#hymn to the garden bed

[purpleleafsyt]

Purity, Sincerity, Luck, Loss of a Loved One

1. Lily of the Valley | ->

#purplearts #chonny jash #cccc #chonnys charming chaos compendium #cj soul #hymn to the garden bed #sooo I might be hyperfixating. just a little. #I think I'm going to do this for every chapter :> #also! proper hymn soul design! you love to see it #disregard the last image of it that was just me throwing something down #bouquet of songs series

[tamayakii]

The Devil watches.

Warnings: Not connected to any episodes of HOTD, but is set after Daemon & Laena marry after Rhaenrya & Laenor do. My timing may be off by a tad, Pairings: No Pairings, it's pretty much Darling on her own. notes: I chose the flowers with purpose, anyone who can guess will get a cookie. Also thank you to my friends for being my beta-readers. Also part two IS in the works!

The Belladonna swayed in the wind, dancing with the butterfly weeds. They were a beautiful sight. A change from the rainy scenery on Dragonstone, it rained like hell on the island. The colder season was here. Your family wrapped themselves in furs and thick leather. 

The Velaryons and Targaryens frequently met on Dragonstone because of the marriages between Rhaenrya and Laenor, as well as Daemon and Laena, with Dragonstone and Driftmark being sister islands. 

At a slow pace, you traversed the halls of the stone castle, the one that had held many of Targaryen's heirs and ancestors. Since your entrance into the royal family, you dug yourself into research- you wanted them to know you truly did not look down at this chance of a better life. 

You learned the history of Old Valyria with your father, Viserys. He believed himself a dreamer, you found, like Daenys the Dreamer- perhaps the reason the Targaryens survived the destruction of Valyria. 

With Aemma, you learned of Rhaena Targaryen, Queen of the East and West. Daughter of Alyssa Velaryon and sister to Queen Alysanne, sister-wife to the King Jaehaerys the First. Aemma wanted you to know about her mother, Daella Targaryen.

And you knew, you discovered her meek nature, her fear of gardens, bees, and cats. You acquired all knowledge that could be learned, all knowledge that the Maesters wrote. Even once at a dinner, you asked Ser Corlys what he thought of Daella, who was 3 and 10 at the time of their meeting.  

They quickly escorted you to your chambers, with Rhaenrya following closely behind you. It seemed you had upset Aemma and changed the mood of the dinner. Queen Aemma miscarried that night, something that you would place blame on yourself. 

Outside, the wind blew through the paneless windows of the halls. The salty taste of the sea sat upon your lips. The thoughts of your late-queen mother made your eyes water, the pain of her death still ever present in your soul. Your veil billowed behind you as the wind blew harder, pulling your fur robes tighter as you descended the staircase. These were the nights when you felt the need to be under the shrouded night, humming the Mother's Hymn, as the darkness seemed endless and the stars never shined. The castle was as silent as ever. Besides nature's song, everyone tucked into their warm beds. Protected by the guards that you’ve come to know as background ambience. 

“Gentle mother..” You sang under your breath, letting your fingers feel every grout of the walls that followed the staircase, “font of mercy…” you dragged your voice out as you reached the bottom of the tower, pushing the thick oak doors open. 

“Save our sons..” Closing your eyes as you felt the wind caress your face like Mother herself as you sang her hymn, “from war…” stepping into the courtyard, you looked up at the looming castle of Dragonmont. 

“We pray.” Your feet step slowly across the gravel, mimicking a dance you once saw. Slowly, you step from the left before taking a long graceful one to the right. “Stay the swords,” you dance yourself through the protective gates of Dragonstone, skipping from one step to the next. 

“And stay the arrows.” Your voice trails off as you walk onto the shore, the waves lapping at the sand. You stopped to admire the dark sea, your veil waving in its wind with force. It was as if the sea’s wind washed away your sins. 

“Let them know a be-” A large gust of air comes from above, nearly knocking you on your arse. It punches the air out of your lungs. Gasping for air as you looked to the heavens above, but nothing was there except the night sky. 

“Better day..” whispering, eyes wide as you stare into the abyss night. You rack your brain for answers. Perhaps it was Ceraxes. If left alone for too long, the blood wyrm was known for its lonely flights. The thought comforted you. 

Looking down the long rocky beach, you begin your trek again with caution. You listen to any sound in the night but all there is howling of the wind, trying to comfort yourself with a sigh; you sing once more,

“Gentle mother..” you pause, waiting for an interruption that never comes. “Strength of women,” pulling your robe against you tighter as you round a tight bend in the beach, skipping over rocks to dodge the waves licking your feet. 

The sound of rocks tumbling catches your attention, watching as small rocks fall down the cliff side. Looking up to find that the rocks seemed moved on their own, not a lively shape to be seen up top. 

‘The wind, perhaps.’ you think to yourself before moving onward.

“Help our daughters through this fray.” You lost yourself in thought as you walked. The Mothers Hymn was of comfort to you. Aemma sang it every time she tucked you in, unable to ignore your pleas to sing it just once more. 

The first night you sang the Mother's Hymn without Aemma was after her funeral, Rhaenrya would not sleep, her grief too much for her to bear on her own. You hummed as you brushed the girl's hair with your fingers, whispering the lyrics.

It took an hour until she fell asleep- your voice raw from repeating the Hymn with no breaks. 

A cove sat in your path, the sandy path too thin for you to walk, the water becoming more shallow as it flowed into a cave. Finding yourself upon a high rock, enjoying the sea breeze, you were ignorant to the eyes that stared from the cavern. 

“Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,” You wondered about Laena’s adventure to Vhagar, the woman had her eyes set upon the dragon since she learned of its history and location. Vhagar, the last of the conquerors' dragons, was a mighty green beast, but her song was as beautiful as a gentle maiden. 

“Teach us all a kinder way.” 

The air gets warmer, almost too warm. You start to wonder as you pant about the change of weather. Turning around and looking into the cavern's mouth; you realize why.

A dragon, as dark as the night and as sharp as a blade. Its horns curled around its face, green eyes glowing in the dark. It begins to climb out of the cave, its body seeming never ending. It  towers over you with his horrifying size. 

Fear gripped your frail heart. You were going to die. 

Smoke billows out of the beast's nostrils. Its chest glows with the heat of a thousand fires. Flames tickle your legs as you throw yourself off the rock, gasping as the freezing water below you flee for your life, forgetting the sharp rocks and barnacles tearing at your hands.

Thunderous booms follow you, a song that told you your fate, but the song was not comforting. It was dreadful. It screeched and wavered unceremoniously, and that was the song you would die to.

There was no escape. The breath of the fearsome dragon was hot on your back. Did the beast enjoy this? It could end this chase with one snap of its giant teeth, but it did not. 

A light at the end of the tunnel appeared.

A crack within the cliff side, just big enough to hold you. 

Tripping over your feet as you dash for it, shoving your body between the jagged stones, it hurts. The sharp edges tore at the front and back of your dress, crying as it dug into your skin. What were you to do? 

The dragon paces back and forth, a cry that sounds too much like a chortle leaves its throat. It was laughing.. It was laughing at you.

“Gentle Mother” You sang with fear, trying to comfort yourself, a bit of solace as you sat at death's door. “Font of mercy” voice wavering as you sobbed, you wanted your mother. You wanted Aemma. 

“Save our sons from war, we pray- oh gods!!” you sobbed against the stone, begging the gods- all of them, the old and new, for Mercy,. 

The dragon had stopped, listening to your voice. 

“Stay the swords and stay the arrows-” you realize the dragon has stopped. You look at the opening and see its green eyes watching you as it slowly lays its large body against the sand. Its lips curled once you stopped singing, 

“Let them know a better day..” 

It snorted, laying its head down. Perhaps it once heard the Mothers Hymn, or maybe it was the own Mother's hand coming down to save you. 

“Gentle Mother, strength of women..” Slowly, you begin to sidestep out of the crack. “Help our daughters through this fray.” you can feel its hot breath once more. Fear makes you stop, but memory reminds you of your family.

“Will I have a dragon, Papa?” Viserys held you tight on his lap, the book open wide on your thighs. The man hums with thought before he smiles, kissing your temple. 

“A girl as brave as you? Of course you shall have a dragon., I will make sure of it if I must.” His hands rub your sides with love. The thought of him forcing the gods to give you a dragon made you more happy. 

Looking up at him with a toothy grin, “Thank you, Papa!!” The rest of the night you discussed dragons. Viserys suggested that once Dreamfyre laid a new hatch, he would give you a dragon egg, but each egg he gave you failed to hatch.

“Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,” 

The dragon chirps softly, a weird noise coming from such a devilish beast. 

“Teach us all a kinder way…” The Hymn ends and soothes the dragon., "Do you like that? It's my favorite... is it yours too?" with cautious steps, you finally emerge out of the rocks. The dragon huffs, and the clouds split and the moon shines upon you two. 

If you tamed this dragon… perhaps you would feel more Targaryen, maybe you could fly in the skies with Rhaenrya and Daemon. 

The dragon sniffs you as you step closer. Your hands touch the scales of its snout and it rips its head back with a grunt. It was still a wild dragon. You almost laughed at yourself. It had tricked you. You were no Targaryen, and it would kill you.

Awaiting the flames hotter than the hells to blanket your body, you waited for the never ending pain with your eyes closed, but it never came. When the wind picked up again, you found yourself opening your eyes once more.

