#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 >:)

[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

[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

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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

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[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

[dreadfutures]

Fanfic Writer Questions

Tagged by @plisuu and @rosella-writes - and tagging the whole rest of the DA FanFic server crew:

@warpedlegacy @rakshadow @effelants @bluewren @breninarthur @ar-lath-ma-cully @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @blarrghe @agentkatie @delicatefade @leggywillow @about2dance

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

49

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

1,645,298

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Maximum Ride, Pokemon, Spirited Away, Zelda, Pathfinder CRPGs, Elden Ring, Dishonored, and of course, Dragon Age

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Dead Pasts and Dread Futures (Dragon Age)

Hero of the Wild (Legend of Zelda: BOTW)

When the Wind Whispers (Legend of Zelda: BOTW)

The Brave Guide (Dragon Age)

Light in the Dark (LOZ)

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yes! I try to. I fall behind very frequently but I always try to say thank you. So many people tell me why these stories touch them, and to share that with me, is such a gift that deserves acknowledgement.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably 'The Hope of Fen'Harel' (on AO3) or the scene where Solas finds out that young Ixchel is dead (here on tumblr).

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

the road seems too wild for mixing it with blues (Dragon Age) - literally it is a Solavellan happiest of happy endings. There are brown butter donuts.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Yes. Not infrequently.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Sometimes! I do try to write titillating smut but if it's in my longfics, it's got to be for character reasons and serve the plot. But I have more than one smut oneshot that's just there to get people hot lol.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

No.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I have had ideas copied wholecloth.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of, but you are free to do so as long as you tag me and properly credit via the "inspired by" on AO3

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! ALL of my Maximum Ride fics were co-written. Literally sending passages back and forth over *yahoo instant messenger.* It was an absolute fucking joy. Those fics are gone now though lol.

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

Prooooooobablyyyyyyy Haku/Chihiro. I will read absolute drivel if it's got them in it.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I WILL ABSOLUTELY FINISH MY BOTW FICS I AM WORKING ON THEM OKAY?! The one i don't think i will ever do is my young!Ixchel fic. It's too fucking sad. But it lives in my head and calls to me.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dreamy prose, evocative horror, and really motivated plots.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I'm verbose, I have a hard time connecting scenes / passing time without it feeling like it's dragging.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

So, for fantasy languages that you have to conlang -- I think you should just write it in English. Especially if you're not making up YOUR OWN conlang and instead relying on the work of a notorious jackass. I have taken to "[[brackets and italics]]" to indicate when dialogue is happening in Elvhen. In real life languages, such as Spanish, the current movement in ownvoices communities is to include the dialogue in its original tongue, with no italics. Readers are smart. They can look it up. And they need to get used to languages other than their own without it seeming other, alien, or magical. In my original novels, where Spanish is often used, I stick with this rule.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Maximum Ride or Spirited Away.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

it ends or it doesn't (Dragon Age), my Felassan-as-Benoit-Blanc arlathvhen murder mystery!

blank form below:

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

3. What fandoms do you write for?

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

5. Do you respond to comments?

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

16. What are your writing strengths?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

19. First fandom you wrote for?

20. Favorite fic you've written?

[firestorm717]

FFXV Brotherhood Audio Commentary

Hey all! So after a bit of convincing, my Japanese-speaking friend and fellow FFXV fan goldentunes kindly agreed to provide an English summary of the Brotherhood audio commentary, which is only available in Japanese (no subs) on the Blu-ray disc. As Ignis is my favorite character, I asked her to start with Episode 4: Bittersweet Memories. Her summary of the commentary is posted below. If you'd like to listen to the audio commentary yourself, I've uploaded the Bittersweet Memories episode on MEGA. (Open in MPC, right click video -> Audio Track -> Japanese commentary).

Note: The two people speaking in the commentary are Hajime Tabata, the director of FFXV, and Soichi Masui, the director of Brotherhood. Ignis is the character they changed the most. Being by Noctis' side is the reason for his existence/his way of life.

In the flashback where Ignis looks like a bespectacled Yagami Light, he's only 17. Tabata was kind of joking about how amazing the apartment building is, and Masui says, yeah this is when Noctis wanted to live alone. And that even though Noctis and Ignis are so intertwined, they don't live together. Masui wanted to show that there is still a clear divide between the royal family and commoners, and Ignis was the perfect role to illustrate this invisible barrier.

