#it’s the very essence of a side quest

[headlinxr]

( 瘋狂的 ) HEADLOCK, P. SUNGHOON ، ݃ •

𓏲 ┈─ ៵ʾpassion is a positive obsession. obsession is a negative passion. . ㌐

̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ ̼ 𓆸 TO THE OTHER SIDE ⸝⸝ you are sung-hoon's muse ˖ ៹

𓈒 𓄹 ⊹ , 夫妻 photographer!sung-hoon x fem!reader × ִֶ

𓆤 ; 廣告 IN THE NIGHT, I SPILL THE LIGHT ຳ reader is jake's girlfriend, jake is a little red flag, reader wants to be a model 𓏲

٬ ៶ ૂ 通告 , This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. ༉‧₊˚

៹ 𓂃 HEADLINXR ִ ۫ ּ ֗ ִ 為了你，為了我 ؛ ៹

The camera doesn't lie. Or at least, that's what Sung-hoon has believed for years, a truth he has carried with him in every step of his life. Through his lens, the world unfolds before him with absolute clarity, a universe reduced to lights and shadows, to shapes and textures, to a moment frozen in time that, according to him, reflects the immutable truth of existence. As a renowned photographer, Sung-hoon has achieved what few can: He has mastered his art with such skill that his images not only capture reality but also penetrate the very essence of his subjects, stripping their souls bare with almost surgical precision.

Each click of his camera is a sigh, a heartbeat, an attempt to capture the elusive. For him, photography is much more than a technical act; it is an unceasing quest for something deeper than a simple pose or a well-composed scene. In each photograph, Sung-hoon seeks to unravel the hidden essence of what he sees: that spark of vulnerability, that fragile beauty that lies behind everyday masks. The faces he photographs are not mere portraits, but windows to the truth, as if each image could decipher untold stories, repressed emotions, silenced fears. In his mastery of the interplay between light and shadow, he has found his most authentic voice, a visual language that allows him, with each shot, to transcend the limitations of the physical and touch the intangible.

He is a master in creating atmospheres, an alchemist of light who transforms the ordinary into something sublime. He knows that light, as elusive as life itself, has the power to reveal and conceal, to create depth in the superficial, and to give shape to what seems inert. For him, each shadow is a promise, and each flash of light, a revelation. In his hands, the camera becomes an almost divine instrument, capable of immortalizing moments that, in their transience, seem eternal. And yet, behind this unparalleled skill, there is a reality that Sung-hoon has refused for so long that he has come to forget it. His camera, which has been his most faithful companion, has also been his jailer.

Because while his art has elevated him to the pinnacle of recognition, it has condemned him to a solitary existence. The dedication he has put into his work, unwavering and absolute, has cost him much more than his time. He has sacrificed a personal life, a life he could never integrate with his vocation. He never had a partner who understood him, nor friends who shared his universe, nor family members who dared to call his attention outside of the studio. Love, friendship, human connections, seemed to him minor distractions in the face of the greatness of his photographic mission. In his mind, there was no room for anything other than visual perfection, the constant search for that transcendent image that could touch the very essence of life.

But while his world was being built through the lens, a subtle and silent darkness began to take shape within him. Each photo he took was a window to the outside, but at the same time, it closed the doors of his soul even more. The camera granted him the power to see and capture everything happening around him, but it denied him the ability to see what was happening in his own heart. In that space where shadows intertwine with light, where the ephemeral becomes eternal, Sung-hoon got lost. He became a distant observer, trapped in an endless cycle of images, but with no real contact with the life that existed beyond his lens. The loneliness he dragged along, hidden within the folds of his success, grew deeper, more overwhelming, until one day, he could no longer escape it.

As Sung-hoon's recognition grew, so did the shadow that loomed over his life. Fame, like a brilliant reflection, mirrored an image of success that the world applauded, but he felt increasingly disconnected, more alien to that applause, as if everything were part of a movie that was not his own. The galleries, the exhibitions, the critics' laudatory comments, the flashes capturing his moments of glory: none of it managed to penetrate the ice armor he had forged over the years. The camera, his tool of revelation, had made him an expert in the truth of others, but not in his own truth. And, despite being a creator of worlds, within himself lay a deep, unfathomable void that even the most powerful images could not fill.

In the stillness of his studio, surrounded by thousands of stories frozen on photographic paper, Sung-hoon found himself in a strange space, filled with foreign memories but empty of his own. The walls, adorned with his best works, offered him a vision of the world he had captured with meticulousness, but the images did not speak to him. Those faces, those gazes frozen in a second that seemed eternal, watched him with a fixity that overwhelmed him, as if judging him in their silence. The gestures he had halted in his journey through life now appeared to him as ghosts of a past he himself had lost. Each photograph was a masterpiece, yes, but also a cruel reminder that he had been a spectator in the lives of others, without truly participating in his own. The distance between him and his art had become an insurmountable abyss.

The studio lighting, which he had so expertly mastered when capturing the essence of others, now seemed distant and cold to him. The shadows he had used to build atmospheres in his photos now enveloped him like a mantle of darkness in his own life. His soul, which he had learned to sculpt in each image, slipped through his fingers like water, like a film unrolling before him, but which he could never touch. Sometimes, at the end of the day, when the last light of the day began to fade, he found himself in front of his photographs, in a silence that devoured him. A feeling of incompleteness overwhelmed him, as if his constant search in the eyes of others had been a way to evade his own face. Why, despite the fame, did he feel that something within him was slowly crumbling? The answer was not in the lens of his camera, but in the absence of a real connection with himself.

It was a typical work afternoon, without any preambles or announcements, when something inside him changed. While reviewing the photographs that would soon be part of his new exhibition, one in particular caught his attention. It was you, a young woman, with your gaze lost on the horizon, as if your thoughts floated beyond your body. In your expression, so laden with melancholy, Sung-hoon saw something he had never perceived before: His own reflection. The sorrow in your eyes, the fragility emanating from your face, the sadness seeping through your gestures, everything seemed so familiar. It was as if he himself, in his bewilderment and emptiness, had become you, trapped in a moment he couldn't let go of.

In that instant, the camera stopped being a simple tool to capture reality and transformed into a mirror. A mirror that reflected not only the image of its subject but also that of his own soul, slowly crumbling, invisible to the eyes of others. You were not just another subject in his photographic archive; you represented what he had left behind, what he had never been able to live. The melancholy of that image seeped into his very being, like an underground river that had finally found its way to the surface.

In that instant, the camera stopped being a simple tool to capture reality and transformed into a mirror. A mirror that reflected not only the image of its subject but also that of his own soul, slowly crumbling, invisible to the eyes of others. You were not just another subject in his photographic archive; you represented what he had left behind, what he had never been able to live. The melancholy of that image seeped into his very being, like an underground river that had finally found its way to the surface.

Sung-hoon was forced to confront the question he had been avoiding for so long: How many times, while observing others, had he seen his own emptiness reflected in their eyes? How many times had he searched in the gestures of his subjects for the humanity he had lost, as if he could find something of himself in the faces of others? Each photograph, he thought, had been a search to find what he had not been able to find in his own life. He had spent years chasing a truth that only existed in the shadows of his lens, without realizing that, in the process, he had stopped seeing the light within himself.

That night, when the studio lights went out and darkness began to fill the corners of the room, Sung-hoon found himself in front of the mirror. The reflection he saw there was not that of the renowned photographer, the man admired for his skill, for his unique vision. It was the face of a weary man, marked by years of sacrifices, of renunciations, of living in the world of images without ever daring to live in his own flesh. The dimness of the room was reflected in his eyes, filled with shadows, unfulfilled desires, lost affections. And as he looked at himself, he saw the traces of loneliness that he could no longer hide, the marks of a being who had been running for too long, without really knowing where to.

It was at that precise moment when something broke inside him. As if a window in your soul had opened, finally letting in the fresh and renewing air of introspection. The camera, which had been his refuge, his lifeline, his prison, ceased to be the only means of expression in his life. And for the first time in years, Sung-hoon began to wonder if it was possible to live outside the lens, if he could find a new way to connect with the world, to stop being a spectator and become a participant. Would he be able to find a life that was his own, without the mediation of the camera?

The search for truth in others had brought him there, to that breaking point. But now, something was beginning to take shape in his mind. Maybe the story he really needed to capture wasn't that of others, nor the image of a distant subject, but his own. The camera would no longer be his only way of seeing; perhaps the time had come to learn to look, for the first time, without filters.

Despite the internal storm that was tearing him apart, Sung-hoon found himself being pulled by an almost mechanical impulse towards the meeting he had with Jake. The appointment was marked in his agenda like a beacon guiding him towards a destiny he could not evade, a point in time that, no matter how much his soul screamed in resistance, he had to fulfill. In his mind, chaos reigned, a whirlwind of doubts and unease that rose like black clouds above him, so dense that he could barely see the light that once propelled him. Despite the years of success and recognition he had harvested in his career, an unfathomable void devoured his being. That void, which neither fame nor applause could fill, was his constant companion, his inseparable shadow. But still, he got up that morning, with a heaviness that crushed his shoulders, and headed to the café where he would meet Jake, his long-time companion, a man whose relationship with life was so different from his that he seemed from another world.

Jake had always been his counterpoint, his antithesis, and at the same time, his reflection. While Sung-hoon got lost in the dark depth of photography, searching for the soul of his subjects, Jake glided over the surface of life, finding beauty in simplicity and human connections with an ease that Sung-hoon had never experienced. Jake was a man who saw life in bright colors, with a cheerful disposition that contrasted with the photographer's somber and analytical gaze. For him, each encounter, each face was a story told without the need for capture, while Sung-hoon looked through the camera, searching for shadows and reflections, the invisible that could only be observed through the lens. But despite their differences, Jake was his companion, and that meeting was a bond that still maintained the appearance of normalcy in a world that was slipping through his fingers.

Upon arriving at the café, the feeling of unreality enveloped him strongly. The bustle of conversations, the sound of coffee being poured into cups, and the aroma that filled the air seemed like distant echoes to him, as if he were looking at the world from the distance of a photograph, frozen and distant. Each object in the place, each face that crossed his path, seemed like a lifeless painting, a static image that had nothing to offer him beyond its fleeting existence. Only the constant buzzing in his mind kept him anchored to that reality, but everything felt like a dream he hadn't chosen himself.

When Jake greeted him, his face lit up with that broad and contagious smile that had always been so bewildering to him. Sung-hoon looked at him, recognizing in him the unyielding energy that he so often wished to possess but never could. Next to Jake, there was a figure that seemed familiar, but he still couldn't put a name to it. A young woman, whose presence seemed to fill the space with a natural light that had nothing to do with the shadows Sung-hoon had grown accustomed to. It's you, your smile was so open and generous that it contrasted with the coldness surrounding Sung-hoon, like a ray of sunshine entering a gloomy room. Despite your apparent tranquility, your energy was so vibrant that it seemed to fill the air around you, flooding the room with a vitality that Sung-hoon felt was foreign.

—I'd like you to meet (Y/N)— said Jake, with a spark in his eyes that Sung-hoon couldn't ignore. —She's my new model and, well, also someone I've been dating lately.—

Sung-hoon nodded mechanically, unable to find words beyond polite formality. His mind, on the other hand, was already beginning to process the image of you. Something felt unsettling to him, as if your presence challenged the stillness he had sought in the photograph. When you extended your hand to him, your gesture was warm and filled with that energy that Sung-hoon had never understood, as natural and genuine as the air he breathed. Despite his attempts to maintain emotional distance, Sung-hoon, inside, was as tense as a wire, with his jaw clenched and his fingers closing around his hand with a rigidity he couldn't disguise. It was as if he were touching something that didn't belong to him, something he couldn't possess.

—(Y/N), it's a pleasure to meet you— he said, with his usual cold and calculated tone, but despite his control, a small crack opened in his voice, a slight tremor that betrayed the internal storm shaking his chest.

You looked at him with a smile that, although warm, never wavered. Your posture was relaxed, completely oblivious to the conflict raging within him. It was a sight that seemed out of place in Sung-hoon's world. In the photograph he had captured the day before, you had been a shadow of yourself, a figure breathing sadness, deep melancholy, as if the world had stopped offering something worthy of your gaze. He had captured that essence, that gaze lost on the horizon, that fragility that so attracted him, seeking in you what he himself felt was missing: A naked truth, almost painful, that could only be understood through a lens. But now, in front of him, stood a completely different woman. The melancholy he had imagined was replaced by a vibrant light, an energy that seemed so foreign to the image he had created in his mind. It was not the sad figure he had seen in his camera, but a beacon of joy, a warm glow that illuminated everything around him.

Sung-hoon, for a moment, was paralyzed, as if time had stopped. The figure of the young woman in front of him was not the same one he had captured. The reflection he had found in his camera, the sadness and depth he thought he understood, crumbled before his eyes. Reality was imposing itself with a force that bewildered him. This woman was not a shadow, not an emptiness; you were the very antithesis of what he had sought. Something twisted inside him, a mix of frustration and fascination, as if the image he had created, the one he had conceived through his lens, was being torn from his being.

Was that the same woman he had portrayed? Was it possible for a captured image to be so radically different from reality? Confusion overwhelmed him, frustration began to take shape, mingling with a strange feeling of jealousy, as if your life were a slap in the face to the truth he had tried to find in his work.

While the conversation continued between Jake and you, Sung-hoon remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, who now seemed an impossible enigma to decipher. Every word you spoke, every move you made, confirmed something he feared: The image he had built of you no longer existed, and he was unable to comprehend the real woman standing before him. The photograph, which had always been his refuge and his way of understanding the world, now betrayed him, crumbling in his hands.

With each breath, a small dark spark began to burn within his being. It was no longer about admiration, no longer just fascination. It was something deeper, something that awakened in him an even greater sense of emptiness. There was something he couldn't reach, something he had touched in his chamber but that now seemed to slip through his fingers, like the light he had tried so hard to seize.

And as his heart beat with growing anxiety, he realized something terrifying: Perhaps photography hadn't given him what he thought it had. Maybe what he needed to capture wasn't in the world he saw through the lens, but in the darkness that hid within him.

