#Young Sick Camellia

[ilcantodelsoleil]

i'm not one to focus too much on arbitrary things about characters like astrological signs but my guilty pleasure is floriography so let's talk (long ass post) about the subtle artistry of jjk's symbolism in terms of satosugu birth flowers, because even though it's 99% unintentional i'm insane and gege would be a genius for this. i included both western and japanese birth flowers because they can differ in both the actual flower and meaning. im serious btw click the break to read the ramblings of an insane man.

first, gojo satoru (dec 7th): holly, narcissus and kalanchoe. holly has meanings in japanese floriography like "用心深さ" (watchful, vigilant) and "保護" (protection) which i've always associated with the ability of the six eyes and gojo's strength, whereas in western culture holly is generally associated with joy and merriment e.g. holiday festivity.

narcissus can mean hope, wealth, "the only one" and good fortune– relating to gojo's birthright as the strongest given to him by the blessings (curses) of the six eyes and limitless. being a greek myth nerd, i also couldn't possibly go without explaining the narcissus (daffodil)'s creation myth, which parallels neatly with satosugu's falling out. narcissus was a man so impossibly handsome that he fell in love with his own image reflected in a river's surface, and in spite of a beautiful nymph's love for him, even she wasn't enough to draw him away from his own self-absorption until it was too late. he dies by the riverbank and is turned into the flower; gojo similarly did not question geto until it was too late, chasing his own strength, because after all, he is gojo satoru because he is strong above all else.

but my favourite is probably kalanchoe– generally used in celebratory bouquets for events such as weddings due to their enduring nature, they have the connotation of persistent, eternal love in the west and similarly "おお��かな愛" (bighearted/generous love; 愛 [ai] can also mean attachment, craving, desire) and たくさんの小さな思い出 (lots of little memories) in jp. that significance is self-explanatory.

next, geto suguru (feb 3rd): in the west, his birth flowers are primrose (devotion, youthfulness, affection, first love), violet (modesty, humility, young love, virtue) and iris (faith, hope and wisdom, spiritual awareness/passion). i feel like the majority of these i don't have to explain but first love and young love and youthfulness and fucking devotion is making me feel sick to my stomach ☺️. all of these flowers encapsulate both his own character as in wisdom and stsg's relationship so well it seems purposeful, but even gege would be an insane man to imply them THIS much lol.

anyways, in jp: camellia– depending on the colour, but particularly red and pink– meaning "控えめなすばらしさ" (modest excellence), "気取らない優美さ" (unpretentious grace), "謙虚な美徳" (humble virtue), "控えめな愛" (modest love) and overall "慎み深い" (modesty). the tragedy of geto's character is him going from the humble moral compass encouraging gojo to use formalities and always act within reason to the antithesis of his past self. also an honourable mention to setsubunsou, which means elegance and brilliance.

while all of these are likely coincidental connections, i can't help but marvel at how unintentionally poetic each and every aspect of their characters seems to be so meticulously designed– it's even more beautiful if the symbolism was unintentional, because it just reinforces how intrinsically linked they are, even by something as pseudoscientific as floriography. thank you for listening to my ted talk, goodnight.

[vonpharma]

w[h]ip wednesday: blocked by sicktember edition

welcome to whip wednesday! did you know the sicktember mods blocked me despite me being an avid fan of theirs for years, contributing 60 works and over 190k words, and hyping up their event in my social circles the whole time? i still do not know why this happened! i am pretty sure it's because i posted some very lukewarm critique about how the event was being run, on my personal blog where they had to go digging to find it.

i'm obviously heartbroken and pretty stressed about that but i've got a whole spreadsheet of planning done and a shit ton of fills ready to go so whatever. highly recommend not supporting the event this year or for the foreseeable future (there's talks of a new mod. if you're reading this, wanna unblock me?) because i'm starting to think the event runners might just be mean!

do, however, lavish me with praise. i will be writing sickfic until the end of the fucking universe, and when the new sickfic event makes their grand debut i will be kissing their feet.

here's some franmaya from my day 4!

With a confirmation of their reservation—curious, Franziska’s twisting expression seems to say, why would one need a reservation for a botanical garden?—the single employee standing stationary heaves the lock off the gates. They part as if heralding the arrival of something far grander than two young prodigies celebrating an anniversary—not even a proper one, something far more juvenile. Still, Maya feels nothing short of royal as she’s entering the sprawling, lush grounds—and the wonder sewn into every square of Franziska’s face tells her she’s not alone.

“Maya,” Franziska says, wandering toward the boundless stretch of camellia bushes, “what did you… the whole place is…”

“Empty?” Maya grins. “Yeah, happy anniversary, babe. Go wild.”

And Franziska looks at her like she’s hung the stars. How long Maya has waited for that look.

Because Franziska is rich. Loaded, even. There was so little you could buy for the woman who could buy herself anything, especially on Maya’s comparatively meager income. Her only saving grace was in the fact that Franziska was a workaholic to a fault who rarely thought of leisure, or pleasure, or earthly desires—so much so that the religious acolyte from the mountain commune was somehow less detached from those pleasures than she. Maya couldn’t often pay, but she could conceptualize.

This time, though. A year’s worth of saving, and planning, and praying… and finally, with all her ducks in a line, Maya was able to find a gift befitting of the wonderful creature who’d allowed her a space in their shared life. A few hours in the moonlight, wandering around the emerald sprawl of the biggest botanical garden in all of SoCal, with no one to bother them but the bugs chirping in the thicket.

A Franziskan paradise. A perfect night. Or it would be, if not for…

Another muffled sneeze escapes into the collar of her winter jacket, and it takes all of Maya’s willpower not to groan in sore irritation on the tail end of it. They’re starting to hurt, now, barreling through her with little regard for the shredded state of her throat or the date with the pretty girl she is currently trying to go on. It’s been relentless ever since last night, and Maya had hoped and prayed to Mystic Ami herself that she not be sick on her two-year anniversary that she’d spent ages arranging. As fate would have it, though, even Mystic Ami could not cure the common cold.

(Despite what the dusty tomes buried in the archives back home said….)

Luckily, even overdoting Franziska seems far too distracted right about now to notice that’s what’s happening. If this were any other situation, Maya’s sure Franziska’s searing blues would lock onto her like a vulture that’s just spotted a bloating corpse. Thankfully, the flowers are very distracting.

“It’s all…” Franziska is powerwalking from bush to bush in an erratic, excitable zigzag. “Maya Fey, is this whole garden nothing but camellias?”

“I dunno babe,” Maya sniffles once, twice, “you’re the expert. You tell me.”

Coming to a slow halt, Franziska allows herself to look out across the expanse—flowers as far as the eye can see, still in full bloom despite the bite of winter. In all colours, in all sizes, lit only by the far-off insomnia of the city, the moonlight peeking through the cloudy skies.

“I just—” Franziska turns back to Maya, glowing brightest of all, “—can’t believe the variety here, look at all this…”

Maya wanders closer to her side, feeling sunlit despite the chills that are quickly growing harder to ignore. Franziska kneels down to graze a gloved thumb across a velvety red petal, and Maya squats far less elegantly beside her, tilting her head awkwardly back in an attempt to keep her nose from running. 

“I can’t believe it,” Franziska marvels, “Maya, this is quite literally a historical specimen. You’ve brought me to the home of the oldest camellia in all of Southern California.”

“Yo, for real?” Maya stares at the flower, completely unremarkable to her own untrained eye. “Did this bitch know the dinosaurs?”

“No, nothing like that…” Franziska chuckles, continuing to cradle the flower in her hands as though it is the most precious thing in the world. “They’re Asian in origin. This one in particular is one of a kind, having traveled here from Japan in the 1800s.”

“Woah. Just like me for real.”

As she says it, Maya presses her cheek against Franziska’s own, that brand of endearing obnoxiousness that the two of them loved so much. Their hair bunches and tangles in between them, but Franziska leans into her beloved rather than away.

“I didn’t know winter flowers were a thing,” Maya lies, prompting her girlfriend to spring back to her feet, gesticulating vastly and passionately with her arms. 

“Oh, they’re some of the loveliest flowers in existence!” God, she’s so cute when she’s infodumping. “Camellias are some of my favourite of all, in fact I’d even heard of the breadth of this collection of them before coming to the states! It’s comprehensive reputation is largely the work of a single German botanist who traveled here in 1878, so naturally I was already in the know…”

Ever the savant, she carries on. Maya thinks she could listen to a phonebook being read, so long as it was drenched in Franziska’s wonderful, captivating, rounded accent.

[googleitlol]

Teeheehee, I've been excited to post this one! Dove is getting the princess treatment she deserves, whether she wants it or not…

I do have a bit of a surprise with this one tho, so we're gonna start with a bit of a flashback ;)

Dove Masterlist:

Camellia

Crickets chirp in a layered symphony, their song a lullaby of the forest they call home. Moonlight dimly scatters over the leaves of tall trees that stretch into the clear night sky. Two pairs of feet thump through a narrow dirt path, a young girl laughing as she races through the night, weaving around flora as a boy calls after her.

