#Young Sick Camellia

[ssivinee]

❥ 𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝙱𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜

Twice! Minatozaki Sana x Baroness! F reader [Historical AU]: Long ago, in an era in Japan where hierarchy dominated every aspect of everyday life. Sana was the kind princess of your land who was fated for a horrible future when it came to love. Meanwhile, you were a mere baroness within a corrupt system, and Sana's fate would be the one affecting you.

Word Count: 12.3 k

Author's Note: Everything in this story may NOT be historically accurate, but I did try my best! Beweare of the ANGSTTTTT. I actually reallllyyyyy enjoyed this one hopefully, you like it as much as I do🤩.

Req: @rd0265667 when she was young, she had heard the prophecy from the wizard “your love will stretch for all eternity” she refused to accept it, unwilling to let fate or prophecy dictate her life, but in the end, the wizard was right though your love stretched out for all eternity, they only met for but a moment, for you loved her too early, and she loved you too late

➳ Character Concept - Takeda Y/n

Japan in the 1500s was a completely different era from modern times. Almost all of the country’s power was decentralized, leading to many conflicts throughout the years. 

However, one consistent thing was that women weren’t treated respectfully unless they had power.

A clear example of this is your current situation.

You were from the Takeda Clan, a growing group of recognized Samurai within the Japanese military. Being in a clan like that sounded great, but… you were a woman. 

Your fellow Takeda men didn’t exactly take too kindly to their counterparts, and being the alpha males in sectors, they can be.

Why? Well, because Takeda’s are low-ranked in the noble hierarchy, although you were somewhat lucky in life. 

Your mother is a baroness from a higher family who married into the Takeda family, and your father is Japan’s famous general known as ‘The Oni.’ So, by age thirteen, you had particular duties and a reputation to uphold. Many servants would gossip, saying you were important but not important enough. 

Just to a certain extent.

That was something you always heard, especially when meeting other royalties. 

“Y/n? She’s the girl with an overprotective father. You can’t be friends with her.”

“Don’t expect so much from that one; she just has to sit there, represent her family, and look adorable.”

“Poor child has no future for her.”

It was tough being in a family known for male dominance while being a woman of higher rank. So you steered clear of most people, trying to take on caretaking instead.

Walking through Kyoto's extensive gardens, you made your way to the training grounds near the barracks. You stabilized the large woven basket on one side of your waist, hooking your arm under it for support.

Your eyes travel inside the large container, the warm batch of bread still steaming from the cloth covering it. The sweat on your forehead granted a break on the nearby bench, fearing you’d drop the delicacies.

Sitting on the upcoming bench, you hoped for the shade to come above while wiping away any sweat using a washcloth. “This damn heat,” you mumble under your breath. 

Your body was never one to cooperate with the heat, becoming sick often after a tiring day out. Rather than being able to complain about the heat in peace, you hear a pitchier voice coming towards you near the camellia bushes.

“Mother would love the vibrance of these,” the girl knees down, her beautiful white and gold kimono grazing the grass. She kept her hair up in a large bun with a large white ribbon keeping it together.

Her delicate fingers touched the flowers, lifting them to her nose. She tried to smell the camellias' aroma. Then, she took the gardening shears, snipped long stems, and placed the flowers in a small bamboo basket.

Your eyes travel back to your basket of bread, thinking the kinder thing to do was give an extra piece, just for some energy. “Uhm, excuse me?”

Her neck whips to turn her head, her face full of surprise. You see her eyes dart down to the small piece of bread in your hands. “You seem to be working hard in the heat, and I had some extra so here.” 

She stands up as she takes the bread, a cute smile forming. The bright smile almost took you aback, her adorable squirrel-like cheeks expanding. “How kind of you,” she mumbles, taking a small bite. You hear a muffled squeal, making you giggle lightly.

“Uhm, uhm,” she looks around frantically, trying to find a quick gift. Once her eyes land on her own basket, her eyes grow wide with a bright idea in mind. “Here, please accept this as gratitude,” her small hands hand you the pink flower, and you bow, accepting it graciously.

“You didn’t have to.”

“You were looking out for me. It’s the least I could do,” She expresses, her bubbling personality showing with the next bite she took, stuffing her mouth. She then began to wonder, “Is that for the samurai?”

She sees your eyes grow wide, “Yes! This is. Thank you for reminding me, actually. I shall be on my way.” You bow, and as you rush off, a servant rushes past you out of breath.

“Sana-sama! I told you not to go on without me at your side!” Your brain couldn’t even process the words as you dashed all the way to the other side of the garden.

Your trembling breath had you almost gasping for air, but when the large doors opened, you strained yourself at seeing your father. “Father,” you bow, and he stares at you for a minute before having a servant take the large basket.

“You’re late, Y/n,” he stands there, and all you can do is a deep bow. “I apologize, Otou-san. I took a quick break and suddenly had a run-in with…” you take a deep breath, knowing the reaction you’d get.

“The princess.”

You wouldn’t dare look into his eyes, but you heard the grumble that came out of his mouth. “We’ve spoken of this. You shouldn’t be in the vicinity of the princess! If you hadn’t taken a break, this would’ve been avoided!” You feel the anger radiating off of his voice.

“It will never happen again, Otou-san,” he sighs heavily but nods. “Good. Now, prepare in the next room. Your training will begin shortly.” 

Without another word, you went into the next room. It was an open dojo-like space; you take off your getas, placing them outside the room. You feel the texture of the tatami flooring under your feet. The cushioning makes you feel bouncier.

“We should check on your conditioning today. Kimono off,” your father authorizes. As you remove the basic gown, you reveal that you are wearing a thin black tank top.

Your father’s eyes trail down to your arms; the short bruises of yellow and green can be seen forming over older scaring. “Are you feeling rigid?” He asks with a gentle touch, lifting up your arms as he scans you. “No, I feel good.”

“Perfect answer,” he says, grabbing a large wooden stick that was close to his height. “You're 16 now, Y/n. People may say you don’t have a responsibility, but I will not let my own child be a pushover.” 

You nod acceptingly, “I understand, father.” People may not view you as anything but a mere woman, but despite your father’s brut nature, he was always willing to protect you and your mother.

He’s a gentleman, the only one you know personally. “Now take stance,” he announces.

Your knees bend slightly, head leans slightly forward, and your left arm is in front of your body. While taking place, your father jabs the stick forward, causing a speedy reaction from you. Instinctively, you lean your body to the left as quickly as possible, then use the palm of your hand to push it away.

“Good,” your father states, but you knew it wouldn’t end there. He began moving the stick quicker and quicker. Your body could keep up with the fast pace as it was your usual routine. 

There were times when you would get hit, hence the small bruises you would receive. Your father intentionally did this. He believed that at least, in the future, your pain tolerance would be high enough to be able to endure many.

The training is followed by giving you a kendo stick to stimulate katana practice. Due to clan regulations, women could not be samurai, nor could they hold a weapon. Many men believed women should stay pure, and if not, they weren’t worthy of marriage. 

Despite your father being the head, an entire force of men wanting this rule was something he couldn’t oppose as it was also a long part of their history. Women were also quite accepting of the rule because of that.

