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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

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requests are open!!! what about a soft yandere fairy with a darling that accidentally wanders into their forest and won't let them leave? thank u sm!

I’ve never been able to resist a classic Yandere!Fae who can’t seem to understand why their lovely little Darling won’t give them a name and volunteer their free will without a struggle. It’s nice to be soft for a change, too, if only for the dialogue.

Title: Creation and Control.

TW: Imprisonment and Mind-Control.

You chose not to dance, tonight.

It wasn’t because you had anything better to do. The fae could hunt, they could harvest and maintain their make-shift homes and do whatever they wished once the sun slipped low in the sky, but as a human, a guest who’d been forced to overstay their welcome, you could only choose between joining one of the swirling, ever-growing circles or not doing so. For whatever reason, you’d picked the latter, taking a seat on a fallen tree-trunk and watching as strangers without names laughed and smiled and sobbed, some of them unfamiliar, and others prisoners like yourself, unable to leave because of magic or fate or in your case, a golden elixir you hadn’t known better than to drink. A goblet of it sat at your feet, now, but you didn’t pay it any mind. If only for the sake of protecting your pride.

Despite this, your attention dropped to the grail as a familiar figure started to approach, heavy footsteps muffled by the soft glass of the clearing. You didn’t have to greet him or be greeted in return, not when there was only one person who dared to speak to you. Who bothered to speak to you, really. It wasn’t like a conversation with someone else’s personal pet would draw much interest, not from a group that had already seen so many of your kind come and go.

You only looked up when a long, lean hand came to rest on your shoulder, pressing down for a moment before you gave in, tilting your head back and letting your eyes meet the swirls of green and gold just beginning to pry into you. Durin, although that was more of a title than a name. The warden to your prison of trees and mushrooms and enchanting, unnerving smiles.

He spoke first. He always did. You were an object to be addressed, here, rather than one expected to speak out of turn. “My dear,” He started, already sliding a thin wooden comb in your waiting hand. “Indulge me and I promise, you won’t be pestered again until sunrise.”

You didn’t need further instruction. You pulled your legs onto the trunk and Durin lowered himself into the space they’d once occupied, soon sitting outstretched in front of you. It was a mind-numbing activity, braiding a head of long, pale hair into whatever dizzying pattern its owner requested, but you had plenty of practice, both from the task you were currently performing and the less patient stallions you used to care for on your family’s farm. You wondered if anyone took up to responsibility, now that you weren’t there to carry it out. You wondered if anyone even noticed you were gone. “It’s not difficult,” You mumbled, running your comb through a series of non-existent knots. “You could learn to do this yourself, if you wanted to. It’d be faster than coming to me.”

“I could, hypothetically, but I’m afraid we monsters don’t share your talents.” He paused, letting out a pleased hum as your blunt nails scraped idly against his scalp. “Hunting braids, perhaps, but nothing so…” He trailed off, rolling two fingers in a vague, arbitrary gesture. “Nothing so pointless. The Gods blessed us with many things, but alas, no one thought to add ‘creation’ to that list.”

Your response was delayed. You’d heard of their curse before, in tales of the suffering that was said to accompany any slight endeavor into turning one thing into another, but you’d never quite believed it. You supposed it was fitting, though. Durin didn’t seem like the kind of refined soul who would dwell in the sparsely decorated cave he called a home for any reason less than necessity. “I hardly think brushing your own hair would incur divine wrath.”

“If you can break one rule, you’re bound to break the rest. I wouldn’t be reduced to a pile of smoldering ash, but I doubt the consequences would be pleasant,” He explained, twisting to his side just enough to see you without disturbing the three tangled trails you were desperately trying to guide to an agreeable meeting point. “Are you trying to say you don’t enjoy my company, love?”

You didn’t answer him. With a particularly harsh tug to the strand you were holding, you forced him to wince, freeing you from his gaze with minimal effort. “And that’s why I’m here?” You asked, the words more a declaration of grudging recognition than a real question. “To braid your hair and tend to your every need, because you’re so tragically unable to?”

At that, he seemed to take offense, leaning back and into your lap, spoiling your progress as carelessly as he’d demanded it. You could see his face, like this, an expression of defined lines and pointed ears and traits that weren’t quite not uncanny. You might’ve said there was a hint of a collar bone beneath his loose tunic, but there could be no hints, not with Durin. He was the romantic interpretation of a man, something that got so close to being a perfect replica, but whose creator was too fond of embellishments to truly design something real. You could accept that you’d once thought of him as human, but you couldn’t forgive yourself for holding onto that belief for so long. Others in his entourage their otherness more obvious, decorating themselves with horns and hooves and whatever they liked, and while Durin was less apparent, he made no attempt to hide his wrongness. His grin, suddenly full of pointed, predatory teeth, was enough to prove that.

“You’re here because I want you to be.” He never looked away, never blinked, and abruptly, it occurred to you that he might not have to. “You’re here because I saw a young, vulnerable human wandering through my territory, following the calls of members of my court, and I decided to take pity on what should’ve been the main course of our next feast. And, because I’ve come to care for you despite your doubt, you will remain here. Allowing you to dote on me is just another privilege I’m kind enough to provide.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d had this conversation. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last, and you knew that. As well as you knew the color of the sky and the time of day, you knew that. You knew it, and yet, you found yourself frowning, stiffening, gritting your teeth as you resisted the urge to shove him away. “If you were kind, you would let me go. You know I don’t want to be here.”

His smile wavered, then dropped. “I don’t think I like your tone.”

“I don’t think I like being a hostage.” You didn’t try to stop yourself, pushing him off of your lap and fleeing from your informal, ruined haven. You had to force yourself to breathe, to inahle and exhale and make yourself calm down, but even that did little to calm your temper, only making you feel more like a child attempting to express their discontent. “You trapped me here. You took me someplace I don’t wish to be, and now, I can’t leave. How is that kind? How are you guiltless--”

“(Y/n).”

It was a silent command. You could feel it, something vile forcing its way into your veins and solidifying, rendering you speechless and paralyzed as Durin shook his head, letting out a ragged sigh before he bothered to raise a hand, gesturing for you to come to him. You didn’t have a choice, your movements rigid and your thoughts barely your own, but your body was quick to obey him, to stumble its way to its captor and fall into his lap the moment he expressed his desire for you to do so. His control faded as his arms wrapped around you, but Durin didn’t act to reinstate it, only reaching behind him and pushing something small and solid into your palm.

The comb. Sleek and wooden and so, so awful. You were tempted to cry, if only in frustration.

But, you didn’t try to resist.

Instead, you choked down your complaints and began working where you left off, attempting to ignore the contented, toothy smile now pressing into your skin.

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just-asks-and-beats · 3 years

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Land Ho!

Water. That was all Gray could see.. for soooo long. He just wanted to pass out. His body felt sluggish, it was getting harder by the minute to sit up straight, and his head was pounding. He tried to ignore it, but it really seemed like karma was beginning to catch up to him. It certainly didn’t help to be in the presence of Ship for the whole ride… they were too damn happy, too damn hug-y..? Is that even a word..? He didn’t know, didn’t care. He just wanted them to stop hopping around the ship hugging everyone and get to the volcano already. As a gentle sea breeze ruffled his cloak, he took a moment to let everything that was happening set in… Big mistake. He felt sick, guilt coming along with his realisations. Oh, how he didn’t want to have to face Barracuda.. but what other choice did he have!? What would everyone do to him if they found out who he really was…? He wished he’d died in that final fight.. he hardly even remembered what happened, just how much it hurt. Nobody had ever accepted him, and he was sure there were no chances at a happy life for him now. He’d ruined every chance he had. He let out a quiet sigh as he looked down at the water below…

Darkness. That was all Lycan- or Lichen? Was he still using the code-name? He didn’t remember… Anyway, it was dark. Way too dark. For soooo long. He hated being stuck as Gray’s body, it was getting hot being covered up in fabric the whole time! They wished Ship had a motorboat so they could just speed over to the volcano instead of this. It was hard to see, hard to breathe, and getting tiring holding Gray up. He wanted to complain about it, but alas, giving away both of their identities would mean quite a bit of trouble. He’d just have to complain to Barracuda when they got there. He began thinking of the volcano, how nice it would be to stay there again. Sure, his last visit ended in disaster, but it was the fun kind of disaster! He truly didn’t care about being corrupted, he just liked having the extra sass and slight power boost! Sure, they weren’t as much of a threat as they were when they’d first been corrupted, the treeangle shard greatly powering up the volcano, but they could still kick ass! He wondered how Bareacuda would react to seeing them both… a question entered his mind. Should he tell Barracuda that Gray is really Blixer…? Well, if Ship said he hadn’t been in a good mood lately, then the answer was probably no. He would just have to wait until Barracuda was feeling better to speak about it with him in private! …He hoped everything would go well when they arrived at the volcano…

The sea, the sky, the beautiful clouds, the shining sun, oh how Ship loved it. There was nothing better to them than setting sail, gazing out over the horizon… this “Gray” was quite the character. Gray top, blue bottom, they’d never seen another shape like him, but they certainly weren’t judging. They liked Gray, even if something about him seemed… off. They couldn’t quite place their finger on it, but they figured it best to let sleeping dogs lie, and let him live his own life without asking too many questions. Ship took out their telescope and pour it to their eye, getting a better look at everything. The telescope was a family heirloom, passed down through quite a few generations, and always kept on tip-top shape, just like their ships. As they gazed through the glass they took in a deep breath, letting out a hearty

“LAND HO!”

Gray had practically jumped right off Lycan- or Lichen? Were they still trying to convince everyone that sorry excuse for a lie was their name? He wasn’t sure. Anyway- he’d practically jumped right off their shoulders as Ship’s call rang out across the waters. He saw the volcano in the distance, quickly getting larger and larger. Finally.

Lichen sat up straight, fully alert. What was going on? He couldn’t see a thing and he felt too nervous to try and peek out.. Maybe the volcano was close! He really hoped so… luckily his guess was correct as he heard Ship began to speak about things like “droppin’ ye off ‘ere” and “dockin’ the boat”. He quickly told up, hiding his paws in the cook and holding onto Gray to keep him steady as he hopped out of the boat onto the volcano’s island.

“Alrighty, I hope everythin’ goes well for ye here, and I really hope ye can get that grumpy lad t’ be a bit more cheerful! I’m surprised he hasn’t “unleashed his wrath” on us yet! Well, maybe he just recognises ye! I wish ye the best o’ luck, I’ll be takin’ me leave now!” And with that, Ship began sailing away, leaving Gray on the island to try and help Barracuda. They waved to him as they sailed off.

“Ah, thank you ever so much for your generosity!” Lycan did his best to sound mature once again, speaking so Gray didn’t have to. He waved back where he’d heard Ship’s voice come from, hoping it was at least general the right direction, since he couldn’t see all too well. He heard Gray sigh.

“….Alright… let’s get goin’ I guess….” His voice sounded weak, and quieter than usual. Lichen felt a bit worried about the poor guy.. They peeked out of the cloak and began to walk towards the tunnel leading into the volcano. As they entered, Lycan finally looked out of the cloak completely, then kneeled down to Gray could get off of his shoulders. As Gray climbed down he really wasn’t really to hav to hold himself up completely on his own, and almost fell over, doing all he could to keep his legs from giving out entirely. He leaned against a wall of the cave, trying to be as nonchalant about everything as possible, but Lycan knew something was wrong.. Gray’s condition was getting worse.

“Uh.. you stay here! I’ll try to find Barracuda! I don’t think you’d do too well climbin around the rocks n stuff over the lava. I’m used to it though, or at least I was getting used to it when I was here for a bit… Whatever, I’ll be fine. See ya!” And with that he ran down the tunnel into the main area of the volcano.. Where was Barracuda? If he was apparently making such a fuss over here, then why wasn’t he there to greet them? Lycan scaled a rocky wall, climbing up to a ledge and jumping onto another rocky platform.

“HEY BARRACUDA!? I BET YA RECOGNISE MY ANNOYING VOOOIICE! DID YA MISS ME?” He called out, hoping for any kind of response.. Barracuda was the only one he knew that might be capable enough to help B- Gray without maybe also wanting to kill him. He needed to find him. He continued searching, leaping from place to place, his attention shifting more to the search than to his surroundings… He called out again to Barracuda, his voice echoing throughout the cavern. He hardly noticed a slight trembling of the rock beneath his feet. He walked to the ledge, ready to leap to a rocky wall and grab on when suddenly, just as he was about to jump, the rock broke beneath him. He yelped as his plunge to the lava below began. No! He didn’t want this to happen again, it hurt! He braced himself for the intense burning sensation when suddenly, he stopped! Something had grabbed him, a long tail of some sort curled around his torso, it’s grip tightening as he was slowly hoisted back up to a stable ledge. He gripped the ground below him, trembling slightly before shaking his head and trying to stand up… but he couldn’t. He noticed the tail was still tightly gripped around him… wait.. this is-!

“Just what do you think you’re doing here…?” A cold, stern voice asked. Lycan looked up to see none other than Barracuda glaring at him… suddenly he felt a lot more helpless. He stammered a bit before being cut off by one of Barracuda’s dramatic sighs. He pulled his tail closer to himself, bringing Lycan along with it. He took the time to inspect the pink splotches making their way into Lycan’s complexion.

“…I see the corruption hasn’t quite treated you well, has it? Let me guess, you’ve come to run from your problems..” His voice was calm, yet accusatory in a way. Lycan looked a bit uncomfortable, staring at the ground.

“…I.. I need your help.. we need your help. I have someone with me that.. isn’t doing too well.” He shrunk back as he noticed how infuriated Bareacuda looked.

“What do you think this volcano has become, a hospital!? Why do you think I would ever care about some stranger, and some annoying pup come to ruin my only chances as finding a sorry excuse for peace!?” Lycan gave a small whimper as Barracuda’s grip on him tightened as he got angrier, which seemed to make Barracuda let go of him altogether. He gave an almost apologetic look before curling his tail around himself and looking away.

“….Lycanthropy, I just want everyone to leave me alone. I have… much on my mind currently, and as you can tell i’m horribly irritable. So if you could just… leave. That would be ideal.” He tried to make “go away” sound a eloquent as possible.. Lycan seemed to get the message, but he had no other options.. he couldn’t leave.

“…I’m sorry for being so annoying and I promise I’ll try not to cause any trouble but please! Please let us stay, we don’t even have any way to leave and even if we go leave we have nowhere to go! Shapes started freaking out when they saw the pink growing back on me! And- and Gray is… I.. I’m worried he won’t last for much longer without any help and I don’t know what to do!” He looked at Bareacuda, desperate for any kind of look of pity. He got a flash of one, but Bareacuda quickly composed himself and returned his stern gaze.