There it was, spreading its wings and taking off with a mighty roar. You watched as the dragon flew further into the mountains, 

You had walked along the devil's hand and came unscathed. 

With the speed of a hare, you picked your soaked and ripped dress up and ran. Feet ripping up the sand, leaving spits of rocks behind you. Desperate to reach the safety of your chambers within the safety of the castle.

You reached the castle gates, heaving for air, but it did not stop you. Brushing past the confused guards as you blazingly push the doors open to the side tower and running up the stairs, 

Your mind came back to the wild dragon, the way it had multiple sets of horns, but its biggest curled in towards his face like a ram. Its eyes were more green than the richest jade, scales so deep black that it could rival Balerion’s skull that resides under the Red Keep. 

Shoving your body against your chamber doors, they slam shut. You wheeze for air, the pain pinching your throat as you try to breathe normally. You should’ve been dead ten times over. Slowly, you walk to your bed, shaking as you collapse. 

The silk sheets are warm against your slick skin, fingers stretching as they tremble from the cold. Your eyes fall heavy, the distant roar of a dragon seems ever faint as you slip into a deep slumber.

That night, you dream of dragons. It is you who is the dragon. You see flashes of broken eggs and the bodies of baby dragons ripped apart, oddly; you feel no remorse for the creatures but only satiated hunger. 

You see the rough choppy waters of the Narrow Sea below as you fly through the dark nights, ships cross in many numbers- You destroy them, roaring with a laugh but you hunger for your own brethren, for the taste and feel of fire and talons.

No longer a dragon, you’re a human once more. A baby within a cradle, your mother Aemma above you, or was she Aemma? Her long white hair and purple eyes entranced you, but as you studied her further; It was not Aemma, but another woman.

Her eyelids were gently dusted with a purple hue, and her lips were glossed to match the same shade of purple. She seemed tired, but she still smiled. Above her was a painted tapestry of dragons, but among the many, only one caught your attention. There it was. The beast swirled and its jaws were wide open with a flurry of green fire escaping its mouth. 

The eyes seem so alive and penetrating, as if they're boring into your very being. The green-eyed devil had been watching you for a long time. 

Your dreams end before you can look at the woman once more, but you hear her voice, 

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy…”

Let me know what you guys think!! Reblogs over likes!!!

#hotd x reader #yandere hotd x reader #yandere house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #their angel au #angel of the red keep #Rhaenrya Targaryen x reader #yandere rhaenyra targaryen #yandere viserys targaryen #yandere aemma arryn

[yoonia]

The Bedroom Hymns | myg ● fic teaser

⟶ Summary | Being the only daughter of the Wicked King has kept you living in a sheltered life. Never once were you given the chance to see the world beyond the walls of your father’s old castle, and yet, it had never stopped you from hearing all the dark rumours of your father’s indiscretions which had left you to continue living in the shadows.

When the day comes for your father to send you to live in his castle by the sea, he leaves you with a new rule set in place. You are left with a set of keys, one which would lead you to travel through the thousand magical doors inside his castle, but you are to never leave through the front door or to step foot through the golden door at the end of the hall. The magical doors become your escape, giving you the chance to see the world that you had never seen before. Until one day, your life changes as one of the magical doors leads you to the Fairy Prince.

⟶ Title | The Bedroom Hymns; a Bluebeard Retelling ⟶ Pairings | Min Yoongi x female reader ⟶ Genre | Fairy Prince!Yoongi, Princess!reader, Strangers to Lovers au, Fantasy au, Fairy Tale Retelling au ⟶ Ratings & Warnings | +18 / M for Mature; nothing yet for this teaser, but I will add warnings as I continue writing this ⟶ Estimated word count | 40k words ⟶ Teaser word count | 2,1k words

⏤ Written for the Once Upon A Fantasy collab

⟶ Author’s note | As the result of my latest poll, you have chosen for me to finish this story first out of the rest of my April WIPs. Thank you so much for everyone who voted! If you are interested to join my fic taglist, please enter your information here. If you are only interested to be tagged on this fic, please only enter your url in the replies.

𝕺𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖚𝖕𝖔𝖓 𝖆 𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖊, 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝕱𝖆𝖗 𝕱𝖆𝖗 𝕬𝖜𝖆𝖞…

Stargrave castle.

The castle with 1000 doors which was built right on the top of the Earthpeak cliff, the ocean edge of the Nythelean Empire’s territory. You have learned a little about this castle on the morning you first arrived, under the guidance of Lord Gordan, the royal advisor working for your father, King Aneas.

You have only been here for less than a week, and you know for sure that you still have much to learn about this castle. The place that is to become your new home. It still feels foreign to roam through the hallways, and you constantly find yourself being amazed at how expansive this place is compared to the manor you have been residing in since your childhood.

No, this castle was said to be your real home.

Your father himself had said so. This is the place where you were born. The place where you had once lived peacefully and happily with your father and mother together, before the Queen tragically passed and you were taken away while you were still a young, helpless child. This is the place that holds the old scars and the wounds that your father must carry with him for many years until he lost all of his happiness and his warm smile.

No wonder he kept you away from this place for so long.

The darkness terrifies you when you try to step out of your bed chamber at nightfall. The long corridors feel like a maze, with numerous doors and several open galleries welcoming you whenever you get lost on your way. Oftentimes, you only feel safe when you are in your private chamber, or when you are having your high tea with Nanny Abigail in the garden, where you would find yourself wasting time until the sun sets each day. There is never a day passed when you didn’t miss your old home, the Seacrest Manor. But as days continued to progress, you soon realise that if this is where you are to spend the rest of your life, you must soon make it your mission to make this place home.

Surely, it wouldn’t be such a hard task to do, would it?

Not with Lord Gordan and Nanny Abigail by your side to guide you through it. And now that you are finally back at the home castle, you will also have more time to spend together with your father compared to how it used to be before. That would certainly help you learn more about this place, about the home territory that you were never allowed to see, and maybe help fix the fragile bond you have between you and your father.

Or so you thought.

“I have to be away for at least six weeks. There are matters needed to be dealt with and it would be too taxing of a journey if you should join me,” your father suddenly announces on the first day of your second week of being home. “Make this castle your home the best you possibly can while I am away and enjoy yourself. You might need help to go around the castle in my absence, so here—”

You barely find the words to respond to him with when he suddenly grabs your hand and places a heavy set of keys right at the center of your palm.

“Here are the keys to various rooms within the castle. As you may have noticed, we have many doors right here at the home castle that has been kept locked because I am always away and you haven’t been back home, and I am the only person who has the access to each of them. Now, you will have the ability to open them all by using these keys.”

You keep your eyes on the keys in your hand, studying them closely with pure interest as your father explains this. Varied in colours, sizes, and materials, they look nothing at all like any set of keys that you would normally see for regular houses or manors. Not even your old home. Your father falls silent for a moment before he continues to explain what the keys are for, his small smile is hidden while you are not paying attention to his face, but simply to his voice.

“These are the keys to the storerooms; where I keep my best furniture and gifts from the many Kingdoms I have visited,” he says as he picks the ones made of brass from the bunch. “Make use of them as much as you need. You can also bring some of them to fancy your bed chamber should you need any changes to be done and make your stay comfortable.”

Hearing this only excites you. For days, you have been thinking of how plain and boring your new bed chamber is, and have been wishing that you were able to take some of your old belongings to fill your room with. Your father seems to be pleased to see your reaction, and continues by pointing at the slightly smaller-looking keys which seem to be made of bronze.

“These are the keys to the treasure rooms; where you can find all the silver and gold plates that I have gathered through my journeys, the casket of jewels which are part of our family treasure, and the safe where I keep all the money which belongs to the family,” he explains, while you are left speechless at how easy he is to hand over such a huge responsibility onto you. As if sensing your doubt, your father raises your chin so he can look at you straight in the eyes and say, “You are free to use them all to fill your needs, as long as you use them wisely while I am gone.”

You swallow hard and nod. There is something in his stern voice that demands your attention, letting you know that there is an underlying threat hidden in his warning, that you have no other choice but to pledge, “I will be responsible for them, Father. I promise.”

“Good. I have faith in you, Princess,” he says, sounding relieved but still cautious, and then he looks down at the keys to point at the pair that looks slightly bigger than the rest. “Now, this is the master key to all the private chambers, including yours and mine. You can use my room or my study should you need them. And this one will take you to the main library. I know that you love your books, and you shall find everything you may ever need to learn more about this land.”

Hearing about the library, all of the disappointment you felt about your father being gone begins to shift, and you start feeling a semblance of hope. If you cannot earn the information that you needed from your own father, perhaps you would be able to find your answers among the books in the library. Maybe you can also learn more about this realm, and how your father’s empire somehow exists between the two realms—the human realm, and the magical realm within the land Far Far Away.

Still with your eyes on the keys, your attention is drawn towards a pair of keys that seem to sparkle brighter from the others, calling for your attention. You look at them both with awe, amused by how magic seems to appear even in the smallest things you can find in this realm. Just like the keys you are holding in your hand.

You study those keys closely without saying a word, marvelling at each detail. One key is made of silver, while the other from gold. Both of them are glowing brightly and are nearly humming with an enticing aura as if they are made with enchantment. It makes it hard for you to look away, as if you are completely drawn to them, unable to ignore their presence and their calling.

“What about these keys, Father?” you question your father when your curiosity gets the best of you.