When Noctis's trashland apartment appears, Tabata laughs about how Noctis is still able to live even with all that filth around him. Masui laughs too about how Noctis is kind of a "failure human" and says that there are people like this everywhere and it's more common than you would think.

The scene in Noctis' apartment where they have the big fight is Masui’s favourite - he wanted to show how obstinate Ignis can be, especially where his devotion to Noctis is concerned (and it's specifically stated here that "Ignis will do ANYTHING to protect Noctis"). They couldn't fit this aspect of his character into the earlier episodes, and they felt that just having Ignis go "don't do this Noct, don't do that Noct" made his character flat. So they beefed up his character and added depth, which took some time in development.

The part where Noctis trains with Gladio in the garden, and where Noctis sits down and Gladio eventually goes to sit with him, is a direct parallel of the same scene in episode three (Sword and Shield), but their older age shows the passage of time and change in their maturity. It's also the essence of "Brotherhood" and what they were trying to achieve with the anime.

Other things mentioned in the interview:

Brotherhood is a condensation of a whole bunch of ideas. It was made because they wanted people to like the characters.

Tabata and Masui talk about the realistic details of the places in the game (using Lestallum as an example) and how it really brings the settings to life.

Tabata: Seeing the characters’ relationships with each other is what makes them so likeable, and in turn, what makes the game special and enjoyable.

Masui also wonders if the game would be interesting if you play it before watching Brotherhood.

There was some stuff about the technical process of making the anime.

There was also some talk about how they were pressed for time to fix all the issues with the game. (At the time of this commentary, the game hadn't been released yet. Masui said he would start in the afternoon and work all the way till dawn).

Tabata says that there was a ton of stress around finishing the game production, as well as creating this anime (as well as other media) because the project was so big and they were running out of time. But seeing the anime come to fruition was really rewarding for them, even though there was so much pressure, and when they made an announcement regarding the anime and the release, the response was so overwhelmingly positive from both Japanese and overseas fans that they were taken aback. One of the producers cried when he heard how positive the response was.

[onwriting-hrarby]

The last 10 days - AOT fanfiction writers

Or: LET'S CELEBRATE THE ENDING OF ATTACK ON TITAN WITH OUR FAVOURITE PASSAGES OF WHAT WE'VE WRITTEN!

If you're anything like me and you fell hard for this rabbit hole called Attack On Titan, you might have written thousands of words by now. The series are ending, but wouldn't it be great to celebrate it by sharing our favourite passages from our works? Any ship and any character! Some of our works might be so old that they are hard to look-up on AO3, too.

Anyone can join, but I'll be tagging some of my AOT colleagues in case they want to participate :)

Day 10 of the countdown - Mikasa's semi confession to Eren in "I did not live until today"

And she finds the lyrics pouring out of her with ease, not caring about any looks from her peers, not caring about the deep gaze Eren is planting on her. Just singing about a love that maybe cannot be, about a love that she has always been feeling but never knew. Levi watches how she closes her eyes, she opens her ribcage, and she puts her arms wide, embracing the vulnerability when she sings, full voice, I love him but everyday I’m learning all my life I’ve only been pretending. Her voice embodies all the tragic and all the pouring overflowing sensations and the sunset and the dawn and the whole night, and a starless sky and also a sky full of stars, because Mikasa has made it, Mikasa has opened up and realized, she is in this world to love and be hurt, and there is no shame in crying, and there is no shame in feeling small. Because, sometimes, she will feel tiny. And, other times, her voice will make her as big as a giant ready to take the world. She hits the highest note: A world full of happiness that I have never known. Her chest is heaving, her arms come to her sides, as Mikasa’s eyes open again. There she is, black hair in a ponytail, long pink skirt and white wool jumper, her eyes not looking at anything in particular but, Levi knows, thinking about a very particular boy that is standing next to her —completely mesmerized by her, cheeks flushed—, and she sings, as if confessing: I love him. I love him. And then, happier, smiling: I love him. But only on my own.

title: I did not live until today (25 chapters; 180 k; finished) pairing: eren/mikasa (with additional: annie/armin, historia/ymir) tags: Musical, Drama school, Slow Burn, Friends to Lovers, Soulmates, Romance, Trauma, Friendship, Friends With Benefits, Eventual Smut synopsis: Eren and Mikasa have always had a strange, platonic, best friends relationship. After two years of separation, Mikasa comes back to Trost Performance Arts College and joins Eren on their childhood dream —to be dancers and perform in musicals. Armin Arlelt, their once best-friend, has grown stranged from them both, but has Annie Leonhard by his side now. Jean Kirstein, Mikasa's ex-boyfriend and Eren's best friend, swears he is over her already.