“I have no help to give. I’m sorry. I can temporarily fix the bridge to this island so that you and this “Gray” may leave, but that. is. all.” Barracuda may be stubborn, but Lycan was too. He decided it was time for the final trick up his sleeve… the puppy eyes. He did his best to look as pitiful as possible, his big eyes shining as he did his best to convince Barracuda one final time to let them stay…. Eventually he got up, looking sadly at the way back down. He tearfully nodded as he climbed down, slowly making his way back to the tunnel where Gray was waiting. Barracuda felt… guilty. Did he really just deny a kid and someone who is potentially deathly ill from taking shelter here…? He didn’t want to think of himself as a bad person, but… this was certainly a new low. Oh how he hated this feeling, but… he couldn’t force Lycan and his friend to leave, his conscience would never recover.. He slowly slithered down, as he reached the bottom he used his magic to transform his serpentine bottom half back into normal legs. He ran into the tunnel after Lycan.

Gray has been sitting here alone for quite some time.. where was Lycan.. was he hurt…? He hoped not, he’d never forgive himself if he got this kid into even worse trouble… His head was foggy, thoughts swimming around and crashing into one another, he could hardly even stay awake. He didn’t notice the sound of footsteps approaching until Lycan was standing right in front of him, he sleepily looked up, slightly relieved to see him ok. Lycan began to speak to him… what was he saying…? Something about… Barracuda… guilt-tripping….? He had no idea what was going on… He noticed Lycan looked worried.. they knelt down in front of him and waved a hand in front of his face… what were they doing…? He just grunted and shook his head, he didn’t feel well.. Lycan backed off, but still seemed troubled as he stared at him. Then, Lycan looked over down the tunnel, he smiled a little and got up to greet someone… Gray did his best to see who it was…. it was Barracuda.. he really was here… he was staring at him, did he do something wrong…? He… wasn’t sure what expression Barracuda even had… he felt nervous, guilty… He felt so tired… Barracuda was here.. that was good…. he’d help… good… that means Gray could just… close his eyes… for a minute…

“D-DID HE JUST DIE!?” Lycan exclaimed, looking at Gray who practically just passed out. He looked over to Bareacuda for some kind of reassurance, but all he got was silence.. Barracuda was still staring at Gray, why? Was he that upset a stranger was here..? Lycan watched as Barracuda picked Gray up and walked away with him, taking the time to look back and make sure Lycan was following, which he was. Barracuda had changed his normal legs into a serpentine tail once again to scale the rocks, and had eventually lead Lycan through a small crevice, which lead into a larger cavern area, illuminated by a mixture of candles, lamps, and glowing mushrooms. Oddly enough, there was furniture here. There was a couch, a table and chairs, a laptop, and a whole bunch of boxes filled with all sorts of different things all neatly organised. There was a fire going, a pot hanging above it on a small rack, the smell coming from it made Lycan’s stomachs growl. He hadn’t eaten in a while and whatever was in there smelled great. Barracuda placed Gray down on the couch, grabbing a blanket and putting it over him, then going into the boxes and pulling out two bowls and spoons. He grabbed a ladle resting by the fire and used it to serve two bowl-fulls of a mushroom stew. He handed a bowl to Lycan, which quickly sat down at the table and began to scarf down his meal. He also took his bowl to the table and began eating in a much calmer manner. He looked up at Lycanthropy who clearly seemed to me enjoying the meal and slightly smiled to himself… maybe he could get use to these two idiots staying for a while..

#js&b #jsab #jsab blixer #just shapes and beats #jsab lycanthropy #jsab barracuda #jsab ship #jsab boat #long post #I LOVE WRITING THESE LMAO #if there are any spelling mistakes that i didn’t catch i’m sorry it’s almost 3AM and i’m so tired lmao

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angstmongertina · 3 years

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The Vision of Lachesis

Spoilers for Artem’s Entwined Fates SSR card story! Also, warning for angst and implied/mentioned character death, because I can only write so much fluff before things get angsty.

I had this idea almost as soon as I played the Entwined Fates card story because I am a sucker for outside POV fics, though the idea for the last scene came later lol. Incidentally, if you want to skip the angst, just stop before the little warning I put in there. Everything before it should be perfectly fluffy.

Cross-posted to AO3.

In his years living at Cloudbreak Temple, Master Lu has already seen many visitors pass through its gate, all with various different hopes and dreams and stories filling their souls. He has seen everyone, from new babies to old grandmothers, from shy young couples to blissful newlyweds and bickering old spouses. And still, the pair he spies entering the temple catch his attention.

He is, as is always the case during the busy festival days, pulled in all directions at once, guiding petitioners through the rituals of prayer and interpreting fortune, but even so, he cannot help but keep an eye on them. A man in front, tall and middle-aged, wearing a solemn expression that does not quite suit the laugh lines on his face, and a boy, not yet fully grown and quiet, shying away slightly from the noise and bustle around him but watching the proceedings with a bright, piercing gaze. The man says something, a gentle hand clapping the boy’s shoulder in a warm, fatherly gesture that brings a faint smile to the small face, before they dive into the crowd, and he turns his attention back to the couple before him.

Thankfully, they do not comment on his preoccupation and he puts the others out of mind as he helps them determine their fortunes.

The next time he sees the pair, they are with old Master Wang, which comes as no great surprise to him. Although Cloudbreak Temple may be most well-known for petitions to the star of wisdom, they accommodate many types of prayers, and while the boy may be of the age where success in learning and exams is important, one glance at the youthful face is enough to tell him that the boy has both intelligence and diligence to spare, and furthermore, a concrete attitude that would likely dismiss the thought of appealing to prayers for school out of hand. No, there is no need for prayers for success. But for safety, on the other hand…

He moves a little closer, still not yet so close as to be truly spying, but near enough to get a better look at the pair. The man is dressed casually, long brown hair pulled out of his face, and stands almost at a slouch, but the eyes that observe the world around him through thin-rimmed glasses are far from relaxed. Instead, their grey depths are cautious, sharp, clearly accustomed to seeking out the truth behind every person, every choice and interaction. It is only when they fall on the young man beside him do they soften with affection and concern. A man of action, of justice and strong morals, though perhaps of some impetuousness and with a fragility under it all.

A man, in short, who likely puts himself into the path of danger for the good of the people around him, but who also might shatter should he be pushed to the brink, should the lives of those he cares about be on the line.

And the boy…

Master Lu frowns, brushing a thoughtful hand over his chin and the faint beginnings of a thick beard as the man ruffles the boy’s hair and he looks up at his companion with a small but adoring smile.

The boy still has a whole entire life in store for him, of that he is certain. And one that will no doubt intersect with the temple again.

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When the couple steps through the gates of the temple, the man sheltering the girl beside him from the crowds, he notices them immediately. Though many years have passed, he has learned to trust his instincts, even beyond what his mind may tell him, and his gut recognizes the man long before his eyes do. The boy has grown, of course, in the ensuing two decades, but the bright intelligence, the thoughtfulness and care, all harken back to the shy child of so long ago.

But rather than his old friend and mentor, this time, the man brings with him a companion of his own. At first glance, she is just as bright-eyed and curious as he once was, though perhaps with more anxiety than he had, focusing immensely on the tasks before her. And the way he watches her…

Before he knows it, he is approaching the pair, standing at a table for the star of wisdom, and offers his assistance. He sees her attention flit away as her partner leaves for his own prayer, following him through the crowd with her eyes and her mind; though she appears to be unaware of it herself, her partner knows, and he knows, that even apart, their hearts, their very lives themselves, are irrevocably entwined, two souls pulled together by an inescapable gravity that he had not seen in decades, if ever.

He cannot help his curiosity about them, about this pair that seems to confirm the very existence of fate itself. These two lawyers, partners, these two halves of a single whole, that the universe has brought together, in an act of perfect balance.

Their marriage fortunes, an offer he makes that is part personal interest, part guiding hand, come as a surprise, though perhaps it should not have been wholly unexpected. He has never been wrong before, not about the couples who have captured his attention, but this…

This is less of a gentle nudge from fate and more of a flashing neon sign.

She reacts to her fortune tag first and he cannot help but smile at the curiosity, at the innocence, in her eyes. “I cannot keep my heart, as it longs to be with you…” A straightforward fortune, as befitting the girl who watches her partner with subconscious adoration, who still does not see his unconditional tenderness, who still does not understand her own constant preoccupation, for what they are. In time, she will realize.

But her partner…

He knows from the moment he sees the man’s face that the meaning of his own fortune is not lost on him. “It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.” And it is fitting for him, for the way he turns away from this, his hesitant heart, cautiously hopeful for a sign that the undying flame he carries will not be snuffed out, bruised from this heavy blow from fate, determined to carry its burden alone, to push his feelings aside and pretend that all is well, as he has always done.

It is a cautionary tale, this particular fortune, and he can say nothing, can only look on in weighty silence, as its recipient takes his companion and continues down his ill-fated and forewarned path.

Or, at least, attempts to, but for the efforts of the girl by his side. He does not listen to the conversation not meant for his ears but he does not need to, not when her thoughts are written clear across her face, not when she tugs her partner back to hear his explanation.

Not when she, despite being still oblivious to the depth of their connection, to the direction of her heart, immediately moves to petition, to help, to find some way of reversing the luck, propelled by outward concern and hidden affection.

He gives them directions both to the wishing tree and for the method to improve one’s luck and watches as she leaps at each opportunity, apparently unaware of the implications, in her quest to lessen her companion’s misfortune. But the man, now wearing a near constant smile of stunned helplessness, knows, even if he cannot, or perhaps more likely, will not, let himself, discern the cause of her concern.

Not even when it involves her suggesting that they bind their fortunes together on the wishing tree.

He chuckles, running his fingers over his beard as he watches them, their gentle discussion and animated features, both conveying so much to the world that they are too close, too farsighted, to see. But in this moment, it is not his place to say anything, to interfere any further, and so he doesn’t. Fate has already shown her own interest in their future, one that they have accepted and furthered, without, apparently, even realizing it.

Ah, to be young and in love.

Waving off their thanks, he watches as they leave before shaking his head and letting out the full-bellied laugh that he has been holding back since he first met them. In all of his years working at the temple, he has never been wrong before, and he is certain that he will not be wrong this time.

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The first day of the festival dawns early and bright, with that telltale warmth that foretells another hot August day. Even before the temple is open for visitors, anticipation hums through the air, the faint buzz as everyone prepares for the inevitable rush of petitioners.

Standing before the steps to the main temple, Master Lu looks out over the entire grounds with a smile. While the outside world has changed drastically in the past decades, within the temple, it is like being transported back in time; the same old tables from years past have already been set up, and the decorations, while not entirely the exact same as those used in centuries past, have all been remade in the original style.

In the fast-paced and ever-changing world, it is almost a sanctuary from time itself, where the tags of decades of visitors remain for an eternity and the history and traditions of the ancestors are preserved for future generations.

Well, at least in some ways more than others, if the influx of technology, and not just from forgetful visitors, is any indication.

He shakes his head, chuckling at his own preoccupation as he dodges young Master Zhao, juggling his attention between the pile of fortunes carried in his arms and the phone jammed under his ear. Clearly, he has begun to get overly sentimental in his old age.

Alas, yet another reminder of the inevitability of the passage of time.

The entry of visitors, a veritable tsunami of petitioners all looking to arrive early, interrupts his thoughts and he turns his attention to them, casting an experienced eye over the crowd. As usual, the vast majority make a beeline straight for the table for the star of wisdom, drawn as ever to the promise of good scores and success. Young couples make their way to the table for marriage fortunes, fresh-eyed and smitten with each other. And others still filter towards the other tables, for peace and wealth and…

And safety.

He spots the small family almost as soon as they pass through the gates, though they are admittedly hard to miss. The man and woman walk arm in arm, slow and cautious against the crush of the people around them, his form shifting to act as a barrier to shield her against the worst of the crowd. The height of the man alone would have been enough to catch his attention, but it is accentuated by the tiny pigtailed girl riding on his shoulders, adding another head to their overall height. From her perch, she looks around with bright, curious eyes, a small hand pointing towards the main temple, and him.

Even across the distance, he can see the surprise and recognition flicker in the bright blue eyes that meet his, and he would not have been able to hide his grin even if he had tried. As it is, though, he does not try, instead stepping forward to meet them with a greeting.

“I don’t know if you remember us, but…”

He shakes his head, waving off the woman’s comment with a laugh. “I do.”

And of course he does. How could he not? They have matured, naturally, settling into one combined force rather than two beings still tumbling in each other’s orbits; her hair is longer now, pulled into a neat bun, and his more disheveled than he’s ever seen under the ministrations of toddler hands; but the same spirit, the same keen eyes and entwined fates, shine out from the pair, unique amongst the crowd of other visitors.

He grins. “Of course I do. After all, it’s not every day I draw two fortunes quite so complementary, and even more rare to have them be hung up together on the wishing tree like that.”

At that, she laughs as well, her cheeks reddening slightly, and pauses to shake her bangs out of her face. “Yes, well, you were right, and it all worked out in the end.” She turns to her husband with a playful look, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “Even if it did take the better part of another year.”

“That is on you just as much as it is on me. After all, it took you just as long to realize,” the man retorts, though, to his amusement, his ears flush a faint red, which only deepens when their daughter points them out in a chipper voice, one loud enough that several visitors nearby turn to glance at them.

From the mouth of babes…

“What brings you back? Not just to check on your old tags, no?”

Shooting him a grateful look for the subject change, the man shakes his head, a faint smile curling the edges of his mouth. “No, though it is an added bonus. We’ve come for a new prayer for safety.”

His wife nudges him again, though gentler this time, and with less vigor. “Two, remember?”

He laughs openly, an expression that makes him look years younger, as he drops a hand to the gentle swell of her abdomen. “It may be a little early for that, still. I think he at least needs to have an official name first.”

She wrinkles her nose at him before laughing in turn. “Fine, fine. We will just have to come back again in a year or two.”

“Of course. Anything for you.”

“Daddy!”

A comically dramatic wince flashes across the man’s face when his daughter leans over, her voice projecting with unerring precision directly into his ear, and his wife is left hiding her amusement with some difficulty.

“Too loud, baobei.”

The bright blue eyes widen in distress. “Sorry, Daddy!”

He chuckles, reaching up to clasp her small fist in his hand. “It’s okay, baobei. What is it?”

Squirming from her perch on his shoulders, she points towards the back of the temple, where a few decorated branches of the wishing tree can be seen hanging over the roof. “Big tree! ‘S pretty! Go see?”

He shakes his head. “Later, maybe. First we have to—”

“No! Go see!” She leans over until she is hanging directly in front of his eyes. “Daddy, please?”

The man glances at his wife, who shrugs, mouthing the word “softie” while still wearing that same huge grin, and he finds that he has to struggle to choke back his laugh before anyone notices.

Given the soft snort that reaches his ears, he only partly succeeds.

“All right, then. Let’s go. We can come back for a prayer of safety”—the man glances back down at his wife, a faint but wondering smile dancing on his lips—“or even two, later.” With a solemn expression, the man offers him a deep, respectful nod, one that he is not quick enough to wave away. “Thank you, Master.”

“Bye-bye!”

