#just finished Passage to Dawn

[steamclouds]

Mielikki's favourite little drow ranger <3

[purplealmonds]

This is my tribute to the late Technoblade. I'm well over a week late to the anniversary of his passing, but I think it was worth the wait. I wanted to get this right.

The story I want to tell is of time's passage after his passing, and the set dressing of this space is a symbolic amalgamation of various aspects of his life depicting that concept.

I have a lot more to say about this painting - three pages just for the symbolism alone. If you're interested, please let me know and I'll share my analysis on a separate post! Edit: I caved. Aight, prepare for a massive info dump below the cut!

DISCLAIMERS:

Although I put a lot of research into this piece, my knowledge is likely flawed and incomplete. If I missed or misinterpreted a reference, it’s because I’m new to the Technoblade community. If I got a symbolism thing wrong, it’s because I relied on Google search for answers. I fact checked where I could. And with this analysis, I hope I can clear up any misinterpretations! 

—

OVERVIEW:

There’s lots of imagery to unpack so I’ll try parsing it in a structured manner. Let’s first examine it holistically. 

The story I want to tell here is of time’s passage after Technoblade’s passing. As such,the set dressing of this space is a symbolic amalgamation of that concept.

Prominently featured are the various medical equipments - a nod to the grim reality of his cancer. But let’s not linger upon that aspect of his story.

Of equal importance are the more mundane objects - his gaming setup, the couch and pillow which Floof sat upon in that one photo, the plethora of paraphernalia of branded merchandise, and references to his exploits in Minecraft. These are relics and mementos of his legacy.

All of these elements intermingle in flooded, lushly overgrown room looking out to a rose-tinted exterior. Is it dawn? Dusk? I’ll leave that interpretation up to the viewers.  

The third and final component is the plant life representing his community -us. We beautify this metaphorical space with where it was once laden with tragedy. Yet, despite these riotous blooms, we never quite encroach on the bed - the empty space left behind by him.

—

SET DRESSING:

Much care was taken in selecting the blossoms and placing them in symbolically significant locations.  And this neatly transitions us into the analysis individual details.

Foreground: 

In the foreground, ivy crawls through a lamp and white clovers thrive atop a pile of pillboxes. The lamp base, once a shining bronze-like finish, is heavily tarnished. The lampshade is overgrown with moss and ivy. Even if the greenery has yet to damage the electric wiring, the damp surely has finished the job. Even if the bulb is replaced, the body is too far gone. The light’s never coming on again. 

I was initially put out that my painstakingly 3D modeled pillboxes became entirely obscured, but I think it works in favor of the piece’s overarching theme: the beautiful wilds overtaking a space that once reeked of the desperate fight to prolong life. 

White clover blossoms meaning “thinking of you” is paired with the ivy meaning “everlasting devotion”.  It’s an apt combination. It has been over a year since his passing, and we still remember and carry on his legacy. 

Nestled amongst the foliage is Techno’s compass. It was once used to hunt him down in the Dream SMP. But now, it’s an odd comfort. Even though he’s no longer with us, he’s still somewhere far, far away– or is he? The original idea was for the needle to point heavenwards, but it is currently pointing…sideways?  I’ll get to the reasoning a bit later. 

The Flood:

Moving deeper into the space, we hit the floodwaters. These once turbulent currents are now tranquil enough to nourish this verdant place. The thriving plant life hides much of this darkness. It is beautiful, hopeful, even. But always bittersweet, because everything that grows here is laced with an old sorrow.

White lotus rise from the murky depths. That is us, overcoming our grief. Breaching the surface, we gain a new vantage point to contemplate this loss. Perhaps we can also find a more comforting perspective of it.

Submerged amongst the blossoms is a rusted oxygen machine. I wanted to decorate the machine with stickers, much like one would personalize a plaster cast for a broken limb. It is deliberate that the “Technoblade Never Dies” sticker is in shadow, while the “So Long, Nerds" is in light. 

Immediately to the right was meant to be a box of assorted Technoblade apparel.  But then I flooded the space for narrative reasons, rendering that idea unusable. I eventually converted it into a Welch’s Fruit Snacks box, because apparently Technoblade liked them? It’s one of the shallower references here but it is what it is.

And finally, there is a little cameo floating somewhere in the waters. An Easter egg, if you will. I wonder if you can find it? 

Furnishings from Home:

I found the couch and Technoblade’s gaming setup during my trawl through the Technoblade Reddit page for reference photos. Balancing this space full of impersonal medical equipment with more personalized belongings is grounding. These areas insert familiarity in this strange environment.

Gaming Setup:

The gaming setup is bare bones - just the monitor, keyboard, and mouse. There was no space to add more iconic elements like his Blue Yeti microphone or the steering wheel from that Minecraft challenge. Hanging above but heavily obscured by overgrowth are two framed pictures of Technoblade’s cabin and a potato minion. It is a blink-and-you-miss-it detail, placed in a dim space and requiring close examining to notice. Without the context of the rest of this environment, it is easily mistaken as generic set dressing. 

That’s the point, though. This was a space where he streamed and created videos much beloved by his community. This space was the means of creation, not the creations themselves. Without the creator at the helm, this setup becomes insignificant. Does one dote over the easel on which paintings were created, or the paintings themselves? So now it sits in darkness, a footnote of Technoblade’s legacy. 

Nostalgia Corner:

On the other end, we have the sold out Youtooz plushies and the Agro Pig plush from the recent merch drop sat atop the couch.  If you look closely, you’ll see a Skeppy coin leaning against one of the plushies. Behind the couch is a shelf. A generic shelf, but the important bits here are the sellout bell, Youtube plaque, and vinyl figurines. 

This corner of the room is nostalgic and soft. Everything is bathed in rosy pink light, and it is filled with things that are comfortingly familiar. All across the world, people in his community have these pieces of merch to remember him by. 

The red poppies that also grow here have multiple meanings. It represents the battle - one against sarcoma - which was fought here. It symbolizes death, but also resilience in the face of grueling conditions. It is said that they grow in former battlefields where of fallen warriors. I believe of all the flowers here, this one best represents Technoblade.

The Hanging Mobile:

Strung up above it is a rather last minute addition to the environment - a hanging mobile fabricated from totems representing each member of the Sleepy Bois Inc. friend group. First and foremost is Technoblade’s iconic MCC crown, aptly placed at the top. Although it is untouched by the greenery, the gold and jewelry are somewhat muted and tarnished by time.

This is not the case for the objects below. TommyInnit’s music disc shines iridiscent green and purple - Cat and Mellohi merged into one. To is right is a sky-blue guitar pick with the LoveJoy logo engraved onto it for Wilbur Soot. And finally, below it all is Philza’s Friendship Emerald - sparkling and refracting light - with Elytra feathers fastened at the bottom. They, suspended and isolated from everything, maintain a pristine vibrancy which strongly contrasts against everything else in this space. 

IV Stand:

Next to the computer setup is the IV stand. It sustains life which is incapable of continuing on without intervention. The butterfly milkweed growing on it, in contrast, says “let me go.” The latter, overtaking the tangle of tubes and powered off patient monitor, is victorious. The hooks stand rusted, and the IV bag empty from disuse.

Sat atop the patient monitor but almost blending into the walls is a pig figurine featured in Dream’s latest music video. It stands on a high perch, yet is unassuming as to direct focus on Technoblade, or rather, his absence. 

Hanging from the wired basket is an air freshener tag. If you look on the official website, this is one of the only products which has what I can only call interesting flavor text. Most are merely descriptions and specs of the product. To quote it verbatim:

“Yes, this is a real product. And no, this ‘air freshener’ has no discernible fragrance. ‘Why’ you ask? Because Mr. Technodad and our team agreed this was exactly the sort of air freshener Alex would have found hilarious.”

As morbid as it sounds, I feel like this air freshener tag would not have existed before Technoblade’s passing. It is so unlike any other merchandise I’ve seen in any other branded merchandise store. It’s like an inside joke, secretly shared within the descriptions for the world to eventually discover. 

Window:

Unlit candles line the window sill - the aftermath of a candlelight vigil. It is a versatile symbol. It raises awareness of a disease or illness. It pays tribute the dead. Judging from the melted wax dribbling down the candle shafts and the wall below (the opacity was reduced so it looks less like bloodstains), this has been done many times over. But there is so much more candle to burn, representing the people still continuing this ceremony, albeit in the privacy of their own homes.

Above the candles are some broken blinds. When grieving, it would have been so easy for Mr. Technodad to hide away from the world in his grief. It’s understandable, to give into that primal urge to flee from prying eyes when he’s at his most vulnerable. He had the difficult task of reading out his son’s final farewell to us. This barrier between him and us dismantled by this gesture so we can remember Technoblade together. 

Coincidentally, the window frame itself somewhat resembles the kitchen window featured in Technoblade and Technodad's cooking videos. Completely unintentional on my end, but fitting in a way since in both those videos they're pulling back the metaphorical curtains for the audience to peer into a small aspect of their private lives.

To the right of the window is a nondescript clock, forever stopped at the 6:30 as a nod to the date when the "So Long, Nerds" video was published. The minute hand is accidentally left out removed to signify that time will no longer move forward for Technoblade. In contrast, the rest of the world - represented by this space - continues to grow and change around his absence.

A wind chime hangs just outside the window. It is said that the soothing sounds produced by them is a healing balm during tumultuous times. Where there is wind there is stirred up emotions, but it is motionless on this calm, breezeless day. A rare respite, where remembrance overrides grief. 

On a more amusing note, there is an interesting looking moth perched on the window glass. Upon closer inspection, the wing pattern may look somewhat familiar. In Chinese culture, when a huge moth visiting your home is the embodiment of your recently deceased loved one checking on you. Remember the compass in the foreground? Well, here’s why it is pointed sideways instead of upwards. This idea came up rather organically during a VC session in the R/Technoblade Discord server. My handful of viewers and myself affectionately dubbed this doofy looking moth TechnoMoff!

Venturing further beyond the windows, ferns grow with wild abandon. They represent eternal youth, and from a certain point of view, he will remain youthful forever at the age of 23. He lives on through us carrying on his legacy and spreading his story. 

Everything outside is tinged with pink. After someone dies, we start seeing them less as a person and more as a legacy. It is the natural course of things to start seeing the deceased through rose-tinted lenses - hence the artificially pink hue of the outside contrasting with the more grounded color palette of the inside. 

Bed:

And now we circle back to the centerpiece of this entire composition: the bed and the things that surround it. 

In front of the bed is an over-bed table with a single object: an incense bowl filled to the brim with burnt sticks of incense. A simple shrine for Technoblade. In Chinese culture, we light incense at the altar to honor our loved ones. We may live separate lives and not cross paths often, but we all come together to leave our marks through this ritual. It is proof that he is still very much loved and missed by us all.

The bariatric bed frame is typically seen in hospitals. It allows the patient to comfortably sit up or recline without expending valuable energy. Encased in this frame is something more personal - the mattress and cushions which Technoblade laid upon in his photo with the Youtube plaque. Their unique patterning is a foil for the impersonal receptacle it is caged in. It is spotlit by the window light, emphasizing its emptiness. Not a single blossom dares to encroach upon this space, because to do so would be to erase the space where Technoblade last resided. Like I mentioned before, this is story is about the space around him as much as it is about him. 

Cradling this bed frame are several flowers. Rosemary and forget-me-not’s for remembrance. Appropriate, given its proximity to the bed. Morning glories, for resilience. That’s us, again. For a while, we meander and spread in the upper walls of this space, avoiding the floodwaters which symbolize grief. But eventually, we gather the strength to meander down to the bed, where grief was the strongest.

—

CONCLUSION:

There is that cheesy quote from that one Marvel TV show – “What is grief, but love persevering?” While this reframes our perception of dealing with loss, grief is not some thing that should linger. The absence of grief does not equate to the lack of love. Instead, I would like you to consider this: remembrance is love persevering. And with our combined perseverance, Technoblade will never truly die. 

[bokettochild]

Just saw the update!

So, first thoughts!

Gremlin Legend and Sky is something I am LIVING for. Sky's little look of approval as he stands between Wars and Legend after that little move is sending me!

(Wild is not impressed)

I also really love that JoJo played with Warriors' cape/scarf being capable of doing that, which is a major risk btw, but I love that we see it's potential now!

Like, Legend's timing is perfect (and I love that this confirms the Legend v. Wars dynamic we all love) especially considering Hyrule was literally talking about the same thing and you'd THINK Captain-War-Hero over here would be more cautious because of it (although the fact this implies Legend doesn't trigger Warriors danger sense is GREAT for the fluff fic writers like me!)

Time and Wars looking like disappointed parents though is brilliant

(Warriors with messy hair is so funny to me, help)

The continued portrayal of Time being too harsh with the boys, all tense after what happened to Twilight, that's great. i'm glad the consequences of past events are following them, it really makes this all feel linear!

I also am ALL HERE for the boys finding their differences! Warriors and Wild both admitting to being new to dungeon crawling and the monsters involved is a great thing we've all been playing with in fics, but making it cannon feels like validation :)

Also, Warriors being defensive of that, and maybe a bit prickly about their judgement, I think it shows a lot of him. he's got his pride,a although he's learned to tame it. He's feeling a bit miffed to realize how different he is, but doesn't want them seeing him as lesser as well (although they never would). I can also hear him using a clipped military sort of tone when speaking here. It's just the way his words are selected and strung together that makes it seem he's being very to the point, direct, and cold in his tone, which really sells the whole difference between a soldier and the "average nobody" that the rest of them were (ironic, since he's trying to act like the difference isn't a big deal but only further accentuates it this way).

Twilight being pleased that Epona is fine and just enjoying a meal made me grin so big though. He's all worried for his girl but she is, quite literally, happy as a horse over there LOL

Also, this bit:

recognition for Sky's right-handedness, my beloved! (JoJo is giving us all the easter eggs!)

The fact that the passage is too small to let them all fight though is a brilliant way of preventing some of our heavy hitters and more skilled heroes from being able to do anything though!

I like how that gives us the chance to see Time one-shot the foe and also gives him the impression that the rest are maybe not skilled enough to do this alone. WE all know they are, but they're a handicap to each other right now, and it's only further cementing in his mind that they're not ready for all this, which will make his overbearing speech and the judgement he casts on them in combat all the more an issue.

I mean, we all know the hero's shade was like that, but JoJo has shown Time acting this way from the start

(Deep Shadows P.2)

(Likelike)

So I guess we're in for more of that now, and most likely someone (probably Legend, as it's usually him, or Wind, who is very aware of judgement from teh rest) is definitely going to have to call him on it soon, maybe in the dungeon. Will that lead to some bonding with Time where he has to admit he cares and worries about them as though they're his own? I hope so!

Anyways, all this to say, we really are seeing how much they struggle to work together, so hopefully this dungoen will teach them all how to do that better, as Time mentioned earlier

(Dawn p.8)

Now, to finish it off!I would like to thank JoJo for giving us so many beautiful shots of Twi this time around. I'll admit it now, he's pretty darn fine <3

That said, I'm loving the Legend content too! i hope we get to see some more starring moments from him going forwards, what with him being the dungeon veteran and all! It's great seeing his childish/playful side these last few updates, but I'm really craving some veteran Legend right now >:)

[aspenmissing]

ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ: ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ

5586 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ) ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ (ɴᴏ ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴏᴜʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ᴏʀ ꜰᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴀᴄʜᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ/ᴊɪɴx

JAYCE

It was a quiet evening in Piltover when Y/N found herself staring at the strange glow of a small Hextech crystal in her palm. The crystal was a gift from Jayce, a token of trust between them. Tonight, however, something was different. The light from the crystal pulsed erratically, casting shifting shadows across the walls of her workshop. Then, without warning, it flared brilliantly, blinding her for a moment.

A sharp, dizzying sensation of vertigo overtook her, and the ground seemed to vanish beneath her feet. When the spinning finally stopped, Y/N opened her eyes to find herself standing in a place that was both familiar and alien.

It was the Piltover Academy. Its grand halls and towering spires were unmistakable—but they were brighter, newer, and teeming with energy in a way she hadn’t seen in years. Her heart raced as the truth dawned on her. This wasn’t the Piltover she knew. She had been sent back in time, to an era when Jayce was just a student with big dreams and even bigger obstacles.

Y/N navigated the academy’s bustling corridors, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar faces of young students. Despite the passage of time, the sense of ambition and curiosity that hung in the air was comforting. She passed by younger versions of professors and researchers she had once known, their laughter and debates filling the space with a contagious energy.

Then she saw him.

Jayce Talis stood hunched over a workbench in one of the academy's spacious labs, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. His hair was a little unruly, his shirt slightly untucked, and his workspace an organized chaos of tools and notes. This was Jayce before the acclaim, before the burdens of leadership. The raw potential and determination that had always defined him were already evident in his every movement.

Y/N hesitated at the doorway, taking a moment to drink in the sight of him. This younger version of the man she loved felt both familiar and distant, a vivid reminder of the person he had once been.

