#|| Musing ;; Eulogies | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rockscanfly · 6 days ago

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Noshir Dalal's (Charles Smith's VA and the man who largely shaped Charles into the singular character that he is, found here on tumblr @noshirdalal and on Cameo [in case you have your own questions you'd like answered]) beautiful response to my cameo prompt:

Q: You’ve mentioned before that Charles likes to read. What is his favorite book? Also, you’ve talked some about cowboy poetry and how you think it’s something Charles might have connected to. Can we get a favorite poem of his in his voice?

Besides the fact that this reading of "The Men That Don't Fit In" was just plain fantastic and moving as all get out, I really admire Noshir's choice of poem.

Similar to the poem’s author and his simultaneous celebration and castigation of the prototypical outlaw, Charles always came off to me as someone who loves his fellow gang members deeply but who didn't share their illusions about themselves or how they function within the larger context of the world around them.

Charles makes several remarks throughout the game ('Unpleasant? How do you rob and kill people pleasantly?' 'All this death and for what? Just so we can have enough money to be able to run from what we've done?' 'The amount of hell we raised, we’re owed some back') that indicate a high level of self-awareness about what it is the gang ACTUALLY does and how they're perceived by the outside world.

Arthur makes some gestures at this understanding throughout the game, but his moral musings are undercut by his inability to stand his ground against Dutch throughout the numerous acts of outright cruelty his found-father perpetuates in Chapters 4-6 (Arthur barks, but he never bites).

Arthur and John have their gripes and moans, but ultimately the two of them stick it out until the bloody end. Charles is the first person to really break free of the fate the gang is hurtling towards.

In a tragedy built on the back of it's main cast's inability to cope with a changing world, Charles is arguably the character who exerts the most agency. He makes the decision in Chapter 6--when the circumstances that once tied him to the gang have dramatically altered--to cut loose.

Because of this choice, he lives.

To me, at least, this poem--and Noshir's brilliant delivery--isn't about Charles himself. Or at least not just about himself.

Its him talking about the Van der Linde gang. Arthur and John, his second family. Wild, brilliant, bold, true, free--and gone. With nothing but graves to show for the lives they lived.

Charles isn't reciting a poem--he's reciting a eulogy.

Transcript:

Hey Rocks. Um, thank you for your patience with all of this.

Yeah, so we know that Charles reads and I know that we’ve talked before about a scene that apparently didn’t make it into the game, where after Charles’ interaction with Micah—and you know, yeeting him across the camp—Arthur comes upon him reading a book.

That uh, that scene affected me in a major way and I think it's probably the reason I portray Charles the way I do.

A guy who can physically manhandle pretty much anyone at camp having the mental and emotional maturity and self-regulation—if you can’t tell I’m a new dad [laughs]—to find a way to deal with his anger that doesn’t involve acting out and breaking stuff?

Told me a tremendous amount about Charles, especially because what I’d been introduced to was the idea that Charles was a really violent, really angry maniac.

And I love the idea that he’s really into poetry. I like poetry a lot. Actually when I was working on that latest skin for Yone (spl?) for League of Legends, I learned from the writing team that cowboy poetry is, like, a thing.

And so I decided to look some up. And I like to think that maybe that this is a poem that Charles would have had in that book he was reading.

The poem is called “The Men That Don’t Fit In” by Robert W. Service. Fitting, I think, especially for Charles for a number of reasons. I hope you like it.��

[Noshir goes into Charles’ voice and recites below poem by Robert W. Service (British-born Canadian Poet, 1874-1958), published in his book Songs of the Yukon (1907)]

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in, A race that can’t stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain’s crest; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don’t know how to rest. If they just went straight they might go far; They are strong and brave and true; But they’re always tired of the things that are, And they want the strange and new. They say: “Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!” So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake. And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead, In the glare of the truth at last. He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half. Life’s been a jolly good joke on him, And now is the time to laugh. Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win; He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone; He’s a man who won’t fit in.

