the illusion before me lingers and tortures me

i go by M | in my 30s | she/he/they pronouns | Stay since ODDINARY

[anonystay]

hello!!! it's me, M 🩷

just wanted to quickly stop by and offer a sincere thank you to everyone who has liked, reblogged and/or commented on my fic "this was YOUR idea," im truly so glad you're enjoying it. this and a handful of other ongoing and as yet unpublished WIPs are my first foray BACK into fic writing after nearly a decade of being away from it because of real life things, and all the engagement on my fics have been quite the confidence boost indeed 🩷

Thank you and a big hello as well to the people who have followed me on here because of my fic/s!! im rather shy in general but im also really grateful for your follows, thank you so much 🩷🩷 i might not be on here a lot, but i promise to interact as much as i can when i am!

in case anyone might be wondering - my two ongoing fics WILL be updated, for sure - i've just been having laptop issues (which i havent been able to get foxed because it costs A TON and im currently in between jobs and quite broke) and it's been hard working on the updates on my phone and iPad. But they WILL happen at some point! And i do also have a few other one-shot ideas, including a potentially sequel/follow-up to "this was YOUR idea," that i hope will prove just as enjoyable as my other work/s.

oh, and my inbox is open (i think? new tumblr confuses me sometimes lol), please feel free to come by and say hello or anything! i am quite shy, but i still love meeting new people and making new friends 🥹🥹

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated E] this was YOUR idea

A destination wedding. A rooming mix-up. One bed. And a lot of unsaid feelings.

Pretending to date Changbin for a long weekend sounds simple enough - until it isn’t. Not when the touches start to linger, not when the lines blur, and definitely not when it starts to feel a little too real to laugh off.

-- + --

Rated E (Explicit) | One-Shot (<29,000 words) | Changbin/reader | Smut & Fluff | Non-Idol AU | Mature Content

Content Tags: There Was Only One Bed, Fake/Pretend Dating, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Sex (fingering, P-in-V penetrative, oral, creampie/finish inside), Praise Kink (reader)

Other Tags: Bang Chan/OFC, background established MinSung if you squint, other OFCs, destination wedding, oblivious idiots in love

-- + --

The resort is a lot nicer than you might have expected - and knowing the bride and groom, you had expected a lot. 

You feel it the second the taxi pulls away and leaves you standing at the entrance with your suitcase, the humid sea air wrapping around you like a warm towel. The building itself rises out of a spill of palm trees and white stone walkways, sunlight glinting off tall glass doors that slide open every few seconds as guests wander in and out. Somewhere nearby, you can hear waves rolling lazily onto the shore, and for a moment, you just stand there taking it all in, slightly travel-weary and suddenly very aware that you’ve flown halfway across the country for a wedding.

Your best friend had promised it would be worth it.

~~ CONTINUE ON AO3 ~~

(i'm sorry for using an AO3 link - the word/character count exceeded tumblr's limit lol)

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

some of y’all will be engaging in witch hunt, accusing writers left and right and then wondering why more and more writers take their works down and don’t share them with you ungrateful losers anymore.

“this fic looks like it was created by ai” yeah that’s because ai was trained on human-made works and it was trained to mimic human-made works.

you claim you hate ai because ai harms real artists, yet you are out there accusing and harassing artists because “their vibes just aren’t right”. at this point, you are the ones who cause more harm — to art and the writing community — than ai does.

you are the ones killing art and writing community, the community you want to “protect against ai”.

so at this point, you’re killing the community faster than ai is. good luck when the community you want to protect has no human-made work left because you accused and harassed genuine artists/writers away and the only things that are left for you to read are actual ai-generated fics.

if you think a fic is ai and if that bothers you like it does me, quietly exit the tab and avoid their future works like a normal, decent person. because with every "this fic looks ai" comment, there's always a chance of you wrongly accusing an innocent writer and further harming the writing community as a whole.

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated M] Fault Lines - Chapter 6

There are cracks that form quietly.

A husband who builds with precision. A wife who once believed steadiness was enough. A stranger who feels like movement instead of stillness.

Some foundations don't shatter. They shift.

~~ + ~~

RATED M | ONGOING | Changbin/Reader, Lee Know/Reader | Husband vs Lover AU | Mature content

Cross-posted to AO3 2 April 2026

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

CONTENT TAGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: tattooing (no mentions of needles)

~~ + ~~

You wake slowly, not all at once but in pieces, aware first of warmth before anything else.

Minho is still beside you, one arm draped loosely across your waist, his breathing deep and even against the back of your shoulder. The room is quiet in that early morning way, light filtering softly through the curtains, gentle enough that it doesn’t ask anything of you yet, and for a while you stay exactly where you are, letting yourself linger in it.

You can still feel him - not just the memory of it, but the warmth he left behind, the way he had held you close long after, as though there had been nowhere else either of you needed to be. Nothing about it had felt rushed or distracted. It had been steady, familiar in the way that only comes from knowing someone completely, and it settles in your chest now with a quiet kind of certainty.

You shift slightly in his hold, careful not to wake him, turning just enough to look at him properly. His hair is still a little mussed from sleep, his mouth softened at the corners, the tension he carries so easily during the day nowhere to be found.

This is your life.

You chose this, and the thought doesn’t come with hesitation. It settles easily, without resistance, accompanied by a quiet, grounding sense of rightness.

Minho stirs a moment later, eyes opening slowly, as though he’s waking in stages too. When he sees you looking at him, something softens further in his expression, something warm and quietly affectionate.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep.

“Morning.”

He leans in without thinking, pressing a brief, unhurried kiss to your lips, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand slides along your side as he pulls back, lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

“You’re smiling,” he says, as though he’s only just noticed.

“Am I?”

“Mm.” There’s a faint note of amusement in his voice. “Must’ve done something right.”

You huff softly, nudging him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

That earns you a proper smile, the kind that shows just a hint of teeth, before he pulls you closer again, this time a little tighter, like he’s reluctant to let go.

“I’ll take my chances,” he says.

You stay like that for a while, tangled together, neither of you in any hurry to move. When he finally does sit up, it’s with a quiet reluctance, a hand dragging through his hair as he exhales.

“I’ve got an early meeting,” he says, already beginning to shift back into the rhythm of the day.

You nod, watching him as he moves around the room, falling into that familiar routine you know so well - shirt, buttons, watch - each piece settling into place with practiced ease, as though he’s putting himself back together layer by layer.

You follow him out eventually, leaning against the kitchen counter while he makes coffee, the two of you slipping into easy conversation about nothing in particular. His day, your plans, small things that don’t seem important on their own but make up the shape of your life together all the same.

Before he leaves, he presses another kiss to your temple, softer this time.

“Text me if you need anything, yeah?”

“I always do.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s something fond in the way he looks at you before he turns to go.

The house feels quieter after he leaves, but it isn’t empty.

Just still.

You linger there for a while, letting the silence settle around you, before your gaze drifts, almost without your permission, back toward the bedroom. Toward the bedside table.

Your phone.

You hadn’t checked it before you fell asleep. You had refused to.

You push yourself off the counter and walk back in, slower than you need to be, as though the extra seconds might somehow change what’s waiting there. The screen lights up easily in your hand.

Two notifications, both from the same number.

You stare at them for a moment without opening them, your thumb hovering just above the screen. You should have expected it - you had known, even last night, when you turned your back on it.

Your chest tightens, not sharply, but with something more restless, something that sits just beneath the surface.

You unlock the phone.

The messages are simple. Ordinary. Nothing that should carry any weight.

But your mind doesn’t stay with the words.

It slips back instead - to the sidewalk, to the way he had walked you to your car more slowly than necessary, like neither of you had been in a hurry to leave. To the way he had stood just a little too close, close enough that you had felt it before you had understood it.

You had thought…

You exhale, cutting the thought off before it can fully form.

It doesn’t matter. It didn’t happen. There was nothing there.

And still, your body remembers the pause, the way the moment had lingered without resolution, like something left unfinished.

You set your phone down a little harder than you mean to.

This is ridiculous.

You have a life. A good one. You were just in it.

And yet something in you feels unsettled, not because anything is missing, not because something is wrong, but because something never quite reached its end.

Unfinished.

~ + ~

Jisung doesn’t ask. He tells.

“I’m finally doing it,” he says over the phone, his voice bright with barely contained excitement, “And you’re coming with me.”

“Doing what?” you ask through a mouthful of freshly-baked cookies.

“...Hello?” Jisung responds, clearly exasperated, “The tattoo? Remember?”

You laugh softly, leaning against the counter. “Right. Sorry. You have been talking about that for months, haven’t you?”

“Exactly,” Jisung exclaims, “Emotional growth. Commemoration. Character development. All that.”

“And I’m needed for…?”

“Moral support, of course!” he says immediately, “And someone to hold my hand if I cry.”

You snort. “I’m pretty sure your pain tolerance is higher than a few pin pricks, Ji.”

“Excuse you,” Jisung scoffs, “You have way too much faith in my sensitive soul. And skin.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“And you love me for it.”

You do. There’s a reason he’s your best friend. This might be one of them, but you’re not about to admit that to him. Instead, you promise to be ready in about fifteen minutes, just in time for him to swing by and pick you up.

About forty minutes later, you find yourself standing outside a narrow storefront with darkened windows and a minimalist sign above the door, the kind of place you wouldn’t usually notice if you passed it on your own.

You don’t think much of it at first, until you step inside.

The smell reaches you immediately - antiseptic layered over something faintly metallic. There’s a low, steady hum in the air, machines working somewhere out of sight, and music playing softly through hidden speakers. It settles differently in your chest, sharper than you expect.

It feels nothing like the flower shop, just a couple of minutes down the street.

As Jisung heads to the reception area, you’re still taking it in, your gaze drifting over the walls lined with framed designs, when something familiar catches your eye.

A profile.

Black t-shirt. Black gloves. Head tilted slightly as he focuses, steady hand guiding the needle as it moves over someone’s skin.

The sound of it hums beneath everything else.

Your stomach drops.

He looks up, only for a second. Long enough for recognition to immediately set in. And when his gaze lands and fixes on you, something shifts in the air between you.

He doesn’t smile. He just holds your gaze for a fraction longer than necessary before returning to his work.

Back from filling out forms, Jisung follows where you’re looking. “...Oh,” he says under his breath, “Okay then.”

You elbow him lightly. “Behave.”

“I’m just appreciating the aesthetic,” he mutters though his grin gives him away.

Changbin finishes the line he’s working on, wipes the area clean with practiced care, then pulls off his gloves. 

“Next,” he says, calm and unhurried.

Jisung practically vibrates as he drops into the chair. As Changbin discusses his tattoo with him and preps the design template, you hover some distance away, trying to convince yourself that you aren’t watching him, but an obstinate something behind your ribcage is betraying you.

Changbin doesn’t address you right away. His attention is on Jisung, discussing placement and sizing, adjusting the stencil with quiet precision. His voice is even, measured, entirely professional, and yet his manner is undeniably charming, and Jisung is undeniably charmed, and not even trying to hide it.

You find yourself watching Changbin’s hands.

The steadiness of them. The way he wipes away ink, careful without being delicate. The way he leans in just close enough to see what he’s doing, close enough that his breath brushes Jisung’s skin when he speaks.

It’s all so clinical, but your pulse doesn’t seem to be interested in that distinction all the same.

Jisung winces the moment the needle presses down. 

“You’re fine,” Changbin says, his tone steady but gentle, “Breathe.”

Jisung laughs nervously. “You say that like you’re not technically stabbing me right now.”

Changbin chuckles. “Don’t worry,” he reassures Jisung, “I’m in control.”

Changbin’s eyes flick toward you, brief but deliberate, as if to check whether you caught it.

You did.

It doesn’t take long - maybe half an hour. It isn’t a big design, nor intricate, just meaningful. As Jisung moves off the chair with barely controlled excitement, you’re momentarily distracted with thoughts of past conversations - nights spent being surprised by Jisung turning up at your door with a tear-streaked face, him falling asleep on your couch with his head in your lap as Minho grabs an extra blanket for him. You remember why Jisung wanted this in the first place, why he wanted to mark that time with some sort of remembrance - not for the difficulty, but for the lessons. 

The bright enthusiasm on his face as he leans toward the mirror to admire the fresh ink is ridiculously endearing. “I survived,” he declares.

“You’re tougher than you look, I’ll give you that,” Changbin compliments, dry but friendly.

Jisung turns toward you then, entire arm outstretched with dramatic flair, a finger pointed right between your eyes. “Your turn.”

You blink once, then again. “Absolutely not.”

“Hah, too late!” Jisung crows, “I actually already paid for you to get one too, you just need to fill out the consent forms and waivers.”

You choke on air. “Ji, I…” you stammer, “I didn’t want one in the first place.”

“Well, now you do,” your best friend replies unhelpfully, pulling you by the wrist towards Changbin, “Because it’s a belated birthday gift, and you can’t refuse those, nor give them back.”

Changbin looks at you then, properly this time, waiting to see what you’ll do, the shadow of a smirk starting to creep in the corner of his mouth.

“I can do something small,” he says, almost casually, “Some simple linework, nothing too crazy.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t plan on-”

“Well, I did,” Jisung cuts in, “And look at me now. A changed man.” 

You hesitate.

It would be easy to laugh it off, to step back, to leave it where it is. But two faces are looking at you expectedly - one with eager excitement, the other with something that feels almost like hunger as he gives you a once-over, going slow as if hoping to be subtle about it. And when Changbin’s eyes meet yours again, you see the invitation there, something you’ll later look back on as deceptively casual but scheming.

“How small?” you hear yourself ask.

Jisung’s grin widens instantly, but Changbin doesn’t react the same way, his pupils seeming to dilate. He just gestures toward the chair, already moving to prepare. 

“I’ll be back here,” Jisung says, jerking a thumb towards the waiting area at the front before grabbing you by the arm, “I am so happy, you have no idea.” He lingers only long enough to make a show of it before drifting away, already distracted by his phone and whatever conversation is happening at the front. His voice fades quickly, leaving you alone in the quieter space of Changbin’s chair.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Changbin moves with the same unhurried focus you remember, clearing his station, setting things in place with practiced efficiency. He doesn’t look at you immediately, and the lack of acknowledgement does something strange to the air between you, stretching it just slightly tighter.

You’re the one who breaks first. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

It’s a safe enough place to start. Neutral. Casual.

He hums softly, like he’s considering the phrasing before answering. “Didn’t know you were coming either.”

The words are even, almost offhand, but there’s something in the way he finally glances up at you that makes your stomach dip.

You hesitate. “I wasn’t exactly planning to.”

“I figured.”

That lands a little too cleanly.

He turns fully toward you then, leaning back just slightly against the edge of the counter, arms loosely crossed. There’s no pressure in his posture, nothing overtly confrontational, but his attention is steady in a way that makes it difficult to look anywhere else.

“I texted you,” he adds. You can’t tell if he’s accusing you of anything.

You nod, because there’s no point pretending otherwise. “I saw.”

“And?” The question isn’t sharp. If anything, it’s quiet.

You shrug, aiming for nonchalance and missing it by a fraction. “I was tired.”

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable passing through his expression before it settles again.

“Right,” he says, like he understands more than you’ve said out loud. You don’t correct him.

He pushes himself off the counter then, the moment passing as easily as it had formed, and turns back to his station. “You don’t have to do this, by the way,” he says, the words coming easy, unforced, “I can refund it to your friend, tell him my machine’s messed up for the time being or something.”

You know what he’s doing, possibly even know why he’s doing it. When he turns to you, his expression is one of gentle askance, but there’s a light behind his eyes that makes you think he knows what you might say.

How dare he assume anything of you. He doesn’t know you. He probably wants you to back out; it would prove something to him if you did. 

You straighten in the chair as if to steel yourself. “It’s fine,” you tell him, “He already paid. Besides, it’s a gift. Wouldn’t want to waste it.”

But Changbin’s smirk just spreads. “No,” he replies, “We wouldn’t, would we?” Something in his tone suggests he doesn’t believe you. Then again, you aren’t sure you would have either.

He turns away only long enough to show you the design he’d prepared into a stencil, and it takes you by surprise.