From that day on, something in Sung-hoon began to crumble like an old film that, exposed to light, starts to tear and disintegrate. His initial fascination with you, a light curiosity, an admiration fueled by the desire to capture your ephemeral beauty, slowly transformed into an excessive obsession. The lens of his camera, that object he had used for years to spy on the human soul, now took on a different weight, a dark power that seemed to dictate the rules of the relationship. He no longer saw you as a fleeting muse, but as an immaculate canvas, a virgin territory that had to be conquered over and over again. Each click of the shutter was not just a reminder of his technical prowess, but a twisted validation of his need to possess the image of you, to freeze it in a perpetual instant, to impose his will upon you. Each shot was a subtle, almost imperceptible affirmation that what he captured through his camera was his. In his mind, distorted by obsession, each shot reinforced the idea that his love, his devotion to you, was reciprocated, that his control over the image meant control over your being.

The first time Sung-hoon photographed you without your consent, it wasn't an accident; it was a chance disguised as an opportunity. You were sitting on the edge of a window, motionless, looking out at the garden as if the outside world were an extension of your thoughts. The soft afternoon light slipped through the curtains, illuminating your face with an almost celestial clarity. In that moment, Sung-hoon raised the camera instinctively, almost as if the gesture were an extension of his own being. There was no time to think about it, no space for reflection. It was a visceral impulse, a need to capture the image before it faded, as if your beauty were a flash of light that only he could capture, preserve, and, in his mind, possess. The sound of the shutter, so familiar, vibrated in his chest with an indescribable satisfaction, a shiver that ran down his spine. In that single second, something inside him broke even more. The image he was creating was not simply that of a beautiful woman, nor just another of his artistic photographs. It was an attempt to possess you, to trap you, to hold you in a space that he controlled. Through the lens, you became a static object, a being that, for him, no longer existed in the unpredictable flow of time, but in a capsule of light and shadow that only he could decode.

The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of reality, began to transform into a channel to something much darker, a means to impose his will, to create his own distorted version of the truth. Thus, he began to photograph you compulsively, without rest. The sessions were no longer scheduled or agreed upon; they were driven by an uncontrollable impulse fueled by the need to see you in your purest, most fragmented, most his form. Sung-hoon was not just a photographer; he saw himself as a sculptor in the darkness, molding reality, shaping your figure with the precision of his lens, seeking perfection in every angle, in every light. He asked you to stay for an "improvised session," suggested poses with an apparent delicacy that disguised itself as professionalism, but in every gesture, every instruction, there was an insatiable need for control. The power of the camera, the ability to capture a moment in time, became a game of manipulation, a dance in which he was not only the director but the absolute creator.

Each image created was another step towards the achievement of his ideal, an ideal that distorted both your figure and reality itself. There was something perverse in the way he looked at you, a fascination that went beyond mere aesthetic pursuit. It was no longer just about capturing the beauty he had found in his other subjects; in you, he sought something more, something that belonged to him, a beauty he could hold in his power. And, like a painter who wants to capture the soul of his muse in every stroke, Sung-hoon aspired for that beauty to be his, only his, until it merged with his own vision. The camera was no longer just a medium; it had become an instrument of control, an artifact that, in his hands, could strip the woman of your humanity, transforming you into a frozen and manipulated image.

The sessions dragged on indefinitely, and you, although initially immersed in the fascination of art, began to feel increasingly uncomfortable. At first, you thought that Sung-hoon was simply an eccentric, a man trapped in his art, like those cursed geniuses of history who saw the world through a unique, distorted lens. You tried to convince yourself that your concerns were an overreaction, that you weren't seeing things clearly. But as the days went by, something inside you began to resist, as if a small alarm in your subconscious was going off. Every glance Sung-hoon directed at you, every moment he spent in front of the camera, made you feel as if his presence was constantly being analyzed, dissected, reduced to a series of visual formulas that he controlled at will. It was no longer just about capturing his image, but about taking possession of you. Each gesture, each instruction, felt like another strategy to strip you of your identity, to make it fit into the image he had created of you.

After one of those long sessions, you met with Jake to talk about what you had been feeling, even though the words seemed inadequate to describe the discomfort that was overwhelming you. You feared that by expressing myself, your feelings might seem excessive, melodramatic. However, something inside you told you that you couldn't ignore it any longer.

—Jake— you began, your voice wavering, —I'm not sure how to explain it, but... Sung-hoon is being weird with me. He is constantly taking pictures of me, but it's not just for work. Sometimes I feel like he isn't seeing the person I am, but rather an image he has created in his mind. It makes me feel… Uncomfortable. As if he were watching me to decipher something I can't control.—

Jake looked at you thoughtfully, but in his expression, there was something that suggested indifference. In his world, your image in Sung-hoon's camera was not just a portrait; it was an open door to fame. The name of Sung-hoon, so well-known, could be the key that launched your career. What better way to rise in the artistic world than to be under his lens?

—Come on, darling— he said with a confident smile. —Sung-hoon is eccentric, I know, but he's not doing anything wrong. You have to see this as an opportunity. Not everyone is lucky enough to be photographed by him. This could be just what you need to take the next step in your career.—

Despite Jake's reassuring words, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The discomfort you had started to feel with Sung-hoon persisted, growing with each session. Every time he looked at you through the lens, his eyes seemed not only to capture your image but to scrutinize, to penetrate deep within. In his mind, the photographs were not just images, they were not simply captures of a moment. They were symbols of his control, his power, his one-sided and uncontrollable love. In Sung-hoon's universe, each photograph was a declaration: I possess you, I have understood you, I have made you mine.

Meanwhile, Sung-hoon continued his obsessive collection of images. Each click of the shutter was another step towards the creation of a distorted version of you, a version that only he knew and that no one else could understand. In his mind, the photographs wove together like threads forming an invisible web, a space he controlled, where his impossible and unrequited love could live, eternal, beyond the truth.

As Sung-hoon's obsession deepened, his once contained and meticulous nature began to crumble slowly, like an hourglass whose grain of sand never ceased to fall. The darkness that surrounded him grew denser, like a thick fog that took over the room, the air, the space he occupied. Your perfection, so incandescent and ephemeral in its image, was no longer just your face, nor the curve of your body under the soft light of the sunset. No, you yourself had become the very essence of his vision, the focus to which Sung-hoon had dedicated every millimeter of his art. For him, you were no longer a woman; you were a symbol, a canvas yet to be painted, a mystery yet to be solved, and the camera, that extension of his being, was his only passport to that distorted world he had begun to build around you.

The photographer, trapped in his own twisted conception of love and beauty, no longer just captured the light that fell upon you like a brush caressing the canvas. He had become a sculptor of shadows, an architect of moments, a man trying to redraw reality to match the chaos that inhabited his mind. And while his lens rested upon you, his gaze went far beyond the visible, beyond the external appearance that so fascinated others. His eye, always trained to capture the raw and natural beauty of life, now dedicated itself to observing every crack in your soul, every fragment of vulnerability you tried to hide. His vision, once purely artistic, had become an act of possession.

Sung-hoon was not just a mere observer; he infiltrated, like a painter delving into the history of his muse before putting a single stroke on the canvas. He began to explore your intimacy with the same precision with which he composed a perfect shot. In every word you let slip unintentionally, in every sigh that was just for him, the photographer saw an opportunity to discover something new, something deeper. He knew you more than you could imagine. The cracks you had tried to cover with an impeccable facade were now his field of study. He knew of your fears, your dark memories, the scars you carried in your soul, those stories that, had it not been for Sung-hoon's meticulous patience, would have remained as secrets buried in time. He was not simply an observer, but a collector of broken memories, a gatherer of the fragments of your being that you had never shown to anyone.

In his daily interactions, his deep knowledge of your personal life slipped into the conversation with the subtlety of a sharp knife. In a casual comment, Sung-hoon inserted fragments of his private life, as if they were simple, unimportant observations. —I remember that time you mentioned your father, as if you were still seeking his approval— he said quietly one day, while adjusting the lights in the studio. —And that little corner in your apartment, where you keep the old letters... You always keep it closed, why is that?— Each word, each insinuation was like a fishing line cast into the wind, trapping you in an invisible net of your own past, a net that, although as fine as a thread, tightened over time until you could no longer move without being aware of Sung-hoon's constant watchfulness.

For him, it was not enough to capture the light that surrounded you; he had to seize your soul. With each shot, with each scene he asked to repeat, Sung-hoon was searching for something deeper: A distorted truth that only he could see, a facet of you that existed only in his mind. The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of others, transformed into his chain of control, a tool of power that connected him to you, an invisible bond that kept you close, that kept you in his line of sight. And although you began to feel the pressure, the threat of the invisible, you couldn't escape. At first thinking that it was all part of Sung-hoon's eccentricity, his dedication to perfection. But soon, the truth became evident: you weren't being photographed; you were being observed, studied, dismantled piece by piece.

Sung-hoon never resorted to brute force or open threats. He was much more skilled than that. His control was not in strong words or confrontation; his power lay in subtlety, in silent gestures, in the whispers that accompanied each shot, in the way he manipulated the perception of reality through the lens of his camera. He didn't need to say it openly: He knew you were beginning to understand the extent of his influence. Each suggestion, each gesture of support, was imbued with a tacit expectation, the expectation that you would follow him, that you would continue playing your role in the image he had created. He offered you opportunities, but those opportunities were nothing more than carefully woven traps, designed to make you more dependent on him, to draw you even closer to the distorted picture of yourself.

And, like a photographer who discovers an imperfection in a seemingly perfect image, Sung-hoon begins to notice the cracks in your facade. Your smile, which had once been natural and carefree, was beginning to seem forced. Your responses, once so full of life, were now shorter, more evasive. The sparkle in your eyes, which I had captured so many times, was now subtly fading. For Sung-hoon, each of these moments was a revelation. He was not only seeing the woman you pretended to be, but he was also seeing the woman he had begun to shape in his mind, a creation that had no escape. The pressure, invisible but palpable, was his signature. In the tremor of an unspoken word, in the imperceptible shift in posture, Sung-hoon found what he had been searching for: Beauty in fragility, art in oppression, control in broken perfection.

Meanwhile, you began to feel trapped in your own image, a distorted reflection that Sung-hoon had created around you. He, the god of shadows and light, saw the truth behind the masks, and you could no longer hide what he wished to see. The worst part is that, in his mind, you were already part of his creation, a muse that only existed through him. In the web he had woven, you found yourself trapped, not knowing if the exit was an illusion or if the only way to escape was to become someone else, someone completely different from the image he had shaped. But, as always happened in photography, there was no turning back: The exposure had been made, and what remained was a fixed, unchangeable image that only he could understand.

As the days slid by slowly, like a movie advancing in slow motion under the relentless direction of fate, you began to perceive how the walls of your own world, once open and full of possibilities, were closing in, trapping you with a subtle but devastating force. It was as if you were trapped in a photograph that never stopped being taken, each moment immortalized, each gesture meticulously framed. Every word Sung-hoon uttered, every glance he cast, were no longer mere interactions; they were fragments of a story he had written without your permission, a tale in which you were trapped, like a porcelain figure in the lens of a photographer obsessed with capturing your essence, with no voice or vote over your own portrait. It was a story that had ceased to belong to you, a narrative from which you had become an unwilling spectator, watching yourself from a distance that stripped you of your humanity.

In his mind, the perception of time and reality began to blur like the light dissolving on the horizon, tinting everything around him with increasingly dense shadows. Before, your world had been clear, like a well-exposed photograph; but now everything seemed to be revealed through a dark filter, as if the image were taken with a defective lens that distorted colors and shapes. The man who had been, until then, your mentor and companion, began to reveal himself as a dark, twisted, and distant figure, whose influence had infiltrated her life with the subtlety of a rising tide. Sung-hoon, with his gaze fixed like that of a predator, had managed to weave his control over you in such a subtle and meticulous manner that, at times, you wondered if you had ever been free. Freedom, once a natural right, now seemed to You an illusion fading among the folds of a photograph that had been taken without her consent.

Sung-hoon had transformed every corner of your life into a stage where only he dictated the rules. In his mind, every scene had to be directed by him, and you were nothing more than the actress chosen to play a role you didn't know. At first, you had believed that his obsession with you was the passionate fervor of an artist who seeks, like a painter lost in the meticulous details of his muse, to capture every nuance of your essence. But soon you realized that the camera, that extension of the human eye in which he trusted blindly, had become a watchful eye, an unrelenting lens that not only captured your image but also disfigured you, twisted you, and reduced you to a distorted shadow. The light, that sublime element which once revealed beauty, had ceased to be your ally. Now, each ray of light seemed like a threat, a deadly trap in which you found yourself ensnared, trapped within the frame of a reality he had created for you.

Sung-hoon's camera was not simply a tool for creating art; it had evolved into a weapon of control. Each click, each capture, was an assertion of his dominance, a manifestation of his power over your life and identity. In his eyes, you were not a complete woman, but a canvas on which he could paint without your consent, a blank page that had to be molded according to his will. And the most devastating thing of all was that, at first, You had believed he saw you as you truly were, that his work as a photographer had allowed him to delve into the very essence of your being. But, over time, the truth began to slowly unveil itself, like an old layer of paint peeling away, revealing the cracks in the facade he had built. Sung-hoon didn't see you. He didn't understand you. I had reduced you to an image, a figure projected onto the wall, a puppet whose only mission was to fit into the distorted vision of your world.

However, something within you began to awaken. It was a small spark, almost imperceptible, like a glimmer in the darkness, but it grew with each passing day under Sung-hoon's control. The feeling of being trapped became increasingly unbearable, as if his room were an invisible prison, a glass cell that only reflected your own image, as if You were looking at yourself through a mirror that only returned your despair. Every time he looked at you, every word, every seemingly innocent gesture of affection, transformed into a symbol of his manipulation. The casual comments about his past, the insinuations about his darkest secrets, no longer seemed like simple observations; they became sharp knives buried in your skin, constantly reminding you that he knew your vulnerabilities, that he could destroy you if he wanted to.

