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chernabogs · 1 year

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Growing Season

Inc: Malleus x Reader (2nd person terms used for reader; can be taken as romantic, but nothing in stone :) ).

Warnings: None! Maybe a little bit of political drama, but I mean... that's being a Prince for you.

WC: 2k+

Summary: It's time to add new roses to his garden in Briar Valley, and he considers all of the things he'll write to you about in his next letter as he does so.

It’s a warm day in the Valley—unusually so. Malleus moves soundlessly through the gardens, a tray of small rose bushes in his hands as his gaze rakes over the patches of soil bare and open for new harvest. The sounds of insects buzzing, their gossamer wings caught in the rays of the sparse sunlight that trickles in, frequently diverts his gaze from his task. Those same sun rays cause the black clothing he wears to heat him up to a point that he feels sweat forming.

Black is inconvenient in the spring. He hears your voice vaguely in the back of his mind as he holds the tray, your silver-tongued rebuttal about how leather and latex are causing his illness when he complained of being too hot before. His fingers tighten around the tray, and he kneels, the scent of earth mixing with the myrrhic one of the trees nearby. He can tell the last frost has passed as his pale fingers sink into the soil and disturb it, upturning it like a grave for the seedlings he’s about to plant. Briar Valley’s frigid air left little time for the planting of roses—making today an especially important one.

He's been writing you letters. Despite the distance between you both—he, in the Valley, and you, still on Sage’s Island—and the inhibition of Briar Valleys non-technological lifestyle, you two had managed to work things out. He told you he was going to plant these today many weeks ago. It was one of those sparse, passing comments you make to your loved ones without much thought. Then, your most recent letter had asked if he was planting them still. Somehow, throughout all the exchanges you’ve had since that comment, you remembered what he had said.

When the hole is sufficiently deep, he carefully—surgically—removes one of the seedlings from the tray and sets it into the earth. He pushes the dirt back and pats it down, almost loving in his touch.

One down, six to go.

The letters you two exchange serve as something for him to look forward to. Because of the way Briar Valley’s postal service is, they only come once a week—sometimes only once every other—and yet they’re so detailed it’s like reading a small novel every time one arrives. He tries to match your level of excitement; you write of your classes and your friends; he writes of his duties and politics. You write of your eagerness for holidays, he bemoans how these holidays no longer exist for him. You ask if you can see him this summer, he tells you of a wonderful summer estate that the Draconia family possesses on the coast—one he has a key for.

He kneels on the earth again and sets the tray aside. He would get some odd looks from his attendants when he returned with flushed cheeks and dirt on his hands, but he doesn’t let this bother him right now. He’s sequestered away in an idyllic world—one of sunlight, and flowers, and dragonflies with their gossamer wings—and he isn’t keen on letting the attendants break the illusion as he continues to think of you. His hands sink into the earth again and dig another fresh grave of flowers as he places the next seedling down.

Five more to go.

The constant flow of mail is noticed by those around him, of course. Whereas Silver and Sebek who know you don’t care that you two talk (if anything, they’re glad their Prince has someone outside the Valley to speak to) the servants, the attendants, and those who keep the inner-mechanisms of the Palace running are curious—and curiosity has killed more than one cat in its lifetime. He wasn’t surprised when an inquiry came down from the Senate regarding an influx of letters from Night Raven College. They have no business asking, of course, but the Senate has authority and he, who is set to work with them for the rest of his life, has explanations he needs to give.

His knees hit the earth again and he digs another hole. He’d have bruises tomorrow; gentle kisses from the soil, reminding him of the brief labor he embarked in. In another life he would have found himself toiling in the fields for a living rather than leisure. Harvest is a key part of Briar Valley life; many he knows work long hours in the sun. He plants another seedling, gives another life to the earth, and sighs.

Four more to go.

You’re something he wants to keep secret for now for one reason—forbidden. A Prince may have friends, but a Prince may not love freely. It’s a harsh reality a tutor had drilled into him when he had made an off-handed comment about wishing to marry the charming character from Briar Valley’s mythologies he had been reading. It was a comment that a child would make—and yet the tutor had acted like he committed a grave sin. It was one of the few times he cried before an adult. The tutor had been dismissed—no one touches the Prince—but the lesson long remains in Malleus’ mind. Whereas I love you holds weight to many already, to fall from his lips would be a commandment set in stone. He cannot just say it to anyone.

It’s by the blue roses that he plants the next seedling. He wonders if you like blue as he sets it down gently into the soil. Or perhaps you like green? Maybe yellow? Maybe white? He looks up at the roses he had been planting for many springs so far, each a different yet vibrant color. He’ll find your favorite and enchant it so that he can send it to you with his next letter. That will brighten your day as you continue your studies at NRC. He remembers how stressful they were, after all.

Three more to go.

His Grandmother had asked him recently about his influx of letters as well. Queen Maleficia, despite what many people presume from their relationship at a glance, is quite caring for her last family member. Although she keeps a strict, professional front to all, Malleus has been privileged to see her softer, more compassionate side more than once—and always directed at him. He admits, he did ramble a bit about you. There was much to say, after all; you were his friend, his confidant, and the person who managed to brighten his week in your own unique way even an ocean apart. She had watched him talk, her green eyes shining with an emotion he couldn’t place as a smile played on her lips, before she had simply said that’s wonderful, dearest, and let him on his way. When she received a request from him to investigate old Briar Valley laws for review, she had not commented on it, nor questioned him on his reasoning—she had simply approved it and moved on.

The sun is still rising in a slow, tedious climb in the sky, and Malleus is beginning to hear others waking up. Servants are speaking of the latest gossip in the kitchens—which, admittedly, he loves to listen in on—and a few guards are making their rounds through the gardens. Malleus crouches a bit lower to not be seen by them as he plants the next seedling. He’d rather not be roped into an uncomfortably polite conversation following the lines of ‘my Prince, why are you hiding in the bushes?’ any time soon.

Two more to go.

He had considered sending you another letter when the Senate had requested a brief freeze in mail to the Palace. They wanted to readjust the way that it was sent in to enable a more thorough checking of contents before being delivered. Malleus isn’t stupid; he knew this was their method of nosing into his personal business under the guise of official legislature. He’d been moody about it for weeks until your most recent letter was finally approved to come in. The one he’s planning to send next will certainly be longer; along with the rose he’d selected, he’ll be happy to discuss this latest change with you as well, alongside the law reviews, and the planting of the seedlings. You’ll finally get the novel-length message he knows you deserve, and he dearly hopes the reviewers like reading it as well.

Two more seedlings sit in his tray, He feels terrible separating them, setting only one in the hole, and taking the other away. They’d been planted and nurtured together for the laborious months he fussed over them in his greenhouse—and now, they’re a gardens width apart. A small, melancholic grimace plays on his lips. He’ll plant the last one directly across the plot; that way the two plants will still see each other every day.

How funny, to treat plants like people, and to try to keep them together even when they cannot be.

One more to go.

There’s a passage written in a story he read once: The Fae and The Fallow. It’s a book that had been banned in the Valley until shortly after he was born due to the nature of its content. The tale follows a Fae Prince by the name of Ælfric, who lived long, long before the Draconia family did. Ælfric fell in love with a human, Auðr, and entered a forbidden affair with them; their love had been deep and true—enough to inspire a four-hundred page epic—and Ælfric had promised Auðr he’d find a way for them to be together. Unbeknownst to Ælfric, another Fae by the name of Goda saw the two lovers and—in jealousy over being denied Ælfric’s hand—poisoned Auðr when Ælfric had left on a hunt.

The Prince had gone on an odyssey of sorts to save his lover’s life, even venturing into the Otherworld to find a way. There had been battles, and betrayal, and all the wonderful pieces that a child like Malleus loved to read.

But he remembers hating the ending of The Fae and The Fallow.

Ælfric, out of time and losing Auðr quickly, had begged an ancient spirit of the Otherworld to find a way for him and his love to be together. In return, the spirit had turned them into fallow deer; their lifespans were shortened, but Auðr was alive, and as the fallow deer, they were able to be together without judgment and fear. The story had claimed the fallow deer of the Valley were evidence of Ælfric and Auðr’s story; their love had, in a way, lasted forever.

Malleus had burned his copy of the book after that. The entire thing incinerated, save for one page that he tore out and kept close. In this scene, Ælfric has just become lost after a battle with a great giant. He feels alone, torn from his friends and further from his lover than ever before. Malleus tore it out of the book because he, in some strange twist, felt like he could understand Ælfric in the moment. The passage simply said;

I have been in the darkness without the light of your smile to guide me Without your beauty to inspire me, without your voice to unravel me Oh, my love, my life You are a forbidden Eden that I seek; One that I yearn for when without, and I mourn for when denied My paradise, my fall I will defy even the Gods to keep you by my side

He considered sending you a copy of the tale with his letter as well. You did say you liked reading but something about the story—about the passage he saved in his pocket which now reminded him always of you—felt too sacred, too personal to give away just yet. So, he tucks it away, with your letters signed ‘yours truly’ at the end, and he bides his time, bides on the Senate, bides on old laws that are now being considered in review. It takes three years for a rose bush to grow, but Malleus will wait a thousand if it means finally having you.

Your story will not be Ælfric and Auðr—this, he swears. He will not let any Senate, any laws, or any intent poison you as Auðr had been.

He sets the last seedling in the hole and sighs, patting it down before looking up and around at the garden once more. The morning sunlight is golden, the heat now more bearable, and the flowers sway gently in a spring breeze. It’s beautiful, it’s promising, and hidden within a paradise of his own, the Fae Prince wears a soft smile.

#twst x reader #malleus draconia #twst malleus #once again heres ames ONLY writing diasomnia #one day i'll do more... one day...#(they say #opening another Lilia wip)

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bruciemilf · 2 years

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Alrighty so after reading a fic that Muhammad Ali'd my feels - I'm now thinking; 40s AU Young newspaper writer Clark Kent got a neat little drafting letter in the mail. Death and gunsmoke sits thick on his tongue.

He thinks about dodging it. He remembers he's tall an broad shouldered with youth and health roaring in his lungs. Others go with silver hairs and illnesses.

He remembers his Ma and Lois and people he writes about everyday.

He reconsiders.

He meets combat medic Thomas Wayne with blood in his eyes and burned soil in his mouth and the sound of shouts and bombs wailing around them. " Good day to die isn't it?!"

"...Better than Lasagna day!" He shouts back, and this might be the last words he ever says, and he simply can't have that, "You gotta run out of here!" He shouts, blood glazing over his lips.

Thomas is precise, thought, working thread and scissors and pumping Clark with enough Morphine to send him flying.

" My boy likes you hero types!"

" You got a son?"

" Oh, yeah! Gonna tell you so much about him you'll wish I left you here," and that's the last thing Clark recalls him shouting before a screen of pitch black punched him out of conciousness.

Death has a taste. It's bitter, and final, and peaceful, and Clark never wants seconds. But Thomas is a man of his word.

Sits by Clark's bedside, hands never clean, always stained red, with scraps of flesh or dirt caking under his fingernails, and talks so much about Bruce that Clark asks for anaesthesia.

He laughs, too, and it feels good. It feels nice to hear someone and not having to worry if it's the last, " You know he never wants to hear from me again? Cause I came here? I think he's just angry those puppy eyes don't work anymore."

" Someone has to."

" Tell him that when we get out of here; He can outstubborn a donkey but he makes really good pie. "

" My Ma could make one better. No way a rich boy makes good pie." Thomas smiles like he's just won something, close-mouthed and curving mischievously, and Clark just knows he and Ma would get along like water and fish.

Clark doesn't stop thinking about him. About Bruce Wayne, with round, pretty eyes that make Clark think of dark chocolate and sweet coffee. A shy little thing of a smile and beautiful In ways Clark's hands shouldn't touch.

And he does meet Bruce, because he makes it out of there. Scarred and hurt and hollow, but alive all the same, and Thomas sees a reason for celebration.

JUST. BRUCE AND CLARK BEING AMAZED AT ONE ANOTHER. Bruce outshining everyone at Thomas' little homecoming Gala in Clark's eyes, even retreated and puffy eyed and pouty, clinging to his father the whole time.

Let there be a sweet lightning strike when these two cross eyes. Let Bruce nervously introduce himself, a rosy, pink flush decorating his cheekbones, and let Clark feel his hand tingle with want when they separate.

" I'm, - I wouldn't have come. I don't like war."

" Neither do I," Clark smiles, rusty and strange on his face, " but I do like milkshakes and popcorn. Especially with good company." He offers up his arm to Bruce, which, he does try to backtrack-- maybe he's reading this wrong, maybe Bruce just feels pity, -- but there's a vine grip hooking around Clark's arm.

" You'll stand out this way."

" Good."

#just a nasty nasty bitch for soldier clark also bruce is a teacher in this au!!!#bullets and journals au #they send eachother letters when clark is called up again and my heartttt #bruce wayne #clark kent #bruceclark #superbat #fluff #angst #writing #dc #dc comics

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axiadesu · 1 month

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[malink]The Memoirs

※malink.non-primitive setting

※Modern farm setting

——

Heavy fall rains with a chill swept over everyone walking down the street.

