bhitarkanikanationalpark

[boneskullravenriver]

I've been watching TOS everyday to zoom through the episodes since the library only gives a limited amount of time for DVDs compared to books so it's gotten to the point where I can't read the book I'm currently reading without hearing Kirk's voice 😭

[astraystayyh]

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess : i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter i. to forget

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader.

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a car accident. mention of blood and physical wounds. depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. reader has she/her pronouns.

word count : 14.8k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me.

a.n: she's here, she's yours, i hope you'll enjoy reading one of the most challenging things I've ever wrote :') your feedback is highly appreciated <3

special thanks to @forlix for going through this journey with me, i love you thank you, seriously, you mean the world to me. and to @dorisnumber1fan for listening to my initial rants about this fic, and all the ones i ever write. i love you and appreciate you so much, more than i could explain <3

quotes series masterlist. next chapter.

Day 1.

You're floating in a dark void, save for the specks of light swirling around you. A peculiar serenity fills your being, a tranquility unlike any you’ve ever known. It’s as though your body isn’t your own; but rather an otherworldly vessel, calmly traversing the cosmos, dancing in constellations with the stars that encircle you.

A sudden electrifying warmth surges from your hand, traveling down the contours of your knuckles, melting into the lines of your palm. It pulsates within your being as if you’re holding the Earth's very core between your fingers. You stir from your ethereal orbit, longing to break apart from the celestial lights, to reunite with your body once again.

The warmth intensifies, causing your fingers to involuntarily clench. A deluge of radiance enfolds you, drawing you into a luminous hole. You squint your eyes, drinking in the light- your first breath.

Your eyes flutter open in a daze, your throat parched, rasping like sandpaper against your vocal cords. White encompasses you yet again, from the high ceilings to the pristine bed you’re lying on. It takes you a few blinks to grasp your new environment- an unfamiliar hospital room. You wearily close your eyes, hoping for the stillness to return, aching for the peace you felt within your bones mere moments ago.

But to no avail; only the tingling sensation remains.

You tilt your head, eyebrows shooting upwards as you notice a hand clasping yours. A figure lies their forehead beside your body, black disheveled locks tickling your palm.

The warmth, you understand where it comes from now.

You attempt to slip your hand out of theirs, prompting the man to awaken with a jolt, surprise dancing across his features as his gaze meets yours. Dark circles adorn his face- testimonies to days of fatigue imprinted upon every feature of his. Yet, all of it dissipates as he gazes at you, lips slightly parted, bunny teeth peeking out. His face transforms into a radiant smile, stirring a mysterious longing within your soul- it brushes against your fingertips before slipping beyond your reach. 

"You're awake," he whispers in awe, and your tiredness renders you mute. You point to your throat, hoping that he'll understand what you need. "Water? Is- Is that what you want?" he asks, a touch too eager, fingers running through his hair in sheer disbelief. You nod and he rises swiftly, pouring you a glass of water and bringing it to your lips.

You sip diligently as his hand caresses the crown of your hair, the warmth now traveling to the top of your head. You feel lightheaded as if the blood in your veins has thickened, the very life in you slowed to a faint whisper. Yet, a timid relief emerges as your thirst is finally quenched.

"I'll- I'll go call the doctor," he tells you, his beaming smile unwavering. It’s too bright, everything around you is, and you feel a throbbing headache growing at your temple’s base.

It's a mere minute before the man returns, a doctor and two nurses on his trail. You float within a haze as the nurse shines a beam of light in your eyes. The response of your pupils seems to please her.

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor inquires and you frown. You've been racking your brain for an explanation as to why you're here, but to no avail. You shake your head.

"What's your name," he proceeds, lips growing into a thin line.

"Y/n, Y/l/n," you respond, your voice sounding foreign to your ears, as though it hasn’t left the confines of your throat for ages. You miss the darkness; you want to sleep again.

"What date are we?"

Your eyebrows knit together as you try to think of an answer. "The 20th or maybe the 21st September."

"What year?"

"2022."

An eerie silence falls upon the room, a stillness resembling the one of your dreams; but it isn’t comforting, on the contrary, it fills your being with an unsettling dread, one that trickles inside you with each second spent in silence. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You close your eyes to avoid the sorry ones of the nurse.

"We need to run you an MRI scan," the doctor finally speaks up, tone somber. "It appears you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. But we have to make sure."

It takes time for the words to permeate your consciousness, for the syllables to settle in and start to make sense. Amnesia.

What have you forgotten?

“What…” you chuckle warily, fingers reaching up to soothe your throbbing forehead. “What year is it?”

"It's the 24th of September 2023. You were in a severe car accident two days ago, a drunk truck driver rammed into your car on your way home. You have a fractured rib and extensive leg injury, but no broken bones thankfully. We'll get you to the scan shortly, okay?" he speaks easily as if announcing that you've missed the rain while asleep. As if it’s not a year’s worth of memories you’ve seemingly forgotten, erased in the span of a blink, akin to footprints on sand washed away by the waves. Nothing of importance.

"So, you don't... remember me?" a soft voice quivers, barely above a whisper, and your eyes meet those of the man who’s been at your side, temporarily forgotten in the conversation.

His question is laced with a grave fear, evident in his dilated pupils and trembling hands. A lump blooms in your throat, its thorns pricking at your voice. You aren’t sure you want to answer that question.

"I- I don't."

"Oh."

You’ve never known that a human could crumble in silence, in an imperceptible gasp, so small you almost did not hear it. A crestfallen expression materializes on his face in the span of a heartbeat, features coming together in the rawest expression of anguish you’ve ever seen. You bite your lip.

"Who- Who are you?" you implore, urgency inflecting your tone, hoping that he's no one of importance. Someone who helped you when you got into a car accident. Someone minor who you wouldn't fault your brain for forgetting.

"I was... I-I am your boyfriend. Minho," he utters his name like a broken plea, eyes slightly widening to gauge your reaction. As though those two syllables hold within them a myriad of memories, ones you simply cannot forget.

You don't remember.

The doctor was right in his diagnosis. The scan showed unusual activity within your brain, characteristic of post-traumatic amnesia. You listened numbly as he cited the precautions you should take to heal your physical wounds- to rest, not carry anything heavy, ice your lungs, and go on walks. But you did not care for the state of your body, you’ve bruised it before and it has healed in its own time. It will do it again; it is a familiar path you’ve already undergone. But what about your memory? Your mind that robbed you of a year of your life? How do you get it back?

“There is no guarantee you’d remember. There is also no treatment for amnesia. We advise that you focus on healing first. Do not strain your mind,” your doctor smiled, before leaving the room. His silver wedding band shined mockingly underneath your eye. He doesn’t know what it’s like to forget the lover awaiting you at home.

Minho dutifully sat by your side, nodding along to the doctor’s words. He signed your discharge papers and settled your bills before you could protest, and he was now pushing your wheelchair through the hospital's corridors. You didn’t know what to say to him- how do you talk to a stranger who uttered your name with love dripping between its letters?  

In the hospital’s parking lot, Minho pauses, squatting before you. His eyes are puffy, red veins contrasting against the pristine whites, betraying the tears he must have shed when he excused himself to the toilet.

You suddenly want to beg for a reprieve; it is too much pain for one day, too much for one soul to bear. But it is only six p.m. and Minho's gaze holds you captive, a new emotion dancing in his brown irises- grief. He's looking at you as though you're a phantom, gone when you are still very much breathing.

“We've been together for eleven months, and we moved in together two months ago,” he licks his lips nervously. “You have a two-month medical leave, and I- I don’t want to leave you alone, while you recover. So, you can think of us as… as roommates.” The word felt heavy on his tongue, a fresh wave of tears brimming in his waterline. He swiftly blinks them away.

Your parents are in a faraway city, so is your best friend. You were the one who decided to move somewhere so far, to flee from the skeletons threatening to spill out of your closet. You don't want to burden anyone. You just want to rest.

You nod in agreement and Minho attempts to smile. It is a useless effort; one he quickly gives up. There was nothing to be joyous about.

Minho takes your hand, gently helping you to your feet. He opens the door to his car, and you settle into the passenger seat. It smells pleasant, an apple-scented diffuser dangling from the rearview mirror. Yet, as Minho closes the door, the scent suddenly suffocates you. Your lungs ignite, consuming your oxygen to douse their rising flames. You can no longer breathe inside, panic rippling in your heart violently, pushing at your ribs, begging for an escape. You open the door, collapsing to your knees as a violent coughing fit overtakes you. You blindly clutch at Minho’s arm and he tumbles to the ground with you. 

The ugly sob that had been trapped within your throat finally escapes, and passersby pay you no mind. It must be usual to hear gut-wrenching cries in a hospital parking lot. But Minho seems to care, as his hands soothingly rub your back, undergoing a steadfast path from the nape of your neck down the base of your spine. He’s not panicking and his touch appears to instinctively know how to speak to your sadness, how to soothe your sorrow with unheard words.

You imagine it's not his first time comforting you, and the thought only forces another sob from the depths of your soul, as Minho pulls you up once again. He sits your shaky figure on the wheelchair, closing the car doors.

“We can walk,” he tells you gently, and despite the quietness of his voice, it manages to break through your raging storm. A singular sun ray parting the gloomy clouds.

“It’s okay, I’ll... I’ll suck it up”

"You've been through a terrible car accident, and I won't let you sit here and panic, especially when your wounds are still fresh and your mind is trying to protect you."

His tone is resolute, eyes blazing with determination as he looks at you. You can only nod in response. So, Minho pushes your wheelchair to his house. He doesn’t huff, nor complain about the autumn sun scorching his skin, the effort to push you for the entirety of the road, and then inside his building. He only smiles when his eyes meet yours in the elevator mirror.

He’s tentative as he opens the door to his apartment, hand tightly gripping the keys before turning them, as if preparing himself for a bigger heartbreak, one that lies within what was once his sanctuary- yours too, you suppose.

Minho pushes you inside, pausing near the entrance as your eyes drink in the interior. He seems to await something, perhaps for you to remember the place you’ve called home for the past months. A few seconds pass, and he clears his throat, holding your arm to guide you forward. He avoids your gaze as you both venture in.

“This is the kitchen,” he points to a small kitchenette, where a flower bouquet seems to have wilted, much like the man near you- his emotions now diluted, eyes dimmed as they glaze over the walls. You spot your favorite mug on the racks, one that resembles a fairy mushroom. The sight of it makes your heart clench in your chest. So, this is your home, after all.

You leave the kitchen and walk down a narrow hallway when you stumble on your feet. “Easy, honey,” Minho cautions, and your hold on his forearm falters. He blinks at you before gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, force of habit.”

“It’s okay,” you reply in a small voice.

Minho leads you to the living room, cream-colored sofas with a navy blanket on top, multiple fuzzy pillows scattered all around. A tulip field painting graces the accent blue wall- your favorite flower, two matching slippers rest by the couch, racks of your novels adjacent to his collection of cookbooks, you assume. 

It is all the more evident to you that you’ve both lived here, lives intertwining so seamlessly into one another. The place radiates comfort and warmth, but it refuses to penetrate your being, as if you’re harboring a shield of oblivion, ricocheting off any touch of remembrance. You’re an intruder, standing in stark contrast to the inviting coziness that envelops you.

“I like that wall,” you say in an attempt to lighten the stuffy atmosphere.

“We painted it together,” Minho smiles sadly, and your remorse seems to liquify, blending in with the blood running through your veins.

From the corner of your eyes, you spot three furry masses bolting towards you, small paws clawing at your feet. You feel another dent add to your heart, so much you are sure it would blow away at the tiniest gust of wind. Just how much have you forgotten?

“We… We had cats?” you ask breathlessly, eyes widening as you take in the two orange felines, and the gray, much smaller one.

“These are mine, but you also adopted them, in a way,” he explains, crouching down to pet his cats, scratching the sensitive spot behind their ears. He is tender with them and they appear at ease in his presence. You realize you’ve felt the same since you’ve woken up.

“Hey, my babies,” he coos softly. “Mom- I mean y/n- is tired so let’s give her some space, okay?” he quickly corrects, before gently pushing the cats away from your feet.

Minho shows you the bathroom before leading you to the bedroom- it's a bit untidy, worn clothes thrown on the ground, some of your accessories tossed on top of the vanity. As if the room was also frozen in time, awaiting your return to resume its familiar course.

“You'll sleep here and I'll just take the couch,” Minho interrupts your thoughts as he gently sits you atop the bed.

"But-"

"I’ll make you dinner so you can take your medication, okay?” he ignores your objections, adjusting two pillows behind your back to help you sit up straight, just like the doctor cautioned. His necklace, adorned with your initial, brushes against your cheek. “Try to sleep meanwhile. You need to rest.”

“Minho this is too much-"

“It’s not. If you need anything just call me over, I’ll leave the door open,” he says, tucking you in beneath the blanket. 

“I don’t want to burden you,” you finally admit, voice slightly raised so he’d finally listen.

“Y/n, I love you.” He speaks so suddenly, fists balled on either side of your body. “And this is what I do for the person I love. I… I don’t know how to not care for you, don’t take that away from me, please. Please,” he repeats, voice faltering under the weight of his plea. 

"Okay," you concede. 

You can't quite remember that first night, the morphine injected into your veins made you ebb and flow out of consciousness, only recollecting small fragments of the hours flowing by.

But you remember the dull pain settling into your bones, one you knew would accompany you for the following weeks. You remember the thoughts swirling in your mind like a tempest- your near brush with death, how she almost trapped you into her icy hold; the year of memories gone with the wind, as if they were never yours to begin with; and the stranger whose home you are in now, the very one who took care of you throughout the night.

And you can't perfectly recall it, but you swear Minho stayed by your side until the early hours of the morning, warm hand pressed to your forehead to check your temperature, cold tears falling on your arm as he laid his head next to your sleeping body.

Day 2.

You miss being asleep the second you wake up in.

Every fiber of your being aches, as though pain has latched itself into every muscle, its grip unrelenting now that the morphine's comforting veil has lifted. You drag a hand tiredly across your face, tears of frustration welling like dewdrops in your eyes. It's only 10 a.m. Far too early for one's spirit to crumble.

A bright post-it note on the bedside table catches your weary gaze. "I went to drop your medical leave at your work. I've made you breakfast it's in the kitchen. Don't forget to drink your medicine, I'll be home soon"

What home was Minho referring to, exactly? Because this one wasn’t yours, and neither was the one back in your hometown. Were you destined to be a passerby in temporary places, always lingering near the door, ready to put your shoes back on and leave at any moment?

10:03. Still too early.

You find solace in having two months off of your work. You couldn’t bear being somewhere where everybody knew you for months, while your memories of them span but mere weeks. The expectations they would have, the pressure to conform, to mirror the footsteps of your past self was an unbearable burden. What if she was better than you? Made better choices, spoke more eloquently? What if you couldn't live up to the image they had conjured? What if you couldn't face the repercussions of your past actions?

10:07. You need to shower.

You slowly ease yourself off the bed, careful not to put pressure on your injured leg, avoiding even the slightest exhalation. You pretend as if nothing’s happening as you pick up a pair of pajamas that you recognize from the closet – a familiar relic from the life you’ve always known.

It's a charade, you’re aware of it. You're but treading on fragile ice, your pain threatening to shatter the frozen façade beneath your feet, plunging you into the frigid truth at any given moment.

You walk into the shower, attempting to rinse the day's tiredness away. But moving your limbs is a strenuous task, and you can't reach over your head to wash your hair. You let out a dry chuckle as the water runs over your back, splattering across the white tiles.

Your heart swells in your chest, an uncomfortable weight pressing against your fractured ribs. Still, it beats, and you cling with all your might to this one silver lining.

Minho has made you pancakes, not the most nutritious meal but the only one you can stomach on your sick days. He's also brewed you tea, a singular sugar cube resting at the bottom of your cup, just the way you like it. Your grip on your fork tightens, knuckles paling. You wish he had put three sugar cubes, or that he made you anything but pancakes, something to reassure you that he didn’t know you so intimately. That your mind hasn’t stolen a love where every detail of you was known. 

The door opens, keys clinking on a solid surface. The sound of it tugs at your heart ever so faintly, a distant bell ringing somewhere far- it quiets down before you even realize it is there.

“Good morning,” Minho greets, the corners of his mouth curving upward although his eyes remain downcast, redness tinging its outlines. You look down at your cup, unable to hold his wounded stare.

“Good morning. Thank you for the breakfast and for going to my work. I really appreciate it,” you say.

“It's nothing. Your coworkers wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Mm,” you murmur. “That's nice of them."

“Here,” he slides a phone across the table. “I bought you a new one since your phone’s screen was smashed in the car accident, but I took it to a repair shop. Maybe they’d manage to fix it.”

You go to protest when he shakes his head, silencing you. “Don’t say It’s too much.”

A surprised giggle escapes your lips at his accurate prediction, momentarily halting Minho in his tracks. You swallow the sound down as Minho clears his throat, dissipating your laughter into thin air. “I put my phone number there. Also, the ones of your family that I have. Always call me if you need anything, okay?” he pauses, locking your eyes with his. “Anything.”

“It's okay, I really don't want to bother you. You might be busy."

“I’ll still answer,” he quickly responds. “I’ll always answer you.” 

There is a certain sincerity that coats Minho's words, one that softens the edges of his letters, making them easier to permeate your being, to sink into the seas of your soul.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Yes, hon- " He inhales deeply, eyes looking anywhere but at you. “Yes, Yn?”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Of course.”

The ensuing hours blur into a hazy dance, in which you’re only awakened by Minho’s warm hand on your shoulder, as he brings you lunch, then dinner to your room, paired with the medicine you need to take. He doesn’t talk to you, only carrying out the tray outside when he deems you asleep- as if tiptoeing near your existence, afraid he’d slip into you again, knowing you won’t be there to catch him.

It's nearly midnight when you leave your room to use the bathroom. You pause near the door when you spot Minho petting his cats. You don’t even know their names, you haven’t dared to ask, still foolishly holding on to the hopes that this is but a horrible nightmare, one clawing at your tender skin even after you rose.

“You’re sad, aren’t you?” he coos softly, and the cats respond with plaintive mewls as if understanding his words. “Mm. I’m really sad too,” his voice is barely above a whisper, as though it’s a confession he isn’t ready to speak out loud. The pain in your ribs intensifies.

“But it’s okay, she’ll remember us. We are her family, she can’t forget us forever, right?” your breathing hitches. “Right,” he adds softly, as if to reassure himself; to inflate hope in a heart deserted by you.

Day 3.

Minho threw away the wilted flowers, leaving the vase bare at the center of the kitchen table. 

You almost wish he hadn't- those lifeless blooms were the sole reflection of your faded spirit within this home. Now everything in the house seemed alive, grand windows ushering in daylight to cascade upon the living space, causing the ivory walls to glisten. Everything, except for you and Minho, two ghosts skirting along the existence of one another.

There is, was, love imprinted in this house. You could sense it though you couldn’t feel it anymore. By the two cat mugs that connect through their tails, your products intermingling with Minho's in the bathroom sink, the notes you found hung on the fridge- some with his handwriting, most with yours, reminding Minho how much you loved him.

Where did all that love go? Did it dissipate into thin air, gone as if it had never existed? Has it turned into something else, lurking beneath the surface of your skin, waiting for you to remember?

You can’t find the answers, and as Minho finishes up his breakfast, you find yourself longing to ask him about the past year. Who you were and what you’ve lived. But you know it’ll feel like salt on a wound, akin to bringing a mirror before his face, reminding him of all that's been lost.

So instead, you offer to wash the dishes. He refuses, not that you expected anything else given his attentiveness to you.

“It’s only two plates and two cups, I can do it,” you insist, but he just stares blankly at you, before motioning to your ribs, and your swollen ankle. “It’ll be quick, please. I-I want to do it.”

“Fine,” he concedes, gaze softening. “But if you feel pain you'll stop.”

“Okay,” you smile tentatively, eager for the sense of normalcy that this mundane act would bring. You haven't forgotten how to wash a cup, at least.

Five minutes pass, and you suddenly freeze, plates drying in your hands. You have no idea where the dishes go.

This was your home, yet you can't even remember which cupboard holds the plates. 

Silent tears flow down your cheeks and you wipe them away angrily. You clutch the plate in your hands so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t shattered. You selfishly wish it did- you were tired of being the sole broken entity in this house.

A small whimper escapes your lips, startling Minho who was mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He rushes to your side, brows furrowed, concern woven into his face. 

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain? Should I call the doctor?” he questions; eyes raking through your figure anxiously.

You shake your head as your tears double over. You can feel your heart constricting in your chest, longing for comfort, for a missing piece that was snatched from you, the void it left behind pulsating achingly within your being.

“I-I don’t know where the dishes go, and yesterday I tried to w-wash my hair and I c-couldn’t do it,” you admit through hiccups, plate still in your hands. Minho gently takes it from your tight hold, and your pinky brushes against his palm. He flexes his hand at the touch.

“It’s okay, it’s my fault. I should've shown you,” his voice is gentle, reminding you of how one soothes a child during a tantrum. You're embarrassing yourself but you can't find it in you to care. 

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t p-put them back in their place,” you choke out, head turned down, tears ricocheting off sage tiles. You’ve always wanted a green kitchen. You’ve gotten it and you can’t remember.

“It’s okay, I’ll put them back. Shh, yn, please don’t cry.” He’s slightly panicking, hands tightly fisted near his body as if he’s afraid they’d act on their own accord, reaching out to touch you the way they’ve done the past few months. He sighs softly before taking a cautious step toward you. 

“I’ll wash your hair for you,” he offers, smiling tenderly at you, knuckles brushing ever so gently against your cheeks. “Hm? You can sit in front of the sink and I’ll wash it.”

“You’d do it?”

“I’d do anything for you.”

There is a softness that emanates from every atom of Minho, flowing from his fingertips, molding everything he touches. You were sure of it as he stood beside you, pouring shampoo over your hair with you sitting on a stool, head tilted back to the sink, your favorite song playing in the background. As he dried your hair with a warm towel, and then settled behind you on the bed, gently lathering your hair with your familiar serum, brushing your strands with care, avoiding any tugs that might pain you.