Your body felt much more exhausted due to the heat, yet it never stopped your father with his relentless training. But after six hours, he made you go home as time struck five in the afternoon.

You quickly dash home, trying to beat the thirty-minute mark. Before six p.m. hit, you needed to clean yourself up, start cooking dinner, and make tea.

It was a tiring routine, but something you’ve become used to since the age of ten.

Your days were lengthy, but it was the usual. Before dawn, you would have to get up and get ready for the rest of your day. Then, in the next hour, you cook breakfast for your family and eat in the same hour. While your parents do their duties under royalties, you clean the house for two hours, then study the two hours after. 

At ten, you’d have to make your way to the servants' quarters for the batches of bread for the samurai. After delivering, there would be one-on-one training with your father for six hours. It also doesn’t just stop at the shower, dinner, and tea; there is also extra studying about herbs and first-aid due to your mother.

It was a strenuous lifestyle, but you were somewhat fond of it. Everything you were taught, you believed, would make you a better person as you were pushing yourself to find new skills.

Back to the task at hand, you washed up quickly and changed. Then, you prepared a quick meal of miso soup, rice, and fish. When your mother and father came home, you all had a meal together.

“Have you begun your studies today, Y/n?” You hear your mom. You nodded and sipped green tea, “I began while preparing for dinner.” Your mom looked at you with her sweet eyes, a proud smile.

“Just get thirty minutes of herbal studies in tonight. Your father told me you had an unusual day today.” Your eyes flash up to your dad's face, who is focused on his soup, and your eyes travel to your mother, whose brows are raised.

“It was an accident, okāsan-”

“Y/n,” she gives a stern voice, cutting you off. “It’s okay. I promise.” Your father looks at her with furrowed brows, giving her a ‘don’t encourage the child look.’ 

Her eyes soften at her husband, “Princess Minatozaki is a wonderful child, the complete opposite of the queen. I assure you she won’t tell her mother.”

“We can’t assume that she just won't find out,” he declares, and your mother looks slightly conflicted. “You know that better than anyone, Reiko.”

“I will keep our child safe, Hideo. Even if it takes my life,” you and your father go silent at your mother’s heavy words. Having a loving family in this lifetime has its ups and downs. It made you often wonder if you could ever truly be happy in a world like your own.

Your appetite suddenly changes, and your parents look at you as you stand from your spot. You bow out of respect and excused yourself to study and get into bed. You weren’t about to deal with that conversation.

It was something your parents always talked about, becoming a constant broken record in your mind. You knew there would come a day when your mother’s words would actually come true.

‘Even if it takes my life.’ Somewhat becoming your parent’s motto.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, the background consisting of your bed, side table, and little vase faded behind you. The words of your parents clouded your mind once again, but you felt a switch in your mind go off.

If you had the power to change the fate of your life, you would do so… even if it takes your life.

Today was the eighteenth birthday of the princess, and it had been two years since you first met her. Your mother, fortunately, was correct.

The princess was a kind young woman who never mirrored the queen's personality. Though you only had a handful of instances of interacting with the princess, your family would be invited to her birthday.

It was only right as your father was their famous general, and your mother was their trusted right hand. You stood near the far right of the large room, away from the crowd of royalties who would just gossip about you. 

Your body was adorned in a beautiful deep violet, the color that represented the Takeda clan well. The kimono hugged your waist, the cute silver bow in the back cinching it to a tea. 

No one dared to bother you, your eyes roaming around the large hall instead. Everyone wore elegant kimonos, and the young men especially wore bolder colors to catch her attention. She was turning of age, after all.

It would be assumed that the king and queen would find her the most fitting partner as her husband. 

Thinking about it only caused your brain to grow exhausted. Every ‘man’ that lingered around her, was an ignorant, arrogant, and naive noble that chased for that small taste of power.

You were well aware that the princess didn’t deserve someone like that. You could count your interactions on one hand, but her honest nature made you feel like you could’ve been friends in some other lifetime.

After giving her the small piece of bread all those years ago, you did your best to avoid her. Although, to your own dismay, it seemed like fate had other plans for the two of you.

The second instance had you stunned. It was on a cold night, and your father seemed to be in a sour mood. The day was harsher for you, which led you to get punished.

Your father wasn’t so harsh, but as a ‘normal’ punishment, he would hit you five times with the wooden staff. At that point in your life, it wasn’t painful anymore, your body getting used to the feeling.

You were near the pond, using a wet washcloth to help soothe the bruising and bleeding on your shoulders. Your kimono was slid down on your arm ever so slightly, the moonlight shining upon the pond’s waters.

Regardless of what occurred, at least the night was soothing in your mind. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here,” you flinched at the voice and quickly hid the cloth as she came into your view. 

You stood up quickly and bowed, “Princess,” and Sana shook her hand in a wave. “Please, sit down. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

To your surprise, she sat next to you as if it were merely nothing, “I just needed some time away from my parents.”

That night, you got to know a different version of her. Given that everything you heard by now was only hearsay, this was something raw and vulnerable. Without even knowing it, that night went on with the princess expressing her struggles to you.

As she rambled, you just listened. Every interaction after that was the same way as well. You liked to think that you became her ‘once in a blue moon secret therapist.’

The thought always made you chuckle a little. She didn’t know you, know your status compared to her… nothing. Yet every time you coincidently saw each other, she seemed to not mind any of that.

Your eyes traveled to the large crowd forming in the middle, surrounding the royal family. Instead of watching every noble declare some form of their love to her, you decided to slip out of the palace.

You breathed in the fresh air, closing your eyes as you felt the sensation of the cold wind against your skin.

You always favored this time, where it usually held a peaceful silence. Your long days of work were hectic, always consisting of training and studying nowadays. This was a need in your routine. Not only that, a year ago, your father had made sure you’d begin shadowing him and his work.

He told you, “No matter the laws of this clan, you will always be my successor.” It made you stay diligent, aware, and colder than everyone else. They never valued you anyway, so you didn’t see the harm in your change.

“You're very good at escaping places you don’t want to be, huh?” You heard that voice yet again. You knew who it was, even if your eyes were shut this entire time. “Somehow, you always find me, princess,” you open your eyes to find her standing on your right.

Her large, layered kimono swept the flooring. The white fabric and its gold trim decorated her body. You watched as her fingers traveled toward her hair, taking the pins out of the large bun and making sure her hair flowed down instead.

She seemed to let her hair down every time she saw you, saying, “She felt more comfortable this way.” Sana seems to follow your actions, eyes looking far into the distance. “What did it feel like?”

You look at her curiously, not understanding the question, “What do you mean, princess?” 

“What did it feel like when you officially turned into a young woman?”

The question had you freeze like a storm and had your brain brewing in thought. Were you to answer her honestly or sugarcoat it? “I would like you to be frank with me,” she stated kindly as if she were reading your thoughts.

You chuckled, and her eyes glinted with a touch of surprise. She had never heard you have this sense of happiness, “When I turned into a young woman… it was brutal. We live different lives, princess. That’s the harsh reality.”

After you spoke, the tranquility filled the air again. Sana knew her life was privileged, but between you and her, she believed you two weren’t so different. Maybe that was her own fault for being so uneducated about you. She was the one who always spoke in comparison to you, and she realized that now.

