#i wanna do more coloured doodles for explorers it's fun :3 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jisssooyah · 4 years ago

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Hi you... if you were going to curate a little season of films for me, which ones would you choose and why? They don't need to be horror, I'm just curious what you would choose 🌸

I don’t know if you’ll like these movies, or if you’ve already watched them, but after i watched these films, i felt like they might need to belong to you now. i hope they make you smile, roll your eyes, and cry just as much as i did.

1. city of god (2002): this is one of the most immersive and gorgeously shot films i’ve ever seen. it’s set in rio de janeiro during the 60s and spans decades exploring the drug culture in the slums and how this can affect kids just as they are trying to figure their own selves out. the way this film is shot, feels like you were at the sea with them as the sand crunched underneath your feet. but the way that the director captures these individuals, makes you so fucking relieved that you don’t live through any of the circumstances that they go through.

2. the dreamers (2004): set in 1968, this film follows three students in Paris who come of age and explore one another and their limits during the revolution. while these students prop themselves up as individuals obsessed with sex, running underneath themselves is a current of jealousy, obsession, and blurred familial relationships that made me increasingly uncomfortable. you find yourself feeling bad for the children, and ultimately upset at their upbringing because of their parents.

3. if beale street could talk (2018): this movie is based off of james baldwin’s titular 1974 novel. in it, the director expertly and vigorously explores love: a love that feels so real that it hurts. the cast is what sold this film to me. the way they talk, laugh, cry, and smile at one another is achingly beautiful and terrifyingly sad. i wanted to transport myself back to their time period and watch the main characters fall in love because the film didn’t seem like enough.

4. the neon demon (2016): this film follows an emerging model who sacrifices herself to the demands of the industry in order to be attractive and beautiful. there are so many stunning colors in this film that it makes you dizzy, like you’re in a trance and that’s what this world is for the main character: a trance. as she oscillates between reality and fantasy, her world and the characters in it, increasingly seek out to alter her personality.

5. death becomes her (1992): a deliberately ultra-campy parody of trashy, pandering "women's pictures," soap operas and paperbacks from the '80s and '90s. The three leads all do some of their best work - it's hilarious watching Meryl Streep play a terrible actress, Goldie Hawn is particularly hilarious during her character's cat lady phase, and all around just a really fun and eccentric film.

6. princess cyd (2017): i can’t think of anything to write for this but i just wanna say that this is literally one of the most pleasant movie experiences i’ve ever had. so much light and genuine interaction in warm sun rays radiating positive energy and an openness that is far too uncommon in movies nowadays. people talk, people connect, people grow bonds and are allowed to be sexual or intimate or personal without an air of shame or judgement. just pure kind and curious human association.

7. spiderman: into the spiderverse (2018): the message of Spider-Verse is not "gentrify yourself! stop expressing your personality and just conform to what society wants you to be!" After all, what makes you different makes you Spider-Man, and Miles' final expression of himself as a superhero still retains much of his personality and individuality...they're just being used in more productive and fulfilling ways. It's the little things that drive the point home, like noticing that the title page for Miles' finished Great Expectations essay has been stylistically doodled and colored like street art. Rather than seeing his artistic gifts as an opposition to his schoolwork, Miles infuses them together to make the best of the hand he's been dealt.

8. my life as a zucchini (2016): initially heartbreaking and sad, but slowly becoming more joyful and heartwarming as the plot moves along. The film really feels like it captures the essence and child like wonder of these kids, all of them going through hardships but managing to find something to help each other out. It’s so refreshing to see the actual orphanage portrayed in a more positive light, not the usual horrid dump that a lot of lesser movies play them out as. The animation is stunning. One of the best uses of stop motion I’ve seen, everything is so colourful and detailed. There’s some moments set in snowy mountains and these look incredible. There’s clearly been so much love and care put into each and every scene here. The music too, sounds spectacular, it really works well with each scene.

9. lovesong (2016): Mindy and Sarah have that type of relationship where they don't need words because they speak in a language made out of glances and touches. This movie is about the fear of ruining a meaningful friendship and losing an important person, about love that is so complicated that one might not even try because the outcome seems to be so obvious.