Each day that passed under his dominion, you felt your freedom fading more and more, like a photograph that, as it develops, begins to dissolve in the water, losing its definition, its life, its color. The pressure that was once subtle had transformed into an unstoppable force, a rising tide that pushed you towards the unknown, towards the disintegration of your own identity. The camera, which had been your refuge, your art, your way of seeing the world, had now become your jailer. And Sung-hoon, the man you had admired, had transformed into the architect of your destiny, a god who shaped reality at his whim, playing with light and shadow like a puppeteer who manipulates humans to his will.

Like a lighthouse in the midst of the storm, the possibility of escape began to become clearer, though still vague. You knew you couldn't keep living trapped in the shadows that Sung-hoon had cast over you. The struggle to regain your freedom turned into a frantic race against time, a desperate sprint to prevent him from completely destroying the public image you had so carefully cultivated. You began to search for clues, to scrutinize the details, to look for the cracks in the perfect facade of your life that Sung-hoon had built. You were like a detective in your own life, unraveling the web of lies he had woven around you, with every word, every action of his turned into a clue about his hidden intentions.

As your thoughts organized themselves, You began to notice details that had previously gone unnoticed. The photo shoots, which once seemed like an artistic ritual, now revealed their true nature: A carefully designed strategy to keep you close, to continue controlling your image and, therefore, your life. The compliments I once considered sincere, the insinuations that seemed like flattery, the intense looks from Sung-hoon, were no longer mere displays of admiration. They had become tools of manipulation, like the light a photographer uses to highlight only the elements they want, the viewer to see, darkening everything else. The truth, like a film that has been exposed to the sun for too long, began to reveal itself with blinding clarity.

Sung-hoon, however, was not a man who could be disarmed so easily. In his mind, each interaction with you was another shot, another take that brought him closer to his ultimate goal: to possess you completely, to break you until only the perfect image he had forged in his mind remained. He knew you were starting to notice his control, but, like a photographer playing with light and shadow, he remained in the shadows, hidden, manipulating every piece of the puzzle without your seeing it. His power lay in the ability to make you feel vulnerable, to introduce thoughts into your mind that would leave You trapped in your own confusion, like a poison silently seeping into the current of your consciousness.

Time, that elusive abstraction that had always slipped through his fingers like fine sand, began to take on the texture of an impenetrable wall. The days, which once stretched like an endless chain of empty moments, now intertwined in a spiral of shadows that faded and dissolved into a whirlwind of uncertainty. Each attempt to flee, each fleeting glance towards an exit that became increasingly unattainable, evaporated with the swiftness with which shadows succumb to light, leaving behind only the sensation of emptiness. In the course of your silent resistance, you came to understand, with painful and dizzying clarity, that escaping from Sung-hoon was not a tangible option, not a viable alternative. Like photographic film that, when exposed to light for too long, develops prematurely, the fate of your actions was already marked, predestined. And as this truth settled in his chest like an unbearable weight, hopelessness began to wrap around his soul, as heavy and dense as the camera hanging from his neck, like an extension of his own being, relentless, like the presence of a specter.

The air, once light and breathable, became thick, like the tension-filled atmosphere inside a dark room, where harsh and cold lights create a palpable sense of claustrophobia. The flow of life, that incessant and turbulent river, seemed to have halted its course, gently moving you towards an abyss from which you could not escape. You no longer fought against the current. The tide of your destiny enveloped you, absorbing you with an almost hypnotic force, as if everything were in its place, as if everything were part of a carefully composed picture. Your resistance dissolved, like an image fading in the developer, when the chemical envelops you and erases the edges of what was once defined. The contours of his will blurred, softening, fading, until the unquenchable impulse for release that had burned in his chest extinguished, fading like the last light of day when the sun sinks below the horizon, leaving only the cold darkness that follows.

Sung-hoon, the man who had been your mentor, your companion, your torturer, and your savior, had taken on the form of a dark, almost mythical figure, a silhouette in which light and shadow merged into an incomplete portrait. Throughout your time together, you had believed you knew him, that you understood each of the intentions hidden behind his icy gaze, like the reflection on the calm surface of water disturbed by a stone falling without warning. But now, in the midst of the silence that surrounded you, you realized that you had been nothing more than a piece in a work that you could not fully comprehend. You were part of a photograph revealing itself before you, an image constructed by a photographer whose vision had transformed you into something even you didn't recognize. And yet, instead of rejecting that truth, something strange began to well up in your chest, like a subtle whisper, a spark of light filtering through a crack in the darkness. It wasn't love, at least not in its purest form, but it was something that resembled it, something more enigmatic and complex. It was a fatalistic acceptance, a kind of silent submission that was beginning to reshape your perception of Sung-hoon.

You had feared it before, that light emanating from his chamber, which you had believed revealed the truth behind the masks. That same light, which now trapped you like an invisible spider's web, kept your soul captive. The intensity of his gaze, that tireless observation that never seemed to leave you, had become the core of your anxiety, a focal point of unease that consumed you. But, as time passed and the concept of escape faded as quickly as shadows succumb to the first ray of sunlight, you began to see something different, something new. Like a photographer examining an image on their screen and realizing that what once seemed blurry is, in fact, a photograph with a disturbing and unique beauty, you began to perceive the complexity of Sung-hoon. The darkness that once terrified you now contained nuances you could not ignore. Each of his gestures, each word he uttered, each glance, contained a profound truth about his being, something that transcended mere manipulation. It was like a lens that distorts the world, but at the same time, captures a raw beauty, a beauty that was undeniable, though incomplete.

Sung-hoon, in his obsession with perfection, was not simply a man with selfish desires for control. His need to capture the essence of the world, of humanity itself, through his camera, was something more visceral, more profound. The photographer was not just an observer of the world; he molded it, took it in his hands like a sculptor shaping clay. And you, caught in that web he had woven around you, began to see, even to admire, that skill, that tireless drive to dominate nature through art. Sung-hoon's vision was not a desire for manipulation, but a primitive impulse, a need to freeze the essence of the moment into a pure image, albeit devoid of all compassion. Somehow, you felt a deep admiration for him, for his ability to distill the chaos of reality into something simpler, more comprehensible. Light and shadow, those two opposites, were no longer enemies in his world. Now they were your allies, and you found yourself trapped in a scene where you were not only the subject but also the spectator of your own existence.

Sung-hoon was not just a man. He was the architect of his world, the demiurge who wove reality around him, undoing and redoing the threads of fate with the same skill with which he adjusted the frame of a photograph. Somehow, you understood that his own complicity in that process had given him the power to transform you. Like an old photograph that, over time, fades and changes, your resistance to him began to crumble like a negative dissolving in water. You no longer saw him as a jailer, a monster who kept you trapped. Instead, you saw him as the creator of a world in which, despite yourself, you felt special, unique. Sung-hoon's control was no longer oppressive; instead, it became a reflection of his own essence, a control woven with almost artistic patience and precision.

That feeling was an amalgamation of fear, fascination, respect, and acceptance. You disliked him, yes, but at the same time, there was something about him that attracted you, something impossible to ignore, something that overflowed the surface of his being. The shadows that once surrounded you now illuminated the truth of your existence, and what once seemed like a prison, a space of despair, now became a refuge where your soul, marked and distorted by Sung-hoon's lens, found itself. The light and the darkness, the contrasts and the shadows, began to weave into a single thread, creating a new reality, a new identity.

Each shot from Sung-hoon's camera not only kept you under his control. It offered you a strange form of comfort. In each image he captured, you saw not only a distorted version of yourself but also a more authentic, more complete one. The light and shadow, which once disturbed you, now took on a new dimension, one in which you found acceptance, transformation. Somehow, you had learned to embrace the image that Sung-hoon had created of you, an imperfect, broken portrait, but essentially true. A portrait that, like humanity itself, reflected fragility, internal struggle, and the inevitable beauty of the struggle itself.

Sung-hoon hadn't destroyed your identity. He had transformed it. And, slowly, as you began to understand the depth of that transformation, you realized that you were no longer a victim of his control, but a work in progress, an image still taking shape under the relentless lens of a man whose art had learned to reveal the deepest essence of your being. Without being able to help it, your feelings towards him became a whirlwind of contradictory emotions, a spiral in which love and fear, submission and admiration intertwined, trapped in a portrait whose exposure was not yet complete. And, like a photograph that is yet to be fully developed, you found yourself trapped in the endless process of its own revelation.

[neyafromfrance95]

the essence of sauron's feelings for galadriel makes him the perfect partner for her.

galadriel's greatest desire is to be a queen in her own right, to have power over all else in the kingdom of her own.

and this is sauron's proposal to her.

sauron is not proposing to make galadriel subservient to him, to make her into a consort. he is proposing to give her that which she desires. he would be her consort in that scenario, her queen-maker. he promises to make her stronger than the foundations of the earth, to bring all middle-earth to its' knee to worship the light of its' queen. this is not a description of a queen consort, but of a god queen.

trop doesn't change lotr!galadriel's greatest desire, it just adds more context to it - sauron himself becomes her temptation for power! her desire for him represents her desire for power.

we don't talk enough about how galadriel sees herself as the chosen one. she has a god complex. she believes that there is this greater than life reason why she alone is destined to defeat the darkness and protect the middle-earth, and everyone should accommodate her in her quest of a great glory.

and sauron knows her mind. he sees who she is and who she wishes to be. and he wishes to make galadriel into a great authority she desires to be. he chooses her as his god to worship.

the truth is that they couldn't be any more compatible with one another.

there is more nuance to it. sauron sees his likeness in galadriel, and he empathizes with her when she opens up about being alienated bc of her darkness. he genuinely repents for causing it and chooses to help her achieve her ambition by following her lead. and that is the feeling he wants to bind to his very being, the feeling of being forgiven by the one he had helped ruin when he served the darkness as he helps her heal by serving her light, the feeling of being free of morgoth's darkness through binding himself to galadriel's light. bc in his mind, he can be absolved of this darkness through serving galadriel. in his mind, to heal himself he needs galadriel to need him.

in his mind, galadriel is the one being who is his mirror, she shares his darkness, and yet, she overpowers it with her willpower. so it makes sense that sauron believes only galadriel can free him from morgoth and do so by binding him to herself. sauron sees galadriel as his savior.

sauron's proposal is literally him begging galadriel to bind herself to him by accepting power he offers her. binding that feeling to his very being = bending his knee to worship the light of his queen. and sauron expresses care through servitude and experiences love through worship.

so, subtextually, sauron asks galadriel to accept his love.

his feelings for her border worship and possessiveness, and since she rejects his worship, he resorts to desperately trying to possess her. but the undercurrent of his groping is the same - she is the only one who binds him to the light. as in, the part of him that loves her is the only part of him that is absolved of the darkness. and he wants that feeling back the way he felt it when he fought at her side.

subtextually, it is underlined that sauron tries to recapture her being in his creations, and it is the feeling of being bound to her that he covets. he holds onto their connection and keeps it with him always.

also, sauron and galadriel's compatibility and connection don't make for an inherently corrupt dynamic. in theory, she can be a great leader and he can be her good follower. but as it is, sauron would inevitably cause galadriel to succumb to the darkness and she would never outgrow her pride and greed.

[a-araiguma-a]

Between the serving and Her smile

Pairing: Oliver Wood x fem!reader Warning: mutual pining, drama, first love, jealous a/n: sketching an idea, I hope you will be interested in it and I will continue to develop it.

Start - Prolog (Episode 1 - Episode 2 - Episode 3 - Episode 4 - Episode 5) - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8

The noise of the wind, cut by brooms at high speeds, became a familiar background for Oliver Wood. Quidditch was not just his passion, but the very essence of his existence. He was the captain and keeper of the Gryffindor team, and his quest to win the Quidditch Cup became an obsessive goal. All his thoughts revolved around tactics, training and strategies, but sometimes his own heart reminded him of another, equally important side of life.

[Your name], a girl with surprisingly deep eyes and a radiant smile, burst into his life as suddenly as a gust of wind on the field. She was a half-breed, her father was a Muggle, and her mother died in childbirth, but it didn't matter to Oliver. Her intelligence, kindness and support captivated him, and he could not resist her charms. Their friendship began innocently, with nighttime gatherings in the library and help with homework. In the fifth year, someone noticed the sparkle in their eyes for the first time, but then none of them understood it. It wasn't until his sixth year that Oliver realized he couldn't imagine his life without her. That after completing their studies, their paths may diverge.

Love turned out to be more complicated than he thought. Oliver would do anything for [Your name], but Quidditch remained in the first place in his life. He devoted his days and nights to training, forgetting about meetings with her, postponing dates and leaving her alone on holidays. He didn't do it on purpose, but when he had so many thoughts about strategies and victories in his head, time ceased to exist.

Oliver knew she was in pain. She never complained, but he could see the longing in her eyes when, once again, he left her for Quidditch. And it tore at his heart. He wanted to be with her, but the desire to win was too strong.

Back then, as a freshman, Harry joined the team as a Catcher, Oliver felt relieved. He finally found someone who could help the team win the Cup. But with that came new difficulties — early morning workouts and even more hours spent on the field. This further alienated him from [Your Name], and jealousy began to gnaw at him from the inside.

Oliver couldn't help but notice that other guys were starting to hang around her. Books will be delivered, flowers will be presented, and someone else will invite you on a date. He felt his heart constrict when he saw her with others. These thoughts haunted him, and he knew that he had to act, but how? His day was scheduled by the minute — study, training, tactics. There was no time for a personal life, and it tormented him.

When Oliver overcame all difficulties and misunderstandings, he tried to be the perfect partner. He took care of her, supported her in everything, but with the onset of the seventh year, everything became more complicated. There were final exams ahead, crucial Quidditch matches and their relationship.

Anxiety for the future increasingly consumed him. He was afraid of losing her because of his obsession with Quidditch, but he couldn't give up on his dream. His love for [Your name] and passion for the game pulled him in different directions, tearing him apart.

Oliver stood on the edge of the field after another practice session, watching the sun slowly set over the horizon. He knew that difficult trials lay ahead, but he believed that love and Quidditch could coexist in his life. He swore to himself that he would do everything possible to preserve these two treasures, even if it required the impossible from him.