“Jayce?” she called softly, stepping into the room.

Jayce looked up sharply, startled by the unexpected interruption. His eyes met hers, bright and curious but guarded. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” he asked, his tone friendly but tinged with caution.

Y/N smiled, trying to steady her racing heart. “No, not exactly,” she said, her voice warm. “I’m... a curious observer. I’ve heard about your work and wanted to see it for myself.”

Jayce blinked, studying her for a moment before shrugging with a sheepish grin. “Well, there’s not much to see yet,” he admitted, gesturing to the cluttered table before him. “Just a lot of ideas and a few half-finished experiments. But one day…” He straightened slightly, his grin turning into something more determined. “One day, this will change Piltover. Maybe even the world.”

Y/N felt a wave of affection and pride swell in her chest. This was the Jayce she knew—the dreamer, the innovator, the man who never stopped reaching for the stars. “I believe you will,” she said earnestly, her voice softer than she intended.

Jayce blinked at her, surprise flickering across his face. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “No, I mean it. I’ve seen what happens when people don’t believe in others’ dreams. It’s not about how far you’ve come; it’s about how far you’re willing to go. And I think you’ll go far.”

His cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment, but he quickly hid it behind a grin. “Thanks. I don’t hear that often. Most people think I’m crazy for trying.”

They talked for hours, Y/N carefully balancing her words to offer encouragement without revealing too much. She listened to him explain his theories, watched as he sketched out rough blueprints for ideas that would one day revolutionize the world. He was raw, unpolished, and filled with an energy that reminded her why she had fallen in love with him in the first place.

But time was slipping through her fingers. The Hextech crystal in her pocket pulsed faintly, a reminder that this moment was temporary. She had to leave before she disrupted the delicate threads of the timeline.

“Jayce,” she said softly, standing up. Her heart ached at the thought of leaving him like this. “I have to go.”

He looked up at her, confusion clouding his features. “Wait, I… Who are you, really?”

She hesitated, her hand tightening around the crystal in her pocket. “Just someone who believes in you,” she said, a bittersweet smile on her lips. “Don’t stop, Jayce. What you’re doing is important—more than you know.”

He stood as she turned to leave, his voice stopping her just as she reached the door. “Will I ever see you again?”

Y/N glanced back at him, her eyes soft with unspoken emotions. “Maybe. In another time.”

And with that, she stepped out of the lab, her heart heavy but full. As the crystal’s light flared one last time, pulling her back to her own era, Y/N knew she had made a difference. She had reminded him of what mattered most: the courage to dream, and the determination to see those dreams through.

VIKTOR

The industrial haze of Zaun hung heavy in the air, thick with the acrid scent of chemicals and the hum of machinery. Y/N stumbled through the dimly lit streets, her head spinning from the disorienting sensation of being flung through time. She didn’t know how or why she had ended up in the past, but the unfamiliar Zaun around her was bustling, younger, and more chaotic than the one she knew.

As she wandered, a faint sound broke through the din of the city—a soft, heart-wrenching sob. Y/N paused, straining to locate the source. The sound grew louder as she approached a narrow alleyway, barely illuminated by the flickering glow of a neon sign overhead. Her heart clenched at the sight before her: a small boy, curled into himself, his thin frame trembling as he cried.

"Hey," she called softly, crouching down to his level. The boy flinched at the sound of her voice, hastily wiping at his face with the sleeve of his patched shirt. "It’s okay," Y/N assured him, her voice gentle. "I’m not going to hurt you."

The boy didn’t respond, keeping his face hidden as his shoulders continued to shake. Y/N moved closer, careful not to startle him. "What’s wrong?" she asked, her tone kind. "Why are you out here all alone?"

For a moment, he didn’t answer, but then a quiet, broken voice replied, "They laughed at me… called me broken." The words were almost lost beneath the hum of Zaun’s endless machines, but the pain in them was unmistakable.

Y/N’s heart twisted. "You’re not broken," she said firmly. "Whatever they said, they’re wrong."

The boy sniffled, finally lifting his face to look at her. And then Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at him, taking in the unmistakable moles on his cheek, the sharp yet delicate features of his face. It was Viktor—her Viktor. But not as she knew him. This was Viktor as a child, before he had become the brilliant man she loved.

Her mind raced, trying to process what she was seeing. "Viktor," she whispered, barely audible.

The boy blinked at her, his red-rimmed eyes narrowing in confusion. "How… how do you know my name?" he asked cautiously, his accent thick and unpolished.

Y/N quickly shook her head, forcing a smile to mask her shock. "I… I lucky guess" she lied, her voice trembling slightly. "I think they’re wrong about you. You’re not broken—you’re going to do incredible things someday."

His wide, amber eyes searched her face, hesitant but filled with a flicker of hope. "You think so?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I know so," Y/N said, her words steady and sincere. She reached out, gently brushing a tear from his cheek. "You’re stronger than they realize, and you’re going to show them just how brilliant you are."

For a moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift from his small shoulders. Viktor gave her a tentative smile, the first one she’d seen from him, and it warmed her heart in a way she couldn’t describe.

Y/N stayed with him for a while, sitting on the cold ground of that alley, talking to him about anything and everything to keep his mind off the pain. She wanted to give him comfort, even if it was just for a fleeting moment in time. But as the minutes passed, she knew she couldn’t stay long.

"Will I… see you again?" young Viktor asked as she stood to leave.

Y/N hesitated, her chest tightening. She wanted to say yes, to promise him she’d always be there. But she couldn’t. "Maybe," she said softly, ruffling his hair. "But no matter what, don’t forget what I told you, okay? You’re going to change the world."

As she walked away, her heart ached with the knowledge of the trials he would face, but also with the hope that their brief encounter might have made a difference. Little did she know, the memory of her kindness would stay with him, shaping the man he would become—until the day they met again, and he realized the woman who had comforted him as a child was the love of his life.

JAYVIK - RUINED! JAYCE

The lab hummed with quiet energy, illuminated by the soft, blue glow of early Hextech experiments. Jayce, Y/N, and Viktor were gathered around a cluttered worktable, deep in discussion. Jayce gestured with a wrench as he spoke, his excitement palpable, while Viktor leaned on his cane, his braces creaking faintly as he shifted his weight. Y/N’s gaze flickered between them, a small, fond smile tugging at her lips as they debated the finer points of the design.

It was one of those moments that felt perfect.

The peace shattered when the door slammed open.

A figure stumbled into the lab, and all three froze. The man in the doorway was Jayce—or something that once resembled him. His armour was scorched and cracked, his face hollowed by grief, his eyes dark with sorrow and desperation. He dragged a massive hammer behind him, its head scraping against the floor like a death knell.

“What the—” Younger Jayce immediately stepped in front of Y/N and Viktor, raising his wrench defensively, his body tense. Viktor, though startled, shifted his grip on his cane, angling it as if he might use it for protection.

The intruder raised a trembling hand, his voice rough and broken. “Wait… I’m not here to hurt you.”

Y/N peeked out from behind Jayce, her brow furrowed. “Who are you?”

Ruined!Jayce’s eyes flickered to her, and his entire frame seemed to sag. “I’m…” He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “I’m you,” he said, looking at the younger version of himself. “From a future you can’t imagine.”

The trio exchanged stunned glances, unsure whether to believe him.

“Time travel?” Viktor murmured, his skepticism laced with nervous curiosity. His fingers tightened around the handle of his cane as he studied the older Jayce. “Or some kind of… alternate timeline?”

Ruined!Jayce’s gaze moved between Viktor and Y/N, lingering on her with an expression that was equal parts anguish and longing. When his eyes met hers, they shimmered with unshed tears.

“Don’t come any closer,” Younger Jayce warned, keeping Y/N behind him. “We don’t know who—or what—you are.”

But Y/N, ever brave and empathetic, stepped around him, ignoring his protests. She met the older Jayce’s gaze, her voice soft but steady. “You wouldn’t hurt me. You’re Jayce. You wouldn’t.”

Ruined!Jayce froze, his hands trembling as tears finally spilled over. “I… I already did.” His voice was barely a whisper.

“What do you mean?” she asked, taking a cautious step toward him.

The ruined man dropped to his knees, his hammer clattering to the floor with a resounding thud. He buried his face in his hands, his body shaking as he sobbed. “I killed him,” he choked, his voice raw. His eyes flicked to Viktor, guilt etched into every line of his face. “And in doing so, I killed you too.”

The room went silent, the air heavy with shock.

Y/N knelt down in front of him, her brows furrowed in concern. “Jayce… what happened?”

He looked up at her, his expression broken. “When the council exploded… you and Viktor—” His voice caught, and he drew in a shuddering breath. “You both died. I couldn’t live with it. I brought Viktor back with the Hexcore, but it tied you to him. You survived—through him. And when I…” He broke off, his voice dissolving into sobs. “When I lost control… when I killed him… I lost you too.”

Y/N’s hand trembled as she reached out, brushing her fingers through his hair in a soothing motion. “It’s okay,” she murmured, though her voice wavered. “You didn’t mean to.”

Ruined!Jayce clutched her, pressing his face against her stomach as if trying to anchor himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over, his voice muffled. “I’m so sorry.”

Viktor, who had been frozen in place, finally moved. His cane tapped softly against the floor as he limped over to the broken man. He hesitated, then placed a gentle hand on Ruined!Jayce’s shoulder.

“It sounds as though you’ve been through hell,” Viktor said softly, his voice laced with an empathy that made Y/N’s chest ache.

Ruined!Jayce turned his head, his grief-stricken eyes locking onto Viktor. He grabbed Viktor’s hand, trembling as he brought it to his lips and kissed his palm, his tears dampening the skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I failed you. I failed you both.”

Viktor’s expression softened, though the shock and unease lingered in his gaze. He didn’t pull his hand away, instead letting it rest against the man’s face. “Then don’t fail us now,” Viktor murmured. “Help us ensure it never comes to pass.”

For a moment, there was silence in the lab, save for the quiet hum of Hextech crystals and the sound of Ruined!Jayce’s broken sobs. The younger Jayce watched, his wrench lowering slightly as the weight of the moment settled over him.

VANDER

The shimmer of Zaun’s ever-present smog seemed to twist unnaturally, swirling in a manner Vander had never seen before. He stumbled, his boot scraping against the uneven cobblestones. One moment, he had been walking through the Lanes, the next… he wasn’t sure where—or when—he was.

The Last Drop loomed ahead, its familiar sign swaying gently in the same spot it always had. But something felt off. The place looked the same yet subtly different—newer, yet with the worn familiarity of years of memories carved into its wood and stone.

Vander’s heart twisted in his chest as he pushed open the door. Inside, the bar was alive with chatter, clinking glasses, and laughter—much like it had always been. The smell of spilled ale, worn leather, and the faint hint of oil filled the air. It was comforting and unsettling all at once.

His eyes scanned the room, searching for something—someone—familiar. But it wasn’t until he turned to the bar that his breath caught in his throat. A man stood behind the counter, pouring a pint with practiced ease. He had a strong build, sandy hair with streaks of silver, and eyes that mirrored Vander’s own—a stormy blue-gray that had always reflected far more than they revealed.

The man caught sight of Vander, his brows furrowing slightly as if trying to place him. “You alright there, stranger? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Vander approached slowly, every step heavy with disbelief. The man’s voice was deep and steady, tinged with an accent that reminded him of Y/N. His heart raced. “I… might’ve. What’s your name, lad?”

The man raised an eyebrow but offered a small, polite smile. “It’s Ewan. Ewan L/N. And you are?”

Vander couldn’t respond immediately. His mind was spinning. L/N. That was Y/N’s family name. His wife. His Y/N. The pieces began to fall into place, though it felt impossible.

“Name’s Vander,” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion as he leaned on the bar, steadying himself.

Ewan’s brow furrowed, and a small, almost wistful smile tugged at his lips. “Funny,” he said with a chuckle, “that was my pa’s name.” His tone was light, though the weight of the coincidence lingered in his voice.

Vander’s eyes softened, a faint smile crossing his face as he shrugged nonchalantly. “Coincidence, I suppose,” he replied, his voice a little rough. He didn’t want to delve too deeply into it, not yet. “You run this place, then?”

Ewan nodded, his expression softening. “Aye. Took it over from my ma and pa when they retired. They built this place into something special, y’know. I’m just trying to keep it going.”

Vander swallowed hard. “Your ma and pa… what are they like?”

Ewan chuckled, leaning back against the bar. “My ma? She’s a force of nature. She used to run this place alongside my pa, kept everyone in line with just a look. Retired a few years back, but she still pops in to make sure I’m not mucking it up.” His gaze turned fond. “And my pa… he was a giant of a man, both in size and heart. Always looked out for people, even when it cost him. He passed a few years back, but folks around here still tell stories about him.”

Vander felt his chest tighten. He had died. In this strange twist of time, he had lived a full life with Y/N, built a family, and left a legacy. His eyes stung, and he blinked quickly, trying to keep his composure.

“You alright there, old-timer?” Ewan asked, concern etched on his face. “You look like you’ve heard somethin’ heavy.”

Vander forced a smile, though his voice wavered. “Just… remembering someone. Sounds like your pa was a good man.”

Ewan grinned. “He was. The best.”

The door to the bar creaked open, and Vander turned instinctively. His breath caught again as a woman stepped in—her hair streaked with silver, her posture a little slower, but she still carried the same grace and strength he had fallen in love with. Y/N.

She paused at the entrance, scanning the room. There was a distant, unfocused look in her eyes, a fog of confusion that Vander recognized all too well. She hesitated, then her gaze landed on him. For a moment, there was something there—something flickering in the depths of her expression—but it faded as quickly as it had come.

Still, she approached the bar, her steps deliberate and careful. Ewan turned to her with a broad smile, setting down the glass he had been cleaning.

“Ma,” Ewan greeted warmly, stepping around the bar to give her a gentle hug. “What’re you doin’ out this late? Thought you’d be resting.”

“Oh, you know me,” Y/N said with a soft laugh, her voice carrying a familiar melody. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d stretch my legs, see if you’ve ruined my bar yet.”

Ewan chuckled. “Still standing, isn’t it?”

Y/N reached up to pat his cheek affectionately, her gaze drifting over to Vander. She froze, her hand lingering in the air. Her brows furrowed, her head tilting slightly as she studied him. “You…” she murmured, her voice soft and trembling. “You look… so much like him.”

Vander’s breath hitched. He stepped forward, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Like who, ma’am?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

She smiled faintly, but there was a sadness in her eyes. “My husband,” she said. “He had eyes like yours. And that build… strong enough to carry the world, I used to say.” Her gaze turned wistful, lost in a memory that felt just out of reach. “He passed a few years back. The finest man I ever knew.”

Vander swallowed hard, his chest tightening. “Sounds like he was a good man.”

She nodded slowly, her smile growing, though it wavered at the edges. “He was. Loved this place, loved the people here. And me… he loved me more than I deserved.”

Ewan placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, glancing at Vander with an apologetic look. “My ma… her memory’s not what it used to be,” he explained softly. “She gets moments where the past feels closer than the present.”

Y/N didn’t seem to hear him, her eyes still on Vander. “You remind me of him,” she said again, her voice barely above a whisper. “So much… it’s almost like he’s standing right here.”

Vander’s throat tightened. He wanted to tell her, to hold her, to let her know that it was him. But this wasn’t his place anymore—it was hers. Her life had moved on, and so had time.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said gently, his voice thick with emotion. “He must’ve been one hell of a man.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes as she reached out, her fingers brushing his hand. “He was,” she said, her voice trembling. “He still is. I… I just wish I could remember more.”

“You remember the important parts,” Vander said, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. “That’s what matters.”

She smiled at that, a genuine smile that lit up her face the way it always had. “You’re kind. Just like him.”

Ewan gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Come on, Ma. Let’s get you back home.”

As Y/N turned to leave, she paused, glancing back at Vander one last time. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes meeting his with a flicker of something deeper. “For reminding me.”

Vander nodded, unable to find his voice. He watched as she and Ewan left the bar, his heart heavy yet full. He had seen what he needed to see. His family was safe, his love was cherished, and the life he had built endured.

With one last look around the Last Drop, Vander turned and slipped out into the night, the glow of the bar fading behind him.

SILCO

The air in Zaun felt different to Silco, oppressive in a way that was hard to explain. The haze was thick, the dark alleys narrower and more suffocating than he remembered. As if time itself had folded upon him. He couldn’t make sense of it—he had been in the present, the world he knew, and now he was thrown into something… else. Everything was older but younger, the echoes of a different time ringing in the streets.

It was then he saw her.

She was unlike the woman he knew—the one he had come to rely on, the one he’d loved in his own twisted way. This Y/N was a warrior in the truest sense. She fought like a beast, her bloodied hands still working to strike down the opponent in front of her. A scuffle in the alley had caught his attention, and when he turned the corner, he was met with the sight of her—a woman drenched in grime and blood, her hair matted against her face, but her eyes were cold, steely, and unyielding.