10. her (2013): Heartbreak is formative: it changes you heart side out, and leaves your muscles a little stronger, your skin a little thicker, your bones easier to repair. Before this film, I’d never seen anything constructive in having your insides pulled apart by the seams by another person, but this film taught me how. Being in love and then being forced out of it is an experience that changes you fundamentally, but Her taught me its purpose – you don’t need them to leave you so that you can find someone who’s a better fit, because perhaps you never will. You need it to participate in humanity. The common denominator is being hurt, and without it, you’re barely alive.

11. shoplifters (2018): bittersweet and richly transportive, Shoplifters is a film that nonchalantly eases you into its tragic beauty in a way that doesn't punch you hard until the end. It simultaneously made me want to be part of the film's world and also very glad that I'm not. The setting the characters live in is messy and cluttered and full of dysfunction and lies, but it's also got family, and laughter, and fist-bumps, and slurping warm noodles while rain pings on the tin rooftop. So nuanced, so many tiny moments of delicate beauty and unassuming heartbreak, so many people making terrible decisions with good intentions.

12. god’s own country (2017): though it is a love story between two men, this aspect is only addressed briefly in a single scene. Rather, the film is about finding someone who makes you want to be a better person, someone who comes into your life just when you needed it most. Gheorghe helps Johnny open up and realize the beauty of the simple life. From this relationship, Johnny begins to feel comfortable with expressing himself, and his love and gratitude towards others. He also begins to appreciate life in the country, surrounded by stunning landscapes and the beauty of simplicity. Addressing the Yorkshire countryside, Gheorghe says "It is beautiful, but lonely." Johnny is presented with the notion that he doesn't have to be cold and miserable, slaving and drinking his days away. He is presented with the possibility of no longer being alone and finally finding happiness and contentment - and it is more than gratifying to see him accept it.

13. disobedience (2017): a tender star-crossed daydream. the three main character dynamics are special enough on their own, but the romance that blooms at the center is cathartically intimate and even magical: a reunion that feels so inevitable. catching glimpses of a past life, details we aren’t privy to. all the stolen kisses and whispers and promises. a bond so strong that they fall back in sync with each other like second nature, even if they try to fight against it. even if it won’t work. and yet they choose each other, even if for a few minutes.

14. raw (2016): this film is so gross and I like that. There is tons of blood and unique body horror and it all works perfectly for the tone the film is attempting to set. The use of color, specifically neons, creates a constant feeling that you are traveling through some sort of weird ghost world, which I really like. Overall, it's a very well put together film with flashes of brilliance.

15. the night is short, walk on girl (2017): what an absolutely magical adventure of a film. Essentially this is a heavily episodic look at a night in the lives of several people, centered on a woman and a man as she gleefully floats from event to event while he neurotically obsesses over how to "coincidentally" talk to her. The storytelling is incredible; while the overarching narrative is simple there are countless threads woven together to connect everyone in the story to each other. That in itself is a big theme: connections between people, how everything is interrelated, and what a large impact seemingly insignificant things people do can have an impact on everyone around them.

16. coraline (2009): Coraline is the best stop motion movie ever made in my opinion. Before the film released in 2009, I read the book and was completely blown away by its creativity and story. It’s a pretty dark tale featuring many scenes of fright that work well in both a horror setting and an animated kids setting. On surface value, this film is quite horrifying, which is something I’ve always loved about it. While it does make a few minor changes to the book, it improves upon a piece of art that was already jaw-droppingly good. Coraline feels like a real little girl with some real problems. She’s selfish but likable which is something most films cannot translate well. Of course, she has a pretty awesome arc as well which brings this movie to a perfect close for her character. The other-mother is also perfectly done. She is almost exactly how I imagined her in the book and the animation on her is spookily gorgeous. There is not one dull moment in this film. It is literally a perfect piece of cinema.

17. the third wife (2019): haven’t seen a film this visually delicate in a while. Ash Mayfair works with the looming mountain surroundings to make her characters —these women, these girls— as small as possible, as isolated as possible. Uneasiest of all is the protagonist May, so young and so weighed by responsibility, her position blurs between being one of the wives and being one of the daughters. It’s an extremely bleak tale of circumstance. An old tale, certainly, but so beautifully crafted it doesn’t matter. Mayfair holds a fearful tension throughout, and it only ever shatters in the cruelest of ways.The abundance of women and display of sisterhood begin as a comfort, but horror takes over as we realize how conditional and fragile that comfort is. Even the daughters are subconsciously aware, one of them praying to the gods to grow up and become a man, shearing her hair off in naive triumph. It’s a doomed cycle of girls performing roles which are unfortunately their best option, right up until the final scene of May with her daughter, still in their mourning clothes. She, like the older wives, finally realizes they’re the same as the cattle laying on their side for too many days.