[ateez-himari]

EPHEMERAL; NABI COLLECTION

[NEW CAMPAIGN FROM VERSACE]

VERSACE @/Versace

Preview of the upcoming #EphemeralJewelry collection designed by Global Ambassador, Himari

The campaign is now available at e-versace.com/EJ24

#Himari #ATEEZ #Versace

12:00pm · 25 Aug 24 · 5.7M Views 130K Reposts 2,390 Quotes 3.5M Likes

HanZone @/Off.TaegukCaptn Replying to @/Versace Wow...from being scared of taking the first step towards idol life to designing jewelry for one of the biggest fashion houses, you grew up too fast.

Stray Kids @/Stray_Kids Replying to @/Versace (현진) These designs are absolutely incredible, and that's not even the half of it 😉I never thought you'd add 'fashion designer' to your list of side quests ㅋㅋㅋ

ATEEZ(에이티즈) @/ATEEZofficial Replying to @/Versace Min Himari, the lead vocalist, our precious maknae, one of the three artists behind our tracks...words can't express how proud of you we are right now 🤧Your incredible artistry expands far beyond music or dance and we couldn't be happier to share that with the world ❤️

Cartier @/Cartier Replying to @/Versace Himari truly captured the very essence of a butterfly's beauty in these pieces and we can't wait to see what other masterpieces will be added to this collection! Maybe she can come work with us some time 🤭

GOTTA WORK GOTTA WORK @/lightuptiny Replying to @/Versace at this point Hyunjin and Hima are just fighting for the favorite title😭Donatella loves them so much, she's almost like their rich aunt that spoils them just for existing

[crypticslytherin]

Rescued || Sebastian Sallow

————————————

Parings: Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Summary: A few years after Sebastian was sent to Azkaban, you couldn’t bare for him to be there anymore. You felt guilty for his imprisonment, and your love for him had never truly left.

Word Count: 2805

This is my first One Shot AHHH I hope you like. C:

⚯͛▕⃝⃤ ⚯͛▕⃝⃤ ⚯͛▕⃝⃤ ⚯͛▕⃝⃤

"What have I done?" you whispered to yourself, standing amidst the ruins of Feldcroft, once a lively hamlet now reduced to ash and bones. The air was heavy with the scent of burned flesh, blood, and smoke, a grim reminder of the recent battle between villagers and goblins. Weapons, tainted with goblin silver, lay about, silent witnesses to the violence that had unfolded.

Before you stood the remains of the Sallow home, a mere shadow of its former self. Books lay scattered among the rubble, their pages torn and tattered, while scraps of fabric bore witness to the ferocity of the flames. A tear traced its path down your cheek as you clutched your wand tightly, half-expecting some lingering threat to emerge from the devastation around you.

If only Sebastian were still here. He would have known this was happening when it happened. But he wasn't, and you couldn't shake the guilt that weighed heavy on your heart. Ever since Sebastian murdered his uncle Solomon, you'd felt guilty. You had helped and encouraged him in his quest to find a cure for Anne. You never could have imagined it would lead to such darkness.

When Ominis suggested turning Sebastian in to the authorities, you remained silent, paralyzed by indecision and fear. He was sent to rot in Azkaban. Now, years later, Sebastian's haunting cries echoed in your dreams, accusing you of betrayal, of abandonment. He pleaded for your help with tears in his eyes, and you found yourself suffocating.

You loved Sebastian, fiercely and unconditionally, and the thought of him suffering tormented you to your core. You knew what you had to do, what you should have done long ago. You would find a way to make amends, to seek forgiveness for your silence. You would tell Sebastian the truth, apologize for failing him when he needed you most.

And you would do whatever it took to make things right.

As you stepped back, the click of your feet echoed along the pavement, filling the heavy silence around you. With your wand clenched firmly in your grasp, you drew in a deep breath, the crisp air filling your lungs. Closing your eyes, you felt unsure without a precise destination in your mind. All you knew was that you would reach Azkaban, though Sebastian's exact location remained unknown. You conjured a vivid mental image of the fortress's interior, a place you had visited once during your fifth year.

"Apparate," you uttered softly, your wand tracing a swift arc through the air. Instantly, a sensation of pressure enveloped your body as you hurtled through space. As the disorienting spin came to a stop, you felt the solid ground beneath your feet transition to cold, unforgiving stone. The once-brilliant sunlight vanished, replaced by a darkness that seemed to swallow the very essence of light. A wave of nausea briefly washed over you, prompting a hand to press against your chest as you steadied yourself. Your eyes adjusted to the dimness as you gazed down a wide, shadowed pathway.

The walls were lined with cells on both sides, the desperate screams of prisoners echoing off the cold stone, sending a shiver down your spine. Gathering your courage, you took a hesitant step forward, knowing all too well what awaited you.

Dementors, the guards of Azkaban, began closing in on you.

As they drew nearer, you could feel the chill of their presence enveloping you, draining the warmth from your body. Their hooded figures glide effortlessly, their eerie movements sending a sense of dread through your veins. The air grew colder, and a thick mist seems to swirl around them, obscuring their ghastly forms.

With trembling hands, you raise your wand and summon the courage to cast the spell. "Expecto Patronum!" you shout, the words echoing through the oppressive atmosphere. A silvery mist bursts from the tip of your wand, taking shape and form. It materialized into a powerful Patronus, a radiant shield against the darkness.

The Dementors recoiled at the sight of the Patronus, their spectral forms shrinking back from its brilliance. They let out unearthly wails, their icy grip weakening as they retreat from the protective barrier of light. With each passing moment, the threat diminishes, until finally, the Dementors fade into the shadows, defeated by the strength of your Patronus.

"Revelio, Sebastian Sallow," you whispered, wand poised as you hurried down the pathway. Inside their cells, prisoners' wails echoed, a symphony of despair. Above, a faint green outline materialized on a higher floor, pacing restlessly. Sebastian. With cautious determination, you navigated the corridors, the air thick as inmates hurled profanities at you. Some resorted to self-harm, slamming their heads against the stone as their desperate cries fillied the air.

The environment was suffocating, the weight of Sebastian's presence in Azkaban bearing down on you once more.

How could you have let this happen?

The staircase stretched seemingly endlessly as you continued to cast Revelio, refusing to lose sight of Sebastian. Finally reaching the correct level, a metal door blocked your path. "Alohomora," you whispered, the lock yielding effortlessly to the flick of your wand.

Your heart raced as you cautiously navigated the dim hallway, the atmosphere just as somber and bleak as the last one. The chilly air caused the hairs on your arms to stand on end. Approaching Sebastian's cell, doubt gnawed at you. Was coming here a mistake? You wondered how he might appear after all these years in Azkaban—whether he'd be a mere shadow of himself or if the glimmer still remained in his eyes. Your breaths grew unsteady.

"Oi! What are you doing here?" A grim voice pierced the air, and you turned to see an elderly man to your left, his hands clutching the steel bars of his cell tightly. His eyes were sunken, the darkness beneath them almost consuming, and his head was bald, his prisoner garb stained with sweat and blood. His gaze drilled into you like black holes. A predatory hunger gleamed in his eyes as he licked his lips, sending a shiver down your spine. "You'd make an excellent toy."

"Silencio," you whispered, flicking your wand toward him. His head jerked back, hands flying to cover his mouth, rendering him unable to utter another word. Pressing forward, you approached Sebastian's cell.

Standing beside it, you leaned against the cold stone wall, uncertainty flooding your mind. Your heart pounded against your chest, your palms growing clammy with anticipation. Each step felt heavy as you moved to the front of the steel bars, peering in cautiously.

There he was, pacing back and forth. As your shadow cast across the floor on the other side of the bars, his restless movements ceased. Sebastian's gaze met yours, a mixture of surprise and recognition flickering in his caramel eyes. You let out a soft breath of air.

Sebastian stood tall, his figure appearing slender within the confines of the cell. His once vibrant auburn hair now hung in unkempt and greasy strands, a stark contrast to its former lively tussle. Despite his exhaustion, there was a lingering trace of his former charm. His eyes, still resembling caramel, held a weariness that spoke volumes, yet they retained a glimmer of their former warmth. Freckles adorned his face, their playful dance seemingly unaffected by his  state of despair

As you gazed upon him, a surge of conflicting emotions washed over you. Relief mingled with sorrow, and the guilt pressed even harder. This was the consequence of your actions, of the choice that led Sebastian to this desolate place. Yet, there was a flicker of hope. You believed that perhaps, with your help, he could become himself again.

With trembling hands, you reached out to touch the cold steel bars separating you, the barrier that had kept him imprisoned for far too long. There was a palpable ache in your heart, a silent plea for forgiveness.

Sebastian's lips parted as if to speak, but no words emerged, silenced by the oppressive atmosphere of Azkaban. His shoulders, once squared with confidence, now slumped. You could sense longing in his expression, the yearning for freedom that mirrored your own.

Taking a steadying breath, you reached your arm out to him, your voice barely above a whisper. "Sebastian," you said softly, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you. "It's time to go home."

 Slowly, almost hesitantly, he extended his arm, fingers trembling as they reached out to touch yours. For a moment, his hands lingered in the space that separated the two of you, then bridging the gap. In that fleeting instant, it felt as though time stood still, the weight of your shared history heavy in the air.

With a gentle squeeze of his hand, you offered him a small smile, a silent reassurance. His hands felt like ice, and as you stroked the top of his hand with your thumb, you could almost feel his skin defrosting.

"Hold on tightly, Sebastian," you whispered, quickly glancing around to ensure no one had approached. He tightened his grip on your hand, his eyes never leaving yours. "Apparate."

The familiar squeezing sensation of apparition enveloped you as you whisked away to a new location. Your feet touched down on wooden floors, your hand still firmly clasped in Sebastian's, reluctant to let go. Shaking your head lightly to dispel the brief wave of nausea, you opened your eyes.

There you both stood, in the comforting surroundings of your cottage nestled in the hills of Clagmar Coast. The familiar scents of firewood and pumpkin pastries filled your nostrils, and the warm, cozy environment provided a stark contrast to the bleakness of Azkaban. A crackling fire danced in the hearth, casting a comfortable glow over the room. 

You glanced at Sebastian, noticing the toll the apparition had taken on him. It seemed he hadn't traveled that way in a long time, if ever. Guiding him gently, you led him to the worn sofa by the fireplace and helped him settle down. Grabbing a folded knit blanket from the back, you draped it over him, providing comfort and warmth.

His eyes met yours in the soft light, revealing the paleness of his complexion and the exhaustion etched in his features. His cheeks were hollow, and dark circles marred his under eyes, evidence of sleepless nights endured in imprisonment. As the nausea subsided, his gaze held yours as you knelt before him, your hand resting gently on his lap.

"Sebastian, I am so sorry," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion as you poured out the thoughts that had weighed heavily on your mind for years. Tears welled in your eyes as you blamed yourself for his suffering. With a tender touch, you cupped his cold, hollowed cheek in your hand, his eyes closing as he leaned into your touch. 

"When everything happened, I froze. I didn't know what to say to Ominis..." Tears began to stream down your cheeks. "So I said nothing. I could have prevented this, but instead... I was a coward."

Sebastian softly nuzzled his face against your hand, finding solace in your comforting presence.

"This is all my fault," you whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I couldn't bear for you to suffer any longer. I had to do something. I had to get you out of there."

Sebastian tenderly lifted his arm from beneath the blanket, gently placing his hand over yours that rested on his cheek. A soft smile graced his lips as he closed his eyes, breaking the heavy silence with a whisper. "Finally," he murmured, his words carrying a hint of disbelief. "I'm free. I've made it to the afterlife."

-

Your heart wrenched at his words, realizing the depth of despair he had endured. Swiftly, you reached your other arm out, gently clasping his other hand in yours. "No, Sebastian," you murmured, your voice filled with compassion. "You've not gone on. You're here, with me. You're still alive."

Sebastian's eyes fluttered open, and you felt a pang in your heart as you gazed at the man you loved. The man who occupied your thoughts every morning and every night. With a tender squeeze of his hand, you rose from your kneeling position and settled beside him on the couch. He turned his fragile body slowly to face you.

"I can't be?" he whispered, disbelief coloring his voice.

Taking a deep breath, you moved closer to him, your leg brushing against his. Releasing his hand, you gently reached out, running your fingers through his disheveled hair and letting your hand rest on the side of his neck. He lifted his arm, placing his hand on yours as it extended toward him.

"You are, Sebastian. This is real. I am real."

Sebastian's expression softened, gratitude and wonder shimmering in his eyes. Slowly, he leaned into your touch, his hand tightening around your arm as if anchoring himself to this newfound reality.

"I never thought I'd see you again," he confessed, his voice choked with emotion. "I thought... I thought you couldn't bear to look at me. After... what I did." His gaze fell to your lap, tears escaping his eyes, leaving wet paths along his cheeks. "I'm a monster," he trembled.

"No, Sebastian," you said firmly, stroking his cheek with your thumb, gently wiping away stray tears. "That is so far from the truth. You are not a monster."

Drawing closer, you locked eyes with him, determined to make him see himself as you did. "You are incredible," you began, your voice soft but unwavering. "You're funny, and intelligent. You have a heart of gold, and you've shown me kindness and compassion like no one else ever has."

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as you continued. Feeling the bones of his shoulder beneath your hand as you moved them, you gripped him softly. "You're the best person I've ever known, Sebastian. I have missed you so much. Every day. I should've rescued you sooner. If anything, I'm the monster. For not stopping Ominis. For letting this happen to you." Choked up, you stared at the broken man before you. "Merlin, Sebastian. I cannot tell you how horribly I feel."

"Stop," Sebastian whispered, his eyes flicking back up to meet yours. He released his hand from your arm, and with shaky fingers, he reached out to touch your cheek, mirroring your gesture. His touch, though cold, was comforting. You felt warmth spread over you, relishing in the moment you thought would never happen. He was here, with you, in your home. "You are no monster, Y/N. This is not your fault. Thoughts of you were the only thing that kept me sane in that place. You consumed me. You were my light in the darkness. I love you, Y/N"

The lump in your throat returned, and tears relentlessly began to stream from your eyes. He smiled softly, a smile you thought had disappeared forever. The sight of it sparked a rush of emotions within you — relief, joy, and an overwhelming sense of love. It felt as though a weight had been lifted from your chest, and you couldn't help but return his smile, your heart swelling with affection. "I love you, Sebastian."