She was locked in a brutal fight with a thug, someone much larger and stronger than her, but it didn’t seem to faze her. She fought with a savagery that made Silco’s stomach twist, but there was something else, something familiar that tugged at him—a rawness, an intensity that was both terrifying and mesmerizing. She kicked the thug down to the ground, her boot connecting with his chest with a brutal force. He crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain, but she was relentless, walking over to him and pulling him up by his collar.

“You think you can walk all over me, huh?” she hissed, her voice a low, dangerous growl. The thug tried to push her away, but she didn’t budge. Her expression, though marred by blood, was one of complete indifference. She wasn’t afraid, not even a little.

Silco felt something stir inside him—an instinct to intervene, to stop her from completely destroying this man. But before he could make his presence known, she swiftly landed a final blow to his opponent’s head, knocking him unconscious. She stood over him, breathing heavily, her body bruised and battered, but her resolve unbroken.

“You’ve got guts,” Silco said, stepping into the dim light of the alley, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. She turned to face him, her cold eyes narrowing as she sized him up.

“I don’t need your pity,” she snapped, wiping the blood from her split lip. “I can handle myself.”

“I can see that,” he said, intrigued by her ferocity. “But even the strongest need help sometimes.” He watched her intently, noticing the strain in her posture, the way her breath came in sharp, jagged gasps. She was hurt, badly. Yet she stood, defiant and unmoved.

“Help?” She scoffed, her tone harsh. “I don’t need help from anyone. Not even you.”

But there was a flicker of something in her eyes, something behind that ice-cold exterior. Silco could sense it. A weariness, maybe, or perhaps just a small sliver of vulnerability buried beneath the layers of armour she had built around herself.

He approached cautiously, his voice softening. “You’ve got some wounds. Let me patch you up, at least.”

Her gaze met his for a moment, her walls seeming to waver before she gave a short, dismissive laugh. “Fine. If you’re that desperate to waste your time.” She gestured to the blood on her face and body. “But don’t think this means I owe you anything.”

Silco gave a small, almost amused smirk. “No promises.”

With quiet determination, he led her to a nearby rundown building, the only safe place he could think of. Once inside, Silco started to clean her wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the ruthlessness he saw in her. He couldn’t understand why he was doing this, why he felt the need to offer care to a woman who had made it clear she didn’t need anyone’s help. But as he worked, he couldn’t help but notice the stark differences between this version of Y/N and the one he knew.

The woman before him was hardened, not the kind-hearted, protective soul he had come to know. She didn’t laugh or joke with him like the Y/N he remembered. There was no softness in her eyes, no warmth to the way she held herself. It was as if life had stripped her of everything but her survival instinct.

Still, there was something about her that drew him in, something familiar about the way she carried herself even in the face of pain.

Once he finished tending to her wounds, she looked at him with a strange, inscrutable expression. “Don’t think this changes anything,” she warned. “I don’t need anyone, not even you.”

Silco nodded, understanding the unspoken challenge in her words. “You don’t have to need me, but that doesn’t mean you can’t rely on me.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence in the room was thick with unspoken tension. But for some reason, Silco felt a spark of something—something that hadn’t existed when he had first set eyes on her in this time. There was potential here. In the woman before him, in this Y/N, he saw the same fierce spirit, the same strength, the same defiance that would one day bring them together, even if she couldn’t recognize it yet.

“Just be careful out there,” he said quietly, as he turned to leave. “The world won’t be kind to someone like you, not without someone watching your back.”

She didn’t reply, but as he disappeared into the shadows, he felt something shift—something intangible that told him this encounter, this moment in time, might have a deeper meaning than either of them could understand. Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something that would shape them both forever.

POWDER/JINX

Jinx wandered through the polished streets of Piltover, her dual pistols hidden beneath her coat, her mind spinning with confusion. One moment, she had been working on a new explosive device in her Zaunite workshop, and the next, a blinding flash of light had thrown her into a Piltover that felt almost foreign. Everything was pristine, bustling with order and wealth, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of Zaun.

“What the hell is this?” she muttered under her breath, weaving through the crowd, trying to avoid drawing attention. “Did I fall into some weird dream or what?”

Lost in her thoughts, Jinx barely noticed the small figure racing toward her until they collided with a sharp thud.

“Hey! Watch it!” Jinx snapped, stumbling back and glaring down at the offender.

The girl she’d run into couldn’t have been older than seven or eight, with wide, startled eyes that stared up at Jinx in a mix of awe and fear. She was dressed neatly, her Piltover upbringing evident in her spotless attire.

“S-Sorry!” the girl stammered, stepping back quickly, clutching a small satchel close to her chest.

Jinx waved her off, brushing down her coat. “Yeah, yeah, just don’t—” Her voice trailed off as another voice called out, echoing through the orderly Piltover streets.

“Y/N [Middle Name] L/N! Get back here this instant!”

Jinx froze, her blood running cold. That name. Her wild eyes darted back to the child in front of her, who now looked more nervous than ever. Slowly, Jinx crouched down to the girl’s level, her heart pounding.

“What’s your name?” Jinx asked, her voice low and urgent.

The girl hesitated, clutching her satchel tighter. “Um... Y/N [Middle Name] L/N,” she whispered.

Jinx reeled back as if she’d been slapped. “No way,” she murmured, her breath catching in her throat. Her gaze darted over the girl, searching for the familiar traits that lined up with the person she knew. And there it was: the same determined set to her jaw, the same nervous way she fidgeted with her fingers. This was you. Younger, smaller, and far more innocent, but undeniably you.

The girl—you—tilted her head, looking up at Jinx with confusion. “Are you okay, miss?”

Jinx let out a shaky laugh, raking her hands through her blue braids. “Am I okay? Oh, man. This is not happening.” She stood abruptly, pacing a few steps before spinning back to face you. “Do you even know who you’re talking to right now?”

You frowned, clearly unsure how to answer. “No... but you look kinda scary. And cool.”

Jinx snorted despite herself. “Scary and cool. Great. That’s exactly what I was going for.” She crouched back down, staring intently at you. “Listen. You shouldn’t be down here.”

“I just wanted to explore,” you said defensively, glancing back the way you’d come. “Mom doesn’t like me going too far, but... I like seeing everything.”

At the mention of your mom, Jinx’s chest tightened. She’d heard stories about your mother—how she had tried to protect you, shield you from the darker sides of Piltover and Zaun before her untimely death. The pieces clicked into place. This must have been before everything fell apart for you, before Zaun became your refuge and your cage.

Jinx sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Okay, listen. You need to get back to your mom, like, right now.”

“But—”

“No buts!” Jinx snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. She softened at the sight of your startled expression. “Look... you’ve got a good thing going right now, okay? A mom who cares about you, a safe life up here. Don’t screw it up by wandering too far.”

You studied her for a moment, your young face scrunching in thought. “You talk like you know me,” you said cautiously.

Jinx froze again, unsure how to respond. Finally, she forced a crooked grin. “Let’s just say... I know someone a lot like you. Someone strong. Someone who’s gonna do great things, even if it’s not easy.”

Your eyes widened slightly at her words, but before you could respond, the voice from earlier rang out again, much closer this time.

“Y/N! Where are you?”

You flinched, glancing nervously over your shoulder. “That’s my mom. I gotta go.”

Jinx stepped aside, watching as you turned to leave. But before you ran off, she reached out and ruffled your hair, a rare, genuine smile tugging at her lips. “Take care. And listen to your mom, okay?”

You nodded quickly, flashing her a small smile before darting off toward the source of the voice. Jinx watched you go, a strange mix of emotions swirling in her chest. Pride, sorrow, and an ache she couldn’t quite place.

“Well, this is a trip,” she muttered, shoving her hands into her pockets. She had no idea how she’d ended up here or how to get back to her own time, but one thing was clear: she couldn’t linger. You had a future to live, and she couldn’t risk disrupting it.

With one last glance at the street where you’d disappeared, Jinx turned and made her way in the opposite direction, her mind racing with memories and questions. Whatever had brought her here, she could only hope it had left you with a small spark of strength for the challenges ahead.

[shiorihoshino]

Where Ruin Remembers

When Reality Fractures [Part 1]

When Reality Fractures | 1 [here currently] | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | Echoes in the Snow | 1 |

You hummed an aimless tune, patting a ball of fluff that wormed its into your lap and heart. The courageous woodland critter had wandered its way over to you the moment you settled down on the lush ground, deciding a break was in order. After maneuvering and disturbing the white gown, that you should not be wearing in the first place, the little dear snuggled deep into your stomach and napped. Truly fearless.

Your gaze wondered to the sky, fingers running through soft smooth fur. With your head's movement, white shiny strands shifted on the ground, rustling the blades of grass they tangled themselves in. The same white you should not have on your person. The motion carried itself further down, the tresses much like a meandering stream, splitting into various parts journeying down the land.

A breath shook as it escaped your lips, light in sound but weighted. Your chest contracted, invisible pressure bearing down on your heart from all side. The tightness you could not ignore, even as you closed your eyes. Hoping that if you pretend not to see, pretend not to notice the grass stain soaking into your clothes, pretend that time has not passed...

What were you expecting? From dusk until dawn, you knew yet your heart still hoped. Your body forcing you to rise and drag yourself here, deaf to reason and arguments your head made. Your being betrayed you, ignoring how the sun rose and fell beyond towering jagged mountain ranges, unwilling to stand and leave the spot you picked.

As the blue fades into orange and red, the last warmth of the day caress your cheek. The comforting touch, however, did not alleviate the crushing weight on your chest. Not even the fluff ball snuggling itself deeper into your embrace could distract you.

A breath caught itself in your throat, forcing you to grit your teeth to stop the shaky exhale from leaving. Force your eyes to close, tear your stare from the sky, to forget the passage of time. Time you wasted, another day gone... again. Force your hands to remain gentle on top of the creature in your lap, to not dig your nails into your palm as you bite at your lips until they bleed.

But then again... What were you expecting?

A yawn pushed through the gaps of your fingers, spilling into the cool morning air. The accompanying tears pricked at your eyes, wet and stinging. Lifting your hands, you wiped them away from the corners of your eyes, blinking to rid the residue clinging to your lashes.

Stretching, your locked bones popped as if you were an old lady instead of a young adult not even pass her forties. Ah, who were you kidding? Your posture was horrid, at least when you were in the comforts of your home. Which, if not for your job, you would be in your room at all times if you could. Your job... you weren't even sure how you kept it until now.

"Even still, what a weird dream..."

You lament your already horrible sleep schedule being disturbed by a dream that seemed to have no end. You didn't know where you were or why you were even there. It was just the slow passage of time, one that you thought had been far too long and drawn out.

The edges of your recollection frayed as you tried to remember more. Deciding it be better to stop before you give yourself a headache first thing in the morning, you head to the kitchen. You knew you would be hungry in a few hours anyway.

You reached over, switching on the stove to start cooking. As you gather necessary ingredients and equipments, you swipe your phone closer. Gathering an egg, you tap a familiar app icon, waiting for it to load as you cracked your first egg into a bowl.

As you finished cracking your eggs and slid to dump the shells into the waste bin, the app loaded and your ears caught the music. The sound had your gaze drift from the bin to your phone screen. Cleaning your hands, you tapped the screen to enter the game.

A laugh light as a breeze slipped through your lips. The pink petals curled up into a soft smile as the scene greet you. One you see, on rare occasion, as of recent.

"Still sleeping, Sylus?" You turn back to measure out the mirin, salt, soy sauce, and sugar into the bowl. "You'll get a sore neck if you stay like that."

Preoccupied with whisking the contents and checking on the heat of the pan, you missed the carmine eyes appearing from behind heavy eyelids and watching you from your screen. Head tilted on his closed fist, elbow perched on the armrest, he resisted the tug at the corner of his lips.

"Before seeing you, I thought today would be another dull day."

You let out another laugh, attention primarily on not burning your food instead of the antics of the man behind your screen. Much to his delight as he was allowed to admire you to his heart's content without the need to position himself. Though, he still won't give in to the urges plaguing him when he sees you.

You glance at your phone, checking the time. "Not even 10 and you're already unable to control your silver tongue." You joked, eyes returning to the pan, chopsticks nudging the cooked egg batter into a roll.

Sylus kept silence as you deposit each finish tamagoyaki onto a plate. His eyes never straying from your form, always following. The moment he knew he was out of your line of sight, he made a quip.

"Seeing you with the sunrise makes the sunlight bearable."

You rolled your eyes at his words, checking on the rice. Huffing out a breath, you dispersed the rush of steam that dampen your face. That reminds you, the face cream you're using is running out soon. Whenever you force yourself out of the house and work, you need to buy more.

Amused by your reaction, Sylus decided to stop pushing his luck for the moment. With a silent exhale, he relaxed his posture further to recline back in his seat. Fishing out his phone, he tapped away. His eyes scanning through the endless stream of news and articles that flood his screen.

Catching the movement from the corner of your eyes, you couldn't help yourself and look over. "I always wonder what you actually see..."

Shaking your head, you return to preparing the miso soup. You didn't expect an answer to your question, much less a teasing sarcastic remark. But, you did and it made you pause, tasting saucer pressed against your lips but unmoving.

"I'm looking through your social media posts. You have an exciting life."

You blinked, waiting for a beat or two before you unfroze yourself. Eyelashes tickling your cheeks, you stirred the pot of miso soup, musing to yourself. "The devs are really good at timing those intervals for the voice lines..."

Sylus frowned, eyes narrowing at the dismissive tone lacing your voice. Yet the expression didn't stay long, gone the next blink, as if never there in the first place. The tapping of his fingers and the music of the game continued to fill the silence.

Breakfast, and later dinner, cooked and finished, you settle at your dining table. Mouth full of food, you used your free hand to go through the usual repetitive motion of completing the daily missions and collect the rewards. On your way to check your Memories, you gave a quick poke at Sylus's lips. Tapping the Memories icon soon after, you missed the quick glance and noise that involuntarily escape his mouth before you disappear to perhaps upgrade your equipment.

You chewed, swallowing your mouthful before exhaling. "Upgrading the cards are... Why are they taking so much resources for one level?"

Exiting out of the card screen, you were greeted with Sylus standing up from his position on the couch, arms crossed. You giggle, giving a tap to his cheek. "What? Missed me already?"

You waited for a reply, blinking when you got none. Locking eyes, his own seem to drill into your being. Searching, yet so unreadable to you, as you waited in confused and wary silence.

After what felt like minutes, but could be a few seconds, the familiar smirk graced Sylus's lips and his retorted. "I heard you'll be leaving soon."

You tilted you head before your eyes widen. "Wait... Shoot! What time is it?!"

Sylus watched with hidden amusement as you scramble to check for the time. Wide panicked eyes that should not have delighted him as much as it did caused him to let out a chuckle. The sound bringing your attention back to him.

"Sorry, Sy. If I don't go now, I'm going to be late." Giving one last tap to his lips, you moved to close the app. "My boss is going to make my life a living hell if I'm late..."

As you exited, just shy of swiping the app up and away, his voice drifted into your ears. "Good luck."

You blinked, puzzled. Eyes darting down to have a proper look, they swept over the clock. Realizing that you really had to hurry, you push the issue aside for the moment and rushed to get everything in order. The race to not be late effectively taking your mind off the matter and forgetting it even happen in the first place.

[bingsuyaa]

⋆ endless rain ─── 나재민

p jaemin × reader w.c 1.7k t.w angsty tone but not entirely. vague mentions of a comatose patient.

The rain taps against the hospital window, thin and relentless, like the ticking of some invisible clock. You sit by Jaemin’s side, his hand limp in yours, his skin still warm but unresponsive. There is an unbearable stillness to him, a suspension between presence and absence. The beeping of the machines is steady, a grim metronome marking the passage of time you couldn’t control. You stare at him, at the sharp lines of his face softened by the dim fluorescent light, and wonder if time has betrayed you both.

Jaemin is too still. That stillness terrifies you because it isn’t his. His natural state is movement—brushing his hair back, shifting closer when the world pulled you apart, his laughter dawning over you like sunlight. Now, the quiet stretches between you like a chasm, wide and unyielding. You feel as though you are trapped in a room with a ghost—his body is here, but he's elsewhere, lost in some dark and endless abyss.

You press your lips together, your gaze falling to the leatherbound folder sitting on the table beside him. Its pages flutter in the low breeze from the heater, half-finished, half-full. The story of your lives captured in ink, but incomplete, like a melody with no final chord.

You hadn’t expected him that day. You hadn’t expected anyone, really. The rain was coming down hard as you sprinted for the subway, the bag held over your head doing a terrible job of sheltering you, your breath coming in short bursts. It was just another endless Tuesday—gray, routine, exhausting. But fate doesn’t announce itself. It simply collides into you, spills coffee all over the ground—the warm liquid spreading like a stain on the gray concrete.

“Oh, shit,” he yelped, his voice an unexpected melody amidst the bustle of commuters. “I am so sorry.”