#asks #shortcake-kaspbrak

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beauvoyr · 7 years ago

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Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 5

blooming | titus andronicus Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, and an inappropriate amount of references to video games and classical music and literature titles, no beta we die like men ;;v;; pre-canon a.k.a before FFXV Chapter Rating: T Crossposted on: AO3 Summary: Rules to join the Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired: 1) One must love sleep. Sleep is love. Sleep is life. 2) One must be tired. Physically or emotionally, both are acceptable. 3) One must love video games. Halfhearted interest in video games will result in immediate termination of membership.

Fortunately, Noctis falls into all three categories.

YOU HAVE A NEW MESSAGE FROM NOCTGAR!

PLEASE CHECK YOUR MESSAGE BOX!

A message. You quirk a brow at the notification popping up after your raid battle in King’s Knight. While it’s an extremely common occurrence as of late, give or take a few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have received a notification like this out of nowhere. Now, you’d get this notification popping up after every few hours, saying you have a message or two posted in your inbox. It’s strange. All too strange.

Without thinking, your thumb hovers over the INBOX button and presses down. What used to be an empty inbox devoid of messages is now filled to the brim with short notes, all bearing the name NoctGar.

TO: THE ARCHITECT

FROM: NOCTGAR

SUBJECT: [none]

MESSAGE: Prom and I are planning a raid tonight on the new Eleastor dungeon. Wanna come? We’ve got a fourth party member too.

And NoctGar is none other than Prince Noctis himself.

You skim through his raid invitation once more, lips pursed thoughtfully. Ah, yes, the Eleastor dungeon from the time-limited event in King’s Knight. Figures that the boys would be excited over it. Seeing how you just finished soloing a round, you suppose it won’t be too bad of an idea to join them in their raid. The item drops ranged from common antidotes to rare weapons, though rumours circulate the web that there are five-star drops with an appalling drop rate left to be scavenged by some lucky souls. And those five-star drops are precisely what you’re aiming for.

Already knowing your answer, both thumbs expertly key in your reply.

TO: NOCTGAR

FROM: THE ARCHITECT

SUBJECT: Sure

MESSAGE: What time?

Succinct, just enough to get the point across. You had just sent the message with a tap of a button when your phone vibrates, indicating yet another prompt reply from the prince.

TO: THE ARCHITECT

FROM: NOCTGAR

SUBJECT: [none]

MESSAGE: 9.30 tonight. I’ll text you the room ID later.

9.30 p.m.? That’s close enough to your bedtime, you suppose—but then again, you pretty much napped anytime, anywhere if you got the chance, so if you napped in the evening then you guess you could stay up a bit later to raid with them. Anything goes for that five-star drop to come true. With that plan firmly cemented in your head, your fingers are hard at work again.

TO: NOCTGAR

FROM: THE ARCHITECT

SUBJECT: Ok

MESSAGE: See you later.

Aaaand, send.

You navigated out of your inbox, knowing that no more replies would be coming in for now. After all, it’s already afternoon, where the sun glows brightly above Insomnia, swathing its citizens in balmy heat. Afternoons are usually bustling, where people roved about in their daily business, getting on with their lives just as easily. Surely the prince and his cheery friend, Prompto, are still in class. Sharing tables with the rest of the students in a university, doodling in seminar when the lecturer’s droning way past lunchtime, and munching through an unhealthy tableau of greasy burgers and salty fries.

You lock your phone with a click of a button and glanced at the world before your eyes, a sprawling cityscape of glass and steel magnificence.

“Why the long face, milady?”

Byron’s voice comes just as easily, interrupting your brewing thoughts with a soothing baritone. From your spot by the television, a spot where Noctis and Prompto once shared, he locks eyes with you and offers a crooked smile from the kitchenette. As usual, Byron’s brewing a signature pot of black tea—one of his favourites, you realise—and in the midst of arranging some biscuits on a paper doily, readying to be served for teatime.

Dropping your face into your pillow, your reply comes out muffled. “Nothing much. Just thinking about uni.”

