#he is so lovely and he is so tragically twenty years old of age. my love | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedrointofolklore · 1 year ago

Text

Rosebud

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: carnations bloomed when you saw joel. too shy to admit your feelings, but too overcome to not, you began leaving flowers at his doorstep.

warnings: very brief but graphic depictions of violence, mentions of death/grief, tragic backstory, emotional processing, reader is a loser who falls in love in two seconds, lots of metaphorical language, swearing, mostly just self-indulgent fluff, joel is soft, big age gap (reader is in late 20s), no smut, no use of y/n (reader has a nickname), jackson era.

word count: 6k

a/n: hey y’all. i’m delving into the world of fanfiction writing and i’m tentatively posting this as my first story. this story by @army-author is what inspired me here—i read it years ago and loved the concept ever since. i also super don't know much about flower gardening so apologies for any inaccuracies.

Your earliest memory was sitting in the garden with your mother one September. You were small then, no more than three years old, covered in soil and some residual stickiness from whatever fruit you’d just devoured, watching with a curious eye as your mother pruned her roses.

When you thought of her, you thought of that garden. In your memories, it was a labyrinth. Flowers, shrubs and vines overflowed the yard. You used to fear getting lost in the brambles, but at some point, you started to crave their thorny embrace.

It was a pink rose, so bright and intense, like a painting come to life. She shed the thorns, tucked it behind your ear and pinched your chubby cheeks. That was the first time she called you ‘Rosebud.’ Nobody ever called you anything else.

You couldn’t have known then that you were just a few Septembers away from losing her.

She died on the first day, in the centre of the garden. Your lasting memory of her was your father driving a pair of garden shears into her jugular. She collapsed to the ground, blood as dark as a crimson rose pooled around her as your father wept over her lifeless body. You sprinted inside and threw up.

She died a stranger. You didn’t understand what was happening to her then, but you understood that she was gone before the shears even entered her neck.

It haunted you for the next twenty years—but that person was not your mother.

Whenever the wound opened, and that memory came flooding back, you closed your eyes and thought of her as she truly was—kind, gentle, passionate. You recalled her soft smile, her musical laugh, the books she read, the flowers she loved.

When you were a kid, you thought of her as the sun that kept those flowers alive. As you grew older, she became the sutures that kept you from falling apart.

You knew your father had no other choice, but you could never quite look at him the same. Still, he was all you had, and he kept you safe until the day he died.

It was your mother’s leather-bound notebook that kept you going. She listed every flower she could think of, and wrote the meaning next to it. That notebook went with you everywhere, all across the country. Every new species you came across, you found it in the book, memorised its meaning, and crossed it off your mental checklist.

Flower seeking had to be the most frivolous thing one could do at the end of the world, but it kept you close to your mother, and gave you some semblance of purpose. Each new flower felt like something blooming inside you—your own secret garden that grew from the depths of your soul.

Carnations bloomed when you saw Joel.

He first came to Jackson in December with a girl by his side. They were gone by the next morning, but you saw him. He was coming out of the bar, tugging his coat back on when you spotted him through the crowd of carolling townspeople.

Even from a distance, you noticed the pain in him—a pain similar to yours. There was a wistfulness in his face, a longing for something he missed, and a fear so intense it seemed paralysing. He clutched at his chest, holding in the marigold that grew where his heart should have been.

You wanted to know him.

He came back that spring with the same girl, and this time, he stayed.

It was a while before you spoke with either of them. Everyone who arrived in Jackson had a tendency to be closed-off at first, and you couldn’t fault them for that. You didn’t know where they’d been or what they’d done, but you knew they’d gone through hell.

You met Ellie first. She came by the greenhouse one day, arms crossed and face vacant. Her reticence might have been mistaken for hostility if you didn’t relate so much.

You tore your soil-covered gloves off and wiped a hand over your cheek, probably just further smudging whatever dirt was caked on there.

“Hi there!” You did your best to sound cheerful, to come across as someone who was definitely okay with unexpected visitors. “What can I do for you?”

“Maria told me you might need some help around here.”

You didn’t think you needed help, and it seemed like the girl wanted to be anywhere but here. But as you pondered her, you started to recognise what she was actually getting at.

She didn’t know what to do, but she needed to do something.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“Ellie.”

“Nice to meet you, Ellie.” You held out your hand, which she stared at for a good couple of seconds before shaking. “Call me Rosebud.”

“You’re a florist named Rosebud?” She was incredulous, and you didn’t even care that she was making fun of you—it was the first time you’d seen her smile during this entire interaction.

“It’s a nickname,” you told her, “and I'm more of a floriculturist. If you want to help me out, grab some gloves and a trowel.”

“What the fuck is a ‘trowel’?”

You spent the next few hours with her digging holes in the soil, un-potting flowers and planting them in the ground. As apprehensive as Ellie had been to begin with, it didn’t take her long to warm up to you.

The first thing you learned about her was that she asked a lot of questions.

“Why do we have to move these?”

“It’s spring. They’ll do better in the ground.”

“Why didn’t Maria show us this place when we first came here?”

“It was winter. Half the flowers had gone to shit, so there wasn’t much to see,” you replied, flattening the soil around a sunflower plant.

The greenhouse had been established before you got there. Nobody ran it, it was something for everyone to tend to, but nobody cared enough to do so. The gardeners of Jackson preferred to focus on crops that could actually feed them. But then you arrived, and you knew how to grow a thriving flower garden, and with all the bees it brought, it only helped the agriculture. It also meant that Jackson had honey.

“This one’s cool. What is it?” Ellie asked. You looked over at the plant she was settling into the ground—a grassy little shrub with white flowers blooming at the ends.

“Starwort. It means ‘Welcome to a stranger.’”

“Appropriate,” Ellie said. “I didn’t know flowers had meanings.”

“It’s called floriography,” you replied. “I have a book all about it.”

Ellie stayed until the sun began to set, leaving in much better spirits than she arrived. You were used to working alone, and you thought you preferred it that way, but she turned out to be good company. You sent her home with a starwort blossom and a jar of honey as a thank you, and told her to come back any time. You really hoped she would.

You met Joel the next morning.

There was a knock at your door, which you expected to be Ellie back again. Instead, you opened the door to find her guardian standing on your front porch.

Your eyes flicked shamelessly over his form. He was broad, strong, with plaid sleeves hiked up to his elbows—you didn’t know it was possible to be attracted to someone’s forearms. His features were beautifully angular, especially his nose. But it was his eyes that really got you. They were dark like coffee, deep and intense. You could fall into them and never stop.

The garden you carried in your soul had never felt more alive. It was weird you hadn’t spoken yet, but you worried if you opened your mouth, the brightest, reddest chrysanthemums would come bursting out.

“Good mornin’. Sorry to bother you,” Joel finally said, with the rehearsed politeness typical of a Southern man. There was still an earnestness to him, like he didn’t quite remember how to do this but he was determined to try. “I think Ellie was here yesterday?”

“That’s right.” You internally cheered when your voice didn’t fail on you. “Is that okay? I know I didn’t get your permission. She just kind of showed up.”

“No, that’s okay. I just came by to thank you.”

“Thank me?”

“She's been struggling to…adjust, I guess,” Joel explained, “but she was in a good mood when she came home yesterday. I think being here helped her, so thank you.”

You weren’t quite sure what to say. People silently appreciated what you did for the commune, but nobody had ever gone out of their way to thank you for anything. It was a little overwhelming.

“Well, she’s welcome here any time.” You didn’t think Ellie was particularly interested in gardening, but you could see that the girl just needed to feel busy, and maybe needed some company. You were just glad she could find that with you.

“Thank you,” Joel said again. “What was your name, darlin’?”

“Just call me Rosebud.”

You expected a laugh, a mocking jab of some sort, but instead he just tilted his head and looked at you with complete sincerity. “Pretty. It suits you.”

Your cheeks were embarrassingly warm.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” Joel said. Your heart fell. “It was nice meetin’ you. And, uh, thanks again.”

He started to leave, but you weren’t ready for him to go. Before you could think it through, you called after him, “Wait.”

You might have imagined it, but for a split second after he turned back around, you could've sworn you spotted an eagerness in him, like he was hoping you’d say that.

“You can come inside,” you offered, “if you want.”

He did.

Five minutes later, Joel was standing in your kitchen, leaning against the counter. You could feel his gaze on you as you moved, getting the water ready and setting out two mugs.

“How do you like your coffee?” You were already sure of the answer.

“Black. No sugar.” Yep.

You poured the coffee into a mug, absent-mindedly blowing on it as you handed it to him. He didn’t wait for it to cool down before taking a sip, not even flinching at the heat.

You opted for tea with a generous amount of milk and honey.

“Thanks for the honey as well,” Joel said. “Ellie loves it. She’s never had anything so sweet.”

“That doesn’t surprise me if she grew up in a QZ,” you replied, turning to face him with your mug cradled in both hands. “I think I cried when I first got here and they actually had sugar.”

“When did you get here?”

“Around two years ago. My dad knew Seth—you know, from the bar—got in touch with him, and he told us how to get here,” you explained. You truly hated Seth, but he did save your ass and that left you obligated to be nice.

“Your dad’s not here, is he?” Joel spoke without any particular sentiment. It was an observation, plain and simple. You didn’t mind, you just shook your head. It felt normal to talk about your dad. You missed him, but his death wasn’t horrifically tragic to you—the man had a heart attack.

“What about you? I mean, how’d you end up here?” You were nervous about prying, or accidentally chasing him away before you really got to talk, but Joel had fascinated you since December. You needed to know more.

“I was in the Boston QZ for a while, left to look for my brother, found him.” He wasn’t going to get more detailed than that. Too much had happened that was difficult to talk about, and you could see that, because it was the same for you.

No matter how much you wanted to, you didn’t let yourself ask anything more. You didn’t ask why he’d been here in winter, why he left so soon, why he came back, why he didn’t come sooner if his brother was here, how Ellie fit into all of it. You didn’t ask, and you wouldn’t ask. All you could do was hope he’d open up in time.

It occurred to you just how different Joel looked now than he did in December, and not just because you were actually seeing him up-close. His whole spirit had shifted. Back then, he’d been like an open wound, barely being held together by exposed, bloody tendons that threatened to snap at any moment. He was different now—still wounded, but no longer in pieces.

There was something else in him too. Something dormant, but always on the verge of springing back to life. A quiet guilt.

“Flowers always been your thing?” Joel asked. You were grateful for the subject change.

“Pretty much. I used to know someone who loved them. Made me love them too.”

He nodded with an unexpected softness in his expression. It wasn’t pity, or even sympathy, but a warm kind of understanding.

“I know the flower stuff seems silly,” you said, looking down into the milky beige of your tea, “but it really is useful.”

“I know that,” Joel said. “I don’t think it’s silly.”

You could practically feel your chest split open that very second. Flowers sprouted from your heart, and they bloomed for Joel. They longed to reach out, wrap him up in their stems and vines and pull him into you.

Carnations. Chrysanthemums. Vervain.

You kept your composure until Joel left. You said your farewells, waved him off, shut the door, and immediately collapsed on your couch in a lovestruck heap. It was all so dramatic, the sofa may as well have been a bed of roses.

It wasn’t just that Joel was attractive—and fuck, he was attractive—it was the way he wholly and truly respected you. Respect was something you’d had to earn from everyone else around here, but Joel didn’t need any convincing. He saw your worth right away.

He was all you thought about for the rest of the day, the evening, until you went to bed that night. Even then, your mind wouldn’t stop racing.

These feelings were big, too big. Keeping them inside hurt, but you feared letting them out would be agony. They were safest with you, blossoming into flowers in your soul, where only you knew about them.

But still, you were wide awake, consumed by the urge to do something, say something.

So you got up, pulled your shoes on, went outside and picked a flower from your garden.

Jackson was desolate as you wandered down the street. The only residents awake at this hour were those on patrol. It might have been eerie if you weren’t so wound up.

You scanned each house as you passed by, looking for Joel’s. Your heart pounded in your chest when you found it. You didn’t need to be so nervous, the lights were off, but you kept imagining someone walking out and catching you in the act. But you’d come this far, and his front door was just a few yards away.

You climbed the stone steps with a quiet urgency, twirling the flower between your fingers one last time before dropping it just outside his door.

A single gardenia.

You were going to leave it at just one flower—you didn’t want to be weird and scare Joel off before you really got to know him. But then Ellie came by the greenhouse again.

“Did you leave a flower on our front porch the other day?” she asked, watering a yarrow seedling.

“What? Why?” You felt so lame, and so stupid for forgetting that Ellie lived there too. Your gesture was bound to get intercepted.

“There was a white flower out there. I showed it to Joel, and we figured it was from you.” It was a very reasonable thing to figure considering it was from you.

“What did Joel say?” you asked, trying not to sound as desperate as you felt.

“He said it was for him.”

“So he took it?”

“Yeah,” Ellie said. “Don’t know what he did with it.”

Ellie wasn’t nearly as invested in this as you were, but it still sounded promising. Joel had accepted the flower, maybe even liked it. The thought made your stomach feel strange, like a bunch of petals were flurrying around in there.

“Well, it was for him…” you mumbled.

Ellie glared at you in feigned outrage. “I’m insulted.”

“What are you complaining about?” you laughed. “I gave you a flower.”

“It’s wilting.”

“Fine then”—you handed her a pair of pruning shears—“go cut yourself a new flower.”

She wandered around the greenhouse for about five minutes and came back spinning a flower between her thumb and index finger. It had pure white petals and a bright yellow pistil. “I chose this daisy.”

“That’s a cosmos,” you corrected. “It represents harmony and balance.”

Ellie assessed the flower in her hand, genuinely mulling over the meaning of it, and you realised how much you appreciated her. She saw value in something you cared about.

“What did Joel’s mean?” she asked.

“I’m actually not sure about that one.” It was a total lie, but you sounded convincing enough that Ellie shrugged it off and carried on watering flowers.

You couldn’t help yourself after that. Knowing that Joel accepted your gift made you want to do it again. And again.

So you did. Every few days, when you were sure he and Ellie were asleep, you sauntered down to their house and dropped a flower outside the door. An aster, agapanthus, camellia…

Joel never mentioned it, and you never really expected him to, but the nods and soft smiles he gave you when he saw you around were enough to let you know he appreciated you.

But Joel would never know the true meaning of your flowers. It was better that way.

