#blossoming in both light and darkness (jade threads)

[ofwillowsandgreenfieldshasmoved]

The Count & The Little Rebel

starter for @countarganan

A voice cried out for her to halt, startling the teenage girl as the noise boomed out of seemingly no where and crushed the silence around her. Head turned, bright blues snapping back to see two big and gruff looking men in armor-like clothes marching towards her, their faces hardened in scowls and their eyes looked as if they could kill. Why did they look so angry? Well, to be fair, she did technically just trespassed onto the castle grounds, after scaling and jumping over the barricaded wall. 

Panicked, Jade disregarded their heed and took off in a fast sprint, the deep voices of the two men shrieking as they began to chase her, all the while calling out for backup. She didn’t have much time - if she were caught, no, she didn’t even want to imagine what they would do to her, teenager or otherwise. But not only was she running out of time, there were no places she could go to and hide to evade capture; more guards flooded the pathways, cutting off the split second exit routes she planned out. Eventually, she was driven into a dead end and cornered, with no where else to run. They surrounded her and prepared themselves to take her as prisoner. But if there’s one thing that should be known about the young girl, it was not to underestimate her. 

She took a defensive stance. A shimmering orange glow emanated from the palms of Jade’s hands, the light warm against her skin. And it would only grow hotter the more it shimmered, before her hands were suddenly engulfed in crackling flames. No incantations needed to be spoken for this witch, the magic of fire coursing through her veins, flowing free from deep within her soul. 

“Come on!” she challenged bravely (more like recklessly so). “I can take you!” 

[kingsroad]

𝐨𝐜 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬.

i was tagged by the absolute darlings @chuckhansen​ & @risingsh0t! thank you both so much! ♡  i’m tagging @denerims​, @zahra-hydris​, @hiddenqveendom​, @samwilsonns​, @aroserinosman​, @dathomir​, @kingsmakers​ and whoever else would like to give this a shot!

rules: bold what always/definitely applies, italicize what sometimes applies, strikethrough what never applies.

cottagecore

homemade bread, throwing seeds out for the chickens, a tabby cat, patchwork quilts, puffy skirts, ceramic dishes, fresh flowers in a glass jar, herbs hanging from the ceiling, freckles, grey eyes, Athena, old recipe books, a cookie tin filled with recipe cards from grandma, home-sewn pillows, a plate of cookies, the smell of rosemary cooking in a pot of water on the stove, a floral tea pot, salt and pepper shakers, pansies, bartering with neighbors, biking to town, stained glass windows

zen gardencore

rocks raked with precision, bonsai trees, holy temples, moss covering statues of gods and godesses, reading ancient texts, being blessed by your ancestors, trusting and family devotion, watercolors on paper, ink on skin, poetry and art, hot springs, cherry blossoms, little flames flickering behind paper curtains, the smell of incense burning, figurines carved from jade and gold from centuries ago, rain, a mist seeping around your ankles as you make your way to school, a chalkboard, scraps of cloth made into art, origami, your father’s heirloom sword you long to one day pick up like your favorite Disney Princess, tranquility and peace, stubborn and proud

junglecore

exotic animals, tree house, waterfalls, learning the calls of native birds, bright colors and natural materials, bracelets made from wooden beads and bones and feathers, collecting mushrooms, shirts with the sleeves cut off, leaving plastic bottle caps out full of water for frogs to soak in, cutting jeans to make them into shorts, wading in the river, cutting your own hair, bamboo wind chimes, upcycled art, fish in plastic jugs, air plants, climbing up trees using the vines, harvesting your own fruit

forestcore

deep silences of the oldest trees, darkness, log cabins, deer antlers mounted on the wall, rearticulated skeletons, hand-dried pelts, pots of stew cooking over a fire, pancakes in a cast iron pan, brown boots worn from hiking, an old walking stick, bonfires at night, roasting marshmallows and making s’mores, strange markings carved into the bark of trees, ferns that curl up when touched, hearing animals dart here and there but never being able to catch more than a quick glimpse of them out of the corner of your eye, finding half-eaten acorns and mushrooms, large tracks from something you can’t identify, bow hunting

beachcore

seashell collection, model boats, jars of sand, windswept hair, the feel of the wooden boardwalk on your bare feet, big sunglasses, light blue walls, rope hammock, pillows with anchors embroidered on them, flip flops, shining sun, fish tank, sea animal plushies, a steering wheel from a boat on your wall, plates and mugs with seahorses on them, bracelets with plastic shell and dolphin and turtle beads on them, postcards from the ocean, wind chimes made of sea glass

mountain / meadowcore

watching the rabbits down in the valley, reading a book in a window seat, checking the sky for storms, knitting heavy quilts for the winter, many layers of clothing, waking up to see the sunrise and sitting outside for the sunset, enjoying the company of ones-self, mountain goats, clovers, laying in the tall grass underneath the sun, field mice, crystal and gemstone collection, a tin filled with buttons and sewing needles and thread, fresh-brewed coffee in the morning, scones

[direwombat]

rolling some tag memes into one post for the sake of consolidation. tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton​ and @harmonyowl​ to do both an oc nature vibes meme and an oc speech mannerisms meme -- thank you two so much for the tags! 

tagging (to do one, the other, or both, whichever y’all want/applies): @natesofrellis​, @thomrainer​, @aceghosts​, @confidentandgood​, @poeti-kat​, @schoute​, @funkypoacher​, and anyone else who wants to do them!

italics sometimes apply

bolds always apply

strikethroughs never applies

Types of People Naturecore Edition:

COTTAGECORE: homemade bread, throwing seeds out for the chickens, a tabby cat, patchwork quilts, puffy skirts, ceramic dishes, fresh flowers in a glass jar,  herbs hanging from the ceiling, freckles, grey eyes, Athena, old recipe books, a cookie tin filled with recipe cards from grandma, home-sewn  pillows, a plate of cookies, the smell of rosemary cooking in a pot of  water on the stove, a floral tea pot, salt and pepper shakers, pansies,  bartering with neighbors, biking to town, stained glass windows

ZEN GARDENCORE: rocks raked with precision, bonsai trees, holy temples, moss covering statues  of gods and godesses, reading ancient texts, being blessed by your  ancestors, trusting and family devotion, watercolors on paper, ink on  skin, poetry and art, hot springs, cherry blossoms, little flames  flickering behind paper curtains, the smell of incense burning,  figurines carved from jade and gold from centuries ago, rain, a mist  seeping around your ankles as you make your way to school, a chalkboard,  scraps of cloth made into art, origami, your father’s heirloom sword  you long to one day pick up like your favorite Disney Princess,  tranquility and peace, stubborn and proud

JUNGLECORE:  exotic animals, tree house, waterfalls, learning the calls of native  birds, bright colors and natural materials, bracelets made from wooden  beads and bones and feathers, collecting mushrooms, shirts with the  sleeves cut off, leaving plastic bottle caps out full of water for frogs  to soak in, cutting jeans to make them into shorts, wading in the  river, cutting your own hair, bamboo wind chimes, upcycled art, fish in  plastic jugs, air plants, climbing up trees using the vines, harvesting  your own fruit

FORESTCORE: deep  silences of the oldest trees, darkness, log cabins, deer antlers  mounted on the wall, rearticulated skeletons, hand-dried pelts, pots of  stew cooking over a fire, pancakes in a cast iron pan, brown boots worn  from hiking, an old walking stick, bonfires at night, roasting  marshmallows and making s’mores, strange markings carved into the bark  of trees, ferns that curl up when touched, hearing animals dart here and  there but never being able to catch more than a quick glimpse of them  out of the corner of your eye, finding half-eaten acorns and mushrooms,  large tracks from something you can’t identify, bow hunting

BEACHCORE:  seashell collection, model boats, jars of sand, windswept hair, the  feel of the wooden boardwalk on your bare feet, big sunglasses, light  blue walls, rope hammock, pillows with anchors embroidered on them, flip  flops, shining sun, fish tank, sea animal plushies, a steering wheel  from a boat on your wall, plates and mugs with seahorses on them,  bracelets with plastic shell and dolphin and turtle beads on them,  postcards from the ocean, wind chimes made of sea glass

MOUNTAIN/MEADOWCORE: watching  the rabbits down in the valley, reading a book in a window seat,  checking the sky for storms, knitting heavy quilts for the winter, many  layers of clothing, waking up to see the sunrise and sitting outside for  the sunset, enjoying the company of ones-self, mountain goats, clovers,  laying in the tall grass underneath the sun, field mice, crystal and  gemstone collection, a tin filled with buttons and sewing needles and  thread, fresh-brewed coffee in the morning, scones

SPEECH MANNERISMS 

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES: 1 / 2 / 3+ (english and cajun french)

TONE OF VOICE: high / average / deep

ACCENT: yes / no (she normally tones it down, but she has a pretty thick southern accent)

DEMEANOR: confident / shy / approachable / hostile / intimidating

POSTURE: slumped / straight / stiff / relaxed

HABITS - head tilting / swaying / fidgeting / stuttering / gesturing / arm crossing / strokes chin / er, um, or other interjections / plays with hair or clothing / hands at hips / inconsistent eye contact / maintains eye contact / frequent pausing / stands close / stands at a distance

COMPLEXITY:

VOCABULARY: ◼️◼️◼️◼️◻️

EMOTION: ◼️◼️◼️◻️◻️

SENTENCE STRUCTURE: ◼️◼️◼️◼️◻️

PROFANITY:

FREQUENCY: ◼️◼️◼️◻️◻️

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity): ◼️◼️◼️◼️◻️ (most of her creativeness comes when she slips into cajun french)

BOLD ALL THAT APPLY - arse. ass. asshole. bastard. bitch. bloody. bugger. bollocks. chicken shit. crap. cunt. dick. frick. fuck. horseshit. motherfucker. piss. prick. screw. shit. shitass. son of a bitch. twat. wanker. pussy.

THIS OR THAT - straightforward or cryptic? / finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind? / masculinity / neutrality / or femininity? / formalities or with abrasiveness? (the more polite she is, the more she hates you) / praise or equivocation? (depends on whether she likes someone and what she’s responding to)/ frankness or lies? / excessive or minimal hand gestures? / name-calling or magnanimity? / friendly or blunt? (she’s both!)

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS:

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never. (mostly due to her accent)

DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? - almost always / frequently / sometimes / rarely / never.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE? yes / no / only ironically

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE? - but / though / although / however / perhaps / mayhaps.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS? - walk away / ask if that’s everything / say that’s everything / give a proper goodbye / tell their company they’re done here / remain quiet / they don’t.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK? - upper / middle / lower. (she actually confuses people: her accent suggest lower class her vocabulary suggests she’s well educated/well-read)

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS? - accent / vocabulary / tone / level / politeness / brusqueness / it doesn’t.

[nxrthmizu]

#28 with Daminette, please! Also I love your works!

Prompt: ‘Pretending to be a couple and this is a huge mistake AU’ 

Pairing: Daminette

Words: 2904 words 

Note: I kind of changed up the idea a little, hope you don’t mind... 

[Thank you so much for the request hun, I’m so sorry it took be so long...

Enjoy! 💖💖💖]

- Cady

---

Damian had always thought that turning eighteen was a privilege. Boy, was he wrong. It was, in fact, a nuisance.

“Mr. Wayne! Do you have a special someone yet?”

“Mr. Wayne, my daughter is 18 and single, would you like to-”

"Mr. Wayne-"

Galas became a swarming mass of reporters and fathers seeking marriage for their daughters. He could constantly feel chills along his back as women stared at him shamelessly as if he were a prize, their predatorial gaze piercing through his soul. Annoyance tainted every aspect of his features at galas, his siblings constantly reminding him to not scowl so much. But honestly, could you blame him? He couldn’t go anywhere without being pestered by twenty reporters about his love life.

Heck, if he wanted to get a cup of coffee by himself, he had to dress up like a criminal avoiding attention. Lucky for him, there was one special cafe that was out of the way and always offered a little quiet for him- As quiet as it could get, anyway.

The Lucky Bug Cafe.

It was quiet and tucked behind a little street, often filled with just one or two students studying quietly and an old couple casually relaxing by the corner. The Lucky Bug Cafe was run by a single, dark-haired woman who looked at him and thought: ‘Ah, he needs somewhere to lay low for a while’ instead of ‘It’s the heir of the Wayne Enterprises, the Damian Wayne’.

It was another casual morning, and Damian needed his fix of coffee before heading to the office, where he would oversee his father’s (And soon to be his) employees while self-studying his business course. A long day lay in wait ahead of him, and Damian would appreciate and nice, aromatic cup of brewed coffee before he had to survive on the machine-made coffee for the rest of the day.

“Good morning.” The dark-haired woman greeted him with a warm smile, her bluebell eyes twinkling under the glow of the yellow lightbulbs. “The usual?”

“The usual.” Damian nodded, hoodie covering his face.

Leaning against the counter, he watched as she bustled around the area, turning on the machine, humming a song to herself as she headed over to the fridge for fresh milk. He glanced at the glass display case under the counter, eyes flitting over the batches of pastries that she had made for the day.

“Could I get five mint-flavoured macarons, please?” He asked as she set his coffee on the collection counter.

“Oh, of course.” She smiled brightly, already grabbing a paper bag. “They’re my new recipe! Do tell me what you think of them tomorrow.”

Damian smiled, his features softening at the woman’s words. “Sure. Oh, and how’s your website holding up?”

Perhaps one of the reasons they clicked so well together was because they were both... Well, famous. Except that he was the future boss of the Wayne Enterprises and she was the anonymous designer of Nette’s Design and Clothing. Articles concerning the identity of the anonymous designer popped up occasionally on Gotham’s magazines, not to mention that the celebrities that wore her work often ended up on the front page of fashion magazines.

“Good. It’s getting a little flooded these days, but I think I’ll manage.” She said with a giggle, winking at him. To anyone else, it would seem like they were talking about a small, by-the-side online clothing commission business, but both of them knew the true value of their conversation. “Need me to make you a new suit for the gala?”

It was then the idea struck him.