“University?” he parrots after you, pale eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “Are you worried about your thesis? As far as I know, your progress is on track, so you needn’t worry much. Worrying will only give you wrinkles, you know. If I’m still wrinkle-free at thirty-three, then you should strive to do better than that, milady.”

Again with that jibe of his. You can always count on Byron to lighten the mood when you’re a mess of a gloomy cloud. Turning to lie on your side, you pull the blankets up to your chest as the man dawdles on, emitting faint tinkling sounds of silverware against porcelain from the kitchen.

King’s Knight. Raid. NoctGar. Prince Noctis. Friend.

You’d seen him before—or rather, more accurately, you had read news with his face on it. A brooding prince printed in both colour and monochrome, eyebrows straight and lips pressed into a firm, thin line. Long lashes curtaining hazy blue eyes, complementing flawless expanse of skin. All sultry dips of collarbones, broad shoulders, and sinewy arms. Whenever he shows up around here, he’s always in a dark shirt and cargo pants, sometimes looking like a sweaty mess, and sometimes looking like he’d just stepped out of shower. With your chastising, he’d set aside his boots and claim your television area as his new territory, playing a game or two.

Did that constitute as a friend?

You roll over on your stomach, pulling a pillow close to your chin as you explore the thought.

Would a prince want to be friends with someone like you? Would he prefer the company of one such as yourself? Would you be worthy enough to be called his friend?

Prince Noctis is an untouchable figure, one who manifested out of the papers and stumbled into your room. He doesn’t talk much—except, when he brought his friend over last week, he seemed to be in a good mood all the time. Together, the three of you played through hours and hours of King’s Knight, achieving a grand total of four dragon scales out of 68 rounds before he breaks it off with a phone call from Ignis, who requested their hasty return for dinner.

It was fun.

If you closed your eyes, you could almost replay their voices in your head, a broken record of Prompto’s whining and the prince’s grumble.

It was really, really fun.

Is that what having friends felt like?

With them around, your thesis is just a pile of papers too difficult for a nineteen-year-old to be writing. Your box of cereal is shared between three, a meal fitting for the palate of a royalty. Your world in these four walls threatens to expand, to burst out of its glass box with Prompto’s ringing laugh and the prince’s incessant sulking. Your existence is not seen as merely Quintus’ object, but as someone. Someone they talked to. Someone they shared soda with. Someone they saw as a human. A human being.

Noctis doesn’t scoff at your inability to articulate emotions like the rest of them. There are no scathing one-liners designed to shame you. He kept things light, much like his name, Noctis Lucis Caelum. The first crack of light you see when he opens your box, the first light lining the horizons when dawn comes. The daughter of Andronicus is not deigned a stranger to the many magnanimities of the prince, never once regarded as one beneath him. He sees you for who you are, and your worth is weighed only in his hands alone. None other may influence his judgment, not that he allows it.

The House of Andronicus matters little to him, and so does Quintus’ name.

Subconsciously, your fingers dig deeper into your pillow.

“Hey, Byron?”

The albino, readying tea for two, stops working on the simple treat. “Yes, milady?” he answers, cocking a brow in concern. “You’re acting like a garbage maggot doused in hot water on the floor. What’s troubling you?”

You almost wanted to throw a pillow at his explicit description of disgust. “Meanie.”

“I’m sorry, milady, but that’s the truth.” He shakes with laughter, mischievous eyes glinting under his bangs. “Since you’re already cocooned up like one anyway.”

Impertinent Byron and his eternal teasing. On some days, he could be a mean surgeon with a scalpel for his tongue, and on others, he’d be the sweetest angel the Astrals created just for you. Still, he’s what you’re used to—and he’s the only one who’d talk to you anyway. Nobody else did before the prince showed up. Nobody but Byron.

Fiddling with your fingers, you peer up at him curiously from your pillow barrier. “I was just wondering if… y’know… if we’re considered friends?”

Silence.

He’s heard your question, loud and clear. But the look in his eyes are heavy, heady grey, offset by the scarlet flecks in his irises.

“Oh dear, milady… we’re not friends. You own me.”

father would kill him if he catches wind of this. but byron is undaunted, humming cheerily to himself as he adjusts your oversized shirt and tucked the drooping neckline into place.