As you gazed into his eyes, you felt a wave of tenderness wash over you. Every feature of his face seemed to hold a lifetime of memories — the curve of his lips, the sparkle in his eyes, the lines etched around his eyes from countless smiles shared between you. In that moment, you were overcome with gratitude for his presence, for the chance to hold him close.

Without hesitation, you rose slightly from where you were sitting, your movements guided by a yearning that had lingered in the depths of your soul. Moving your hand back to the side of his neck, you savored the coolness of his skin beneath your touch, the sensation grounding you in this moment of raw vulnerability.

As you leaned in to press your lips to his, you felt a surge of longing flood your senses. His kiss was like a balm to your wounded heart, a reminder of the depth of your connection and the strength of your bond. Despite the chill that lingered on his lips, you were enveloped in a warmth that radiated from deep within you, filling every corner of your being with a sense of completeness.

His hands found their way to you, one resting on your side, the other tangling gently in your hair. With each caress, each tender touch, you felt a rush of emotions — passion, desire, and an overwhelming sense of belonging. In his embrace, you found solace.

As you melted into him, the boundaries between you blurred, and for a fleeting moment, you were lost in the intensity of your connection. It was as though time stood still, the world falling away around you as you surrendered to the embrace of your love. And in that moment, as your lips moved together in a silent dance of longing and desire, you knew that nothing in this world could ever tear you apart again.

[thankyouforthememoriesworld]

🔎 I wanted to send a better article after that last post of randomness. I LOVE these articles (which then send me down random side quests).

First one features a bunch of high school coaches talking about facing Azzi. I love reading what they have to say because they all respect her so much.

https://web.archive.org/web/20211127092909/https://www.ctinsider.com/uconn/article/Scouting-report-on-UConn-freshman-Azzi-Fudd-16550275.php

The coach for Sidwell talks about the gameplan for the championship game. What I didn't know is Kiki Rice played that game for Sidwell as a sophomore. And I found this long highlight with their commentary.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VvJB3byj7lM

This video has Azzi's championship interview:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ePII9w82ijA

Of course step up has highlights: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ZfVsCCGOIg

Houzmazoo does as well and I love him just yelling that's the match up right there (for Azzi vs Kiki): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPboERy3n8o

Second article is a month after Geno has gotten to work with Azzi.

https://web.archive.org/web/20211108155314/https://www.ctinsider.com/sports/article/UConn-freshman-Azzi-Fudd-everything-Geno-Auriemma-16288873.php

“I think most of it is what I expected,” Auriemma said. “She’s very quiet, very much introverted, really doesn’t say a whole lot. But her game is much older than her age. Her footwork is the kind of footwork that you would expect from someone going into the pros, someone who has spent three or four years perfecting that. That’s how good her footwork is. And her ability to get shots off and the way the shot comes off every single time, the exact same way, I mean, I knew it, but when you’re watching on a regular basis, it’s pretty amazing.”

On Thursday, he just motioned, letting his arms flail and swing to represent Bueckers’ herky-jerky style and closing his hands together to demonstrate Fudd’s skills — coordinated, tight, together.

Third is a month before she started freshman year basketball season. Just 5 things about her. It is fun to read that she caught Geno's eye as a 7th grader.

https://web.archive.org/web/20211020221324/https://www.ctpost.com/sports/article/She-hates-the-spotlight-5-things-to-know-16181444.php

I love it when you go down a rabbit hole because you always make amazing discoveries and I get to enjoy them 😘.

Newbies should be required to read these articles and watch these videos to be able to talk about Azzi.

Fudd is, in essence, a supernova — a complete scorer with unlimited range, a point guard’s handle, and no ego. Her jump shot has been lauded by NBA superstar Stephen Curry, and there are comparisons to WNBA and UConn legend Maya Moore in her overall game.

Azzi basically met all the NCAA players in high school, she knows everyone. I wasn't expecting 50 minutes for the highlight video (I'll watch it at another time 😅).

Of course, Azzi was MVP of another championship game.

When can I see her play again? I miss her shot so fucking much😭.

Give us Houzmazoo as a commentator in the NCAA, he's so entertaining: "oh that's far enough" "tough" "step back, shot *lol*" "good D, that's the match up".

Fudd’s footwork in drills is just about always the same, which is to say it’s almost always perfect. The way she catches the ball and shoots it? Same every time, whether 10 or 25 feet from the basket. “Azzi just walks around like she’s good,” Auriemma said Thursday outside Gampel Pavilion

Geno is going to play her 30 minutes per game, isn't he? He loves Azzi too much 😌.

“All we have to do is get her open,” Auriemma said a couple weeks ago. “Boom, boom, boom. It’s up in the air before you can get your hands up. Swish, swish, swish. Right in (the defender’s) face. Her free throws and her shots from three feet beyond the 3-point line are exactly the same, no difference, no added anything, same routine. A lot of it is God given. A lot of it is her working her butt off every day. I don’t say anything about her shot other than ‘Good job.’”

The Bueckers-Fudd era has begun — almost. (we're having it this year 💫)

Fudd landed on the Huskies’ radar as a seventh-grader, and took an unofficial visit to Storrs during her freshman year at St. John’s College High School in Washington, D.C.

I don't even have to say anything about this 🤠:

Fudd and Bueckers are nearly inseparable. They’ve been spending most weekends together since UConn’s season ended, working out privately with Alex McLean, an assistant coach with the NBA’s Washington Wizards.

“They’re very, very close. They’re also extremely competitive with each other, which you would expect,” Scribner said. “While they’re great, great friends, they both want to beat each other on the court.”

[avelera]

So this is a bit random but:

Dream as the hero in a Greek tragedy and Hob as an Arthurian knight.

Thoughts?

(You obviously don’t have to answer if this is stupid or you don't want to)

If I may riff a bit on this, since I don't exactly have a pre-made answer (it's not a line of inquiry I've really considered), I'd say this:

Dream is absolutely a Greek tragedy protagonist. He thinks of himself that way, he's written that way. A major, indeed central, characteristic of Greek tragic heroes is that their virtues in some situations become their ultimate downfall. No one is dying in a Greek tragedy because they're inherently bad or failed people. It is the essence of that Picard line, "It's possible to do everything right and still lose. That's not failure, that's life."

Dream's dedication to his duty is an incredibly familiar virtue for a Greek tragic figure. It is also the virtue that will lead to his eventual end (in this incarnation). At least, in the comic. We'll see in the show if that's the case, and I have my suspicions based on the story's structure that we'll be seeing some deviation or, at the very least, a more optimistic spin on Dream's end.

Neil certainly wrote Dream to be a figure from a Greek Tragedy too, ironic considering he's also the "deus ex machina" in other situations, being literally a creature of godlike (or superior) power.

As for Hob as an Arthurian figure.... I'm less convinced. And I have a lot of reasons why because I think a lot about Hob's relationship, or lack thereof, with the tropes of knighthood as explored in both canon and fanon.

Let me quickly say that for fanon, sure, absolutely. I've seen incredible, complex, lovely takes on Hob as a Questing Knight or suffering the throes of textbook courtly love (more on that in a second, because I do find that part at least plausible) or otherwise being a gallant and heroic figure.

However, this is fanon. Canon Hob is certainly made more romantic, and I mean much more romantic by the show with the whole missed 1989 meeting and Ferdie's inherent and overwhelming charm. But comic Hob is... hmm, let's say he also has his charm but he's deliberately quite rough, quite crass, more than a bit dim at times, and the furthest thing from protagonist let alone romantic hero material. I think comic Hob would laugh, perhaps a bit wistfully, at the very idea of being an Arthurian figure. Certainly the Hob of "Sunday Mournings" (the Ren Faire comic issue) would be outright derisive of the notion of himself as a romantic figure or a questing knight.

Hob bought his knighthood. I think it's something that bears remembering: he bought it.

(Let me very briefly aside say, as a grubby Yankee myself, I actually find his audacity and sort of "Ha! I got away with it!" humor in that moment incredibly charming. Fuck yeah, stick it to the nobility! Fuck aristocracy, fuck nobility, and fuck aristocratic mythology like Arthuriana that reinforces those power structures. Good for Hob being a peasant who bought his knighthood, something that would be all but unthinkable in the grand sweep of Arthuriana, which for all its romanticism is still pretty definitive about everyone belonging in their social place.)

Anyway, Hob bought his knighthood with money he made getting into early English shipping and with money made from being on the right side of Henry VIII dissolving the monasteries (which were corrupt but were also one of the only forms of social services available to common people at the time, it's an incredibly complex issue) and Hob is as unbothered by the moral quandaries of this as he was the moral quandaries of being a soldier or a bandit. Hob is the furthest thing from being a Galahad. I'm not sure he could even aspire to Lancelot at his lowest on Hob's very best of days. He's just not built like that that we see.

At least, until 1989.

Now, as I've noted elsewhere, Hob's story is fundamentally altered by this ever so minor change in the show of making him still in England in 2022, still presumably waiting for Dream about a block away from the White Horse! Now, this is some courtly love shit right there! My jaw dropped when I began to map out the implications, not just of his waiting but of his becoming a history teacher.

Comic Hob never became a history teacher. Comic Hob seems all but allergic to romanticism and nostalgia. Comic Hob's highest moment of romanticism is wondering what exists in the depths of the ocean and thinking that maybe reincarnation possibly exists.

1989 changes everything. Actually, we even have evidence that in the comic timeline, Hob wasn't even in England by, what, 1992 when Dream passes away? He's in America with Gwen and they've been dating for a bit when she takes him to the Ren Faire, which is the day after Dream died. This implies that Hob doesn't usually stick around England like he does in the show timeline. If that wasn't already clear from the fact that most of his professions throughout the glimpses we see seem to involve maritime trade (sometimes of the very worst sort). The guy is constantly on the move but he stayed in England for Dream for over 30 years.

So there, at least, I think we have the first tendrils of something for fandom to grip onto that Hob does have the potential within him to go on a 30 year quest for his lost love, which is very Arthurian. I think even Hob would be perhaps shocked at himself for this, perhaps alongside becoming a history professor, finally coming to grips perhaps with the history he's seen, learning to care about it, learning that there's more to himself than he thought.

Because Hob is a weird immortal. He doesn't do the things we expect immortals to do, like learn from his mistakes and become some sort of avenging superhero, or even accumulate enough money to not need to have a day job any more, to just utterly detached from normal human life. Instead, he seems to stay grounded in a normal middle class life for whatever era he's in (barring disaster or windfall) and just happen to stick at it longer than anyone else by virtue of his immortality. It's so bizarre in the most fascinating way, it's why I'm obsessed with him, because he stays so grounded in his time period and not in any sort of special superhero way.

But 1989 really brings into sharp relief that there is an element of courtly love to how he interacts with Dream, the Beatrice to his Dante, this figure who inspires him, whom he waits for, whom he changes for (even when Dream himself perhaps doesn't believe himself capable of change?).

There I think there's something to the notion of Hob as, perhaps, a budding figure of courtly love, if not full Arthuriana knighthood.

But more intriguing and, if I may presume, what I think you're perhaps getting at with all of this is: could Hob's Questing Knight perhaps in some way disrupt Dream's Greek Tragic fate?

Well, it's not really possible in either of those genres played straight but, in the original canon, Hob didn't wait 33 years for Dream to come home to him.

So really, in the most optimistic way I'd say, anything is possible.

[butterflydm]

some thoughts on spirits (DAV)

I feel like the game has done a good job making Rook feel like someone with natural leadership abilities. And while I do love the companions in the previous games, I feel like DAV's companions are my favorites (at least currently; entirely possible that a replay of the older games would make me feel different!).

I also really like the different dynamics between Rook and their companions. Just... idk good vibes.

Also, here is Rook being very relatable for me:

I am just really loving all the characters so much -- Lucanis stole my heart as my favorite (he's my 'personal demon' now in the character screen lol) but I'm very attached to all of my companions. I love how the game has made it easier to know when they have something new to say, and I like that they distinguish between 'conversations' and 'outings' in the companion quest section. I've really been enjoying getting to know them and I feel like this game has done a really good job appropriately gating dialogues and areas.

It feels like they found a good compromise between 'open world' and 'mission-based game'. Each of the areas feels really big but it's also gated in natural ways that get unlocked as the story goes on, so you can't bum-rush the Crossroads and do literally everything the first time you're there, for example. In DAI, I would sometimes have to impose my own pacing to make sure that things flowed well for me, and I haven't needed to do that with DAV.

One thing that leaving the Fereldan/Orlais area did is really let us get to know a lot of mages who don't have the same sense of shame and self-hate that mages are taught in the Chantry of southern Thedas (or the even more extreme way they are treated by the Qunari!). We got hints of this approach in earlier games, but getting to dive more in-depth into several cultures who do not have the same "let's toss all the mages into prison" approach to magic that southern Thedas has has been very illuminating! Obviously we've always had exceptions like the Dalish clans, but they were very much depicted as deliberately on the outskirts of society, and going against the Chantry-defined norm.

And to contrast, in DAV, I recently had a long conversation with Emmrich on the potential merits of lichdom! Basically an unthinkable conversation in either Ferelden or Orlais. Nevarra doesn't burn their dead and they don't have such a deep fear of the dead, demons, or magic itself. And it really just to illustrate how much the oppression of mages that was so much at display in the Circles is just... nonexistent in places like Nevarra. The oppression is cultural and it's religious -- it's not actually something that's necessary to 'keep magic in check'. (which, yeah, is obvious from the outside, but always nice to have reinforcement from the actual games!)

I'm also watching a let's play of DAI on the side and the person just got to Solas and Cole's personal quests and, yeah, they resonant so hard after the additional Solas revelations in DAV. And it really does feel so much like DAV is in a strong conversation with DAI (as makes sense). Solas and Varric are talking about Cole but Solas is also talking about himself.

Varric: "A spirit who is strangely like a person!"

Varric: "He came into this world to be a person. Let him be one."

Solas: "We cannot change our nature by wishing it." Varric: "You think?"