You looked up, caught off guard, and found yourself staring into eyes that sparkled with an impish light. Jaemin offered a smile—unapologetic, yet endearing—and in that smile, you felt an inexplicable flutter in your chest, as if he had awakened something inside you that you had not known existed.

“This,” he said, rummaging through the plastic bags in his hands, “is all I have to make it better. Unless you want coffee, but clearly I’ve failed in that department.”

It was a single bloom, delicate and fragile, a soft violet that had somehow survived the harshness of the world outside. You took it from him, unsure of how to respond. “A flower?” you asked, your voice betraying the amusement that you could no longer hide.

“Yeah,” Jaemin replied, his grin widening. “A flower and the crash course in clumsiness. It’s better than nothing!”

The absurdity of it hit you all at once. A single, rain-soaked bloom in the middle of the chaos. You’d laughed—really laughed—and felt something shift in the air around you. It was as if the universe had paused, just for a moment, to let you breathe.

Your friendship blossomed through seasons, delicate as a garden in bloom. There was always a quiet intimacy between you, a language that existed in the spaces between your words, in the laughter you shared, and the subtle glances that lingered just a moment too long.

It was months before Jaemin finally asked you out, though the question had always been there, simmering beneath the surface. It had been raining then, too. The two of you were crammed beneath a small awning outside a coffee shop, your umbrella forgotten in his car, the sound of the downpour cocooning you both.

“Why do you always do that?” you asked between the lull of mindless gossip and laughter, watching the steam from the liquid warmth inside your disposable cup rising in wisps and fading away.

“Do what?”

“Make everything feel... lighter.” You gestured vaguely, chuckling to mask your awkwardness. “Like it’s not all crashing down. Like the world isn’t terrible sometimes.”

Jaemin had smiled, but it wasn’t his usual grin. It was softer, something almost vulnerable creeping into the edges of it. “Maybe because when I’m with you, it doesn’t feel terrible to me. Not even a little.”

Your heart skipped, the words hanging in the air between you. You laughed nervously, trying to deflect. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Not really,” he said, his voice quieter now. He turned to face you fully, his eyes searching yours. “I’m serious. You make everything better, even when you don’t try to. Especially when you don’t try to.”

You stared at him, the rain blurring the edges of the world around you. “Jaemin...”

“I’m not great with words,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck, “but I know this. I know that when I see you, my day gets better. I know that when you’re not around, it feels like something’s missing. I know that I don’t want to keep pretending this is just friendship, because it’s not. Not for me.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words caught in your throat. Jaemin watched you, his expression open, waiting, but not pressuring.

Finally, you said, “You really mean that?”

“I’ve never meant anything more,” he replied simply.

When he kissed you then, it was gentle, like a soft breeze in the summer cutting through the damp August showers. And you knew, in that moment, that your heart had found its home.

Months later, Jaemin had shown up at your apartment with the bear tucked under his arm, its fur worn in places, one of its ears slightly crooked. He’d been fidgeting with it the entire time you let him in, brushing his thumb over its face as though it might speak up and help him say whatever was on his mind.

“Okay,” you said, crossing your arms. “What’s with the bear? And don’t tell me it’s yours from childhood or something because I know you’re sentimental, but even you—”

“Shut up,” he interrupted you with mock exasperation, but his voice wasn’t sharp. It was gentle, a little uncertain. “I, uh... I got this for you.”

You blinked. “A teddy bear?”

Jaemin shrugged, holding it out to you like it might explain everything he couldn’t. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not just any bear. It’s—look, it’s for when I’m not around, okay? I know you get lonely sometimes, and I thought maybe this could help.”

You’d looked at him, the words sinking into the spaces between your ribs. Jaemin wasn’t the type to overthink his gestures—he didn’t need to be. Every small thing he did carried a weight you couldn’t quite describe, as though he was always trying to give you pieces of himself to hold onto.

“Baby…”

“It’s kind of stupid, I know,” he said quickly, his cheeks tinged with that pretty flush. “I just—”

“No,” you interrupted, taking the bear from his hands. “It’s not stupid. It’s… sweet.”

He smiled, small and relieved, and you knew without a doubt that no one had ever cared for you like this.

Later, when you’d hugged the bear to your chest, you’d felt its quiet, steadfast presence. It wasn’t just a gift. It was a promise.

It was the camera that had undone you. Not the device itself, but what it held—the life he saw when he looked at you. He had given you the album on your first anniversary, its dark leather cover soft beneath your fingers.

The first page held a photograph of you, sitting cross-legged on the couch, your hair messy and a mug of tea in your hands.

“Woah,” you’d murmured, running your fingers over the image.

“Keep going,” he’d urged, sitting beside you.

You flipped through the pages, each one revealing another candid shot— you laughing at something on your phone, walking in the park, even cooking while completely oblivious to the camera. Mixed among them were pictures of the two of you together, your faces pressed close, your smiles wide and unguarded.

“These are amazing,” you said, still trying to grasp reality.

“They’re just you, sweetheart,” Jaemin had said softly. “The way you are.”

You looked at him then, at the tenderness in his eyes, and felt your chest ache with how much you loved him. “You’ve been taking these for how long?”

“Since the day we first hung out,” he admitted. “You are my favorite subject,” he’d said, his voice so steady, so sure. “I want to remember you—always. In all your beauty, in every little moment.”

You’d looked at those photos and seen yourself through his eyes, and for the first time, you understood the depth of his love. It was infinite. It was terrifying.

You had flung your arms around his shoulders then, pulling him impossibly close, listening to your heartbeats falling into a destined symphony, unable to find the words to tell him how much he meant to you, how much he always would.

When you spoke, your voice trembled. “This is… It’s everything. I don’t even know what to say.”

Jaemin smiled then, that easy, lopsided grin that always made your heart flutter, brushing his lips over your cheek, pulling you into him. “Just say you’ll keep letting me take pictures of you. Forever.”

Now, the album lays unfinished, the pages waiting for the continuation of a story that might never be written. You run your fingers over its weathered edges, the weight of it pressing into your palms like a stone. It feels cruel, this half-completion, this interrupted life.

“You said forever,” you murmur, your voice breaking. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.”

Your words hang in the air, unanswered. His chest rises and falls faintly beneath the hospital sheets, steady but shallow. You reach for his hand again, gripping it tighter, as if you can tether him to you, to the world you had built, to the life you had loved.

The monitor beside him begins to beep erratically, the sharp sound slicing through the room. You freeze, your heart lurching into your throat as nurses rush in, their voices a blur of urgency.

And then—silence.

The storm continues outside, like every other time, as the world tilts on its axis. You sit there, your breath caught, staring at the stillness that consumes the room. The monitor beeps again, once, a faint and fragile thrum.

The future hovers like the drop of water clinging to the edge of the window. You don't know if it will fall or hold, if the story will end or begin anew. But the moment stretches, haunting and endless, as you wait for the rain to decide.

⚝ ali's thoughts : uh, i think i have the winter blues lol. inspired by the fact that it's raining where i live... in the second last week of december!! also, what happened to jaemin you may ask? i truly don't know :)

[obsessedwhyyes]

Blood-Bound Rapture

Part of Darling Drabbles - A Series of Astarion Shorts.

Summary: Astarion drinks your blood. The intimacy, the closeness... The dark look in his eyes - they promise danger and desire in equal measure. The line between fear and pleasure becomes evermore blurred.

Rating: M Word Count: 582 Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader Content: Predator/prey, blood drinking, some mild submission elements. Sexually charged, but not explicit.

Gif by @ishaslife on Tumblr!

A/N: You ever start writing a passage that you're quite chuffed with and then it dawns on you that you'll never actually use it in anything? That's what this is. Have a little drabble!

He watches you with a predatory focus, a slow smile curling up on his lips. You can feel the air shift between you, the sudden stillness wrapping tight around your body, pulling your heart into a rapid beat. It’s like standing at the edge of a precipice - somewhere between fear and curiosity, where the thrill alone threatens to send you over.

When he moves closer, it’s with an almost languid grace, a hunter savouring the chase long after it’s finished. There’s no rush in his movements, just a confident certainty that you are already his. 

His fingers skim the curve of your neck, sending a shock of heat through your skin as he tilts your head back with a lover’s touch. But the hunger beneath that touch thrums under the surface, restless and wild. His gaze burns into you, a flicker of something dark and untamed dancing behind his eyes. It’s a gaze that pins you in place, as though the weight of his desire alone could hold you captive.

And then you feel it - his breath, cool against your skin, the faintest brush of his lips against your throat. The moment hangs suspended, like the calm before a storm, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is how a rabbit feels beneath the shadow of a hawk. The thought barely forms before his teeth sink in.

The pain is sharp, bright, and yet, within it, something else blooms. A rush of heat floods through you, a strange, overwhelming pleasure that spirals out from the bite, sinking deep into your very being. The world narrows to nothing but the pulse of your blood, the pull of his mouth, the way his grip tightens as though he’s afraid you might slip away. But there’s no pulling away now.

No thought of escape.

There’s only him.

He drinks you in slowly, savouring every drop, his lips pressed firmly against your skin, and you swear you can feel the rumble of satisfaction low in his throat. The rhythm of it all, the soft, wet sounds and the steady draw of your lifeblood, sends a shiver through you, pooling between your thighs in a way you can’t deny. 

It’s intimate in a way you hadn’t expected; more intimate than anything that came before it. As though he’s claimed something deeper than flesh, something more vital. And with each pulse, each pull, you fall deeper into that heady, consuming need, unable to tell where his hunger ends and your desire begins.

When he finally pulls away, his lips stained crimson, the world comes rushing back all at once - your heart racing, your breath shallow, a sharp, dizzying thrum coursing through your veins. Astarion’s eyes meet yours, gleaming with satisfaction and something darker. He looks at you as though you’re not just prey but a prize. A beautiful, willing sacrifice to his endless hunger.

And in that moment, you realise that he hasn’t just tasted your blood. He’s tasted something far more intoxicating: your surrender. And you - the enchanted fool that you are - have let him have it willingly.

But even as your senses return, that dizzying warmth lingers, and you know with a sinking certainty that this won’t be the last time. You’ll let him do it again - crave it, even - because the thrill of his touch, of his breath against your neck, has already wound its way into your veins. You are his now, and deep down, you know you’ll never want to escape.

Masterlist can be found here!

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat @davenswitcher @silverfangmarks @sparrowbard @chonkercatto @stokzr @trafalgarussy

[sweetcarrotsandroses97]

~ Shadows Of The Night |3| Mon Rêve

Pairing: Archdeacon! Jungkook x Romani! Fem! Reader

Summary: It all began with a mistake that followed you like a shadow on a sunny day. You crossed paths with the enigmatic Archdeacon of Notre-Dame, Father Jeon Jungkook, who promised to protect you from demons he couldn't fight. 15th Century, Paris. A lie. A stolen heartbeat and a confession that was never heard. He wanted you. You needed him. A secret turned into poison just as fate was cruel and it made him love you. Bounded by his vows and his position, Jungkook could only keep you as close as a dream at his reach. A cruel dream forged in a sanctuary of shadows and thorns.

Warnings: religious themes, dark romance?, forbidden love, AGE GAP (Kook is like 30-ish and oc is in her early twenties), angst, Jungkook is a priest 😳, oc is described as a petite woman, oc is described as being of Romani origin but no physical description is given of her other than her small stature (for canon purposes), injury, blood, implied attack on oc, fainting, Jungkook prays, (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count: 2.6k words

A/N: I know it has taken my like 3-4 months to write this part, I am so sorry, my darlings!!! I hope you will enjoy it and I will get back on track with my writing schedule. A lot has been going on in my life but I am finally settling back.

I finished my project successfully and I will present it on Thursday but it is practically finished and I will be going on a family holiday on Friday (a much needed mental break) and I hope I'll come back with lots and lots of inspiration. Take care, my darlings and enjoy the chapter.

Let me know your thoughts in the comments! You know I love to hear what you think of the chapter 🫶🫶🫶

Months passed, days that were too long and nights that were too slow and the passage of time felt like an eternity to Jungkook. The cold stone walls of the cathedral, once a place of solace and reverence, now seemed to close in on him. The weight of his devotion, the chains of his duties, had become suffocating in the absence of you. His prayers, once filled with fervent faith, now held your name, whispered desperately in the quiet hours of the night when no one else could hear.

Each day, he rose at dawn, his heart heavy with longing, hoping that perhaps today would be the day he saw you again. His steps through the cathedral were slower, his gaze always drifting toward the door, half-expecting you to walk through it with that same determined fire in your eyes. But you never came.

Every time he walked through the streets of Paris, he scanned the faces of the passersby, searching for a glimpse of your (h/c) hair, the sound of your anklet bells, or even the faintest echo of your voice. He asked discreet questions, careful not to arouse suspicion among the parishioners or his fellow clergymen, but no one seemed to know where you had gone. It was as if you had vanished into thin air, leaving only the memory of your haunting words and the amulet he kept close to his heart.

He tried to focus on his duties—on the sermons, on the confessions, on the endless prayers that filled his days—but your absence gnawed at him, a hollow ache that refused to heal. He could still feel the ghost of your wrist beneath his fingertips, the soft, fleeting touch that had ignited something dangerous within him. His dreams were plagued by visions of you, and when he woke, he was left with an unbearable emptiness.

The guilt ate away at him, too. How could he, a man sworn to serve God, allow himself to be consumed by thoughts of you? How could he forsake his vows for the sake of a Romani girl he barely knew? Yet, every time he questioned himself, his mind drifted back to the moment you looked into his eyes, the way your voice had trembled with fear and sorrow.

“I am a dead woman walking.”

Those words echoed endlessly in his mind. What did they mean? What had you been running from? And why did you fear dragging him into your darkness? He had no answers, only the certainty that he could not let this go. He needed to know. He needed to find you.

One evening, as Jungkook knelt before the altar, bathed in the dim glow of candlelight, he made a decision that would alter the course of his life forever. His fingers traced the edge of the silver bracelet you had left behind, his mind wrestling with the growing conflict in his heart. For months, he had fought it, tried to suppress the flame that had been lit the night he first laid eyes on you. But no longer. The fire had consumed him, burned away the facade of his holy devotion, and left only one undeniable truth: he would do anything to find you.

But he didn’t know where to look. He didn’t know where to even start. A helplessness gripped his heart with fierce claws, tearing at his sanity. There was nothing he could do despite the desire to give everything for you. 

The flickering candle light illuminated his path as Jungkook climbed up the stairs that led up to his study. The walls around him were cold, the echoes of his footsteps being the only thing that he heard. Slow, calculated footsteps that carried him to his study. 

Jungkook sighed as he entered the familiar place he often worked at. The large desk with piles of paperwork yet to complete seemed to mock him as he stared at them with disinterest. The wall behind his desk was filled with books, the pillars of the faith he had sworn to devote himself into but now those vows were tainted by the darkness of his thoughts. 

The archdeacon ran a hand through his hair, his hand playing with the rosary he always carries with himself as his long fingers traced the beads made of wood. He walked toward the window that outsaw the courtyard, the very street before the grand cathedral was drowned by the shadows of the night, illuminated only by the silver spectre of the moon. 

As Jungkook stared out into the night, the weight of the moon’s pale light seemed to press down on him, cold and unforgiving. The courtyard below, once a place of peaceful reflection, now felt distant and empty—a hollow shell that mirrored the void in his chest. His grip on the rosary tightened as if the wooden beads could somehow anchor him to the faith he was slowly losing grip on.

He looked down with a sigh, his dark eyes staring down at the rosary, remembering the countless prayers he had spoken in this very cathedral, in this very room. Those words were now hollow. A tightness in his chest, a thorn in his heart. 

Jungkook looked up, his eyes narrowing as he saw something moving through the streets. He frowned, holding his breath in anticipation as the darkness made it seem as if whatever he had seen was a trick of his imagination But there it was again. The shadows dancing among the darkness. He saw someone, a person. They were running. He saw a dress. A woman. Sprinting to the cathedral. He saw movement behind her, more shadows he couldn’t count from here he stood. They were chasing her. And as soon as she stepped into the courtyard of Notre-Dame, the moon illuminated her hair, (h/c) in its nature. 

“(y/n).”

Your name left his lips in a breath before he left his study, the rosary slipped from his fingers clattering to the floor and the beads spread across the ground. Some of them were lost forever but Jungkook didn’t look back, he was already out of the door and down the hallway, his long robes billowing behind him. 

You were running. You ran with all your might. You didn’t dare look back. Your hands were fisting the skirts of your dress as you bolted through the streets of Paris. The cathedral loomed before you like a safe haven, its towering arches and intricate carvings lit by the soft glow of the moon. You could hear their footsteps behind you, the sound of boots pounding against the cobblestones, growing closer. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your legs ached from running, and your heart pounded in your chest with a rhythm that echoed your fear.

Notre-Dame was close now, so close. You just needed to reach the entrance—just a few more steps. You fisted your skirts tighter, pushing yourself to move faster, to escape the shadows chasing you. You had no other thought but to get to the safety of the church, where no one could touch you.

