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anemoxlys · 11 months

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Thranduil x Reader Cinderella AU

The fat crush I have on this man (this is the 18th piece of writing I have done for him-

Can you tell I just watched Into the Woods?

Word Count: 2000+

“Please Valar…” You whispered before swinging your legs out of your bed and quickly rushing to put on your clothes, the cold of the morning startling you slightly. It had been a few hours since you’d been up before the rest of your household woke as well, buzzing with a certain energy that they only ever got during ball season. “Oh I simply cannot wait!” Angelica squealed, grasping her hands in Marjorie, her sister’s. “Yes, the prince is bound to choose one of you.” Your stepmother agreed, sitting down at the table before snapping her fingers to gather your attention. “Yes ma’am?” You hastily ask, dashing over to her. “Have our gowns ready for tonight, and remember you must feed the dogs whilst we are out.” She sighed, as if talking to you was this time consuming, wasteful task. “I-I was wondering if I may not join you this ball, ma’am?” You softly murmured, nervousness flowing over you. “You, join us?” Your stepmother cackled, clearly finding the prospect ridiculous, “My dear, if you were to come with us, who would clean the house in our absence?” She continued, patting your head before speaking again, “Now, tighten those corsets. We want to grab the prince’s attention after all.” She commanded. Dutifully, you did so, trying to withhold the tears from slipping down your cheeks.

You watched, silently as your ‘family’ rode away from you, their carriage spreading out of the gates without you. Finally, you let yourself cry, fat, ugly tears slid down your cheeks as you sobbed in the driveway. “My dear, why do you cry?” An unfamiliar voice asked. “Apologies, are you lost ma’am, maybe I can help?” You immediately responded, wiping your cheeks dry. “It seems as though you are the lost one, is there not a ball tonight?” She asked, resting her hand on your shoulder. “Yes, though I am not allowed to attend.” You smiled sadly, “Are you sure I cannot help miss, I have food if you need or water..?” You asked softly. “I shall make you a deal, you get me a loaf of bread and I shall make you go to the ball.” The strange lady offered. “Of course.” You responded, wholly unbelieving her side of the bargain as you hurried inside to get her the food she wanted.

“Here you go, miss, safe travels.” You smiled, handing over the loaf, alongside some extras that you packed. You moved to turn around only to be stopped, “It seems I have yet to uphold my end of the deal, do turn around dear.” She called, watching as you followed her instructions. -

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.” You whispered, clasping your hands together before the carriage door opened and you were forced to step towards the palace. “Miss?” A man’s voice sounded. “Yes, sir?” You asked, nervousness flowing through you. “May I accompany you inside?” He asked, a pleasant smile on his lips. “Me?” You started before realising how rude you probably sounded, “I mean, yes, if you wish.” You corrected, an embarrassed smile falling across your face. The man standing before you was horribly attractive, long blonde hair framing his face perfectly, a pristine black outfit hugged every muscle flawlessly, and his hands were so unbelievably soft when they gently took yours. “Tell me, what is the name of the most beautiful lady in this kingdom?” He interrupted you from your thoughts with his sweet, deep voice. “I do not know sir, to be honest I do not attend such events regularly enough to have an opinion.” You answered honestly, pure terror now overflowing you as you began to walk up the stairs, eyes falling on you as you did. “You look nervous?” The man beside you asked, concern in his voice as you felt his own eyes settle on you. “Just a bit.” You replied before a nervous laugh spilled out of your lips, “Who am I kidding I’m amazed I haven’t run off yet.” You smiled awkwardly, trying not to clasp his hand too tightly. “Don’t be, you look divine.” He whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. “That means a lot, thank you.” You grinned, some of the anxiety leaving you, “May I ask your name?” You questioned, noting the surprised look on his face, “Apologies, as I said I do not attend social seasons regularly.” You immediately backtracked, your face turning hot. “Not at all, my lady, I was simply taken aback. My name is Thranduil Oropherion.” He answered as your eyes widened. “My prince-” You began before he cut you off, “Do not say anything.” He began, pressing his finger to your lips before realising what he had done and immediately pulling back, “I enjoyed our conversation before. It was… refreshing to not be a soon-to-be king to everyone.” He elaborated, watching as your face grew a small bit less flushed. “Of course.” You murmured, taking in a quick breath as you reached the top of the stairs. “Don’t be nervous, just think that they’re staring at me.” He muttered into your ear before the doors swung open revealing a large gold ballroom, paintings covering the roof.