The boy shouts her name before his voice drops to a hush whisper. “Someone’s going to hear you! You’ll get the both of us in trouble!”

“Lighten up, Jiejie.” The girl giggles, looking back to her friend without slowing down. “The only one who lives close enough to hear us is Mrs. Shan, and everyone says she can’t hear anything anymore. She’s too old!”

The boy quickens his pace, and the girl slows down enough for him to catch up. “Still, what if there’s something out here?” He looks to and fro as he speaks, scanning for any sign of something lurking in the shadows.

The little girl lets out an overly-dramatic groan. “Now you’re just being ridiculous. We come down here all the time! What, are you afraid a toad is gonna jump at you?” She grins, mischief written on her face as she grabs her friend’s arm.

The boy jumps, shooting her a frown. “No! I’m not afraid of little things.”

“Then, come on!” She lets the boy go, running ahead and calling for him over her shoulder. The boy gives a shout before running after her, but it doesn’t take long for her to outrun him. He’s always been a slow runner.

The little girl sprints ahead, only slowing once she loses sight of her friend. Her pace slows to a stroll, taking her time as she waits for her favourite boy to catch up. She knows she was overexaggerating about his fears, but when she did stuff like that he always had the funniest reactions.

The girl catches sight of something on the side of the path and slows to a stop. A blooming purple flower, one unlike what she’s seen before perks her interest. She crouches down by it, her head tilting with fascination.

She reaches out a hand to inspect the petals when her arm is grabbed. “Careful!” Jie warns, crouching down with her. He lets go once her hand retreats back to her side. “You can’t just touch any pretty plants you see, stupid.”

“Hey, don’t call me stupid!” She pouts.

The boy huffs, clearly annoyed. “That’s what you are, stupid. Especially if you touch that.” He points to the flower, turning his attention to it.

“It’s monkshood, my father says to watch out for it, because every part of it is poisonous! Especially the roots.” The little girl rolls her eyes, recognising the start of one of the boy’s spiels. “He says there’s no cure if it gets you sick, you just have to monitor the person’s symptoms and make sure they stay in stable condition. Some people use it as medicine, but it’s still really dangerous, you have to be careful if you try–.”

The young girl yawns loudly, the boy sending her a scowl as she does. “Okay, I get it. Don’t touch the pretty flower.” She unveils an implike grin at the face he makes at her. Sometimes, Jie likes to get lost in his words, he might ramble on for hours if she let him have the peace to do it. Maybe he can find himself a job where all he does is talk, with how much he already loves chattering.

Jie sighs, looking away before a grin of his own appears. “You know… my father says that some people dip their weapons in the poison for hunting.”

“Really?” She gasps, the boy’s smile growing larger now that he has her interest piqued.

He still can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes over her excitement, his smile still present. “You’re a very violent person.”

“I’m a very strong person!” She jumps up, a fist raised into the air.

Her passion does little to stir her friend, who remains crouched. “You only care about fighting.”

The girl frowns. “No… I mean, fighting is pretty cool, isn’t it?” She asks, sitting on her knees to face him. “Don’t you wanna know how to fight? You can use that flower or something, then BAM!” She jabs the side of her fist into her chest, grunting in faux-pain and throwing herself backwards, to the ground.

The boy laughs, amusement from her antics clear. “You’re crazy.”

“No, I’m dead.” She corrects him, eyes closed as her corpse remains unanimated on the ground. “You said there’s no cure for that purple flower.”

“Monkshood.”

“Whatever.”

“Fine, then. I’ll make one!” He shouts, and before the girl can open her eyes, the boy slams his hands onto her stomach. She lurches up from the impact with a cough, the surprise quickly giving way to laughter.

The boy goes to speak, but stops himself when the two hear a thud further along the path. Jie jumps a bit at the sound, the softest squeak escaping his throat as the girl jumps to her feet. “Baby.” She teases, looking down at the boy, now shooting her an icy glare.

“Am not!” He frowns, but she pays him no mind.

“What was that?” She thinks aloud, her feet moving towards the source before she can even realise what she’s doing.

The boy’s eyes go wide. “Hey, wait for me!” He shouts, following after her.

Slowing down enough for her friend, the two follow where they heard the noise further down the path, to a baby bird on the ground. Jie is quick to step in front of his friend and kneel down to the bird 

“Is it hurt, Jie?” The girl looks over his shoulder before kneeling down as well, scooping the bird into her hands.

The boy frowns, looking over the bird as it lets out a weak chirp. “It looks a little disoriented. Maybe we should go back.” He suggests, looking back from where the two walked from, the girl yawning a bit as he does. “I can ask my father to–”

Before he can finish, the bird flies off. The girl blinks a bit in confusion, a question washing over her mind as Jie hums. “…Oh. Nevermind, I guess.”

“Why would a baby bird be flying around at night?” She asks, looking up at her friend.

The boy’s brows furrow, his gaze turning to look out towards the the forest. “I don’t know…” He mumbles, peering into the shadows. “Let’s go back home.”

“What?” The girl squeaks while her friend stands. She quickly follows after him as he begins to walk back to where they came from. “But you said you wanted to show me something by the pond!”

“I said it was on the way to the pond. You passed it when you ran ahead.” He corrects her, sending her another annoyed frown.

“Oh.”

His frown gives way to a small smile, and he takes her hand in his. “Come on, I can show you on the way.”

The boy’s smile is almost contagious, the little girl’s lips quirking upward as she lets Jie lead her to whatever it is he has to show.

The two run together, hand in hand, only slowing once the boy strays from the dirt path. He takes the lead, guiding his friend under low-hanging branches, through vines and over fallen logs. It doesn’t take long before they come across several shrubs littered with flowers, vibrant reds dispersed over green leaves. The flowers have large rounded petals, all layered over top of one another with dozens of golden stamen in their centre.

The girl inspects the flora with delight. “Woah, what are they?”

“Camellia flowers.” Jie explains, letting go of her hand to pick one of the flowers. “My father took me with him to pick some for mother. He said something about their p-petals and th-the calyx…” He starts to stutter, looking back to his friend with a shy smile before averting his eyes.

“I know you think that stuff is boring, though. I just– I thought you would like one ‘cause they’re pretty.” He holds the flower out to the girl, his face starting to warm.

The girl looks down at the flower, then back to him, a smile growing on her face. “It is pretty, Jiejie.” She accepts the flower, taking the opportunity to give the boy a quick peck on his cheek.

His face bursts into a red as bright as the camellia in her hand, the reaction sending the girl into a fit of giggles as she turns away. “Come on, I thought you wanted to go back home!” She calls back before running ahead. If she goes fast enough, she can blame her own flushed cheeks on being out of breath.

The boy's steps thump from behind, his startled voice shouting her name. “Wait for me!”

The clack of a door closing draws you away from your daydreams, and you realise for the first time since you’ve left the post house that you are finally alone.

You look around the room given to you, one that is much more spacious than what you stayed the last night in. Your weapons lay by your new bed, which alone could have taken up more than half of the space in that small room! To the left of the bed, a large round window gives you access to a view of the gardens, an area of them you hadn’t noticed in your last visit. To the right is the door that leads to the hall, and the door opposite of the bed led to the room where the palace ladies who just left had bathed you. The ladies had put you into what has to be the most luxurious hanfu you have ever worn behind the folding screen that stood adjacent to the room you bathed in.

The robes are a deep green, the collar trimmed in white. The skirt and sleeves are embroidered in white as well, with swirling patterns that furl out into wings, ironically enough. A green tassel hangs from a white sash, a small jade pendant tied to it.

Those women had also done your makeup, and you couldn’t help but zone out as they dressed you up. Having so many hands touching up your hair and putting it up, brushes in your face colouring your lips and lining your eyes, it’s all treatment you aren’t used to. At least you have a moment to yourself now to think.

You fall back onto the bed, feeling the stress of your situation weighing you down. Even coherent thoughts feel like a challenge after everything that’s happened in the last few hours. You can’t marry some random prince! What would Moksa say to you now, what would Guan Yin do?! Why would this Jian Yu even want to marry you? What, did he take you saving his life as some kind of courtship? How could Sun Wukong accept such an offer on your behalf?!

As though the demon can hear your thoughts, a thump by your window alerts you to another’s presence. You look up to see the monkey demon sitting in the window, taking a bite out of a mango while he hums. “I thought those girls would never leave.”

You jump to your feet when you see him, fixing the monkey with a glare while his face drops a bit. “Woah…” He looks down at your attire for a moment before his eyes find their way back up to your face. He leans against the window, a grin pulling at his lips while a single brow props up. “Did they pamper you enough, princess?”

His comment isn’t acknowledged as you march up to the simian and drag him into the room, throwing him to the ground. He quickly raises his hands in defence as you grip onto the lapels of his shirt. “I come in peace!” He shouts, your eyes narrowing while his grow large.

“If you aren’t apologising profusely for doing this to me, I don’t want to hear it!” You hiss, your grip on the demon tightening.

