is not an obscure missable aspect of the tale, nor is it outside of what rights they had to adapt. The choice was made, actively, ONCE AGAIN by the Warner Bros cinematic universe makers, to drastically alter book events in order to sand down any immorality within Rohan's narrative, especially where the Dunlendings are concerned. And in the end the only 'mistake' Helm is allowed to learn and grow from is some nebulous and trite 'not believing enough in his daughter' schpiel, which needs to be the subject of a whole 'nother post actually.

And what's agonising is they COULD have done it like they were so close, there are multiple moments where me and my friend watching were like struck!! With grief! Over how impactful this moment could have been if only the racism actually existed as an acknowledged theme in the story. If only it was something Hera had to come to terms with, if only IT was the true driver of these horrors to the point where it's Avatar, Hera's father, a man who loves her and whom she has loved all her life, turns into a cold icey ghost of brutality, far more vicious and barbaric than the people he so reviles, and reveals to her the terrible truth of his actions and motivations. It's agony I tell you.

Anyway I did not like the film.

[inkpot909]

Staying Over at Rohan Kishibe’s House for the First Time Headcanons

↳ Takes place after Kira escapes from the Duwang gang and assumes another identity. Reader hinted to be a stand user. Gender neutral Reader with they/them pronouns.

A/n: I’ve recently started the live action Thus Spoke Kishibe Rohan show; I adore it. I’m rather biased towards his character, finding him wildly entertaining. But Araki, man, I get you. I hope y’all enjoy! <3

Warning(s): Canon-typical danger; mentions of Kira’s crimes and the threat he imposes.

You’ve only been going out with Rohan Kishibe for a month or two.

When the manga artist took a month’s long hiatus from publishing- due to a rather unfortunate scuffle with one Josuke Higashitaka -you’d been by his side nearly day and night. Considering the state his body was in, you couldn’t help but fuss over him all throughout his recovery.

The first couple of days, Rohan was bitter and insisted his own independence.

He claimed he ‘doesn’t need anyone's help,’ but his protests ultimately fell on deaf ears. You made it clear you weren’t budging; proving to be just as stubborn as he is.

A handful of days into the new routine, he grew quiet.

And to your credit, you didn’t bat much of an eye at that. If you were at all curious over the change in his behavior, you kept that to yourself. Keeping any questions inside as you continued to dote on him. He… found that he really appreciated that.

And after some consideration, the free time allowing him to ponder, he better understood just how much he appreciates you. Wrapping his head around it… he would’ve grown annoyed at the trouble if it weren’t for his fondness for you.

Eventually, after the first week, it seemed to you that he suddenly started silently accepting your help out of the blue.

There was no pushing back against the assistance anymore.

Rohan needed to take the time off from writing or drawing, liking it or not. Having specifically your company to fill the time… well, he could’ve done worse (His exact words).

Whether or not Rohan had the beating coming didn’t once cross your mind; only your concern over his well-being plagued your thoughts. It’s something that came so naturally to you; the feelings you harbor for the mangaka not as much of a hassle for you to digest.

That said, neither did the possibility of him taking any note of your kindness reach your train of thought. At first, you figured him saying any variation of ‘thank you’ was just politeness.

Even less… your deeper affection for him is another thing you figured would go unaddressed.

Regardless of your surprise, the time spent together proved to be the final push the both of you needed to make things official.

He was direct, almost blunt, when asking you about your feelings for him. Eyes focused on you, falling expectantly silent as he waited for an answer.

When did he notice? How long had he been sitting on asking you about it? You could only guess.

But the relationship that formed that day was more than enough for you to be thankful you’d been completely honest with him.

It’s… rather unfortunate a relationship blossomed during such a dark time for the quiet town of Morioh. Koichi, Josuke, and Okuyasu shared the same sentiment on the matter.

Fast forward a handful of weeks later and tragedy struck once more. The killer had taken action against a middle schooler; his devilish nature clearly knowing no bounds.

Although you didn’t know the boy personally, just the thought of this illusive killer taking a young life so completely without hint or warning… it quickly sent shivers down your spine.

After meeting with the other stand users in town, the lump in your throat only became thicker. Your stomach swirling, and palms growing clammy.

The little crowd dissipated, and you walked away from the gathering with Rohan at your side.

The two of you remained silent; too much on both of your minds to speak.

Your gaze stayed fixated on the concrete sidewalk. Each crack or indent from lifetimes of personalities meeting it’s support… and possibility being used by him. Your feet potentially using a route the killar has utilized at least once in all his time in Morioh.

That possibility makes another chill roll down your spine.

You would’ve thought yourself to be paranoid if it weren’t the reality you were living. Succumbing to your darkest thoughts and a level of anxiety that somehow kept your body moving forward on auto-pilot.

At least, that was until the mangaka walking beside you finally spoke up, not even glancing your way as he did so.

“You should stay at my place for the time being,” he had told you in a frank tone, “Your stand still hasn’t fully materialized like mine or the others. If the killer were to track you down, you’d likely be at a huge disadvantage. You’re staying with me.”

If it were coming from anyone else, you’d consider slapping them due to the nerve of it.

But this is Rohan... and reading into his actions has become second nature to you at this point.

You considered his earlier quietness; what you could discern from a quick glance minutes ago. His eyes sharp with thought, and the usually comfortable silence uncharacteristically thick with tension.

His decisive tone didn’t come as a surprise, but the commanding structure and choice of his words got the gears in your mind turning.

Rohan’s reasoning was sound, sure, but a man like him only ever speaks with purpose. He means every word that pools from his lips. And the knowledge of how he behaves in less extreme situations implicitly reveals his true feelings on the matter:

He was worried.

The killer’s ability to murder right underneath everyone’s noses became real that day. Even with the previous killings, it didn’t strike the same chord until one of your own had been lost. No one is untouchable, and that strikes fear.

In short, the killer is dangerous... and likely knows people are out looking for him.

Rohan would never speak a word of it, but that reality struck unease even into him. If not maybe for his own sake, but for yours.

And it manifests exactly as you would expect. It could easily be left unnoticed, but you know him better than to miss such a thing.

Rohan’s motivation was clear in no time at all. The town just lost another child to this monster. Hell if he’s going to let you to slip right from underneath his nose.

Coupled with that overwhelming weight, as well as his own personal habits, don’t expect staying over at his place to feel all that domestic as soon as you cross through the front door.

Rohan cares about you, of course, but that’s not going to stop him from making a beeline to his office the moment he’s inside.

His home is familiar, no doubt, but provides no ease with him locked up inside his workroom.

There isn’t a single noise behind the closed door, letting your mind trick yourself into believing you’re alone.

The bare walls and simple furniture don’t assist much either, even with art hung up on display here and there. Only glimpses of personal touch.

As soon as the killer is dealt with, you resolve to press him about decorating more.

Hours pass your very first day there, and the only time you ever see him is when he grabbed a little box of leftovers from the refrigerator for dinner. Only focused on satisfying his body’s need for food, he hadn’t said a passing word.

You knew better than to expect it anyway.

Instead, he simply warmed the food up in an expensive-looking microwave a room away, and was already working on shoving it impatiently in his mouth while walking right back upstairs...

How long has it been since then? you wonder, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

You’ve sat yourself on Rohan's welcoming couch, distracting yourself with late night television. The couch itself is a dull color with nice cushions, but lacking in the household-to-household personality only developed from frequent use. A blanket is lazily wrapped around your shoulders, and the TV screen gently illuminates your face. Your eyes gloss over the images that flash at you, seeing but not registering a single thing.

There’s no helping it. A child died today; the killer slick and tactful enough not to leave a single trace behind.

You turn away from the screen in quiet defeat, gaze wandering out a window in the living room. The sun has long vanished beneath the horizon, the darkness outside not allowing you to view much of anything.

Your eyelids are fighting to stay open despite your mind’s business.

A part of you was hoping Rohan would’ve come out of his study by now, but that’s proven to be wishful thinking. Honestly… I should know better than to assume that, you think to yourself.

The current situation has undoubtedly given him a lot to ponder; a lot to write down.

Staring back towards at his living room TV once more, you give no honest effort in trying to paying attention. The sitcom provides no escape, no relief. It’s nothing real, after all. Just a fantasy fabricated by some executive. The constant laugh tracks grating on the eardrums. The volume is low, but it still disrupts regardless.

Alas, nothing else of such promising whimsy is on.

Your fingertips curl, grasping at the blanket around your shoulders. The soft surface stresses in your tight hold. You bite your lower lip in consideration, so hard you have to cut it out less you accidentally cut any skin.

The show takes a sudden pause to provide a few minutes of advertisements. Images of impossibly tempting pizza and seafood flicker on the screen, price tags proudly displayed and narrations enthusiastically going on about how ‘worth it’ the food is. Your lips tighten, and eyebrows furrow. You’re not hungry, so the images do nothing but annoy.

Still, you do anything to ensure you’re still awake for just a little while longer. A necessary factor in the decision your mind finally screamed at you to just follow through with.

Go say goodnight to Rohan, and just go to freaking bed already.

Moving carefully slow, you work on shutting down the TV and peeling yourself from the couch. You swear the process takes minutes at a time, though you don’t check the clock hanging on the wall to confirm. You’d have to squint in order to properly digest it in the dark lighting; why extend the effort?

Mentally saying goodbye to the living room with a final glance, your feet scrape the wooden flooring to move your body towards the stairs ascending to the second floor.

You’re cautious of making any noise while walking steadily closer to his study, keenly aware of your boyfriend’s need for peace and quiet.

Stopping right in front of the closed door, you take in a deep breath before knocking as lightly as you can muster. Knowing full-well he’d have heard it, you don’t wait for a response before entering.

It’s a privilege you gladly wear on your sleeve.

“Rohan…?” you gingerly call, poking your head into the room.

It’s dimly lit inside, only his desk lamp illuminating whatever it is he’s hunched over. No sunlight is present outside, yet the shades are drawn anyway.

There’s a brief pause before he turns his body around in his chair, looking at you with a raised brow. “What do you need?” he asks.

The tone of his voice is a soft reflection of a gentle atmosphere present in the air. Much more welcoming than the walk earlier. That said, there’s impatience laced in his tone- something that he never cares to hide.

You smile, thankful of his subtle movements.

Sure, he doesn’t like being interrupted by anyone. But even Koichi would be met with a harsh word or two at an interruption.

But you’re different. A familiar and welcome presence. If it weren’t getting so late, he may have offered you to look at what he’s been working on. It’s a fact that either feeds right into your ego or is too flustering to ponder further.

Maybe somewhere in between.

“I was just going to head to bed… I wanted to say goodnight and-” you rub the back of your neck sheepishly. “-I’m also wondering where I should sleep is all. You’ve got a lot of empty rooms, so I just wanted to make sure-“

“Just sleep in my bed,” he cuts you off, the tone of his voice completely serious.

“I-… your…” you hesitate, taken aback by his bluntness. Rohan is truly something else; causing you to short-circuit with five simple words. “But where will you sleep?”

God, I sound ridiculous, you think.

A chuckle escapes his lips, turning to look down at his desk once more. You hear a distant scraping noise, evidence that he’s started drawing again.

“You know we’re dating, right? I’m still going to work for a while longer. But I’ll join you in bed later.” He tells you, leaning his head back momentarily as if this conversation is a tad bit pointless to him. Still, he adds with a sigh, “But of course, if that would cause you discomfort, then feel free to take the guest bedroom across from mine.”

You shake your head slowly, even though he’s no longer looking at you. Stay in a different room? No way. His sigh tells you he finds that idea undesirable as well.

“I’ll stay with you. I wouldn’t want to be alone tonight anyways. Goodnight then… make sure you get some rest, Rohan,” you say, voice considerably gentler than before.

“Goodnight, Y/n,” he responds. “And since you’re telling me to do so… then I’ll consider it.”

You can hear the smile in his voice.

He was just so… upfront about it.

Your eyes stay widened even as you shut his office door. Standing completely still right outside his work space for a full minute before daring to peer down the hallway leading to the master bedroom.

His bedroom… the one he so casually welcomed you to join him in.

That warms your chest for the first time in hours. The smallest amount of comfort is provided just seeing him again. Remembering, oh right, he’s in the same space as you.

But the added prospect of sleeping at his side… that manages to pull your mind away from Morioh’s affliction.

How could you hope to refuse a suggestion like that?

You begin to make your way to the room, but your feet do not drag this time around.

If Rohan said it’s okay, then it really is. There’s no need to doubt yourself when he’s invited you so clearly; he’d be offended if you didn’t take his word for it.

Inside the bedroom is neat and clean.

A little bare, granted, but there is some more artwork hung up on the wall- evidentially an unsurprising consistent in his home. There’s a mirror above a large wooden dresser as well- a photo of his parents sitting on top of the mahogany surface.

The dresser itself is a little redundant, considering a walk-in closet across the room. Or maybe it’s perfectly reasonable. You hardly ever see Rohan wearing the same outfit twice.

The door itself is left thoughtlessly open, the darkness within the confined space making your stomach churn. No windows present inside, it’s the purest void in the home.

You make your way to it in just a couple quick steps, and shut it with a frown on your face.

The door’s soft click shut causes a huff to leave your nostrils, as if you’d just saved yourself from something life-threatening.

The only other notable object in the room, aside from two nightstands, is a large bed.

It’s the only thing within eye-shot not meticulously put together. Sheets and blankets left on the mattress without being remade.

The pillows on one half of the bed still indented from daily use. The sheets themselves are silk, and similarly to the pillows on the same side, the imprint of your boyfriend’s body rolling out it earlier that day is still visible.

