ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Side blog for writing whatever I want when I have free time ✏️ MDNI 🔞 Not taking requests atm🚫 Main account: https://www.tumblr.com/ancientflower25 DMs always open :)

[lilacsandpetals]

Soooo KOSA is moving forward in the House of Representatives and they’re set to vote Monday. it’s being bundled with part of a package called the KIDS Act, filled with digital ID and age verification and censorship.

These would heavily censor the internet, especially social media and video games. It’d make it easier for government surveillance.

MAKE THOSE PHONES RING!! CALL YOUR HOUSE REPRESENTATIVES ALL WEEK

202-224-3121

[ladyignatius4]

It doesn't matter if you wrote 5,000 or 50 words today.

It doesn't matter if all you did was day-dream about your characters while staring at the ceiling.

You are still a writer and your progress is valid.

[writingdose]

“I want to write a fic about this but I don’t think anybody will be interested in it” ummm hello excuse me ma’am what do you mean you don’t think anybody will be interested in it??? YOU. YOU ARE INTERESTED IN IT???? write it because YOU are interested in it and YOU want to write about it. fanfic writing should always be first and foremost about YOUR enjoyment, not other people’s.

[writingdose]

writers, instead of asking ai for help, you can always use your childhood trauma and repressed issues to help you with that fic

[azaablue]

the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.

[vivsribbon]

route 12

a work by @vivsribbon | 𑣲⋆｡˚ | warnings - cursing and drug use (nicotine)

synopsis - After choosing love over loyalty, Benny leaves the club behind and stands on fragile ground with the only person he’s ever been brave enough to build something real with.

fluff smut angst | side note - i just rewatched the bikeriders and remembered how much i love austin's character so i wrote this in like an hour. MARLENE SMUT COMING SOON THO IM SORRY

The gas station on Route 12 always looked like it had been dropped there by accident.

Like someone had meant to build something bigger — a proper grocery store, maybe, or a diner with chrome stools and a jukebox that still worked — but stopped halfway through and left it glowing under tired fluorescent lights instead. The sign buzzed overhead, one letter in FOOD MART flickering like it was arguing with itself about whether to stay alive.

You liked it that way.

It made everything feel less permanent. Like nothing under those lights could follow you home.

You hadn’t meant to end up there that night. You’d gone for a drive with the windows down because the house felt too small and the air inside your bedroom felt used up. The town always breathed heavier after midnight — distant engines, a dog barking two streets over, music bleeding faintly from somewhere it shouldn’t be. Summer in this place didn’t cool down; it just changed pitch.

You saw him before he saw you.

Benny was leaning against his bike at pump three, one boot hooked over the curb, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The red of the brake light cast a dull halo around the chrome. His head was tipped slightly forward, like he’d been staring at nothing for a while.

You weren't dating, no. You'd had some sort of fling with him before he went to jail one night after a bar fight. That made you wanna keep your distance.

He didn’t look like the version of him people talked about in bars.

He didn’t look untouchable.

He looked tired.

There was something about the slope of his shoulders that made your chest tighten. You turned off your engine but didn’t get out right away. You watched him drag in smoke and hold it, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to exhale yet.

You stepped out of your car quietly, letting the door shut with a soft click instead of the usual hollow slam. The asphalt was still warm under your sandals. He didn’t move until you were close enough that he could hear your footsteps.

His eyes flicked to you, slow. Not surprised.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

You shrugged and leaned back against the hood of your car, folding your arms loosely. “Could ask you the same.”

He let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, smoke curling sideways in the humid air. The cut near his eyebrow was new. His knuckles were scraped open in a way that told you he hadn’t bothered cleaning them yet.

You didn’t ask.

That was something you’d learned. He’d tell you if he wanted to. Pressing never worked.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was thick, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The sign buzzed overhead. A moth thudded repeatedly against the plastic casing like it couldn’t understand the concept of barrier.

After a while, he dropped the cigarette and ground it under his heel.

“You ever think about leaving?” he asked, like he was commenting on the weather.

You tilted your head. “Leaving what?”

He gestured vaguely, the movement small. “This town. All of it.”

The way he said it made it clear he didn’t just mean buildings.

You looked out at the road stretching into darkness, white lines fading into nothing.

“Every day,” you said honestly.

He nodded once.