Laughing, he waves at the trio, watching as they slowly weave their way through the crowd towards the back of the temple. Even across that distance, he can feel the affection and respect they hold for each other, can see the connection they share, which have managed to catch his attention time and time again.

When they finally move out of sight, he turns back to the temple and the flood of other guests, making a mental note to keep an eye out for the little family in future years. Maybe he can take a small break from drawing marriage fortunes in favor of overseeing prayers for safety for a few years…

STOP NOW IF YOU DON’T WANT ANGST.

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The sky is still dark with storm clouds when they first dare venture back outside to examine the state of the temple. In some ways, it is almost a miracle; despite the weeks of heavy storms, accompanied by shrieking gales and large hail, Cloudbreak Temple and its inhabitants have been mostly unharmed, save for superficial damages, just in time for the summer festival. Still, the mood is quiet, solemn, as everyone sets to work, clearing away the fallen branches, discarding the broken shingles, and making room for the stations as best they can in the limited time they have.

Wandering over the grounds, Master Lu shakes his head. Summer storms are not uncommon in the mountains, but even in the many decades that he has spent at Cloudbreak Temple, he has never seen a storm like that one, lightning seeming to rent the sky in two and thunder shaking the foundations of the temple itself, where there was naught to do but to stay indoors and safe. They were truly fortunate that nobody was injured and that most of the damages can be repaired.

Unfortunately, not all of the temple has remained quite so intact.

Stopping at the edge of the courtyard, he sighs, casting his gaze over the mess. It does not come as a complete surprise, given the lashing of the rain or the howling of the wind, but that does not change the sorrow he feels at the destruction that greets his eyes. Where there was once a majestic, venerable camphor tree is now a tired, wizened old thing, bowing under its own weight in the weak hints of daylight. Fortune tags lay strewn amongst the branches that had once held them aloft, once vivid symbols of the future now simply dark red and brown patches against muddy green, that he has to pick his way around as he wanders further in, taking in all of the damage.

But there is no time to clean up the mess, not in his old age and with everything else that will be happening for the day, and the visitors will understand, have to understand. He shakes his head, feeling all of his many years pressing down on his shoulders, almost as though he is fighting the weight of all the fallen wishes themselves.

“Master Lu?”

He looks up at the familiar voice and smiles. Master Chen, arms full of red cords, stands in the entryway of the courtyard, his bright eyes filled with concern, and he suddenly finds himself wondering when they all got so young.

“What is it? Do you need my help with anything?”

The boy shakes his head. “No, we are almost finished. There are enough of us to finish and handle the visitors, since there likely will not be many so soon after the storm. If you want, I could help clean this area…”

He shakes his head again, this time with a more genuine smile. “No, you go on. They’ll be needing you in the main temple, I’m sure. I can work here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Chen nods, putting the new cords on the nearby table before giving him a small, formal bow. “Thank you. Then I leave this to you.”

He waves the kid away, chuckling slightly as he watches him turn and walk back to the main temple before turning his attention back to the courtyard and the scattered fortunes, the remembrances of years, or decades even, of hopes and dreams.

With another heavy sigh, he squats down, tossing some fallen branches aside before picking up the wooden fortune at his feet. It is old, the carved text worn down by the elements, and he runs his fingers over the inscription, a brief statement on the virtues of hard work. A student had hung it there, once upon a time, and he closes his eyes for a moment, hoping that they achieved their goals, before tucking it into his robes and continuing forward.

In some ways, it is almost a walk down memory lane. Prayers to the star of wisdom from students that have long since graduated, who may even be teachers and professors now. Prayers for safety for people who have moved beyond that point, who may have even already passed. Marriage fortunes, ones that he helped distribute and interpret, for young couples that are now parents or even grandparents of their own…

He stumbles to a stop, staring down at the ground by his feet. Lying in the grass, so hidden by mud that he almost missed them, are two wooden cards. Their surfaces are almost entirely obscured by the dirt, but he still recognizes them instantly, the pair of fortunes so opposite to each other, so perfectly complementary. Held to the branch and each other by a red cord that has split and frayed under the years, no doubt hastened by the tempest.

Heaving another sigh, he leans over and…

“Master?”

Caught off-guard he snaps upright, turning around with a polite refusal on the tip of his tongue, but his instincts, ever reliable, stay his reply as the appearance of the visitor sinks in.

Dressed in dark, muted colors, he is easy to overlook, blending into his surroundings, into any crowd, with little effort. His face is drawn, haggard, lines of exhaustion etched into his skin, making him look years older, while his dark hair is disheveled, streaked with gray. Altogether, the man in the entryway, tired and worn, is almost unrecognizable from the young, joyous father of his memory. In just the few years since he last visited, he has aged a decade, his strong, confident form now frail, once bright azure eyes now dimmed, haunted.

And the man approaches, moving forward with slow, hesitant steps, eyes fixed on the tags he holds in his hand.

“That… Is that…?”

The voice nearly breaks around those few words, hoarse and almost inaudible, but he doesn’t need to hear the rest of the question, doesn’t need an explanation to know what the man wants, to know what must have happened.

Closing his eyes, he bows his head. “Yes. It is. They must have fallen during the storm.”

He hears a labored, shuddering breath, one that makes his own chest tighten in sympathy. “I… May I?”

“Of course.” He steps forward, gently placing the tags into his outstretched hands, watching as trembling fingers brush over the faded markings, the broken cord, as the pale face twists with fresh pain. “I…” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“Daddy?”

They both turn at the same time, where a small girl stands in the entryway of the courtyard, holding the hand of an older woman as she cradles a bundle in her other arm. Pulling free of the restraining grasp, she runs forward to join them, grabbing her father’s free hand. “Daddy?”

Something resembling a smile tugs at the corners of the man’s lips as he squats to his daughter’s eye level. “What is it, baobei?”

“Are you sad?”

The sound that leaves the man’s throat is more of a rasp than a chuckle, but neither of them seem to notice. “Yes.” He wraps an arm around the girl, lifting her into the air as he stands back up. “Yes, I am.”

To his surprise, the girl only nods solemnly before looking at the tags in his hand. “What is that?”

The man sighs, holding it up so she can examine it more closely, running her small fingers over the wood as he wipes away the mud. “Mama and I came here years ago and hung it up when we were here. Before you were even born.”

“Oh. It’s pretty.” A slight frown on her face, she studies the fortunes and the cord linking them before raising her gaze. “Do you miss Mama?”

He has to shift his gaze away as the smile on the man’s face crumbles, turning his attention back to the mess of branches and fortune tags, but even so, he cannot escape hearing the slight hitch in the quiet voice. “Every day.”

She sniffles, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder. “Me too.”

“Anthea!” The older woman reaches them, her face a mix of concern and frustration, and he can’t help but turn his attention back to the family. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think she would be so quick.”

The man shakes his head as she reaches for the girl, instead shifting her position in his arms. “It’s fine, Ma. Besides, you have enough on your hands. And you’ve done more than enough for us now.”

“Still…”

“Ma.” The man closes his eyes, gently shaking his head, before meeting her gaze with a determination that even he can feel, that makes him tear his gaze away once more, feeling vaguely like he is eavesdropping. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I…” A sigh that hangs in the air between them. “I need to do this. For her. But thank you for… for everything. And…”

A hand suddenly appears in his vision and he looks up to find the man before him, standing up straighter with a mix of sorrow and resolve dancing on his features. “I don’t know if you remember me, but…”

He shakes his head. “I do. Still.”

“Of course.” A small but genuine smile cracks his mouth as the man draws a deep breath. “I… I remember you said once that fortunes should be returned to the temple once they’ve come true and…” He swallows once, hard. “Can you put these back for me?”

“Yes, certainly.” He reaches for them, hand closing back around the fortunes that the man holds out.

Two little wooden tags have never felt so heavy in his palm before.

For a moment, the man stares at them, as though in his hands, in these fragile pieces of wood, he carries all the weight of the world, before tearing his gaze away to meet his. “Thank you.”

Oddly enough, when he opens his mouth, he finds a sudden lump in his throat and instead of trying to speak, he only inclines his head, but it is enough. The man smiles again, a soft, ephemeral expression, before turning and walking away, still carrying his daughter while his mother paces alongside him with his son in her arms.

As he watches them leave, he brushes his thumb over the worn fortunes he cradles, gently tracing the text that he still remembers like it had been drawn yesterday.

It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.

Leaving the courtyard, he silently enters the main temple, ignoring the questioning looks from his fellow masters and visitors alike as he sets the tag, still tied to its partner with muddy red cord, down amongst the various other fortunes of years past, and sits back on his heels, reading it over one last time.

And so it is.

#Tears of Themis #weiding shijian bu #Artem Wing #Zuo Ran #Artem Wing/MC #Zuo Ran/MC #Tina writes stuff.#Tina plays ToT.#sweet awkward lawyer husband #otp: to have and to hold #It's been a Hot Minute since I've written character death angst.#Ho boy that was a lot.

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musicallisto · 3 years

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Hi Clara!! Congratulations on 800 followers again!! (also I was looking through your blog and we have the same birthday!! 🥳) I was wondering if I could please have a male Bridgerton ship? I’m an ENFJ, libra, and Hufflepuff if that helps at all. I can be a bit introverted a times but I’m usually a pretty outgoing, kind, and optimistic person! (although I can be a bit sensitive at times lol) Currently I’m studying to be a teacher. My friends/family are very important to me, and I will always try my best to help them it whatever ways I can. As for some things I enjoy, I love to read and write, as well as spend all day watching movies. I’m also interested in signing, acting, etc. and making things with my hands (ie. knitting, embroidery). Thank you so much in advance!! 💛

hiii birthday twin!! <3 you seem like the most fantastic person ever, I love your personality - and your writing, but it goes without saying. I hope you like your vanilla milkshake, but don’t get caught sipping on it unchaperoned with benedict bridgerton, that would be quite the scandal...

Now, was I influenced by your profile picture? Probably. But even without it, you’d be perfect for each other, and let me tell you the story of you both.

For your first society outings, and following your debutante ball, you became the talk of all London. Sure, you were praised far and wide for your beauty, but there was something else, ineffable and far more tender, that caused your name to linger on most gentlemen’s lips.

It was your first season, and yet you had already shown a mesmerizing elegance and poise, as well as an acute optimism and enthusiasm, making your conversation all the more enjoyable to all those you encountered.

Benedict had noticed you on your first ball, when whispers of your name and your every move had spread among the crowd like wildfire, and he had to admit that you were radiant, and your warm and welcoming smile gave you beauty like no other, but bright eyes and rosy cheeks were legion this side of London, and he knew the superficiality of these pretty little faces all too well. He wasn’t intrigued enough to start up a conversation or ask you to dance, and imagined you would be married in a matter of weeks.

But as time went on, and you apparently gracefully declined each proposal you received, Benedict couldn’t help growing a little bit more captivated each time he heard your name. What could you possibly waiting for? You’d had dashing young men bring you presents, you’d had the wealthiest nobles serenade you with flowers and compare you to a summer’s day; you’d had sonnets and promenades and bouquets and jewelry... and yet you had rejected them all, but not out of malice, still with this grace that everyone knew you to have.

Perhaps, and it was a little pretentious of him to dare entertain the thought, but it pleased a small part of his soul nonetheless, perhaps what you were waiting for was a portrait.

Eventually, after having theorized for days about what could possibly prompt such unambiguous refusals from a lady who seemed to have plethora of choice, Lady Whistledown must have deemed your situation to be less worthy of attention, because not scandalous enough, and you, like most other trends and fashions in that everchanging society, became an old tale before you’d even reached your prime.

But paradoxically, exactly when you were no longer the subject of Whistledown’s tittle-tattle, were you the most intriguing to Benedict.

It was then that he finally asked you to dance, under the watchful (and, though she did not show it, agreeably surprised) gaze of Lady Violet Bridgerton.

“You look positively radiant, lady Y/L/N. Your gown is exquisite.”

And he immediately regretted every single word that he had just said; he sounded just like those boring Lords you had rejected one after the other; but he meant it, he truly meant it, for he was just then seeing the hues in your eyes and in your smile, all those colors like those of a vibrant landscape...

If there ever was a time to show the depths of his soul, it was then; but he had always been good at avoiding conversation, not prompting it.

Still, you didn’t drop your beaming smile, and answered with a slight blush.

“Thank you, my lord. It is... oh, you will think it’s silly.”

“Not at all, I promise.”

“You see, you are the first to say that. Other lords have reproached its simplicity, but I am rather fond of it, because I sewed it myself.”

“Really? That’s impressive!”

He found he had little trouble continuing with the conversation after that, because you were so easy to talk to, so understanding of everything he said and so enthralling to get to know. You were creative and great with your hands, an artist, just like him, and it was the first of many things he would love about you.

“Tell me, lord Bridgerton... I have heard that you are quite the artist yourself.”

“Oh, that’s a gross exaggeration, they are but half-good sketches, nothing of interest, truly...”

Yet as he danced the night away with you, he felt as though a new blood surged through his veins, ready to craft the most beautiful pieces the world had ever seen, if only they could resemble the colors of your face.

“Well, I would love to see these half-good sketches someday, if you allow. I am sure they are brilliant.”

You had never seen a lord blush before, especially not a Bridgerton. It made your heart soar like it had rarely before.

“If you so wish. I couldn’t possibly refuse a lady.”

All along the ride back home, Benedict has the hugest, silliest grin on his face as he looks wistfully at the night sky.

“If it is what it takes to see my beloved brother swoon like a simpleton, then I will come to society balls more often.”

“Eloise, do not talk of your brother like that!”

But she’s right - it only took one night for him to be completely enraptured by you. He understands what they all meant when they couldn’t keep your name out of their mouths, when they said you were delightful and spirited... but they all hurried with their proposals, without getting to know you first, without listening to you, without discovering the depths of your character, and it’s all he wants all he can think about.

The next morning, he’s at your doorstep with a bouquet, and, of course, tightly wrapped inside it so as to not draw suspicion, a few of his sketches, ones that he drew the evening prior because his mind was too restless to sleep.

And thus begins a long period of courtship that has all of London in a frenzy. Surely no one expected the second eldest Bridgerton and the former diamond to have an affinity for each other. Truly no one.

“My Benedict has his heart set on an accomplished lady, a beautiful and clever one at that - this truly is the season of surprises! All a fulfilled mother would need now is for your brother to be the next to mend his ways...”

“And all his brother would need now, mother, is an escape from this interminable paperwork, but alas.”

You can often be seen promenading together in Hyde Park - you enjoy the company of the squirrels and the geese as much as he loves taking in the sceneries to later paint them.

“Y/N, pardon me if it is too bold of me to ask, but why are you not engaged yet? Surely you must have had a plethora of charming young men propose to you...”

“Handsome they were, but hardly charming. Oh, they all had plenty of qualities... an estate by the sea, a racing stable with twenty horses, a spot in the throne succession... but, oh, I care little if this is unbecoming of me to say, they were all so boring! None of them had half the charm that you have. The hours fly by when I am with you, Benedict, and I am entirely truthful when I say I have never felt as content as I feel with you.”