He processed it, and a fierce blush erupted on his cheeks, the said man nearly dropping his paper bag of macarons in the process as he fully understood his idea.

“Are- Are you okay?” She asked instantly, worry clouding her features.

“Yea-Yeah. I’m fine. I’ll... Get back to you on that.” He stammered, knowing that if he stayed a second longer, he was going to blurt out his crazy, stupid idea, and everything was going to be over.

Except that he couldn’t get the idea out of his head as he stared at the ceiling, sleep refusing to overtake him. The idea wouldn’t even leave him alone as he leapt across the streets of Gotham, keeping an eye out for crime.

If he brought Marinette to the gala with him, all the reporters would get off his back.

But then again, Marinette would never have peace again, and he couldn’t do that to her... Right...?

“Morning.” Damian greeted her the next day, dressed in a dark green hoodie. To anyone else, it would seem like a normal hoodie, but in reality, it was his favourite hoodie. ‘NDC’ was stitched in with golden thread on the inside of the sweater- The work of his favourite coffee shop owner. She had gave it to him after two months of their discreet friendship, and it was one of his most valued possessions.

"Morning," She replied with a gentle smile, her eyes morphing into little crescents as she did so. "The usual?" Her fingers never stopped moving, constantly wiping the counter clean or preparing a cup of warm milk. It was just one of the things he found adorable admirable.

"Yeah."

Before he could think, his mouth acted on its own. “Do you think you could be my date for the gala?” He blurted out suddenly, freezing when her movements came to an abrupt stop. Bluebell eyes slowly flicked up to his emerald ones, his heart jumping out of his ribs when those soft orbs stared into his. “You don’t have to say yes, I was just wondering-”

“Okay.”

He could feel his heart fluttering happily as she smiled, her eyes twinkling in bluebell crescents and her lips a soft curve.

“If you don’t mind, could I maybe go as... You know.” She asked shyly, brushing one of her hair strands behind her ears. “I know you want a date because... Well.” She laughed. “The attention, but I was hoping I could go as... Nette instead of... Well, plain ol’ Mari.”

“You’re not plain.” He responded instantly like a reflex action, tone cutting but soft at the same time. “But if you want to go as... It’s your choice. And... Thank you. For understanding.”

The smile she returned him was worth more than a thousand dollars, he thought.

---

Slicking his hair into a neat, presentable style, Damian checked his appearance in the mirror for the last time. The day of the gala had arrived, and they had already discussed all the details of the night over text. They would pretend to be a couple so that the reporters would finally get off Damian’s back, and ‘Nette’ would get her first appearance in public- They had both agreed that Marinette would wear a mask in order to preserve her identity, so that she could stay in a quiet world for just a little longer before she planned her official debut to the world.

The suit felt soft to the touch, a silk moisture across the shiny surface of the dark fabric. Gold threads wrapped around the jade green that Marinette had chosen as the accent of the suit. A jade tie with the same golden embroidery accompanied the suit and the dark-moss green dress-shirt that he had on underneath. ‘NDC’ was stitched carefully in the same cursive lettering that it was on the corner of the suit, the trademark of the designer’s handiwork.

Not wanting to answer his family’s pestering questions, Damian slipped out of the house, acknowledging and thanking whatever deity out there for the wonderful man named Alfred Pennyworth.

Alfred gave Damian a knowing smile, handing him the keys to his new car. “Thank you.” The youngest Wayne thanked the butler, the keys jingling in his hands.

“Treat her like the lady she is.” Alfred advised him, stepping forward to adjust the emerald-eyed man’s tie. There was a quiet, lingering thought inside the older man’s head, but after one more glance at the nervous young adult with a cold outer shell, he decided against the remark.

The car engine rumbled to life with a purr, pulling out of the garage. Alfred watched as the tail lights disappeared into the evening, the thought still clear in his mind.

He’s in love and he doesn’t even realise it.

---

“Hey.”

She opened the door with a smile- God, she never stopped smiling, did she? A little twirl showed off her dress, made in the same palette as his suit. Jade green and moss green strips of thick fabric made the dress blossom into a flower shape around her ankles. The top half of the dress hugged her curves in all the right ways, a braided rope going over her neck to hold the dress up. The sleeveless-ness of the dress showed off the smooth skin of the designer, not to mention her striking, sharp collarbones that were on full display.

“You look beautiful.” He managed, knowing full well it was a lie that he had just uttered. She wasn’t beautiful, god, no. She was absolutely stunning and gorgeous, and he would give anything to keep that smile on her lips. He had to mutter up all of his resistance and self-control to prevent himself from reaching out to stroke her soft, dark hair.

“Thank you.” The smile would’ve made him melt into a Damian-shaped puddle, except he had a date and he would have to wait until the night was over to melt into a puddle. “Shall we?”

He offered her his arm, like the gentleman his dad butler had taught and raised him to be. The feeling of her soft skin in his hands made roses flower over his cheeks, his heart beat a little louder, and the affectionate feeling in his chest double in size.

The drive to the gala was the most interesting car ride he ever had. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he listened to her sing to the songs on the radio, occasionally joining in shyly, both their voices dancing in an intricate dance of harmony. Her laugh tinkled like wind chimes; her smile glowed like the moon on a clear night; her voice soothed his soul like a warm bowl of soup. There was absolutely nothing on his mind but her and her only.

“Are you ready?” He asked, pulling up in front of the gala’s entrance. Reaching for the mask on her lap, he placed in on her gently, careful not to tug on her hair as he adjusted it.

“For our fake date?” She giggled. “As I’ll ever be.”

A smile danced on his lips as he pushed the car door open, for once, not annoyed by the bright flashes of the cameras. He wanted the world to know how amazing Marinette Dupain-Cheng was, and he wanted her to rise to top of the fashion world and beyond. There was nothing that would make him feel more honoured than the fact that he would be the one that introduced her to the world, watching as she took over the rest of the fashion kingdom like the queen she was.

“M’lady.” He whispered, pulling her car door open as he offered his hand for her, bowing slightly. Whispers clouded the air, quickly replaced by gasps as Marinette took it gracefully, stepping out with the aura of a goddess. He planted a light kiss on her palm, emerald eyes bright and soft in the dying light of the evening.

“Thank you. Shall we?” She smiled in return, never removing her hand from his grasp.

He nodded to her, gesturing for the valet to take his car away, tossing the man the keys. He normally wouldn’t trust anyone else with his car, but at the moment, escorting to beautiful bluenette was the only priority in his mind.

Because she was the only thing that mattered, after all.

---

Funnily enough, he didn’t feel triumphant at all.

Damian had thought that if he got a woman to pretend to be his girlfriend, well, he would enjoy the disappointed looks on the fathers’ faces and the burning anger in the girls’ eyes. Well, it wasn’t the case at all.

He was absolutely mesmerised with the designer next to him, who was talking gracefully to the CEO of one of Gotham’s fashion magazines. She was the definition of grace, beauty, and poise. Everything about her said goddess. She practically radiated power into the room, even when she didn’t realise it. There was a calm to her that made her seem like a cool-headed queen, and boy he would be willing to be her knight any day.

“I’m going to go get some wine.” He whispered to her, arm looping around her waist naturally. They truly did give off the ‘dating’ vibe, but he was too absorbed in her to notice.

“Okay.” She smiled, only this time it made him feel something else. No, not just a little flutter of his stomach, or a resounding thump of his heart. In fact, the first thought going through his head was that he wished, hoped, prayed that he could wake up to that smile for the rest of his life. He could picture it in his mind- Her, curled in his arms, her dark hair spreading into an intricate net behind her, eyes closed softly.

He could see her eyes fluttering open, see her yawn and stretch before nestling back into his embrace, only this time her eyes were open and there was a loving smile on her lips, and she was speaking.

“Morning, love.”

It took him a moment to realise that he had been stupidly standing there after stating that he was going to get them some drinks. Both the CEO and Marinette stared at him expectantly, wondering why he had suddenly got into a daze.

He found a waiter, easily plucking two wine glasses from the man’s tray before making his way through the crowd, who parted for him like the red sea parted for Moses. It was infuriating; He couldn’t get the picture out of his head. Her, nestled into his arms... No, they were on a fake date, and it was only for one sole purpose... It wasn’t as if he liked her... Right?

Wrong.

---

He made a mistake.

It wasn’t until after the night ended that he begin to feel the pain. His heart ached when she left, thanking him for the night. For the next few days, photos of Damian Wayne and the mysterious, masked Nette clouded the cover pages of magazines, reminding him over and over of that one night that he got to live.

His family hadn’t stopped pestering him about what in the world happened, Damian, and after Tim had found out Nette’s identity through the batcomputer’s wide database, it didn’t take long for the rest of the family to piece ‘Damian-might’ve-fell-in-love-with-a-cafe-shop-owner-who-happens-to-be-a-world-wide-famous-designer’ together. 

“You should ask her on a real date sometime soon, Master Wayne.” Alfred told him offhandedly as Damian strolled into the kitchen. The butler was busy polishing wine glasses, placing them neatly back onto the shelf when he was done.

“It’s kind of too late.” He muttered quietly, sinking onto the chair, the soft fabric of the dark green sweater comforting him.

Alfred sighed, placing down the glass with a sonorous clink. “It’s never too late for anything, Master Wayne. Not if you take the chance and make a move.” Damian met the older man’s eyes for a second, realising what he needed to do. It was as if someone had took a lighter and relit the candle in his heart.

“I’m going out, Alfred.” He said abruptly, never pausing to see the proud smile on the older man’s face. “I don’t think I’ll be home for dinner.”

“Noted, Master Wayne. Your car keys are on the counter in the living room.”

---

He didn’t bother to pull on his hoodie, barging through the back door of the Lucky Cat Cafe before turning back on second thought, closing the door gently, muttering a sorry to the poor door that just got kicked open in the heat of the moment.

“Why are you apologising to a door?” Her laugh sounded behind her, the woman giving him an amused look.

“I... Kicked it open.” He admitted, before remembering what he had come to do. “Marinette.”

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Yeah?”

“I know the gala was a fake date, and we did it because it benefitted the both of us, but-!” He caught himself, realising that for once he was doing something without a plan. “But I don’t want that.”

She stared at him blankly. “Um... That’s fine. We didn’t tell the media we were dating, it could’ve been a one-time thing...”

“No!” He burst out, his heart nearly overflowing with emotions. “It took me a long time, but I-! I want to date you. For real. And take you out. And do the sappy things that Grayson does with his girlfriend. And take care of you. I want to date you for real.”

Her mouth was open in an ‘o’, and he wondered briefly if he broke her. Then a smile slipped across her lips, and he could see it again- Both of them, sharing a home, sharing a life, and then a child with dark blue hair and emerald eyes-

“Okay.”

---

sjskjsks I was so worried about the plot!!! Was it choppy? And in the words of my ninth grade english teacher, did it lack fLoW??? I’m so sorry if it didn’t live up to expectations, I lost where I was going with this- 

On another note I have this headcannon that the two students and old couple always knew that he was Damian Wayne, they were just ‘oh he’s totally in love with Mari, this is really sweet and we’re going to stick around and watch’ and when he asked her out for the gala he was actually being really loud and they were all just legit eavesdropping and the two students going ‘jskjskjkjkjs he finally asked her out oh my god the ship is sailing’ and the old couple going ‘aww how sweet’ and ‘my boy finally got his courage together, so proud of him even tho im not his dad but still’. 

Anyways I was thinking of another way to get around the MDC nickname for Mari as a designer and I thought Nette would be a cool name for her, and DC stands for Design and Clothing. 

Once again thanks for sending in the request, sorry that it took so long bby <3 

Requests are open, just head over to my blog, check out the rules and specifications, then shoot your request right into my inbox, I’ll be waiting. 

Also I’m watching Haikyu and I am IN LOVE with those babies, gonna start writing fics and opening up requests for the Haikyu fandom once I get a better grip on the characters’ personality. 

Okay, I’ve been talking too much. Bye and thanks for sticking around to the very end, lol. I can be quite talkative when I’m typing anddd I’m just going to stop now before I write another paragraph 

- Cady

[johaerys-writes]

Fandom: The Song of Achilles

Pairing: Achilles/Patroclus

Chapter 8: Like Gods, At The Dawning Of The World of High-Flying Birds is up! Some fluffy sweetness and tender smut with the world’s happiest boys, from Patroclus’ POV :)

Read here or on Ao3! Or read from the beginning 

*****

I woke up with my nose buried in Achilles’ hair, my chest pressed up against his back. I did not remember falling asleep like that. I must have curled against him in my sleep without realising it, I thought, and panic gripped me. I almost pulled away from him- what if he rose to see me like this? What if he’d seen already, what if-

It took a moment for me to remember that he had done the same, only hours before. I could still feel the ghost touch of his lips against my own, his fingers that had tangled in my hair, that had pulled me close. I remembered the things I’ve said, the sounds I’d made. My cheeks flushed and my skin warmed, but I did not dare unfold from where I was lying beside him, for fear of waking him, of the spell that had settled between us finally breaking. Achilles was soundless in his sleep, his chest rising and falling beneath my arm, his narrow ribs contracting and expanding. Each breath came like the sea, like the waves that lapped at the sand only to retreat again.

The sea, I whispered. She couldn't see us here. Thetis, the person that terrified me most of all, couldn't see us here.

I pressed myself further against him, pulled him flush to me. Felt the movement of his breaths in my own lungs, the beating on his heart in my own chest, took a deep breath of his scent- almonds and honey, musk and clean sweat, sandalwood and fresh soil. Him.

He shifted on the pallet, turned around and smiled at me, humming sleepily. His hand found my own in the rose-grey light of dawn, his fingers threading through mine. My pulse skipped as my fingers tightened over his as if by instinct. We lay like this for a while, simply touching, simply holding, breathing each other's air.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his lips moving against my cheek. I could only smile. My throat was tight with the happiness that swelled and rose within me, like a cotton cloud. I kissed the fair skin of his brow, and held him close to me as we watched the world come awake around us.