#charles smith #arthur morgan #john marston #the van der linde gang #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption two #rdr2 #red dead redemption #noshir dalal #charthur

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clio-of-hesiod · 19 days ago

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Linnet grabbed her and Kleo's vision flashed white for a moment. Her head, which was already throbbing a little with a headache, cracked open and she felt slightly nauseous.

There was a flash of a memory--her sitting with Linnet, washing the dirt down the drain. It was gone before she could blink but it left her standing there--struck dumb. She felt sick to her stomach and confused now too.

"You--you can't do anything." She pulled her arm from Linnet's grasp. "I have to go."

She darted away, disappearing into the foot traffic and to her dorm so that she could crawl under the covers.

@euterpe-of-hesiod

Eulogy for Nobody () [Lore]

#swyneuterpe #lore #eulogy for nobody #a little muse magic for ya

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hyperions-light · 2 months ago

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Favorite Sentence Wednesday Saturday Thursday

Extremely belated tag game fill— thank you @basedonconjecture for the tag! Really enjoyed this one!

At first I was like hmmm is it conceited that I have so many favorite sentences from my own stuff? But then I decided NO, it wasn’t, because when I write I make things that *I* enjoy, so it SHOULD have a bunch of stuff I like in it lmao. And I hope your work does, too!!

So here are some absolute bangers, brought to you by ME:

He imagines himself a garden, seeds bursting up through the soil of his flesh, to make it more palatable.

From Flesh, a body horror about feeling yourself decay in real time <3 One of my fave things I’ve made, I think!

He felt— he had felt that he loved them. That his level of commitment, his devotion, his elevation of their family had been proof of it.

But had it been them he truly valued, or the facsimile— the dream of them that lived within him?

When they failed him, when they did not live within the strictures that he had set he had discarded them; could it be called love which was so inflexible, so militant in its demands?

From the beating of his hideous heart, a meditation on love, by a character who’s bad at it, in the middle of a mall thoroughfare accompanied by someone he hates.

“My God. Shut the fuck up!” Doffy shouts, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent field. “I don’t care if you’re sorry! I don’t care if you regret it! It’s done, it’s over, there’s nothing you can do. You can’t change it with your whining and your crying and your lamenting.

“I’m sick to fucking death of you and Rosi mourning the person you wanted me to be. I’m right fucking here. I’m right here! I’m just too— too disgusting for you to love, anymore. Fine. Fine! I understand, so just fucking go! Don’t come around me and my family, begging, with your sanctimonious eulogies for a person I never was!”

From it deepens like a coastal shelf, an AU of another AU about generational and family trauma. I think this sentiment is very relatable, although this character and his circumstances are decidedly less so.

Homing’s father was a towering force in his childhood; irrepressible, waspish and domineering, he demanded excellence from birth, though Homing had little to give. His face was made of sharp, angular lines, well-suited to the severity it often wore; his clothes pressed, immaculate; his back straight.

As an adult, he recalls his childhood in broad, sweeping strokes; outlines of events and places, like great splotches of paint on canvas. He remembers bright and cloudless skies beset by towers of white; many-colored parades through shining streets.

From the same fic as above, the opening paragraphs, minus a few sentences. I think they build the mood well and give a strong impression of the POV character’s father, which is vital to the success of the piece.

To each member of his family, to many cowering future corpses had he said, “My brother’s blood is my blood. That which offends him, offends me.” And for this protection, this service, he was repaid with betrayal.

That vaunted compassion, which his Sainted parents had so prized— that innocence and naiveté had made his brother ripe to bend to the first kind hand. To be leashed and made obedient to larger dogs laboring beneath Heaven.

From Resentment, a character ruminating on his relationship with his brother, before he kills him. No one ever reads this one because of the Major (canonical) Character Death, but I LOVE it.

Its use is reserved only for those worthy of it; no nameless underlings, no stepping stones on his way to greatness. It is a Heavenly instrument, each sacral bullet purifying the flesh in which it lodges.