“Can you please tell me more?” You heard the hesitance in her voice, her eyes looking down. 

“Well, otou-san began training me properly without a care. He told me of the plausible future our nation has and how I should be ready for it. Okāsan, on the other hand, made sure I studied a variety of things. My education mainly consisted of herbs, first aid, medicine, and our history. I also tended the house the majority of the time.”

Sana listened to the list in silence and felt the exhaustion weigh her body down. She didn’t even live your life nor get to experience it, but it just sounded physically straining. 

“Do you ever wish… we lived in an equal world, Y/n?” 

Your eyes widened at her suddenly saying your name. She knew of it? Maybe you kept telling yourself that she didn’t that you began believing it. “Uhm—y-yea. I do.”

You wanted to punch yourself at the stutter. “I want to create a nation where our foundation was equality.” Her words surprised you and made your heart swell. For nineteen years of your life, the looming thought was always in the back of your mind. 

‘You would always be nothing as a woman.’ 

But Sana’s kind heart gave you some hope, and you were willing to hold onto that for as long as you could.

You close your eyes again, thinking of the future that she envisioned, “I’ll wait for that world. Even in the afterlife.” 

Sana felt her feet grow heavy as if it was impossible for her to move after that. She couldn’t fathom the pressure of your words. The princess bows deeply towards you, her eyes brimming with tears. You look around frantically, knowing you’d surely be in trouble if anyone saw the sight, but when she raises her head, and you see her face, you instinctively relax.

She looked at you with a bright smile, her eyes glistening more under the dark skies. “I appreciate your support. It means a lot to me,” she voiced. Your heart raced as she stared into your eyes, feeling your body heating up. You forced yourself to look away.

“As the future of the nation, I will, of course, trust you,” you mumble, but you made it clear to her. After the elongated stillness, she excused herself, stating she had to be somewhere before the end of the night. Deciding to head off to sleep with an early morning ahead of you, Sana was escorted to a slim tower at the edge of the land. 

Her men helped her out of her palanquin, and she paces herself to the front door. She took a deep breath and then knocked in a specific pattern. The princess waited a few seconds until she heard a voice behind the door, “You may enter.”

She pushed the heavy door open, a man's back coming into view. “I have been waiting for you, Princess Minatozaki,” the depth of his voice made him feel a rumble beneath her feet. 

The “wizard,” or Onmyōji, is known in Japan. They were known for being tasked with things like keeping track of our calendar, warding off evil spirits, and being protectors for the people as well. What civilians didn’t know, though, was that Onmyōji worked closely with the royal family.

They would read their prophecies.

This enabled royalties to prepare properly for their futures. This would be done every ten years of their lifetime. The royalty was told to do this with the high possibility of the prophecies changing over time, as age and experiences were a large factor.

When Sana stepped foot in the tower for the first time when she was eight, her father had accompanied her. The first reading was always a big accomplishment for any royal, and he wasn’t willing to miss it.

The only thing was Sana’s prophecy was… dark. Her father did her best to cheer her up, telling her there were always more chances in the future for something different. So she waited and waited for this day to come once again.

She stood there, a sense of uncertainty looming over her. The elderly-looking man faced her, her large beard and tall hat covering any sign of emotion or proper facial features. “I am glad to see you doing well,” she said, bowing at his kindness. He gestured his hand toward a plush chair. “Please take a seat.”

Sana sat down slowly, the eerieness of the tower making the palms of her hands sweat. “I am aware that our meeting last time… wasn’t so pleasant for you, young one.”

She looks up from her seat, debating whether or not she should voice out her concern. “Do not fret, young one. Prophecies always change,” he circles back, behind a large podium that held an equally large book. “This shall be quick, so you may go on and have a nice rest.”

Sana could only nod, her throat feeling dry at the aura of the place. “We will begin now,” he announced, taking a deep breath in. She could never see his emotions as his hands hovered over the book as if he were casting upon the dead. It took a minute, but it felt like an eternity until she heard a deep breath.

She had never heard the Onmyōji make that sound. They were always straight to the point with things and never showed any other emotion, but his hands fell onto the book, the tips of his fingers feeling heavy than usual.

“How odd…” His voice felt like it faded through her ears. “I have never seen something like this in my lifetime,” and Sana’s heart dropped at that. She already knew the unfortunate words that were awaiting her.

“Your love will stretch for all eternity,” he spoke slowly.

It stayed the same.

Sana’s fist clenched against the armrest, “this cannot be true,” her voice weak. Her anger could be felt, but Sana wouldn’t dare blame the older man for this. “You should not let this dictate you. It can always change-”

“You may not tell me that. You may not act like a light in the darkness when I have been told the same thing from ten years ago,” her words hung heavy on the heart of the old man, who couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

“I will take my leave now,” she rushed out, seating herself back into her palanquin. “Back to the palace, now!” She spoke frustrated to her men, who carried her without question.

Once Sana got back to her home, her mother and father waited at their thrones, seeing their daughter walk past in a hurry. “Halt in your steps, Sana,” she heard her mother’s authoritative voice, having her pause in her position.

“What’s the rush?”

She couldn’t bear to look into her mother’s eyes, knowing she would probably break. On the other hand, her father stared for about thirty seconds before realizing her dark mood. “Is it-”

Before he can finish his sentence, Sana shakes her head slowly. All his father could do was leave his throne and give her a warm hug. “Everything will be okay, sweetie. Go forth to your room and get some rest for tonight,” Sana nods, and he whispers, “I’ll take care of your mother; do not worry.”

Sana bows and heads off, “Hold on now, young la-”

Her stern voice is cut off by her husband's gaze. The usual warm and loving king had a hardened look on his face. “Let our daughter breathe, Hotaru. She’ll tell you when she’s ready.”

“The last time you guys said that I never found out!”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so hard on her, you would’ve known the moment we came back home all those years ago!” He argued back, which quickly shut her up. She knew she wasn’t the greatest mother, but she did her best as a leader and a mom.

She watched as her husband left the room, likely to check on their princess, the harsh reality of his words sinking in. 

Sana curled herself in bed, changing into a long night down, which helped settle her anxiety even a little. The soft knocks on the door had her look up, seeing her father peek his head into the room.

“I hope I’m not intruding, sweetie,” he comes in, shutting the door quietly as he sits next to her. “Otou-san, he said for all eternity,” she whispers, her eyes tearing up once again. “Sana, you know that isn’t always going to say the same.”

“But it hasn’t happened for hundreds of years!” Her father listened, his child’s desperation breaking his heart. 

“Will no one ever love me?” She whimpers, hugging her knees even tighter. The king shakes his head, taking her into his arms. Sana felt the soothing head pats and rubs on her shoulder, “Impossible. You're too beautiful inside and out for no one to notice.”

The comment made the girl smile, but as silence went on, it got her thinking. “What if it becomes too late?”

“It’s never too late to be in love, Sana,” her father told her with a grin, but she knew he meant every word.

From that night onward, Sana couldn’t help but bury herself within her princess duties. The both of you seemingly stay busy and find no room to breathe. Yet, since the night you talked to each other, neither of you seemed to mind.