As this group of singers, dancers and musicians come together in the yearly production of their drama college, they can't imagine how their bonds are going to change. A coming-of-age story about meeting new people, figuring out the future, understanding the multiple forms of love, guilt and pleasure and trying to juggle life with unbreakable (or not) friendships.

tagging my colleagues in case they are interested in following the chain! (if you don't want to be tagged in the future, please write to me!): @sinigangsta-ao3, @karizard-ao3, @breezysaysblog, @likesunsetorange, @dead-dolphins, @rottenlover, @onigiri-dorkk @nuri148, @chaosisbeauty23, @stalactice, @on-kamis-green-earth, @r-brauns, @irememberthedark and anyone else!

[lelanida]

Prepare to dive into the depths of Megabird and Angst lore. Today, we'll talk about a group of gods known as Four of the Isle.

These fellas were living in my head rent-free for a very long time, and I made a lot of sketches with them. But I guess it's finally time to choose the least cringe drawings and explain why I love these ancient gods so much.

The Four of the Isle.

The main idea behind them is that prophets from Isle of Dawn didn't just randomly choose animals for their masks. They outplayed some characters. A gods. Season of Passage proved that masks had a very important role in the ancient kingdom. And that these masks are... alive? There clearly was someone behind those masks. So why can't it be the same for Prophecy?

Four of the Isle were worshiped before the King, and even before the Elders. Megabird didn't create them. They appeared because people wanted them to be real. And so they possess(ed) their own kind of energy, which later took form of the gifts of water, earth, air and fire. Let's take a closer look at them.

Aquatis, Terra, Zephyr, and Flamer were original gods of the Isle and used to take care of its inhabitants. But after Daleph's sudden appearance, they decided to retire and give up their powers to someone who would be able to finish a specific trial. We all know where it led. The Daleph himself, by the way, wasn't against Fours's presence.

"But where is the ultimate mask?" You may ask. Don't worry, we are almost there.

Last but not least, fifth god of Four of the Isle (yes, I know how stupid this sounds) is Miru.

Miru was believed to be a messenger god of the Four with a gift of future vision. While being the youngest in the pantheon, he was the first to gain a prophet so he could bring his prophecies to the people. Miru and Prophecy guide had a really deep connection with each other.

Miru believed that the gift of knowing the future is far too dangerous to be given to people, so he didn't create a trial. He disappeared the same day the shattering diamond exploded.

Thank you for reading.

[shadowthief78]

Highlands and Heartache

✦✧✦✧♛✧✦✧✦ 

Part 2 of Blue Lock Royalty AU Headcanons

✦✧✦✧♛✧✦✧✦ 

(Part 1) (Ao3 link)

✦✧✦✧♛✧✦✧✦ 

Gender neutral reader, fluff and a bit of angst, mentions of jealousy, gratuitous handwaving the vaguely European worldbuilding, mentions of injury/blood but not in detail, this is my apology to my Naruhaya-loving friend (I’m sorry for doing him so dirty in the last part). Mentions of food, eating meat, and cooking. Again, Ego and Noa aren’t really romantic.

✦✧✦✧♛✧✦✧✦ 

NOA has convinced Ego to exempt you from his swordplay drills, saying that without previous experience, you’d be more of a burden than a help. You feel guilty lazing around your rooms and watching Reo and all the others slave away in the courtyard, so you wander into the extensive library and begin rummaging around.

After a week or so, you’ve gotten bored enough and decided to explore, where you come across a secret passageway built into a tiny bookshelf crammed into the back wall. It’s covered in dust and cobwebs, untouched by everyone for ages, and although some rationality says to stop, something tantalizing beckons you further. At the end of the winding passage is a tiny room, hardly big enough for you to stand upright. On an altar is a book bound in leather the color of burnished gold, untouched by the layers of time. Touching it feels like the world stutters around you.

You quickly withdraw your hand and leave, making sure there’s no trace of your presence, but when you arrive back in your room that night, the very same book is lying on your pillow. The only way that’s possible is if someone saw you (impossible, you would have gotten asked about it) or… Magic?