Same as above— I love ‘each sacral bullet purifying’; it sounds so good.

This place is a greying husk; the sea and sky pale versions of what was, the people, the plants, and animals— everything, like a grotesque imitation of what came before.

Haunted, a reincarnation fic featuring the villains, who have some truly impressive baggage to deal with. Think this sets the tone for this part, well!

A part of Crocodile misses the park as it was, odd as that is. It was undoubtedly worse, but—it was familiar. He had walked through it on his way home so many times that he’d become fond of it. And now it’s gone. But such beautiful things have grown in its place.

Haunted, again. Think this line captures a very relatable sentiment, for people.

The telephone wires blur before his eyes, the colors of the houses and the sunset running together like diluted paint.

“I have wasted so much time,” he says, and he can hear his voice crack on the last word, much as he’d like to deny it.

Haunted. This moment really gets to people. MC is talking about his father, now old, with whom he has reunited after many years of estrangement.

“You may kiss—” Bon says, but they don’t finish, because Doflamingo grabs him, lifting him from the ground and kissing him as though he means to put every ineffable feeling, every moment of desperate wanting and desire he has ever experienced into a single act, and Crocodile can hear the crowd applauding, but it doesn’t matter, because—

—Because for a moment he transcends time, space, and possibility, and he knows they are on the deck of his ship, leaving the harbor for the first time with a new purpose, to traverse the great, grand sea—

—and as they pull apart, he opens his eyes to find Doflamingo before him, tears streaming down his face, and he realizes that everything he believed lost lives in the man in front of him; he is that world entire.

He realizes that they are found; they are whole; and that what they have built together transcends all that he once had. He laughs, and clutches Doffy fiercely, holding the universe in his arms, and—at last—he feels free.

Haunted. The Big Gay Wedding finale! Was really happy to find a way to pull together the themes, in this chapter, even though it wasn’t in the original plan for the fic.

It is Viago they want, despite what he has done; they return to him ceaselessly, like a river to the sea.

From speak to me in the language of reverence; was very pleased with the metaphor, here!

Wow, if you actually made it down here, thanks so much for indulging me!

#tag game #writing game #one piece #dragon age #my writing #Lark writes #fanfiction #long post

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lavenderrpages · 1 year ago

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@eulogier asked: ❛ i'm sorry for saying that you have no friends really loud in front of all of your friends. ❜ ( caroline 2 elspeth. )

the quote of dialogue streamed from caroline's mouth into the open air singed embarrassment. elspeth deluded the entire subject with a quick, ❛ aren't we all friendless in the end ? i never really cared for such daft personalities. most of them just feed off attention. caring for attention is a bootless errand. to be the center of it. i just float to the center naturally. i suppose that's why i was so successful in modeling, the camera would just follow. i couldn't care less. ❜ elspeth's voice trailed faintly. aloofness hung over her like a voluptuous cloud. caroline had made such a mockery, and in of all places, ❛ was a lovely party. didn't you think so ? ❜ redirecting, the woman waved that moment away like lint in the air.

#( muse. // elspeth catton. )#( elspeth. x caroline. )#shared a kiss in the long gallery in front of sir james old teddy bear. surely #( answered. )#eulogier

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elelia · 1 month ago

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In Black Mirror: Eulogy, Kelly Royce functions as a modern Muse, subtly evoking the mythological Callirrhoe—daughter of Oceanus, whose name means “beautiful flow.” As a cellist and digital psychopomp, she channels memory and emotion, bridging life, art, and afterlife. Her name, Kelly Royce, echoes both the lyrical grace and spiritual authority of her mythic counterpart. She is not just a daughter mourning her mother, but a voice of truth and transformation—an embodiment of poetic memory within a technological ritual of grief.

#black mirror #eulogy #netflix

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rjthirsty · 5 months ago

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Kintsugi

Kintsugi is an ancient Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. The gold creates visible seams where the cracks once were. This celebrates the imperfections of the pottery rather than hiding it.