A group of men dressed in black with black umbrellas arrived at the cemetery and watched in silence as the man who owned the Rumble Farm was buried - alongside his wife, Malon, amidst the priest's prayers.

The townspeople whispered and let out a sigh of regret.

The man standing at the front - he looked like Link, but with red hair - looked to the woman beside him with those beautiful blue eyes, and he said, "Sister, I'll clean up my father's belongings? "

"Brother, you don't have to test me. Father is dead, I won't bother with the dead." The woman was exquisitely made up, dressed in a tastefully appropriate black suit dress, her blonde hair curled over her shoulders, "Come along."

In silence and in company, they left the cemetery, leaving the newly carved stone alone to be washed away by the rain.

[Malon & Her Husband-Link]

The road to Rumble Farms was a muddy dirt road decades ago, however, it has now been groomed into a smooth gravel road, large enough for a sedan.

"It hasn't changed here at all." The woman said. She didn't care that her expensive leather boots were soiled by the dirt on the ground as she strutted towards the courtyard.

As the man got out of the car, he looked toward the sunset in the distance.

"It's really beautiful."

The two men entered the compound together. The yard was wide and clean, the firewood was neatly split and stacked under a rain tarp, the tool shed was locked, but you could see the neatly arranged tools inside through the window. The wooden floor of the porch was glistening with oil, as if it had been taken care of some time ago. Two pots of orange sunflowers sat on the windowsill, spreading their branches against the setting sun. A half-read book was placed on the table under the window sill, next to a pot of coffee that had run out.

The woman stopped and picked up the book, "It's one of Mom's favorite travelogues."

The man was silent as he took out his handkerchief and handed it to the woman. She pushed it away, "I'm not crying!"

"Go inside and take a look."

The gate was hung with a doorplate, a not-so-pretty wooden board with [The Malon Family] carved crookedly on it.

The man said, "Do you remember? We carved it together. You just learned to talk then."

The woman twisted her head, her long hair covering her cheek, "...... who remembers such things."

"Mother said she wanted to carve out [Link and Malon's home], and father disagreed, and finally asked us, and you were the one who stammered and rattled off mother's name-" "- Say no more! ...... go into the house."

They pulled open the door and stepped into the foyer. They familiarly took their slippers out of the cupboard and changed into them before realizing with an afterthought that it wasn't right.

The man crouched on the ground, covering his eyes helplessly, and after a long time, his voice came out with suppressed sobs, "Why ...... Mary ...... I can't believe he really left us... . like mom ...... forever."

The woman-Mary raised her head and stared at the round white lampshade on top of the foyer, "Mom always said you were like her, with too much emotion."

A single tear slid down the corner of Mary's eye into her temples before disappearing.

The living room was furnished as it had been for decades, or as it had been all over this entire farm, even Link, and together they were stuck on the day Malon left, abandoned by the world, with only time to leave a mark.

"Joseph, don't you think, our father is a bit of a scary man." Mary called out to her brother, "He planned everything, the time the letter arrived in the mail, the time we arrived, the cemetery, the priest, and even everything on this farm. Then he went to his death with a straight face and left us to clean up this mess!"

"Don't talk about him that way, Mary." Joseph stroked the back of his armchair and replied, "Father took ...... everything on alone."

He lifted his hand and gazed at the mark that seemed to have been left by countless strokes, the obviously faded fabric.

This is where Malon used to sit when she was alive.

Joseph remembered well that when Mary was still in Malon's womb, she used to sit here, with the woolen frame full of wool at her feet, and watch Link and him play with some wooden toys - which Link had made himself - while she made Mary's birth Preparation.

This place should never have been worn so badly. It was Link who had often caressed this place, like stroking what had once been Malon through time and space.

They had been so in love. How could Link be indifferent to Malon's passing.

Mary placed the books she had collected from outside the house on the shelves, just as she had done countless times. Nothing here had changed, not even the placement of the books.

"It's like I'm back in time." Mary said, "I miss Mommy."

Joseph walked next to her and hugged Mary, "It's been years ......"

Next to the floor-to-ceiling door leading to the backyard, pots of greenery were lush, their leaves glowing green and adding one of the few signs of life to the withered room.

Joseph called and had someone come in the morning to clean up the room. They weren't going to leave this stuff behind to eat dust.

As Joseph walked to the front of the study, he said to Mary in a mock lighthearted manner, "Remember? When we were kids, the study was always off-limits to us; Father never allowed us to just enter."

He squeezed the handlebar, "No one's stopping us now."

"That's not a funny joke, Joseph."

"You still say things like that?"

They walked into the den.

Two bookshelves sit along the wall, also filled with books.

Malon loved to read, but loved to hear Link read to her even more. Even Joseph and Mary's bedtime stories were, for the most part, read by Link.

Joseph walked wistfully to his desk and looked out over the endless wheat fields in the distance.

"This is ......" He looked down and noticed several thick notebooks neatly arranged on the table; they were so numerous, so many that they seemed to cover two large dictionaries.

Joseph picked up the topmost book and flipped a page at random.

——

October 19, light rain.

At 5:05 a.m., got up and ate the rest of yesterday's bread, which was a little hard.

At 7:03 a.m., finished feeding the chickens and collected twenty-three eggs. Fifty eggs have been collected, and old Hanson ......'s son can be notified to come and collect them - I forgot again that he had died last spring.

9:27 a.m. A little tired from organizing the barn and yard. So I lay in bed and imagined Malon massaging me. ...... A little better.

11:36 a.m, Epona - it's Epona's granddaughter, she almost ran away. I ran all over the wheat field to bring her back. It was exhausting. Malon, I think I may be getting very old. Just now a child from the city called me grandpa. It was very new.

12:16 p.m. Had chickpea pasta for lunch and used canned food. I solemnly apologize, Malon, and please don't knock me on the head. But I can never make this dish right.

3:31 p.m. Napped for about an hour. I'm sweating a lot and it's time to change the sheets again.

6:09 p.m. Spent the afternoon organizing the yard. Winter is coming and there is a lot to do. The firewood hasn't been split yet. That's bad, mind you, it's less than even half the amount that used to be there.

7:05 p.m. Finished a painting today. Malon, it's the time we fished at the lake. Remember? You caught a big fish! And at night we made fish soup with that fish and ate it for three days, and after that you never wanted to take home the fish you caught. ...... Well, but the fish soup was really good that day.

7:41 p.m. Had leftover pasta from lunch for dinner. Not very tasty.

It's 8:04 p.m. and I'm in bed, reading Shakespeare's Poetry today, which I've been reading for many days now, but still can't understand.

I'm ready to turn out the lights. Good night, Malon. I love you, Malon. Good night, kids.

——

Joseph flipped through page after page of almost identical daily routines, almost replicated diary entries.

His hands trembled slightly, "Mar, Mary, come see this ......"

They went back to the living room, turned on the light, and sat down together to read each page of the diary word for word.

Joseph asked, "Want to start on page one?"

Mary was silent. Joseph opened the oldest copy and turned to the first page.

——

October 2, overcast.

I lost what I loved.

——

October 4, sunny.

I lost what I loved.

But the kids are still there.

Malon instructed me to take care of them.

I'm a father, not just Malon's husband. I'm going to be there for them.

——

October 7, sunny

I lost [Haloed by water stains.and couldn't see].

Mary snapped at me today.She accused me of being too indifferent to your passing.

...... This hurts.

Malon, ...... [very long gap] ...... I miss you ...... I can't ...... can't live without you.

[Large wet marks]

——

Joseph looked to Mary.

He remembers that day.

It was pretty much the most heated argument their family had ever had.

Mary spent the night crying in her room. When she got up in the morning, she saw her father's forced smile - it was plainly easy to see that it was the hardest smile he had ever seen his father smile.

But Mary was overcome with grief, and she was furious with her father, hurting him with words he could hardly imagine.

She accuses her father of being cold-blooded and uncaring, of not loving her mother at all, and that he wouldn't even shed a tear for her at the funeral.

Then Mary slammed the door.

He couldn't understand his father at the time, but he didn't identify with Mary either, so he just picked up the not-so-delicious breakfast his father had made, said his goodbyes and left for school.

How heartbroken his father was after he was gone, and how he steeled his grief ...... Joseph did not know.

Maybe no one knows now.

——

October 15, heavy rain.

Joseph and I talked about matters of the heart, and he said he understood me well.

He's a good boy, Malon, and I don't think I'll ever be as good as you, I can't replace you.

The children have lost a wonderful mother.

Mary still won't talk to me. I can't get mad at her, I'm trying to ease up with her, but it seems to be failing.

I'll try, Malon. I love you.

——

[In between are trivial routines that are quickly skipped over]

——

November 21st, snow.

In a month it will be Christmas and the kids are going on winter vacation.

It's the first Christmas without you, and I'm nervous.

Malon, what have we done in the past? Christmas tree, presents, turkey - well not turkey, I know you're going to knock me on the head again - how about lasagna with meat sauce, that's all I know how to make.

Oh yeah, and gifts, that's important.

I'm going to give Joseph that spray-painted model airplane he's wanted for so long, and I know he wants to be a pilot. Maybe I should try to support him.

As for Mary ...... I missed the perfect time to talk to her and I hope the gift I chose will win her back.

Wish me luck. I love you, Malon.

——

[In the middle is the trivial routine of preparing for Christmas, which was skipped]

——

December 25, heavy snow.

[A lot of marks poked and prodded by the tip of the pen, as if the person who put it down struggled with whether or not to write it down.]

...... I lost Mary. She hated me.

I don't get it Malon, she's fixated on the fact that I'm not sad at all, I tried to explain it to her but ......

Maybe I wasn't a good father.

I'll keep trying.

I love you, Malon.

——

December 26, heavy snow.

Last night I heard Joseph say something to Mary and today she eased up on me.

I'm glad. Joseph has always been a good boy, and that's down to what you've taught him.

...... To be honest, I'm a little scared. Mary lost you when she needed her mother the most, and I'm not sure I can fill that void.

I'm afraid Mary will go to extremes because of my negligence.

——

Christmas ......

Joseph has spent many kinds of Christmases, a cozy one with Link and Malon before his sister Mary was born, a teenage Christmas in the square with friends, and a youthful Christmas in a rented house with a loved one.

But ...... the first Christmas after my mother passed away ......

Joseph remembered.

He did receive a spray-painted model airplane from his father, and it was at one time his most beloved toy - but of course he didn't pursue a career as a pilot later.

Sister Mary received an music box - handmade by her father.

Joseph asked, "Do you remember what you received?"

Mary was silent for a long time, "...... music box."

"You threw it." Joseph's tone was sure. He'd witnessed Mary arguing with her father-perhaps accusing him unilaterally-and then, she'd thrown that music box far out the window.

"I threw it." Mary said, "But I regretted it. So I slipped out of the house while you were all asleep and tried to pick it up. But I didn't find it, and I almost got lost."

She realized something as an afterthought, "You mean ...... could it be ......"

Joseph said, "Maybe we can find it somewhere in the house."

They felt like they were marching through a dark cave wearing headlamps and began to discover aspects of Link that were unknown to them.

They read on.

——

[For an entire Christmas vacation Link didn't record, perhaps he was too busy to do so, or perhaps Mary's rebellious behavior burned him out. Anyway, he recorded again after Mary and Joseph returned to school. But after that, the diary started to get simpler.]

——

Jan. 17, sunny

The snow stopped.

Did farm work today and tried a new dish following the recipe you left but failed.

Luckily it didn't burn the kitchen down.

I love you, Malon.

——

January 19, overcast.

Hanson, of the grocery store in town, approached me about a business deal, wishing to purchase eggs at fifty at a time, and I agreed.

I love you, Malon. Kiss you.

——

January 21st, heavy snow.

It snowed so hard last night that it crushed the wooden shed in the yard.

It has to be fixed today.

I love you, Malon.

——

February 1, sunny

Joseph sent a letter. In it he wrote about how he and Mary were doing and reassured me.

I'm so proud of them.

I love you, Malon.

——

[The next is all recorded in such a piecemeal fashion that it's impossible to see what's changed.]

——

Joseph quickly flipped through the similar sections until September.

He stopped.

Mary asked him, "Why don't you flip? It's almost September."

Joseph took a deep breath and said, "I'm afraid to turn it over. Mary, please."

Mary took it and turned the page backward. She wondered how much overlap there was between the father she remembered and the one who wrote the diary.

——

September 2, sunny

I lost sleep all night.

——

September 3, sunny

[Ink spots from repeated stamping]

Malon [was traced many times, the ink is very dark]

——

September 4, cloudy.

I can't face the kids.

——

September 5, sunny

I'm ready, Malon. You said I was strong.

I'll be strong.

——

[No record in the middle]

——

September 12, sunny

I lost what I loved ...... again.

[Large wet marks]

I was a coward. When I stepped into the cemetery, a wave of avoidance grew in me. I dared not face it.

I've been running away every moment of this year. I lied to myself, lied to myself that you were just traveling far away, how else was I going to make it through each day, not to mention the kids ...... how could I let them see a broken father.