Everyone is London is awaiting the moment they’ll see you with a ring on that finger, but it seems to never come; yet everything is idyllic and your courtship and, beyond that, in your friendship, and he sincerely knows that he is irrevocably and utterly in love with you. But he just doesn’t dare ask.

To the point that Benedict’s entourage give him signals that it is now or never. Even Anthony, though with varying success.

“If you don’t propose to Lady Y/L/N, brother, I will.”

(And no one believed that.)

“Fine, I will, then!”

“Eloise!”

But what he has with you is so special that he’s terrified of rushing things. What if you are not ready, what if he is not as interesting, just as boring as the other men you turned down? What if he read everything wrong? What if...

Until he shoots his shot. It’s not nearly as romantic as he expected, because he fumbles over his words a few times and almost drops the ring in the Hyde Park lake...

... but given the enthusiasm with which you nod and embrace him - not caring about the passerby’s judging gazes -, he’s not sure why he agonized over it so much.

It’s self-evident that your love story is one for the ages.

800 follower sleepover

#writeroutoftime #800sleepover #ship request #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton imagine #oh my god this got so long???? but i have many feelings about the bridgerton siblings #and i wanted to add even MORE stuff but i still have homework to do asdfghjkl #anyway i hope you enjoy it!

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fresh-prince-of-denmark · 3 years

Text

New Dawn Fades — Literary References Analysis Part 4: The Id, the Ego, the Superego

Cyberpunk Spoiler Warning

Here’s part four of me going through all the endings and looking for the literary references in each of the endings, which I believe allude to what happens to V/Johnny, possibly in future DLC. If you haven’t read my other posts, you should read them here (Johnny’s Mikoshi poem, V’s Mikoshi Poem, The Star ending) first since we’re gonna loop back to them later.

New Dawn Fades was such a pain in the ass; because Johnny is such an art hoe, I found three different poems/stories scattered around. Not only that, but two of them are translated from Polish, and one of them us from Ovid’s The Metamorphoses. I studied English literature so…forgive me if this is super surface-level. Also, stuff gets lost in translation, so the original meaning sometimes gets lost. If Polish literature is anyones niche, please teach me a thing two, but all I can do now is my best! But from what I could tell, damn…paints a pretty depressing picture. Let’s start with the two Polish writers first:

Bolesław Leśmian, "Why so many candles...”

Why so many candles, these faces above me?

No more harm shall ever meet my body.

Everyone is standing - while here alone I lie -

Grieving, feigning. One must be true when one must die.

And so, buried under these wreathes of leaves, I lie -

Solemnly - Agelessly - Solitarily.

Death, gone silent, once again rushes to my head,

Though by now I know all my comprehension is dead.

How I loathe to become accustomed to this grave,

To be what I once was - that is all I crave.

This one is…yikes. Depressing. As I talked about in previous posts, V’s poem is more pessimistic: nothing we do matters, we’re all just dust in the wind, you know, the good stuff. Johnny’s poem has a very different stance; art makes us immortal, and we can change the world, etc. With this…Johnny seems to have given his larger-than-life attitude up in favor of V’s resignation that life sucks. Much like Prufrock in V’s poem, Johnny is lying “Solemnly - Agelessly - Solitarily.” Almost as if he didn’t want V’s body, not as a selfless gesture…but because he has grown accustom to his previous form. In Johnny’s version of Alt’s poem, it almost seems as if he embraces being a construct — the form of immortality it, and his legacy, grants him (remember all that hokey about being a golden bird to sing his message to the youth?). Blackwall was a kind of death Johnny knew — yet now:

“How I loathe to become accustomed to this grave,

To be what I once was - that is all I crave.”

Interesting. We never find out where Johnny is going when he leaves Night City, but it makes me wonder. Is he truly starting anew? Or hoping to fix what went wrong?

In the next room, we find another poem, this one an excerpt from Labyrinth by Wisława Szymborska:

So this way or that,

Or no, the other,

By ear or by your gut,

By your wits or by shortcut,

By any means necessary,

Cutting crooked corners.

Past whatever row in a row

Of corridors and gates,

Quickly, in the meantime

Your time grows short,

From one place to another

To one of many still open,

Of darkness and plight

But also delight, held just ajar,

Where there's joy, though sorrow

Lies well-nigh nearby,

And elsewhere, somewhere,

Wheresoever and whereabout,

Fortune in misfortune

Like a parenthetical parenthesis

Acceptance of it all

And suddenly - a fall

I’m a little shaky on the meaning behind this one. My immediate response is to compare it to the poem found in The Star — which contains a piece from The Marriage Between Heaven and Hell by William Blake. The overarching use of this poem, by my interpretation, is an explanation for what the Blackwall is: hell. But not hell how most would perceive it. In fact, according to Blake, hell isn’t so bad. Our views of heaven and hell, good and evil, are wrong. Everyone contains both good and bad within them, and neither is wrong, simply two opposites; between conformity and rebellion, art and obedience. If we were to look at it this way, V would most likely belong in “Heaven,” the world of the obedient, those who play by the worlds rules (at least, in the beginning of the story, before Johnny influences them toward the rebel path), while Johnny represents “Evil,” and would belong to Hell. In some dialogue choices, Johnny will even state that he no longer believes he is a human, and is in fact code, no longer belonging in the world of the living. In this scenario, both have found themselves where they don’t belong. Not only that — but one is supposed to be a healthy mix of so-called “Good” and “Evil.” The “Soul,” and “Body,” are one, not meant to be separated. Uh oh. The tone of this poem in Johnny’s context just seems so…lost, to me. Someone who found their other half, their perfect foil, a soul and body as one…and now it’s gone. What does one do after such a loss?

And finally, the most grim of the three stories: Ovid’s The Metamorphoses. Specifically, Book III, Narcissus and Echo. This one most likely has the greatest significance; not only is it a shard you can pick up, but an open copy of the book can be found in Johnny’s hotel room, drawing further attention to it.

If you haven’t read it, let me give you a quick and dirty summary:

At the beginning of the story, Narcissus’ mother, Liriope, asks the prophet Tiresias if her son will live to see old age, which he replies “only if he does not know himself.” One day when Narcissus is 16, he is out hunting when he finds a mountain Nymph named Echo. Echo, as one might guess, was cursed by Hera and can only repeat what is said back to her. You know. Like an echo. Echo falls in love with Narcissus at first sight and follows him throughout the forest, waiting for him to speak so she can communicate with him. Narcissus eventually gets separated from his hunting group, and calls out for them, which Echo…well, echos. Eventually Echo reveals herself and Narcissus freaks out, telling her basically he’d rather die than be with her. She hides in a cave and pines until she whithers away from hunger, and only her voice remains.

Many other nymphs fall for Narcissus because apparently he’s a straight up snack, but he rejects all of them. Apparently someone gets so salty about it, they summon the Goddess of Vengeance to do something about it. She leads him to a crystal clear pool, in which he is able to see his reflection. Remember the thing about knowing oneself? Yeah…At first, Narcissus thinks the reflection is a different person and falls in love. He smiles, the reflection smiles, so it must like him back, right? Eventually he reaches to touch it, and realizes that it’s him. He freaks out, and much like Echo, stays by his reflections side until he withers away. Having a total meltdown, he cries out “Alas!” which is echoed, by well, Echo. Her voice lived on, and she watches him die as he calls “Farewell, dear boy. Beloved in vain.” Once again, Echo repeats this. Narcissus dies and all the thirsty hoes make a pyre to burn him, but when they go looking for him they find the Narcissus (flower) instead (nooo...dont transform into a flower, you’re so sexy ahaha).

So what does this mean for Johnny/V? Well, two main things pop out to me: transformation, and reflections. Much like Echo and Narcissus are reflections of each other, V and Johnny reflect each other. As @ellitira pointed out in my analysis of the Star, V and Johnny constantly reflect each other. One of the most obvious ways is their literal reflection; if you look in a mirror during a relic malfunction, you’ll see Johnny, not V. But scenes are reflected as well; the first and last time V meets Johnny, they grab him by the shoulder from behind to get his attention as he turn to face them. The first time Johnny and V have a civil conversation, they’re sitting at a table in Tom’s Diner, Johnny’s foot on the table. This mimics their conversation in Mikoshi with Alt. Their conversation about taking a bullet for one another in the Pista Sofia where Johnny is sitting backwards on a chair while V is on the ground is also repeated moments later, as Johnny and V have their final conversation about who will stay and who will go with Alt. Johnny also mentions that he spent his first few weeks in NC laying in bed, staring at the ceiling fan. When he awakens in New Dawn Fades, what is he doing? Staring at the ceiling fan…in Pacifica, not far from the Pista Sofia. The boy who he gives the guitar to is even wearing V’s “favorite shirt”…the one we see them wearing in the first scene they’re introduced. There’s probably loads more, so feel free to share if you find any more. If you want to know more about why this is significant, make sure to read about V’s version of Alt’s poem.

So why do these reflections/echos matter? Well, what does one do with a reflection? Reflect. Johnny begins to examine himself through V, and he begins to realize he doesn’t like what he sees. If V calls him the man who saved her life, he’ll respond with “you have no idea how badly I want that to be true.” He tries his best to right his wrong only after this conversation with V, not only in Burning Love and Chippin’ In, but in other ways too. For example, it’s Johnny’s idea to call V’s loved ones to say goodbye on the roof scene, because “he wished that he had had a chance to.” Because of V, he grows, changes, and becomes a better person, just as much if not more as he seems to change V. As he leaves V’s grave, he even states that he has changed; that he’s wiser now, and won’t make the same mistakes. He states he won’t dwell on what happened, but somehow I doubt that, considering everything above.

The other theme of Narcissus and Echo is of transformation; after all, metamorphosis actually means "to change or transform.” Echo becomes, well, and echo, and Narcissus becomes a flower. V and Johnny also transform; not only physically between engram and human, but they transform one another. Both of them fall in love, and neither will move on. Echo falls in love with Narcissus, and Narcissus falls in love with his reflection. Because they refuse to transform the way they feel, they must die and transform physically. So who represents who in this scenario? In a way, Johnny is both. Johnny is a bit, well, narcissistic. He’s self-absorbed in his flashbacks, and adored by countless fans, yet ignores them in favor of his own company. He thinks everything is about him (Alt’s death, Samurai, etc.) and is willing to die for his beliefs. He is also constantly reflecting on himself through V. However, what really kills him is losing Alt; she tells him not to follow her (much like Narcissus tells Echo to leave him alone). He does anyway, and avenging her leads to his demise.

What’s especially sad about this is the way Johnny views transformation; he is very concerned with the idea of one’s individual identity, and hates the idea of turning into something you’re not. He despises that he’s going to turn V into himself by force. He hates dolls because he sees their behavior chip as something that changes them into something they’re not. He’s scared of V going to Blackwall not because it’s death, but because they “won’t be the same.” I don’t think Johnny ever wanted V’s body; again, not as a courtesy, but because it’s not him. After all, he could have just let nature take its course and let himself re-write their psyche, but instead he actively tries to save them as best he can. If V chooses to let him have their body, he hardly seems happy about it; especially compared to how happy he seems to see that part of him will live on in the way V refuses to give up should they choose to live on. By taking V’s body, he is no longer himself; rebel, rocker-boy, legend, and the guy who promised to save V’s life. Johnny in A New Dawn has lost his entire sense of self, his entire new and improved identity; one that learned from his mistakes and became a better person because of V. Johnny has The Tower tattooed on his arm, the card of (often painful) transformation and change. Yet this is what Johnny is most afraid of; not death, or even the not-so-bad sort-of hell that is Blackwall. He’s afraid of losing himself, and by losing V, he has lost a part of himself. The part of himself that was supposed to be a better person; who was supposed to save V’s life.

#cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk2077 #cyberpunk 2077 v #cyberpunk spoilers #v cyberpunk #johnny silverhand #new dawn fades #my posts

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fascination-street-writing · 3 years

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The Sea Isn’t Green, and I Love This Dream | Risotto Nero x Reader

Subtitled “Keep Smoking - I Still Love You”

If you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

- 2020 Holiday Gift - A Continuation of Sober to Death -

Content Warnings: Incidental Stalking, Unhealthy Smoking Habits, Past Relationships, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Angst, Regret, & Referenced Child Abuse

It is the summer of 1998. Risotto has not left his apartment in days, for he has found no reason to; there have been no new contracts, no paperwork in need of filing, and no immediate issues with the newest recruit. But today, he will venture out under the brazen sun and purchase groceries for the upcoming week. If not for the matter of his own sustenance, it will at least keep Prosciutto off his back. As if it is any of the blonde man’s business whether his Capo is eating adequately or not.

As he coasts through the aisles, searching for pre-packaged dried pasta, jarred sauce, and some kind of fresh vegetable – because Prosciutto said so –, he feels the condescending, fearful stares of patrons without needing to acknowledge them. If it is not for his stature, then certainly the peculiar coloring of his eyes. However, the ogling no longer bothers him, simply because he does not let it; after all, he is no longer the boy who once lived in Palermo.

There is a sale on pre-sliced bread. Yet, even after the discount, the name-brand loaf is still more expensive than the off-brand. He settles for the latter. It all tastes the same to him, anyways. And if he can save a thousand lire, then it is all the better. Prosciutto, he supposes, would disagree and insist that the off-brand bread is cheaper for a reason. Risotto is reminded of exactly why he does not live with the man anymore. But he still makes a conscious effort to buy fresh produce.

Basket filled, Risotto heads towards the check-out line. He knows that he has neglected to grab a bag of oranges, as denoted by the crumpled list in his hand, and he does not intend to return for them. The carton of berries and fresh figs he found along the way will be enough. Though, he does loathe forgetfulness.

The line, as he discovers and much to his dismay, is backed up. The brevity of the situation is simply that the grocery store has been understaffed as of late. Something about gang-violence and an attempted robbery – nothing that concerns him or his men. A person in his line of work fears little. Or at least, that is the theory. His thoughts linger to the new recruit, whom Prosciutto has taken under his guidance. He has always had more patience than Risotto regarding such matters.

The young Capo has lost track of exactly how long he has stood in line. Denoted by the telling grumbles of an older man behind him and the pleading of his wife to calm down, Risotto knows that it has been a while, and unreasonably so. Glancing down at his basket, a questionable consideration comes to his impatient mind: it would not be difficult to slip away, shroud himself with his Stand, and leave the grocery store with his would-be stolen goods.

It is certainly nothing to lose sleep over. In the end, however, he decides against it. Perhaps to salvage his honor and dignity, otherwise challenged by the temptation of petty thievery. Or perhaps because the line has finally moved, and it is too late to back out now. There are only two customers ahead of him now. In moments such as this, he likes to pretend that he is normal – that he might be shopping for a family that waits for him in a home somewhere in the suburbs of Napoli.

But these times have passed, and although only a man of twenty-five, he is complacent with the life as a ceaseless bachelor. A hitman does not make for a good husband, nor a father. In retrospect, Risotto hardly believes that he would want to become either. At least, not anymore.