A magnolia. Barely half an inch in length, from stem to petal. Simple linework, clean and deliberate, the petals soft but structured, like they’ve been drawn with intention rather than mere decoration.

Your fingers rest lightly against the edge of the paper, tracing nothing, just feeling the shape of it beneath your skin.

It’s…beautiful. Gentle in its simplicity. Not something you would have expected from him, to be perfectly honest. And perhaps it’s that fact that breaks through your last defence and convinces you. 

Changbin seems to read it on your face. 

“Where?” he asks, head cocked a little to one side as he watches you.

Your mind blanks for a moment, caught somewhere between instinct and something less certain.

Somewhere hidden. Somewhere safe.

“Here,” you tell him, tapping just on the side of your right knee, just above where your leg folds, “Subtle enough, I think.”

“Definitely interesting,” Changbin remarks, and it causes warmth to creep into your cheek.

A privacy curtain is drawn between you and the rest of the shop, muting the space without fully closing it off. And suddenly, everything feels smaller. Closer.

You adjust the hem of your skirt, your pulse picking up as you settle into place. Changbin kneels in front of you.

The position is unavoidable - something you probably should have considered when thinking about where the tattoo should go.

“Relax,” Changbin tells you, as if he can hear what you’re thinking, “I’m in control.”

Your stomach flips.

He doesn’t rush. His hands are steady as he wipes your skin clean, pressing the stencil into place with quiet focus, his fingers firm but controlled against your leg. The transfer comes off clean, and Changbin blows on it gently as if to dry it.

You don’t expect it; you inhale a little too sharply.

“You’re okay,” Changbin murmurs, an attempt at reassurance, but somewhat laced with slightly more intent.

The machine starts. The first touch of the needle makes your breath hitch, the sensation sharp enough to demand your full attention, but not enough to overwhelm. It settles quickly into something rhythmic, something you can follow if you focus.

He watches your face at first, not the line.

You concentrate on breathing. In. Out.

The vibration travels higher than it should, settling somewhere deeper, somewhere you don’t quite want to acknowledge.

“You’re not tensing,” Changbin says quietly.

You swallow. “Should I be?”

“Most people do.”

His thumb presses lightly against your skin, stretching it taut as he continues. The hum fills the space between you, steady and close. You don’t pull away, the sting shifting into something almost pleasant. He leans in a little more, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him near your knee, the presence of him impossible to ignore.

“Good,” Changbin breathes.

You don’t ask what he means.

Your tattoo takes far less time than Jisung’s did. The buzzing stops, and the sudden quiet feels heavier than the sound ever did. Changbin wipes the ink away carefully, revealing the finished tattoo.

It’s flawless - as sharp and defined as it was on the stencil. Small enough to not be casually seen, but you know it’s there. And it won’t be coming off anytime soon.

Changbin studies it for a moment, lightly wiping at it to clear any excess ink before turning to you.

“Pretty,” he says softly. 

Then, without breaking eye contact, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss just above the fresh ink.

The contact is brief, but unmistakable. 

Your breath catches. You don’t move. You’re unsure if you can.

His lips linger just long enough that it feels deliberate before he pulls back, expression setting into something neutral again, as though nothing has happened.

“You did better than most,” he says evenly, “Even your friend was wincing and hissing a little.”

Almost as if on cue, the curtain draws back a little, and Jisung’s face pops out from behind. “All good?”

You clear your throat. “Fine,” you say, but your voice doesn’t sound entirely like your own.

Jisung grins, triumphant. “Told you it’d be fun,” he crows, “Not so bad, is it?”

You don’t trust yourself to respond. The slight sting from your tattoo is nothing compared to the point of heat where Changbin’s lips had touched your skin.

Changbin helps you to your feet, his hand resting briefly at your hip as you steady yourself. The touch is fleeting, but it leaves something behind all the same.

Out in the main room again, Jisung leans in close as you sign the consent form and waiver you should have done before the tattoo.

“He’s hot,” Jisung mutters, earning himself a sidelong glare from you, “And he definitely likes you, I think.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you reply, a little too quickly.

“What? I’m literally just saying,” Jisung chuckles, “Not like you’d do anything about it, right?”

You don’t give him an answer. Right now, you aren’t sure you have any to give him.

------

[djo]

it's actually sad how tumblr killed fandom culture on their own website just like that. yeah, people can still post their gifs/art/fics, but making every reblog its own chain + essentially giving credit to rebloggers individually and making it nearly impossible to access comments/tags as the original poster entirely defeats the purpose of being a creator on here. and while i appreciate the posts already going around encouraging people to engage with op's posts directly rather than through a reblog, it's just going to be ignored like every post pleading with people to reblog and engage with content to begin with

[cupidstrace]

if you want to support creators during this time, make sure to comment directly on their post. when reblogging, don't put anything in the "go ahead, put anything" box, because that is what splits the interactions up (writing in the tags, or nothing at all, keeps interactions on the original post)

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated M] Fault Lines - Chapter 5

There are cracks that form quietly.

A husband who builds with precision. A wife who once believed steadiness was enough. A stranger who feels like movement instead of stillness.

Some foundations don't shatter. They shift.

~~ + ~~

RATED M | ONGOING | Changbin/Reader, Lee Know/Reader | Husband vs Lover AU | Mature content

Cross-posted to AO3 14 March 2026

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

CONTENT TAGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: smut (oral, fingering, penetrative sex, finish inside)

~~ + ~~

You wake with your wrist beneath your cheek, and for a moment, you don’t remember why it feels warm.

Then you do.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. The light creeping through the blinds is softer than usual, or maybe you’re simply noticing it more now. Your thumb presses lightly against your pulse, feeling the steady beat beneath your skin.

Normal.

You close your eyes.

It shouldn’t matter. It was a touch a conversation, a man leaning too close on a side walk. That’s all it was.

Minho stirs beside you and turns toward you automatically, his arm sliding around your waist even before he’s fully awake. His hand settles flat against your stomach, familiar and grounding in a way that makes your throat tighten.

You swallow.

You love him. The certainty of that is immediate and unquestioned.

He presses a lazy kiss against your shoulder before opening his eyes, still half-soft with sleep. “You’re awake early,” he murmurs.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Minho studies your face for a second longer than usual, his expression quietly searching. “You okay?”

You nod a little too quickly. “Yeah.”

Minho accepts the answer easily, the way he always does. He never presses harder than you allow.

By the afternoon, the house feels too quiet.

You catch yourself glancing at your phone more often than necessary, as though expecting something to appear there. The screen stays stubbornly blank.

No new messages. From anyone.

You can’t decide whether that makes you relieved or disappointed.

The vase on the dining table is empty, and you hadn’t meant to leave it that way. The absence feels more noticeable than the flowers ever did. 

Minho notices that evening. “No new flowers?” he asks casually as he sets his briefcase down near the door.

You keep your back turned, wiping down a section of the counter that doesn’t actually need wiping. “The shop was closed,” you say, because that part is at least true.

He hums softly, accepting the explanation without question. “That’s a shame,” he remarks, “I liked the last ones.”

“I’ll find somewhere else,” you reply a bit quicker than you might have planned, and you don’t know why your chest tightens when you say it.

Minho steps closer, his hands setting at your hips as he leans in behind you, his chin brushing lightly against your shoulder. “You don’t have to,” he says gently, “I just liked that you chose them. You’ve always had great taste.”

You close your eyes, letting out a slow, steadying breath.

Chose them? You hadn’t. They’d been chosen for you. By someone who seemed to know you before either of you ever uttered a word to each other.

The rest of the evening passes as it usually does in your household; dinner is made, the table is set, Minho helps with the final chores of the night. He regales you with stories of how his graduating class is doing, how he cares for them and wants to see them succeed. He always sounds so proud of them. He adores taking care of them. He calls them his “kids,” and it’s sweet and endearing. If he notices the way your hand finds its way to your belly (because you certainly don’t), he doesn’t say anything.

By late evening, the two of you are stretched out on the sofa in front of the television, a half-forgotten 90s film playing quietly in the background. It’s something you had once mentioned wanting to see, though neither of you is really paying attention now. Your focus drifts too easily - to the conversation in the coffee shop, to the memory of a man leaning closer than he should have, to the way he walked you back to your car with the air between you feeling charged and unfinished. You had spent the whole day deliberately not going back, telling yourself that staying home was the sensible choice, the right one. Still, your body hasn’t quite settled from it.

Minho sits beside you, his tie loosened around his collar, the buttons of his dress shirt undone, sleeves pushed carelessly to his elbows. For a man who loves order as much as he does, he has an uncanny habit of undoing himself in exactly the ways you like best: just enough to show the line of his collarbone, the flex of his forearms, the quiet strength in the way he shifts beside you. He couldn’t possibly know the state you’re in tonight, the restless edge left behind by yesterday and sharpened by a day spent trying not to think about it. Yet the sight of him like this - comfortable, a little rumpled, entirely yours already - starts a slow, familiar ache low in your body. You press your thighs together instinctively, though the friction does less to quiet the feeling than it does to remind you of it.

Minho isn’t looking at you. His body tilts just slightly in your direction while he scrolls through something on his phone, the glow of the screen catching the thoughtful line of his brow. One hand rests lightly against your leg, fingers drifting in absent patterns just above your knee, barely touching and yet unmistakably deliberate. The movement is so idle it might almost seem unconscious, but you know better. That’s how you realise, with a small jolt that runs through your stomach, that he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

At this point, it makes much more sense to indulge yourselves than to keep pretending the night is even remotely wholesome anymore. 

You reach out, fingers closing gently around his phone. When you take it, he doesn’t protest. He turns to you, feigning askance, but his pupils darken gradually as you swing your leg over his lap, arms coming up around his neck.

“It’s only Thursday,” Minho remarks, voice low and breathy as his hands find their way to your hips.

“Don’t care,” you tell him, “Need you.”

“You’ve got me,” he says, as if you can’t feel the manifestation of his reciprocation beginning to grow beneath you.

There are no more words after that. You kiss your husband hot, slow and needy, and he sighs into your mouth as your fingers comb through his hair. His hands pull you in closer, more flush against him, roaming under your oversized shirt as he clutches you to him. As his lips slide across your jaw and to the side of your neck, he starts to pull your the offending material up; you move away enough to finish the job yourself, biting your bottom lip at the way he openly ogles your body, lips slightly parted as his gaze roves from your chest to your flushed face.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Minho murmurs, warm breath falling across your prickling skin as he pulls you back in close, “How the hell did I get so lucky?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, closing the distance between your mouths again, hungrier this time. You whimper slightly, cheerfully, as his embrace tightens around you. He’s fully hard now behind his slacks, and you don’t stop yourself from grinding your hips against him, earning a pleased groan from him. You work the buttons of his shirt with practiced fingers, lightly scratching your nails down the plains and ridges of his torso and abs as your hands search out his belt buckle. 

“Not here,” he whispers into your hair, “I want all of you.” 

You can’t help the way you giggle at Minho when he rises from the couch, arms underneath your legs to support where they’re wrapped around him. He’s careful as he makes his way from the living room to the bedroom, navigating every turn and edge and corner expertly despite being busy kissing the life out of you. He’s even gentler when he sets you down on your bed, reveling in the sigh you let out into his mouth when he grinds against you slowly once, twice. You pout when he separates you, but he straightens only long enough to pull his work shirt off, tossing it to the floor with nary a care where it may land. His mouth is back on you in an instant, claiming lips, throat, collarbone, breast, nipple, stomach. 

But when he looks up at you from between your legs, fingers hooked in the waistband of your underwear, for the briefest moment, you see a different set of eyes gazing at you - darker, sharper, a smug smirk in the corner of a different mouth.

It’s fleeting, there and gone again before you can fully process the trick your mind has played on you, but it’s still enough to jar you. You blink, and he’s gone, and you’re looking at your husband again, watching as his lips follow a path along the inside of your thigh as he drags your underwear off.

“Minho…” you breathe, because there’s a part of you still slightly unsure.

“Sshh,” Minho coos softly as he kneels on the floor, your legs on either side of him, “I’m here, I’m right here.”

His hot breath on your centre is quickly replaced with his mouth, the sensation of his lips and tongue on you eliciting a gasp that banishes any lingering thought of anyone other than him. He knows exactly how you like it - unhurried, attentive, focused on where you’re most sensitive until it’s almost too much. It doesn’t take long for him to have you moaning desperately, chest heaving as you sigh out his name, fingers threading through his hair as you pull him in for more and push him away for relief in equal measure. When he slides a finger into you, your throbbing bud between his lips, you arch into him, a tortured groan dragging its way out of your throat.

“Please,” you whine, panting for breath, “Fuck, baby, please…”

Minho responds with a low growl, and you feel all of it at your apex. He’s ravenous now, devouring you as though starved for days, tongue lapping at you as though you are the very water that sustains him. His finger slips easily in and out of you, slickened by your desire, and as you draw closer to the edge, your noises louder, he adds a second finger, hooking and twisting and scissoring them inside you at a pace that has you nearly weeping. 

“It’s okay, babe,” Minho whispers gruffly, “Let go. I’ve got you, let go.”

His encouragement is matched with a push of his fingers knuckle-deep into you, the tips of them ticking at exactly the right spot that has you seeing stars behind tightly closed eyes. The build to your orgasm is fast and hot, and when it finally hits you, your body nearly lifts clean off the bed. Minho holds you through it, his free hand clutching your leg tightly against his head. His mouth stays attached to you, his eyes watching you hungrily as you squirm and grasp beneath him. He only stops when you all but beg him off, toeing the line of oversensitivity at his ministrations as you come down from your high. 

He kisses you as you catch your breath, a hand stroking your head gently. You can slightly taste yourself on him, but you’ve never really minded that, not when you know the taste of you is an aphrodisiac to him.

“I can’t wait,” Minho tells you, and to his credit, he sounds apologetic, “I’m sorry, babe, I really can’t wait. I need you right now.”

You can only nod at him, not trusting your voice or the familiar scratch in your throat, but that is all the consent he needs. He disentangles from you only long enough to divest himself of the rest of his clothes. You press a hand to your still throbbing cunt as you watch his cock spring free, his own hand wrapping around it for a few relieving tugs as he grabs one of your pillows. You help him set it under your hips, and then he’s on you again, kissing you so deeply, it’s as though he thinks he may just die if he’s away from you a second longer.

Minho takes it slow as he enters you, choking off a groan as the tip of him pushes into you with slick ease, clearly enjoying the pace as much as you do. You gasp into him as his length fills you inch by inch, the stretch a pleasant ache that manages to skirt the edge of pain in a way you’ve also rather liked. He stops only when he’s fully seated in you to the hilt, kissing you more gently this time, with more affection than hunger. 

He gives you the time you need, but you know the effort he puts in to wait when you need that time. You soothe him with gentle rubs of his shoulders and back, sweet kisses along his jaw and on the tip of his perfectly sculpted nose, shallow grinding of your hips as you let your wracked body acclimate to him inside you. You don’t let him wait too long, and when you tell him you’re ready, he pulls almost all the way out as he kisses you again, only to thrust all the way back in again, faster this time but not rough. It makes you cry out, a noise he drinks in greedily with open-mouthed kisses as he starts to move, pulling your legs to wrap around his waist so you can move with him.

Minho has never been one to enjoy a fast, rough pace, and that suits you perfectly fine. He likes it steady and deep, savouring the wet, warm embrace of you around his cock, even as he remembers to give your pleasure attention. He knows the sounds you make when you want it faster, harder, deeper, and the way you plead for him to slow down or ease off when you get close to the edge before you want to. 

He props himself up with an outstretched arm, his hand digging into the mattress beneath you so he can watch the face of the woman he loves as he makes love to her. Through darkened pupils and parted lips, panting breaths and undulating hips, he studies every frown, every smile, every gasp he pulls from you as if bidden to be the last person to ever witness it all. You must look a mess, sweat dampening your brow, hair tangling everywhere, skin marked from his lips and fingers, eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head as your pleasure climbs, but under his loving gaze, you’re a work of art, a masterpiece he could never dream of building but he still somehow manages to craft with his own hands.

Minho loves you. You feel it with every moan, every kiss, every touch, every thrust. And you love him. You feel it in the way your pulse races harder when he whispers your name, in the way your heart skips a beat when his groans harmonise with yours, in the way your chest tightens when he kisses away a solitary tear that forms in the corner of your eye.