Maria and Tommy’s son was born later in the spring, and your garden had never seen so many visitors. The new parents were practically drowning in congratulatory flower arrangements, and eventually Tommy had to tell you to start turning people away.

One of these visitors happened to be Joel, and he was the one person you couldn’t turn away.

Unlike everyone else, Joel came to your door first. The slight nerves he’d had the first time he came over were gone, but so was the facade of sociability. Maybe this uncouth version of Joel should have irked you, but seeing him comfortable enough to drop the pretence just made you like him more.

“I need help with something,” he said, not even bothering with a hello.

“What is it?”

“A gift for the happy family,” he spoke bitterly, like he was actively trying not to grimace as the words came out.

“Flowers?”

“Flowers seem appropriate.”

Joel was strangely upset for someone who was welcoming their nephew into the world. You didn’t know the story between Tommy and Joel, just that they hadn’t seen each other for years before Joel and Ellie arrived in Jackson, and that Maria really disliked him.

But despite his sour attitude, it was clear Joel was trying. Whatever was weighing on him, he was pushing it down and choosing to be thoughtful for the sake of his family. Tommy could deal with one more bouquet.

You walked down to the greenhouse with Joel trailing behind you, his hands shoved into his pockets the entire time. On a better day, you would have tried to make conversation with him, but he obviously didn’t need that pressure right now.

He finally spoke up when you arrived at the greenhouse. “This place has seen better days.”

It wasn’t the flowers he was talking about, it was the structure itself. The contractor in him must have noticed the rusted metal pipes holding everything together, the holes and tears in the plastic sheets, and the fact that there was almost no room to walk.

“I know it’s bad,” you said with a nervous laugh. “It was built before I got here. I don’t think they used their finest materials.”

It was always cramped in here, but Joel being so broad and having such a presence made it even worse. He was closer to you now than he’d ever been. He smelled warm, like fresh coffee and leather and musk. It made your head spin.

“So, what kind of flowers are you thinking?” You needed to change the subject before you threw yourself at this man.

“Uh...pink?”

You laughed—you couldn’t help it. He couldn’t have been more vague if he tried.

“Why’s that funny?” He wasn’t mad, but he did seem impatient.

“Sorry,” you said, fighting back a smile. “Maybe you could elaborate on that?”

“I don’t know,” he groaned, running a hand over his prickly beard. “This is why I need help.”

You felt bad for laughing when he was so stressed out. He was overthinking something that should have been simple, and it made your heart ache for him. He was looking for guidance.

“We’ll do peonies for good fortune,” you told him, “and daffodils for new beginnings.”

His shoulders relaxed as some of the tension left him. Whatever was weighing on him was still there, but this was one thing that made it bearable.

You walked back to your house after cutting the flowers, where there was actually space to work. You expected Joel to leave then, go home and wait until the flowers were ready like everyone else did, maybe even have you deliver them on his behalf, but he stayed by your side.

“How do you know all this stuff?” Joel asked, sitting across the table from you as you worked. “About flowers, I mean.”

You never got into this with anyone, but your inexplicable attachment to Joel compelled you to open up. Whatever pain resided in him reminded you of your own. He understood you.

“My mom had this book. She wrote down the meaning of every flower she knew of, and I guess I’ve memorised it all over the years,” you explained.

Talking about her didn’t hurt like you thought it would. It was actually a relief.

“When did it happen?” You knew what he was asking.

“First day,” you replied.

He nodded solemnly. “Me too.”

This wasn’t the first time you had seen through the gaps in Joel’s armour, but it was the first time he’d made the choice to let you. You didn’t know his limits, if those two words were as deep as he could get, but you wanted to see what would happen if you just asked.

“Joel?”

“Hm?”

“You don’t seem happy about this,” you said, straightforward but still cautious.

“I guess I’m not,” he admitted, looking down pensively.

“Why is that?”

“Just don’t understand bringing a kid into all this.”

You agreed with him. The people of Jackson were as safe as they could be, but outside the walls were infected, raiders, FEDRA, and a multitude of horrors too awful to speak of. It would only take one mistake for Jackson to be completely wiped out. You wouldn’t want to bring a child into a world like that either.

But you also knew that most people who had kids post-outbreak hadn’t done it by choice.

“It’s not as if people have access to birth control,” you pointed out, stacking peonies onto a piece of tissue paper. “But I don’t disagree.”

“It’s just a lot for me to wrap my head around,” Joel continued—or maybe he was starting on a completely different train of thought. “Tommy’s the uncle. He’s always been the uncle. I’m…“

He couldn’t say it. He didn’t have to.

“You still are,” you told him. “Tommy’s still an uncle.”

Joel was silent, letting your words sink in. It was cold comfort, and maybe you shouldn’t have said it, but it was what you believed.

“Why do people call you Rosebud?” The question took you aback. It was completely unrelated, yet felt so important. He was the first person in twenty years to ask you that question.

“My mom came up with it when I was little. It’s what everyone’s called me since.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” Joel asked. “Seems like a constant reminder of what you lost.”

It was hard having to live without her, but you never wanted to forget what you lost. “I guess I like the reminders.”

His hand absent-mindedly fell to the broken watch on his wrist, and for a fleeting moment, you were seeing the man you first saw in December. An open wound. Marigold.

“She didn’t stop being my mom,” you said quietly. “I didn’t stop being her daughter.”

And as quickly as the wound opened, it was once again sewn shut. He even managed a smile. “You’re wise, kid. You know that?”

Kid.

Ouch.

It felt like a kick to the stomach. In an instant, the carnations that bloomed when you first saw Joel all those months ago, that had been so red and vibrant, faded into yellow.

You held yourself together until he left. You finished arranging the flowers, wrapped them up, handed them over to him, said goodbye and wished him luck, then trudged over to the couch and flopped down onto it—this time in a dejected heap.

It wasn’t as if you thought you had much of a chance with Joel, but this just felt so awfully final. It didn’t matter that you were basically thirty years old—in his mind, you were a kid.

It was embarrassing. You thought about the flowers you left—a quiet admission of feelings—and prayed the couch would swallow you whole and suffocate you.

You’d gotten it all wrong. Joel never appreciated it. He probably thought it was weird and pathetic but didn’t have the heart to tell you. You wondered why he even accepted the initial flower, and if you weren’t feeling so spurned and humiliated, it might have dawned on you that you were overreacting.

You still left a flower that night, if only to get some closure. It would be the last one you ever left him.

A red tulip.

Joel came to your door one day in July.

You’d come to expect Ellie on your front porch at least once a week, but Joel wasn’t a surprise either. You were friends now, even after such an embarrassing rejection.

Joel still never mentioned the flowers. He was probably relieved when you stopped leaving them and wanted to pretend it never happened, and that was fine by you.

Being friends didn’t help matters though. He was always rough and grumpy in his Joel way, but he was sweet too. So sweet. It felt impossible to move on.

“Hey, Joel,” you said. “Need help with something?”

“I wanted to help you, actually.”

“Me?”

“I can’t keep lookin’ at that greenhouse,” Joel said. “It’s a piece of shit.”

You had to laugh at his honesty. “You want to patch it up?”

“Was thinking of taking the whole thing apart and rebuildin’ it.”

The offer stunned you. It was so generous and so out of nowhere. Your first instinct was to say no, that it wasn’t worth the trouble, but something stopped you. It was Joel coming to you in earnest and saying he wanted to help. It felt like an insult to deny him.

You smiled warmly and nodded. “Okay.”

“When can I get started?” he asked.

Shit. You had dozens of flower pots you didn’t know what to do with. “Uh, I’ll have to empty the greenhouse first. I guess I'll bring the flowers here in the meantime.”

“Ellie and I can help with that,” Joel said. “I’ll go get her.”

You blinked at him. “Now?”

“You got other plans?”

You absolutely did not. “Ah, no. Now is good.”

“Great.”

That was how you spent your day, lugging flower pots from the greenhouse and unloading them in your front yard with Joel and Ellie in tow. It was so lovely it bordered on being painful—pink roses unshed of their thorns pierced your heart.

You let yourself imagine for a moment that this was reality. That you, Joel and Ellie were a weird, happy family. The carnations in your soul had never been more yellow, and you instantly regretted indulging in that particular fantasy.

Joel was already at the greenhouse when you went there the next morning. He was up on a ladder, and half of the structure was already torn down. Rusted metal pipes and discoloured, ripped up plastic sheets were piling up a few feet away.

“Need any help?” you called out.

He looked down at you and smiled—a real, wide smile you hadn’t seen on him before. “You know what you’re doin'?”

“Not really.”

“Then, no,” he replied. “Don’t want you droppin’ anything on that pretty little head.”

Huh?

You flushed all over, wishing your couch was here so you could collapse onto it. Less than two months ago he was calling you a kid, and now he thought your head was pretty. The thought crept in that maybe he was purposely messing with you, but you liked Joel too much to entertain the idea.

“Well, I probably can’t help with the physical labour,” you said, cursing how nervous your voice sounded. “But if there’s anything else…”

“You’re a sweet one, Rosebud,” Joel said. He had to be doing this on purpose. “You just let me do my thing, and we’ll leave it a surprise.”

You laughed. “In other words, you’re telling me to get lost?”

He grinned at you fondly. “Just trust me.”

It only took one exchange for that hope to come back to life. You tried to stop it, tell yourself he was just teasing, that he didn’t mean it that way, but it was too late. Those carnations were already morphing back into a searing red.

You wanted to come by everyday and watch him work, but you stayed away and waited for him to come to you. It only took a few days for him to show up at your door, looking infuriatingly hot covered in blotches of sage green paint.

“Is it ready?” you asked.

“It’s ready.”

You followed along behind him, keeping your eyes down so you didn’t accidentally spot the new greenhouse before he was ready for you to look. You ended up just ogling his ass, which was a decidedly better and much more pinch-able sight than the ground.

“Look now.”

You lifted your gaze, and your hands flew up to your mouth as you let out a dramatic gasp.

It wasn’t just good, it wasn’t just an improvement, it was beautiful—masterfully pieced together with timber and painted the same sage green that Joel was sporting on his clothes. And it was bigger. There would actually be space for you to walk around inside.

Joel started to panic from beside you, and you realised you were crying. “Is it the green? I can repaint it if you hate it.”

You seemed to have lost the power of speech to reassure him, so instead, you threw your arms around him and held tight. The suddenness of it shocked him, and his hands found your waist. You weren’t sure if he was about to push you away or pull you in.

“So, you like it?” he asked.

“I love it,” you snivelled into his shoulder. “Thank you, Joel.”

He hugged you back then, caging you in with his big arms and making you feel so safe. You felt a prickly sensation on your temple as he brushed his lips against it.

Red tulips were threatening to burst out of you in droves. You didn’t want to let go, but you were seconds away from making a confession you couldn’t take back if you spent too much longer in his embrace.

You pulled yourself away, and even with the sun beating down on you, you missed his warmth.

He walked you back home, came inside when you offered him iced tea (you were out of coffee), drank it all even if it was too sweet for him, and all you could do was thank him repeatedly for what he’d done.

“Don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I wanted to do this for you.”

What did that mean?

“I’m sorry I never said anything,” Joel continued, a pink flush apparent on his cheeks.

“About what?” You knew exactly what.

“The flowers. I wanted to thank you, but I didn’t know how. I’m not used to it.”

“Used to what?”

“Kindness.” He almost winced, like it hurt to say.

“It was weird. I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t weird,” Joel assured you. “It was…nice. Bummed me out when you stopped.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I get it.”

You didn’t know what to say at this point. You didn’t want to be talking about any of it, and you were about to tell him that, ask him to move on from this, until he decided to put you on the absolute spot.

“What did they mean?”

Fuck. “Hm?”

“The flowers,” he said. “You said flowers have meaning. What did they mean?”

“I actually don’t know those ones.” That harmless little lie worked on Ellie, but Joel saw right through it.

“Why are you lying to me?” He didn’t even sound angry or annoyed, just genuinely curious, and a little sympathetic.

You considered doubling-down, insisting you didn't know, but you couldn’t do that him. It was a vulnerable conversation for not only you, but Joel as well. You understood how hard this was for him, and you cared for him too much to shut him down.

But you couldn’t say it, not verbally. Instead, you grabbed the notebook that was laying on your coffee table and held it out to him. There was a split second as he was reaching for it where you imagined yourself tugging it back out of his reach, forgetting about this entire thing, but then it was in his hands and it was too late. Nothing would ever be the same.

You held your breath as he flipped through it, his eyes flicking over the words. His face gave nothing away, but his finger was tracing over something.

Red tulip - declaration of love.

He gently shut the book and set it down, and your eyes stayed firmly on the floor, hoping if you stared at it long enough it would split open and consume you.

“Are you surprised?” You couldn’t project your voice above a whisper.

“I guess not,” Joel said. It was the honest answer, and the one you most expected. “I thought you were just bein’ nice, then Ellie kept insisting you were interested.”

That girl was smarter than you gave her credit for—and you already thought she was very smart.

“I thought there was no way,” Joel continued. “You’re sweet and young and so pretty. I’m just an old man.”

“I don’t care how old you are,” you replied.

“I’ve done a lot of bad things...”

“I don’t care what you’ve done. I care who you are now.”

You were looking at him now. He looked moved, rapt, and not at all like someone about to deliver a devastating rejection.

“And you want me?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause where neither of you said anything, but the air was thick with an unspoken question: Where do we go from here?

“Can I kiss you, Rosebud?”

You nodded, and he did. It felt like dozens of chrysanthemums, camellias and carnations all springing to life under your skin.

He was gentle in a way you never could have imagined, cupping your cheek with his palm and holding your waist with the other. It was reminiscent of the hug you’d shared earlier, and you wondered if he’d wanted to kiss you then.

His lips were rough, a little chapped, but soft in the way he moved them. This wouldn’t be how he always kissed, you were sure of that. Someday it would be messy, frantic, all-consuming. But this careful, slow movement of his lips against yours was all you needed right now.