He clearly doesn’t spend much time in his bedroom.

You still find yourself hoping the bed smells like him regardless. Silence undercut with the sounds of you discarding the clothes you’d worn that day. They stink of sweat, a reminder of how nervous you’d gotten just before dinner time.

Your sleeping clothes, luckily, hold no such memory. Comfortable and encouraging sleep; just what you needed.

And Lord, you were right about the sheets smelling like Rohan.

Laying down on the unused side of the mattress, you are overwhelmed by a lovely mix of his favorite cologne and his natural scent. You’re ashamed to have taken in a couple deep breaths the moment you make yourself comfortable.

After one of the most frightful days of your entire life, you couldn’t think of a better end to it.

Rohan clearly doesn’t cheap out on his own bed set either, much to your delight. The comforter is engulfing and enough to lull your occupied mind into shifting gears.

Now, your only lamenting over just how truly tired you feel. And the silk sheets almost make you feel envious of your boyfriend. Almost.

It would if it weren’t for the simple fact that maybe... just maybe staying over will become a regular occurrence.

Situation called for everyone to look out for one another, but the barrier has been broken regardless. And it’s a pleasant thing to ponder during the last few minutes of your day.

Staying with Rohan. In his own space. A habit lasting long after the killer is gone and dealt with.

Even in the dark, new space, you cannot help but smile. Your eyes finally flutter shut, but the groggy joy displayed doesn’t falter.

Rohan’s casual attitude over you sleeping in the same bed as him makes you believe it really might become a regular occurrence. At least… he likely wouldn’t turn you down asking to stay over for a night (Not that you’ve ever asked before).

The future of your relationship eclipses your fear just long enough to allow for genuine rest.

Already fallen asleep by the time he retreats to the bedroom after hours of non-stop work, Rohan himself slips into the room quietly a few minutes past midnight.

Observing your peaceful form sleeping in his own bed fills him with a sort of pride he only ever used to associate with his writing.

Not that he’d ever directly admit to such a thing. He’s with you after all, and that clearly depicts how he feels.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Because regardless… he still finds himself contemplating you while he changes his clothes.

Your understanding of just his actions and the subtle inflections in his expressions is something to be admired.

Hell, you are someone to be admired in general. Pictures of you sprinkled in his sketchbook, an eager desperation to capture what he sees on the page.

He figures he could study you for hours at a time if you let him.

Just a couple months into being official and you’ve already proven yourself to be the loyal partner he always hoped to find, however deep down that desire may had been kept.

Deep down.... he ponders, slipping into bed next to you. Turning his head in your direction, he stares shamelessly while thinking.

Rohan’s own hopes lie in learning how to properly express himself to you.

So accommodating yourself... it makes him want to commit to giving you a fulfilling relationship. It’s a feeling he’s recently gotten around to fully understanding, but one that in the shadows of a gloomy night... he silently embraces.

Just the same as him physically reaching out an arm to embrace you, just before resigning himself to a deep sleep...

When you finally wake, Rohan has already gotten up and left you to sleep in peace. Late to rest, early to rise.

What catches your immediate attention, though, is the smell of coffee brewing in the floor below you. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you don’t bother changing just yet before pulling yourself from the mattress. The wooden flooring chills the pads of your feet, but it does nothing to hinder your journey out of his bedroom.

Walking silently down the hall, that smell only hits your nostrils harder. Warm and fresh… you sigh, I can feel myself waking up already.

And if the scent of coffee doesn't do the trick, turning a corner to spot Rohan sipping out of a cup held in his hand at the dining room table certainly does.

His hair is still a bit ruffled from sleep, along with the notable absence of any color variation of headband. A robe lazily holds onto his shoulders, loosely tied around his waist to stay in place. His expression is neutral, face pointed down to the newspaper held in his other hand.

Those familiar green eyes flicker up at you when you enter. Although you tread lightly around his home, any noise around him is hardly ever missed.

“Good morning, Y/n,” he greets you gently, setting down his newspaper. It’s only when he examines you does it cross your mind that you quite literally rolled out of bed, and likely look like it too. An amused expression reaches his face as he adds, “Slept well?”

“Yes... I did,” you confirm, touching the ends of your hair. Only for it to drop a moment later; under his observation your only met with warmth. Prompting you to approach the table instead of growing anxious.

You don’t sit down, but you can more clearly examine the details of his face from your position.

“Your bed is very comfortable,” you go on with a smile. “I’m almost jealous.”

He chuckles at your last statement, his smirk shifting to a more genuine smile. Followed by a nod and hum of approval. Rohan takes a moment to take a sip from his cup of coffee, and you give him that moment patiently.

“I’m glad you think so,” he replies, “I do my best to get my eight hours, after all.”

Being someone so meticulous over environment, his response confirms your suspicion that he takes a special care in where he sleeps. Your smile grows wider.

“You think that means I just need to sleep over in order to get my full eight hours?”

Rohan lets out a scoff at that, the sound hiding a laugh at your eager question. “For me, dear. Not for you. You could sleep on the damn floor for all I care.”

“Now, Rohan-“

“But the theory is certainly worth a try,” he cuts you off, that easy smile still on his face. A mischievous gleam flickering in his eyes.

Oh.

“Then we ought to… your bed is really lovely. I’d hate to waste the opportunity,” you reply, picking up what he was putting down. Your tone turns cheeky as you add, “Plus, getting to sleep next to you… well, that’s cool too, I guess.”

“Just cool? You guess? Sleeping beside me?” he scoffs, taking a sip of his coffee. “I made extra coffee, by the way. Go grab yourself a cup; you clearly need it.”

You laugh at his words, glancing over to the coffee pot still sitting patiently on the stove. It’s tempting to go and do as he suggested right away.

Noting to do so in a moment, you turn back to Rohan and ask, “You’re going to be working most of the day today, I assume?"

“Yes,” he nods, “But I can spare some time in the morning.”

You could just faint.

Once again, you know full well there's no one else he'd be willing to spend extra time lounging about in the morning for other than you.

Sensing the joy his words send you, he tilts his head toward the counter. His eyebrows raising as if to say, ‘I’m not going to ask you again.’

A single night to adjust, and staying over at his place is everything you hoped for.

His hospitality... others may not think it, but Rohan is quite fair. He speaks to you directly, welcoming you to join him in whatever he’s doing if he isn’t burying himself in his work.

Most notably, he’ll want you to help him do any of his research. Or rather, he’d like to info dump while skimming through books in or outside the home.

It’s one of several ways he opens his mind to you.

He’ll make extra coffee for you in the morning, sure, but he’s also insistent on making you dinner- depending how sucked into working he gets.

If you take initiative and cook a meal for the both of you, he won’t let it happen again no matter how grateful he may be. You’re still his guest, after all. Better a host treats their guest (He wants to show off for you).

He’ll take you out with him during his non-work-related errands as well.

Rohan doesn’t explicitly tell you why, but it seems to make mundane tasks much easier for him to endure. He isn’t scowling the entire time if you’re there, at least.

All and all, he hopes this will become a habit as much as you do. Expressing that he likes having you there with him in his own special way.

[kateksmallcuteowl]

June 24: Role Reversal/The Shire Falls Instead

(An amazing challenge from @bagginshieldweek24

Still trying to play around with different styles. Hope you like it!

I decided to significantly extend the "alternativeness" of the universe, so we need to start with the Rings of Power. We all know that hobbits do not have rings in canon, but the dwarven rings gave their owners the ability to gain more treasures and become better craftsmen. So, in this AU, seven rings are given to the Hobbits, the creations of Yavanna, to bring the world flourishing agriculture, food, and protection to humans and elves who cannot always engage in farming. Agriculture is a profitable business in general, so over time, immense wealth begins to accumulate in the Shire, which, along with the power of seven rings, attracts the dragon. Bilbo, the thane of the Shire in exile, gathers a team of loyal hobbits (Frodo, his nephew and heir, don't forget, Bilbo is a convinced bachelor, at least until he meets Thorin, Sam and Hamfast Gamgee, Merry and Pippin, as hobbits whose families settled in Rohan and Gondor after the fall of the Shire, and therefore they know how to fight, and maybe some unnamed Tooks). However, they need a warrior who can handle mechanisms and iron, which the hobbits, though having become more "down-to-earth" from the hardships and adversities of exile, do not know how to do.

And a few short headcanons that partially influenced the appearance of the characters in the drawing:

- Bilbo here is more gloomy and serious, he has endured the hardships of life in exile and the death of loved ones (instead of Thror, the old Took was beheaded), he is responsible for the entire operation and needs it the most. Therefore, here he has less curly hair to show a heavier and more stubborn character. He also has a very small ahoge (the tuft of hair sticking up on the top of his head) that mostly just hangs, not expressing much emotion, or stands straight, expressing anxiety and irritation.

- This should have been first, but I think ahoge perfectly suits hobbits as an idea and all hobbits have it, just more or less.

- Thorin here is the prince under the mountain, but since in Middle-earth the social role of hobbits is among the dwarves, he simply lives for his pleasure, working in the forge, creating what he likes. He also has fewer wrinkles and wavier hair here.

- If in the culture of the dwarves everything came from stones, then in hobbits it came from nature, so instead of fur, Bilbo wears a cloak with leaves. They also retain a love for warm bright colors, as in the canon.

- It hurts Gandalf to see the hobbits, whom he loves so much, suffering from the dragon and the hardships of life.

[lamemaster]

Jingle Bells and Chaotic Elves

Request: @wareagleofthemountain I’m new to your blog and love your writing! If it’s okay, may I request a fic where Glorfindel and fem reader are newly weds and, as they begin to build their life together, reader gets a letter from her friend who is a horse trainer. The friend informs her that they have a colt in need of adoption and the reader knows that Glorfindel is in need of a horse. So they take a trip to pick up little baby Asfaloth and raise him! Thank you! 💕

Genre: fluff

Pairing: Glorfindel x Reader

Summary: How best boi Asfaloth came to bear the canonical bells

AN: Thank you for requesting this! I am sorry for being so late but writing animals is something I am still learning! I hope you like it🐴he's bby I love him (had to go back and add asfaloth pov becoz I'm stupid)

It had to be a surprise. Convincing Glorfindel to stay behind while you traveled was no easy feat, and escaping the entirety of Rivendell, an unrivaled hub of gossip proved an even harder bargain.

The only viable plan was to leave during his week of patrol duty, a decision you knew would be a shock upon his return. But you dearly hoped the letter you left, reassuring him of your safe return, would ease the blow.

Once your errand was done, you would seek his forgiveness. A month away, you promised him in that note. Surely, he could wait just that long.

The surprise? A colt.

Your friend Gwendel of Rohan had written to you urgently, detailing how he’d stumbled across the abandoned creature during an evening stroll. Despite his best efforts to find the mare or its owner, no one came forward.

Some had tried to claim the colt, but its fiery temper rejected them all, even Gwendel, whose every act of kindness had been met with resistance. Worse still, the colt refused to eat, its health deteriorating rapidly.

Normally, such an errand would have fallen to Elladan or Elrohir, but Gwendel’s letter stirred something within you.

Glorfindel.

Your beloved had never fully accepted another horse after losing his steed in the First Age. Asfaloth’s absence haunted him, and though his rebirth had brought him back to Middle-earth, his companion’s loss weighed heavy on his heart. Glorfindel grieved for Asfaloth as a father might for a lost child.

Gwendel’s letter had to be a sign. A colt abandoned in the world might find the love it needed in Glorfindel and perhaps offer him some solace in return.

That was your plan.

Until you reached Rohan.

The frail creature that greeted you from the corner of Gwendel’s stable wasn’t just any colt.

It was Asfaloth.

The beautiful snow-white steed that Glorfindel still mourned stood trembling in his stall. The colt’s amber eyes fixed on you, brimming with a light of recognition.

And then, as if time and space had never separated you, he stumbled toward you on wobbly legs, butting his head against your leg.

“Asfaloth,” you whispered, tears pooling in your eyes as your fingers tangled in his soft mane. “It’s truly you.” Bending down, you kissed the top of his head, your heart soaring with love and joy.

You couldn’t wait to tell Glorfindel. He would be over the moon.

That was the plan.

Until the mountain dumped its snows onto Rohan, trapping you there.

From weeks to months, your surprise turned into an adventure, long surpassing Glorfindel’s begetting day. The snow had made travel impossible, and you could only hope that the eventual reunion with Asfaloth would soothe any ire Glorfindel might feel at your absence.

Nestled beside Asfaloth in the stable, you braided his soft mane. His health had improved greatly, thanks to Gwendel’s care and thanks to Asfaloth finally allowing himself to eat.

“Oh dear, I hope Glorfindel isn’t moping in the halls of Imladris,” you mused aloud, to which Asfaloth unhelpfully shook his head, undoing the braids you had just finished.

“I know you miss him,” you sighed, feeding him a carrot. “But you have to be patient. You’re still too young to travel in winter.”

But Asfaloth had other plans.

Without warning, he stood and dashed out of the stable, hooves crunching over the snow. You ran after him, calling his name as the rest of the stable looked on in chaos.

And then he heard it—the sound of bells.

It was the bells he had heard first. The delicate tinkling of your bracelets, clear and familiar, ringing through the snow-covered valley.

Glorfindel had found you.

It had been months since you left, and while the logical choice might have been to wait for your return, Glorfindel’s patience had faltered. At the first clearing of snow, he had set out from Rivendell. If you were in Rohan, he would spend the winter with you.

And there you were, your laughter and bells filling the air.

But as his gaze shifted, his knees nearly buckled.