Everything Minho does is not to hurt you. 

You went to sleep with the ghost of his fingers lingering on your scalp, his warm breath still caressing the back of your neck. You found slumber came much easier to you that night. You account it to your hair finally being clean.

Day 4.

“Yn?” Minho calls out gently, his head peering through the bedroom door.  “Should we go on a walk? Just around the block, the doctor said it’d be good.”

“Sure,” you nod, glancing at the bedside clock. 9:43 p.m. it reads. 

“Dress warmly, it’s cold outside,” he advises softly before leaving.

A few minutes later, you're clad in a gray university hoodie that drapes slightly past your thighs and a pair of matching sweatpants. Minho halts in his tracks upon seeing you, his eyes racking furiously over your figure. He shakes his head, swallowing a growing lump of despair. 

“Wait here,” he whispers, vanishing into his room, leaving you fidgeting in place. An orange cat sidles up to your feet and you slowly bend down to scratch its ears. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” you smile sadly and he purrs in response, as if forgiving you for forgetting.

You wished you could forgive yourself too, one day.

Minho comes back, a red scarf in his hands. He steps forward until only a few inches are separating your bodies. With attentive care, he wraps the scarf around your neck, securing it in place. His brows furrow as he loops the fabric through and you release a small, shaky exhale.

There is a fog dissipating before your eyes, a misty veil lifted off your irises. In the four days you've known Minho, you always willed yourself to not look at him for too long, afraid of the pain you'd discern brewing over his figure, the shadows cast across his face.

But now, he stands so near that you cannot help but look at him. Wispy black bangs fall on top of his forehead, framing his rich honey eyes. His long eyelashes flutter with each blink, pupils dilated like a constellation-laden night sky. The smooth bridge of his high nose, dotted with the smallest mole; a well-defined cupid's bow outlining rosy, plump lips. He’s beautiful, even in his sadness; with sunken cheekbones and darkened eye circles, the hunch of his back, and the shake in his hands as he gently frees your hair from underneath the scarf.

Was it wrong of you to find beauty in his pain?

His gaze softens when it finally meets yours, his hand still holding your scarf tightly, as if it's a lifeline tethering him to you, one with which he verifies your existence, suddenly so elusive now that it no longer entwines with his.

It must be strange, surely, to grieve the loss of someone who’s still alive, breathing in the room next to yours.

Minho smiles at you, his fingers hovering above your head, as though he wished to smooth down your hair. He retracts his hand back, burying it deep inside the pocket of his black sweatpants, physically trapping it, stopping it from reaching it out to you once again. 

You’ve noticed his reticence to touch you, even when he wakes you in the morning to drink your medicine. His hand never fully rests upon your shoulder, it is only his fingertips that delicately graze your skin. It's as though he’s convinced you're but a figment of his imagination, and he fears that once he touches you, his hand will pass right through your body, shattering the illusion he foolishly held onto.

You blink and Minho’s already three steps away, grabbing his keys and opening the door.

Despite cautioning you against the cold, Minho doesn't say no when you ask for ice cream, paying for it before you can reach the counter. It's an unfamiliar brand, one that he advised you to try, and you don't regret following his choice. It’s a sweet mixture of vanilla and caramelized almonds, coated in rich milk chocolate- you can't stop the happy smile that graces your lips upon tasting it. 

You glance at Minho to find an unprecedented softness coloring his expression, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. It isn't a smile directed at you, but rather an uncontrollable display of his feelings, splashing across his face like paint on a canvas. 

You expect him to swallow this mark of affection down, to conceal it with a placid expression, but he doesn't. He only tilts his chin forward, gesturing to the ice cream.

"Do you like it?"

You hum in agreement, a grin stretching wider on your lips. "I do."

"You did too, back then, when I showed it to you," he says, almost casually, as if referring to a childhood memory that turned out to be more important to him than to you.

"You have good taste," you reply, scrunching your nose playfully at him. The smile slips away from his face, his voice somber when he speaks again. "I really do, don't I?"

Walking with Minho isn't as awkward as you had imagined it might be. He shows you the neighborhood- the nearby playground, the hidden flower shop tucked away in a corner and you make a mental note to visit it later. You point at closed shops inquiring about them- he answers each of your questions diligently.

Your accident is never brought up, and you both tiptoe around the topic, skirting the edge of a dark forest where the light no longer seeps through and dark vines cover the sun. 

You both refuse to venture into the unknown.

"Just down the road, there is a bookstore. They have really great deals and I bought most-" Shouts erupt from somewhere nearby, loud slurred voices of two men under the influence. Your hand instinctively wraps around Minho's forearm, while his hand moves in front of your body, acting as a shield. 

You freeze, letting out a shaky breath. "I- I hate yelling."

"I know," he responds simply, lowering his hand.

He knows you- it is a comforting thought, to realize that you exist beyond the confines of your own mind.

Day 5.

Minho’s staring blankly at his phone, your conversation shining dimly before his eyes. You’ve just sent him a text reassuring him that you indeed took your medicine since he wasn’t home today with you- his three days off work passing by in the blink of an eye. 

In his mind, the past week felt like a mirage, a nightmare woven with intricate threads of his deepest fears- losing you, never getting to see the glimmer in your eyes again, and then looking at it and realizing it is no longer directed at him. 

He exhales softly, tucking his phone into the pocket of his navy trousers. The salty breeze from the nearby lake grazes his senses, and he closes his eyes, yearning for a fleeting respite. 

He purposely avoids watching the sun's descent into the water, which paints the sky in hues of yellow and orange. He no longer finds the sunset unfolding before him captivating, or any other scenery, for that matter, even those he once deemed beautiful. The world, in his eyes, has become lackluster and devoid of vibrancy, overshadowed by a profound sadness he never fathomed would reside in his heart. 

He still doesn’t know how he managed to remain strong until now, tending to you, holding your gaze, and breathing near you when you don’t even remember him.

You’ve survived, he reminds himself, you were lucky enough to be able to draw these breaths. The thought of any other outcome sends uncomfortable shivers down his spine. You’re alive and you’ll be home, he clings to this truth as he starts making his way back to his apartment. 

For how long will this knowledge offer him solace? How long will it push him to face a new day? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he wants to. 

It is much deeper into the night, the sound of the TV playing softly in the background. Minho has given up on slumber since the day of your accident. He was used to the feel of your fingers playing with his hair, your goodnight kisses planted on his forehead, then his on yours. 

He doesn't know how to sleep without burying his head in your neck, your chest, your stomach, wherever he saw fit that day. And he was used to your warmth- the warmth of your body as he pressed it tightly to his, the warmth of your love as you whispered goodnight to him. And the living room feels immensely cold in your absence. 

He fixates his gaze on the ceiling, resolute in his effort to avoid scanning the room. Since every corner he dares to inspect serves as a poignant reminder of the life you both once shared, a life whose echoes still reverberate in the air around him. The sound of your laughter, the memory of your annoyed whines when he teased you a bit too fervently. Vivid recollections unfold before his eyes- your tender kisses exchanged under the fridge's light, warm hugs by the front door after a particularly long day, none of you willing to let go first. 

He remembers your delighted giggles the first time you entered the house. It was still unfurnished, save for a floatable mattress and two empty cups of ramen beside it. But you were happy, immensely so, and your joy seemed to fill every room, painting it with shades of your love. Now the house feels empty- you're here and yet you aren't, and he is still on the sidewalk where he received that fateful call from your hospital. 

The moonlight filters through the window, and Minho looks at the light without truly seeing it. It's as if darkness surrounds him entirely- a bottomless sky where the stars of your affection have fizzled out, so suddenly, leaving him alone to wander blind. He can't help but feel guilty- had he not given you a love worth remembering?

Minho sighs loudly once again, trying to coax the reluctant breaths to escape his body. He pulls himself to his feet to check on you, knowing that you had to sleep upright for the first few days so your ribs would heal properly, which is why he often found himself readjusting your body at night. 

He peeks through the door, the light from the hallway casting an ethereal glow on your body. He frowns when he notices you fidgeting in your sleep, eyebrows knitted together. A soft gasp escapes your lips and Minho hurries to your side. He's witnessed your nightmares before and he knows that this one must be particularly terrifying to elicit such startled sounds from you.

“Y/n,” Minho coaxes gently, but you don’t respond. He presses his palm to your shoulder, shaking you slightly. “Y/n, wake up.” You writhe in your place, fear evident in your features, and Minho grabs both your shoulders, growing more urgent in his attempts to wake you. “Y/n, come on wake up!” he speaks louder, and you startle awake, pushing his arms away.

“I’m... Where am I?” you ask frantically, hand running through your hair. A sharp pain seems to surge through your ribs as you clutch your chest, slightly doubling over. 

“Take it easy, Y/n. Deep breaths,” he wills gently and you raise your head, meeting his eyes. Recognition shines in them, but not love, not anymore. He never knew affection could alter someone’s gaze this much.

“Minho… I- I remember,” you gasp, tears trailing down your face at an alarming rate. He freezes in place, tongue thickening in his mouth, unable to move it.

“What... what do you remember?” he asks carefully, sitting on the edge of your bed. 

“The accident. I remember driving and I… I was going in my lane, I- I didn’t… I wasn’t driving fast, but a truck came out of nowhere and its lights blinded me, and then… it rammed into the passenger seat side of the car and-" Your hands shake as you bring them to your face. “The blood, there was so much blood coming out of me, that’s- that’s the last thing I remember, it was in my hands and my arms and-" You’re wiping frantically at your skin as if erasing remnants of the red liquid only you can see. “I bled so much but I was… I- I don’t-"

“Can I hold your hands?” Minho cuts you off, needing the panic to dissipate from your being.

“Please,” you stutter, and he promptly grabs your hands in his warm ones, intertwining your fingers together, rubbing his thumb soothingly across your palm. 

“You are safe now. You are alive and you are breathing and you are safe.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I drove safely, why… why was I hit?” you ask in a small, broken voice, overwhelmed by the unjust reality of the world. Minho swallows his own tears, throwing them down the pits of his pain. The one thing he wished you’d never remember was your accident, the sight of your unconscious body for those three days nearly driving him insane. 

“He was drunk. And he’s in jail now. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t have prevented it." 

You remain silent, gaze lost on the wall. “Hm? It wasn’t your fault, right?" he presses, squeezing your hand lightly.

“Yeah.” You sigh, unconvinced. Minho reluctantly drops your hand to pour you a glass of water, and you diligently drink it, before curling around yourself in a ball. 

“No, you can’t sit like this,” he gently reprimands and you pout. 

"My heart hurts. The pressure helps."

“I know it does,” he smiles in understanding, “but we have to make sure your ribs won’t hurt more, alright?” he explains as he pulls you upright, tucking pillows beneath your arms. He grabs a hoodie from the closet and rolls it into a ball, placing it gently on your chest. 

“Here, you can hug this instead.” You giggle quietly at the makeshift plushie, but your laughter suddenly morphs into fresh tears, catching him off-guard. 

“I’m so tired, Minho. And I’m so frustrated and mad and sad. Is it possible to f-feel all these things at once?" You hiccup, burying your face into his hoodie, soaking it in tears. 

“It is,” he hums gently, “Do you think it’d help if you talked to a therapist?” He feels you tense up beneath the comforter. “Only if you want to, on your own terms.”

“I’ll think about it,” you whisper. 

“Of course,” he says. “Try to sleep again, mm?”

“I don’t think I can,” you chuckle quietly, wiping your tears away with the sleeves of your cardigan. “Do you have work tomorrow?” you ask.

“I do.”

“What do you work as?” 

“Computer programming. I’m also a dance teacher on the side,” he adds quietly, feeling a bit vulnerable at revealing this bit about himself again.

“How do you manage both?” you ask in awe and he shrugs.

 “My IT job leaves me a lot of free time. And I’ve always loved dance, so it doesn’t really feel like a job, you know?”

“Mm, you must work very hard at it. That’s why your body’s so toned,” you say almost absentmindedly, as Minho lets out a surprised chuckle at your words. 

“You think my body is toned?”

“I mean- I didn’t ogle you I just… you know, you wear these fitted shirts it’s hard not to notice your muscles and-"

"You are sick and yet you’re staring at my body?” he tsks. “I feel used.”

“Hey,” you hit him with the hoodie he gave you. “Forget I said anything,” you pout. 

“It’s okay, I work very hard for these, thank you very much,” he flexes slightly, and genuine laughter bubbles up from you both. This might be the one thing he misses the most. 

You both quiet down, silence filling the room once again, but it isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable, almost as if you're the same person he's always known.  

“What’s your favorite color?” you suddenly ask. 

“Purple.”

“Did my favorite color change over this past year?”

“No,” he chuckles, “it’s still that obnoxious orange.”

“It’s not obnoxious, it’s peculiar.”

“it’s weird and it hurts my poor eyes,” he whines, covering his face as if wounded by the mere thought of it. 

“Hey, what if it can hear us and now you just hurt its feelings?”

“Colors have feelings now?” he asks, amused.

“Everything has feelings,” you nod matter-of-factly.

“Okay then think of the feelings of this bed we are both squishing with our weights.”

“Don’t say that. Now I’m sad for it,” you pat the comforter gently, a slight pout tugging at your lips. 

“I think you should sleep,” he smiles and you fake a gasp. “Is my convo boring you?” 

“Yes. Now sleep, Yn,” he brings the comforter up your body, sliding away from the bed. “You’ll be okay, right?”

“Can you… can you sleep here too? I saw the inflatable mattress in the storage room. If that’s not… too much to ask for.”

"Of course not. I'll be back." 

"Thank you, Minho" you smile, lower lip slightly quivering. "Thank you for not being mad at me."

Just how many cracks can one heart bear before breaking beyond repair? Minho thinks he's close to finding out. 

Day 6.

The lights of your dreams have returned, but they are no longer comforting, nor warm, they glare harshly, searing your eyes as they announce your impending doom. Each second draws out in slow-motion and you find yourself counting the breaths you inhale, fearing they may be your last. One in, one out, one in, one out. The moment you dreaded unfolds- the truck collides with your car, flipping it upside down.

However, this time, flames rage within. You know that your car wasn't burned, but they feel terrifyingly tangible as they latch onto your skin. The heat becomes unbearable, you are no longer sure that this is just a mere dream. You try to scream but smokey air fills your lungs instead, robbing you of your ability to speak.

You need to wake up. You need someone to rouse you from this nightmare. Minho. You try to utter his name, but it escapes your lips in a strangled whisper. The lights won.

A cool hand clasps your own, yanking you from the fiery dream, dissolving it like sugar in a hot cup of tea. You startle awake to find Minho hovering over you, brows knitted in concern, his hand tenderly cradling yours.

“Are you okay? Another bad dream?” he inquires and you sigh in response, nodding as your head falls back onto the pillow.

He brushes your hair back, some damp strands still clinging to your sweaty forehead. "You screamed my name. Was I in your nightmare?” he ventures carefully, afraid he was one of the sources of your fear.

“No, I… I thought of you, in my dream,” you reassure, although your words seem to have the opposing effect, making Minho pause in his tracks. You’ve noticed his habit of freezing around you as if needing time to process what you just said. You wonder if you’ve ever came to learn the meaning behind each of his silences, what his blinks convey in ways his tongue fails to.

“You are heating up,” he clears his throat, pressing his hand against your forehead. “Do you wanna shower? I’ll make you tea meanwhile.”

“Okay, yeah. I’d like that,” you nod, glancing at your phone- 3.47 a.m.

Twenty minutes later, you find Minho sitting on the inflatable bed, legs crossed, two steaming mugs of tea before him. He appears drowsy, eyes shutting and reopening as if fending off slumber. It’s almost an endearing sight- the way his bangs fall before his eyes, obstructing his vision, the sleeves of his pullover dangling over his hands, hiding them from your view. He brought the mattress without you asking him to. The attention brings a smile to your face.

“Hi,” you greet softly and Minho looks up, a tender smile on his face. “Hey. Here is your tea.”

“Thank you,” you beam at him, settling on the edge of your bed, legs crisscrossed to mirror his. “I’m sorry that I woke you up.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t really asleep, just resting my eyes.”

“Isn't that what sleep is?” you snort and he chuckles, shaking his head. 

“I was still conscious, you know. I can’t really sleep these days.”

“Is the couch uncomfortable?” you ask, worried, fidgeting with your lower lip.

“It’s not the couch,” he says as his eyes lock on yours, a stare so intense it forces you to look down at your cup. ‘it’s you’, you read in his gaze. You have no answer for that.

“What's your favorite food?” you suddenly wonder.

“Pudding.”

“But that’s dessert?”

“I really like the one you used to make me.”

“I cooked for you? and you liked it?” you giggle. “I’m not really good at it, usually.”

“I taught you some basic skills,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows proudly at you.

“Too bad your effort is now wasted.”

“It’s not a waste if it was done with love,” he pauses, licking his lips. “And I remember it.”

A bittersweet fog shrouds the air- he remembers that memory, but you don’t. Perhaps you will never bridge that gap, no matter how much you want to. The room in your heart may remain forever locked, the gateway to that chamber brimming with your stolen memories. Maybe you're condemned to merely stand before the closed door, straining to hear the echoes of the love that resonates behind, forever just out of reach.

You don’t fall asleep again that night. And as Minho’s quiet snores fill the room, you rummage your mind in search of a pudding recipe, hoping to retrieve the memory he spoke of so tenderly, shaky hands holding his mug tightly. Silent tears trail down your cheeks and you try your best to stifle the sound of your cries. 

You want to make pudding. You want to make him pudding so badly.

Day 7.

It’s been a week since you woke up anew. Seven days adrift in a vast sea where waves of your memories lap at the shores of your mind, unable to breach the walls guarding your recollections of the past year.

Minho took you to the hospital for your weekly check-up. He sat by your side as the doctor reassured you that your ribs were healing relatively well, but you still needed time to recover, time for your body to mend, time for your memories to return. You loathed the waiting, the wasted days slipping through your fingers. You wanted a now. 

But you kept all these thoughts to yourself, thanking the doctor as he exited the room. 

Minho rented a bicycle to drive you around since the thought of being in a car made your anxiety spike. He installed a little seat for you, in that bright, obnoxious orange color you love very dearly. The sight of it nearly brought tears to your eyes this morning.

Minho idly pedaled around, choosing a scenic route, one he knew by heart from the looks of it. You closed your eyes, savoring the last sun rays of the year. Autumn was fading, winter clawing its way into the seasons slowly. You weren’t sure you could handle both the cold and the grief.

Miho took time off work for your doctor's appointment, and you both spent the day around one another, side by side on the couch, a new book in your hands, and an anime playing on the TV for Minho. 

You could see him casting occasional, nervous glances in your direction, as you flipped the pages of the book. You didn’t understand why at first.

But then you did.

You only brought it up at night, when it was past 2 a.m. and you knew that Minho wasn’t sleeping either, the screen of his phone illuminating his face. He left the inflatable mattress in the room, no longer waiting for a nightmare to occur. You weren’t complaining. You desperately needed company.

“Minho,” you call out gently.

“Mm?”

“How did we meet?”

You can hear Minho suck in a deep breath at your question, before placing his phone down, the only light source in the room fizzling out. It made talking easier that way, when only your voices were heard, carried around, as if emitting from two entities that weren’t you both.

“We met… near your old apartment block. I was going to the kimbap place near yours, you remember that one, right?” 

You hum in response.

“And I saw you crying, crouching near an injured cat. Some car had run over her leg, and she couldn’t walk anymore. And you didn’t know what to do, so I helped you. You insisted on coming with me to the vet where I take my cats. So, we caught a cab. And you were so worried, you didn’t stop crying, so the cab driver thought I did something to you,” he chuckles faintly.

“Then, the vet put a cast on her leg and reassured us that she’d be okay. And I told him I’d take her home and bring her for check-ups. But you were so worried, you begged me to send you updates about the cat. So, you gave me your number. And we talked.”

“What happened to the cat?”

“I took her to a rescue store I trusted since I couldn’t take her in. and we still visited her from time to time. And then, she found a good family.”

“And what happened to us?” you inquire softly, hoping that if your voice was quiet enough then your question wouldn't hurt Minho as much. 

“We kept in touch," he said. "And it was… easy to talk to you, I felt as if I had known you for my entire life. When you found out I had three cats, we Facetimed a lot so you’d see them, but then we just kept on calling, every day, for nearly two weeks. Being with you felt natural, you know? I didn’t overthink it. I never did."

“And then three weeks later you came over to see Soonie, Dori, and Doongie. We ended up watching three movies in a row, and you were so tired you slept on my couch.”

“That’s embarrassing,” you chuckle.

"Yes," he laughs and you reach over to swat his shoulder playfully. "But it was also cute, and endearing. Then you came over a lot, and we just cooked together. Well, I cooked and you watched.”

“Right, that sounds more like me," you instantly agree. 

“We hung outside too, whenever one of us had free time. We had a lot of common hobbies and interests so we never ran out of things to talk about. We made time for each other too.”

“How did we start dating?”

“You made the first move.”

“I did?” you shoot up from your place, hissing when the abrupt movement causes a twinge of pain in your ribs.

“Take it easy,” he giggles, as he illuminates your face with his flashlight. “You did.”

“Did you put a spell on me? I swore I’d never make a first move again after I was rejected in third grade. That was my most sacred oath."

“Well… you were ranting about this book. The one you were reading today,” he adds, and your excitement fizzles out, as the pieces of the puzzle finally fall into place. “You were sad because you had no one to talk to about it. So, I bought the book and read it. I gave you my copy, complete with highlighted passages and notes. And when I did… you kissed me, without warning,” his voice is softer now, as he fiddles with the tip of his blushing ears. "You said it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for you.”

“It was. It is,” you whisper, heart caught in your throat. “I saw the photograph of us both lodged between the pages of the book. Did we take it that day?”

“Yes, we weren’t dating, not yet. Because I told you I wanted to take you out on a proper date. But you wanted us to take a picture holding the book… So you’d remember.”

“So I'd remember,” you repeat, voice quivering. What good was it for in the end?