He wanted to be gentle with you, because he cherished you like a rosebud.

flower translations:

rose (pink) - perfect happiness

rose (dark crimson) - mourning

carnation (red) - admiration

marigold - grief, despair

starwort - welcome to a stranger

chrysanthemum (red) - i love you

vervain - enchantment

gardenia - you’re lovely

yarrow - healing

aster - symbol of love

agapanthus - secret love

camellia (pink) - longing for you

peony - prosperity

daffodil (bunch) - new beginnings, hope, good luck

carnation (yellow) - rejection, disappointment

tulip (red) - declaration of love

rosebud (red) - pure, lovely

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller imagine #the last of us #the last of us hbo #pedro pascal #the last of us fanfiction

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bite-sized-writing · 10 days ago

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How Do Authors Start Their Story?

You finally have your outline or plot ready. You want to begin writing your story but you have no idea how you want it to start.

That's my problem right now, so I put down a few examples of the beginning of books as inspiration!

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Finvarra's Circus by Monica Sanz

Leanna Weston looked down at the age worn ticket in her hands and abandoned all prior belief that there was nothing worse than a broken heart. Her heart, however, was not one ruined by the unrequited affections of a boy, nor failure to secure a husband. It, in fact, had little to do with love at all. No, Leanna learned long ago that no man would ever want the sister with a damaged heart, not when there were two other healthy, lively ones in the stable.

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Voice of The Blood by Jemiah Jefferson

All the best tales begin with rain. In reality, this is the end of the story I am about to relate to you, but I begin here, because I'm sitting waiting in the pitch-dark parlor of my old house, bare feet with their long nightmare toes peeking out from beneath an appropriately literary white eyelet nightgown. The rain is picking up outside from a sleepy waltz to a tarantella, and often when it rains like this, my lover John returns to me for the night. My lover—the unfortunately feral and tragically beautiful—may join me here, for he hates being out in the rain in the mulchy graveyards and unwholesome underpasses where he ordinarily stays.

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The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real by Neta Jackson

The call of nature—Willie Wonka's, not mine—got me out of bed at the bleary hour of seven thirty, even though the New Year's Eve party upstairs had kept me awake till after three. Three a.m.! But Willie Wonka's bladder was on dog-time—old dog time at that—making sleeping in on holidays a moot point. Stuffing my feet into my scuffs and pulling Denny's big terry robe around me, I stumbled out of our bedroom mumbling thinly disguised threats at our chocolate Lab as he led me out the back door.

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Rosehead by Ksenia Anske

Lilith Bloom had a peculiar feeling that the rose garden wanted to eat her. She surveyed it through the open car window, unable to look away. The garden seemed to survey her back. It was enormous. Its red blanket surrounded a solitary mansion at the end of Rose Street, Rosenstrasse in German. No other houses stood in sight, only a distant forest. Apart from tires grating on the gravel, it was eerily quiet, too quiet for a hot summer afternoon.

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Mongrels by Stephen Graham Jones

My grandfather used to tell me he was a werewolf. He’d rope my aunt Libby and uncle Darren in, try to get them to nod about him twenty years ago, halfway up a windmill, slashing at the rain with his claws. Him dropping down to all fours to race the train on the downhill out of Booneville, and beating it. Him running ahead of a countryside full of Arkansas villagers, a live chicken flapping between his jaws, his eyes wet with the thrill of it all. The moon was always full in his stories, and right behind him like a spotlight.

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Appointment In Jerusalem by Derek Prince

The last glow of the setting sun had faded from the sky behind me, leaving the streets of Jerusalem dark and empty. The silence was broken only by the scuff of my shoes against the stones. The damp, wintry air felt raw against my cheek. Instinctively, I clutched closer to me the bundle that I carried.

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Below by Laurel Hightower

It came out of nowhere.

Addy’s hands shook, the band of her grandmother’s wedding ring tapping an erratic rhythm on the edge of the chipped porcelain mug she held so tight. The coffee within had long gone cold, but she couldn’t make herself let go.

It came out of nowhere.

She clutched the cup harder, knuckles whitening as they had around her steering wheel when the dark blue van appeared in the middle of the road, facing the wrong direction. Her fingers were stiff: she’d had to pry them from the wheel once she’d pulled into the truck stop parking lot. Her heart raced, her breathing erratic, stopping every so often until her burning lungs reminded her that no, she hadn’t died, so she still needed air.

#writing #writing reference #writing resources #writing help #on writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr

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1d1195 · 1 year ago

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Half & Half

Here is my new soulmate idea. (New meaning different than my other ones I wrote back in the day.) A tattoo appears on the left ring finger of each person when they turn 16 years old. It’s a black outline, nothing crazy—obviously, it’s on the ring finger. It has to do with how you meet your person. (You’ll see in a second.) It’s vague, there’s not much rhyme or reason.

Q&A (because I feel like there are always questions when it come to soulmate ideas):

Q: Sam, won’t multiple people have the same tattoo? A: Great question. Potentially. It’s irrelevant though for the sake of the story.

Q: How do they know it’s their other half? A: Another good question. The pair of tattoos change to the same color.

Q: Well, Sam, hypothetically, if four people are in the same room and meet their respective half can’t they all have the same color change? How will they know which person they belong with? A: It won’t happen. Q: How do you know? A: Because I wrote it that way.

Q: What happens if you don’t find your soulmate in this universe? A: Then you’ll be sad like Harry.

Q: What do you mean Harry is going to be sad?! A: Warnings: Lots of angst, sad, pining Harry, mentions of death, mentions of sex (pg-13 at most)

If you have any questions, please feel free to ask! (But be warned I'm making this all up on the spot!)

That’s it. That’s all you get. (there will also be like one or two liberties I'm taking with this idea that may have forgot to disclose that you'll read in a few minutes). A black tattoo that marks how you’ll meet your other half. When you meet that person, the pair of tattoos change to the same color. I don’t have a preview for you because this turned into a lengthy foreword. Enjoy :)

How can you miss someone you’ve never met? / Cause I need you now, but I don’t know you yet / But can you find me soon because I’m in my head? / Yeah, I need you now, but I don’t know you yet.

Harry looked at the little tattoo on his ring finger. He’d been staring at it since he was a teen. The morning of his sixteenth birthday to be exact. It was small, the length of his first knuckle to the next and he thought it was a cruel fate that it was a little coffee cup. How was that supposed to narrow his search? Why couldn’t it have been something like Niall’s—a snake? How often did one encounter a snake? That would be easy (and it was for Niall). Or something like Gemma’s—a diploma? There was only a certain number of graduations Gemma anticipated attending.

That was more than twelve years ago he woke up with the taunting little marking. For the first week he drank no less than four cups of coffee a day and had his mum drive him all over town to the different shops in hopes of finding her. Anne took it all in stride knowing how she spent eight hours at the library the first day she saw the book tattoo on her finger when she was Harry’s age. It was just something that needed to be done. The heart wanted, what the heart wanted.

He wished he knew what was on his love’s ring finger. It would have been better if the two markings were paired in the tattoo that appeared on his skin. It wasn’t much help to know it had something to do with their first meeting. It could be anywhere. Harry could have coffee anywhere. After that first week, he decided to relax. He was sixteen. There was plenty of time to meet his soulmate.

But sixteen became seventeen and suddenly he was twenty-eight, no soulmate, and the little coffee cup on his finger mocked him more and more every day. There was therapy or services he could try. People could potentially help, but it just felt so tragic. He wanted to just know. Wanted it to be a natural meeting; the way it was intended. Simply discovering one another exactly how the tattoos indicated they would. None of his friends or family needed help. The many Google searches told him it took a mere average of five years to find their other half.

He had more than doubled that time. Twelve years. The person that he was destined to meet was somewhere out there with who knows what etched on their skin. Maybe they had a coffee cup too. Harry had heard of that. But Niall’s soulmate had a balloon because he had taken his nephew to the little balloon cart after the snake exhibit at the zoo. Both the little outlines on their fingers turned green as they met. It happened. He found her.

Gemma’s soulmate had a camera—someone who happened by at the exact moment they needed someone to take a picture of their family after she graduated. Their outlines turned a brilliant shade of red. They had met. She found him. They could start their lives together.

Anyway, it was unlikely Harry and his other half both had coffee cups.

It wasn’t like Harry had a tragic upbringing that he desperately needed his love at the other end of this tattoo to help him cope through life. He adored his mother and sister. He had a great education. He wasn’t bullied and had a set of good friends. He had a stable job and a good home. If anything, it seemed kind of selfish of him to be so upset he was without his soulmate when everything else was good.

But he longed for his soulmate. All day. Every moment. It ached to his core. He swore his heart was beating for his person, tapping out a rhythm that sounded like a name that he wasn’t allowed to hear. His friends and family were all concerned for his well-being. They couldn’t imagine the heartache Harry was suffering and they wouldn’t wish it on their worst enemy. All-encompassing adoration and love? He had plenty of that to give. He wanted to be at the receiving end of it. A match made in heaven. Or whatever cosmic reality was out there. Harry had watched so many movies and read so many stories depicting the meet-cutes between soulmates. He wanted his.

There were therapies and people to help if you lost your soulmate. These, essentially, were dating sites if you didn’t want to be alone after an untimely passing or something else (although Harry couldn’t imagine a scenario that didn’t include death—what was the something else?). Harry thought about the websites and the grief counseling. Because as he approached his twenty-third birthday, he was getting lonely. All of his friends and acquaintances were paired by then and found the loves of their lives by the time he graduated university—they fell well within the average time. He was jealous, simply put. How could he not be?

“Oh, Harry,” Sarah cooed, kissing his cheek, wrapping her arm around his shoulders as he scrolled through options on his phone. She met Mitch when she was a child—the tattoos and color changing appearing instantaneously. It was extremely rare, but it was effortless: a swing and a slide. Light purple. Another match. One moment blending into the next without pause. They found each other before Harry even had a tattoo on his finger. “You’ll find her. You deserve love more than anyone I know.”

He hoped she was right because he was rapidly losing hope.

Tomorrow was his twenty-ninth birthday after all.

How can you miss someone you’ve never seen? / Oh, tell me are your eyes brown, blue, or green? / And do you like it with sugar and cream? / Or do you take it straight, oh, just like me?

Anne said the same thing as Sarah—but he thought she still had hope because she wanted her son to be happy and that’s what a mum did. She had hope even when Harry didn’t.

Harry had a soft heart. He was sensitive. He wanted to be in love more than he wanted anything else in his life. But he went through the motions. Finishing school, getting a job, and doing his best to get through each day without someone to share it with. He could feel pity oozing from every person he met, and they saw the black ink on his finger. His friends spoke in hushed whispers agreeing to any coffee shop Harry wanted to meet at each weekend.

Each night came with a fitful sleep. A different pair of colored eyes appeared in his dream of someone he didn’t know yet. There were so many dreams of meeting his favorite person. So many good ones. So many bad ones. All of which he woke up heartbroken once more, that he hadn’t met the love of his life.

He graduated with top honors because there weren’t many people in school who didn’t have the other half of their soul by their side. Especially by the end of the four years. It was hard for his friends to go out with him and watch him not find the love he was looking for. Harry wasn’t one for partying excessively—he had plenty of fun times in university with his friends at parties without his other half, that wasn’t something he regretted. But by the time graduation rolled around, the parties got further and few between. His friends didn’t need to go out the way he did. They didn’t have to search anymore.

Harry lost the most hope during his third year. He tried dating people he met at coffee shops and cafes. Dating was a loose term. Harry’s dates with those that lost someone or those that, like him, had given up weren’t all that fruitful for either party. Call him old-fashioned, but if she was out there, he wanted to save every intimate part of himself. A sweep of the lips across a cheek, that was all he could muster. Companionship to stave off the loneliness, that was all he could manage at best. Some were blatant in showing their disappointment. But most usually understood—they’d do anything to get their other half back or to find them.

He prayed to whatever was out there that she felt the same way.

The only solace he had was knowing that maybe, just maybe, she was out there, feeling just as crummy as he was. Not that he wanted the love of his life to feel crummy. At the very least, it would be another thing to tie them together and something to discuss when he finally found her. He kept a list of things he wanted to know. Several lists.

The first list was filled with superficial things—favorites mostly: color, food, movie, etc. Outward things that he wanted to know but really, they were things that anyone who knew the most basic information about her may know. The next list was slightly deeper; things that people only closest to her may know. Things that made her tick. What were her political views? Did she have a good home life? Was she a summer or a winter kind of person? How did she take her coffee--with half and half?

Is that why the coffee cup was there? Did she even like coffee? Has it been a teacup all this time?

The final list was deeper, intimate, things that he wouldn’t anyone to know about himself (or her, if he was honest) except maybe a therapist. Did she suffer her first heartbreak despite knowing she had a soulmate out there? Did she believe in an afterlife or reincarnation? Did she have any regrets or suffer ever?

Had she waited like Harry did?

Part of him hated the idea that she may not have felt the same way regarding intimacy. Maybe she gave that part of her to someone else. Someone she had met at a coffee shop and maybe she thought the tattoo changed color. Sometimes Harry thought his tattoo had changed. He believed it so vehemently. The shade of black looked gray-er one day. Another day it looked sort of navy-blue.

It was wishful thinking because even if it did, he never found who was supposed to be his other half at the time.

But he also believed that even if she did have a difference of opinion on intimacy, he would trust her judgment implicitly. She believed she was doing the right thing at the time and that was enough for Harry.

He woke up on his twenty-ninth birthday the same way he had for the last thirteen years—without a soulmate and a heavy heart.

Cause lately it’s been hard / They’re selling me for parts / And I don’t wanna be modern art

Harry started therapy when he turned twenty-seven. He was feeling very low without anyone to come home to. His therapist was helpful and extremely kind. But Harry could tell by the pink coloring on his ring finger that he had already met his other half. While his directions and ideas to help Harry cope with the grief of not knowing, it wasn’t something he could fully empathize with. Harry fully believed that. It wasn’t his therapist’s fault either—how could Harry blame him for finding his soulmate?

His therapist recommended websites with more successful ratings. His office even had a program that Harry would be perfect for. In fact, if he was interested in it enough, he would be a great candidate to speak to others in similar situations. There was a chance for Harry’s picture to be on a pamphlet to help others like him. He could tell his therapist was excited about the prospect of helping others like Harry. But it would only be another reminder to Harry that he was alone.

Harry found himself balling his hands into fists to keep from screaming.

His friends asked if he wanted to do anything for his birthday. For the last seven years they had done a coffee crawl in hopes of Harry finding someone that changed his tattoo for good. But this year Harry wanted to be alone.