“it’s too bad you’re not allowed to wear dresses, milady,” he laments with a dramatic sigh. “i saw this cute dress at laellum market while i was out and about today, and i almost had the urge to buy it, you know?” he laughs at the look on your face. “no, not for myself. for you, milady. it’s cute and stylish for girls your age.”

a dress. you saw them before in books; cute, floaty frocks princesses wore as they danced with prince charming. under a cherry moon, painted in watercolours, mother read those books to you before. princesses twirling about with their princes, glass heels encircling their feet, a tiara of gold resting on their tresses. will there ever be a moment in time for you? where the galaxies are your halos, the stars crown your hair, and the nebula for your dress? will they throb and glow, minute lights dotting your lengthy tresses, as the universe kisses your lips?

but it is a hopeless desire even if the astrals craft your dress out of its constellations, for a dress is a dress. a dress father once ripped to pieces because you do not exist you do not matter you were never a daughter—

byron’s jostling breaks your reverie, and his hand in yours leads you away from those terrible thoughts. “anyway, let’s get a move on. today’s special.”

special, he says, but you don’t know what’s special anymore. byron said father would not hesitate to cut him down if he’s caught doing unsavoury things, but the man doesn’t seem to care. he’s told you with a roguish wink and a hushed whisper that today’s special, today’s the day you’ll remember, today’s a good day. dragging you out of the room and into the hallway, he marches you towards a parlour with an adjoining piano chamber where mother once played. he locks the door behind him, ushers you towards the connecting door to the room nearby, and kneels before you.

“i can only do this much, milady, i’m sorry i’m powerless to do more,” he says, despite the confusion swimming in your eyes. then, he tears away from the contact, keying in three sharp knocks at the door. “she’s here, lady mnemosyne. i brought her, as promised.”

your eyes widen. and tears flood your eyes just as easily.

mnemosyne.

mother.

mama.

“no—“ comes mama’s voice from the other side of the door, stifling a sob. “no, no, don’t say that, byron. thank you, thank you so much for thinking this up for us.”

pressed against the door, you couldn’t feel her warmth. not anymore. but hearing her voice is enough to make up for the distance in between. eyes brimming with unshed tears, your voice comes out as a warble of words, words that were unintelligible, words that had byron laughing, words that even mama hiccupped with laughter. but words were all you had before—and now, byron too.

“I’M SO TIRED!” PROMPTO WHINES from his spot on the hardwood floor. He flops backward with a thump, lying spread eagle as sweat continues dripping off his skin. “Gladio, don’t you have an easy mode or something!? I can’t beat you like this!”

“That’s the whole point. You’re not supposed to beat me.” The taller, brusque man mutters under his breath. “Not that you can, anyway.”

“Whaa—then what’s the point of our training?!”

Wiping his forehead with the hem of his shirt, Ignis steals a glance at his wristwatch, tuning out the rest of their bantering. 8.57 p.m., just several minutes shy of nine, which means he’ll have some time to make preparations for dinner after locking up the training room. As part of the Crownsguard, their training drill takes up most of Noctis’ night, seeing that the prince himself is busy juggling his studies with Prompto. It’s a cycle of swords clashing against shield, daggers soaring through the air, and Gladio barking out orders left and right.

Adjusting his slipping gloves, Ignis tosses a look at Noctis, who’s chugging down a bottle of water. “Well then, let’s clean up and hurry home. The later we return, the later dinner will be served.”

But Noctis seems to be having other plans. “Sorry, Specs, I’m taking Prom and Gladio with me.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, setting down the bottle. “We’re going to raid some dungeons upstairs.”

Upstairs only meant one thing: The 56th floor, the room of the strategist’s prisoner.

As much as Ignis wanted to say he’s seen this coming, he knows it does little to remedy the situation. Restricting the prince from doing whatever he wants will only result in the situation backfiring, and he’s saying that from experience. The foreboding feeling from Ignis’ heart doesn’t go away even if you presented yourself as a harmless lass; he’s seen snakes twining around apples before, hiding poison in their fangs. The moment you strike will mark Noctis’ downfall. And by then, it might be too late for him to retract his actions.

At the very least, Ignis supposes he could divert Noctis’ attention. “Noct, King’s Knight can wait.”

“Nope, can’t wait,” Gladio pipes up, hoisting his broadsword and returning it to the brackets by the wall. He’s met with Ignis’ silent eyes, completely glossing over the warning signs of his stiff posture. “Saw these kids getting their Ravager—“

“Revenant! It’s Revenant!” Prompto squawks. “Get it right, old man!”