He cracks a smile. “How about an explanation?”

You're silent for a moment, your stare hardening into a grimace as you grit your teeth. “Speak.”

“You weren’t with us when we spoke to the king yesterday.” He starts, getting back to his feet once he pries your fingers off of him. “Tripitaka was putting it lightly when he said the guy is sensitive, he tried to have Pigsy killed for speaking out. Do you think he would be lenient if you refuse his son?”

“So your solution is to wed me off to a stranger?!” You scowl while he smooths out his lapels.

The demon scoffs at the question, fixing you with an offended look. “No! Once Tripitaka has his papers recertified, we can have you sneak out of the palace walls and we will be on our way.”

You find yourself understanding Wukong’s process of thought, his plan making sense. If the king spoke to them the same way his son spoke to that servant yesterday, it wouldn’t surprise you if these royals were on the more uptight side. It still does nothing to make this situation feel better than what it is. “You couldn’t have communicated that any better?”

“I figured you would catch on.” He shrugs, and you groan in response. Of course he did, it’d be a miracle if he ever explained what he was doing before doing it.

Too mentally exhausted to do anything else, you lay back on the bed, an exasperated sigh escaping your lips. The monkey standing in the room with you grows silent as you turn onto your side, your back facing him. He approaches the bed and takes a seat next to you. “You smell nice.”

“They put oils in my bath.” You respond curtly, back still to the demon.

 “…You still seem upset.”

“Of course I am!” You snap, whipping your head back to face him and making him flinch slightly in surprise. You soften a bit at his reaction, not meaning to come off so harsh. “I– I don’t want to see him again.”

As you sit up, the sage furrows his brows with confusion. “Who, the prince? What, was he that bad?”

You shake your head. “He just…” What are you supposed to do when you see him again? What if you look at this Jian Yu and can only see Da Jie? Just the way he looked at you in the garden… you don’t want to think about it.

The silence stretches between you before a hand rests on your shoulder. “All you have to do is play the part of the soon-to-be bride, then we can all get out of here.” He reassures you, squeezing your shoulder a bit in comfort. “The others and I will meet with you again later today, and if you really want, I can stay close by in case you need me.”

You look up at him, frown softening as you put your hand over the one on your shoulder. “You better.”

He smiles at your words, exhaling a bit through his nose as he glances down at your hand over his own. His ear twitches for a moment before sighing and his hand retreats. “Call me if you need anything, Ol’ Monkey will be close enough to hear you.” He winks, getting up and turning over to the door leading to the bath.

You frown. “I don’t think you need to stay that close.”

“No, I just want to find whatever oils they used for you.” He calls out from the room. “Maybe I could smell as nice as you.”

That earns him a snicker, and you roll your eyes at his antics. “You’ll need more than a few oils for that.”

You hear him laugh, and in a moment he exits, moving to the window before hopping onto its ledge. You follow him to the window when he turns back to look at you. “Don’t forget, you’ve played my elderly brother before, I’m sure you can play the smitten bird-warrior for a little while.” He reassures you, making you shake your head with a smile at the reminder.

“Oh, I am incredibly honoured to have your hand, My Prince.” You flutter your eyelashes in mock-awe. “Even though I am a devout buddhist monk, on my way to bring scriptures from the Buddha himself to the east, I will happily cease my travels to be with you.”

Your friend lets out a dry laugh. “Ha-ha, cut it out.”

“Oh, whatever do you mean?!”

“Okay, goodbye, I’ll be close.”

The door to your room opens and the demon jumps from your window. You quickly turn to face the newcomer, one of the women who had helped you get ready earlier.

“The prince requests your presence.” She says, and you feel yourself stiffen at the words. With Monkey there just moments before, the entire situation felt less real. “I will take you to him.”

You guess this is it. With a deep breath, you let the woman guide you out of your room and through the halls of the palace. The walk is silent, leaving room for your ever-growing thoughts as they begin to unravel in your mind. You have to remind yourself that all you have to do is play along. Tripitaka’s papers get sorted out with the king, and you can fly out of here and act like none of this ever happened.

The path the servant takes becomes one you recognise, and before you know it, you find yourself in the same gardens from the other day. You are guided down the same path you saw that man with the flowers take, leading you to the bridge where the prince awaits.

Your eyes drift to the ground as the woman announces your presence before being dismissed. Once she leaves, you step onto the bridge to join him, the air tightening around you as you do.

The prince calls you by name, his voice much kinder than what you remember it being yesterday. When you look up, you notice he is holding something wrapped in silk. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you properly.”

“Certainly.” You bow in greeting, your eyes wandering to the pond as you feel an awkward smile stick itself to your face. “You must forgive me… I am not sure how this is meant to work. There is meant to be… uh… negotiations, correct?”

“Negotiations?” The man hums in confusion before chuckling. “Do you mean the dowry? You needn’t worry over any of the complications. In fact, I have already seen to it that they are discussed with your travelling companions. I believe they are already on the grounds discussing that very matter now.”

You can’t help but frown, shouldn’t you be present for that? You weren’t all that interested in the process of getting married when you were younger, so you never really learned much about the details of how it all happened. By the time you became a disciple of Guan Yin, there was no reason for you to learn about it anyways.

“I would like to thank you for saving my life yesterday.” He takes your hand, and you look up to see his smile. He hands you the wrapped gift, lifting the silk to reveal a golden hairpin, the end blooming into a flower with jade in its centre. 

You down at the gift in surprise. “It is beautiful, Your Highness, thank you.”

“Please, call me Jian Yu. We are to be married, after all.” He reminds you, the corner of your lips twitching as he does.

It takes a bit of strain to keep your smile. “Yes…” You glance away back at the water, keeping your hold of the gift tight in your grasp.

“That is, if we see this wedding through.”

Your head swivels back to look at the prince, all pretences of your polite facade dropping the moment those words come out of his mouth “What?” For the first time since the attack, you look him in the eyes. That same uncanny feeling washes over you again as you take in his resemblance to your friend, though his eyes now hold something else, something calculating.

His eyes gleam with amusement over your reaction, a sly smirk revealing itself. “Tell me, what were you doing here yesterday?”

The question takes you a bit off guard. “I caught sight of a servant carrying monkshood, Your– um, Jian Yu. I was only curious, so I followed him.” You explain, a bout of nerves tangling as you feel his eyes studying you.

“Hmm, so you are familiar with the plant?” He hums in seeming curiosity.

“I only know of it, the flower grew near my childhood home.” You respond, the stress of his gaze finally lifting once he turns away.

He walks further up the bridge, muttering to himself. “Interesting.”

You frown a bit, unable to decipher his mumbling nor whatever this process of thought he had. He proposes but alludes to no wedding? Why even ask you? What is the point of you being here?

“Please, forgive my bluntness, but what did you mean by, ‘if we see this wedding through’?” You ask, getting him to look back at you with those wide eyes before letting out a laugh.

He shakes his head in amusement. “There is no need to apologise, I am sure you have been confused over this entire matter. I know you and your companions are buddhist monks, it would not make sense for me to ask for your hand.”

Okay, now you’re really confused. “But… you did ask.”

“I know.” He smiles, and the look of bafflement on your face must have been enough for him to decide he should explain further. He takes your hand again, pulling you closer as his voice drops to a whisper. “Think of this engagement as a ruse. I would like to ask for  your help, but no one can know.”

His words leave you puzzled. “So you want to fake an engagement to throw everyone off? What do you even want my help with?” He frowns at the question, looking up and scanning the surrounding area before leaning closer to you. It takes some willpower not to move away when he does.

“There are very few I trust now, and if you wanted me dead, you would not have saved me.” He explains, his eyes shifting to either side of the bridge while he speaks.

You step back, creating some space between the two of you as he continues. “I need help uncovering who it was who tried to assassinate me yesterday. I can call the wedding off after you do this for me, then you and your friends can continue on your journey.”

It takes a moment for you to digest your words. After spiralling over this whole ‘marriage’ disaster all day and finally coming to terms with how Wukong signed you up for this, now you are being told it’s been a lie to serve for the prince’s investigation?

This is all too much.”Why can’t you send your guards to find them? Is that not their duty, to protect you?” 

“As I said, there are few that I trust in this place. That includes the guards.” He explains, and you feel as though you have to turn away. You lean back against the railing, taking in the insanity of this all. What does he even expect you to do? How can you even begin? You fight demons and relieve anxiety, this is quite outside your comfort zone.

It seems the prince is able to sense your conflict, and you feel him take your hand once again. “Please, I will beg if I have to.” You look back at him, your breath getting caught in your throat when you find his eyes pleading. “This is more important than you know. Not just for my own life… I will give you anything.”

You can’t look away from him, his eyes… the panic on his face. You can still smell the stench of smoke around him, feel that boiling heat every time you look at him. You hear every scrape and clank of metal from that night, and his screams…

“I do not need anything you could give me.” You manage to pry your gaze away from him, looking over your shoulder as a sombre look finds itself on your face. “But… I could not live with myself if I were to refuse you. So yes, I will help you.” You can only hope this will end well.