“Merda,” the woman at the front of the line groans. She sets down the wad of cash in her hand. “I’m ₤15,000 short. Can you just put the oil back? And the sardines.”

The grocery clerk is decent at masking his annoyance with a tight smile and curt nod. It is a commendable skill, though there is room for improvement, Risotto thinks. “God, I’m so sorry. I just moved here for a new job, and my money still hasn’t transferred over to my new bank account. I should’ve taken more cash out to begin with.”

The next woman reaches into her purse and produces a neatly folded stack of lira. She taps the shoulder of the first woman, who turns. In this moment, Risotto believes he has been pummeled through the stomach. There is no other explanation to the tightening of his chest, and the heavy beating of his heart.

There you stand, as beautiful as ever, despite your apparent vexation at your own foolishness. The money quickly passes from the kind woman’s palm to that of the cashier. “Grazie, signora,” you tell her.

At first, Risotto feels nothing, as if he cannot process that which he sees before him. And then, regret – pure and unadulterated. He does not hear what the woman says to you, because the thrum of his mind has made him deaf to everything except for the ringing of his ears. You have not noticed him, unlike every other customer in the establishment, and he would like to keep it that way. You accept the bag of groceries from the cashier, but Risotto does not stick around to see it. He has already pushed past the perturbed husband and wife behind him, with every intention of finding a new line to stand in. He does not care how tedious it will be to make it out of the store. He does not care if the tub of gelato in his basket melts, or if the berries turn to mush.

Risotto will do anything to spare the fleeting glance of the only woman whom he ever loved. And if that means waiting another twenty minutes, then by god, he will wait.

He wonders, as he sits in his office with a blazing cigarette dangling from his lips, if you still smoke. In truth, he has always known that you only ever did it to impress him. He wishes you would not have indulged in this solidary habit – in fact, he wishes you had not done a lot of things, like becoming his closest friend and adolescent savior. His first kiss, or his first lament in the pitfall of countless others.

Clouds cling to the ceiling, seeping into the walls and furniture. If his landlord were not so intimidated by Risotto, then surely the parsimonious man might evict him for ruining the apartment with the stench of cigarettes and the occasional blood stain on the carpet. He supposes that he ought to at least open the window. Just beyond his reach atop the desk is his computer. If he wants to, he can find out every miniscule detail of your adult life and more that has collected over the past seven years, since the moment he left you a young, broken woman who did not mourn him. Every bank transaction, gas receipt, and occasional splurge for an object attributed to various degrees of pleasure – where you are working, where you live, and why you have come back to haunt him.

It is none of his concern, and he does not have the right to pry; not after the hurt he has done unto you, back when you were still two lovers who were, well, in love. He hopes you have found some semblance of happiness, and he will not impede on whatever that may be. But, like an incurable ailment, confliction strikes him. Indeed, he told himself that it is not his guile to cause you further grief. And yet, Risotto yearns for you all over again.

All this time spent living in a world wherein he does not exist to you, how often did thoughts of him cross your mind? Did you think of his ghastly red eyes whenever you have welcomed a new paramour into your bed, and compare the sizes of their hands to his? Did you think of him each time you drove that hand-me-down junker of your father’s, avoiding the backseat like the plague until the engine finally died and you had no choice but to purchase a new car? How long did it take you to scrub out the stains from the upholstery and your skin?

As it were, keeping the distance between you two is effortless. But unearthing unhealed wounds, all in some venture of self-retribution to heal them right, is just as inviting. There is simply too much that might go wrong again – the risks, far too great. Dissociation has served him well enough thus far. Surely, he can keep it up, this manneristic habit of his. It is funny, he finds; that as teenagers, you had once promised that you would always be there for him. It was an undeserving luxury, and one that he often took for granted. Now, though he recognizes in his heart that he still needs you, he wants you gone. For his sake or yours, he knows not.

But it would be nice to be held by you, one last time.

Breaking self-promises, like stepping on broken glass just to hear the crack, is an addiction. You are an addiction, and it was only a matter of time before Risotto had found himself in your company more often than he ought to. In any instance, he avoids your radar, and remarkably so. And yet, the tenacity of your existence drives him mad, and he finds himself asking – perchance under the steady trickle of water in the shower or as he lies in bed at night – if you are truly there, or nothing more than an apparition brought forth from his guilty conscious. That, though now he sees you comparing dress fabrics at the boutique across the street, it is conceivably not truly you but rather another woman – a stranger – with the same color hair.

Alas, you exist in both dreams and materiality.

Each moment that he stumbles upon you, from a respectable distance, he notices something irrevocably new: scuffed Mary Janes exchanged for pointed and polished kitten heels, and pleated skirts swapped for hand-tailored dress pants, creased to suggest your sophistication. As for him, he still wears torn jeans when in public. Unless of course, he is working – then it is a pair of striped pants reminiscent of a caricatured prison inmate’s uniform.

He notices, too, the greater attention taken to your hairstyling and makeup. Maturity is becoming of you, but he always thought you were pretty, even before you had learned how to properly apply eyeshadow and lip gloss. Your clumpy mascara never vied to drive him away. In fact, he rather liked it, but only because it was unapologetically you.

He does not mean to follow you to a café after you leave the boutique, arms cradling several shopping bags amongst your purse and a chic leather briefcase. Invisible to the human eye, Risotto falls in step at your side, so close that he can smell your perfume. It is no longer the olfactory copycat of whatever Versace musk you had always begged your mother to buy for you from the drugstore just down the street from your childhood home. Whatever it is now is unfamiliar, albeit comforting.

The café is quiet at this point in the afternoon. The baristas chatter amongst themselves at the counter, and the ambience music humming through the wall speakers is not unpleasant, although not entirely enjoyable, either. Unbeknownst to you, Risotto takes the seat across from you at the corner booth nearest to the window. It must be a coveted spot, he deduces, for the lighting here is impeccable. Mindful of the blackened coffee atop the table, you open your suitcase and produce a neatly pressed stack of photographs, clothing sketches, and glamour shots.

He observes all of it, and only then does he realize that the new career you spoke of to the grocery store clerk is one in the field of fashion design. And what better city in all of Italia to pursue such a thing than Napoli? He wishes he could have been there to witness the bloom of your success, first-hand – and more, he yearns to exist alone at your side for every last day that you both should live.

All of this at nothing more than your expense. Truly, something impermissibly unforgiveable, if he knew that his baggage – if his very being – is enough to hold you back from everything you deserve. It is why he left. At least now, he can see that his grievous mistake was not for naught.

Your coffee has gone cold. Too focused on correcting shading issues in your blueprints and selecting models for an upcoming show, you have neglected it. Did you even need the coffee, or was it just a show of your poise? How would you react, Risotto wonders, if he were to bring you a fresh cup and allow you to see him? Would you thank him – hug him even? Or scream, kick him away, and throw the scalding hot beverage in his face. He should pray for the former, though the latter would be the easiest to cope with. Because, if you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

He imagines what it must be like to be a part of your new life. He wants nothing more than to reach across the table, to place his shaken palm over the manicured hand clasped around the red felt-tip pen, and ask how your day has been. And the day before. And the day before even then. You might drop the pen too, only to lace your fingers with his and grin. “It’s been great, Ris,” you would say. “Really great, but even better now.”

Instead, you scribble notes in the margins with that same hand and tap your foot to the steady beat of music. How wonderful it must be for those who are capable of picking up where they once left off a lifetime ago. If, after all this time, you are so inclined to adore him again, then you must be the most winsome little fool in the world – but his, nonetheless.

Risotto cannot recall when last he received a contract from the Don, assigned explicitly to the silver-haired man. And so, rather than cooping himself away in the confines of his apartment, smoking until his stomach lurches and he might faint, he roams the city, pegging to the chance that he might find you. The fresh air – as fresh as the air in Napoli can possibly be – is good for him, anyways.

This afternoon, he finds you leaving the post office whilst balancing a packed cardboard box with outstretched arms. You are dressed down, just as he supposes that most normal people do on their days off. Curiosity baits him, like a bobble in the ocean; he shrouds himself and follows you up the cobblestone street ramp, past a row of municipal buildings, down the winding path behind one of many shopping plazas, and directly into the living room of your apartment. He never meant to get this far.

The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop a wrought-iron accent table placed beside an oak bookshelf containing more decorative figurines and houseplants than actual books. Certainly, your taste in music has not changed. Neither has your preference for caramel-scented candles. For a moment – ever so fleeting – he is a teenage boy again, standing just before bedroom window with his knuckles poised to rapt against the glass. He never told you, for he hid it well behind a stony expression, just how nervous he always felt before visiting you.

More than anything else in his adolescent life, he had feared that one day, you would turn him away. He scarcely cared when his mother verbalized her disgust and chastisement of the boy, or if his father struck him with the belt of his work jeans. Because, in the end, the abuse always gave him a reason to see you. You were his optimistic little silver lining,

Although your sense in interior design is far more elegant than your parents ever fancied, Risotto feels like he is finally home again. It must be the music and the candle – or perhaps it is just the grace of your presence in the setting of domesticity. You set the box on the coffee table and disappear into the kitchen, only to reappear with a stainless-steel knife. He understands his unwarranted intrusion, but just as he makes his way towards the door to leave, your cellphone rings.

“Ciao, Mamma!” you say as you switch to speakerphone. There is only static until your mother speaks to you.

She still sounds the same, though the strain of age weighs heavily on her tone. Suddenly, Risotto is throwing rocks at your window in the nighttime, avoiding the parched tithonias of your father’s garden with his battered sneakers. But this time, it is not you who beckons him in – it is your mother and her infectious altruism that he coveted because she cherished him more than his own mother ever did. She leads him to the dining room table, where you and your father wait, and presents to him a plate of pasta con le sarde.

“Ciao, bambina. Did you get that package I sent yet?”

No questions asked, unless only to inquire if he would like more to drink, or perhaps a second serving; your mother always made extra just in case he needed to get away from home for the night, or if his parents forgot to feed him. He misses his family – his real one, which he thwarted away for trifling revenge. The mere thought of it all sends pangs through his chest, and he thinks he has forgotten how to breathe properly. His mind veers into nothingness, but he knows that everything hurts.

“Mhm! It came today, actually. I’m opening it now.”

Petrified, he watches from across the room as you slice through the packing tape and begin sorting through the box’s contents – assorted bobbles and trinkets of your childhood that were unintentionally left behind after you had moved to Napoli. A few CDs, family photographs, and a work of ceramics-class pottery that had not survived its journey from Palermo. You do not seem bothered by it. Instead, you sweep away the fragmented pieces into a neat pile.

At the very bottom of the box is a scrapbook, ragged from the years of diligent pondering. Several of its pages have stuck together from excess globs of crafting glue. Risotto remembers your endearing hobby, and how embarrassed you had always been to show him your collection. And so, he never asked to see them, though not because he lacked the interest. It must be true that a person is shaped by their early experiences – you spent your youth collaging models with pretty clothes from the pages of magazines; now, you are a considerably successful fashion designer, given your age. Meanwhile, Risotto murdered a man at eighteen – and now, seven years later, he is Passione’s lead hitman. At least he is good at his job, too.

“Uh oh, that didn’t sound good. Don’t tell me that vase broke. I knew I should’ve wrapped it.”

Your dear mother: forgetful and heedless on occasion, though honest by it. You peel the scrapbook open and perch it on your lap, mindful of the delicate spine. Loose bits of glitter trickle from the pages and stick to your pants. Next falls a photograph, separated from the family ones, and wedged away for safe keeping. It is a still-shot of you and Risotto.

“Don’t worry about it! I can just glue it back together.”

However, to be honest, the vase is beyond repair; you have lied to your mother to soothe her guilt. Risotto’s attention has been taken by the photograph on the floor. There, you both sit on the floral-patterned couch that used to adorn your parents’ living room. You lean on his shoulder, beaming to the camera, as he stares ahead, stagnant. Truly, he wanted to smile and to throw his arm around you. He refrained; he did not want to look weak in front of your mother, who had taken the photograph that day.

Because his father never let him forget the vulnerability of emotions.

“Well, that’s good to hear. Listen, dolce, I’ve got to go. Tuo padre needs help in the workshop. But I’ll call you later. Ti amo, ti amo!”

In this moment, he lets his guard down, albeit inadvertently so. Metallica dissipates, and for the first time in what feels like forever – or at least, far too many years worth counting – Risotto Nero surmises that he might cry. As opposed to when you were both still young, it will be easier to run away now: no confrontation, and none of that selfish heartbreak. The gap between him and the door may be closed in two strides. In two strides, he will leave you again, for evermore. And even when he is gone, he will keep telling himself that this is for the best.

“Ti amo, Mamma.”

You reach down for the photograph. You had not meant to let it fall, though you suppose there is little use of it now, if not to keep it as a memento of your own perpetual loss. You dust it off and shake away the green and gold specks of glitter that adhere to the lamination. When the floorboards creak, you look up and meet the pleading gaze of the man whom you think you hate, and whom you think you love. You are good at pretending to do either. And thus, as you both wait in brooding quietude, you know not whether to call the police or to hurry into his arms. You are still, frozen in time – frozen in life.

As for Risotto, he longs for cicadas and katydids to break the terse silence that looms between you two.

Or maybe, just a cigarette.

| 3724 Words |

#risotto nero x reader #risotto x reader #risotto nero #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

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gossip-girl-of-middleearth · 3 years

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Shopping For Clothes Fixes Everything (Legolas and Frodo)

Synopsis: Frodo is underdressed for Aragorn’s coronation, Legolas is generally well-known for being a hot-cake, so he helps his little hobbit friend out. Also Merry, Sam and Pippin can now blame Legolas for mentioning sailing west to Frodo, and planting the idea in his angsty mind.

AN: Frodo and Legolas did not have enough time together onscreen, therefore my imagination can decide whatever it wants, and I decide they’re best friends who enjoy trees and shopping together. Also they’re prolly gay for each other, it’s whatever.

Warnings: Woah, Nelly—careful where you step. There’s some gay sprinkled in.

Pairings: Legolas/Frodo (kinda platonic, kinda gay. Idk you decide)

All had been invited to attend Aragorn’s coronation in Gondor—or, ‘Strider’, as Frodo once knew him. Each and every member of the Fellowship was expected to attend, for no reason other than the honouring of their forged friendship made along the perilous roads to Mordor.

Nobody was an exception to this expectation, so when Frodo arrived in the white streets of Gondor, he was very pleased to be reunited with all his friends.

Now, there was a certain level of dress code to be upheld at royal coronations, apparently. The hobbits, of course, had no warning of this. Instead, they had showed up with nothing but their daily scrubs from the Shire—their finest clothing, mind you, but still too casual in the presence of elves and royalty alike.

Stopping before his reflection in a shiny podium, Frodo sighed. He still wore his Shire clothing, and looked rather out of place among the silk, leather and other rich materials he passed by. At least he was shorter than the hems of some robes, he supposed.

Alas, he knew he needed to appear his best.