King Aneas leans closer just to have a better look, even if it is quite obvious that he could already tell which keys you were referring to. With gentle fingers, he pulls the silver one from its bunch. “This silver key will take you through the doors with the silver embellishments. Those doors you may enter, but only under a few specific rules.”

For some reason, his voice sounds ominous as he explains this. You look at him curiously, wondering why this key demands certain rules to be followed, unlike the others. Looking at your father’s face helps only a little to reassure you, as his face is completely stern when he begins to explain,

“Beyond the silver doors lies a strong kind of magic. One that has been so demanding of our family’s powers, and also the type of magic that should be kept secret, no matter what. Once you go through them, you will understand why it is important for me to defend this castle and our home territory.”

As you listen to his explanation about the silver doors and the magic behind them, your curiosity grows stronger. Living in the Seacrest Manor has kept you from learning anything about magic, and now that you are suddenly thrust into the place where magic seems to thrive, you feel eager to learn and experience them yourself to understand everything better. And that curiosity strengthens once your father continues to give you the rules that you must follow,

“You are free to visit each of these silver doors only for one visit each day. You must make sure that you will never remain on the other side of the door of your choice for more than six hours and you must always, always, only return home by going through that very same door you came from. Can you remember this?”

Suppressing your eagerness so as not to make him worry, you simply nod and promise, “Yes, I will remember,” while making sure to remember every detail, every warning, so you wouldn’t make any mistake to disappoint him in the future.

Just as your hope of learning new magic arises, the golden key begins to vibrate in your hand, calling for your attention. Noticing where your eyes are drawn towards, your father’s expression turns grim.

“This golden key—” he says, gently lifting the key from the bundle as he tells you more about it, “—will allow you to open the twin doors at the end of the great gallery on the top floor of the South tower.”

Your eyes grow wide with interest, recalling the night you first arrived at the castle and how the South Tower seemed to be calling your name. You feel the curiosity building, your eagerness to venture to the hidden parts of the castle rising, only to deflate when your father says,

“This one, I must forbid you to use.”

You stifle a gasp and question him. “But why, Father?”

Your father’s expression grows even darker once he takes notice of your interest in the golden door. He places both of his hands on your shoulders before you can ask more. “Never open the golden doors. Never walk past it, and never look what is inside,” he demands with a voice that comes out as a warning, before he softens and begs you, “Princess, I need you to promise me.”

Once again, you are left speechless. Baffled by his demands, yet his voice leaves you no chance to argue that you can only give in and say, “Yes, I promise.”

The King remains silent for a brief moment, as if he is trying to read your thoughts, wondering if you are hiding any intentions of defying him. But then he sighs, and your father finally lets you go with a reassuring nod.

“Good. Make sure never to forget this. Oh, and there is one more thing that you must always remember—” he quickly adds before you can say anything. “You are free to roam about through these doors — of course, except for the golden doors — but you are not to leave this castle by stepping out through the great door at the front gate. Not when I am not around, and never without a guard.”

You find this instruction quite odd. Just as odd as his rules and warnings regarding the magic doors, but you dare not to question him, understanding how little your knowledge of magic is to begin with to help you argue against his demands. So you put all of your curiosity aside, choosing to gain his trust and confidence as you promise him,

“I’ll remember.”

⟶ Estimated posting date | TBA; (hopefully) by the end of April 2023

— © 2023 @yoonia​, all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any kind, translations, unsanctioned adaptations are not allowed.

#bangtansorciere #btshoneyhive #kvanity #thekpopuniverse #btscreaturescoven #misc: fic teaser #yoongi scenario #yoongi fanfic #yoongi smut #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #suga scenario #suga fanfic #suga smut #suga angst #suga fluff #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #bts scenario #bts fanfic #kpop scenario #kpop writing #kpop fanfic #bts smut #bts fluff #bts angst #bts x reader

[evanrouge]

.. as a lover, MALLEUS is inexplicably modest.

in his years, his eardrums have long grown accustomed to the gravelly hymns of conflict. to the silvery, melancholic stationary of lonesome silence. to the carefree, unbothered chirps of birdsong. yet what is new to him, is the tender euphony of a lover's whisper.

he is far from inexperienced with beautiful sounds. he once safely tended to a hummingbird within his open palms and basked in the harmonious melody the fledgling sang to him. he has safely plucked the most dainty and beautiful of roses from its bed in the castle garden, and appreciated its flawlessness with a fond gaze. yet, he has never safely held a cloud. not so delicate, but rather fleeting. his touch so heavy that his strong hand would phase right through, regardless of how light his touch, causing the cloud to dissipate to nothing. he is a tremendously powerful fae - and to him, his biggest fear is that you are a cloud.

he is no stranger to verbal fondness. words of affirmation dug from the very depths and laid out in the open, presented to be swallowed by the ever-so-tender atmosphere engulfing you both. beautifully genuine, just as he is. yet, physical intimacy isn't as natural to him.

he will cease to bluntly throw that uncertainty into the air, wishing to learn as affection thickens. it is the lone unspoken factor in your relationship, that you so smartly picked up so quickly. he wishes to learn; he yearns for you to teach him, yet that fear of running his hand right through you still echoes at the very back of his mind, you have observed via little openings.

that, despite the fondness which enchants his smile as you wordlessly lead his hands to your waist, you can feel the ever so slight hesitance that he attempts to mask with the affectionate rub of his thumb on your back.

the way he would slow to precisely your sole walking speed whenever your hands are intertwined, regardless of whether it would make him look dodgy with how long his legs are. cradling your hand with his own, ever so gently, as if you were an enchanted rose. as if he was the dome that protected you from harmful outside influence which would cause you to wilt faster than supposed to. yet the little fairies in his mind would whisper that perhaps, he is what the dome should be protecting you from. his palm against your own; what if you blew away?

but would he listen to the little fairies in his mind and stay away? he doesn't think he is capable of doing so. he exposed his open heart to you and you jumped in, becoming one with him and making him complete. you are the fulfillment he has anticipated for what felt like eons, his own, personal source of happiness that he wishes to keep by his side as long as he is able to.

he is aware of the little fairies in his mind, painting him out to be the proximity that will welcome your doom. and so are you. it just so happens, after you became aware of them, your voice suddenly became much louder than theirs.

#here have this trash while i try to remember how to tumblr lmao #malleus draconia x reader #malleus x reader #twst x reader #twst malleus #twisted wonderland x reader #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #malleus draconia #malleus #malleus imagines #malleus draconia twst #malleus draconia x mc #malleus draconia imagine #mine mine!! — 🦋

[jomiddlemarch]

The Philosophy Inherent in Buttered Toast

Within a week of Shirley’s departure, Susan found that she could not fall asleep, no matter how much she exhausted herself; the windowpanes had never sparkled brilliantly so in the morning sunlight. She’d dare Miss Cornelia Bryant herself to find the smallest speck on the kitchen floor. She concocted impossible delicacies to try and tempt Mrs. Doctor, muttering under her breath about the various culinary restrictions and how she’d like to see anyone make a decent pie with the miserly amount of lard she was allotted, and she starched the Doctor’s collars so thoroughly he’d begged her to stop as he couldn’t turn his head when he drove out to see his patients, especially not that sharp curve onto the road over to the Lower Glen. Work, hard work that left her with a sore back and aching knees and hands too rough to get a pair of gloves onto for Sunday service, had always been a panacea, just as Mrs. Doctor had her garden and Mrs. Reverend had her needlework. 

Once Shirley left, after a brief kiss on her cheek and a little squeeze of her hand as she gave him a neatly tied up box lunch for the train, the week’s sugar ration used up in his favorite sweets, she turned her hand to the plow as it were and expected to find some respite. Instead she found herself lying in her narrow bed, a stripe of moonlight across the foot, her eyes burning, wide open. Her body longed for rest but her mind, her heart, her very soul itself would not allow it, as un-Christian a thought as that might be. She’d drift off in snatches in the early morning, wake with the fog of dreams, a confusion dispelled by the splash of water in the basin and the cold cloth scrubbed across her face. She felt every one of her years like a millstone and if she hadn’t already been plain Susan Baker since she’d outgrown the very little prettiness she’d had a child, someone, likely that outspoken Mary Vance, would have remarked that old Susan Baker looked quite poorly.

She began by reciting psalms to herself and then all her favorite hymns but it made no difference. Unlike Mrs. Doctor, she took no delight in watching the moon wax and wane and thought only a man could have come up with the constellations, the greatest waste of time she could think of and nothing but a lot of foolish nonsense. She took to drinking her tea as strong as she could steep it, nearly black. Coffee was too dear to waste and had to be saved for the Doctor. If he nodded off over his surgery, Susan Baker would be the one responsible for the poor soul under his knife’s untimely passing. She was comforted when Shirley enclosed a brief note addressed to Mother Susan in the letter he’d sent to his parents and sisters, but the relief of knowing him safe didn’t see her dozing in her rocking chair, let alone tucked up snug in her bed.

She remembered something Walter had once said, that there was poetry in the most ordinary things, how he’d gone on and on about a perfectly buttered piece of her toast, sliced just the right thickness, the butter spread smooth and even to the brown crust. She was known for her bread, that was common knowledge in Glen St. Mary, whether it was a white loaf or wholemeal, but she’d thought if she hadn’t loved Walter since he was a tot, she would have given a mighty sniff at his folderol. Now, though, she thought perhaps making a list of all the ordinary things that could be what Walter had called the marvelous quotidian before explaining his fancy words, perhaps making a list might take the place of counting the sheep that would never be sheared nor help her nod off.