“—yeah, whatever weapon that was,” the Shield brushes it off, “so I’m jealous as hell. We’re definitely gonna do some serious raiding tonight.”

Prompto isn’t remotely helping the situation either. He’s stowing his guns away with a flicker of Noctis’ magic, fragments of light bouncing off the hardwood floor. “Mhmm! We’ve got a really strong Kaliva on our team too! It’ll be a cinch, big guy.”

“Heh, you mean that Quintus’ daughter, right?” he grouses, retrieving Noctis’ own training sword to store it in its rightful place. “She plays Kaliva?”

Prompto bounces on his feet, chiming in. “Yeah—she’s pretty weird, but she’s like a talking King’s Knight Encyclopaedia or something.”

“Like how you’re a talking chocobo, huh?” Noctis looks on, taking another swig of his drink, a lopsided grin seizing his lips.

“Noct, buddy, chocobos are cool. I’m honoured with your compliment.” The blond snorts, obviously offended. “We had this talk before, remember? Sheesh.”

He’s only met with a roll of Noctis’ eyes. “That wasn’t a compliment but whatever. C’mon, let’s go.”

Things aren’t supposed to go this way. Noctis should have agreed with him and acquiesced with nary a protest on his lips, tempted by the promise of dinner with his friends. Only, his circle of friends might be expanding—will be expanding—has expanded, more likely. Dinner for four no longer whets his appetite. Dinner for five, a dinner with a prisoner of fate, with much laughter and more smiles. An incredibly disconcerting prospect, that’s for sure.

And Ignis only prays it doesn’t escalate more than this.

Rubbing his nape, he swallows all his dissents and seals them behind his lips, clearing his throat. “At the very least, let me grab the groceries from your car first. Noct, your keys, please.”

NIGHT FALLS OVER INSOMNIA, an assemblage of stars spreading over the skies. Rich, black velvet studded with Swarovski, you think to yourself, as you lean against the window.

Suffocating. Empty. Silence.

Your computer screen glows bright in your dim room, like a beacon of light in this solitude. This jarring silence could be banished if you played a selection of mother’s favourites. Debussy, Ravel, Satie—anything, as long as it chases these thoughts away, keeping them firmly locked from your eyes. But no. Thinking about mother hurts. The exquisite pain she bestows upon you—memories of her smile, her voice, her scent—everything hurts you tonight.

Nineteen long years in isolation should’ve taught you how to cope with this. The darkness should’ve been your friend. The silence should’ve been a constant in your life. The sorrow should’ve been your shield.

Was father truly right all along? That you were but a weak, wretched child of his, and you couldn’t compare to a son. A son would’ve been stronger, impervious to loneliness, emotionally detached from worldly things. A son would’ve done him proud. A son is what you’re not. A son does not think, he acts. A son is fit to lead an empire while a daughter plays the part of a wife. A son is the symbol of strength, and a daughter is the emblem of calamity. A son is a son, and a daughter is a daughter.

Even if you fought like a son, you were still a daughter.

Nothing could change it.

Tearing your gaze away from the glittering cityscape, you run your fingers over the filigreed cover of a book in your lap. Across the forest of silver, a name stands out.

Titus Andronicus.

By chance, Byron had picked it up from a second-hand corner in Laellum many years back. Like a namesake, he laughs when he thrust the book in your hands. Byron never got around to telling you the price, though you suspect it’s worth a whole month’s salary or more, judging from the gilded embellishments scattered on its spine. Always so secretive, he dodges the question the moment your tongue curls with the weight of it. You turn the book over in your hands, a wry smile crossing your lips before you realise it.

Titus Andronicus and House of Andronicus.

The Astrals must’ve been snickering when they scripted your fate, naming your life after a tragic tale.

You barely have the time to react when there comes a succession of footsteps stopping beyond your door, laughter, laughter, and more laughter resonating in the hallway. You’ve never heard this many people before, like a stampede of dualhorns you saw on television. Someone pushes the door open and pale light illuminates his features, highlighting the shaggy strands of dark hair, turning blue eyes gleaming black.

You didn’t need to look further to know the silhouette belongs to—

“You asleep already?”

—him.

A hand reaches out for the switch and lights come on with a click. You wince at the shock of white entering your vision, closing your eyes and rubbing over your eyelids. Ouch.

“Woah! Lucky, she’s still up! C’mon guys, we’re gonna party tonight!”