When the sun had finally risen, we rose with it, making our way to Chiron and the breakfast he had prepared for us. We ate hastily -I only had a bite of dried fig and a piece of cheese, my stomach was too tight with giddiness for me to eat anything else- and then we went to the stream. We washed in the crisp waters, then sat on the grass, letting the sunlight warm our bodies and the soft breeze dry us. Achilles lay next to me, golden and resplendent. He blinked his eyes open and looked at me, and, for once, I didn't drag my gaze away. I could look at him openly now, I realised, without worrying that he would see, that he would bolt like a startled deer if he took notice of my affection. The thought moved me and filled me. To look at him, without fear, and to be looked at in return- it was a miracle.

Achilles' gaze was sharp and inquisitive, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Your hair," he said, tilting his head to the side. "I like the way it curls around your face, how the ends wisp over your brow. Have I told you that before?"

He reached out and smoothed a strand away from my forehead. My skin prickled with his touch. "You have not," I whispered.

He propped himself up on his elbow, his eyes unabashedly gliding over my naked form, from the top of my head to my toes and back. His fingers skimmed my brow, my cheek, the hollow of my throat. Stayed for a breath under my collarbone, then moved slowly down, following the dip in my chest. "Your freckles," he said. "There's a lot of them."

"Is there?" I blinked at him, my breath growing shallow. I could already feel warmth blossoming within me under that curious gaze.

Achilles nodded, drawing smooth lines between each tiny dark point on my skin. He counted them, one by one. Two under my collarbone, one on my neck. Four on my stomach, two near my navel. A cluster of them on my shoulder. A small one, barely visible, on the inside of my thigh. I felt breathless with that slow, quiet exploration of my body, with the tenderness with which those slender fingers that I knew so well touched me, as if I were a new instrument to be learnt. He studied my form with the same razor sharp focus he applied to everything else; fingers that plucked the strings of his lyre with care and precision were now roaming freely over me, now pausing, then gliding, then pausing again to examine something new, something he’d never noticed before and that now fascinated him.

It felt odd, to be the object of such intense observation. More than odd, it felt natural, when it came from him. It felt right. Before I knew it, my hands had also strayed from my sides to smooth over the muscles of his arms, to follow the curve of his shoulder, to rest in the hollow of his throat. The tendons moved gently under my palm when he turned to look at me, twin shards of jade peering at me under his heavy lids. Strands of golden sunlight caught in his damp locks, in the drops of water that still lingered on his skin. I leaned close, brushing my nose over his; his breath warmed me, made my skin prickle. Plush, pillow soft lips parted readily under my own. I could do nothing but surrender myself to their smooth, rhythmic movement.

His lips moved lower, tracing the line of my jaw. I shivered with the gentleness with which they mapped my skin. I arched helplessly into his touch when his tongue, cool and slick, brushed over my collarbone, following that line that he so liked to touch. After this, I mirrored his movements. I had quickly found out that there was a rhythm he liked when I kissed him, that would make his breath come faster, the pupils of his eyes to swell, his lids to grow heavy. I threaded my fingers through his hair, twisting them between his damp strands, marvelling at the fact that I could touch him as I had longed to touch him for days, nights, months on end.

I half expected him to turn away. Every time I looked at him, I anxiously awaited the moment when he would glance away from me, as we had both done so many times before. Every time I touched him, I half expected him to move out of my grasp, to shun me, to cast me aside. Yet, with every second that passed, those thoughts drifted further and further from my mind. He was there, and the desire in his gaze was as plain as my own must be, and he welcomed my touch as I did his own. My heart fluttered in my chest like a newborn bird, struggling to take flight.

Before I knew it, his mouth had moved lower, caressing my stomach, the tip of his nose brushing my belly button. The flicker of amusement in Achilles’ gaze when he glanced up at me made my cheeks warm even more.

“There’s something I want to try,” he said, the edges of his lips curling upwards in his cat smile.

“You do?”

The smile widened. I tilted my head to the side and sighed, watching as Achilles moved lowered still. His palms were smooth and flat on my stomach, holding me as his mouth traced the dark line of hair that led to my navel. My skin prickled, every hair standing on end when I felt his breath brushing my already hardening length. Then, his lips were on me, enveloping me in wet, velvet heat.

I gasped, my breath hitching in my throat. I had often heard the boys back in the palace talking about this, about this and this that the serving girls had done with them. These conversations never held much interest for me, my mind always slipping away like an eel. Yet now, as Achilles’ mouth closed around me, his lips sliding slowly down then up again, my skin felt full to bursting, heat bubbled in my core. I arched helplessly into his touch as he took me in deeper, holding my gaze all the while. I felt caught, pinned in place by the intensity of those piercing eyes, and I did not dare to look away. I was wading in seas of green and gold, swept by the currents, drawn ever deeper into the unknown with every swipe of Achilles’ tongue. I crested on a wave, then tipped over a razor sharp edge; the dappled light that filtered through the trees seemed just that little bit brighter, the mountain air around us crisper when electric pleasure spiralled through every vein. Achilles held me fast as I shuddered, his touch anchoring me through the waves of ecstasy that rolled over me.

I was breathless when he finally released me, pressing soft kisses along my stomach and my chest on his way up. I wearily blinked my eyes open to look at him as he hovered over me. His beauty was breathtaking, but more than that, there was a purity to him, like the first flakes of whitest snow. A wild orchid swaying with the breeze in a field of tall mountain grass had less grace than he did; the drops of dew on velvet flower petals, shimmering with the early light of dawn, would seem dull and lifeless compared to the golden flecks in his bright eyes.

I reached up, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear, caressing the perfect curve of its shell as I did. My throat tightened, full with the words that I had kept from him for so long, and my eyes burned with unshed tears. “I have never been more happy,” I whispered.

He smiled at me and the warmth of it made me shiver. He leaned down to brush his lips, flushed and glistening, over my own. I sighed when I tasted the sweetness of his tongue, and something else, something sharp and salty, fresh oysters and sea-bitters.

“This is how it will always be between us.” There was satisfaction in Achilles’ gaze, and fierce certainty in the way his fingers twined through my own. “There’s nothing else in the world but you and me.”

“Yes.” I breathed the word against his mouth, giddy and effervescent with joy, wrapping my arms and legs around him to pull him close. As close as I could. “Just you and me.”

[floralgardenswitchesmoving-blog]

@heroicissm

Preoccupied with tending to the floral arrangement, Jade didn’t turn around to greet the potential customer when she heard the bell chime as the door was opened. She merely said, “I’ll be with you in a minute,” before returning to care for the lilacs. All of a sudden, she froze, her senses were ensnared by the essence of an aura - an aura that felt human... yet it was old - ancient...A faint smell of what she believed to be ash clung to the atmosphere, along with a darkness that had her blood running cold. She could sense danger, warning bells ringing frantically in her head. Something was wrong.

“Good evening, sir,” the witch greeted politely, wearing a mask that held a friendly smile despite the panic swirling inside. “Welcome to the Floral Gardens. Anything specific you’re looking for today or are you just browsing?”

[samanthaxreed]

                                               SOLO THREAD

Locale: Sam’s apartment / Oceanside Cemetery

Mentioned: @fireinhislungs, @gracetaylorwilliams, @jessexmarino​, @naomixjones​

Dinner with her father went off with only a few conversational lulls, far less awkward than anticipated and yet not completely fluid. Like two people rowing a canoe at different speeds, both attempting to turn it in the same direction without being fully in sync. It would come with time Sam supposed and as she began cleaning dishes, bright hues caught sight of her father throwing a cursory examination of the window latches before shifting attention to the folded sweater on her couch. “Are you holding that for somebody?”

It took everything in her not to snort. “Real subtle... It doesn’t belong to some secret lover if that’s what you’re getting at.”

His chagrin at being caught was palpable enough to soften Sam’s raised brow, almost lingering on the edge of amused before he continued. “I worry about you living in this place alone, Samantha. No roommate, no boyfriend, or... girlfriend?” The blonde visibly winced then, hands resuming the task at hand to avoid discussing something so personal with a person she truly didn’t know well at all. Her father, still a near stranger. “Look, take it from me that too much alone time drives you a little nuts and it’s probably safer in numbers around here.”

The audacity to gently lecture as if his brand of advice mattered in the grand scheme when he never deemed it necessary until now. A measured swallow and breath came before she pivoted features to address him in a way that wouldn’t entirely nuke their still rather tepid relationship. The pair lingered a hair away from disaster and the only indication she managed to give was a firm warning. “Dad, I know what you’re trying to say, but I can take care of myself. I’m doing just fine and you’re forgetting that I literally lived here at one point.” With him and her mother, ironically enough. Apparently Oceanside had been worth settling in during her formative years, but once she could choose for herself it no longer suited the narrative.

“You always did have your mother’s stubbornness.” That, at least, managed to ring true and she might have been able to ignore that comment with a scoff or quick humor picked up from his side, but her father always prodded the right button. “I’m trying to keep you safe, okay?” Definitely a hothead like her abrasive mother because the knife she’d been wiping down tightened within Sam’s slender grasp. Hell of a time to start giving a shit, but she digressed. “Because Oceanside isn’t how you remember it and ignoring that fact’s gonna get you hurt if you don’t pay attention... I understand if it brings you comfort being here, but it’s not the same.”

The sharp utensil she had been cleaning finally clattered against metal as it hit the base of her sink, dropped in frustration because it wasn’t his business. None of it. He surrendered that right when the ink dried on her custody papers; parental claim relinquished unequivocally. “I’m not blind. I can fucking see that it’s worse and I’m not walking around the city with rose colored glasses.” Quite the opposite, suffocating every blossom of nostalgia before it could spring out of the dirt... Or ash, depending upon how one looked at it. “The whole me getting poisoned thing shot that down right out of the gate, but I’m not just–– I’m not giving up on this and lots of people I care about live here.” She swallowed against the vulnerability, choking it down like a bad tequila shot. “Which means there’s something worth sticking around for, so if you’re trying to talk me out of it then go ahead and call up Fletcher. Let him tell you how well that worked out the last time somebody tried.” 

“Take it easy,” he cautioned with infuriating ease against her rising temper. “I’m only trying to look out for your best interest. If something happened to you, I wouldn’t forgive myself.” The chuckle she gave in response lacked both humor and warmth, practically bewildered at his entire savior complex... And bitter, so unfathomably jaded at this ill conceived timing. Too little, too late. “Yeah, well, you’ve been asleep on the job for twenty-eight years so it’s convenient that you woke up to do it now.”

That must have cut deep because her father maneuvered out of the kitchen doorway, hands raised defensively as if she were still holding the knife. It sort of felt like that, but her tongue became the barb instead. Stabbing repeatedly when he hardly deserved it, angered more at unseen and unresolved forces. “I know I wasn’t always as involved as I could have been, but I did raise you––”

“You didn’t raise me, you avoided me because it was easier to spend time at the casino than come home to the life you picked out. And before you start accusing me of favoritism, Mom didn’t do shit either. You want to talk about romanticizing the past? Take a look in the fucking mirror.” Fists clenched against her side were blanched white at the knuckles, three decades of resentment spilling out in verbal blows that Sam knew she couldn’t take back. Nor did she want to, not tonight. “The Williams raised me. And when they were gone, I raised myself and I did a damn good job at it.” 

Some part of her would regret this moment later when his features came to mind, the shame and clear heartbreak written across them undeniable. “I didn’t realize that’s how you felt.” They had backed up fully into her living room, or perhaps she simply cornered her father with truthful criticisms when he’d only wanted to help. So much for repairing their relationship. “Yeah, well... I ruined your lives so I guess it’s only fitting that you ruined mine.” Arms crossed protectively over her middle, both avoiding one another’s gaze out of mutual hurt and then she heard the door unlock. 

“I wish you hadn’t come back here, Samantha.” 

While sounding bad on the surface, she knew full well it was meant as a last olive branch and proof that he loved her despite the vitriol, but Sam’s throat had tightened too far to respond. He slipped out into the evening air and despite how she wished to move, or scream, or burst into a thousand shards to match her internal schism, both feet remained firmly planted for several minutes. 

Then she darted across to her purse, snatching it up along with the sweater draped along the back of her sofa. No phone, she didn’t need to talk anymore. At least no one listed in there.

–––––

One bottle of some cheap rosé from the grocery store later and she was back on the road, navigating some vaguely familiar route down the coast. GPS wound up becoming necessary at some point much to her embarrassment, but twelve years away wasn’t nothing and darkness made fools of everyone. Her car pulled into the cemetery parking lot and for a minute she simply sat with the engine idled, replaying pieces of their conversation in her mind. Not just with her father, but Fletcher, Grace, Jesse, Naomi... People who existed in her former life that now began slotting into this new, convoluted one. 

The gate’s lock was either open already or rusted by the sea air, but it hardly mattered because Sam entered without much barrier. Weaving through headstones, she discovered that the path to her destination sprouted from memory which was altered by nighttime shadows and the fickle mistress of time. After getting turned around once, she eventually made it and settled into a small plot of grass, unscrewing the lid of her bottle and toasting in mock cheers to her company.

                        In Loving Memory of Brooke Williams

The sight alone was enough to tighten something imperceptible within her chest, washed away by the peachy drink and a half-hearted joke. “Sorry for sitting on you, but that should be nothing new. Kick me off if you hate it.” Talking to a ghost as if the long deceased girl were able to hear felt stupid on about three hundred levels, but Sam hadn’t been granted the privilege of catching up for so long. And after arguing with her parent, she just needed her best friend and other half. 

“I think that maybe... everything in my life is temporary now,” she admitted to the silence. “And sometimes I can even convince myself that I’m okay with it. Never attaching myself to anybody or anything.” Mostly through her own design, sabotaging any concept of permanence before it, too, could be ripped away without warning. A self preservation measure concocted when she was far too young; no kid should delve so far into their own fear that they only knew how to run. “Except here. I feel like I keep circling back to this place and these people... And you. Always you.” For someone who only an hour previous claimed to raise herself, she truly did an immaculate job at creating an adult who wound up successful, capable, and so unbearably alone.