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

NESS is, after all, the court Magician, so you ask him about spellbooks at breakfast one day. He scowls, in the middle of a bite. “Most of what you’re describing died out with the dragons. No spellbook follows you around, God, what are you talking about? Magic is practical now, not some stupid airy-fairy incantations, because again, dragons. Nobody knows how to do it anymore.” He finishes his tea and shoots you a glance. “Why are you asking?”

You lie and say you just wanted to make conversation, then offer him his handkerchief back. He seems surprised that you still have it, given the collapse of your home kingdom and such, but doesn’t refuse. Wrapping up a piece of apple cake, he carefully tucks it in his pocket and stands. He wouldn’t be completely opposed to teaching you some basic spells, he adds, almost as an afterthought. You might as well have some use if you’re going to be tangled up in all of this anyways.

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

REO hardly ever sees you these days. He’s up before dawn, taking long runs around the forests, then practices battle all day long: duels on foot and horseback, archery, endless drills (and gutted training dummies). After dark, he studies maps and discusses strategies and politics long into the night. He’s matured from the carefree prince; now you can see a wise and noble king in his silhouette. Still, you worry about overwork and stress taking their toll on him.

After a midnight astrology session with Ness, you find yourself in the kitchen. How long has it been since you last cooked anything? Before you met Reo, which was… Hardly a month ago. It seems like so much longer. Your hands find themselves tying an apron around your waist, slicing beef and vegetables, wrapping herbs in cheesecloth and boiling broth. When you hear Reo return from his run, you rush to meet him with a steaming bowl of beef stew. He adores fatty steak and while you might not have the know-how to make that, you can at least make sure he’s fed.

He stares at you for a second before giving you a bone-crushing hug and simply holding you for a while. You relax into his chest and let him, even though the bowl is burning your fingertips. 

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

CHIGIRI seems to pop up more often than usual ever since you’ve taken to cooking more. You’ve just pulled your third attempt at franz buns out of the oven when he sidles up to the window and begins eyeing the sweet, cinnamonny bread. He’s been nonstop riding and carrying all sorts of messages, he explains, mouth full already, that he hasn’t even had time to stop for a hot meal.

You roll your eyes and begin scooping him a bowl of spatzle noodles, telling him to use the door if he’s hungry. He all but collapses at the table, thanks you for the food, and falls asleep with his head balanced on his hands not long after. You sigh–he must be very tired now if he’d do that without a bath, even. You drape your spare cloak over him and quietly leave, not noticing his small smile after. When you return the next day, there’s a present addressed to you: a set of gloves from the next territory over embroidered with protective runes.

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

RAICHI bursts into your room the exact day you’ve finally managed to gather the courage and open the spellbook up to try and puzzle out what’s going on. It doesn’t seem to activate any of the runes on Chigiri’s gloves, at least, but you still start guiltily when he barges in. He’s buzzing with excitement, too wound up to notice you shove the book under some papers and shut the drawer.

Ego has declared them ready to ride back and retake the kingdom, he shouts, waving his dagger around and almost gutting the wall. Finally, his years of boring old guard duty have come to an end and he can see some real action. Girls love that sort of thing, don’t they? He’s leaving with the rest of the company in two days’ time, you’re coming, aren’t you? And, uh, sorry about the wall…

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

SAE doesn’t seem surprised to see you. It’s an unusually warm spring in the mountains, although it’s far colder than it was in Munchen still, and snow is piled against the walls and on roofs everywhere. He takes a small party of you, Reo, Ego, and Noa to show the cave he’s found and pinpointed as the source of the dragon.

All the earthquakes, although extremely inconvenient for him, have uncovered the den of a young dragon, still sleeping peacefully. You nearly collapse at the strength of the magic in the air and he has to rush you back to the surface before something else happens. Fortunately, the clear air does you some good and gives you a little more time to read the spellbook that’s somehow found itself under your pillow, despite your certainty that you left it in Munchen… Maybe it’s got something about dragons in it?

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

KUNIGAMI, escaped from the JFA usurpers, explains to everyone that things are getting dire in the city. With no interests except money and endless parties, infrastructure has fallen to the wayside. In just a few short months, food and wood have become scarce, the guards have become increasingly unsatisfied as wages have been delayed countless weeks, and trade with other kingdoms has slowed to a trickle. Even the workers tending the sacred gardens on the palace grounds, usually so respected, have been harassed. Buratsuta, leader of the  insurgents, has openly contemplated chopping the trees down to make room for a new set of rooms.