To begin with, there was Walter’s buttered toast.

The hiss the iron made as she flicked a drop of water on it to test its heat.

The first even row of knots she threw on her needles beginning another sock in the ugly drab worsted that was military standard.

The last swipe of the cloth when she was polishing the good silver.

The greedy sound the Doctor made as he ate his slice of pie, one she would have scolded the children for making.

Winding the clocks.

Rilla’s little frown as she tried to feed her war-baby and got mashed peas all over the front of her clean white shirtwaist, a dab on her cheek.

Slipping on galoshes when it was a rainy morning.

The crinkle of the pages as she read her Bible chapter before bed.

Beans, bobbing about in the pot.

Una Meredith asking for help with her darning, her blue eyes round as buttons as she said Please, Miss Baker, the only one of the Meredith children to use a title for her.

Throwing out slops when the bucket was full.

Spools of thread lined up in her sewing basket.

Spoons, nestled tight against each other in their drawer.

The milk folding around itself in her chipped teacup like the sheets on the line in the wind.

Shirley’s way of writing the letter S, the same in her name as his own.

Fat blueberries in a bowl, waiting to be made into jam.

She began each night with Walter’s toast. Most nights, she fell asleep between the bean pottage and the slops arcing out onto the dirt. When it had been several days since they’d heard from Shirley or the papers were black with battles and casualty lists, the milk in the tea took the shape of Shirley’s cursive S. When there were letters from all three Blythe boys and the Meredith ones as well, the knitting needles fell from her hands, stitches most certainly dropped.

The night they’d learned about Courcelette, she’d counted each one of the blueberries in the bowl and wept.

And slept.

With many thanks to @batrachised who posted this summary of fake fic with this same title: Susan and Walter have a conversation about the poetry of everyday things. Susan still can't quite understand that poetry nonsense, but after Walter waxes eloquent about her perfectly ensembled toast that has just the right amount of butter scraped on top, she decides that surely a little of it is harmless enough - walter is Mrs. Doctor Dear's son, after all.

I hope my "borrowing" did the initial post justice! @gogandmagog I would have shared this today anyway, but I did love your encouragement post.

#anne of green gables #angst #susan baker #walter blythe #insomnia #the poetry of everyday things #domestic #canon compliant #shirley blythe #miss cornelia bryant #gilbert's love of pie #I hope everyone who wanted to see this is satisfied! #aogg

[cliozaur]

The one, in which Valjean and Cosette find themselves in “a sort of garden.” That’s a fitting characteristic of the place. It seems that this ‘garden’ is a wild mixture of plants, ranging from forest trees to fruit trees and beds of vegetables.

Cosette is still dead-scared of Mme Thénardier—thank you Valjean, for adding to the child’s trauma. They try to hide even within the shelter they have found: “A man who is fleeing never thinks himself sufficiently hidden.” Soon we’ll have the convent digression, and the “celestial, divine, ineffable, ravishing” sound they hear serves as the first nod in that direction. It's a hymn sung on the night of Valjean’s entering the convent, marking the beginning of a series of sounds associated with this place. I am always fascinated by the fact that a nunnery can contain such an intricate soundscape despite being perceived as a silent place.

#les mis letters #lm 2.5.6 #les miserables #jean valjean #cosette

[infinite-orangepeel]

‘It’s Rotten Work’ Pt. 7 Excerpt: Eddie & Robin Talk About Steve While He’s Sleeping

cw: brief mentions of eddie’s childhood experiences surrounding his parents’ addiction

(click the link above to read the rest of the chapter !!)

Eddie crouches and warms his hands in front of the hearth. His knees crack as he bends. Robin doesn’t say anything for a while. Flips through expired deals, taps her toes, and looks at him sideways as if she’s trying to figure him out. His aims. His motives. What his intentions are with her pomme d’amour.

Boy with the candy apple soul.

“You make him happy,” she blurts, at last, “it scares me.”

Eddie winces, because this conversation was always bound to be difficult. He’s been nervously anticipating it since she showed up on the porch earlier with bags of provisions in hand.

Let’s not talk about this, he wants to say, He’s sleeping, he’s dreaming, we’ll ruin it. Let’s not ruin it. Let him dream. Let him go wherever his imagination takes him. Far away–far, far, away. He’s with the seagulls and the ocean. He’s safe.

Supplication isn’t Eddie’s forte. Pride keeps him on his feet.

“He deserves to be happy, but you’re plenty justified in not wanting him to find that happiness with me. I get it. Even I don’t think I’m the best choice for him, but he's here and I can’t abandon him. He needs someone. He needs help. He’s—he hurts too much when he’s alone.”

Perhaps, he’s said too much.

Perhaps, he should excuse himself and go to bed. It’s getting late. The moon’s out. He has no hair to hide under anymore. Buzzcut sticking out the cold of winter. He misses his curls and warm July and his mother’s arms.

And, the thought of violating Steve’s trust makes him sick to his stomach. But Eddie’s grown so tired of pretending everything’s okay.

Nothing is.

He was raised to spread lies to the suits of social services; ‘Mommy’s sleeping. She has the flu,’ ‘Daddy’s on a trip to Philadelphia for business,’ and ‘No one ever hits me. I got this bruise on the playground–fell off the slide.’

His growing pains consisted of pricing out baggies of cocaine and aluminum foil wrappers of heroin while his feet dangled from the kitchen table. Broken crayons pushed to the side so he could do his job. Not yet tall enough to touch the blizzard on the carpet. Child labor laws don’t do shit when you’re in the ‘safety’ of your own home.

He can’t lie anymore.

Robin sighs. Pulls her hair into a small bun at the nape of her neck and twists. ABBA hits the halfway point on the vinyl–‘Knowing me, Knowing you’–for the second time that evening. She fiddles with the matching friendship bracelet on her wrist. The knots aren’t nearly as tight as the ones she made on Steves’.

How long will it last? How long until the threads snap from straining past their breaking points?

“It’s just—you’re his whole world, I think. He looks at you like you’re the answer to every hurt he’s ever felt. I’ve never seen him so— infatuated —with someone.”

Infatuation isn’t love. Like Stevia isn’t sugar. Like cocaine isn’t a mother’s lullaby.

She never sang him to sleep.

Mama.

Eddie sang himself to sleep. Curled knobby knees into his chest under damp blankets, because there was a leak in the ceiling they didn’t have the money to fix and sang snippets of Beatnik tunes.

Words he was too young to understand the true meaning of gave him something to hold onto in the dark. Junkyard hymns and wolves howling to hush the quickened hearts of black lambs.

“It works for now, but he’s running away, Eddie. You can’t– we can’t–ignore his bad habits as much as he may want us to.”

“He’s trying to get better—”

Eddie’s not sure he believes that, himself. He says it because it sounds like the right thing. He says it because it’s what he thinks Robin, Steve’s best friend, wants to hear.

“You’re right, but who is he trying to get better for? Steve–the thing about him is–there’s milkweed in my mom’s garden–”

“Milkweed? The plant?”

In middle school, Eddie’s neighbor paid him ten bucks–one Saturday a month–to mow the lawn and pull Milkweed among other invasive species from his yard. However, his side gig had ended when the man asked him to use a BB gun to ‘remove’ ground squirrels from the property. In tears, he’d biked home and refused to ever go back.

Eddie was ten.

“The plant, yes. A few years ago, my mom asked Steve and I to spend an afternoon spraying weed killer around the perimeter of the garden so it would stop growing, but Steve wouldn’t have it.”

“Why not? Too much work? Didn’t wanna fuck up his hair?” he jokes.

Robin doesn’t laugh.

“The butterflies,” she points to a pair of butterfly wings in black ink on the side of her red shoes–he must have drawn them earlier today, “He cried, Eddie. Not a lot. Not sobbing, but there were tears on his cheeks when he told us that we couldn’t touch the milkweed, because caterpillars like to spin their cocoons on it. If you’d told my high school self that Steve Harrington would be crying in my backyard over the lives of the local butterfly population someday? I’d never have believed you. But, he did. He blocked off an entire section of the garden and bought all this fancy wiring so the birds couldn’t get to them while they grew. He came back every other day to check on them. Sometimes I wasn’t even home.”

Eddie can see it. Has seen it–many times. Steve champions the underdog without question. He’s done it for Eddie. He’s done it for the kids. The only person he won’t do it for is–

“He’ll go to war for anyone, but himself. I mean–the guy fought a Demogorgon, the Mind Flayer, and Vecna to protect Hawkins. Those kids are his world. He’ll fight for them and me and Nance and you and the butterflies, but he sees no reason to fight for himself.”

A pack of Lucky Strikes beckons to Eddie from the coffee table.

How many times in one life can you make the same mistake? How many times does it take before your brain catches up to your heart?

“Steve was supposed to go to college, make friends , get out of Hawkins,” she trails off, grinding her teeth together in frustration like a nutcracker caught on a stubborn walnut, “I don’t know what to do. As long as you’re here, he’ll stay. And, if you leave, it’ll kill him. I feel like I’m staring down a dead end street with a gun to the back of my head and my hands tied. It keeps me up at night, because he saved me–more than once–but I’m at a loss now. What kind of best friend does that make me?”