But today, I walked into the cemetery as if someone had slapped me in the face, woke me up from a beautiful dream of escape, and pointed to your tombstone and told me: she's dead, and Malon is gone from me forever.

I can't hug you anymore.

How I would like to go after you ...... Malon, and if there were no children, I should soon catch up with you after your death.

But I can't.

Mary is looking more and more like you, and Joseph, his hair, he grows it long, a little slightly curly like yours.

I miss you Malon ...... I really, really miss you ......

——

Mary was silent. So was Joseph.

"Father He ......"

"I don't think you realize——"

They spoke in unison. Then Mary said, "You first."

Joseph closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm his voice.

"I remember that in the year that mother passed away, it was about September 11th, maybe September 9th - I can't remember. Anyway, that day-"

Joseph had two too many glasses of juice at dinner, so he got up that night.

As he left the toilet and prepared to go back to his room to go back to sleep, he noticed that the door to his parents' room was not closed as usual, but had been left ajar.

Joseph heard talking coming from inside and sneaked closer, pressing his eyes against the crack in the door to peek in.

He swore that he would never forget what he saw that day for the rest of his life.

——Mother lay in bed, pale, her lips bloodless, and even her passionate red hair a little dry and frizzy.

Her withered hand rested on father's head-he was sitting on the edge of her mother's bed, the tall, straight back that Joseph remembered bending.

The father was crying, and he was lying on the side of his mother's bed, weeping.

Joseph heard his father say, "...... I'm sorry, Malon. I'm just ...... I'm just ......"

There was a sort of saintly smile on his mother's face, "It's okay, honey, I know this is cruel to you. But, honey, you have to hear me out ...... I'm about to run out of time."

The father was hunched over, sobbing in a small voice under the dim bedside lamp while he wrote down what his mother said.

"...... The key to chickpea pasta is the chickpeas, Link, no canned chickpeas, that's not soul. Also, don't rush when stacking the bread, you're always in a hurry. Sprinkle some water on it before it goes in the oven ......"

"...... And the greenery, no throwing them away. The house needs some life. Remember to take a clean cloth and wipe off the water after spraying ......"

Mother rambled on and on, and Father memorized every word.

It's hard for Joseph to describe what it felt like, but the dim light of that day, his mother's death-stained, relieved smile, and his father's no-longer-straight spine were etched in his mind.

"- Shortly after that, the mother passed away. Immediately afterward came the funeral, and father held up the farm all by himself."

Mary was silent for a long time after Joseph finished.

She silently turned over the diary in her hand, "...... Look at the next page."

——

September 16, light rain.

Organized the wheat field today with the helpers, much neater.

Also prepared wood, which I'm going to split into smaller pieces next for the winter.

There's also a stockpile of food ...... I think that should be enough. I'll just check again tomorrow.

It's time to get the Christmas presents up early this year. I think Mary, perhaps unlike her brother, isn't too fond of those handmade knickknacks.

Jewelry might be a good choice.

As for Joseph, well ...... trust someone to bring him a pilot's medal.

——

Sept. 20, great sunny.

A group of young men from the city wanted to have a picnic on the farm. I agreed and instructed them to be careful with the fire.

Malon, I thought I saw you.

But that wasn't you. It was just one of those pretty girls who didn't look anything like you, except for the red curls.

I saw her with a friend, wearing a beautiful flowing dress, laughing with her friend under a tree.

Remember? It was under the tree where we used to fall in love.

Same position.

I remember that kiss. You kissed me. So green ......

Malon, I'm trying, like you said, to stay strong.

I'm trying. ...... [two wetted drops].

——

September 21, sunny

The redhead came to me, she said her name was Blanche and she wanted to stay here for a few days with her friends.

Her eyes were undisguised.

I turned her down, that's for sure. How long have I been losing you?

But her presence reminded me if the kids need a new mom ......

But ...... Malon, I don't know ......

——

[In between is a repetitive and boring routine]

——

December 23, sunny

I had a heart-to-heart with the kids about the new mom.

They reacted violently, especially Mary.

I should have thought of it, her feelings ...... for you do not allow others to interfere.

Mary once again berated me, and this time, I was dumbfounded. Joseph took Mary's side this time, too. I guess he was right.

I screwed up again. Malon, I really can't do it without you ......

Miss you ...... miss you very, very, very much.

I love you, Malone ...... [repeated many times]

——

December 25, Snow.

I repeatedly assured the children that I had not betrayed your heart before they would speak to me again.

Honestly, I'm glad that the kids love you so much, even more than they love me.

It's only natural. Who wouldn't love you?

We had a fairly peaceful Christmas. The sadness of losing you is starting to wash away with time. I'm glad to see the kids smiling again.

They should be looking forward and moving on, not staying in the past with me to keep you company.

——

[A great deal of repetitive content]

——

September 13, rain.

The fifth year of losing the one I love.

Malon, I'm having a little trouble remembering what you look like, so I've taken up painting.

It's a bit of a shy thing to say, so I set up the drawing room in the attic, that secret base of ours. After Joseph was born, we used to rendezvous there almost as often as we used to avoid your father.

I do clean there but never use it, I try to leave every item as it is, it's important.

——

Sept. 16, thunderstorms.

Joseph did not choose to enter pilot school, he went to business school.

...... It's kind of hard to believe. I always thought it was his dream to become a pilot.

I'm a father ...... praised by the townspeople for being an excellent father ...... really excellent?

Also, it's amazing that Mary has a boyfriend at school, and it's surprising that I only found out about it when Joseph accidentally let it slip!

What kind of brat is this! I'm going to take a nail rake and beat his ass! And then take him to water the wheat field!

[The handwriting on these two lines is very dark, and it is clear that Link was very angry when they were written]

I simply don't understand why Mary is doing this, she's 15! 15! not 25!

I'm so angry! I'm so angry! I'm going to her school tomorrow and I'm going to beat the crap out of that brat!

——

September 20, sunny

"Operation Beat the Bastard has been canceled because Joseph is back.

He calmed me down like a mature adult, almost like you calmed down a raging Talon - I understand now how your father felt, because I did too.

Joseph says he's been watching Mary to make sure she doesn't fall prey to those bad-hearted brats.

Joseph is reliable and I'm proud of him.

He said that the boy was nice and would go into the legal profession, maybe a lawyer, maybe a judge, in any case a decent and honorable profession.

I asked him if he would despise Mary because she was just a farm girl.

Joseph replied that he had worried too, so he had gotten someone to try him out, and luckily, at least for the moment, he wasn't having second thoughts.

Joseph promised that I would continue to observe and write to me with a follow-up.

Well, it looks like the wheat field is going to be missing a watering can.

——

Mary read this and said in a cool tone, "No wonder my father had such a horrible look in his eyes at the wedding. I'm glad for my husband's ass."

Joseph grunted, "If he tries to betray you, I'll beat him with a nail rake instead of father."

Mary turned the page and said, "I won't need you, I'll do it myself."

——

[Large repetitions of daily routines, unlike the previous ones, with the addition of a drawing section]

——

April 8, sunny

I drew you reading a book in a field of flowers outside the window. My technique was poor and the drawing didn't look anything like you, so it seems I need to practice more.

I tried to make the Tuscan Cream Chicken today, and honestly, I did follow the recipe you left, but it didn't taste the same as I remembered.

Maybe I should make it again for the kids to try when they get back.

I love you, Malon.

——

April 12, overcast.

I made Tuscan Cream Chicken for the kids. Joseph loved it and said my handiwork is already comparable to yours.

Speaking of which, after five years, the kids are no longer resistant to talking about you; they talk about you like they used to, like they would an old friend who's traveled a long way.

But ...... I ...... Malone, I still dare not be as frank as they are.

Almost every night over the years I have dreamed of you, of our meeting, of our love, of the little things between us.

I can feel that I'm losing you, in the truest sense of the word.

I began to forget, forget your looks, forget your voice, forget your smell ...... I began to fail to remember the mole on your back, the freckles on your face, the muscle lines on your legs ......

I've been drawing you ever since I could draw portraits, and I want to paint everything in my head about you.

I'm really scared of forgetting you ......

——

April 14, sunny

Painting.

Doing farm work.

——

April 15, rain.

Painting.

——

April 16, rain.

Painting.

——

[The drawing was repeated for almost a month before stopping.]

——

Mary stopped reading, "It's kind of hard to believe. If I didn't remember this time, just reading the diary, I would think my father was crazy."

Joseph sighed, "Sometimes I'd rather he was crazy. Mary, I've been meaning to tell you that it's been really hard on father all these years."

"...... I did something wrong." Mary finally admitted, "I broke his heart, and I didn't even get a chance to apologize to him."

Joseph put his arm around Mary's shoulders, "It's ...... okay. Remember? What mother told us, father is a very strong man. Don't you see it written in the diary that he understands you."

Mary slumped into Joseph's arms, her voice trembling, "Just see here ...... just here ...... Joseph, I'm afraid to look. I used to treat him——"

Joseph patted his sister Mary on the back, "Okay, okay. It's getting late, go get some rest."

Mary answered softly and walked to her room.

After Mary left, Joseph folded the pages and then continued reading.

He wanted to know how many unknown wounds his father, who was strong, brave and not too old-fashioned in his mind, was hiding.

He knew it was a little late, but he still wanted to try, he wanted to be there for his father - even after all these many years.

——

[A large number of notes on drawing, and Joseph felt the need to make a trip to the attic after reading these.]

——

May 7, sunny

There's no room for new paintings in the attic.

But luckily, I went ahead and built a cabin behind the house where the paintings I wasn't happy with from earlier could be stowed.

Hanson's youngest son came to me today and said that his father had broken his leg and he came to purchase eggs instead of his father.

I had a very stable deal with Hansen, which was somewhat comforting.

Incidentally, there are more kids in town, which is a strange feeling, and I always feel like both Joseph and Mary are still kids who need our care.

But this year, just yesterday, Joseph wrote.

He included a picture of a girl with blonde hair and very pretty in his letter. He said he decided she was the love of his life. Then the brat spends two big pages of nonsense describing how they met and fell in love.

Heh! Young man!

......

Malon! I wasn't like this back then, was I? Please, ...... don't say "yes"!

——

Joseph gave a wistful smile.

No wonder his father deliberately baked burnt bread for him to eat when he went back that year.

Father's cooking wasn't really that bad. It's just that he doesn't want to do it properly when mother is around. Because if he did it wrong, it would make his mother look at him and talk to him twice more.

It was obvious that the two were a close couple, but the father was always happy to play tricks and tricks.

Joseph didn't understand it before he got married, but after marrying his wife, he did.

It's nothing more than what's called conjugal love.

Mother was so smart, how could she not notice her father's little mind, but she was just indulging it.

——

June 26, sunny

Another summer.

We used to love summer the most because that was the season we met and fell in love. I still remember that green dress you wore, it made you look even more beautiful than usual. By the way, I've given this dress to Mary for her 16th birthday.

Honestly, when she came downstairs in that dress, I even thought it was you coming back.

I hate that Lucky Boy. Very! [Very heavy handwriting]

How does he deserve to spend his life with such a nice girl!

......

I opened a bottle of red wine in honor of our anniversary.

Remember our first anniversary? I was so nervous I could have died! But it worked out great in the end. Malon, that day you told me you were happy and that was enough.

I love you, Malon. Love you very, very much.

Losing you hasn't dulled my love for you, you must be clear about that. I even love you more than I used to ...... Maybe, I haven't seen you in so long. I'm not sure ......

——

July 3, heavy rain.

It's raining hard today and I'm worried about how the flowers in the yard will hold up.

You told me to plant more greenery, and I did. See? It's all over the backyard. I take care of them every day. So far, they seem to be doing well.

The girl who sells flowers in town has changed, it's their little girl who is ten years old.

As for the original one, I heard she married far away into the city.

Mary was going to marry into the city later, I think. As for Joseph, he's already looking at new houses - in town, of course.

...... I'm fine! Really!

The kids have their own lives, their own lives, they don't have to be stuck here for me. The city can be a lot busier than the town. You know I used to work in town, I know the place.

I'd be more comfortable with both of them being in town, and they could help each other out in the future.

Someday, I can go to you in peace, too.

...... Sometime.

——

July 15, sunny

Hanson's leg has been falling apart since that previous injury, and I packed some veggies and fruit to go see him today.

He was much thinner and older, not at all like a man in his forties.

He was in good spirits though, and showed me his oldest daughter's children, adorable twins.

......wait a minute.

Malon, am I 43 years old?

——

[Boring routine]

——

May 19, great clearing.

Joseph got married.

Our kids got married.

Malon, I'm so happy.

His wife was none other than the pretty blonde girl from before. She was from a piano family, and it seemed that she was now pursuing further studies and would be an excellent piano player in the future.

It's a little hard to believe when I know this, after all, Joseph didn't inherit your wonderful singing voice.

......

I wish you could see it for yourself.

I love you, Malon.

——

[Nothing special in between]

——

July 28, overcast.

The old priest died.

We attended his funeral.

His son officiated at his funeral as a priest.