Solas: "You would alter the essence of what he is." Varric: "He did that to himself when he left the Fade."

[if Cole is made more spirit]

Varric: "...could have been a person." Solas: "Would that have made him happier?"

Is Solas's endgame becoming a spirit again? Or has he experienced and changed too much? (would it make him happier? is that a desirable goal?) Is it all a matter of perspective? Cole approves of the Inquisitor's choice whether they make him more of a spirit or more human. I feel like Solas would lose a lot of himself if he became a spirit again, but maybe that's a matter of perspective too.

And then Solas's DAI quest is all about dealing with the damage of a Wisdom Spirit being corrupted against its purpose -- the same kind of Spirit that Solas once was. Wisdom vs Pride (but once you're a person and not a spirit, you can be filled with both at the same time).

DAV is really making me want to do another run of DAI, and take Solas literally everywhere, lol. But the conversation about spirits in the 'real' world didn't start there either -- it started back in DAO, with Wynne. It continued in DA2, with Anders. Both DAO and DA2 are more 'standard' than what we get in DAI with Cole, in the sense that they were possessing a body (though with permission) but it's still part of the same conversation.

But the conversation really did explode into something bigger in DAI, with Cole as a spirit who was with us without possessing a body, and with learning that being briefly possessed can reverse Tranquility (via Cassandra's quest). And now, with what had been confirmed in DAV, we know that a spirit that takes mortal form can, over the generations, become mortal, as that's what the ancient elves did, so Cole could have kids who were fully mortal, maybe. And Cole did it without using lyrium (and thus taking something from the Titans to fuel himself) -- at least as far as I understand.

I am also finding myself very curious about where humans come from -- we know that the ancient elves were once spirits; we know that the dwarves are fragments of the Titans. Where did humans come from? Evolution? Or is there a magical answer for them too? Is the Maker a spirit and/or Titan who created humans specifically?

(I think it's implied that Qunari were genetically/magically engineered in some way, and possibly crossbred with dragons somehow?? iirc DAI correctly)

I'm really looking forward to removing my filters on DA-related stuff and reading other people's thoughts. I've covered my eyes and clicked on posts a couple of times so far and have been rewarded by mostly getting fanart and not spoilers, lol. Mostly.

I genuinely have zero critiques of the game so far, if anyone was wondering if I was just holding some back or whatever. I like the quality of life changes they made to a lot of little things like companion banter; I never had an issue with the art style*; and I'm enjoying the story and characters as they unfold.

(*I know that was a big thing with a lot of people but, confession time: I genuinely can barely tell a difference between DAI and DAV's 'art style'. You can change Qunari hairstyles separate from horns now in the character creator? People walk less awkwardly than in DAI? The menus are purple instead of green? idk, maybe my brain just doesn't register whatever it is that makes DAV so different, art-wise?)

I also love that I can literally just throw myself at boxes to break them open to get materials. It's so satisfying. I have a griffon that I can pet. idk, I guess I'm just a simple girl with simple desires. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Looking forward to playing more this weekend!

Current progress note: a Dalish clan (at least one) has been kidnapped for potential blood sacrifices, so trying to rescue them is my next main quest. I'm about eighty hours into the game.

[raekensluver]

whispers in the wind

description: you take a walk outside one day after the tragic events of the hogwarts war, and reminise about fred and his undeserving ending.

pairing: fred weasley x fem!reader

contains: angst, mentions of the hogwarts war, fred's canon death, slight survivors guilt, r has a scar on her cheek from the battle.

song rec: francis forever by mitski- " i look up at the gaps of sunlight, i miss you more than anything."

w.c: 950+

an: hnngh, another song got me in a chokehold and i had to write something based off it.

you step outside of the burrow, the warmth of the sun wrapping around you like a comforting blanket, but it does nothing to soothe the cold ache in your heart. It's been exactly nine days since fred's laughter had filled these very grounds, and now, all you're met with is a deafening silence, broken only by the distant chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves whispering secrets to each other. the vibrant shine of your hair seems to have lost its luster in the wake of his passing, and you feel like a ghost wandering through a world that's lost its color. your eyes are drawn to the horizon, where the sun is playing peek-a-boo with the tree line, casting long shadows that stretch out like arms reaching for something just out of grasp.

the twin's room, once a bastion of laughter and camaraderie, is now a silent tomb. the door remains closed, a stark reminder of the unspoken pain that lingers within. every day, you hear the muffled sobs and the occasional outburst of rage from george, but for the most part, the only indication of life is the soft glow of light that seeps through the cracks. meals are left outside his door, untouched and growing cold. the twins' mischievous pranks are a thing of the past, replaced by a palpable heaviness that sits in the very air you breathe. the burrow feels like a ship without a rudder, adrift in a sea of grief, with no map to guide you to calmer waters.

you decide to escape the oppressive atmosphere for a while and go for a walk. you amble through the garden, passing the gnome pebbles that now lay still and the plants that seem to droop with sadness. the sun kisses your cheeks, but it feels more like a gentle nudge of encouragement rather than a warm embrace. as you near the end of the garden, you spot a familiar path that you and fred used to take on your adventures. it's tree-lined, with the sun peeking through the canopy in patches that dance across the dirt as the branches sway in the breeze. you take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the scent of earth and leaves, and begin to walk.

you miss the way fred could make you laugh with the silliest of jokes, his eyes crinkling at the corners with mischief. you miss the comforting weight of his arm slung around your shoulders, the way he'd whisper sweet nothings into your ear that somehow felt like everything. you miss his enthusiasm for the most mundane of things, turning a simple walk into an epic quest for the perfect stick to poke at things with. as you stroll down the path, you imagine you can almost hear his footsteps beside you, the rustle of leaves echoing with his laughter. but when you look over, there's only the empty space where he should be, and it hits you like a punch to the gut. you'll never again feel his hand in yours, never share another secret whisper or inside joke, never see the world through his playful, magical eyes.

the ache in your chest swells until it feels like it might consume you whole. you miss his fiery spirit that could brighten even the darkest of days, the warmth of his smile that could melt away your worries. you miss the way he'd challenge you to be braver, to live louder, to love deeper. every tree, every stone, every dappled ray of sunlight is a silent reminder of the joy he brought to your life, and now, the stark reality that you'll never experience it again with him at your side. it's as if the very essence of your existence has been torn in two, and you're left trying to navigate a world that seems to have lost its color and meaning.

you pause, reaching up to gently trace the deepening scar on your cheek, a grim souvenir from the battle's chaos. the skin is still tender, a constant reminder of the moment when the wall had exploded, the moment when fred was taken from you. you remember the searing heat, the deafening roar, the sudden weightlessness as you were thrown back. and then, the silence. the world had gone mute except for the ringing in your ears and the distant wails of those who had been hurt or lost. it's a scar that tells a story of pain and loss, but also of survival and resilience. it's a battle scar, a testament to the price you paid for the world's freedom.

as you make your way back to the burrow, your thoughts drift to the life you had before, the life where fred's laughter was a constant melody in the background. you recall the countless hours spent in the kitchen, trying to perfect a new joke or prank together, his brown eyes alight with excitement as he whispered the latest idea. the burrow feels like a different place now, like a book with a torn page, forever changed and never to be whole again.

as you open the door to the kitchen, your heart skips a beat. for a fleeting moment, you think you see fred sitting at the table, his hair a fiery halo around his face, his grin wide and welcoming. but as you blink away the tears that threaten to spill over, the mirage fades, and you're left staring at george. his eyes are red-rimmed, his face etched with pain and exhaustion. your hand flies to your mouth to stifle a gasp, the sudden realization crashing over you like a wave. it's not fred. it's never going to be fred again.

[catsofcalifornia]

Draco from Have a Heart Humane Society in Tehachapi, California

Click here for more information about adoption and other ways to help!

Click here for a link to Have a Heart Humane Society's main website.

Step into the world of Draco, a male black and grey tabby cat whose very essence is a blend of night and twilight. Draco is not just a cat; he’s a presence, a personality, a little guy with a heart as vast as the cosmos. He’s embarked on a noble quest to find his forever home—a sanctuary where his playful spirit can soar and his affectionate nature can flourish.

Draco is an artist of amusement, painting joy with every leap and bound. His sleek coat shimmers like a starlit sky, and his agile movements are a dance to the rhythm of life’s most playful tunes. He finds wonder in the whirl of a falling leaf, sees adventure in the corridors of your home, and turns the simplest game into a spectacle of delight.

But Draco’s allure goes beyond his entertainment prowess. He’s a companion who will share your quiet moments, a confidant who will listen to the whispers of your heart, and a friend who will stand by you through thick and thin. He’ll be the shadow at your feet, the warmth at your side, and the gentle purr that lulls you into tranquility.

If you’re ready to open your life to a creature of magic and mirth, consider Draco. In return for a corner in your home, he offers a lifetime of companionship, laughter, and love. Let Draco enchant your days, enrich your nights, and become the cherished guardian of your happiness. He’s not just looking for a home; he’s looking for a heart to connect with—yours.

[katyspersonal]

If you defeat Messmer the hornsent will say that the snake emerging from him is a "sublime scene" or something similar i wonder is the snake is something that has been considered as holy/ divine by the hornsent. + What is the deal with abyss serpent? Marika was so afraid of it she banished her son for it, i know gameplay doesn't necessarily equal lore but the Abyssal serpent doesn't seem to be that dangerous

;-; This is like the third time I forget to answer an ask and only remember about it when I get a similar one I am so sorry dhfhsd

As for the Vengeance-Seeking Hornsent, I think it was either a sarcasm or expression of satisfaction to see how monstrous Messmer was with his own eyes, given the place of that line in the full dialogue:

That being said, it doesn't exclude seeing the Base Serpent as divine either! It could always be sort of both, a bit like how Fell God is both revered and feared/dreaded!

I actually touched upon the 'Abyss' and Base Serpent in my post diving into what happened with Romina recently ( x ), so for the starters I'll copy a small bit from it to prevent the confusion! Ymir states that Marika's roots are 'in madness' and flowers on the painting of Midra's Manse in its past are the same as in Shaman's Village, but just in case the 'abysses' are not the same:

I need to add that Abyss of the serpent plaguing Messmer and Abyss of the woods tormented by Frenzy are different things though; whereas serpent’s Abyss is 深淵 meaning literally an abyss, Woods’ Abyss is 奈落 that means Naraka (Hindu Hell)! His serpent is AKTUALY named Base Serpent, but he refers the 'Abyss’ in his Stage 2 transition: '光無き、深淵の蛇が’. ( x ) In fact, his dialogue in both English and Japanese original suggests the 'Abyss’ is a PLACE, where Base Serpent comes from! The mysterious space without light!

So, the Abyss is the place without light, the 'hole' within what Greater Will entails and embraces:

@val-of-the-north also says that it further proves that Frenzied Flame is basically a "sibling" or the second side of the same coin, as its "face" likewise has a black hole at the centre!

Elden Ring itself is light, the blue stars controlling humans and the amber stars controlling Demigods are light, Erdtree and the greater tree predating it are light... Light is the essence of life and the orders, not even just the Golden Order however it has been THE order for a while! Messmer and Queelign repeat that all "lightless" should burn in his flames, and they are doing it for the sake of Marika's beliefs. So, the 'lightless' part of the issue is very important! It is fearsome as something they cannot fully control, it is antithesis for life the way they know it and they are used to! At the same time, no longer seeing the light is something grace-given lifeforms fear (Iris of Occultation)!

However, another, and arguably more important aspect of why Base Serpent is something feared, is Marika's fear of fire! For one, she went at war with the Fire Giants because they might have burnt her precious Erdtree, and she'd lost everything again:

(+ Also worth to note that the Fire Monks that peer into flame and go 'hmmm actually..... 👀' and get blinded discover the Bloodstar, and Alberich who did the same by blinding self is "heretical" sorcerer! That's why I think Lightless Abyss is not empty but various horrors live in it, and Formless Mother appeared from it too! Again, not the point of this post as I already talked about it in Romina post I linked earlier)

Another precedent was burying the Nomads because Shabriri said that they were worshipping Frenzied Flame:

(From the video that recovers Kale's quest ( x ))

There is also this:

I assume the prophesy has to come from the Hornsent in some capacity! Like maybe when the Two Fingers gave her aid to ascend to Godhood, she already knew from the Greater Will (?) that she won't rule forever! Ranni and Miquella both refer to the ages they want as 'thousand years voyage', so perhaps any era being set on the timer is a common sentiment! The Age of the Erdtree logically must end with the Erdtree being burnt, of course, and there is Empyrean Grandam who is a Hornsent..

I am yet not sure whether Melina is Gloam-Eyed Queen "killed" and reborn, making her instead an adopted daughter to keep her fire under control or she is a real daughter but stripped from her true power and body because of the fear of fire or both! I just think that back then, looooong before Marika could've predicted the thorns created by Radagon needed to be burnt, Melina being so "downgraded" for someone who is her daughter also had to do with the fire!

Messmer getting discarded is just an extension of it. Or her not willing to deal with the fear of the Erdtree getting potentially burnt because of the Base Serpent's fire!

As for whether it is an "evil" power? I likewise don't believe so! Fromsoft always makes 'eldrich' Gods either powers of nature or just creatures far from humans' concepts that just vibe! It is Gods who are basically just humans with too much power who can be evil and cause havoc, like Gwyn and his family and Marika and her family! Base Serpent is not "evil", it is a force of nature; necessary inferno to burn the nature, so it doesn't rot and later can be born anew from the ruins! INRI means 'Iesvs Nazarenvs Rex Ivdæorvm', but it also has an occult interpretation: 'Ignis Natura Renovatur Integram' ('All nature is regenerated by fire')! I believe Messmer has to be not only Marika's firstborn but also have special position compared to other Demigods, because he is "necessary" evil. A "promised" end to Marika's reign, who maybe is not even cursed but rather hard-coded to be this way by the Greater Will itself.. because Base Serpent comes from the Abyss inside it, Fell God on the other hand is not connected with serpentine stuff! When Messmer gets rid of Marika's eye, he promises oblivion that you and him will fall into, which again refers to the lightless Abyss.