Where he would protect you.

You burst into the courtyard, the moonlight catching the strands of your hair as you stumbled toward the grand doors. The cathedral seemed to wrap around you like a fortress, the nave an infinite path ahead of you, its towering structure providing the sanctuary you so desperately sought. And standing in the centre of it all, just as you had imagined, was Jungkook.

He looked desperate, his eyes, normally holding such an unwavering faith were now filled with anguish as he made his way to you, nearly running. You didn’t stop, you couldn’t and you met him at the centre of the nave, under the big chandelier with a thousand candles above your heads. You ran toward him, your feet barely keeping pace with the desperation in your chest. The moment your body collided with his, his arms wrapped around you without hesitation, pulling you close, shielding you from everything and everyone that might come after you.

“(y/n)...”

“I-I claim Sanctuary.”

You managed to gasp out, clutching his robes as though they were the only thing keeping you from falling apart. Your chest heaved with exhaustion, your words a desperate plea that echoed in the cavernous space of the cathedral.

Jungkook tightened his grip around you, his tall frame towering over yours as he stood protectively before the altar. But just as he was going to take you further into the cathedral, the grand doors opened harshly and several men entered the sacred place with airs of violence. The archdeacon frowned, moving you so that you stood behind him as he faced whatever threat had forced you to seek safety in his domain. 

“Give us the girl, priest.”

One of the men spoke, his voice rough, his complexion robust and tall and your hands fisted Jungkook’s robes from behind. 

“This woman is under the protection of the Church.”

Jungkook spoke, his voice rang out, strong and commanding, addressing the men who had stormed into the courtyard behind you. His tone left no room for argument, and his eyes narrowed as he met the gaze of each of your pursuers. 

“Any harm that comes to her will be seen as an affront to God Himself.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances, their hands twitching toward the hilts of their weapons, but they knew better than to challenge the church. The cathedral guards, alerted by the commotion, stepped forward, their armour gleaming in the dim light as they brandished their weapons. The men hesitated at the threshold, their eyes flicking nervously between each other and the guards stationed at the cathedral. The authority of the church was not something easily contested, and they knew it.

Slowly, one by one, they began to retreat, disappearing into the shadows of the night, though their presence left a bitter chill in the air. The tension dissipated, like fog in the morning. 

Jungkook turned to look at you yet he frowned as he saw you trembling. Your hands fisted his dark robes and as you looked up at him, he noticed your eyes, those beautiful and expressive (e/c) eyes were wide with fear. Tears of panic formed in your lash line as you blinked up at the archdeacon that had defended you from harm. 

“(y/n),”

A shuddering breath escaped your lips at the way he said your name. In that deep voice of his. With that authority he always carried. Yet the syllables of your name were tainted with underlying sentiment you couldn’t decipher even if you had wanted to. 

“(y/n), you are safe. It’s over.”

But you shook your head. Your chest tightened and the tears spilled over. You were exhausted and scared. You bit your lip to try and stop the panic from taking over. Your breathing was erratic and you clung to him with desperation in your grip. 

His large hands tightened where they rested on top of your shoulders, he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or push you away. This was becoming too much. His heart was seizing at the proximity, at the sheer physical contact with you. 

You looked up at him once more, your eyes meeting his and he was stunned as he saw the fear swimming in your soul. Yet what really made his stomach drop was the glazed over way your eyes held his own. 

“Jungkook.”

A simple whisper. The whisper of his name. Very few had ever spoken to him by his first name since he became the archdeacon. But you didn’t see him as the defender of Notre-Dame. You saw him as your protector. 

He frowned down at you as your body slackened, his hold on you tightened before he took you fully into his arms, pressing you against his chest. One of his large hands rested on your waist while the other cupped the back of your head. 

“You are safe. I promise.”

But you shook your head even as he whispered those words to your ear. Your body trembled against him, and he could feel the erratic rhythm of your breath hitching as you leaned into him. 

“I… I can’t-”

You didn’t even finish your sentence as your knees buckled. His hold around you tightened before he lowered you to the ground as he held you firmly against him. That was when Jungkook saw it. Your dress, tattered and dirty, was stained with blood. Your blood. His calloused hand pressed against the wound, feeling the warm sticky liquid taint his palm and fingers. 

“(y/n), (y/n)! Open your eyes!”

Jungkook’s voice echoed through the cathedral, cracking with a desperation that felt foreign to him. He cradled you against his chest, his strong arms trembling as they held your limp form. You were so still, too still, and the sight of your blood seeping into your tattered dress sent a cold wave of terror crashing through him.

You had sought sanctuary because you were at death’s door. Jungkook’s chest tightened with anguish as he held you, the weight of your limp body so light in his arms it felt wrong. He stared at your face, pale and drawn, framed by tangled strands of your hair. The world around him seemed to blur, reduced to the sound of your shallow breaths and the frantic pounding of his heart.

The sound of footsteps reached him and he looked up only to see Brother Antoine and Father Nicolas hurrying to his side. Their faces marred with worry and a tinge of curiosity as they approached the archdeacon. 

“Whatever has happened here?”

Asked the latter, his voice carried a hint of horror. Jungkook looked down at you while pressing his palm firmer to your wound. 

“She has sought Sanctuary in this Holy walls. Antoine, secure the cathedral. Do not let anybody other than the clergy to enter for the night. Nicolas, fetch the physician. Now.”

Jungkook gritted his teeth, feeling the blood seeping through his fingers, pooling on the ground in a crimson depiction of horror. Father above, have mercy. Spare her this pain, I beg you. If she is to be punished, let it fall upon me instead. And forgive me… Forgive me for loving her as I do.

Without thinking further, Jungkook lifted you into his arms as he stood to his full height. Your body was no weight to him, not even compared to the ache that filled his heart. Your (h/c) locks spilled over his arm as he held you securely against his chest. 

“Venerable Father, where are you taking her?”

Asked Brother Antoine, his eyes wide as he saw the archdeacon handle you with such delicacy and tenderness. A sentiment that belied his usual stoicism. 

“To my quarters. She is not to be disturbed.”

And with that, Jungkook walked away from the two men who later dispersed to fulfil his orders. His long strides ate up the distance as he crossed the nave and went to the private staircase that led to the upper rooms where only the clergy were allowed to enter. 

Your dress rustled as he held you, he could feel the warmth of your blood seeping into his own dark robes and as he looked down at you, he felt as if his heartstrings were being pulled with cruelty. Your face was serene even in your unconscious state and you were as beautiful as ever. Not even death could ever take away your beauty. Not that he’d allow for your soul to be taken first. 

As he walked through the darkened corridors with you held securely in his embrace, he muttered one last sentence to you before entering his room. A place only he was allowed to enter. Under the flickering candles and the colourful hues of moonlight streaming through the stained glass windows, Jungkook spoke only for your ears to hear.

“Mon Reve, why must you test me like this?”

December/02/2024

~ Masterpost

☕Caffeinate me so I can keep on writing! ☕

[everythingelseisextra]

Commit to the Bit

Part One: Everything Is Fine

Part Three: Treasure The Memory

Description: Your first real meeting with Thomas Shelby does not go quite as planned. Warnings: Language Word Count: 1751 Author's Note: Each chapter will be progressively longer. PLEASE let me know what you think. Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @look-at-the-soul

You wake up a little before dawn.

The night air surrounds you, the windows open, as you sit and eat your pitiful breakfast in your pitiful kitchen, the cabinets stopping your chair from going too far back, the sink a little too close to the table. You wear the same clothes as the day before. Your body aches and your head rings from a faint hangover, and exhaustion ripples through you like chills. Through the windows, you can still see the moon, hovering above the horizon, faint in the gray light. 

You leave your house before the sun is fully up. Pale light filters into the hayloft windows, giving you some sight as you open the barn doors. The horses nicker to you, expecting their grain, weaving back and forth in their stalls or bobbing their elegant heads. You mindlessly fill their buckets with each individual’s specialized diet, mind elsewhere. 

Expect me tomorrow morning. 

When? How would he find the barn? You gave vague directions, hoping it would deter him. And, most importantly, what would he want once he got here? You couldn’t give him anything. You barely had enough to keep yourself going, to keep the days going. You worry that, although you have nothing to give, he’ll still decide to take. He’ll come with that bold intensity you saw the night before, and you’ll find yourself trapped, invisible walls closing in, with no strength to stand up.

Horses fed, you move on to saddling and riding your first horse. A stallion, with a sweeping, arched neck and muscles filled out to perfection, chestnut coat shining. He’s your stud, and you make some money off of selling his coverings. His registered name is Speed of Fire, ironic considering he was never fast enough to race, even before his injury, but you affectionately call him Draco. 

Dressage saddle girthed up, you swing your leg over his back and start your ride in the arena. You work through his warm up, making sure he stretches his body in the proper ways, then start asking for more intricate movements; canter pirouettes, passage, piaffe. Your breath comes short, your muscles tense and relax, your hips move with the motion of the horse, swinging. The sun rises. Faded warmth washes over you. It’s during these moments of synchrony when you forget who you are, forget your worries and the unsteady nature of your identity, and you get to focus solely on connection with another creature, communication so subtle it’s as though you’re reading each other’s minds. 

Halfway through your ride, you stop to give Draco a walking break and catch your breath. Your eyes scan the horizon above the hills, where deep pink and purple and bright, unending orange blend together as the sun makes its way up the sky. You glance towards the barn, where some of the horses watch you ride, having finished their hay, waiting for their turn. You look away, gathering your reins, preparing for another workout. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and you halt your horse, head on a swivel to check around you. There, at the side of the arena, leaned up against the dusty metal railing, Thomas Shelby watches you quietly, his head tilted slightly, eyes tracking Draco’s movement. Your eyes meet, you on the towering stallion, but him taking up just as much presence with his expression alone. Air thins out around you, and you suck in a slow breath, not breaking contact with the stranger on your property. 

Then, as if possessed, your outside leg shifts back, and Draco steps quickly into a canter. Without thought, without planning, you find yourself doing what can only be described as showing off. Extended canter, collected canter. Tempi changes, canter pirouettes. You’re a finely tuned machine, each tiny movement a conversation with the horse, each silent shift eliciting a full response from him. 

By the time you’re done, Draco has sweat dripping down his neck, breathing hard, and lightheadedness swirls around you, making you take in slow breaths to steady yourself. You can feel his eyes on you, pointed, judgemental, and there’s a faint tremble in your hands gripping the reins. Staying on the horse gives you some protection; there’s not much someone can do to you while on horseback, unless he decides to shoot you, in which case, there’s nothing you can do. You trust Draco. He has a habit of pinning his ears and showing his teeth to strangers, snaking his neck towards them, though you’ve tried to train it out of him. Some stallions always have an edge to them.

You walk Draco to the arena gate, reaching out to push it open, but Thomas is already there, pulling it back to allow you out. You nod your head to him, voice once again stuck in your throat, branding you with the poetry of all the words you couldn’t speak. This time, though, your heart doesn’t jolt, your mind doesn’t go blank. He’s on your turf now.

“Beautiful animal.” He nods to Draco curtly as you walk by, as if unimpressed by your show of talent. His words defy him. “Beautiful ride.”

You nod again. Thanking him feels like handing him your power, like bowing your head and allowing him to judge. This is a game of reading silence, and you know how to win it. After a moment of hesitation, you dismount. You bring your horse over to the cross ties and tie him, giving him a treat from your pocket once the bit is out of his mouth. Thomas’ footsteps follow you, but you refuse to look at him, focusing on undoing the girth and pulling the saddle off. In your periphery, he stands, a dark figure surrounded by the grandeur of a sunrise in full force, undeserving of the golden outline it gives him. His hands in his coat pockets, his gaze on Draco, his cap pulled low over his eyes. Again, you catch a glint of metal along the rim. 

“Is he for sale?” He walks up to Draco’s neck, running a hand along the sweaty length of his neck. 

“No.” You turn and carry the saddle to the tack room, hefting it onto a rack and placing the pads on the rail underneath it to dry. You return to find Thomas by the horse’s head. You pause, watching them, hoping to go unnoticed. As usual, the stallion’s ears go back, his nose wrinkles, his neck arches. Thomas nods, continuing to stroke his neck, and says something you don’t understand. Another language, perhaps, one that sounds smooth, lyrical. Draco quiets, his liquid eye softening, though his ears stay pinned. Protective, not aggressive.

“He doesn’t trust you.” You walk over to grab a hose, waiting for Thomas to move so you can rinse the sweat off Draco. 

He doesn’t. “Name a price. I’ll meet it.”

“No.” You step forward, raising the hose, trying to make your intent clear. 

“Horse like him could get you out of a little house like that.” His fingers toy with Draco’s mane, still gentle, still looking into the horse’s eye. “Got no reason not to sell him.”

“He’s not for sale,” you insist, taking another step forward. 

His eyes shift to you, clear, icy blue and unreadable. “You don’t know who I am.”

“No. I don’t.” You point the hose towards him, a clear threat. “Move, please.”

“I’ll take you into town, then. Help you recon—”

You turn on the hose. A deluge of water sprays onto him, square in the chest, and he skitters out of the way, spooking Draco into a prance. You stand there, shocked by what you just did, then, in a spark of bravery you didn’t know you had, decide to commit to the bit. 

“You don’t get to intimidate me into selling my horse. You don’t get to decide that I’m going into town with you. Those are both my choices.” One hand on the still-running hose, the other preparing to kink it, you shift your shoulders to stand square in the soaked face of Thomas. “I don’t care who you are. Someone who doesn’t treat me with basic respect doesn’t deserve my time. Are we clear?”

Your heart pounds in your chest as his furious eyes turn to you. Holding his arms away from his dripping body, the layers of the suit completely wet, his hand slowly reaches up towards his cap. 

You step back, readying your hose, your only weapon. Blood pulses in your temples, all air seems to leave your lungs, and your hand begins to tremble as you wait for him to lunge. 

Instead, he wipes his face with it, then nods. “Really fucking clear.” 

“Good.” You kink the hose and shakily walk to turn it off. Back turned to him, you hold out your hands, watching them shudder with the spike of adrenaline. Then, slowly, you walk back, catching a moment of hilarity as Thomas attempts to squeeze water out of his suit and fails. You don’t quite feel safe enough to smile, but, at least, you feel a little better. 

“We can turn him out,” you say, nodding to Draco. “And I’ll get you a towel.”

“Turn him out,” he repeats, tense brow furrowing. 

“Put him in the arena and let him be a horse for a bit. No expectations.”

“Never heard of that.”

“Apparently you haven’t heard of much,” you snap. 

His eyes flick to you, almost brooding. You’ve never seen light eyes hold so much darkness. “Don’t bother with the towel. I’ll go.”

“Fine.” You turn back to Draco. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Shelby.”

He scoffs, and starts off towards his car, parked in the dusty valley your property sits in. In your mind, a dialectic is born. You feel relieved, glad that you’ll never see him again. And, deep down, you’re disappointed. Maybe this could’ve been something more. Maybe you could’ve won a friend out of it. 

No. Stupid of you to have expected that. You are constantly looking for hope, expecting it to be soft and gentle, when in reality, hope is something with sharp teeth and a bloody, battered body. Hope is something that’s born of isolation. Hope is something man-made, purposeful, something you keep in a jar like a butterfly, and catch more once it dies. 

Hope is a man speaking gently to a fearful, aggressive horse, instead of punishing him. 

You shake your head. Stupid. 

But you can’t help but watch as the car drives off, hoping it will turn back. 

[sweetbunpura]

Rollo wasn't always a Gumiho.

He was once a kannushi of a small shrine, responsible for keeping it maintained and clean.

It was a simple, yet tedious life and he was content with it.

Until, one day, a young woman came to the shrine. She was a foreigner, that much was clear, from the style of her dress to the tone of her skin to the strange sharpness of her eyes. She was an enigma. And Rollo was instantly captivated by her.

She told him that she had come from very far away and was visiting some relatives in a nearby village. She had come to the shrine to pray for their health and for her safe passage home.

"Though..I didn't expect a handsome man such as yourself to be the priest here," She giggled, keen smile half-hidden behind her hand.

Rollo flushed faintly.

Her laugh was a pretty sound, like the tinkling bells of a Kagura suzu.

It wasn't everyday the shrine was met with as beautiful a visitor as this.

Rollo cleared his throat.

"If I may be so bold..May I have your name?"

The woman grinned widely.

"Yue."

They talked for a long while after that, so long in fact by the time the woman had turned away to finish her prayers the sun was half-way set upon the horizon.

Had Rollo not had shrine duties to attend to, he would have eagerly offered to walk her back to the village. Thus, with a heavy heart and a lump in his throat, he could only grant a farewell and a wish for safe travels back to her homeland.

He did not expect to see her there at the shrine again the following morning.

"Were you not supposed to begin your journey home today?" He queried with a raised brow.

"I was," Yue answered, her sharp eyes glimmering and her lips quirked, "I changed my mind."