Standing before him was a colt. A tiny, beautiful Asfaloth neighing in excited greeting. Bells wrapped around the colt’s neck jingled with every delighted prance as Glorfindel knelt to hug his long-lost friend.

“You followed me once again?” Glorfindel whispered, his voice trembling as he knelt before the colt, his arms encircling Asfaloth.

The small steed, now nestled against his chest, let out a soft, contented whinny as Glorfindel buried his face in Asfaloth’s snowy mane.

The bells tied to the colt’s neck jingled faintly with the movement, their merry sound mingling with the shallow breaths of a warrior brought to his knees by the return of his oldest friend.

“You found me,” Glorfindel murmured, his voice breaking as his hand trailed down the colt’s neck. “Even after all this time… you found me.”

Behind Asfaloth, your bracelets jingled similar to Asfaloth's as you ran to meet him. The sight of you and Asfaloth together filled Glorfindel’s heart with a joy he hadn’t felt in ages.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” Glorfindel whispered. His tears fell freely now, vanishing into Asfaloth’s pristine coat. “But you followed me, as you always have.”

Smiling through the tears shining in his eyes, he cradled Asfaloth closer, his hand stroking the colt’s mane. When you reached him, arms wide, Glorfindel rose to meet you, his golden hair catching the sunlight as you embraced.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper. “You brought him back to me.”

“In the wake of your begetting day, I fear my present was delayed,” you said, wrapping your arms around him. “But it seems you found him by yourself.”

“There is no celebration without you,” he replied, his hand lifting to caress your cheek, flushed from the cold and his nearness. “This is the best present of all. I shall be forever grateful.”

Before either of you could say more, Asfaloth squirmed between you, nudging Glorfindel insistently with his head and making his annoyance at being ignored well-known.

Glorfindel’s hand trembled as he stroked Asfaloth’s mane, his touch gentle yet desperate, as though afraid the colt might vanish if he let go.

“You’re my dearest friend,” he said to the colt, his words cracking under the weight of his emotions. “My brave Asfaloth. You’ve returned to me, and I will never let you go again.”

The colt nickered in response, leaning into Glorfindel’s touch.

Months later ~

Chuckling, Glorfindel reached into his satchel for yet another apple, discreetly feeding it to the colt. “What’s with the bells?” he asked, as though to distract you from his indulgence.

Surrounded by the fresh blooms of spring, you laughed, watching Asfaloth now a lively yearling attempt to stomp on an irritating bee buzzing too close to his hooves.

The memory of his infancy in Rohan came rushing back. The trembling colt, spooked by every shadow and sound, fleeing in a desperate, mad dash.

Whatever sorrow had clung to him, whatever shadow had haunted his young heart, had left him terrified and alone, wandering the dark woods.

The bells had been your idea.

You started small, looping one around his neck, letting it chime softly with every step he took.

The sound startled him at first, but soon, the gentle, repetitive ringing became a companion to his movements. A constant he could rely on.

With time, you tied more bells to his halter and to the saddle as he grew. You ran with him, letting the bells ring in harmony with your laughter, teaching him to associate their sound not with fear but with joy and safety.

The bells became a lullaby of sorts, drowning out the forest and glum world that once weighed on him and masking the harsher sounds of the dark he’d feared.

He stopped flinching at every rustling leaf or snapping twig. Step by step, he grew braver, the chiming bells now a comforting melody that guided him toward home.

But such tales were not to be shared with Glorfindel. This lifetime did not deserve such sorrow.

Instead, you smiled, shaking your wrist so the bells on it chimed in harmony with Asfaloth’s. The colt perked up at the familiar sound, his ears twitching as he trotted closer to nuzzle you.

“He’s such a pretty boy,” you said, stroking Asfaloth’s snowy coat with unabashed fondness. “We just wished to match our beauty.”

Glorfindel laughed, a sound rich and bright, as he slipped an arm around your waist. He tilted his head, gazing at you and Asfaloth with a softness that made your heart flutter.

“You’re both too beautiful for me to bear,” he teased gently, resting his forehead briefly against yours. “How is a simple elf supposed to compete with this?”

You chuckled, the bells jingling again as Asfaloth nudged between you both. Glorfindel turned his attention back to the colt, scratching him behind the ears. “It suits you both perfectly,” he added with a fond smile.

And so it was that Asfaloth, the steed who would one day carry the Ringbearer to Imladris, came to bear the sweet sound of bells

Asfaloth wandered, searching for his master.

He was smaller now, his once-proud form reduced to something frail and unfamiliar. The world seemed vast, darker than he remembered, and far more unkind.

He searched the forests, retracing the steps of his past, the places where he had once woken as a youngling. He had expected to find his master nearby, but the only thing that greeted him was the haunting echo of a distant horn. Startled, he had bolted, fear carrying him into the depths of the unknown.

For weeks, he roamed, driven by a desperate need to find the hidden city, the glimmering sanctuary where his lord resided. His heart clenched with unease at every shadow. When the forest buzzed with life, he would whine softly for his master, unable to keep the yearning at bay. But in the eerie silence of the darker woods, he dared not make a sound, fearful of what might lurk there.

His search came to a halt when he encountered a human.

The man had found him and, against Asfaloth’s will, led him away from his wandering. The human’s presence was strange and unwelcome, but Asfaloth was weary.

His strength had been diminished in this fragile form, and fear gnawed at him, keeping him tethered to the company of the human’s herd.

But he would not forget.

No matter how much time passed, no matter how many comforting gestures the mares or the other humans offered, Asfaloth could not accept their touch. His soul burned with loyalty, and he refused to bow to the men who came to claim him.

He fought them off, biting and rearing. He ran from the mares who tried to soothe him with soft nuzzles. Only one was worthy of that closeness. His master.

And yet, exhaustion wore him down.

One cold morning, the frost nipping at his bones, Asfaloth felt hands combing gently through his mane. Too weary to resist, too tired to keep fighting, he leaned into the touch.

It was warm.

For a moment, he allowed himself to succumb to the comfort, to let go of the ever-present ache in his heart. He had grown so cold, so terribly cold. And he missed his master with every fiber of his being.

Then, a soft sound stilled him. The faint, familiar chime of bells.

He froze, his breath hitching as a scent drifted into his senses, sweet and unmistakable. His heart surged as the scent enveloped him, filling him with a bittersweet hope.

It wasn’t his lord.

But it was you.

You, the one dearest to his master. The companion who had been his lord’s closest friend. The bringer of treats, the gentle presence he had trusted so deeply in the past.

At once, the cold vanished from his heart.

For Asfaloth knew.

He knew that if you were here, then his master could not be far behind. His lord—the one he had been seeking would come.

[ao3-quente]

SARUMAN AND THE TOBACCO PLANTATION (canonical!) SUB-PLOT

For a moment, let's contemplate the fact that Merry and Pippin somehow stumble across the best weed in the whole of Middle-earth in Isengard. Was this a small aside with no real payoff?

Of course not. This was JRRT laying the foundation for the final chapters of LOTR, the Scouring of the Shire, and the subject of today's ADHD hyperfixation LOTR deep dive.

1

Saruman has his fingers in many pies, but one of the most subtle is his plot to own the Southfarthing tobacco industry. We see evidence of this in Isengard when Merry and Pippin somehow find Longbottom Leaf from Southfarthing in Saruman's storehouses after the Ents destroy the orc holes there:

[Merry] produced a small leather bag full of tobacco. ‘We have heaps of it,’ he said; ‘and you can all pack as much as you wish, when we go. We did some salvage-work this morning, Pippin and I. There are lots of things floating about. It was Pippin who found two small barrels, washed up out of some cellar or store-house, I suppose. When we opened them, we found they were filled with this: as fine a pipe-weed as you could wish for, and quite unspoilt.’

Gimli took some and rubbed it in his palms and sniffed it. ‘It feels good, and it smells good,’ he said.

‘It is good!’ said Merry. ‘My dear Gimli, it is Longbottom Leaf! There were the Hornblower brandmarks on the barrels, as plain as plain. How it came here, I can't imagine. For Saruman's private use, I fancy. I never knew that it went so far abroad. But it comes in handy now.’

2

How did Saruman get hold of it indeed! Remember Sam looking into Galadriel's mirror:

Like a dream the vision shifted and went back, and he saw the trees again. But this time they were not so close, and he could see what was going on: they were not waving in the wind, they were falling, crashing to the ground.

‘Hi!’ cried Sam in an outraged voice. ‘There's that Ted Sandyman a-cutting down trees as he shouldn't. They didn't ought to be felled: it's that avenue beyond the Mill that shades the road to Bywater. I wish I could get at Ted, and I'd fell him!’

But now Sam noticed that the Old Mill had vanished, and a large red-brick building was being put up where it had stood. Lots of folk were busily at work. There was a tall red chimney nearby. Black smoke seemed to cloud the surface of the Mirror.

‘There's some devilry at work in the Shire,’ he said.

Why is there deforestation in the Shire, not six months after Sam and Frodo left Bag End? Has Saruman had dealings with Lotho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, to expand the trade of tobacco and its export from Hobbiton? Aragorn also finds this odd:

‘All except one thing,’ said Aragorn: ‘leaf from the Southfarthing in Isengard. The more I consider it, the more curious I find it. I have never been in Isengard, but I have journeyed in this land, and I know well the empty countries that lie between Rohan and the Shire. Neither goods nor folk have passed that way for many a long year, not openly. Saruman had secret dealings with someone in the Shire, I guess. Wormtongues may be found in other houses than King Théoden's. Was there a date on the barrels?’

‘Yes,’ said Pippin. ‘It was the 1417 crop, that is last year's; no, the year before, of course, now: a good year.’

‘Ah well, whatever evil was afoot is over now, I hope; or else it is beyond our reach at present,’ said Aragorn.

3

Toward the end of the book, the four Hobbits find out about the evil that is afoot. They encounter Saruman, who seems to be heading north and hints ominously of his connection to the Shire after asking for pipe-weed. Merry gives him some of the weed from Isengard, and Saruman slyly mentions that things in the Shire are 'less good' than Merry would like.

‘So you have come to gloat too, have you, my urchins?’ he said. ‘You don't care what a beggar lacks, do you? For you have all you want, food and fine clothes, and the best weed for your pipes. Oh yes, I know! I know where it comes from. You would not give a pipeful to a beggar, would you?’

‘I would, if I had any,’ said Frodo.

‘You can have what I have got left,’ said Merry, ‘if you will wait a moment.’ He got down and searched in the bag at his saddle. Then he handed to Saruman a leather pouch. ‘Take what there is,’ he said. ‘You are welcome to it; it came from the flotsam of Isengard.’

‘Mine, mine, yes and dearly bought!’ cried Saruman, clutching at the pouch. ‘This is only a repayment in token; for you took more, I'll be bound. Still, a beggar must be grateful, if a thief returns him even a morsel of his own. Well, it will serve you right when you come home, if you find things less good in the Southfarthing than you would like. Long may your land be short of leaf!’

4

What's happening to the pipe-weed crop for the Shire that there is not much of it in store? When the Hobbits and Gandalf stop by the Prancing Pony on the way home, Barliman also mentions the shortage:

‘That is just what we should like, too,’ said Gandalf. ‘[...]If you have any pipe-weed, we'll bless you.’

‘Well, if you'd called for anything else, I'd have been happier,’ said Butterbur. ‘That's just a thing that we're short of, seeing how we've only got what we grow ourselves, and that's not enough. There's none to be had from the Shire these days. But I'll do what I can.’

When he came back he brought them enough to last them for a day or two, a wad of uncut leaf. ‘Southlinch,’ he said, ‘and the best we have; but not the match of Southfarthing, as I've always said though I'm all for Bree in most matters, begging your pardon.’

Sam, Merry, and Gandalf all finally put together their suspicions:

‘I wonder what old Barliman was hinting at,’ said Frodo.

‘I can guess some of it,’ said Sam gloomily. ‘What I saw in the Mirror: trees cut down and all, and my old gaffer turned out of the Row. I ought to have hurried back quicker.’

‘And something's wrong with the Southfarthing evidently,’ said Merry. ‘There's a general shortage of pipe-weed.’

‘Whatever it is,’ said Pippin, ‘Lotho will be at the bottom of it: you can be sure of that.’

‘Deep in, but not at the bottom,’ said Gandalf. ‘You have forgotten Saruman. He began to take an interest in the Shire before Mordor did.’

5

The further into the Shire they travel, the more they find out that Lotho is, in fact, involved. First from one of the guard-hobbits, Hob Hayward, at the edge of the Shire:

‘Well now, what about a smoke, while you tell us what has been happening in the Shire?’ [Pippin] said.

‘There isn't no pipe-weed now,’ said Hob; ‘at least only for the Chief's men. All the stocks seem to have gone. We do hear that waggon-loads of it went away down the old road out of the Southfarthing, over Sarn Ford way. That would be the end o' last year, after you left. But it had been going away quietly before that, in a small way. That Lotho—’

And now we have it. Lotho and Saruman struck up a deal for Longbottom Leaf, and Saruman slowly infiltrated the Shire with more and more "ruffians" to keep the trade flowing.

6

Finally we hear the entire tale of it from Rosie's dad, Farmer Cotton, during the Scouring:

‘It all began with Pimple, as we call him,’ said Farmer Cotton; ‘and it began as soon as you'd gone off, Mr. Frodo. He'd funny ideas, had Pimple. Seems he wanted to own everything himself, and then order other folk about. It soon came out that he already did own a sight more than was good for him; and he was always grabbing more, though where he got the money was a mystery: mills and malt-houses and inns, and farms, and leaf-plantations.