“Prince Thranduil Oropherion.” The herald announced as the room grew silent and all looked up the stairwell. “Should I have arrived with you?” You whispered as you looked down at the room full of people all staring as you began to descend the stairs. “Do not worry.” He replied before chuckling slightly, “Probably not though.” He continued as you shot him a horrified glare, causing him to laugh slightly more obviously. “Only now we are expected to dance.” He grinned, leading you towards the centre of the room. “You planned this all along didn’t you, my prince.” You hissed, mentally preparing yourself to step on his feet. “What are you accusing me of, my lady?” He smirked, outstretching his hand for you to take. “I’m not a good dancer.” You admitted, a slight laugh escaping you as his face turned mildly horrified, “I’m not going to leave with broken toes, am I?” He teased. “Quite possibly, your majesty.” You replied with a grin of your own.

You smiled softly at the memory, sweeping the floors as you recalled last night before you had fled the palace. “Wench!” One of your stepsisters shrieked, most likely calling you to prepare them for the second day of the royal balls. “Coming!” You replied removing your apron before running upstairs. “Corset.” She spat, bracing herself against the bed frame. “Of course.” You muttered, getting to work on pulling at the strings of her corset.

“I am glad to see you again, my lady.” You heard the now familiar voice of the prince. “To think, I came through a different entrance and everything.” You joked. “Indeed, one might think you were trying to avoid me.” He half-jested. “Indeed.” You agreed. “Why did you run last night?” He asked, taking a step towards you. You remained silent. “Do I scare you?” He started, this time you interrupting him, “You could never, my lord.” You hastily denied, “You wouldn’t want to be seen with me outside of this palace. Let us enjoy what we have here as it cannot exist anywhere else.” You murmured sorrowfully before walking over to get a drink, leaving the prince by himself.

“That bitch was there again!” You heard Angelica squeal before attempting to hit a high note on a song her and Marjorie were learning with their singing instructor. “I know!” Her sister replied before also attempting the same note. You were amazed your ears were still intact with how loud their screeches were, yet you survived the constant war against your senses. “Y/N!” You heard your stepmother call, breaking you from your thoughts. “Coming ma’am!” You called back, placing the broom against the wall before reluctantly walking to her study. You knocked before hearing the confirmation of you being let in. “What do you need from me, ma’am?” You asked, bowing your head as you shut the door behind you. “The stable boy has fallen ill, clean the stables.” She ordered before dismissing you with a wave of her hand.

“My lady.” You smiled as the prince’s voice came to your ears. “My prince.” You replied with a sad smile, knowing that this was the last time the two of you should meet. “May I finally learn your name?” He asked, taking your hands in his own. “I told you my lord-” You began before he interjected, “May I not know the name of the ellen who has taken my heart?” He pleaded, his eyes practically staring into your soul as he spoke. “I may give you a hint my lord.” You gave in, your own heart beating to the same rhythm. “Anything.” You opened your mouth to speak before noticing the clock as your face grew pale. “I must go!” You hastily muttered. “Please, your name is all I desire!” Thranduil begged, reaching for your wrist. “I am sorry, my prince.” You whispered, tears coming to your eyes as you slipped your glove off of your hand, leaving it in his and fleeing down the stairs. As you did so, your foot caught on one of the stones and you slipped down some of the stairwell- your foot sliding out of your shoe as you did. Glancing back up at the doorway, you saw the prince racing down the steps after you, watching with wide eyes as you quickly slipped off your other shoe and fled, leaving one behind.

“That whore took up the whole ball all three days!” Marjorie sobbed into your stepmother’s shoulder as you swept the fireplace, careful to not spill any ashes onto the carpet. “I know.” Your stepmother comforted before a knock on the door caused her to pause. “Shall I get it stepmother?” You asked as she glared at you. “Of course.” She responded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Right away, ma’am.” You muttered, standing to move to the door, accidentally knocking over some of the cinders. “You stupid girl!” Your stepmother screamed, her hand coming to slap your cheek, “Clean those up, I shall get the door. Stupid child.” She spat, not caring as tears began to slip down your cheeks at the sting of her hit.