And so it was. Yue would appear at the shrine at dawn and follow and chat with Rollo as he went about his day and duty til nightfall.

Months went by.

Summer fell to Fall which froze to Winter.

The two grew closer.

The New Year came and went.

Winter melted into spring.

And the sharpness gradually seemed to fade from Yue's eyes.

Then, one night, under a full and heavy moon, she kissed him.

"I love you." She murmured, softly, hesitantly, as if the words themselves were as fragile as glass.

Rollo's gaze was tender. He kissed her knuckles, then her palm.

"And I you."

And there, beneath Tsukuyomi's gaze, they fell into each other's warmth, a flurried embrace of intense passion and supreme adoration.

A few weeks after, they were wed.

A few weeks after that, Yue found she was with child.

The eight months that followed were some of the happiest Rollo could remember, watching his love's belly swell with life that they had created together.

I should have lasted forever.

But.

It ended.

Slit apart like a knife across the throat.

Hunters from a far off land came.

They were searching for a creature Rollo had never heard of before.

A Gumiho. A flesh-eating monster that seduced men, ate their hearts, and stole their souls.

Yue paled. Rollo's brows furrowed.

"My love? What's wrong-?"

"We need to leave." Yue said coldly.

But it was too late to try and escape.

Her fate was sealed the moment Rollo had let them inside their home.

The very moment they laid eyes on her-

Arrows were fired. Knives were drawn. Swords unsheathed.

Yelling. Screaming.

Claws unfurled. Fangs bared. A flurry of fur and tails unvieled.

It was over in an instant, in a blink.

Blood and viscera covered the floor and walls of their home.

The Hunters were dead.

And Yue was dying.

A sword pierce her abdomen. Arrows punctured her chest.

"Yue-!"

Rollo collapsed beside her, his white robes stained red.

How does he fix this? He was no healer and the closest doctor was miles away how-

"I was so close..."

Rollo paused.

"What?"

He gently drew her close.

Yue gazed up at him with stuttering, blood-choked breaths.

"I was-" She coughed, "I was almost human...I was almost-"

Tears dripped down her cheeks.

"I haven't eaten anyone for almost two years..Just two more months..Just two more and I would have..."

Her smile was soft.

Her eyes were even softer, but they were fading, fast.

"You deserve to have a human wife, not a monster..."

Rollo cupped her cheek and thumbed away a tear.

A quivering black tail grasped his wrist.

"I love you," he kissed her forehead, "I don't care if you're a monster. I love you. I.. I'm going to save you. I'm going to save our child. I'll-"

Tears slipped and fell down Yue's cheeks.

They were not her own.

"You know it's too late for us, Rollo."

Rollo let out a gutted noise at that.

Shaking hands met his face.

Lips that he was so intimately familiar with met his own.

And something spherical and warm was pushed past his lips.

"Take it." His wife, his love, his world, whispered between breaths.

Tongues met. The sphere was pressed against the opening of his throat. He instinctively swallowed before he could think.

"That way...a part of me....a part of us....will always be with you...."

That night, Gumiho Yue died, along with her unborn child.

And on that same night, Gumiho Rollo was born.

And the world...

...Would burn for it.

(and, not too long after, a tiny black fox spirit opened her eyes. And her name...was Yuu.)

Where one life ends, another begins.

Yuu adjusts the hat on her head, nodding to passerby's as she enters what remains of a town. Normally, she wouldn't try and mettle in the affairs of humans, but this Gumiho had attacked one of their own recently. While Malleus could handle his own, he talked about the pure rage he felt from it and Yuu, who has the uncanny ability to purify most of the anger driven spirits, is tasked with handling it.

She climbs the steps up the shrine and pauses outside of the torii. Yuu doesn't need to step any further to feel the pressure of the anger.

"You in there, Gumiho?"

Silence.

"Alright, don't answer." She passes through and climbs the remainder of the stairs, stopping every so often to pick up a few stones.

Before hitting the main area, she pauses once again and juggles the stones in her hands. The Gumiho's hiding and with a sigh, Yuu, flicks a stone towards the corner of the shrine. The yelp she hears brings a smile on her face.

"Quit ignoring me."

A pair of forest green eyes glare at her form the darkness licking at the edges of the building.

"The dragon fled and now a kitsune takes his place?" The Gumiho's voice is soft as they step out from the shadows. "You hardly look like a threat."

The Gumiho's a man, tall and thin, with deep eyebags. He's still wounded from his fight with Malleus as his clothes are torn and a angry red wound can be seen on his side. His hair is short and gray, matching the ears and his multiple tails. Something in Yuu's heart lurches as she stares at him.

"Have we met before?"

"I've never seen you before in my life."

"Okay jeez." Yuu's own tails flick out behind her. "What's your name?"

"My name is of little importance to you."

"Humor me, jackass."

His eyes move off to the side before returning to her. "Flamme... Rollo Flamme."

"Flamme... Well, my name's Yuu-" She looked at his now frozen form. "Hello?"

"Yue?"

"No, Yuu."

Rollo's fur fluffed up as his eyes narrowed, ears laying flat against his head as he bares his teeth. "Have the gods not taken enough from me!? And now they send a common kitsune to mock me?!"

"Common?" Yuu bares her own teeth and cracks her knuckles. "I'll show you common."

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter One

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Allusions of Domestic Violence.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.6k

Masterlist | Next

The night is darkest at dawn. Just before the first rays of the new day strike the horizon, the night draws infinitely black, offering the last bit of night before being smothered by the sun. You love the silence it brings, giving you a break from the cumbersome and structured life you live. Yet that indulging peace is fleeting, never long enough for you to taste what you truly long for, only taunting you with something that you’d never reach. Sighing, you rest your chin on your gathered knees and enjoy what will be your last sunrise at Bonn Manor.

You’ve been born on the grounds, raised in its elegant halls, and soon, you will be married in its chestnut grove. The wedding has been planned for nearly a year, your engagement? Years. Everything has been meticulously designed down to the length of a single blade of grass. Your mother is a bit of a control freak, and she hasn’t let you put in one word edgewise—and it’s your own wedding! Not that you are surprised, you’ve never once had the pleasure of even choosing your own outfits or meals.

In hindsight, it saves you many a headache for you haven’t lifted a finger in the entire process. The florist has been given strict directions on what bouquets, boutonnières, and accents should look like, not to mention the flower choice. The bakery in the heart of your island has no doubt been working overtime to supply the cake and other specialty confectionery, and the tailor has almost moved into the manor to finish the work on your dress.

Your dress.

It has been in production for nearly eight months. Your town, Kuri Island, while known for its chestnut trees, is also famed for its lacework. Leagues and leagues of lace have been stitched just for your dress, and that doesn’t even include your outrageous veil! It is enormous, beaded, and decorated with innumerable cloth flowers. Your mother really hasn’t spared any expense, tutting that this has been her lifestyle dream to see you married to a powerful man that will ensure that your noble bloodline continues to prosper.

That and the family business. The Bonn’s have a monopoly on the chestnut and lace industry on Kuri Island, ruling with an iron fist and ensuring that they remain the most powerful on the island. Your fiancé is the next in line, power-wise. As a Marine Commodore, Thomas Collins is the only man on the island worthy of your hand… and in just a few short hours, he’ll have it.

But not by your choice.

This is an arranged marriage drafted by your parents when you were just a teen, to a man very much your senior who cares little for your feelings. Worse? He isn’t a good man, or a good Marine. As much as your mother has tried to control the whispers that reach your delicate ears, you know the reputation Thomas has among the commoners. He isn’t a good man, he has a habit of cruelty to those far beneath himself, and you’ve even heard rumors of bribery. But politics and Berry have trumped over your personal feelings. You can’t refuse this marriage; your opinion can’t even leave your lips.

Just as the sun begins to rise above the horizon, your maids bustle into your room followed by additional ones to tackle the great task of getting you ready for the wedding in a few hours. Ann and Gerbera, your personal maids, hustle over to you. While Ann scans your lavender bedhead, Gerbera takes your hand and inspects your nails.

“I haven’t gone and ruined my nails,” you murmur, not taking your eyes off the glow of the morning sunrise.

“Your mother requested an inspection, my lady,” Gerbera replies, scanning your immaculate fingernails. “Lest you had made an attempt to flee during the night.”

“And where would I go?” you ask vaguely, your eyes taking on a faraway and clouded look. The maids often see it appear within your eyes the closer the wedding draws. They are not oblivious to the matter that you don’t wish to marry Thomas. They have most definitely witnessed your private breakdowns over the years as you slowly realize that your life has never been your own. They are good to you, excellent maids who take pride in caring for their lady… but they can’t even move a single finger to help you in your predicament.

“Never mind that, off to the baths,” Ann softly preens, trying to find light in the fact that you will be glowing with beauty once they are done dressing you for your wedding. You let Gerbera pull you from your lonesome and brooding perch, guiding you through your rooms to the grand bathroom that already steams with scented water. You can smell the strong scent of rose and argan oil rising from the bubbling water. You’ve been taking baths thrice weekly to soften your skin to that of the finest satin on your mother’s orders, and have started hating the scent. It makes you nauseous. This will be your last so you will bear it.

Standing in place, Ann and Gerbera delicately undo the strings to your nightdress, pulling it from your body to leave you naked. You don’t hesitate to step down into the bath. The hot water does very little to ease your growing nausea and discomfort. You know it won’t. But at the very least it feels nice on your stiff body. You have sat at your window for hours without moving, your mind spinning and descending into the dark depths of the pit of hell you’ll soon be living in.

Gerbera kneels behind you and takes your long lavender hair in hand, gently running an ivory comb through the tangled strands. You wince every time she catches a knot. Gerbera murmurs an apology each time and carefully unravels the knot of hair. Your lavender locks aren’t usually a mess, but you’ve tossed and turned all last night before getting up a few hours ago to wait for the sunrise. At the very least, once you are married you’ll have more control over the length of your hair. The extraneous length is cumbersome and almost like chains to weigh you down. Well, almost every part of your life is some sort of chain or prison.

So while Gerbera continues to tend to your hair, Ann takes to massaging oils into your hands and buffing your already immaculate nails. They take extra care in placing dabs of oil in key places on your body. Behind your ears, along your neck, and across your wrists. As you walk, the oils will diffuse into the air around you, perfuming you and leaving behind the scent of rose. A scent that drowns you in hatred. It is always rose this or rose that. Rose jewelry and rose dresses. Even a rose-themed bedroom!

If you never smell another rose after this blasted wedding you will die a happy woman…

You stay in the bath as long as you’re allowed, but the strict voice of your mother ringing from your bedroom has Ann and Gerbera pulling you from the bath and wrapping you in a towel. They dry you off in record time, no doubt saving you from a stern lecture, and wrap your wet hair in a drying towel. The three of you wince when your mother’s voice turns sharp and she nearly starts shrieking at the poor girl who added an extra rose to your bouquet.

“It’s not even seven o’clock yet and the madam is already angry,” Ann murmurs, almost hesitant to push you back into your bedroom.

“It’s a perpetual state I believe,” you reply, twisting your fingers together. “The day she is pleasant is the day the world has ended.” Toweled dry, you don a robe and reluctantly head back to your bedroom. Your mother is still harping on the poor girl who got the number of flowers wrong in your bouquet when you appear. She rounds on you like a viper and you have a brief momentary thought that she might give herself whiplash.

“You!” she barks out. “Why are you not sitting down for your hair and makeup?” You remain silent and simply lower yourself to the velvet and satin chair in front of your vanity. She continues to berate you for things you have no control over and complain over nonexistent errors. It will be all over in a few hours; you’ll trade one jailer for another.

Your hair is dealt with first. Being so long, it takes perhaps nearly half an hour to brush it out smooth and braid it. Then it is swirled and pinned into place upon your head with crystal-studded pins that dig into your scalp in a painful reminder. You’ve been complimented on how lovely the crystal and flower pins look within your lavender-colored hair, and combined with the minimal makeup being painted upon your face you are sure to look the picture of perfection.

“Heavens, Linaria, could you at the very least respect your mother enough to get sleep during the night!” Your mother huffs, fretting and tutting over the bags beneath your eyes the makeup slowly conceals. “I have worked tirelessly to perfect this wedding and I will not have you ruining it with an unsightly appearance.”

“Yes, mother,” you reply obediently. Her eyes, echoing your own but with a much harsher tint, narrow and she scoffs.

“Knowing you, you’ll make a scene at the reception or even ruin the vows. Commodore Collins isn’t expecting a wildling for a wife! He is expecting a well-bred, well-taught, and docile wife to meet him at the altar. Do not disappoint me.” Your eyes meet hers in the mirror for a brief moment before you drop your gaze. Your silence isn’t the answer she expects and taloned nails sink into your pinned hair, yanking your head back.

Yelping, your fingers dig into your robe as you are forced to look into her cruel and hard eyes.

“Am I clear? You are to behave, Linaria, do not disappoint this family again,” her warning is well and clear within her eyes. This is the last one she’ll give you. Swallowing thickly, you agree in the softest voice.

“Yes, mother,” your hair is released and you take in a silent breath of relief, grateful that she isn’t tugging on your hair still. You are sure that a few of the pins will have to be righted after her harsh hold.

“I have to greet our guests, get her ready to dress,” your mother snaps before striding from your bedroom in a swirl of heavy skirts. Rubbing your neck with a slight wince, Ann takes place behind you and quickly fusses with your hair to return it to pristine condition.

“We beg you, my lady,” Ann pleads, her fingers gently placing the pins back in order. “I fear what will happen to you the next time you go against the madam.”

“And where exactly would I go at a time like this?” you reply, looking at Ann in the mirror. “The manor and grounds are crawling with visitors, the help, and guards. I have nowhere to go. Besides,” you glance at the wedding dress on the mannequin in your room. “You think I could run in that? The thing weighs more than I do soaking wet.”

After Ann and Gerbera get your hair and makeup just perfect, they’re dismissed by your mother’s personal maids. She doesn’t trust you with your personal maids and has ordered her own to see to dressing you. So you are alone with maids that have no issue enforcing your mother’s orders. They have you get up and stand in the middle of your room, fluttering around while gathering up the layers of your outfit.

You are already in your underwear and bra, a decorative set that your mother has insisted you wear for the wedding, so when you peel the robe from your body you aren’t especially shy. Valeria, your mother’s favorite, brings over the heavy dress and with the help of Clover, maneuvers the top of the dress over your head. Despite being made from airy lace, the bones of the ballroom dress are metal and ridged, structuring the dress in the precise way your mother wants your body to look.

As you place your arms in the three-quarter sleeves with layered lace and starched silk, Valeria’s fingers are quick to work on the strings of the corset. She tightens it immediately, making a small noise of pain emerge from your lips, and only draws the strings tighter and tighter. As elegant and beautiful as you may look, you feel like you are being tied into a jail cell. Clover joins in on tugging the corset tight, and the bruising tightness only grows worse.

You want to bite your lip as your ribs begin to screech at you, not liking the pressure. But heaven forbid you turn up to your wedding with bitten and chewed lips. Clenched fingers it is. Several minutes later, after being jerked around and squeezed most viciously, the extravagant veil is being pinned into your hair. Another weight to add. Valeria departs to report to your mother while Clover remains to watch over you. Walking over to the grand mirror in your bedroom, you stare at yourself in dread.

You look like a trussed turkey heading for the dinner table.

You can admit that you look beautiful, the shape of your waist cinched in and the wide neckline decorated with fabric rose buds accented your collarbones. Months of work on the lace detailing has pulled out a wedding gown fit for a princess… or a lady from a very rich family. But you can’t enjoy your beauty, you can’t giggle or dance as the skirts of your dress swirl around your feet. You can’t enjoy anything about the dress, no matter how expensive or luxurious it is.

By some grace, an extra maid pokes her head into your bedroom with a red face. She begins rattling off a bunch of issues with minor details of the ceremony space that your mother is throwing an absolute fit over, and Clover glances at you with a worried look. You can see her thought process. She is supposed to watch over you, but the wedding will not commence without everything being perfect. Well, it isn’t like you are going to go anywhere. So Clover quickly follows the maid, leaving you in suffocating silence.

Suffocating is an understatement.

Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest in pure fear. You have but a mere fifteen minutes before you will be truly locked in an inescapable prison. If you thought it was hard to breathe wearing this dress it is nothing compared to the looming doom that is mere minutes away. Your eyes flicker to the balcony of your bedroom; the doors have been locked after you tried running before… but with the cleaning of the manor in anticipation for the wedding, they are no longer barred from use.

Memories of what happened to you as a result of being caught and dragged back to the manor flicker into your mind. You’ve never been in that much pain. Fear of repercussion prickles in your veins, rooting you to where you stand. Eyes catching sight of the tops of the ships harbored, your throbbing heart leaps into your throat.

“I’ll never have another chance,” you whisper to yourself, desperation winning over fear.