 “I looked so happy in the photograph,” you whisper, tears welling up your eyes. “I looked so happy with you,” your voice breaks as you utter that last part. "Did I love you, Minho?"

"You did," he nods softly, blinking away his own tears. 

“And did you love me?”

“I did. I still do, very much.”

“Thank you, for loving me. It sounds like I’ve lived a happy year with you.”

Minho's pain is akin to a polite guest; it lingers by the corner, speaking in whispers, hardly ever raising its voice. You'd never really notice it, unless you strain your ears, as you're doing now. Only then would you discern the tremors of his quiet sobs- broken, stifled, determined not to make themselves known, only escaping his lips when he thinks you've fallen asleep. 

Day 8.

Whenever an overwhelming emotion ran freely along the corridors of your soul, you'd often find yourself curled in a fetal position, knees drawn to your chest, like a fragile leaf.

Your teacher once explained that it reminds us of safer times in the wombs of our mothers, when the cruelty of life hasn’t yet reached us. 

It is the way you’re resting now, upon the cold, hardwood floor, dozens of books surrounding you. You decided to go through each book in Minho’s library, the need to satiate your curiosity overtaking you. You didn’t know what you were looking for, exactly. Other photographs, surely, in the hopes that one of them would spark up your memory, ignite the flame of remembrance. 

What you didn’t expect was to find Minho talking to you through books. Within the pages, amid the words, scribbled in small, dainty handwriting, threads of his thoughts all relating to you. Quotes he thought you’d appreciate, highlighted segments that reminded him of you. And dedications, so many dedicated lines you felt like you could drown in them. It felt as if Minho was on a quest to find love within every line, only to inscribe your name beside it.

Putting down the last book, you were left with a huge void, akin to a black hole eating away at your heart. So, you laid on the floor, one arm underneath your head, knees held tightly to your chest- as if trying to create borders for your sadness, to stop it from spilling out of your body, drowning the house in even more sorrow. Those four walls have had enough, more than they could contain. And so did you.

You suddenly longed for the very beginning of your life, when time was but a tranquil stream, when you were unaware of the hurtful years it would carve into your existence. Back to when your spine was still curled around itself; for it was never meant to be straightened. Your spine was never strong enough to bear your pain. 

You wanted to talk to someone, but you didn’t know who you could turn to. You didn’t know how to articulate these emotions into words, tangible enough for someone to understand them. And you couldn’t talk to Minho about it, not when he was hurting on his own. 

Because he smiled down at his cats, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. His laughter echoed around the room when he talked to his friends on the phone. And sometimes, he even hummed under his breath while making you breakfast. But this happiness never reached his eyes, behind his pupils the sadness seared itself into his veins, casting a gloomy shadow that followed him everywhere he went. It was a palpable ache, one that filled the very atmosphere with the metallic taste of grief. Making it almost impossible for you to breathe in. Even more so when you remember it was all your fault.

These are the thoughts that haunted you all day, as they have been doing for the past week. Minho must have noticed that you were feeling gloomier than usual, a silent storm raging by his side, since he put up a romcom for you. “It made you laugh a lot when you watched it months ago.”

“How do you remember all of these things about me?” you ponder, scratching the fragile skin near your nails, easily torn, just like you. 

“Does it make you uncomfortable? Should I stop?” he asks quietly, deflecting your question.

“No,” you say the truth. “It'd be weird if you were an actual stranger, but… you knew me. And I knew you. and I still feel safe around you.” 

He nods silently, but something in his gaze compels you to keep talking. 

“I mean, I never felt uncomfortable around you these days, which surprised me too. I just… I suppose that even if my mind doesn’t remember, my heart does, in a way?”

“My heart will always remember you,” he whispers, gaze adrift in a faraway memory. 

A gear shifts in your mind, a sudden light flooding your vision. You find yourself within a grand canopy bed, its pure white curtains swaying to the rhythm of a whimsical breeze, their delicate fabric brushing lightly against your cheek. It’s slightly cold from the wide-open windows, but then it’s warm, as a gentle hand finds its place on your thigh, kindling an ember deep within, setting your very soul ablaze. 

The curtains sway with the wind, obscuring your view, but you can still discern the sound of your laughter, echoing like distant chimes. And a tenderness, so delicate it seemed almost otherworldly, trailing along your skin, as warmth caresses your cheek and gently traverses the curve of your collarbones, peppering it with the softest kisses. You can't quite behold it, but it is unmistakably there, an ineffable presence that threatens to burst your heart at the seams—a memory of your love for Minho.

It is a blurry sight, like peering into a worn-out photograph, its details softened by the sands of time. But you clutch to it- to your fading laughter and hushed conversation, and then your voice ringing clearly in your mind, the promise you made to Minho. 

'My heart will always remember you'. 

You startle back in a jolt; the light and warmth have extinguished. They are now dull, withered down, sitting next to you with their head hung low. 

It takes you an inhumane effort to swallow down the lump in your throat.

Day 16.

This week has been particularly cold. Not temperature-wise, October has always harbored these same frigid temperatures and you've gotten used to them, to the relentless winds brushing against your skin. Only this time they pierced right through your soul instead.

You knew what had changed. You had felt the sadness, the frustration, the guilt- all blending into one sorrowful symphony, pulling at your heartstrings the way one does to a harp. Yet, amid these familiar emotions, a new feeling loomed large this past week- anxiety.

It arrived in sudden, icy bursts, cold beads of perspiration cascading down your spine, feet suddenly freezing no matter how fuzzy your socks were- the physical telltales, then came the emotional ones. The shadows of dread, for we fear the unseen more than that which we can touch. The growing panic gnawing at your heart, hinting that something profoundly disastrous lurked on the horizon.

Anxiety held you suspended in the air, bound by invisible ropes that compelled you to watch from above as the days drifted past you. You were a ghost haunting an empty shell, hollow and resonant with anxiety's clang, akin to an empty can's descent to the ground.

Your appetite had fled, leaving you alone to grapple with the chore of feeding yourself, mechanically ingesting food only to pacify Minho’s concerned gaze. The TV’s volume blared, since you desperately needed the voices of other people to invade your mind, to render your thoughts merciless, forcing them to put their sword-like tongues down.

And the exhaustion, not accounted to your broken ribs, for Minho had meticulously overseen their recovery. It was an emotional fatigue, a weariness that clung to your every breath, trapping them within your ribcage, far beyond their time, until they tethered on the brink of exploding in your lungs- a supernova of darkness devouring your essence. Only then did the breaths release their hold on you.

So, you patiently awaited the inevitable unraveling, because you knew this wasn’t an ordinary anxiety. Your soul whispered to you in a language your mind could no longer translate, throbbing with a message you couldn’t quite recollect, striving urgently to jog your memory of a monumental truth.

But you didn’t remember– you should have.

You should've known it was Minho’s birthday.

It is near midnight when you venture out of your room, the inflatable bed by your side unusually vacant. A dim glow draws you to the kitchen, and as you stand by its entrance, an intensified cold grips you. It chills the blood in your veins, transforming it into splintered shards that prick uncomfortably beneath your skin.

Minho is sitting by the table, a small, muted cake before him, a shoebox by his side. A solitary candle flickers in front of his face, casting elongating shadows on his chiseled features. The flame is about to fizzle out- you feel like your heart will closely follow suit.

"Minho..." you call out gently, careful not to startle him from the trance ensnaring him. He doesn't react to the sound of your voice.

"Minho, I…"

"Today was my birthday."

His tone is cold, like the darkening clouds before a stormy night. His words feel like lightning bolts piercing your core.

"It would be stupid to blow this candle out, wouldn't it? Because you and I both know my wish won't come true. Maybe it never will. And it's killing me, yn." His voice quivers as it utters your name, a slight shake taking over his lips. His cheeks are tear stained- glimmering reflections under the golden flame. You've never seen him this sad. You don't know how to comfort him in his sadness.

A rush of nausea overwhelms your being, a yearning to expel every emotion, methodically, until your heart transforms into a tranquil organ, solely pulsing life's crimson essence through your frame. Nothing more, nothing less.

"This shoe box is yours. You kept it under the bed, filled it with everything that reminded you of me. You told me..." he pauses, taking in a deep breath. "You told me that you wanted to remember everything about us, every single detail. But I... I don't care if you don't remember every date we went to. I just-" his forehead rests on his palm, as he squeezes his eyes shut. "I just want you to remember that you love me."

Hot tears are rolling across his cheeks, splattering across the table like a broken mosaic. He doesn't try to hide them or wipe them away. He's had enough.

"Minho, I’m-"

"I mean- that's not too much to ask for, right?" he finally lifts his head, locking his eyes with yours. A black abyss, a dark void. You are the one who sucked out all the light.

"You- you said you loved me. And I- I felt it, y/n, when you looked at me, when you touched me. I felt it, it wasn't- it wasn't just words, I-" he pauses, running a hand through his hair, tugging at his black locks furiously. "You loved me," his voice breaks. "Why- why can't you remember that you loved me?"

Your tongue bursts to flame in your mouth, its grey ashes choking you from within. What could you even say? How do you stop the bleeding of a heart when you carry knives for fingers?

Minho abruptly stands up, his chair scraping loudly across the floor. "We talked about marriage, a-about kids, you said- you said you'd choose me to be the father of your children, you said you wanted a big house w-with me and you-” he points at you, chest heaving, eyes rimmed red. “You said you wanted us to sit at the patio when we're eighty and you wanted us to hold hands still," he chuckles bitterly, his arms falling limp by his side incredulously. "And now you don't even remember me."

He grabs the box, rummaging through its contents furiously. "You see this?" he waves dried flowers before your eyes, their petals falling to the floor from the force of his agitation. "These are the flowers I got you for our first date. You dried them and put them here because you- you said you wanted to preserve it, to remember."

"And this, the cinema tickets from our first movie date. You were so tired you just slept on my shoulder all the time and then I- I carried you home and you kissed me." He's growing more frantic, rifling through the shoe box in a frenzy. You remain rooted by the kitchen's entrance, a sense of powerlessness holding you captive, an unbreakable vice around your being.

"This is the napkin from our favorite cat café, and look," he grabs your hand, clammy palm pressed to yours, pulling you toward the table." This is the receipt of the first time we went grocery shopping together and-" he waves it in the air, before slamming it onto the table. "And, you e-even kept this stupid rock I gave you right before I told you I love you for the first time, because you said it was the happiest day of your life, my god Yn how can you not remember?"

A broken, sob-laden chuckle escapes his lips, a sound so heart wrenchingly human, so painfully poignant that for an instant, it fills you with a bitter aversion to your own humanity- it was never meant to inflict this much pain upon someone else.

Your thoughts shatter as Minho tenderly cups your face, urging you to confront his turbulent gaze. He seeks something within your eyes, and you desperately hope he'd find it, whatever it may be, anything to stop the tremor in his hands as they anchor you in place.

"Why did you- why did you keep all of this if not to remember me.” He asks, unblinking, lip quivering. “Please, please, remember me, just- just try, okay?"

"I’m so sorry-"

"No. No. Don't- don't apologize like it's final like you could never love me again," his hands glide to your shoulders, shaking you slightly in place. "Don't you understand? I-I don't want an apology I want you to remember me."

"Minho..."

"Just look through this, it's our happiest memories y/n, okay?" he let goes of you, circling the table before shoving the box into your hands. He smiles- attempts to, it is an unnatural presence amidst his tears, so out of place it sends shivers down your spine. "Look at it, yn, please," he pleads as your hold on the box falters. "I can’t remember us alone. I’m crushing under the weight of everything we lived it’s exhausting me!"

His voice ascends pitch, the end of his words hanging into the air, searing themselves into the particles you breathe. His voice leaves a painful echo on his trail. You’re exhausting him.

You put the box down, taking three cautious step forwards.

And then you hug Minho.

He can't even hold you back, body trembling with the sobs rippling through him as soon as your chest presses to his. He sinks to the floor and you follow suit, arms enfolding his concaved shoulders tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. "Im sorry, I'm so sorry Minho. I- I wish I could remember."

You want the kitchen to collapse upon itself. There is too much grief in such a small room- it stains the walls like blood droplets, absorbs his cries like a saturated sponge.

You don’t think you could ever sit at this table again.

He finally clasps your back, drawing you even nearer to him. "Can- can you pretend, just today, please? For my birthday. Pretend you still love me."

"Of course. It's okay, I’m here, honey. I'm here."

"I love you. I love you so much," he whispers, lips pressed against your neck. "And it hurts to love you, so much." He brings your hand to his heart. "It hurts so much right here."

He doesn't let go of your hand, softly caressing your knuckles. His breath hitches as his thumb hovers over your ring finger. "I... I was going to propose, you know? I even bought the ring, stored it away for when the time is right. Do you think you would have remembered if you woke up wearing it?"

He knows your answer would've been yes. You know that too, in the matching cat mugs and the book annotations and the way Minho gently held your face, even in the depths of his despair. Everywhere you look, your answer echoes back- yes, the home chants in unison, that's what you would've said. Yes, yes, yes.

Day 17.

In the cracks of concrete sidewalks, tenacious flowers manage to sprout. Just how in the depths of Minho’s pain, small joys bloomed, nestled in the vacant spaces between you and him. 

You'd greet him each time he opened the door, your voice resonating through the apartment like the sweetest sonnet. And he would always pause by the doorknob, basking in the sound of your voice that hadn’t changed in the slightest. Your tone still held that same dulcet timber, a golden honey that once dripped freely upon his soul. 

But today, Minho swung open the door and an eerie hush greeted him instead. He ventured in, calling after you, only to be met with utter silence. He anxiously checked the rooms, opening the doors hastily one by one. But you weren't there. You weren't home. 

Minho felt the familiar tendrils of worry coiling around his heart, constricting it with each passing moment. He quickly grabbed his phone, dialing your number, only to fall into your voicemail, the robotic voice chilling him to the core.

In the past two weeks, you had made sure to text Minho each time you went outside- a precaution you took due to your fractured ribs which came with frequent fits of dizziness. It was a safety measure for one person, at least, to know where you are. 

But you didn't text him today. And he had no idea where you might’ve gone to. 

Minho tried to suck in a deep breath, willing the fear to relinquish its icy grip on his body so he could think properly. Maybe you had simply forgotten, he reasoned. Yet, he knew that you never back out on your promises. They were sacred for you since they were once senselessly broken.

For the second time in a mere three weeks, Minho’s deepest fears unfurl like a nightmare before him, ensnaring him in a tapestry woven with the bloody threads of everything that went wrong yesterday. 

He carried his shame akin to heavy bricks on his shoulders, causing them to hunch forward- a coward, leaving the house before you even rose, and on his trail, your breakfast and a hastily written note. He couldn’t fathom eating at that kitchen table with you, not when his sobs still echoed around those sage walls, as did your quiet voice as you tried to soothe his cries, holding him between your tender arms. 

Minho was scared. He was terrified you’d never come back home after everything that had happened, the words he said and the way he pleaded, nearly at your feet, consumed by a sadness grander than anything he’s ever known. 

So, he storms out of the apartment in a hurry, scouring the nearby playground. But you aren’t there. The grocery store is next, the library, the flower shop, the cat café tucked in a corner that you may have stumbled on. 

You were still nowhere to be found.

A dreadful sense of foreboding overcame him, akin to how he felt when his phone rang two weeks prior- the unfamiliar number of the hospital shining before his eyes. What if something happened to you, a fit of dizziness but no one was around to help? Life doesn’t grant you a second chance. No one has ever brushed against death’s shoulder twice and lived to tell the tale. What if he receives another call? 

He couldn’t survive another call.  

Minho stands in the midst of the road, clutching his head with a tight grip, desperately searching his memory for the places that once brought you solace during the months he spent knowing you. However, he quickly remembers that you no longer know of those places.

So where could you have gone? 

An epiphany dawns upon Minho- the bridge you had pointed out to him from a distance on one of your walks, the first place you claimed as your own in the city. It towered above the ocean, suspended several meters in the air. He couldn't accompany you there that day, bound by a paralyzing fear of heights.

He prays with all his might that he's right. 

He dashes towards the bridge akin to a madman, the desperate rhythm of his pounding feet mirroring the urgency in his heart. It looms tantalizingly close, a mere 15 minutes away, and Minho, in a state of disarray, knows he's not fit to drive right now. He was never fond of running, he didn't enjoy the searing ache in his lungs, robbing him of his ability to breathe. But he welcomes the pain today- it means that he's running fast enough to reach you. He hopes, he prays.

Minho spots you from a distance, a mere silhouette standing at the bridge's edge, your figure unmistakable with the red scarf tightly wound around your neck. Relief nearly brings him to his knees - you're alive.

Minho doesn't think as he sprints to you, eyes solely focused on you and not the void beneath his feet.

"Yn!" he calls out from afar, and you startle, snapping your head back to look at him. He wonders what he must look at you, disheveled hair, the wind knocking down his jean jacket. But he doesn't care. 

Minho stands before you without pause, instantly pulling you into the shelter of his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the familiar smell of your shampoo, a constant through the months of knowing you. He clings to it, to the familiarity of your scent and the way your heartbeat seems to pour from your body to his, speaking in a language only your souls can comprehend. His arms clutch at you tightly, rugged breaths escaping his body, dew tears gathering in his eyes and dropping down your shoulders. 

Your arms hang limp by your side, confusion etched across your face at the urgency, the frenzy in which he pulled you to his chest, an emotion you hadn’t known in him in these past weeks.

You tentatively raise your hands, patting his back slowly. "Minho, what’s wrong?" you whisper, and he shakes his head.

"You weren't home. I- I thought something happened to you." 

"No, I just went on a walk and lost track of time," you reassure him and he pulls away, warm hands cradling your cheeks. 

"You're okay, right? Tell me you're okay," he pleads and you smile, nodding your head. “I'm okay, don’t worry.” 

Minho drops your face, embarrassment flooding his being at his outburst. It morphs to panic as he realizes the expanse beneath—nothing but the vast ocean, the wind slamming into his body, making him lose his footing.

"Are... you okay?" you ask cautiously. "Minho, you're shaking," you point out, a frown tugging at your lips. "Are you cold?" 

He stays silent, unable to place a word beyond the stutter of his lips. 

"Here," you hurriedly unwrap your red scarf, enclosing it around his neck. "You're shivering, Minho," you grab his hands, rubbing his fingers, blowing warmth into them, an attempt to kindle fire into him.

"I'm not- not cold. I- I’m scared of heights," he admits through a stutter, eyes tightly closed. 

"Then why are you here?" You ask, surprised. 

"Because you are." 

His confession comes out quietly, softened by the blow of his fear. His eyes remain closed, missing the tears gathering in your eyes, the ones you swiftly try to blink away. 

"Let's go, just keep your eyes closed. Hold my hand," you entwine your fingers with his, squeezing it lightly to signal you're there, as you walk across the bridge. 

You don't let go until you finally regain solid ground. 

"You're safe. you can open your eyes," you say quietly. 

"You're okay, right?" he inquires again, stepping closer.

"Why are you asking me this when you're the one shaking?" you chuckle, almost exasperated, nothing funny in the sound.

"I was worried about you, and I thought you left… after yesterday."

"Why would you- My god Minho why would you even come running across this bridge? Why would you do something like that when you're afraid?"

"Because I love you," his voice is resolute, soft as a whisper, as he states a simple truth. It only makes yours reach new heights.

"But why- why do you love me? Why would you still love me after everything I put you through?" 

"You didn't put me through anything," he shakes his head, and you take a step back, facing away from him. He can see your body heaving up and down, the weight of unspoken words making your heartbeat race. And then you snap. 

"You broke down yesterday," you pivot back, pointing at his chest. "You broke down in my arms because of me. Why would you still love me after all this Minho I don't- I don't understand." 

"I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I know I probably made you uncomfortable and I shouldn't have asked something like that out of you-" 

"No, no, Minho, you don't understand, you shouldn't apologize, I should. I’m the one who hurt you-"

"You didn't hurt me. It's something out of your control, you didn't choose this." 

“Stop- just stop being so nice and understanding for a minute. I don’t deserve it!" you shout exasperated, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "You can't look me in the eyes half of the time you can't even fucking breathe in your own home. It's now a- a cemetery for our memories and it'll soon become yours too because I suck the life out of you, can't you see that?" 

"I'm not asking you to remember me,” he holds his hands up, in surrender, “I was wrong yesterday, you don't have to remember us." 

"There is no us!” you yell, hands thrown in the air, “Not anymore, Minho, maybe never."

You suck in a deep breath, shutting your eyes, willing your voice to ebb and flow into calmness. 

"I thought about it. It'll hurt less if you don't see me, time will pass and you'll get used to it, I'm not worth this."

"You are,” he interjects. “You don't get to pick for me, Yn." 

"Stop- stop talking like this is normal, stop being so complacent with your pain, Minho you shouldn't love someone who hurts you!"

"Then make me stop loving you. Spare me. Tear open my heart and bleed it dry at your feet or else it won't stop beating for you. Don't you understand? If you are near or if you are far, I will still love you. The only difference is that I'd worry more about you. I'd worry if you're eating, I'd worry if you're taking your medicine, I'd worry if you're drinking out of your favorite cup or if you have a spare shampoo in your drawer because you hate running out of it. I'd worry out of my fucking mind, Yn don't leave." 

It had been an encompassing sadness that made his true feelings surge yesterday, breaching the myriad of cracks in his heart. But today, it was fear that cast a revealing light upon his feelings, hidden in the recesses of his being. They surged forth in a transparency you were still not used to, the way the ocean throws on its shores the debris of sunken ships, allowing the grieving families of sailors to finally discover the terrible truth.

Still, his honesty, his soul bare at your mercy isn’t enough to make you stay.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just... I can't- I'm sorry."

You take three steps back, before turning your back to him and walking away. A numbness, like icy talons, seizes his limbs, his gaze fixated on your diminishing figure—carrying away everything he's ever loved. Paralysis envelopes his very essence, a haunting realization that the distance between you is more than a mere physical space. You're vanishing beyond the horizon of his reach, slipping through his desperate grasp. The fear of never seeing you again fractures the stillness, snapping Minho out of his trance.