“Huh. She’s smaller than Iris.”

“Be polite, Gladio. We are intruding on someone’s home, after all.”

“Technically, it’s Noct’s place though.”

Voices. You’ve heard them before. Three familiar voices, and a new one, rich and low. By right, it should’ve surprised you when you opened your eyes once more, staring at the doorway. Overcrowded, four men in varying shades of clothes, Noctis already with his boots set aside, Prompto jumping around on one foot as he tries to get his socks off, Ignis in the background, and a behemoth-man whose massive forearms are fiercely inked.

What is this?

“Um.” You start, only to realise you’ve got nothing to say when Noctis fixes you a blank look. “Um—wait. Why are all of you here?”

Prompto’s smile is wide enough when he kicks off his offending socks and stumbles into the room, holding out his phone. “It’s King’s Night, duh!”

You open your mouth, then closed it with a click at the pun. It must’ve looked dumb, because he laughs at your face and makes a beeline for the television. Wetting your dry lips, you try again. “No—wait, that’s not what I meant. I mean, what are you guys doing here?” You point at Noctis for emphasis. “Didn’t you say you wanted to text the room ID?”

Like any of this isn’t his fault, the prince just follows Prompto from behind and settles down on his favourite spot closest to your gaming console. “You said ‘see you later.’ ��Thought you meant we should meet up here.”

What a blatant lie. He clearly knows more than he’s letting on, albeit expertly masking it behind feigned indifference.

Ignis sidesteps the strange behemoth-man, already having removed his shoes and socks as per custom before entering your room. In his arms are grocery bags spilling with vegetables, wrapped meat, and other condiments, settling them on your small kitchen counter. “I’ll make something quick for all of us. Will sandwiches be sufficient for tonight?”

“Just leave out the veggies for our prince,” the hulking mass of muscle rumbles, shutting the door behind him. “I sure as hell don’t wanna be the one scraping his vegs clean tonight.”

“Neither do I.” Ignis replies just as easily, picking apart everything your humble kitchenette had to offer. Pots, pans, ladles and bowls, he’s probably doing a little logistics at the stuff in your cupboards before deeming it satisfactory. “Looks like we’re in luck. I’ll put in a side of stew as well, if sandwiches aren’t enough.”

“That’ll be great!” Prompto crows in excitement as the theme song of King’s Knight blares from his phone. He looks past Noctis, who’s already logging in the game, and you find yourself staring right at him, blank. “Hey—c’mon, Architect guy, let’s get started already! We’re sooooo gonna get that five-star drop tonight!”

Architect guy?

—oh.

You never got around to telling them your name, did you?

“Yeah, c’mon, Quintus’—whatever you are.” Behemoth-man waves you over, already settling down comfortably between Noctis and Prompto, holding out his own phone. “These five-star drops aren’t gonna fall from the skies by themselves, y’know. Start farmin’.”

The noise level in your room is off the roof—louder than what you’ve blasted from your speakers. A cacophony of human laughter, indignant shouts, and motherlike chastising, paired with Noctis’ judgmental look at his companions. A broken symphony of cut-off words overlapping with arguments and dares from one another. An unfamiliar and deafening noise you’ve never heard before. Prompto talks and behemoth-man cuts him off, erupting into more laughter. Noctis drops into a scowl and Prompto nails him in the side, then behemoth-man chuckles when Ignis sends off a warning look.

Everyone’s here.

Acquaintances and strangers alike.

Do they care about your name? No, you suspect not. Do they want anything to do with your father? No, you suppose not either. Amidst all the chaos, the prince turns over to look at you and rubs his nape. The look in his eyes is a brush of familiarity in its quietness. You’ve never seen that kind of look before.

And when he speaks, he speaks so softly you might not have heard him at all.

“So, what’s the room ID?”

IT MIGHT’VE BEEN A MISTAKE when Noctis gets up from the floor, making his way to your kitchenette just to grab some soda from the fridge for their five-minute break. Something thick and silver gleams underneath your table lamp, highlighting the curl of its sheen and unveiling its age. An old book, he thinks, and almost pays no mind to it until his eyes slip from the spine to its cover.

Titus Andronicus.

That stops him in his tracks.