‘Of course he started with a lot of property in the Southfarthing which he had from his dad; and it seems he'd been selling a lot o' the best leaf, and sending it away quietly for a year or two. But at the end o' last year he began sending away loads of stuff, not only leaf. Things began to get short, and winter coming on, too. Folk got angry, but he had his answer. A lot of Men, ruffians mostly, came with great waggons, some to carry off the goods south-away, and others to stay. And more came. And before we knew where we were they were planted here and there all over the Shire, and were felling trees and digging and building themselves sheds and houses just as they liked. At first goods and damage was paid for by Pimple; but soon they began lording it around and taking what they wanted.'

7

Then Saruman dies by Grima's dirk and Sam single-handedly gardens away every wrong done to the Shire, and pipe-weed is back in the hands of its rightful owners.

But Sam, Merry, Pippin, (Aragorn,) and Gandalf were right -- the pipe-weed of the Shire is inextricably bound up in a small dramatic sub-plot of its own, with greed, betrayal, Lotho, Saruman, all seeking dominion over THE HALFLING'S LEAF.

[dioslesbianwife]

Hi

I hope it’s not too much but could you do a part 4 head cannon that has a reader who is a conspiracy theorist who is unknowingly predicting the truth but the reader is oblivious to this fact.

ooh sure! hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting!

Morioh is a weird town, and you know it. Something isn’t right. You can feel it in your bones. The government’s hiding something. There’s something in the water. The radio static? A message.

Too bad no one takes you seriously.

But here’s the kicker- you’re right. You just don’t realize how right.

Josuke & Okuyasu

At first, they think you’re just a fun, eccentric weirdo. Josuke finds your theories hilarious, while Okuyasu is about one step away from fully believing you.

"Dude, what if they're onto something?"

"Bro, they just said the town is being monitored by ‘shadow birds’ from an alternate dimension.”

”Okay, but what if-”

The moment you casually mention how Morioh has an “unusual amount of serial killers” compared to its size, Josuke actually stops laughing. Because... you’re right.

You go on a rant about how the “small-town vibe” is a cover-up for something darker, and Josuke starts sweating because yep. That’s basically what’s happening.

Rohan Kishibe

He hates you. You are the most frustrating person he’s ever met.

You barge into his house mid-rant:

“Rohan, you have to hear this. I’ve figured it out- the economy of Morioh is fake. This town should not be able to sustain itself. Someone’s funding it from the shadows.”

Rohan staring at you because you just accidentally figured out the Morioh Grandfather Paradox but for money.

“Get out.”

He’s tempted- so tempted- to use Heaven’s Door just to see how your brain works.

He refuses to admit you might be onto something. But every now and then, you say something too accurate, and he just narrows his eyes at you.

Koichi Hirose

He starts off politely humoring you. “That’s an... interesting theory, [Name].”

But then you start talking about something that actually happened to him.

"Haha, wow, that’s... crazy. What a silly idea! Haha..." internally freaking out

He absolutely tells Jotaro about you at some point.

Jotaro Kujo

He immediately clocks you as a potential problem. Not because you’re dangerous, but because you keep guessing things too accurately.

He doesn’t like coincidences, and you? You’re a walking, talking coincidence factory.

He does not tell you you’re right, though. He figures the last thing you need is validation.

Kira Yoshikage

He despises you.

At first, he brushes you off as just another weird citizen of Morioh.

But then you start saying things like, “You know, I think the killer is someone super normal. Someone you’d never suspect. Maybe even a guy who works an office job, buys sandwiches, totally unremarkable...”

Kira sweating profusely.

The fact that you don’t even realize how close you are to the truth infuriates him.

He seriously considers making you his next victim, but you’re so chaotic and unpredictable that he doesn’t want to risk drawing attention to himself.

Instead, he just prays you never actually put the pieces together.

Bonus: Your Most Unhinged Theories

“Tonio puts something in his food.” → (Tonio’s Stand can heal people through food. That’s basically the same thing)

“There’s a secret society in Morioh that manipulates fate.” → (Technically true. The Stand users are literally shaping reality here.)

“The local radio station is sending coded messages.” → (Probably not canon but lowkey would be creepy cool)

“One day, I’m gonna discover a secret so dangerous it’ll change everything.” → (You already have)

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Religion in Rohan

On the recommendation of @sotwk and on the off chance that others find this interesting or useful, here is another summary of some of the background head canons that support how I think of Rohan when I'm writing stories set there. This one is about religion, for lack of a better term, and covers at a high level what they think about gods, the afterlife, etc. and the influence of that on their culture. I fine-tuned some of this recently as part of a back-and-forth with others, and it's (hopefully?) more interesting than my pages of thoughts about changes in Rohan's horse breeding economy over time (the TL;DR there is that Théoden’s grandfather created crown-sponsored horse breeding enterprises to better supply the expanding army, but that ended up forcing some of the traditional horse breeding families into poverty)! Anywho...

Most of what we know about the religious history of Middle Earth (the full Silmarillion-style recounting of Eru, the Valar, the making of the world, etc.) comes via the elves and Númenóreans. But the Northmen ancestors of the Rohirrim didn’t really interact much with these groups, and so their knowledge of that history was limited to what they directly experienced themselves or what filtered through to them in sometimes irregular ways. This means their belief system, which is what became the Rohirrim belief system, is a mix of those Silmarillion-style ideas plus concepts they picked up in other places and some homegrown beliefs and practices. 

For example, the Rohirrim don’t make a real distinction between Eru and the Valar. To them, they’re all “the gods” who made the world and are of roughly equal power and importance (though they are particularly attached to one as further discussed below). 

They also recognize fewer of the Valar than others do, having a stripped down set of 7 associated with earth, sky, water, plants/animals, battle/protection, weather, and all things to do with the spirit/soul (roughly corresponding to the Silm’s Aulë, Varda, Ulmo, Yavanna, Oromë, Vána and Eru). The compression of all the spirit-based Valar into just one likely happened because these Valar almost never left Valinor and so the evidence of their separate existence for those who had never been there was tenuous at best. Although the Rohirrim gods have spheres of influence as denoted above, the lines between these gods are porous and they might all be involved in anything. They also each have their own Rohirric names.

The Rohirrim don’t practice their beliefs in a form that is anything like organized religion – no formal rites, ceremonies, prayers, etc. They simply pass down beliefs from generation to generation, and individuals or families may all have different ways of expressing those beliefs (or may choose not to express them in any sense). The primary purpose of their beliefs is to explain the world as they see it around them (How was the world created? Where did this storm come from? etc.). People may appeal to a certain god for help in difficult times or they may give thanks to a god for luck or fortune, but they also believe direct, purposeful intervention by a god in the real world is extremely limited since the War of Wrath and the end of the First Age. This causes the Rohirrim to put a lot of weight on both living honorably and taking care of your community, because there probably is no god coming to help you – you can only help each other. 

Unlike the Gondorians, who think the ultimate fate of mortals beyond the world is unknown, the Rohirrim believe in a very specific afterlife. They believe the gods come to collect the dead and reunite them with their families so that they can “live” a second existence together with one another (the so-called “halls of our fathers”). Anyone who doesn’t deserve admittance to their family’s halls is put in service of the spirit/soul god until they’ve earned their honor back through deeds.

The Rohirrim are particularly attached to their god that is the Valar Oromë the huntsman, who they call Béma and associate with both battle and protection. He was a great favorite of the Northmen, and this connection was passed on through time to the Rohirrim. 

They believe that, just as he did for the earliest elves, Béma rode among early men. They don’t care that the elves and Gondorians don’t believe this happened; they will not be swayed and say that he came in disguise, which is why others didn’t recognize him. They further believe that Béma chose their ancestors among early men to be his loyal foot soldiers in the fight against the evil creatures of the world. He asked for their aid, and they granted it. This established a firm belief among them that coming to the aid of an ally against evil is a sacred duty, never to be refused or ignored when requested in good faith.

As his allies, Béma bestowed horses on them, and the most treasured and best of those horses (the mearas) are thought to be descendants of Béma’s own horse, Hnaegan (whose elvish name, Nahar, is meant to evoke the sound of neighing and so the Rohirrim call him by the Rohirric word for “neigh”). Because Béma always hunted and fought on horseback and usually announced his arrival through the blowing of his great horn, the Rohirrim inherited these same practices from their ancestors.

Béma also influenced the disposition of the people, who adopted his very stern personality and his tendency to pursue thankless duty with grim determination. Showing Béma-like strength and persistence in the face of insurmountable odds is considered one of the very highest demonstrations of character in Rohan, akin to a religious virtue.

While their reverence for Béma shaped many significant elements of Rohirric culture and identity, they also ask/hope for his intervention in times of crisis. As a huntsman, they leave him small offerings of spear heads or bridle bits when they most hope that he will come to their aid, and the phrases “Béma protect us” or “thank Béma” are common parts of the lexicon – as noted above, they don’t necessarily *expect* Béma will show up and intervene, but it doesn’t hurt to ask!

Although their focus is Béma, the Rohirrim also give some primacy of place to his wife, whose name is Vána in the Silmarillion and is called Ácith in Rohan as the rough translation of her epithet “Ever-young”. She’s associated with the weather and turning of the seasons. Much like the other peoples of Middle Earth, the Rohirrim say that flowers bloom in Ácith’s wake as she walks through the world, which she does at the end of each winter to usher in the spring. The Rohirrim also believe that the consistent and otherwise unexplained appearance of simbelmynë on their graves is evidence that Ácith has been there to personally escort the dead to the halls of their fathers. The Rohirric expression that someone “went with Ácith” means that they died.

Other common Rohirric expressions with religious roots: “the light of Hnaegan” (a sign of hope in a bad situation, deriving from the sparks of light that came from Nahar’s golden hooves and were the first light in the world after Morgoth killed the trees); “you’re going to hear Béma’s horn” (you really fucked up and are about to experience someone’s wrath); and “to earn the hall” (doing something good and honorable that would earn your place in the afterlife halls of your fathers).

[frodothefair]

𖣂 ── The Song of Heruwine & Tawarien

𖣂 Stave I. Home

SUMMARY :  Heruwine is a Rider of Rohan and a talented bard who is wounded in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. Tawarien is a humble assistant at the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, who fled from her home when her family was lost. Together, they make a life after the War of the Ring.

PAIRING : Heruwine / Tawarien (OCs)  CANON CHARACTERS : Denethor, Ioreth, Théoden, Éomer, Éowyn, Elfhelm THEMES : caregiving to love, secret relationship, marriage RATING : T┃WORD COUNT : 5500 WARNINGS : death, suicide, pregnancy and pregnancy complications (nothing graphic, hence the T rating)

READ ON AO3 ┃ PREVIEW :

But then came the day of the momentous wrist-grab – she had almost jumped and spilled her pitcher when his fingers closed around her wrist, but then their eyes had met and with a gentle pull, Heruwine bade her sit beside him. And so she sat, and they talked in earnest – talked about everything they felt: his longing, her hesitation, his desire to know her, her kindness and the way things changed for him when he struck his head and broke his arm so badly that it had to be repaired with horse tendons.  And after that, they did not cease talking: they talked about seemingly everything in the world, and they exchanged letters when the days got busy for her – letters filled with fanciful endearments and arresting observations that he wrote laboriously with his left hand – and before long, she began to request the night watch so they could be together, and by then, they were doing more than just talking.

TAGS : @lady-of-ithilien @emmathefanficgal @eurydices-dreams, @konartiste @ridingforrohan @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @dilettantefeminist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed)

[xxdevwritesstuffxx]

Sunburnt (Rohan x Reader) - Part 4

Summary: From a sun-soaked hike to a cliffside monastery to playful lunches and souvenir shop chaos, you and Rohan wander deeper into the heart of Santorini—and maybe something more. Between stolen sketches, shared photos, and late-night talks under the stars, slow mornings at bookshop cafés feel more intimate than either of them expected.

Genre/Warnings: Light Angst, Fluff, Slow burn, Gender-neutral reader (referred to with they/them/theirs pronouns),Eventual Smut, Sexual Tension, Mutual Pining, Found Family, Post-Canon, Travel Fic.

Word count: 7,196 words

꒰꒰・┄┄┄┄・♡・┄┄┄┄・꒱꒱

10:00 AM. Base of the hiking trail.

The path began as little more than a staircase carved from time and stone, winding upward from the sun-drenched village into the cliffs. It wasn’t well-marked—just a faded wooden sign nailed into a crumbling wall that read “Προς Μοναστήρι” with a painted arrow pointing toward the sky.

You tilted your head back, squinting. “That… goes up a lot higher than I thought.”

Rohan, standing beside you with his sketchbook already in hand, barely glanced up. “I told you it was a hike. You insisted we were ‘well-rested.’”

“I am well-rested. I’m also sunburned and full of pastries.”

He clicked his tongue, closing his sketchbook with one hand and adjusting his sunglasses. “That’s your own fault. No one made you eat those six pastries before ascending a mountain.”

“Five and a half,” you corrected, starting up the first set of uneven steps. “And don’t act like you didn’t finish your bougatsa.”

“I was being polite.”

“You licked powdered sugar off your fingers like it owed you money.”

He didn’t respond, which you took as a victory.

The trail wrapped around the side of the cliff, slowly peeling away from the village behind you. Farther up, the wind picked up—a warm, salty breeze carrying gull cries and the faint scent of herbs baking in the sun.

Cypress and thyme grew wild along the edges of the crumbling footpath, and the bright white dome of the monastery appeared above, like a marble egg nested in the rocks.

You both fell quiet for a stretch, breathing in the rhythm of your footsteps. Occasionally, Rohan would pause, lean into the railing, and scribble something into his notebook: a sharp angle of stone, the curve of a distant boat’s sail, the way the sea looked like it was bleeding gold at the edges.