A memory arises. A flight to Kentucky to stay with Wayne’s second cousin for a family wedding. Thirty-six thousand feet in the air, Eddie focused on two things to keep his mind off of sudden death–complimentary pretzels and the flight attendant’s warning to ‘ put your own mask on first, before helping others.’

Recited it in his head like a prayer. He prepared for the worst, ate through three bags of pretzels, and only found peace when the plane touched down in Louisville.

Steve had flown all over the world. Eddie traveled vicariously through his descriptions of European villas, relics he’d only seen in history books, the blue waters caressing the Mediterranean coast.

‘Put your own mask on first, before helping others.’

Thousands of dollars in airfare, the best hotels money could buy, and numerous upgrades to first class. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington’s cash clogging the drain while Steve drowned in exotic porcelain bathtubs.

“I’m sorry. I should have called you. I should have explained. I never meant for it to be like this. I showed up at his house and he was scared out of his mind. He was having a panic attack for fuck’s sake. He looked at me and I hardly recognized the guy standing in front of me, Robin. I–I couldn’t leave him.”

Steve looked so frail that day. Oversized t-shirt hanging off his hunched shoulders, eyes shot red from crying, dead boy walking–Eddie never stood a chance.

Broken wings needed fixing and Eddie Munson was good at putting things back together.

More than that, he knew how much it hurt to be broken. He knew how much it ached to be alone. The nights were long, the calls came few and far between, no one told you not to burn yourself on the stove when you stopped feeling real and went looking for a quick fix.

Only the howls of the wolves keep you company when everyone else walks away.

It didn’t help that Steve was also so fucking beautiful.

Covered in snot, tears, dripping blood, scars, flesh wounds, brain damage, vomit–he was Eddie’s sun. Only able to flourish due to the blessing of his golden rays. Like Milkweed and butterflies and strawberries for flaky pie.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie angst #steddie fic #steddie fanfiction #steddie ao3 fic recs #fruity four #stranger things #steve x eddie #steve harrington/eddie munson #steddie angst fics #steddie stranger things #steddie excerpt #steddie au #steddie brainrot #steddie ao3 fic #steddie ao3 #steddie is canon #steddie fic recs

[cocrante]

I've been thinking about Nico for days, absentmindedly singing when he's happy.

It's been years since he could no longer give voice to those rhyming words, to hum while making the bed or cleaning the room. I imagine him singing all the Italian songs that his sister liked, the songs she discovered time by time in that mysterious and perilous Lotus Casino.

They were all delicate songs, some melancholic, others a pure hymn to love. I imagine Nico singing without even realizing it, something that has become spontaneous since Will entered his life, bringing summer to that garden covered in icy snow.

#📌 : headcanon #solangelo #riordanverse

[silverefflux]

Like Flowers

Chapter 2 of my König x Fem!OC fic, Rush

See Chapter List

Photo by Mike B

Summary: König visits someone very, very special.

Warning: BRING ON THE ANGST then smol floof, mentions of physical and verbal abuse, bullying, mental illness

A/N: Using my fanon name, Dominik, for König here. Also using Horangi's real name, Hong-jin. Idk I feel like I only want to use their call signs if they have their masks on and are in battle mode. And sorry for the Google translated German.

. . .

Quand vous souriez // Libor Kolman

Dominik pulls his car to a stop in front of a humble brick home. It was filled with brightly colored flowers that gave the place a very cozy look—like a poster example of what a home would look like. Part of him wanted to stay in his car, or maybe just drive off and call it a day, but he collected himself with one deep breath.

And another.

And another.

Once he’s pushed most of the nerves aside, he nods to himself and steps out of the vehicle at a careful pace.

Softly, he knocked on the light wood door decorated with stained glass panels. A lady of short stature answers the door with a gentle smile.

“Hallo Dominik, early as always,” she whispers. The wrinkles beside her eyes bore the quiet joy of welcoming back someone familial. While she kept the door open only enough for her face to peek out, Dominik could hear the sound of people singing to a guitar from inside.

He responded with a timid smile. “Always.”

The woman, Frau Schmidt, opened the door further to allow Dominik into the home. After closing the door as silently as she could, she gestured at him to follow her into the short hallway, into the common room where the singing came from. It was filled with contrasting purples, greens, and reds that somehow harmonized with the wood on some of the furniture and fixtures. On the sides there were small ornaments and paintings.

Frau Schmidt and Dominik stayed behind the corner separating the hallway and the common room. There he watched a group of elderly people sitting in chairs arranged in a circle. They were singing along to a mellow hymn led by a man who sat among them, playing a guitar and wearing the same uniform as Frau Schmidt.

“She’s still very active with our Sunday service. Sie kennt immer noch alle Texte. And every time family is brought up, she still thinks she’s on holiday and ‘her husband and kids will pick her up’,” she whispers to Dominik, who only let out a short breath and a smile as his mind was occupied watching one of the elderly women in the circle. She wore a delicate blue sweater and brown knitted trousers, with her hair in a gray curly bob.

Dominik slightly leaned his head down and looked at Frau Schmidt. “Darf ich Mama zum Mittagessen ausführen?” he asked, then returned his gaze back to the lady in the circle.

“Natürlich,” she responded fondly, her heart warm over the idea of someone’s son being so thoughtful despite a hectic work schedule.

“You may wait in the garden until service is finished. After that, we’ll call you into her room to say hello, ja?” she detailed.

“I hope she doesn’t panic like last time,” he sighed.

The head nurse looked at him with her lips forming a line, concealing a sorry expression. “She’ll do well when she sees you now, that I’m sure.”

He then discreetly but hastily made his way out through a sliding door with a signage that read “Garten”. There, he sat on one of the benches amidst a pool of flower beds and raised seedling boxes, and recounted his turbulent home life.

A father who frequently hurt her mother until he eventually left for Germany. A mother who coped with the loss by despising her only son for “looking like his dad”. The social anxiety diagnosis did not help winning his mother’s affection back at all.

Since then, he spent much of his hours outdoors to keep from the noise, though it wasn’t helpful that everyone in town knew about his family life. He supposed he would've had an older sister to protect her from the other kids who would tease him, but she was always away. He learned to stand up for himself, and in the rough fights on the village streets, he found an unintended talent.

Eventually, his sister ran off, so it was only him and his mother until he had to go through military service, but he continued to pursue it as a career anyway, intending to do extremely well so he would never have to come back to their house again.

But when he got a call at work about his mother wandering around the market with no memory of her name, her address, and no other next-of-kin bothering to respond, he reluctantly stepped back into her life.

“Herr Brunner? Sie können nach oben kommen.” a different staff member called his attention from the garden entrance, breaking his train of thought.

Upon getting the go-signal to see his mother, he stood up and followed the staff up towards the row of rooms until they reached one of the units. He felt his heart beating a little more rapidly, but he did his best to stay calm and push the worries over his mother’s response aside. They knock, and Frau Schmidt answers the door, welcoming them in.

“Frau Brunner, Sie haben Besuch,” she calls out. Dominik’s mother looked over at them and sighs in relief, then walked over to Dominik.

"Oh gut, bist du die neue Wache?” she excitedly asked Dominik.

He kept his hands clasped below him, casting short glances at the other staff members just to make sure everyone is on the same page, then replied with a nod, “Ja, guten Tag.”

She was glad to hear of this, much to everyone’s relief. She then proceeds to tell Dominik about an intruder she saw climbing up her window the night before. He feigns shock and concern over this, then opens the window to check out what his mother pointed to.

She goes over to check it too, almost leaning over the sill, but Dominik placed his arm in front of her to make sure she doesn’t fall. He gazed left and right, then raised his brows and reassured his mother that the place is safe now.

Frau Brunner was glad to hear this, and in gratitude, she offered to take Dominik to lunch. They then take a walk on the street towards a nearby flower shop. The mix of sweet and dewy fragrances of the flowers brought a calm smile to his mother’s face as she browsed them. 

“Look, Nelken!” he pointed out to his mother.

Upon seeing what he called her attention for, her face lit up at the sight of her favorite flowers. She laughed heartily as she ran her fingers through the pink petals and picked one out for herself. Before she could walk far, Dominik discreetly paid the shopkeeper for the flower and followed after his mom.

“Mein Favorit,” she showed Dominik the flower with a giggle.

“I know,” he spoke to himself.

“Was ist dein Name nochmal?” she asks him as she keeps walking.

“It’s ‘Lukas’,” he answered.

“Ah,” she pondered as she looked at the red flower, “I have a son called ‘Lukas’.”

“Ja,” he paused, then asked calmly, “What if I told you I’m your son ‘Lukas’?”

She stands still, furrowing her brows and tilting her head. “But Lukas is small. Chubby but small,” she says, waving her hand below her hip.

Dominik held back a lump in his throat. This was as far as he could get the last time he visited. “I grew up now, Mama,” he reminded her.

“Grew up?”

“Ja.”

“You’re my son?”

“Ja.”

She places her hand on his arm and studies his face as they continue walking. Then she laughed out again.

“What’s funny?” he asked her, puzzled.

“Ach das ist lustig, my son’s name is Lukas, and your name is Lukas.”

“Ja, because I’m your son Lukas,” he urges her on, a sliver of light growing in his eyes.

She laughs again, but this time she leans into his arm and clings onto it. “Oh, you’re my son! I haven’t seen you in a long time, Lukas. Du bist jetzt groß, wie dein Vater!” she exclaims.