Didn’t ask where you’d go.

Didn’t ask if you meant without him.

The air shifted after that, subtle but real. Like something had been admitted without being named.

You pushed yourself off the hood and walked over to him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm. He didn’t move away. You could feel the warmth radiating off him through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You look tired,” you said softly.

“I’m fine.”

You hummed, unconvinced.

Your fingers hovered for half a second before you reached up and touched just below the cut on his eyebrow, light enough that it wasn’t intrusive. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean in either. Just watched you.

“Does it hurt?” you asked.

“No.”

You smiled faintly. “Liar.”

His mouth twitched. That was as close to a grin as you were going to get tonight.

You let your hand drop, but he caught your wrist gently before it fell completely. Not tight. Just enough to keep you there.

His thumb brushed once against the inside of your wrist. Slow. Absentminded.

The fluorescent light made everything look softer than it should have. Like even bruises could be forgiven under the right glow.

“You shouldn’t be here this late,” he said after a moment.

“You are.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

Because neither of you liked the implication of that.

You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder. He went still for a second — not rigid, just aware — and then relaxed into it. His chin rested briefly against the top of your hair.

There were a hundred things you could’ve said.

You didn’t say any of them.

You just stood there under buzzing neon while the road stayed empty and the town pretended to sleep.

And somewhere in that quiet, you felt it — the first real crack in something that had once felt solid.

Not breaking.

Just shifting.

—

The clubhouse always smelled like oil and old beer, no matter how many windows they opened.

You didn’t belong there. Not really. You knew it the way you know when you’re wearing the wrong shoes for a long walk — subtle at first, then undeniable.

The first time you walked in with Benny, conversation dipped just enough to be noticeable. Not hostile. Just curious. Assessing.

You’d learned how to hold eye contact without looking confrontational. It helped.

Now, months later, they were used to you in the way people get used to a song playing faintly in the background. Not central. Not gone.

You sat on the arm of the couch with your knees tucked up slightly, a book open in your lap. The pages blurred occasionally when laughter spiked too loud or someone slammed a hand down on the card table.

“You don’t look like the type,” one of them said, half-grinning.

You didn’t look up immediately. Let him sit in it.

“What type?” you asked mildly.

“To hang around here.”

You closed the book, marking your place with your thumb.

“And what type is that?”

He shrugged. “You know.”

You held his gaze calmly. “No, I don’t.”

There was a pause. Not tense. Just stretched.

“You look like you’d rather be somewhere else,” he said finally.

You smiled slightly. “That’s because I would.”

A few of them laughed at that. Not cruelly.

Across the room, Benny watched you over the rim of his bottle.

His expression didn’t change much, but you knew him well enough to see the shift in his posture. The way he leaned back a little, like he was letting you handle it. Like he trusted you to.

That mattered more than anything the other guys could say.

Later, when the air inside got too thick and the noise pressed against your temples, you stepped outside.

The brick wall behind the building was warm from the day’s heat. You leaned against it and closed your eyes for a moment.

You heard the door before you felt him beside you.

“You don’t have to come around,” he said.

You kept your eyes closed. “I know.”

“It’s not your scene.”

You opened them then and looked at him.

“I’m not here for the scene.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“I’m here for you.”

The words hung there, heavier than you’d meant them to be.

He looked away first.

His hand found yours in the dark without ceremony. Fingers threading through like it was instinct, not decision.

You squeezed once.

He squeezed back.

That was how it worked between you. No grand declarations. Just pressure and proximity and the understanding that neither of you were very good at saying the important things out loud.

Inside, someone shouted his name.

He didn’t move immediately.

“Go,” you said gently.

He studied your face for a second, like he was memorizing something, then stepped back toward the door.

You stayed outside a little longer, watching the sky fade from navy to something softer at the edges.

You thought about the brochures in your dresser drawer.

You thought about highways that didn’t circle back to the same places.

You thought about the way his thumb had brushed your wrist at the gas station.

And you wondered which of those things would still exist a year from now.

The night he missed dinner, the air felt heavier than usual, like it had been sitting too long without moving.

You’d opened all the windows anyway.

The kitchen light cast a soft yellow glow over the counter while cicadas sang outside in uneven rhythm. You’d tied your hair back, rolled your sleeves up, followed a recipe you’d found folded inside one of your mother’s old cookbooks. Something that required timing. Attention. Patience.