Maybe she should have called Fletcher instead, the thought interjected itself and became quickly dismissed. Hadn’t enough trouble been thrust upon his shoulders? And Grace’s? Stripped of their entire family in the course of a single night, tossed into a system which spat them back out, and molded to fit a world that clearly didn’t give a shit. The last thing either one needed was a reminder walking back through their door, but she had with such unfathomable selfishness. Perhaps guilt brewed in the pit of her stomach over how she treated her father tonight or that continuous fear of making the wrong move, but uncertainty brought the rim to parted lips once more.

“I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore, B.” It was easier to draw honesty from her bones out here, less like pulling water from a stone with only a bottle and the faint ocean breeze answering back. Rather than eerie or unsettling, the dim light provided a quiet comfort of remaining unseen in the midst of such raw admittance. “I don’t think I belong in this city like I used to, but I’m scared––” There was that thickness in the far reaches of her throat again. “I’m afraid that if I don’t belong in Oceanside then I don’t really belong anywhere. So what the hell do I do?”

She had belonged once, in a flickering memory of happiness that remained pure despite life’s valiant attempts to extinguish it. Friendship bracelets with her name misspelled on accident. Brooke telling Fletcher he could only join their pillow fort if he killed the spider inside. Grace’s laughter from beneath the hood of an old car as she threw a grease laden rag at Mr. Williams. They were supposed to grow old together, buy houses on the same street, live out impossibly normal lives. So beautifully mundane in their cookie cutter regularity. Even after the worst overtook them, she had been naïve enough to believe in some echo of that future; a broken shell, but enough to keep her head above water.

In that alternate time, Grace taught her to drive manual and took Sam to get her license, the pair bonding in a way that she only dreamed of as a child who idolized the eldest Williams beyond words. She would have thanked the brunette for being the only stable adult in her life and the only one worth counting on. In that alternate timeline, she got Fletcher trashed on his twenty-first birthday and sat on the bathroom floor with him all night in apology. She would have told him the truth at some point, even if he didn’t reciprocate. So many what if’s that were robbed before they even began and now she grasped at smoke, unable to hold it between desperate fingers. Why couldn’t she just let things go like a well adjusted person? Why did she leave claw marks etched into every memory?

More wine, but this time it tasted distinctly of saltwater as the wind brushed over damp cheeks.

[vannahfanfics]

Lucid Dream

Category: Hurt and Comfort, Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Naruto

Characters: Shikamaru Nara, Sakura Haruno

EDIT: This beautiful piece of artwork was made by the lovely @deliathedork​ who just can’t seem to stop spoiling me rotten with all the presents! TT.TT Please give her some love too! She is very, very talented!

Bonjour, mes amis! Here’s today’s story for ShikaSaku Week Hanami, prompt “Drip, Drip, Drip (Our Blood). For some reason I really like writing in Shikamaru’s POV… Anyway, enjoy~

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The slow, melodic sound was the first thing to greet Shikamaru as he phased into consciousness. His vision rolled as he forced his eyes open but could only manage to part his eyelids into a small slit for the overwhelming nausea that engulfed him upon doing so. Eyelashes fluttering like a trembling leaf as he struggled to keep his eyes open and survey his surroundings and current situation, the water kept dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip. Dust was dancing in thin brown clouds all around him. It was dark save for a few spearing shafts of light pouring down from large, gaping holes in the ceiling.

A ceiling- he was in a building, or what was left of it. Chunks of the wall and roof were littered around him in great heaping gobs of crushed stone, with little pebbles and normal-sized rocks scattered around like their voluminous brood. Glass intermingled with the carnage, glowing with sheen as they reflected the harsh sunlight invading the dark space. Shikamaru turned his head to his left, though the muscles in his neck and shoulders screamed loudly in protest, to find a cavernous expanse stretching out just beside him. The floor- and the three stories underneath- lie far below in an indistinct collection of rubble. Illuminated by the sunlight below, a large red puddle bloomed on the smooth surface of one of the rock faces, a lake of blood that splintered off into many rivers that meandered into the cracks.

Drip. Another bead of blood bloomed on the tip of his finger from where his arm was slung carelessly into the void, then detached itself to fall down, down, down and splash into the puddle below. Blood. His blood, to be exact. It was a lot. How was he bleeding so much?

The spike of twisted metal embedded through his lower abdomen provided that answer. The jade green of his vest was dyed a dark brown where the blood had seeped into the thick fabric. He shifted slightly and could feel the sticky mass of blood squelching against his backside, traveling all the way down his left leg. The stretch of floor that he was laying on was sloped downwards and to the left, allowing the blood to run up his body, catch on his left arm, and pool on his hand before gravity stole it away.

“Well, shit,” he wheezed. His right arm twitched as he tried to move it, but the muscles were hesitant to comply at first. Slowly, he eased his arm up; his right hand shook violently that it made tremors wrack all the way up to his shoulder. Somehow, he wrapped his hand around the spear of metal that was jutting out of his stomach and gave it an experimental tug. All he earned himself was shooting pain blooming like flower petals from the epicenter of his wound; his head smacked back against the concrete as he hissed loudly in agony. That certainly wasn’t budging. It was probably his luck that the metal was worked into the concrete and had bent upon the building collapsing, and he had landed right on top of it. Pulling it out was counter-productive anyway; he would bleed out almost instantaneously. Shikamaru’s eyebrows threaded together as he fought to remember how he had ended up in such a drag in the first place.

The memories threaded like beads of dew on a spiderweb, spaced far apart but no less interconnected; he recalled something about raiding a suspected drug cartel compound. He tugged at the thread in his mind, hoping that all the dew beads would merge to form a coherent series of events. Green eyes and pink hair suddenly clouded him memories. Sakura, that’s right, he was with Sakura in the fifth-floor raid party; to catch the enemy unawares, they had planned to attack every floor at once to keep those on the upper floors from barricading themselves in or utilizing a secret escape route. It had been going all fine and dandy until some nutjob had decided to strap a bunch of paper bombs to himself to become a martyr. They had been in far too close quarters for the both of them to escape, and Shikamaru’s brightest idea at the time had been to wrench Sakura out of the window then dive for the stairs. The paper bombs had exploded and the floor had collapsed, and apparently, Shikamaru had ended up here.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The blood continued to accumulate in the rubble below.

Sakura… Is she okay? The girl was by no means a slouch, but she probably hadn’t expected to be flung off the fifth floor of a building, either. Shikamaru ought to be concerned with himself, but his thoughts were bent on the medical ninja. He could’ve killed her, really. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that were the case. Of all the things, that stupid set of decisions? He should’ve reacted faster. There were any number of alternate scenarios that could’ve unfolded, but that had been the one he had opted for. God, he was an idiot. If she did live, he almost hoped he did die to spare himself the beating he was sure to catch later.

Wow. He was actually acting like he was going to make it out of this alive. His vision, already fuzzing black around the edges, settled once more on the sharp metal bit jutting out of his abdomen. Shikamaru felt bile rise up in the back of his throat as he felt the acidic tang of fear beginning to flood his mouth. His grip tightened around the iron, as if his hand alone could shatter it. Waves of tingling numbness began to course over his body, head to toe. Then there was that goddamned dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip. It pulsed loudly in his eardrums like tinnitus, sending spikes of pain shooting into his skull with each accursed drop. He didn’t want to die. It’s not like Shikamaru was the biggest go-getter, but still, there were things he wanted to accomplish in life before kicking the bucket. He had to see Naruto become Hokage. More than that, he had to be that dumbass’s advisor, because he sure didn’t trust anyone else to do it. God, even though it was a drag, he wanted to get married, maybe have a kid or two, watch them grow up… Maybe, then, maybe he could die- but not right now. Not yet.

Sakura.

Maybe the blood loss was making him delirious. He was trying to keep his breath from coming in ragged, shallow gasps, because the faster he breathed, the faster the blood pumped through his veins, and the faster his blood began to drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Had it sped up? How long had it been since the building collapsed? One minute? Ten? How close was he to death, actually?

Sakura.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Girls were a drag. Shikamaru had always thought so. Seeing Ino and Sakura butt heads like fighting mountain goats was enough to solidify that in his brain. Yet… Somehow they had become less of a drag, over time. Especially her. Especially Sakura. He admired her, even. She was a bit feisty, but he preferred that to a total giggly fake pushover. She was smart, so he could hold intelligent conversation with her. She was strong, stupidly so, which meant Shikamaru never had to worry. Of course he hadn’t hurt her throwing her out of the building. It was Sakura, after all. She probably hurt the ground rather than the other way around.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He was definitely delirious. His vision swam like swirling water before his hazy eyes. He didn’t even have the strength to hold his head up any more. One minute? Ten? It felt like a lifetime. He was definitely delirious, because he was regretting not telling her that he loved her. When did that happen? They hung out, sure. They were often paired on missions because they worked well together. He’d walked her home after they went out to dinner a couple times, but that was just work stuff. Friend stuff, if he was being generous.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Did he think about her sometimes? Sure, but his mind just wandered like that. Wandered, to her pink hair like the cherry blossoms in bloom, to her spring green eyes that sparkled like a beautiful sea they had seen once in a mission out of the country, to her beautiful smile that shone like the sun itself. He had to be delirious, because he could see her before his waking eyes, calling his name with tears in those eyes like new spring growth.

“Shikamaru! Shikamaru, can you hear me?”

Was she actually there? Was she an illusion? Shikamaru really couldn’t tell. Everything around her was a smudge of indistinct grays and blacks and browns with those burning streaks of white light, yet she was so crisp and clear. His eyes settled on an abnormality, on the trail of bright red blood streaming down the side of her face from a gash in her forehead. Was that his fault? It traveled down her cheek, mixing with her pouring tears, down to her chin, where it beaded like a red jewel and dropped down onto his vest. Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Sakura… You’re… Bleeding…” Was that his voice? It sounded so garbled, like a frog croaking. His whole body was numb at this point, and the only point he knew that he had actually lifted up his hand was when it appeared in his line of sight. His trembling thumb gently swept over the thin laceration as his expression contorted into one of regret. “Sorry…”

“What? This? No, no, this is nothing!” Maybe it was his imagination, but she seemed to lean into his touch, cheek brushing into his palm. “Shikamaru, you saved me. I would have died in that explosion if you hadn’t pushed me out of the way.” His mouth twisted into a pitiful rendition of a smile. She wasn’t mad. No beating for him. He was finally catching a stroke of luck. That lovely pink hair of her whirled as she whipped her head around to shout at Naruto and Kiba, who were finally ascending the half-broken stairs to assist her.

“Sakura, you shouldn’t have run up the stairs like that! They’re all half-collapsed, believe it! We almost died!”

“Yeah, like, three times.”

“Shut up and help me!” Her voice was high-pitched, nearly manic. The tone demanded their will to comply. Shikamaru’s breath was rattling in his lungs now. It felt like it was water he was breathing, not oxygen, heavy and suffocating. He could vaguely hear the two boys suck in horrified gasps when they neared him, and Sakura vaguely instructing them to hold him still as she bent off the end of the pole. She stood over him, one foot on either side of his hips, while Naruto crouched down at his head to push his palms into his chest. Sakura grasped the end of the pole and charged her fists with chakra, and then bent the piece of metal as close as she dare to the gaping hole that was his wound.

The vibrations alone were enough to send Shikamaru’s legs to spasming, and Kiba had to dive on them to keep him from accidentally kicking her away. Short pained cries left his mouth, dignity ignored. It of course didn’t snap immediately; she had to bend it back and forth, working weakness into the metal until it finally broke, snapping off in a jagged point just above his heaving belly. “Shikamaru, this is going to hurt like hell.”

“Wha- AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGH!” he howled as the three of them all but jerked him off the remaining short spike of metal. The barbed end ripped through his flesh with fervor, sending more blood spurting into the air and his vision flaring white as he fought desperately against fainting. His entire body burned like he was being submerged in lava, but especially that small circle of agony in his lower abdomen. As soon as they had him on the ground again, Sakura was straddling his waist with her hands pressed deep into his wound, dying them a dark red that he could even see through the hemisphere of green healing chakra; his body continued to twitch with lingering tendrils of fiery pain wracking his nervous system. He was wheezing as his wide eyes attempted to fixate on her trembling form but failing miserably as they danced with white and black spots. He could feel the light tremors against his body. Her tears continued to flow, gathering on the end of her chin to splash down below.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“S-Saku… ra… I…”

“No. Don’t you do that,” she growled at him. Her green eyes, alight with furious fire, snapped up to meet his. “You’re not dying. Not here. Not like this. I won’t let you.” He couldn’t help but allow the tired smirk to form on his lips. So angry all the time. It was amazing how much roiling rage was pent up in that petite body.

His hand was moving again. It settled in her threads of disheveled pink hair, tucking it behind her ear. “Stop moving. It makes this harder,” she ordered, but with much less bark. Shikamaru ignored her, going to tug on the neck of her shirt to get her attention. “What?” What he mumbled, she could not here. A faint tinge of pink arose to her cheeks, but whether that was from embarrassment or ire, she wasn’t sure. She shifted such that she was now kneeling by his side, allowing her to both continue administering medical ninjutsu to his wound and leaning close to his face. “What did you say?”

“Just in case,” he wheezed in a hoarse laugh, and with the last of his strength, he pushed his head up so he could press a light kiss to her lips. He actually managed to hold it for a few seconds before his head smacked back down to the concrete. She stared owlishly down at him for a few seconds more. She would probably still hit him even in his condition for pulling a stunt like that, but hey. “Don’t look at me like that,” he simpered weakly. “You’re not one to deny a dying man his first kiss, are you?” A trail of blush blazed across her cheeks like a sudden wildfire.

“Idiot,” she grumbled, looking back down to his wound. “You think I’m going to let you die now…?” He quirked his eyebrow at her soft features. Was that a smile he saw? He would’ve thought she would be angry. He yelped loudly when she suddenly applied more pressure to his abdomen. “Idiot! I’m gonna heal this stupid wound of yours so I can kill you myself! Jeez, men, can’t even handle a scratch before they start getting weird ideas in their head!” she raged loudly, and in tandem, her green chakra flared all the brighter and became bubbly and unfocused around the edges. He sputtered out apologies as the force of her fists against his stomach literally bent his spine and forced him to sit up a little.