The only evidence to Base Serpent being dangerous is that it has to be kept in check by the Winged Serpent:

It is not inherently evil, but it IS chaotic! It would not know when or where to stop or how to take the pace, much like the element of fire itself who simply burns whatever it meets on the way! And yet again, how "evil" can a force of nature be? It is "evil" for those who don't want to burn, but that's it and it is not a moral value but a (reasonable) fear! Burning things needs to be smart and balanced, or else it will just be 'Frenzied Flame at home'!

_____________________

Anyways thank you for asking so much!! I love discussing this particular topic a lot actually! +I assume Eiglay is a similar kind of serpent, but specifically promised death of Gods (maybe Outer Gods specifically, even) rather than Demigods and various things mortals built and birthed! Maybe she is even a sister of Base Serpent of sorts

[sky-kiss]

Ok. So, it was mentioned that it’s possible that Raphael could be reborn as a lemure and, now fully integrated into Hells’ system, he would work his way up as an actual devil. It was requested that Tav/Durge find them as a lemure and protect him as he worked his way through this system. 

It’s a fascinating idea. I’m so pro this happening. However, after sitting with the idea for a bit, I don’t think I could do it as a small fic, and I don’t currently have the time to work on it as a long story. So, I’m going to sketch out what I roughly see happening. Someone else can use it, or I’ll develop it later. 

Most of this has the vibe of a like, rolling an alt character in an MMO and getting your max-level geared friend to sherpa you through the game. I refer to Tav/Durge as Targe because it’s just an unpleasant name. 

LEVEL GRINDING RAPHAEL: THE STORY

After getting Chronos’d by his dad, the essence of Raphael’s soul is reborn as a lemure in Avernus. Notably, being a disgusting, amorphous, suffering, horrible flesh blob is not as appealing as being a sexy man. 

Tav/Durge goes to hell and entreats Asmodeus (who should not meet with them, but hey. Targe is a freak punching way above their weight class). 

Asmodeus agrees to direct Targe to Rapahel’s soul; in exchange, Asmodeus has a claim to Targe’s soul. They will also agree to bring Raphael to him once he’s leveled. 

Targe spends the next century or so sherpa’ing Raphael. They kill demons for him, so he gets the XP/soul energy. Eventually, he’s able to go through the ritual.

Targe brings the horrible flesh blob to Asmodeus. The Lord of the Ninth genuinely finds the whole situation hilarious.

Asmodeus pledges Raphael to his service. He promotes him to an imp.

And because it’d be even funnier, he touches Imp!Phael’s forehead and gives him back all of his prior life memories.

This is not ideal. Raphael now very clearly remembers Targe betraying/killing him.

But he is an imp. And very small. With very few outlets for his rage.

Targe and Imp!Phael proceeded to go on a massive killing spree through the Hells. Potentially, while running side-quests for Asmodeus for extra XP gain. 

Targe is very apologetic about the entire situation and mentions how much they ended up missing Raphael. He is a petty little bitch about all of this. But. Targe doesn’t leave him.

Over the next few centuries, Targe continues to help him progress through the system. Raphael watches them age and feels…melancholy. He’s a full devil now, but some of his memories of his life soften him a touch towards his companion. 

 I offer you the image of bone or horn devil Raphael curled up around his wizened guardian.

At this point, he is pretty well self-sufficient. He’s brutally cunning. He has street cred. He’s reasonably well-geared. Targe could go home. They refuse.

Now, for story fun, we know that Raphael will work/kill his way to being a duke. It’s going to take him a few thousand years, but he’s going to get there. And Targe is going to be long-dead at that point.

 And so I posit: Raphael, in his one selfless act, draws up a contract or pledges to find Tav when they are reborn in the lemure pit. 

And the cycle begins again. 

[verdemoun]

i found something on tiktok that reminded me of your timewrapped arthur and maybe a lot of the gang it was someone crying over the trope “when the trope is a character born to be a weapon but no longer necessary and having to learn to be a normal person” 😈

this is the essence of timewarp. all of them had to have that painful revelation in their own time that they are not normal and it is going to take years to unlearn those 19th century survival skills

bessie's 'no guns in the house rule' originated because they are all weapons. her and annabelle weren't weapons they had to go through learning not to expect every single person they pass on the street is capable and ready to murder. it only took trying to find the callander boys to realize the fact most died with guns in their hands or at their sides is going to be an issue. first thing a disorientated gunslinger does is reach for their gun. fortunately meeting The bessie matthews face-to-face is enough for most to be star struck enough to not really react to her asking them to hand over their weapons before she starts explaining hi welcome to the future

hosea didn't fully comprehend how much he was a weapon himself. he made it to what was considered seniority as an outlaw because he thinks quick and has a faster trigger finger have you seen his quick draw?? he is not 'just' a con artist he is as much a fine tuned weapon as the rest of the gang.

while he will do anything for bessie and does thoroughly enjoy exploring modern era without the constant fear of being recognized as The hosea matthews, he really doesn't ever move on from that constant overanalysis of his surroundings. he had to live and rely on those instincts so long he can't make them go away. on some days is relieved to use keeping an eye on kieran as an excuse not to leave the house because he never learns to become a normal person in modern era

but the angst and guilt of him realizing how much the gang in general struggle with it and knowing he contributed to that. him encouraging dutch's ideals of saving people who needed saving accidentally becoming taking easily influenced young boys and men off the streets and teaching them how to survive in 19th century which meant being a weapon was necessary. watching the manifestation of a group of adult outlaws trying to survive modern era with not only their pre-existing lifetime traumas but the additional c-ptsd of veterans struggling to unlearn how easy it is for them to see a threat and want to reach for their guns, readily capable of killing another in cold blood in case they were a threat to the gang

not knowing how to help them because he doesn't even know how to help himself

bessie needing to get used to when someone knocks on the door absolutely all of them turn with that dangerous look in their eyes and the comfortable positions they had been in seconds ago now look more like a pack of crouched predators waiting for the call to attack. watching how quickly they could recover from that state becoming longer episodes of confusion wondering why they reacted like that when people knocking on the door becomes something normal

very predictably arthur is the worst because he could acknowledge he was nothing but a killer by the end. but the first time he is walking down the street having settled into modern era and notices he still has his hand hovering over his hip ready to draw for absolutely no reason is so frustrating for him.

arthur would get angry at his relapses into weapon coding. he wanted and got his out of the gang. he has more avenues of exploring his curiosity than ever before and the freedom to still go on his side quests and explore the world in an entirely new context and he still reaches for a gun.

he knows he is safe walking down the street. modern era is objectively so much safer than canon era. he is mentally trying to convince himself he feels safe but those stupid relapses wanting a gun, surveying any area he walks into for cops, the second of suspicious fear when he sees someone in a suit and wonders if they're a pinkerton, are constant reminders that he is still a weapon and he just wants to be normal so badly he feels abnormal being the way he is

[veshialles]

#Veilguard30 - #1: Joining

not sure how many of these prompts I'll end up doing, but I wanted to take an honest crack at a few, at least. original prompts by @pavus. Featuring my poor tortured and conflicted Warden-Commander, Kieshara Tabris, and an unknown Warden-Acolyte I made up on the spot. Probably set sometime after Awakening & Witch Hunt, but also some point during my canon-continuation/canon-adjacent fic, A Quest Of Her Own.

It was her most dreaded duty to perform since the promotion. Every aspect of her service, tumultuous as it was, had been a gamble between life and death for the people around her. But none seemed so cruel as this. While she held much disdain for the secrecy of it all, Kieshara had already been reprimanded by the order for revealing too much too soon. A leak that was threatened to be violently patched if further incidents occurred.

History weighed on her mind as Kieshara’s pale fingertips reached the cherry oak box and passed over the carved griffon emblem, trying not to think of the hundreds of times this sacred ritual had been done before, by those who had long since heeded their Callings, or otherwise followed their oaths to the inevitable end. Finally, she opened its wrought iron hinges to reveal the delicate glass vials within. 

They were all of them stained a dark sickly red, just the same shade as the pendant she kept worn under her tunic; the glass was tainted as the blood held within them was. The blood of darkspawn, and the late Archdemon Urthemiel, slain by her very own hands. Beside them, a small jar of lyrium dust gave off a gentle rhythmic glow, and though she could not hear its song, it highlighted the ripples in a leather pouch of herbs in the adjacent divot. 

It was all here. Everything they needed.

Turning to face the silver chalice placed upon the altar, Kieshara set the box down. Traditionally, the blood was to be collected by the recruits themselves, but in the wake of The Blight, and the ensuing raids, there was no shortage of darkspawn blood. Even still, she began removing the box’s contents with utmost precision; there must be no chance of waste. There would be enough of that later, should any of the recruits fail. 

Lifting the first vial from its case, she poured the entirety of its contents into the ritual cup, and the second, and the third. The putrid smell of iron and rot wafted up from the slick surface, as she took the fourth vial in hand, allowing a single drop of her slain enemy’s essence to fall into the mixture, where it billowed in the murk like black tendrils. Kieshara stepped aside, allowing the Warden-Acolyte to make the final adjustments; precisely measuring the lyrium and herbal blend, before whispering unintelligible incantations.

The Acolyte was a human woman with wavy blonde hair that peaked out from beneath her hood. Kieshara did not even know her name, and thought it best that she never find out. She hated how this role had hardened her heart, but the simple truth was it would make their work easier, knowing what they were about to do. 

With a flash and a fizzle, it was done. The woman nodded and retreated to the edge of the room, leaving Kieshara alone to stare at the sunburst emblazoned on the side of the Joining chalice, a symbol older than the very Chantry itself. Surely no loving Maker would create a world such as this.

How many will die this time?, she solemnly wondered, staring into her own eyes through the vile concoction’s ripples. How many have already lost this battle? How many more after this? But this was the duty that could not be forsworn, as she had once been told. And having witnessed the horrors of the Blight firsthand, she needed no reminders of why these sacred rites were so vital in their fight against the dark and hungering hordes. 

Steeling her resolve, she rehearsed the monologue she had prepared in her mind, the one she had been given years ago, just as countless Grey Wardens had recited before her. Just as many would be doomed to recite after her. Looking up at the other Warden, she nodded. One by one the new recruits filed into the room, the door silently locking behind them.

Softly, Kieshara began. “At last, we come to the Joining…”

[itsclydebitches]

CLYDE. I was thinking about the RWBY vs Ace Ops fight again because it's one my least favourite moments in the entire show and I realised that Qrow/Clover/Robyn weren't part of the conversation prior, nor were they ever acknowledged. Nothing of the effect that "Hey, maybe we should wait for Qrow/Robyn/Clover's opinion on this plan before moving onwards, considering their experience and leadership skills?" before being shut down that time is of the essence and they can't wait for them. It just feels illogical to have the Ace Ops leader, Mantle's primary representative and the leader of the Happy Huntresses and one of James' closest allies be completely absence from one the most impactful turning points of the Volume. It feels they were either purposely left out arbitrarily for the sake of two poorly conceived fights or the writers just forgot...which wouldn't be the first time. This show is very...frustrating to say the least.

YEAH. The other day I was thinking about RWBY and ludonarrative dissonance in video games. Specifically, the number of action/adventure games I've played that have a, "OMG COMPLETE THIS MISSION IMMEDIATELY TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE SOMEONE IS GONNA DIE!!" narrative paired with a "Look at all these fun side quests populating the map, you should totally spend a month of in-game time leisurely exploring them" gameplay. RWBY feels similar to me (minus the interactive elements, obviously). The narrative continually pushes the urgency of the situation, but what the characters do don't align with that. Waiting in the mansion is the classic, go-to example of this, but it's also seen in questions like, "If the group is so concerned with the safety of the Relic why don't they.... put it in the vault?" and "If Qrow needs to speak to Ironwood so badly, why doesn't he just... go to Ironwood in handcuffs rather than starting a fight that, unforeseen airship crash or not, is gonna SUPER delay him getting there." Importantly, these moments go beyond the characters simply making impulsive, fallible, human decisions. It always feels like the writers haven't thought through the situation, or are so focused on one (badly chosen) outcome that they'll ignore all logic to get there.

So, same idea with this fight. I completely understand Ironwood's position because there is a clear line of logic here. Salem is about to attack, the group has consistently lied/undermined him, ergo he is removing a potential threat by locking them up until this battle/escape is complete. No one has to agree with him, but I think the reasoning makes sense both in general and for his specific character. (Which is also one of the reasons why I think some fans are willing to hear consider his side: his writing, however messy in other places, is leagues beyond the group's, particularly in the first half of the Atlas arc.) The girls though? They're all over the place. They don't want secrets but they're going to keep them from Ironwood. But they're also going to spill them all to Robyn, someone they don't know and shouldn't trust. They want to save everyone but have no idea how and can't/won't troubleshoot an answer. They're determined to unite the people but are simultaneously determined to solve their problems with a fight. They start said fight and then Ruby immediately tries to talk her way out of it again. And, as you say, they ignore that unity/experience/help available to them by not looping the others in because, supposedly, there's just no time... but then we have long scenes where they just sit around the mansion, tearfully bemoaning the fact that they don't know what to do and getting angry that no one has magically shown up to help.

I can EASILY picture a better-if-not-perfect scenario where the girls' decisions in that fight actually follow their proclaimed intentions AND the not-actually-very-critical timeline they have (because remember, even after all this Salem just sits there for an extended time.) What if Ruby ordered the team to let themselves get arrested and then we got a cool break out of jail scene? (I mean... Ruby blasts through Ironwood's steel doors that are meant to keep people in + they sneak into Atlas HQ. Clearly this would not have been difficult for them.) What if they ran into Qrow and Robyn while in their cells? Or what if they escaped, realized they needed their uncle, and started a help Mantle/find Qrow dual mission? What if instead of broadcasting a horrifying and near incomprehensible message to the whole world, they spoke to all their allies in Atlas about the plan they'd come up with, calling them together? Maybe coded so Cinder wouldn't understand. Maybe bluntly honest like a gauntlet throw-down: we know you're here, but we're ready for you this time.

Instead Ruby forgets she exists...