You pushed yourself hard through training and studies to avoid ever thinking of the beautiful woman. Meanwhile, Sana did it for the sake of her fragile heart.

It was a sunny day about four months after the birthday celebration, and you were in the training grounds with your father. As you were becoming more serious in your efforts within the Takeda clan, your father gave you the liberty of training with a real sword two months ago.

The sword you usually used was a simple katana, just something to work with in the meantime. Here, you breathed harshly as you trained, your dad staring at you pleased. “You always improve at such a rapid pace,” the both of you sheathed the katanas on your waists.

You bow to him with a proud smile on your face, paying no mind to some of the samurai around you. Many of them usually gossiped or had disdained faces due to the sight of you with a weapon. That, however, quickly shifted when a man declared a duel.

With your father observing and maintaining the fight, you quickly proved them wrong. They still felt some way, which you couldn’t blame them, as it was a custom for thousands of years in the family.

But they couldn’t do anything about it.

Your father looked at you as you walked towards the exit, “Have you had rest, my child?” He sees your brows raised, looking at him in curiosity. “Whatever do you mean, otou-san?”

“You’ve been going at this routine for months, Y/n. Have you been taking care of yourself?” You didn’t say anything, not even moving, and you heard him sigh. “Come with me. I shall show you something.”

He led the way toward home, and the sun shined brightly as usual. You couldn’t help but shield your eyes with the sleeves of your kimono. Your eyes followed your father, but you got a glimpse of the camellias. Those same flowers that caused the first interaction between you and the princess.

The flowers were still bright, but you noticed the leaves looking… sick? You then looked ahead as the sun blinded you, realizing rain hadn’t fallen in a while.

Without even realizing it, you and your father reach home, where both of you take off your tabs. You follow him to the back room, where a large open space is. “Take a seat,” he says, quickly kneeling on the cushions. He then takes out a long box from the closet and sets it down on the table in front of you.

“Open it,” he says as he sits in the same position in front of you. You stare at the long, hefty-looking box, not knowing if he was being for real. For the first time in a while, he gave you a smile and nodded as a sign to do so.

Your fingers felt the smooth finish of the wooden box as you opened the lid. You found thick piles of straw surrounding a beautiful katana. The weapon was in a black scabbard, but your eyes trail to its handle.

The cool-toned silver had your eyes twinkling as the cord wrap designed around it took over the clan color of a deep violet. While admiring it, you wouldn’t dare touch such a beauty.

Looking back at your father, you couldn’t even think straight, “May I ask why you’ve shown me this?”

“It’s yours,” those words had you straighten your back quickly, “W-what?” 

He delicately picked up the weapon with two hands and presented it to you with a smile, “It was supposed to be for your twentieth birthday, but you’ve been working hard these past few months. I had to reward your hard work promptly.”

You hesitantly take the katana and stand up. Taking a deep breath with your eyes closed, you unsheathed the katana and stared at the beautiful, long silver blade. “You must use this for good, Y/n.”

You nod at your father furiously, and he chuckles, “But in a serious matter, you know you may not carry this on your person.” The sad reality is that it crushed your happiness within a few seconds. You took the acknowledgment of your father and his gift as a win, just bowing in agreement.

Later that night,, you sat in the center of the garden, the beautiful greenery turning dark andas the sun set. You sat on the stone benches, looking at the plain dark blue sky like you usually did.

“We seem to always meet during these hours and in odd places,” you hear to your far right. You look over and see Sana in a light blue kimono. “You’d be right on that,” she heard as she sat beside you. On the other hand, you shut your eyes, just listening to the hushed wind.

“It’s been a long time since we have last seen each other.”

“We’re at an age that gives us less freedom, princess,” she nods in agreement and stares at the dark garden. “Is something on your mind?” She asked with her sweet voice, and you smiled thankfully.

“The world is just unfair,” you say tiringly, and Sana frowns, “tell me about it.”

Her grumpy tone had your brain screaming at you to ask what was wrong, but you wanted her to tell you when she was ready. That’s how it always had been between the two of you, but Sana’s question catches you off guard instead.

“What caused you to be out here?”

You blink your eyes open for more clarity, the dark scenery flooding your eyes once again. “Just the reality of my life. I feel it is changing, which is a win, but not quick enough for people to realize there has to be a change.”

Sana listened to the quick summary, just nodding her head. “The Takeda’s have always been ruthless when it comes to women. I’m sure it’ll change someday,” you can only bite your lips bitterly, thinking, ‘Hopefully you’re right.’

“How about you?”

Sana pauses, thinking clearly for the first time in months. “I… want to change my fate, but I’m not sure it’s possible,” she says, which intrigued you. Your eyes become drawn to her figure, and she looks at the sky like she did a few minutes ago.

“Fate is never final,” your voice was barely above a whisper as you stared at her face. A cheeky smile formed, which made you blush, but you couldn’t look away from the beauty beside you.

“Those are some buoyant words.”

“Your heart… is too kind to fear what life throws at you,” you express, and Sana closes her eyes. With a smile still on her face, you see a tear cascade down her face.

Your fingers worked on their own, wiping the diamond-looking tear away, and she didn’t even jolt at your touch. “We live in a time where many changes will need to be made, and many changes will happen. It’s a matter of how we go about it day by day.”

Sana opens her eyes and turns her head, making eye contact with you for the first time tonight. You freeze, but your face doesn’t betray you as your eyes look at her longingly. 

“You’re very good at this,” you look at her confusingly. “Good at what?”

“Making me feel better.”

She looks away, reminiscing about the first time you met. “Even when we first met, Y/n. You knew what to say, what to do, just making me feel… happy again.”

Your heart races at her words, and you want to smack yourself. You couldn’t fall any more than you already have for her. Rather than saying anything more like advice, your eyes stare at the flowers in front of you.

“I’ll always be here if you need it then. I’ll do my best to always make you feel happy.”

Later that night, after escorting Sana to the front of the palace, you lay in bed. Staring at the ceiling, you could only think about Sana, causing you to cover your eyes with the palms of your hand as you feel the flush rising on your face once more.

“I may be done for in this life.”

A year later, you find yourself in a large hall within the royal palace. You stood behind your father, who was seated at a table with higher-ranking nobles. 

The day you realized the rain hadn’t poured in a while had become a curse amongst the entire country. You all had fallen into a country-wide drought, and it had been so long that many nations were becoming desperate.

And desperation would lead to dangerous people.

“What do we do about Kyushu?” An older woman asks, and she looks at the queen. 

Your mother also stood in the room behind the royal, who kept her eyes shut. “What do we know right now?” She voices and looks at your father.

“My men informed me yesterday night that Kyushu has been making moves amongst the southern nations without any breaks. Many have been massacred for the sake of poultry and crops. In terms of deaths, my men could only account for approximately forty thousand, but they believe the number is far larger than that.”

“So Kyushu is coming up from the South? Surely Kyoto will be next,” an old man voices out his concerns. “With the pace they’re going at, it will take some time. We have about three more nations in between us, which garner up to eight hundred thousand men.”