You weren’t domestic in the way this town expected girls to be, but you liked making things with your hands. Food felt different than words. It was quieter. Less complicated.

He’d said he’d be there by eight.

At seven-thirty, you checked the clock.

At eight, you stirred the sauce and told yourself he was probably caught up in something small.

At eight-fifteen, you turned the stove down low.

At eight-forty, you set the table anyway.

Two plates. Two glasses. Silverware aligned carefully, like presentation could will a person into existence.

Nine o’clock came and went.

You didn’t call him.

You’d learned not to.

When he finally knocked, it was almost ten, and the sound of it startled you more than it should have.

You opened the door before he could knock again.

He stood there looking mostly intact. No fresh blood. No new cuts that you could see. Just the faint smell of gasoline and something metallic clinging to his clothes.

“Sorry,” he said, like it was an afterthought.

You stepped aside so he could come in.

“It’s fine,” you replied automatically.

He glanced toward the table. The plates. The candles you’d lit and blown out an hour ago.

“You cook?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Club ran late.”

You nodded.

You didn’t ask what that meant.

You moved back into the kitchen and turned the stove off completely this time. The food had gone from warm to lukewarm to something that would need reheating.

He lingered in the doorway, watching you.

“You could’ve eaten,” he said.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

That wasn’t true. But hunger wasn’t the point.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back.

“You’re mad.”

You let out a small breath through your nose. “I’m not mad.”

He didn’t respond to that.

His hands hovered for a second before settling lightly on your hips. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there.

You closed your eyes briefly.

This was the part that made it hard.

The way he touched you like it was instinct. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You should eat,” you said quietly.

“You first.”

You turned in his arms so you were facing him.

Up close, you could see the faint purple shadow under his eyes. The exhaustion that never quite left anymore.

“You don’t have to pretend this is normal,” you said.

He frowned slightly. “What?"

“Being late. Not knowing when you’ll show up. Me setting the table like an idiot.”

His hands tightened just a fraction.

“You’re not an idiot.”

“Then what am I?”

He hesitated.

And that hesitation felt louder than any argument could’ve.

You stepped out of his hold gently.

“I’m not trying to change you,” you continued. “I just— I don’t know how to fit around this.”

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossing loosely over his chest.

“It’s not something you fit around,” he said. “It’s just how it is.”

There it was.

That sentence.

You swallowed.

“And where does that leave me?”

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know.

You reheated the food. You both ate. The conversation shifted to smaller things — someone’s bike breaking down, a neighbor who’d gotten a new dog, a song on the radio he couldn’t get out of his head.

It felt almost normal.

Almost.

But when he left that night, pressing a brief kiss to your temple like it was habit, the kitchen felt emptier than it had before he arrived.

You washed both plates slowly.

You didn’t cry.

You just stood there, hands submerged in lukewarm water, and tried to convince yourself that love wasn’t supposed to feel like waiting.

—

The second time felt worse because he’d promised.

“I’ll be back by eleven,” he’d said, thumb brushing your cheek in that absent way he had when he thought you were overthinking.

You’d nodded.

You always nodded.

Eleven passed quietly.

Midnight came with a car speeding down your street and your heart jumping before settling again.

By one, you were sitting on the couch with your knees tucked under you, the TV playing something you weren’t watching.

By two, you turned it off.

At two-thirty, you moved to the kitchen floor.

You didn’t know why.

Maybe because the tile felt cool against your back. Maybe because it made you feel smaller, less exposed. The light over the stove was the only one on, casting a muted glow across the cabinets.

You traced the lines in the grout with your finger and tried not to think.

You told yourself he was fine.

You told yourself you weren’t fragile.

You told yourself this was temporary.

The door clicked open at three-oh-eight.

You didn’t move.

His boots scuffed lightly against the floor as he stepped inside.

When he rounded the corner into the kitchen, he stopped.

“You waiting up?” he asked.

The question wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t tender either.

It was neutral. Like he hadn’t expected to see you there but wasn’t surprised enough to comment on it.

“You said eleven,” you replied.

He exhaled slowly.

“It got complicated.”

You looked up at him from the floor.

“What does that mean?”

“It means it got complicated.”

He sounded tired.