Looks like Mary's wedding needs this new guy to officiate.

I remember, the day we got married ...... I'll never forget it in my life ......

I love you, Malon.

——

August 5, sunny

Mary wrote me that she was going to get married next year.

...... This is too fast!

How old is she! She's only ...... she's ...... she's 22 years old. She'll be 23 next year.

By the time you were 23, Joseph had been born. Compared to you, she really wasn't married at an early age.

This is ...... just incredible.

——

August 11, sunny

I wrote back to Mary.

I agreed.

But honestly, Mary didn't seem to need my permission.

She grew up with her own agenda. She may have just informed.

I sent her the wedding dress you wore when you got married.

I don t know if she will wear ...... After all, the husband she is going to marry is not a simple family.

——

[Daily]

——

June 14, sunny

Mary got married.

She wore that wedding dress.

I can't describe the feeling.

She took my arm and walked down the long, flower-strewn aisle, then left me and walked toward her husband.

...... I didn't cry! Really!

I'm a strong father to my children! How can I shed tears at my daughter's wedding!

But I thank Mary.

You know ...... when I saw her, it was as if I saw you. The day we got married, I watched you walk toward me and all I could think was, I must have saved the world in my last life to marry you in this one.

I hope that brat has the same idea! Otherwise I would have stuck him in the ground to water the flowers!

I swear!

——

Joseph laughed a little, recalling the meeting between his brother-in-law and his father.

A great judge like that but sitting on pins and needles in front of his father.

He couldn't help but laugh and shake his head.

"Joseph ......," Mary walked down the stairs, a little rattled, "I couldn't sleep. Can we go for a walk?"

Joseph put down the diary he had been reading most of the way through - he was almost done.

"Okay, where do you want to go?"

"Did the diary mention where father's paintings exist? I'd like to see it."

The siblings put on their coats and walked out of the house to the cabin mentioned in the diary.

Joseph pushed the door open and turned on the electric light. The bright light illuminated the entire room.

A large number of paintings were neatly arranged in the room, each carefully guarded and then stored.

Marie picked one up and found the date on the edge of the frame: painted on June 16, the seventh year since Malon's departure.

She picked up another one, dated: painted on April 18, the eighth year after Malon's departure.

She looked over them one by one, each with the date written in the same format on the edge of the frame.

Until - painted on September 13th, the nineteenth year of Malon's departure.

Joseph said, "Father he ...... can't remember mother anymore."

"What?"

"These paintings, these recent paintings, the mother is looking more and more convergent." Joseph said, "And the frequency of Father's paintings has gone down a lot. He would have noticed that as well."

Mary pressed her hand against her heart, "...... I'm hurting, Joseph. My heart ...... hurts ......"

Joseph understood what she meant, that silky pain, mixed in with his father's love for his mother, delivering a blow to them now, twenty years later.

They returned to the house and continued to read the rest of the diary.

——

December 26, sunny

Joseph returned with his son.

The boy called me grandpa in a milky voice. Malon! That's almost like Joseph calling out to my dad when he was a kid!

I was a little concerned when Joseph said that Mary was recently pregnant, but he reassured me that his wife was ready to take care of Mary.

Seeing them love and help each other makes me really proud of them.

——

February 4, rain.

I had Joseph take some goodies from the farm and send them to Mary.

Pregnancy is hard work and she needs to get her fill.

——

[Everyday and Thinking of Mary]

——

September 23, sunny

Mary went into labor safely, thank god, and my heart can finally be put back in my stomach.

Joseph's letter says it's a pretty girl, with a touch of you.

That's for sure, that's for sure!

I need to do something to prepare for our little granddaughter!

——

October 2, sunny

I've got some of the little clothes and knitted toys like you used to have for Mary.

...... I know it's kind of ugly and not as good as what you did.

I tried! Really!

——

[Daily, and children]

——

Jan. 13, sunny

I've been feeling overwhelmed lately, always forgetting something.

Malon, maybe I should change the way I keep my journal.

Let's just start with time.

——

January 15, overcast.

It's 8:00 a.m., I had breakfast, I had cereal, this brand is not good, I won't buy it next time.

I also organized my room, did laundry, and wiped down the bookshelves.

It's 3:00 p.m. I'm up from my nap and, unfortunately, not dreaming about you.

Oh yes, lunch. Lunch was dumplings with a red wine that had been opened two days before.

I'm going to check on the animals this afternoon, after all, it could have snowed hard yesterday!

It's 8:00 p.m. and I'm getting ready for bed, and the book I chose for bedtime is Travelogues. I've read it many times already, but I'm still not tired of it.

Good night, Malon. I'll read you the travelogue.

——

[The diary format is becoming regular.]

——

April 17, sunny

Today is the anniversary of old Hanson's death.

It's been two years.

I think ...... Malone, it's time.

——

[The next section has an increased time span, but the content is very important.]

——

May 19, rain.

I went to the probate guy in town and confirmed the value of the farm and the current savings. It's quite a bit.

They will be divided into three, with Joseph and Mary each holding one, and the last will be donated to the orphanage, and the farm itself will be included and will be used as their new grounds.

——

June 3, sunny

I spoke to the priest about my request.

He promised to be a witness to my will - along with Hanson.

——

July 8, cloudy.

I talked to the cemetery superintendent.

After I die, I will be buried with you.

I'm finally going to get to you.

——

July 14, cloudy.

The letter has been written and has been given into the custody of Fr.

——

July 28, sunny

I'm waiting ......

——

September 2, sunny

Got up early today and the sunrise was beautiful.

The clothes of my youth are a bit tight for me now, but I've been preparing for the last few months and have tucked them in.

I showered, trimmed my hair and nails, shaved, and even put on a little moisturizer.

I hope I still look as handsome as I once did.

And then, now, I will write my last words:

Joseph, Mary, my children.

By the time you see this, I'm sure the funeral will be over.

I am sorry to leave you in this way, but my dears, you have each started your own families and new paths in life, and I am far behind you.

Without you, I would have gone with your mother on the day of her funeral. But I remember what she told me on her deathbed, that I am your father.

Now that my duties as a father are complete, I can finally go and follow in your mother's footsteps.

Children, there is no need to feel too much sadness over my departure, you have a long life ahead of you, go and enjoy it to the fullest.

——Love your father, Link.

————

That's the end of the diary.

Joseph and Mary looked at each other in silence.

Joseph broke the silence first, "Are we ...... his drag ...... twenty years, twenty whole years. He's been waiting for this day for twenty years."

"Joseph, don't think that." Mary said, "Father just loved Mother more than he loved us."

"Yes, you're right ......" Joseph put down the diary and covered his face, "but I can't imagine ...... "

"Father's right, Joseph, we have to move on." Mary wrapped her arms around her older brother.

"Mary, do you think Father saw Mother before he left?"

"...... I don't know. Maybe. No one will know. The living won't know what the dead saw."

The next day, a photograph was delivered to both siblings.

The photo is of the lake where Link was found. A large sunset spreads over the lake, illuminating its shimmering waters.

Link stood in the center of the lake and looked in the direction of the camera.

His face, already etched with age, wore a relieved smile.

#zelda #link #legend of zelda #malink #malon #link&malon #ocarina of time #oot malon #oot link #It took me a week to translate this text from Chinese to English.#It was soooooo hard!!!!!#I want your comments!!!!#I have other posts on lofter.#play with me!!!!!

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sirthisisa-wendys · 2 years

Text

Liberation (Part 2): Keizo Arashi x Fem!Reader

synopsis: "arrangements" are commonplace in your world, even though they're despised. and when you find yourself selected for one, will you be able to endure the cost? or will there be a breaking point? (for you, arranged marriage anon!)

A/N: Don't hesitate to leave any and all feedback! I love to hear from you all and I'm so glad you are enjoying the ride thus far. (I LOVE ARRANGED MARRIAGE PROMPTS SO FUCKING MUCH)

wc: 1.8 (bro this shit is long af but it's setting up everything for the next couple of chapters, istg. Also I added some sexy-ish stuff at the end to make up for the length.)

tw: smut

previous part 🏛 masterlist 🏛 next part

The letter comes in the mail not long after your application is submitted - by your mother, of course. She holds the letter in her hand like a delivery of fine china, eyes glazing over as she stands at the dinner table staring at the correspondence.

"It's from the Selection Service," she breathes, and you feel the coil in your stomach tense.

"Maybe it's a rejection letter," you vocalize, but the official seal on the envelope seems to indicate otherwise. Your mother tears into it, her nails ripping the papers to shreds before clawing the letter free from its enclosure.

As she reads the paper, tears begin to leak from her eyes, and you sigh heavily, shaking your head. "What does it say?" you ask, already defeated.

"You've..." The words stick in her throat. "You've been selected. You have to show up to House Nine within 24 hours of receiving this letter."

And that's how you find yourself standing in the Selection House only four hours later, holding a small bag of things you found necessary to keep from your room. Necessities like your journal, a few books, and old momentos. You'd still be able to see your friends and family, but you want to have those things nearby. Just in case.

A woman who seems older than dirt paces around in front of you and the others gathered in a line, scrutinizing your appearance one last time before looking down at a list in her hands.

"You all have been selected from a long list of other women to be the potential spouses of various high-ranking officers in the colonies. But before your marriage, you will be expected to serve the colonies with your body. It is the highest honor a woman can provide for the continued survival of our people." You eye the others in the line and spot a girl with light blonde hair, two black-haired girls, and finally, the girl you're standing beside, a redhead who appears excited to "serve her people".

"Each of you will have your own room," the woman continues, adjusting her glasses. "You will host your selector at nine o'clock at night with a blindfold placed over your eyes until you become pregnant. This is important for your selector and his privacy, as well as your own wellbeing."

"You mean that you're sparing us from seeing if he's ugly," one of the black-haired girls quips, and you stifle a laugh. The woman either doesn't notice or doesn't care, but her eyes do flick up from the list.

"Your selectors will meet you tonight. Then they will be on a rotating schedule that corresponds with your monthly cycles and availability. You will get the schedule a month in advance, and you're expected to be prepared for him on nights when he is coming to the house. Is that understood?"

You all mutter a "yes, ma'am" and then are escorted to your rooms in a line, your first initials and last names neatly printed on a plaque beside your doors.

"I heard we get to keep these after we marry," the redhead whispers, touching her name - A. Hakinawa - with reverence. "To remind us of the time we spent here."

You look up at your name and inhale deeply, wondering what your last name would change to if you ever left the house. You touch the plaque as well, feeling the ridges and curves under your fingertips before placing your assigned key in the lock and opening the door to your room slowly.

What you expected to be a sterile, unforgiving bedroom is more like a real person's room, with a rug, a TV, a closet and dresser, a mirror, a bathroom decorated with green accents, and a window that overlooks the street below. You touch the green bedspread, feeling the soft sheets with pleasure, and then sit your things down to begin unpacking.

It isn't long before you hear the chatter of your four other housemates fill the hallway, excited tones and some worried questioning floating about. You mind your business, though, eyeing the blue telephone in the corner with interest just as the black-haired girl from before appears in your doorway.

"They gave you the green room," she mentions, leaning in your doorway and nodding. "Nice digs, neighbor."

"Why is it green?" you wonder, and she shrugs.

"I heard whatever color we get is our selector's favorite color," she muses. "But I highly doubt they repaint the place for guys who are going to show up at night."

"Do we leave the lights on for them?" The girl rolls her eyes, shrugging again and pursing her lips.

"Fuck if I know," she whispers. "Shit, if I learn anything about him after tonight, I'll be lucky. By the way," she sticks her hand out. "I'm Annie. But you can call me Ann."

"Ann," you repeat, getting up and shaking her hand. "I'm y/n."

"Nice to meet you," Ann states, standing up straight. "Oh, and if you hear me moaning through the walls... no, you didn't."

Dinner is a simple meal of roast beef and vegetables - a hearty meal for those who would be getting little to no sleep, you presume.

You arrive back at your room at 8:34, just as the other girls are bathing and getting ready for their own visitors. You find that you can't do it quickly, though. Nothing in your mind screams at you to hurry or to prepare for the coming onslaught of your senses and morality. So you stand in the shower, letting the weak, warm water hit your body.

You lose yourself in the moment, imagining fifty different scenarios and ways you could recover from them. But every single one seems to result in your submission - since there was no way you could really escape from this place or be freed. Sure, running away was an option, but not a very good one. Not when you could have food and shelter in exchange for a few moments of pleasure at the expense of your body.

You exit the shower upon that realization, toweling off and slipping on an oversized t-shirt you brought with you over some night shorts. "Yo," you hear Ann say, and you look up at the open crack in your door. "Came to say good luck." She opens the door fully, and you see that she's dressed in a simple but alluring black nightgown that reaches her knees.

"Yeah, thanks," you reply, unsure how to answer her wish. "You too."

"Is that what you're wearing? I mean, I get it," Ann whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and blinking her solemn brown eyes. "It's tough for some of us. Kim has already cried her eyes out twice."

"Kim?" you ask, frowning.

"The blonde." You nod. "They provide us with some nightgowns if you don't have anything," Ann mentions, opening your closet. "If you want them, that is."