The more and more Frodo scrutinised his casual appearance in the shiny podium, the more others in his mind contrasted against him. He needed help with clothing—preferably from someone adept in the aesthetic department.

Only one friend came to mind.

Frodo knocked gently against the large door to the room he knew was loaned to Legolas. It, too, like his own, was large and spacious inside. A balcony overlooked all of Gondor, and shiny was the room—a most pure in white, too.

There was hardly any sound of shuffling on the other side of the door, before it soundlessly opened. Legolas stood in the doorway, and stared ahead with a curiously expectant expression.

However, when he found no one facing him, memories of the Fellowship caused him to lower his head three feet above ground. There, he met Frodo’s eyes.

“Oh, hello,” said Legolas. “I was expecting someone—”

“Taller?” Frodo jested back. A smile quirked on his lips.

Humour, too, ran along Legolas’ features, as he stepped aside to let his friend in. “Perhaps, but you said it first—not me.”

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

“Careful now—there are ears everywhere in Gondor, even if they don’t belong to elves,” Legolas said in amusement. “People eavesdrop and make assumptions.”

“Sounds like the Shire,” Frodo responded in amusement.

Using his foot, Legolas closed the door. “I have been meaning to make plans to visit the Shire, but Gandalf and Gimli have warned me of the confusing roads leading in.”

Chuckling loudly in a light-hearted manner, Frodo sat down at a table for tea in the near-centre of Legolas’ room. “Forgive me, but I always assumed you were the better navigator between Aragorn and yourself?”

Reaching for teabags high up on a shelf, Legolas looked over his shoulder and winced his teeth. “I might have exaggerated my abilities, just a little.”

“Just a little,” Frodo agreed, smiling a toothy smile nonetheless, with a little nod of his head.

“Alas, perhaps I’ll just have to return with you, Sam, Merry and Pippin after the coronation,” Legolas pressed on, now walking back to the table. “I definitely will not get lost that way.”

“You mentioned Pippin,” Frodo deadpanned. “Getting side-tracked is a guarantee.”

“Ah, well, then another adventure!” Legolas proclaimed. He now sat himself down, and passed a dainty teacup along to Frodo.

“Oh, please, no more adventures,” Frodo groaned, with his head buried into the crook of his elbow.

Legolas, with his quick eye, took notice of Frodo’s hand reaching up to his neck, as if to grasp at the ring. Shifting in his seat uncomfortably, Legolas cleared his throat. He, too, forced the lingering memories of Mordor down, as he poured the lemon-scented tea.

Those days had not yet readily left anyone, nor would for a long time.

“Perhaps not…” Legolas agreed.

Lifting his eyes, Frodo smiled at his friend. He took the tea from Legolas, and watched the leaves swirl around in his cup.

“Regardless,” he piped up, “what have you been doing since our completion?”

“Well,” Legolas readily inhaled, looking upwards in thought, “let’s see—as of right now, I am currently representing my kingdom for Aragorn’s coronation—per my Ada’s wishes, of course.”

“Of course,” Frodo grinned back, finding amusement in Bilbo’s stories of being captured by Thranduil.

“And beyond that,” Legolas continued, “well…I was hoping to restore the trees of Ithilien, actually. They need much tending to after, well…you know.”

“I do.” Frodo nodded his head. “That’s rather exciting for you, then? Isn’t it? Working with trees? A passion of yours, truly.”

“It is.” Legolas shrugged. “If I can be completely honest, though?”

“I’m all ears,” Frodo teased, leaning with his arms folded over the table.

Legolas grinned back at his friend’s antics, before continuing on. “I saw a gull flying overhead today, and I know this may sound a little odd, but…”

“Go on,” Frodo slowly encouraged, now enthralled by his friend’s words.

“Well, I couldn’t help but feel the desire to sail west,” he revealed at last, as if confessing his darkest secret.

“Sail west?” Frodo inquired.

“Yes, to Valinor,” Legolas explained. “When the weight of Middle-earth grows too much, my kin are free to travel to our origins. It heals both the heart and mind, so they say.”

“Oh, really?” Frodo pressed deeper. “That sounds rather ideal…will you go?”

Legolas shrugged again. “I’m not too sure at the present moment. I suppose I will one day, but…all of my friends are still here—my life. Perhaps one day, as I do believe it is inevitable, but not anytime soon.”

“I am a little jealous, to be perfectly honest,” Frodo confessed in return.

“How so?” Legolas pressed, taking the first sip of his tea.

“Of your choice,” he replied. “To heal the heart and mind overseas—I wish I had that option.”

Legolas threw his eyes down at the table in thought, and thrummed his fingers against his mug. “You know, Frodo—your sacrifice with Sauron’s Ring goes beyond what any other in Middle-earth has done, let alone any elf.”

At his friend’s words, Frodo knitted his brows. “What are you saying, Legolas?”

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Legolas shook his head, with an allusive quirk of his lips, “but I know the Valar to be very…open, regarding these sorts of things. Perhaps a conversation with Gandalf could do you well?”

“Well, I don’t like your allusive tone, but I’ll heed your advice and speak with him after the coronation,” Frodo chuckled back.

“Well-met,” Legolas laughed in turn.

The two friends soon fell into a comfortable silence, until Legolas opted to break it again.

“So, I do not imagine you came to find me on the basis of our shared woes,” he said through a sip of tea. “What may I help you with, besides gracing you with my presence?”

“Oh, elves,” Frodo replied, wistfully. “So beautiful, and so vain—which is actually precisely why I came to find you.”

“Pray tell,” Legolas smirked, leaning back in his chair.

Catching his friend’s pride, Frodo shook his head and grinned. Trust Prince Legolas to know his worth, Frodo mused.

“You see, no body informed me of the expected attire at Aragorn’s coronation,” Frodo went on. “I’ve merely arrived in my Sunday vest, and best trousers—”

“Uh, I don’t think any of my garments will fit you, Frodo,” Legolas interjected, with a glance over his shoulder eyeing off his silver robes.

“No, I know that,” Frodo rolled his eyes with a smile. “However, surely you, of all people, must know best how to help me in this regard?”

Turning his eyes back to his friend, Legolas quirked a brow. He narrowed his gaze, and analysed the hobbit. However, soon, a grin began to tug at Legolas’ lips.

He stood up in his chair, offered Frodo his hand, and spoke excitedly in confidence. “Say no more, mellon nîn. I have just the idea for you.”

Frodo returned his friend’s smile, took his hand, and allowed the elf to hoist him from his chair. “Well, thank you! But no satin, please!”

“Why must it always be you who wishes to suck the joy out of everything?”

“Oh, I’m sorry—did you carry an evil ring to Mordor?”

“No, but I had to run for three days-straight.”

“My sincere apologies.”

“It’s okay, shopping for clothes fixes everything.”

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pen-observing · 3 years

Text

Tall, dark, handsome stranger (Ruin)

A devoid life in high society makes you question what making a choice for a passionate life really means. A party brings Lucifer, that beautiful creature, as an answer to what you’re truly looking for.

Warnings: mentions of abuse and infidelity, Lucifer uses a fake name, reader is gn!, I legit hint at you being horn knee but try to be very poetical about it

MASTERLIST

How many years have you spent standing on side-lines? How many years have you already toyed with the concept of regret between your fingers? Some may claim that time is an illusion; a filthy thief drenched in dread – it seems like an excuse; not a justification. An excuse of the lowest kind for those who have trouble admitting that time is very much real. It’s perception, it’s effect, it’s reminders. Time reminds you just how much you are choking in this very room. Nothing but a small human; with a delicate neck, heart full of pain and a wish to live something out on your own terms.

Your wish is as grand as this very room; all golden shine and lights that could be eternal. Delicate order of decorations that scream extravagance. A royal place fitted for the higher educated. A place with such dazzling faces which just pass by without making an impression on your soul. If you dislike it so much; why are you here?

History would claim it was security. History would claim it was a privilege. You just claim it was fear that resulted in a fitting circumstance for a better life. Right now, you are married to a rich noble who, sadly, only has that to offer. It is enough to survive, not enough to fill a void inside your head; inside your soul, inside of this damned ballroom.

Was it a blessing or a curse which brought you alone to this party? Having to chat empty words with emptier minds as the music plays was torture. However, your spouse’s presence would make things even more unbearable.

As much as you want to break out, explode; turn the gold into dust – you could not bear such fleeting hope after 5 years of the same life. The same parties, the same ruin. Why should something about tonight be different? Perhaps, because you did not imagine time to play illusions on you, yet, alas, time plays along and alone.

Smooth words and fancy talking are never as interesting as hearing about a new face in such a boring crowd. Apparently, a man of black and red with enigmatic features came tonight. Nobody knows him, but - they all talk. It was only a matter of time before someone directed your attention towards him. An unimportant Madam made a casual remark about how: ‘‘All the handsome charms of this world could be in one man, but he would still be unfitting for company.’’ Why?

He was leaning against the wall opposite of you; a gloved hand holding a wine glass. Looking to the side outwardly showing distaste and unamusement for tonight’s crowd. If only you had the luxury of doing so. He was a free man while you were just a human tied to societal standards. Perhaps your eyes lingered a bit too long, perhaps time decided to play again; whatever the excuse or justification you want; your eyes met.

An invisible string of connection. Apparently, a strong pull.

When the Madame stepped away and you secluded next to a neighboring pillar; that string tugged his presence closer to you. It must have been his intention. You’ve seen his types before, why should he be more interesting than the surface? He would probably try to flirt just looking for trouble.

“It would seem that you have a strong desire to escape this place. Tell me, where would your soul rather be?”

Inside of somewhere and something that doesn’t cry of emptiness. “Instead of answering such a pointless question, I will just acknowledge that you were able to see through my joy filled act.”

Was he observing you or just naturally gifted at judging other people? His words were fancy but not without genuine interest in his tone. Did he actually care?

“If that is the case allow me to acknowledge how rude it is to ask a question without properly introducing myself. My name is Amias.”

Looking back at such an introduction now, you know you should have stayed away. Why nurture the small hope while time sings a song about how this could be the one thing you are looking for? The song is tantalizing, your soul dances along to the melodious promise.

You’ve been inside of these circles long enough to spot a dangerous man. You should have been more logical instead of surrendering to emotions. Why? For what cruel game are you dancing with him right now? For what purpose is his scent so captivating, his eyes so seductive and his touch so smooth? Why is his hand trailing down your back?

Why aren’t you worried about the higher society? Why? You are married with a vow to a noble who seems to embody goodness to everyone inside this room! Even conversing with this handsome stranger can create rumors. Dancing with him creates a scandal.

Why, why? You could have continued a historically secure life without tasting what is forbidden, would that have been so wrong?!

Wrong? No. Creating more of that emptiness? Yes.

Perhaps, you glided under gold with this man because only you know how a secure life for you means only financial stability. Your spouses’ hands are never this gentle, your spouses’ voice is never this delicate. His voice, however, is honey.

Dancing, trembling with excitement as the anticipation grows from what this man does to you; this, this was the one thing you’ve been chasing. A chance to not play it safe, to not stay on the side-lines. Something to fill the emptiness of this life which has been a void for so long.

This was a matter of choice only. Amias could give you whatever you longed for. Why wouldn’t you discretely invite him home? Why wouldn’t you give this man your body and soul while well aware about how his name itself was a lie?

His eyes are so pretty. His touch is so satisfying. You want more.

Yes. This is your choice. You choose your own suffering. It might as well have some pleasure woven into it. After all, Anna Karenina made a similar choice as well.

These strings are binding. You are not free, he is. You are tied inside an empty life chasing a spark.

If you choose ruin, why not choose the hands of a beautiful stranger to bring it to you?

What is this? This is just an idea I got months ago for which inspiration finally came! Rejoice oh thee who cares! I tried to make it appropriate. One anon recently said they were afraid of asking too many questions so I am here to officially state: ASK WHATEVER YOU WANT! Be free! Honestly I read Anna Karenina in high school and remembered her while I was thinking about this. Speaking of reading, this might be my way of procrastinating on all the assignments I have. Am I rambling? Definitely. I just hope tumblr does this fic justice with tags!

#obey me #shall we date obey me #obey me imagines #obey me lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer x mc #obey me fic #infidelity mentioned well implied well you know #Now that i think about it this could be any brother but i imagined the sleep deprived one

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letsperaltiago · 3 years

Text

a merry little christmas

Welcome to (once again belated) door four of four!

Behind my Christmas calendar’s fourth door is a... baby’s first christmas, pure fluff oneshot ♥️

Summary: It's Baby's First Christmas and Jake and Amy are taking it all in - both presents and tiny surprises from their son. Pure domestic fluff for days.

Rating: G

Words: 2.2k

Read on AO3 here

Right then and there keeping a straight face, or just anything that looks somewhat close to it, is beyond impossible.

It’s Christmas morning, six AM to be more precise, and the still rather new, little family of three is slowly making their way through the presents waiting for them under this years’ Christmas tree. As a matter of fact, it’s rather Jake opening gifts meanwhile Amy is on the couch with their two-month-old son eating his second breakfast - that is if his previous meal at three AM can be considered breakfast. Jake likes to call those meals Midnight Mac Snacks.

“They really need to communicate more,” Amy chuckles, which causes her chest to jolt just the tiniest bit, alas apparently enough that it earns her a grumpy little cry from Mac to which she immediately reacts by stroking and repositioning the tiny infant’s head. “No need to complain, Mr. Mac. Mommy and daddy are just having some fun.”

“He’s bitter because all he got for Christmas is ‘Baby’s first Christmas’-ornaments.” Jake hasn’t stopped laughing since he opened the third ornament, from auntie Roro, which came after uncle Charles’ ornament. Upon unpacking this second ornament, from Charles, matching the first ornament from Holt, it didn’t cause much worry. The new parents simply saw it as a matching coincidence and they’d just keep both. Although upon unpacking a third one, they should’ve known: it was a perfect, hilarious 99th precinct-disaster.

Fast forward to present time, Jake is sat on the living room floor with not three but six ‘Baby’s First Christmas’ ornaments for his son. Sure, they’re all different styles and designs but Jake can’t help but laugh. In retrospect, he and Amy had told the squad that baby Mac didn’t need anything grand for Christmas as he was still so small and had everything he needed so far. They told their friends to save the money and spoil Mac for next Christmas, a Christmas he’d understand much better than the current. Turns out great minds think alike and everyone’s creative take on Mac’s gift had been the same.

“It’s kind of cute that they all had the same idea.” Mac has gone back to quietly suckling on Amy’s breast, allowing her time to chime in on perhaps this Christmas’ funniest moment yet. It’s too soon to declare it the funniest as they’re headed to a huge Santiago Christmas-dinner in the evening and anything can happen there.

For Christmas morning though they very early on, already before Amy gave birth, decided to stay home as they knew it’s what they’d prefer with their very new son. Sitting there, in the moment, looking at gifts from their incredible friends and Mac quietly eating in the lights coming from the Christmas tree, they’re both thankful to have made that choice. Sure, Santiago-Christmas morning was an event that you didn’t want to miss out on but this year, with very few hours of sleep behind them and vomit on both clothes and hair, it’s nice to be able to soak in the sweet surrender of their little trinity.