Kunigami offers you tea for your headache and doesn’t say much else, nor smile; so different from the kind soldier you used to know. Grimly, Reo declares that plans have been moved up: the trees aren’t just symbolic, but one of the last remnants of draconic magic to exist anywhere in the world. The dragon, like it or not, ready or not, will wake tomorrow.

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HIYORI, with assistance from Anri, is the one who descends into the dragon’s lair and coaxes it to wakefulness. It takes them nearly a full day to drag it out, but fortunately it’s docile enough that it settles down in the large cart with little complaints, then goes back to snoozing. It must be a young one, as fully grown, these creatures can reach larger than most buildings.

After covering its black-and-silver scales with strategically arranged blankets, you board another wagon and set off to the capitol. The journey, already difficult enough the first time you made it, is even moreso now, as more criminals patrol the roads. Hiyori, having heard about your dizzy spell the first time you met the dragon, is understandably cautious when taking you to see it again, but something about the fresh air keeps any further fainting at bay, much to his secret disappointment.

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

 NIKO leads the way back to the capital city under the cover of night. The dragon seems content to mostly doze and devour wild hogs at an alarming rate. In the outskirts of the city, you hole up in an abandoned warehouse on the docks and wait for the day to pass. Niko goes out to scope the situation and comes back later with good news: the citizens seem uneasy and on edge from the unexpected earthquake earlier (that was your fault, whoops) combined with the new government.

You settle down to look over your spellbook again while everyone else sleeps the afternoon away, but Niko settles next to you and asks if you’re alright. Truthfully, all this stress has been far too tiring, but before you can answer, you feel the familiar tug of magic, but not from the dragon this time: from your spellbook. WHen you look at him like that and beg him not to tell anyone else, you’re so close to figuring it all out, they’re under too much stress without worrying about out-of-control magic already… Now he realizes why people are so weak to puppy dog eyes.

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

BACHIRA, although he’s not leading the charge, is the one who manages the dragon, running full tilt through the streets and dragging the rope leash behind him. The dragon sleepily stumbles along, belching the occasional puff of smoke, and you hurry closely behind it, trying to keep your book under control.

It’s started glowing now and you swear there’s a faint sound of bells every time you ruffle through the pages… which have just started to fluff themselves with no help from you! You can’t even blame it on the wind because there really isn’t any! One particularly loud chime catches his ear and he turns around. “That sounds like what summoners play before trying to summon things.” His eyes bore into yours. “Can you feel that?”

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

ISAGI is the first to realize the magic storm that’s whipped up out of nowhere. His first instinct is to look for you, but the wind (where did that come from?) pushes him back. You’re barely half a city block away from him, but the hot air saturated with power sparks mirages, sending your silhouette rippling and twisting into new things. Inside the hurricane, you struggle to keep control over your book, ancient writing suddenly becoming readable and whipping itself off the page.

Your hands burn hot where the runes on your gloves are, glowing a flickering blue-white and keeping you from being overwhelmed with the magic in the air. You can taste it, too, a thick layer that makes the air heavy with the promise of something more. The dragon perks up away, and then throws its head back and roars. For a second, everything stops, then the road gives way and you’re falling. Faintly, you can hear Isagi screaming for you before something else drowns out your panic.

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦

BAROU, locked in the prisons on the castle grounds, manages to smash his way out when the guards are distracted by the sandstorm you called. He doesn’t exactly know the details, but what he does know is that anyone who gets you hurt will die, painfully, by his hand. When he does make it, which doesn’t take much time because the storm’s been moving ever-closer to the castle, he can see you struggling to keep upright in the middle of everything, screaming or mouthing (the wind’s too loud to tell) some kind of spell as runes try and tear you apart.

There’s a dragon, for whatever godforsaken reason, watching, and when he’s about to step in, it roars and the buildings surrounding it collapse. He staggers out of what used to be a very nice townhouse as the dust clears, and two very important things are gone. Firstly, what happened to the dragon, but most importantly, where are you?

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦

TOKIMITSU is under a lot of stress: the new rulers want him to destroy the ancient dragon groves, you’ve disappeared without a trace after the coup, and now there was just a hugely impactful disaster just outside the castle walls. He hurries to the grove to try and calm the trees down and almost drops his (lit) lantern when he gets there.