“Are you sure?” Mitch asked in disbelief. He could hear the alarm in his voice. He could hear the covered whispers from Sarah behind the scenes. He nodded and Mitch was silent waiting for Harry to say something. But he didn’t speak for a full three minutes. When he did, Mitch wasn’t oblivious to the sniffle he heard and the way Harry’s voice broke.

“M’jus...” he shook his head. “S’fine,” he shrugged and swallowed all the emotions. He looked at that horrible, ugly, little mocking coffee cup. “Jus’...tired,” he told his friend.

“Yeah...sure...,” Mitch nodded. “Let me know if you need something, Harry. Happy birthday.”

It just didn’t feel happy.

Harry spent his birthday sulking in his apartment. He called out sick for three days of work so he could lie in bed, mourning the loss of someone he didn’t even know. On that third day he scheduled an impromptu therapy appointment begging the man to just do something to end Harry’s suffering. He wanted to be in love...he wanted to be loved.

But his therapist could only do so much. It was one big waiting game. One big, cruel terrible game.

“Uh...hi...m’name’s Harry,” Harry said into the microphone. He placed the guitar on his knee and brought the microphone closer to his lips. “M’therapist...suggested I sing when m’feeling down; s’been a while since I sang in front of a crowd,” he explained to the quiet group. “A way t’cope. Uh...in case it wasn’t obvious, I haven’t...met m’other half,” he awkwardly cleared his throat. “Been waiting thirteen years and four days.”

A few people had their attention focused on Harry. There were a few quiet interjections of ‘aw.’ A couple gasps of shock. There was one quiet happy birthday toward the front. Harry tuned his guitar for a moment. “I didn’t write this,” he smiled wryly. “But I believe every word of it,” he nodded in affirmation and swallowed. “How can you miss someone you’ve never met?” He began.

As he sang, he focused on the playing and singing the right words. He barely looked at the little crowd of the quiet, late-night cafe. He didn’t tell his friends about this. It was for him only. His next method of coping. When he finished the song there was a smattering of applause and he nodded gratefully, shoving his guitar in its case, before rushing outside. He took heaving breaths, the air from his lips accumulating into a cloud in the space in front of him.

That did not feel cathartic the way his therapist said it would. It was overwhelming and Harry actually thought it was one of the worst things he ever did. He felt like puking and began pacing away from the café stopping a few meters further up the sidewalk trying to console himself and his feelings.

“Excuse me?” Harry’s heart almost burst at the sound of her voice. He turned to the person hurrying up the path to him. His heart leapt but he kept his fingers pressed into the palms of his hand. He was going to leave imprints from his nails pressing into the skin.

She had a scarf draped around her neck and a pair of gloves, no coat. “I didn’t want to miss you! Harry, right?” she asked, shivering against the chilly February air pausing beside him as he looked back at the road in front of them. He gave a half nod. “That was beautiful,” she sounded like a song herself. But Harry had thought he met his soulmate before, he knew better than to get attached to just the sound of someone’s voice. There was one person he met ages ago—he couldn’t even remember what year it was that he was so sure was his soulmate. But when he looked, her tattoo was sky blue...and Harry’s remained black.

Harry also taken many science classes and knew the earth was tilted on its axis. But he was certain it had inexplicably turned upside down the moment he heard her voice.

He was still fearful it was too good to be true.

He didn’t dare look at his finger.

“I saw you rushing out here—boy, it’s really cold! I...I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she explained as she tilted her chin down to hide below her scarf. If Harry was smart, he would ask to go back inside so she wouldn’t freeze to death. It wasn’t his fault he was a sad, broken man.

Instead, he was speechless, waiting for the inevitable. For her to ask to see his tattoo. He pressed his fingers harder against his own hand. Instead, she bit her lip, her nose turning pink in the frosty temperature. “I brought you some hot chocolate,” she told him. Harry took this moment to realize between her gloved hands she held a coffee cup—or rather, a cup of hot chocolate. Hot chocolate. The same kind of cup that he knew was outlined on his finger. He didn’t take the drink from her. He couldn’t. Even if he wanted to, he was frozen in place.

Instead, he managed to turn his attention to her eyes for the first time. They were so gentle, so kind. There was understanding etched all over her face. Harry just laid it out to a whole group of strangers the hurt he was feeling. He knew she knew. She didn’t seem to mind that he wasn’t talking. So, she continued. “My tattoo is a guitar...and you were the only person in there with a guitar...so...it’s,” she smiled and shook her head. Like it was an inside joke between them already. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. “It’s gold now, this like beautiful, shimmering gold...I didn’t even want to cover it because I want to look at it all the time—and it’s only been about ten minutes like this but—God, it’s so cold out!—but I didn’t want...couldn’t miss you so I didn’t wear a coat—can I see your tattoo?” She rushed, still shivering. The poor girl.

Harry felt lightheaded. She was right here. A guitar. A cup of hot chocolate. It had to be.

Right?

Harry shook his head. “N-no,” he mumbled. The rejection broke her gentle, beautiful features. The poor thing. Why would he say that?! “M’scared,” he admitted.

She swallowed nervously. Her expression was a little more guarded than when she first stood next to him, but less broken than when Harry outright said no. “I just moved here,” she nodded—complete understanding back on her face. Her teeth were chattering. Harry was horrible to make her suffer like this. “I’ve been looking at this goddamn guitar for eleven years and you should know, I have no musical talents whatsoever. I took so many music classes in high school. I attended every band concert at my college. I haunted my local music store. I—” her voice cracked, and Harry heard the desperation that he had felt for so many years. It ached him to know she felt the same way. Worse than his own pain. He wanted to yank her heart out of her and cradle it, hold it and nurse it back to health. He’d give her the shattered half of what was left of his own heart if that would make her pain go away. She looked at the cup between her hands, tears lining her lashes so beautifully Harry was really starting to believe it was her.

“Baby, I threw a dart at a map,” she whispered. “I couldn’t take it, Harry. I applied for the first job I could find that used my degree in this town. I found an apartment. I packed up and left everyone and everything I ever knew to find my soulmate,” she sniffed. There were no fallen tears, but Harry thought she probably had cried plenty. Harry certainly had. “Everyone I know, thinks I’m crazy,” he knew that feeling very well. “I took the very first flight out possible. So, I’ve been stuck in my old time zone I won’t sleep until tomorrow afternoon. I was tired of unpacking. Tired of being hopeful and I just wanted to get some hot chocolate because it’s so cold, you know? So I went to this café that I Googled—it’s the only place open at eleven at night,” but Harry already knew that. She brought a gloved hand to her lips. Lips that Harry really wanted to kiss. “I know you have two years of waiting on me. I’m sorry about that—I didn’t know we weren’t in the same place, honey. I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Like it was her fault. Harry felt so broken that she was taking the blame for it all, but he couldn’t get his vocal cords to work. It wasn’t her fault. These things happened. It just sucked. It sucked the life out of Harry for thirteen years, but Harry remembered eleven years without her just as well. It’s when he started therapy after all. She had suffered too. “Please,” her voice cracked again. “I need to see your tattoo,” she begged.

It was so quiet on that cold street. His chest hurt; his throat ached. It felt like he was trapped in the smallest of rooms, the walls closing on him and pressing him into a cube of pain. He held out his left hand. She rolled her lips into her mouth. Her shoulders were heaving with the greatest weight she had ever carried. Harry wished he could be braver and help her out, but he was so terrified she was wrong. This was the closest break in his search he had ever had and if she was wrong, he thought it would kill him, surely.

She switched the coffee cup to her right hand. With her free one, she slid her gloved index finger over his bare digit. She released a breathy, watery giggle. Another inside joke between the two of them. “Don’t suppose it’s always been gold?” She asked.

Harry knew when his therapist asked what it felt like when he finally met her, he would never be able to describe the moment accurately. He tried to take it all in. The sounds, the smells, the feelings. His eyes were blurred with relieved tears so he couldn’t take in what he saw but he finally looked down at that beautiful tattoo of his. An iridescent, glittering gold. With her teeth she pulled her glove off her hand—his poor love had to be freezing but she didn’t stop—showing Harry how her little guitar outline matched the color of his cup perfectly, sliding her ring finger against his making the first brush of her skin against his the most magical feeling he had ever felt.

So, this is what it felt like to be whole.

In the same moment, she dropped the mug. It shattered to pieces on the cold sidewalk, stained her pale colored shoes in chocolate liquid and soaked her discarded glove. But Harry didn’t even have a second to react to it because her arms were around his neck. Her face was buried in his shoulder. “I thought it was a coffee cup,” he croaked, wrapping his arms around her middle. She giggled some more. It might be his new favorite sound. He pulled her close, feeling the shards of the mug crunching below their shoes. They stayed like that, Harry’s heart thrumming against his ribs, positively ready to jump into her chest to be a whole heart, finally. He squeezed her, crushed him to her, terrified to let her go. He would need a new therapist to cope with this kind of anxiety.

He pushed her back from him and he brought his hands to her cheeks, trying to take in every inch of the beautiful face he longed to see, touch, and feel every night he slept. He never wanted to stop looking at her. He was scared to let go of her for even a second.

Maybe he didn’t need to explain it to his therapist. This moment would just be theirs. A cold street, a broken mug, and two halves of one soul finally found.

He pressed his lips to her forehead then each eyelid, her nose, her cheeks. He tried to kiss every pore on her skin. “I’ve never kissed anyone,” he admitted. Her heart fluttered. “I know s’pathetic,” his lips never stopped the kisses to her face. His voice muffled by her skin. He pressed his lips again and again to the same spaces. It warmed her, he could tell. Her cheeks turned a deep red, but it wasn’t due to the cold.

“Oh fuck,” she whimpered, and he watched as the tears dripped down her cheeks. Harry had the fleeting thought that meant she hadn’t waited and now that she was finally here, he knew it really didn’t matter. “You really are my soulmate,” she whispered, which proved of course she waited—she was all his.

Harry ran his thumb along her lip and sank his mouth to touch hers. He moaned at the feeling, the warmth, the electricity that ran through her and into him. A completed circuit. Whole. She whimpered again, kissing him back and wrapped her arms around his neck again. He squeezed her close, her toes lifting off the ground.

“Can I take y’home with me, angel?” He begrudgingly pulled away. She quickly nodded, her heart fluttering at the word angel. He didn’t even mean to call her that, it rolled effortlessly off his tongue. “I have...so many questions t’ask you.”

“Please,” she nodded eagerly.

Harry held her left hand because it was without a glove. She was also still without a coat—abandoned in the late-night cafe, but they marched on anyway.

But I only got half a heart to give to you. / And I hope it’s enough.

Harry gave her his heaviest sweatshirt and made more tea so he could stay awake and keep her warm. Her jaw still chattered every so often, and they sat in silence for a few moments. Sitting on his bed. Harry had never had a girl in his bed before. He held her hand in both of his. The tea on his bedside table. He was staring at their tattoos. The pair that somehow matched after all his suffering. He thought gold was his new favorite color.

“I have lists,” he whispered. “Of things I want t’know.”

Smiling, that gorgeous smile of hers, she nodded easily. “You can ask me anything,” she promised.

Harry wondered if this was how all soulmates felt. To be heard and seen. This implicit need to be broken open and share every detail they could think of. “I don’t want t’fall sleep,” he murmured. But sleep was winning. He didn’t want it. He found her. He wanted to be awake and ask her all his questions. He wanted to memorize her skin, find every freckle. Wanted to kiss her again and again until he felt like his heart wasn’t half of a lump of muscle anymore. She deserved a whole heart.

She swallowed. “Harry, I’m going to stay,” she promised. It wasn’t distrust he felt. But it was a new ache that he wasn’t sure he could describe. Worry, maybe? That was about as close as he could get to describing it. He was afraid she was a figment, a dream. A really wonderful dream. “I’ll make you breakfast in the morning, it’s my favorite.”

Breakfast. One favorite down, only a thousand more to go. She gently pushed his shoulder down and she rested her ear on his chest. “Dreamed about your heartbeat,” she murmured. Harry wondered if she heard the way it skipped a beat as she spoke. He kissed the top of her head. “If I’m not right here when you wake up, I’ll be in the kitchen, alright?” He nodded. He hoped she would be here though. Waking up without her attached to him after this crazy, beautiful night might make him a little worse for wear in the morning. Would it be crazy to say he loved her? That was crazy. Whether they were soulmates or not. Despite that he did love her. “I love you,” she whispered. “Always have.”

It wasn’t crazy. Not at all. Not the way she said it. If anything, it made the most sense in the world. “I love you, too,” he felt like crying and if it wasn’t for the clock on his nightstand reading two in the morning, he might have actually cried before he fell asleep.

The knocking on the door woke him. So did the near shouts of his name. His love was no longer lying on top of him, but the knocking must have gotten her out of bed. It was nearly nine the next morning, the sun poking through the blinds. It was warm, his bed smelled like her.

He heard his door creak. The gasps. “Who are you?” He heard Sarah ask.

She giggled. “I’m the coffee cup,” even the way she introduced herself was perfect. Maybe he would keep the hot chocolate detail to himself. It seemed that she was willing to do the same by not telling them it wasn’t a coffee cup all these years.

“Oh, fucking finally!” Mitch cheered.

“Princess!” Niall shouted and Harry chose that moment to enter the main room, one of his best friends lifting the sweet girl into a massive hug that made him somehow feel more whole than he ever thought he could. “We’ve been waiting forever for you,” he told her. She simply giggled more, returning his hug.

“Easy, please. I jus' got her,” Harry murmured.

Sarah, seeing Harry finally appeared, threw herself at Harry with a choked half-laugh, half-cry. He kissed the side of her head. “I’m so happy for you,” she whispered.

Niall and Mitch, being the guitar enthusiasts they were, found her little tattoo unbelievably adorable and nearly unfair they had a snake and a swing. “I quite literally had no idea how I was supposed to find a musician when I can only sing—kind of.”

The boys asked her how it happened last night. Was that why Harry didn’t answer their texts or calls? Niall said he would go back and get her things—her purse, her coat, her phone. He knew the owner and was adamant that her things would be safely in the lost and found. She didn’t even care. They asked where she was from and Harry realized how gentle and guarded her answers were—they weren’t revealing, no long explanations.

She kept glancing at Harry with a knowing smile with every question she answered. It took everything in him to not cry from the fact she was keeping her answers short because she knew Harry would want to know the answers first—would want to ask more.