"I'm good." You look at the clock - 8:57 - and your heart rate suddenly picks up. "Three minutes."

"Alright, well," Ann begins, looking around the room before taking your blindfold off the dresser and tossing it onto your bed. "Hope you can make it through the night."

"You too." Ann exits, and you settle yourself on the edge of the bed before sliding the blindfold on, leaving the lamp light on.

"The selectors will be arriving shortly," you hear Ms. Mako announce over the house PA system, and you sigh, leaning back on the bed and tucking yourself in. Maybe your selector would think you were asleep and leave you alone. Or maybe he'd be the type to wake someone up for sex.

You don't know, and when you hear the sounds of men making their way into the house, greeting Ms. Mako by name, and making small talk, your fear grows. You inhale sharply when the sounds of doors creaking open begins, and soon, your own door knob turns.

You hear someone enter slowly, taking light steps into the room, and then the door closes, leaving you alone with whoever is in the room.

"Are you awake?" the man whispers, his deep voice barely audible.

"Yes," you answer, betraying yourself.

The bed dips low, and a hand reaches out to touch yours. "I..." A pause. Is he scared, too? you wonder, swallowing hard. "How was your day?" Small talk. A good start.

"Good," you reply gently, not daring to elaborate. "How was yours?"

"Good, good." Another long pause. "I suppose we have to do this. I'll make it quick." He rises from the bed, and you hear him walk into the bathroom and shut the door. It feels like forever and a day as you wait for him to reemerge and take you as his. But when he comes out of the bathroom, you don't feel him the bed again.

"Can you do me a favor?"

"Um..." You hesitate and the man begins again.

"I-I'm going to make this easy for you and use this workaround. I have my semen here in this... uh... thing. If you want to insert it yourself after I'm gone, that's fine. Just push down on the little injector, and you'll be set."

"What?" you wonder, unsure of everything.

"I'm not going to fuck you," the man whispers, his voice shaking slightly. "Not like this. S-so I put my semen into this injector thing, and you can--"

"But what if they check?"

"They won't." Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

"Then why did you pick me?" you finally ask, the moans of your neighbor getting louder.

"You were in the stack. And you were flicking me off in your photo. With a smile." You recall the photo with a grin, remembering your mother's pale face and the photographer's promise to edit the gesture out.

"Why don't you just... do it this time?" you wonder, and adjust yourself, so you're naked from the waist down, legs open for him. You hear his breathing deepen, and you wonder what he'd do if you began to touch yourself. But he whispers a gentle "going in" and inserts a slim, plastic item into you. You feel the semen inside you not long after, then he removes the item and chucks it into the trash can.

"Done." You lay there, waiting for some other direction. "May I kiss your cheek?"

"Why not?" you answer, and you feel a feather-light kiss on your skin before he pulls away. Footsteps retreat, and you sit up a little. "Wait, what's your name?"

"Keizo," he answers shortly as the door opens. "Get some sleep, y/n." The door shuts, and you're left lying on the bed, wondering what the hell happened to you and the single scenario you didn't prepare for.

#arashi keizo x reader #keizo arashi x reader #keizo arashi smut #keizo arashi #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers #benkei tokyo revengers #benkei x reader #benkei smut

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scarletknightreterns · 1 year

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I gotta say I adore Cinder and seeing how Death responds to her traumas in the comics you made has got me wondering....how does she respond to his own?

Most people in the fandom believe Lilith at one point ra*** him, based on convos in the game and the Abomination Vault novel. I have a few other reasons from the game beyond Lilith that suggest this to me, but no need to make this too long. Yes he likely has veteran soldier type ptsd struggles as well I'm sure, but I imagine with Lilith as a self proclaimed 'Mother' there's definitely way more that's happened. I mention this only because I have one morbid curiosity.

Thank you so much for the kind words, and for the ask!

I absolutely picked up on those little tidbits of information, too, and it’s made me hate Lilith all the more.

—

Cinder understands Death’s opinion and feelings on the matter quite well....

Having had a fairly troubling past of being used, manipulated, lied to, black-mailed, and treated less then dirt and like a means to an end by her very own ‘father’ who didn’t give two shits about her, she can have a pretty good idea of what the Reaper is brooding during his overly moody ‘no talk me angy’ moments.

To say the absolute least, she’s learned from her own past mistakes that violence, even if absolutely understandable and justified, gets you absolutely nowhere, even if you’d so dearly wish to rip your abuser in half and burn the pieces left in Hellfire.

Cinder would acknowledge anything Death says that happened to him/ he’d experienced, silently lending an ear at all if he had any centuries-worth of trauma to trust her with gleaning. Getting angry at what he’d gone through most certainly would be part and parcel to the package, but she’d not let him know that. He needs to be heard, not be the cause for more volatile feelings, and what she feels doesn’t matter in the moment.

Cinder wouldn’t overstep her boundaries, and instead would put it out there that she’s there to help him deal with those feelings if he wishes to tread that path; the choice is his to make.

What she would do without prompt, however, are small gestures of kindness, the little ones of comfort. Not to say the gristly pale Rider himself needs comfort, but he needs comfort. Support.

He has to let go of what happened, yes. I don’t think the Reaper himself will ever stop being a sarcastic jerk to most and all, but he also has to learn to accept what happened.

Sharing stories around a campfire, she’d spend hours.

Helping him out with a quarry of demons he needs to take care of but it would be too much alone, her sword is there, free and willing.

Being just a silent presence in the dead of night, staring at the stars, she’ll be at his back.

Having bad thoughts and just being frustrated with every minute detail in all of Creation; she’d remind him that sometimes things are too overwhelming when standing too close, and to just take a step back and breathe for once.

He’s not just a Horseman— terrible enforcer of the balance, dog of the Charred Council who treats all the 4 as nothing more then puppets to throw away once for a lack of usefulness. He is her best friend, an ally, and another living being— as much as he’d protest lacking a heartbeat thereof.

She’s mighty protective of family, where it’s due and appropriate.

And to say the least...

Lilith might not enjoy the next encounter she has with the woman. Not all of Hell, nor Samael’s Black Throne can save the bewitching Demoness from the iron claws of Cinder once her eyes are set on something deserving of her seething ire.

#She also knows what he likes #Her stories are fascinating and he likes listening to them #Her voice is also comforting.#darksiders death #ask #Darksiders oc #cinder

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spellcasterlight · 2 years

Note

Wip game: saliva

Hi there, Necessary Newt Anon! 😊

Saliva, I don't actually have, but I do have spit, and that's basically the same thing 😂 this also works for the @hate-mail-to-canon-2022 WIP Wednesday!

Warnings: None - under the cut simply for length!

Thanks for the ask! ✨

Send in a word for the WIP game! 📄

Ao3 ✨ | WIP Game Always Open ✒️| Ko-Fi ☕

A Meeting In The Garden - [Torune x Any Gender Reader]

Pulling a twig out of your hair and wiping away the dirt you could feel on your cheek, you then stood tall, breathing deeply through your nose, the clean air around you making your head feel presently light.

It was as if a veil had been placed over you moving the stress from your mind and shoulders down further and further until they reached your feet for the grass to extract from your body and absorb like water.

Kicking off your shoes, carrying them in your right hand, you started walking, no destination in mind, nowhere to be, no one to help out or be obligated to, simply enjoying the grass under your toes, the lightly buzzing insects in the many flowers around you, the light chilled air swirling around you cooling your skin.

This was precisely what you needed just you, the trees, the flowers and the-

“Who are you?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin at the voice behind you, sounding so loud in your ears, banging your shin in your fright against a rock and almost choking on your spit in surprise, so all that came out of your mouth was. Where the heck did you come from?!

Managing to spin around to confront whoever it was, even as you continued to hop on the spot holding your no doubt bruised leg.

He couldn’t be much older than yourself, given that he was only a few inches taller than you, and he must have been an Aburame, considering where you were. He had slightly spiky brown hair, goggles covering a large portion of his face, including his eyes; only his mouth was freely available to see, which was pulled in a thoughtful frown. He was nearly completely covered in clothes of black with only slight touches of green and black; he even had gloves of the same colour.

“I; live; here,” he replied in that even natural tone again. “This is my family’s compound. Who are you?”

Whoever it wasn’t didn’t immediately attack or threaten to kick you out, so you considered that victory one that might be short-lived if you didn’t answer him swiftly.

He looked thoughtful for a moment when you told him your name, saying he recognised it. You couldn’t help but scoff.

“You’ve probably heard my mother scream around the village telling me to come home. We only live down the street,” you waved your arm in what you guessed was the general direction of the main road, “and she can be loud.”

#naruto labor day minibang 2022 #torune aburame x reader #torune x reader #torune aburame #wip #wip game #thanks for the ask!#love to the anons!#asks are open!#❤️❤️❤️

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evilgabe29 · 1 month

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Tales from Deathmakers: A Debt Well Paid: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Debt

Ian closed his book, it was an interesting book.

he had read the book before but he had limited funds and books aren't cheep. it also paid to keep his knowledge up to date.

Ian had no idea how much time had passed since he had started to read, it happened quite often when he got himself into an interesting book even one he has read before. it could have been a couple hours or a few week although he doubted to would take him that long to read one book. Ian wore a simple black tunic with trousers of the same pigment they hug loosely on his body, it was common for those with his magic to wear black clothes although they tended to be robes.

He stood with a grunt, yes it must have been at least two days since he sat in that chair his legs were so wobbly he would have fell over if not for using the nearby table to steady himself it was covered with his research notes written in his illegible script. once his legs got used to the weight of his body he hobbled over to his kitchen to fix himself a cup of coffee, his sleep magic could sustain him for months but it made him feel terrible the entire time, coffee helps to take some pressure off the magic.

Ian then walked back to his chain where he picked out another book about how magic interacted with organisms such as animals, plants, insects, and humans.

It was another two hours before Ian heard a knock at his door. "well that's certainly odd" he muttered to himself. "its kedrinday and mail arrives on adthosday" although his internal clock was never the best, he could never afford one of those fancy time keepers that he'd heard nobles hang on their walls. he walked over to his door, mug of coffee half drunk in his hand and opened the eye slit he had fashioned himself it caught a few time before it opened. the slit revealed a tall lanky figure with pale skin and soulless brown eyes if he didn't know better he would have thought it to be a zombies but in fact it was not, he did not have green or blue skin and its eyes while soulless where not lifeless the uniform also helped him in his deduction that this was not in fact a zombie, it was a bureaucrat.

Ian opened the door with a bit of trepidation. "good morning sir how may I help you?" Ian said despite the time of day being well past noon. "Ian Deadridge i presume?" the bureaucrat said with a thin raspy voice that complemented his frail appearance, looking up through a very small pair of glasses he continued

"I am here on behalf of the Saints of the Infinite Dawn's Debt Collection Department" the pale man flipped through his book till he landed on the page he was looking for

"yes… you owe approximately twenty thousand gold to the Saints of the Infinite Dawn which…" he trailed off looking into the shabby house filled with dirt and the smell of rotting coffee grounds.

"… you are clearly unable to pay off".

Ian up to this point was is a state of shock. he knew they would come eventually and yet he wasn't prepared for this at all, he knew he should have been putting away gold from his construction job for this but he didn't, instead he bought books, corpses, and coffee.

Ian sighed "so why are you here?" Ian said gathering up the tiny amount of confidence he could collect "you clearly already knew I couldn't pay before you got here couldn't you have sent one of your paladins to rough me up a little bit before you toss me in one of those fancy boxes for the rest of my life?"

the man looked up from his book and said in a tone that could almost be disgust "the reason i am here is that the church has a proposition for you to help you pay off your um debt" the bureaucrat flipped to another page in his book

"you are a necromancer correct?"

"yes?"

"according to my files you have never killed anyone before correct?" the small man said.

"yes that is correct"

"good" the bureaucrat said to himself while scribbling down something in his ledger "it is for that reason we are willing to forgive your debt if you do some jobs for us"

this sounded like a good deal but just like with any Good Deal something was off

"why me? isn't your order against the whole idea of necromancy?"

"yes well under the previous supreme cleric there was a more active stance against necromancy the new supreme cleric has decided to take a more passive approach, as long as they don't do anything illegal or morally reprehensible we will be happy to leave them alone"

"i see but wouldn't working with a necromancer still hurt your image? and why do you need a necromancer anyways?"

"that is why you will be working under the table so to speak"

"i see that would make sense i suppose, but i still don't get why you need a necromancer"

"that's enough questions for now, if you refuse the deal we will have to turn to other methods of paying off your debt"

"you're giving me a lot of options." Ian sighed looking at the bureaucrat that successfully taken his peaceful life away from him "yeah just let me get dressed and grab my things" he said defeated

Ian went back into his house and quickly collected his haphazardly strewn about notes then tossed on his trench coat, it was a bit warm but its going to be winter soon so better be safe than sorry. his coffee left forgotten in his hand made its way to the table as he gathered his things into a cheep canvas bag then was left for a different mug better suited for travel. he closed the door as he left making sure it was locked, he couldn't have people stealing his books while he was gone.