“I’m close,” he sighs into your ear, “I’m so close, baby, come with me.”

“Touch me,” you plead, and that’s all Minho needs to hear. He licks the tips of his fingers and reaches down between you, rubbing your clit in circles as he picks up the pace, chasing the cresting wave of ecstasy coming for you both. Your body tightens under him, your arms clutched around his neck and shoulders as the both of you watch his hand and his cock.

“I love you,” Minho moans, his forehead against yours, “I love you so fucking much.”

You come only seconds before he does, your body arching and bowing under him as your second orgasm hits harder than the first had. When his own release hits him, it’s with a thrust fully into you, and he trembles slightly in your embrace with the power of it, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his groans muffled by your skin. You feel the warmth of him fill you, as you have so often, but every now and then, like tonight, it feels different. Less like a result you both worked at and more like a present you’re gifting to each other. 

Tonight wasn’t part of the schedule. And maybe that might just make it count.

You lay there together for a few minutes, panting together as you catch your breath. Minho is careful as ever when he finally withdraws, planting a final, chaste kiss on your head as he asks you to wait for him. For a short while, you are left in the silence of your bedroom, your pounding heartbeat the loudest sound in your ear. Your eyes rove the space, but you already know every line, every corner, every nook and cranny, and you think to yourself then -

This is it. This is the life you’ve chosen, in the home you built together, with the man you wanted to spend your life with. And it’s good. It isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s enough. And that’s what matters.

Later, after he’s seen to your care and shared a cleansing,relieving shower with you, Minho lays on his side, next to you under the covers, a soft glow brightening his face as he kisses the back of your hand.

“You alright?” he asks, his thumb rubbing lightly, soothingly, across your skin.

“Yes,” you answer truthfully, returning his gentle smile, “Always.”

“I love you,” he tells you again, giving your hand another kiss as he settles in for sleep.

It finds him quicker than it finds you, and minutes after it takes him, you’re still awake, watching the soft lines of his face and the steady heaving of his chest as he rests peacefully. Your hand is still in his, resting just on top of his torso where he had placed it.

Just as you start to drift, you hear a small ding from your bedside table, followed by a soft light.

You freeze.

The light from your phone lingers for a few seconds before it fades into darkness again, but even after it dies, you think you can still see it. You don’t need to see the name to know who it is. You hate that all it takes is a bloody notification for his presence to fill the space beside your bed, especially on a night like this. 

You turn away, deliberately facing towards your husband, your back to the phone. 

This is it. This is my choice. I won’t go back. I don’t need to.

Seconds after sleep finally takes you, the screen of your phone lights up again.

--- TO BE CONTINUED ---

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated M] What the Heart Claims - Chapter 5

The heir of a fallen kingdom walks with a curse carved into his flesh.

A daughter of the Sylthar walks with her mother's blade and the weight of a death no one will explain.

When their paths converge, so do the secrets of Caerwyn - of Wolfheart, of blood oaths, of a siege that never truly ended. And among those who travel beside them walks a man sent in shadow, bound by duty to forces that would see the kingdom fall again, yet drawn toward something he was never meant to want.

On the road back to ruin, vows are sworn, spies move in silence, and love takes root where it was never meant to grow.

What survives after may not always be what was promised.

~~ + ~~

RATED M | ONGOING | Lee Know/Reader, Bang Chan/Reader, Changbin/Felix/Hyunjin, background Han/Seungmin | High-Fantasy AU | Mature content | character death

Originally posted to AO3 on 7 March 2026

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

~~ + ~~

CHAPTER 5 - ROOTS

Changbin notices things. He always has. It’s a habit born from growing up half-orc in places that didn’t want him, learning early that survival meant reading a room before the room decided what to do with him. He learned who meant harm, who meant well, and who was pretending long before anyone said a word.

So when Felix joins their camp, Changbin clocks it immediately.

The kid moves like someone who has spent a lifetime trying not to take up space, offering help before anyone asks, laughter quick and genuine but never quite loosening the tight set of his shoulders. It’s the posture of someone who expects kindness to run out eventually, the way a borrowed cloak always feels like it might be taken back.

It isn’t loud or dramatic - just steady.

Changbin recognizes that kind of steadiness. He has seen it before, mostly in Chan - in the way Chan watches the group from the edges of a room, making sure everyone eats before he does, checking exits even when nothing feels wrong. It’s the quiet weight of responsibility, the kind that settles into a person’s bones before they realise it has.

Lately, though, Changbin has noticed something else.

The way Chan’s attention drifts toward her.

Not openly, never in a way Chan would admit, but Changbin knows him better than anyone alive. He catches it in the small things - the way Chan slows his pace without thinking when she falls behind, how his gaze flicks toward her first whenever something shifts in the trees.

Changbin doesn’t comment on it. He just files it away.

~ + ~

They break camp beneath a pale wash of morning light, the kind that turns the edges of frost silver before the sun has properly risen. Felix crouches beside a fallen log, coaxing a stubborn ember back to life with a careful breath while golden light blooms briefly between his palms.

Changbin wanders over under the loose excuse of tightening the strap on his pack. “You don’t gotta do everything, you know,” he tells Felix after a moment.

Felix startles slightly, then glances up with a soft, apologetic smile. “Oh - I don’t mind.”

“Didn’t say you did,” Changbin replies, squatting beside him anyway, resting his forearms on his knees, “Just sayin’. You’re allowed to exist without fixing everyone.”

Felix’s smile grows faintly sheepish. “I’m not fixing,” he says, “I’m helping.”

Changbin studies him for a second before a quiet laugh escapes his chest. “Yeah,” he chuckles, “Figures you’d say that.”

Felix tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “Is that bad?”

“No,” Changbin reassures him, bumping his shoulder lightly against Felix’s as he passes, “It’s…kind of sweet, really.”

Felix flushes. Changbin pretends not to notice.

The road narrows as the day stretches on, the forest thickening around them until the trail becomes little more than a suggestion between trees. They haven’t gone far when Y/N slips on a patch of frost-hidden stone. It’s barely anything - just a stumble - but Changbin moves before anyone else reacts, catching her by the elbow and steadying her on instinct.

“You good?” he asks her.

She nods quickly, brushing loose dirt from her palm. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Chan is there a heartbeat later, already reaching out, already scanning her for injuries with the quiet intensity he saves for the few people he’s closest to.

Their eyes meet briefly over her shoulder. 

Changbin steps back. Not because he has to, but because Chan doesn’t even realise he’s moved.

That’s when Changbin knows.

The trail grows steeper after that, winding along the side of a low ridge where loose shale shifts beneath careless steps. Changbin keeps himself positioned between her and anything that looks remotely dangerous - sharp drops, unstable stone, the thicker patches of undergrowth where something unpleasant might decide to live.

He hands her his cloak when the wind cuts too sharply. He takes point when the path tightens. He doesn’t announce any of it. He just does it.

Felix notices anyway. Changbin catches him watching once from further down the trail, a thoughtful light in his bright blue eyes.

Changbin only shrugs.

They stop beside a narrow stream around midday, the water running clear and cold over smooth stones. Felix kneels beside Changbin with a small crease between his brows.

“You’re favouring your left side,” Felix points out.

Changbin blinks down at himself. “Am I?”

Felix presses warm fingers gently against Changbin’s ribs, murmuring a quiet spell under his breath. The dull ache Changbin hadn’t even realised was there fades almost immediately. He lets out a slow exhale he hadn’t even been aware of holding in.

“See?” Felix says softly, “Better, isn’t it?”

Changbin watches him work, the concentration in Felix’s face making him look younger somehow. “You’re good at that, you know,” he says.

“At what?” Felix asks in reply.

“...Making the world hurt less.”

Felix stares, his cheeks colouring slightly; he looks away when he realises, clearly embarrassed.

Sunshine and rain…

Felix blinks. “Sorry?”

Changbin hadn’t even been aware he’d said it out loud. He clears his throat. “Nothing,” he offers, walking away before Felix can ask what he means.

The afternoon settles into an easy rhythm after that. Jisung spends most of it teasing Seungmin with relentless enthusiasm, grinning like a menace while Seungmin pretends to be unimpressed, though he never actually walks away. Jeongin laughs more around Felix than Changbin has heard in weeks, the sound of it surprising enough that Changbin catches himself smiling. Hyunjin and Felix fall into conversation about herbs and poultices as though they’ve been studying together for years. Changbin finds himself drifting back toward Felix whenever the trail widens enough for it.

It’s stupid.

They’ve been traveling together for days. Days. That’s nothing.

…And yet…

Sometime later, Changbin finds himself only a few feet away from where Felix is helping to repack gear. From the corner of his eye, Changbin sees Hyunjin approaching, crossing behind him to find Felix.

“He likes you, you know.”

As Felix sputters, Changbin pretends to be very interested in the sturdiness of the leather belts that hold all his gear together. If anyone later accuses him of eavesdropping, he’ll at least have an excuse, flimsy as it might be.

“Changbin,” Hyunjin says mildly to Felix, as though clarifying the weather, “He likes you.” 

Changbin watches surreptitiously, trying (and possibly failing) not to look as though he’s listening.

Felix fidgets with the edge of his sleeve. “Oh…” he says after a beat, “I, er…how can you tell?”

Hyunjin lets out a tiny chuckle. “I’ve known him for a while,” he says, matter-of-factly, “Been with him a while too. Trust me, I can tell.”

Felix laughs nervously, though the colour creeping up his neck suggests the idea isn’t unwelcome.

Then Hyunjin’s voice softens. “Thank you,” he says quietly, “For healing him. For helping all of us. That’s a really special gift you have.”

Felix is quiet for a moment. “I just…do what I can.”

With a soft chuckle, Hyunjin reaches up and places a small bud in Felix’s hair, between his ear and his temple. In his delicate touch, the bud yawns to life, its petals opening gently as if coaxed to wake. Something warm blooms behind Changbin’s ribcage.

“Don’t let anyone convince you it’s small,” he tells Felix, “Especially yourself.”

Felix watches Hyunjin walk away, and Changbin turns away before either of them notice him listening. 

~ + ~

The company gathers around the fire built by Seungmin as the night sky begins to deepen. Everyone finds spots easily, and before long, Chan and Jeongin have some meat roasted and divided as evenly as possible among the group. Changbin watches them all, wondering at how things seem to have changed so quickly and yet not at all in a matter of weeks. Their two new additions have managed to fit in seamlessly, despite the somewhat rocky start with them, and yet their presence amongst the rest is undeniable.

Not that Changbin would admit that he actively indulges himself with their presence. He does, of course, but he would be hard-pressed to confess to it, even under duress.

Changbin’s thoughts are in the middle of drifting when Felix approaches him, a cup of mead proffered to him. 

“Mind if I sit?” Felix asks, a little sheepish, “I’m just a little…alone right now.”

Changbin glances past him, across the fire, to where Chan is engaged in light conversation with Y/N, who smiles and laughs at something he says while helping him wrap a sore wrist. 

Felix follows Changbin’s gaze. “Yeah,” he confirms softly, “I don’t mind, of course. We’re just usually together, and it’s…you know, a little weird to be on my own when everyone is just around.”

There’s something ridiculously endearing about the way Felix’s mouth seems to ramble before his mind can tell him to slow down or stop, and in the way his nose scrunches slightly when he realises it. 

“Well, I know I don’t mind having you around at all,” Changbin replies, accepting the cup Felix is offering him.

Even in the flickering light of the fire, Changbin can see Felix flush. “I’m not-” he stammers, “I didn’t mean…”

Changbin chuckles as he brushes the spot beside him clean of any lingering dirt. “I know what you meant,” he assures Felix, “Relax. Sit.”

Felix’s shoulders sag as he exhales, relieved. Changbin helps him down, lets him get comfortable before offering him a toast. They sit in companionable silence as they eat, both watching their friends directly across from them as though there were nothing else more interesting.

“Thank you, by the way,” Felix says later, “For watching out for her.”

Changbin pauses, shifting slightly in his seat. “You don’t have to thank me,” he deflects, “Just doing what I’m good at. Like you do.”

Felix shakes his head gently. “I do though,” he rebuts, “I do need to thank you. I want to.” He sighs, finger tapping on the side of his cup thoughtfully. “You’ve been protecting her.”

Changbin shrugs, taking a final swig from his drink. “Habit,” he replies, “For someone who’s spent so much time running and hiding, she’s adorably clumsy.” This earns him a small laugh from Felix. “Someone’s gotta make sure she doesn’t faceplant into a ravine or something.”

Felix smiles faintly, fondly. “You’ve done more than that,” he points out. 

Across the camp, Y/N stands, her cup empty. Changbin watches Chan watch her go. He picks his next words carefully.

“I’ve known Chan since we were kids,” he tells Felix, picking at a stray blade of grass beneath him, “He’s lost a lot, more than any of us will ever probably understand. So he tries not to care too much, you know? He tries not to get too attached to anything, or anyone. Or at least, he pretends to. So it’s really obvious when he does care, and it’s really obvious what he cares about, because he tends to hold on to them, even when he thinks he shouldn’t.”

Flashes of time spent together as boys flit through Changbin’s mind - crafted toys, stolen trinkets, a beloved pet long since moved on, and loves long since lost. Chan doesn’t speak much of them, but Changbin has seen them all come and go, and he has seen Chan attempt - and fail - to rid himself of attachment to them as if they were little more than lessons he needed to learn.

He continues. “I haven’t seen Chris - Chan - look the way he looks at her in a long time. I don’t think he knows half the time. But I do. I know when something is important to him, and I know how to protect it. Or I try to, anyway.”

A few feet away from them, Jisung has roped Y/N into a conversation, his antics sending her into a laughing fit. Changbin notices Chan still watching her, his expression changing when he realises she isn’t rejoining him. Chan stands, dusting himself off as he walks a few paces away, disappearing into the evening.

“I can understand that,” Felix says softly, “I think I’m the same. With her, I mean.”

Changbin turns, and sees Felix squinting into the dark as if trying to find where Chan has gone, his expression a little less friendly than Changbin would have expected.

“...What happened that night?” he asks Felix, keeping his tone as casual as possible, “Outside the safehouse. Before you joined us.”

Felix stills, eyes sliding to Changbin before quickly looking away.

“He came back inside different,” Changbin continues, attempting to prod as gently as he can, “You all did.”

Felix hesitates, the silence stretching long enough that the crackle of the fire behind them fills the space. “It’s…not my story to tell, unfortunately,” he says at last.

Changbin watches him for another moment. “...But it meant something,” he asks quietly.

Felix nods, albeit a little reluctantly. Changbin understands that that is all the answer he’ll get from him now.

“I get it,” he says, “It means she’s important to Chan now.”

“Not just him,” Felix confesses before he can stop himself, “To her, too. And if it’s important to her, then it’s important to me.”

There’s that warm, blooming feeling again somewhere inside Changbin’s chest. He knows what it is. He hates naming it, but he can feel it there.

“Then it’s important to me too,” Changbin replies.

Felix stares at him, as though trying to confirm if he had understood Changbin correctly. The way his big, round eyes flit all over his face makes Changbin feel a bit…assessed. He feels his own cheeks warm, despite himself, even after Felix looks away, finger drawing small patterns in the dry soil by his feet.

“...So are you.”

Felix says it so softly, Changbin is convinced for a few seconds that he had imagined it. He feels his heart stumble over itself in a way he absolutely refuses to examine. He sighs in both relief and wistfulness when Felix excuses himself somewhat hastily, joining Y/N as she prepares her bedroll. 

Hyunjin appears beside Changbin not long after, as though summoned by the universe purely to be annoying at the most opportune moment.

“You are very obvious,” Hyunjin says mildly.

“Don’t,” Changbin warns, clicking his tongue at Hyunjin, but there is no real venom behind it.

Hyunjin leans into Changbin’s space, laying his head on Changbin’s lap. “I like him too,” he tells Changbin, “He makes me want to protect him from ever getting hurt.”

Changbin strokes through Hyunjin’s hair gently, in the way he knows Hyunjin enjoys when he’s sleepy. “Yeah,” he says at last, “Me too.”