Sarah was looking at her as if she put the stars in the sky—Harry only knew that look because that’s how he felt as well. “Was...was it worth all that pain?” She asked. “I can’t...I can’t imagine,” she glanced at the little slide on her finger that had been there since she was six years old. She shook her head in disbelief. Sad for Harry

But he nodded anyway. As if for thirteen years he didn’t have the most broken heart known to man. “So very much,” he affirmed giving Sarah a squeeze around the shoulders.

“I was just about to make breakfast; would you like to join us?” She asked the three of them. Harry had never been an us. It was like a magic spell. Every word from her lips was like a soothing little cleanser meant to fix all the broken parts of him.

His friends smiled and looked at Harry for confirmation. If he wanted time alone with her, they would high tail it out of there, totally understandable. Niall was already calling the café to see if he could get her things at the very least.

“Please stay, of course,” he shrugged. “We’ve got forever.” Her expression seemed to melt a little at his words. He saw the way her thumb smoothed the skin over her ring finger.

Mitch and Sarah headed to the kitchen island and took their seats, they were a flurry of calls and messages to their other friends. They wanted to spread the good news and this is what friends did for someone like Harry. He didn't need to tell everyone, he had the love of his life in his arms. Niall was headed back out the door to get her things from the café. He’d be back in fifteen minutes.

Feeling more rested than he had in years, since he dreamed about the pair of eyes that finally matched someone that he knew to be his soulmate, he didn’t feel as broken. She smiled at him, gorgeously. He didn’t think he would ever tire of this new feeling of being whole. “Y’sure y’don’t mind having them?” He asked.

She shook her head. “I love them already.”

Harry knew it would be that way but somehow it was still way too good to be true. “We have all waited a very long time for you,” he reminded her. She wrinkled her nose cutely with a little impish grin. Harry placed his hands on her hips, pulling her toward him as if he had done this every morning for his whole life. “I’ve thought about you a thousand different ways and I don’t think any of them compare t’how you actually are,” he whispered.

She pressed the length of herself against him. Arms around his neck. His arms were like a vice around her waist. Harry’s sweatpants were too long on her, and the sweatshirt was scented with her new favorite smell. The love of her life. Her other half.

“Harry, I’m afraid I only have half a heart left to give you. I was really sad there for a very long time,” she admitted quietly; maybe it wasn't the time to tell him, but she needed to say it while it was on her mind. Sarah and Mitch were fielding messages, quiet giggles and words just over their shoulders while they waited for breakfast.

“Jus’ another thing we have in common,” he mumbled into her hair unfazed by her words. “We can share the whole one we make together.”

She sighed with relief and nuzzled her face into the soft shirt he wore. “You’re everything I wanted and more.”

What more could he say? “Me too, angel. Me too.”

general taglist: @justlemmeadoreyou @daydreamingofmatilda @sunshinemoonsposts @youdontcaredoyou @tiredinwinter @loving-hazz @likeapplejuicenpeach

Please let me know if you'd like to join the taglist, if it didn't work, if you no longer want to be included, etc. :)

If you like this, check out my masterlist for more of my writing.

#harry #harry styles #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles blurbs #harry styles blurb #harry styles reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles one shot #harry styles concept #hs #hs fic #hs writing #soulmate!harry styles #soulmate!au #half & half

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im-goofball · 6 months ago

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rubs hands together. do the gorosei have families in your lore? if so I'd like to see their parents [or hear about them], what did they look like in their youth? Do they have devil fruits or are they yokai? PLEASE 🙏

OMG IT'S CHRISTMAS!!

The Gorosei during the Void century, art by my co-lore creator @genri-o

Warcury-Born in the Year of Sun 595 AF

(48 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as a middle-class noble, but family died in a tragic shipwreck when he was just a baby

-Was took into the Saint Vlad's Orphanage when he was just one year old by an unknown person

-After leaving the Orphanage at 16, he started studying law in the prestige Royal Law Academy that he has been saving for his whole life

-At twenty he graduated with honours and became a judge, aspiring himself to climb the hierarchy to get the highest position in Slaviugia Kingdom

-He became the Supreme Judge of Slaviugia at 35, recorded in the Year of Sun 630 AF, the second youngest person to get this job in history

-Was elected as the Chief of Royal Court in the Year of Sun 633 AF and became one of Tsar's advisor's year after

Ethan-Born in the Year of Sun 596 AF

(47 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as an orphan in the land of Wano

-At 5, he was found starving in the streets by shogun Kozuki Saisho and his men, who then took him in as his son.

-For the next twelve years he was trained by the greatest blade master in that time, Lunarian named Andaiell Daerlion, with his younger brother Sutara (who he greatly envied due to the fact that he was Saisho's biological son, and therefore was shown more love then Ethan recieved)

-At age 18, he became one of the Moon Guards, elite group of twenty samurai directly operating under Shogun and protecting his and his family's life.

-Ethan had medicore education, despite being adopted into the royal family he never recieved any royal title nor any proper education as he should have (Wano still had strict rules when it came in their 4 Classes: 1. Royal family, 2. The Church of Moon, 3. Nobles, 4. Commoners) and so he is terrible at math and had to hone his reading skills by reading many books and poems. He was naturaly skilled in caligraphy though

-He adopted the name Ethanbaron after the creation of the WG, and he still mostly responds if people call him Nusjuro since he lived with that name most of his life

Saturn-Born in the Year of Sun 598 AF

(45 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as the only child of royal Jay Garcia bloodline, son of king Methone and queen Anthea of the Greecion Kingdom

-Lost his mother at the early age of four as she died of miscarriage and then his father at the age of twelve after he died of an unknown illness

-Became the king month after, recorded in the Royal Cronicles: Year of Sun 610 AF

-He was spoiled a lot when he was a child, especially by his father who taught him a lot about politics. Most nobles and members of Grecion Royal Court tried to manipulate him and treated him like a snobby child, which of course he was, but he was much more dangerous and smarter then they thought and quickly got rid of oposition whilst he grew in power

-When he grew older, the passion he and his mother had for science grew larger and at the age of fourteen he atended the Academy of Sciences and graduated at the age of seventeen with honourifics

-In the Year of Sun 620 he was wedded to princess Tethys Saerlios, who was still eighteen at the time

-He was opposed to this at first, he had never met her after all, and had no idea what she was like

-The first time they met was in a lab Saturn thought belonged to one of the Royal physicians, but was surprised to find a young woman fixing a star-ship's motor. Not realizing it was Tethys , since she was dressed in an engineer's clothes stained with oil and lab glasses he came closer

-The first thing Tethys said to him and she was still with her back turned to him was: "Could you hand me that screwdriver over there?"

-Saturn was dead set on marrying that woman

-At the dinner table Saturn realized that the princess he was supposed to marry and that messy engineer from the lab before were the same person

-They married after a year, recorded in tue Royal Cronicles: Year of Sun 621 AF

-After 6 years, they had their first child and heir to the Greecion Kingdom, Jay Garcia Dione and 3 years later they had daughter, princess Jay Garcia Rhea

-Saturn and Tethys became one of the most influencial people of their time with their inventionsa and scientifical/engineering knowledge aslo the fourth wealthiest in the All Blue

Mars-Born in the Year of Sun 589

(54 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as the third son of the royal Mars bloodline of Aurelion Kingdom, son of King Deimos III. and queen Aurelia

-His older brothers, Feobos and Sandos died in hunting "accident" in 598 AF and his mother, Aurelia commited suicide three months after

-Mars became king at the age of eighteen after his father, who grew mad with grief died in Trail of Sun by Mars' hand as he was unfit to rule and almost brough Aurelion to ruin, recorded in Sun's Cronicles of Aurelion; the Year of Sun 607 AF

-At the age of 35 he went to war with the ruler of Themisto Isles, the King of Storms, Shepherd Ju Krono, after the man invaded one of Mars' allied kingdoms for the goal of conquest

-The war was known as The Falcon War and took three years till Mars defeated Krono on battlefield, killing him with his own sword the Stormfeather. The end of the war was recorded to be established in 627 AF

-Since Krono died, Mars was debating on the peace treaty with Krono's only son and the Crown Prince, Shepherd Ju Peter who became the new king of Themisto islands at the young age of 13

-He took the boy as his son two years after, since it was discovered Mars was unable to have children so his bloodline would die there. (And he seemed rather fond of the sassy child)

Peter-Born on the Year of Sun 614 AF

(29 y.o. in 643 AF when it all begun)

-Born as a child out of wedlock of king Shepherd Ju Krono and unknown woman, theorised to have been a commoner

-Since Krono had no other child and never married due to his how shall I say... flirty personality, he had no other choice but to legitimize Peter and name him his heir and Crown Prince

-Whilst growing up, Peter was mostly looked down upon due to his "stained blood-status" and never had any great relationship with his father, but he still loved him nonetheless

-He became king after his father Krono died at the age of 47 by the hand of an enemy, king Marcus Mars

-He became fondof the man after meeting him, as he was the only person who took him seriously despite his young age an little of experience as a ruler

-They became rather close for the next two years and Peter was not really surprised when Mars offered an allience and then proposed the Rite of Two (a ritual with sake cups, bur much mire complicated then the one origanting from Wano)

-Despite The Falcon War and the tragic death of his biological father, Peter never felt any hate or negative emotion towards Mars, as he understood that it was Krono who was the agressor

-Peter even offered to adopt Mars' name, but the king refused.

They are not eaxctly devil fruit users, because they never eaten the fruits containing their yokai powers, rather they were given to it by Mu (details for later asks).

I will show you Jay Garcia family, also @genri-o 's artworks, later on in the ask (if you ask for them of course)

#one piece #anime and manga #imgoofball answers #my asks #gorosei #gorosei lore headcanons #five elders #saint topman warcury #saint shepherd ju peter #saint jay garcia saturn #saint marcus mars #saint ethanbaron v. nusjuro

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arcadiabaytornado · 1 year ago

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Thoughts on Frank Bowers? Do you think he groomed Rachel since they were together when she was underage? Do you think Rachel actually loved him or was just using him for drugs/money for Chloe and herself?

I do think grooming was involved just from the way he interacts with Chloe during Before The Storm. While I don't think Frank was grooming Chloe sexually, he was using the promise of cash and the weight of debts to put her in dangerous situations that a grown man shouldn't be putting teenagers in. While we don't get a chance to see him interact with Rachel more than giving her eyes at the junkyard, the fact that he has a track record of convincing teenage girls to do stuff for him doesn't give me a warm fuzzy feeling in regards to Rachel and Frank's relationship.

Though honestly, regardless if Frank was grooming Rachel or if their relationship was more a "spur of the moment" thing, it's still inappropriate for a fifteen-year-old to be with a twenty-eight-year-old, no matter how you look at it. And even if we're giving an insanely good faith reading toward Frank and assume that they didn't get together until she was eighteen, that still means he was waiting for an underage girl to be legal so he could make a move on her. For my own sanity, I'm hoping that I don't need to explain why that's weird.

More Undercut

As for Rachel, I do think she cared about Frank, and that's the tragedy of it all. She gave him her Mother's bracelet, and if you picked certain choices in Before The Storm, that means she took the "promise we'll leave" bracelet from Chloe and gave it to someone else. That isn't a small deal. That's something you do when you care a lot. Plus, Chloe's anger comes from seeing the stuff in the RV and knowing Rachel cared about Frank enough for it to be a betrayal.

Maybe Rachel did manipulate Frank slightly by seeing him as someone who could take her to LA, but I think two things can be true at once. I tend to believe that Rachel thought Frank's was convenient to a certain level while also caring about him.

That care is a big part of the reason why Rachel is so tragic. She never got old and wise enough to figure out that her "relationships" with Frank and Mark were messed up. She died in that youthful mindset of "Well, I'm mature for my age," instead of having the chance to wake up in a cold sweat in her thirties as she realize how fucked up everything was. So I do think Rachel cared about Frank, but I say that with a heavy heart because she never got the chance to look back and see disgust instead of passion.

#lis #life is strange #rachel amber #frank bowers

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revenancy · 21 days ago

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I can't tell you how badly I would like to peek over your shoulder at your SDP notes lol. Can I trouble you for an infodump? Any time I see a post about Ros and/or Nevi I started fluttering against the computer monitor like a moth. Thank u :>

oh my gosh YES. okay. so. tw for dubcon/noncon, cannibalism, physical, sexual, and emotional abuse, serious injury and death. all text screencaps will be described in alt text, and this post will probably get long.

but here we go:

Six Dead Princes started off as literally this block of text in a libreoffice doc (ignore the homestuck in me, please)

and it's obviously come pretty far since that initial toss-up of ideas a couple weeks ago, evolving into something that puts Ros more in a position of power than he was at first (this is not necessarily a good thing.)

important notes: Nevi has, technically, murdered Ros. more than once. but because his life is intrinsically bound to the life of the sorcerer's tower(-slash-ex-husband) he keeps waking up, time and again.

[continuing under the cut]

so Roslin -- Sehtriax Rosmaundel, or something along those lines, but he hasn't been that person since he was seven years old and gifted to the Sorcerer Wyse for her steadfast loyalty as the king's lover -- has lived in the tower for twenty years. the first ten years were relatively normal as he and Nevi would butt heads but, overall, the Sorcerer Wyse controlled the two of them well.

eight years ago, he was gifted to Nevi -- at her request upon reaching age of majority -- to be her pet.

Nevi taxidermies her pets.

she is the definition of a spoiled brat. anything Nevi wants, Nevi gets -- she's the sorcerer's only child, and while she has no magic of her own and no interest in learning it, she knows how to use her mother's magic. Roslin is under a charm that ensures his survival but also demands his obedience, something Nevi found out when she was very young and thus decided to use to her advantage.

she has had cats and dogs and snakes and one short-lived falcon, and now, she has a prince.

the last prince.

the old king had seven children: Anahtriax Salmene, his only daughter, and six sons. technically Anahtriax and Sehtriax, Ros's name, are titles and not proper names, but they're considered archaic and holy Gyre-names, meaning literally First Prince(ss) and Seventh Prince(ss), and yes the other five all had the same thing.

Salmene is ~10 years older than Roslin, so at the time of the plot she's 37 and has been locked away for nearly as long as he's been alive -- because in the trend of fantasy monarchies being strange and terrible people, the old king (currently unnamed) went through a string of lovers, each of them suffering some tragic end.