Not defensive.

Just drained.

You pushed yourself up until you were sitting straighter.

“I love you,” you said.

The words landed heavy in the small space.

He went still.

His shoulders stiffened slightly, like he’d braced for something else.

You held his gaze.

“But I don’t love this.”

Silence expanded between you.

The hum of the refrigerator sounded louder than it ever had before.

He leaned back against the counter, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again.

“It’s not that simple,” he said quietly.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not.”

“That’s not an answer.”

His jaw tightened.

“It’s my life.”

“And I’m not?”

The question came out softer than you intended.

He pushed off the counter, running a hand through his hair.

“You think I don’t think about it?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you think,” you replied. “You don’t tell me.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, like he was trying to figure out if you were already halfway gone.

“I can’t just walk away,” he said.

“I’m not asking you to,” you said. “I’m asking you where I stand.”

“You stand with me.”

“When?”

The word was barely above a whisper.

His expression flickered.

“I won’t compete with a patch on your back,” you continued. “I won’t sit here every night wondering which version of you is coming through that door.”

He swallowed.

The stoicism cracked just slightly.

“You think I choose it over you?” he asked.

“I think you don’t realize you already have.”

That did it.

That was the first thing that made him look afraid.

Not angry.

Not frustrated.

Afraid.

You stood slowly, brushing your palms against your shorts.

“I love you,” you said again, stepping closer. “But I can’t keep loving something that makes me feel like I’m losing you.”

His hands found your arms instinctively, gripping just above your elbows.

“You’re not losing me.”

“Aren’t I?”

The question hung there, fragile and sharp.

He didn’t have a quick answer this time.

His grip loosened.

“I don’t know who I am without it,” he admitted finally.

The honesty surprised you.

“I don’t either,” he continued. “It’s been there longer than anything else.”

You softened slightly at that.

“I’m not asking you to know right now,” you said. “I’m asking you to think about it.”

His forehead pressed briefly against yours.

The contact felt like a confession.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmured.

“Then don’t.”

It sounded simple.

It wasn’t.

He kissed you then — not rushed, not demanding. Just close. Familiar. His hands sliding to your waist like they always did.

For a second, you let yourself sink into it.

But when he pulled away, the question still lingered.

He stayed that night.

Left before sunrise.

And when the door closed behind him, the kitchen felt bigger than it had ever been.

Not empty.

Just uncertain.

—

Days passed without resolution.

He didn’t disappear.

But something in him had shifted.

You saw it in the way he lingered longer at your door. In the way his hand stayed on your lower back when you crossed the street together. In the way his eyes searched your face like he was memorizing it.

He was thinking.

You could tell.

You stopped going to the clubhouse altogether.

Not dramatically. Not with a speech.

You just… didn’t.

When he asked why, you shrugged.

“It’s not my scene.”

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t ask you to come back.

That scared you more than if he had.

The brochures in your dresser drawer started to feel heavier.

You filled out one application halfway.

Left it sitting on your desk.

You found yourself driving past Route 12 more often than you needed to.

One night, near the end of summer, you turned into the gas station again.

The sign still flickered.

The moths still circled.

And he was already there.

No cigarette this time.

No club jacket.

Just him.

He wasn’t leaning against the bike this time.

He was standing beside it, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

The first thing you noticed wasn’t the absence of the cigarette.

It was the absence of the cut.

No leather cut draped over the handlebars. No patch catching the fluorescent light. No stitched name curving over his shoulder blades like a second spine.

Just a plain white t-shirt, soft and worn thin at the collar.

You slowed your steps without meaning to.

He looked up when he heard your car door shut.

For a second, neither of you moved.

The sign buzzed overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a truck roared past on the highway, headlights slicing through the dark before disappearing again.

“You look different,” you said.

He nodded once.

“I been thinking.”

You walked closer, stopping a few feet away instead of going straight into his space like you usually did. There was something in the air that felt fragile, like a thin sheet of glass between you.

“Yeah?” you asked.

His gaze flicked briefly to the road, then back to you.

“I went by the clubhouse earlier,” he said. “Didn’t go in.”

Your chest tightened.

“And?”

“And I didn’t like how that felt.”

Honest.

Not defensive. Not proud.

Just honest.