"To love someone is firstly to confess, I'm prepared to be devastated by you." He shouts, making you pause in your tracks. "Isn't that your favorite quote, Yn? You told me this is what love is about. To place your heart in the palm of the person you love. And your hands are soft, Yn. I don't mind if I'm bruised by them." 

"I lied then!” You yell back, tears cascading down your cheeks akin to a waterfall, “Belcourt lied and I lied when I told you this and when I promised that I'd always remember you in that canopy bed-"

"What did you just say?” Minho quickly walks to you, chest heaving. “What canopy bed?"

“It doesn't matter now,” you speak in a small voice, avoiding his eyes, seeking refuge in the ground beneath. Yet, Minho, gentle and determined, cups your face, guiding your gaze to meet his.

“It matters to me, Yn, please. What do you mean?"

“We were in that white canopy bed, when I told you that my heart would always remember you.” 

“We were,” he whispers, eyes glazed over as the memory washes over him too. “Did you remember?”

“Not clearly, it was really hazy in my mind. But I remember that the windows were open, I was supposed to feel cold but… your hands on me, and they were warm. And I…” you suck in a deep breath and Minho smiles encouragingly, running his thumb in a tender caress across your cheek. 

“I remember feeling that I loved you,” you finally confess. “Even though I couldn’t see you. That's why I said that I'd always remember you. Because you filled every chamber in my heart, so much that it'd still hold your name even if you left it…that's how I felt.” You pause, as Minho forcibly swallows the lump down his throat. 

“But it didn't unlock any new memories and I-”

“It's okay, it’s okay. You still remembered,” he smiles and the gesture brings you to his lips, rosy, plump. Were they still as warm? Still as soft? 

“I did…” you trail off. “You also kissed me, in my memory. Your lips were everywhere and… they were soft.” You add quietly, eyes fixated on his mouth, the smile that once adorned it slipping away. 

A tentative warmth courses through your being, a subtle blaze that ignites your cheeks in a shade of crimson. In this moment, a need unfurls within you, a yearning that eclipses the delicate boundaries of restraint. The memory of his lips on your skin becomes a beacon, standing tall amidst the tumultuous winds of uncertainty. You want to taste the warmth again. You want to kiss Minho.

“I kissed you.” His hands, once gentle on your cheeks, now slip down with purpose, cradling your jaw in a gesture that speaks of both reassurance and longing.

“You did.” 

“And my lips were soft,” he repeats, his red scarf brushing against your throat. 

"They were," you respond, breathless. His mouth stands electrifyingly close, a mere hairbreadth away, as you contemplate the simple act of tilting your head, closing the tantalizing gap. All that stands between you and the echoes of the love that was is the lift of your head, a movement that could breathe life into the dormant embers of your heart.

"Yn," Minho speaks softly, his words a gentle brush against the canvas of your shared vulnerability. His minty breath tickles your nose, as you hum, a wordless acknowledgment that hangs in the air. Your eyes remain closed, your heart beating loudly in your ears, drowning out the sound of the waves nearby.

“Use me. Use me to remember.”

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hello!! Do you know any TTRPGs surrounding translation or languages? 😊 (thanks for all your work btw!!!)

THEME: Language / Translation Games

Hello friend! As someone who studied linguistics in university, I absolutely love talking about all of the funky things languages do! I hope these recommendations tickle your fancy!

Dialect, by Thorny Games.

Dialect is a game about an isolated community, their language, and what it means for that language to be lost. In this game, you’ll tell the story of the Isolation by building their language. New words will come from the fundamental aspects of the community: who they are, what they believe in, and how they respond to a changing world.

Dialect uses a deck of cards to help minimize the amount of choices you have to make in character creation, by dealing three cards to each player and having the players choose one from just those three. You track the change of your language over a series of turns, using prompts to help you navigate the conversations that arise in your community as the world around them changes.

Dialect has been very highly regarded as a game that really delivers on the experience that it promises. The grief that accompanies language death really shines through this game, so if you want to combine the wonder of creation with the pain of losing something so integral to your sense of being, this is the game for you.

Tiny Frog Wizards, by @prokopetz

You have mastered the secret arts of sorcery

The very primordial energies of creation and destruction are yours to wield as you will.

You are two inches tall.

Tiny Frog Wizards is a game about tiny frogs, wielding magic using the power of words. When you want to do something magical, you will roll somewhere between 1-3 dice, and use the values of your rolled dice to determine how the range, magnitude, and control of your magic.

What’s important in terms of this game recommendation is the Control aspect, because how well you are able to wield your magic depends on how many words you are able to use to make things happen! It’s a lot easier to use a spell with precision if you have enough words to detail where you want a magical pen to write, or what you want to throw a tiny magic missile at. Not enough words? Then the GM has license to cause some humorous side effects, or, if you roll poorly enough, cause your spells to really go off the rails.

If you like games where you need to choose your words carefully, Tiny Frog Wizards is worth checking out - especially since it’s in free playtest!

Xenolanguage, by Thorny Games.

Xenolanguage is a tabletop role-playing game about first contact with alien life, messy human relationships and what happens when they mix together.  At its core, you explore your pivotal relationships with others on the mission as you uncover meaning in an alien language. The game gives a nod to soulful sci-fi media like Arrival, Story of Your Life and Contact, but tells its own story. It’s a game for 2-4 players in 3-4 hours.

In Xenolangauge, you play as a group of people bound together through a shared past with unsettled questions. Your task is to understand why the aliens have come and what they are trying to tell us. You will soon discover the key to understanding lies in your memories together.

This is definitely an in-person game, as it is meant to come with a modular channeling board that will provide you with alien symbols that you will use to help you interpret messages. This is more than a game about language, it’s about relationship, shared memories, and connection.

Xenolanguage was kickstarted at the beginning of this year, but you can check out the above link to pre-order the game if this sounds interesting to you!

Star-Spawned, by Penguin King Games.

One unearthly night, a ray of colourless light descended from the stars, and under its warping radiance, creatures unlike any the world has ever seen were born. They do not know the world, and they do not know themselves. Unfortunately for the world, they're quick learners!

Star-Spawned is a GMless, oneshot-oriented tabletop RPG in which you don't know what your own traits do when play begins. The names of each group's stats are randomly generated using morpheme chaining, and characters are created while having absolutely no idea what they mean; figuring that out forms the greater part of play.

Star-Spawned is more about self discovery than it is about language, but the use of morpheme-chaining in character creation is intriguing to me. You will randomly roll three pieces of a word, and then chain them together to create a unique Facet, available to the players as stats. These Facets don’t have a meaning when the game begins - you need to play to find out what they mean. If you like playing around with semantics - the meaning of words - this might be a game for you.

Degenerate Semantics, by Mikael Andersson.

Degenerate Semantics is a role-playing game for 1-5 players and one Game Master (GM). The players will each portray a character who live in Emmaloopen's poverty-stricken lower city. They are young, wild, ambitious, and independent. This way of life is threatened by other factions, and the players will need to have their characters work together to survive and thrive.

In the process of playing the game, the players and GM will define and flesh out a language called Bandethal. A collection of street terms and slang, Bandethal is used both as a way to talk openly about illicit activities without alerting authorities and to establish street cred. The terms are liberally mixed in with plain English, or when the language is mature enough, can be used entirely on its own. The characters' success is in large part based on how proficiently the players wield the language.

A friend of mine ran this game for me three or four years ago, and it’s been sitting in the back of my head ever since. Degenerate Semantics was created for a Game Chef competition in 2014, and has remained in the same state since then. I don’t think there’s any more work being done on it, but the game is there for anyone who wants to give it a go - and while there’s a setting that comes with the game, that setting is highly flexible, depending on what your group is interested in. Our group decided to use a lot of gardening metaphors, and undertook a plant-based heist as our act of rebellion! If you want a game about the power that language can give a tightly-knit group, this is the game for you.

I've Also Recommended...

DROWWORD, by Ursidice.

[chiqelatasblog]

Let Me Help You

-> Ao3 link is here.

-> Part 4 of the Savior Series

Pairing : Bi-Han / Sub-Zero x Reader

Tropes : Married Life/Sex, Making Love, Restraints, Handcuffs, Blindfolds, Smitten Bi-Han, Possessive Behavior, Biting, Marking, Fluff and Smut, Blowjobs

Summary : “I didn’t know you had this side to you,” Bi-Han said, his voice neutral and his expression unreadable in the soft light of the candles and fireplace.

You nervously bit your lower lip, then, with an anxious voice, asked, “Will you let me?”

“To blindfold and handcuff me?” Bi-Han raised an eyebrow. “I told you I’m okay with whatever comes from you.”

This is a one-shot set during the time when the reader was Bi-Han’s wife (Noob Saibot before becoming a wraith), offering a glimpse into their relationship. It can be read as a standalone.

Author’s Note : This thought came over me yesterday, and I had to get it out of my system. It’s about the reader helping her husband *cough* relax in some intimate ways. Happy reading!❤️

.

.

.

“No,” Bi-Han said.

His tone, usually carrying a growl, softened as he looked at you. The hoarseness was still there, but now it was tamed, gentle—reserved for moments shared only between the two of you. You smiled at your husband, just a small smile, nothing grand. But you knew even the smallest smile from you was his weakness, though he’d never admit it. His gaze, however, betrayed him, softening and shining with a rare kindness that anyone could see.

When you smiled at him, looking into his eyes and tilting your head slightly, it was as if you saw him as someone who hung the moon—or, as he’d tease, like a lost puppy. You adored your husband, hard edges and cold demeanor included. It had taken you a long time to scale the walls he’d built around himself, but in the end, every effort was worth it. Bi-Han was a man who kept his distance, his tongue as sharp as a blade, capable of cutting deeper than steel. Yet, you had been patient with him, always respecting his need for space, never crossing his boundaries or making him retreat, waiting until he allowed you in.

It all began with small conversations at night. When sleep eluded you—your thoughts sometimes too loud to quiet—you would often wander the palace gardens, only to find him there as well, either pacing or gazing at the stars, lost in thought. His voice captivated you from the very first word—deep and resonant, like distant thunder. That first conversation lingered in your mind long after it ended, a memory that refused to fade. Bi-Han was undeniably handsome, with sharp, strong features and pale skin that contrasted strikingly with his ink-black hair. But to you, he was more than just handsome—he was breathtaking, especially that night when the full moon bathed him in its silvery light. His pale skin seemed to glow, outlined by the moon’s soft radiance, making him appear almost otherworldly, inviting you to touch it, though you knew well that he could snap your wrist like a twig.

After that some time, your conversations evolved into playful banter, and before either of you realized it, the banter turned into flirting. But it was you who made the first bold move—you kissed him. It was the Year of the Rabbit. While the Lin Kuei rarely held celebrations, they made exceptions for significant occasions like New Year’s to honor tradition. That night, it was just the two of you. His brothers had left for Fengjian with the others, leaving Bi-Han behind. Crowds, noise, and the chaos of so many people often overwhelmed him, though he never voiced it aloud. But you had come to know him well enough to catch the subtleties, the small tells that revealed his discomfort.

So, as usual, he stayed inside, sitting on the cushions near the fireplace after dinner. The sandalwood scent from the incense wafted through the air, soft, small talk exchanged between you, though your focus was more on him than the conversation. The golden light from the fire illuminated his strong features, making him appear almost serene in that moment. His usual furrowed brows were relaxed, his lips tilted in what you might call a ghostly smile, and his brown eyes looked warm, like dark honey. You were more than a little drunk, feeling light-headed and giddy as you looked at him, and all you could think about was how much you wanted to feel his lips against yours.

Before you knew it, you were kissing the Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei, your heart hammering in your chest like a wild creature. Bi-Han was surprised at first, perhaps by your boldness, and for a moment, you feared he wouldn’t respond as he stood rigidly in place. But then his lips moved—tentatively at first, gentle and restrained. It was a chaste kiss, and when it ended, he looked at you with a tenderness that made your breath catch. He told you he wanted to kiss you again, but when you were fully conscious, not drunk. He didn’t want to feel like he was taking advantage of you.

And now, a couple of years later, you were his wife.

“Please,” you said, batting your eyelashes at him with an exaggerated sweetness that almost made him smirk. “Why are you against the idea?”

Bi-Han looked away for a moment. You were sitting together on the bed, the fabric of the duvet brushing against your bare legs. This room was your shared retreat, a place where no one could intrude on your privacy. Here, Bi-Han could set aside the mantle of Grandmaster and simply be a man, your husband. Gently, you cupped his cheek, your fingers caressing his skin as you brushed a small spot under his eye. He caught your hand in his, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your skin as he met your gaze once more.

“I don’t like being vulnerable,” he murmured, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. Your expression softened as his words sank in. Before you responded, you leaned in and pressed a light, tender kiss to his lips.

“My love, do you not trust me?” you asked softly.

Bi-Han’s eyebrows furrowed, a flash of hurt crossing his features, as if the question itself had offended him.

“More than anyone.”

“Then let me take care of you,” your voice as soft and gentle as a feather drifting down from the sky. “Please, Bi-Han.”

For days now, Bi-Han had been tense, like a bomb ready to explode. The tension around him was palpable, his frustration almost tangible. A vein would appear on his forehead or neck whenever something small and insignificant irritated him—things he would normally overlook, leaving them to be handled by his brothers or his trusted right-hand men. The role of Grandmaster was a heavy burden, one he had been groomed to bear from a young age, but even he was not immune to stress. Bi-Han was a man who never showed any sign of weakness. He was closed off, unwilling to seek help or express his needs—a locked box, guarded and secure. It had taken you an immense amount of time and patience to get him to open up to you. Even now, with years of trust between you, old habits died hard. This particular bout of tension had been going on for nearly five days, and everyone around him felt the strain. His brothers were as clueless as anyone when Bi-Han got like this—coiled like a predator ready to strike, every muscle wound tight with suppressed emotion. You longed to ease his burden. It troubled you deeply when he became like this, struggling to purge the tension from his system on his own.

Bi-Han looked at you, his gaze contemplative as his other hand slowly caressed your upper thigh, where your nightgown had gathered. The cool touch of his fingers sent a shiver of goosebumps across your skin. After a moment of silence, he sighed deeply, kissed your palm, and gently lowered your hand.

“Okay, do what you want, wǒ lǎopó,”

You flashed him a bright smile, your teeth visible as you leaned in to kiss him again. “Thank you. You’ll like it, don’t worry.”

“I’m alright with whatever, as long as it comes from you,” Bi-Han said seriously, his gaze unwavering as he looked at you with eyes that always seemed feline in their slant. In the low candlelight, his deep, rich brown eyes appeared almost dark, his entire focus locked onto you. Hearing such words from someone who was so secretive, reserved, and often harsh about his feelings warmed your heart and made it flutter, making you feel cherished and deeply loved.

With a swift motion, you climbed onto his lap. Bi-Han’s large hands effortlessly gripped your bottom in a possessive hold, pulling you close against him. You placed your hands on his broad shoulders and began to gently lay him back, or rather, he allowed it—there was no way you could have managed it on your own. “I want this off,” you said, tugging at his upper garment. “Then I want you to lie here exactly like this and wait.” Bi-Han complied silently, removing his clothes in one fluid motion and tossing them somewhere in the room. He had questions in his eyes but chose to remain silent as you slid off his lap and began to move around the bedroom.

Your footsteps were light as you walked across the floor, the small fire in the fireplace nearly extinguished, with only the occasional crackle from the wood breaking the silence. A short distance away, at the bottom of your wardrobe, you retrieved a small box containing metal handcuffs and a blindfold. Your heart beat a little faster with a mix of curiosity and anxiety about your husband’s reaction. As you turned on your heels and walked back to the bed, Bi-Han’s gaze immediately fell on the items you held. His eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of intrigue crossing his expression.

“I didn’t know you had this side to you,” Bi-Han said, his voice neutral and his expression unreadable in the soft light of the candles and fireplace.

You nervously bit your lower lip, then, with an anxious voice, asked, “Will you let me?”

“To blindfold and handcuff me?” Bi-Han raised an eyebrow. “I told you I’m okay with whatever comes from you.”

You were acutely aware of the trust Bi-Han was placing in you. He loathed even the thought of weakness, training his clansmen with such sterness that they often deemed him cruel for pushing them to their limits. Yet, he was even harsher with himself. The idea of being vulnerable, meant opening himself to potential danger—a concept he despised. This was a side of him he never showed to anyone, let alone exposed himself to potential risk in such an intimate way. By giving you this power, allowing himself to be handcuffed, he was placing his complete trust in you. He knew you would never betray that trust. To you, this act was a precious gift, one you would handle with the utmost care.

“Thank you,” you whispered again as you settled back onto his lap and carefully handcuffed him first. “I know these won’t hold you if you truly wanted to break free, but please keep your hands away. I want this night to be all about you.”

“You’re my wife. It’s impossible for me to keep my hands away from you,” he said, his words laced with a rare, bold honesty. You blushed at his words. Despite his usual reserve, when he did express his thoughts, he did so with striking directness. “You’re simply too beautiful, and I’m often amazed by how someone as kind and strong as you is mine. I can’t help but be drawn to you.” His tone was deeper than usual, almost whispery, as he looked at you with half-lidded eyes. His gaze was gentle, almost caressing you, but it also held a fiery, possessive intensity.

“Thank you for the kind words.” You kissed him on the lips again, letting your lips linger for a moment as you savored his icy taste. Then, pulling back slightly, you looked into his eyes. “Please, just try it for me tonight.”

“Alright, fine,” Bi-Han breathed out, his voice a low rumble. You kissed his cheeks in thanks as you began to secure his wrists with the handcuffs to the bed rail. Once his hands were restrained, you gently tied the blindfold around his eyes. You could see his muscles tense under his skin, reacting instinctively as his sight was taken away. To calm him, you placed soft kisses on his forehead and then his temples.

“It’s alright, my heart,” you murmured soothingly. “There are just the two of us here. You’re safe with me. Just focus on me and nothing else.”

Bi-Han exhaled again, his chest rising and falling beneath you, a thin mist escaping his lips and meeting the warmth of your skin. He looked stunning, his massive, muscular arms raised above his head, each muscle tensed and exposed. His body, honed by years of rigorous training, gleamed in the golden light from the flames, freckles dotting his chest and shoulders, and fine hairs tracing a tantalizing path down his abdomen.

You shifted down slightly, sitting on his pelvic bone. You could feel the hardness straining against the fabric of his pants, pressing against your groin, hot and firm. The sensation made you bite the inside of your cheek, and Bi-Han’s breathing became more ragged, betraying his growing arousal despite the minimal stimulation.

A soft chuckle escaped you, filled with fondness for the man before you. Pressing down a bit harder, both of you groaned openly. You leaned in for a deep kiss this time, and Bi-Han responded immediately. The kiss was slow and sensual, unhurried, as if time belonged solely to the two of you. Your tongues explored each other’s mouths, savoring the lingering notes of mint and a hint of wine from earlier. You kissed and sucked with deliberate slowness, your body rolling in a teasing motion. Bi-Han hissed when you gently bit his lower lip, and you soothed the bite with a gentle suck—both of you knowing it was more of a playful gesture than a true apology.

“You’re so good for me, Bi-Han. So powerful, so strong, and now you’re laying bare for me to care for you.”

Bi-Han tried to respond, his lips rolling in a restrained attempt, but you grounded him with your weight, pressing him firmly into the mattress. You shushed him gently when he growled in frustration. This was your moment of control, and you intended to make that clear. Normally, Bi-Han was the one in command, whether it was over the clan or in bed. He was accustomed to wielding control, having been born into it. But tonight, for a few hours, you wanted him to relinquish that control, allowing yourself to take charge. Your aim was to ease his stress and help him relax after days of mounting tension. It felt like taming a beast, one that responded only to you. Any hint of vulnerability shown to others would be met with a ferocious reaction, but with you, Bi-Han yielded, trusting you completely.

Bi-Han seemed to sense your unspoken words and complied silently. You gave his lower lip one last gentle suck before your mouth began a trail of kisses—starting at his chin, moving along his sharp jawline, and descending to his neck. There, you sucked lightly, leaving a mark that would be concealed by his collar when he wore it. Bi-Han groaned deeply, his voice a throaty rumble that vibrated through his chest as you continued to mark him. Your kisses traced the rigid lines of his abs, his skin smooth and unblemished like marble, sculpted to perfection and cooling to the touch. Though he was a cryomancer and his body temperature was normally colder than a human’s, as you worked over him, his temperature slightly warmed, becoming almost pleasantly cool.

You marveled at the sight before you, kissing down his well-defined muscles, your fingers tracing the veins beneath his skin with a curious, mischievous touch. Bi-Han shivered slightly at your exploration. You smiled at his reaction and began to unbutton the bottom of his garment as you slid down. As you worked, his clothes fell away, discarded at the edge of the bed.

His length was as beautiful as the rest of his body, standing hard and proud for your attention. The tip, flushed a deep pink, contrasted strikingly against his pale skin. The sight of him stirred a deep, primal urge within you, making your mouth water with the desire to taste him. Though his length was average in size, it was thick and impressive, a fact that promised both challenge and pleasure. You knew that taking him fully in your mouth would make your jaw ache and leave you walking with a delicious ache between your legs—a feeling you welcomed.

You began to kiss and nuzzle between his thighs, savoring the reactions you elicited from him. He always smelled clean, with a fresh scent reminiscent of falling snow, mingled with hints of mint and something earthy and rich. But here, in such close proximity, his scent was even more pronounced. Bi-Han exhaled a curse, his breath catching in surprise, likely expecting you to take him into your mouth or touch him, but not yet receiving that attention. Your smile widened at his reaction, noting the flush spreading across his pale skin. His neck, chest, and even part of his shoulders turned a lovely shade of pink as his arousal grew—a sight that was uniquely yours to witness, as you were his first.

Bi-Han was a strict man, deeply committed to his clan and himself, often neglecting personal pleasures in favor of perfecting his skills and fulfilling his duties. His self-denial initially surprised you, but it was understandable given his dedication. He had stripped away many of life’s pleasures to focus solely on his role as grandmaster. When you first met him years ago, he seemed more like a machine than a man. Despite his captivating presence, it took a long time for him to ease his rigid demeanor and open himself to the world. You believed that balance was crucial to life, a concept you hoped he would embrace before his self-discipline consumed him entirely. With your gentle demeanor, he began to respect and understand your perspective, a feat that was challenging to achieve with someone as resolute as him.