Roslin's birth mother -- a foreign ballerina named Corenthe -- was slaughtered and carved like a duck for dinner. the old king and his daughter consumed the woman in front of the Holy Mother, aka the queen of Cierclant, aka the king's wife and the symbolic (and chaste) mother of all of his children, and the king's brother, who ended up becoming his regent after using that instance to prove the man's instability.

this may also be why the Holy Mother was willing to let the sorcerer have Roslin: she wanted him as far from his father as propriety would allow, and the king would not part with his youngest son for anyone but the love of his life (in that moment, the Sorcerer Wyse).

but let's talk about the fun stuff:

Nevi. The way she treats Ros is basically as a living sex toy -- he exists to offer her pleasure and delight, and she very rarely suffers him to have desires of his own (except when she can frustrate him). When he is allowed some semblance of power and control, it's usually because she's bored and wants to see what he would do with it, and she snatches it back the moment he crosses a line.

and oh my god this man is a wreck. he is twenty-seven he has never been allowed to have sexual desires outside of Nevi. he has never been allowed to have curiosities, to explore his own attraction, and he has pretty much come to the conclusion that perhaps this is love: strapped to a table with her knife in his side waiting for her to come back up and let him free. perhaps this is hate: Nevi taking his body for herself, more or less riding him into submission, and he doesn't know better to want anything else.

and then the fifth prince dies.

his name is Selantin. he is betrothed to the priestess Esmeriht of the Holy Gyre (as was his brother Galant before him). and when his body has cooled, the Holy Mother picks herself up from her mourning and she sets off for the sorcerer's tower with Emra in tow to collect her last living son.

and Seventh Prince Roslin's first desire is a breathless, terrified glance at Nevi and I want her detained. and in her prison cell, he ties her hands to the rough iron bars and he relishes the thought of returning all that hurt onto her. a better man, he tells himself, would move on.

Roslin is not a better man.

he would rather have Nevi to himself, keep her as a pet like she kept him, than move past anything she did to him. he would rather fuck her in every way she hates -- violate her trust in him and prove that she was a fool to have any to begin with, once he's let loose from the obedience charm -- and turn that magic back on her.

and then you add Emra to the mix -- Esmeriht Cashilde Donsel of the Holy Gyre, a born daughter of the faith, pure and chaste and all things that good girls are supposed to be -- and it's like Roslin is dead set to prove to himself and everyone else that he needed to be controlled. that some part of him is just like his father, that some kinds of madness are hereditary, that maybe little pieces of himself have chipped off over the years and are sitting on the floor of Nevi's laboratory:

And if there's one thing he hates more than anything else, it's Emra's maintained innocence. It's her frowning on anything sexual or magical -- it's her acting like he's somehow been corrupted by Nevi's influence on his life -- it's her shying away from him when they're not in a public occasion, refusing to let him touch her, refusing to meet his eye. He feels goddamn slighted because the wife they've offered him is obviously defective somehow. (she's just an asexual celibate priest. and he's EXACTLY as abusive about that as you'd expect. this is NOT his trauma healing arc.)

and he is NOT going to realize any of this until he's forced to confront it. he's not going to look at himself in the mirror until the blade is held to his throat. until he has to face death -- true death -- and he thought that he wouldn't be afraid of it, after Nevi. after everything she did to him. every day he woke up dead.

but outside of the sorcerer's tower, out from the yoke of the spell that kept him physically whole, the seventh prince of Cierclant comes to the realization that injuries are lasting.

and death is permanent.

#my writing #work: six dead princes #oh my god this got. SO LONG #i'm so sorry i am just a fucking fool for this wip #it's got to stay short it's got to stay short #it's a little bit about the intrigue happening but mostly about the horrible abusive sex these people are having around the intrigue #it's a little bit about salmene and her bitterness and moreso about roslin trying to evade death while not knowing what the real threats ar #the call is coming from inside the house kinda beat #it's going to be 30k of pure raw fun and i am SO stoked to keep writing it #thanks for the ask and the excuse to ramble abt this #it has been a while since i have been so excited for smth honestly

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theliterarybeldam · 1 year ago

Text

Love Beyond Time - Chapter 1: A Fateful Encounter

It's finally here y'all! Please enjoy something that caused a lot of sweat and tears for me ❤️😭

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters in this story besides my OFC and potential future OCs. This is purely a work of enjoyment.

Series Masterlist

The heart of London pulsated with energy as Lady Elizabeth Pierce, a woman of resplendent African descent, emerged from her stately home onto the bustling streets. Her radiant skin, as rich as the coffee beans of Ethiopia, contrasted beautifully with her elegant white dress. Her tightly coiled hair was tastefully pinned up, revealing her regal countenance and sparkling hazel eyes. Her mannerisms echoed a bygone era, a grace and elegance that seemed out of place in the current world.

The secret behind her timeless beauty was known to only a few. Time, for Lady Pierce, was a frozen river, her life a pause button that had been hit in her late twenties. Like Adaline Bowman from a story she once read, Elizabeth too did not age. Her tale was not of fiction but her own reality, woven through the warp and weft of over two centuries.

Lady Elizabeth Pierce was born in the heart of Ethiopia, a land teeming with lush flora and fauna, hidden from the world, housing secrets as old as time itself. The vibrant city was an advanced paradise, a stark contrast against the backdrop of its rich traditions and culture.

Her childhood was saturated with the vibrant hues of the Ethiopian festivals, the thrill of tribal dances, and the wisdom conveyed through the ancient tales of her ancestors. She was brought up in the shadow of the majestic Panther God, always aware of the potent power that pulsed through their lands.

However, her life took an extraordinary turn when an encounter with a revered shaman left her with a cryptic prophecy - an intertwining of her destiny with the enigma of time. This mysterious event marked the beginning of her timeless existence.

Centuries later, as she stood on the foreign land of England, her memories of Ethiopia were as vivid as the sunsets, the rhythm of its pulse echoing in her heart. Her roots ran deep, grounding her to the heart of Africa, regardless of the miles she had traversed since then.

Her transition from a young Ethiopian woman to Lady Elizabeth Pierce of London was a tale of resilience and resourcefulness. With her timeless existence, she bore witness to the changing world around her, her eternal youth a blessing from the shaman that allowed her to navigate the ebb and flow of the centuries.

Embracing her immortality, she used the wisdom acquired over the years to amass knowledge, skills, and wealth. She found herself intrigued by the distant land of England, its culture, its monarchy, and decided to make it her home. With her wealth amassed over the years, she bought land and a stately home in London, her grand residence soon becoming a symbol of her stature.

Her intelligence, charm, and philanthropic nature soon caught the attention of Queen Victoria, who was so impressed by Elizabeth's contributions to society that she bestowed her with a title, officially making her Lady Elizabeth Pierce. Over time, she became a figure of fascination and respect, her seemingly eternal youth adding to her aura of mystique. However, she kept her secret carefully guarded, the mystery of her agelessness becoming an unsolved riddle in the heart of London.

Away in the frosty expanse of Russia, Count Alexei Vronsky led a life of solitude in his vast estate. Since the tragic end of his tormented affair with Anna Karenina, he had withdrawn from society, living with the ghosts of their past. However, the news of a grand ball in London, hosted by the illustrious Lady Pierce, coaxed him out of his reclusion.

As Vronsky embarked on his journey from the frost-laden expanse of Russia to the buzzing metropolis of London, he found himself in a state of melancholy contemplation. The biting cold of the Russian winter seemed a reflection of his own solitude, its icy grasp mirroring his internal chill.

The trip was long, the scenery changing as he moved across the continent. The vast Russian plains, stark and blanketed with snow, slowly gave way to the greener landscapes of Eastern Europe. The monotony of the endless expanses was occasionally broken by huddled villages and bustling towns. The harsh Russian winds slowly softened, replaced by the crisp, cool air of the west. Each part of the journey echoed his solitude, whispering tales of his past, stirring memories he had long since tried to bury.

He passed through cities that bristled with life, each one a stark contrast to his current emotional state. The elegance of Vienna, the charm of Paris, the majesty of the Swiss Alps - these places, magnificent as they were, held no joy for him. They were but waypoints on his journey, devoid of the warmth of home, echoing his own emptiness.

His arrival in London marked a significant shift in his journey. The city was a vortex of energy, teeming with life. Its grand architecture, the bustling streets, the rhythmic hum of the city - everything felt different from his homeland. Yet, as much as it was disconcerting, it also offered a glimmer of hope, a chance for a fresh start.

As he moved through the city, taking in the unfamiliar sights and sounds, Vronsky couldn't help but feel a spark of curiosity. His heart, which had been in a state of icy numbness, seemed to thaw slightly. Here, in this city of endless possibilities, perhaps he could find solace, perhaps he could escape the shadows of his past.

The grand ball held by Lady Elizabeth Pierce was a spectacle of elegance and sophistication. Every detail was meticulously curated, each element a testament to Elizabeth's exquisite taste and attention to detail. The grand mansion was transformed into an extravagant carnival, its opulence matching that of the royal court.

The grand hall was illuminated with hundreds of glistening chandeliers, their light casting a soft glow on the assembly of distinguished guests. Nobles from the length and breadth of England and from continental Europe filled the hall, their gowns and suits adding a vibrant palette of colors against the rich tapestry of the mansion.

A live orchestra was stationed at one end of the hall, the music they played was a captivating blend of classical and contemporary tunes. Their melodies filled the air, adding to the cheerful buzz of the gathering. Couples twirled on the dance floor, their movements fluid and graceful, mirroring the rhythm of the music.

Servers, dressed in pristine white uniforms, moved around offering a plethora of delicacies. The aroma of roasted meat, baked goods, and exotic spices wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of fine wines and perfumes.

Conversations ebbed and flowed around the grand hall. From political debates and discussions of recent literature to harmless flirtations and whispers of latest scandals, the gathering was abuzz with engaging dialogues. Laughter rang out, toasts were raised, and connections were formed.

Entering the lavishly decorated ballroom of Lady Pierce's mansion, Vronsky was greeted by the intoxicating music of the orchestra and the heady scent of perfumes. However, it was Lady Pierce's striking beauty that held him captive. Poised and graceful, she navigated the throng, engaging with her guests, her lively eyes taking in the merriment. She was the perfect hostess, her aura commanding respect and admiration from her guests. Vronsky almost started to believe this was a goddess idly chatting with people who were truly clueless to who that was.

The grandeur of the ball was momentarily forgotten as Elizabeth's gaze locked with the newcomer's. There was something hauntingly familiar in the man's eyes that drew her in, a sense of shared solitude that resonated with her own. She gracefully navigated through the crowd to introduce herself.

"Count Vronsky, I presume?" Elizabeth said, extending her hand in greeting.

He took it, bowing slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Yes, and you must be the enchanting hostess, Lady Elizabeth Pierce."

Elizabeth gave a small, appreciative laugh. "Flattery so early in the conversation? One might think you're trying to win my favor."

"Only stating the obvious, Lady Pierce," he replied with a half-smile, his eyes twinkling with genuine admiration.

Their conversation unfolded naturally, starting from polite pleasantries and gradually delving into deeper topics. Elizabeth found herself drawn to the man's intellect and his perspective on art, literature, and culture, which mirrored her own.

"You have quite the appreciation for art, Count Vronsky," Elizabeth observed, referencing their discussion about the Renaissance.

"Only as much as you do, Lady Pierce. It's rare to find someone who appreciates Botticelli as much as I do," Vronsky replied, his interest in her visibly growing.

“There is an agelessness about you. It feels as if you've seen the rise and fall of ages."

Elizabeth met his gaze, a soft smile touching her lips, "Perhaps I have."

They shared light-hearted banter and stories, their connection deepening with each passing moment. The world seemed to blur around them, their focus solely on each other.

"Do you believe in fate, Count Vronsky?" Elizabeth asked suddenly, her gaze intense.

"I can't say I've given it much thought," he admitted, slightly taken aback. "Why do you ask?"

"Perhaps it is fate that has brought us together tonight," Elizabeth proposed, a mysterious smile playing on her lips.

This unspoken shared understanding marked the beginning of a poignant bond between the two, a bridge of companionship across the chasms of their solitary lives. Their shared experiences of love and loss, and their ability to transcend them, tied their fates together in a dance as old as time.

As the last notes of music faded away and the merry chatter of the departing guests grew faint, a deafening silence descended upon Elizabeth's grand mansion. She found herself standing in the now deserted ballroom, the echoes of laughter and music only serving as a stark contrast to the stillness that enveloped her.

The flickering light from the dying candles threw long, dancing shadows across the room, the extravagant decorations now seeming almost eerie in their quietness. Elizabeth's gaze was drawn to her reflection in the grand mirror on the far wall. Her timeless beauty, framed by the gleaming diamond necklace around her neck and the rich silks of her gown, was a sight to behold. Yet, the woman who stared back at her felt like a stranger, her radiant appearance belying the inner turmoil she felt.

Her heart felt heavy with names etched deep within its corners - names of lovers she had once held dear, whispers of affection shared in the silent watches of the night, remnants of love stories that had faded with time. Her life was a testament to the endless cycle of love and loss, each love story a reminder of the agonizing loneliness that followed their inevitably brief existence.

The grandeur of her life was a double-edged sword, the vibrant celebrations and extravagant balls merely temporary distractions from the solitude that awaited her. As she stood alone, her heart echoed with the melancholy of lost connections, the vacant halls of her mansion reflecting the emptiness she felt.

The fear of losing someone again was a constant gnawing presence, a silent specter that loomed over her every time she found herself growing close to someone. Yet, she also recognized the longing for companionship that tugged at her heartstrings, the yearning for the warmth of shared affection, of heartfelt conversations, of love.

She was caught in a constant struggle - a tug of war between her desire for love and the fear of the inevitable loss that her immortality brought. As the silent witness of passing ages, her heart was an immortal battleground of conflicting emotions, the scars of past losses a grim reminder of her endless existence. Her solitude was not just a condition of her circumstances, but a fortress she built around herself, a protective barrier against the inevitable heartbreak that loving mortal beings entailed.

With the quiet hum of the London night as her only company, Elizabeth settled at her mahogany desk, the flicker from the nearby candelabrum casting a warm glow on the parchment before her. Picking up her quill, she paused, her thoughts lingering on the evening's encounter.