“So it sounds like they’ll take about two months before getting here,” another older woman in glasses says. “That’s if they don’t hold other samurai hostages,” the queen says sternly, and everyone goes silent.

Your father looks at her, determination in his eyes, “I assure you we’ll be ready, your highness.”

“All one million, five hundred thousand of you?”

He gives a kurt nod, and she sighs. “Well then, you're in charge of that anyway. Make sure we’re prepared, and at the next meeting, we’ll speak of economic stature next time. Meeting adjourned.”

Your father stands up, and both of you bow, then walk out. As the two of you stroll the hallway, he expressed that he planned on announcing new regimens at the barracks, but he wanted to speak to you at home.

You decided to go into the library, wanting to study while you had the time. Being in the library seemed to always be an exciting experience for you, always finding something new in another book you’ve never read before.

Sitting down with a new book in hand, you open it and see the pages full of drawn pictures. It seemed to be a newly added book that was freshly written, finding the name of a well-known doctor of the royal family. 

Your eyes would focus on reading each page of the book, pictures of stitching, herbs used as plasters, and cleaning wounds. Despite them just being drawings, it was descriptive and quite graphic but not anything you couldn’t handle.

After two hours, you were a little more than halfway into the book when an unexpected visitor walked in.

“Takeda-san,” you hear, looking up to find Doctor Koharu… the exact woman who wrote the book you were currently reading.

“Koharu-san,” you bow. “May I ask what you are here for?”

“I am… here for some books. I need them for the Princess’ medical training,” she spoke slowly, and you nodded, deciding to focus back on your book. The well-known woman went about her duties, and you thought about the last time you saw Sana.

The year seemed to pass by as quickly as light, seemingly losing track of time. You had been so focused on your priorities while you heard Sana had much to do in preparation for learning how to be a queen.

You believed it was for the better, though, as it helped you keep a clear mind.

But anytime someone brought her up, it seemed like you pictured her in your mind with sparkles behind her. It was always a refreshing sight in your mind, a nice change to your rugged reality.

As you think about her, you can only imagine her brown doe-eyes that could make you melt every time. The look they had in them when they saw something cute or pretty, the bright look on her face and glimmer could be seen.

Her contagious smile gave you butterflies and a different sense of warmth. The gracious curve that formed on her lips had you feeling a genuine innocence, a rarity from royals.

But lately, the memory of her smile felt distant, like something from a dream that was slipping through your fingers.

Almost drifting into a daydream, the drop of heavy books slamming on the floor snaps you out of your trance, and your body jolts up.

“I apologize, Takeda-san. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she bows, and you shake your head. You get up and help her pick up all the material, shaking your head again, “It’s no worries, it was only an accident.”

Standing up, your arms lifted half the heavy stack of books, and you looked at the professional. “Would you like some assistance bringing these, Koharu-san?”

“That would actually be quite nice. I would highly appreciate it,” she bows and leads you through the halls as you walk side by side with her. She had informed you that they would be going to the study room, which was on the other side of the palace, so you had a ways to go.

“Were you enjoying the new book?” She asks out of pure curiosity, a peak of interest painting her face. You nodded enthusiastically, “I always loved reading your new releases, especially for my studies.”

You heard an elegant chuckle escape from the older woman, knowingly telling you, “So I’ve heard over the years.”

“I never understood the discourtesy towards you. It’s clear you are a hard-working young woman.”

You bow in honor, but she hears a sigh beside her. “Sometimes it can’t be helped with a societal hierarchy.”

The sad smile was telling, and Koharu began to think of a simple solution. “You’re able to understand my current release, right?” You nodded in confusion, but she continued, “That would guarantee your knowledge to be light years ahead for your age. Maybe you can help the princess with her own studies?”

The question had taken you aback with the reassuring smile Miss Koharu gave you. You shook your head with a soft stare, “That wouldn’t be a good idea. I’m sure the queen would heavily be against it.”

“You have a good point,” she grumbled, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the reaction.

“The princess is always so kind, but she’s stuck with a strict mother. She has no childhood to even recollect,” you look around cautiously, worried someone may hear the negative words against the grand woman.

“It makes sense. She’s a queen who has to protect her daughter and uphold a family name. It’s probably the only thing she ever knew growing up,” you express, and the doctor could only nod as it made sense.

“Well, we’ve arrived. She’s been practicing hard, so no distractions. We head in, leave the books on the table, and walk out right away.”

You give her a curt nod as if it were a secret mission, and she opens the sliding doors, where you find Sana’s head buried in a large textbook. Her back was somewhat facing away from the entrance, so the two of you were able to set the books down swiftly.

As you make your way out, you can only quickly glimpse her face. Her focus felt immense as she bit her lip, trying to understand new information from the book. This caused you to look away quickly, feeling your heart racing all over again.

‘She’s too adorable…’ you thought but scolded yourself instantly. ‘It’s never going to happen, Y/n! Get ahold of yourself and your feelings!’

While exiting the room behind Koharu-san, Sana catches sight of your lavender kimono as the door slides shut. Her curiosity took over for a quick second, as she was aware of the doctor wearing a white one when she first visited the room.

And yet, as much as she tried to focus on her studies, her mind betrayed her.

The lavender fabric lingered in her thoughts, wrapping around the edges of memories she had tucked away for the sake of duty. She wondered if it was really you, knowing you only ever wore shades of purple, or if her mind was playing cruel tricks on her.

For a fleeting moment, her fingers hovered over the page, her vision blurring slightly. It wasn’t from exhaustion. It wasn’t from frustration over her studies.

It was the realization that she hadn’t seen you—truly seen you—in what felt like a lifetime.

A small smile graced her lips, one of quiet fondness. You had always been there, hadn’t you? The only constant in her life. The only person she could call a true friend.

She had no time for love, nor did she desire it. The weight of her future pressed on her shoulders, the crown already waiting for her, heavy even in its absence. But she cherished you in the way one cherishes a childhood memory.

And though she did not realize it, that was what made it hurt the most.

Because for you, she was not just a memory. Not just a fleeting dream from another lifetime.

For you, she was everything.

“Did she come to visit?” She mumbles to herself but shakes her head as she feels the soft pages of the book on the tips of her fingers. “You have to finish, or else Mother will get mad at you again, Sana,” She said, whining to herself.

“I should head home now, Koharu-san. My father will be home soon,” the older woman nods, patting your arm as she thanks you for your help.

Making it home before sundown, you find your mother cooking this evening. “Well, you’re home early,” you look at her in surprise, and she smiles at you. “The royal family had dinner today, so the queen let me go home early.”

You settle your katana in your room and change clothes, “I’m assuming you came from the library since your father was busy today?” You nod at her assumption as she puts all the food on the table.

Settling in your spot, your father also enters the home, just in time for the food. Disregarding the good mood he had given you the past few months, after putting his own things away, he settles down with his brows furrowed.

You began serving everyone, even your own plate, and began eating. Before any one of you could pick a piece of meat up with your chopsticks, your father looked a bit worried, “We shall talk after supper, Y/n.”

You first looked at your mother, who looked as equally worried, then nodded towards your father, who began eating messier than usual. ‘He’s stress eating,’ you thought to yourself, feeling the nerves building up between both your parents.