You studied him carefully. The tension in his jaw. The way his fingers flexed inside his pockets like he was trying to hold something steady.

“I don’t know who I am without it,” he continued quietly. “I don’t know what that looks like.”

The fluorescent light above you flickered once, humming louder before settling again.

“You don’t have to know yet,” you said.

He let out a slow breath.

“But I know what it looks like without you,” he added. “And I don’t want that.”

The words didn’t explode. They didn’t come with fireworks or dramatic music or some cinematic swell.

They just landed. Solid and quiet.

You took a step closer.

“You’re sure?” you asked.

He nodded.

“Yeah.”

You searched his face for hesitation. For obligation. For resentment.

You didn’t find it.

What you found instead was uncertainty — but not the kind that made you feel small. The kind that meant he was stepping into something new without knowing exactly where it led.

Your hand lifted slowly, brushing the fabric of his t-shirt at his chest.

No leather.

No symbol.

Just him.

“You’re not doing this because I asked you to,” you said carefully.

He shook his head. “I’m doing it because I don’t like who I was becoming.”

That made your throat tighten.

You closed the remaining distance between you, your body fitting against his naturally, like muscle memory.

He went still at first, like he always did when something mattered too much. Then his arms came around you — slower than usual, deliberate — settling at your lower back.

The contact felt different.

Not desperate.

Not claiming.

Choosing.

You pressed your face into his chest. The cotton of his shirt smelled like soap instead of gasoline.

“I’m still scared,” you admitted quietly.

“Me too.”

You pulled back slightly to look at him.

“Of what?

“Of not knowing what comes next,” he said. “Of messing this up anyway.”

You nodded.

“That makes two of us.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Not cocky. Not smug.

Soft.

You leaned up and kissed him.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss that burned.

It was the kind that steadied.

Slow. Careful. His hand sliding up your back like he was memorizing the shape of you again.

When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his.

“You coming back with me?” you asked.

He glanced at the bike.

Then at your car.

He didn’t hesitate long.

“Yeah.”

He left the bike at the gas station overnight.

You drove.

The road felt different with him in the passenger seat instead of leading in separate directions. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb tracing small circles absently while the radio played low static between stations.

Neither of you talked much.

You didn’t need to.

When you reached your apartment, he followed you up the steps without hanging back. Without checking his watch. Without looking over his shoulder.

Inside, the air felt still.

He paused just inside the doorway.

“You still love me?” he asked quietly.

The vulnerability in that question nearly undid you.

You stepped closer and placed your hands on either side of his face.

“Yeah,” you said.

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for weeks.

You kissed him again — deeper this time, but still slow. His hands sliding to your waist, thumbs brushing under the hem of your shirt just enough to remind you he was there.

There was heat there.

There always was.

But it wasn’t reckless.

It felt like something being rebuilt instead of burned.

You led him to the couch instead of the bedroom.

Sat close. Knees touching.

You talked.

Not about the club.

Not about leaving.

Just about small things. A movie you’d seen. A song stuck in your head. The way the sky had looked that morning before sunrise.

His hand never left yours.

At some point, you rested your head against his shoulder. His chin settled against your hair.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted after a while.

“Neither do I.”

“But I want to try.”

You looked up at him.

“That’s enough for now,” you said.

The future still sat heavy in the back of your mind. The brochures. The highways. The possibility that choosing each other didn’t automatically solve everything.

But for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like you were waiting.

It felt like you were both standing in the same place.

The hope was fragile.

Thin as the flickering light at the gas station.

But it was there.

And sometimes that was enough.

taglist - @eliastarzz

[lilacsandpetals]

Bi-Han x F! reader

So I don't know what to name this. I've had bits and pieces of this written in my google docs forever. I'll post small chapters here and there. If you want you can consider it a continuation or alternate ending of Frozen Blossoms. Or it's fine as a standalone.

POV: You get married, all is well until it isn't.

A fire crackled nearby, illuminating the room where you resided. It was cold, but nothing out of the ordinary for a place like this. You’d long become accustomed to it after your marriage. The frost had made it difficult to see out the window, which, combined with the mist, created a rather ghostly feel to the moonlight just barely seeping through. 

How unsettling. 

You sighed and played with the hairpin between your fingers. Your hair was undone and slightly tousled as you awaited retreating to your bed, but you refused to sleep until your husband returned home. He had accompanied his father, and they were taking far longer than usual. 