I received this fanfic from @wistfulwanderingone as a Secret Santa gift, and when I tell you that I teared up several times, I'm not joking. She has given me permission to post and name the fic, and Kintsugi was what I thought of at the end of the story. That's how this fic makes me feel. Like Clavis is piecing me back together with gold to celebrate everything I try to hide.

I'm chronically ill, as some of you might know. Wist knows. She is also aware that I'm bed bound often. Sometimes for days at a time. It's hard to be seen as more than my disability, especially when my illness controls so much of my life. But, while it is part of me, it is not all I am. It has been hard to accept that this year, but I'm working on it. And I know Clavis (and Wist, and all my friends) are behind me to remind me that I'm still wonderful even with my imperfections.

Thank you, Wist, for the beautiful gift. It was so personal and thoughtful and I was literally just complaining about how hard it is being sick during the holidays. And then you gave me this. And it's perfect.

The room is quiet except for the faint crackle of the fireplace, casting warm shadows on the walls. Snow blankets the palace grounds outside, muffling the world in a soft hush. You sit nestled in a pile of blankets, your body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that refuses to lift. Your gaze lingers on the window, where frost has painted delicate patterns on the glass, and you wonder what it would feel like to be part of the life outside those frosted windows—free, light, unburdened.

It’s been days since you left this room, the weight of your chronic illness pinning you down like a cage. The days have blurred together into a slow, muted haze, a rhythm of stillness you’ve almost grown used to. Almost. A sigh escapes your lips, soft and wistful, filling the quiet. You’re so lost in thought that you barely notice the door creak open—until his unmistakable voice breaks the stillness.

“Ah, my poor, suffering muse,” Clavis exclaims, sweeping into the room with all the flair of a traveling performer. “Still sulking in here, I see. I was starting to fear you’d been devoured by this cocoon of blankets. Shall I prepare a eulogy?”

The tension in your chest loosens, almost imperceptibly, as you glance over at him. A faint smile tugs at your lips, unbidden but welcome. “I’m not sulking. I’m just…tired.”

Clavis crosses the room in a few long strides, his golden eyes soften as they sweep over you, taking in the weariness you can never quite hide from him. It’s a look that makes you feel seen—truly seen—in a way that isn’t suffocating or pitying. “Sulking, tragically fatigued—semantics. Worry not, for your savior has arrived.”

You raise a skeptical eyebrow, already fighting the pull of a smile. “Clavis, I don’t need saving. I just need rest.”

“Rest?” He clutches his chest as though your words have mortally wounded him. “Oh no, no, no. Rest is for mere mortals, and you, my dear, are anything but mortal. You’re practically divine.”

The corners of your mouth quirk up despite yourself. You roll your eyes, pretending to dismiss him, but already you feel something shift in the room—the heaviness inside you loosening, just a little. “What are you even doing here?”

“I’ve come with a mission,” he declares, dragging a chair to your bedside and plopping into it with far more drama than necessary. “I’m going to make you laugh.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. No one else bothers with this—this effort to distract you from the heaviness that fills the room. “Clavis, I’m fine. You don’t have to—”

“Oh, but I do,” he interrupts, his tone shifting to something more serious beneath the playful lilt. “You see, your laughter is my favorite sound in the world. And the fact that I haven’t heard it in a whole day? Why, that’s a travesty. A true tragedy of epic proportions.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “As if that’s a travesty. Do I need to buy you a proper dictionary?”

“As if I’d read something that boring.” Clavis shakes his head, tutting like a disappointed teacher. “And let’s not deflect, my love. Full disclosure: I’m not here for a polite chuckle. No, I demand the real thing—the uncontrollable kind of laughter that leaves you gasping for air. The kind that makes you wonder if you’ll survive the sheer joy of it.”