After dinner, your dad couldn’t, stringing you away as your mother told her she’d clean up instead tonight. 

“What’s with the worry, father?”

The two of you sat in the dimly lit room, the same room you remember him giving your sacred weapon. He sat across from you in silence, his face full of contemplation as you felt the anxiety creeping up on you rapidly.

“There is a big chance we go into war,” he began, pausing again, and you nodded in understanding. You were aware of Japan’s current status, as you were the new right hand of your father during official government meetings.

This war was something inevitable, and you knew that.

“I have something to ask of you, Y/n.”

Those words had the palms of your hands sweating despite them laying comfortably on your kimono, but you listened intently.

“If anything ever happens to me… I want you to fight for our nation. Protect the royal family at all costs.”

Your eyes widen at the sudden responsibility. “Father, you-”

“You and your mother. The two of you are the things I hold dearly in my heart, and I’d never want to leave you both. But it’s my obligation and duty to put my life on the line for this nation.”

You sat there, head hanging low, trembling under the weight of his words. Your eyes shut tightly as if blocking out his voice could make the moment vanish. But it didn’t. His words were final, heavy like a sword hanging over your head. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint sound of your tears hitting your lap.

Your father, the man who had taught you strength, discipline, and the way of the blade, now stood before you looking more fragile than you’d ever seen him. His sigh was deep and heavy like it carried the burden of centuries. His chest rose and fell unevenly as he noticed your tears, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might falter. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“I love you and your mother, but don’t let our name go in vain,” he said, his voice softer now, almost breaking. “You and I have done much in our lifetime in preparation for this, and you know that. Just keep our tradition alive, sweetie.”

The endearment, one you hadn’t heard since childhood, struck you harder than any blade could. It clawed at the edges of the walls you’d built around your emotions, unraveling you completely. The tears fell faster, uncontrollable now, and your chest tightened as if the very air was suffocating you. You clutched at your clothing, your fingers trembling, as the realization of what this truly meant sank in.

For the first time in years, the room echoed with your wails—raw, unfiltered grief spilling out in a way you didn’t think possible anymore. You didn’t care about composure or pride. Not now. Not when the man who had been your shield, your guide, your everything, was speaking as if this would be his last farewell.

He stood there, silent and unmoving, his own tears now tracing a path down his weathered face. His hands twitched slightly as if resisting the urge to comfort you, knowing that this pain was necessary for you to carry the mantle he would leave behind. 

His voice, steady as it had been, was now thick with emotion as he waited for your cries to subside. He hated seeing you like this—his strong, capable child who had grown into a warrior under his watchful eye—but he also knew this was a wound he could not shield you from.

When your sobs finally quieted into soft, broken breaths, his voice came again, quieter this time, almost a whisper. “You will understand, my child, why I told you this now, why I cannot falter. Because if I don’t return... the weight of our name, of this family, will rest on your shoulders.”

The words hit you like a second blow, leaving you gasping for air. His unwavering faith in you, in your ability to uphold everything he had spent a lifetime building, felt like both a blessing and a curse. You wanted to scream at him, beg him not to go, but you knew the truth. You always had.

“Fine. I shall protect the royal family in our family name, father. Even at the cost of my life.”

There were those heavy words again, the ones you hated ever since you could even understand a single sentence as a child. But you could only despise the fate your family holds. One that you couldn’t do anything to change.

After a long two months, Kyoto seemed prepared for the violence to come. Everyone within the noble area had stocked up on food in case any homes in areas of poverty were ransacked. Every samurai under your father seemed to wait with an eerie patience that always made you uneasy around them.

All of the Takeda clan stood in the palace in front of the royal family, with you and your father standing in the frontlines. Sana looked at you, her eyes full of panic once she heard the platoon of enemy samurai had reached Kyoto’s borders.

“Today is the day. The day we fight for our nation,” the queen announces as she sits comfortably on the luscious throne, not a worry in sight. “You will all do your duties and protect the people of Kyoto at all costs.”

You all bow in loyalty at her words, hands on your sides as you feel your weapons caressing each of your forearms.

Everyone beginning to separate with the words of your father quickly trickling out of the palace. You and your father stay behind for a quick second as he leaves a hand on your shoulder.

“Stay nearing the palace.” It was all he said before he ran off, unable to even respond to him. You couldn’t help but feel her eyes lingering on you, so you looked back, bowing toward her and her only.

As if you were making a silent promise to come back safe.

The streets of Kyoto were unrecognizable beneath the thick veil of smoke and bloodshed. 

The scent of burning wood mixed with the sharp smell of iron in the air, making it nearly impossible to take in a full breath without choking on the stench of war. The sky, once a peaceful shade of blue, was now darkened by the plumes of fire devouring homes, the screams of the fallen echoing between the palace walls.

You had been fighting for what felt like an eternity. 

Your sword arm was heavy, aching from the countless enemies you had struck down, but war didn’t care for your exhaustion. The southern samurai, dressed in dark blue armor, poured into the city like a relentless tide, their manly yells ringing through the battlefield.

You stayed near the palace as your father had ordered, your katana carving through the enemy with ruthlessness. Each strike was deliberate, honed from years of training under his watchful eye. The world around you blurred into a haze of crimson and steel as you parried, countered, and killed without hesitation.

Yet, despite the chaos, your mind flickered back to earlier that night—his previous words flickering in your mind.

The tears you both shed that night. The pain your chest felt. 

You fought harder.

Blood splattered against your cheek as your blade found another throat, the gurgled gasps barely registering in your ears before you turned to the next opponent. You could not afford to think of anything else—only the battle, only survival.

Then you heard it. "Commander!"

The voice cut through the battlefield, filled with panic and urgency.

Your breath hitched, your heart beating out of your chest.

No.

Your body turned before your mind could catch up, your eyes scanning frantically through the sea of armor and bodies. And then—

You saw him.

Your father, the man who had shaped you into the warrior you had become—stood surrounded. He fought as hard as he could, his blade a blur as he fended off multiple enemies at once. But there were too many. 

Too many.

"Father!"

Your scream caught in your throat as you sprinted forward, pushing through bodies, cutting down any enemy that dared step in your path.

One of the southern samurai lunged at him, his sword striking against your father’s armor. He swayed but didn’t fall, retaliating with a swift swing that sent the enemy to the ground. But another followed in his place. Then another.

Your father was fighting with everything he had, but the force and strength of many men… he didn’t stand a chance.

You were almost there. Almost—a glint of steel. Two blades struck him at once.

Time seemed to slow, the battlefield noise softened into a distant hum as you watched in horror. The swords impaled him clean through, one piercing his stomach, the other driving into his back.

He staggered, blood dripping from his lips and from the blade, staining the purple armor covering his body. His knees buckled, his body trembling, but still—he did not fall.

A warrior to the very end.

"NO!" The word ripped from your throat, raw and unrestrained.

Something inside you snapped.

Rage surged through you, feeling blinded and consumed. The world looked painted in red as you charged forward, your grip tightening around your sword.