“Yeesh, Sakura,” Naruto frowned at her. “I thought it was kinda romantic, actually…”

“Yeah, if I was a girl, I’d swoon,” Kiba agreed with his arms crossed.

“Shut up! You two want some of this?! Why don’t you go and make yourself useful with the clean-up effort before they’re washing your blood off the walls!” The two followed her advice and made a hasty retreat. She began muttering under her breath about their incompetency, which made him chuckle slightly. He soon regretted that, because it flared that flower of pain in his belly again.

“Ouch…”

“That was reckless,” she scolded him quietly. It took him a second to register that he was referring to his abomination of a strategy earlier.

“I know. I probably could’ve come up with something better if I had been thinking straight.” He could talk in longer sentences now without gasping for air, so he supposed his chances of dying were now slimmer.

“You? Not thinking straight?”

“I was too busy thinking about how I didn’t want you to die.” Her mouth folded in on itself as she blushed darker. She looked away, likely because she was embarrassed for him to see. A long period of silence unfolded between them, a book with blank pages. Shikamaru wasn’t sure of what he wanted to write there. Perhaps it didn’t need to be written at all.

“You…” she sighed, looking back to him finally as she removed her hands from his abdomen. “I’ve stopped the bleeding and sealed the wound shut, but it’s only a temporary fix. You need surgery. Move too much and you’ll bust it open again.”

“Moving too much? Doesn’t sound like me.”

“You could have died!” she shouted at him suddenly. Despite what he had just said, he flinched violently, and his hand shot to the half-closed wound as it snarled in protest. His eyebrows were knitted together as he stared up at her face, twisted in agony and regret. “You could’ve died,” she repeated, more softly, “and I don’t know what I would’ve done if you had.” She hung her head. He watched those tears, tinged pink with the blood still leaking from her forehead cut, drip down onto her lap. Drip. Drip. Drip.

He clenched his teeth tightly, forcing himself up onto his elbows, then pushing off to unsteadily pull himself into a sitting position. He slung his arms loosely around the crying girl, half in a consoling embrace and half in a gesture to ensure he didn’t fall right back down. He pushed his head into hers, his dark black strands weaving with those lovely pink ones.

“But I didn’t,” he breathed into her scalp, “because you saved me.” He felt her shaking hands screw into the fabric of the back of his vest as she held onto him tightly. Her face was buried into his shoulder, smearing it with blood and tears and low sobs.

Surely, he was no longer delirious.

He slipped his hand under her head to grasp her gently by the chin, lifting up her face. Somehow, it was possible for her to still be incredibly beautiful, even with her face smeared with dirt and smudged with blood and her expressed scrunched up into misery. Those bright green eyes peeked out at him through thick, tear-heavy lashes. “You saved me,” he repeated comfortingly. Her eyes flickered a few times before falling to his lips. Her gaze rested there for a moment.

“Just in case.” Her voice was like a breath among howling wind, nearly inaudible. She closed her eyes as she leaned into kiss him. This time, her lips molded fully into his, and he relished how soft and pliant they felt under his. With a hunger he had never known, he devoured her in passionate, starving kisses, pushing against her such that she had to brace herself with her palms flat against the concrete, back bent at a dramatic angle. His were holding her face in place as he kissed her fervently, over and over and over until both their mouths were sore and bruised. That ache in him wasn’t even close to being filled, but he forced himself to pull back regardless, mostly because his head was beginning to swim again. He laughed breathily as his forehead fell into her shoulder, and her arms jumped up to wrap around his broad back.

“Rest,” she cajoled him. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“When I wake up, will this all have been some sort of twisted lucid dream?” he laughed wryly.

“No,” she laughed and pressed a kiss into the top of his head. “Not a dream.” Shikamaru decided to take that at face value and practically melted into her, allowing all of his muscles to finally relax. As he breathed in air, Sakura’s scent wafted in with it, a blend of strawberries and cream and the fresh spring breeze.

Even if he never woke up, he was pretty content with going out this way, held in the arms of the woman he daresay he loved while the sunlight warmed his back… Of course, it would be nice if he did wake up, lucid dream or not.

After all, there was a lot he still had left to do… Marry a girl, maybe have a kid or two, watch them grow up… retire to a home in the countryside, with cherry blossoms blooming in the brilliance of spring, and be greeted every morning by that smile that rivaled the glow of the very sun.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork @searchfortheonepiece @shikasaku-week

[thefeastandthefast]

Chapter 12, Part 8 of Held in the Lonely Castle 孤城闭 by 米兰Lady

So given how pissed I was about episode 62, I had to translate the novel chapter that has her actual first sexual encounter with Li Wei. 

It begins with her and Huaiji. Sorry, not sure how to tag this- sexual situations and potentially really upsetting for Huirou/Huaiji shippers? There’s no rape though, I assure you.

From here: https://www.luoxia.com/guchengbi/105781.htm

Her eyes glowed like orchid dew. I closed my eyes and traced the tear tracks on her face down to her soft lips.

She trembled uncontrollably, both hands pressing into my chest as if in shock. I grasped her around the waist just in time and with barely any effort, roughly closed the distance between us.  

I pressed wandering kisses onto her red lips. The youthful delicacy of her breath I still remember, as gently scented as the incense used to perfume her clothing, dryly sweet like resin, with the flavor of candied fruit.

Her anger and reserve melted away in my embrace, and as she opened her mouth to speak, I once again sealed her lips with mine, igniting again our long-banked feelings.  

I deliberately became fire and she gladly a moth fluttering towards the flame. Breath quickened, her movements lost their passivity, kissing me, embracing me, her arms wrapping like lichen around, fast and fierce, our shadows wrestling in the flickering candlelight.  

She hugged my neck tightly, so tightly that for a moment I couldn’t breathe. I grasped and pressed down her hands. Holding her wrist, I suddenly had a thought to give her another taste of pleasure.  

I followed her wrist into her sleeve, finding the narrow sleeve opening of her inner garment, sliding inch by inch along the expanse of skin that had tempted me earlier, stopping just above her elbow, where I lingered aimlessly. It was a forbidden place she had never been touched by any man. She flushed and unconsciously shrank back, turning to avoid further ministrations. But as she turned, the cloud brocade robe draped around her shoulders fell to her elbows. I reached out and tugged it away.    

With a toss, the wide-sleeved robe fell like a cloud, covering the large glass lampshade next to the low couch. The light in the room suddenly dimmed, tinged with the warm vibrant color of the cloud brocade, the atmosphere scent-thickened and blurred. Her gaze followed the path of her robe and back at me with wonder and surprise. Before she reacted, I bent to her again. The shadows on the plum blossom paper curtain doubled and then folded into one.  

Undoing the incense sachets, untying her silk gauze belt, I continued my tender attack, and she, with childlike curiosity, retaliated by quietly unbuckling the jade clasp of my leather belt. I started with a cold shudder, that sudden loosening of my robe. Quickly recovering, I resisted not her hands and submitted to the unfastening of my outer robe, throwing it to the ground.    

Our kisses intermingled with the slow shedding of our robes in the extravagant darkness, the pungent scent of the night. The courtesy that normally existed between princess and servant had left us, scattered across the floor like the piles of clothing. We fell in a tangle onto the low couch with only one final layer between us. The princess’ hot hands crept under my lapels, stroking across my waist, pressing hard into my back. So hard it felt like her fingers had grown roots to penetrate my skin to imprison the heart I had trained into submission. I bent to press kisses along the base of her long neck and imprinted my last caress under her collarbone, on warm and snow-pale skin more precious than jade.  

She began again to tremble and the arms wound around me shrank back. She closed her eyes, not daring to look at me. Her lashes flickered with the shine of tears, but a faint smile played at the corners of her mouth. Though she seemed a little confused about what I would do next, there was no fear.  

She was so beautiful in the candlelight. If I were an ordinary man, how joyful this game of love would be, yet she in her quiet pleasure didn’t know that, for me, it could only be an act of pretense as painful as treading along the edge of a blade.  

I gazed at her dimpled smile and quietly backed away, pushing aside the last layer of my undergarment.

I stood straight in the light of the glass lamp and said softly, “Princess...”

She turned to me smiling. As she did so, I lifted the robe from the glass lantern and the bright light that had been locked away flooded the warm room, illuminating my starkly naked body.  

Thrown suddenly into the intensity of the light, she frowned and squinted before opening her eyes. She met my gaze, at first uncomprehending, then her eyes shifted to my body, traveling to below my waist. Her gaze was fixed, blank, for a moment upon the ugly, crippled, shrunken organ there. Suddenly realizing what it was and in obvious fright, she gave a low cry and quickly whirled away, shutting again her eyes, not daring to see again.  

I tried to draw up a slight smile, approaching her slowly. “Princess, do you want another look? This is the answer to your question.”

Her eyes pinched shut, as if fearing the invasion of even a thread of light, her face in anguish. She edged closer to the wall, burying herself into the shadows untouched by the glass lamp. Our movements earlier had upturned the duck and tray in the incense cage. The incense had been extinguished, wisps of white smoke still escaping. The hot water had spilled from the tray onto the couch, trickling towards the princess’ ankle. She retreated in shock and curled more tightly into a ball, tucking herself into the corner, like a small animal hiding from the winter cold.

I unfurled the large-sleeved robe and draped it over her body. I stood silent for a long time and finally kneeled in front of her couch.

“Princess,” I gazed at her back and said softly, “It’s as you say, in this life, we may be something other than princess and servant. We may be friends, brother and sister, teacher and student, if you grant me the honor of trespassing the boundaries. But there is one type of relationship we can never be to each other, and that is husband and wife or lovers. This was fated from the moment I entered the palace. My crippled body will never allow me to be the husband or family of any woman. I cannot accompany them for life, nor can I give them children to extend their bloodline. To waste your feelings on someone like me would be like loving an object, a scroll or a painting. Perhaps there may be a sort of temporary spiritual comfort, but you will never receive real worldly warmth. You are to me the best, the most beautiful woman and you should have a perfect and complete life. As a daughter, beloved of your parents, as a wife, cared for and protected by your husband. And in the future, you will have children and grandchildren winding about your knees, enjoying an earthly paradise. And those are exactly what I cannot give you.”

I paused, but saw that the princess was still silent, refusing to discuss the topic. She still cowered under the robe. I could not discern her expression, but saw that her shoulders shook.

She was always thus whenever she was sad, not wanting to say anything at all. But it seemed that the most painful moment had shifted and I continued to speak to her, calmly, of what was in my heart. “What is between us... it was always a mistake. Handsome and accomplished men are abundant as clouds. Princess has met many people, such as Feng Jing, Cao Ping, Su Shi, Yan Jidao, Cui Bai- all outstanding, all distinctive. Compared to them, I am as insignificant as dust. It’s just that I had more opportunities to spend time with the princess that you would even deign to look twice at me. If it weren’t for the difficult situation the princess is in, you would have nothing to do with me. What’s more, I am no longer even a man, not qualified to love the princess. The Princess Consort is not your ideal husband, but he can give you sincere respect and care. As a woman already married, what can be more important than a husband’s care? This marriage has made you unhappy, but if the princess is willing to try, you can achieve some kind of peace in having and raising children under the protection of the Princess Consort, just like...”

Just like Qiuhe. The words had yet to fall, but I remembered that the princess did not know about Qiuhe’s situation, so I swallowed them again, changing my approach. “Just like many women who married according to the commands of their parents and matchmakers. To persist in our present union... the result may not be something beautiful. The more intimate we are, the emptier we will feel. The more indulgent, the more painful. That’s what it’ll be like in the end.”

The princess said nothing, but broken fragments of weeping still escaped from her clenched lips. Her hands clutched the robe still, the fabric wrinkling and twisting in circles like chrysanthemums.    

I took a deep breath, conquering the instinct to reach out to her, to comfort her, and continued, “I am not Zhang Chengzhao and I won’t turn the princess into Xiao Ye’er. The ugliness that I showed you is only physical. Accompanied by your husband, forgetting someone as ordinary as me shouldn’t be too difficult. Perhaps after a few years of patiently living with the Princess Consort, experiencing the true relationship between a man and a woman, and after having your own children, you might be ashamed to recall our story and wish you could erase it from memory entirely. So I beg you, princess, please give me a little bit of mercy. Allow me to retreat back to where I should be, so I can continue to be princess’ servant and shadow.”

I didn’t wait for her response, just picked up my clothes and put them on neatly one by one. Finding once again the courtesy of a courtier, I folded my hands, touched them to my forehead, and bowed deeply towards her, backing away respectfully.

I turned to leave and the princess suddenly sat up, crying out with deep sorrow, “Huaiji!”

I stilled, hesitating. But in the end, I did not turn back to respond. She watched me as I stepped out and left behind her fragrant boudoir, warm as spring.    

ｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘ

Sleep evaded me that night. Since I couldn’t sleep, I sat alone in my room taking tea as wine, one cup after another.

My thoughts ran to many things. How to leave the princess’ manor, what to do in the future, how to make sure that the servants of the manor would care for the princess. Of course I couldn’t stop thinking about her, guessing what she was feeling in that moment. What awaited me was actually an unexpected result.

At midnight, Jiaqingzi came, wildly pounding on my door. She stood wide-eyed and said, breathless, “Princess... the princess, she asked the Princess Consort... to visit her in her pavilion...”  

Startled, I asked, “Did the princess ask him there to scold him?”

Jiaqingzi shook her head, and the look in her eyes was a mixture of surprise and pity for me. “She let the Princess Consort stay the night in her boudoir.”

I didn’t go to dissuade and obstruct as Jiaqingzi suggested. After she left, I returned to my seat and continued to drink tea in silence.

Sir Zhang had said that tea can refine the senses without destroying the body. I think he’s wrong. One can also get drunk from tea.  

The next day, I awoke after a spell of shallow slumber, feeling top-heavy, my mind unsettled, remembering the events of the previous night. I forced myself to leave my room, to go to the princess’ pavilion to give her my congratulations.

In the bamboo lined courtyard, I met Li Wei departing from the interior. His face was ashen, expression dejected, without a shred of joy. Seeing me, only a cold glance. Without waiting for me to speak, he fled as if making an escape.