I'm not really happy with the very basic cookie cutter fantasy world i made for this. I do really like the title though so I'm definitely sticking to that. I've got one more chapter written for this that i will post but then i will probably rework the story and the world a ton till i get it to where i am happy with it

#fantasy #writing #creative writing #writing is hard #writeblr #Tales from Deathmakers #probably some other tag i forgot idk

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nicetrynicetry · 7 months

Text

Wednesday and lambasting myself for not being grateful this week, worry I am deficient in some emotional vitamin. I’m not quite Samaritans-level worried, but the quality of my days feel slightly less than real, which has made writing this blog or any kind of creative thought a challenge, and which is how I know I’m not a surrealist. It must be 3-4 weeks now without making music, which I both crave and am afraid to dive back into. I have no technological means to try it until my basement pod is in order, and I am secretly willing my new equipment to get lost in the mail, delaying the process. All in good time, I guess, or all in bad time. Luckily I am still sitting on a double album’s worth of tracks, stored in a small hard drive that I kiss when I uncover it in my haphazardly packed IKEA sacks. How so much pain and effort fits into this little silver oblong I will never understand

This relates to the story C has been waiting to tell me in my studio after a spate of international travel on both our parts that meant we kept missing each other. We install ourselves on my sofa indoors due to weather, and I tell him I’ve been praying for his older roommate who is famously terrified of wind and who fears the scaffolding set up to repair her house’s cladding might simply blow away. I hand C my lighter and he sets the scene. He went on a couple of dates with an Australian girl recently who was at the tail end of a dispute with her landlord about the depraved and unhygienic state of the flat she moved into in London Fields a month ago. Mould, rabbit feces, the lot. C, with some free time in Gran Canaria, is moved enough by her experience to investigate the landlord who oversees such a heinous living space. He notes her name from the email thread provided to him by the Australian girl and also notes that her father is CC’d on the correspondence relating to the quarrel. The woman owns a bakery with her sister in east London whose name I will omit to protect the guilty, but it’s one I recognise as soon as C describes it. “That place is so cursed”, I say, “there are so many white people with dreadlocks outside”. Exactly, says C. He wanted to work out how a young woman could afford both the ever-steepening rents on the building housing the bakery and a buy-to-let residence in London Fields. He runs the father (the likeliest source of funds) cc’d on the emails through Google and finds an asset manager for the fourth largest accountancy firm globally, his company accounts, his last known address in a wealthy English county, and the kicker, which is that in 2017 he was sentenced to 8 months in prison for possession of Category A child pornography. C finds the date he resigned from the firm (2017), and the date the London fields property was purchased (2017), and presumes that this man bought the house and co-signed the bakery for his daughters to cushion the blow of what must be astronomical shame in learning your father is a pedophile. “6 to 15 year olds”, reads the news report of what was found by police, “and a collection of films”

C, whose journalistic skills I continue to believe are wasted on The Guardian, has read through the court transcripts. He learns the username the father operated under when committing his crimes, and that he tried to claim that he was abused as a child and that he needn’t the material to “process his trauma”. The judge, C tells me, sees right through it, and calls him a liar. By the time this dirt has been dug, C’s Australian date has already been compensated for her poor living conditions surprisingly swiftly. When the landlord sends proof of the money leaving her account in a screenshot, she redacts the incoming payments on the statement in transparent black digital marker. C adjusts the exposure on the screenshot and finds that there are multiple thousand pound payments from the pedophile father. By this point I am reeling, clawing at my own face. I tell C I am so sad the dispute was resolved before this leverage was needed, and he agrees, but says it was strangely exhilarating nonetheless. He says he wanted the Australian girl to email the landlord, CCing the father, saying “let’s face it, my complaint about the property isn’t the worst thing you’ve found on the family computer”

After such a high, conversation peters out slightly. We discuss YouTube as we always do, the Russell Brand scandal, Jeff Bezos’s wife being in Fight Club. The rain persists. I show C my burglar alarm app, the different settings. If I had a gratitude deficiency at the beginning of the day, let’s call C my supplement. We leave together since going home any later would result in wading through visitors to the gallery for tonight’s opening, and I feel too bedraggled to partake. In some ways this is true, but in others it’s ludicrous. If I were to be completely honest with myself it’s because J sent me a video he took of me in Korea on a spinning exercise machine we stumbled upon in a park in which I feel I look supremely ugly. And in my own warped brain I figure that since this video was taken when I was happy, eating and sleeping well, feeling alive, the version of me walking across the yard in the rain 2 and a half weeks later must be downright monstrous. So I pretend I’m more tired than I am, almost feeling the ersatz fatigue in my body, and sequester myself. This is a wretched way to live. I could lose, and have lost, years to these self-imposed regulations. Sometimes I feel so ugly that the pressure to make good art to balance it out is overwhelming, because in truth there is no level of output that can tip the scale. It has to be an inside job, it has to be it has to be it has to be

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sporksaber · 2 years

Text

Hear me out:

A dark comedy about a ghost roping a mortal (through soul deals, black mail, ghostly charm, or other ways) into helping them hide a body.

Shenanigans ensue as neither know how go hide a body and, "I'm not going to google it, that's the most suspicious thing you could do."

More shenanigans ensue as the ghost also has the mortal do some really absurd shit for them that they refuse to explain the reason for.

Eventually theres a climax where the mortal demands to know the history behind the corpse. It's the ghost's corpse. They'd died and then decided it was too lame and that they'd set up an elaborate mystery instead, only to realise they cant quite do that themself. Also, the stuff they said to convince them to help was bullshit (soul deals are about as binding as a pinky swear/they dont actually have the ability to tell anyone about whatever dirt they had/ they dont know why the mortal agreed it was kind of wierd) and they didnt expect it to work.

○●○●○

With the last option you could have the mortal gain a new perspective on life. It could be wholesome. In the fun way though, like "I cant have that idiot's death be cooler than mine" type of thing.

Also: stakes in the form of another creepy ghost following them around and them trying to escape him. He is a very stressed ghostly office worker who is very stressed because, "oh my god, you can Not be doing that. Oh, not again, the last time was so much paperwork, please listen to me."

#i might write this #comic idea #book idea #idk which #ive had art block lately

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willowedwisteria · 2 years

Text

⁂~Stuck in your mailbox~⁂

Summary -> You receive gifts from them for Valentine!

Note -> I might be a bit... well, more than just a bit late. Klee's interactions are strictly platonic!!

(Sorry if this post seems a bit dry, I ran low on inspiration)

Featuring -> Klee, Kazuha, Ningguang

Genre -> Fluff

Kazuha

You receive a letter, a bit of dirt staining the envelope. The envelope was wrapped nicely despite the small bits of dirt here and there. Kazuha must have been in a rush to send this to you.

You fold open the envelope, curious to check what's inside.

The first thing that caught your eye was the small stone stuffed inside the envelope. No wonder there was a small bump in the mail, the stone was causing it.

You pick the turquoise stone up with your fingers. Despite its miniature size, it was quite the jewel. It was a bit translucent too, smooth and mesmerizing. It could totally be made into a necklace or some sort of jewelry.

"I definitely didn't expect anything less from Kazuha." You chirp to yourself before placing the stone aside.

Kazuha was always quite the treasure hunter. Whether it was a chest filled with gold or some sort of rumored artifact, he would be up for the challenge of finding it.

Of course, he wasn't there for the wealth, nor did he want to reap the benefits of gaining such treasure, he was mostly there for the thrill of the adventure. Plus, it was mostly Captain Beidou dragging him along to ruins, forests, and oceans.

However, if you asked for it, he wouldn't return to your side empty-handed. Sometimes, even you wonder about the extent of his abilities.

As you open the envelope once again to check for any other gifts from him, you notice a piece of paper hidden inside.

Pulling it out, you open out the sheet of paper to reveal Kazuha's usual neat and cursive handwriting.

'The moon is beautiful, isn't it?'

Klee

The little girl darts to your front, a "hidden" piece of paper she clasped in her hands behind her.

"Yes? Do you need anything Klee?"

You kneel down to her height level, watching as her eyes follow your every move. She's beaming with pure excitement, anticipating the happiest smile engraved on your face once she gives you her gift.

From behind her, Klee pulls out the piece of paper, rolling it out as if it was a scroll to unveil the messily colored drawing of you and her holding hands, strolling through a garden of flowers.

There are hearts drawn in the air, a contrast to the white flowers in the drawing. At the very corner of the sketch, you see a small note.

'Their grace and I playing :)'

"Ta-da! Do you like it? Do you like it?" Klee exclaims, hoping for approval to slip from your lips.

You stare at the drawing, noticing the professionally drawn background and the fine lines. Albedo must have helped her with the background.

You chuckle.

"Of course, I can't imagine how hard you must have worked on this." You pat her head, a smile of gratitude on your face, "Thank you so much."

Once Klee passes you the drawing, you flip the piece of paper over, realizing there were more notes on the back.

'Albedo and Klee wish their grace a Happy Valentine's Day.'

Ningguang

You peer through the slight gap in the doors as two assistants of Ningguang open the door for you.

"Right this way, your excellency."

A short, black-haired woman guides you down the stairs, leading you through the Ningguang's most prized possession other than Mora, the Jade Chamber.

The woman stops in her tracks once she enters the same room as Ningguang. "Lady Ningguang, their excellency has arrived." She mentions, bowing down slightly out of respect.

Ningguang takes a moment to glance at the assistant bowing down to her, then another moment to look at you waving at her. She smiles in return and keeps her documents in a drawer.

"Thank you, you may leave."

The woman rushes out of the room as ordered, softly shutting the door behind her and leaving you alone in the room with Ningguang.

"Your excellency, I heard about this occasion that you used to celebrate called 'Valentine's Day if I'm not mistaken."

You nod awkwardly. You were single most of your life so you didn't get to celebrate Valentine's Day that much, did you bring it up in a conversation before?

"According to what I was told, it was a day where you give gifts to your loved ones. Thus, I would like to offer this to you."

Ningguang places a box on the table. After that, she quickly stands aside, a bit eager for you to open it up. And of course, she wanted to be certain that you would love her gift.

You messily tear apart the wrapping enclosing the gift, feeling the slightest bit guilty for piling torn pieces of wrapping on Ningguang's work table.

You pick up your pace, anticipating what the gift possibly could be. In mere seconds, your eyes widen once you finally find out what's laying inside of the box.

You pull out the plastic flower enclosed in a glass casing. The edges of the petals stemming from the flower's bud were lightly dusted with glitter to give it a bit of an extra shine. You were too stunned by its beauty to even utter a thank you from your lips and Ningguang could see that.

"It was custom made for you, your excellency. I hope you like it."

Tag list: @under-a-starry-night,@yourfaveisblack,@bardisipatos,@callmemeelah, @ellethesmolbutnotreally,@The-Psychotic-Blueberry,@kithewanderingme,@darling-rikafu,@white-like-dis,@bamboowritess,@uchihaeirin,@irethepotato,@karmawonders,@lunavixia,@Hydrxngen,@anfre109

Special Tags: @dewwberry, @isariaasterial, @is-very-sad, @chocoenvy, @raidengaile, @azempyrea, @lovelyy-moraxx, @emilemovhi, @i-put-the-yan-in-polyandry, @soup-flavoredsoup, @xiaophilia

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morlock-holmes · 2 years

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So, it has become increasingly frustrating to me to watch people talk about whether “cancel culture” exists or doesn’t or if it’s left-wing or right-wing because apparently we’ve all, by some kind of silent mutual handshake, agreed that under no circumstances will we talk about what’s actually, obviously happening.

First of all, I hate the term “Cancel culture” because this whole thing is as much about technology and the law as it is some cultural thing.

The issue at hand is that, after several decades in which we became increasingly anonymous to each other, modern social media has made it easier both to dig up dirt on people and to gather up a group of people demanding that someone be punished.

Now, mob culture has always been a part of, just as one example, American culture. Back in the day, it wasn’t that unusual of for someone to see a black man holding hands with a white woman, go out and grab a mob of people who agreed that this was unacceptable, and cancel the race-mixers by beating the shit out of them.

Thankfully, this kind of mob behavior is, while not unheard of, at least a lot less common now.

What is common is for people to get a virtual mob together to demand various concessions and apologies from you, from your friends and supporters, and, perhaps most crucially, from your employers.

So, people have two anxieties about virtual mobs:

How do I avoid having a virtual mob come after me?

What happens if a virtual mob comes after me?

Let’s address the second question first. For some reason we’ve all agreed to pretend that what happens after that is totally the same for everybody, which is one of the most infuriating part of all the takes out there, but it seems to me that it depends heavily on what your employment situation is.

You might be a tenured professor; in this case, you have a stressful time, awards are rescinded, you are asked to step down as chair of this and that, but you have strong protections against being fired so you keep on professing to the extent you are able;

You might be an entertainer on a platform like youtube, and your main source of income is patreon. In this case you hope like hell that you have enough loyal viewers who will ignore the mob. You might try to retain viewers by talking about your experience being cancelled; you might just keep making the same content and ignore the controversy in your own content. You either keep enough viewers and are hard-headed enough to deal with the hate mail or you don’t and aren’t;

You’re either an entertainer in old media or a CEO or administration type, someone like a JK Rowling or a Dave Chapelle or a Sam Adams, and you have enough direct connections and a track record of making money that platforms or companies still hire you because you’ll probably make more money for them then you’ll cost them.