As much as he tried his best to stay on the scene, Dominik was holding back tears as he tried to laugh along. Never mind that she compared his height to his father’s—her sense of time was winded back 60 or so years after all, before his father became cruel and absent. What mattered is she recognized him, remembered him as her son. For him, it was enough to redeem his mother in his eyes. Any pain from their past was set aside for a more complicated feeling: the satisfaction of hearing her again, at least one more time before she passed, proudly calling him her child.

He had to look elsewhere, only being able to spare short glances at his mom, his eyes watering even more. At least he could hear her singing loudly as they walked down arm in arm to the cafe where he intended to take her. It was a small cafe near the care home, one that wouldn’t be too crowded for the both of them, and bright enough to not agitate his mother.

He opened the door for her, into a light and airy cafe filled with flowers, and led her into a table in the middle. On their way to the table for two, she stopped and greeted a random group of customers sitting around another table. He raises his guard up, ready to interfere in case the situation went awry.

“Das ist mein Sohn. He’s all grown up and handsome now,” she said to the table with a keen smile.

The guests smiled and nodded politely, fortunately taking a hint as to what was going on. In turn, Dominik led his mother’s attention back to their table and nodded to the guests in a subtle apology.

He helped her into her seat and composed himself for a second, before calling a server to order for both of them. Sometime after some catching-up talk, they were served cakes and warm tea. Suddenly, his mother asked him.

“Wo ist Jasmin?”

He stopped eating and grit his teeth. “She doesn’t care, just like Papa, despite the fact that you treated them both better than me,” he wanted to say, but instead he chose a different reply, “Papa took her to the piano competition. They’ll be back in a few days.” She acknowledges his answer and praises her daughter for her looks and her talents. He only looked down at his platter, pushing down the resentment that was bubbling up from his core. “It’s the dementia talking,” he told himself.

After he was able to tune out enough of the conversation to not dig up too many hurtful memories, but remain present enough to hear when his mother was done elaborating, he shifted the topic.

“I met a girl a few days ago, Mama. She’s pretty nice.”

His mother’s face glistened. “Really? Where did you meet her?” she asked.

“Ich war wandern. She likes motorbikes and flies planes. Wie cool ist das?” he said, taking another sip of his tea.

It was only during the previous Wednesday morning when he and Horangi met Kate. That day Horangi pestered him to make a move on a stranger, but now that he thinks about it, he should probably thank his buddy for the slight push, else he wouldn’t find an unexpected new friend. Otherwise he would only believe that she wouldn’t want to talk to someone like him at all.

“Ja, that’s very nice. Maybe she can come visit me too sometime?”

“Maybe, yeah.”

“Yes…” she trailed off, taking a bite from her cake, “I’m sorry, was ist dein Name nochmal?”

And just like that, the clock struck midnight for him. “It’s…Dominik,” he said, not wanting to redo the whole explanation of ‘Lukas’ being her son.

She hummed in response. “I have a son named ‘Lukas Dominik’.”

“Ah, I see,” he replied dryly, keeping his eyes down at the teaspoon he began fidgeting.

“He���s a small chubby boy, but he’s really sweet,” she continued, which brought back Dominik’s gaze towards her, “He likes to help me around the farm. He’s smart and pretty strong for his age too.”

Dominik only smiled in return. “So she does think of me,” he thought. If he was still in his teens or twenties, he would still harbor so much anger, but by now, this is why he can’t entirely blame her for all the mistreatment he went through. She would’ve been kinder had things not taken a left turn for them. While he felt guilty leaving her, it took those years of being able to think for himself for him to realize how much he still cared.

After their little cafe trip, he walked her back to her room in the care home and said goodbye, but not before the mom noticed the scar on his face and was alarmed.

“Hat jemand einen first aid kit?” she fretted, calling for the staff. They brought a small kit for her and she told Dominik to sit down so she can ‘tend’ on the old scar, which she believes is a huge and fresh gash on his face.

Yet again, everyone rolls with the scene as they have to. Deep down, Dominik savors the small final moment his mother shows affection before he goes back home. She shakily swipes wound solution on his cheek, and in a haphazard yet gentle manner, tapes a small folded gauze over the scar.

“Is that better?” she asked him.

“Ja, danke,” he smiled back then bid her goodbye. Walking out, not wanting to take off the gauze on his face anyway, he thanked the staff and made his way back to his car where he sat a couple more minutes after starting it.

He thought back to the kind things his mother said about him. The way she cared for the scar in a way that he hasn’t gotten from her in decades. The way she remembered that he is her son, and how she proudly told those other customers about him. It all stung in his chest as he looked at the bandage from his rearview mirror. It was as short as a flower’s bloom, how quick it was for her to see him as a son, then suddenly become a stranger again. For her to show all the care and gratitude one moment, then come back to distant niceties next.

As the last of the staff turned around and closed the main door of the home, when he was certain he was alone, he allowed a couple tears to fall. As he sniffled and wiped them away, the thought of someone seeing him in his current state irked him, so he took off the bandage, held it in his hand for a few more moments, before keeping it in his pocket. He wiped his face again and took deep breaths.

Just as he was about to drive away, his phone chimed. He picked it up and looked at the message that popped up: “Hi! Sorry for the late reply. I’m flying to frankfurt on tuesday. Do you live around there? -Kate”

Oh scheiße.

He does.

But just as he was about to respond, another message arrived.

“Btw is it Nick or Nik? ^_^ ”

He smiled at that. But part of him is too drained and anxious to see her. At least that’s what he thinks of at the moment. Even if Tuesday is three days away. He thought to himself, “what would Hong-jin tell him to do?”

“He would tell me to not reply immediately because ‘he shouldn’t look too desperate’. Great, time to do the opposite,” he thought, because almost 90% of his advice either got him into more social trouble or ended up feeling disingenuous.

He typed into his phone, “Yeah i live there. And it’s Nik :) ”. He sent it, fingers internally crossed for a reply, and drove off.

. . .

Translations:

Sie kennt immer noch alle Texte - She still knows all the lyrics Darf ich Mama zum Mittagessen ausführen? - Can I take Mom to lunch? natürlich - of course Herr Brunner? Sie können nach oben kommen. - Mr. Brunner? You can come upstairs. Frau Brunner, Sie haben Besuch - Mrs. Brunner, you have a visitor Oh gut, bist du die neue Wache? - Oh good, are you the new guard? Ja, guten Tag. - Yes, good day. Nelken - carnations mein Favorit - my favorite Was ist dein Name nochmal? - What's your name again? Ach das ist lustig - Oh that's funny Du bist jetzt groß, wie dein Vater! - You're big now, like your father! Das ist mein Sohn. - This is my son. Wo ist Jasmin? - Where is Jasmin? Wie cool ist das? - How cool is that? Hat jemand einen first aid kit? - Does anyone have a first aid kit? Ja, danke - Yes, thank you

Credits to @callofdudes for the König childhood headcanons you posted before. I used a lot of it here. <3

#könig x oc #könig #könig cod #könig call of duty #könig fanfiction #call of duty #cod mw22 #cod modern warfare #könig modern warfare #könig mw2 #konig x reader

[alicent-boleyn]

the subtle thief of youth

Word count: 1,247 words

SUMMARY: Berenice sees the end of childhood, 157 AC.

Berenice was not required to rise with the sisters, long before the break of dawn, none of the young girls were. She often did, regardless, eager to begin the day. While the other noble girls slept soundly in their beds, she dressed quickly, not wanting to miss Lauds. She crept through the halls to the chapel where all the sisters had gathered and snuck in, hanging in the shadows to watch and listen.

“Father, open our minds, Mother, open our hearts. Warrior, keep us strong, Maiden, keep us kind. Smith, help us remain steadfast, and Crone, help us remain vigilant,” they chanted, voices resonating through the stony room. Mother Celia led them into a hymn, “Lend Me Thy Shield,” and then another.

Berenice closed her eyes and let the sister's voices wash away the remnants of sleep and fill her with the light of the Seven. Sister Emmeline, who Berenice was very fond of, read a passage from The Seven-Pointed Star. How she loved to listen to them read! She would love to read, too, and sing, and lead the sisters in prayer, and do all the things the sisters did. Mother Celia, who ran the motherhouse, said that she would consider taking her in as a novice once she flowered, but only if her mother consented. Berenice had not seen her mother, Visenya, in three years and could count the letters she had gotten from her in that time on one hand. She did not think Mother Celia would have a very hard time getting Visenya to let her stay.

As Lauds ended, Berenice slipped back to the dormitory with everyone none the wiser. She got back in bed, hoping her bedmates didn't notice her leaving in the first place. It wouldn't be long before they were roused for breakfast and their morning prayers, so she simply laid back, watching the sun's first rays rise through the dorm window.

-

Not even the most noble girls were spared hard chores at the motherhouse, and today, Berenice was assigned the unenviable task of working the herb garden. It was not a solitary task, and with her straw hat, shears, and basket, she got to work with two other girls. Not being too fond of this chore, she chatted with them to pass the time.

“How are the goats?” she asked Lylah, the lanky blonde of five and ten who usually minded the dairy goats, but was currently elbow deep in the mint plot.