[spritehouse]

no big deal (i love you)

moreid hanahaki wip based on this post

⚠️Content Warnings: emetophobia (coughing & throwing up flower petals), spencer's addiction & drug use

The first petals are white.

Small and delicate, white daisy petals crawl up his throat and decorate the pristine porcelain of his sink in the morning, not yet full or bloody, new enough to remain untainted by the torn tissue of his lungs.

Daisies, innocent and loyal love, holding his tongue, root in his chest, threatening to suffocate him if he leaves his feelings to grow, but the flowers don’t lie.

Call it innocence or naivety; Spencer won’t tell. He’ll hold his breath until he runs out of air, longing blooming like weeds, feeding on his life until only the flowers and a corpse remain.

At first, it’s slow, coming and going like the tide, feelings ebbing and waning with uncertainty.

He buries himself in books on the disease—hanahaki, hana (flower), haki (to throw up), a sickness that ails people who suffer from one-sided love, taking weeks to years to develop fully—and flower language, reading what every petal means about the longing ache in his ribs and how to cure it.

He goes to work—it isn’t bad enough to affect his performance—he profiles, coughs up petals, takes down unsubs, spits up his innocence, and flies home.

His case is slow; months pass before single petals turn into two or three and longer until the dull itch in his chest grows into a light ache when he exerts himself, his lungs reflecting his gradual, timid love.

The flowers change in Georgia.

The daisies stop coming, the drugs numbing his mind and body—his heart—concealing his love deep in his chest, buried where Charles Hankel and Raphael can’t reach.

They return in full bloom when Tobias revives him. 

Spencer hacks up entire flowers on the cabin floor, belladonna, butterfly weed, cyclamen, and blood splattering against the ground, and even in its state, a part of his drug-and-death-addled brain recognizes the buds.

Silence, letting go, and goodbyes; flowers from the beginning of his gardener’s almanac burn like the fish hearts and livers in his soul as Tobias Hankel hauls him back from the dead.

He isn’t sure if the team sees the splashes of color, overfilling adoration through the camera, focused on sending a message, desperate to get out before he can cough up more symbols of regret, spilling his secret to his coworkers and friends– his family.

He argues when Hotch climbs into the ambulance beside him, feeling more flowers clawing at his throat, but the older agent wins, remaining by his side as the EMTs check his vitals, staying silent, even when the blooms come.

Bittersweet nightshade (truth) spills from his lips by the bushel, spurring one set of hands to hold a bag by the heaving agent’s chin to catch the fragile foliage, the others asking him a barrage of questions he doesn’t hear over his painful wrenches.

Hotch keeps the rest of the team out of his room at the hospital, telling them Spencer isn’t up for visitors as he chokes on pink camellias (longing), never bringing it up until the young brunette gets discharged less than 24 hours later.

He drives his agent home, offering to help him to his apartment, which Spencer refuses before the two linger in the car outside the building for a few seconds of petal-like, fragile silence.

“We’ll talk when you return,” He finally speaks, watching the younger brunette shift and fidget anxiously, clearing his throat and coughing into his elbow. “Take care of yourself; we’re only a call away.”

Spencer nods, silky petals and the taste of iron sitting on his tongue, and disappears into his lonely home.

The flowers stop while he’s on leave, too high for their stems to reach, losing time on the bathroom floor, buds withering with the body they’re feeding on.

The dilaudid numbs the fire in his chest—in his lungs and heart—eating away at the tissue the roots of his love buried themselves in until he can’t feel the stems in his organs, pollen in his blood, petals rising in his throat, and swallowed like his words, burning in his stomach.

“I love you” doesn’t linger on his tongue, waiting to spill past his lips with white chrysanthemums for truth, an admission after over a year of obstructed breathing, and when he’s high, he can almost convince himself that his garden died with Spencer Reid in the cabin in Georgia, at rest in the grave he dug with bouquets of daisies, of belladonna, butterfly weed, and cyclamen, nightshade, and camellias on the fresh mound of upturned soil.

Spencer tries to get sober before he returns to work, but there isn’t enough fertilizer—enough of his body, his dying cells—to sustain all the flowers he regurgitates in those 48 hours of trembling and heaving, purple hyacinths for sorrow and marigolds for grief; blood and bulbs litter his bathroom floor until he can’t breathe, darkness swimming in his vision, and the shell of Spencer Reid, a glass vase with everything on display, succumbs to his cravings, losing himself in oblivion.

He sits in Hotch’s office, pinprick pupils, and tells his boss the flowers and his feelings are gone, that it was the stress that made them bloom, not his genuine, heart-wrenching adoration for his best friend squeezing his organs like a sponge for every ounce of love, threatening to bleed him dry.

Spencer returns to work, profiling people who have experienced everything he’s gone through—enough trauma to break the human psyche—because he can think clearly for the first time in over a year, flowers and genius dying together as poison courses through them.

“I’m struggling.”

Despite everything—his team telling him they have his back, that they’re there for him, that they’re profilers, and Spencer is too high to hide his habit most of the time—Emily is the only one to call him out.

“Reid.” She approaches him after New Orleans, trained eyes seeing through him.

“Look, Prentiss, I’m sorry for snapping at you, but I’m not in the mood–”

“I’m getting waffles and milkshakes. Come with me.” It isn’t a question or an invitation as the older agent steps into the elevator, turning around expectantly, her gaze practically daring Spencer to run as carefully neutral eyes observe him.

He follows Prentiss with a heavy huff, shoulders sagging, his body too exhausted to fight, a familiar itch building in his throat as the doors close.

[stargazer-sims]

Drabble

Victor. Word: Vampire

Thanks @cawthorntales ! I'm working my way through all the excellent prompt suggestions I got, and it's been a great creative exercise.

This one was a lot of fun, so here you go!

__________

This week's rotation has Victor on the mid-shift, from three in the afternoon until eleven at night. He's back at work following a much-needed four-day break after having worked the eleven to seven overnight shift for three rotations in a row, and he's glad to be able to experience sunlight again.

He’d begun to feel like a character in an urban fantasy novel, roaming the eerily quiet corridors of the paediatric floor to look in on sleeping children and slipping out of the hospital to have his break in the dead of night. It's been especially weird on their unit after dark since they put the Halloween decorations up.

Yes, it's totally an improvement to come to work while there's still daylight and the majority of his patients are awake.

Victor can't actually say he's delighted to discover that his two newest patients are Camellia and Forest Abbottsford, but he is delighted at their reaction when he enters their room. As if on cue, the pair of five-year-olds exclaim in unison, "It's Victor!"

During shift change today, he was a little surprised when his counterpart on the day shift first showed him Camellia's chart and then Forest's. Both twins had been admitted because their paediatrician, Dr. Park, suspected Type 1 Diabetes and wanted to run a series of tests to confirm or rule out that diagnosis. The idea itself isn't particularly shocking to Victor, considering their dad Fox is diabetic and was diagnosed at a very young age, but he does find it unusual that the twins are showing signs of the illness at the same time.

Forest and Camellia seem to be in good spirits. Fox is there with them, and they're all drawing pictures together. It’s obvious which one of them has inherited Fox’s artistic talent. Forest’s drawing looks way more advanced than anything Victor has seen a typical kindergartener do. He thinks Camellia’s drawing might be of a fire truck, or possibly a red bus.

Fox smiles at his kids. "I said you'd likely see Victor today, didn't I?"

"Victor, are you a doctor?" Camellia asks. "I didn't know you were a doctor!"

"I'm not a doctor," Victor says. "I'm a nurse. You know, the one with the best jokes and the cool Band-Aids."

Forest eyes him warily. "And the needles?"

"Yeah," he confesses.

“The other nurse had a needle too,” says Forest. “And she didn’t have any cool Band-Aids.”

“You didn’t need a Band-Aid for that one, Forest,” Fox says.

“Well, you will this time,” Victor tells him, “But I have the coolest Band-Aids of all time, so I’ve got you covered.”

“Covered. With Band-Aids. That’s a funny joke.” Camellia giggles. She’s apparently unfazed. "I don't mind needles. They don't even hurt that much, and anyway, I'm a superhero!"

"I'm glad you're a superhero," Victor tells her. "We're going to do a special test today, and you're going to need to use all your superpowers, like your super-courage and super-strength."

"What kind of test?" Camellia wants to know.

"It's a blood test. I'm going to take a little bit of your blood out of you, and then the doctors and technicians are going to do all kinds of science-y stuff with it, and try to find out what's making you sick."

"Really?" Camellia looks intrigued. "How are you going to get my blood out of me? Are you like… a vampire?”

Victor laughs. He can't help it. He's gratified to see Fox laughing too, because it erases the stress and worry that'd previously been evident in his expression and body language.

"Oh, I'm definitely a vampire," Victor says. "A science vampire. That means, instead of biting you, I'm going to use my special vampire needle to take your blood. I can’t bite you, because you know, everything has to be clean and germ-free for science.”

"Are you going to take my blood too?" Forest asks. He doesn't seem nearly as fascinated by the process as his twin.