He’s never heard of the book before, in all the exercise drills his private tutors made him memorise in his earlier years. But the name Andronicus puts him on the spot. Was it a fictitious tale penned by a poet? Or was it a book detailing the skeletons of the Andronici, the proud males who stood as strategists for the Lucian kings? Curiosity shouldn’t have seized his heart, but his detour to your desk catches both yours and Ignis’ interest, each pair of eyes boring down heavily on his back.

Picking up the deceptively heavy tome, he takes in the elaborate scrollwork sprawling over the cover, burying the title under silvery vines. Fingers then picked through the ageing papers, catching the names composing the play.

Titus. Bassianus. Lavinia. Quintus.

It’s a name he’s familiar with.

Quintus Andronicus.

“Something caught your interest, Prince?” you call out from across the room, sotto voce. Your question is slow, calculated, manipulative in nature. That much, Noctis knows, because he’s put his nose somewhere it doesn’t belong. But it’s too late to put it away now, not when he’s sniffed out something.

He keeps his inflection flat as his fingers skim through the weary pages, pretending that Ignis isn’t adjusting his glasses simply because he wants to. “Titus Andronicus.” His voice has gone quiet. “Looks interesting. What’s it about?”

Noctis half expects the answer to come from you since you owned the book, but his advisor lends his thoughts to the matter instead.

“It’s a play written by a certain playwright several hundred years ago,” says Ignis, delivering a brief history lesson as he expertly flips a sandwich in a pan. “A grotesque tragedy, if I must summarise its contents.”

Noctis lowers the book and scans your expression from the corners of his eyes. He’s seen you in various states of unsmiling before, being the sleepy child you are, but this time it’s different. It’s a vacant look. Eyes placed on him, yet not quite on him. Seeing past his skin, digging into the gelatinous depression of his eyeballs, fingernails delving into his brain. You’re picking him apart, he realises, to look for answers when he’s only coming up with one.

“Sounds bloody.” Prompto makes a retching sound at the back of his throat. “Is it violent? Full of gore?”

“Violent and bloody, yes. A vicious cycle of revenge that ends in unhappiness, as all tragedies are.”

What a depiction. An exceedingly unsettling depiction of the play, thanks to Ignis’ excessive narration. Plays aren’t usually Noctis’ thing, even if his old tutors are groaning at him in exasperation at the back of his head. Standard royalty tuition classes come bundled with public school, since it is expected for a prince to be well-versed in the classics as much as King Regis was, no matter his waning interest in it. Yet, there is something about Titus Andronicus that Noctis should probe deeper if he wants to dig out the skeletons under your name.

You’ve gone silent since your first question, withdrawing into your world of King’s Knight again. Tapping relentlessly on the screen, probably going through a dungeon raid on your own as you tune out the rest of the world. Gladio doesn’t seem to bother much about the conversation, scrolling through his phone on another journey in the game. But somehow, Ignis’ depiction of Titus Andronicus roams the prince’s thoughts with more guesswork, and he only sets down the book in its rightful place again.

“Not my kind of thing.” Noctis dismisses the topic, and resumes his expedition to your fridge.

He doesn’t miss how your attention diverts from the game, furtively trailing after him from your desk to the fridge, tracing up the curve of his spine when he bends over to fish a cold can out from the bottom tier, cracking it open. But just as soon as he finishes gulping down its contents, flicking it into your dustbin, you’ve turned away from him, reverting into the hollow husk of a human you are.

[tbc.]

thanks for sticking around through all the boring and long process of worldbuilding! shit gets real in next chapter 8) hope everyone’s ready for more plot! this fic is pre-canon which will venture into canon soon enough, and i’m a grandma who keeps forgetting the stuff i write ;;v;; at the moment, i'm on chapter 13 and so much fluff aaah <3 but there are also bad things as well, so. oh no.

PREVIEW:

It’s just a simple word. Good. Yet Byron knows you’ve been starved of attention, of acknowledgement. The feeling of being recognised, being wanted for something, being given something—just like the abandoned child you are. Even if Noctis is feeding you scraps of praises from his outstretched hand, you’re nothing but a ravenous mongrel eager to lap it all up, licking all over his palm and sucking off his fingers.

In all of your disgusting desperation, there is beauty in how you gaze at the prince, the wide-eyed ingénue you are.

#Noctis Lucis Caelum #final fantasy xv #ffxv #final fantasy xv fanfic #noctis/reader #prompto argentum #prompto #ignis scientia #ignis #gladiolus amicitia #gladio #noctis x reader #lazy people

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