“We really must see every ellen.” An unfamiliar voice spoke as the sounds of footsteps came towards you. “My daughters are all you need to see, our housemaid does not leave the house much.” Your stepmother immediately shut down the idea as you continued to sweep. “No matter Elaron.” A familiar voice reached your ears. You forced your head to stay down, however your sweeping has ceased, the urge to look at his face one more time growing nearly overpowering.

A loud, piggish, squeal reached your ears as Angelica tried to shove her foot into your shoe. You watched out of the corner of your eye, a small smile on your lips as she was rejected- her sister taking her place as she also tried to shove her hoof into the clearly too small heel.

“I thought I said to clean that up!” Your stepmother hissed, stalking over to you as you hastily began to clean again. “Sorry, ma’am.” You softly apologised, flinching away from her as she raised her hand up. “There is no need to violence, miss.” Thranduil’s voice once again reached your ears, his voice sounding more hopeful than before as he carefully walked over to you. “What is your name?” He asked, voice full of desire. “I am afraid I cannot tell you, my lord.” You responded softly, a grin falling over your lips as he sharply breathed in. “Elaron!” He quickly called as the sound of more footsteps came. “May I?” He asked, kneeling down before you, shoe outstretched. “Of course.” You answered, finally looking at him. Carefully, he slid the shoe onto your foot, his face erupting in happiness as it slid further onto your foot without resistance. “You have the other?” He asked, “I would hate for my queen to walk with only one shoe.” He continued as you reached into the pocket of your apron- pulling out the second shoe which he carefully slid onto your other foot.

I hope you enjoyed, I know it's not as long as some of my other works but I like the length for this fic (I feel as though if it has been too long it would have been less enjoyable) Let me know your thoughts, and if there are any typos please let me know I do not proof-read...

#thranduil oropherion #thranduil #thranduil x reader #x reader #fan fiction #the hobbit #the hobbit x reader #lotr #lotr x reader #lord of the rings #lord of the rings x reader #thranduil oropherion x reader #cinderella au #xreader #disney au #lotr fanfic #the hobbie fanfic #hobbit

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guqin-and-flute · 5 months

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Holding Me Holding You–Ch. 7 [3zun Raise Jingyi Prequel]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6]

[Ao3 Link]

[Holy shit, how has it been 2 years since I last updated this fic?? ANYWAY HELLO HI I MISSED YOU. We're keeping the baby, guys. CW: Disjointed, slightly nonlinear narration; negative self talk; more talk of battle aftermath, bodies (gross but no more graphic than prev chapters), and death; focus on lots of trauma to do with death and grief; general Twin Jade parental trauma; vaguest mention of child death, in that he repeatedly tells himself there isn't one and remembers part of his nightmare about Wangji/A-Fu dying]

Who are you?

‘Wen Baiqi.’

What must be done for you to rest?

‘Say goodbye. Tell her goodbye.’

It’s raining in Qishan. It’s nothing like the rain in Gusu.

Who are you?

‘Hei Xuecen.’

What must be done for you to rest?

‘All my fault all my fault ALL MY FAULT--’

This rain isn’t crisp, but disconcertingly warm. It doesn't bring life. It soaks into the ground, milling the dirt back into the blood and gore bloated mud of that night, sucking at their feet. Reeking of putrefaction. It coats Xichen’s tongue and throat.

Who are you?

Each time, there is a chance he will receive a reply from the Yiling Patriarch himself.

‘Ye Qian.’

He never does.

What must be done for you to rest?

‘Never apologized--’

What would he do if he did?

Who are you?

What would Zewu-jun do? Clan Leader Lan?

What must be done?

Would he soothe his spirit?

Who are you?

Ghostly fingers pluck at his sleeves constantly.

Who are you?

‘Nie Zixing. Never knew him, tell them--’

When he had first arrived, the bodies of Wei Wuxian’s Wen contingent still hung from the gate to the battleground. Or what remained of them. After scavengers, time, and the elements had had their turn. Swaying in the warm, wet breeze along with carrion birds’ cries and the distant tunes of the guqin language. Grisly pendulums. Dripping.

There is no small boy among them. He had hoped against hope, but now he knew for sure. This secret is tucked deep, deep down beneath his heart.

Who are you?

The corpses on the ground are Wen. They are Lan. They are strangers. They are Da-ge, lying bloody on the floor of the Scorching Sun Palace. They are A-Zhan.

"We should burn them like they did to our people. Scatter their ashes, so they will never rest." A venomous whisper from his own disciples, a young man, face twisted in rage.