You stand, submerged up to your elbows in bark, forehead pressed to the tallest tree in the grove. When you pull away, the scent of magic remains. He’s only heard of what just happened: the legends of blessings by dryads in the age of dragons are true, and now you are one who wields the most powerful magic, thought to be extinct for centuries. This time, he really does drop the lantern and bow. You are ethereal and regal and otherworldly.

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦

KURONA has been laying low this entire time. WIth Niko gone and the rest of the Royal Guards in disarray, he’s been doing just fine pinching food from the larder and using the secret passages to get around. There’s quite a bit of evidence he’s gathered, enough to indict all the JFA members beyond a shadow of a doubt. When he hears screaming, cursing, and the door lock, that’s his cue to step away form the spyglass he’s been using to keep track of everything outside.

He slides the hidden panel open, steps into the JFA headquarters room, and arrests them all for treason under the name of Prince Reo, rightful heir to the throne. None of the JFA seem all that eager to test him, starting over his shoulder at– What? There’s a fully grown dragon outside the window with someone clutching its neck? Please let that be you and please let you be safe.

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

YUKIMIYA finds you sprinting out of the castle gate, covered in spell fragments orbiting your hands and head. You grab his hand and run toward the dragon, which is now as tall as the castle itself, pointing and saying something he can hardly hear over the noise. Eventually, he gets the gist about what has happened and rushes to find the others and send backup to the castle. Their small squadron finds the room, courtesy of some subtle yet distinct signs left by Kurona and the JFA (and Niko’s scouting, which included chatting to some of the servants), and completes the arrests, meeting up with Barou along the way.

The whole thing takes less than twenty minutes, after which they all go outside to survey the destruction they left the others to handle. The sun is just beginning to rise when you finally convince the dragon to calm down enough and tuck its wings in so it doesn’t smash any more than it already has. He grabs your hand and points up at the dragon: it looks like there’s someone there?

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NARUHAYA pops up, a tiny figure on the dragon’s neck, and with the sun’s glare, you aren’t sure who it is before he yells your name. He waves so excitedly he nearly falls off, pointing and saying something to the dragon who gently bends down to let him off. You haven’t seen your friend in what feels like ages, and he suddenly appears with a dragon?

He’s so excited he can hardly talk: After you left, he found an apprenticeship in the capitol. Fortunately, he was far enough out that he was safe during the uprising. He worried about you all winter! When you finally did turn up (and who else would it be but you with Prince Reo and a dragon), he rushed to help under the guise of making a delivery but got kinda buried under some rubble. It’s okay though, because the dragon helped him out! His name’s Gagamaru, by the way and- Huh? Yeah, he can understand the dragon, it’s speaking like a regular human being! Naruhaya takes in all your shocked expressions. Oh, is that not the case? Wait, if he can understand the dragon, does that make him magical like you? 

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

GAGAMARU has been asleep for a long time, so he’s not quite caught up with the customs. Naruhaya shows him (in human form) around, insisting on bringing you along for help navigating. Gagamaru can see why: your magical signature reminds him of past ages and the gentle glow attracts people around you, even if humans can’t see it.

You seem happy to explore with them, endlessly curious about his magic: How does it work? What’s the best thing he’s done? Is there anything that he can’t do? It’s been several hundred years since a truly magic dragon was last spotted, apparently, with most “dragons” being glorified large lizards chargrilling livestock. It’s awfully lonely being the last one, but with you it’s not so bad. 

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦ 

NAGI is having a hard time finding a quiet place to nap ever since your group has returned. Every single one of his favorite nooks around the castle has been taken by traveling scholars, visiting diplomats, and curious magicians, all bustling with hectic energy. Reo assured him that it would calm down in a few weeks, but he’s still sneezing nonstop at the scent of magic and bumping into frantic scribes at every second bend.

Now more than ever he’s needed: to help load and haul away debris; unload and set up temporary shelters; direct citizenry to and fro. It’s all a huge pain when all he wants to do is lay down for a while, preferably with his head in your lap, and just laze the days away. Promise you’ll find some time to do that while it’s still warm? It’s barely summer, but things aren’t showing any signs of slowing down.

✦✧✦✧𐂃✧✦✧✦

EGO is more than satisfied with the outcomes of the counter-coup. Perhaps a bit too satisfied–he showed up two days after you, hasn’t stopped grinning for the whole week, and holed up in the castle’s library, dictating long and detailed reports to his newly conscripted secretaries and sending them to all the highest-ranking magicians in the world.