And now, here he was, completely at your mercy, savoring the attention you lavished upon him. The sight of him so utterly dependent on your touch warmed your heart as you finally took the tip of his length into your mouth, straining your jaw. Bi-Han groaned deeply at the contact, his head falling back against the pillow, the handcuffs clinking softly as he tried not to writhe beneath you. He was highly sensitive to touch, with even the smallest sensation making his breath hitch. Although he initially tried to mask his responses with a furrowed brow and an impassive expression, you coaxed him out of his shell, showing him it was okay to feel and express pleasure. Seeing him enjoy himself brought you immense satisfaction.

It took time to get him to open up to you, as with many other aspects of your relationship, but the reward was worth it. Even with the blindfold, you could see the pleasure coursing through him—his mouth slightly agape, a few drops of sweat rolling down his temples. Your hand wrapped around his length, while your other hand massaged his muscular thigh, feeling the powerful muscles twitch and spasm under your touch.

His taste made you moan softly as you guided him deeper, expertly bringing him pleasure. The sensation of having such power over his pleasure was intoxicating, mirroring how he had always known how to bring you pleasure. You wanted to savor this moment, drawing it out as you watched the tension gradually melt away from him. He appeared more relaxed, a prominent vein pulsing in his neck, and a sheen of sweat glistening on his body. His dark hair became increasingly tousled as he writhed and twitched beneath your touch.

The sight was arousing, your core aching and hot with desire. You wanted nothing more than to climb onto his lap and take him deep, rubbing your throbbing ache against him to satisfy yourself. You could almost feel him inside you as you continued to suck and lick him, careful not to graze him with your teeth. Tonight was all about his pleasure, so you tried to focus solely on him, though you could feel your own arousal intensifying. Even without touching yourself, you knew you were wet.

You licked slowly from the base to the tip, knowing that the sensitive head would drive him wild. His length was a throbbing, heated presence on your tongue, heavy and slightly salty, filling your senses and making your head spin with desire. You traced a thick vein with your tongue, then moved to kiss and suck on one of his jewels, eliciting a string of curses from Bi-Han. His chest heaving as he clenched his fists.

‘’Fuck, you’re driving me insane,” he said sharply.

You shivered with pleasure at his response, savoring the taste of his precum on your tongue as he cursed again. His muscles rippled, his back arching slightly to get deeper into your mouth. You moaned around him, the taste of his precum only intensifying your own desire. Unable to resist, you slipped your hand down to your aching core, seeking relief from the mounting tension. The sight of him, so vulnerable and responsive, heightened your arousal. When your fingers brushed against your lips, you whimpered around his length, your fingers becoming soaked within seconds. The sound of your voice drove Bi-Han wild, his growls growing more intense and feral.

“Are you touching yourself?” Bi-Han’s voice was a ragged whisper, barely coherent.

“Yes,” you moaned, your voice shaky as you responded. Two of your fingers slipped inside you easily as you continued to bob your head, soft moans escaping with each movement. Your other hand wrapped around his length, your motions in sync with the rhythm of your mouth. Bi-Han’s hips bucked, and he pressed his heels into the mattress, trying to resist the urge to thrust into your mouth, still respecting your wish with what little resolve he had left.

“Fuck, I don’t want to come without being inside you,” Bi-Han growled, his words coming out in sharp, desperate bursts. “I want you up here.” His voice was raw and primal, tinged with snarls and growls you hadn’t heard before. “I need—had to be inside you.” When he whispered your name at the end of his sentence, the way he uttered it made your resolve crumble. The intensity in his voice drove you to act.

You discarded your soaked underwear hurriedly, your hands slightly trembling with anticipation as a thin strand of saliva connected with his length. Positioning yourself over him, you guided his length to your entrance and, with one swift motion, took him into your warmth. A blissful sigh escaped your lips, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you savored the sensation. His thickness stretched you fully, and you took a few seconds to adjust to the fullness, relishing how completely he filled you. It was a beautiful sensation to be this full, chasing away the emptiness and connecting with him like this—body and soul.

‘’By the elder gods, you’re so wet,” Bi-Han bit out the words, his voice strained as you began to move slowly, your hips tracing lazy circles to adjust to him. Each motion pressed his balls tight against your pelvis, filling you completely. You braced yourself with both hands on his chest, lifting yourself up and down. Bi-Han was a groaning mess beneath you, cursing and hissing throatily as his hips bucked to meet your movements. You took him deep, your clit rubbing against him as you ground yourself on him, then lifted slightly before sinking back down.

“You make me feel so good,” you whispered, lying against him, your teeth grazing his pulse before catching his earlobe. “Do you feel good too?”

‘’Heavenly.’’ Bi-Han groaned. As you found your rhythm, you picked up speed, the pleasure intensifying with every stroke. Even without much movement, his length pressed all the right spots inside you, making you mewl and whimper. Your eyes rolled back in pleasure, savoring the fullness and the way every inch of him stimulated your sensitive spots.

Suddenly, Bi-Han’s muscles tensed. With a controlled snap, he froze and shattered the handcuffs. He tore off the blindfold with a growl, his gaze now fierce and predatory. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire, intense and focused on you with raw hunger, making your heart flutter. His hands grasped your bottom, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he pulled you onto his lap. He began to thrust into you, his jaw clenched and a vein pulsing in his temple as he took in every moan and whimper from you. You clutched onto him, your nails raking down his back as he drove deeper into you, your breath coming in ragged gasps as sparks danced behind your eyes.

“You broke your promise,” you managed to say between moans, struggling to catch your breath. Bi-Han bit down on your neck, leaving a clear mark that anyone could see. It was a possessive gesture, and despite the pain, it only fueled the heat pooling in your belly. He licked the mark before responding, his breath chilly against your skin.

“I tried to hold back as long as I could,” Bi-Han snarled, his voice a harsh whisper against your ear. He lowered you slowly, deepening his thrusts as he positioned your legs on his shoulders, almost bending you in half. The sensation made you arch your back, a loud moan escaping your lips as he drove even deeper, your legs trembling with pleasure. “But it’s you we’re talking about. I can’t resist myself with you. You’re a sight to behold.” He pressed a tender kiss to the shell of your ear before his mouth sought out your neck again. “And mine.” His teeth grazed your skin, marking his claim on you once more.

The heat coiling in your belly spread through your entire body, making your head spin with pleasure. Bi-Han’s weight pressed you down, pinning you firmly as he kissed you deeply, moaning when he tasted himself on your tongue. His movements matched the fervor of his thrusts. You held onto him, doing your best to meet his thrusts with your own. His breath fanned over your neck and jaw as he pressed kisses, occasionally grazing his teeth slightly.

Bi-Han growled, his grip growing fiercer as his thrusts became more erratic and bruising, the sound of slapping skin echoing in the room. You were also reaching your peak, pleasure raging in your veins and with one, two and the third thrust you came, white hot pleasure make you almost blind and you clutched to Bi-Han hard, your nails digging into his skin as you afraid of being fly away as how much orgasm shooked you. Bi-Han followed you almost immediately, spilling inside you with a hot, molten rush that filled you completely. He stayed deeply embedded, his breath a cold contrast to the warmth of the moment, as he bit down on your shoulder, grounding himself as he came down from the height of his pleasure.

You both remained intertwined for a while, taking slow, deep breaths as you came down from the peak. You caressed Bi-Han’s hair, which felt as soft as silk against your fingertips. His dark locks were tousled, and his eyes, now softened, held a depth of emotion that spoke more than words ever could. The contrast between his cool, pale skin and the warm, golden light of the candles highlighted the beauty of his form, the sharp angles of his face now relaxed and content. You basked in the afterglow as he lavished you with tender kisses, dotting your skin with affectionate touches.

“How are you feeling?” you asked, your voice slightly husky and your palate dry from all the moaning.

‘‘Better,’’ Bi-Han replied honestly, lifting his head to press a kiss to your forehead. His eyes met yours, revealing a love so profound and fierce that it seemed to unfold before you like an open book. “I love you,’’ he whispered, his gaze steady and sincere.

‘‘I love you too, husband,’’ you responded, adding a playful lilt to the last word, which elicited a gentle smile from him.

“Wife,” he murmured in return, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “We’re going to do this again. This time, you’ll lie down while I take care of you.”

[1111jenx]

𖤓Synastry series: Sun in the Houses𖤓

MASTERLIST — for more quality posts✨

💘Sun in the 1st House: Beneath the celestial canvas of this synastry placement, a tale as enchanting as a dream unfurls. The house person, akin to a night sky, emanates a radiant glow, echoing the Sun person's presence. To them, the Sun is their guiding star, the source of their joy, their radiant beacon in a universe otherwise cloaked in darkness. A profound contentment envelops them when bathed in the Sun's light, an authentic happiness as splendid as dawn's first light. The Sun, in return, basks in the house person's deep-rooted admiration, mirroring it back like a tranquil lake reflecting the midday sun. This tandem, like a pair of celestial bodies, graces the universe with laughter, an exquisite sonnet of shared joy. Together, they shimmer, illuminating the surrounding cosmos with their radiant togetherness, a spectacle of love that outshines the stars. Yet, within this symphony of love, a certain possessiveness persists, a gravitational pull that binds them irrevocably. They perceive the other as their celestial twin, their sole companion in the vast expanse of the universe. An echo of 'mine' resonates between them, an assertion of mutual ownership that is as potent as the heart's deepest longing. But as is the nature of celestial bodies, clashes may occur, ego battles akin to cosmic storms, threatening to disrupt their harmonious orbit. However, even these conflicts are silver-lined, offering pearls of wisdom and shaping their cosmic journey in profound ways. In the radiant presence of one another, they shimmer with unspoken brilliance. They ignite the best within each other, like distant galaxies awakening to their own magnificence. The house person swells with pride in the comforting glow of the Sun, who, in their unerring wisdom, whispers words that elicit pure, unadulterated joy. They orbit in their celestial dance, two bodies radiating love, learning, and laughter, a testament to the poetic resonance of their shared existence.

💘Sun in the 2nd House: In this bond, we find two souls who naturally stir each other's desires and comforts. Together, they revel in life's luxurious offerings, savoring the finest fruits of existence. The Sun person, like a guiding star, helps the House person grasp their true worth, understand their needs, and appreciate their resources. If the stars align favourably, their partnership blooms into something extraordinary, blessed by the gracious hand of Venus. They see worth in each other, a priceless treasure that enriches their shared journey. The Sun person recognizes the unique gifts the House person brings to the table. Yet, there's a shadow to the Sun's warm glow; a tendency to possess, to control, often without realizing. The House person, drawn in by the Sun's radiance, finds themselves doing more to please the Sun, adjusting to their needs, no matter what those might be. In this dance of connection, they move in harmony, a duet of love, desire, and mutual respect.

💘 Sun in the 3rd House: In their shared space, words intertwine like star-crossed lovers, ceaseless, captivating. Little disagreements dance on the edge of their tongues, only to be silenced by the tender symphony of make-up kisses. This placement weaves a sense of familiarity, a strange déjà vu, as if their souls have crossed paths in another life, another time. An unspoken comfort lingers between them, a tranquility that whispers of home. Conversations flow like rivers to the sea, their intellectual discourse as effortless as the wind caressing the leaves. The House person finds a certain charm in the Sun's words, hanging onto them like a melody that never grows old. The Sun, on the other hand, sees the House person as a precious gem, something to shield from the world's harsh edges. Their interaction is a feast for the mind, a stimulation that sings to those who crave deep, intellectual bonds. In this union, comfort abounds. Each word spoken, each secret shared, peels away another layer, revealing the essence of who they truly are. Their openness is as natural as a flower blooming under the spring sun, a testament to their profound connection. Intimate moments are shared in the small details - the clasp of their hands, a language written in the lines of their palms, a silent promise of enduring togetherness. Inside jokes punctuate their interactions, shared laughter blooming in their personal garden of camaraderie. A timeless dance of love and intellectual stimulation, their union weaves a tapestry of memories, each thread gleaming with their shared joy and affection.

💘 Sun in the 4th House: In the embrace of the House person, the Sun finds a home, an abode that whispers of permanence, a space it never yearns to desert. The sanctuary of their presence is a magnet to the Sun, a refuge radiant with solace. This cosmic alignment is intriguing, for it oscillates between providing profound comfort and eliciting the chill of fear, particularly if the Sun's chart is parched of the life-giving water element. There's an undeniable allure in the vulnerability this placement offers. The House person peers into the Sun, seeing its authentic self, acknowledging its limitless potential, and loving it unabashedly. They are the unwavering shield to the Sun, sometimes blindly so, standing in steadfast support irrespective of the circumstances. In response, the Sun flourishes. It blossoms with an ethereal beauty, basking in the adoration it receives, thriving on the nourishment of support. The presence of the House person is a soothing balm, a calming melody that seems to know the right notes to bring tranquility. The House person, in their turn, reveals a clear soft spot for the Sun, perhaps even forgiving their occasional bursts of tempestuous heat. It's a placement that prompts both introspection and reflection, a cosmic dance that sees them turning inward, mirroring each other's steps. Together, they discover a respite from their armor, a space where they can shed their toughness. They become a testament to the beauty of vulnerability, an echo of support and affection that resonates in the celestial symphony of their unity.

💘 Sun in the 5fth House: A placement I hold dear, is a dance of two cosmic entities feeling as though they've discovered their mirrored soul. It's not just a joyous union but one filled with exhilarating thrills and daring adventures. They revel in their shared laughter, their exchanges brimming with the innocence of child-like banter. Yet, beneath this playful veneer, there lies an infatuation, clear and profound, humming in the spaces between their words. The House person transforms into an eternal flame, a radiant beacon matching the Sun's relentless luminescence. The Sun, in turn, gazes upon the House with a sense of awe, often entranced by their seeming perfection. The House, in the Sun's eyes, feels like an equal partner, a reflection of their inner self. The fifth house is synonymous with romance. It's a fixed house, firmly rooted in its position, a steadfast testament to the House person's feelings towards the Sun. Regardless of their playful mind games, their seemingly flighty demeanor, their feelings towards the Sun person persist, burning with unwavering intensity. To the Sun, the House becomes an escape from the mundane, their daily dose of joy, their most ardent cheerleader. It's an alignment at times witnessed in tales of enemies turned lovers to bestfriends, an exciting dynamic where they continually challenge and dare each other to delve deeper into life's mysteries. It's a placement pulsating with positive energy, echoing with shared giggles, and resonating with playful touches. It's a cosmic dance of two entities, navigating the universe hand in hand, their hearts beating in a rhythm that speaks of love, laughter, and endless adventure.

💘 Sun in the 6th House: In this celestial arrangement, the Sun finds itself nestled in a house of pragmatism and routine, shedding its brilliant light upon the practicalities of daily life. These constellations spin tales not of grand careers or cosmic pursuits, but of everyday work, the quiet rhythm of health and wellness, the structure of routines and the serene act of service. In this dance of the stars, the Sun's light illuminates pathways to healthier eating, disciplined exercise, and even companionship with beloved pets. The Sun, in its radiant role, serves as a guiding beacon for the 6th house dweller, leading them towards the sanctity of a balanced lifestyle. It may inspire a shared commitment to physical exertion, perhaps in the form of joining a gym, or ignite conversations about nutritious diets and wellbeing. The Sun person may even act as a catalyst, helping the 6th house dweller establish routines that reinforce physical and mental health. Yet, the orbits of these celestial bodies might lead them down professional paths that intertwine, potentially finding one in the service of the other. However, with the Sun's position in the practical 6th house, a word of caution is warranted. The equilibrium of give and take must be carefully maintained to prevent the transformation of helpfulness into servitude. It's crucial that neither the Sun nor the 6th house dweller feels overburdened, their efforts unreciprocated.. It inspires a mutual journey towards better physical and mental health, encouraging each to uplift the other, illuminating their shared path with the light of practical wisdom and mutual care.

💘 Sun in the 7th House: In the grand tapestry of the cosmos, this placement is akin to a celestial masterpiece, an ideal constellation in the realm of astrology. The Sun, in its radiant glory, casts its golden light upon the 7th house, a house rich with the resonance of companionship, the solemnity of marriage, the intimacy of one-on-one relationships, the practicalities of business partnerships, the binding power of contracts, and the hidden faces of our alter-egos or shadow selves. In this dance of the stars, the Sun person stirs a longing within the 7th house dweller, a yearning for partnership, perhaps even a hankering for the sacred bond of marriage. The 7th house person may perceive the Sun person as the embodiment of their perfect mate, a mirror reflecting all the qualities they admire yet feel they lack. This celestial alignment weaves a balancing harmony in their relationship, as the Sun person displays characteristics and idiosyncrasies that the 7th house person cherishes but doesn't possess. As the 7th house is the celestial realm of marriage and contracts, the potential for wedded bliss, or perhaps a formal business partnership, is a tangible possibility should their relationship endure the test of time. However, as with any celestial arrangement, there are potential pitfalls to navigate. The two may become so entwined that they lose their individualities, their identities blurring until they cannot discern where one ends and the other begins. It is vital to remember that they are unique souls united, not a singular entity. Additionally, the mirage of the ideal mate may only be visible to the eyes of the 7th house person, with the Sun person potentially oblivious to this perception. The entirety of the synastry chart must be considered to gauge the mutual feelings of compatibility and the potential for enduring companionship. Thus, in this symphony of stars and planets, the dance of destiny unfolds, charting a course of love, partnership, and shared dreams.

💘 Sun in the 8th House: The placement of the Sun in the 8th house is a pas de deux that is not meant for those with faint hearts. It is a dance where the dancers—the Sun and the 8th house person—are likely to be pulled in one of two extreme directions. They may find themselves entwined in an intoxicating whirl of magnetic attraction, an intense passion that seizes them, or they may feel an unsettling disturbance, a disquiet that rattles their core, often swaying between these polar opposites. The Sun, in its radiant role, casts an unflinching light on the profound themes of the 8th house, illuminating the shadowy corners of sexuality, the cyclical dance of death and rebirth, the tumult of transformation and crisis, the journey of personal growth and evolution, the undercurrents of psychology and addiction, the intricacies of finance, and the hushed whispers of societal taboos. These subjects, often shrouded in mystery, may either captivate or unsettle the house person. They might either welcome the Sun person into their hidden depths or push them away. The house person might perceive the Sun as an enigmatic entity, while the Sun person uncovers the secrets that the 8th house person keeps hidden from the world. Should both individuals bear the mark of Pluto's dominance, or have a strong 8th house presence in their natal chart, this union may flourish in mutual fascination. However, if one or both harbor hidden trauma or suppressed shame, this intense connection could serve as a deterrent, overwhelming their senses. This celestial arrangement signifies the potential to unravel each other's hidden layers, maintaining a profound bond that might lead to mutual transformation. Yet, caution must be exercised to prevent power dynamics or manipulative tactics from seeping into their relationship. Ultimately, this celestial alignment can flourish if both are open to exploring the depths of each other's souls, embracing growth and transformation, and traversing the labyrinth of shared secrets.

💘 Sun in the 9th house: The Sun weaves golden threads into the 9th house tapestry, infusing wisdom's domain with the vibrancy of its radiance. This divine dance resonates with the seekers, the dreamers, those who chart the star-studded expanse of their fate, guided by an insatiable thirst for depth and meaning. The Sun, a luminary beacon, casts an ethereal glow on the winding paths of philosophy, spirituality, and the rich tapestry of global culture, sparking a flame in the 9th house soul, igniting the tinder of curiosity and wanderlust. In the sacred dance of their divergent or converging beliefs, they find a melody, a rhythm that binds them in an intricate ballet of understanding. Their shared intrigue transcends the constraints of culture, religion, and philosophy, knitting them closer in the vast expanse of human thought. Together, they traverse oceans, cross continents, and journey through the labyrinth of the mind and the world, venturing into territories unseen and unexplored. Yet caution must be heeded, for clashing perspectives may strike discordant notes, marring the celestial harmony. But through the crucible of understanding and growth, they shall rise, bound by a shared quest for enlightenment and truth. Soaring high, they ascend to the sublime realm of knowledge, guided by the radiant beacon of the Sun.

💘 Sun in the 10th house: The Sun, in its radiant glory, casts a shimmering glow upon the 10th house, bathing the lofty pinnacles of ambition, authority, and societal prestige in golden light. The 10th house individual beholds the Sun, seeing within its fiery aura the embodiment of a mentor, a guiding star, perhaps even a paternal figure. In this celestial dance, the Sun nurtures the dormant seeds of promise within the 10th house soul, kindling a fire that empowers them to scale the towering heights of professional achievement and public recognition. Unseen currents may churn, as the tides of power and authority ebb and flow, wrestling for harmonious balance. Should the rhythm of their hearts align, with the melody of guidance and humility ringing louder than the discordant notes of dominance, their shared journey shall carve a path to victory in the grand stage of career and societal prominence. Together, they'll ascend the mountain of success, guided by the Sun's resplendent glow.

💘 Sun in the 11th house: As the Sun anoints the 11th house with its golden kiss, souls intertwined in this celestial ballet discover a fellowship deeper than mere companionship. They merge as confidants, their dreams and aspirations entwining like tendrils of starlight, fueled by a shared devotion to the grand tapestry of humanity. Hand in hand, they champion noble crusades, threading their bond of friendship through a loom of diversity and acceptance. The Sun, a celestial minstrel, serenades the 11th house soul, inspiring them to dance in the unique rhythm of their being. In turn, the 11th house individual perceives the Sun as a lighthouse of acceptance, its unwavering beam illuminating their path in times of tumult. For hearts fluttering to the cadence of romance, seek reinforcement from other heavenly harmonies, for a profound friendship forms the bedrock of enduring love.This cosmic duet, a symphony of souls, signals unity, mutual respect, and a shared pledge to a future as radiant as the Sun. Their shared bond, an ethereal waltz, tells a tale of harmony, shared dreams, and a commitment to a collective dawn where every dream finds its home.