They sit this way by the dying fire for a while, until a comfortable sleep takes Hyunjin.

Across camp, Chan speaks quietly with Y/N again, their heads bent together as something low and serious passes between them. 

Changbin watches, assesses. He knows that look. He knows Chan is already in deeper than he’ll admit, even to himself. 

And if the world ever tries to take any of them, Changbin will just have to stand in front of it.

--- TO BE CONTINUED ---

Previously mentioned disclaimers and anti-A.I. and anti-repost clauses apply.

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated M] Fault Lines - Chapter 4

There are cracks that form quietly.

A husband who builds with precision. A wife who once believed steadiness was enough. A stranger who feels like movement instead of stillness.

Some foundations don't shatter. They shift.

~~ + ~~

RATED M | ONGOING | Changbin/Reader, Lee Know/Reader | Husband vs Lover AU | Mature content

Originally posted to AO3 7 March 2026

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: 1 | 2 | 3

~~ + ~~

CHAPTER 4 - TILT

You tell yourself it isn’t him you’re going back for. The flowers need replacing, that’s all.

The lisianthus wilted faster than the magnolias did, petals curling in at the edges like they’re folding in on themselves by the second day. You clear them from the vase that morning and set it by the sink to dry.

It would be strange not to go back, you reason. You are only a few blocks away, after all.

The air is warmer than it was last week, the pavement holding heat beneath your sandals. Your pulse picks up as you turn the corner - not noticeably. But enough.

The shop comes into view.

But the lights are off, Roman blinds drawn closed. When you test the door, it’s silent and locked. That’s when you notice the “CLOSED” sign on the door.

You stand there longer than necessary, peeking through the glass, between blinds and into the shop. 

The buckets are pushed back, the counter cleared. No magnolias in the window display this time, just empty ceramic bowls catching dust in the late afternoon sun.

You don’t know why the disappointment hits the way it does. It’s just a shop, after all. And he’s just another man, simply someone who knows exactly what to say to get you to open your wallet so he can help you lighten the weight of it.

You tell yourself that as you turn to leave-

“Looking for something?”

You freeze.

Changbin is leaning against the brick beside the shop entrance, sleeves pushed up, no apron this time, but dressed simply a black round-collar shirt and jeans that fit ridiculously well. The faint line of ink at his collarbone is more visible now without the fabric of the apron cutting it off. 

He looks less contained out here, even far less like he belongs among petals.

You collect yourself, or attempt to, at least. “Thought you’d be open,” you say, hating how your voice betrays the brief spike of relief.

“Thought you’d call ahead,” he shoots back with that familiar smirk in the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t have your number,” you reply, a little too quickly, “I mean, the number here. For the shop. I don’t know it.”

A beat passes, where Changbin just watches you, bemused. Then- “You could’ve asked. Or checked your receipt.”

Your stomach tightens slightly.

He pushes off the wall, stepping closer, a conversational distance. “Three times in two weeks,” he remarks lightly, “Either you really like flowers…or you’re not very good at lying to yourself.”

Your breath catches. It wasn’t an accusation - it was an observation. And that somehow makes it worse. 

“I’m married,” you say again, the words sharper and more deliberate this time.

Changbin’s expression doesn’t change. “I remember.”

“Then why-”

“Why what?” he interrupts softly. He’s closer now, close enough that you can see a faint scar on his chin, a crease that appears when he almost smiles. “You’re the one that keeps coming back.”

The words land low somewhere behind your ribcage. They aren’t cruel or smug - just true. 

You take a step back instinctively. The movement is small, but he still notices. His eyes flicker with something close to amusement, mingled with something thoughtful, something akin to assessment.

“You want coffee?” he asks suddenly, as if the tension in the air hadn’t just shifted, “There’s a place down the street. I’m killing time anyway. Wouldn’t mind the company.”

You should say no. You know you should.

But-

“Why not.”

~ + ~

The café is quieter than the shop, dimmer, the hum of conversation blending into background noise.

Changbin sits across from you, elbows on the table, fingers wrapped loosely around his cup. “So,” he says, studying you openly, and without apology, “English literature.”

You blink. “How did you-”

“You talk like someone who reads a lot.”

You feel oddly exposed. You hide the blush you can feel in your cheeks in a deep swig from your coffee cup. “And you?” you ask.

Changbin shrugs. “I do other things.”

“Like?”

He tilts his head. “Curious, are you?”

You don’t answer. He lets the silence stretch a second too long before he continues again. “The flower shop’s one thing, but like I said, it’s temporary.”

“What isn’t?” you murmur into your mug before you can stop yourself.

His gaze sharpens again. “You don’t seem like someone who likes temporary,” he remarks. 

The observation hits deeper than it should. “I don’t,” you admit.

“Then why are you here?”

There it is. Not loud, not dramatic. Just the question hanging between you, and the scrutinizing look he shoots you over the edge of his latte.

You’re suddenly very fascinated by the drink in your own cup. Perhaps in it, you’ll find an answer you can convince yourself is the truth. 

…Nothing. And he’s still watching you. You give him the only answer you do have. 

“...I don’t know.”

It’s the most honest thing you’ve said in weeks.

~ + ~

When he walks you back toward your car, the air feels heavier.

The space between you narrows naturally as the sidewalk tightens.

He stops just short of your door.

You reach for your keys. He reaches out at the same time. His fingers find and close around your wrist. Not hard, not trapping, but enough to give you pause. 

You look up at him, and the city noise fades slightly. His thumb shifts once against your pulse, as if seeking it out, testing it. 

“You don’t have to keep pretending you don’t feel this,” he tells you quietly.

Your breath catches. Feel what? You could ask. But you already know. You just don’t want to say it out loud. Saying it out loud makes it real. 

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. For several suspended seconds, something feels inevitable…

…He doesn’t kiss you. He lets go, and steps back. You remember to breathe again.

“See you around,” he says, like it’s nothing. He pulls his cap a little lower over his face and shoves his hands into his pockets as he walks away. You can’t help but wonder if he knows that you’re watching him walk away.

When you get back into your car, the noise of the world dies down, but your ears instead fill with the thoughts in your head. Your heart is in your throat, yet you can feel the steady thump-thump-thumping of it as though it was sitting outside of your body instead.

You turn the volume up on the radio, hoping to drown it all out so you don’t have to hear yourself think.

--- TO BE CONTINUED ---

Previously mentioned disclaimers and anti-A.I. and anti-repost clauses apply.

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated M] What the Heart Claims - Chapter 4

The heir of a fallen kingdom walks with a curse carved into his flesh.

A daughter of the Sylthar walks with her mother's blade and the weight of a death no one will explain.

When their paths converge, so do the secrets of Caerwyn - of Wolfheart, of blood oaths, of a siege that never truly ended. And among those who travel beside them walks a man sent in shadow, bound by duty to forces that would see the kingdom fall again, yet drawn toward something he was never meant to want.

On the road back to ruin, vows are sworn, spies move in silence, and love takes root where it was never meant to grow.

What survives after may not always be what was promised.

~~ + ~~

RATED M | ONGOING | Lee Know/Reader, Bang Chan/Reader, Changbin/Felix/Hyunjin, background Han/Seungmin | High-Fantasy AU | Mature content | character death

Originally posted to AO3 on 21 February 2026

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: 1 | 2 | 3

~~ + ~~

CHAPTER 4 - DRUMS, DRUMS IN THE DEEP

The Palladium Covenant has never dwelt in cities. Cities are loud. Cities are fragile. The Covenant has always preferred stone that had forgotten sunlight.

Their stronghold lies beneath a mountain ridge where even the trees grow twisted, roots knotted into soil that had long ago turned sour. The entrance is unmarked. The air has tasted metalling long before the torches began.

In the central chamber, the walls gleam faintly as if coated in something once alive.

Morcant stands at the head of the obsidian dais, fingers steepled behind his back. His robes fall in precise lines, pallid silver embroidery catching the low firelight. He was a man carved of angles; long hands, hollow cheeks, eyes that never seem to blink.

Below him, kneeling on the stone floor, a courier finishes his report.

“...the heir survived the quarry. Three captives freed. Unknown accomplices.”

Morcant does not interrupt. He listens the way surgeons listen, searching for weakness.

“And Caerwyn?” he asks at last.

“The heir still seeks it.” 

Morcant’s lips curve faintly. “Of course he does.”

Across the chamber, darkness shifts. Flame torches blow in different directions as shadows twist and form, and The Veiled Queen emerges from them without a sound. She does not wear a crown. She does not need to.

Smoke trails in slow ribbons from the hem of her garments, drifting upward as though the air itself bows to her presence. Her face remains obscured behind a thin metallic veil that catches and fractures torchlight.

“Wolfheart calls to him,” she says, her voice an echo, layers of almost melodic softness, yet threaded with something ancient and grinding beneath. “The blood remembers.”

Morcant inclines his head. “As do we.” 

The smirk on the High Arbiter’s face grows, and the courier before him swallows hard.

“The heir has gathered allies,” the courier reports, voice shaking.

“Children,” Morcant corrects calmly, “Street dogs and forest strays.”

“Forest strays…” the Veiled Queen repeats thoughtfully, a faint tilt of her head, “...Interesting.”

She glides closer to the dais. “Wolfheart was never meant to rest idle in Caerwyn’s halls,” she tells Morcant, “It was forged for dominion. For correction.”

Morcant’s jaw tightens. “And yet the Varkesh perished when they took it.”

The Queen’s voice cools as she circles the room. “They were unworthy.”

Silence stretches between them.

The Covenant has never feared Wolfheart. They knew of it, its origin and nature. They had studied it, and had studied Caerwyn’s bloodline for generations - the ritual of branding, the merging of heir and relic, the slow corruption woven into succession like rot inside fruit.

The branding was never simply symbolic. It is a key.

And keys are meant to open things.

“If the heir reaches Caerwyn,” Morcant contemplates quietly, “and reclaims the heirloom…”

“He will not survive it,” the Veiled Queen replies. There is no doubt in her tone. “But he may awaken it.”

A breeze, stronger than before, blows through the room, and the torches flicker violently. 

Morcant turns toward the shadows near the chamber’s edge. “You will handle this.”

A figure detaches itself from the dark. He moves like someone who had long ago learned how to be unseen. Cloaked in darkness from head to toe, his hair a deep, shining purple. Leather armour, twin blades at his back. Eyes that give nothing away.

He doesn’t bow to Morcant, nor to the Queen. He doesn’t need to.

“You know your assignment,” Morcant says.

The dark figure nods. “Infiltrate. Observe. Guide. Report.”

“And if necessary,” the Veiled Queen adds softly, “remove.”

The man’s expression does not change, but something in his shoulders tightens.

Morcant watches him carefully. 

“You were chosen for this because you do not hesitate,” continues The Veiled Queen, drifting closer, “And because you understand survival.” A faint curl of smoke brushes the man’s jawline, ghost-like and cold. “You owe us your life.”

The statement is not cruel. It is fact. 

The man inclines his head towards her. “When do I leave?” he asks, his tone even, his gaze stony.

“Immediately,” is Morcant’s reply.

The Veiled Queen’s voice softens almost imperceptibly as she leans into the figure’s ear. “Do not fail me.”

He does not reply. He turns and exits the chamber, stance steady and straight. He does not look back.

“Will he break?” Morcant asks.

The Veiled Queen does not hesitate. “No.” A pause. “But he may bend.”

She does not see the grin spreading across Morcant’s face. “Then we will just have to straighten him out.”

As the High Arbiter grabs the courier by the throat and squeezes until his head is severed from his neck, the Veiled Queen hears it. A familiar song in the wind, distant but steady. 

“Wolfheart stirs.”

Far away, across mountains and forests and ruined kingdoms, a branded scar burns faintly beneath winter skin.

--- TO BE CONTINUED ---

Previously mentioned disclaimers and anti-A.I. and anti-repost clauses apply.

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated M] Fault Lines - Chapter 3

There are cracks that form quietly.

A husband who builds with precision. A wife who once believed steadiness was enough. A stranger who feels like movement instead of stillness.

Some foundations don't shatter. They shift.

~~ + ~~

RATED M | ONGOING | Changbin/Reader, Lee Know/Reader | Husband vs Lover AU | Mature content

Originally posted to AO3 2 March 2026

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: 1 | 2

~~ + ~~

CHAPTER 3 - DEVIATION

You change the water every morning, like he told you to. Trim the stems at an angle. Watch the petals soften at the edges but refuse to fall.

The magnolias last longer than you expect.

Minho notices. “They’re holding up,” he says one evening, adjusting one slightly so they sit more evenly in the vase.

You nod. “They’re tougher than they look,” you reply, catching yourself immediately. You can practically hear the florist echoing you.

Minho, for his part, smiles faintly in acknowledgement, blissfully unaware of where the phrase had even come from.

You wait three days before you go back. Long enough that it doesn’t feel immediate, but not long enough that it doesn’t feel intentional. On the fourth day, you tell yourself you’re only going because the arrangement is starting to brown.

That’s reasonable. Flowers don’t last forever.

You don’t think too hard about the way your pulse jumps as you turn onto the same street, or when it does it again in time with the bell that chimes above the door as you step inside the flower shop.

It’s quieter this time - fewer flowers, less chaos.

And there he is, behind the counter, tying off a bundle of eucalyptus with practiced ease. At the sound of the door chimes, he looks up, and this time, the recognition is immediate.

“Hey, magnolias,” he greets, and you feel your cheeks warm slightly, “Thought you’d be back earlier. The flowers lasted, I take it?”

The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it. “Longer than I thought.”

“Told you.” That half-smile again, as he snips twine cleanly and sets his scissors aside. “D’you take care of them?”

“Yes,” you nod.

“I figured you would.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your stomach dip slightly.

You step closer to the display table, pretending to examine some fresh arrivals. “What do you recommend today?” you ask, aiming for casual.

He shrugs, and you try not to notice the movement of his shoulders under his shirt. “That depends,” he replies, moving around the counter again, slower this time. Less like he’s simply assisting a customer. “Still vague?”

You hear yourself let out a soft, awkward chuckle. “You didn’t seem to mind vague last time.”

He stops just within reach. “I don’t mind it,” he says lightly, “I just like knowing what I’m working with.”

You feel it this time - the deliberate choice to stand closer than necessary. Not touching…Just near enough that you’re aware of the warmth of him. 

“...Working with?” you echo, voice unfortunately somewhat unsteady.

He gestures lazily toward the flowers. “Arrangement’s better when you know what you’re building,” he replies, matter-of-factly.

Building.

You think of Minho immediately. Your architect husband, and his foundations, his precision, his plans. Something in your chest tightens unexpectedly.

“And what if I don’t know what I’m building?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

The florist’s eyes sharpen slightly at that, something sparking behind them. “Then we improvise,” he answers. There’s the faintest grin now; an invitation.

You swallow. “That sounds risky.”

A chuckle from him. “Only if you don’t trust your instincts.” He reaches past you for a bundle of pale lisianthus.

His arm brushes yours. Not accidental this time, but light. Intentional.

You don’t step away.

His hand pauses briefly at your elbow, steadying you, though you aren’t off balance, but he lets go just as quickly.

“Do I get a name this time?” he asks you. It lands softer than you expect.

You hesitate.

But then, you tell him. Invitation accepted.

He repeats it once, like he’s committing it to memory. Then he offers his own name in return - “Changbin.” The name fits him in a way that startles you slightly. It feels strong, grounded.

“That’s…different,” you say, because you’re not sure what else you can say that wouldn’t sound…well…

He laughs under his breath. “Different how?”

You rack your brain for a reply, but find none that makes sense. “...I don’t know,” you finally admit.

He studies you for a beat, and then the corner of his lip curls up. “It’s the flowers, isn’t it?” 

“I-...Maybe?” you stammer.

He gives you a little jerk of his head in acknowledgement. “I get it,” he tells you, “It’s fine, really. This place…it’s not really my thing.”

This surprises you; how could you have known that flowers weren’t “his thing,” as he’d put it, with the amount of knowledge he seems ready to offer you. 

“So this is…what, part-time?” you ask.

“Kind of,” he replies, looking around at the shop, “This actually belongs to a friend of mine. He’s out of town for a while, I’m unemployed while my actual workplace is under construction…It all worked out.”