There are just SO many things you can do with that fight/the aftermath that don't completely undermine the themes, the tension, the proclaimed desires, and the narrative expectations. If there has to be a battle of ally vs. ally when Salem is on her way and half our villains are roaming the streets (god I can't emphasize that enough), why is everyone with the wrong person? Why isn't Robyn fighting the Ace Ops, her political enemy long before the girls showed up? Why isn't Qrow fighting Ironwood, the guy he (stupidly) blames for Clover's death? Why isn't Clover with his team? Why isn't Ruby facing Salem? Why the hell would you have Qrow team up with Tyrian?

As a side note, I've seen a resurgence of discussion about Ruby's breakdown in Volume 9 and everything above re-emphasizes for me just how much she HAS demanded this power and responsibility. "Hey, maybe we should wait for Qrow/Robyn/Clover's opinion on this plan before moving onwards, considering their experience and leadership skills?" is one of MANY considerations when weighing the question of whether Ruby has truly been burdened with the unwanted expectations of others... because they've never been unwanted and she has never down a thing to lessen that burden. She doesn't wait. She doesn't ask. She doesn't lean on others' experience and leadership. And this goes all the way back to Ruby responding, "Yes, I want to attend Beacon and take on all the responsibilities of that despite not being old enough," but there is also a LOT in the Atlas arc - right before her Volume 9 breakdown, literal hours in-world - where Ruby stood her ground and said, "No, we're doing this my way and my team, whether they've disagreed with this decision, or suggested this course of action in the first place, will ultimately follow me because I am the leader." She told Qrow to stand down and let her continue fighting Cordovin. She made the decision to lie to Ironwood and talked the others out of coming clean. She made the call to attack the Ace Ops instead of submitting to arrest. Using the Relic and dropping Atlas was a group suggestion, but Ruby sanctioned it. Based on literally 8 Volumes of content, if anyone HAD said no to her Ruby would not have listened to them. That is an overt, consistent characterization of hers.

And then Volume 9 expects me to feel bad because she's going, "Everyone expects me to take the lead"??? Like sure, in a very general, "That's indeed stressful no matter who's at the helm" sense, but Ruby has spent years at this point loudly yelling, "I'M THE PERSON YOU SHOULD LOOK TO AND I'LL FIX IT. IF YOU DON'T LIKE MY PLAN I'LL FIGHT YOU :)" Not roping Qrow and the others in is a part of all that. Not overtly on screen - we don't have a scene where Ruby goes, "We don't need to talk to them" - but the story doesn't think their input is important. We get the closeup on her smiling face when she thinks of using the Relic and then the others just inform Winter of what is happening when she happens to call. Major decisions in RWBY have often been collaborative when it comes to suggestions, but the final call is always Ruby. Whether we're talking about "This is my fight too!" when Qrow warns her to stay back, or using the Lamp's question when Ozpin is begging her not to, or shrugging off Yang's concern that she lied to Ironwood, or telling the whole damn world about Salem when numerous people with more experience than her have said, "That's a terrible idea" for generations, Ruby forcibly takes the lead and will not back down no matter who is asking that of her, or how they're asking. In fact, I'd say that is the most OVERT and CONSISTENT way in which she displays agency in this show (which, ugh).

[astarionfixation]

Chapter 7: *I have all the time in the world, darling*

Part of "Am I Fu**ing Insane !?!" A multi chapter adventure in Astarion’s mind

Rating: Mature for mentions of sex and blood

CW mentions of panic attacks, disassociation

Word count count: 2.6k

Pairings: Astarion X OFC Tav

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54356776/chapters/139073218

I have a quite serious praise kink. Which also means compliments in the forms of tags and/or comments might very well spur me to write and post more

** Thoughts "" Dialogue - - Remarks ++ Quotes / Memories

*How can she just be asleep??? I’m starting to see her point about immortality seeing the amount of time humans have to waste this way…*

Astarion’s body is holding hers from behind, her legs slightly separated from each other so his own leg found a way to sneak between them. Unfortunately in a much more innocent way than the simple thought sounds in his head.

They have fallen in this habit for weeks now, and there’s really no complaining from his side. It still feels like a silly rule though. But she said it 

+We can’t kiss+

And as she set the rule, he wouldn’t have her repeat herself. Especially since, by simply upholding her request, he has had a chance to partake in her lavish blood every time he has so wished.

*as if what we are up to is not… more intimate anyway…*

He holds her body tighter to his at that, her slow, deep breaths confirm he’s not going to disturb her slumber anyway and so he’s allowed, he can relish in her presence, her warmth, the blissful feeling of his stomach, his nostrils, his entire being filled with her life essence coursing through both her veins and his.

It took a few days at first to understand how to find a balance between his hunger and her health. Truth is he could drink from her forever and still marvel at the uniquely intoxicating flavour her humours concocted just to make him completely besotted by her. And he would have conceded to his addiction to her when it came to blood, though since their unlikely partnership came to be, she had also been incredibly patient and kind to him and that's also hard to even consider ever relenting on that assurance. Bar the first night -and they never spoke of it again- she never showed anything resembling jealousy or anger, despite the times he let her wake up alone, while too many voices, too many images of his past keep coming back to taunt and mock him, if not attack and dismember at times, and it’s always hard to come back unscathed from that, he certainly cannot have her around during those times that he barely remembers himself. How could he risk being around her, breakable as she is?

*Mortality definitely does not become her, but until I can do something about it…*

It was the first part of their silent agreement that was spoken, just the day after the revelation of his vampiric condition. It was too important to leave it hanging in the air like teasing promises of multiple fluids exchanges.

+Help me find a way to destroy Cazador and I swear, I will turn you and free you the second I become a Vampire Lord+

As if their quest for simple survival wasn't enough. And after centuries of subjugation no, mere survival was no longer an acceptable option. She didn't have those centuries ahead anyway, and why deprive himself of such delicate presence, and delectable flavour, if while destroying his abuser he could also find a way to give her the immortality she so steadfastly desired? 

There's something surfacing, just an itch at the back of his mind that reminds him it could be just a half truth. He’d have no reason to let her go and he would be an entirely different master anyway! He could keep her close, keep her safe, keep her his and she would have eternity to learn and experience every single little thing she so desires. 

*With me. As Mine*

He buries his nose further in her locks, pressing against the nape of her neck to have another reminder of how intoxicating her scent truly is. Despite the time and chances he’s been given to fall within the habit of having her in his arms, it never for one moment feels like something part of the background. It brings colour and desire to his every waking moment and might have actually made him skim of his own trances to avoid missing… her.

There hasn’t been a night they spent apart, ever since the first time she let him feed on her.

He would say that nothing happens due to the clothed, innocent nature of their shared time together, though the closeness hardly can be defined as such.

*Well it is innocent. Always… Mostly… where it matters…*

which is anywhere outside of his own mind.

He blamed the blood at the beginning of this peculiar understanding. Her blood coursing through his own veins, driving him insane with the need to hold her, have her and possess her in every which way his mind could picture, fangs buried in the skin of her breast just as his cock could finally be completely enveloped in her silky, wet warmth, because of course! of course it would be just because the blood, her blood within his own body, just wanted to go back inside of her…

*and so do I…*

He could have brought up the question as to why? Why deny herself? There was no pretence to keep up anymore…

Miraculously, the revelation he stupidly gave away in a flash of anger about the access he had of her precious little book, never came up again. She knew, of course she knew, but she never asked, and he had no inkling of breaking the perfect balance they had built for themselves. Yet he could still evoke the words she had for him in that little book, and now more and more he hears them in the voice he now knows she would use, the precise tone and pitch with which her desire for him would caress his ears and ego as she finally concedes

+The desire for recognition leaves me restless and as soon as my mind cannot occupy itself enough it’s like I’m hitting my head over and over onto Astarion, onto the naive need to believe he could see me+

*How much more can I show her she's all I see now, all I think about!?!*

The song her blood sang for him was the perfect justification to his need for her during the first few days, but all it took to crack that utilitarian excuse was seeing how her health was beginning to be affected by the blood loss due to his daily feeding off of her. 

He became aware of her pallor, the shorter distance she could walk before being exhausted and attracting the attention of their companions concerned for her health. And yes, his own too. Because he couldn’t think of anything happening to her and losing the one access to the pure, simple, unadulterated bliss that feeding from her gave him… but also because of that kindness, never once turning or shouting at him, despite the varied and valid reasons his behaviour gave her. Because survival never required him to think of anyone but himself before

*and learning takes time…*

Even after he realised he couldn’t possibly drink from her nightly, he found himself missing her presence, yet he had no other excuse reason to seek her. 

Thankfully the first night he didn’t go to her room, she came to his. Or attempted to, several times as he heard her unsteady little feet from the moment her door opened, going back and forth between her own bedroom and stopping in front of his. When he finally opened the door to find her out there, dark eyes widened like a child caught in the act of stealing candy, she just bashfully asked

+Can I sleep with you, please?+

And he had to tease her, of course he had to! what?! with that nonsense ‘no kissing’ rule upheld, but such implication left hanging in the air?

+Well darling, I see despite your silly rule you just want to skip to the main course then+

Thinking back he's still not sure her reply was naive or defiant

+Isn’t that technically what I am to you?+

He was so dazed by her reply she had to specify +food?+ before hesitantly confessing +I don’t want to sleep alone+

He would have lied if he had tried to deny how pleasant it had been to just lay with her, despite the urges that at times made him leave her in the middle of the night. She never once lamented it to him, always greeting him with a smile the next time she saw him, dissolving his fear and shame as if there never had been reason for them to be there at all.

So their silent agreement now also included spending every night together. Mostly innocently. Ostensibly touching her for feeding purposes only, though he never felt the need to explain how his fingers, his nails, his lips and teeth didn’t have to mandatorily trace on her skin until he’d found the right spot where her pulse came through the most. 

Each and Every night.

And judging from the sinful sounds that always escaped her lips during this preprandial dance of theirs, she wasn’t in any rush for him to just bite her either. 

*Her ‘no kissing’ rule makes absolutely no sense!*

and at times like this the thought almost irritated him again, so that his nose now buried in her hair has to move slightly, side to side, to find her mulled wine and flowers aroma to soothe himself, to remind himself how much she’s already given him, and even to vaguely confess to a part of his mind who enjoys this never ending teasing, that he could also play a part at times, when his hands could just disappear under the hem of her shirt to trace gently the skin of her stomach. 

Or all the times at camp when she was sitting beside him, reading or studying plants, and he could start tracing lazy circles on her skin, beginning from her ankle when he was just laying opposite to her. One afternoon she didn't react well until his eager fingers had reached way past her knee to the soft skin of her inner thigh and for a second he had sincerely considered the option to just throw her skirts up and see if the rule applied to every pair of her lips…

*You little minx… do you really have no idea what you do to me, night over night?*

The familiar tug at the corner of his lips should make him mad, because how can she have so much power over him even when this fast asleep? His body adjusts slightly against hers and her warmth engulfs him, though her blood always makes him warmer and having fed on her just before she fell asleep means he can comfortably pull her to his body, and his own self consciousness about his temperature does not have as easy a hold as usual.

In fairness it’s not like this is completely innocent either. Everyone knows by now that there never need to be two rooms anymore when they stop by an inn, No need for two separate tents after the night they all found out about him and almost wanted to stake him on the spot.

*What was I supposed to do? Not tear the jugular of the goblin that was almost close enough to hurt her?!?*

The thought alone makes him press the hand on the naked skin of her stomach so he can pull her even closer to himself. She took his side, stood up shielding him from the others with her own body in between.

+Astarion is under my protection!+

*And you under mine, sweet thing*

She even threatened offered to leave the merry fellowship and find a solution to their parasitic problem with only the two of them. She since claimed it was safer to share quarters and that became an incredibly welcome convenience to latch upon.

*The Vampire and his Human Bloodbag, how sweet*

After that it admittedly became easier to just tone down the performance, the altisonant act, at least when they were just alone with each other. She always has subtle ways to let him attune to her inexplicable calmness, even holding her sleeping form brings him some sort of peace, especially when her mind could be anywhere but he gets to be the one holding her body to this realm. He still hardly admits it to himself but even with access to her blood and safety with her own declared protection he still needs more from her. He needs to hear her finally confess the way her body burns for him, he already knows for she scorches his lips every time they indulge in her skin before his fangs can break it. The way he feels her hips thrusting involuntarily against his own even through layers of cursed clothing to keep them apart when she let him rest, accommodating his body between her legs. The way her fingers thread through his own white curls and he can feel the instant she stops herself from pulling him down to her. The way he can sense the tangy sweetness of pomegranate and dreams of all the ways he could taste her. Finally, completely.

The taste of her lips is where his imagination always ends. Of all the enticing, erotic visions she is the fulcrum in his mind, that silly little rule is truly what doesn't allow his mind to go to something as comparatively innocent, as a kiss.

The hand resting on the skin of her stomach senses a slight stirring in her body and his mind is quickly dragged back to this moment, as he holds her in their bed, still with hours to go before another day will claim some of her attention and time away from this… attempt at something akin to companionship they have accidentally built?

Together.

She pushes back into him as she rolls onto her back and he smoothly untangles himself to allow her space. In pulling his hand away he accidentally lifts up her shirt part way and exposes her soft delectable stomach. The moonlight shines through the window and dances off her supple curves as though it's shining just for her. Just for him. He's transfixed by the gentle rise and fall of her navel, feeling a pang of envy for the air that gets to fill her inside instead of him and before he's even noticed his mouth is millimetres away from her scalding skin, the tip of his nose brushing against her delicate silky down that traps her scent even more intensely and he can take her all in. His lips almost shiver with anticipation as they part for her and, one by one, plants imperceptible gentle pecks across her canvas, working his way up towards that most delicious place he fed from that first night, stopping right at that sensitive spot where her bosom meets her rib cage, his prize denied to him by that infernal fabric. 

“mm… Astarion”

When the muffled word barely escapes her lips between sleeps, he knows all he needs to know. Of all the things and reasons he might not understand, in the end, when all the barriers she put up are finally down, in her dreams, his name is the only one she ever calls upon. She wants him as much as he needs her. And if setting the pace is what she wanted, he will let her for as long as she desires. It's not as if the path is anything less than absolutely blissful anyway..

*And I have all the time in the world, darling*