You didn’t ask what he was drawing. You never did. But watching him work in silence felt more intimate than asking would’ve been anyway.

Your shoulders still stung under your shawl, and every now and then, you’d wince and shift the fabric. Rohan noticed.

“I told you to reapply sunscreen,” he muttered without looking up.

“I did.”

“When?”

“Like…back at the villa…”

He scoffed.

You trudged on, biting back a smirk, and took a sip from your water bottle. “You know, you’re more of a pain in the daylight.”

“I could say the same for you.”

”You’re like a pissed off vampire.”

He choked back a laugh, “Oh, I’m so flattered.”

Another ten minutes passed. The steps became steeper, and the monastery loomed closer now. You could finally make out the narrow windows and a tiny bell tower barely taller than the cypress trees growing beside it. You could see where the plaster had chipped from decades of wind and salt.

When you finally reached the arched entrance, breath caught somewhere in your throat. Not from the climb—though that hadn’t helped—but from the view.

The caldera opened below you like the mouth of a giant, the sea endless and shimmering in every direction. The world felt small and suspended.

Timeless.

Rohan stood beside you, breathing steadily but flushed, one hand on the low stone wall as he looked out. You could tell—he was seeing things in layers, imagining frames, deciding what would make it into his art and what wouldn’t.

“…Worth it?” you asked, panting.

He didn’t answer at first. Then, a quiet: “Yes.”

The monastery itself was closed, likely only open during certain hours, but you both found a shaded alcove by the bell tower to sit down. You peeled open a small bag of candied figs—your final stash—and offered him one without looking. He accepted it without a word.

The breeze was gentler now, wrapping around the stone bell tower and rustling the sparse olive branches nearby. You had both been sitting in the shade for a while—just resting, listening to the hum of the wind and the occasional echo of a goat’s bell somewhere far down the slope.

Rohan was the first to move. He pulled his sketchbook from his bag and settled it on one knee, flipping past pages already half-filled with jagged cliff sides, stern faces, and sweeping lines of sea foam.

Without speaking, he began to draw, the soft sound of his pencil dragging against the paper breaking the silence.

You leaned over slightly, watching the movement of his hand. He was quick but precise, shoulders relaxed and expression unreadable beneath the tilt of his sunglasses. You knew better than to ask what he was drawing—he didn’t like to be interrupted while working—but your fingers twitched with the itch to do something too.

“Do you want to try?” he asked suddenly, eyes not leaving the page.

You blinked. “Try?”

He flipped a few pages further back, tearing out a blank sheet with clean edges. Then, from his pocket, he retrieved a spare pen—one of those sleek, expensive-looking ones with an unusually heavy weight to it—and held it out to you.

“…Seriously?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t. You’ve been hovering like a mosquito.”

You snatched the pen with a mock glare, but your heart jumped a little. It wasn’t every day Kishibe Rohan handed you a piece of paper and didn’t demand to see it first.

You placed your small canvas on a flat piece of rock and stared at the page for a moment, then glanced at the view. The sea, the caldera, the little white houses clinging to the cliffs like barnacles. It felt too big, too beautiful to get down right—but you could try.

You weren’t an artist, not really, but you remembered how to doodle.

So you started.

Your lines were messy, unsure, more impression than precision. You sketched the bell tower first, then added a stick-figure version of Rohan with his weird triangular headband askew.

It was stupid. And kind of ugly. But something about it made you grin.

Rohan eventually leaned over and glanced at your work. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“I captured your essence.”

He made a face. “You made me look like a cactus.”

“You are kinda’ like a cactus.”

He smirked—just barely—and nudged your arm with his shoulder. “Move over.”

You shifted, and he drew directly beside your sketch, as if adding a note in the margins. His lines were sharp and assured, sketching a miniature version of the sea view next to your cartoon chaos.

Side by side, it looked like two completely different people had witnessed the same day.

Two completely different minds.

“I think I like yours better,” you said, fidgeting with the cap of the pen.

“You shouldn’t. Yours actually says something.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

Rohan didn’t answer.

You looked down at your sketch again. It was dumb and lopsided, but it made you smile.

You were debating whether to keep it hidden in your notebook or fold it up into your suitcase later when, with the stealth of a practiced thief, Rohan reached over and plucked it from your hands.

“Hey!” you swiped at it, but he leaned away, holding it out of reach.

“It’s my paper and my pen,” he said coolly, folding the drawing once—then again—before tucking it neatly into the inner pocket of his sketchbook. “Technically, it belongs to me.”

“You can’t just steal it!”

“Can and did.”

“You’re so—ugh—you’re insufferable! That was personal!” You shoved his arm. “Give it back!”

He merely adjusted his sunglasses and turned his gaze toward the horizon, entirely unmoved. “It’s a… curious interpretation of me. I’ll treasure it.”

You huffed, crossing your arms and slumping back against the wall, muttering something about “creative theft” and “artistic tyranny.”

But Rohan didn’t say anything else.

Later—when the sketchbooks were packed away—you didn’t see how carefully he placed your folded doodle between two pages of his own work, like a pressed flower. He didn’t make a show of it, didn’t smirk or comment. He just carried it with him, tucked somewhere safe.

————————

12:30 PM. The walk to lunch.

The sun had shifted westward by the time the two of you packed up and began your descent from the monastery. The trail was narrower on the way down, winding through fragrant brush and sun-warmed stone, the sound of cicadas rising and falling around you like waves.

Distant gulls cried from somewhere beyond the cliffs, their voices carried in the wind.

Your shoulders still ached faintly, and your legs were tired from the climb, but you didn’t mind the way the gravel crunched under your sandals or how the breeze tugged at the hem of your shirt.

Everything was bright, golden, and just slightly unreal—like being caught in the middle of a painting.

“You’re still mad about the sketch,” Rohan said beside you, not looking up from the narrow trail.

“I’m not mad,” you lied.

He raised a brow, lips twitching. “You’ve sighed dramatically four times in the past minute.”

“That’s just how I breathe when I’m near a tyrant.”

“Hm. Well, your breathing is very performative.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re one to talk, Mr. ‘It’s Mine Because It’s My Pen.’”

“It is my pen.”

You let out an exaggerated groan and stumbled theatrically down the slope, arms flailing. “So what, if I breathe near your pen now, that’s your air too?”

“Obviously.”

“Rohan!”

He just smirked.

By the time you reached the edge of the hill path, the tension had mostly dissolved into something like heat-soaked amusement. Your limbs were aching, your sketchbook felt heavy in your bag, and your throat was dry from the trail—but your chest felt lighter.

Santorini’s white buildings and cascading bougainvillea came into view again, scattered across the slope below like broken porcelain. Somewhere in the distance, the soft sound of music drifted up from an open taverna.

“We should eat,” you said, brushing sweat from your forehead.

“No argument there,” Rohan replied, stretching his arms over his head until his spine popped. “Though preferably somewhere that isn’t crawling with tourists or blasting Europop.”

You both scanned the rows of terraces and rooftops below, eyes landing on a quiet-looking café nestled between two art galleries, just shy of the main street.

It had a shaded patio overlooking the sea, with only a few patrons—a perfect midpoint between scenic and secluded.

“That one?” you asked.

Rohan nodded, and the two of you started down again in silence, the kind that had grown familiar and comfortable over the last few days.

After a minute, you said softly, almost without thinking, “You know, I actually liked that sketch.”

“I did too,” Rohan replied, with uncharacteristic honesty. “That’s why I kept it.”

You blinked at him. “You mean you didn’t just take it out of spite?”

He scoffed, but didn’t elaborate.

You didn’t push. Instead, your fingers briefly brushed his as you walked beside him—accidental or not, you weren’t sure—and neither of you pulled away.

By the time you reached the bottom of the hill, the air was thick with the smell of grilled octopus and oregano, and the café’s shaded patio welcomed you like a sigh.

Rohan pulled out a chair for you without a word, and you didn’t comment on it, though you felt your ears go warm.

————————

The breeze swept in from the caldera just as you sat down, your legs grateful for the rest. Rohan, of course, settled into his chair across from you with the kind of graceful detachment only he could manage—still unbothered despite the miles you’d just hiked.

“You didn’t have to pull my chair out,” you muttered, grabbing a cloth napkin and unfolding it with forced casualness.

“It’s called manners,” he replied, lifting the menu like a shield. “Some people appreciate them.”

“Yeah, well…” you fidgeted with your fork. “You do something unexpectedly nice and it throws off the entire balance of the universe.”

He gave a light snort but didn’t press further. You watched the way the sunlight caught the green sheen of his hair, how a bead of sweat traced down his temple and disappeared into the collar of his shirt, slightly undone from the heat.

You cleared your throat and quickly buried your face in your menu.

The café was quiet, just the soft clink of plates and the hum of conversation in Greek from another table. Their server—a young woman with sunburnt shoulders and a quick smile—came by and filled your glasses with cold water, leaving a little carafe of house white wine without needing to be asked.

You took a sip and leaned on your elbow. “Alright,” you said, trying not to grin. “Let’s make it interesting.”

Rohan barely looked up from his menu. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” you said. “Let’s order lunch for each other.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He finally looked at you, face unreadable. “Why would I subject myself to that?”

“Because it’s fun. And because you’re impossible to surprise.”

“I like ordering my own food.”

“Exactly why you need to live a little.” You leaned in across the table, resting your chin on your hand. “Come on. Worst case scenario, I accidentally get you grilled sardines and you sulk for twenty minutes.”

“I do not sulk.”

“You sulked for three hours when the bakery sold out of the lemon tarts.”

“That was a justified reaction.”

You tried not to laugh and failed. “Please?”

His eyes lingered on yours, gaze narrowing like he was trying to figure out if this was a trap. Eventually, he set his menu down with a dramatic sigh.

“You’re relentless.”

“I take that as a yes.”

“Fine. But if I end up eating something with olives in it, I will hold it against you until I die.”

You grinned and flagged down the server, the two of you placing your mystery orders while the other tried not to peek or eavesdrop. Rohan was suspiciously quick with his.

“What did you choose?” you asked after she left.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You pouted. “If it’s just water and a sad plate of tomatoes I’m walking into the sea.”

“That would be overly dramatic…Oh wait- that’s almost you’re entire personality,” He smirked

“Excuse you-!? I’ll come over there and beat you to a pulp.”

He looked down at his wineglass and swirled the contents slightly. “It’s so enjoyable watching you get so flustered, you know?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He said nothing. Just took another sip of wine and avoided eye contact.

Before you could reply, your food arrived. The server placed a plate in front of you—fresh grilled halloumi over figs and honey-drizzled arugula, with little lemon-roasted potatoes on the side. Your eyes widened.

“Oh my god, Rohan. You remembered I like salty-sweet things.”

He gave a single shrug, eyes fixed on his own mystery dish—a seafood risotto with fresh mussels, shrimp, and chunks of tomato. His face tensed, but he took a cautious bite.

“Well?” you asked.

He chewed, then nodded. “…Acceptable.”

“‘Acceptable’?” you repeated, offended. “I chose that with love!”

“I’m allergic to sentiment.”

You both dug into your food between sips of wine, the soft afternoon stretching lazily between you like sun-warmed silk. The fig drizzle on your plate was so good you almost teared up.

“This is the best lunch I’ve ever had,” you said around a bite.

“It’s your obsession with figs speaking.”

“I’m renaming myself Fig. It’s who I am now.”

He chuckled under his breath and shook his head, and even though he pretended not to notice, you caught the way his foot bumped against yours beneath the table—and didn’t move away.

You slumped back in your chair, fork abandoned in the remnants of your salad. “I’m uncomfortably full. And I regret nothing.”

Rohan was dabbing at his mouth with his napkin, his plate already pushed to the side—completely cleared, you noticed with pride. “I’ll admit it,” he said. “The game was not a total disaster.”

“High praise,” you muttered. “From Kishibe Rohan, master of culinary judgment.”

He ignored you and reached for the wine carafe, refilling both your glasses without a word. The wine had warmed a little in the sun, but the last few sips went down sweet and bright. You felt pleasantly sleepy—buzzed, full, and sun-drunk.

Across from you, Rohan’s sketchbook was back out again, the edge of the paper curling a little in the heat. He was flipping absently through pages, pencil caught between his fingers, but not really drawing.

You tilted your head. “You ever relax?”

“I’m eating lunch with you in Greece. That’s practically retirement.”

You laughed softly, brushing crumbs off your lap. “Fair point.”

The lull between you was comfortable. The kind you didn’t need to fill with words. The café had emptied out a little as the afternoon heat thickened.

A waiter brought the check, and without thinking, you reached for it—only for Rohan’s hand to beat you to it.

“Don’t start,” he said, pulling it smoothly toward himself.

“But I picked the wine.”

“You picked the game. And subjected me to a social experiment. I think you’ve done enough.”

“I fed you seafood risotto made with love.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It was competent.”

“You ate every bite!”

“I was starving.”

You made a face at him, and he smiled behind his hand in a way you almost missed. He placed the euros on the table, exact change, because of course he had exact change.

As you stood, a soft breeze lifted your hair. Rohan reached out—without even thinking—and brushed a strand from your cheek. His fingers were cool. His touch feather-light. It lingered just a moment too long before he pulled away, clearing his throat like he hadn’t meant to do it at all.

“You’ve got fig jam on your face,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes and wiped it with your napkin, mortified. “You could’ve just said that.”

“I was trying to spare you the humiliation.”

“How noble.”

He turned to leave and you fell into step beside him, both of you shaded under the slatted awning as you walked out into the bright street again.