“Ah,” you answer, understanding at last, “So, temporary, and not what you actually prefer?”

He shrugs. “Not really.”

“And what do you prefer?” 

Changbin’s eyes briefly drop to your hands. “...Something that lasts.”

The answer is vague enough to mean anything. You don’t press. You don’t want to.

He finishes wrapping the bouquet - not magnolias this time. Something lighter, softer. When he hands them to you, his fingers curl around yours just slightly longer than necessary.

“You’ll come back,” he says quietly. It isn’t a question.

You should say something dismissive. Something married. Something responsible. 

Instead, you meet his eyes. “...Maybe.”

The bell chimes again as you step outside. You make it halfway down the block before the urge to look back finally takes over.

Changbin is still standing there. Watching.

--- TO BE CONTINUED ---

Previously mentioned disclaimers and anti-A.I. and anti-repost clauses apply.

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated M] What the Heart Claims - Chapter 3

The heir of a fallen kingdom walks with a curse carved into his flesh.

A daughter of the Sylthar walks with her mother's blade and the weight of a death no one will explain.

When their paths converge, so do the secrets of Caerwyn - of Wolfheart, of blood oaths, of a siege that never truly ended. And among those who travel beside them walks a man sent in shadow, bound by duty to forces that would see the kingdom fall again, yet drawn toward something he was never meant to want.

On the road back to ruin, vows are sworn, spies move in silence, and love takes root where it was never meant to grow.

What survives after may not always be what was promised.

~~ + ~~

RATED M | ONGOING | Lee Know/Reader, Bang Chan/Reader, Changbin/Felix/Hyunjin, background Han/Seungmin | High-Fantasy AU | Mature content | character death

Originally posted to AO3 on 21 February 2026

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: 1 | 2

~~ + ~~

CHAPTER 3 - HERE WHERE PATHS CONVERGE

The quarry smells like wet stone and old iron.

You feel the emptiness of it before you truly see it - the way sound carries too far, rebounds off carved walls and collapses back on itself. Terraced rock rises in uneven rings around a wide central pit, scaffolding and pulley systems spider-webbing the air above. It’s a place designed to extract, not protect. The way bad places always are.

Jisung leads you along the upper ridge, crouched low, one hand lifted in silent signals that you follow easily enough. Felix stays close behind you, breath measured, eyes bright even in shadow. Somewhere below, Seungmin and Jeongin wait among broken carts and stacked stone, hidden by angle and dark.

You recall the maps, hastily drawn and yet apparently more accurate than you’d expected. This far in, you haven’t run into trouble yet. You aren’t sure if that’s good or bad just yet.

Three holding pens. Iron bars. Two on the lower tier. One higher up, separated from the rest.

In one of the lower pens, your elven sight helps you see (however barely) a pale half-orc, pacing like a caged storm. In the cell next to him, another figure, taller and more lithe, and somehow ethereal even in the dark. They sit in repose, fingers resting against the earth as if listening for something beneath it.

And above, in the upper cage, the leader Jisung had spoken of.

He kneels on one knee, wrists bound behind him, blood darkening the curls at his temple. His spine is straight despite the chains. He is still, but you can tell he is ready, likely watching for any opportunity or disturbance even through his visible exhaustion.

He seems dangerous in his stillness. A tempest about to crash into shore.

You can’t help but watch him, realising now that this mission is much more than Jisung had made it out to be. This man is much more than Jisung had made him out to be.

You wonder if he can see you, or at least knows that you’re there, waiting in the shadows.

Jisung rejoins your party just as Seungmin and Jeongin do, crouched low as you all press forward. “Two guards east wall,” he murmurs, barely audible, “One on the ramp. Mage by the winch.”

“We can handle the east wall,” Jeongin replies, to which Jisung nods.

“We just need to get the other two out first,” Seungmin reminds the rest of you, “they can take care of back-up while we go for Chan.”

He doesn’t seem like a “Chan”...

The thought is barely done forming in your mind before Felix grabs at Seungmin in front of him, and everyone pauses abruptly.

“One of them is hurt,” you hear him whisper, “...The half-orc.”

“Changbin,” Seungmin identifies, “Shit. Is it bad? Can you tell from here?”

“I’d need to get a closer look,” Felix replies, “But I think it might be an arm or a wrist.”

“Told him to stop jerking off too hard,” Jisung jokes, earning a snort from Jeongin.

Seungmin tuts. “Someone’s going to have to cover him if he can’t swing that stupid giant axe of his. If he can’t hold it, he can’t be in front of us. The escape could be compromised.”

“I can try to get to him fast,” Felix offers immediately, “A quick spell to get him through the night.”

Behind you, Seungmin heaves a giant sigh. “Right,” he agrees, unhooking a device from his belt and handing it backwards, “Jeongin, get him there. Make sure Changbin doesn’t swipe at him when he’s raging.”

“Gotcha,” Jeongin acquiesces as he accepts the item from Seungmin, “Let’s go.” You hear Jeongin in his armour and the padding of Felix’s feet as they take a different route towards the lower cells.

“Guess that leaves the east wall guys to me,” Jisung points out, turning back to give Seungmin a wink, “Don’t miss me while I’m gone, handsome.”

Seungmin clicks his tongue as Jisung disappears to make good on his part. You and Seungmin are left to sneak towards the upper cell, as quiet as you both possibly could be, stopping at every shadow that moves in your direction and quickening your pace when shade gives way to light.

You are only a few paces away from Chan’s cell when things suddenly happen.

The stone beneath the ramp guard gives way in a violent shift. The man stumbles forward with a startled curse, arms windmilling almost comically. The sound of iron scraping against stone as the lower cells doors swing open screech almost painfully in your ear, followed by a loud bellow and a boom as the half-orc launches himself to freedom, barely missing Felix and Jeongin on their way to release the other captive. Yells sound into the night as the nearest guards realise that one of the prisoners has escaped. Vines creep rapidly along walls and grab the first soldiers they find, tossing them far and hard out of sight. Something explodes as another cell door opens below you. The heavy clanging of guards in armour running towards you crash loudly against hard marble, making your ears ring.

“Too fucking early!” Seungmin hisses, “We have no time!"

“Then let’s fucking move!” you yell, all pretense at stealth dropped, “Mori, go help Felix!” 

As you run for the only pen still left locked, Seungmin hot on your heels and already activating the special device he’d made for the locks, your cat runs towards your best friend, and as he leaps off a ledge, the magic in his body bursts in a flare of light and he grows five times his size in the blink of an eye. Guards stare in fear as Mori, now a full-grown tiger with lightning in his dually hued eyes, lands beside Felix and Jeongin, grabbing the nearest mage around the head with a growl and tossing him, his head ripping from his body. 

You don’t have time to watch your pet go to town on the bastards. Seungmin has allowed himself only a quick second of shock as he reaches you at the upper cage. “Cover me,” he directs as he sets his device to the iron bars, only to curse sharply in a language you don’t recognise immediately.

“This lock is all wrong!” he says, frantic with haste and yet still measured, “My item isn’t going to work with it!”

“Can you still get it open?"

You turn, surprised to hear Chan’s voice, lower than Seungmin’s and somehow even more controlled, and yet you could feel whatever energy he’s been holding onto in such a simple question.

“Of course,” Seungmin replies, calling your name, “I need ten seconds.”

You plant yourself between him and the pit and the chaos happening there as the rest of your party attempt to escape.

Chan watches you. Not pleading - assessing. “You got them in?”

The moonlight is catching his eyes, a hue of blue-gray you’ve never seen on anyone else before. They’re looking at you, through you, and you hold his gaze as best you can, wondering what he’s looking for.

“She did,” Seungmin replies for you, still busy with the locks.

Chan’s eyes flick to his friend, before they return to you. He gives you a nod. “Thank you.”

There’s weight in it. You don’t quite know how to respond.

The din from the lower pens worsens as Felix and Jeongin lead the pack towards the exits, Mori clearing the way before them. As more guards pour from the pit, chasing upwards towards the escapees, Hyunjin raises his hands and the quarry answers, ivy ripping through cracks in the rock to entangle legs and weapons. Changbin charges headlong into the fray behind them, roaring, his strikes heavy and devastating. Ahead, Jeongin moves with disciplined precision, shield up, sword flashing in controlled arcs.Beside him, Felix’s hands light up with spells he doesn’t usually cast but makes work all the same. 

Seungmin pops the lock.

Chan rises in one fluid motion. Chains fall away. He doesn’t ask for a weapon - he takes one from a fallen guard and joins the fight immediately.

You watch him move. Efficient, relentless. Every strike is purposeful, driven by something deeper than adrenaline. There’s a strange regality to it - not in posture, but in presence. He fights like someone who has already lost everything and decided survival is no longer enough.

Changbin takes a blade to the side during the retreat.

Felix catches him before he hits the ground, hands glowing brighter now as he seals the wound even while Changbin swears and tries to stand.

“Hold still,” Felix tells him, gentle but desperate.

Changbin stares up at him like Felix personally invented miracles, and did it just for him. Hyujin glances between them, something like warmth flickering across his expression.

The escape is hard-fought, and you are nearly out of arrows by the time you all burst out of the agreed upon exit. Jisung appears almost as if on cue with horses, a triumphant shout announcing his arrival.

“Told ya not to miss me!” he calls, “But I couldn’t get enough for everyone, we’ll just have to share.”

“Anything to get the fuck out of here now,” Seungmin answers, “Everybody get up!”

You swing into a saddle and reach for Felix - only to see Hyunjin already hauling him up behind Changbin before he transforms into a raven and takes wing.

A commotion behind you makes you all turn back to find three more guards barreling towards you all, bellowing in a dark tongue, weapons raised.

“Go!” Chan shouts, “I’ll hold them off!”

The rest make a run for it, Mori following behind Felix and Changbin’s horse, Hyunjin’s raven form in the air above them. 

But the guards are coming too fast, headed right for Chan, and even with the strength and speed you’ve seen from him, you know they’ll overwhelm him quickly.

You move without thinking, grabbing your last arrows, nocking and firing them all at once, barely giving yourself time to aim. Each arrow finds purchase, one in a chest, another through a stomach, and the last through an eye and out the back of a skull. They skid to a halt and collapse at Chan’s feet, weapons dropping with a loud clang to the ground. Chan, surprised, turns to look up at you as you swing your horse around to him, his expression unreadable.

“Get on!”

Chan doesn’t argue. He vaults up behind you in a single smooth motion, one arm bracing around your waist as your horse surges forward.

The quarry disappears behind you in a storm of hooves and breath and shouting.

~ + ~

You all stop only when you reach the safehouse, a half-collapsed storehouse near the edge of town. No one lingers outside, except to hide the horses. Doors are barred, windows are covered, and everyone is inside within minutes.

Adrenaline drains away, leaving shaking hands and bruised ribs and the metallic tang of blood in the air.

Felix is instantly at Changbin’s side.

You watch as Felix cups Changbin’s face gently while healing light flows from his palms, and you catch the way Changbin looks at him - open, unguarded, something fragile flickering behind bravado.

Despite your exhaustion, you catch yourself smiling. This is what Felix has always been the best at. He hates having to fight, avoids it if and when he can. He’d rather cure wounds than inflict them himself. And it draws people to him, whether he knows it or not. You find a strange but not unpleasant comfort in watching him work his magic, both literally and figuratively, and it’s unsurprising that he seems to have claimed another soul so quickly.

Someone presses a cup into your hand.

“Drink,” Jisung urges, “While you can.”

You drain your drink almost in one go - you hadn’t realised how parched you’ve been feeling. As warm liquor burns down your throat, you watch Jisung go around the room, offering drinks to everyone, leaving Chan for last before taking the final drink for himself. Chan takes only a small sip before he’s setting it aside, asking for his effects from Jeongin and Seungmin. From the bag that’s handed to him, he pulls out a compass, a worn map, yellowed pieces of paper, and sets them on a table, discussing with Seungmin, who seems to have shed his temporary leader role now that their true leader has returned. 

Jeongin seems to remember something, and presents Chan with a longsword you hadn’t even realised they’d had on any of them. Chan pauses, mouth parting slightly in wonder as Jeongin presents the hilt of the blade to him. Jeongin and Seungmin watch as Chan’s hand closes around the grip and pulls out the sword, the steel of which is pristine, shining in firelight in sharp contrast to its scabbard. 

You recognise the metal - a material mostly thought to be little more than legend, worked in secret forges into weapons made in sparse quantities, and only for the most elite. 

For royalty.

Everything comes rushing back to you then, interrupted thoughts and questions that demand answers.

“That wasn’t just a simple rescue,” you say flatly.

Silence descends like a heavy hammer through the room.

Chan looks up from his maps. “What did you think it was?”

“I don’t know,” you say, unable to keep the edge out of your tone, “Not this. They told me they just needed help to get their leader back. I didn’t think that leader would be…someone like you.”

Chan cocks his head, regarding you with an almost amused curiosity. “Someone like me?” he echoes, “I’m nobody.”

“Bullshit,” you scoff, “I’ve never seen a nobody with a sword like that unless they stole it. And anyone who steals swords like that, don’t usually stay alive long enough to swing them once.”

“Fortunately, I didn’t steal it,” Chan chuckles, mirthless, “Well, I suppose I did, if stealing it back from those who took it from me counts.”

“And those people at the quarry,” you challenge, stepping up to him, “They were the ones who stole it from you?”

A small smirk is tugging at the corner of Chan’s mouth. You find yourself fighting the urge to smack it off his face.

“Not from me, no,” he replies, “But from the ones who took it from me, before I even knew I owned it. All the same, they weren’t exactly happy that I came for it, and them.”

You roll your eyes, exasperated. “I am about done with all your stupid little riddles,” you tell him, “That was one of the messiest things I have ever been involved in, and for a split second there, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to get my friend out of it.” Not strictly true, but you’re annoyed now - it’ll feed the point you’re trying to make. “I need to know who it is we nearly died rescuing, and if it was worth our efforts at all.”

Chan’s expression is plain, but his eyes are dancing. He looks to Seungmin, who leans back on his heels and shrugs.

“I think she’s too clever to keep being fooled, and too helpful to keep lying to,” Seungmin assesses.

“You think so?” Chan shoots back, something like a dare in his smug tone.

With a sigh, Seungmin turns to you, spine straight, a hand behind his back as he addresses you. “We apologise for the deception,” he tells you, “We figured the less you knew, the better for us in case you or your friend were compromised. But you’ve both proven yourselves as sturdy as your word-”

“WIldmother’s tits, would you get on with it?” Changbin groans from across the room.

“No no, keep going,” Jisung says to Seungmin, a sly grin across his face, “I like listening to you talk.”

Seungmin affords him only a cursory glance before continuing. “This man-” he indicates Chan with a hand, “- is indeed our leader. You know him as Chan. We know him as Christopher, Lycan King, rightful heir to Caerwyn.”

The words slam into you, your mother’s journal flashing through your mind - fragments of notes, references to succession magic, warnings scribbled in margins she never finished explaining, a name of a boy she had sworn to protect in hurried words written on fading pages.

“You.”

The word comes out of you heavy and loaded, and the look on Chan’s face tells you that he understands that this is beyond recognition, that there is something more behind the realisation. His shoulders sag, the smugness vanishes from his expression.

“It was you.” Your voice echoes in your mind, as though someone else is speaking in your head. “She was…she was looking for you. And she…”

Felix is at your side now, a hand on your shoulder. “What is it?” he asks, worry plain in his voice, “What’s wrong?”

You glare at Chan, through him.

The words tumble out of you like river water through a crack in the dam.

“He’s the reason my mother is dead.”

The truth lands, heavy as a boulder. The silence is heavier now than it was earlier, more stifling. You need air.

You storm your way out, Felix on your heels, Mori close behind, returned to his smaller size. 

Felix is pleading with you, but you can barely hear him; your head is buzzing, the world around you greatly muffled. Your chest is tight, too tight, and you pant and gasp for breath, clutching at your chest in the hopes of finding relief. 

Too much, too fast, too soon. Everything around you is spinning, making and unmaking itself, rising and falling in a rhythm to match the throbbing of your heartbeat in your own ears. Felix is holding you, trying to steady you and ground you, but the words in your mother’s journal are replicating themselves in your mind’s eye. His name in her writing. Christopher. Over and over again, mingling with other words that made no sense before, but suddenly come together now. 