“Oh, very well! Misty's kids have arrived, and so have Clover and Daisy's, though Daisy's gone gargety and I'll have to ask Sister Bree about what to do, because she knew just how to fix that last time it happened to Danny-Girl, and also Maggie -”

“Do you really know the name of every damn nanny out there?” asked Alerie, a sour-mouthed girl of one and ten, a year older than Berenice.

“Language!” That was Sister Amy shouting. “Berenice, your mother is here. Clean up, be quick about it.”

Berenice was frozen in place, eyes widened in surprise. Her mother? Here?

“Quickly, Princess!”

She returned her supplies to the shed, removing her hat and dirty apron. In the dormitory, she changed her dress to something more suitable to meet her lady mother. Her heart raced as she walked to the chamber where Visenya was waiting.

Why is she here, now, after all this time? Berenice knew she should be excited to see her, but so far her mother has been content to leave her to the care of the Sisters, with only a passing interest in talking to the flesh of her flesh. Sister Amy met her at the dormitory door and escorted her to the visiting rooms.

Berenice was stunned by her mother's appearance. She could not tell if it was grotesqueness or beauty that made her heart skip a beat. Visenya towered over everyone in the room, her dragon-scale birthmarks obscured by a black net veil. Her stark silvery white hair was artfully sculpted into a crown, with a single whip-like braid hanging behind her. Her severe features were pulled into a mask of disdain.

“Where are your manners, child? I called for my daughter, not a peasant girl.” Berenice curtsied deeply in response. “Better. Come, sit with me.” When they were both on the couch, her mother took her hands. For a moment, Visenya's face softened, before refashioning itself into something even harder than before. “The King, your uncle, has died. I have been called to court, and you must come with me.”

Berenice felt tears well up in her eyes and her lips began to tremble. She had met her mother's brother only once, as a very little girl, and his death did not sadden her as much as the fact that she had to leave. “And when will I return here?”

“You won't, girl.”

“No!” she shouted, throwing herself off the couch and onto her feet, almost before she could stop herself. This was home! This was more than home, even, because here she could serve the Seven! “You can't!”

Visenya slapped her across the face. “I am your mother, and more importantly, I am a princess of the blood. You will do as you are bid, am I understood?” Tears openly streamed down Berenice's cheeks, strangling her voice. She nodded her assent, but that did not satisfy her mother, who yanked on her ear. “Am I understood!”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Good.” Visenya pulled her riding gloves back on. As she walked out of the room, she called, “You have an hour to prepare. Have your things ready or we leave without them.”

After her mother left, Berenice was escorted back to the dormitory, and Sister Amy helped her gather her clothes and things into her trunk. Sister Amy, who was always so inflexible about rules, gave her a little book of prayers, even though only novices were supposed to have one. Still crying, she thanked Sister Amy, choking on every word.

Sister Amy kneeled and turned Berenice towards her. With both hands on the young girl's shoulders, she whispered, “Her Highness may have borne you from her womb, but she has shown herself not to be your Mother.” She gently stroked the reddened skin where Visenya had slapped the child. “I know you wished to enter as a novice here, and I know you will never see this holy house again. Pray the hours every day, and hold yourself to what is right and just. Gods willing, you shall find yourself a righteous calling in marriage, as it seems Her Highness intends for you. As you have obeyed Mother Celia, obey your true Mother, and the King, and most of all, obey your heart.” Sister Amy placed a kiss on Berenice's forehead and rose from her knees. “We must finish before Her Highness thinks we mean to hold you hostage.”

The princess giggled at stoic Sister Amy making a joke. Before long, she and her trunks were packed onto a carriage. It was made with the highest skill gold could buy, but Berenice could not sit comfortably. She squirmed on the padded seat, like a worm. Her mother was, thankfully, not sitting with her, instead choosing to ride her horse for the first leg of their travels. When the carriage began to roll, Berenice whipped her head to the motherhouse, hoping to hold it in her sight as long as possible. Her mother strode over and tied the curtains shut.

#oc: berenice targaryen #asoiaf oc #got oc #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf #hotd #hotd oc

[purpleleafsyt]

Sun, Warmth, Vitality, Connection, Despair

<- | 3. Marigold | ->

#purplearts #bouquet of songs series #chonny jash #cccc #chonnys charming chaos compendium #hymn to the garden bed #cj mind #i cooked with this Mind design.. #she's doing great #absolutely wonderfully #everything goes just fine for her

[butchdonne]

do you have any good john donne poem recs i only know the one from howls moving castle.... (which i accidentally learned by heart but that's neither here nor there)

augh idk which one is in howls moving castle but rn my favourites are

THE CANONIZATION. PLEASE PLEASE IF YOU READ ANYTHING READ THIS ONE

holy sonnet xiv (batter my heart, three-personed god)

twicknam garden

the good morrow

the sun rising

the flea

the ecstasy

love's deity

the relic

elegy: to his mistress going to bed

hymn to god my god, in my sickness

the cross

holy sonnet v (i am a little world made cunningly)

satire 1

but this is like. extremely inexhaustive ive basically just written down the ones i know 🤷🏻 that man wrote SO MANY poems. i do recommend looking into his background (especially his religious background) because it makes this shit hit soooooo much harder . oaugh

#I LOVE HIM. SO MUCH. HRGH #<- is currentkly writing a poem about him #pip squeaks #donne tag <3

[bluecoolr]

For Life Or Until Fault

Alt Timeline 2.0 Darrell Todd (Odile's Darrell) Introduction

@solmints-messyocdiary

Warnings: MINORS DNI! Main character/s are slasher ocs! Themes revolving around mental turmoil, religious trauma, paranoia, demonic possession.

The letter was typewritten on cheap lightweight paper, but it sat heavy on the desk blotter. Blowing a cloud of smoke, Sister Agatha stared at it from the window. It stared back with a presence as arresting as its sender. Her gaze traveled to the ancient typewriter sitting beside it. Putting out her cigarette, Sister Agatha sat down and began to write.

My Dear Sir,

I write this letter on behalf of Mr. Darrell Todd, who served Our Lady of the Abandoned Sanatorium as groundskeeper under my supervision.

He first came to us as a patient.

She decided against it and ripped the paper out of the carriage. She began again.

We came by his services in a fortuitous manner.

He had been hauled to the sanatorium’s doorstep by authorities, with no memory of how he came to Moldova or where he had been for the past five years. Haggard, starving, and understandably distressed, he was taken to the psychiatric wing - where he was put under her care. For the first few weeks he was inconsolable, and moved between periods of reflective silence and hysteria.

During his time with us, his Romanian was sparse but became sufficient with lessons. He has greatly improved as I see from our current correspondence. His English, as you may soon tell, is distinctly American.

He was a big man. Quite young. The hospital gown they gave him barely reached his knees. The nuns averted their eyes whenever they passed him, a desperate attempt to keep their vows . His patient tag bit into his wrist. He had remembered his name, at least.

Gradually, Sister Agatha was able to nurse him back to health. They struck up a friendship of sorts, with Darrell stubbornly keeping himself at a safe distance, protecting what little he knew about himself. With time, his stability returned and he began to volunteer around the hospital. “The Devil finds work for idle hands to do, Sister,” he reasoned.

He helped with the garden work, usually saving whole plots that others had given up on, and hunted pests that frequented the property. It had taken a great deal of convincing for her superiors to let a psychiatric patient have access to a hunting rifle. When he gunned down the fox that had routinely broken into their chicken coop, however, they stopped voicing their disdain.

Mr. Todd is intelligent and very eager to learn. He is the finest hunter that has ever graced our grounds, and possesses military accuracy. He is hardworking with a gentle, quiet nature and of strong Catholic faith.

Sister Agatha was at once bombarded by memories of Darrell in vomiting fits in the churchyard, trembling in every limb whenever he was told to come to mass. For all his stay at the sanatorium, he would never set foot in the church. He would pace outside, hum along to the hymns, and kick up soil once he had calmed down.

He would also avert his eyes from any image of Christ, going so far as to remove the crucifix that hung on his bedroom wall. Sister Agatha often found it stuffed under his bed and would return it to its place. Always, she would find it missing the next day, its outline glowing like a brand on the faded wallpaper.

“Sister, I beg you. Get me an exorcist.” The request had alarmed - if not terrified - her, but she had pulled strings to grant it.

“He needs a psychiatrist, Sister,” Father Grigore insisted, “not an exorcist. Has his amnesia improved at all?”

It had not.

“I don’t think it’s good, Sister. There’s guilt there. Subconscious. Why do you suppose he fears God so?”

And yet, the board deemed him rehabilitated enough to be released. He had benefited from their care for too long. And so, one day he was sent packing. He marched, forlorn but determined, down the deserted road, and that was the last she ever saw of him.

I wish for you a successful partnership. I could not recommend a more suitable man for the job.