"Yes, but don't worry. I heard your sister is a superhero. I think, if you ask her nicely, she'll hold your hand so you won't be too scared. Unless," he adds, "you're also a superhero. In which case, I think you should hold Daddy's hand so he won't be scared."

Forest chews his lower lip. "Daddy, do you think I'm a superhero?"

"You are absolutely a superhero, Forest," Fox says. "The most super of heroes."

"So, if I hold your hand, that means you won't be scared?"

"I think I'll feel a million times better if you hold my hand."

Victor sets down his little tray of equipment on one of the bedside tables. He tears open a packet containing sterile gloves and puts them on. For some reason, he never ceases to be amused by the fact that all the gloves are colour-coded by size, and that the extra-large gloves are light purple.

He holds up his hands. "What do you think, Camellia? Vampire gloves?"

"Yeah, 'cause everything has to be clean and germ-free for science, right?" Camellia says.

"Exactly," says Victor. "Okay, then. Who wants to be first?"

Camellia bounces up and down on her bed. "Me! I want to see my blood!" She pitches her voice low and elongates the word 'blood' as if she's a character in an animated Halloween special.

Victor raises an eyebrow in the most exaggerated way he can manage. "Oh, do you? How do you know you're even going to see it?"

"You mean, I'm not?" The sudden look of disappointment on her face is so profound that it's comical, and Victor has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself from laughing again.

"No, you can if you want to," he says. "My special needle has a little tube on it, so we'll both be able to see."

Camellia rubs her hands together and does the most perfect cartoon villain laugh. "Matsu is gonna be so mad when I tell him about this, 'cause I get to see my blood and he doesn't."

Victor grins at Fox. "Are you sure this one's yours?"

Fox has moved over to Forest's bed and is holding his son in his lap. "Are you suggesting she takes after Takahiro more than she takes after me?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of her secretly being your sister's kid. Clancy seems like the type to get satisfaction out of this kind of stuff."

"Now that you mention it," Fox says. "She always wanted to help with my shots when we were kids. Maybe she just enjoyed sticking needles into me."

"Does that mean I can stick a needle into Forest?" Camellia asks.

"No," Fox says.

Camellia pretends to pout for a few seconds, but then she's all business again. She shifts her attention back to Victor, and in what he presumes is her superhero voice, proclaims, "Okay, vampire, do your worst! I'm not afraid of you!"

And by all appearances, she isn't the least bit afraid of him or his needle. She doesn't make so much as a peep when he inserts it into her arm, and then stares, captivated, as a tiny amount of her blood makes its way up the tubing and into the little collection container.

when he's done, he lets her pick a Band-Aid. To no one's astonishment, she chooses an Avengers one, and then tells him that she's going to keep her sleeve rolled up for the rest of the day so everyone can see it.

Victor is glad that at least one of the twins is taking the experience of being in the hospital reasonably well. He can't imagine what Fox and Taka must be going through. Fox in particular must be struggling because he doubtless remembers what being diagnosed with diabetes as a child was like for him.

He finishes labelling Camellia's blood sample, changes his gloves, and then turns to Forest. "All right, superhero number two. Are you ready?"

Forest nods, but he looks unsure. "Is it going to hurt?"

"Camellia, did it hurt?" Victor asks.

"A little bit," Camellia says, "But you're a superhero, Forest. A little hurt can't stop you!"

"Hold Daddy's hand," Victor reminds him. "Your awesome superpowers are gonna protect him from hurting too."

Forest grips his father's fingers so tightly that Victor can see the tautness of the muscles on the back of his hand, but to his credit, he sits still through the whole procedure and only sheds a few tears. He doesn't watch what's happening, but Victor didn't really expect him to.

When it's all over, Victor praises him as if he's just accomplished the most amazing feat in the world.

"Did it hurt, Daddy?" Forest asks tentatively. "Did my superpowers work?"

Fox hugs him close. "Your superpowers worked so well, I didn't feel a thing. You're such a brave boy, and I'm really proud of you," he tells him. He looks over at his daughter. "And you too, Camellia. You did great."

"Know who I'm proud of?" Camellia says.

"Who?" Fox inquires.

"Victor, 'cause he's the best vampire ever," she declares. "When I grow up, I want to be a science vampire, just like him!"

*****

A few days later, after the twins have been discharged from the hospital, Victor arrives at work to find a big yellow envelope waiting for him at the nurses' station. It's addressed to 'Vampire Okamoto-Nelson'.

His co-worker who hands it to him can't keep the grin off her face. She points to the writing on the outside of the envelope and says, "Happy Halloween."

Inside the envelope, Victor finds a handmade card. On the front is a drawing that was clearly done by Fox, of a nurse with silver hair and purple gloves. The cartoon nurse is holding a needle in one hand, and there are a pair of bats — a girl and a boy bat, judging by the bow and baseball cap on their respective heads — hovering over his shoulder. The banner at the top says 'To the Best Vampire Ever'.

On the inside of the card, Forest and Camellia have each written thank you messages to him. Their handwriting is wobbly and most of the words in the short note are misspelled, but it’s all still legible.

Victor puts the card on the staff bulletin board. He'll take it home after his shift, but it's too good not to share with everyone passing by in the meantime. He knows he's going to treasure it for a long time to come.

Happy Halloween, indeed.

[runawaycarouselhorse]

[CW: character death (animal and human), mention of natural disasters and firearms, major spoilers [this is basically a synopsis until the end?], etc. + Unico and Chirin no Suzu tags are only there because tonally, very similar to Unico and visually, very similar to Chirin!! I think fans of those would enjoy this, but don't read this whole post, it spoils it.]

"To the little fox, the place where he could see the deep red camellias, was the same as being in his mother's warm embrace."

And in the first few minutes, we see a red camella "behead" itself (they're considered omens of short life, but noble death, because of this)--his mother sacrifices herself to a hunting dog and Gon's view of her is obscured by the flowers and butterflies. But he hears the gunshot.

Its only the first four minutes and now I already know we have at least two more characters dying. This is gonna hurt. ;__;

Before the last flower falls, lightning destroys Gon's home and burns the camellia. His home is gone and Gon fully understands his mother will never return.

He tries, unsucessfully, to hunt, and nearly drowns (although it's all animated very sweetly and brightly, with light music, so it doesn't feel too distressing)--the river carries him to a human village, where he steals from a kind farmer (Hyoju) with a sickly old mother.

Gon is happier and well-fed in the village and farmer Hyoju names him Gon, thinking he has kind eyes (although Gon scratched his face in fright when he found him eating from his crops!), and pities him for losing his mother young.

Gon, on the other hand, feels bitter that someone as big as Hyoju keep saying "ma, ma, ma" because he lost his own mother and has to be strong all on his own so little.

Young Gon mimics the humans, he has no foxes to learn from. His mimicry is also his way of playing little pranks on people. He mimics a blacksmith, a pregnant woman, and others… while the mimicking a big belly story amused the other villagers when Yasuke (the pregnant woman's husband) retells it, he's quite angry because his wife nearly miscarried from fright… Yasuke wants to kill the fox!

Gentle Hyoju and the other villagers try to calm Yasuke down. It's the annual festival, forgive him, he's only a child! Yasuke relents, but insults Hyoju, blaming this for why he hasn't married yet (in reality, Hyoju is putting off marriage to care for his sick mother...) saying Hyoju's father would lament to see his son like this. Hyoju's father is never shown and is presumably dead, as only he cares for his ailing mother.

(We never saw the hunter who shot Gon's mother...)

Gon continues his days and it's fun watching him mimic and steal bits of food.

One of my favourite parts is when he tries chilli peppers for the first time, eating too many at once, before the spice kicks in, and then, he rushes to water. He's shocked humans can eat such things and the fox declares humans must be bakemono (monsters, literally: changed beings... much like the transforming kitsune in folklore!)

But one day, he sees a red spider lily (red amaryliss, higanbana, the red funeral flower and symbol of death and rebirth), pauses because it's a red flower (like the tsubaki/camillias that surrounded his home, which he associated with his mother's care)... a lightning storm happens and when lightning strikes and causes a fire, this triggers a flashback and Gon sees the shadow of butterflies and his dead mother... so he had seen her, but perhaps repressed the memory until now. ;_;

Gon's screaming and then trying, desperately, to cheer himself up by singing and dancing as he saw the humans do at the festival, with his voice cracking, was so sad...

Later, Hyoju is fishing and captures an eel for his mother. This was her only wish and the eel is believed to grant vitality.

... Gon steals the eel and the normally gentle Hyoju becomes quite insistent and persistent in chasing Gon, but still calls him "Gon."

Gon escapes, but as it kept twining around his neck, he didn't want anything to do with the eel anymore and threw it on the ground, where it died.

... Hyoju's mother also died.

Gon wonders where all the people have gone, initially thinking they might be at some festival where he might find food, but realizes when he finds the villagers at Hyoju's home... that his mother had died. He comes to realize the eel was for his sick mother and blames himself.