You are a proletarian wage earner who sells their labor for a wage, in which case you eat shit and go fuck yourself, as you are easily replaceable by your current employer and every prospective employer sees that you are radioactive the first time they google you and decide to go with another prospect who has the same skills without the baggage.

For some reason we’ve decided to pretend that all these cases are the same.

I happen to know someone in that last category. I’m not going to say he was “cancelled” because he was accused of serious misconduct by a woman he had worked with.

I’ll try to leave out the details to protect all of us, but essentially, she posted to twitter saying that he had been mentally abusive, keeping her in a svengali-like hold and sabotaging her career to keep her in his power, culminating in sexual misconduct.

I don’t happen to believe her; I’ve known my friend for two decades and have not personally witnessed him behave this way, her timeline of events doesn’t match my hazy memories, and I believe he can disprove her timeline of events and narrative about his effect on her career through email records of his correspondences with her and her potential employers, and she has apparently continued to attempt to contact him in the time since.

What happened after she posted to twitter was that industry websites reported on it (With little to no investigation or attempt to talk with him) at which point all his freelance work completely dried up. Colleagues privately told him that they believed his side and then publicly called for accountability from him, apparently because they thought the mob would come for them if they didn’t, and at least one person tried to keep him on after but eventually said, “Keeping you on is really messing with this project, and it’s not fair to the other people working on this”.

Since then he has struggled to find steady work, even outside his field, and while he doesn’t know for sure he strongly suggests that this is because they google his name and the accusations come up.

So... What should he do? I and many others have suggested both defamation lawsuits and search engine optimization stuff to which he responds, “How can I afford that?”

Good question.

I get very emotional when I discuss this stuff with my left-wing friends who assure me that there’s not really a problem, that it’s just Dave Chapelle grousing on Netflix, and when I ask them what he could have done to avoid this, the answer is, “...Well, false rape accusations are very rare.” and the same kind of helpless acknowledgement that lawyers and PR flacks are actually pretty expensive.

Complicating the discussion is the fact that Twitter mobs aren’t rational. My friend was accused of very serious misconduct that people ought to take quite seriously. Lindsey Ellis recently whipped up a Twitter mob by saying that Raya and The Last Dragon was too similar to Avatar: The Last Airbender and that apparently caused enough trouble and unease for her to make a video about it.

Which leads me back to the first question: How does one avoid a twitter mob?

One thing about previous kinds of mobs, the kind that they had 200 years ago, is that they largely had to be in close proximity to you in order to mess with you. I guess it must have happened that a 1700 letter writing campaign started in France caused trouble for an Italian, but that was probably mostly limited to extremely famous people, and not, say, random wagon drivers.

Today, it’s easy to step into a cultural battle that you had no idea even existed. Did you offhandedly call Taiwan a “Country” or flash and “A-OK” sign at the wrong guy on the street? Oops here comes the mob for you!

Two people have tried to talk me down, to explain that modern left-wing culture isn’t really so bad, that if you’re just careful enough with what you say and do, you’ll avoid all those landmines and you won’t get an angry mob coming after you. Both have then let slip that they’ve stepped on bigger landmines with bigger consequences then I ever have. One of them is my friend who was drummed out of his career.

So, the thing is, I think there’s a conversation to be had about whether left-wing culture right now is too concerned with purity of speech and behavior (My opinion is yes) but at the same time I think that in some ways that’s a distraction; you’re just as likely to piss off somebody by mildly criticizing Donald Trump, or the Chinese government, or some KPOP artist.

The solution a lot of people have focused on is improving culture; we need to make it so that mobs only come after people who have really gone off the rails, but not people who just say something mildly critical about Disney movies.

One of the problems with this is that you have limited effect over other cultures. The American left can become less censorious, but that doesn’t help you if you cross the Trumpists or the Chinese government.

When presented with that argument, people then indulge in these fantasies about creating a kind of cultural hegemony, of becoming so powerful and influential that no opposing subculture can influence them anymore.

I don’t think this is likely to work.

It seems to me that the problem lies in the other direction, the economic one; one of social media mob culture’s main effects is to exile people from the job market, and thus from money, and thus from reliable access to goods and services. The less social media mob culture can do this, the less dangerous it becomes.

I think the solution will have to be in the realm of better worker protections, better social safety nets, or both.

#cancel culture #politics

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queenofswords · 3 years

Text

Norse Deity ~Vibes~

UPG, but since I was just asked to describe this, here you go:

Hel: Balanced. The calmness that comes from knowing that to die well is to live fully. To appreciate the spring blossoms as they fall. The smoke after the fire burns out. The quiet smell of the rose that blooms through concrete. The comfort of a hand that never leaves.

Freyja: Vibrant. Into whatever it is she is doing; if it’s war, she’s all in. If it’s fucking, she’s all in. If it’s crying, she’s all in. She does it all with her whole heart and body. She feels warm like an amber summer day and smells like jasmine, especially when it blooms at night.

Freyr: Petrichor. That peaceful, contented feeling of walking through lightly dampened woods, smelling the minerals and the ferns on the air, the light starting to stream through the leaves illuminating the raindrops, hearing a stream. Smells like patchouli and rain ozone.

Njǫrðr: Beach dad. The feeling of the breeze in your hair, on your skin, taking away the heat of the summer day. Ocean spray and salt. Sand between your toes. Laughter that is louder than seagull chatter. The feeling of a boat coming home safe on the horizon.

Gullveig: Slow like honey. Smells like honey. The buzzing sound of bees. An amused laugh, like watching ants make an anthill. Discernment around when to gild and not gild the lily. Mysterious, resilient. A feeling like being honored. Shining the way sunlight hits henbane.

Fenrir: Angry teenager meets kicked puppy. The rage against the machine. The feeling of the ravenous hunger of wanting something you deserve that you will never get. The fight that gives you because of it. The secret desire to give soft belly. Teeth, blood oranges, and hot tar.

Jǫrmungandr: Ancient. Something that just feels so incredibly old, but a also a little sad and lonely. The feeling of having watched so much happen that nothing matters. Surrendering to the water flow of life, finding contentment in the small ripples. Choosing to care anyway.

Skaði: Cold. The first bite of a true winter wind, where you breathe in and it hurts your lungs until you get used to it. The feeling of precision, of absolute focus. The cold beauty of long icicles. The danger of snow when you can’t tell how safe it will be to walk on or cross.

Óðr: Wanderlust. Restlessness, not being able to sit still, but with an excitement, a zest, a joie de vivre. Delight in the curiosity of the sky. The feeling of watercolors on thick paper. The way mailing a postcard makes you feel. The feeling of missing something but not enough to change.

Loki: Weird. The feeling of fireworks at a carnival while strange music plays and the earth moves beneath you. Spencer’s Gifts meets ’00s Hot Topic. Shifting, the way you can’t quite hold water. Adapting, always finding a way forward, the missing piece of a puzzle. The sound of a fly.

Óðinn: Sly. There’s a density to him, a feeling of shadow and form. A raven’s glassy, dark eye staring at you a little too long, too knowing. A desperate cleverness. A knife in a back pocket. A hidden smile. The ambition of an underdog with nothing left to lose. Black coffee.

Sigyn: Soft. The feeling of sitting in a comfortable chair with a cup of tea, a warm blanket nearby, bubbles on the air. Feeling like you’ll always be heard and understood. A compassion running so deep that it turns to activism. The swaying whisper of a willow tree that bends but never breaks.

Angrboða: Steel. A tough core wrapped in the moist heat of a swamp. The feeling of roots digging deep into the dark earth and never letting go. The way hematite shines black but bleeds when you cut it. A sense of vertigo. Smells like dirt, cloves, nutmeg, and dragonsblood.

Frigg: Regal. Queen mother. But really, the feeling of knowing more than she lets on. Forgives but never forgets. The way keeping a secret makes you feel—wise and a little superior. A skein of geese. A good hug, but not too tight. The smell of alkaline water, wool, and vanilla.

Þórr: Power. Frat boy meets army brat, if the outcome had a good heart. Big chested laughter, the smell and taste of beer, the faint hint of sweat. A slap on the back. The sound of thunder rolling in, slow and then all at once. The sound of goats bleating, an anvil ringing, an acorn growing.

Sif: Cosy. Fresh baked bread and a kind word and a lilt of a song on the air. Pastries ready in the morning, whenever you wake up, and feeling like the day will be good to you. The smell of dough rising. The smell of cinnamon and sugar together. The comfort of a kitchen in autumn.

Njǫrun: Respite. The feeling of not seeing the whole picture, but knowing you’re somehow safe. Laissez-faire. A rust sunset on the lakeside, cattails waving in the breeze, making small reed music. The feeling of that moment right before sleep. The touch of a dream.

#upg #heathen #norse mythology #hel*#freyja #freyr #loki #odin #njordr #gullveig #skadi #fenrir #Jormungandr #sigyn #Angrboda #frigg #thor #sif

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warmau · 3 years

Text

☆ko-fi au: rich kid!au inseong other rich kid aus: hongseok | hyungwon | haechan

you should have known something was wrong when your date didn't send you the address for the restaurant you two were going to meet at for the first time

instead opting for an expensive and suspicious-looking black car that makes itself a nuisance in front of your apartment building

you stare at it from the door and beside you is your neighbor, a busybody office worker named dawon, who holds his mail in one hand and twists his mouth up into a frown

"i wouldn't get in that car if i were you."

"it looks like it's a bmw"

"this date of yours is starting to look like a psychopath."

you roll your eyes, but the sentiment isn't lost on you

who has the money to rent this kind of car? all for a dinner date?

you look at your phone where there's a text from your date, kim inseong, who you met through one of those online dating apps you had sworn you'd never use

but with the years passing by and your friends all gushing about the fountain of love and relationship

you had caved

actually, you had caved after a particularly teary-eyed solo re-watch of breakfast at tiffany's

not that you really cared about the plot or anything - just that the fantasy of being loved and taken care of for the rest of your life - well

whatever, the point was you had made a profile and you had matched with inseong

you were initially worried about him being a catfish - the one unnormal thing on his profile was the fact that he was gorgeous

but a video chat had melted those doubts away

still, this car and this secret reservation was starting to raise red flags

"im taking down the license plate number"

dawon says and you re-read the text from inseong again

'are you sure you can't just tell me the address of this place? i can take the train'

'don't worry, the car will get you there faster and the hostess knows the driver so you won't have any issues with the reservation'

you slip your phone into your pocket, suddenly aware that all you're bringing is it and your keys

dawon is furiously taking photos of the car now and you tell him it'll be ok

he asks before you go out to the car, "what's this guys name?"

"kim - kim inseong."

dawon's eyes go wide and he gapes, you tell him to stop fooling around as you wave goodbye

just as the door shuts, you don't hear dawon go

"that kim inseong?"

the driver is quiet but polite and you try to overcompensate with your manners and not pester him about where you're going

the inside of the car smells of new leather and there isn't a speck of dirt or evidence of anyone else being in here but you

the city's winding streets and lights both distract and worry you and you nervously tap on the dating app to see inseong's profile again

a mirror selfie is the first picture, he's smiling and looks like he might be in a fancy hotel bathroom somewhere

the next picture is him and a couple of what you assume are work buddies

the next is him at a bookshop, wearing pretty framed glasses that compliment the shape of his face

his interests are artsy and he says he works in photography

he's a cancer and he likes ballads and doing puzzles

his profile is pretty generic, you don't want to be vain but you'd matched with him because he was totally hot, but also after talking you'd come to realize there was more

he was definitely witty, charming, and didn't ever send you the kind of messages you had heard horror stories about

(three am hookups or requests for pictures of your feet)

you close the app, just as the driver parks the car and you expect to get out at some small, but cute italian place

or at most somewhere more new and stylish that might have been mentioned in a magazine

you do not think you're going to stop in front of one of seoul's most high-end restaurants

the kind of place that looks like it should be a palace - high rise ceilings and huge fountains and a line of hopeful socialities waiting around the corner praying someone miss their reservation

the driver comes around to your side, opening the door and suddenly you look down and think

im not dressed for this place, hell im not a person made for this place

you step out and he motions for you to pass the line, up the stairs and into the huge doors

as soon as the hostess sees him she shoves forward a lanky looking valet boy and sends you a big, red-lipsticked smile

"ah, you're mr. kim's date. come with me - he's in our private dining room."

you feel like a newborn animal walking on shakey legs as you follow her, you walk past the first level of dinners who are seated at elegant looking tables in low light

there's a hum of talking and the sound of someone pouring wine

you look for inseong, but don't see him anywhere

the hostess leads you to an elevator at the back - and when it arrives she motions for you to go inside and tells the person inside that you'll be going to floor nine

turns out the entirety of floor nine is one big dining room, adorned in gold and red and at the table right before one of the huge windows is inseong

you can't think of a word to say - not even when his eyes light up to match the chandeliers and he stands up from his seat to greet you

"inseong"

you squeak and he says your name prettily like it's the name of a flower

"inseong - " you repeat and look at him with eyes like saucers "is this some kind of practical joke?"

the look of happiness on his face dims

"w-what?"