Christopher. Caerwyn. Wolfheart. The Blood Curse. Lycan. Wolfheart. Caerwyn.

Christopher.

“Who was your mother?”

In Felix’s arms, you turn wet eyes towards the doorway of the safehouse. Chan - Christopher - stands there, bathed in the light from inside, and yet seeming smaller than when you’d first encountered him. There is no hostility in his question, and when he repeats it, he comes closer to you in slow, measured steps, as if afraid that if he gets too close, he might break you.

“Who was your mother?” he asks again, tone gentler than anything you’ve heard from him tonight, “Tell me. Please.”

Felix’s embrace tightens around you subtly. “You don’t have to tell him,” he whispers to you.

Chan hesitates, but takes a step back. He heaves a great sigh that seems to come from somewhere deeper than his soul. 

“I was a child when Caerwyn was attacked,” he tells you, “I don’t remember much of it, only what I see in my dreams. But I remember the woman in the woods. An elf. She came out of nowhere, but she knew me, I think.” He pauses, seeming to consider his next words. Finally, “...she saved me. I wouldn’t be alive now if not for her.”

His eyes shine with unshed tears as he finishes speaking. Your breathing has slowed, but you say nothing. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to. Your throat has closed around something too big to name.

Because suddenly you’re thinking of your mother leaving Vaeloren with quiet determination in her eyes. Of the way she kissed your hair and told you to be brave. Of the dagger returned to the Sylthar temple wrapped in cloth and silence.

The questions you asked too much of and were exiled for. The answers everyone refused to give you. A choice your mother made long before she ever met him.

Here they all stand now, taking the form of a man who was nothing more than a name to you before tonight. 

You feel numb. The air has gone from being too loud to being too quiet in an instant. The only thing that feels real right now is Felix, and the arms he has around you in an effort to keep you from falling apart.

Chan swallows, draws himself up a little before speaking again. “I can’t begin to imagine what you must be feeling right now,” he tells you, and you at least hear the kindness in his intentions, “If you’ve been looking for someone to blame for the loss of your mother, I’ll gladly take it all. I know that’s little comfort now, but…”

He trails off, his gaze falling to the ground. In this moment, he doesn’t seem to you like a deposed king, or a noble fighter - simply a lost child speaking to one like him, trying to put words to the connection they now find they have.

“I am…trying to return home,” he says after a while, “I want to take back Caerwyn and rebuild it, and honour the memory of all those who were lost that day, and in all the years that followed. I w-...” He pauses again to think of how to say what he wants to say next. “Come with us. Please.”

His request gives you pause. “...Why? What for?”

Chan takes a steadying breath. “Because I never got to thank her,” he tells you, “I was never even able to learn her name. But I’ve thought of her quite often, and I can’t think of a better way to offer her my gratitude for her protection than to offer mine to the ones she left behind. Because of me.”

His voice breaks slightly as he chokes back a sob, but he continues, taking a step forward. You feel Felix pull away slightly, but you stay put; so does he.

“Lirya,” you say, your voice hoarse, “Her name was Lirya.”

Chan nods. “I wish Lirya hadn’t had to die to keep me alive,” he says earnestly, “But I swear, I won’t let her sacrifice be in vain.”

He steps back, draws his sword, sets it against his palm, and slices. He squeezes his hand closed, and blood drips to the ground, seeping into the earth.

The cut alarms you. “You don’t need to-” 

But Chan is resolute; he interrupts your protestation. “I swear to you,” he says, “that for as long as I live, with this life paid for by your mother’s blood, I will do everything in my power to protect you. And when the time comes, when Caerywn is avenged and rebuilt, you will have a home with us, with me, so that I can fulfill this oath and honour the gift your mother gave me, even unto death.”

In the silence that follows, Chan’s blood disappears into the soil. The oath hangs in the air between you both, his words finding their mark. You step towards him, Felix letting his arms fall away, though he stays only a step behind you, a steadying presence.

“You don’t need to do this,” you tell Chan, voice frayed at the edges, “My mother didn’t save you so you could throw your life away in her name.”

Chan’s bleeding fist remains closed. He replies gently, but with more determination. “This isn’t repayment. It’s gratitude.”

Your throat tightens; you shake your head. “She chose you,” you say softly, “Whatever she knew, whatever she saw in you…whatever she believed in…that was her choice.” You take his hand into yours, and his fist opens at last, letting your hand in almost as if bidden to. You work what little healing magic you know to close his wound. 

“I won’t have my mother’s death turned into debt.”

Chan’s shoulders sag again, as if you’d taken the air out of him. 

“But…if you’re going to swear something…” you continue, quieter now, “...Swear you’ll live. Swear you’ll make it mean something. Whatever it is you believe in.”

A tear slips free before you can stop it. 

“Swear that her sacrifice built something better than ashes.”

You release his hand, start making your way back inside. Felix follows quietly behind you, Mori on his shoulder. Before you cross the threshold of the door, you turn back to Chan, who has been watching you. 

“I’ll stay,” you tell him, “I’ll come with you. To make sure you fulfill that oath.”

Everyone is staring at you and Felix when you walk back in. Felix grabs his untouched drink and asks Seungmin where the sleeping area will be. He directs you there, handing you the drink with a gentle kiss to your forehead as he sets about preparing your bedrolls. No other words pass between the two of you that night, but he sets your bedroll right next to his, and he holds you like he used to when you were younger, taking shelter together in an uncertain world you had yet to become familiar with. When you start to cry again, he shushes you softly, gently humming a familiar lullaby to comfort you.

Sleep takes you slowly. After it does, you dream of Lirya. Of sunlit leaves and warm hands and the way she kissed your forehead before she left for her final journey. 

Her voice echoes gently through memory. Warm and steady.

I know it hurts. I know you’re tired of being brave. You feel her hand in your hair, just like when you were small.

But listen to me, little one. You were not put on this earth to walk it alone.

My love will find you. In strange places. In broken people. In impossible choices.

And when the time comes to face those choices, I know you will make the right one, as I did.

Her forehead rests against yours.

“Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Your own voice, but not from now - from when she left. The very plea you begged as she bade you farewell for the final time.

She smiles at you, draws you into a warm embrace made of light.

I never have. I never will.

--- TO BE CONTINUED ---

Previously mentioned disclaimers and anti-A.I. and anti-repost clauses apply.

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated M] Fault Lines - Chapter 2

There are cracks that form quietly.

A husband who builds with precision. A wife who once believed steadiness was enough. A stranger who feels like movement instead of stillness.

Some foundations don't shatter. They shift.

~~ + ~~

RATED M | ONGOING | Changbin/Reader, Lee Know/Reader | Husband vs Lover AU | Mature content

Originally posted to AO3 2 March 2026

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: 1

~~ + ~~

CHAPTER 2 - CONTACT

The flower shop smells like wet stems and something sweet you can’t quite name.

You hadn’t meant to come inside. You were halfway down the block when the display in the window caught your eye - pale magnolias arranged loosely in a ceramic bowl, their petals wide and unapologetic, sunlight catching the curve of them just so.

The door chimes softly when you step in.

It’s warmer inside than you expect. Humid. Alive. Leaves spill over wooden buckets. Droplets cling to green stems. There’s soil scattered across the counter like someone stopped cleaning halfway through.

It’s messier than your kitchen. You like that; it’s endearing, somehow.

“Be with you in a second.”

The voice comes from the back, low and unhurried.

You wander closer to the display table, fingers grazing over cool petals. The magnolias are bigger up close, less delicate than they look from the street.

The voice returns, bringing you out of your reverie.

“They bruise if you press too hard.”

You glance up, and there he is, standing behind the counter now, although he doesn’t look like he belongs among the petals.

Not because he’s careless - he certainly doesn’t seem to be - but because there’s something solid about him, something coiled beneath the loose apron and rolled sleeves. Broad shoulders that strain faintly against cotton, a line of ink peeking just above his collarbone when he moves, hands careful with stems, though they hardly seem delicate, they look like they’re used to something sharper.

Sleeves rolled, apron tied loosely at his waist, a thin smear of dirt along one knuckle like he forgot it was there. Dark hair falls into his eyes when he looks down at the bouquet he’s trimming, but when he looks up at you, it’s deliberate. Not assessing, just…noticing.

“Sorry,” you say, pulling your hand back from the magnolias instinctively.

The florist shrugs lightly. “They’ll survive,” he replies, “They’re tougher than people think.”

There’s something faintly amused in the way he says it.

You glance around the shop again, suddenly aware of how quiet it is.

“Are you looking for something specific?” the man asks, breaking a silence you hadn’t been aware you’d let hang. 

You hesitate. “Not really, I think.”

He nods, almost contemplative. “Okay…” he says, “Is there an occasion, maybe?”

You shake your head. “No, just…something nice, I suppose.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you for a beat longer than feels necessary or appropriate. Finally, “...Nice is vague.”

You chuckle, a little embarrased. “I’m not very good with flowers,” you confess, “I was just going past, and…I don’t know. I suppose they caught my attention.”

“That’s okay,” the florist says kindly, setting the scissors down, “Most people aren’t. They just like pretending they know what they’re giving.”

He steps out from behind the counter, and the air in the shop shifts.

Up close, he smells faintly of cologne and greenery. There’s warmth to him that doesn’t match the cool light filtering through the front windows. It distracts you slightly as he gestures toward a cluster of camelias. “These are for devotion.”

You glance at them, then back at him. “Are they really?”

“Would I lie in a flower shop?” His mouth curves, not quite a smirk.

You huff softly. “Probably, if you’re trying to sell said flowers in said shop.”

“Heh, fair,” he chuckles, gesturing toward another bundle, “Anemones - symbolizing anticipation.”

“And those?” You nod toward the magnolias you’d been admiring.

His gaze follows yours, but he doesn’t answer immediately. Then, casually: “Endurance.”

The word lingers a second longer than it should. You don’t know why it settles somewhere under your ribs.

“You know all of this off the top of your head?” you ask him.

He shrugs. “People like knowing what they’re buying into.” There’s that smirk again. “Are you buying into something?”

It’s teasing. Not invasive, but your pulse misses a beat all the same. 

“I’m married,” you say before you can stop yourself. The words come out too quickly. Too defensive for a question he didn’t ask.

The florist’s brows lift slightly - not surprised, but acknowledging. “Congratulations,” he says simply, with only a nod, not an edge of mockery even as he leaves it there. “So then - something nice for your husband.”

You watch his hands as he picks and arranges blooms, wildflowers and fillers. He’s efficient, confident and deliberate. The petals brush his knuckles as he wraps twine around the stems of his bouquet.

He steps closer to hand the flowers to you.

Your fingers touch briefly. Accidental. And yet…

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Neither do you.

“Take care of them,” he says, meeting your eyes again, “They last longer if you change the water everyday.”

You nod, swallowing something you don't have a name for. “I will.” You clear your throat. “Uh, how much do I owe you?”

He rings you up, offers you a card for your bouquet, which you decline as you pay for the flowers. As you turn toward the door, the bell chiming again, he adds casually - “If they don’t last, you can always come back.”

You find that almost self-satisfied half-smile back on his face when you turn to reply, meaning to be cordial. He’s watching you - you’re certain of it. It surprises you momentarily. 

“...I’m sure they’ll last,” you tell him, “You told me they would.”

Outside, the air feels cooler than it did before you entered the shop. As you walk, you adjust your grip on the bouquet, your mind distracted.

It’s ridiculous, you think to yourself. It was a conversation. A salesperson doing his job. A stranger being mildly charming. That’s ALL. 

When Minho comes home that evening and notices the flowers on the kitchen counter, he smiles in that quiet, steady way of his.

“Those are new,” he notices, cheerful, “You didn’t have to.”

You shrug lightly. “I wanted to.”

“They’re beautiful,” Minho remarks, kissing your temple.

The magnolias sit between you, petals wide. The water in the vase you’ve put the flowers in catches the light. 

You change the water before bed.

--- TO BE CONTINUED ---

Previously mentioned disclaimers and anti-A.I. and anti-repost clauses apply.

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated M] What the Heart Claims - Chapter 2

The heir of a fallen kingdom walks with a curse carved into his flesh.

A daughter of the Sylthar walks with her mother's blade and the weight of a death no one will explain.

When their paths converge, so do the secrets of Caerwyn - of Wolfheart, of blood oaths, of a siege that never truly ended. And among those who travel beside them walks a man sent in shadow, bound by duty to forces that would see the kingdom fall again, yet drawn toward something he was never meant to want.

On the road back to ruin, vows are sworn, spies move in silence, and love takes root where it was never meant to grow.

What survives after may not always be what was promised.

~~ + ~~

RATED M | ONGOING | Lee Know/Reader, Bang Chan/Reader, Changbin/Felix/Hyunjin, background Han/Seungmin | High-Fantasy AU | Mature content | character death

Originally posted to AO3 on 21 February 2026

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: 1

~~ + ~~

CHAPTER 2 - YOU MEET IN A TAVERN

You wake before Felix does. You always do. Habit, more than instinct - learned over years of sleeping in places that weren’t yours, with doors that didn’t lock and roofs that sometimes leaked and people who asked too many questions if you stayed too long. 

You lie still for a moment, listening as the town wakes around you.

Morning comes grey and thin through the warped shutters of the abandoned cooper’s shop you had claimed for the night. Dust hangs in the air, drifting lazily through the pale light. Somewhere outside, a cart rattles over cobblestone; someone coughs; a dog barks once, then quiets.

Mori is curled against your ribs, warm and solid. His tail flicks when you shift, one eye opening just enough to confirm it’s you before he settles again. Your fingers find his soft orange fur, and you feel more than hear him purring as you give him gentle scratches on the top of his head.

Felix sleeps on his side nearby, one arm thrown over his head, pale hair spilling across his face and over the point of his ears. Even now, even like this, there’s something luminous about him. Not magical, not visibly so, just…gentle. As if the world has yet to convince him to harden.

You’d hate to wake him, your Yongbok. You would have to, in a while, but not just yet. You sit up slowly, careful not to disturb him, and begin packing.

It doesn’t take long; you don’t own much. A rolled blanket, a waterskin, a pouch of dried roots and stolen bread. A handful of coins that have passed through too many hands to care where they came from or what they may have paid for before they found their way to you. In another satchel, your mother’s last remaining journal, wrapped in oilcloth. At your side, sheathed but unclasped, is the dagger you’d stolen the night you’d absconded all those years ago.

Your mind drifts, as does your hand, towards the knife. You find yourself - not for the first time - taking it out to peer at it, although there isn’t a detail of it that you haven’t already committed to memory. The gem embedded in its pommel is cracked, although you’ve never been certain if that had been your doing or if it had always been that way. The hide wrapped on its grip is relatively new, however, but already beginning to look worn from use. Unsurprising - you favour this dagger, for personal reasons. Your fingers trace along the unfamiliar runes etched into its cross-guard, words you have never been able to understand yet have memorised all too well all the same. You hold the blade of it up to streams of light peeking in through window cracks, but it doesn’t shine; it never has. For as long as you’ve had this, the steel has been dark, a deep, deep red that runs black. You don’t know much about this dagger, but you do know that the blackening of the blade was not naturally caused. When it slices hidden by the dark of night, you don’t question it. But in moments of quiet, you’ve heard it sing - or at least, you think so - and you cannot help but wonder what this dagger has seen or been through before it fell into your hands, or your mother’s.

A collision of bodies outside the walls brings you out of your reverie, bringing Mori to attention as well. He looks at you questioningly, his green and blue eyes catching the light. You give him an assuring stroke across the back as you peer out the window at the noise - nothing of note, just some people who may not have been looking where they were going. Still, it’s enough of a reminder that you shouldn’t linger much longer. You move around quietly, methodically, every gesture practiced. Mori stretches and follows behind you, stopping every now and then to sniff at the air as if testing it.

By the time Felix wakes, you’ve already checked the exits. He blinks up at you, disoriented for half a second before recognition softens his expression.

“Morning,” he murmurs, an arm rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Mori pads over, rests his front paws on Felix’s chest as he stretches again, mewling softly as Felix strokes him with his other hand.