“We do have the best friends.” He picks up the ornaments, hanging them on his fingers to put on display for his wife. “What do we do with these?” A sheepish smile replaces the goofy grin from before.

“I don’t know…”

The doubt on Amy’s face, biting her lip, thinking hard, is clear as day which is understandable since Jake himself doesn’t hold the answer for their little dilemma. Giving them back to their respective giver is not an option - what would Holt do with a ‘Baby’s First Christmas Ornament’? - and getting a refund also seems too cold. Fact is that each of their friends has had the same idea: they wanted to mark and somehow be a part of Mac’s first Christmas. Jake and Amy can’t, nor want to, take that away from their son nor their friends. All in all, there seems to be no good solution but one: keep all six ornaments.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Jake cocks an eyebrow, implicitly suggesting what his wife is already thinking.

“If you’re thinking that we should keep them all and put them on the tree, then yes, I am thinking what you’re thinking.”

At just the right time, almost as if he’s agreeing, Mac lets go of his mom’s nipple before letting out a small, hazy gurgling sound. A sound he’s never made before. Both parents freeze on the spot, forgetting all and everything about the ornament-issue.

“Did you hear that?” Amy asks, making it sound as if she doesn’t believe her ears and a second opinion is needed. Having studied all and everything for her first child’s arrival, everything this could possibly imply, Amy shouldn’t be surprised that her two-month-old is finally introducing his first small noises. The fact resides very clearly on the Milestones to Expect-index, page 2, in her ‘Two month’-binder. Yet here she is, Jake right there with her, surprised by this new accomplishment of her newborn - one of many accomplishments that she both loves and, even two months in, still is a bit nervous about discovering as she just rather know her baby fully by heart already. On those occasions where Mac’s changing, something she swears happens daily, makes her feel uneasy as if she doesn’t know him at all, she holds onto Jake’s reasoning: Some tests can’t be studied for.

And no matter how much she hates that fact, Amy knows her husband is right and she does love him for reminding her whenever she happens to fall down a spiral of doubt and frantically tries to grasp for the control that lies within facts, books, and lists.

Jake jumps from his spot on the floor as if it were lava and falls into place beside her on the couch where he can hover over his incredible son.

“I did but I didn’t fully realize where it came from right away, but oh my gosh, Ames! Our son is a genius!”

“Perhaps… Or simply in accordance with average-”

“No, Amy - a genius! Like his parents.”

Her husband looking as if he could burst any second, a firecracker of sorts and there’s no stopping the explosion, Amy hurries to put down her before lifted shirt and places Mac against her shoulder. Here she hopes he can both burp and, hopefully, make another glorious sound for them to be proud of. Jake leans in as though he and Mac are to exchange secrets behind Amy’s back and the milk-drunk infant, unable to control a whole lot, waves around his arm and just so happens to grab Jake’s index finger. During these first two months of Mac’s life, this has happened a few times already, the first time being at the hospital which caused Jake to cry happy tears Still, every single time, Jake feels reaffirmed by the fact that creating this tiny human being is one of his best decisions ever - that and telling Amy Santiago that he wished something could happen between them - romantic stylez.

“C’mon, mister. Show daddy how you talk.” Jake coos even though the little man of the moment seems far from interested in or bothered by his parents’ admiration and swooning over his new talent. His mommy patting his back does feel good though, especially when it helps a burp escape and Jake, of course, has to laugh because Mac is truly and fiercely his son. “Now that’s talking!”

“Not what I had in mind but nice to know he’s burped.” Amy chimes in and replaces the soft patting with small loving strokes, hoping to soothe her boy to sleep as the next step in his ‘eat, burp, sleep’-routine - even if Amy wishes Mac would make another sound. Just to confirm that she wasn’t hallucinating before.

“Make a sound for mommy, baby. Just a tiny one.” Amy takes her turn cooing a plea but it happens to be very much in vain.

“Aaand he’s dozed off,” Jake chuckles quietly whilst using his thumb to caress the tiny fist still wrapped around his index fingers, a fist that doesn’t let go even though the owner is already fast asleep with a mix of drool and milk caught in the corner of the gaping mouth.

“That was fast.”

“I don’t blame him. Life is exhausting.” Jake is carefully pecking his son’s head covered by thing, soft, black hair and even though Mac on her shoulder blocks the view, Amy smiles and wonders how she got to lucky with these two boys.

“Bedtime?” Amy asks, expectant of confirmation of whether or not Mac is far enough gone to be moved without waking up and throwing a tantrum that’ll mean they’ll have to spend another half hour or so lulling him back to sleep.

“I sure wouldn’t mind. I did prepare breakfast though.” It comes out mid-yawn, proving Jake’s point further, as he nods his head in the direction of the pancakes, courtesy of Jake, and hot cocoa, courtesy of the local bakery that has blessed their lives by opening at five AM, waiting for them in the kitchen.

“Not you, silly. McClane. You and I are definitely having that delicious cocoa. The smell of it has been tempting me since I sat down to feed.”

They mostly call him Mac. Mac or a thousand other things like Mr. Mac, Magic Mac, baby, monkey - one time, macadamia nut - and the options are limitless and renewed every day. Jake doesn’t know for sure but this might be the reason why the full name McClane being said, the context being that it’s his son’s name, makes him feel butterflies in his belly. Either that or because he still can’t believe they named their son that. Perhaps it’s a bit of both reasons.

“Still can’t believe you agreed to that name.”

“Must’ve been a moment of weakness for me. I was pregnant and delusional.”

Amy teases and proceeds to carefully remove sleeping Mac from his spot on her shoulder, relocating him to the safety of her cradling arms.

“Delusional from the incredible round of sexy timez we had just prior to picking his name.”

“Jake,” she scolds as if the sleeping baby, which doesn’t even grasp the concept of speaking yet, were to be scarred by their explicit flirting.

“What?”

Amy’s already up on her feet, heads down the hall and into their bedroom with Jake close on her heels. “I remember it so vividly.” Jake points to their bed. “We were right here, post incredible sex, and we got talking about baby names because a new suggestion had stroked your mind right before I came in and wooed you with my good, amazingly hot looks.” Amy’s head whips around from where’s she’s just focused on placing Mac in his cradle, double-checking that he’s still asleep, now displaying a cocked brow and overall expression that challenges his recollections of that conclusive night. Defeat hits him and his shoulders drop with a sigh.

“Okay, you were seven months pregnant and going through a particularly horny phase - which I, by the way, loved - and I, being a dutiful husband, couldn’t decline your explicit requests. But I do still stand by the fact that I boinked my way to the name McClane.”

“Oh my god,” Amy groans, partly in reaction to her husband, partly in reaction to her sore back making an appearance when she straightens up from tugging in the baby. “Stop besmearing our child’s name. I can still change my mind.”

“I’m right though.” In the meantime, Jake has approached his wife and wraps his arms around her. Pulling her closer, back to chest, and she instantly relaxes under the pecks he places on her neck. “And it’s an amazing name for an amazing little human.”

They smile in unison as they admire the life they created, carelessly and contently sleeping Christmas morning away, before them. Wrapped up in her husband’s arms and their perfect little son to look at, a fuzzy feeling that is way beyond and greater than happiness flows through Amy’s veins. The pecks to her sweaty and tired-feeling skin pick back up where they left off, systematically and how he knows she likes it, going around her neck and shoulder-area.

“I really wanna give in to how inappropriately horny you’ve suddenly made me, but…” she trails off with a sigh.

“You can’t stop thinking about the hot cocoa.” He finishes her sentence and the pecks are replaced by a muffled chuckle that tickles her skin. “It’s okay, Ames. I’m right there with you.”

“Thank God,” she groans.

“Hot cocoa and a Christmas movie we can fall back asleep to?”

This suggestion of Jake’s that will allow Amy to give into her tiredness is what she’s wanted to hear all morning.

“Sounds perfect. Grab the baby monitor?” She turns around to follow him back to their kitchen only to see him already holding the gadget with a tired, knowing smile plastered across his face and to Amy, even with his messy curls and shirt clad with stains of baby-vomit, her husband looks absolutely perfect.

Baby’s First Christmas might just be her favorite Christmas so far.

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wonkasmissstarshine · 3 years

Text

The Chocolate Prince and The Lovely Maiden {Willy Wonka x Rose Bucket AU}

Chapter 2

Once Upon A Time... The Chocolate Prince

Tagging: @holdmeicant @frozenhuntress67 @pastelmoonwitche @arinnasweetslove

A/N: Some chapters may have Disney references, some may not. If you see them, tell me what reference it is you saw 😉

If there was definitely one mysterious figure that resided in Candania, it would be the kingdom’s very own prince. Prince Willy wasn’t one to make public appearances. He wasn’t one to frequent trips to Sweetstown. He sometimes barely even left his own room. Some subjects even doubted that King Wilbur’s son even existed.

Wilbur and Willy had a very estranged relationship. Barely would they even dine together, but when they did, no word or even a glance would be shared between the King and the Prince.

Things haven’t been the same for the royal family since the Queen’s death. Wilbur was heartbroken at the loss of his wife. It was said that she was slain by a beast, but the guards who found her were skeptical. She had been slain, for sure, but they weren’t so sure that it was a beast who had done so.

Alas, they had no proof.

The death of the Queen was only the first cataclysm in the rocky relationship between Wilbur and Willy. Wilbur was getting older, and that meant he would soon get to a point where he could no longer carry on his duties as King. He was hoping that his son would one day take over the throne.

But with Willy, it didn’t seem that it would be very likely.

He hated the idea of ruling over the entire kingdom. Everyone looking up to him. Just all that...all that...responsibility.

And lately, his father had been prospecting the idea of marriage to him.

Marriage.

The gall of his father to suggest such a thing.

It was bad enough that Willy was stuck in the position of a Prince, soon-to-be King, but to be stuck as a husband that wouldn’t even love his own wife? What was even the point of marriage? Why would anyone even want to be married?

Ugh, he’d never understand it.

King Wilbur had been requesting his son’s presence. He’d received a very important letter from one of the neighbouring kingdoms. The contents within the letter had to do with his son. Daniel, the head of the guard, searched all over for the Prince.

Willy was nowhere to be found. But, there was one place that Daniel figured the Prince might be. The castle itself was rather large which meant there were many rooms. There was everything from a library to the ballroom, the kitchen and the dining hall, and many, many bedrooms.

But for every known room, there were hidden nooks and crannies. There was one in particular that Willy liked to spend his time in. It was a room hidden beneath the castle the that Prince discovered when he was a young boy. He always went to his secret room when his father was becoming too much for him.

Willy liked this room---his sanctuary, his safe haven---because it was the one room his father didn’t know about. It was where he could be himself.

Daniel stood in front of the secret door that led to the Prince’s secret room. He knocked the secret knock. The door creaked open, and Daniel took a step inside. He made sure that it was closed tight, so that no one else would discover the door.

The Prince trusted Daniel with knowing about the secret room. He in no way wanted to betray that trust. Daniel was the only friend that the Prince truly had. Willy could confide in him.

“Prince, your father is requesting your presence” Daniel called out, still searching for the Prince. “Something about a letter”

“I’m sure whatever it is, my father can deal with it” Daniel jumped when Willy spoke from directly behind him. The Prince had a knack for sneaking up behind people. Willy held up a wooden spoon. A brown, creamy liquid was dripping from it. “Could you taste this for me?”

Daniel partook in Willy’s request and ate from the spoon. An exquisite taste met the taste buds on his tongue. “Your highness,” Daniel saw the way Willy looked at him, and corrected himself. The Prince was not a fan of the formal title. “Willy, this is marvelous”

Willy grinned, satisfied. “Thank you! That means I’ve finally found the right recipe”

Prince Willy had a secret passion for chocolate making. But if his father ever found out, he’d be furious. Willy often made secret visits down to Sweetstown to drop off a new batch of chocolate and candy to the town’s candy store.

Of course, no one knew he was the Prince whenever he went, because no one knows what the Prince actually looks like.

“Now, back to the matter at hand” Daniel said, getting back into business. Willy just rolled his eyes and went back over to his big pot of chocolate. “A letter has arrived today and your father wants to discuss the contents with you!”

“What could be so important about some stupid letter?”

“Well, it pertains to you... and that situation” Daniel alluded, knowing Willy wouldn’t want to hear the actual word.

Willy’s jaw clenched. “Fine. I’ll be up shortly, but I’m not saying a word! He can do all the talking, and I’ll just listen. Barely”

Wilbur was pacing back and forth, reading the letter, while waiting for his son.The letter contained a written agreement for a marriage between his son, and the Princess of Champonia, Lady Scarlett Beauregarde. Wilbur wish he didn’t have to do this, but his son was leaving him no choice.

Willy had to get married before he’s crowned king and if he’s not going to pick a wife for himself, then Wilbur had to pick a wife for him.

If only Princess Briar was still alive. If only the kingdom of Blossom was still standing.

Blossom and Candania both stood together as the two biggest kingdoms in all of the realms. King Wilbur and his wife were close to the King and Queen of Blossom, Florian and Marigold.

Willy was only ten when Princess Briar was born, but the two of them had been betrothed from that very moment. They were set to be wed on Briar’s eighteenth birthday. Willy couldn’t understand why he was engaged to a baby.

But, unfortunately, Briar wouldn’t even live to see a first birthday. Blossom was under attack by an unknown assailant. By the time help had arrived, the kingdom was nothing but smoke and ash. Strangely enough, no bodies were found. Not even Florian, Marigold, and Briar’s. But even if they did survive, they couldn’t be found anywhere.

It was safer to presume they had been killed and their bodies had been taken.

Now, thirty years later, a new wife has been chosen for the Prince. Princess Scarlett was apparently a high maintenance woman. She only wanted the best of the best and got everything she wanted. Apparently, she was also very arrogant. Thought she was better than everyone else because of her place in society.

Ideally, it wouldn’t have been Wilbur’s first choice for a bride for his son, but he was getting older. His son needed a wife, and she was the first to reply to the King’s request.

“What is it, father?” Wilbur turned around to see his son. Willy stood there, his jaw tight and his fists clenched by his sides. He just wanted to hear what his father had to say and leave.

“Willy,” Wilbur started. The letter crinkled in his hand. “I have received this letter from the kingdom of Champonia. I have found you a wife. Her name is Scarlett and--”

Willy cut Wilbur off. “She is not going to be my wife! How many times do I have to say it? I’m never getting married!”

Wilbur seethed. “You will if you are going to be King someday”

“But I don’t want to!”

“You don’t get a choice on the matter!” Wilbur yelled so loud, his voice almost echoed throughout the entire castle. “I have spoken, son. Princess Scarlett will be coming in three weeks time. We will be hosting an engagement ball, then we will start planning the wedding”

And without another word, Wilbur turned on his heel and walked away.