"Dearest Esther," she began, her script elegant and precise. Esther was her oldest confidante, the one person who had managed to see beyond Elizabeth's mask of endless youth and understand the solitude hidden behind it. Their friendship was a source of strength for Elizabeth, a treasured connection that had withstood the ravages of time.

"I met a man at the ball tonight, a certain Count Vronsky from Russia," she wrote, her thoughts returning to their engrossing conversation, the ease of their banter, and the depth she'd seen in his eyes.

"There's a depth to him, a sorrow that resonates with my own," she continued, her quill dancing across the parchment. "He carries the weight of his past like an invisible shroud, much like I do."

A thoughtful smile traced her lips as she remembered his words, his appreciation for art, his passion for literature. "His intellect is as captivating as his charm. His words weave a tapestry of profound thought, mirroring my own fascination for art and literature."

The memory of his gaze, warm yet haunted, caused an unexpected flutter in her heart. "His eyes, Esther, are windows to a tormented soul. I found myself drawn to him, compelled to understand the mysteries they hold."

Elizabeth sighed, her gaze momentarily drawn to the starlit sky outside her window. "I know the perils that lie in the path of my heart, yet I cannot help but wonder. Could I dare to love again? Could I dare to risk the agony of inevitable loss for moments of shared love and companionship?"

Her words echoed the turmoil within her. "I find myself at a crossroads, Esther. To love or not to love, that is the question that plagues me."

She signed off, "Yours always, Elizabeth," before sealing the letter. As she dispatched it to Esther, she felt a strange mixture of relief and anticipation. Sharing her thoughts with her old friend, even in the form of a letter, had always brought her solace. Now, she could only wait for Esther's wisdom to guide her through her inner turmoil.

#aaron taylor johnson x reader #alexei vronsky x reader #count vronksy x reader

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lunarthecorvus · 5 months ago

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Grisha!Kaz Brekker Alternate Universe fanfiction recommendations

part of Lunar's soc fanficiton rec series

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The Etovost Plague by Spikey44

Wordcount: 139k Chapters: 37/37

Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, Jesper Fahey, Wylan Van Eck, Nina Zenik, Kuwei Yul-Bo

Tags: Grisha Kaz Brekker, Post-Canon, Dead Matthias Helvar, Sorry, Not KoS/RoW canon compliant, Kaz is a Tidemaker. Sort of, some gore, scenes of plague, Don't worry only characters no one cares about die, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm

Author's summary/notes: Twenty-eight months after Kuwei Yul-Bo was shot dead and the plague sirens sounded throughout Ketterdam a new and terrifying sickness sweeps through the Barrel: a plague with a unique connection to Jurda Parem. But this time it’s not the Grisha who need to fear. It’s everyone else. This becomes that, and like no longer calls to like, forcing old crows to wing back to Ketterdam as chaos unlike anything they have seen before erupts through the Barrel, threatening to destroy all of Ketterdam and plunge the world into war. But it's a more personal fear that haunts Inej, Nina, Jesper and Wylan when Dirtyhands goes missing at the start of the plague outbreak. Now the Crows must grapple with the sorrow that Kaz may be dead and the even greater terror that the Etovost scourge has turned the Barrel's resident monster into a living nightmare hell-bent on destroying them all. Post-canon AU where a new Jurda Parem variant transforms normal people into Grisha. Starting with the Barrel Bosses. Uh-oh! My summary/notes: Having Kaz turn into a grisha is such an intruiging concept and I ate it up, at the same time its tragic because of the way being a tidemaker effects him and triggers his trauma. It will get real intense so be prepared. The villain in this fic is so interesting. An unexpected intersting part of this fic was reading the crows be a team without having Kaz as their leader sometimes. I love Inej in this fic so much. BAMF's Inej and Anika. Inej and Kaz have some cute moments. The ending eeee. My quick summary is the barrel goes to shit when a plague enters.

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On Black Feathered Wings by @martinakl13

Wordcount: 139k Chapters: 37/37

[this fic is also a grisha!Inej and grisha!Matthias au]

Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, Jesper Fahey, Wylan Van Eck, Nina Zenik, Matthias Helvar, Jan Van Eck, Alys Van Eck, Pekka Rollins, Jordie Rietveld, Aditi Hilli, Tante Heleen, Councilman Hoede, Imogen, Per Haskell, Doughty, Dregs Ensemble, Dime Lions Ensemble, Kaz Brekker's Father, Original Characters, Inej Ghafa's Mother, Inej Ghafa's Father, Matthias Helvar's Mother (mentioned), Matthias Helvar's Father (mentioned), Matthias Helvar's Sister (mentioned), Anya, Joost Van Poel, Gert Van Verent, Mikka, Kuwei Yul-Bo, Anika, Pim

Tags: Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Grisha Kaz Brekker, Grisha Inej Ghafa, Grisha Wylan Van Eck, Jordie Rietveld Lives, Aged-Up Character(s), Forced Prostitution, Human Trafficking, Misogyny, Racism Violence, Sexual Content, The Menagerie, Flashbacks, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, Lovers To Enemies, unexpected relationships, Angst, POV Alternating, Jurda Parem, First Meetings, Bad Parent Jan Van Eck, Grisha Matthias Helvar, Abuse, Dyslexia, Rape, Humiliation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Beating, Heist, Sexual Tension, Kaz constantly giving Inej flowers, Mutual Pining, Soulmates

Author's summary/notes: Inej Ghafa is a talented acrobat, but only her closest family knows that she uses her special power during her performances. Wylan Van Eck was sent to Ravka to be trained as a Grisha, but when he returns years later, his home is no longer his home. Matthias Helvar has powers he never asked for, and his family wants to keep him safe. What is the best way to hide Grisha in Fjerda? Among the drüskelle. Nina Zenik is a soldier of the First Army, gifted with excellent language skills. Jesper Fahey moves with his mother to Ketterdam after the tragic death of his father and the loss of their farm due to debts. Kaz Brekker has powers that no one has seen before. Or? My summary/notes: This fic is part of a series so there is a part 2 that is being regularly updated. Be prepared for this fic to simultaneously destroy and heal you. I live for the use of flower symbolism, its so adorable. I loved learning about the kind of grisha Kaz is, and reading Inej as a grisha is just so cool I need more grisha!Inej. Matthias being a grisha is so interesting, and reading Nina + Jesper as normal is so fascinating. Aditi is queen and this fic has Pim and Anika, I love those two so much.

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The Bastard's Brother by FlatApple

Wordcount: 214k Chapters: 66/66

Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, Jesper Fahey, Dregs Ensemble, Jordie Rietveld, Wylan Van Eck, Nina Zenik, Matthias Helvar, Jan Van Eck, Original Background Characters, (they're not important don't worry)

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Kaz is a Grisha, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Starvation, Touch-Averse Kaz Brekker, Haphephobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Organized Crime, Whump, Kaz Brekker is Bad at Feelings, POV Kaz Brekker, (mostly), Paranormal, Graphic Description of Corpses, Kaz Brekker is a feral orphan for large portions of this, Corpsewitch Kaz, Warning for strong language, Gang Violence, Heist, Slow Burn, Kaz Brekker-centric, Canon Rewrite, Ghost Jordie Rietveld, Good Sibling Jordie Rietveld, BAMF Kaz Brekker, Pining, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Sickfic, Hurt Kaz Brekker, Fever Dreams

Author's summary/notes: Kaz Brekker’s Mother was Ketterdam. His Father was profit. But Kaz Brekker’s Brother? That was Death. Or, the one where Kaz has been a Corpsewitch all along. My summary/notes: Reading Jordie as a ghost was so sad, the author managed to write him so well, this fic answers the question of what would Jordie's reactions be to Kaz's ruthless actions. We get to see young struggling feral kaz (it will break your heart) and we get to see Kaz grow. Every dynamic between the crows is explored and its so interesting to read. This fic part of a series and there is more.

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The Bastard Saint of the Barrel by Spikey44

Wordcount: 152k Chapters: 46/46

Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, Nina Zenik, Matthias Helvar, Jesper Fahey, Jordie Rietveld, Pekka Rollins, Wylan Van Eck, Jan Van Eck, Kuwei Yul-Bo

Tags: Grisha Kaz Brekker, Jordie Rietveld Lives, Kaz is Corporalnik this makes everything worse, Kaz is a Dime Lion, Pekka Rollins owns Kaz's indenture, Jordie is Dregs, Kaz has a new alias, A Kaz by any other name is still a bastard, Inej remains awesome in all realities, Jordie makes the deal with Jan Van Eck, Matthias is probably gonna live, Elements of Six of Crows reworked with Living Jordie/Grisha Kaz, Canon Disabled Character, Touch-Averse Kaz Brekker, warning for drug use eg: Jurda Parem and its effects, warning for mild depersonalisation and dissociation in ch 8

Author's summary/notes: In a story of star-crossed brothers, where Kaz's grisha powers save Jordie but don't save him from Pekka Rollins, Kaz becomes the Bastard Saint of the Barrel; Rollins personal Healer and the most feared Grisha to haunt Ketterdam's seedier streets. This upsets Jordie quite a bit. In an attempt to pay off Kaz's indenture, and save his brother from the threat of Jurda Parem, Jordie Rietveld, Dregs Lieutenant and confidence man, makes a deal with Jan Van Eck to perform an impossible heist. Naturally, Kaz, busybody extraordinaire, is not about to let his brother screw up in a foreign land alone. He's going to steal his brother's heist and one Bo Yul-Buyur --or his nearest relative, whatever works best --and save his idiot big brother from a Fjerdan prison. And if this means running out on Rollins -well, thirty thousand Kruge should be more than enough money to pay his way out trouble. Right? My summary/notes:

#six of crows #grishaverse #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #crooked kingdom #soc #nina zenik #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #kanej #kanej fanfiction #wesper #helnik #matthias helvar #lunars fanfiction recs #lunars fanfic recs #lunars fanfiction rec series ☾₊ ⊹

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yuhi-san · 11 months ago

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The fact that vash doesn’t age and will outlive anyone, including any possible love interest, is something that shapes him and the way he interacts with others. Its tragic. Knowing that even if no violent death comes for them, he will watch them get old, remain the same himself and outlive them.

But while writing my fanfic, I thought but what was before that? Like in stampede, vash came to live on ship three when he was still a young child.

They knew absolutely nothing about independent plants. They had no idea about tesla, no access to any records. All they knew was what vash could tell them. (that he was born less than two years ago and apparently went from newborn to young child in that time. That he had a brother but unlike said brother he couldn’t create anything.)

And that’s the thing. They knew vash looked, ate, bleed, hurt and generally appeared far more human than plantlike except for the fact that he grew so fast. It did slow down some because in 5 years on ship three he went from young child to young teen. Still maturing faster than a human would.

At some point he would have become an adult. But at what point did they realize he was not only physically fully matured but did not age further? Like talking as someone who was regularly mistaken to be in my late teens until at least my mid to late twenties, how long did it take for anyone, vash included, to realize his body didn’t age anymore? I don’t think they really had any reason to expect vash life span to be that much longer than a humans. They had nothing to go on when it came to figuring out what his deal was and neither did vash really.

In fact, what was before that turning point when they realized vash was no longer changing?

He grew from a newborn to a young child in less than two years. From a young child to a teen in roughly five years. Asides from his plant healing ability, vash was painfully human in most ways but matured so much faster. Did luida, brad and the others worry about what that meant for vash? Did they wonder if it meant that he would die young, maybe just after 20 years or so? Like a cat that is fully grown and all by two years, in contrast to a human baby, but will likely not make it past 20. Were they worried that vash rapid maturing would also mean rapid aging, rapid dying, like a human live condensed into a forth or so? Was there a time when they realized vash wasn’t rapidly aging anymore but at some point the relief about that must have turned into a new kind of concern. If vash stopped aging completely, for how long would that be the case? How long would he live if nothing cut his life short. What would it mean for his mind and soul?

Yes vash is an independent plant rather than a human but one of the things that sets him apart from his dependent sisters is in fact his mind. That he has a sense of self, more conscious, complete thoughts and feelings as an individual. Vash is mentally very human, especially because he clings to said humanity a lot (in contrast to knives).

But humans and their mind aren’t really made for immortality or such an extended lifespan. And plants normally don’t have the same sense of self and awareness and interpersonal connection. So as the bridge between plants and humans, where does that leave vash with this?

#trigun #trigun stampede #trimax #trigun maximum #vash the stampede #trigun brad #trigun luida #ship three trigun #trigun meta

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drivingsideways · 10 months ago

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youtube

Year-end discussion in the Indian film space was dominated by the success of controversial film maker Sandeep Reddy Vanga's latest offering of undiluted misogyny and rage, appropriately titled "Animal"; but the best commentary I've seen on failed fatherhood and violent, toxic masculinity this year comes in a 2 minute scene in Kaathal: The Core, where a wizened old man testifies quietly in a family court that yes, he always knew that his son is gay, and still coerced him into a heterosexual marriage.

Kaathal: The Core isn't a film without flaws; one could argue that it's the quintessential film made about queer people by straight allies- actually more interested in the reaction to queerness and the adjustment to queerness by cishets, than in queer lives; that it has a one dimensional view of the reality of queer living in India. It has its moments of what I call "educational speechifying" that feel tonally at odds with the rest of it, but again, this paternalism in Indian cinema of the self-consciously "progressive" variety isn't unfamiliar.

The ending feels a little trite, and some artistic choices- an actual rainbow in the sky appears as the two lovers drive off into the sunset of their newly liberated lives-feel particularly anvil-like- much like the ending of another of director Jeo Baby's films, The Great Indian Kitchen, which was an exploration of the brutality of Indian-flavoured patriarchy. In short: a movie filled with intricately and deliberately placed subtleties that occasionally - somewhat inexplicably-loses confidence in its audience, and chooses to remedy that by being a bit over the top.

But those are minor quibbles. This movie gutted me. The story revolves around a middle-aged closeted gay man from a small close knit village community in Kerala whose life- and the lives of those around him- is thrown into disarray when his wife of twenty years files for divorce citing his gayness as the reason for the breakdown of the marriage- a step she takes just as he's nominated as his party's candidate for the local elections. With this premise, you'd be forgiven for expecting the movie to be high decibel melodrama- and possibly a tragedy- from start to finish. Instead, it deliberately chooses the quieter route, the most tender one; while not flinching away from the grim realities of widespread homophobia, it portrays both individuals and a community who , in a moment of crisis, discover that they are better than they think they are. And it does this not from a jingoistic, self-congratulatory ethno-nationalist perspective- but from a place of genuine love- as a reminder and a beacon in these dark times.