Gon's conscience torments him and he decides to atone by bringing Hyoju food in secret, although he causes trouble for him the first time by stealing fish from a merchant. After that, he only picks mushrooms and shells chestnuts for him, pricking his paws with the spikes in the process. Hyoju doesn't know who keeps bringing him chestnuts, but while discussing it with another villager, they decide it's a blessing because of his care for his mother.

(Gon is a little annoyed not to get any credit for it, but he keeps doing it in secret anyway!)

One day, Yasuke (the one who keeps insulting Hyoju for his gentle nature) brings Hyoju a gift: an eel! It's hard to get, so he gets offended, understandably, when Hyoju becomes suddenly very angry and irate and tells him he hates eel and to take it away, but it's still very selfish and self-centered of Yasuke to get angry and then, in yet another low blow, insult Hyoju ("You call yourself the son of a hunter?!"), never considering Hyoju's feelings and only mocking him for them, when his gift triggered him. He doesn't know, most likely, about Hyoju's mother's final wish, but I just don't like Yasuke's character... the eel and Yasuke's words have both pushed the ordinarily gentle Hyoju to the brink and he goes for his father's weapon.

The next time he sees Gon, quietly sneaking around (unbeknownst to Hyoju, bringing him more chestnuts...), Hyoju aims and fires.

The red spider lilies' petals scatter, blown into the air. Gon falls. We watch children swipe at the red spider lilies and play and dance around, but their voices and sounds are silenced, before they all go out of view.

Hyoju approaches Gon, already regretting killing him, the words from the festival, his words and the other villagers, trying to reason with Yasuke to prevent him from killing the young fox, play back in his mind...

And then, Hyoju sees the chestnuts, and realizes it was Gon who was bringing him food all along.

So, while the colours were beautiful and the natural scenery and the village were all so beautiful (even in this faded transfer, but if we had it somehow restored to its original colours, I'm sure it would be even more beautiful!)... the middle is genuinely enchanting, funny, and sweet (it'd easily captivate small children, I think!), but with a sad beginning and a heartbreaking ending, and with its heavier themes, might be better suited for older kids. Either way, it was lovely.

[silversiren1101]

A Matter of Trust

So fixated on tending to her tail—preening those feathers that'd come loose, polishing her scales lustrous, and brushing both to a brightness—that he hadn't noticed at all.

A gentle breathing sounds from behind him now. Rhythmic. Peaceful. Her tail still lays across his lap, patient under his care, yet, he turns and confirms what he's already realized: Minovae has fallen asleep. Eyes closed lightly—not scrunched in the way of worry or nightmare or pain—she looks comfortably at ease in a way he's come to prize knowing what's plagued her restless nights since coming to share a bed together. That easy breathing whistles from between parted lips, almost inaudible, which themselves reveal the tips of her upper fangs, and firelight from the hearth dances across her scales, the motes of flame seeming to emanate from those pale greenish depth. Regill can't help but think her gorgeous—though he does often anyway, even without the peaceful sight and warm lighting.

A sight which makes him pause in his almost meditative care.

That she'd fallen asleep in the middle of her reports—of which she has, for the report that'd been in her hand now lies across her chest and is at threat of a wayward glob of drool dripping upon it—strikes him. It isn't just that it'd happened in the middle of her work, no, but in the middle of this... he strokes her tail down the feather ridge. It only slightly shifts in response, like she herself would murmur if he were to touch her cheek or brush those strands of wayward platinum from her face.

Comfort. Security. Safety. Trust.

His thoughts flash with unwelcome reminders of what he'd seen in her Dreamscape, that realm of all her life's torments as he resumes brushing—there's only a short stretch left. He sees a butcher's blade in a cruel crone's hand brought down on this tail's base, then belonging to a young girl, so brave and yet stricken with a fear most adults have never suffered. He sees it run over by a wagon cart and the bones crunching after she'd refused to join one of the gang's in Westcrowns shadowed alleys. He sees ghouls bite into it and rake their claws down its length, taunting her that they would fall out rotten soon enough when she became one of them.

He himself remembers watching helpless, yet in awe and horror both, as she brings her hammer down atop her shield poised over it to sever where the osyluth's venomous stinger had bit deep into its flesh; all to buy her just a little more time. He recalls the handful of other times she'd lost it during the Civil War, and how she'd gone back for it only to recover the valuable blackened plate armor from its ridge. Decades later, he remembers the shrill voice of Camellia Gwerm, calling the naturally shed feathers that'd gotten mixed up into her belongings filthy and dumping them into Minovae's lap during breakfast that one time, and how sparse her tail feathers had looked when next he'd seen her that day, so stressfully preened and brushed she'd torn some right out. And then he remembers it tinted Abyssal purple, laden with corruption as her ganzi blood hadn't been able to fight back the foul air there; and after that, covered in sores and stretches of rot and pus where swatches of those corrupted scales had peeled off, leaving the tender flesh beneath sick and exposed.

It's grown back every time. It always heals. No blemish lasts for long. Not even scars remain from what it's all been through.

It doesn't undo all that's been done to it. What scars it should have run spirit deep, haunting her in the night and in every interaction with someone she has yet to trust, waiting for the hurt to come.

That it doesn't leap from his lap is a wonder in and of itself, he knows. As friendly as she is with others, giving playful touches and swats, they're merely fleeting things. He's seen the discomfort when it's grabbed or stared at overly long; how she's always reassured anyone looking to heal it because 'it'll heal on its own, don't worry, focus on everyone else.'

It lays across his lap, a patient and trusting beast beneath his now trained hands, which brush and clean and polish and preen just as she'd taught him to do because he'd asked, of his own volition, how to make her routine just a little bit easier for her... because he wanted to care for her in this way he knew no one else ever had... to show her with action how he loved her, because he ever worried that his own means until then had not been enough to keep her reassured.

And for his efforts, she now sleeps, so at ease and peace.

He's seldom been more pleased.

[liroyalty]

👍 for Aki and Ann, because these two goobers are so in love

SEND 👍 FOR A RANDOM HEADCANON I HAVE ABOUT OUR MUSES.

She's taking breaks more often because of Aki. Ann has always been a very hard worker, who will push herself to her limit before she takes a break, or will make herself work even when she does not feel very well(& I mean outside of being sick, just if she woke up on the wrong side of the bed type of not feeling well).

Aki makes her slow down & realize she doesn't need to work so hard. Camellia is not in a crisis after all, & the two of them will not be young forever. If Ann wakes up feeling under the weather, & Aki urges her to take a break, if there's nothing pressing or important she has to do, then she just takes the day off at his insistence; everything will still be in her office tomorrow & she & her husband & tackle it together.

Because yes, she is 100% showing & helping Aki learn how to handle state affairs & paperwork, so they can better solve Camellia's issues together.

[just-a-dinosaur-i-guess]

hai bestie. trick or treat

HAI

have something from burn the skies that will probably get scrapped/very edited <3

He trains them as much as he can, but treads on a thin balance of wanting to give them normal lives and yet knows they can never have those. It bleeds into work, and soon he’s wondering if the young men he faces down had childhoods, or if they have a father waiting, and then he cannot quite bear himself to kill as much. It’s when Chuuya and Dazai come home after a mission, too bloody and too bruised for Hirotsu to not immediately start tending to their wounds, that he realizes he’s been too soft. He feels sick about it, but he can’t let them get hurt. Training gets a little harsher, and they learn how to deal with Falling Camellia so quickly that Hirotsu wonders if he was just holding them back.

i love papa hirotsu content

[searchingforserendipity25]

Glasshouses | on ao3

for @spring-into-arda, 'loyalty'.

It had been - an understanding, an understood thing, in Gondolin. Grief, and loneliness, and long friendship bound them; but besides the devotion, the courtesy, the masks of power, Turgon had made him glad.

Turgon was dire at times, and his will long enduring, but not beyond sense - most of the time. When the matter was very wretched he went to the place where such things were attended. He called upon the wisdom of the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower at last, showing to him his hidden work, and bid him share his counsel.

Glorfindel smiled. "My liege, see you not how well it flowers? Tis only that the roots are too deep."

Grimly, Turgon said, "I have killed it. The seeding was good, the soil is sound, the air ever-safe. Still I have killed it." 

Very grimly. It was some effort that kept Glorfindel from outright mirth.

The King looked at him with a reproaching look, not altogether convincing. He, Glorfindel knew, liked to see in others, and in Glorfindel particularly, perhaps because it came so easily to him, and Turgon liked to see it.

He would have warned the king not to fall into the temptation to seed sunflowers too deeply, but he had not known Turgon had availed himself of the seedling library of his House. 

“I wished to join in the praise for Arien this feast,” said he. “And grow as many do the flowers that most adore the light that was Laurelin.” A little wryly, he nodded at the finely glazed pot, and the stubborn bud peering out in an incongruous light. “Alas; this here blossom was not of those that grew in the Gardens of Indis.” 

Glorfindel smiled. “The rosebushes do grow quite well, my lord.”