(“They’re killing everyone,” he had choked his sobs into A-Yao’s arms. “My people--my family are all dead and I did nothing.”)

A-Yuan had been so, so pale against the sheets. So tiny compared to the infirmary bed.

“These people?" Xichen’s voice is quiet. "These cultivators that studied healing? Miles and miles from Qishan?”

Silence.

“Did they destroy our home? Did we fight them in Sunshot?”

Too little, far too late.

There is no small boy among them. There isn’t.

A-Zhan, gray and slack, eyes glassy, head lolling--

He pushes the dream-memory away.

Who are you?

‘Jin Mingni.

My father--’

"We will bury them and hold the proper rites, as we have the rest of the fallen. And I will ask you to swear yourselves to secrecy regarding their exact resting place. In case anyone later shares your thinking.”

‘Zhou Sanniang. Never wanted to come. Save me.’

“Help me bring them down.”

There may be no small boy among the Wen, but he sees corpses all day, every day. They're in his dreams. He cannot stop seeing them. And he cannot stop seeing a boy (Afuyuanzhan) among them, from the corner of his eye.

He can never quite catch the face before he realizes there is no one actually there.

A skeletal hand is unearthed when they lift a body--a remnant of the Sunshot Campaign, years before. There were plenty of partial skeletons from that time that the Yiling Patriarch had raised to fight them. It seems some didn't have the strength to fight their way out from the mud. The death here has layers. A slow growing mountain of violence and dead and blood instead of stone. The building of the Burial Mounds’ successor.

Do the Burial Mounds have as many crows? Is it a feasting ground, as this has become?

They carry the quiescent dead, cover them with cloth, lay them in rows. Those whose spirits have passed on easily. They lie with their Sect members--when they are able to discern who they are. Still, fields of undyed cloth mounds, waiting to be retrieved by their loved ones, if they still live. Somewhere out there, there must be people still alive, families whole and happy, living in the sunshine. Somewhere.

Who are you?

His fingertips bleed from days playing Linhai and Liebing.

What must be done for you to rest?

Even those here that are living shamble like the dead--the rogue cultivators, his Lan disciples, the handful cultivators from other Sects, all here for the same goal, all hollow eyed and pale. He is supposed to be here for morale.

They work deep into the night, far from familiar, ingrained rules about schedule and tidiness, here. Adrift.

What must be done--?

The fierce corpse is not a powerful one, merely tenacious. Shuoyue snakes out. It crumples immediately with a muted splurch into the muck, halved.

‘Tell her I loved--’

The top half of the corpse writhes, still scrabbling for him. The sound it makes from its ruined face is horrid. It's a wonder it can sense his yang qi at all; no eyes, no nose. Its robes are a splotchy black and rusty brown-red, but the Lan ribbon around its forehead manages to show a ragged white through it, here and there.

The talisman sears, blinding. It is enough. The body slumps for the last time. He can settle into that mud, summon Linhai from his qiankun bag for the Songs of Rest.

Who are you?

‘Lan Ruicai.

Show them all--’

The blood of the walking dead is no longer life-hot, but the same, unnerving lukewarm as the rain. He cannot feel it. He can’t tell where it’s stained him until he reaches his tent each night.

He is efficient. He is in control.

The rain here doesn't cleanse anything. It hasn’t stopped for days.

Everything is the same color; the sludge, the thick haze of lingering resentful energy, palms, boots, the hems and knees of robes. That old clotted wound color. Dirt repelling talismans can only do so much before they are overpowered by the sheer weight of yin energy permeating everything. Stained.

There's no use cleaning. He tries anyway.

‘I was so scared, so scared--’

Who are you?

Sometimes, the spirits do not answer. Sometimes, they speak first, before he can even start the questions, raking the strings repeatedly in their anguish. Sometimes, they try to tear the guqin from him, try to rend his clothes, squeeze his throat. Sometimes, banishment is the only way.

The sudden shrieks and roars at night startle everyone from sleep. If Wangji was well, he would be here. He is known for going where the chaos is.

Is that what had led him to this? To Wei Wuxian? An affinity for soothing chaos? For chaos itself?

Who are you?

‘Don’t know. Want to go home--’

"I can't anymore, zongzhu, I-I--"

"It's alright. Return to the Cloud Recesses. You’ve done enough."