Willy was left standing in his spot, both angry and saddened by the news of his engagement. What had he done wrong in his life to be forced into marrying into a loveless marriage?

His father would say he loved him, but Willy doubted he did. If he did, he wouldn’t be forcing him into marriage. He doubted that his father even loved his own mother.

There was no such thing as love.

Love was a fable. A fraud.

“I just don’t understand, Daniel” Willy vented to his closest friend. The both of them were out on the track, riding horses. It was an activity Willy did frequently to help clear his mind. Especially when it came to matters concerning his father. “I don’t understand why he can’t understand. This isn’t the life I want”

“I know this may not be what you want to hear, Prince” Daniel spoke. He was already regretting what he was about to say, knowing Willy would argue the idea. “But he just wants what’s best for you, because he lo--”

“Don’t finish that sentence!” Willy hissed, baring his perfect teeth. “Love!” He scoffed. “There is no such thing”

Daniel shifted on top of his horse. “Well, I wouldn’t say that...” He thought of the girl who worked in the bakery in Sweetstown. She was the reason he made frequent visits to the town. “There’s this girl. She’s the baker’s daughter. Boy, is she ever lovely”

Willy fell quiet. This whole topic had reminded him of dreams he was having. It was dreams of a girl he has never met before. Daniel noticed the Prince’s silence. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes” Willy nodded. “I’ve just been having... odd dreams lately”

“Odd?” Daniel tilted his head. “In what way?”

“They’re of this girl. I’ve never met here before but the dreams are incredibly vivid” Willy explained. Sure, he found the dreams strange, but he also found the girl’s presence in them comforting. “She has long blonde hair, and even though her face isn’t always clear, I can make out brown eyes”

“Is she pretty?”

Willy gave Daniel an incredulous look. “I hardly think it matters. She’s not real anyways”

“Why do you think your brain would conjure up an image of this woman?” Daniel was sure asking a lot of questions today. “Maybe you’re dreaming her up because deep down, just maybe, you do want to love someone, and you want someone to love you back”

Willy cringed. “Ew”

Daniel just rolled his eyes. He knew the Prince’s opinion on love and romance would never change.

But he hoped that this girl that Willy dreamed up is real and is somewhere out there. That maybe she could change Willy’s mind.

Maybe then the Prince wouldn’t feel so lonely anymore.

But, as fate would have it, Prince Willy would find himself escaping to the Grand Forest on the fateful day. And he would see her. Under the pretty pink leaves. Picking the fresh red cherries.

The girl he thought wasn’t real.

The girl from his dreams.

The one who would cure his loneliness.

The one who would make him believe in love.

#willy wonka x oc #willy wonka #rose bucket #my oc #rose and willy #tcpatlm

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florencwrites · 3 years

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echoes, page six 〚dreamwastaken〛

Sam offers her a means of fidelity, a leap into faith. She etches her feelings in her newly-gifted book, desperately hoping for it to reach him well, and perhaps; even dangerously hopeful for one in return.

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A gentle hand on her shoulder, but no reaction. His heart broke almost audibly at the crippled image of her. Almost robotic as she kept scooping the sand into the water, as if entirely automatized.

He let himself slowly descend to sit next to her, kicking off his sturdy boots and rolling up his pants before pushing his feet into the chilling water. "Hey."

He hadn't expected her to open her mouth, to say anything to him. However, he had expected for her to at least acknowledge his arrival, to do as much as nod, or even blink. He pulled his hands into his lap, allowing his fingers to nervously caress the book he was holding. "I brought you something."

"You don't have to, but I thought maybe you'd like to write him something?" His gaze was fixated on his own hands, whilst hers was still focused somewhere along the horizon. Her hands stilled for a mere second at his revelation, before continuing her mindless pursuit. More dirt filling the water between them. "It's stupid, and I'm really not supposed to, but I could give it to him."

"You can think about it," he offered her a soft, gentle smile, one he did not get returned. She let her hands fall limply in her lap, at last. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

Her hand hovered above his for a bit, almost as if she was contemplating whether or not his touch would burn through her skin. She let it fall onto his, curling her fingers around his with a soft squeeze. A nod, as he pushed the book onto her lap.

"Listen, Punz knows you're here, okay? He's gonna keep the portal room unlocked for you, so you can sleep there if you want." He leaned his shoulder far enough to find hers, immediately feeling her head fall limber from exhaustion. "Please, do me a favor, and sleep inside."

A shaky breath confirmed his wish. "Don't stay out too long, okay?"

"Okay," He whispered into the silence of their vulnerability, leaning over to press a soft kiss to the top of her head. She lifted her temple from his shoulder, allowing him to pull his feet from the water and stand from where they had been sat. He stood silently behind her for a few trembling seconds, caressing her hair with his hand carefully. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Dear Dream,

The pen Sam has given me to write this letter with is shaking in my hand. I'm sorry for the splotches of runny ink, my tears are already ruining this. I keep trying to wipe them away, but they just seem to keep coming. I'm glad they are though, because I don't know what I'd do the second they stop.

I've been sat outside of the entrance for weeks now, I have the scars to show you. I hope, at least, that one day I can show them to you, and that we'll laugh together about the weird shapes they have drawn onto my skin. Every day I hope one of the guards feels bad enough to let me see you, I hope for them to see how my life is in ruins. They deserve to see it, to be fair.

Sam doesn't, though. I don't think, at least. Sam gave me this book, he sat with me by the water for a bit yesterday, when his shift ended. It was nice, he told me how much he thought it would mean for you to hear from me. I hope it does you well, I know it would help me, too.

I miss you so much, Dream, you have no idea. I didn't think it would be this bad, to live without you. I can't do it, I realized that yesterday, sitting by the water with Sam. He told me I had been sitting there for eight hours, completely silent. I don't remember any of it, do you know how scary that is?

I don't know what to do without you. I don't know who I am without you. I miss you so much, you have no idea. I want you to know that I have forgiven you, for everything. That I no longer hold a grudge for the way you had tried to keep me safe, even if it was a stupid fucking way. (Never try that again, I will skin you alive.)

I don't think me and Tommy are on speaking terms anymore, apparently, he built me a hotel, but I couldn't be at the opening. He kept mentioning his exile, and how you were his only friend. I'm not sure what to believe, but he's just a child. His imagination is running wild, and being friends with Connor probably doesn't help his case, either.

It broke me though, to have to miss him, too. You know how much he means to me. He's everything to me, he's the one thing that always kept me grounded. I truly hope I see him again soon, I don't think I can do this without him.

I'll be waiting for you on the right side of the wall, okay? I'll always be waiting, no matter what.

I hope this letter reaches you well,

Yours, truly.

He read the entire thing, how could he not. Sam had truly tried to ignore his yearning to abandon his morals, and to be fair, he had been quite firm in the matter.

However, he was the warden. Someone needed to read the letter, to check it for perhaps vital, lethal information or harmful contraband. He realized very well that she was not the type of person to relinquish his faith like that, not when he had done her such an outrageous favor.

Punz offered to read the letter instead of him, adamant about someone knowing what it had said; a firm believer that he, out of all people, would be faultless in detecting any secret codes or whatsoever.

Sam declined politely, moving up the giant, spiraling staircase to grant the letter the light of day. It felt exhaustively morally unjust, but alas, he had no choice in the matter. So, he read it. He absorbed the pure heartbreak from the spaces between her sorrowful words. He let her grief engulf him entirely, and read all about how she was at the end of her wits.

How she felt hopeless and utterly forlorn. How she no longer knew if she had the spirit to continue her demoralizing journey of seemingly endless hurt and misery.

He sat in his office for hours upon end, rereading the same paragraphs until they were burned into his memory. Until he could no longer think of any other words than those that had been inked down in the book he had so wrongfully offered her.

Truly, nobody ever deserved the agony she was in. However, he soon realized, that nobody deserved the unconditional, destroying love she put into the universe. There was not a single being roaming these plains that even earned a sliver of that unentitled devotion and cherishful idolatry that she put out; that devotion and idolatry which she offered for even the most corrupted of souls to take, to make their own.

The letter would reach Dream well, Sam would make sure of it. The sole, remaining question would be whether or not her words would reach him, too. Whether or not he would admit defiance at last, or perhaps he would still not allow himself to miss her, to yearn for her.

Dream was a simple man, he forgot and forgave, he loved and he missed. But that was not how he was with her, with her he realized just how deeply different they were; how deeply different she deserved.

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sdghgffh · 3 years

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pumpkinpaix · 4 years

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9, 13, 14, 20? :O

9. Are you more of a drabble or a longfic kind of writer? Pantser or plotter? Do you wish you were the other?

ALAS I AM APPARENTLY A LONGFIC WRITER,,,, or like, a very short tiny vignette, no in-between. I used to be incapable of writing anything long (all my shit from like 2007-2012 was under like 5k pretty much), but now it’s like. fuck! every story i want to write ends up spiralling out into like 50k+ projects /o\ I’m definitely a plotter. I wish I could be more spontaneous, but I do much, much better when I have some kind of endgame in mind. I can kinda fudge the middle, but the beginning and end have to be set :/

13. Do you share your writing online? (Drop a link!) Do you have projects you’ve kept just for yourself?

yep! here’s my ao3, which is pretty much just mdzs right now, but I’ve got some Saint Seiya stuff planned 👀 truly getting ready to return to my roots. saint seiya was the first fandom i wrote for! :D if you’re looking for my tumblr ficlets, I believe the tag is #myficlet

however, in terms of original prose and poetry, it mostly all just stays in folders on my hard drive. :’D I’ve entered some poetry and prose into local writing contests and won before, so my work exists out in the ether, but one day I’d like to have published books :’) I have so much poetry that kind of just sits around, and i’m like maybe?? it would be cool to share some of it? but all of it needs more editing and refining, I almost never edit my poetry it just kinda comes out in a mess and then I don’t look at it for years, so none of it is like good. a lot of it has potential, I think, but I have like, maaaaybe one poem that I would say is almost good lol.

I have like five nano novels hanging out as well, so just like. hundreds of k of words stacked up over the last decade and a half :’D

14. At what point in writing do you come up with a title?

depends! sometimes I think of a title and a concept at the same time and try to weave them together. sometimes it comes in the middle, and sometimes I’m scrambling right at the end. sometimes I’m struggling for the whole fucking time (me with lxc fic right now good god this title has been eluding me for MONTHS)

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

okay, since you’re the one asking, I’m going to talk about my painting selections in this little tumblr not-fic i wrote about hyoshun even though I know you don’t really do the classic series, but hey.

I’ve seen both Aivazovsky’s Ninth Wave and Repin’s Sadko in person, but I’ve studied all of the paintings that were included. I’ve never been to the Tretyakov, so I haven’t seen any of those in person, but GOD i want to. All of the paintings that I talked about are some of my favorite 19th century russian works except Sadko, which is nice, but not like, one of my favorites. I just like it.

here is why I chose those works in particular:

1. Aivazovsky’s Ninth Wave is a fucking experience to witness. It’s impossible to convey the presence of it, the size of it, on a computer screen. you feel swallowed up by the ocean and the light and the terror and the beauty of it--even as you face death, you also face the sun. you know, just like. peak sublime. I really think Shun would find the concept of the sublime very moving, given what we see of his character in canon: he cares, deeply and viscerally about the inherent value of life, but sees himself as small within it. And I don’t necessarily think that scares him so much as it awes him sometimes. He knows his own value and strength, respects risk, and respects sacrifice. I think would relate a lot to the Romantic artists who looked out at the vastness of the world and reacted with wonder and terror.

I think Shun very much feels a deep sense of wonder at being alive, of existing, and that he takes that very seriously. idk, there’s that moment at the 12 temples, when he stops to smell the roses at Aphrodite’s temple. it’s like, yeah, we’re in the midst of fighting for our lives, but god. there is such beauty here. facing the sun even as you face death. I think he would like that painting a lot.

2. Knowing Repin’s other work, I find the Sadko really beautiful and charming and surprising! It’s such a fun subject for a painting--instead of painting a religious scene, it’s a scene from a bylina, about a man named Sadko. I believe here is the scene where he’s asked to choose a wife from a line of beautiful sea maidens, but all he wants is to return to the surface and live with his human wife that he loves so much. and it’s okay! he does! the painting is lovely and just really visually stunning. and there’s something really moving about the way that sadko has eyes only for his wife on the surface, dressed in plain clothes, out of reach, even as these dazzling women laden with jewels parade before him. aaaaaaaaaa. anyways, I think Shun would like this painting too, for those reasons!!

3. Now the Tretyakov paintings that I’ve never seen, but GOD they just. they get me right in the heart. first, Conscience, Judas, by Nikolai Ge. it’s hard for me to describe exactly what I’m feeling when I look at it, but that really vicious white on Judas’s robe, the coldness of it, the alienation of a traitor. I want to weep for judas. I am not christian, so my interpretations of the bible are largely moot and uninformed, but I’ve always been intrigued by the thought that like--without judas’ betrayal, christ could not have risen. without the fall, there cannot be a triumph. that doesn’t mean that judas was acting for that reason, i certainly don’t know enough about biblical studies to make any kind of interpretation, but in the sense that like--christ had to fall and judas was the instrument of it. imagine the remorse of knowing. there’s something very human and sad about watching everything you loved and betrayed walk away from you into the darkness while you are left behind. without you, it could never have happened. i don’t know. there’s something about the nature of unforgiveable sins in there. i think about Shun’s speech to Balron Lune and I think he would feel some kind of way looking at this painting.

4. Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, by Perov--this painting kills me every time i see it. again, not christian, but like. the agony of christ. god. the nature of sacrifice. knowing that you must suffer and die, but oh! you would rather live, please if only you could live. let this cup pass me by. that on its own is already so much to sit with. and I think Shun, as well as the other saints, for very obvious reasons, probably have a lot of complicated emotions surrounding the concept of sacrifice and doubt. and idk, whenever there’s a moment when you feel like you are reaching through time and space to realize that someone out there has felt the way you are feeling, it’s like. that’s a lot. it hurts.

5. The Demon Seated, Vrubel: aaaaaaaaaaa. one of my favorite paintings!!! the demon is beautiful, and the demon is terribly melancholic, and the demon is alone, and the demon is powerful sitting amidst the blooming flowers and the setting sun. the gentle face in contrast with the muscular body. the inherent negative aspect of a demon in contrast with the subject’s heroism. I think that this would remind shun very much of his own brother, who is so angry and violent and dark, but whom he still sees as gentle and loving still. i think shun would look at this painting and see ikki sitting there, alone, watching the sunset on some distant shore. as for hyoga, I think it would be hard for him to see this without seeing shun after the hades arc: a kind and beautiful man, a demon by nature not by choice. someone soft made unwillingly hard. a murderer who would ferry even centipedes out of the house to safety.

ANYWAYS. I LOVE ART and i project all my feelings onto shun thank you for coming to my ted talk

writing asks

#cyan writes #ask meme #cyan dlc #saint seiya #romanticism #russian painting #thank u for asking!!! :DDD #kingofthewilds #asks and replies

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