Perhaps then, nothing had happened, as on their wedding night, I thought. I couldn’t help feeling a flash of relief.

But as I entered the pavilion, I immediately sensed that the atmosphere was wrong. The princess was not in the main hall, only Jiaqingzi, Yun Guo’er, and the other maids whispering. Seeing me enter, they fell silent, Jiaqingzi tucking something into her sleeve.

I glanced toward the princess’ boudoir. Seeing not her shadow, I asked Jiaqingzi, “Has the princess not wakened yet?”  

She affirmed, avoiding my eyes.

I turned instead to Yun Guo’er, who also looked away, refusing to meet my gaze.

I surveyed the other maids, but they too said not another word. Hesitating, I finally chose an indirect question to ask Jiaqingzi, “Why did the Princess Consort seem unhappy this morning?”  

She wavered for a long time before pulling me to the corner and replied quietly, “Last night when the princess asked the Princess Consort to come, he was shocked. Was almost afraid of stepping foot into her chambers. He only went in after she asked him three times. When he rose this morning, he seemed in a good mood at first, excitedly inviting the princess to go view the plum blossoms. But the princess only tossed this on the ground.”

She reached into her sleeve and retrieved the object she had initially hidden and handed it to me.

It was a piece of white silk. I took it with shaking fingers and spread it with difficulty. As expected, blood stains like fallen plum blossom petals.

Jiaqingzi looked at me hard, watching my face. When she couldn’t detect anything out of the ordinary, she continued, “And then the princess said to the Princess Consort- isn’t this what you’d been wanting? Now, you can get out. Don’t ever come close to me again.”

Next part here.

她啼眼宛若幽兰露，我闭目，沿着她泪痕蔓延的方向往下寻去，直到触到她柔软的双唇。

她不由一颤，双手受惊般地抵在我胸前，我及时搂住她腰，略微着力，便于一瞬间半强制地消除了她欲拉开的距离。

我的吻在她朱唇之间游移，感觉到的依然是我记忆中那少女清美的气息，如她薰衣的芬芳一样温润，又甘甜如安息香，带着糖果的味道。

她的怒意与矜持在我的拥抱中渐渐消融，启口欲说什么，却被我以吻封缄，引导她重温我们久违的缠绵。

我刻意纵火，她也不介意做只扑火的蛾。她呼吸渐趋急促，与我的接触也不再被动，亲吻我，拥紧我，伸出的手臂像女萝缠绕着我，这一系列的动作进行得快速而激烈，令我们的影子在晃动的烛光下看起来像搏斗。

她紧搂着我脖子，有一刻简直令我喘不过气来，于是我捉住她的手按下，但触及她手腕，我心念一动，又开始了另一种暧昧的尝试。

我的手顺着她的手腕向她袖中延伸，探入她中衣小袖中，一寸寸地滑过刚才诱惑过我的那片肌肤，最合停留在她手肘上方，在那里辗转流连。那是她从未被异性碰触过的禁地，她羞红了脸，不自觉地向后缩，侧身想避开我的进一步取索，但转侧之间，她所披的云锦大袖衣自肩头滑落至肘间，而我抽手抓住一扯，整件衣服便离她而去。

我手一扬，大袖衣如云飘去，落在矮榻旁巨型宫烛的琉璃灯罩上，室内的光线顿时暗了一层，又染上云锦绚丽的暖色，气氛愈发变得香艳迷离。她循着云锦飘落的方向望去，然后讶然回眸看我，尚未有所反应我已又朝她俯身过去。梅花纸帐上影落成双，又相叠合一。

香囊暗解，罗带轻分，我继续对她进行着温柔的侵袭，而她带着孩子般的好奇心和报复欲，也悄然解开了我革带上的玉扣。那腰间衣帛的忽然松弛使我浑身一凛，但迅速镇静下来，我没有阻止她的动作，而是顺势解开了自已的袍服，抛在地上。

我们把亲吻和解衣的动作交织进这酽酽夜色、靡靡香气里，本应存在于公主与内臣之间的礼义也离我们而去，随着被我们散落的衣裳化作遍地狼藉。在我们都仅剩一层单衣的时候，我们相拥着跌落在榻上，公主灼热的双手从我衣襟下探入，自我腰际抚过，按住我的背，那么用力，像是指尖上即将长出根须，透过我肌肤，禁锢住我那颗律动失常的心。我低首吻过她修长美好的脖颈，把最后的爱抚印在了她锁骨之下，那比玉臂更隐秘的温软雪肤间。

这令她又开始瑟瑟发颤，拥我的手臂也缩了回去。她紧闭双目，不敢看我，萦泪的睫毛不时轻颤，但唇边有隐约的笑意，对我可能进行的未知的举动，她看起来有些惶惑，却也并不会抗拒。

摇红烛影下的她多么美丽，如果我是正常男子，这一场情爱游戏本该是多么美好的人生之喜，而含情带笑的她并不知道，如今这对我来说，却是一出在足踩刀锋般的疼痛中演绎的戏。

我看着她的笑靥，悄然退后，敞开的最后一层单衣亦在这行动中褪去。

在琉璃灯前站直，我轻声唤她：“公主……”

她微笑着朝我转身。在她睁眼看我之际，我决然掀开了覆在琉璃罩上的大袖衣，此前被封锁的明亮光线迫不及待地盈满暖阁，也照亮了我不着丝缕的、赤裸的身体。

她不习惯这陡然加剧的光亮，蹙眉瞬了瞬目才又睁开。在不解地对我相视一眼后，她的目光移到了我身上，愣愣地盯着我腰下那个残缺而萎缩的丑陋器官看了须臾，她似乎才忽然意识到这是什么，这结果显然惊吓了她，她不禁低呼一声，迅速闭目侧身向内，不敢再看。

我竭力牵引出一丝笑意，徐徐前行靠近她：“公主，你不再看看么？这就是你想要的答案。”

她紧阖眼睑，好似生怕漏过一缕光灼伤她的眼，脸上露出痛苦的表情，她尽量向内壁挨去，把自己埋进琉璃灯火触不到的阴影下。适才我们的动作打翻了薰笼中的香鸭与托盘，香烬遇水熄灭，兀自有白色烟雾滋滋地逸出，而溢出的热水则在榻上缓缓蔓延着，触到公主足踝，她惊觉缩回，更努力地把自已蜷成一团倚在角落里，像一只躲避冬寒的小动物。

我把手中的大袖衣展开覆在她身上，默然伫立半晌，然后屈膝跪在她榻前。“公主，”我看着她遗我的背影，轻声说，“正如你所说，这一生中，我们除了公主与内臣，或许还可以有一些别的关系，例如朋友，兄妹，师徒……如果容我僭越的话。但是，有一种永远不可能存在于我们之间，那便是夫妇，或者，爱侣。这是我入宫之时便已注定的事，我残缺的身体使我无法成为任何女人的丈夫或情人，既不能与她们共效于飞，也不能令她们生儿育女，延续生命。把感情寄托在我这样的人身上，就如爱一件器物，一卷书画，也许可以获得暂时的心灵慰藉，却不能得到真实的俗世温暖。你是我一生所见最美好的女子，应该拥有完美无缺的人生，做女儿时受父母钟爱，嫁作人妻得夫君呵护，将来更应儿孙绕膝，长享天伦之乐。而这，恰恰是我不能给你的。”

我略停了停，而公主并无意与我讨论这个话题，仍是低首蜷缩在大袖衣中，我看不见她表情，只能觉出她的肩在微微颤动。

她伤心之极时便是这样，半句话都不想说。就我而言，最难受的时候倒像是已经过去了，现在反而可以很平静地继续对她说出心底话，“我们的事，本来就是一个错误。国朝俊彦如云，公主遇见的许多人，例如冯京、曹评、苏轼、晏几道、崔白，都出类拔萃，各具风采。与他们相较，我实在渺小如尘埃，不过是比他们多了些与公主相处的机会，才蒙公主另眼相待。若非身处困境，公主原也不会与我有何瓜葛，何况，我已算不上是男人，连爱公主的资格都没有。驸马虽然不是公主理想的夫君，但他却能给予公主由衷的尊敬和关爱。对一个已为人妻的女子来说，还有什么比丈夫的关爱更重要呢？这场婚姻虽然不令人愉快，但若公主愿意，便可以在驸马的呵护和养育儿女的过程中获得安宁与平静，就像……”

就像秋和那样。话到嘴边，才想起公主并不知秋和之事，便又咽了下去，换了说法，“就像许多因父母之命、媒妁之言成婚的女子一样。而执着于我们现在的相聚，结果可能并不美妙，越亲密，越空虚；越放纵，越痛苦……大抵便是如此罢。”

公主沉默着，但还是有零碎的泣音从咬紧的唇中逸出，手悄然抓紧大袖衣，令那衣裳外面渐渐旋出了菊花状的褶皱。

我深呼吸，压下伸手抚慰她的意图，又道：“我不是张承照，也不能把公主变成笑靥儿，我所能让公主看到的丑陋仅限于我的身体。在夫君相伴下，公主疏远和淡忘平凡的我应该不是太难的事。说不定，当公主耐心与驸马生活几年，感觉到真正的男女之情，有了自己的儿女之后，再忆起我们的故事，甚至会为此感到���耻，恨不得把这段记忆一笔勾销。因此，请公主现在给我一点小小的怜悯，容我退至应处的位置，做回公主的臣子和影子。”

说完，我不等她回答，自己拾起衣物一一穿戴整齐，寻回臣子的礼节，举手加额朝她行大礼，然后毕恭毕敬地低首向后退去。

在我转身后，公主霍然坐起，凄声唤我“怀吉”，我滞了滞，但终于没有回首以应，在她注视下复又启步，离开了她和暖如春的香闺。

ｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘ

这夜无法安眠，我索性不睡，独坐在自己房间中以茶代酒，一盏盏地饮。

其间想起很多事，例如怎样离开公主宅，以后的去向，要如何嘱咐宅中侍者照料公主等等，自然，仍不免牵挂着公主，猜想她现在的状况。不料，却等来了个意外的结果。

三更初过，嘉庆子跑来狂拍我的门，待我开门后，她睁大眼睛盯着我，喘着气说：“公……公主，把驸马……召到寝阁去了……”

我一怔，问她：“公主是把驸马召去责骂么？”

嘉庆子摇摇头，看我的眼神交织着未散的惊讶和对我的怜悯：“她让驸马留宿于她阁中。

ｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘｘ

我没有按照嘉庆子的建议前去探视和劝阻。送走她后，我回到房中坐下，继续默默地饮茶。

张先生说，茶可令人微觉清思，而不会摧人肝肠。我想他是错了，茶，也是可以把人饮醉的。

次日，我在一阵清浅小寐后醒来，头重脚轻，神思飘浮，但还是记起昨夜之事，便硬撑着出门，欲去公主阁向她道贺。

在那竹林院落之前，我遇见自内出来的李玮。他脸色晦暗，神情颓废，并无一丝喜色。见了我，也只是冷冷一瞥，未待我开口他便已匆匆离开，步伐快得像逃离。

那么，或许，这次也跟他们新婚之夜一样，什么都没发生。我这样想着，情不自禁地，竟有一瞬的释然。

但进到阁中，又立即感觉到气氛有异。公主不在厅中，只有嘉庆子韵果儿等侍女在窃窃私语。见我进来，她们立即噤声，嘉庆子更把手中一件物事蔽于袖中。

我朝公主暖阁处张望，仍不见她身影，遂问嘉庆子：“公主尚未晨起？”

嘉庆子称是，低眉不与我对视。

我转顾韵果儿，她也侧首避开，不欲与我目光相触。

我环顾周围其余侍女，亦无人多发一言。踟蹰须臾，我终于选了个问题间接地问嘉庆子：“今日驸马为何不乐？”

她也犹豫了很久才拉我至一隅，低声回答：“昨夜公主召驸马来，他很吃惊，简直不敢踏入公主暖阁，是公主再三相请他才进去的……今日起身后，驸马本来心情不错，兴致勃勃地邀公主去赏梅花，但公主却把这个抛在地上……”

她引手入袖，把起初隐藏的东西取出递给我。

那是一段白绫。我接过，以微颤的手指艰难地展开，看见了意料之中的，如落梅花瓣般的几点血迹。

嘉庆子观察着我的表情，大概是没觉出太多异状才又继续告诉我：“然后，公主对驸马说：‘这就是你一直想要的罢？现在，你可以出去了。以后永远别再靠近我。’”

[caffeinatedtimdrake]

In a Garden of Blue Violets

I’m gonna start on requests this weekend in between studying but until then!!! 4k of angst?? new territory for me. ft a happy ending. 

Jason x Reader. You are always trying to heal from the loss and move on with your life, but Jason finds ways to remain tangled in your soul. 

Sorrowed, and the day for me will be as the night (tomorrow, at dawn by V. Hugo)

Two days after Selina finds you at an ungodly hour on a rooftop, bare feet dangling off the edge and shoulders drooped, as if one more ounce of melancholy might pull you into the deepest depths of the Earth. Maybe that’s where you could find Jason. She wants you to know she’s there – you can hear it in her uncharacteristically audible footsteps because you know her heart is heavy, too. You stiffen a little and rub at your cheeks with the heel of your palm, sticky tears and fresh wave of grief, before turning around to face her. She taught you to never look away, so you meet her eyes with a shaky exhale. A sentimental sorrow glimmers in the twist of her mouth and the subtle, maternal warmth reflected in orbs of jade and wisdom. “Y/N, you should come eat.” Selina’s voice is a soft caress above the cacophony of late-night traffic and Bruce’s words still echoing in the space between your ears. You nod meticulously and sniffle, gaze shifting to your toes. She looks at you for a long moment of bated breath before she sighs and slinks down the stairs. Now when she moves, she’s silent. You weren’t supposed to find out this way, but Bruce called the landline and your heart did a funny little flip when the caller ID read Wayne. You and Selina had been off on a drug ring bust for the past four days and she was only just catching up on calls and intel. You were supposed to hang up when Bruce asked for Selina, but you didn’t. Instead, you barely breathed and stayed on the line. When Bruce’s words caught in his throat and he whispered one of your worst nightmares into existence, your mind blanked. You don’t even know if the phone turned off – you only comprehended that you had to go somewhere Selina couldn’t immediately find you. After Bruce had called, his voice a static rasp over the phone, you’d thrown yourself up the stairs and onto the rooftop, sobbing against an empty crate until you were dizzy. Eventually you’d ended up on your back, staring up at threatening storm clouds. The concrete beneath you was cold and jagged, marred by time and rain and sun. You don’t understand how you drift off to sleep with your heart so impossibly heavy, but you do. You don’t know how long you sleep, minutes bleeding into hours, but when you wake the world is much darker. When you remember why you’re on the roof in the first place, you have to shove your first into your mouth to keep from bawling and rousing the whole city. This is an awful breed of despair, thick and frantic, filling your lungs with coal and your blood with acid. Now, you stand and stretch and crane your neck to look at the stars, but nothing shines. The expanse of darkness makes your heart ache impossibly more. Each contraction is an echo of loss. You’re a bit lightheaded as you make your way down the steps, but you barely notice the throbbing in your temples or the taste of sandpaper on your tongue because the weight of Jason’s death presses so severely on your chest. Selina waits at the bottom of the stairs. You don’t think twice before collapsing into her arms and dissolving into tears once more. 