Sometimes, he wakes in the night to find that he is in the middle of dressing, having no memory of doing so, a clump of cleansing talismans clutched in his numb hands. He has cut down so many fierce corpses, he’s lost count.

Who are you?

Food is tasteless glue in his mouth.

Who are you?

Every night, he is sure to take the medicine that gives him no dreams.

‘Oh gods oh gods ohgodsohgods--’

Every night, he prays that he has not left Uncle overwhelmed, that his people are being cleansed and healed back home, that Wangji has stopped bleeding, that A-Yuan is healing, that A-Fu is….

Who are you?

(What right do you have?)

What must be done?

He has been here for days that run into one, long, dark, meaningless drain.

‘Son. Baby. Where is he?'

Who are you?

‘Pan Liu.’

His raw fingers pause on Linhai’s strings, still humming. Rain patters quietly on the hat that shields his face from it.

He knows that name. How does he know that name.

There have been plenty of others he had recognized among the dead, from different Sects and his own, from childhood, from Cultivation Conferences, from class. But each time, he must pull himself back to that life to remember, away from the rain and the red and the dead.

He can’t place it.

What must be done for you to rest?

‘My baby. Safe.’

The spirit is a thin wisp of light, playing about the strings, shining on the dark wood. Focused. Waiting.

Who is your son?

‘Lan Fu.’

His mouth is dry.

("A-niang?" A hopeful little voice. The memory of a crumpled form in the blood-churned muck, a shoe print between shoulder blades….)

It is cruel, endlessly cruel that he is the one alive. That he is the one sitting in the mud across from this poor young mother’s spirit. That he is the one with blood enough in his hands to leave rain blotted stains on the strings as he tells A-Fu’s mother; He is safe.

(Shrieks of raw sound as they carry him away. Echoing off the trees. Reaching back for him.)

A hesitation. Then, ‘Who are you?’

Lan Xichen. Zewu-jun.

‘Zongzhu.’

He will be safe. I swear.

‘...Safe.’

Rest, now.

‘...Rest….’ The notes are quiet, exhausted. Longing.

Then, silence. That pale light is gone.

She is gone.

He sits, still and silent as the soft caverns in the clotted mud continue to patter around him. His face is wet--mist and rain and blood. He almost wishes it was tears.

He aches in a new, terrible way, now.

Oh, little one. You were so loved.

He has been witness to both sides, now, of this small, destroyed family reaching for each other through the dark. And how useless he has been in the task of bringing either of them lasting peace.

To bring anyone lasting peace.

(Useless.)

And do you serve anything so fiercely that it would be your last thought, taken across into death?

It is irrelevant. The soul quieting ceremony had been performed on them as children, with all the other inner disciples. He will not linger as a ghost, even if he were to be struck down by a fierce corpse this instant.

He finds himself trying to remember if his mother had ever mentioned having had such a ritual performed on her….

Selfish. You would have your own mother suffer and linger as an unquiet ghost for some sort of twisted confirmation that you were loved?

Xichen remembers childhood before the death of his parents. The infinity of all of it. It probably never crossed A-Fu’s mind to beg her to stay with him. (“No, no go! P’ease!”) She had always returned before.

The memory of A-Fu clinging to his hands so tightly he had drawn blood with his nails is inescapable.

During that final farewell at the Jingshi, A-Huan too had had no idea it would be the last time he would ever see his mother’s face. He didn’t know what creeping death looked like, then. She was simply her, smiling, twinkling at them. He had kissed her cheek and taken Wangji’s hand and waved to her through her ornately carved window screen as Uncle led them away. Wangji had always been the one to pull back, to fuss over leaving. Uncle had always made sure that Xichen set a good example for him.

The snowy day she had left this world, cold and dry, so far from the warm wet muck he was in now, something in him hadn’t believed it. Hadn’t believed that someone could just…no longer exist, just as suddenly as a storm might blow over the mountain summit with no warning.

He saw her so sparingly, it seemed impossible that she wasn't just simply waiting in her front room for them to visit with a smile and open arms.

How? he had asked. When? Why?

Uncle had said that it was not for children to know. This pulled it even farther into the unreal, stretching his comprehension. It felt like a dream, a lie. A story. But if he could just see her…if he could just prove that this was some sort of…misunderstanding--

(Xichen had never asked again after that first refusal sat in his gut like a chilly stone. He suspected that Wangji had not either. Even now, decades later, he still did not know how his mother had actually died.