You’ve heard rumors he’s even starting work on a book, although when you ask he snorts and replies that he doesn’t have the effort to waste on something so superfluous, would you be willing to have him experiment a few things instead? For the future of the kingdom, you are the linchpin in reviving and reshaping the magical world.

Pick your allies wisely and your lovers even more so, because jealousy has done many a terrible thing to good and honest men.

✦✧✦✧♛✧✦✧✦ 

I’m not going to do a Part 3 but if you send characters/questions, I’d be delighted to say how they fit in/what happened to them after/etc :D so please do!

[whump-card]

This Death That I Chose: Chapter 5

1632 words

CW: emotional whump, conditioning

First, Previous, Masterlist, Next

~~~

Becca called a meeting the next morning, just over 24 hours since they brought Karlo home. The entire rebel community squeezed into the cookhouse, and Becca and Tao stood up on a table to address them all. First, Tao recapped the circumstances of Karlo’s capture – calling him Lark – and then he handed it over to Becca to explain the current situation.

“After talking to him, and doing some investigating,” Becca said, “We determined that Lark was actually a captive of the Commander’s, and was subject to very inhumane treatment. However, Lark himself insists that if we keep him here, the Commander will resort to any means necessary to get him back, including wiping us out if he has to.”

The crowd murmured.

“The most strategic course of action for us would be to trade Lark for something – resources, or perhaps even safe passage to Canada. But clearly, that is not the most humane option. Either way, the longer we keep Lark here, the more potential danger we may be in, if he is telling the truth. And I believe he is. He has -” her voice caught for a moment before she continued, “He has a fierce desire to protect us from harm. He is more than willing to return to the Commander in order to keep us safe. But we would be sending one of our own to a slow death.”

Tao watched Becca speak, his lips slightly parted. He hadn’t expected her to fall so clearly on the side of keep him.

“Regardless, we must consider the safety of the entire community, not just one person. We’ll take questions now.”

A man raised his hand.

“You say he’s willing to go back to the Commander? How can we trust him?”

Tao felt an odd prickle on the back of his neck. He glanced around the room, but most everyone was looking at Becca, not him.

“He only wishes to return because he firmly believes that the Commander will kill us all to get him back,” Becca was saying, “And he doesn’t want that to happen.”

Suddenly, he found them. Dark bronze eyes, trained on him and him alone. Wide with horror.

No.

“Is it my son?”

Marina’s words weren’t loud, but they cut through the room like a knife. Everyone turned to look at her, falling deathly silent, but she didn’t take her eyes off of Tao. He stood paralyzed, even his breath motionless in his lungs. In contrast her chest was heaving with near-sobs.

“Is it my son?!” she screamed.

Tao gulped. And nodded.

Marina was moving instantly, pushing and shoving through the crowd towards the door. Gasps and exclamations roiled through the mass of people. Tao jumped off the table to follow her.

“Marina, wait!”

She disappeared out the door, and Tao was still elbowing his way through the throng. People were shouting, now.

“It’s Marina’s kid?

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell her!”

Tao burst out of the cookhouse into the morning light and rising heat of the day. He spotted Marina sprinting down the street, and took off after her.

Tao was a fairly well-trained militia man, but Marina was a mother running on pure adrenaline. He didn’t catch up until they were right outside Faye’s.

“Marina!” he caught her arm, panting, “He – I know you want to see him, I -”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she shrieked at him, “You were -” she forced the words out between gasping breaths, “In my house, I showed you – showed you pictures of him, Tao!” She punched him in the chest to accentuate her rage. He barely swayed.

“I know, I’m sorry, I…” He realized with a sinking feeling that he wasn’t going to be able to stop her. “You’ll understand when you see him.”

She looked at him with that gaze of dawning horror again, her chest heaving.

“What the fuck does that mean?” she hissed, “What does… What does inhumane treatment mean, Tao?!”

“We think… We’re pretty sure… the Commander kept him, as uh…” Trying to tell Karlo’s mother their suspicions was infinitely harder than telling Vic – but apparently, Tao didn’t need to finish his sentence. Marina’s eyes filled with tears and she pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a heart wrenching cry.

“Marina…” Tao reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, but she stepped back.