“Morning,” you greet back as Felix sits up.

“Did anyone come by?”

You shrug. “Just a rat.”

Felix makes a face. “Rude.”

You chuckle, despite yourself. “Come on. We gotta get moving.”

“Do we?” Felix’s eyes are big and round, the way they always are when he wants something from you.

“...Felix.”

He sighs, hands held up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he acquiesces, “It was worth a shot.”

“You really wanna stay here?” you snort, bending down to help him with his bedroll, “Leaky roof, barred windows, mouldy wood, wet earth, and no food?”

“I’d like to stay somewhere,” Felix replies, but he quickly realises what he said, and offers you a look of apology, “...Sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

You sigh. “Yes, you did,” you tell him.

Felix secures his bedroll to his pack. “Maybe,” he admits, “But not like that. I just mean…you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” you repeat, a reassuring hand on his shoulder, “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

Felix lets out a steadying breath, and nods at you. You offer him a small smile and a quick peck on his forehead before urging him to get the rest of his things together.

Outside, the town smells like wet stone and old smoke. Vendors are setting up stalls along the main road, crates being dragged into place, awnings unfurled with tired snaps. Somewhere nearby, a baker pulls loaves from an oven, and the scent makes your stomach tighten.

You don’t stop. You never stop.

Felix walks beside you, cloak pulled tight against the chill. He greets people when they pass, nods politely to strangers who don’t know either of you and don’t care to. You keep your head down, eyes moving, cataloguing exits and alleyways and places someone could hide if they wanted to.

Not paranoia, just survival. Lessons learned in the harder years since the forest of Vaeloren stopped being home. Since the Sylthar’s cleric council decided blood mattered more than history. Since your mother died and no one would tell you why.

The road has been everything since then. Teacher. Enemy. Shelter. Sentence.

Felix drifts closer to you when a group of soldiers passes on horseback, their armour clinking softly. He doesn’t reach for you, but you feel the warmth of him anyway.

“Breakfast?” he asks quietly.

You glance back towards the bakery. “Only if it falls into our hands.”

Felix lets out a soft but excited little chuckle.

You split off down a side street, slipping between buildings where the shadows still cling to stone. Felix takes the corner wide, humming softly under his breath - not a spell, just habit - while you move ahead, light on your feet, Mori ghosting along beside you.

The merchant’s crate is poorly secured.

You don’t even feel bad. It isn’t even your fault, you figure; if the crate is too easy to steal from, did the merchant really not want to be stolen from in the first place? 

Two apples and a heel of bread vanish into your satchel, and you’re already moving when Felix catches up, eyes bright.

“You’re getting faster,” he whispers.

You toss him one of the apples. “Don’t be too proud of me though,” you reply.

Felix chuckles as he takes a crunchy bite, letting out a pleased hum as he savours the fruit.

You eat on the move, keeping to shade and roadsides. Felix insists on giving Mori half his share, and you pretend not to notice.

By midday, you’ve gathered enough coin through small errands and quiet sleight-of-hand to justify staying in the town another night - assuming nothing goes wrong.

Something always goes wrong.

You’re crossing the square when you feel it; a shift. A subtle tightening of air that comes before trouble.

Felix senses it too. His shoulders draw back slightly, posture changing in a way only you ever notice.

Three figures peel away from the crowd, their clothes different enough to stand out to anyone who might give them a longer glance. They look away when they realise that you’ve noticed them, but they whisper to themselves even as they keep walking. Not guards. Not locals.

“Yongbok,” you murmur.

“I see them,” Felix confirms, hushed.

You know how this goes. You don’t run; running will draw attention. Instead, you turn into the nearest tavern, letting the noise and warmth swallow you whole.

The place is busy - midday drinkers, travelers passing through, a pair of musicians arguing quietly over a lute. Smoke curls toward the rafters, carrying the scent of ale and fried onions. As Mori climbs up the wall to skirt along the moulding, you squeeze through and push past people to slide onto a bench near the back as Felix fetches watered mead and pretends not to watch the door.

Your seat is barely warm when several things happen all at once. 

You feel it before you see it: someone brushes past your chair, and your hand closes around their wrist immediately. Your captive yelps softly at being caught. You twist, not to inflict pain, but just enough to make your point. You turn to find a lithe young man with ash-brown hair spilling across impossibly round brown eyes, but his expression changes from shock to bemusement, even while his hand lingers in the air, your coin pouch hanging on to you by a thread.

He blinks, then he grins. “Oh. You’re fast.”

You return his smirk, mirthless, a warning. “Let go.”

Felix returns, holding two pints in his hands. He regards first your captive, then you, then him again.

“Friend of yours?” Felix asks, setting the drinks down carefully on the table. He doesn’t sit; if this one gets away, he’ll need to get to him fast. He casts a quick glance up at Mori, who is still as a statue where he is balanced on the moulding a few feet above your head, watching and ready.

“Only if he gets smart in the next two seconds,” you answer Felix, and the man you’ve caught raises his other hand in surrender, your coin purse clutched between fingers.

“Smart,” Felix tells him, taking the coin purse back and securing it on his own belt for the meantime. 

You finally let the man go, and he straightens up, rubbing at his wrist, but he’s still smiling at the both of you, a peculiar light behind his eyes. 

“Didn’t mean any harm,” he says easily, “Just saw an opportunity.”

Felix sits, tilts his head at the newcomer. “You picked the wrong people, friend.”

The man shoves his hands into his pockets, leaning his weight on one foot - an easygoing stance, meant to show that he isn’t a threat. “Maybe,” he answers, “Maybe not.”

Mori lands on the table with a soft thud, letting out a low hiss that only seems to amuse the man.

“Cute kid,” he remarks, before turning his attention back to you and Felix, “Let’s start over.” He straightens himself, proffers a hand, and deliberately puts on a little too much cheerfulness in his tone. “Hello, fellow travellers. My name is Jisung. What’s yours?”

Felix turns an exasperated look towards you. “Is he for real?”

You turn askance at the newcomer - Jisung - as if daring him to answer Felix’s question. Instead, he shrugs and takes his hand back. “Okay, that’s okay, we can skip the formalities. I’m sure we’ll find your names out later-”

“Bold of you to assume there will be a later,” you snort, and Felix stifles a tiny laugh.

Jisung scratches at a phantom itch behind his head. “Well, we’re…kind of hoping there will be,” he confesses.

“We?” Felix asks.

Jisung wordlessly turns towards the opposite corner of the pub, where two others wait - one with neatly arranged tools at his belt and too-clever eyes, the other younger, rigid with barely-contained nerves as suspicious eyes look right back at you.

“We,” Jisung echoes, “My friends and I. We could use some help.”

The last word triggers the differing reactions you and Felix almost always have. Where you sigh in derision, your shoulders sagging as you slouch away from Jisung, Felix brightens, elven ears pricking up. 

“What kind of help?” he asks before you can stop him.

“Yong-” you start to cut in, but Jisung gets there before you can; he slips into the bench right beside Felix, speaks in a hushed and hurried tone.

“Our leader got captured a handful of days ago,” he tells Felix, “Along with two more of our friends. We know where they’re being held, but security’s tighter than a rotting jar of pickles. We need help sneaking in, and getting them out. We could use a couple more hands for the fight that there will inevitably be, because these things never end clean anyway.”

You curse under your breath. “Right,” you say, taking a big swig from your drink, “Good luck with that.”

Felix calls your name as you attempt to leave the booth. You turn, fixing him with a gaze. 

“We don’t do rescues, Felix,” you say firmly, “Precisely because they never end clean. And between us three and those two-” You indicate Jisung’s companions, still watching you across the tavern. “-It’s already too many cooks in the kitchen for it to not get messy.”

“Yeah, but…” Felix protests, “They’re people. We can’t just-”

“Yes, we can, Lix,” you exhale, pinching at the bridge of your nose, “Sometimes, it’s okay to walk away. Especially if it’s not a job that usually pays well.”

“We can pay,” Jisung answers immediately, more serious now than he was earlier, “We can. Whatever amount you ask, we’ll pay it.”

You let out a mirthless chuckle. “No offense,” you tell Jisung, making sure he sees the once-over you give him, “But you don’t exactly look like you could pay any amount we name, even if it was just…what, 200 gold each? Which really isn’t anything if it’s a rescue you’re asking for, mind you.”

Felix shakes his head at you, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. A slight pang goes through you then - you hate when Felix thinks that exact thing of you, but you know why you do it, and so does he. Not paranoia, just survival. You swallow against the little flip your stomach does, and try to ignore the way Felix crosses his arms at you.

“400 gold? Peanuts,” Jisung answers, “500 gold. Each.”

The sharp points of your ears twitch; Felix notices. He snorts.

“...Each?” you echo, disbelieving.

“Each,” Jisung confirms, “Just…help us. Please. I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot here, but…We wouldn’t ask if we didn’t think you were the right people.”

Felix’s unhappy glare at you softens into a plea, but the edge of judgment hasn’t quite left his eyes. Is that what you’re deciding your decency is worth today?

He doesn’t need to say the words for you to feel the sting of them. The guilt cuts through every justification you’ve ever told yourself, as it usually does in situations like these.

Felix is right. He always is, about this at least.

You sigh, shaking your head and waving a hand dismissively. “Let’s talk about price next time, yeah?” you tell Jisung, “...Maybe after. When we know what we’ve been through.”

Jisung’s and Felix’s faces light up in unison. “You’ll help us?” The former asks.

You look to Felix, your reply more for him than for Jisung. “Of course we will.”

Jisung lets out a giant breath of relief. “Thank fuck,” he exclaims with a delirious laugh, hands over his eyes as he collects himself, “Finally, some goddamn headway.” He rises. “Come on, I’ll introduce you. I already know what your names are.”

Felix grabs your hand before you can follow behind Jisung, who has disappeared into the crowd but is making his way to his companions. “Thank you,” he says, eyes soft, smile gentle. He means it.

You sigh again, giving his fingers a small squeeze. “Keep me humble,” you tell him; a request.

Felix returns your gesture. “Always.”

Mori leaps onto your shoulder, balanced expertly despite his size, as you go to Jisung’s party. 

He introduces the other two men - Seungmin, the one with the tools and the haughty stare, and Jeongin, the one with the quiet sturdiness - and the two of you are then led to one of the rooms, where Jisung explains where they’re headed and Seungmin regales you with their plan. Felix listens with fierce concentration, already cataloguing injuries he hasn’t seen yet. You sit back, splitting a feather and whittling wood for an arrow to keep your hands busy and focused as you take in what Jisung and Seungmin are telling you.

The plan is to move at night, where security will be more relaxed but the need for stealth will be greater. You spend the time between now and then preparing weapons, potions and poultices, dipping arrowheads into poison and sharpening your knives. Your mother’s dagger stays in its sheath, ready for the fight to come.

You watch the sky turn orange, then purple, then black. Stars begin to pepper the horizon, and anticipation coils in your chest as you watch Jisung, Seungmin and Jeongin make their final preparations. 

You hear it then. Or, you think you do.

Your mother’s dagger, singing. It’s faint and unmelodic, but it’s there. The sound lingers only long enough for you to realise that you can hear it, and before you can tell Felix, it’s over, and Jisung is calling to the pair of you, telling you it’s time to go.

The coil in your stomach tightens. You can’t explain it - you try to ignore it. You can’t.

You don’t know it yet, but this is the moment the road finally stops letting you drift.

--- TO BE CONTINUED ---

Disclaimers and anti-A.I. and anti-repost clauses previously mentioned apply.

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated M] Fault Lines - Chapter 1

There are cracks that form quietly.

A husband who builds with precision. A wife who once believed steadiness was enough. A stranger who feels like movement instead of stillness.

Some foundations don't shatter. They shift.

~~ + ~~

RATED M | ONGOING | Changbin/Reader, Lee Know/Reader | Husband vs Lover AU | Mature content

Originally posted to AO3 2 March 2026

~~ + ~~

CONTENT WARNING for Chapter 1: mentions of pregnancy issues

CHAPTER 1 - Foundations

You wake to the quiet mechanical hum of your home’s central heating and the faint, rhythmic sound of something being measured. Not poured, not shaken. Measured.

Minho is already awake.

You don’t need to look at the clock to know it’s just past six. He moves differently in the early mornings: careful without being overly cautious, precise without being rigid. The drawers in the kitchen open and close in soft, controlled slides. The kettle clicks off exactly when it should. A ceramic mug meets the counter without so much as a clink.

You lie there for a moment longer, watching the pale stretch of dawn climb the wall across from your bed. The house is still new enough to feel intentional, but lived-in enough to feel yours. Clean lines, uncluttered shelves, light catching on the edges of glass and chrome. 

Minho prefers it that way, and you love keeping it that way. 

When you finally step into the kitchen, he doesn’t startle. He never does. He senses you before he sees you - the shift of air, the softness of your steps.

“You’re up,” he greets, glancing over his shoulder.

You hum in reply, sliding your arms around his waist from behind and pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. His shirt is warm from his skin. He smells faintly of soap and ground coffee, his body solid under his clothes. His hand comes down automatically, covering yours where they rest against his stomach, thumb stroking once, absentminded.

You’ve always loved that about him - the way his affection is quiet but constant. Never dramatic, never loud…just there. Just right.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asks.

“Yes.” You plant a small kiss on his back, and the soft chuckle he lets out tells you he felt it. You watch him finish measuring the coffee grounds, leveling them carefully before sealing the machine. You had once asked him why he doesn’t just scoop and guess, and he’d looked at you as though the answer should’ve been obvious.

“Precision matters,” he’d said, because it does, to him.

You think that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place. Not because he was the loudest person in the room - he never was - but because when he decided something mattered, he treated it like it did.

Including you.

~ + ~

The first time you met Minho, he had corrected you.

You were in the campus café, halfway through annotating a dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights, arguing with a friend about whether Heathcliff was romantic or just cruel. You’d gestured too widely with your pen, nearly knocking over the architectural model set up on the next table.

Minho had caught it before it hit the floor, reflexes seeming impossibly quick, long fingers steadying thin white beams and foam-board walls.

“You shouldn’t put weight on unsupported corners,” he’d said, not looking at you first, “It collapses.”

You’d blinked at him. “It was an accident.”

“I know.” A pause. Then, finally, he’d looked up. Calm, direct. “...Still.”

You had bristled and defended yourself. You’d told him literature didn’t require structural integrity.

He’d snorted and said, “Everything does.”

It had annoyed you for exactly three days. 

Then you started noticing him everywhere - in the library with rolled sleeves and meticulous notes, in lecture halls with that same intent focus, in the quad explaining something to a group of first-year students like foundations were poetry.

He didn’t chase you. He didn’t need to. He just started sitting at your table more often, bringing an extra coffee without asking, listening when you ranted about symbolism and unreliable narrators.

The first time he reached for your hand, it was absentminded. You were walking back from the bus stop, arguing about whether modern architecture lacked soul. He’d intertwined your fingers mid-sentence and kept talking. It happened so naturally, like your hand had always belonged there, in his.

You’d stopped arguing.

~ + ~

The proposal had been just as deliberate. No public spectacle, no kneeling in front of strangers. He knew you would have hated that. Instead, he’d taken you to an empty lot in a suburban village just outside the city, a stretch of land you’d passed a dozen times without thinking.

“There’s going to be a house here,” he’d told you, holding a rolled set of blueprints under his arm, “...Our house.”

You’d laughed, assuming he was joking.

He hadn’t been. He’d unrolled the plans on the hood of his car, explaining light angles and load-bearing walls, window placements and morning sun.

“I’ve already signed,” he’d finished quietly.

You had stared at him for seconds that stretched on forever. “For the land?”

“For the land.”

A beat, as the revelations started to settle and swirl in your mind. “...And the rest of it?”

He’d looked at you like you’d missed the most obvious step in a design, a gentle smile of amusement on his lips. “I want to build the rest of it…with you.”

No ring yet. No theatrics. Just that.

And when he finally did kneel - in the quiet of your shared apartment that night - it felt like the most natural progression in the world. Like reinforcing a beam that had already been placed. 

~ + ~

The first year of marriage felt like assembling furniture without instructions. Not because it was chaotic, but because it was intimate in ways you hadn’t expected.