He suspected enough, however.

He knew it was sudden. He knew it was unexpected. He knew no one spoke of it. He knew it had broken his father beyond any hope of repair. Uncle had not volunteered the information, even now, when they were both grown. And Xichen will not allow useless rumination. Rule 60.)

He remembered he hadn’t been able to stop crying. A-Huan had always hated crying--he always tried to hide away and not bother anyone with it, but this had been constant.

Uncle had squeezed his shoulder and spoken softly, and reminded him after hours of stopping and starting that he must not grieve in excess, that he would make himself sick, that he was agitating Wangji, that he needed to calm himself, death was a natural passing, like the moon or a river, one must not let their emotions control them.

But still, that something in him that just knew it wasn't true waited until it was dark, until curfew set in and the snow lit the night full-moon-bright, reflecting the stars and lanterns. He had pulled on his boots and slipped from his window, cautiously darting across the paths of the Cloud Recesses in just his pajamas and his blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders, shivering from more than the cold.

This had to be a trick that he didn’t understand; a joke or a punishment for something he had done wrong. When he figured out what to apologize for, he would be able to see her again.

The fear of being caught breaking the rules was washed away when he crossed beneath the familiar bower wound with skeletal winter vines. His mother’s house stood dark. All around it, snow was churned and broken, as if many people had been there. In all his memory, no one else had ever visited the Jingshi. The door was unlocked.

It opened onto emptiness and moonlight.

Everything was gone. Her plants. The blue cushioned couch. Her desk and papers. Her dragon incense burner. Her tall candlesticks. Her big, thick, round rug they laid on and played games. The pictures he had painted for her.

He had drifted, stunned, through the shell of his mother’s home. The only proof that she had ever even been there were the scratches on the floor from where furniture had been dragged. That, and the scent of her that still lingered underneath the smell of whatever they had scrubbed the floor and walls with. They had erased her completely. Like she was never there in the first place.

Then it had settled on him like a cloak of lead, dropping him to his knees; the understanding, the true deepness of what this meant.

She was really gone. Forever.

The ‘always’ was gone. The ‘next time’ and promises. That warm, constant presence on the rim of the Cloud Recesses, the visit that marked his days as cyclically and surely as the sun had simply...vanished. In just one moment, the world was made completely lightless. Incomprehensible. It had a hole ripped in its center, cold and inescapable.

She would never brush back his hair and kiss his forehead. She would never pout when she lost a game. She would never squinch up her nose and do an accidental snort-laugh.

If he had only known that it could happen so fast…if he had only known that people could leave so quickly and completely, he would have taken something. A set of her dark, weighty chopsticks, one of her bracelets, a letter; anything. But there was nothing.

Somehow, he had found himself in front of the Hanshi, his feet numb, his face and hands frozen. Thinking back on it, he couldn’t remember what his 6 year old self had planned. He wasn’t sure that there had been a plan. Maybe he had just wanted a parent. Maybe he had been seeking out the one adult that might have cared as much as he did that his mother was gone. Uncle didn’t understand--A-Huan and A-Zhan had always known that he didn’t like her. He was always polite, because that was important, it was in the rules--but he was always stiff and short. He frowned the whole time--every time--picking them up. He hated talking about her.

But the father he had hardly met, that distant, hidden figure--he had married her. He had loved her.

He would care.

The Hanshi, too, had been dark--and he panicked. Had his father left--or died like his mother and no one had told him? He had yanked the door handle--and to his shock, it slid open. He had been expecting a lock like the one that he saw being done up behind them when he and A-Zhan left the Jingshi. (A choice, not a prison, he had realized as he got older. Not in the same way, at least. Other things kept Qingheng-jun bound.)

It was dark inside, curtains drawn, vague shapes of things illuminated by the light creeping in behind him. He stood in that doorway, frozen in body and mind, unable to trespass that much farther. It smelled unfamiliar and sharp. He had never been in his father’s home before.

It was so dark.

He had called into that darkness, choked and quiet; “Fuqin?“

Silence.

“...Diedie?”

(“They made choices. These are consequences,” is all Uncle had told him when, younger, he had asked why both of his parents were locked away from him and refused to say more.

Afterward, A-Huan had always been afraid that he might accidentally make those same choices, that he would be kept from his brother and his Uncle and nannies for it. Because no one would tell him what those choices were, he studied the rules obsessively so he could be sure to follow every single one. So he would never be locked up.)