"where are we, this place of town is for millionaires - stars, i can't afford to eat here! i probably can't even afford to breathe the air here! if this is your idea of a fun prank date then im going to-"

you throw your hands up, fussing so much so that the waiter who had wanted to come over stops in their tracks

inseong looks at you and for a moment there's hurt in his expression but then something else dawns on him

"you didn't know?"

you shake your head - "how would i have known that this is some elaborate joke! i knew those dating apps would end up embarrassing me-"

"no, i mean you don't know who i am?"

your hands swing down to your sides and you look at him almost stupidly

"well, you're kim inseong."

"yes."

he motions to the photographs that line the red-painted wall, all framed and featuring famous models and public figures

they look vaguely familiar, as if you seen them multiple times on the covers of magazines or newspapers

"im kim inseong, the photographer of seoul"

a blankness coats the room and then, like a rubber band, it snaps into place

the magazine covers, the job title 'photographer' on his profile, and now the inseong standing in front of you in head to toe gucci

you step back like you've just been approached by a dangerous-looking beast

hands flying up to your mouth

"oh my god - you're famous and-"

he grins, "and rich."

somehow you sit down, probably because the news hits you like a truck and you can't stand any longer

it's enough time for inseong to wave the waiter over safely and order wine for the two of you as well as an appetizer in french that glosses over your head

he looks at you and folds his hands under his chin

"i thought you knew."

"why is a millionaire like you on a dating app for plebeians"

he shakes his head, "you're not a plebeian"

"im pretty sure my yearly salary is the same amount as one of your cameras."

he looks down at his wine and swallows, suddenly the air of glowing confidence and ease shrinks

"you're right. it's silly of me to say i wasn't trying to act a little bit below my status by joining the app."

you straighten in your seat

"i - i didn't mean it like that, i mean rich people still want love im sure - i mean you're a normal person."

"normal?" he flicks his gaze to you "no one has ever called me that."

great, here i am putting my foot in my mouth in front of one of seoul's most eligible bachelors

"i mean - i just. ok i mean you're not 'normal' in your field of work but you want to feel a connection right. that's why you joined the app - just like me. you just want someone in your life."

you don't notice the little smile that tugs at the corner of inseong's long lips

your appetizer arrives and you are offput by the amount of truffle on it

inseong tells you to look at the menu and order anything you like and as much of it as you want to

one look at the price and you tell him you'll pass, you'll get mcdonalds on your way home

"please don't worry, it'll go on my bill"

he insists and you cross your arms

"this is our first date, we go dutch. i can't have you treating me if im not even your partner yet"

inseong bites his tongue not to laugh at the simple way you look at everything

"fine, well then." he closes the menu and snaps his fingers, within a moment a man arrives at his side - you assume it's his assistant "let's got to mcdonalds together."

you think he's being funny, but he's not

you find yourself in the second expensive car of the day. this time it's a slicked silver lamborghini that inseong drives with an almost alarming carelessness.

he seems to have forgotten how to order at a drive-through and so you have to lean over his lap to speak for the both of you

as you put in the order, inseong flushes and tries not to look at the areas of your shirt that have slide up as you hang out of the window

when you sit back you grin at him

"i hope you like chicken nuggets"

inseong does, so much so that he eats his and puppy dog begs you for one of yours

you both sit in his car and you try not to spill anything, but inseong says not to worry about being careful. he has another car (or five) that he can use if you stain the seat with your sprite

but aside from that you ask inseong more about his life

you had briefly chatted before you met, but now there was a treasure trove of new information about him to unlock

the weird thing is that you just genuinely want to know

inseong picks up on it, you have no ulterior motive. you haven't had one since you found out who he really was.

you nibble on a fry as you ask, "so are you traveling these days for work?"

"usually. when we video chatted i was in denmark."

you stick your tongue out

"denmark! what a show off, my last vacation was a two hour train ride outside of seoul."

"well - where do you want to go?"

you gather your garbage and his neatly, inseong finds the normal gesture pangs something in his heart

"hmmm i think i would want to go someone really warm. like brazil or chile."

"are you free this weekend?"

you blink and turn to look at him

"are you asking me on a second date?"

he puts a hand on the wheel and nods

"yes."

"well - i am free actually.......but if we go on a date let's not do anymore uptight restaurants."

he promises he won't and instead he says he'll pick somewhere comfortable and fun

you try not to get bashful when he says your photos do you no justice - you should let him take your portrait next time too

and although he drives you home in his car, you are aware of the black car you arrived in following close behind

when he stops in front of your apartment you turn and mumble that you had a good time, after the heart attack-inducing revelation of his identity

inseong laughs and you straighten your shoulders slightly

he notices the way you position yourself slightly and he turns to you too. suddenly the look in his bright eyes dulls just a bit as he lingers from looking into your eyes to your lips

you decide to be brave - closing your eyes as an invitation

inseong's smile is soft against your lips when he leans in

nothing more than that happens and you blurt out that you'll look forward to the next date, inseong watches you scurry inside your apartment before letting out the breath of nervousness he's been holding

never thinking you would give him butterflies he hasn't felt since he was in high school

when you get home - dawon is knocking on your apartment in five minutes

and you two spend an hour going through inseong's photos again as dawon points out that "how could you not know he's rich, he's wearing a 100k watch in this bathroom selfie!"

you tell him you're just dumb, or maybe just charmed by who inseong is rather than his money

dawon doesn't believe it but he asks when your second date is and you say this weekend

"where is he taking you?"

you giggle, "he said somewhere comfortable and nice! maybe we'll go to a market or something."

the weekend comes and. inseong has bought you two private jet tickets to brazil.

such is the world of dating a rich kid.

#rich kid au #sf9 scenarios #sf9 au #inseong scenarios #inseong au #sf9 imagines #inseong imagines #kim inseong #sf9 #inseong x reader #sfw #ko fi commissions

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army-author · 3 years

Text

things you said in no man’s land | jhs

❝ in the middle of no man’s land, following a brutal battle, you come across the prince of the enemy nation. he’s wounded and weak. you could simply kill him. yet an unspoken feeling stops you from doing so... ❞

➝ pairing: prince hoseok x princess reader

➝ prompt: enemies to lovers

➝ genre: angst; fantasy au

➝ word count: 1.5k

➝ warnings: mentions of war and death; depictions of injury

The fighting is pointless.

In no man’s land, surrounded by a sea of dead bodies on either side, both your men and the men of your enemy, you can clearly see the folly of endless warring. The smell of mud and blood cloys the air, clinging to your nostrils.

Looking around, the horizon is empty, apart from the shapes of dead horses and dead riders. The stragglers of your army have retreated. The opposing side has done the same, returning to the safety of camp, where new strategies will be devised, new recruits will be deployed, and new morales will be invigorated for another grisly battle. The idea makes you nauseous. Your body is exhausted, magic drained from your veins after blasting spells at the opposite side, cruel sparks crackling from your fingers. When you started learning magic, you had wanted to use it to heal and strengthen. Now you use it for the opposite, your inherent gift weaponised for war.

As the princess of the White Dragons, you were destined to the lead the war when the fraught peace with the Black Lions ended in a flurry of bloody border disputes. You had been trained to fight from a young age, both with the sword and with your magic.

The thought makes you ill. You spit on the mud, where the trickles of water from the last rain shower run red. You know that you should not be standing in no man’s land. Even with the battle over for now, if anyone from the Black Lions were to see you, all it would take is a well aimed crossbow bolt to the head and you’d be gone. Let them, you think. You don’t want to fight any more.

You walk through the mud, searching in the hopes that you’ll spot a survivor you can help back to camp. But the bodies before you are all corpses now.

Then, you spot a shape heaving before you. Someone managed to live after all. But this body is on the wrong side of no man’s land. A Black Lions’ survivor, dragging himself through the dirt. As he gets to shaking feet, you freeze. His dark hair is buffeted off his face by a weak breeze, revealing his features, stained with dried blood, but still recognisable. Jung Hoseok, the Black Lion’s crown prince.

Standing before you is the heir of your enemy, weak and wounded. All it would take is you drawing your sword, and in one swift motion, you could end his life. With their prince defeated, the Black Lions would retreat, giving temporary peace. But for how long? A few months? Then what?

Hoseok turns to you, and recognition flashes in his troubled eyes. Blood trickles down his face from a wide gash on his forehead.

“Well, princess,” he says in a weak voice, raising his hands to you, “It would seem that the gods are on your side today. Here I am, weaponless before you. Kill me if you wish.”

You swallow, drawing your sword from its sheath. He sways in front of you as you walk towards him. You raise your blade. With one clean cut you could chop through his vital arteries, and watch the life drain from him.

- ✽ ✽ ✽ -

Many years before new war, the Black Lions had met at the White Dragons’ palace for peace negotiations. The peace had not lasted long, but those fleeting years are your most fond childhood memories.

When the Black Lions had arrived at the palace, you remember spotting Hoseok for the first time. He had been hiding behind his father. He was only a young child at the time, around the same age as you. Being young and naive, you had not understood the conflict between your families. All you saw him as was a new playmate. So you ran up to him, and stuck out your hand in greeting, before proceeding to ask him if he wanted to play hide and seek with you. He had been hesitant at first, but after his father gave him a nod, Hoseok had followed you, leaving the adults to negotiate over borders.

You had run through the palace, ducking in and out of the many rooms with Hoseok, giggling as you went. You were happy to have a new friend.

When your father had later corrected you, explaining that no heir of the Black Lions could be a friend of yours, you had worked yourself into a flurry of tears, hiding yourself in your room for days. You didn’t understand why the kind boy couldn’t be your friend.

- ✽ ✽ ✽ -

You drop your sword to the ground in front of Hoseok. “I can’t do it,” you tell him.

His eyes search yours, confused.

“I can’t kill someone so defenceless,” you say, “It doesn’t feel right.”

Hoseok grimaces, “You White Dragons, with your self-assured sense of honour...” A groan escapes his lips, as he grasps at his side. You see blood staining his fingers. “Even if you do not kill me now, I don’t believe I have much time left. If you go now, you’re simply leaving me to a worse fate.” At those words he sinks down to the mud with a hiss of pain. Blood is seeping into his cloak, bubbling up from under his chain mail.

Without realising what you are doing, you instinctively kneel down next to him, lifting up his chain mail and his undershirt to expose a gaping wound on his stomach. You hold up your hands to his wound, and begin to murmur the words of a healing incantation.

“What are you doing?” Hoseok’s voice is steeped in confusion.

You ignore him, concentrating on the wound before you, as you knit shattered ribs, correct the flow of blood, and lace skin together again. The incantation drains you of the last of your energy; the damage is almost too much for you to repair. You’re left gasping for air as you finish, leaving an ugly scar on Hoseok’s skin.

“Why?” his dark irises search your own.

“I...” You shake your head, unsure how to explain yourself, “I don't… want to fight any more… I know it’s naive to think in such a way, but I was reminiscing on when you and I were children, and we played hide and seek in the palace. I struggle to see the man that young boy grew into as an enemy… Even though I should.” A sudden sob shudders through you. “I’ve seen too many people die today. I can’t bear to see another.”

You close your eyes, feeling tears stinging your eyelids. You should not be showing this side of yourself to Hoseok of all people. He could simply pick up the sword you dropped, and end you in an instant. Still you keep your eyes shut, lips trembling on unspoken words.

You feel a warmth on your hand, and pry your wet eyes open to see Hoseok’s hand on yours. You glance up to him, seeing a strange expression contorting his face. “I understand,” he murmurs. His thumb rubs a soft circle on your palm.

You stare at him, and he stares back, as if surprised by his own actions.

“I wish we could stop the war,” you tell him, “I know its naive to hope for such things, but I cannot help this feeling.”

Hoseok nods, “At least I know there’s hope for your nation once you ascend to the throne. The White Dragons will have a kind and just ruler.”

“I know the same will be true of the Black Lions once you become king,” you reply softly.

Hoseok’s grip on your hand grows tighter. You get the sense that he wants to say more, but he keeps his mouth shut. His eyes search your own, his cheeks flushed. You feel a seed of hope root itself inside you. Maybe someday there will be peace between your nations, heralded by a new generation of royals.

Despite knowing that you should quell such feelings, a shiver runs through you when Hoseok offers you a sad smile. You refuse to name the emotion, instead pulling Hoseok to his feet, standing firm in the empty space between enemy camps.

As you part ways, you to the White Dragons, and he to the Black Lions, the stubborn emotion persists in your chest, heavy on your heart. You know it will only become more problematic over time. You try to ignore it, and leave it unnamed.

But it has a name. It’s name is love.

- ✽ ✽ ✽ -

One day, the warring nations will declare peace once more.

On that day, Hoseok will get down on one knee, and ask the kind princess who healed him on the battlefield for her hand in marriage. She’ll say yes.

- THE END -

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