“They ones that are no longer rotting,” Turgon said, straight-faced, eyes glinting. It had been eleven sun-years since since the one and last time he had tried to hide his offering plantings from Glorfindel. The ensuing rose sickness had attacked the trellis of the Tower of the King, which being as stubborn as Turgon himself had survived well, with some few sacrifices. 

Glorfindel had sang himself to hoarseness for that; and the Lady Idril never failed to tease at her father when the smell of the camellias starting wafting through the open windows. 

It was not for lack of instruction that Turgon’s hands failed to prosper. 

Many hours had been spent in the Noontide of Valinor in that way; Glorfindel with the pruning and planting and watering, Turukáno studying the costumes and the poetry and the arts of engineering under the shadow of the clementine trees. Turukáno the Wise, he had been called, by cousins and siblings trying to pry him from his papers, prickling the scholarly solemnity out of him until he squawked and chased them off, or let himself be carried off to sail with Finderáto or go hunting for amusement in the theaters with Arakáno. 

 Clever he had been, hungry with a quiet hunger for perfect knowledge; but often, too, he had raised his head from the low table and kept the scrolls open as he spoke with the youngest gardener of the palaces of Tírion, asking at Glorfindel’s own craft, and Glorfindel’s own life.

When did the cypresses need to be pruned, and why was the sap of the oak tree gathered, why did the plum boughs need to be separated from their blossoms to be of use in the stillroom? - and did he like dahlias best, did he think the recipe for Vanyarin rosewater had changed from last year's, was Lady Earwën' suggestion of milk-of-almond to treat stings from bees useful, did he wish to play a game while the new earth settled over the newly-placed roots? And always when he tried to grow a gift for Lady Anairë it grew into a long quest, the two young heads bent over the same plot of soil or porcelain cup.

 And he had welcomed Glorfindel’s conversation as few did; for Laurefindil did love to talk. Much had changed since then, but not their companionship, nor the need for Glorfindel's counsel regarding all things fragile and green. Turgon was many things, but well-favored in the gardens was not one. More of Ulmo than of Yavanna, it might be said by the polite. 

Glorfindel would have said, The King is for the people. The great efforts of the raising of Gondolin were possible only by the planting of Tumladen; Turgon was not shy from the field, when harvesting season came, with the long days of sunlight refracting off the distant mountain snow, falling over the merry bands of scythes and fruit-pickers singing. 

But most of the time he kept to the city, a common figure in the streets, the courts and gardens and markets, and ruled them all well from his tower. For the keeping of the planting and stewards that kept Gondolin lively and fed, and her people in good relations with the land, he had the House of the Golden Flower. 

Which was quite well. They did much with the oil and seeds of the sunflower, and the king did know he was not very apt at it. 

Glorfindel raised the pot, carefully. Spoke with the flower for a little time; it had a thin, strident, ambitious voice, a promising inclination to grow. It was not reticence that kept it from a great triumph of beauty. It had been waiting, patient, for the right hands to come to tend it. 

“It is only a matter of taking care with the uplifting of the roots.” 

“I shall take care, as you counsel,” Turgon told him. He frowned once more at the dirt staining his hands, the wavering gold of the weary flower. “Yet it is not uncommon that all the care one may give is not enough. It is a strange misfortune, to have hands of stone!”

Ñolofinwë’s son had studied healing once, as well. A bold and rare choice, in Amanyar of old; but bold and rare had he been, even then. But not since the Exile did he find much sucess at it. Not since the Ice, after all the scope of his skill for renewal had been worn in despair, and the bare stretch of his fingers bare in the cold to press against the hands of the sick had grown too cold to warm anything, and to heal anything. 

Turgon’s brows were drawn together still. He was, Glorfindel thought, very beautiful; but he looked best when he frowned, less like a statue to line one of the Seven Gates and more the peevish lordling he had been when first they knew each other. Strong-willed, in all things: for one had to be very strong, to live as fully and determinedly immersed in the world as Turgon did, treasuring it as he did. 

It was a solemn sort of earnestness that won him many friends, and many followers. It had won him Glorfindel, a long time ago. 

“We may do the work together,” Glorfindel said, imprudent as a friend would be, as sincere about it as he had been as a boy. “If my King permits it.” 

Turgon did permit him much. Not all that might be wished. But Glorfindel was patient himself, and not greedy. He did not ask for a great deal, either. 

The king visited the Gardens of the Golden Flower often.

There was not often a need for an excuse. The sunflowers grew well. They had their own garden, along with all the living things planted in gratefulness to Arien, and indeed, clever blackbirds liked to come peck at the seeds; but never too many, and always watched by careful eyes.

The truth of the matter was that Lord Glorfindel was not often to be found in the great halls and solars, nor were his people of the kind to be overly fond of closed walls of thick stonework and mortar. Between the duties and directions of Gondolin, Glorfindel picked up the lance not nearly as often as the spade. When it was the time to don armor, he did his rounds in the guardianship of the Gates while day-dreaming of leeks and begonia; sketched the groundwork of steel and glass on the back of his reports. 

They built the House and all its covered gardens together, Glorfindel and Turgon. He had asked it of his king as a boon, in the days of their first settling in the shelter of the mountains; for Turgon was an architect of great skill and vision, and the House of the Golden Flower was much concerned with gardens and tiered orchards, and counted with few builders of stonework among them.

This was a kindly way to say it. They were not the House of the Mole, honored among smiths; not the House of the Fountain, builders of aqueducts and ditches, great bridges and lakes full of summer-blooming lilies. There was no one of honour in the House of the Golden Flower, not as the Noldor of Tírion had valued honor. 

But they had survived the Ice. They, the horse-keepers and servants, the gardeners: they had scavenged the sterile plains, studied the lichens, cured the kelp and gathered the plankton. In the city of Turgon, that was a glory greater as great as mastery of harp or might of hammer.

So: it had been Turgon himself had drafted the plans for the manses, the halls and storing rooms and galleries; had replied to Glorfindel's distracted sketching of glasshouses with emendations, and praise, and his own eagerness. 

Turgon knew well the value of his gardeners. This Glorfindel never doubted. And he had known it for certain, when first the King called the people of Gondolin to gather, marveling, in the long rooms that were the orangeries - when winter changed the cold air of the mountains for a dangerous frost, many trees and bushes had to be brought in. Then the empty chambers were made busy, with their high, rounded arches made of use as a shelter in the colder seasons.

Bright, silvery songbirds sang and nestled in the high boughs, hidden from sight and seen only in darting instants, their cries echoing beautifully. Until spring came, and the thaw made clear it was time to open the high doors again, and let out the sweet smells that had simmered in the terracotta walls for months.

A good labour it was, the raising of the House. Turgon turned to it with pleasure, as a rare joy; and often they sat over plans, wielding charcoal sticks, marrying the ambitions of the gardeners with the ambitions of the masons. And well after the houses were raised, the work was never finished, nor their visits diminished. There were rooms of paned crystal to be raised, made to hoard the sunlight in every season – and always a new addition, a new proposal for vegetable breeding to be turned to an excuse for invention.

But most often, he was to be found in the gardens; and the King came to him, then. Many afternoons Glorfindel had risen with his hands damp and dark with soil to the elbows to find Turgon sitting with his papers on the wicker bench besides the discarded pots and the waiting shovels, a figure both familiar and shockingly opaque inside the house of glass.

It was not a place suited to him, nor one that suited him well, the far-riding lord of the Grinding Ice. All things that grew in Gondolin loved him, but it was a stately and high adoration; Turgon was more of stone than of leaf. For the tending of things green and irregular he had his Lord of the Golden Flower, who loved him as the city loved him, and like an elf besides. 

To have him near was to feel the breath of a cold wind cool the steam on the panes, rustle the flat, thick leaves of the orange trees. 

The close, saturated air of the glasshouses made the sharp line of his cheeks and nose and the rising curls of his hair into marvels Glorfindel might touch, perhaps, if he were a little mad. If his king looked less often as if he sought to be very like the statues in his courts, veined marble in the neatest lines, severe, with nothing supple to it. 

He had made certain to keep his hands busy with the saplings, then. But they had spoken at length, and held long and welcomed silences beside

Glorfindel thought, at times, that Elrond knew. Ages and Ages, death like a stream cutting two shores in lonesome halves, and Glorfindel had to keep his eyes on his work, when he seeded the herb gardens of Imladris, not to turn around and look for his king's shadow.

Glorfindel had followed Turgon with all his heart. He did it still. So much of him remained still under the water and the corals, among the ruins of the city his good king had built. 

Elenwë had wed him, but Glorfindel had loved him no less, quite as long. Oh, he was not fool enough to speak of it, Laurefindil of the Gardens of Indis: he was not so cruel as to say a word to diminish the joy of his lord and his lady, whose birth was far higher than his, whose love had been so well-suited in temper, so full of laughter. 

It had been - an understanding, an understood thing, in Gondolin. Grief, and loneliness, and long friendship bound them; but besides the devotion, the courtesy, the masks of power, Turgon had made him glad. He always had, he with the solemn line of his mouth, the heady conviction behind his acts, the deep-running well of his love. Cold, and fierce, and stern he had been – hard as Ice; but wry when he smiled, and steadfast all the way through.