“So,” you said, pretending to squint at the sky. “Nap, or more fig-related detours?”

“I will throw your jar of candied figs off a cliff.”

“I bought two,” you said smugly. “You don’t know where the second one is.”

Rohan sighed, the kind of long-suffering noise that was starting to sound less like annoyance and more like affection. He tucked his hands in his pockets. “Let’s walk. If I sit now, I’ll fall asleep in public.”

You elbowed him gently. “Then let’s head off.”

——————

2:00 PM. Strolling aimlessly.

The shop looked like a cliché postcard exploded inside of it.

Bright blue evil eye trinkets hung from every possible surface—keychains, wall hangings, earrings, magnets.

Shelves were crammed with miniature donkeys, bottles of ouzo, ceramic ashtrays, and t-shirts proudly declaring “I GOT GREEKED IN SANTORINI.” The scent of cheap incense mingled with sunscreen and sun-warmed plastic.

You grinned the second you stepped inside.

“Oh, this is exactly what I wanted,” you said, clasping your hands dramatically.

Rohan stopped just past the doorway, taking in the chaos with visible horror. “Why are we here?”

“Because we’re tourists, and I need something tacky to remember this by. It’s called immersion, Rohan.”

“Immersion doesn’t require bad design choices.”

You picked up a fridge magnet shaped like a church dome with googly eyes. “This is perfect.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was beginning to think you had decent taste.”

You wandered further in, poking through bins of embroidered coin purses and dusty stacks of postcards. The floor creaked underfoot. A fan spun lazily overhead, barely denting the heat. Rohan stayed close, but looked like he was being held hostage.

“You should get something,” you said, flipping through a rack of souvenir shirts. “Something dumb. For the irony.”

“I don’t do irony.”

“Then get a hand-carved wooden donkey. Make it the new mascot for Pink Dark Boy.”

He gave you a flat look. “Hell no.”

You plucked a hat from a display—white with a blue ribbon and the word Santorini embroidered across the brim in glittery script—and plopped it onto your head.

“Well?”

Rohan blinked. You swore he tried not to smile.

“Makes you look like a tourist,” he said. “And that you’re about to cry.”

You gasped. “Okay, rude, but also accurate.”

Before he could turn away, you reached for a nearby pair of tourist sunglasses—big, red, heart-shaped ones—and held them up to his face. “You, though. These? Perfection.”

He recoiled. “Absolutely not.”

“Just try them on.”

“No.”

“For the bit.”

“There is no bit.”

You wiggled the glasses at him. “Do it for the culture.”

He groaned, but took them with a snap of his fingers, and with exaggerated resignation, slid them on.

You doubled over laughing. “Oh my god, you look like a celebrity going incognito during a mental breakdown.”

“I feel like I’ve lost my dignity.”

“That happened the second you followed me into this shop.”

Rohan took them off and handed them back with a sigh, already heading toward the door. “Pick something and let’s go before someone asks me to sign their Mykonos tank top.”

You ended up buying a snow globe, a tiny hand-painted plate, and a cheap ceramic donkey that you insisted resembled Rohan (“Look at the judgmental eyes!”).

He paid without protest—mostly to speed your exit—and rolled his eyes all the way down the hill when you proudly cradled your bag of kitschy treasures like they were priceless relics.

——————-

The afternoon sun bathed the narrow street in soft gold, casting long shadows and making the walls around you glow. Your paper shopping bag rustled in your hand as the two of you stepped out of the souvenir shop, Rohan grumbling under his breath about “losing brain cells by the minute.”

But you were riding the high of your purchase.

You stopped at a quiet spot along a low wall, a view of the blue domes and shimmering sea behind you.

Tugging the gaudy Santorini hat snug on your head, you slipped the scarf ribbon under your chin with mock elegance. The ceramic donkey peeked out of the top of the bag like an honored guest.

“I look amazing,” you declared.

“You look like someone who got separated from their cruise ship,” Rohan muttered.

You ignored him, turning to face him fully. “One photo. Come on.”

“No.”

“Just one.”

“No.”

“You owe me,” you said, stepping closer and digging through your bag for your small camera. “For letting you steal my drawing.”

He rolled his eyes.

You held up the red heart-shaped sunglasses. “Put them on.”

“I’m not putting those on.”

“Rohan.”

A long, painful pause. Then, with the heaviest sigh imaginable, he snatched the glasses from your hand and slipped them on again.

You beamed.

He looked like a character who wandered off set from a bad soap opera—hair tousled, shirt slightly wrinkled from the heat, and oversized novelty glasses perched on his aristocratic face. You leaned against him before he could back away, aiming the camera up with one hand.

“Say figs.”

“No.”

You snapped the photo mid-protest—him mid-glare, you mid-smile, the most mismatched pair in all of Greece.

When you looked at the image on the little screen, your breath caught.

It wasn’t just funny. It was real. You both looked sun-warmed and slightly flushed, tucked into each other like you belonged there.

Your ridiculous hat drooped a little. His arm hovered behind you like he wasn’t quite sure if it should rest there. The sunglasses somehow made him look… soft.

You laughed a little too late, too nervously, flipping the camera screen away. “Perfect. I’m so printing this when we get home.”

You and Rohan walked aimlessly, the energy between you calm now—looser after the long day of teasing and sunlit adventure. His hands were tucked in his pockets as he walked half a step behind you, letting you lead with no real destination in mind.

You paused near a quiet overlook, resting your arms on the stone railing. Below, the sea shimmered like spilled paint, and in the distance, you could hear the faint clatter of dishes from a nearby taverna.

“May I have a copy of the photo?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked, turning toward him. “What?”

“The picture,” he said, voice even, but his eyes didn’t meet yours. “From earlier. The one with the ridiculous glasses.”

Your lips twitched. “I thought you hated that photo.”

“I didn’t say I liked it.”

“But you want a copy.”

He gave a small huff. “Yes.”

You grinned, nudging him gently with your elbow. “You’re going to hide it in your desk, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to burn it,” he replied coolly.

But the tips of his ears were red.

You leaned back against the railing, hands clasped in front of you. “Sure. I’ll print two. One for you to ‘accidentally misplace,’ and one for me to frame and hang next to my bed.”

He snorted softly, but the curve of a rare, honest smile tugged at his mouth.

For the next hour, the two of you strolled lazily through the quieter alleys—ducking into corners when groups of tourists blocked the main roads, pointing out cats lounging on rooftops and strange souvenirs left in store windows. Rohan sketched a quick doorway that caught his eye, and you took more photos than you could count, occasionally slipping the camera toward him when he wasn’t looking.

The town was glowing with that gentle, end-of-day hush. And even though the sun was fading and the streets were cooling, you felt strangely warm.

You thought about the photo again—the way his shoulder had pressed against yours, the sunglasses, your smile. You wondered if he’d ask for more, or if one copy was enough for someone like Rohan.

But as he walked beside you now, still wearing the heart-shaped glasses like he’d forgotten they were there, you didn’t feel the need to ask. Some things didn’t need to be said out loud.

—————————-

Later in the early evening. Back at the villa.

The sky had deepened to a velvety blue by the time you and Rohan turned down the familiar slope toward the villa. Street lamps flickered to life one by one, casting soft halos of golden light across the cobbled path. The last of the sunlight clung stubbornly to the sea’s edge, painting the waves in streaks of copper and violet.

You shifted the paper bag in your hands, inside of which sat a small bundle of souvenirs—mostly fig-themed, much to Rohan’s apparent dismay. He walked beside you in silence, not the brooding kind, but the quiet that came with the end of a long, satisfying day.

The stone walls of the buildings around you glowed faintly, and the sounds of the town—the distant clinking of cutlery, a burst of laughter from a restaurant balcony, the low hum of cicadas—blended into a gentle soundtrack to your walk.

“You’re not going to wear those glasses again, are you?” Rohan asked suddenly, glancing sidelong at you. The heart-shaped red sunglasses were now tucked into your scarf like a brooch.

“Only when I need to annoy you,” you replied, grinning.

“Then I suppose I’ll see them every day.”

You laughed, brushing your fingers lightly over a crumbling wall as you passed it. “You know… I think this has been one of the best days I’ve had in a long time.”

Rohan gave a thoughtful hum, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets. “Not bad… for another full day of fig worship and sunburn complaints.”

“You enjoyed it.”

“I tolerated it.”

You bumped his arm gently. “Liar.”

The villa came into view ahead, its soft exterior bathed in amber light from the lantern by the door. You could already smell the faint scent of rosemary from the garden, mixed with salt from the sea below. The windows were aglow, welcoming.

You reached the steps first, pausing to look out over the caldera one last time. The ocean was a dark sheet now, dotted with lights from faraway boats.

Rohan stopped beside you. “You’re not going to try dragging me out for a midnight walk, are you?”

“Not tonight,” you murmured. “I think my legs are still jelly from that hike.”

He glanced at you again—less guarded now, a trace of something unreadable in his expression. “Good. I need you functional tomorrow. We’re not spending the whole trip sun-dazed and fig-drunk.”

“No promises.”

You kicked off your shoes near the door, groaning softly as your feet finally touched cool tile. From the kitchen, the gentle hum of the fridge filled the silence, mingling with the distant sound of waves lapping against the cliffs far below.

Rohan wandered to the living room first, shedding his light jacket and tossing it carelessly over the back of one of the chairs. You followed, sinking onto the cushioned sofa with a sigh.

Your shoulders ached pleasantly from the hike, your bag still heavy with souvenirs—including a magnet you knew you didn’t need but couldn’t resist.

——————

As the balcony doors stood propped open you stepped out barefoot, two glasses of cold water in your hands, the night air cool against your still-sore shoulders.

Rohan was already there, seated cross-legged on the cushioned bench built into the curve of the terrace wall, sketchbook half-forgotten in his lap. The faintest outlines of a new page were visible in the dim light.

You handed him a glass and sat beside him, pulling the shawl tighter around your arms. Below, the caldera shimmered under the moonlight, inky blue and endless.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Rohan finally broke the silence, glancing sideways at you. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m thinking,” you murmured, sipping your water.

He smirked faintly. “Dangerous.”

You nudged him with your elbow but didn’t deny it. “I was just thinking about school.”

“University?”

“Yeah. Fall semester’s coming up. Feels weird.”

He looked at you more directly now, the humor in his expression softening. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought everything would feel different after… everything that happened in Morioh.” You shrugged. “But it’s still just the same classes. The same professors. It’s like nothing changed.”

“But you did,” he said simply.

That made you pause.

“I can tell,” he continued. “You’ve been carrying yourself differently lately. You notice more. Say less. You don’t let things slide anymore—not as much as you used to.”

You let out a slow breath, watching the night curl around the island. “I guess I’m nervous. What if I go back and I don’t fit into it anymore?”

Rohan swirled the water in his glass. “Then you carve out a new space. Or burn the old one down and start over.”

You huffed a laugh. “Spoken like a true artist.”

“I’m serious,” he said, almost sharply, but then the edge faded. “Don’t let the version of yourself you’ve already outgrown pull you back.”

The words sat heavy, then warm, like a hand on your back.

You turned your gaze to him. “Would you visit?”

Rohan blinked, almost like you’d caught him off guard. “Your university?”

“Not for class,” you said dryly. “But… maybe just to stop by. When the semester starts. I could show you around. There’s a good coffee shop near the library.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then nodded once, deliberately. “If you invite me, I’ll come.”

That surprised you more than it should’ve. “You hate Tokyo.”

“I hate crowds. And mediocrity. You’re neither.”

You turned away quickly, pretending to watch the boats far down below, heart hammering a little too fast in your chest.

“Besides,” he added, his tone lighter again, “I need someone to keep me from impulsively spending money on hideous souvenirs. You’ve proven decent at that.”

You smirked. “You mean you’ll miss me.”

“I mean you owe me two jars of fig jam for tolerating you this long.”

You laughed, bumping his knee with yours. “I’m putting that on my résumé.”

Rohan leaned back on one arm, eyes drifting out to sea. The air was cool, the stars endless. Neither of you got up for a long while.

——————

Late evening. Still out on the balcony.

The night deepened around you both, the breeze just cool enough to raise goosebumps across your arms. Somewhere below, a distant bell chimed from the harbor, but up on the cliffside, it was still. Rohan hadn’t touched his sketchbook again. Instead, he sipped from his glass, eyes occasionally drifting from the horizon to you, then back again—like he was trying not to think too hard about anything at all.

You’d both gone quiet again. Not awkwardly so—just… comfortable.

Your legs were curled beneath you now, angled slightly toward him. He sat straighter, one arm propped on the railing behind you, fingers lazily tapping against the stone. The silence stretched on, then broke with your voice.

“Do you ever think about what it would be like… if you just stopped everything? Publishing, deadlines, expectations.” You rested your cheek against the shawl-draped curve of your shoulder. “Just… slowed down.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on yours before he said, more softly than you expected, “Sometimes.”

The breeze carried the scent of sea salt and faint jasmine. Your foot brushed his ankle by accident and you pulled back, but he didn’t shift away.

You glanced down at your lap. Then at his hand.

It wasn’t something you planned. You didn’t think it through. Your hand just… found his.

Tentative at first—your pinky grazing his. When he didn’t move, you let your fingers settle lightly on top of his, unsure if it was too much, unsure what it meant.

His hand didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned his palm slightly, letting his fingers close—awkwardly, almost stiff—but unmistakably around yours.

A beat passed.

Then two.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

Your heartbeat had leapt straight into your throat, and from the way his hand tensed and then relaxed again in yours, you could guess he was no calmer.

Eventually, you risked a glance up.