The first enemy barely had time to turn before you sliced right through his torso, his body collapsing with a slam on the ground. The second raised his blade in a weak attempt to block, but you were quicker—your sword plunged into his neck, severing his head in one clean strike.

Their bodies fell beside your father.

You dropped to your knees, trembling hands reaching for him as his body finally gave out, collapsing into your arms. His breath was shallow, his skin deathly pale, but he still had enough strength to speak to you one last time.

"F-Father—" Your voice broke, your tears mixing with the blood on his armor.

He lifted a shaking hand, grasping onto yours with the last of his strength.

"You… must go," he rasped, each word a struggle. "Protect… the nation."

Your vision was blurred, tears falling freely now. "No, no, please—just hold on, I can—"

A weak, knowing smile graced his lips. "You are so strong, Y/n… stronger than you know." His grip weakened. "Do not… waste time… mourning me." The light in his eyes faded.

His body went limp.

You gasped, a choked sob tearing through you as you clutched him tighter as if holding him close would somehow bring him back.

But he was gone.

The battle still raged around you, but it felt distant and insignificant. The world had collapsed in on itself, and all that remained was the lifeless body in your arms.

Then—

Voices. Urgent whispers. “The princess—she’s helping in the aid tent!”

Sana.

You inhaled sharply, the weight of your father’s final words sinking in. There was no time to grieve. No time to break.

Your fingers trembled as you reached up, closing his eyes before rising to your feet. Your hands clenched around your sword, blood still dripping from its edge.

Your father was gone.

But you were still here.

Your legs felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion, by grief, by the blood of the fallen that stained your once-pristine armor. The weight of your father’s final words pressed against your chest like a boulder, suffocating, unbearable, yet you forced yourself to move.

You had no time to feel anything.

With a final glance at his lifeless body, you swallowed the sob rising in your throat and pushed forward. Your hands gripped the hilt of your sword so tightly that your knuckles burned. You couldn’t stop here. The palace stood strong, for now, but the fight was far from over. You had to ensure the royal family's safety—the safety of your people.

Your mind wandered briefly to Sana. You had overheard the maids whispering about how she had chosen to aid the wounded in the first aid tent rather than remain inside the secured palace walls. 

Even amid war, she chose kindness. It was foolish, reckless even, but it was Sana.

The first aid tent was near the forest’s edge, away from the main battlefield but still within reach of danger. You pushed past your own pain and made your way there, ignoring the sharp sting of cuts across your arms and the throbbing ache in your shoulder where an enemy blade had just missed its mark.

As you neared the tent, something in the air shifted. A gut-wrenching unease crawled up your spine, and you halted in your tracks, eyes scanning the surrounding area. Then you saw them.

Dark blue armor, barely visible between the trees. Southern samurai.

Their movements were calculated and silent, their eyes fixed on the tent filled with wounded samurai and unarmed medics. They were waiting, lurking, preparing to strike. Your heart pounded as you realized their plan. An ambush.

“AMBUSH!”

Your voice rang through the air, sharp and commanding, piercing through the relative calm of the medical tent.

There was a moment of panic inside as medics and wounded alike scrambled for cover. Your body moved on its own, surging forward to meet the approaching enemies before they could reach the defenseless inside.

You barely caught Sana’s wide eyes through the opening of the tent. She saw you—saw the desperation in your face, the aggression in your gaze. You gave her a single, firm nod that silently said, ‘Believe in me.’

And then you turned, sword raised, to meet the first enemy head-on.

The clang of steel rang in your ears as you parried a downward strike, twisting your body to avoid a second attacker. Blood splattered across your face—yours, theirs, you didn’t know. Your focus was only on keeping them away from the tent.

One enemy lunged, but you ducked, slicing cleanly across his abdomen. Another swung for your neck, and you barely managed to deflect the blow, feeling the sting of the blade grazing your shoulder. Pain registered, but you ignored it. You had to lead them away.

Gripping your sword tightly, you took a step back, drawing the enemy toward you. One by one, they followed, their frustration growing as they realized you were keeping them from their actual target. But you didn’t care about their anger. You cared only about winning.

The fight was brutal. Every move burned, every breath was labored. Your arms ached, your vision blurred, but you did not falter. You cut through the group and fought through the exhaustion until, finally, the last enemy collapsed at your feet.

For a moment, all you could do was stand there, chest heaving, your entire body screaming in protest. You had won—but at a great cost.

“Clear! They’re all down!” A rush of relief washed over you, but it was short-lived. Your knees buckled, the world tilting dangerously, but before you could collapse, hurried footsteps approached.

“Y/n!” Sana’s voice.

She was running toward you, her hair slightly disheveled, her pristine robes smeared with traces of blood—assumingly not her own, you hoped. When she reached you, her hands immediately grasped your arms, steadying you as she frantically looked you over.

“You’re hurt!” she breathed, her fingers ghosting over the fresh wounds on your arm, the gash on your side. “I’m fine,” you muttered, even as the world blurred slightly.

“You are not,” she snapped, the rare sharpness in her voice catching you off guard. “You need to rest—”

“I need to go back.” You tried to move past her, but she tightened her grip.

“You are in no shape to fight anymore!”

The intensity in her eyes made you falter. Sana was never this forceful, even this emotional. You had always known her to be composed, gentle in her words and 

mannerisms. But now? Now, she looked furious.

Furious… and terrified. Before you could argue, she wrapped an arm around you, supporting your weight as she all but dragged you toward the palace. You didn’t have the strength to resist.

From your position, the palace was closer than the medical tent, and Sana wasted no time finding an empty room. She guided you to a futon, carefully lowering you down before immediately gathering supplies. 

Her hands trembled as she unrolled bandages and mixed herbs for medicine.

“You shouldn’t be doing this, more… men… out… side…,” you mumbled, watching her fuss over your wounds. “I don’t care,” she retorted, pressing a cloth against your shoulder wound. You hissed in agony but didn’t pull away.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds in the room were Sana’s careful movements, the lack of rhythm of your breathing, and the distant echoes of battle still happening outside.

Then, without warning, she stopped. You glanced at her and saw something shift in her expression. Her eyes, those beautiful brown eyes, softened as she looked at you. There was something different in her gaze, something you had never seen before.

“Sana—?”

Before you could finish, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against yours.

The kiss was soft yet full of emotions you couldn’t quite comprehend at that moment. It was not just a gesture of gratitude—it felt like she was trying to tell you something without saying it. 

When she pulled away, her eyes shimmered, her breath uneven.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Not just for saving her. Not just for protecting the palace. “Thank you for everything.”

“For standing by her my since we first met. For watching over me, for always being my shield. For being my only friend in the world.” You stared at her, your heart pounding for a different reason now. The country was still in chaos. But in that moment, all that existed was Sana. And you.

And the undeniable truth that had been there all along. Sana realized she finally loved you. “I’m not sure if I’m delusional from all the bleeding or if this is real?” You joke, and she smiles but stops as you cough in pain. “I’m the delusional one for not seeing what’s in front of me.” Your smile softens, and she kisses you again.