You learned the way he folded towels, stacked dishes, preferred the bed made with hospital corners, all while pretending he didn’t care. You disagreed about paint colors and finishes until you both stopped overthinking. You made love on the living room floor before the furniture arrived. You laughed more than you thought married people did, more than you ever saw your own parents do.

It felt easy, comfortable, steady. Built to last.

~ + ~

The first time the test came back negative, you didn’t cry. You just stared at the single line until it blurred.

Minho had knocked gently on the bathroom door before entering, and when you handed him the test without speaking, he took his time studying it the way he studied blueprints - carefully, thoughtfully.

He pulled you into his embrace, letting out a gentle sigh as he kissed your forehead. “We’ll try again,” he said, and left it there.

You nodded, letting the disappointment wash away as he held you quietly.

And you did try again. And again. And again.

Doctor visits followed. Quiet appointments squeezed between workdays. Words like “timing” and “probability” and “stress” entered your vocabulary. You downloaded apps. You marked calendars. “Making love” shifted slightly into routine, leaving nights when you lay beneath him and counted days instead of breaths.

Minho never pressured you. If anything, he was gentler, more attentive, quick to reassure.

“It’s not your fault,” he’d told you once, brushing your hair back from your face when you’d been quieter than usual.

You hadn’t told him you felt like it was. You hadn’t needed to.

~ + ~

You still have your university books. They sit on the second shelf in the study, spines creased, margins full of younger handwriting. Sometimes, in the afternoons, you pull one down and re-read passages you once loved fiercely.

You’d thought about applying for a Master’s once, even filled out half the form. Minho had looked over your shoulder and said, “You should! You’d be great at it.”

But you hadn’t submitted it. There hadn’t been a reason not to. And as the days rolled into each other, there stopped being a need - or a want - to.

You chose to stay home when his firm expanded and he accepted a teaching position at the city’s university, when the hours got longer, and the money became more than enough. He wasn’t at home as much, but every night, he still returned home to you, even if it meant getting only two hours of sleep between arriving from work and leaving for it the next morning. For your part, having the house to yourself meant you could spend the day making it a home he loved returning to and hated leaving.

Most days, you don’t question it. 

But some days, when the house is more quiet than usual and the light stretches a little too wide across the floor, you wonder who you might have been if you’d pressed “submit.”

Not unhappily, just…curiously.

~ + ~

Minho finishes his coffee and checks his watch. He kisses your temple before reaching for his jacket.

“I’ll be late tonight,” he says, “Meeting with the new clients.”

You nod, teaspoon clinking against the ceramic of your mug. “Drive safe.”

He lingers a second longer than usual. Tilts your chin up slightly.

“I love you.” Simple, steady, as solid as the walls around you and the roof above your heads.

“I’ll miss you.” Sincere, gentle, as warm as the electric fire in your hearth and the drink in your hand.

A quick, soft kiss, and then he’s gone, the door closing with an almost inaudible click, and the house settles into its usual morning silence.

You stand there for a moment, staring at the clean stretch of countertop, the morning light sliding across perfectly aligned tiles.

Everything is where it should be. Everything feels solid, real. And yet…

There is a pause before you move. Neither dissatisfaction, nor resentment. Just a faint hum beneath your ribs.

You tell yourself it’s only waiting. That good things take time.

“Foundations need to settle before they strengthen,” Minho had once told you.

And you’ve since learned to trust the ground beneath you.

--- TO BE CONTINUED ---

DISCLAIMER: This work is a piece of fiction inspired by and depicting alternative versions of real people, who this author acknowledges has not given consent to appear here. Neither personal harm nor copyright infringement are intended. Unstated similarities to other people, stories or situations are completely unintentional or coincidental, unless otherwise stated.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fanfic is inspired by the movie "Unfaithful," which in turn was an English-language, Hollywood remake of the French film "The Unfaithful Wife." While the main plot has been borrowed to create the structure of this fanfic, some scenes and characters have been changed in order to prevent a carbon-copy adaptation (and because this author prefers it this way).

ANTI-A.I. AND ANTI-REPOST CLAUSE: As the sole author of this work, I do NOT give my consent for this fanfic to be used for and parsed through A.I. for research and advancement. Nor will I allow the repost of this fanfic by other people to other platforms; any re-uploads will be done by me, and will be noted as such.

[anonystay]

[FIC; Rated M] What the Heart Claims - Prologue

The heir of a fallen kingdom walks with a curse carved into his flesh.

A daughter of the Sylthar walks with her mother's blade and the weight of a death no one will explain.

When their paths converge, so do the secrets of Caerwyn - of Wolfheart, of blood oaths, of a siege that never truly ended. And among those who travel beside them walks a man sent in shadow, bound by duty to forces that would see the kingdom fall again, yet drawn toward something he was never meant to want.

On the road back to ruin, vows are sworn, spies move in silence, and love takes root where it was never meant to grow.

What survives after may not always be what was promised.

~~ + ~~

RATED M | ONGOING | Lee Know/Reader, Bang Chan/Reader, Changbin/Felix/Hyunjin, background Han/Seungmin | High-Fantasy AU | Mature content | character death

Originally posted to AO3 on 21 February 2026

~~ + ~~

CHAPTER 1 - PROLOGUE

Caerwyn burned in the space of a single night.

The banners fell first.

They had flown high along the white stone walls, embroidered with wolves and stars, their colours bright against the pale sky. When the first fires reached them, they blackened and curled inward, cloth dissolving into ash that drifted through the streets like dying snow.

By dawn, the palace gates lay shattered, and the Varkesh barged through, driving in in terrible waves of twisted faces and gnashing teeth. They wore foreign steel and carried sigils no one recognised, their magic sharp and unfamiliar, crackling through the air like broken glass. They moved with terrifying coordination, cutting through defenders who had trained their whole lives to protect Caerwyn’s heart.

Guards formed ranks in the courtyard. Mages raised shields that fractured under the pressure of invading spellwork. And the royal family held as long as they could, fear gripping their hearts as they prepared to protect their most precious and fragile treasure. 

The Queen fell first, blade still in her hand, a single tear trickling down her lifeless cheek as her final thoughts drifted into blackness. The King fell beside her, his sword stolen by deft hands as his blood mingled with hers on the threshold, darkening the marble where it pooled beneath them. Here their bodies would lay for days, only to be later paraded by the villains around the palace in celebration of their conquest, then thrown unceremoniously into the river. They would never be found again.

Christopher was barely ten years old when the Varkesh came.

In nightmares that would come in the days after, he will remember being dragged through hidden corridors by hands that shook too badly to be steady. He will remember the yelling, someone screaming his name until they were silenced by a blade. He will remember the way the stones felt cold even through his boots.

He was brought to the Sanctum, the ritual chamber, a place he’d only been told of in lessons he barely paid attention to. It had been carved deep into the mountain beneath Caerwyn, warded against intrusion. It was where heirs were marked, where kings were bound to their bloodlines and their cities. He had never been allowed here, had been told he would only step foot once the right time came. This was not the right time, but it had come nonetheless, and the Queen had spent her last few breaths hastily instructing the aide and the monk that came to take him from her. 

He could barely hear, barely think, didn’t understand what was happening. He called for his parents, asking anyone who would listen where his mother was, his panic increasing with every answer he didn't receive. 

They branded him while the world above collapsed, and he yelled, flailing to escape but to no avail.

The sigil burned into his chest glowed silver, then red, then vanished beneath his skin, leaving behind a scar shaped like a broken crescent. Ancient magic threaded itself through his veins, binding him to Caerwyn in ways no child could comprehend.

It was too much, too fast, too soon. The magic felt like white-hot lightning, burning through him and leaving scorched earth in its wake. His head throbbed, his vision blurred, his hearing muffled, he tasted blood in his mouth. And then he was being grabbed again as the Varkesh began to pierce through the walls of the Sanctum, and the war outside came pouring through the holes they left in the stone, like a great black flood drowning all in its path.

Somewhere in the chaos, Wolfheart was stolen. This heirloom pendant - the very heart of Caerwyn’s sovereignty, passed from monarch to heir through the very ritual that would branded the prince, gone in a wink, stolen from the lifeless hand of the Queen where she lay.

It was the last thing his mother touched. She had pressed it to his forehead with hastily whispered ritual prayers before they tore him away from her.

They smuggled Christopher out through service tunnels that led beneath the city and out towards the woods. But there was no safety to be found here, only Varkesh scouts eager to get their pickings from those who attempted to flee. The prince’s guardians, wounded and unarmed as they were, were no match at all, and before Christopher could even realise the peril he was in, they were dead at his feet, Varkesh snarling at him like predators about to feast.

But then one fell with a loud screech, an arrow piercing through its throat. A second was beheaded, black ichor spraying from its neck as the body convulsed to the ground. Christopher looked up to see an elven woman in leathers, spinning and slicing faster than his eyes could catch as she struck down his captors one by one.

But the final soldier would not fall as easily as his comrades. He was bigger, rougher, cared less when she drove her knives into his arms and legs. Christopher could only watch as they fought, cowering behind tree roots as steel met steel.

Christopher saw the Varkesh’s blade swing before the elf did. It ran clean through her as if she were made of air, and she sputtered and coughed up blood as the dark villain grinned menacingly, fangs bared as it shouted in triumph. But she kicked him, pulled a dagger from her boot and raised it to strike, only for the Varkesh to swipe it away with great force.

It struck Christopher in the shoulder, the boy falling back with the impact of it embedding itself into him. A scorching heat began to creep from where dagger met flesh, and the knife began to sing, discordant notes that filled Christopher’s ears with an unfamiliar noise that blocked every other sound out. 

He was nearly unconscious by the time the elven woman came to him, victorious but weak. She muttered a panicked apology as she pulled the knife from his body and used her own tunic to bind his wound, urging him to find his feet.

She took him to the river, put him in a boat, and with what little strength she had left, she rowed and rowed and rowed, farther and farther away from Caerwyn while its heir slept, covered in blood and muttering in pain. When her strength waned, the oars fell from her hands, and she lay back in the boat, looking up at the stars, sending a prayer for those she would never see again and hoping her words would be heard one day.

Christopher never learned her name. He awoke some time later cradled in her arms, as if she had still tried to protect him in her final moments. 

The boat had found land while he was unconscious, though he had no idea where, or how long he’d been adrift. Wounded and in pain, he walked in one direction then the next, a little boy of ten lost in unfamiliar territory, having survived an attack on his home but now prone to the dangers of the rest of the world.

It would be days before he arrived in a small border city, collapsing on the doorstep of a butcher’s home, fevered and half-starved.

A young half-orc boy found him there, immediately calling for his parents for help. His mother was the first to arrive, took one look at the figure on the floor before them, and sprang into action without a second thought. Within half an hour, Christopher had been cleaned up and put in the young boy’s bed, where he slept through another day.

Relatively humble though their household was, the butcher’s family nursed him back to health, never asking where he came from, although before long, Christopher realised they didn’t need to - they knew he was. He would later hear them speaking in hushed tones of the fate of Caerwyn, and understanding who it was that they harboured beneath their roof.

Chan, they started calling him. Told the neighbours he was the son of a friend who had passed away and left him with nothing, so they had taken him in. They treated him as part of the family, clothing him and feeding him as well as they did their own son, and for his part, he helped around the house as much as he could, joining father and son on market days and helping the mother clean and prepare meat and vegetables for the family’s meals.

Changbin became his shadow within weeks - loud, protective, fiercely loyal in ways that didn’t require explanation. They fought in alleys and shared stolen pastries and slept side by side during storms. By light of day, they were younglings living as any others would do - chores, lessons, play, fights. By the cover of night, they would train, learning how to fight with swords and hammers and wooden shields against crates and barrels and bales of hay. 

Beside Changbin, Christopher grew up strong and handsome, the two earning themselves a reputation of both mischief and kind-heartedness with the cityfolk. Although there was no hiding the mystery that Christopher seemed to carry with him everywhere, and whispers and rumours followed him wherever he went.

Jisung joined them soon enough, a clever street kid with faster hands than sense and a laugh that carried too far. Together, they learned which rooftops were safest, which merchants could be trusted, how to disappear when soldiers passed. They would stay together well into their maturity, doing what they could to survive together as the years turned from plentiful to harsh from one seeming blink to the next. All the while, they kept their ears to the ground, listening for news and opportunity in equal measure.

The Varkesh ruled Caerwyn for less than a decade. Then something went wrong.

Their bloodlines failed. Their magic rotted. Children were born sick or not at all. Crops died. Leaders succumbed to madness and cut down their peers and loyalists. Whatever curse their stolen heirloom carried into their hands hollowed them from the inside out. Before long, there was nothing left but blood and stone, and Wolfheart sat in the dark quiet of the kingdom, awaiting its rightful owner - or perhaps, the one who could properly own it.

As Caerwyn slept, Christopher trained in secret. He rose before dawn to practice with borrowed blades. He memorised maps. He listened to travelers and refugees who still spoke Caerwyn’s name in hushed tones. In prayer, he would swear he would never forget. Even during the years that felt almost happy, the mark on his chest never let him rest.

But most nights, he stayed awake as long as he could. He would fight sleep for as long as possible, because in sleep, dreams came, and in dreams, he was back at Caerwyn, watching it crumble to the ground under the weight of the Varkesh, crying as his mother and father are cut down before him, screaming as he is branded over and over again, weeping as his elven saviour falls unconscious in the boat as it drifted across the river. In dreams, a voice called out to him, echoing in invisible chambers and singing through the brand on his chest as whatever it belonged to begged to be found.

~ + ~

Somewhere far from ruined cities and broken crowns, a girl stood in a forest clearing with her mother’s belongings bundled in her arms.

Her tribe had already decided her fate.

Half-blood. Outsider.

Her mother’s body had never returned, and all that was found of her was brought back wrapped in ritual cloth, quiet condemnation, and no answers. The cleric council offered prayers but no explanations. Her research was confiscated, her journals locked away or burned.

She had asked too many questions, and no one wanted to oblige. When the right opportunity came, they sentenced her - banishment, exile from the tribe so she could no longer trouble them with her assertions and accusations of what they knew or did not know about her mother’s death.

But she would not go quietly. Her mother certainly did not. Neither would she.

She waited until nightfall. She took what they missed - a history book, fragments of notes hidden inside hollowed bindings, a dagger stained with old magic.

Her only friend in the world stood beside her when she left. He did not hesitate. She wouldn’t let him. But he insisted. 

Hand in hand, they walked away from the only home they had ever known, into roads that did not promise mercy.

Felix carried healing in his hands. She had her mother’s skill with knives and arrows. They would survive this way. They had to.

They learned how to steal food without being seen. How to sleep light. How to keep moving forward, leaving as little trace of themselves behind as possible.

~ + ~

Years passed.

Chan became a fighter, regal in stance and undeniable in strength.

Changbin became his shield in more than just wood and steel.

Jisung became his voice and eyes in crowded places.

Felix learned to mend bones and broken spirits.

She learned to endure.

The world turned. The road waited. And somewhere between ash and forest root, between crown and exile, the threads of their lives began to draw together.

-- TO BE CONTINUED --

DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of fiction made by a fan purely for enjoyment. No profit is made from this work or any works by the same author. Main characters are fictional representations of real people, who this author acknowledges has not authorised their depictions in this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

ANTI-A.I. CLAUSE: As the original author of this specific work, I do not give my permission or consent for my work to be used by and for A.I. enhancement.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This fanfic is inspired by and takes familiar storylines, beats, mechanics and world-building from high-fantasy adventure IPs such as The Lord of the Rings/The Hobbit, Dungeons & Dragons and Critical Role. I have been working on this fic on my laptop for at least a month, and in my head for much, much longer. It will not be perfect, but I know I will be proud of it by the end, as long as you all enjoy it.

Oh, and if anyone is wondering:

Y/N: Half-elf, rouge-ranger multi-class BANG CHAN: Human noble fighter LEE KNOW: Half-elf sorcerer (with some rogue abilities just because) CHANGBIN: Half-orc barbarian HYUNJIN: Aasimar druid FELIX: Elven cleric SEUNGMIN: Tiefling artificer I.N: Human paladin

Feedback and shares are always very appreciated <3