Date Published: 11/13/23

Last Edit: 7/29/24

Masterlist | Next

[minnielvrr]

Day 3: Fight, Flight or Freeze

Lee: Han Lers: Chan Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: kinda like the idea for this hehe😋🥰hope you enjoy~🤗💖

Tags: @itzsana-kiddingmenow, @lajanaa, @bbybumblelee, @hearted-anon, @lunalattae,

@reginald-stay09, @jungwon-is-the-one

Tap, tap, tap. Hannie’s eyes were glued to the screen on his phone as he typed. With tickletober approaching fast, Han was racing against the clock to finish his longer fics.

He was working on a particularly challenging draft when the cheesecake he’d ordered earlier arrived.

Naturally, priorities called for him to sprint to get it. He wasn’t about to miss out on enjoying it properly, so a drink was a must.

When Chan had wandered into the younger’s room, he had not expected to find what he did.

“Hm, did Sungie pick up reading?” He wondered and curiosity overtook him as he reached for the phone.

As Chan scrolled through, his eyes caught the tag ‘tk fic’. Confusion settled in until he started reading… then, realization hit hard.

But as he read through the long passages, he got his answer. A deep blush flared across his cheeks and he could feel a weird thumping in his chest.

With every beat and every line, he could practically hear Hannie’s cries to get wrecked the way the character was being tickled.

As he read through it, it dawned on the leader that this character seemed to have the exact spots that Hannie was hellishly ticklish in.

A devilish smirk tugged at Chan’s lips as the pieces fell into place. He wondered how long their sweet quokka had kept this little secret from them.

By the time Han returned to his spot he found Chan in his room, staring at his phone, face red and one hand covering his mouth.

He’d left his phone unlocked on an anime tickle fic he was writing, but the screen now displayed one of his older fics.

He has years and years worth of fics and drafts on his phone. How had he forgotten to lock his phone? And on the one app that no one should have found out!

“Hyung wh—what are you doing here?! You can't just—” He stammered, feeling speechless. How on earth could he possibly defend himself in this situation?

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” Chan admitted sheepishly. Then his lips quirked in a small smile as he looked at Han.

“Han-ah, what was that about? There were a lot of…stories on your account.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hannie’s flustered reaction and tomato face answered Chan’s question well enough.

“So… you’re into tickling, huh?” The leader gestured at Han’s phone, expression serious and sincere as he took a step towards Han, who immediately backed away.

“W-what? That's ridiculous! Why are you even here?!” He was embarrassed beyond measure, breath hitching when Chan closed the distance, his hands playfully hovering over Hannie’s sides.

Instantly realizing that this would only get worse if Chan read anything more, Hannie tried to snatch the phone out of the older’s hand, sporting a blush dark enough to rival Chans’ own.

He failed, Chan holding the device away, just out of reach. He grinned tauntingly at Han, reaching out to poke his side when the ace kept up the fight. This was fun.

In a desperate move, Han jabbed back and snatched his phone, bolting out of the room like his life depended on it. No way. There was no way in hell he was about to let Chan just wreck him like that.

He heard Chan’s voice calling him back, warning him of what would happen when he would get caught. It only made Han run faster, right into a room with its door open.

He slammed it shut the moment he was through, utterly dismayed when a strong hand wrestled it back, revealing a very motivated Chan.

His was heaving, as was Han, pushing the door back effortlessly and cornering Han against what he figured was Seungmin’s bed. This could not be happening right now.

Hannie’s eyes were wide, locked onto Chan as he stood completely still, as if that would make the older leave him be.

His hyung had tickled him a million times before! He shouldn’t be this flustered but he couldn’t help the way his heart raced when he saw Chan’s eyes crinkle in a teasy smile.

His hyung had also never known how much he liked this. And something about this newfound knowledge seemed to have lit a fire in him.

It was like a scene straight out of all the fics he’s ever read or written. The ler cornering the lee, teasing words mingling with light touches to make an absolutely adorable mess of their lee.

He wondered if Chan would feel that way about him. What kind of ler would he be?

Would he remind Han every second they were alone of his shameful secret? Would he make Hannie admit how much he loved it, teasing him every second?

Would he make Hannie admit how much he liked being tickled, make him tell the leader where he wanted to be tickled and just how much every different technique felt?

Would he make Hannie ask for it; scribble ever so gently at his belly until the ace surrendered and begged? Would he make tell the others how ticklish Han was? Would he—

Hannie’s thoughts raced, but before he could lose himself in his fantasies, Chan’s fingers traced his sides, snapping him back to reality. There was nowhere left to run.

He giggled, feeling a little hysterical when Chan pushed him back, applying just enough force to make the quokka fall back against the bed, legs dangling over the edge.

Chan towered over him; eyes focused on the youngers’. A smirk formed on his face when he spotted Hannie’s knitted brows.

“So,” he spoke after a suspenseful silence. He was letting Hannie overthink himself into a lee mood. It was far too amusing to see his first kid having such an adorable reaction.

Hannie was always cute when he was about to be tickled and even cuter when he was actually getting wrecked.

“Which troupe do you want to play with today baby? Hm, should I tease you like Getou teased Gojo in that one story? Or maybe you want something more like what Dazai does to Chuuya?”

He felt so shy under Channie’s knowing gaze, squirming as he tried to come up with something—anything at all that wouldn’t feel like his face was on fire.

Chan seemed to have read quite a few, and the way he kept mentioning bits and pieces of his stories just made everything so much worse.

“I— I don’t know…” he answered in a small voice, freezing when Chan’s hands found their way to rest on his thighs.

“I know you do, you’re just too flustered to admit it right?” Chan cooed, giggling when his words made Han hide behind his hands.

“Now tell me love, which character do you want me to be?” His fingers lightly tapped Hannie’s thighs. “Or should I just surprise you?”

“Surprise me,” he said meekly, through his hands. “Good boy. Now keep your hands behind your head for me, okay? And tell me if you want me to stop at any point.”

Han nodded and the leader hummed in satisfaction. He shuffled forward, leaning over the younger as he came up with a plan. Then he moved his hands to Hannie’s armpits.

Chan’s fingers moved slowly, almost ghosting over the spot until Han whined for him to ‘do it properly’.

So he did, feeling more and more confident when each little motion of his hands had the younger squealing with joy.

“Chahahahannihie hyuhuhung!! Ahahahahaha ihihit… ihihit’s sohoho tehewohordish!!”

“Oh yeah? That doesn’t sound right. I’m tickling you baby. T.I.C.K.L.I.N.G. You. See?”

With every letter, Han got a scribble or scratch at one of his ribs, ending with Chan fully digging into the sensitive skin of his underarms with all four fingers.

Frantic giggles burst from his lips as the younger struggled to keep his hands up as Chan had wanted.

He was writhing on the soft mattress, the cover bunching up in a way that he was sure Seungmin would be complaining about later.

“Fahahahahack hyuhuhung hyuHUHUHUNG!! HAHAHOW ARE YOUHUHU SOHO GOOHOOD AHAT THIHIS?!” He squealed, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back when Chan moved to his upper ribs.

“Are you saying that I haven’t tickled you properly before? And after I tried so hard to wreck you back then…” Chan pouted, although the playful gleam in his eyes told a whole other story.

He loved the praise too, knowing that he was the cause for his baby’s laughter. And now that he knew for certain just how much Hannie wanted this too… well, it would be a waste not to put all he’d read to good use.

“Thahahahat’ nohohot whahat ihihi saHAHAID!! Hyuhuhung nahahahahaha!” Chan had moved to his lower ribs, his thumbs massaging deep, ticklish circles onto the protruding bones.

It had Hannie’s thighs squeezing him, torso twisting away in a vain attempt to escape as his laughter grew louder and louder.

“You’re laughing so much already! I haven’t even gotten to your worst spot yet!” The leader marveled, moving his hands down to Hannie’s tummy.

He paused to give Hannie a break, the poor quokka’s hair looking like a bird’s nest, clothes ruffled and riding up, showing a sliver of skin on his lower belly than Chan kept scratching with one finger.

It kept the boy giggling his head off. “Wow, I knew you were ticklish, but I didn’t know you were this ticklish. It’s so cute!” He said, laughing when Han whined in embarrassment.

“You having fun too hyung?” He asked quietly through his laughter, peeking up at Chan. The oldest smiled fondly, nodding in answer.

And just to prove his point, he dived in without warning, pushing Hannie’s shirt up and planting his lips over his belly button.

He felt Han flinch, yelping and squirming. Then he blew, loud and hard over the spot.

The quokka shrieked, hands coming down to push at Chan’s head desperately when the leader kept it up, blowing raspberry after raspberry over the spot while his hands squeezed and skittered over Hannie’s bare thighs.

“FUCK!! CHAHAHAHANNIE HYUHUHUNG PLEHEHEHEASE!! PLEHEASE OHOHO MYHY GAHAHAHA—”

His words dissolved into an incoherent jumble, melodious laughter filling the room as he squirmed helplessly on the bed.

Chan went on for a few more minutes, until Hannie’s laughter cut out completely to stop.

He stood up, watching the younger gasp, residual giggles still bubbling up as Hannie looked at him through squinted eyes. A wide smile adorned his face and Chan felt proud at the state of his baby.

Hannie looked adorably ruffled so he crawled onto the bed, fixing his clothes, though the ace reflexively tried to defend himself and combed his hair back with his fingers.

“This is just part one of my super evil plan,” he told the younger. “I’m letting you off easy for now, but maybe…there might be a little surprise waiting for you soon~”

Han smiled sweetly at that, hugging Chan tightly. “Thank you hyungie. I loved it!” He whispered bashfully, hiding his blush in the leader’s chest.

[underdark-dreams]

I got too excited and finished the second chapter 👀 [ch1]

A Strand to Climb - Ch.2

Tav finally catches up with her wizard at Sorcerous Sundries; Rolan has some complicated feelings about seeing her again.

Tags: Reunions, Mutual Pining | Word Count: 3,042 [Read on AO3]

The next day dawned just as gloomy and gray as Rolan’s mood. 

He hadn't slept well in his chilly room at the Tower; the flesh beside his brow was bruised deeper than he’d realized. His fretful dreams of shadow curses and illithid monstrosities had been laced through with the dull ache in his skull.

As a result he’d been short with the customers this morning. It didn’t really matter—no one cared about the boy behind the counter. People tended to look through him, if they looked at him at all. 

No doubt his bruised and beaten appearance made people uncomfortable. Rolan knew Lorroakan didn’t care a jot for his wellbeing, but he did wonder why the man wouldn’t avoid damaging the first face people saw when they walked in. It couldn’t be good for business. 

These days Rolan found himself more of a shopkeeper than a student, after all. 

With that thought in mind, he pulled the large book of figures up onto the counter. At least there was plenty of work there to occupy him—Lorroakan had been an atrocious bookkeeper.

By the time midday dragged along, Sorcerous Sundries had cleared out almost completely. The sky outside the wide front entry had darkened further from the approaching storm. Periodically a humid breeze would gust through the doorway. Each time, Rolan had to grab hold of the pages of his ledger before he lost his place.

Eventually he shoved the thing aside in impatience, thunking a heavy potion bottle down on top to weigh down the page. 

From its hiding place among the scroll shelves, Rolan instead pulled out a stained and dogeared volume: Suspended Ceremorphosis. He'd swiped it from the tower while Lorroakan was engaged with yet another so-called Nightsong hunter. 

Lorroakan certainly wouldn’t miss the text. He hadn't maintained the protective spells on the reference section of his library the way he had the sections on spellcraft and the Weave. Evidently he thought everyone must have the single-minded and incurious lust for power that he did himself.

Rolan had never thought of himself as having a weak stomach, yet he found he had to take the text in small doses. The only thing that kept him reading it was a promise he’d made to Tav many moons ago, on a night when hope was easier to come by.

Whoever had authored it must have been a surgeon—more likely a necromancer. Each gruesome detail was described thoroughly, almost lovingly in some passages. 

Rolan forced his way through as many pages as he could manage. Combined with the painstaking diagrams of each stage of the infection and transformation, he found it painful reading. Especially when it directly concerned one of the people he cared about most in all the Realms. 

Who knew if Tav still even needed his help after all this time? She’d proven herself far more resourceful than him on many occasions. Maybe she was already on the trail for a proper cure by now. Maybe he was just wasting his time.

Rolan abruptly pushed this book aside too, turning back to his ledger again for the reprieve of sordid coin. 

All things considered, Sorcerous Sundries was thriving. The citizens of Baldur’s Gate were shaken, borderline terrified by the recent march of the Absolute's forces…and frightened people spent gold on anything they thought might keep their families safe. Rolan summed last week's numbers a second and a third time, convinced he must have added a figure somewhere.

A brash voice outside pierced his concentration. Rolan glanced up sharply to the open doors, quill poised on the page. 

Suffering hells. Aradin again? Whether or not he’d actually been involved in this week’s clumsy burglary attempt, he should have the common sense not to show his face.

The mercenary had been no rosy presence back at the Grove, and he was a constant bane at the magic shop ever since Rolan had been placed on front desk duties. He was always appearing to insist on a private audience with Lorroakan, or some great sum owed to him, or some other equally improbable outcome depending on the day. 

Just as Lorroakan had accused him of last night—ungratefully—Rolan had finally taken it upon himself to charm the metal construct at the door to turn him away on sight.

As he watched, Aradin jabbed a threatening finger into the construct's face, as if it might be intimidated into compliance. 

Thick fucking idiot, Rolan thought viciously. He had no patience for this today. Right as he set down his pen, someone else caught Aradin's attention from behind.

If not for her change in attire, he would have recognized Tav’s figure at first glance. But then Aradin shifted slightly as he spoke, and Rolan caught sight of her face.

The city seemed to be treating her well; he was relieved to see it. Her features were bright and well-rested for once, despite the scowling line of her brows as she squared her shoulders toward Aradin. 

For the first time in days, Rolan managed a faint smile. She never did like bullies. 

She'd commissioned fine new armor—perhaps from Dammon's forge up the street. Tav shone like an aasimar despite the overcast day behind her. The thought occurred with not near enough force to distract him from gaping at her lovely face.

His face. Zurgan—

Rolan’s spine straightened with a jerk. Why hadn’t he prepared for how she might react? How he might explain his pathetic appearance? He’d forgotten to anticipate any of it properly, and found himself blinded by panic.

There was no time to unfreeze his boots from the floor—Tav and her companions were already sweeping past Aradin and into the shop. 

Her gaze landed on Rolan before any of the rest even noticed him. His heart hammered in his chest as he watched her expressions play out in quick succession: dismay, then concern, then indignation. 

The way her eyes traveled over his face made Rolan wish he could melt into an invisible puddle. But such powers were beyond him—all he could do was stand mute as Tav drew up to the counter in front of him.

“Welcome to Sorcerous Sundries.” Rolan spoke the usual lines, and hated the falseness of his voice as he did so.

Tav only blinked at him for a moment. “Hi,” she replied softly. 

The two of them looked at each other for what felt like an age. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, in truth. Her eyes were wide and wholly inescapable. Rolan found his mind full of many words, all of which refused to exit his mouth.

“Oh shit, Rolan? What happened to your face, mate?” 

The towering Tiefling hellfighter spoke up before either of them could. She was peering at him from behind Tav’s shoulder with an expression of guileless concern.

“Karlach—” Tav wheeled on her with a soft admonition. 

She was trying to spare his pride. For some reason, that made Rolan feel lower than ever. As Tav turned back to him with a tight smile, he hoped the patchwork of bruises on his face hid its flush of abject humiliation.

Tav opened her mouth, but Rolan rushed to speak first. “I expect you’re here to see Master Lorroakan.”

Something flickered behind her eyes. “We are,” was all she answered.

“Then you’ll find the portals to the Tower upstairs. Do be careful to choose correctly the first time, it’s a great deal of trouble getting back in here if you don’t—Lorroakan has little patience for anyone who might waste his time—” 

Rolan was fussing with his ledger and rifling through the pages as if it contained much important work he had to get back to. Anything to avoid looking at her anymore.

“Right…thanks, Rolan.” Tav’s voice was uncertain. He clenched his jaw against a sudden pang of remorse. “See you later, then?” 

Rolan nodded tersely down at his work. He made no other answer.

She lingered for just a moment as the rest of her friends departed for the staircase. Then Rolan heard the metallic clinking of her plate armor as she too moved away. 

He kept his head bent doggedly over his book as she did. Rolan’s eyes pretended to move over the page, seeing none of it. His ears were trained behind him to track Tav’s footfalls on the stairs. 

When he heard the rushing whirl of a portal activating above, he stayed frozen for a few seconds to be sure. Then he shut the ledger with a snap.

And like a shameful coward, he ran to hide.

At least Rolan had enough sense to summon his master’s projection before he turned on his heel. Not a familiar incantation, but he glimpsed the Weave successfully materializing from over his shoulder as he swept toward the concealed door under the great staircase. 

His fingers fumbled for a key at his belt—the one Tolna had lent him his first day. Once the door latched behind him, he stumbled down the dark stairs into the ancillary storeroom.