Your heart warms, despite your exhaustion. He’s ridiculous—insufferably so—but there’s something in the way he speaks, in the light in his eyes, that makes you feel like you’re more than this room, more than this illness. Like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

True to his word, Clavis dives into his antics with the enthusiasm of a man on a mission. He recounts exaggerated tales of palace mishaps, complete with elaborate gestures and voices for every person in the palace. His impersonation of Chevalier—smirking and sly, his voice an octave too high—nearly makes you choke on a giggle.

“And then,” he continues, launching into a pantomimed escape, “I, ever the hero, evaded Chev’s villainous clutches with unparalleled grace and daring!” He stumbles over the rug, nearly losing his balance, then bows with a flourish. “Ah-ha! And thus, a legend was born.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, trying to stifle the laugh threatening to escape. It doesn’t work. The sound bursts free, light and unrestrained, and you feel the smallest weight lift from your chest.

“Ah-ha!” he exclaims, pointing at you as though you’ve just confessed a great secret. “But no, that won’t do. A giggle? My dearest darling, I demand full-blown, uncontrollable laughter. The kind that could summon Chevalier himself, just to tell us to keep it down.”

You roll your eyes, though your smile widens. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re radiant,” he replies smoothly, leaning in closer. His words send warmth blooming across your cheeks. “But I digress. Back to the mission at hand.”

He pulls a small, poorly wrapped package from his coat pocket, holding it out to you with a flourish. “A gift for my one and only.”

You hesitate, your brow furrowing. “You brought me a present?”

Of course,” he says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But beware—it’s no ordinary gift. This one is…revolutionary.”

Curious, you unwrap it to reveal a snow globe. Inside, a miniature replica of the palace gardens sits encased in glass, complete with tiny skaters gliding on a frozen pond. You shake it gently, and glittering snow swirls inside. It’s beautiful—breathtaking, even—but before you can say as much, Clavis leans closer.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, touched.

“Ah, but you haven’t discovered its true charm,” he states, his voice low with mock suspense. “Turn the little lever at the bottom.”

You do, and the melody that follows is anything but elegant. The tinny, off-key tune crescendos into a jumbled cacophony of squeaks and clangs, pure absurdity. Your eyes widen, and before you can stop yourself, laughter spills from your lips. It’s loud and genuine, the kind of laughter you haven’t felt in weeks.

“There it is!” Clavis exclaims triumphantly, pointing at you like he’s just won a grand prize. “The fortress is breached!”

“It’s awful!” you gasp, shaking the globe again as the absurd tune restarts. “Who thought this was a good idea?”

“Clearly a genius,” Clavis replies, looking utterly pleased with himself. “I made it specifically for you. A one-of-a-kind masterpiece, for my one-of-a-kind love.”

You laugh again, your body lighter than it’s felt in days. His antics are absurd, yes, but they’re more than that. They’re a reminder that you’re still here, still capable of joy. And when he looks at you—his golden eyes warm and bright—you feel seen in a way you haven’t in a long time. Not as someone to pity, but as someone worth every ounce of his energy.

“Clavis, this is—”

“Brilliant?” he interrupts, tilting his head like a smug cat. “Oh, I agree. But don’t let me sway your opinion. Go ahead, laugh some more. It’s my favorite part.”

The hours slip by, each moment brimming with more of Clavis’s relentless antics. He begins with an over-the-top reenactment of how he supposedly triumphed over Leon in an epic snowball fight, claiming victory not just with skill but with the “tactical brilliance of a true general.” His makeshift cape—a blanket he pilfered from your bed—is tied dramatically around his shoulders, fluttering with every exaggerated gesture. In his hand, a sugar cube serves as his noble weapon.

“And then,” Clavis declares, leaping atop the nearest chair with the grace of a performer on stage, “when all seemed lost, when the forces of nature turned against me, I made a daring move! A single, decisive strike!” He hurls the sugar cube onto the bedside table, where it lands with an unimpressive plink. “And just like that, Leon fell before me. And I? A hero crowned by destiny!”