💘 Sun in the 12th house: As the Sun slips into the enigmatic embrace of the 12th house, its bright sovereignty is shrouded in gauzy veils of mystique, spirituality, and the unseen. To the house person, the Sun appears as an ethereal apparition, a spectral force oscillating between healing and bewildering, like a siren's call echoing through the vast and shadowy cosmos. Shrouded in the silken shadows of the subconscious, their connection pulses like a hidden heartbeat, a secret rhythm known only to them. This clandestine bond invites introspection and self-discovery, a voyage into the deep waters of their shared consciousness. For the Sun person, the depths of the 12th house may feel like a labyrinth of twilight, where their radiant essence is held in a silent waltz, yearning for the symphony of expression. When suspicion or paranoia creep into this celestial bond, trust must be kindled like a beacon in the deep, for their connection thrives on the revelation of buried truths and the unearthing of the divine spark within. With hearts aglow and an attuned awareness of their spiritual dance, they navigate the labyrinthine realms of the soul, transcending the mortal shackles, and ascending into an otherworldly romance. This sacred journey, a testament to their courage, becomes an intimate dance between two souls weaving their way through the cosmic tapestry, seeking the divine in each other.

Thank you for staying til the very end loves, I hope you enjoy this as much as I do, let me know your thoughts in the comment🤍

love,

saint jenx🪐

© 2023 Saintz Jenx All Rights Reserved

[alexisomnias]

— HIS GAZE SOFTENED. . .

⤷ his gaze softened trend with them!

featuring the DORM LEADERS

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

his gaze softened, in a way that's such as a sweet dessert batter melting under an oven. hot heat spreading all over, looking at you as if your the sun he's left to dry in. no one could ever make him feel the way you make him feel, and perhaps for that he is thankful. a relax of the face only you could make him feel safe enough to do, all sides of himself on display for those with eyes who can see the invisible, and for you. a courageous notion it is to let such fondness slip.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

his gaze softened, in a way that is indecipherable. to common folk, or any passerby it would be unnoticeable. Like a speck of dust the same color of the sky flying past the eye. but to those with the privilege of a microscope, its more seen then the sky itself. which in itself may be a silly phrase, but its nothing but true. for something that covers your complete vision, like the sky, you cannot see past it. and when you catch the soft gaze of a lion in your horizon, you should never look away.

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

his gaze softened, or did it? it went by like a blink of an eye, a fish swimming by in a series of bubbles of all the same colors. a flurry of emotion, yet not counted or captured by your mind. and he, the man before you wishes to keep it that way. he will hold his affections down like a sunken ship until he wishes for you to find it. now, he feels as if these soft gazes from behind, watching your radiation from afar, unreachable like a sunset. he's content, more then content. he's not ready to break that.

KALIM AL ASIM

his gaze softened, his eyes upturning in a way of fondness separate from his usual looks of radiance and sunshine. beauty and curiosity, joy. all of it common traits associated with the boy. but for now, his eyes didn't hold any of it, for now it shined like a bright ruby. shines like its his first time seeing the sun, glimmering brightly in the hands of someone who can take him far and wide, someone he would be willing to love, and for that a fond smile, much lighter then usual arises on his face.

VIL SCHOENHEIT 

his gaze softened, the hard jeweled eyes melting into a gooey shimmering oil of which you can see swirl, a whirlpool of emotions of which all mix into one. the professional actor he is, he's learned effortlessly on how to get that look of pure tenderness in his eyes as he looks at someone, but for those who have seen him with you. all those movies look photoshopped, as nothing can replace the genuinely in his eyes when they're glued to you.

IDIA SHROUD

his gaze softened in a way he'd never imagine himself doing. idia knows the terminology from his own... content. and he never thought the gestures could be real, until he found himself looking upon you. oh so perfect you, someone he can't help but to adore ever so. and his eyes must be the window to his heart and soul, as every emotion he doesn't let out in fear of a stutter or mess is said concise and clearly through his golden yellow eyes.

MALLEUS DRACONIA

his gaze softened, as if he was staring at the moonlight, or as if it was love at first sight. his usual stiff gaze ceased to exist when faced with you, his love. he held no shame as he stared at you as if you were the only one in the world, as if you were a birthday present for him. his gaze softened so, as his brows creased and a soft smile reached his face. nothing could replace the sight of your smile, and that in itself causes his body to relax and mind to slow. you make him so much happier, you are his stars on an empty night.

[jarofstyles]

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy- Patreon

Hello! We’ve been getting asks about what our series are about, and we wanted to show you guys a little piece of what we have on there 🫶 this is a series about rancher and cowboy h, and Y/N is very happy to be getting a job out on the infamous ranch with her passion for the horses and the beauty of the land.

WC- 1.6k

Here is our sneak peek! You can join us on Patreon for multiple exclusive series (100+ pieces) and early access to our writing.

——-

The place was fucking gorgeous… but that didn’t seem to compare to the cowboy showing her around. Jesus Christ, the man was something of a movie star quality man.

He was polite and charming. Holding his hand out to take hers when they’d have to move over a bit of rougher terrain, his calloused fingers gently caressing hers with a sly smile. The hat on his head shaded his eyes so he could look properly, giving her eye contact the entire time. Chillingly hot eye contact that had her feeling a bit weak in the knees. Soft green, greener than the grass in the fields that sprawled the ranch.

“I think you’d like workin’ here. It’s a family for sure.” He hummed, moving his hat off to brush his longer locks out of his face and adjusting the hat back on. He was bronzed and golden skinned from working outside, a light dusting of freckles just barely visible from her distance. Carved cheekbones and sharp jawline but dimples deeper than the valley, he was a god like being standing in front of her with a sweet disposition he probably hid a bit from others.

“I think so, yes. It’s my dream. You know? It’s a bit cheesy to some at the school… everyone’s always dreaming to run off to the city. But I love the place. The animals. The air.” She murmured, looking around the ranch. Y/N was hyper aware of the warm form of the man next to her, and the fact he was looking at her. Never had she experienced such an attentive man in terms of talking to her. No checking of his phone, no looking away.

She also was unaware of how Harry was genuinely a bit in awe of her. The starry eyed cowboy drinking in her essence and watching carefully as she spoke. Observing the details he hadn’t managed before. Beating himself up over not having known her before. Because, how? A girl in their area who wanted to stay? Who genuinely loved his land? That was a rarity. It wasn’t going to take much to have him be taken with her.

“I think that’s Amazin’.” He smiled, placing his hand on the small of her back and leading her towards the barn where their personal horses were kept. “You’re like me then. Content with home. Everyone says… they want wild adventures. Don’t even bother lookin’ in their own backyard. And that’s a damn shame, cause there’s plenty.” He spoke as they walked. Her eyes trailed his petal pink lips, the slight stubble left on the skin on his face, the radiance in his entire being. Harry was truly one of a kind. Even with dirt smudged on his jeans, clunky cowboy boots and the occasional scratch on his hand he managed to be graceful and smooth.

“Exactly.” She chirped, excited that he got it. “To me… there’s nothing like the festivals downtown. Learning to make new things. Finding a new watering hole or mapping out the land. I love the bonfires and cookouts. I don’t know. I find there’s a beauty in simplicity.” She turned to look at him, eyes squinted for a moment before they adjusted to the sun. It was beautiful outside despite the heat. The blue skies elevated her mood, but she did think that it was mostly attributed to the man guiding her around.

Harry felt his heart swell and a round of hopeful caterpillar‘s making their cocoons inside of his stomach. So many times he’s been hoping to find someone of a similar mindset. Someone he could get close to and not worry about them wanting to run off later down the line. It just felt… nice. Comforting. Knowing someone else felt the same as he did.

“You get me, Sweets.” He lightly flexed his hand on her back as his smile widened. Harry was a skeptic romantic. Meaning he held his cards close before he let them show. He’s flirt and tease but playfully. It wasn’t real unless he felt secure. Something he felt more and more of each time this pretty girl opened her mouth. A dangerous combination for him.

His approval made her giddy, having to stop herself from skipping as he opened the barn door up with a creaky slide. “We’re getting new doors on the barn so it doesn’t cause such a ruckus. But this barn is for our personal horses. I’ve got a few, but my soul partner is right over here.” He led her over to a large black stallion. A white star shaped mark right between his eyes. “His name is Perseus. Or Percy, for short.” He grinned widely at the giggle that left her mouth, his hand stroking over his nose with gentle affection.

“Percy, hm?” She looked at Harry for approval before stroking the side of the horse’s strong neck. “What a beautiful big boy.” A gentle coo had the hose sighing. A sign of relaxation, making her beam. “Yes, you are a strong, Handsome one. I can tell.” Her hands worked over the front of the horse with a cooed affection that had Harry- in simpler terms- about to act up.

He was far closer to his horses than people realized. He loved his animals and had a special connection to them, but especially Percy. His best friend. He’d gotten him for his 21st, and ever since they’d been attached at the hip. “Oh, he likes you.” His deep voice rumbled through her stomach and almost made her jump. “He doesn’t usually take to stranger so fast. Got ‘im begging for attention. He will eat it up when he like ��ya.”

So would Harry. He felt a little pathetic being jealous for wanting the girl to be stroking at his face like that. She had smooth hands.

“Does he get that from his Daddy?”

The giggled tease had Harry caught of guard but sent him into a laugh, head thrown back at the gall. This woman was something else… and it was calling right to him. A bit of banter was sexy. Especially teasing.

“Maybe so. But it takes a special woman to get men like us to behave like mere pups.” He hummed, leaning his hip against the stall door.

“Mhm. I bet that’s true.” She looked at him from under her lashes with a coy smile before returning her attention to the stallion.

I’ll be damned. He thought. This was the fastest a woman had managed to tangle Harry up in a lasso, but it seemed like he was pulling it tighter than she had even meant to.

“How many personal horses are then?” Her question snapped him out of his fantasy in his mind. Not an appropriate one to be having about a staff member but Harry knew that in his gut, she would be far more than that.

“I have 3. Percy, here.” He nudged his chin towards him. “Then we’ve got Athena. And Cash.” He pointed towards a paint mare and a chestnut… what seemed to be thoroughbred stallion. “Those are mine. Over there are my fathers two, and my mothers one though she doesn’t ride often. Hers is used more for riding lessons and all that. Sister got some too. So… 8. We got room for two more personal. Staff and ranch hands, if they got ‘Em, keep them in the commercial barns. There’s a lot of ‘em here.” Though she knew that. “I’m assuming you’ll like to spend time with all of them.”

“Well… Percy is a favorite so far.” She grinned towards the horse. “But you’d be right. I adore all animals but horses.. they’re a soft spot for me. I want to have a few of my own one day.” She said it shyly. It was stupid to be shy and Y/N knew that. Harry got it more than anymore but there was still that residual shame she felt from peers when she said she was happy where she was and wanted to keep going. She didn’t have the same wanderlust as everyone else.

“Hey.” He took a risk, gently lifting her chin up with his thumb. “Nothin’ wrong with that. Don’t know why you’re embarrassed when m’the one who just gushed over lovin’ my horses.” He teased lightly, keeping those pretty eyes of hers locked with his. “I’m glad… I’ve met someone who’s like me. Everyone in a rush to leave and fail to see how much fun and how beautiful life can be when you enjoy what you’ve got. The horses, the nature, everything. Everyone at school has those big city dreams. That’s fine n’dandy for them, but you n’me? We get it. We like how we were raised and we are comfortable being here. Don’t let ‘em haunt you. You can be open here. In fact… I’d love to see more of you like that. It’s not every day you come across a pretty little thing with a good head on her shoulders. My momma will eat you up and be happy you’re around. Some sense, she’ll say.” He gently stroked her chin before letting his hand drop. It was pathetic for her to miss the rough pad of the finger on her smooth skin, but she did.

“Yeah?” She asked shyly, looking up at him while shifting back and forth from heel to toe. A childlike comfort that Harry found to be fucking adorable.

“Yeah, Darlin’. Don’t worry about any of ‘em here. You’ve got me… and a whole load of other folks who have pride in loving where they’re from. “ he paused, taking in the sparkly flint in her eyes though she was a bit shy. It made him feel all the more eager to protect her, to make her see she was one of them. “I think you’ll fit in here just fine.”

[vorbarrsultana]

unfortunately you can't convince me that t//rop gil-galad is a good adaptation of tolkien's gil-galad. he wasn't a politician with no qualms about concealing important information from his subjects and allies. he was a warrior king who grew up during the most devastating war middle-earth has ever seen. he was the elven ideal of knightly valour, the second verse of a lay about him has a description of his lance, and sword, and silver shield with countless stars of heaven's field. he was called gil-galad, the star of radiance, because of the starlight caught in his silver hair and it's bright reflection in his eyes. he was also called ereinion, the scion of kings, and artanaro, the noble flame, and finellach, the last spark of finwë's line on mortal shores. he was courageous, and wise, and unflinchingly honest with friends and enemies alike. he was the one who found out about the evil stirring beyond the sea of rhûn & warned the númenoreans about sauron's growing might more than 300 years before annatar even came to eriador, and had foresight to prepare for war in time of false peace.

tv series gil-galad is not fiery enough, not brave enough, not wise enough, not noble enough, simply not enough to be a good adaptation of the book character. and he wears the ugliest shade of gold for some reason, when his signature color is silver

[captainkirkk]

✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩

All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.

Clone Wars/Star Wars

The Sun Swings East by kj_feybarn (+ podfic)

Over and over, Obi-Wan woke up and wished he hadn't.

Palpatine wouldn't stop until Obi-Wan had Fallen, wouldn't stop until Obi-Wan gave Palpatine a shattered galaxy in payment for his release.

He couldn't save himself, Obi-Wan had come to terms with that.

What he hadn't realized was that didn't mean there was no way to be saved.

broken surface by qigiined

"The water is not talking to you, Obi-Wan,” Feemor says without chastisement in his tone. “That’s the force you’re feeling, from the trees maybe.” The clippers turn back on. “Or a fish.” “Bones,” Obi-Wan says. The clippers turn off again. “Bones,” Obi-Wan repeats. “I want to be bones.” “You’re already bones. Where’d you get that idea?” Qui-Gon steps quietly closer to the door. “You’re scaring me, O’Ben,” Feemor says softly.

(Obi-Wan suffers from a genetic and force-based condition that makes him want to drown himself in a bog. And sometimes that bog is the shape of a sink.)

cultural ed by qigiined

PDS: so Kenobi would have been 23? 24? When the padawan came along?

WLF: so probably around 22 for conception. They need time to bake.

PDS: no one can make natborns that young.

FOX: I’m telling you all. Natborns are REALLY good at making other natborns that young. It’s their specialty.

(Cal is assigned to do some cultural education with Obi-Wan on board The Negotiator for a few days and Cody and his batch come to some understandable conclusions.)

and through the spaces of the dark by blackkat (+ podfic)

Jon's attempts to avoid a war he wants no part in are ended when Dark Woman drags him to Coruscant and straight to a posting with the Guard. He intends to keep his head down and do his work, but the mysteries around the Guard - and Fox - immediately have him in out of his depth and on uncertain ground/

Nine Worlds series (Victoria Goddard)

An Impossible Dream by SunInGlory

His Radiancy makes a proposal to his secretary. It probably isn't a real proposal...or is it?

an honorable and enviable role. by mage-pie (looselipssinksubs)

"Get up get up get up!” Something heavy landed on Varro’s stomach. He sat up just as Zerafin turned the lights on. “What?” Zerafin was grinning. The thing he’d thrown at Varro was a duffel bag. “We’re going on vacation! Get up, start packing, we’re leaving at dawn!”

That’s right, iiiiit’s… Vangavayen Vacation Time! Featuring our very favorite captive audience and peanut gallery, the highly trained and extremely professional innermost members of the Imperial Guard! Please give them your applause and moral support; they’re going to need it.

Privacy by Penguinity

Rhodin sipped his coffee. “Are us roommates cramping your style?”

“No,” Conju demurred, in a way which clearly meant yes. “I value you all deeply and am satisfied with a . . . laissez-faire . . . living situation in our retirement.”

Ludvic stirred his coffee. Rhodin peeled a banana in a desultory way. They waited.

Conju sighed. “It’s just–“ Ludvic and Rhodin leaned forward as Conju continued, “– why does he have to be underfoot all the time? Overnight?! I came down for a drink last week and nearly broke my neck tripping over a middle-aged aristocrat. It’s undignified."

Disobedience by alfgifu

You glanced down at the new paper with mild concern and felt your emotions congeal into cold terror.

It was not a standard Council paper, though it came with the usual cover slip.

It was a warrant for Cliopher’s execution.

A touch of home by alfgifu

I might have felt extremely boring coming back to the Palace through the front door in all our finery, but as Kip had pointed out, there was really no need to alarm the guards by climbing in a window when we could shock the world simply by showing up as ourselves.

[screamingcrows]

Nothing will be spared

Chapter 1 - The future can't be real

Notes: Shhh... I know I said 'no Dottore series' but that was a different me. There'll be eight chapters in total, that's it. Don't squint too hard at this, and do not use this for AI. Tags: dottore x fem!reader, reincarnation au, canon-divergent, angel reader, death, hurt/comfort, teyvat speculation if you squint Minors, blank, and ageless blogs; DNI

"This world is flawed!"

A silence reserved for the grave settled between the watchers present, countless of their moonlit gazes sharpening. Your voice rang through the assembly, painfully accusatory to your own ears.

The amber eyes of your Mistress burned in their inquisition, radiance too great for you to bear in this moment. Not when your thoughts had become mercurial, expectations of hidden cruelty pleading for you to turn and run before blades impaled themselves in your wings.

Whispers erupted in Her silence, questions of your own erosion floating between the countless gilded pillars that held up the carefully crafted dome of protection, the beyond too much for Her fledgling children to withstand. Their golden trims were beautifully crafted, reflecting only warmth whenever your eyes had apprehensively examined them. From the very beginning, the act itself had torn at your being, guilt working so desperately to push back the accusations that were now flowing from you lips.

A steadying breath before the continuation was needed, "Blessed Mother, I seek not to question your judgement, yet-"

"Yet you speak with such malice in your heart, step forward then, let me see from where your doubts spring," Her voice curled pleasantly around your form, tiny pinpricks moving along your skin at the sorrow that tinged her words.

Fate was inescapable. Even for one as you. How long and in what detail had She known that this moment would come to pass?

Still, your eyes remained firmly on the marbled ground as you sank to your knees, intent on showing the immense regret that She no doubt expected to sense. The whispers had died with the first syllable on Her tongue, the only merciful distraction being the occasional ruffle of feathers.

"My kin were created to care for the humans and guide them through their lives, such was the purpose we received from your lips when life was breathed into us. It pains me to see shards break from their souls, it must be possible to do-"

Her raised hand froze the continuation on your tongue, the eternal summer night dispersed within seconds, "They are perpetual, my child, nothing is lost, that was my blessing to this world, even to apostates like him," a brief hint of something unfamiliar, uncertain perhaps, hung in Her voice "you all know this."

Humiliation flared in your chest at the subtle questioning of your faith, murmurs of acknowledgement carried upon the soft clouds. The same comfort that mercilessly bid storms to rage below.

"With my own eyes, I saw the cavity left behind. Please, at least let some investigate it, I want nothing more than to be proven wrong" you knew this was beyond your rights, but She was always kind, and you could no longer handle how you had been choking on guilt ever since, how thorns dug into your wings whenever they spread to ferry another, "if your beloved creations are in danger, shouldn't you do something?"

Color drained from the stars, plunging the ethereal abode into a pale night. You needn't look to know the rest of your kin had dropped to their knees as well. With eyes closed, you awaited judgement, jolted to life when icy fingertips brushed your cheek.

Surely, after all the care of creating them, She would listen.

"You will abandon this course."

The days since had been filled with nothing but confusion and misery, forced to return where you'd first awoken and relive the extensive instructions on carrying souls between their tethers. A duty that was, and had been, second nature for millennia while phantom weariness settled in the corners. The instructors refused to meet your gaze as they drew maps across the stars, showing each constellation to which you'd been assigned.

Nourish the dead so they may tread the path paved for them. Guide them to shed their toils so they may be born anew.

The words tolled ceaselessly in your mind, but instead of invoking contentment all that spread with each pulse was a dark fog further muddling thoughts already bordering on blasphemy. With a heavy sigh, you reminded yourself that the shadows lining your vision weren't the blackening of feathers as mortals so loved to portray.

With a heavy heart, you watched as the young man went up in flames, futile cries for a mother who hadn't responded for years, for anything that would have him, were drowned out by passionate yells. The first few times life had bled from those garnets, it had been no different than any other meeting an unfortunate end. A final screech tore apart the air before the spectators roared, backs being patted with a careless satisfaction only humans could wield.

How come he had those striking eyes every time?

The crowd was nothing as you moved, a flicker of satisfaction tingling when shivers ran down their spines. For some so willing to mete out death, their unease in the presence of life had always been a conundrum. With the gentleness of a lover, you coaxed the soul from its charred vessel, brushing along the cerulean hair that seemed to haunt him in every life. As flames continued to lick at the lifeless husk, lips were pressed to it in what had become a silent ritual, ensuring that no body decayed before it could be loved.

Shimmering tendrils connected the soul in your arms and tethered it to the ground, the energy stretching to accommodate as you rose through the air, once again at ease as the sights below vanished. The cracks were there, thin and barely visible, but so unmistakably present, spreading their threads from the small cavity that had formed. Slowly, the energies shifted, connecting him instead to the stars above. You needn't look to know where they led, having long since learned where in the sky oculus haeresis sat.

Why had She woven such a thing into being, claiming it done as an act of love? If the beginning was certain and the end determined, their will would still be free throughout the rest, fate operating on a separate layer of existence than they would ever influence. Suffering was free to exist in the space between, you knew this, it gave their lives purpose to have. But to force tragedy onto every end was different.

Clouds gathered beneath your feet, golden pillars visible in the distance from the recluse you'd chosen. Away from the main areas was always preferable for souls like his, requiring as few disturbances as possible. Containing the possibility that he might influence others. A soft hum rippled the clouds, urging them to become what he needed to see upon waking. Imagining what exact shapes and colors they took always in the back of your mind, curious to know what could put fated prey at ease. Perhaps it wasn't a bad question to ask, meaningless enough at surface level to lower his guard while allowing for further discussion.