The place was full of more dust than anything else. Rolan coughed and sneezed several times before he managed a simple cantrip to light one of the torches along the wall. 

Then he sank down onto an empty crate, slumped against the bookshelf behind him, and leaned the tips of his horns back against its dusty volumes.

What in the hells was he doing?

Living the life he’d chosen, Rolan answered himself. Tend the shop, ascend for lessons—sleep and repeat. 

For how many years? One, two? Five? 

Five years as a wizard’s apprentice was rare, but not unheard of. And Lorroakan didn't strike him as a man who readily dismissed his apprentices from service. 

What exactly did he expect Tav to do for the next five years? Surely not wait around for a pathetic wizard-in-training who didn't have the strength to fight back against his own worthless master.

Sitting in this damp basement, surrounded by cobwebs, Rolan couldn't think of a single good reason why someone like her might still want someone like him. 

An old, familiar feeling slithered through his gut. Unwanted.

It was true that Lorroakan had proved more of a disappointment than he could possibly have imagined. But the man had one advantage over every other archwizard Rolan had written to over the years, pleading for a chance to prove himself. 

Lorroakan was the only one who had accepted him in.

Whatever the archwizard’s many deficiencies, they did nothing to change the other advantages this apprenticeship could grant him. Notoriety, privilege, access. The wizarding circles of Faerûn didn’t open for just anyone, especially not a bastard Tiefling. Not unless you had connections.

So what if he had feelings for Tav. Strong ones. Ones he sometimes wished he could make disappear…despite the way she continually visited his dreams. This apprenticeship was something Rolan had dreamed of for far longer.

And what about her feelings?  

She'd told him she loved him many times during their last brief nights together at Last Light Inn. On one particularly memorable occasion, she'd been naked on top of him. 

Rolan had replayed the moment in his head too many times to count, yet it never failed to set his heart racing.

But those were moments when blood ran hot from freshly escaped peril—moments suspended in forgiving shadow. Under the harsh light of day, perhaps Tav could finally see him clearly.

Rolan’s hands rose to his face. He prodded and felt along its planes with his fingers, gritting his teeth as he rediscovered each fleshy bruise and scrape on its surface. He was a mess of a man.

Abruptly, Rolan shook his head to clear away all this self-pitying nonsense. His thoughts turned back to Tav’s current audience with Lorroakan. 

He wondered what they spoke of. Perhaps the Nightsong; perhaps her parasite. 

If Lorroakan knew anything about Illithids or ceremorphosis—an idea that seemed more laughable by the day—Rolan prayed to all the gods that he’d have the decency to share his knowledge with her. 

Whatever the subject, their conversation was brief. 

Rolan’s ear caught the muffled hum of the portal once again and knew Tav and her companions had descended from the Tower. He waited a few more minutes to be sure, then rose to trudge back up to the main floor. When stepped back into the light, she and her companions were gone. 

Rolan had no right to feel as disappointed as he did. He was the one who’d hidden from her like a child, after all.

As his feet dragged him back behind the counter, Rolan realized that in his haste he’d left out the stolen book on ceremorphosis—turned open to a particularly gruesome illustration. 

He thanked his stars that it had been Tav and her friends paying a visit. Another customer might have been put off by the sight, enough so that a complaint made its way back to Lorroakan. The archwizard was jealous as a dragon when it came to guarding his hoard, however little personal interest he took in its riches.

As he picked up the tome to hide it away again, a small slip of parchment fluttered from between its pages to land on the counter in front of him. Rolan turned it over, then felt his heart repeat the motion.

Had he truly never seen her handwriting before? The letters were small and even, yet clearly written in haste:

Let’s talk alone. I love you

ps  thank you for the research

Whatever information Lorroakan had provided her, if she was thanking him for reading a dusty book, it must not have been worth much. 

Despite every weight pulling on his heart, Rolan reread each word several more times. Then he slipped the note gently into the pocket of his robes. 

—

“Hey! You coming?”

“One second,” Tav called over her shoulder. 

She hastily fit a postscript onto the small scrap of parchment. Then she slipped it like a page marker into Rolan’s book and laid his quill back on the counter.

It was obvious that Rolan wanted to avoid running into her a second time. A sad pang ran through her at the thought, but she couldn’t really blame him. She’d never seen him looking so miserable—not even that night after his siblings had been taken to Moonrise. 

Lia’s words from yesterday rang in her ears. I don’t think he’s treating Rolan well. Whatever dark things Tav had imagined, they hadn’t prepared her for the sight of Rolan’s face—plainly dappled with weeks of brutal mistreatment.

Her fingers clenched hard at her sides. Tav glanced up at the shimmering projection of Lorroakan behind the counter and quelled the furious urge to put a fist right through its vapid smile.

As she jogged back out through the atrium of Sorcerous Sundries, Karlach turned to fall into stride beside her. The other two had walked ahead, clearly unaware that they’d left anyone behind. Gale was gesticulating animatedly about something; Wyll listened politely at his shoulder.

“So that Lorroakan’s a real prick,” Karlach remarked with characteristic bluntness as they walked. 

Tav gave a harsh laugh. “Read my mind.”

“How d’you think he knows about the Nightsong?”

She had been asking herself the same question. Her mind’s eye conjured up the circle of runes in his study, the one he’d indiscreetly shown off to them on this very first meeting. 

It had Balthazar’s fingerprints all over it.

“Probably has a background in necromancy,” Tav guessed aloud. “No way to know for sure.”

Karlach’s palm rang against plate metal as she clapped it between Tav’s shoulder blades. “Until we kick his arse and charm it out of him, you mean.”

Tav only smiled weakly in response. Inside, she could scarcely wait for the day when Lorroakan would get what was coming to him.

Beside her, a mischievous chuckle was rising from Karlach’s chest. “Hells, imagine when we tell Aylin. She’s going to tear that man apart.”

“Let’s not tell her just yet,” Tav said in a rush.

She felt Karlach’s eyes search her face. “Why not?”

Tav looked down at the cobblestones as they continued. “Rolan and I need to talk, Karlach. Whether or not he wants to, I owe it to him. He should know everything before all the Nightsong’s righteous vengeance comes down on his archwizard’s head.”

There was a pause. “You don’t think he knows?” 

“No way.” She looked up at Karlach then, her face steely-certain. “Rolan would never do something like that.”

“Yeah…you’re right. Forget I said anything,” Karlach added, her tone apologetic. Before she knew it, Tav felt a warm arm jostle around the pauldrons on her shoulders. 

“Listen, Tav, it’s gonna be okay. You and Rolan will talk it through, or maybe you’ll just fuck his stubborn wizard brains out again—”

“Karlach!”

“Oh come on, like everyone doesn’t already know?” Karlach was cracking up loud enough that Wyll glanced back from in front to see the commotion. Tav couldn’t help an embarrassed laugh, but she hid half her face behind a hand.

Before long, the dark stormclouds gathering above put a pause on the rest of their errands in the Lower City. It seemed wise to just wait out the weather at their rented room in the Elfsong.

Karlach did make some excuse or other to swing by Dammon’s forge instead—despite the fact that they’d been just yesterday.

Tav said nothing, but she wasn’t fooled. To borrow Karlach’s words, if anyone needed to fuck anyone else’s brains out, those two were obvious candidates.

With thunder rumbling on the horizon, everyone else settled into their private corners of their quarters for the rest of the afternoon. Shadowheart and Lae’zel turned to meditation; Gale to the large stack of books that he always mysteriously managed to fit in his pack. Astarion was curled in front of the fire, his lips moving silently as he pored over a book on Infernal.

For a few hours, Tav found herself with no plans and no responsibilities.

Though her new armor from Dammon was exquisite, she exchanged it for some more inconspicuous clothes, then pinned her heavy hooded cloak around her shoulders for the inevitable rain. 

And with everyone else occupied, she slipped unnoticed out of their rooms and back down to the streets.

[theladyofshalott1989]

On Representation (in Fandom Spaces)

I finished reading an incredible novel last week (Wellness by Nathan Hill) and there's a passage fairly early on that hit me hard. So much so that it made me cry. At the time, I didn't quite understand why it affected me so much, but it finally dawned on me this morning. My analysis will be after the cut. Here's the passage (from pages 208-209): "It's a lecture Jack gives to his Intro to Art class, during the chapter on American landscapes, how painters educated in the European tradition saw the endless tallgrass prairie of the Midwest and literally did not know what to do with it. They had no training that might have prepared them to depict something so monolithic. They were accustomed to scenes with easy scope and dimension: trees in the middle distance for perspective, rivers and valleys that made for convenient vanishing points, mountains on the horizon as an anchoring weight, all of it evocatively defined in light and shadow. But what do you do with a tallgrass prairie, where the middle distance and the far distance and the near distance are all flat and featureless and identical? What these artists did, mostly, was ignore it. They kept traveling west until they reached the Rockies and were rewarded with landscapes that matched their schooling, which is why, in the canon of American landscape art, the prairie is so underrepresented. It's not because the prairie wasn't beautiful—most of the painters acknowledged, in letters and diaries, that it was very pretty indeed—but rather that the prairie did not accord with the traditional standards of what was specifically beautiful in landscape art. These painters came looking for the things they knew how to depict—forests and mountains and beaches—and when they found none of these, they declared the landscape 'empty.' They did not see what was there. Instead, they saw what wasn't.

Jack means it to be a lesson on the difference between reality and the representation of reality. Beauty, he tells his students, is a constructed, not intrinsic, condition. The things we think are beautiful are only the things that have been depicted beautifully. And if it's not depicted, it's not seen. It never enters the imagination. It becomes a nothing.

Which is why the west got Yellowstone, and the prairie got destroyed."

I like to remain a positive space in this fandom for everyone, but I am human and I have my down days. Today is one of those days, so I thought I would (respectfully) wax on about this passage in the context of LGBTQIA+ representation in fandom spaces like Hogwarts: Legacy.

Despite a growing number of creators depicting diverse, queer narratives, there is often a noticeable lack of engagement with these works on platforms like AO3. I sometimes come across comments from users—which I don't think are made with ill intent—about only reading works by popular creators. While I understand this to some extent, as both a writer and a dedicated reader in this fandom, when I come across this sentiment in the wild, it's like a punch to the gut. I know and support many beautiful works that, if you were to sort by hits, kudos, or bookmarks, wouldn’t be considered “popular,” but are spectacularly written with wonderfully fleshed-out characters, and these stories deserve just as much recognition.

Suffice it to say, these stories—more often than not—do not center on heterosexual relationships or cisgender perspectives.

When queer stories are not engaged with, they risk being rendered "invisible" in fandom culture. This doesn’t mean they lack value or beauty, but simply that they fall outside the established norms, just as the prairie did in the eyes of the artists in the shared passage. This lack of visibility isn’t due to an absence of effort or talent but reflects a broader issue where what is unfamiliar or different struggles to be recognized and celebrated.

In this context, it's disheartening to see the potential for LGBTQIA+ stories to expand the landscape of fandom, only for them to often be overlooked. We deserve to see a fandom where all perspectives—like all landscapes—are equally appreciated and supported.

To those of you who do write LGBTQIA+ stories, you are seen and appreciated. Please do not stop writing. I know it can be very difficult to seemingly write into the void. Don't give up. You are doing the world a service. To those of you who are willing to expand your worldview, go out there and read outside of your comfort zone. You may find a new appreciation for an underrated pairing or genre.

Ultimately, I know this uncomfy feeling of mine will pass. It always does. But if you made it all the way to the end of this, thank you, and perhaps do me a favor. Think of a pairing (or even a story that doesn't have a pairing!) that you haven't explored yet in this fandom. Don't sort by hits, kudos, or bookmarks, as it's likely there aren't many stories yet to shuffle through. Browse the summaries. Does one stand out to you? Give it a try! If you enjoy it, give that author a kudo, maybe even a comment. You'll make their month, I guarantee it.

I suppose that's all besides I love y'all. Yes, all of y'all. <3

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

CS Winter Bingo--square 1 (the truth about Santa)

Hi there and happy holiday season!  In an attempt to continue procrastinating my season 4 rewatch drabbles–and to not feel guilty about it–I decided to participate in the CS Winter Bingo event.  I received nine winter/holiday related prompts arranged in a square like a bingo card.  My mission is to make a bingo by writing at least three of my prompts before winter is over, but I’m hoping to do better than that!  I’m hoping to finish all nine!  Given the nature of the event, you can expect a lot of fluff (but then what else would you expect from me, after all?)  I’m hoping to keep them short as well, but I’m usually not nearly as successful at that.  And without further ado, let’s play CS Winter Bingo!

Rating: G

Word count: 983

Today’s prompt: The Truth About Santa

Other chapters: (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Emma found her husband standing in front of the fireplace and looking up the flue with an assessing glance as she stepped into their large great room on Christmas Eve night.

“I don’t mean to be indelicate, Swan,” he said, still looking up the chimney, “but it would appear the passage is too narrow for anyone to pass.”

She laughed, putting an arm around his waist and reaching up to give his cheek a quick peck.  He looked down at her for a moment, his eyes softening before returning her kiss with a quick one of his own.  “Killian, what in the world are you talking about, and why do you look so worried?”

His brow furrowed as he turned back to his perusal.  “Is it similar to the way they travel in that book about the magical lad Harry Potter?  Does he travel via flue powder?  Does he possess some other form of magic that expands the chimney?  After all, I have my doubts that even the wee cygnet could pass through that opening, let alone a portly, full grown man.”

Emma felt the usual warmth and affection for her husband that came over her whenever he used his pet name for their two-year-old daughter, Hope.  The cygnet.  Their tiny baby swan.  Their miracle baby.  For a moment she was lost in the moment thinking about how perfect her life was now that Henry was back in Storybrooke and she had her entire family back together, but gradually it dawned on her just what had her husband concerned.

“Are you talking about Santa?” she asked.

[queerofthedagger]

2024 Fic Round-Up / AO3 Wrapped

Tagged by @softest-punk and @hobbitwrangler in two slightly different versions of this, so I'm going to combine them. Thank you both so much! <3

Works Published:

Total Words Published at end of year: 205k! Slightly skewed because I actually wrote the Steddie Bang last year, but only finished posting it in January. As far as writing goes, I wrote 215k words in '24.

Fandoms: Mainly Tolkien, especially for the Silmarillion. Merlin tried to stay afloat at the start of the year, but well. RIP

Top 3 Ships:

Fingon/Maedhros (9)

Maedhros/Maglor (5)

and a three-way-tie between Arthur/Merlin, Curufin/Finrod, and Aragron/Legolas with three fics each!

Top 5 Tags:

AU - Canon Divergence

Angst with a Happy Ending

Hurt/Comfort

Complicated Relationship

Established Relationship

Top 3 Fics by Wordcount:

Renegades (Leave a Light On) (66k)

Between Ruinous Dusk and Restless Dawn (34k)

to feel you like a knife (23k)

Highest Everything (raw kudos, hits, comments):

Hits & Kudos: like there's hope in this story (8k/1k respectively)

Comments: Renegades (230)

New Things I Tried:

First of all, obviously plunging head-first into the Silm fandom, which was both exciting and also a little intimidating. It is such an incredibly welcoming space though, I did not regret it for a second.

I've also written considerably more explicit/kink/pwp stuff than I used to, which has been about the same experience lmao <3

Last but not least, I've done a lot of collabs this year with the most beloved @magicinavalon. While I've done that kind of thing before in the context of fests, it's been really great to brainstorm and work together from scratch with a friend outside of the course of events! <3

Fic I Spent the Least Time On:

Probably like thread through needle; it's only 500 words long and spilt onto the page in a deluge of Finrod feels that wouldn't be contained <3

Favourite Thing(s) I Read:

I've read a truly obscene amount of fics this year thanks to landing in the Silm fandom, and there are so, so, SO many absolute treasures there that I could not list them all here without completely derailing this post. I've been thinking of making an end of year rec list (which is somewhat belated at this point but we can pretend the passage of time isn't passage-ing), so I shall relegate the answer of this there. Suffice to say, this fandom is filled to the brim with fantastically talented people and just about everything I've read has been amazing show-stopping incredible! <3

Writing Goals for 2025:

I really want to get back to writing long fic. Renegades was, as I said, written in 2023 and that aside, the longest thing I wrote was my TRSB at roughly 30k. Which isn't short by any means, but I miss the intricate involvement of a complex novel-length kind of project.

As such, I raised my wordcount goal back up from 200k to 300k, and am planning to write more consistently again. '24 has been a very 'random bursts of writing' kind of year with single days with high output, and long stretches with nothing in between. Which has been fine, considering the new job and all! But if I can get myself to sit down more often even for lower kind of daily wordcounts, I'd overall probably still get more done, at the end of the year.

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I'm not sure who has done this already, but tagging: @emryses @thefollow-spot @melestasflight @polutrope @crackinthecup @luthnethril @welcomingdisaster @aredhels and anyone else who'd like to -- just say I tagged you! <3