This time when the laughter bubbles over, it doesn’t feel so foreign anymore. Each laugh feels more natural than the last, weaving itself into the fabric of the evening, no longer leaving room for the shadows that usually cling to you. Your cheeks ache from smiling, and you revel in the feeling. “I don’t think Leon would agree with your version of events,” you manage, your voice tinged with amusement.

“Ah, but history belongs to the storytellers, my dear,” Clavis replies with a wink, his grin sharper than the frost on the windowpane. “And fortunately for the world, I have an exceptional gift for embellishment. It’s a heavy burden, being this remarkable, but someone must bear it.”

As if to punctuate his words, he picks up another sugar cube, examining it with mock seriousness. “But wait,” he says, his golden eyes narrowing conspiratorially. “This is no ordinary cube of sweetness. This, fancy fiancée, is a weapon of unparalleled power, forged in the icy winds of battle. A true artifact of destruction.”

You shake your head, still smiling. The weight on your chest feels a little lighter, the tight grip of exhaustion momentarily loosening. “You’re impossible,” you say, though your tone holds no real rebuke—just warmth.

Clavis gasps, clutching the edge of his blanket-cape as though you’ve mortally wounded him. “Impossible? My dear, I am legendary.” He straightens with a dramatic flair, his makeshift cape sweeping the floor as he strikes a pose. “A true visionary never limits himself to what is merely possible. Why settle for reality when imagination is so much more thrilling?”

The absurdity of his words pulls another laugh from you, one that shakes the remnants of the fog you’ve been drowning in. For a moment, you’re not the sickly figure confined to a room—you’re just you, laughing at his ridiculous antics.

But Clavis isn’t finished. In an unexpected move, he drags a chair toward the window and flings it open, letting in a gust of icy air that sends the curtains billowing. You shiver instinctively, clutching your blankets closer as the cold nips at your skin.

“Behold!” Clavis exclaims, pointing dramatically to the snow-covered gardens below. His golden eyes glitter with excitement as he straightens his posture, looking every bit the theatrical knight he imagines himself to be. “The battlefield of legends! Where courage is tested and heroes are made! But fear not, my love—I shall defend your honor!”

Before you can stop him, he flicks a sugar cube out the window. You track its arc through the air, and to your horror (and slight amusement), it lands squarely on Prince Gilbert’s shoulder as he strolls below.

“Clavis!” you gasp, caught between laughter and panic.

Gilbert pauses mid-step, slowly brushing the sugar dust from his shoulder. Even from this distance, the chill of his predatory smile sends a shiver down your spine.

Clavis freezes for half a heartbeat before shutting the window with a flourish, leaning casually against the sill as if nothing happened. “Well, that was unfortunate,” he remarks, the slightest twitch of his lips betraying his amusement.

“Unfortunate?” you hiss. “You just sugar-bombed Prince Gilbert! Do you have a death wish?”

Clavis turns to you with a grin that’s far too relaxed for the gravity of the situation. “Darling, life without a little danger is simply dull. Besides,” he adds, with a conspiratorial wink, “I’ve always been curious about his sweet tooth. Consider it an experiment in diplomacy. I’m practically doing Chevalier a favor.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands, but even then, you can’t stop the laughter that spills out, bright and uncontainable. It fills the room, a sound that feels out of place after so many days of silence. The world outside your window is still heavy and cold, but in this room, warmth floods in.

“You’re going to get us both killed,” you manage between breaths, your voice tinged with exasperation.

Clavis wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. The gesture feels grounding, safe. “Don’t worry, my love. If it comes to that, I’ll charm my way out of it. Or…” He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I’ll say it was your idea.”

You swat at him, your laughter spilling over again, but this time it’s not just his words that fuel it. It’s the way he looks at you, like you’re the center of his universe. The way he knows exactly how to lift the crushing weight you carry without making you feel small. His devotion cuts through the haze of your illness in a way nothing else has.