Voice a gentle melody, the soul slipped from your grasp, tendrils of mist wrapping around it and give it a shape of its own before he awoke. "You're safe now, open your eyes slowly."

Nothing was expelled with the cough that wrung itself from him, and a smile tugged at your lips at the human mind's blindness to the change in bodily composition. They were creatures who thrived on habit, no matter how furiously they claimed otherwise.

"Safety?" another cough, voice still as though breathing cinders, "safety is nothing but an empty promise."

For a moment, you merely observed the way his eyes darted around, surprise, confusion, and disbelief all flickering across his expression in the span of a breath. Times like these always rekindled your purpose, smiling as the young man laid back down, chuckles bubbling forth to fill the space between him and the barrier.

Despite time being meaningless, no more than a few breaths passed before he spoke, voice eager to understand as always, "I was burned at the stake," a hand ran through the hair, exploratively tugging at the strands, "yet here I am, waking as if from a bad dream."

"Perhaps that's all it was."

"Then all my life has been nothing but a slumber," he felt along something in the illusion before continuing, "how else can I explain these sights? Foliage only recorded in tomes, a forgiving sky, and a someone looking at me as though they understand. This cannot coexist with the life that I know, and such, one must be false."

He was always so tantalizingly close to seeing the truth, a warmth blooming in your chest at the peaceful expression, an unspoken hope - no fear - that this was the only place he experienced such calm.

"And what life did you know?"

His body righted, hands reaching to cup and crush nothing, "I do not recall sunlight touching my skin for the first decade, and for the second, there was far too much of it."

It was hauntingly familiar, so similar to what he always described. Stowed away as a child and tossed away once his peers had faith their consciences could remain clear upon his exile. There was no indignation in his voice, just as there had been no lasting scars on his soul. Most of the time he went easily through the flames, willing to forget the short life that had been lived. With maturity it became more difficult, took further coaxing before he parted with the experiences.

"If not a dream, what is this place where roses shimmer around the edges? We have yet to hear a single sound except our voices and a tolling bell."

So even now, he heard the cleansing bell? A relieved smile settled in your eyes before answering, "This is a place of rest, and I am here to guide you so that your life can no longer burden your soul."

You saw his eyes narrow and rove over your body, bitterness creeping into his tone, "An adeptus? No, unlikely. Whatever you are, such kindness is never offered freely."

A small chuckle ran through your body, oh how you'd missed this soul and the eternal bite of his tongue. His hands were swatting at the clouds, as though he could dispel the mirage to prove himself right.

"There is no need to be so wary, as a child of these stars, it is your birthright to be offered serenity," until you are once more ready to descend, "tell me, who were you?"

A snarl wrenched itself from his lips, the sheer force briefly dispersing a part of the soft clouds cradling you both. Once, you had asked the question, crimson eyes growing distant and a hand tugging at soft tufts of hair before the child admitted to not knowing. Another time, the teen had hugged his legs a little tighter, whispering a single word. 'Unwanted'. Other times, the man would laugh, titles falling like feathers from his frame.

"Not before you tell me what you are."

"I guide the souls of the departed, that will have be enough to satiate your curiosity for now. Rest assured, you will know more in time."

He spat out the answer, "Zandik," while boring holes into your form, most likely attempting to cut open your intentions.

Unless his parents had somehow gleaned fate it had to be an epithet, and if they truly had there would've been far worse consequences for his village of birth to handle. Your expression betrayed nothing, a small nod the only fitting response to a fate crueler than the ends he met. Zandik had grown quiet as well, as though reality was settling in the bones that lay far below, ephemeral hands brushing along a body as real as them in motions that appeared soothing.

"Are you going to sit there and gawk at me like a beast on display for the rest of eternity? I've answered your questions, isn't it time you do the same?" indignation dripped from his words as a hand stretched to reach you, "and don't think I can be placated by beautiful fallacies. Tell me what this place is."

No words were spoken, instead stopping his motion by grasping the curious hand, feeling nothing but smoke from its caress as you placed the palm to your chest, praying he could feel the steady heartbeat you had willed your body to produce. It was an odd gesture, but one that helped calm most souls.

"I will never speak falsehoods, Zandik," the name was spoken with extra care, wishing for the last memories of it to be pleasant, perhaps that could eradicate the rest, "in this world, we all have our purpose. With that comes responsibility and knowledge, some of which is for our hearts only. I will answer all that I can, and in due time, you will know all that you need, such is the aim of the paths we tread upon."

"So you refuse to tell me? Fine, I'll figure it out by myself, I always do."

Such certainty made containing a smile nigh impossible. He always did? If that was the truth he needed, then it was one to be nourished.

The world remained a cresting dawn for far too long as he sat in idle meditation, fingers drumming once more as restlessness settled in the silence. Seasons had without doubt passed below the familiar coverage, had they also passed in the mirage he saw? You could only watch with bated breath as watchers glided past, souls cradled tenderly in their arms as they were cleansed. Their eyes purposefully avoided your direction, tongues no doubt longing to question the sensibility of allowing you the mercy of duty.

A sigh prefaced the question you'd already anticipated from Zandik, "How much longer must we meditate?"

"Until you're ready," patience and encouragement were essential, "perhaps we should take a break for now?"

His head dropped, fists slowly relaxing their grip. The light glittered along the cracks in quiet mockery, once they spread further, would it appear as though delicate lace had been draped across him? If only you could bring Her here without endangering Zandik's soul, if not for Her to mend it, then at least believe that something had gone awry.

'Mortals must be sheltered from these things, lest it overwhelms their soul.' Such were the teachings, and no one dared asked from where the certainty came, knowing the sorrow upon Her face would be too much to bear.

"And what if I will never be ready? How can I declare myself prepared for a future you refuse to share with me?"

There was a distinct lack of bite to his voice, a realization that fostered a blossoming calm, "Then we will continue to sit here and reflect."

You had to wonder if it was painful, if Zandik could feel the strange wounds inflicted on his eternal spirit. It would explain why he was having such difficulties moving on this time, why it had taken long enough that countless other souls had to be brought into the care of others, how could he be expected to forget when a reminder had been carved into him.

"Let me share a glimpse with you," his hesitation at your presence had faded enough that he didn't even scoff at the outstretched hand. A soft thrum hung in the air as an image manifested, the one you used every time, had been instructed to use, not a lie but a stretch. Their mortal body morphing as wings sprouted from their back, skin taking on a glow soft as morning dew, "with patience and understanding, you will shed your constraints and ascend."

"To what, an eternity of servitude here? I may have longed for a different life, but not one with gilded chains."

Despite the reluctance of his voice, a little fledgling doomed to drown as the waters crept closer, his acceptance was inevitable. Just as it had been countless times before. No matter how he refused, the memories he held were far too terrible to cling to, and thus, you watched as his resolved crumbled with every unnecessary breath. The light fading from his shape as the memories were laid to rest, their brightness lighting the tendrils connecting to the sky before eventually dulling.

It was with a peaceful heart that you brought the flickering shape into your embrace, carefully keeping it tethered, before slowly descending. The veins of the world connected and intertwined endlessly, spreading out underneath the earth and capturing everything that was, the life that walked there connecting also to above, to what would be. There was little difference no matter where the souls were returned into the roots, and so your mind led you to the place closest, determined not to relish in the slight warmth that itched along your spine.

"Know that if nothing else, I always look forward to meeting you, Zandik."

You watched with horror as his eyes snapped open, crimson irises bleeding in desperation at the brief pulse of energy that illuminated the night before his body evaporated, soul drawn into the ground. The purest remains of a soul contain no memories, no experiences, and that is what we must return to the ground. With a creeping sense of dread, your wings blotted out the sun during the ascent, unable to focus on neither consequences nor solutions.

The rivers ran red as the newborn child's irises, a moment of silence before his shrill shriek cut through the dawn. How could one who had just entered the world remember both a name and face, one a vicious mockery and the other a warm embrace? He didn't understand, of course he didn't, instead his cries carried long into the starlit night, a solitary constellation and an anxious watcher remaining far above.

[lorei-writes]

'Tis your bright and tiny spark, // Lights the trav'ller in the dark: // Tho' I know not what you are, // Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

Ladies, Gentlemen and other Venerable Figures, @wordycheeseblob & @lorei-writes have the honour to invite you to take part in Wish Upon an Aide Creation Challenge!

Available Characters

All the aide & support characters present in Ikemen series games. That list includes, but is not limited to: Cyran Rose, Roderich, Liam, Carlo, Kojuro, Kyubei, any named pets, IkeVamp rivals, etc.

Event Duration

April 4th - May 4th; masterlist drop on May 5th

Entries

Fanfic, fanart, moodboards, collages, edits, playlists -- any and all sorts of creative input are welcome. Please, label any suggestive or NSFW works appropriately. We reserve the right not to include mislabelled works on the masterlist.

Additionally, your entries do not have to be event exclusive, meaning that they can also be entries for other challenges.

Prompts

Feel free to use the graphic for taking requests :) ; Transcription below the cut.

Don't forget to use #wishuponanaidecc and to tag @lorei-writes & @wordycheeseblob in your works >:)

We can't wait to see what you come up with!

Lorei & Saki

Prompt List Transcription

Red: love, sacrifice, passion, blood, danger, courage, anger, determination

Blue: honesty, chivalry, wisdom, loneliness, tranquillity, loneliness, serenity, loyalty, sadness

Yellow: inspiration, joy, friendship, radiance, creation, warmth, sun, life

[isephierreo]

Analysis of Emblem Rings Designs

In Artbook, each ring is coded with a Japanese character, and I will analyze it meaning and connection to lord. So if I don't know what it means, or I misinterpreted it, please correct me.

Marth's ring resembles his tiara from Mystery of the Emblem (1994), but with the layers reversed. It is decorated in his standard pattern.

His code in Artbook is 星, means Star. I don't know what it symbolizes?

Celica's ring and design are characterized by three lines, and in her ring, a space is placed between them, which gives consistency with her design. In addition to the presence of Mila's logo.

Her code in Artbook is 守, means Protect, or Defend. I don't remember the Echoes plot well, but it may symbolize her role in the plot.

Sigurd's ring design appears to be a stylized form of his cloak.

His code in Artbook is 承, means Acquiesce. I don't know what it symbolizes?

Leif's ring design is consistent with his design patterns taken from the fourth series of the TCG.

His code in Artbook is 放, means set free, release, fire, shoot, emit, banish, or liberate. It symbolize his role in the Thracia plot.

Roy's ring design is taken from his headband design and the Binding Blade.

His code in Artbook is 火, means Fire. It may symbolize his affinity.

Lyn's ring design is taken from her belt design, and the silver motif has a stylized combination of Mulagir and the metal in her belt.

Her code in Artbook is 風, means Wind. Like Roy, it may symbolize her affinity.

The spiral shape in the twins' ring is similar to the style of their bracelets, while the three gems may refer to three beads in Eirika's belt, and the gem shard to Ephraim's cloak. A group of gems on the middle side may indicate multiple small blades next to large blade in Siegmund and Sieglinde.

Their code in Artbook is 碧, means Blue, Green, or Azure. It may refer to twins in general.

A gold portion of Ike's ring may refer to a yellow stripe of his design in Path of Radiance, a silver portion to his arm armor in the Vanguard class, while a portion surrounding a gem vaguely resembles Lehran's Medallion, referring to the role it played in the plot.

His code in Artbook is 蒼, means Blue. It refer to the first character of a Japanese title Path of Radiance, 蒼炎の軌跡 (Path of the Blue Flame).

The portion surrounding the gem may be a stylized form Micaiah's brand, while a portion on both side resembles wings suggesting of Yune's bird shape. Like Lehran's Medallion, the orange color in Micaiah's ring refers to Yune and the role she played in the plot.

Her code in Artbook is 光, means Light. It may indicate the names of her classes and skills.

Lucina's ring resembles her tiara, while the part surrounding the gem somewhat resembles one of the parts of Falchion's design, while the color of the gem is similar to the mysterious glow that appears in Falchion.

Her code in Artbook is 覚, means Awakening.

The portion on both sides resembles the clasp of her cloak, while the gem resembles a dragon stone.

Unfortunately, I couldn't recognize her code in Artbook. Maybe someone else might recognize it, here are two pictures.

Byleth's ring design resembles their ring from 3H, or their arm armor, while the segments between the gem at the bottom and top may indicate the pattern on a male's chest, and the two segments at the end may indicate both male's and female's pendant ribbon.

His code in Artbook is 導, means to direct, guide, lead, conduct. It symbolize his role in the 3H plot.

[amelheth]

Custom Godzilla

Its been awhile since i posted anything so i decided to post this recent reinvention of infamous kaiju's design. Reinventing the King of the Monsters!

It been a LOOONG time since i wanted to draw my own version.

For design, i was inspired from many iterations of the monster. From most obvious being Burning Godzilla from Godzilla versus Destoroyah, Godzilla Ultima from recent Singular Point series, and of course, Shin Godzilla.

For skullshape i went for the more whalelike approach with googly eyes of Shin's early forms, giving it moreso fishlike vibe. Since originally "Gojira" comes from "Gorira" (Gorilla) and "Janjira" (Whale). Hence whale pick. Plus, Ultima's skull shape.

From Shin it got tiny arms, eyes, and most prominent, massive tail. Second Godzilla coming from tail is reference to Shin Godzilla unused concept arts where Godzilla divided, as well as, reference to his tail shape and tail beam.

As for texture, i wanted to go with overly nuclear look. Skin rips apart, baring irradiated flesh that bulges out, with skin trying to regenerate with fiberlike structure. It also makes this Godzilla a constant source of massive radiation and heat. Normal humans cannot approach it without burning their skins alive and getting irradiated. It leaves heavily irradiatef footprints and marks whenever it walks, much like to early Shin Godzilla, if not worse.

As for atomic breath, i havent drawn it, but i have ideas for it. And of course it can emit both from mouth and tail.

But, unlike regular interpretations, its not a beam nor a flame. When using atomic beam, Godzilla opens its maw wide, as its dorsal plates and exposed flesh glow brighter, increasing overall radiation emission. Its maw starts glowing blindingly bright with bluish light. Without visible beam, large area its atomic energy is emitted from mouth starts melting and burning, much like heat from stars or melting down nuclear reactors. Similar to effect Supercharged Godzilla's presence did in Godzilla: King of the Monsters, but on much larger scale. This Godzilla also can focus this invisible burst of destruction into thinner beam, as heat increases. Eventually, chain reaction occurs in air itself, as flash of light momentarily hits from its mouth onto target, creating a massive nuclear explosion.

I call this version of Atomic Beam as "Nuclear Radiance" or "Lighthouse of Death".

It also proudly stands at 100 meters height much like Ultima, Heisei and Final Wars. Its also pretty slow and passive like Shin (usually). But can be quite feral. In agressive fight with other kaiju, it can use its massive jaws both on head and tail aside from atomic beam, unable to use arms.

I am planning to remake more kaijus in near future, so, stay tuned, and dont get even mile close to this monster.

[letmehavemyfictionalmen]

Star Crossed; Star-Collide: chapter I

Summary: As a bounty hunter, Din has completed his mission, however, he is unbeknownst to the storm that will knock the wind out of him, literally.

pairing: Din Djarin x afab!Skywalker!reader

warning: 18+ content, Eventual smut, Unprotected sex, Violence, Blood, Age-Gap, Kidnapping, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, a sprinkle of Angst, Idiots in love, Flirting, possessive!Din, powerful!reader, Jedi!reader, Grogu being adorable, Grogu loves his Ma more than his buir.

previous | next

The Nevarro desert sprawls out before you, a vast canvas of parched earth that seems to stretch beyond the horizon. Endless dunes of golden sand undulate like a sea frozen in time, while jagged rocks jut out like the teeth of some great beast, scattered haphazardly across the landscape.

The winds whisper a mournful song, carrying with them the sense of utter isolation and a haunting desolation. There is no life in this forsaken place, only the vast emptiness of the shifting sands and a never-ending solitude that engulfs everything in its path.

The star above glows with fervor, its radiance spilling over the land, igniting a heat that suffuses every grain of sand. The air trembles with the sun's intensity, the weight of its brilliance pressing down upon the desert like a hammer.

As if locked in a dance with the arid earth, the sun paints the world in shades of gold and ochre, conjuring an austere beauty in the midst of its scorching assault.

You traverse the vastness of the desert, silence reigning supreme, broken only by the sound of sand crunching beneath your feet. The untamed essence of this barren land engulfs you, but you remain unrelenting, unwavering in your quest

The ivory of your Jedi robes glows against the ashen sand, stark and luminous against the muted desert backdrop. The black of your belt and boots adds depth to your monochrome attire, and your cloak, rippling behind you like a shadow, lends an air of mystery to your austere appearance.

Looking every bit of Obi-Wan’s apprentice, A hushed voice travels with the wind, caressing your ears. You recognize it instantly, the familiar timbre of your mentor Obi-Wan.

Gliding alongside you is Beeb, your trusty astromech droid, a blur of orange and white against the beige sand. Its head, round and dome-shaped, swivels with a keen and curious eye, scanning the endless surroundings.

The stillness of the desert is interrupted only by the gentle hum of Beeb's servos, harmonizing with the soft whisper of the wind.

You watch over him with a protective gaze, your heart filling with a maternal sense of duty. "Take care, little one," you whisper, your voice carried away by the hot winds.

Beeb zips back to your side, emitting a joyful chirp that resonates with the purity of a bird's song happily. Your lips curl into a crescent moon of joy, a twinkle in your eye as you witness Beeb's playful antics.

Beeb swivels his dome-shaped head, emitting a series of chirps and whistles that resemble a curious inquiry. ‘Mama, where are we going?’

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, as if carried on a breeze of mirth at Beeb’s innocent query.

Patting his metallic head and rubbing it as in a way to ruffle his hair gently. "There is a child, Beeb. We must rescue him from the Imperial Remnant." Your voice imbued with unshakable resolve.

‘A child! I get a sibling. That means R2D2 won’t tease me for being the youngest.’ Beeb lets out a series of excited chirps, almost child-like in nature. His head spins around in every direction, as if searching for the little one himself.

A beam of happiness spreads across your face at Beeb's enthusiasm, feeling a sense of warmth in your heart. It's been a long time since you've seen anyone so purely happy and carefree.

It reminds you of your own childhood, before the weight of the galaxy was thrust upon your shoulders.

"I know, Beeb. He's quite the special little guy. I can't wait for you to meet him." Your words are punctuated by a gentle laugh.

The little droid chirps with excitement, his movements quick and sprightly. You follow closely, trying to keep up with his energy as he rolls ahead, leading the way.

The endless expanse of desert still stretches out before you, but Beeb's child-like enthusiasm brings a sense of joy to the journey.

Together, you press on through the harsh terrain, Beeb's infectious happiness making each step a little lighter, each gust of sand a little more bearable.

Through the cacophonous streets of Nevarro, Din strides with a solemn gait, the metallic plates of his armor echoing a rhythmic beat that echoes through the throng of people.

The bustling market envelops the city streets, stalls brimming with wares to behold. Each vendor calls out to passersby, their voices echoing through the narrow alleys as hurried feet beat a steady rhythm on the worn stones beneath.

Din threads his way through the thriving market, the polished metal of his armor gleaming in the scorching sun, capturing the attention of every passerby.

Undeterred by the chaos of the busy market and the looks he receives, Din strides forward with a sense of purpose.

His attention remains steadfast on the task at hand, his thoughts consumed by the mission that has brought him back to this bustling city.

Din treads deeper into the maze of Nevarro's streets, slipping between shadows and darting through sunlight, his every step deliberate and steady as he navigates the twisting alleys.

As Din rounds the corner, his gaze falls upon the entrance to the clandestine Imperial facility, nestled amid the bustling Nevarro market. But in his periphery, a lone rubbish bin catches his eye, discarded and forgotten in the dusty shadows of the narrow alleyway.

Gazing into the dusty bin, Din beholds a heartbreaking sight - the remnants of the child's floating pram now shattered and broken beyond repair.

Din's heart sears with fiery pain, his gaze fixated upon the shattered remnants of the child's once safe haven. The pram, once a symbol of hope and protection, now lies destroyed, its pieces scattered amongst the filth and debris.

Regret grips Din like a vice, squeezing his heart with a brutal force as he recalls the moment he surrendered the Child to the Imperial Remnants.

His fists coil and release, a surge of guilt overwhelming him. A sense of failure seizes his heart, a heavy burden he bears as he paces the alley.

His mind whirls, seeking a solution to the wrongs he's allowed to befall the innocent. A plan he must devise, a way to redeem himself and rescue the Child from the hands of the Imperials.

A burden of guilt crushes his heart as he comprehends the peril that the Child faces. He senses the urgency to act, to save the innocent one from harm's way.

Filled with righteous fury and a burning desire for retribution, Din sets off on a path of vengeance.

For the Empire's cruelty to the Child, they will pay a fee. A debt that only he, the Mandalorian, can claim.

Prostrate atop a terrace, far removed from the grasp of the Imperial agents, Din steadies his gaze through the Amban sniper's lens, locked on the looming Imperial stronghold.

A soft touch to his helmet's earpiece and the mechanism within it hums with life, carrying distant conversations to Din's ear.

Static echoes in Din's ears, as he moves the sniper lens, trying the locate the Child, however, as he scans the base, his attention is drawn to a new scene unfolding before him: the thermal image of the Imperial client and Dr. Pershing.

Their voices, distant and distorted, crackle through his comms. He adjusts the frequency, tuning out the static until the conversation between the Imperial client and Dr. Pershing fills his ears like poison.

"I don't care." The Imperial clients travel through Din's comms. "I order you to extract the necessary material and be done with it."

The Imperial agent's orders blare through Din's comms, their cold and callous tones cutting through his heart like a blade. "I don't care. I order you to extract the necessary material and be done with it." they command as if the life of a child is nothing but a mere trifle to be disposed of at will.

For a while, the voices fade into the hiss of static, the words drowned in a sea of white noise.