Your breath hitched as her lips met yours, softer than the first this time, lingering as if she were afraid you would slip away if she let go too soon. Sana cupped your cheek, her touch featherlight, as if trying to memorize the warmth beneath her fingertips. You felt her exhale against your lips, shaky and uneven, before she pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

“I wish we could be like this forever,” you exhale, speaking truthfully. But both of you knew well enough that the possibility was impossible. Sana knew it even better than you did… the prophecy foretold her future, after all.

The ache in your body never fully faded. 

Every movement sent sharp, burning pain through your limbs, a constant reminder of the battle fought just days prior. The deep gashes along your arms, the bruises along your ribs, the healing wound near your shoulder—were a reminder of all the trouble the southern of the samurais. 

But despite it all, you endured. You had to. But Sana made it easier.

She had been by your side in the palace infirmary, tending to your wounds with a quiet look. There was no smile, no playful teasing. Only a focused, almost desperate energy as she worked, her hands trembling when they touched your bandages.

She never spoke of the kiss.

You didn’t either.

Maybe because neither of you knew what it meant. Maybe because it was easier to pretend it hadn’t happened than to acknowledge the weight of what it could become.

But the air between you both had shifted.

She lingered a little longer when she came to check on you. She made excuses to see you, even when the palace healers could more than treat your injuries. Some nights, when the pain made sleep impossible, you’d find her sitting beside you in silence, the dim glow of candlelight casting soft shadows across her face.

And they honored you when you were finally well enough to stand before the royal court.

The grand hall was filled with nobles, warriors, and servants alike, all gathered as the queen herself acknowledged your service. The words meant nothing. 

The praise felt empty. The only thing that mattered to you was Sana, who stood behind her mother, her expression unreadable, her hands clasped in front of her as you bowed before the throne.

You dared to steal a glance at her.

She met your gaze, and that was all you needed.

A week passed, and it became a dangerous cat-and-mouse game between the two of you. You and Sana were careful, and you had to be. The palace was no place for whispered affections or stolen glances, not when eyes were everywhere. But even knowing the risk, you still found yourselves being drawn to her, and Sana would never deny it.

Late at night, beneath the quiet hum of cicadas, she would sneak away from her chambers, slipping through the shadows without ever getting caught. You’d meet her in the palace gardens, hidden beneath the sprawling sakura trees where the moon would shine bright.

You didn’t usually speak about love. But the way she looked at you said enough. The way she reached for your hand, hesitated, then finally intertwined her fingers with yours. The way she leaned into your touch, closing her eyes as if savoring the warmth of your palm—it was enough.

For a moment, in the beautiful cold of the night, you could pretend. But that would never last.

The queen summoned you the week after, and you weren’t aware of what it was for. You had already been honored, given your father a proper burial, and were granted a larger house for your efforts.

The cold fury in her gaze, the barely restrained disgust twisting her features as she sat upon her throne. The court was silent. Servants lined the hall, their heads bowed, afraid to meet your eyes.

Then you realized the situation you were in… they found out about you and Sana.

And then the words came. All the accusations seemed to be an extreme twist on the relationship between you two.

“She suggested they run away and elope.”

“Sana got dragged by her into another room.”

“She would grab on the young lady's hand and yank it!”

You stood there, back straight, jaw clenched, as she condemned you for what you were. For what you had done. For what you had become to her daughter.

She called it unnatural. She called it shameful. She called it punishable by death.

You had expected her to exile you. To strip you of your title, your honor, your name. But she did worse. She made an example of you.

Deciding on public execution.

Not even a swift beheading. No. She wanted you to suffer. To bleed. To die beneath the very sky, you had once sworn to protect. 

Your heart stopped, and your mother tried stopping her efforts. She stood up in front of everyone, yelling to stop this, explaining how loving someone shouldn’t be a crime. She basically ensured you wouldn’t die alone.

You should have known. She had been the queen’s right hand for as long as you had lived, but she was still your mother. And she would not stand for this. She pleaded. She begged. She offered her own life in exchange ,wandthe queen granted her wish.

But with the queen's cold heart, she would be killing two birds with one stone. The moment the order was given, you knew there was no escaping this.

No blade in your hand. No armor to shield you. Nothing but the suffocating weight of Sana’s silence as she stood frozen, her lips parted in horror, her hands trembling at her sides.

She couldn’t speak, move or do anything. She could only watch.

The guards took your mother first. You couldn’t scream but tried to lunge forward, but the grip of three men held you back. Her eyes met yours in that final moment, and she smiled.

“I love you,” she whispered before the katana struck. The world blurred as you were shoved forward, forced to your knees as the executioner raised his blade. You wanted to fight, but how could you? Your injuries still pained you, which caused you to lack any movement.

Sana.

You turned your head, meeting her gaze one last time, seeing her cry. She barely cried. Not the princess who was taught to never show weakness. But for you, she did.

You parted your lips, searching for something—anything—to say, but before the words could leave you, the blade came down. Pain exploded through your body, a deep, burning agony that stole the breath from your lungs. 

You could feel it—your blood pooling beneath you, staining the pristine stone of the palace grounds.

Your body collapsed, and you heard Sana’s deafening screaming. You wanted to tell her it was okay, that you weren’t afraid. That maybe you could find her in another life.

But the words never came.

Darkness consumed you, the weight of the world slipping from your shoulders.

And then—nothing.

Sana didn’t move. She couldn’t even breathe or blink.

She only stared at the lifeless body before her, at the blood that soaked into the earth, at the face she had memorized all her life now frozen in eternal stillness.

This wasn’t happening.

“No… no, this can’t be possible,” she mumbled.

She dropped to her knees, her hands trembling as they reached forward. Pulling you into her arms, she ignored the warmth that still clung to your skin and refused to accept that it was fading.

“Wake up.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, her fingers brushing over your cheek, smearing the crimson that painted your face.

“Please… wake up.”

She shook you, her grip tightening, her nails digging into your bloodstained garments as her breath hitched. “You promised—”

Her words broke, a sob catching in her throat as she cradled you against her chest, rocking you back and forth as if the motion alone could bring you back. But there was no warmth in your embrace anymore. No teasing remarks, no laughter, no whispered affections.

Just cold silence.

Sana lifted her head, eyes wild with grief as she turned toward her mother, her voice cracking under the weight of her agony. “I hate you.”

The queen said nothing.

And Sana—Sana could only hold you tighter, pressing a trembling kiss to your forehead as fresh tears fell, whispering apologies that would never be heard.

Because you were gone.

And she was alone.

Remember those wretched words, ‘Your love will stretch for all eternity.’ Sana laughed hysterically as her tears fell over and over again. Her father ran over to her, trying to hug and calm her down like he usually did. Sana’s grip on your body tightened as she screamed her lungs out, feeling the pain hitting hard.

And for the first time, her mother felt a hint of sympathy. More than that, she was stunned at her daughter's actions. Sana looked a mess; the queen wouldn’t deny that, but then she thought… for the first time, maybe she was wrong.

“I’ll never accept you as my mother, nor will I ever be proud to be your daughter!” The young lady bawls as she clung onto your lifeless body, and your father held onto her hunched figure, tearing up in the state of his own child.

“You don’t deserve to be queen,” Sana said sadly, just crying as she stared at your lonesome face.

[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 "おおらかな愛" (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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.