Two months after When the doorbell chimes and you peek through the peephole on a rainy Friday afternoon, you expect to find either your cranky downstairs neighbor or Maggie – certainly not Dick Grayson. Hot tears well in your eyes upon the sight of his damp hair and five o’clock shadow, and you have to take several deep breaths before you open the door and welcome him inside with a tempered grin. “Nice to see you, Dick.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes in the way that’s so defining of Dick Grayson. “You, too, Y/N.” “Selina’s just upstairs, I can – “ “Actually, I came for you.” You blink up at him, surprised. “M-me?” He nods and swallows hard. “I was gonna go, um, visit Jason. And I was wondering if you wanted to join.” At the mention of Jason, you freeze. You feel as though you’ve been plunged into the Arctic, so intensely frigid that you feel pinpricks of heat down your spine. Breath dissipates from your lungs and your language skills completely vanish. You ogle at him, mouth slightly parted and eyes suddenly very watery. Dick takes immediate notice of your shock and flaps his arms frantically, like he doesn’t know whether to fan you or hug you. “But you totally don’t have to! There is no pressure at all! Only do what you’re comfortable with!” A reply lodges itself in your throat. “Maybe you should go, Y/N.” Selina drawls, rounding the corner and slinking towards the pair of you. You can’t offer much of a coherent response, so instead you nod tensely and turn robotically on your heel to grab shoes, an umbrella, and three packs of tissues.

The car ride has been largely devoid of discourse, but Dick’s radio plays what sounds like circus music and you’re quite certain that opening your mouth will evoke either a torrent of tears or hysterical laughter. Possibly both. Dick’s voice is like the faint fog hovering in the air. “He cared about you a lot. I hope you know.” You swallow the lump in your throat and squint out the window, where blue violets wilt on the side of the road. “I cared about him, too.” You don’t think you could ever stop caring about Jason; he’d become too deeply threaded into the very muscle fibers of your heart. Falling for Jason had come easily, refreshing and natural like spring rain. The pair of you tagged along with your mentors or operated solo on less severe missions, often crossing paths and ending up back-to-back, battling chains of criminals and otherworldly creatures. When you weren’t training to lead the next generation of heroic vigilantes, you often found yourself in a cozy corner of the library with Jason and many textbooks. You were not his and he was not yours, but a sweet sort of chemistry flourished between you and Jason, a quiet relief from the pressure of mentors and successors and evil. It never blossomed into a garden – it never had the chance– but an undeniable warmth, an indisputable maybe one day, had existed between you and Jason, sprouting like roses in April. Dick stops at the florist and grabs a bouquet of flowers; lavenders, anemones, and gladioluses. You hold the bouquet as Dick continues driving. You tell him they’re beautiful and he tells you that next time, you should pick out the flowers. The prospect of a ‘next time’ is like cold glass cracking within your chest because there hasn’t even been a first time yet, but you say okay and stick your nose in the lavender bunch. 

Three years after You decide this time of year is your favorite in the company of rain clouds and the white heathers and violets sprouting on your windowsill. Spring blossoms into summer easily, in the same way that you turn the worn page of your textbook. Things are different now. Instead of saving the city by battling villains, you enroll in nursing school to help heal the people of Gotham. You still see Selina often – she mandated that you two have dinner at least once a month – and occasionally bump into Dick on weekends at a coffee shop. Once in a blue moon, Catwoman, Batman, or Nightwing will request your help relaying intel from the Batcave or patching up a team member. Time has been the best remedy for you. As months bled into years, the searing anguish melted into a dull ache. You drive with Dick to place flowers across Jason’s grave every once in a while, whenever he gets a moment away from the office and you can afford a study break. You still need to bring tissues, but now the visits only require a few stuffed into your pocket instead of several packets. This evening, your schedule is free of any obligations for the first time in ages. You work nights at the local hospital and when you’re not working, you’re in class or at the library. Work has been especially taxing lately. You’ve treated more criminals than you’re comfortable with due to the thoroughly wounding work of a rancorous vigilante who calls himself Red Hood. You don’t necessarily mind that he targets the worst of the worst, but you are less than thrilled when you end up changing gauze for gang leaders. At the same time, you don’t feel any less rabid anxiety when a convicted murderer has a seizure due to brain damage and flatlines in front of you in comparison to when the same happens to an elderly mailman. Death is death; there is no return from her cool embrace. And a patient is a patient, even if you know their soul is less than human. Sometimes, you struggle with this and when you voiced the thought to Selina a few weeks ago, her answer was unsurprising. “Right now, you are obligated to save people. Some are so horrible; I know you don’t think they should be saved. You can always come back to me, Y/N. We save good people by getting rid of the bad ones.” But tonight, in the company of your cat and a light drizzle, things don’t seem so morbid. Admittedly, you do feel a little lame for spending your night off buried abnormal psychology notes, but quickly shrug it off when your cat bumps her head against your ankle encouragingly. You scratch beneath her chin and she purrs like a motor. “I’m not that lame. I’m working hard so I can buy you the spiffiest cat trees. And I have the whole night to cuddle with you, can you believe it?” She meows, probably in disbelief.

You take a break from studying and make the executive decision to pick up your favorite Chinese food. “Hold down the fort for me, baby.” You tell your cat as she bids you farewell with a soft chortle, shutting the light off. She doesn’t do a very good job because when you return twenty minutes later with a large brown paper bag and a Disney song stuck in your head, there’s a man sitting at your kitchen table. And your cat is in his lap, purring. You see red – not because you’re angry, but because the color of his mask is the color of blood, something you’ve always been too familiar with. You let the door shut behind you with a soft click and when he turns to look at you, you have a vision of your body, bruised and broken at the hands of a man who had done the same to so many others. Dick and Selina are on speed dial, but if Red Hood wants to murder you, that would not matter very much.   It’s been a while since you’ve had to punch anyone in the mouth or land a swift kick to the back of a knee, but the rush of adrenaline fizzing in your head all the way down to your toes is relatively reassuring. If nothing else, you could scream. His face is angled towards you and his chests moves with steady, untroubled breaths. Your face is still a bit cold from the way the rain kissed your cheeks, but you feel heat rising to the surface of your skin. You swallow hard. “What do you want from me?” He’s quiet for a long moment, tilting his head in a disarmingly casual, pensive manner. “I’m…not sure. I’m still trying to figure that out, Y/N.” His voice rumbles like distant thunder and you blanch when he utters your name. “How do you know my name?” You say hoarsely, fighting the building panic in your throat. “I know a lot about you. You’re a nursing student and you work at the hospital.” “And?” You subtly stick your hand in a pocket, hoping to dig for pepper spray in a less than obvious way. “You used to live a different life, under the guidance of Selina Kyle. Catwoman. Adoptive mother figure. And, occasionally Batman.” Your shirt sticks to you uncomfortably with rain and sweat. “You left that life after a bad incident with The Joker a year and a half ago.” You exhale sharply, goosebumps erupting across your arms. Instinctively, your hand goes to fiddle with a necklace at the base of your throat, one that hides a tiny but terrible scar. “You’re also probably waiting for the right moment to pepper spray me or call Selina.” You practically jerk in surprise. Red Hood shrugs, looking down at his lap. “Didn’t know you have a cat, though. She’s cute.” “Leave my cat out of this.” You manage. He sighs complacently and gently places her on the ground. She has the gall to meow in protest. You clear your throat and move towards the kitchen table like you’re walking on ice even though you feel like you’re on fire with fear, setting the food down and fixing Red Hood with what you hope is an unwavering, intimidating look. “If you don’t know what you want from me, you should leave. If you do know what you want from me, you’re already aware of my history. It won’t be an easy fight.” He bristles at the threat and the implications. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He bites out, leaning forward microscopically. His arms rest on the table and his gloved hands are clenched tightly, as if his sense of composure will unravel if he relaxes his fingers. Your strong front dithers at this. “Then what?” Red Hood exhales like he’s never been more exhausted, shoulders hunching, and head cast downward. He’s quiet for what must be an eternity before he responds. “I just wanted to know if you are yourself.” You don’t know what his eyes say about his soul in that moment, but in his voice, you hear a very human sense of hurt. You pay no attention to the ambiguity of his mortality and ability to feel pain. “Somehow, that’s the most cryptic and creepy thing a villain has ever said to me.” He barks out a laugh at this and the sound startles you because it’s nothing like The Joker cackling or Ivy giggling. “I think I have my answer now, though.” He stands up and you’re further startled by his size – over six feet of toned muscle, brutal tendencies, and a remarkably light laugh. Instinctively, you step backwards, poised to fight if need be. He raises his hands in surrender, walking slowly toward the window. “I’m leaving. No trouble.” You proceed to propel yourself across the room and land with a soft thump in front of the window, shoulders squared, and hands clenched. “I don’t think so, Red Hood.” “Huh?” “You don’t get to break into my apartment, spew facts about my life, and leave.” He leans back a little, seemingly resigned. You imagine he arches an eyebrow at you skeptically beneath the mask. “What do I get to do in addition to that?” You frown. “Answer some questions.” “Like?” “Who the hell are you? And are you aware of the fact that I change bed pans for high ranking drug dealers because of you?” “You’re not going to like the answer to either of those questions, Y/N.” “I still want to know!” “I’m no hero, but I don’t think I qualify entirely as a villain. And, no, I was unaware. You’re showing them a kindness they do not deserve.” “And why do you know my name? He shrugs; a deliberate, slow movement. “For a bit, it was the only thing I did know.” A sensation of dread begins knotting tightly in your stomach, sending your heartrate skyrocketing even higher. You watch him through wary, wide eyes, drinking in the unbothered slouch in his shoulders. “I-I don’t understand.” You take a tiny step backwards, anxiety slithering up your throat. He looks directly at you and his voice is almost haunting. “I don’t think you want to.” It feels a bit like you’re climbing a mountain, except without any equipment or preparation. Your breathing becomes more erratic, just shy of outright hyperventilation, and there’s a funny buzzing sensation in your head. Your cheeks are flushed with warmth and your hands are cold, no matter how tightly you curl them into fists. If you fall off this cliff, there’s no hope. It’s perhaps a bit unwise when you suck in a deep breath and say, “Try me,” but you’ve never been one to accept anything at face value. Red Hood goes still for a few moments before reaching up to place his hands on the helmet. “Okay, Y/N, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Red Hood slowly removes the mask to reveal a mop of dark hair, olive skin, and ocean eyes. You see burning sapphire and then, darkness.