With a gentle twist of the knob, Din awaits the return of the conversation, the static hum slowly dissipating, and the sound of voices filling the air once more.

The doctor's voice breaks the silence, his words dripping with obedience, "He has explicitly ordered us to bring it back alive."

"Finish your business quickly, as I no longer can guarantee your safety." The Imperial Client's words travel through the air, a warning of imminent danger.

The beskar helmet conceals the furrow on Din's brow, perplexed by the Imperial Client's cryptic words.

No longer guarantee the safety of the doctor? What is the Imperial agent talking about? Who was this threat that shook the resolve of this hidden Imperial base?

It fills Din with an unknown sense of relief as he realizes that the Imperial agents fear something to the point where they longer feel safe hiding here. For if they fear something enough to flee, then perhaps the Child may yet have a chance at survival.

Thoughts race through Din's mind as he surveys the scene, his voice muffled by the helmet that conceals his emotions. "What are they afraid of? Who is this threat?"

"It is I, they fear, Mandalorian."

A tense stillness grips Din's form, as a distinct hum, like a shrill electrical buzz, reverberates through the air behind him.

Amidst the chaos of his thoughts, a moment of reckoning grips Din like a vice, and he curses himself for his lack of vigilance. His eyes, once sharp and alert, now narrow with anger and frustration, as he realizes the gravity of his mistake.

With steady hands, Din relinquishes his grip on the rifle, previously trained upon the Imperial stronghold. Silently, with calculated precision, his hand glides downward, towards the leather holster secured to his left thigh, where the blaster rests within its sheath.

With quickness unmatched, Din draws his weapon from its sheath, rolling onto his back in one fluid motion. From this vulnerable position, he trains the weapon on the looming figure standing behind him, ready to defend himself against any threat.

Confronting him is a presence, tall and imposing. The figure is draped in flowing white robes, the starkness of which is accented by a contrasting black belt.

Behind them, a cloak of the deepest black dances in the wind, as if daring anyone to challenge the power of the one who wears it.

The figure holds a weapon that Din has only heard in a hushed tone, spoken in reverential tones and remembered with reverence, for those who wielded it were lost to the purge, gone without a trace.

The once-forgotten weapon, now in the possession of an enigmatic form, is wielded with practiced ease and lethal finesse, each hand brandishing one of the glowing blades.

Din offers gratitude to the stars above, for the knowledge imparted by the Armourer, which he now recalls as a child, the different variations of the lightsabers.

The Mandalorian's gaze fixates on the left hand of the figure, beholding the double-bladed lightsaber glowing in hues of royal purple, while the right-hand holds a dual-phased lightsaber emanating a vivid green radiance.

"A Jetii." Din's lips part, his breath caught in his chest as he beholds the figure before him, a being of power and ancient wisdom.

"A Mandalorian." The words uttered by the figure are infused with a sense of serenity, a voice of balance and control.

The voice of the figure reaches Din's ears, and a sudden realization dawns upon him. This is no mere figure, but a woman of immense power, her words carrying a weight that stirs something deep within him.

A shiver runs down his spine, as he realizes the magnitude of his opponent - a Jetii, armed with weapons of deadly prowess. He knows he stands no chance against such might.

Din's senses flare with a sudden urgency, and his body responds with a lightning-quick roll, narrowly evading the Jetii's sudden lunge. His muscles tense, his reflexes honed from a life of constant danger.

The graceful and deadly strike of her dual lightsabers slices through the air where Din had been just a moment before. The sound of the humming blades echoes off the surrounding structures, a symphony of danger and death.

Din's heart races with adrenaline as he quickly springs to his feet, his own weapons at the ready. He knows he's outmatched, but he refuses to go down without a fight.

Din regains his footing with a graceful sway, his blaster at the ready, aimed at the Jetii. Yet her movements are too swift, her form too lithe, as she sidesteps each shot with poise and ease, the double-bladed lightsaber a blur of purple, effortlessly blocking his every attempt.

Din grunts as he swiftly steps back, creating distance between himself and the woman. With fluid motions, he draws his amban rifle/spear from his back, ready for the woman's next move. As she lunges towards him with her green lightsaber, Din expertly parries her attack.

Din charges forward, his rifle at the ready, but the woman is too quick. She leaps over him, somersaulting in mid-air, and lands behind him. Before he can turn around, she delivers a swift kick to his back, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Stepping forward, the woman's words are sharp and unforgiving. "You are a Mandalorian, revered warrior. Family is paramount to you, younglings are precious to your kind. I have respect for your way of life, but I must ask, why did you surrender the Child to the Imperials?"

Din tries to stand up but he is still disoriented from the kick. He glares at the woman, anger simmering within him. "That's none of your business," he growls, his hand hovering over his holster.

He doesn't know who she is or how she knows about the Child, but her words hit him hard.

The woman narrows her eyes, her lightsabers still ignited. "It is my business when it concerns the safety of a child. The Jedi are the guardians of peace and justice in the galaxy, even though there are only two left, it is our duty to protect those who cannot protect themselves."

Din grits his teeth and slowly pushes himself back up, his eyes never leaving the Jetii. "It's complicated," he answers, his voice tense.

The woman tilts her head, her eyes probing. "Complicated," she repeats, a note of skepticism in her voice.

"I am a Mandalorian. Our code of honour includes fulfilling one's obligations and completing jobs. I was obliged by my creed to finish the job." Din tries to reason but knows that even the Mandalorians don't leave children behind.

The woman's stance stiffens, her body a seething cauldron of rage, emanating a fiery aura. "Your creed should also include protecting the innocent, especially the young. You know as well as I do that the Imperials won't treat that child kindly. You had a chance to make a difference, to save a life, and you chose to ignore it."

Din's head droops in shame, the weight of the woman's words crushing him. He has fallen short of his Mandalorian code, failing to protect the youngling. "I... I know. I was wrong," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I have to make it right. I have to get him back."

The woman's lightsabers fall silent, their deadly hum fading as she deactivates them. Din's gaze follows as she gracefully returns the weapons to her belt, then lowers the hood that had obscured her face.

And wow.

Din's heart quickens its pace as the woman lowers her hood, revealing her face at last. But it is not just her physical beauty that holds him captive. In her eyes, there burns a fierce intensity, a wisdom that he has never before encountered. 4

Her gaze pierces through him like a blaster bolt, and he feels a strange stirring within him, a stirring of awe and admiration.

It feels like she is seeing straight into the depths of his soul. A captivating aura emanates from her, enveloping Din in a trance-like state.

At this moment, all of his thoughts, concerns, and fears seem to vanish, leaving him lost in the hypnotic gaze of this enigmatic woman.

Din's mind goes blank as he gazes upon her, forgetting the conflict that had brought them face to face. The way the light dances around her, the gentle slope of her features, the spark in her gaze - all of it blends together to create a breathtaking portrait that he cannot help but be captivated by.

Her voice echoes in Din's mind, her words piercing through his thoughts like a sharp blade. He feels the weight of her gaze upon him, and he struggles to maintain his composure. Her presence is like a force of nature, commanding his attention with ease.

As she speaks, he finds himself lost in the rhythm of her words, the cadence of her voice like a soothing melody. He tries to focus on what she is saying, but his mind is distracted by the beauty of her being. The way she speaks, the way she stands it's as if he's in a dream that he never wants to wake up from.

'You're not a boy anymore,' he reminds himself, 'you're a bounty hunter, a Mandalorian.' The words echo in his mind, a mantra to steel himself.

He musters all his inner strength, fighting against the temptation to be entranced by her allure. He forces his mind back to the present, determined to cast aside the alluring distractions and attend to the matter at hand.

"I'll do whatever it takes to make it right," Din declares, his voice filled with a deep-seated conviction.

The woman nods a sense of understanding in her eyes. "I believe you," she says softly. "But words are meaningless without action. If you truly want to make it right, then you must find the Child and bring him back to his own kind, where he will be safe and learn more about himself."

He nods, determination setting in. "I won't let him be hurt."

The woman regards Din for a moment, before extending her hand out to help him up. "Good," she says, motioning to the Imperial Base with her head. "Because we have work to do."

Din feels a wave of gratitude washes over him at the woman's words. He had been so sure he was doing the right thing by handing the child over to the Imperials, but now he realizes the gravity of his mistake.

Accepting the woman's outstretched hand, Din rises to his feet, his heart still racing from the intensity of the fight. He looks at her with deep appreciation and nods in gratitude. The woman takes a step back, giving him space to retrieve his weapons from the ground.

As Din's hands reach for his rifle on the ground, a flicker of movement catches his attention from the corner of his eye, and his muscles tense as he recognizes the source.

Din's gaze follows as an astromech droid BB-8 unit rolls out from its spot, and over to the woman. Her smile shines like a sunbeam, casting a warm glow over everything around her. She kneels in front of the droid and tenderly pats its spherical head, a gesture that seems to radiate with pure kindness.

Din's eyes narrow, a flicker of suspicion crossing his features as he observes the woman's interaction with the astromech droid. His gut churns with a deep-seated distrust of the machines, borne from past traumas and scars.

The weight shifts on his feet, his body poised like a coiled spring, ready to strike if the droid were to make any sudden moves.

The woman senses Din's unease and rises to her feet, turning her gaze toward him. "Don't worry, Beeb has been with me since I was a child. He is on our side." she says reassuringly, a faint smile gracing her lips.

Din remains skeptical, but the woman's words give him pause. He relaxes slightly but keeps a watchful eye on the droid. "I've had my fair share of run-ins with droids. Can't say I trust them much," he admits gruffly.

The woman nods in understanding. "I understand, but please know that I built him myself and imbued him with the same spirit of loyalty and honor that I strive to embody. He has been with my brother and me through the toughest of battles. You have nothing to fear from him, Mandalorian."

Din considers her words for a moment, then gives a curt nod. "I'll take your word for it, but if that thing tries anything funny, he's getting a blaster bolt to the head."

The woman chuckles. "I wouldn't expect any less from a Mandalorian. But I assure you, Beeb is on our side."

As if sensing his hesitation, Beeb lets out a series of friendly beeps and chirps, rolling closer to Din and nuzzling against his leg. Din glances down at the droid, surprised by the show of affection.

The woman smiles knowingly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "See? He's harmless."

Din grudgingly nods, still unsure of the droid's intentions. But he knows that he can trust the woman and by extension, Beeb. For now, at least.

Approaching him with confidence, the woman strides towards Din, her height just slightly shorter than his own. As she draws nearer, she speaks her name with a voice as soothing as a gentle stream and extends her hand for him to take, a gesture of respect and greeting.

Din takes a moment to compose himself before taking her hand, feeling a jolt of electricity shoot up his arm as they shake hands. He quickly withdraws his hand and takes a step back, surprised at his own reaction.

The woman raises an eyebrow, noticing his sudden shift in demeanor. "Is something wrong?" she asks, her voice laced with concern.

Din shakes his head, trying to push aside the strange sensation that lingers in his hand. "No, nothing's wrong. It's just that...I don't usually shake hands with strangers."

The woman chuckles softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I understand. But I hope we can become more than strangers, Mandalorian."

"Mando. Call me Mando." Din says finally, the word rolling off his tongue with a certain weight.

He can sense the woman's surprise at his response, but he remains firm. He has learned to keep his true name hidden, even from those he trusts.

The woman's gaze locks onto Din's, and as she speaks his name, it rolls off her tongue like a sweet melody, a word to be savored and cherished. "Mando," she murmurs, her voice carrying the weight of reverence and admiration.

A stirring sensation dances in Din's chest as the woman utters his name once more. He's never heard it spoken with such curiosity and esteem, and the sound of it from her lips sends shivers down his spine.

"Shall we go, Mando?" With a graceful motion of her hand, the woman gestures toward the direction they should take.

Din nods in understanding, feeling drawn to her enigmatic presence. "Lead the way," he says, a subtle hint of admiration in his voice.

With steadfast purpose, the pair sets out on their journey, each step resolute and unyielding. Their goal is clear, a daunting challenge ahead, as Beeb follows along faithfully. Their mission: to rescue the Child, to keep the Imperial Agents at bay, and to ensure the youngling's safety at all costs.

Tag list: @babygirlrex0504 @alienated-green-tea @fatima-marisa @dindjarindude @sharin1806 @ruthyalva96 @avengersfan25

☼ Please note that I do not wish to have my work translated or published on any third party reading websites. I claim the rights to my work.

☼ Where I don’t have any rights to the characters, many ideas and OC are my own creation. Please respect that.

[ruinconstellation]

Fic recs for The Hands of the Emperor

@rattyjol @wingedscribe @savrenim @far-sector @ariaste, and if you know an author’s tumblr handle and I haven’t yet tagged them, please do pass this along!

SPOIILERS AHEAD. Most of these contain spoilers for Artorin Damara's secret name, and some have other spoilers.

Trial by Fire by astrocryptographer. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 4,040 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: Kip/HR.

Cliopher sayo Mdang trials as the Sun-on-Earth’s personal secretary. Incidentally, they learn that the taboo against eye contact has lifted, and that the one against touch has not.

Refraction by astrocryptographer. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 9,249 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: Kip/HR. 

“If each of my two natures, I told myself, could be housed in separate identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable.” -The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde In a lonely tower, a young man without a name mixes a potion out of an old alchemy book, and in the mirror Fitzroy Angursell looks back.

Hold on Forever by SunInGlory. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 16,959 words, 2/2 chapters. Relationship: Kip/HR.

Kip hated the sense of desolation in the man's voice, the despair, the resignation at the foundering of the ship that was his ke'ea. No one should have to give up— “You could always stay here,” he offered. “No one would ever know.” The man’s head popped up in astonishment—and, for the first time since coming in through Saya Dorn's pantry, he looked right at Kip, directly into Kip's eyes. (in which the newly crowned Emperor keeps tumbling through to Saya Dorn’s house.)

In the Office of Friendship by astrocryptographer. Rating: General Audiences. No warnings. 3,079 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: The Imperial Household. 

First Commander Omo suggested that his Radiancy retire, and that was bad enough, but then he just. Kept talking. Imperial Guardsman Elish was going to need a second vacation. If he survived this conversation.

Protocol One by astrocryptographer. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. Warning: Major Character Death. 18,836 words, 4/4 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR.

Protocol One: The Unexpected Death of the Lord Magus of Zunidh (the Last Emperor, the Lord of Rising Stars, the Sun-on-Earth, all ten thousand of his titles, his Radiancy, Cliopher’s dear friend)—how it is followed, and how it is not, and how the world somehow continues to turn.

Bloodstained Threnodies by astrocryptographer. Rating: Mature. Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings. 2,113 words, 1/1 chapters. Character: HR.

The Emperor of Astandalas died so that the Empire could live. The Empire in return sustained the Emperor with blood: a perfect, vicious symmetry which stabilized the magic of five worlds. We were never certain when precisely in our reign it could be said that we died. (The Emperor is a vampire.)

Arrest by astrocryptographer, complete series, 72,212 words, 2 works. The Arrest of Cliopher Mdang, rating: Teen and Up Audiences, no warnings, 69,381 words, 13/13 chapters. Acquittal, rating: General Audiences, 2,831 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR, the Imperial Household.

When the Last Emperor and Lord Magus of Zunidh declares Cliopher an enemy of the world, a threat to peace and prosperity, a Terror to rival those of the fallen Empire, what else can he do but live up to the legends? (or: the Moon Lady sets a curse on His Radiancy, causing him to hate Cliopher in an inverse of the love he bears. How can Cliopher break the curse?)

with a winged heart by celebros. Rating: Explicit. No warnings. 33,064 words, 6/6 chapters. Relationship: Kip/HR.

"Cliopher. Cliopher. Cliopher." I blink. It's Conju, standing with his hands on my shoulders, and I go to answer him and realize that I am already speaking, babbling, and Franzel is behind him, wringing his hands and looking near tears. I try to focus on what I'm saying, but it's like a stream, light and splashing past me, too quick to hold, not enough to catch, somehow, somehow –  (A few weeks before the start of the viceroyship ceremonies, Kip finds himself the unwitting recipient of a truth serum.)

Inner Guard by rattyjol. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 903 words, 1/1 chapters. Character: Ludvic Omo.

His grandfather had liked to say that every piece of wood had something beautiful inside it, calm and quiescent like a wingfinger on a cold morning. It took a sharp knife and steady hands to bring it forth, but it took a carver’s eyes to show it the sun and let it fly.

Friday Keeps Coming Next by rattyjol, complete series, 44,495 words, 2 works. Friday Keeps Coming Next, rating: Teen and Up Audiences, no major warnings (temporary character death), 38,198 words, 10/10 chapters. Thursday Won't Ever End, rating: Teen and Up Audiences, no major warnings (again, temporary character death), 6,297 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR. 

On Cliopher's first day as imperial secretary, breaking the taboo of eye contact causes a perpetual time loop for Cliopher and His Radiancy. What could go wrong? 

The Virtue of Being True by electropeach. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 15,685 words, 3/3 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR, the Imperial Household.

"You're under an enchantment, Cliopher. The good news is that the protections his Radiancy has placed on you have shielded you; the bad news is that the protections that block the spell are also reflecting it, meaning that instead of you it affects everyone who comes near you. You may have noticed an unusual propensity for candor in your vicinity today?" (A reverse truth serum plot leads to Cliopher having a very strange day.)

The Ones We Call by Name by ketchupblood. Rating: General Audiences. No warnings. 7,222 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: the Imperial Household. 

He was the Emperor, the Sun-on-Earth, and the Lord of Ten Thousand Titles. For just a moment, he let himself hope that someone might dare to call him by name. Or: his Radiancy realizes that his personal secretary and the groom of his chamber are... friends.

Dispatches from the Junior Secretariat by wingedScribe. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 62,321 words, 8/14 chapters (no cliffhangers). Relationship: the junior secretaries (Gaudy, Tully, Zaoul, Eldo, Iro, Iri), Kip & HR. 

Gaudy Vawen is leaving home to follow his uncle. Eldo Vardes is doing the same to defy his father. Zaoul wants to find the answers to questions only he is asking, and Tully wants to find problems only she can sort out. They collide in Solaara, where they find the Imperial Bureaucratic Service poised to aid the greatest transition in government since the Fall. And also, where they find themselves the somewhat-captive but very intrigued peanut gallery to the lives of both Cliopher Mdang and His Radiancy the Emperor. A retelling of parts of Hands of the Emperor through the the sometimes-comprehending, often-bemused, always-intrigued eyes of Gaudy, Tully, Zaoul, and Eldo as they grow and advance in the Service.

Epithalamion by oliviacirce. Rating: Explicit. No Warnings. 10,611 words, 1/1 chapters. Relationship: Kip/HR.

"Right," Zemius said. "So—when Dora asked His Serene and Radiant Holiness the Last Emperor if the regency ceremony was a wedding, it reminded me of something, and well, Kip, I don't think you're going to want to hear this, but the thing is—it was a wedding." (in which the Viceroyship ceremony was accidentally a wedding)

a buried and a burning flame by savrenim. Rating: Mature. No warnings. 16,538 words, 1/15 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR.

Cliopher Mdang's hands were stained gold years before he came into the Emperor's service. (Or: the one where Kip went home after the Fall accompanied by Tor, a ghostly man, and returned to Solaara with golden soulmate marks on his arms.)

flies far, far home by nsmorig. Rating: General Audiences. No warnings. 5,576 words, 2/13 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR. 

In Astandalas in the years before the Fall, far from home and desperately lonely, Kip makes a friend. If the Emperor can be a man without a soul then, logically, Kip can be friends with a soul without its associated man. (daemon au, albatross style)

Not a fic. A Fancy-Man and Foreign: A Case Study of Cliopher Mdang by Ariaste. Nonfiction meta, an analysis of the cultural byplay in The Hands of the Emperor. 9,909 words.

soon, they said, if not today by Ariaste. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No warnings. 44,417 words, 4/4 chapters. Relationship: Kip & HR.

Cliopher passes the Imperial exams on the first try. It changes everything. (In which Cliopher Mdang meets the Emperor two years after his reign begins.)

one for sorrow, two for joy by Ariaste. Rating: Teen and Up Audiences. No major warnings (warning: imprisonment). 35,528 words, 4/4 chapters.

The Emperors of Astandalas did not have daemons. Cliopher knew this could not, technically, be true. Thinking this thought, even in the quietest whisper in his deepest heart of hearts, was undeniably treason, but…. facts were facts: The Emperors of Astandalas, though worshipped as gods on earth, were each of them born a human being before they were apotheosized by the crown and by law and custom. Every human being had a soul; therefore, every human being had a daemon. So the Emperors of Astandalas must have had daemons. But by tradition and ritual and magic and taboo: The Emperors of Astandalas did not have daemons. (daemon au, manatura style)

hélouzithe, hélouzanth by nsmorig. Rating: Explicit. No warnings. 7,546 words, 1/1 chapters. 

In court’s long sleeves, the Astandalan greeting, gripping the forearms, might not involve any actual contact of skin, and Cliopher’s hands are holding his sleeves, but Cliopher is not in court’s long sleeves, and his fingertips spread across the curve of skin before the elbow.

Works containing At the Feet of the Sun spoilers that I haven't read yet but these authors are definitely skilled: 

dream only of stars and songs by electropeach, 70k words, 3 works, rating: T.

when every no turns into maybe by Ariaste, 30k words, 5/5 chapters, rating: T. 

Lastly: if you have any fic recs for HOTE, please add them to this post!

[the-perverse-library]

I see you like Nintendo but what series from them do you like?

Legend of Zelda

Luigi's Mansion

Super Mario Sunshine

Super Mario

Princess Peach Showtime!

Smash bros

Metroid

Fire emblem [Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn]

Arms

Pokemon

Bomberman

Star Fox

Banjo Kazooie/Tooie

Quest64 [Yes, even with its awful combat/level system]

Rayman 2: Great Escape

Dragon Ball Z Boudakai/Boudakai 2

Bloody Roar: Primal Fury

Sonic Adventure 2: Battle

Ty the Tasmanian Tiger [Admittedly because I'm an Australian and the VA work is honestly spot on

Bloodstained: Ritual of the Night