What was there to be said of it? Turgon's eyes on him as he lead the morning prayers to rising Arien had been as certain and sure and warming a thing as the invention of the sun. If tenderness ever spread its tendrils in Glorfindel, intrusive and conquering, if ever he longed for a cool hand against his - that was an old longing, and no less distant now than it had been when the light shone in silver slants from the peaks encircling fair Ondolindë.

“Nay,” said Glorfindel, when the hungry-eyed scholars came to him with their long lists, their pens damp with an ink made in recipes still strange to his eyes. “I never did wed, not in Beleriand nor in Amanyar; but King Turgon held my service and my love, as henceforth shall his lineage own the same.”

 ‘Till the world was made anew, all partings righted in the Second Song. Or until Gondolin’s master-of-works comes down from the Halls of Námo, shaking off death to recall him to his side; all the same to Glorfindel. He had been given his task. 

Meanwhile spring returned and returned, and the summers lingered long. The gardens of Imladris grew plentiful, the fruit fat in their boughs; and if ever a cold breath frosted the panes of the glasshouses Glorfindel was one who was most glad to be so haunted.

[breakdownsbuttlights]

Camellia?

camellia ⇢ what were you like when you were younger? do you think you’ve changed a lot?

Ok now THIS is an interesting one, as I'm not sure I have an accurate memory of myself when I was younger. However, I've definitely become less anxious; as an adolescent and young adult I feel like I was perpetually on the brink of a nervous breakdown. I used to make myself literally sick with worry. I'm a much cooler cucumber now. Perhaps this is a benefit of approaching middle age.

[tekki-writes]

A Strange Devotion

summary: Camellia is a farmer and herbalist in the hidden town of Jackson in Wyoming. This tiny place is a winter oasis in a world of sickness, chaos and danger. When she meets Tommy’s older brother, Joel and the young girl he’s traveling with, everything begins to change. But could it be for the better? pairing: joel miller x female oc word count: 1k rating: 16+

note: this is my first time posting a fic publicly after many years, please excuse any inconsistencies music inspo: Jose Gonzalez - Local Valley

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

“This thing is so itchy!” Ellie exclaims, scratching at the bug bite on her leg. “Stop scratching it, you’ll make it worse.” Joel says. They had been hunting for rabbits for the last few days and had finally gotten a break. “Well…how do I make it go away?” Joel stared at it for a moment, “I would just put a hot spoon to it.”

“Sooo you want me to burn it off?”

“It helps ease the itchiness.”

Ellie gave him a confused look then laughed. They were finally back at the entrance of the town. They were carrying a sackful of rabbits that were ready for a nice, warm stew. “How many people do you think this will feed?” the inquisitive girl asked him. “A good amount,” he said vaguely. “We’ll probably have to go out for more in a few days.”

Joel and Ellie arrived at the back entrance of the kitchen in the dining hall. They dropped off their catch and Joel stayed chatting with the prep cooks for a little bit. Ellie wandered off into the kitchen, a strange smell peeking her curiosity.

There was a woman mixing an enormous pot of…soup? But it didn’t smell like soup. It was pleasant and almost sweet. The woman was vigorously stirring the pot when she noticed Ellie approaching her.

“Oh hello,” the woman that greeted her was tall and lean. Her skin a golden, deep olive color and her eyes a light hazel. She was wearing an oversized green sweater and a pink, faded head wrap. She was sweating profusely from the heat of the stove.

Ellie was quiet for a moment and then looked at the pot, “What are you making? It doesn’t smell like food.”

“That’s because it’s not. It’s a salve.”

“Salve?”

“For wounds and cuts,” the woman continued mixing, slowing down this time. There were old tin containers on the counter. One of them was full. The woman stopped mixing and began pouring the melted mixture into the tins. “It’s a mixture of plants and beeswax. It’ll solidify like this one and you can use it whenever you’d like.”

“Will it work on this?” Ellie pulled her pant leg up to show the woman her bug bite. “It should. But this might be better.” The woman heated up a spoon over the flame and pressed it on the bite.

“W-wait!”, the young girl exclaimed. But it was too late, the woman had already pressed the now warm spoon to her skin. At that moment, a man walked into the kitchen staring down at them both. “What’s going on?”

“The hot spoon trick worked!” Ellie yelled out happily. The woman smiled at her and then looked at him for a moment. “Here, let’s put some of this on too.” She applied one of the solid balms on the girl’s skin and it melted in, soothing the bite.

“Better?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ellie answered with a grin. “I’m Ellie. And this is Joel.”

“Tommy’s brother right?”

“The one and only.”

The woman let out a small laugh. “I’m Camellia. I grow some of the herbs in town and a couple of beehives.”

“You grow bees?” Ellie asked.

“I wish it was that easy,” Camellia said, as she continued pouring the mixture into the tins. “I can show you how it works sometime…when you’re not too busy hunting.”

Ellie smiled and nodded. Joel looked at the woman, “Thank you.” He seemed quiet and stern, the complete opposite of the young girl. “ ‘suppose we’ll see you around.”

She turned to look at him, “I suppose you will.” She smiled.

[miyaheestar]

(In response to the ask game thingy, I dunno how ur supposed to do these lol)

Aloe vera

Chamomile

Camellia

(Also hiiiiii I think ur really cool)

omg omg hello i think you're cool too🥺🥺🥺

aloe vera : well i always want to feel how does it feel like to date someone i never EVER date someone like this is just sad 🥹

chamomile : i appreciate anything really! i still have the stuffs my friends gave me since i was very young but for now i really like plushies and books OH OH AND FLOWER BRICKS I LOVE THEM

camellia : i was much more extroverted and naive tbh okay story time back then my classmates usually got sick and all so im the one that helped them go to the teacher's office and stayed until their parents come to pick them up (this happened a lot!!) i was really REALLY goofy back then. i did changed a lot in my opinion, i grew up and realize that this world is not all happy and rainbows but im still me at the end hehe

[barkskins]

sterling was the opposite. he had been struck with independence arguably too young, forced to sail his own ship, to fly by his own morals. sometimes he would swing by his home, give his mum a kiss on the cheek and gift her with a freshly plucked bouquet—arranged by himself, carnations and camellias and peonies in various pinks and reds. petals in perfectly crafted spirals. sterling wondered what jasmine would like, what her favourite flowers were; he supposed she was likely sick of the tiny white buds and rich greenery of her namesake. perhaps, instead, the coin-sized pale green leaves of eucalyptus that were the same colour as her eyes. “i think there’s some science behind that, you know,” he responded, that twist on his lips never once straying, “sleeping next to someone you care about is meant to calm you down, i think. but i’m not a scientist. i only know plant biology. mitochondria, and all that stuff.” technically weed was a plant. did that mean he could write up the cost on his invoice and claim for it back? research, he would argue. “i might have something we can smoke behind a cushion somewhere.” sterling lifted up the blanket that was draped over his couch, went searching through little trinket jars, only to stop still when he heard it. babe. his cheeks turned a soft pink, the buds of sakura trees. “i’d like that.” his voice was quieter, considered. “maybe both of them. they’re only short, eh?”

"oh, absolutely. my brain runs a million miles an hour when i try to sleep, but i think being close to you will help. it helps to feel safe and cared for in the place you lay your head at night, you know?" she assured him with a sweet smile. it was a constant battle under her parents' roof. they would scold her for everything, even if she slept in - they hated anything that could be seen as lazy or even restful. the woman's stomach fluttered as she caught sight of the man's pearly smile. it always made her smitten with her best friend, and the idea of being in the same bed with him made that even more apparent. how could she keep all the lustful thoughts at bay when she was so undeniably in love with him? "mm, good. you act like i don't love dumb movies like that. it just makes me want to smoke a lot of weed. how about we meet in the middle and go with an adam sandler film? he's stupid, but not quite stoner. we'd have to go with a classic like 'waterboy' or maybe '50 first dates' - even if the latter is extremely romantic and stupid. what do you think, babe?" the pet name slipped from her lips easily, and she didn't even have time to attempt to filter the flirtation.

[actualhumansunshine]

favorite albums/EPs of 2018

[bishops-of-the-old-faith]

Hello Lord Kallamar, may I ask if you have ever provided lessons on how to heal fellow cult members?

If so, may I join in your tutelage?

(Also I think you are great, thanks for keeping the rest of us safe from illnesses)

There are lots of natural healing properties within all sorts of things! You just have to know where to look. Camellias from Darkwood can alleviate nausea, for example. The many species of corals from Anchordeep have a wide range of healing proprieties, they're almost like medicine cabinets within themselves. My followers experiment with remedies and document them. I remember that, as a young god, I had to find out most of this myself. It's generational knowledge between followers now. Hypothetically, I could lift sickness from all my followers... but that would require visiting every individual follower that ever got sick. It's important they know how to take care of themselves, too, guided by me, of course.