You rest your head in the palm of your hand. You know your husband will scold you for staying up late yet again, at first, it would truly irk him, but you could tell he didn't mind now. The lack of conviction in his voice was enough to tell that he found it endearing. 

Nights like these aren’t kind; the hours pass by achingly slow. It was foolish, but you would allow your mind to wander. You’d like to imagine how he would gather you into his arms upon returning, how his hands would rest over the expanse of your ribs and travel to your back before pressing a kiss to your forehead. Or perhaps how he might be frustrated, needing to blow off steam so that your night would end with him spreading your legs. But no, when has your brain ever been that kind? You worry. Your mind conjures up images of him isolated and bleeding out on white snow. You think of blood and spit drying at the corners of his lips. Images of his chest moving irregularly with every labored breath float through your mind. You think of how he could be defeated. You wonder if he’d think of you in his final moments. You wonder if all that bravery would fade if he were dying. Would all that talk of honor in death become void? Your eyes close, you take a few deep breaths. These thoughts make your stomach feel uneasy, your head starts to pound, and your hand comes up to rub your chest. You take a deep breath, then another, and another. Your hand trembles over to press against the rusted metal of the latch on the window. The window opens with a creak, and cool air hits you square in the face. When the tip of your nose starts to burn, you close it. 

You feel calm for now. 

But the cycle repeats on and on, until hours later, the door finally creaks open. Your head snaps up with relief etched on your face, but that quickly dissipates. 

Often, when Bi-Han would return, he would either be covered in remnants of battle, his clothing heavily blood-soaked, or he’d have already cleaned up meticulously. Specks of blood stain his shoes, there are two splotches on his chest, and then some were still littered on his clothing and face, but his hands were clean. He looked tired, his eyes bleak. 

You open your mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. He doesn’t seem injured himself… 

“Go to bed,” he grunts. 

You take a deep breath. You know each other well enough by now to know when to push and when to back down… it must’ve just been an exhausting fight. 

“Are you injured?...”

“No,” he replies sharply before averting his eyes, his voice softer now, “I am fine.” 

“... Okay,” you say quietly, despite the blood on his skin, your hands gently come and cup his face, you stand on your tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek. 

Then you do as he says. 

—---------------------------------------------

You can hear chatter outside echoing through the halls. Your curiosity isn’t as strong as your lack of urgency to get up and check what’s happening. Part of you knows something has happened, and you're debating whether you want to know exactly what just yet. Whatever it is, you assume it’ll be an ordeal. Was it horribly selfish of you? Maybe. But it’s not like you planned to stay in bed forever either; you just wanted to savor a few more moments of rest, but even that is short-lived when you can sense your husband nearby. His arm isn’t laid over you like usual. Whatever happened last night must have really been troubling him. 

When your eyes finally flutter open, Bi-Han sits calmly by your side, his back to the headboard of your bed. You shift, the sheets rustle as you turn to face him. Your hand rests over his. He grips your hand in return.

“What’s with all the commotion outside?...”

His mouth opens to speak, but closes. You watch him take a deep breath, and you can’t quite place the tone of his voice. “My father has passed.”

—---------------------------------------------

You had seen small funeral processions for some individuals during your time here. It was always done with respect and the acknowledgement that a fellow clan member had perished honorably in battle. There wasn’t much weeping, and the mourning period did not last too long. Dying in battle was a fact of life, and those who mourned often did so in private. However, this feels different.

Everyone feels genuinely grieved, and it lingers in the air. You won’t be surprised if the mourning period lasts the entire 49 days.

You stay by your husband’s side, dressed in white mourning attire. You accompany him through traditions and watch him during the funeral procession. Bi-Han is rather stoic, and part of you knows this is all he would express. He is the Grandmaster now, and the eldest of his brothers after all. Still, your hand makes its way to his, and he retracts his hand just as your fingertips graze his skin. 

Understood. This is not the time. 

Your eyes stay downturned. You don’t understand how this happened. You know his father was getting older, but it happened so suddenly?... He was seasoned in battle; you didn’t think he would perish, not yet at least. It makes you worry about the state of the clan, about what threats are out there… about your husband. You don’t want to think about it, and he hasn’t explained much to you, but whatever threat was out there was formidable. Your stomach starts to twist into knots again.