You wake with a frantic gasp on your couch, a damp cloth falling off your forehead and into your lap as you look around in a frenzy. “Mittens, I just had the worst dream of my l- OH!” When your sight lands on a man reading your favorite Hugo criticism, you fling yourself off the couch and against the front door in a whirlwind that leaves you dizzy and nauseated. He nearly jumps off the armchair and moves towards you but freezes in place when you put out your hand. “No! P-please.” You inhale a ragged breath, lungs aching as you slide down the cool wood onto your butt with shaky legs. “I need y-you to stay over there. For now. Please.” You can barely make out a nod because your vision is so blurry. You squeeze your eyes shut and take in big gulps of air that make your chest burn, leaning your head back. Inhale. Red Hood. Hold for four seconds. Jason. Exhale. Alive. Repeat. You don’t know how long you stay like that, quelling rampant thoughts and waiting for the blood to stop rushing around in your ears. When you open your eyes, you notice that tears have begun to stream down your cheeks, but your vision is less blurry than before so you can see at the man in the armchair properly. He looks like he’s going to jump out of his skin, a concerned frown etched into his dark features. “Maybe you should drink some water.” He suggests. You nod numbly, struggling to pull your guard up. “Is it okay if I stand up and get it for you?” You sniffle a bit before croaking, “Okay.” He fills up a glass – it’s your favorite, one with dancing frogs – and ambles over to you cautiously. He remains over an arm’s length away from you and you are grateful for the space. He squats down and hands you the glass. You barely look at him, muttering a thank you and chugging it down. When you finish, you shut your eyes again and take several more steadying breaths before sitting up and looking him in the face. This is a different kind of heartache. It’s like your best dream and worst nightmare to have a man in front of you who looks an awful lot like the boy who left a gaping hole in your soul. But he’s certainly not the same. His face is hardened by unforgiving edges. The hair atop his head is wavy and dark, save for the streak of white curling over the center of his forehead. His earthy skin is inscribed with a litany of scars; one curves across his cheek and you feel a swarm of anxiety loom closer to your head because you can read the marred skin like it’s the only language you know. There’s a darkness in those eyes, as though his demons had swallowed any sliver of light, leaving a fire of anguish instead, and a weariness in the bags beneath the stormy sea of sapphire. “Who are you?” “Someone you’ve always known. Someone you’ve never met.” You shake your head slowly. “This can’t be happening.” There’s a shade of panic in your voice that makes him sit down completely in front of you. He crosses his legs and wrings his hands, visibly nervous and almost boyish. Red Hood – Jason – radiates heat and smiles bitterly. “If I had a dollar for every time I said exactly that…” But this isn’t the time for smiles. “You’re different.” You say in a way that says much more. The implications are clear. He hears them, you’re sure, because his face briefly scrunches in pain. You were killed. You came back. Your soul is darker. “There is no way I could be the same as before. Or maybe this has always been me. I don’t know, but I wish I did.” “How long?” You ask meekly. “A little over two years.” You blink at him, lashes wet. “Oh.” Seconds of silence ebb into minutes. You think about the past two years of your life and all that’s changed; your path, your home, your hair, your fears, your hopes, even your little pot of flowers on the windowsill, but never the space in your heart for Jason. You think about how he’s changed; from a lanky, brash teenager into a dauntingly powerful man; a hero that once lay bleeding into nothingness on the floor of a warehouse, one who now has blood on his hands. You think about the dulled pain of the past two years and you wonder about his pain; if he wants to clean the blood from his hands, if he wants to turn back the clock, if he wishes he had never been brought back at all. You’re quiet because you can’t find words and because you’re looking for a flicker of familiarity, of the Jason who always felt like home in a meadow of gentians. In those stormy eyes, you see him. A sailor lost at sea, trying to find his way home in the dead of night. Your hand is a bit shaky, but you reach out to place your palm against his cheek, if only to ensure that he exists outside of your memories. His face is warm, and he places his own hand over the back of yours, large and calloused. His name on your tongue tastes like hard liquor and ripe fruit, but you can’t bring yourself to speak it aloud, into the air, beyond the cascade of tears and a torn heart. “Y/N,” His voice is thick with emotion. Your bottom lip quivers. “J-Jason.” It almost burns to say it and a fresh wave of tears crashes to the shore to put out the fiery pain in the same way that you crash into his chest. You clutch at worn leather and thick hair, tighter still when you feel tears drops on your head like the early evening rain. He holds you to his chest securely – too much has changed in his life has been unsteady and he’s spent too long without you, he doesn’t know if he’s capable of letting you go. But you don’t seem to mind, keeping your head tucked under his chin until you can breathe without weeping, almost going limp beneath the way he rubs the pad of his thumb soothingly against your hip. “This whole night has been longer than the past three years of my life.” “Time is relative.” “Says the guy who’s been dead.” “And brought back to life, don’t forget that part.” You squeeze him tighter when he says this. Unanswered questions hang in the air, but you know they will find answers in time. For now, your eyes find his and he seeks your mouth with a tenderness you haven’t known in this lifetime.  

[necksbetrim]

16 Poems by Wang Wei 王維

ANSWERING VICE-PREFECT CHANG

As the years go by, give me but peace Freedom from ten thousand matters. I ask myself and always answer, What can be better than coming home? A wind from the pine-trees blows my sash, And my lute is bright with the mountain-moon. You ask me about good and evil?... Hark, on the lake there's a fisherman singing!

BOUND HOME TO MOUNT SUNG

The limpid river, past its bushes Flowing slowly as my chariot, Seems a fellow-voyager Returning with the evening-birds. A ruined city-wall overtops an old ferry, Autumn sunset floods the peaks.... Far away, beside Mount Sung, I shall rest and close my door.

A MESSAGE TO P'AI TI

Cold and blue now are the mountains From the autumn-rain that beat all day. By my thatch-door, leaning on my staff, I listen to cicadas in the evening wind. Sunset lingers at the ferry, Cooking-smoke floats up from the houses.... Oh, when shall I pledge to Chieh-yu again, And sing a wild poem at Five Willows!

ON THE WAY TO THE TEMPLE

Not knowing the way to the Temple of Heaped Fragrance, I have roamed, under miles of mountain-cloud, Old woods without a human track. But far on the height I hear a bell, A rillet sings over winding rocks, The sun is tempered by green pines.... At twilight, close to an emptying pool, I lie and master the Passion-dragon.

MOUNT CHUNG-NAN

The Great One's height near the City of Heaven Joins a thousand mountains to the corner of the sea. Clouds, when I look back, close behind me; Mists, when I enter them, are gone. A central peak divides the wilds And weather into many valleys.... Needing a place to spend the night, I call to a wood-cutter over the river.

A VIEW OF THE HAN RIVER

With its three Hsian branches it reaches Ch'u border And with nine streams touches the gateway of Ching: This river runs beyond heaven and earth, Where the color of mountains both is and is not. The dwellings of men seem floating along On ripples of the distant sky.... O Hsiang-yang, how your beautiful days Make drunken my old mountain-heart!

IN MY LODGE AT WANG-CH'UAN AFTER A LONG RAIN

The woods have stored the rain, and slow comes the smoke As rice is cooked on faggots and carried to the fields; Over the quiet marshland flies a white egret, And mango-birds are singing in the full summer trees. I have learned to watch in peace the mountain morning-glories, To eat split dewy sunflower-seeds under a bough of pine, To yield the place of honor to any boot at all.... Why should I frighten sea-gulls even with a thought?

MY RETREAT AT CHUNG-NAN

My heart in middle age found the Way, And I came to dwell at the foot of this mountain. When the spirit moves, I wander alone Where beauty is known only to me. I will walk till the water checks my path, Then sit and watch the rising clouds, And some day meet an old woodcutter, And talk and laugh and never return.

IN RETREAT AMONG BAMBOOS

Alone I am sitting under close bamboos, Playing on my lute, singing without words. Who can hear me in this thicket?... Bright and friendly comes the moon.

LINES

You who arrive from my old country, Tell me what has happened there! Did you see, when you passed my silken window, The first cold blossom of the plum?

A PARTING

Friend, I have watched you down the mountain Till now in the dark I close my thatch-door.... Grasses return again green in the spring, But, O Wang Sun, will _you_ return?

A SONG AT WEI-CH'ENG

The morning rain settled the dust in Wei-ch'eng; In the yard of the tavern green willows revive.... Oh, wait to empty one more cup! West of Yang Gate--no old friends!

THE BEAUTIFUL HSI-SHIH

Since beauty is honored all over the empire, How could Hsi-shih remain humbly at home? At dawn washing clothes by a lake in Yueh; At dusk in the Palace of Wu, a great lady! Poor, no rarer than the others-- Exalted, everyone praising her rareness. But above all honors, the honor was hers Of blinding with passion an emperor's reason. Now were ordered away from her carriage.... Ask them, in her neighbors' houses, If by wrinkling their brows they can copy her beauty.

A SONG OF YOUNG GIRLS FROM LO-YANG

There are girls from Lo-yang in that door across the street, Some of them fifteen and some a little older. While their master rides a rapid horse with jade bit and bridle, Their handmaid brings them codfish on a golden plate. On the painted pavilions, facing their red towers, Corninces are pink and green with peace-bloom and willow; Canopies of silk awn their seven-scented chairs; Rare fans shade them home, to their nine-flowered curtains. Their lord, with rank and wealth and in the green of life, Exceeds, for magnificence, even Chi-lun; He favors girls of lowly birth and teaches them to dance, The wind of dawn just stirs when his nine soft lights go out, Those nine soft lights like petals in a flying chain of flowers. From play to play they have barely time for singing over the songs; No sooner are they dressed again than incense burns before them. Those they know in town are only the rich and the lavish, And day and night they're visiting the homes of Chao and Li... Who cares about a girl from Yueh, face jade-white, Humble, poor, alone, by the river, washing silk!

HARMONIZING A POEM BY PALACE-ATTENDANT KUO

High beyond the thick wall a tower shines with sunset, Where peach and plum are blooming and willow-cotton flies. You have heard it in your office, the court-bell of twilight: Birds discover perches, officials head for home. Your morning-jade will tinkle as you thread the golden palace, You will bring the word of heaven from the closing gates at night. And I should serve there with you; but, being full of years, I have put aside official robes and am resting from my ills.

A GREEN STREAM

I have come on the River of Yellow Flowers, Borne by the current a green stream Rounding ten thousand turns through the mountains To less than a hundred li Rapids hum on scattered stones, Light is dim in the close pines, The surface of an inlet sways with nut-horns, Weeds are lush along the banks. Down in my heart I have always been clear As this clarity of waters. Oh, to remain on a broad flat rock And cast my fishing-line forever!

Translated from the Chinese by Witter Bynner and Kiang Kang-hu 江亢虎 in _Poetry_ Vol. XIX No. V, February 1922

[ofwillowsandgreenfieldshasmoved]

Jade & Logan

starter for @griefvoiced

The witch couldn’t recall a time where she had been more happier - perhaps the birth of her daughter came close, but to discover that her little girl had been alive in all the time Jade believed her to be dead? Happiness couldn’t even begin to describe what she was feeling. Having Ellie - now eleven years old rather than the small six year old she remembered - in her arms again, holding her close to her beating heart, there was nothing more the mother wanted in her life now. 

Well, maybe there was one thing...

"She’s really happy you came,” Jade commented, standing beside the reaper, watching her child happily play with her mother’s black cat outside in the backyard, a deep smile clinging to the witch’s pink lips. “That’s probably nothing new to you by now...” Bright blues lifted to gaze at him, her features softening. 

“Thank you, by the way. What you did for her-” What you did for me... “-there’s just...no words to tell you how grateful I am...” There was nothing she could really think of that would show just how eternally indebted to him she really was. She could try, though to Jade it just wouldn’t be enough. But she could still try.

[ofwillowsandgreenfieldshasmoved]

Jade & Drew McIntyre

starter for @gxrdiansoftherxng

The decision to switch careers was always a challenging one, especially when the change was as drastic as going from a simple flower shop owner to a professional wrestler, hopefully working for the WWE. But Jade - thirty-one years old and a single mother to an eleven year old daughter - was determined to follow through with it, enrolling in a local wrestling school in her hometown of Salem, Oregon to learn the basics and hone those skills, eventually wrestling in smaller indie productions all around the state. It took her a long time, but eventually (and very much with the help of her teacher) she had the chance to show the talent scouts of the biggest wrestling company what she’s got. 

Safe to say, she made an impression, as she nervously walked through the doors of the WWE HQ to sign her new developmental contract less than a week ago, and now she was about to meet her new trainer, the WWE deciding to partner her up with an active Superstar to get her started. Jade was excited, she could hardly believe that this was actually happening. 

A duffel bag slung over her shoulder, Jade walked into the gym where she was to meet her mentor, Raw Superstar Drew McIntyre. Raven hair was tied in a high ponytail and Jade was dressed in workout shorts and a tank top, ready to go with whatever training Drew might have had in mind for her today. 

[ofwillowsandgreenfieldshasmoved]

Jade & Loki

@vireous (moved & continued from x)

A dark grin twisted on the lips of the shadow inside of her, its presence circling the witch’s consciousness like a dangerous predator stalking its injured prey. She could feel her control slipping; it didn’t take much when the darkness shuddered with excitement as it did now. Jade wished it had stayed asleep, she cursed herself from stumbling across the man in front of her who was no doubt the reason it had awakened in the first place.

Wouldn’t that just be so much fun? the shadow echoed, creating a flinch visible on the witch’s features - it felt closer, louder, and more painful than it did before. Damn it…Not now…

Think about it, little rebel; watching the city burn, listening to the glorious sounds of cries and screams - the absolute AGONY! All of those pathetic little insects struggling for life, gasping their last pitiful breaths - it’s all so delicious!

You’re sick…

You know you WANT to, because I want to - and you can’t deny me.

No…

Let me out.

No!

Let. Me. OUT!

“Why would you think...What is wrong with you?”

[floralgardenswitchesmoving-blog]

@dangerous-smoll liked the random muse starter call and gets Jade

In and out of consciousness the witch was, the pain too much to bear, her eyes too heavy to keep open. She couldn’t move, body slumped in dead weight among the blood stained grass, the thick and warm liquid seeping from the wound on her abdomen. She made a terrible mistake in underestimating her an opponent, confidence turning into cockiness that costed her dearly - not that it was her own fault, the darkness swirling within broke loose from its shackles and took control of her body, unwilling to just sit back and take anymore of the witch’s shit. It happened too fast, the shift in momentum changing as quick as the strike of lightning. And now she was here, dying. The darkness silent.

“H-Hel...p...” she whimpered, vision hazy as her mind fogged, “Pl..ease...” She didn’t know to whom she was begging, whether it was the same that wounded her or a stranger passing by and stumbled upon her. Friend or foe, she knew neither, but by God the witch was praying for friend. She didn’t want to die, not yet. Not now. 

[floralgardenswitchesmoving-blog]

@hcvenofear liked the random muse post and gets Jade

She isn’t in the shop today, the outside much more beautiful - too beautiful to be cooped up indoors. With some help from her half-brother, Jade set up a large booth outside the Floral Gardens, with baskets upon baskets of floral arrangements that ranged from her ever popular best seller or roses to her lesser purchased poinsettias; daisies, lilacs, tulips, dandelions, sunflowers, hyacinth, chamomile, honeysuckles, there really isn’t a flower that Jade didn’t grow and sell - and if there is, she’d be sure to find a way to add it into her collection. 

Today, she stood in the makeshift booth, awaiting for customers and making short conversations pertaining to the care of some lesser known flowers when they did come, all the while her young daughter next to her was left to draw in the crowd. The ten year old had a particular sweet charm to her, though she was growing older and maturing into the age of young adulthood she still had a knack for playing that sweet and adorable child that hit the soft spots in people’s hearts. In a way, Jade felt a little guilty for using her daughter for business, but damn the kid was good and successful. To say the least, Jade was still proud.

“Hi there!” the young brunette with the freckles face and sky blue eyes chimed as a potential customer walked by, her face lightning up like a Christmas tree with excitement and eagerness. “Would you like to buy a basket of flowers? Maybe for your mom or grandma, or another special someone in your life?” Jade smiled contently at her daughter before adding to the pitch, “We’re having a special discount event today; purchase any arrangement and receive a coupon of sorts for a 30 % discount the next time you visit the Floral Gardens.” In the raven haired woman’s hand, she held a small decorated card ready to be given out if the other was interested.