Yours in God,

Sister Agatha

#there's a second... maybe 3rd part to this #i had to cut this because then it would be too long 😆 #anyway it's not much but i hope yall enjoy #darrell todd #slasher oc #odile x darrell #alt timeline 2.0 #oc writing #bluecoolr.txt #for life or until fault

[myriamas]

who: @lorczamartell when and where: the private quarters of prince mors martell, soon following the discovery of his lifeless body. one by one, more officials of dorne are called secretly in the early hours of the morning: and when princess loreza of dorne enters the room, myriam approaches her quietly.

there was an unsteady silence in the room, of which the curtains had been drawn; the high commander of dorne remained stood by the door, awaiting for the presence of the other prince and princesses of house martell to cross the threshold and find their household changed forever, they were to be told prior to entering these rooms, for they needed to prepare themselves: this was nothing that was to be a surprise, or a shock. and so, in the minutes that ticked by as she waited for someone, anyone else, to cross into the threshold of the chambers, myriam allyrion remained sat in the chair beside the bed that she once shared.

the idols of the gods she had once quietly worshipped in the chambers of her husband were the same as those that were within her own personal chambers; and she had turned them in his direction - all that was left being a veil covering a face that once radiated the sun from it. and the hymns she chanted quietly, in the ancient tongue that followed them from across the narrow sea, were ones that were meant to try and comfort him as much as her in this moment.

mors martell would be reborn, or he would have collected enough good karma to be released from the cycle of reincarnation the dornish believed in; and so, as she muttered her prayers, she thought only of his passing. to wherever he would be going next.

how had this happened? why had this happened, so soon after the death of prince nymos himself?

what struck her, was how crushingly empty the room felt. his lack of presence, his absence, was felt; despite him remaining there. she knew he was no longer here. and she wondered if he would be reborn into a another that would be able to design the greatest of palaces, of gardens, without the weight of a crown on his head. she had not realised there had been tears rolling down her cheeks as she lit the candles surrounding the idols of the seven, not until she thought of her daughter who was within the royal nursery, curled up, blissfully aware that at three years old, she had become the princess of dorne.

she would never know, nor remember, what it was to not be the princess of dorne.

as she sounds of quiet talking came from the other room, she turned her gaze over her shoulder slightly, recognising the sounds of the voices of the martell family. leaning forwards, she unclasped the anklets from her ankles, as though she did not wish to wake him with the sound of the jingling as she walked. and she closed the door quietly behind her, looking upon the faces of the family she had married into. the family that had been her own, for thirteen years.

she greeted each of them with a kiss on their cheek, and yet when it came to loreza, she found herself hesitating. looking upon her, the young girl that had looked upon her with wide eyed awe the day she had married her brother. lost a father, and now her brother. "forgive me for not being here when..." she whispered, unable to finish the sentence. when her brother had breathed his last. because all suspected how the marriage of the prince and princess of dorne had broken down, into the distance it had become.

"the gurus have been called. the granthi too." the gurus, the ones who dealt with surveying the health of the court. they who dealt with the corpses of royals. her hand rested nervously over her mouth, almost as though she were in disbelief.

#c: loreza #loreza 004 #sob #it begins

[mrskrstic]

detachment, november snow, and the sacred heart

"Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart; wait, I say, on the Lord!" Psalm 27:14

Surrender is hard.

Though the concept seems longstanding throughout hymns of old and even in contemporary worship songs, it's much easier to lift your hands and sing about it on cry night than to consciously live it out. It's one thing to vehemently insist to a struggling other that the Lord is sovereign and will deliver on His promises, and entirely another to hold that reality in the hollow of your own heart and wait. To wait and hope is perhaps the greatest act of rebellion against the modern world that's hooked on instant gratification without the labors of patience. Yet even though we are only pilgrims, travelers passing through the world, we cannot help but be tainted by a disordered want for immediate results. God bids us wait, and we roll our eyes like moody children.

Sometimes God does not bid us wait for long. Advent is coming in a matter of weeks. Fall touched the Palouse for a brief moment and then hurried along, not to return again. It has already started to snow. Many a time I've awoken to a field of white and wondered how it wasn't Christmas morning already. It's hard to remain in the moment and not leap ahead to caroling and setting out a manger for the infant Christ when you long to celebrate so badly.

Other dreams take longer to realize. Since growing up, I've nurtured great wishes, wishes that ring so clearly I can picture them with perfect clarity. In the recesses of my heart there stands a little house in the country, full of warmth and laughter and home-cooked goodness. There is a peach tree and vegetable garden, a brood of chickens and a milk goat bleating softly in the daybreak. I picture a husband I could call my own, who would let me care for him in any way I could and be my company sitting at the feet of Jesus, and a noisy crowd of littles to tug on my skirts and clamor for a bedtime story, their hands and feet muddy from the day's romps.

I long for adventure. Not the costly sort that comes with a sacrifice of what truly matters, but the sort that you can pack into a trailer and tow along a lonely highway through America's national parks, where the mountains and the canyons sing the glory of their Maker and time seems have stopped moving hundreds of years ago. I want to share my heart with a family, and know that despite my many flaws and shortcomings, I can be deeply known and deeply loved.

Every day I dream! And every day I am left unsatisfied. Time and again I return to my bed with empty hands, and the shoebox I call my home seems smaller than it was the morning I left it. Is there any hope? Are we poor souls doomed to wander the land in torment of unfulfillment until the day we depart to meet our Creator?

Not so! For hundreds of years before God knit me together, the Carmelites had put into practice an ingenious solution to quell the fires of longing - detachment.

When implemented, detachment is meant to strip away any loyalties we may have that keep us from total intimate union with God. It is a slow, but steady process of surrendering our innermost dreams with the recognition that they are not our own - we are God's, and all that we have belongs to God, even the ambitions of our heart. It is a meek admission of our own humanity, and a lifting up the most tender pieces of our soul to God with the acknowledgment that His ways are infinitely higher than ours, and that the dreams and desires we nurture so could never come to pass.

Detachment is painful. In the moment, it can seem cruel and unfair. Why dream at all if you cannot lay claim to it? What use is it to build plans if they turn out to be contrary to the will of God? Though it may seem revolutionary in a world where people stake their identity in their earthly loves or accomplishments, it's only a humble response to the call of ages - "deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow Me".

In the offering of our very selves to the Lord, we focus our minds on the things above, those eternal treasures that will never be taken from us. The more one meditates upon the Lord and all His works, the more one cannot help but be drawn to His immense sacrifice for the sake of poor sinners - us, who were all once wandering lost, with our hope set upon that which is temporary and perishable. And once you had put to death all attachments to creatures, once you had released every inordinate desire into God's capable hands - then and only then would you find true contentment and rest in the Heart of the Lord. God is enough, He is ever-sufficient, as St Catherine of Siena tells us:

"O Deity eternal, O high, eternal Deity, O sovereign, eternal Father, O ever-burning fire! What do Your bounty and Your grandeur show? The gift You have given to man. And what gift have You given? Your whole self, O eternal Trinity."

Though it can be so, so hard to see in the moment...it is Christ who is our gift above all other gifts. In the shedding of His blood, He has reconciled us to the Father and brought us out of the lonely desert to enjoy the fruits of His sacrifice. Every day, He is present at the altar, under the modest appearance of bread and wine. When we encounter Him in communion, we are given a chance to hide ourselves in the wounds of His Most Sacred Heart and know that no matter what may come to pass in this life, we can always count on the One who died for us to carry us through.

Truth be told, I'm terrible at remembering this. Too often I forgo my greatest Treasure in favor of longing for some future blessing. But I want to get better. I want my life to be a continual drawing towards the Lord, to embrace the state in life I've been given without impatience or complaint.

Surrender is hard. But it's the easiest path we have this side of Heaven.

#catholic #catholicism #catholic church #roman catholic #roman catholicism #christianity #religion #theology #faith #christian #carmelite

[tiptapricot]

🌽 for antez and romero <3

🌽: How does this OC feel about acts of affection? What's their favourite act of affection, physical or emotional?

(ID in ALT)

As a married couple, they have a really domestic flow of affection, but their acts of love come from different directions.

Antez (he/hymn/hiss) is more emotions/experiences oriented. He likes writing songs or poetry about hiss love or dancing with Romero in the kitchen or taking a ride around their ranch when the sky is full of comets. He also likes quality time, and enjoys hanging out in the same room as Romero even if he’s not doing anything hymnself. He’s starry eyed for hiss husband, and just likes watching him move, watching him create and experience things he enjoys. His favorite act of affection would probably be something cheesy, like a surprise picnic date, or an evening out at a concert or play.

Romero (he/him) is more gifts and actions oriented. He likes to make and do things for people, and that ends up coming through in handmade gifts, manual labor, errands, etc. Food is a big love language for him as well, and sharing meals and making them for people is huge. He can’t really eat, but he knows food, and since he can’t enjoy it himself, he tries to make sure the people around him can. The delight people get out of something that tastes good, or brings back memories, or is new and interesting and delicious, makes him feel happy and accomplished. He also always has busy hands, and doesn’t like being idle, so he often has creations to give to people. When it comes to his favorite act of affection, getting gifts in return or getting to create with people is a big thing. There are times that Antez does things that he doesn’t realize are big gestures for Romero, like absentmindedly carving designs into his soaps, or helping him work on his garden.

Beyond their personal preferences, they both enjoy physical stuff like kissing, hand holding, cuddling/literally sleeping together, etc. Antez will goad Romero into spending an afternoon dozing with hymn in their bed, or they’ll flirt with each other while doing housework (standing close, flexing while they lift something, stealing kisses, etc.). They both pick flowers for each other, and Romero will braid them into Antez’s hair or slip them into the button holes of his jacket, and Antez will put them into Romero’s eyeholes or along the brim of his hat.

Character bios here!

Cute little commission of them here!

Send me an OC ask!

Drawing of Antez by tira3sii (ig), drawing of Romero by spicyboelives (tumblr, ig)

#the fruits ocs #the fruit is talking again #the fruit is answering again #antez tag #romero tag