Clavis watches you, a look of unguarded affection softening his features, and you realize his joy isn’t just in hearing your laughter—it’s in knowing he’s helped you reclaim it.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “That’s the sound I love most.”

Your laughter fades into something softer, more fragile. “Clavis…”

“Do you know what your laughter does to me?” he asks, leaning closer. His golden eyes are warm, searching yours. “It’s the most perfect sound in the world. Joyful, bright, and just a little bit mischievous—just like you. It makes me believe there’s magic in this world after all. And trust me, I don’t say that lightly.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion. Your cheeks flush, and you glance down at the blankets covering your lap. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“No,” he says firmly, his voice gentler than you’ve ever heard it. “Not about this.” He sits beside you, placing a gloved hand over his heart.

For a moment, the world feels impossibly quiet. Clavis reaches out, brushing his gloved fingers against your cheek in a rare gesture of tenderness.

“You’ve been through so much,” he says softly, his grin fading into something more serious. “And yet, you still laugh. You still shine. That’s what I love about you. And I swear, I’ll keep giving you reasons to laugh as long as I’m breathing.”

The weight on your chest doesn’t feel quite as heavy anymore. The room feels lighter, brighter, infused with his warmth and presence. You lean into his touch, letting the moment wrap around you like a balm.

The day fades into evening, the golden light of the fireplace softening the edges of the room. The warmth flickers across Clavis’s features, painting him in shades of amber that seem almost otherworldly. You’re tired—bone-tired in a way that feels insurmountable—but your heart feels lighter, buoyed by the warmth of his presence. The ache in your limbs is still there, the heaviness of your illness lingering like a shadow, but for the first time in days, it feels bearable.

Clavis lingers by your bedside, his golden eyes scanning your face with an intensity that makes you feel exposed, but not in a way that stings. It’s a gentle kind of scrutiny, one that doesn’t search for flaws but treasures. No one has ever looked at you like that before, as if you’re more than just the sum of your weakness and weariness. His gaze sees you—not the fragile shell you feel like most days, but the person you’ve almost forgotten you are.

“Rest, my lovely lover,” he says softly, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his lips lingers like a promise, grounding you in the moment. His voice is low, coaxing, as if he’s whispering a secret meant only for you. “And when you wake, I’ll be here to make you laugh all over again.”

The corners of your mouth lift into a faint smile, and for once, it doesn’t feel like a strain. Clavis’s devotion is a strange thing—intense, unwavering, and entirely consuming. He doesn’t just want to ease your pain; he wants to rewrite it entirely, to fill the cracks in your world with light and laughter until there’s no room for the darkness to creep back in.

As your eyelids grow heavy, you feel the edges of your mind soften, the weight of your body giving way to the pull of sleep. The warmth of the blankets surrounds you, but it’s his words that linger, wrapping around your heart like the coziest of comforts.

You realize, in that hazy space between waking and dreaming, that you believe him. You believe in his promise to stay, to bring you laughter when you feel like you’ll never smile again. You believe in the joy he carries, the way it spills into your life like sunlight breaking through clouds.

With Clavis, there will always be laughter—unpredictable, unrelenting, and healing. There will always be joy in the smallest moments, like the off-key melody of a snow globe or the glint in his eye when he’s plotting his next ridiculous scheme. And, most importantly, there will always be love—the kind that sees every broken part of you and holds it close, never letting go.

You drift into sleep with that certainty nestled deep in your chest. The world outside is still cold and quiet, but here, with him, there’s warmth that promises to last.

#ikepri fanfic #ikepri clavis #clavis lelouch #ikemen prince #chronic illness #comfort #wist's writing #secret santa gift

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sakkiichi · 2 years ago

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AUGUST.

Glimpses of the departed month go by as you reminisce by the sea.

ft. Kaedehara Kazuha x gn! reader.

cw/genre: fluff, romance.

I honestly don’t know how to feel about this piece… definitely not my best work, but I wrote it, so I’m posting it. I hope someone still likes it.

if you enjoy this, reblogs and comments help more than likes !