The day is a blur, but as it goes on and you both return to your quarters, you expect him to fall apart… he doesn’t. Which, fair, perhaps he would like to mourn in private, you know how he is. You offer a gentle condolence, express a whispered offer of comfort, while your hand grips his bicep with desperate compassion. But he responds with a quiet rebuke, a shake of the head, and his hand lifting yours off of his arm. He goes out to the small garden. You watch on quietly, peeking occasionally through the sheer curtains of the window. He sits near motionless on the bench. 

You had heard from Tomas that he had cried when his mother passed. So initially you expected to see some tears… But they never came. Perhaps it was because he was far closer to his mother than his father? Or maybe because he was far younger when he lost his mother? Still, if your own parents… oh heavens forbid, if anything happened to your family, you would mourn. Either way, you try to rationalize his reaction yet again. Grief came in many masks, and this was just one you were unfamiliar with.

So, you pay it no mind and drop reminders of your offer to hear him out on the matter at any time. But soon your prodding wears on him, you see it in the furrow of his eyebrows, the way his jaw begins to clench when you ask yet again. 

You drop the subject. 

Bi-Han wants to keep to himself? That’s fine, you figure he will tell you when he is ready, as he does with most things; it’s in his nature. At least that is how you reassure yourself. 

On your own end, it’s… odd. You have shed tears over it, more than you thought you would. It all just happened so quickly. It’s difficult to process. You had just given him tea that morning, and then by the evening, he was no more? You take a shaky breath and retreat to the kitchen. Your father-in-law preferred Oolong. So you grab the leaves, toss them into an old kettle he had gifted you, and you brew it quietly. You add a dash of milk and honey, the way he’d always ask you to prepare it. You’d bring it to him in the evenings or share a cup with him in the early morning, ever the dutiful daughter-in-law.

You take the cup of tea back to your room. Bi-Han sits by the window. 

“Would you like a sip?” You ask tentatively and sit on the bed. He shakes his head. 

—---------------------------------------------

You don’t drink the tea, you leave it on the small table in the room and lie down. You just watch your husband as sleep pulls you under. Come morning, your husband isn’t there, and the teacup is empty. 

[lilacsandpetals]

Frozen Blossoms

I figured I'd make a navigation post for the fic here.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8/Extra Chapter

[lilacsandpetals]

I’ve been very busy but I have to post real quick over here. Idk how many American followers I have, but if I do have any, I’d urge you guys to push back against some things they’re trying to push through in Congress.

They’re trying to push through KOSA (Kids Online Safety Act) and a few other bills under the guise of protecting children, but it’s really a bid to have users upload their government IDs just to use social media, apps, Spotify, etc and make individuals easier to track online and keep tabs on. The government would be able to heavily censor content on apps that they do not like. They’ve tried it before, and currently it’s passed in the senate and is being reviewed by a full committee in the House of Representatives. Calling representatives made a big difference last time it was considered.

They’re also trying to repeal Section 230, which protects users and social media platforms from being viewed as publishers. If that’s repealed, essentially the internet would be unusable. There would be mass censorship. Public comments sections would be largely disabled on big platforms like Twitter, Tumblr, Reddit, etc. Even Amazon reviews could be impacted. YouTubers and streamers would be affected and heavily censored. Even fan content could be blocked if companies don’t like them. Meaning, the fanart and fanfics we enjoy could be largely prohibited.

All this could eventually impact how social media apps are available to those in other countries as well.

If you have time, sign these petitions and/or call your reps.

I usually don’t get political, but these are things that could impact everyone heavily.

Bad Internet Bills

All of the bad internet bills. One website.

[lilacsandpetals]

This link has pre written scripts to use if you call or email your reps.

[riftka]

Bi-han Scribble

If I didn't have to go to work in the morning and my hands would cooperate for a longer drawing session, I would continue but alas...

[lilacsandpetals]

Okay so I’m writing that AU epilogue/alt angsty ending for Frozen Blossoms.

Would you guys rather I post the whole thing together (which will take me a while) or bit by bit. I could probably post little chapters that are around 1k words more frequently.

Altogether at once.

Small chapters more frequently.