All of this is anchored in some fantastic performances- Mammootty once more showing up to remind us why he's one of the greatest living actors in the world, and Sudhi Kozhikode as Thankan in what should be a multiple-award winning performance as his long time lover. I've rarely seen an actor make so much of their limited screen time. When I say that minutes 50-52 of this film are the most devastatingly tragic-romantic moments in world cinema, you'll think I'm exaggerating and perhaps I am, but I can also guarantee that you're going to want to rewatch that sequence at least ten times and cry about two old geezers in love. Lives were changed in those moments, no lie.

My one disappointment in terms of performances is Jyothika, playing Omana, the long suffering wife. Omana is one of the stand-outs in the history of female characters in Malayalam cinema, and Jyothika is- barely adequate. When you contrast it with a similar role - say Hsieh Ying -xuan's performance as Liu San-lian in Dear Ex (2018)- the flatness is even more jarring. Still, the sheer love with which her character and her relationships, especially with her husband, are written carry the film through.

Tl;dr: watch it on Amazon Prime or at a theatre near you! You will not regret it.

#kaathal the core #malayalam cinema #indian cinema #mammootty #jyothika #jeo baby

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brf-rumortrackinganon · 9 months ago

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Yeah, Scobie's chapter on Diana is an interesting one. It's all over the place so you just want to tell him 'Get to the point, man!'

I should quote everything you said. So agree. OS, MM, and H are so desperate to have a corner of Diana's .... I don't know what to call it - her shine, all the things the other anon wrote about her - that is their entire focus where she is concerned. She was an icon then, she is an icon now, and they all three want that for themselves. Without even having a clue what it was made of. And none of the three have even a corner of what she was made of. Not even her negatives.

While I'm sure CC would love to see her memory banished, her son, the one who really knows her and who actually protects her memory, will never allow that to happen. I am sure that one of his early acts when he is King will be to return her HRH. He actually loves her for who she was. The stuff you said OS wrote about the Bashir interview - the whole point of the revelations was that Bashir & Co. worked hard to bolster the feelings of paranoia she genuinely developed. The whole interview was a product of that. That was William's point. But at the end of the day, it wouldn't have mattered what William said. The three would have twisted it. William is brilliant for never getting near anything those three do or say.

When she was young, MM was obsessed with Diana. She would give anything to be Diana and all that entails. H is still 12. And OS is fame and power hungry. They use Diana's memory to try to get what they want and end up just tarnishing it. I will be SO glad when they all disappear from center stage. So sick of the whole lot.

Frankly, it wouldn't surprise me if Meghan lobbied hard to get some of Diana's charities and patronages, but was told 'no' and that played a part in who she hates/why she hates the BRF. I really can't wait until there's more time removed from Megxit and Meghan's reign of terror to get the real stories.

Charles does seem to have become a bit more kinder to Diana's memory as the years have gone by, especially more recently. He does have experience losing a loved one tragically and unexpectedly (vis a vis Dickie Mountbatten and Hugh Lindsay) so he was able to support William and Harry somewhat at the time of her passing but I don't think he truly grasped how difficult it was for them to lose Diana until he lost his own parents. I think that gave him some perspective, but that could very well be my own wishful thinking.

Interesting that you mention Harry being still 12. I read a paper once that theorized celebrities are emotionally stunted at the age they were when they became famous, and boy does that ring true for Harry. I'm sure he knew he was popular growing up because of all the cameras around him, but he probably became aware of just how famous he was at age 12 with Diana's passing and he got the double whammy of fame + tragedy. Fortunately William got him therapy so Harry was at least able to mature to mid-twenties, but then he met Meghan and he regressed back to 12 years old in some gross Oedipus fairy tale.

There's no excuse for Meghan and Scobie. Like the another anon pointed out, they just leeched onto the same host to resuscitate their dying careers.

#ask #sussexes

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gumjester · 10 months ago

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Where do you think Alice is in EAH? What's up with her? What do you think of her? Basically do you have any headcanons about her? ;)

oh alice!!!!!! yes, i have thoughts about her, which i think are quite unconventional, as i have a highly specific (and maybe convoluted) imagining of what exactly she has gotten up to in her life.. i think this is going to take some explaining.

ultimately i have had alice serve as a developed, largely tragic reason 4 alistair to be involved with wonderland the way he is. i remember watching spring unsprung all those Years ago and asking myself: why is alistair the same age as the other wonderlandians? shouldn't he b an entire generation younger than them to fit the story? why is he still there, anyway, now being very obviously not a little child?? and we've seen every other wonderlandian parent, so yes, where on earth IS alice???

so, i started there, and worked backwards!

most of this is clarified (or at least said slightly better) in my work 'alistair's fall', but i didn't think alice would end up remaining in wonderland and i never thought of her living in ever after, mostly because i couldnt think of another reason she would not be seen nor mentioned in the show at all! i always considered her an inhabitant of the 'mortal world' [working title], which is different 2 both ever after and wonderland in that it is.. our world i suppose? but fictionalised. normal human dimension, regardless..

this always made the most sense to me, as the separation of the fantastical and the regular is such a fundamental aspect of the original alice story, and if alice hailed from ever after, a place where dragons wandered around and wolves could speak, i dont think it would end up meaning quite the same thing... theme-wise.

so, she is from common old london, and it is there that she returned after her story! unfortunately things get more depressing from here.

alice is quite a sad character in my headcanons.. she loved wonderland very much as her accidental visit provided a refuge from her exceedingly troubled home life, and actually didn't want to leave at all. when it happened anyway (wonderland's stories work more like patterns in nature. a child comes, a child goes. its just what seems to happen) she refused to let her experience go, maintaining that wonderland was not a dream, like most alices decide, but instead a real place that she could return to one day. her life continued as a series of misfortunes, and she grew obsessive, detatched, and quite ill. most of her worldly thoughts and efforts were directed towards getting back to the rabbit-hole and returning to wonderland where she would be safe and happy again. she was never successful.

in her early twenties she ended up alone, still ill, with a child, who she named alistair. giving him a version of her name felt like ensuring his luck that he, too, would get to go to wonderland someday (and she was right).

to make ends meet, she took several odd jobs for several unsavoury people, and ended up on the bad side of someone who believed in extreme measures. she ran from them, with alistair, to the now-derelict house she grew up in, and when inevitably she was found she knew what she had to do.

alice sent alistair out quickly and secretly from the house, and down to the stream where she knew the rabbit-hole must be (if not for her, then surely for him. wonderland is kind like that; if a child is in need, it will open itself to them). alistair found the rabbit-hole. alice stayed behind and met her consequence.

of course, this is a pretty gratuitously miserable thing to put her through, but i was about 17 when i thought of all this and my taste has remained edgy enough to think it effective!!! to this day i have no idea if she ought to be alive in the mortal world, or dead.. maybe one day, if i write a sequel to alistair's fall, i will actually have to make this decision!.... but not yet

#I HAVE NO IDEA IF YOU WANTED SUCH EXTENDED THOUGHTS BUT IT ALL SORT OF CAME OUT AT ONCE #but yes poor alice :( havent treated her well im afraid #you could read alistairs fall for more context on this btw!! its from 2020 but honestly i think it holds up #eah #ask #ever after high #alistair wonderland #gum talk

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lazywriter7 · 1 year ago

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Cap-Ironman Rec Week - Wonderous Wednesday

Strap in for some AU’s everybody! My favourite part of this theme might be that every fanfic is technically someone’s alternate universe, and boy does this ship have some absolute knockouts. one foot in (and one foot back) by kehinki

This isn't the worst thing that's ever happened to Tony, but it's in the top five.

Notes: This feels like one of the first soulmate AU’s I ever read for this ship, and a really formative one. Love the world building, the character progression, and there are a couple scenes that have stayed incredibly clear in my memory over the years of going back to it over and over again. Bulletproof by foxxcub At age fifteen, Steve Rogers had been in love with Tony Stark. By age twenty, he’d (mostly) gotten over it. And then he promptly became Tony Stark's fuck buddy. Notes: It takes real talent to keep the characterisation on-point and the magic alive in a no superpowers AU, but the world and its people is so richly depicted in this fic that it just feels true to Steve and Tony. An old favourite, and one I have much joy revisiting.

Genesis by teaberryblue

Reluctant to make the truth about their secret weapon known, the American Government tells the world that Captain America is a man named Steve Rogers. According to public record, he died, tragically, in 1945, and he became legend.

In 1998, the Avengers find a body trapped in ice.

She's alive.

Her name is Eve.

She has Captain America's shield. Notes: Like the best kinds of AUs, Eve in this story is so beautifully and identifiably Steve but also different, in such a compelling way. Her journey into the modern world is itself worth the ‘price’ of entry, but then Tony enters the picture! Just love, love, love. The Ghosts of War by scifigrl47 Steven Rogers never wanted to be king, but he knows his duty, and he does it well. Lord Tony Stark, the king's appointed consort, does his duty as well, even though he'd enjoy his duty more if it actually involved sleeping with the king. As it doesn't, he's just resigned. The war that made Steve king and cost him nearly everything may be over, but a meeting of old enemies might stir up some ghosts none of them are prepared for. Notes: Ooh, kings and sorcerers, what’s not to love? I love how well each character here ‘slots’ into their designated role, and how we get some lovely superhero style identity porn but set in this world instead. And of course, both Steve and Tony are note-perfect. Big recommend! Counterpart by sara_holmes coun•ter•part [koun-ter-pahrt] [noun] 1. a person or thing closely resembling another, especially in function. 2. a copy; duplicate. 3. one of two parts that fit, complete, or complement one another.Just because Hydra used the DNA of a Captain America from another dimension to create a lab-grown, six-year-old super-soldier, it doesn't mean that said six-year old super-soldier is biologically Steve's, right?(Where Steve wants to ban Clint from bringing things home from alternative dimensions, until he doesn't.) Note: I love this fic’s take on accidental kid acquisition - Steve goes through so many understandably mixed feelings here. Steve and Tony are an established pair who navigate the trials as well as the rewards of parenthood, featuring an excellent supporting cast, and it’s just a lovely read overall. Slipping Off The Page Into Your Hands by Sineala Soulmates have their first words to each other written on their wrists. This should make it easy. For Steve and Tony, it is anything but. Steve's problem is that the future he has awoken into is nothing he was ever expecting: he has a soulmate now. Who might be a robot. And if his soulmate is Iron Man, how can he be so attracted to Tony Stark? It should be impossible. Tony's problem is that he is Iron Man, his soulmate is a man whom he in no way deserves, and he is going to fight everything in his heart and do his best to make sure Steve never, ever finds out the whole truth. Notes: Soulmate AU plus identity porn, oh my oh my :D This is just a rollicking ride with all the feels, pining, dumb decisions and sweet catharsis you could ever hope for. Man I love AUs so much. This Is My Least Favourite You by Kiyaar In Steve's fantasies, he never travels to the future because Tony never violates him. Tony never violates him because there are no incursions. There are no incursions because there are no Avengers. There are no Avengers and so there can be no love and no pain and no heartbreak. You can’t miss what you’ve never had. Notes: Look, I love canon divergence fix-its. Thrive on them. This is not that - this is when the only thing you can do with the twisted corpse of canon is make it much, much worse and then revel in the pain. Great writing, A+ pain, no regrets. Issues by so_shhy In which Steve has a crippling crush on Tony Stark, Tony is oblivious and obnoxious, and Bucky expresses his disapproval via passive-aggressive comics. Notes: An absolutely delightful modern/no abilities AU in which Steve and Bucky write some comics featuring a superhero team called the Avengers, and Steve can’t help himself from... ahem, being a little too loving in his artistic depictions of Iron Man. So entertaining, I cackled multiple times, and Bucky’s outsider POV is particularly great. Looking for Heaven by foxxcub

When young Lord Anthony Stark learns Steven Rogers has enlisted in the army, he thinks he's seen the last of his tiny, headstrong, haughty stable boy. But four years later, Lord Stark gets an unexpected visit from Steve, whose mother has fallen gravely ill and into financial ruin. Even more unexpected, Steve agrees to a shocking proposal: they will marry, giving Steve the necessary funds to save his mother, and Tony the much-needed reprieve from harassing would-be suitors. It is a business arrangement, nothing more. But as time goes on and circumstances arise, Tony begins to learn that keeping his heart away from his husband is easier said than done. Notes: This one’s another wonderful trip down nostalgia lane. Regency meets marriage of convenience, with all the trappings that premise would entail and a delight from start to finish. Not Such a Compromise by Pookaseraph The death of her brother, Lt. James Barnes, has placed Miss Stephanie Rogers in the difficult position of needing to find a husband to see to it that her and her mother are taken care of. Miss Roger was not built for such a compromise, but perhaps Mr. Anthony Stark will not be such a compromise after all. Notes: Yes, it’s another Regency AU, what about it? :D Despite the trappings of gender and class, Stephanie remains so very Steve in how she moves through the world, and the premise enhances the miscommunication between the two, but in a way that is a joy to see resolved. Just a thoroughly enjoyable read. 99 problems (and the dice ain't one) by kellifer_fic Tony's life is almost perfect. He lives in a converted warehouse full of friends (and one frenemy), has a job that leaves him plenty of time to think about other things and a regular Friday night campaign. If his best friend, Steve Rogers, hadn't moved away to New York and left him behind, then perfection would've been achieved. Tony can roll with the punches though and he's almost all the way over that little bump in the road (shut up Bruce, he totally is) when Steve moves back, looking taller and broader and more confident than ever and Tony's left with a converted warehouse full of friends (and one frenemy), a job that leaves him plenty of time to think about other things, a regular Friday night campaign and the uncomfortable realization that maybe he's in love with his best friend and has been since he was sixteen. Notes: I call this the sitcom AU if only because of the setup, but the general themes of Tony trying to cope with changes in his life and status quo are funny as well as really resonant to all those (us) who aren’t superheroes. And a fantastic ensemble to fill the world out <3 And that’s that. Shower all the authors with some love and well-deserved compliments!

#capimrecweek #stevetony #stony #steve/tony #fic recs #steve rogers #tony stark

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