Rohan was looking the other way, jaw tight, face lit faintly by moonlight. “It’s getting late,” he said, voice carefully neutral.

“Yeah,” you whispered, suddenly aware of how warm your face had become. “I should… probably turn in.”

He didn’t let go immediately, but after a breath, he eased his hand away, gently, as if not wanting to break something fragile.

You both stood at the same time, and your eyes avoided each other’s for too long, until it got ridiculous and you laughed—softly, nervously.

Rohan cleared his throat. “Good night.”

“‘Night, Rohan.”

You turned to slip inside first, but just before stepping through the door, you looked back.

He was still standing by the balcony railing, watching the sea—but his hand hovered briefly at his side, like it remembered yours.

And you went to bed feeling a little more confused than before.

———————

Middle of the night. Deep Sleep.

You stood at the edge of a marble cliff. The sky overhead is streaked with gold, pink, and impossible shades of violet.

Below, the sea isn’t blue—it’s glass, reflecting constellations that shouldn’t be visible in daylight. Wind brushes your face, warm and scented like figs and sun-warmed parchment.

You’re wearing something unfamiliar—a robe tied loosely at the waist, bare feet planted on the cool stone. And across from you, seated on a throne of white marble carved with inky shapes—crows, pens, curling script—is Rohan.

But not Rohan as you know him.

This version wears a crown of laurel leaves, golden and shimmering as if each was cast from sunlight. His eyes are radiant, impossibly sharp, and his skin glows faintly—like he’s not quite human. The robe he wears is deep crimson, edged with gold thread, and his wrists bear cuffs etched with tiny words that shift when you try to read them.

He’s sketching—again—but not on paper. With a flick of his pen, entire scenes unfurl in the air: fields blooming from nothing, clouds parting to reveal temples, your own face in profile mid-laugh.

You step closer. “What… are you?”

Rohan doesn’t look up, but his mouth curves just slightly. “You keep calling me a god in your head. I suppose your brain just ran with it.”

Heat blooms across your face. “I do not—”

“You do.” He finally looks at you. “When you think I’m not listening. Which is never.”

The sketch vanishes, fading like mist. He stands from the throne, and the sky darkens just slightly behind him. The laurel glints again. “You followed me here.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You always do.” His tone is unreadable—but not unkind.

You glance down. In your palm, suddenly, is a fig—split open and glistening red like a heart. You don’t know how it got there.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter.

“And you’re enamored.” He steps forward, standing far too close, and leans down slightly. “But I won’t fault you for it.”

Your breath catches.

But before anything else can happen, a wind rushes through, scattering fig leaves and gold dust—and you fall backward, weightless, through the cliffside, the sky, the sea—

—and into your bed, tangled in your sheets, with your heart pounding and your cheeks burning.

The dark light of the early morning spills through the curtains.

You groan into your pillow. “I’m going insane.”

From the next bed, the real Rohan sneezes.

————————-

Late morning. 9:00 AM.

After another strange dream—involving that weird, laurel-wearing Rohan—you made the executive decision to pull the covers tighter around yourself and curl into a little ball. Maybe if you stayed there long enough, the memory of him saying “you’re enamored” would stop echoing in your brain.

It didn’t.

Eventually, the soft chirping of birds and the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen reminded you it was morning in Santorini, not Olympus, and you had real-world things to do. With a groan, you peeled yourself out of bed, feet hitting the cool floor as sunlight poured through the balcony doors. It was already warm.

You shuffled into the bathroom and twisted the knobs on the tile-lined shower, waiting for the water to heat up. Once inside, the stream hit your shoulders—still faintly tender from the sunburn—and you hissed quietly, leaning forward to let the water soak your hair instead, before quickly turning the knob towards the colder side.

Shampoo, conditioner, a bit of stolen body wash that smelled like citrus and rosemary—routine started to ground you again. You scrubbed off the salt and sand still clinging to your skin from yesterday’s beach outing, letting your mind drift. You tried not to think about the dream.

Tried.

But the image of Rohan in gold cuffs, sketching entire worlds into existence, clung to your memory like fog on a mirror. You frowned and shook your head, water flying from your hair.

“I need to stop falling asleep drunk,” you muttered to no one.

Once you stepped out and toweled off, you layered on aloe for good measure, choosing a soft, airy outfit that wouldn’t irritate your sunburn. Your hair was still damp as you brushed through it, debating whether to leave it down or tie it up. In the mirror, you still looked a little dazed. A little pink.

You opened your toiletries bag and rummaged for sunscreen. Thick layer. Always.

As you padded back into the main room, you glanced toward the balcony where Rohan was already up—already sketching, and standing dramatically at the window like he was in a movie about himself.

You paused, watching him adjust his fountain pen tip-shaped earrings.

“…I should really stop dreaming about him.”

But your heart did a little somersault anyway.

Time to face the day.

—————————

Later in the morning. 10:00 AM.

The streets were still quiet when the two of you stepped out, golden sunlight casting long, soft shadows over the whitewashed stone. You walked side by side, the breeze gentle, the scent of the sea lingering on the air like a familiar perfume.

“I found a place,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself, though the sun was already warming the edges of the day. “Bookshop and café. I figured you’d approve.”

Rohan gave a single, skeptical glance. “That depends. Is it one of those trendy places with no proper organization, just stacks of paperbacks and beanbag chairs everywhere?”

You snorted. “God forbid someone puts a copy of The Little Prince next to The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

“It’s about order,” he huffed. “A bookstore should have dignity.”

“Well, prepare to be offended, then,” you grinned. “It’s stacked, it’s messy, and they make fresh spanakopita in the back.”

That got his attention. You saw the flicker of reluctant interest in his eyes as he adjusted the strap of his sketchbook over his shoulder. “Hmph. If the food’s good, I’ll overlook the literary crimes.”

The café wasn’t far—a winding side street led to a low-slung blue building tucked between two cliffside homes, with little bistro tables out front and a hand-painted sign in Greek and English: Kathimerini Pages. A worn brass bell jingled as you pushed open the door, and the scent of ground coffee beans, ink, and baked goods drifted toward you like a welcome.

It was a dream. Books leaned against each other in haphazard piles, rising like little towers across the wooden floor. Mismatched chairs were scattered between shelves, and a calico cat was curled on a sunny windowsill, blinking slowly at you.

Rohan paused just inside, eyes narrowed.

“I swear if that cat has a name like Nietzsche—”

“Her name’s Loukoumi,” said a young woman behind the counter, not even looking up from her espresso machine. “Like the candy.”

You smiled wide and whispered, “See? Dignity.”

He gave you a withering look but followed as you weaved between shelves, eventually settling at a two-person table nestled near a window framed with blue shutters. The table had a tiny stack of books already waiting—poetry, local legends, a Greek-English phrasebook with hand-written notes in the margins.

Rohan flipped through it absentmindedly while you ordered at the counter—coffee for both, a plate of warm pastries to share, and something savory with herbs and feta folded into golden pastry.

When you returned, he was already sketching. Of course.

“I think this is the calmest I’ve ever seen you,” you murmured, taking a sip of coffee. It was strong and earthy, and already staining your tongue.

“That’s because no one here is asking me to attend some gallery opening,” he said, voice low. “Or sign manga volumes. Or answer questions about my process.”

You leaned back, watching the late morning sunlight spill over the pages of his sketchbook. “You’re really happy when it’s quiet, aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, just kept drawing. “Sometimes. When it’s the right kind of quiet.”

You weren’t sure what that meant—but you didn’t want to ruin the moment by asking.

Instead, you picked up one of the small poetry books and cracked it open, brushing crumbs off the table and nudging the shared plate of pastries toward him.

“You gotta try that cheese thing,” you said.

He gave you a suspicious look.

“Don’t argue. It’s dignified.”

Rohan rolled his eyes, but you saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

———————-

꒰꒰・┄┄┄┄・♡・┄┄┄┄・꒱꒱

[cosmeticwvs]

WIP + sketches/doodles

A small WIP with my dear Carmen (Jjba oc) A bit more info down below ⬇️

[Its still unfinished because I can’t find the energy to write everything down correctly + thinking about making a comic for the oneshot]

Carmen is a painter from Spain who meets Rohan in one of his “adventures” (Thus Spoke Kishibe Rohan series).

More info will soon be added once I finish the drawing and start on opening up commissions.

Just a small heads up it is a oc x canon ship so if you do not feel comfortable with it you can always scroll or block me since I do not want any hate or weird comments regarding the ship 💖

[lyragoth]

for the character ask, i am curious to hear your thoughts on Sauron/Mairon…

Thank you for the ask! Sauron

How I feel about this character: An angel with OCD, probably a Virgo. I admire willpower in a villain, and Sauron has it in abundance. He’s resilient, calculating, obsessive, and relentless. He tries again and again and again. I love that he has no problem vanishing from a battle that he knows won't benefit him; he simply evaporates. That’s smart. He’s independent, a workaholic, and an absolute genius. He plans everything with precision, from intending the Rings to the elves alone (initially) and stealing only the black horses of Rohan (his branding is always on point). He considers every angle, except for the simplest ones, and that’s his flaw. Because of his arrogance, he couldn’t imagine that Celebrimbor wouldn’t use the Three Rings to fight him, but would instead bait him and sacrifice himself. He couldn’t imagine Gandalf would want to destroy the Ring rather than wield it, or that anyone would send two hobbits alone into Mordor. Naturally he doesn't give a fuck for the power of friendship. He is patient. He took down Númenor, the most powerful military force of its time, without any weapons. He’s orderly, hates wastefulness, and wants to bend the world to his will, not destroy it. This is sexy.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Celebrimbor.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: The Witch-king of Angmar (Mûrazor for some). They’re a perfect match. Both strategic, calculating, and cold. It’s all in my head, but I like to think Angmar is the closest thing Sauron has to a friend in the Third Age. I also love his dynamic with Shelob: he feeds her, and in return, she guards the secret entrance into Mordor. Everyone wins. (Melkor, please take notes.)

My unpopular opinion about this character: Not a slut. Weirdly monogamous, too (unpopular opinion, remember please). This post here is very cool. He’s a spiritual being, and even as a fallen Maia, I believe he still sees beauty in music and art. He’s immensely powerful, but not invincible. Gil-galad, Elendil, and Isildur faced him while he wore the Ring and still took him down. That vulnerability makes him more interesting for me.

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon: I like how Tolkien keeps Sauron mysterious. He has very few dialogues, and most of his presence is felt through his influence in the world and lives of the free-people. A demi-god. I probably have some specific wish about him... but right now, nothing comes to mind. I like him the way he is.

[inkpot909]

Jealousy Headcanons: Duwang Gang

↳ Characters included are Josuke Higashikata, Okuyasu Nijimura, Koichi Hirose, and Rohan Kishibe. Gender neutral Reader with they/them pronouns. Hinted to take place after the death of Yoshikage Kira.

A/n: What a beautiful duwang! Real talk, I’ve been wanting to write a headcanon list for this group for a long time, now. Bless these boys, none of them (except for Koichi) know what they’re doing. I really hope y’all enjoy. <3

Warning(s): Canon-typical violence and swearing.

Josuke Higashikata

-> The Silent

The immediate feeling that washes over Josuke after realizing he’s become jealous is guilt.

If he has the luxury of being alone, he’ll pace around his bedroom while entertaining a lengthy argument with himself. It takes everything in him not to raise a hand up to his mouth and press a nail or two between clenched teeth. There’s a game of tug of war occurring inside his head and he’s nothing if not a slave to fully investing himself in the conflict.

If he isn’t alone, and especially if he’s with you, there is seemingly no dent made in his chill persona. Not a single person around him would be able to tell the internal conflict running through his mind. Not even you.

His usually relaxed thoughts are disrupted with an ocean of insecurity. “What if” questions plaguing him and internally souring his mood.

It’s a foreign feeling for him to experience. Especially considering you tend to bring out a very proud side of his personality. Ever since he started going out with you, everyday life has only gotten brighter.

And although he’d never be caught mentioning it out loud, there’s a part of him that’s mindful of the fact that usually he’s the one others grow jealous of.

He’s running in mental circles, a back and forth. Agonizing over just the idea of being jealous between taking the brunt of his emotions all at once.

All while he says absolutely nothing on the matter.

He may end up distancing himself for a day or two depending on just how lost in his own head he gets. He doesn’t seek out your company, and that’ll be the only telltale sign of how he’s truly feeling.

Even then, whenever you do see him, nothing appears to be wrong. He’ll smile at you all the same. His tone is cheerful as ever, and there’s no falter present in his laugh.

Because he can’t help but be ashamed for feeling this way, he’ll do anything in his power to make sure you don’t notice. He’ll continue to play the part of your never bothered, always cheery boyfriend.

He will only bring up his dilemma to Koichi.

Being involved in a relationship himself, Josuke figures he would best understand his point of view. He does his best to hear him out (he did go to him, after all), but Koichi telling him that it’s unhealthy to internalize how he’s feeling isn’t going to get Josuke to budge.

Josuke knows you’re loyal. He does trust you... so how could he possibly compromise that trust by mentioning something as silly as jealousy? Being open and honest is usually his go to. He tells you everything. But this...? There’s a little voice in his head telling him not to. And not even sound advice from a close friend can get him to stop listening.

If you’re observant enough to catch onto him avoiding you while simultaneously greeting you as if nothing’s wrong, bringing it up bluntly will finally force him to open his damn mouth.

He’s nervous; more nervous than he’s ever been around you in the past. It doesn’t take long before the word vomit starts pooling from his mouth, littered between a plethora of apologies. His eyes never meet yours until he’s done talking, hands continuously picking and pulling at one another.