Blue.

Said alone, the word might have had a tendency for melancholy, cold, turbulence.

However, if anyone were to ask you right now, you’d deny every negative connotation the color might have ever been related to.

Because to you, blue was dusks by the sea; moments right after the last coppery rays had hidden behind the expanse of an ocean you could only wish to unveil all secrets of.

And perhaps, you liked this moment of day because the infinity of blue before you mirrored the feelings in your heart at ease.

Feelings of unbridled affection, boundless love.

For him.

Fair hair falls over his shoulders, like silk weaved out of stars, its tips illusory rose with the fading daylight. His eyes are closed against the marine breeze, flecks of moondust clinging to his lids, casting enchanting shadows over his cheeks. His shirt has been discarded, droplets sliding down his bare torso, as if he had bathed in a pool of starlight. A black leather cord rests against his tempting collarbones, a vibrant scarlet maple leaf charm dangling tantalizingly over his chest.

A dreamy sigh escapes your lips, mingling with the sounds of foamy waves lapping at the white sand.

Kazuha.

He was always nothing short of ethereal, but something about him in the dimming light of a late summer’s nightfall, felt inherently magical.

“I’m going to miss this, Kazuha.” You finally say, resting your chin on your boyfriend’s shoulder.

He gently leaves a kiss to your forehead, his hand finding yours over the towel you’re sitting on. Scars jut like jagged rocks against which waves break, in the same way lightning snuffed out a life dear to him all that time ago.

And yet, the smile on his lips is almost palpable when he says:

“We’ll be able to come back, my dove.” His thumb runs soothing circles over the back of your hand. “Before we realize, summer will greet us again.”

You chuckle. Kazuha had such a poetic way of approaching things; even when the sun went pitch black, he would forever remain a beacon of hope to you.

“I know, I know…” You clarify. “It’s just… I wish I had more free time to spend with you like this during the year…”

As much as autumn brought found memories and your beloved’s birthday, September always had a tendency to leave you yearning for the long days of summer.

Echoes of August replayed behind your eyelids every time you closed them, reminiscent of stolen instances held in the brief minutes in which the sky was dyed in shades of neither day or night.

Those eyes that held the suns of a million dawns focus on you. Starlight from constellations that will sleep soon seem to frame them, those long lashes fluttering in tune with your heart.

“I know, my angel…” Your lover utters, as he delicately tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’d like to stay with you like this, for all eternity…” His stare of gentle embers takes you in.

His muse, his perfect love, his forever.

The samurai’s free hand reaches to cup your cheek, his touch, a dove’s first flight in its tenderness.

Beneath the darkening skies, you were the brightest star. Every lash, every pore and freckle, the everglow that fueled his verses.

“But we’ll always have the weekends,” He reassures, those fingers that penned the most romantic eulogies tracing your jawline, the column of your neck, your exposed collarbones.

Dilated pupils stare at his lips, images of kisses coated in ice cream and cocktails flashing through your dazed mind.

“And every summer after that.” The poet adds, noses mere millimeters away now, separated only by salt air and dying sunlight’s rust.

“Every summer.” You repeat.

Then, the magnetic force of both your desire-ridden lips reigns over, his kiss, an intoxicating collision.

Your hands lock behind Kazuha’s neck, pulling him closer. The droplets of sea water on him feel cool, flecks of stardust tattooing your skin in every place your bodies touch.

The wandering samurai’s lips are an expanding sunrise, and you, the tsunami that desperately reaches for his light-tinted heavens.

One of his hands sets on the soft sand, keeping him upright, while his scarred one tenderly cups your cheek. Your lean against him is soothing, healing, clear August skies, birdsong written in between retreating clouds.

Behind the undulating horizon, gold dyes silver.

Constellations begin to waltz far above, the lovers by the sea, their directing lyrics.

It’s a symphony about a season that will never die, its score inscribed in indelible blue ink in the heat of yours and Kazuha’s fervent kisses.

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