Voting ended onFeb 27

[lilacsandpetals]

Snippet as promised. I guess this would be part of a stand-alone or alternate epilogue/ending for Frozen Blossoms?

——————————————————————————

You watch him during the funeral procession. He is rather stoic, and part of you knows this is all he would express. He is the Grandmaster now, and the eldest of his brothers. Still, your hand makes its way to his, and he retracts his hand just as your fingertips graze his skin.

Understood. This is not the time.

Yet, as the day goes on and you return to your quarters, you expect him to fall apart… he doesn’t. Which, fair, perhaps he would like to mourn in private, you know how he is. You offer a gentle condolence, express a whispered offer of comfort, while your hand grips his bicep with a desperate compassion. But he responds with a quiet rebuke, a shake of the head, and his hand lifting yours off of his arm. He goes out to the garden. You watch on quietly, peeking occasionally through the sheer curtains of the window. He sits near motionless on the bench.

You had heard from Tomas that he had cried when his mother passed. So initially you expected to see some tears… But they never came. Perhaps it was because he was far closer to his mother than his father? Still, if your own parents… oh heavens forbid, if anything happened to your family, you would mourn. Either way, you try to yet again rationalize his reaction. Grief came in many masks, and this was just one you were unfamiliar with.

So, you pay it no mind and drop reminders of your offer to hear him out on the matter at any time. But soon your prodding wears on him, you see it in the furrow of his eyebrows, the way his jaw begins to clench when you ask yet again.

You drop the subject.

You figure he will tell you when he is ready, as he does with most things; it’s in his nature. At least that is how you reassure yourself.

Or maybe you’d rather not think about it.

[lilacsandpetals]

Will u be posting any bi han this year or have u given up on the mk fandom ( I did too icl)

I’ve gotten into other fandoms that I’ve been more interested in. So I have written wips for those that I do want to post eventually.

I haven’t been into MK much tbh, but I still have this Bi Han wip I do want to actually finish and post. It’s been sitting on my google docs for so long, my writing motivation just hasn’t been the best lately.

Anyway, maybe I’ll post a snippet of it?

[sycamorality]

hi guys! discord is doing a survey on how people would like ai to be integrated into discord. take it and say fuck no to every question. when you get to "in general, how do you feel about discord inegrating ai features?", respond that you would actively get everyone you know off of discord and wouldn't pay for nitro or other shop items if they added ai features.

[modmad]

watch out for the trap! there's ONE QUESTION where the last option *isn't* the max 'no AI' option, read each part carefully to be sure

[lilacsandpetals]

Are any of you into Dune? 🫣

[lilacsandpetals]

What would the Lin Kuei siblings do if they went to a Jurassic Park? And what would Bi-Han's favorite dinosaur be?

Hm I guess they’d have to fight their way through to survive right? As for Bi-Han’s favorite, not that he would like encountering them, but I’m sure his favorite would be the velociraptors there. They’re scary but admirable in how they operate right?

[lilacsandpetals]

I’ve been very busy but I have to post real quick over here. Idk how many American followers I have, but if I do have any, I’d urge you guys to push back against some things they’re trying to push through in Congress.

They’re trying to push through KOSA (Kids Online Safety Act) and a few other bills under the guise of protecting children, but it’s really a bid to have users upload their government IDs just to use social media, apps, Spotify, etc and make individuals easier to track online and keep tabs on. The government would be able to heavily censor content on apps that they do not like. They’ve tried it before, and currently it’s passed in the senate and is being reviewed by a full committee in the House of Representatives. Calling representatives made a big difference last time it was considered.

They’re also trying to repeal Section 230, which protects users and social media platforms from being viewed as publishers. If that’s repealed, essentially the internet would be unusable. There would be mass censorship. Public comments sections would be largely disabled on big platforms like Twitter, Tumblr, Reddit, etc. Even Amazon reviews could be impacted. YouTubers and streamers would be affected and heavily censored. Even fan content could be blocked if companies don’t like them. Meaning, the fanart and fanfics we enjoy could be largely prohibited.

All this could eventually impact how social media apps are available to those in other countries as well.

If you have time, sign these petitions and/or call your reps.

I usually don’t get political, but these are things that could impact everyone heavily.

Bad Internet Bills

All of the bad internet bills. One website.

[lilacsandpetals]

This link has pre written scripts to use if you call or email your reps.