Believe it or not, talking it through with you actually helps! Who knew? Certainly not Josuke.

After that first incident, dealing with his jealousy becomes a lot more manageable. Although it doesn’t happen often, it still does happen.

And he’s still not inclined to make a scene if he can help it.

Josuke’s opinion of guys who freak out on their partner or anyone who they feel threated by- even by the loosest stretch of the imagination -is very low. He will certainly talk to you about it, but in private and merely to express his emotions rather than to criticize you in any way.

The only real exception to this, is if someone’s actively hitting on you and repeatedly not taking the hint. How he approaches the situation largely depends on you.

If you’re not afraid of confrontation, he’s going to be at your side with a smug expression on his face the entire time. Your ability to stand up for yourself can make him melt on the spot. He lets you go at it, watching you with a smile brimming with puppy love. He just cannot help but fawn over how cool you are.

Once you’ve made your point, he’ll happily back you up lightheartedly. Even to the point of mocking the person who dared to ignore every “no” you threw their way. People like that deserve to get knocked down a peg, and Josuke’s eager to help.

If you’re more meek in approaching these situations, and tend to shoot Josuke glances pleading for his aid, he’s happy to help. It feeds into his ego a bit, honestly.

He’ll make a point to wrap an arm around you, throwing his best intimidating side-eye to the person daring to make you feel uncomfortable. Hell, he’ll even puff out his chest a little too.

Once again, he’s not above insulting them. His words are vicious and more than a little rude. He is a delinquent, after all.

Josuke isn’t a really fan of getting violent in these situations, though. The only reason he would get to that point is if the other person grows violent first and he needs to defend himself.

If they take it that far, they’re asking for it in his book. He doesn’t feel any need to use Crazy Diamond against something so trivial, more than a little confident in his own strength.

That said, if the flirtatious bastard is enough to make you really upset, he will use his stand to rearrange their appearance in an attempt to make you laugh. Yeah, it’s a bit twisted, but his youthful mischievousness is likely to earn him a smile from you.

That said, if someone flirts with you and tries to brush him off by dissing his hair- all cards are off the table. Openly flirting with you in front of him and dissing his hair? That person must have a death wish.

You may want to look away.

Okuyasu Nijimura

-> The Emotional

Unlike his best friend, Okuyasu wears his heart on his sleeve at all times.

Expressing emotions, even negative or embarassing ones, is not something he shies away from. No, not even in public.

When he first confessed his feelings to you, he was certainly more than a little shy. But when you gladly reciprocated, you’re positive the entirety of Morioh shook with his joyous response.

It’s because of this that Okuyasu experiencing jealousy is quite the roller-coaster of emotion. If he’s jealous, everyone and their mother will likely know.

His immediate response is confusion.

Not over how he’s feeling per se, but instead over what to do about it. Painfully aware of his own intellegence, he’ll agonize over how he should respond. Jealousy is rather complicated in his opinion, and his biggest concern is accidentally pushing you away via his reaction.

He is decisive, though, so it’s not something he’s going to mull it over for very long.

And if you’re right beside him, the likelihood of you diffusing his jealousy right in that very moment is quite high. So, although it’s not uncommon for him to be jealous, he’s quick to let it go.

In most cases, that’s where the story ends.

Sometimes, though, if the feeling is strong enough or if you’re not able to talk with him, it’ll go a bit further.

In those instances, the emotion that follows his confusion is anger. More accurately, it’s defensiveness masked with a display of frustration.

It’s written all over his face, eyebrows furrowing and eyes turning sharp. The delivery of his words are rather harsh and unfiltered (well, more than usual).

This anger won’t ever be directed at you, though. Okuyasu cares about you far too much.

If he can’t direct it at a specific individual that’s (according to him) the source of his jealousy, he’ll instead grow angry with himself. Mainly because his jealousy stems from an insecure belief that he’s not good enough for you.

If he gets this upset, it’s best to leave him to let out his frustrations before going to speak with him on the matter. Hell, Josuke is a better support for Okuyasu when he’s dealing with the bulk of his emotions.

Not much time is needed; no more than a day. And because he respects you greatly, if you give him that tiny- yet definitely needed -space, he’ll gladly hear you out with a fresher mindset.

Okuyasu is almost always going to be soothed by your affirmations.

Sweet words about how you’re with him because you want to be, and that nothing so small could form a wedge between the two of you, is very reassuring for him.

Jealousy is going to be more of a prevalent hurtle for the both of you to work on at the beginning of the relationship. He was still getting used to the idea that you really do like him as more than just a friend. It’s sweet, sure, but the insecurity is something the two of you work on together.

As time passes, and he digests the fact that you’re not going to leave him for the first person that flirtatiously glances your way, he cools off a lot. In fact, he starts having a hard time taking the people who hit on you seriously.

Namely, he’s going to laugh at any poor bastard trying to make a move on you. Because “Ha! Get a move on, loser! Can’t you see their taken?”

His mocking may not be as well-thought out as Josuke’s, but they can cut just as deep. And his delivery is almost always sure to bring a smile to your face. Okuyasu is always proud when he’s the cause of your glee.

That said, getting defensive is still a knee-jerk reaction at times. It only applies if someone doesn’t want to take “no” as an answer.

Doesn’t matter how capable you are in defending yourself, if someone pushes it, he’s quickly going to follow it up with threats. Partially out of affectionate protectiveness, and also in part because he likes to think of himself as your knight in shining armor.

He tries to be as suave as he can while threatening a stranger with a fist to the face. One second he’s throwing insults, the next he’s giving you a smile along with a cheeky wink.

As far as he’s concerned, someone messing with his boyfriend/girlfriend better be prepared for a pair of knuckles meeting harshly with their jaw.

Okuyasu’s like an angry dog barking loudly at anyone getting too close. Least you know no one will ever dare to mess with you for very long.

Koichi Hirose

-> The Logical

Out of everyone in the Duwang gang, Koichi is the least susceptible to jealousy. Actually, scratch that. He’s the least susceptible to jealousy in all of Morioh.

Especially after developing Echoes act 3, his thought process just doesn’t leave a lot of room for doubts in both you and himself.

If someone’s attempting to flirt with you, he’s more likely to grow annoyed rather than jealous.

He’ll throw them an unamused glance, eyebrow raised as if daring them to continue further. He’ll turn back to you, mentioning loudly enough for them to hear how obnoxious he finds their behavior to be. Returning the favor with a smile almost always does the trick, often prompting them to give up.

If they don’t, and press further, Koichi is prone to suggesting that the two of you go somewhere else. He never returns any animosity thrown towards him, not letting it get to him much. Yeah, they may be hurling low-hanging insults towards him, but he’s the one with you on his arm.

His casualness in those situations is so consistent to the point where Josuke and Okuyasu each comment on how they don’t understand it.

When a situation arises where they know they’d be jealous, the two just cannot wrap their head around how calm he is. Koichi merely laughs them off, almost finding their confusion to be amusing.

Koichi’s grown a lot, and he just can’t find it within himself to give into insecurities he considers unnecessary. All that, in his mind, should really be left in the past.

Adding to his confidence, is you yourself.

Koichi adores you, and would honestly trust you with his life. So why would he ever grow jealous of an old friend? What on earth could some random person at a party provide you in a short, two minute conversation that would warrant any defensiveness? Why would he feel threatened by a coworker? It’s not like he can tell you to avoid them.

In fact, he’s very aware of the fact that he can't tell you what to do in general. Or rather, he simply won’t. It’s not in his nature to be controlling or hover over you like that.

Not because you’ve brought it up or it's ever been an issue in the past. It’s simply because... that’s not a real relationship in his eyes. He’s not bossy or pushy- you started dating him because that was your decision at the end of the day. And that alone is enough proof to him that being jealous really isn’t worth it.

Now, if by some miracle he does grow jealous, it’s not going to last very long. Again, Koichi is just too levelheaded.

He is going to grow downcast, saddened by his own perspective of the situation. This is because he’ll only get to the point of jealousy if he believes you’ve returned someone’s advances- whether it was by word of mouth or something he saw with his own two eyes.

And because you care for him as earnestly as he does for you, his jealousy likely occurs due to an honest misunderstanding.

Koichi will approach you on the matter himself, and will do so calmly. Even if he saw something, he doesn’t want to become more upset before he hears what you have to say. After all, you’ve never disappointed him before.

Because of his strong trust in you, after he details his perspective on the matter, he asks that you explain your side of the situation to him.

Koichi’s demeanor is very controlled and polite, hiding a certain degree of genuine worry. He listens with baited breath, internally praying that he simply misread what happened.

And to his relief, that’s all it ever ends up being.

Just like that, the both of you are quickly back to normal. Worries evaporate from within his mind, and he’s back to his usual sweet self.

Genuinely the best boyfriend here, no contest.

Rohan Kishibe

-> The Denier

Oh, boy.

First thing’s first, it should be noted that The Great Rohan Kishibe does not grow jealous. It’s not even a question, and honestly, expecting him to explain such a thing is an insult. Men and women alike fawn over him; anyone would be lucky to have him. You’re lucky to have him.

And to his credit, Rohan really doesn’t grow jealous very often.

His confidence in himself may cross the line into narcissism, but it doesn’t lead him to give into jealousy very often.

Like Koichi, he knows that if you’re with him, it’s because you truly care. Even more so, considering Rohan knows (if only slightly) that he’s not the easiest person to be around.

Nope! He certainly doesn’t become jealous very often… not never, like he’s worked so hard to have you believe.

For Rohan to become jealous requires specific circumstances. Some random person approaching you at a party or bar isn’t going to pose much of a threat to his ego.

On the contrary, it feeds into his ego.

You’re a beautiful individual; it’s no question as to why others would try and approach you. But, of course, you always turn them away seeing as you’re already his.

In those instances, he’s as dismissive as Koichi, coupled with a tongue as sharp as Josuke’s. Rolling his eyes, wrapping an arm around you, straight up ignoring the person trying to talk to you, kissing you out of the blue- he’s got every weapon in his arsenal equipped to ensure you’re left alone.

If it gets to the point where you’re growing visibly nervous or uncomfortable, Rohan’s words are the nastiest you’ve ever seen. But the display isn’t necessarily out of jealousy, as it is out of shock and frustration that they’d persist. He’s not going to let anyone speak to you in such a way.

But when it pertains to an old friend, the one you were talking about meeting up with for a week straight... now that’s what makes his chest tighten.

Rohan’s going to be in a bad mood because of it, but it’s not too distinct from his usual behavior. No, he’s just a little more quiet than normal. And by the time you cheerfully tell him about seeing this friend of yours, he thinks he may go nuts.

Rohan’s immediate response is to completely shut himself out from everyone, while simultaneously denying any thought he has over being jealous in the first place.

The time he spends locked inside his office is insanely alarming.

At first, you question whether or not you should even say anything about it. Yes, you’re obviously concerned for his health, but Rohan falls into his exaggerated version of workaholic-mode from time to time. And you know him well enough to understand he requires a very careful approach to be pulled out of it.

No, what really warns you that something’s wrong, is that even Koichi asks you if Rohan is doing okay.

His concern takes you aback, and only makes your heart sink further when Josuke (of all people) speaks up about it as well. He’s a lot more reserved about showing any worry, but it’s enough to let you know that something is fundamentally off.

Prodding Rohan for an explanation is going to take a good while.

He’s so unused to feeling jealousy in any capacity that he outright refuses to even admit it to himself.

No, he just needs to work and not interact with anyone. Why? Because he has to; don’t question him. There’s so much he needs to do. You’re far too busy with your old friend in town to pay him any mind anyway.

And that’s exactly the sentiment you finally manage to pull from him.

He spits it out it with crossed arms, not once meeting your gaze. But it’s a mistake (in his mind), because it gets the cogs turning in your mind.

You end up realizing Rohan’s jealous before he does.

Affirmations that you love him is a must, and don’t even bring up the fact that he grew jealous- it would only continue to stir the pot. You know Rohan well, confident in how you choose your words when talking to him about it.

He refuses to give you any indication that he's listening, of course, but one brief glance your way cracks his hardened outer shell.

The look on your face... it initiates this weird sinking feeling deep inside his gut. Just thinking of could halt his movements.

Yes, realistically, he could just use his stand to check whether or not his concern is warranted.

But, for one thing, he’s already promised you he wouldn't do that to you. Setting boundaries is extremely important to Rohan, so he respects the ones you set in return. So much so that the thought of using Heaven’s Door on you doesn’t cross his mind once.

And that look on your face, soft and melancholy upon the realization that he’s been doubting you... he honestly doesn’t need to use his stand to know he's severely misread your relationship with your old friend.

His own ability to recognize how poorly he misunderstood the situation is something he figures he’ll have to unpack at a later time. In that moment, he was just relieved. He told you, rather stubbornly, that he supposes he was wrong. In own his weird, twisted way, that was how he apologized.

In short, being with you is a humbling experience for a person like Rohan and this instance of becoming jealous is certainly a part of that.

Weirdly enough, to his internal surprise, it’s ultimately a pleasurable development. Not like he’d ever tell you, though.

With the passage of time, he even lets you tease him over it. The two of you playfully go back and forth, bringing up times where you both got so jealous. It’s all in good fun, his confidence in your feelings for him stronger than ever.

In reality, him having a bit of humor about it is a clear sign that he’s growing into the relationship more and more. And him being able to be more transparent around you makes it easier for him to talk to you in the future if he gets that jealous again.

There’s still room for growth, but such things are almost always a gradual process for someone like Rohan.

That said, only you’re allowed to make any sort of teasing remarks about the whole ordeal. Anyone else isn’t worthy of doing so.