“No. I need to see him,” her voice was ragged, and she swiped the tears out of her eyes, “I need to see him right now.”

“Yeah,” Tao wasn’t about to argue with her, “Okay.”

He led her inside. The building was silent – Faye was at the meeting. Tao wondered how it was going now. If they’d voted yet.

Once upstairs, Tao turned to face Marina outside Karlo’s door.

“Listen,” he said, keeping his voice low, “You need to be prepared for… He might not be happy to see you.”

She nodded, her jaw set.

“I understand,” she whispered.

“Give me a minute to let him know you’re here?”

She shut her eyes, but nodded again.

“Okay.”

Tao knocked softly on the door before stepping inside, leaving Marina in the hallway.

Karlo was awake, slightly propped up on the pillows. A Watchman sat next to the bed, a book in her lap. They both watched Tao enter.

“Hannah,” Tao beckoned to the Watchman, “Can you wait downstairs for a bit?”

“Sure thing, boss.” She tucked her book under her arm and left.

Tao stayed by the door. He had the sense that what was about to happen would be incredibly overwhelming for Karlo, and he didn’t want to start things off by barging into the young man’s personal space. Karlo already looked like he was on high alert, watching Tao unblinkingly and slightly hunched around his broken arm.

“So… your mom is here. Here-here, this time. She wants – she needs to see you.”

“No.”

Tao was startled by how forceful Karlo’s quiet voice was. His face was grimly set, and he didn’t take his eyes off Tao.

“Karlo, it’s your mom-”

“I won’t see her.”

“Well, unfortunately, it’s not up to you or me anymore.” Tao turned to open the door.

“Tao, please.”

The use of his name made Tao pause, hand on the knob.

“Don’t do this to me,” Karlo said in a fearfully demanding whisper, “I need to be able to go back.”

Tao couldn’t quite look at him.

“You’re not going back,” he said, with more certainty than he felt. Then he opened the door.

Tao felt all of the air suck out of the room when Marina walked in. She entered slowly, each step seeming to take all her effort, her footsteps and shaky breathing the only sound audible. She stopped abreast of Tao, her hands clenched together in front of her.

“Karlo?” she whispered.

Karlo wasn’t looking at her. He had turned his head to glare out the window, utterly impassive. No, almost impassive; his eyes were too wide, and his good hand was fisted in the blankets on his lap.

“Karlo?” Marina started to walk around the bed to step into Karlo’s line of sight. Just as she was about to, he turned his head to look the other way.

“Karlo…” She seemed to be at a loss for any other words. Tears spilled down her face, and she sank into the chair by the bedside. She slowly reached out towards his shoulder.

“Karlo-”

“Don’t touch me,” Karlo snapped.

Marina withdrew her hand, pressing it to her mouth. She started to sob, doubling over in the chair.

Tao stared at Karlo in disbelief. Now that the boy was no longer feverish or sleep deprived, his stoic front was near unshakable. Tao caught Karlo’s shoulders shivering, once, and that was it.

He thought of his own mother. He’d been missing her for more than twice the amount of time Karlo had been missing his. If she were suddenly in front of him, crying her heart out, Tao couldn’t imagine what would stop him from rushing to her side – until he realized, he could.

If I thought my presence would kill her, I’d do anything to keep her away.

Please don’t do this to me, Karlo had begged. Now Tao regretted doing this to both of them – Karlo and Marina. He moved forward and put his arm around Marina’s shaking shoulders.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

To his surprise, she didn’t resist; but she continued to weep as he helped her to her feet and led her out of the room. Hanna stood waiting for them downstairs, having heard the wailing coming. Tao told her to stand guard outside Karlo’s room, to give the boy a breath of privacy. She darted up the stairs and Tao moved to help Marina sit in a chair, but she turned and pressed her face into his chest instead, throwing her arms around him.

Not entirely sure what to do, Tao wrapped his arms around her and held her as she wept. Regret built up in his stomach, and when Marina started losing steam he started apologizing.

“Marina, I’m really, really sorry, I… I should have prepared you better, for how he… I should have realized this would upset you, and…”

“Tao,” she choked out, lifting her red and tear-streaked face from his chest, “I’m not – I’m not crying because of that,” she hiccuped, “I’m crying because he’s alive, my baby is alive.”

“Oh!” Tao huffed with relief, “Oh.”

“He doesn’t have to smile, he doesn’t have to look at me, he just has to be here. But Tao – Joshua,” she gripped his bicep with a sudden urgency, “He can’t go back. No matter what happens, I’m not losing him again.”

“You won’t,” Tao said, “I promise. You won’t.”

~~~

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