There was a rustle, a clink. A shape had formed in the shadows, someone sitting up from being slumped on a table. A pale hand swayed into the pool of silver moonlight, pointing. The voice that followed had been rough, slurred like a mouthful of rocks. “You are not supposed to be here. Go.”

A-Huan had fled as fast as his numbed legs could go. Stumbling, breaking through the crust of snow, falling and rising and falling, back up through his window to collapse on the floor. His breath had burned in his lungs as he coughed and sobbed as quietly as he could, hot tears stinging his frozen cheeks.

Not quietly enough, though. A-Zhan had eventually crept into his room and curled up next to him on the floor without a word, arm wrapped around his middle. When A-Huan had rolled over and held him more tightly than he had ever held anything before, he realized that A-Zhan was the only part of his mother he had left in the entire world.

And now, what did A-Fu have left of his parents, of a life he knew?

A story, at the very least. A reason. A goodbye. The truth. It was all he could offer. It was all he had left for the boy. These other spirits and their wishes can only be passed along to others, if they were attainable at all. But this, this he can do; this, he can set right. To make absolutely sure that her will is found and executed, that the family who cares for her son is told the story of her last farewell, so he will know, too, in time.

So a son will never have to wonder.

This much peace, he can provide. With those who can bear this place no more and an endless caravan of cloth draped bodies, he returns to Gusu, leaving behind Qishan’s bleeding sky.

The quiet of home stuns him. There are no screams, no groans echoing down the mountain. The trees don’t muffle sounds of sword or talisman sizzle, merely birdsong and wind. There is beauty here, something he hadn't known his soul craved like water in a drought until he saw it in rich blues, blooming whites, lush greens. The coolness, the clarity of the water and the touch of leaves. Nothing here is red-brown. All that bleeds is hidden away behind pale bandages and pale walls.

It's almost too much.

(His hands feel filthy, no matter how many times he scrubs them. Discontent among such blessings is an insult to those that can no longer come home to them. He will kowtow in the shrine for this disrespect later.)

Time has meaning once more. In theory. There are places to eat, to rest.

(It hardly makes sense to him anymore, despite the schedule being as familiar as the stone beneath his feet.)

Home, in the Hanshi, surrounded by familiarity and comfort, sitting at his desk as the incense burner next to him delicately permeates the air with sandalwood and the trees outside rustle and no one screams at all, he holds Pan Liu’s will in his hands. It is a brief, frail little thing in the face of such sorrow. It must have been hastily written after her husband’s death, as she willed A-Fu and her remaining possessions to the care of her younger sister. Who upon brief investigation of his ever growing list of the dead was found to have been killed in the battle against Wei Wuxian as well. The sister, yet unmarried, had no will of her own--probably too young to have begun to even consider death as a real possibility before life and Wen and war swept their way in. Their house had been one destroyed in the Wen’s sacking of the Cloud Recesses, their personal possessions few. No one else remained of their immediate family.

Pan Liu clearly had not expected to die before she could update it.

In his heart, somewhere, he had known that something like this was the case; that A-Fu was truly alone. Xichen had carried him for days and no one had come looking? No one had wondered where he was, wanted him home safe, with them?

He had not wanted to look directly at this, at the time, knowing he would have to give A-Fu back to that loneliness, that uncertainty. Even though A-Fu is not the only child in the Cultivation World or even the Cloud Recesses with the same fate, it had been…different. He couldn’t have said why--still can’t--but it had felt like a betrayal to the boy. A loss, savage and personal. Even when he knew any other choice came nowhere close to making sense.

Still. Even he and Wangji had had their uncle and the small, rotating cadre of minders that were familiar to them. He saw his mother once a month and knew his father was there, somewhere, out of sight. There had been a thread connecting them to their parents and the life they could have had with them.

A-Fu has none of this.

And yet he still cries, still calls out, because he trusts that someone he knows will come. Of everything in these last few days, this is what is almost too much to bear, a knife stuck in his ribs that gouges with every breath. He does not feel sadness or regret; only pain. Everything else has been out of reach for a while now.

The rattle of his door opening onto seeping sunshine and fresh, bloodless air has him looking up. His Uncle steps over the threshold. “You’re back,” he says warmly by way of greeting as Xichen rises.

“Shufu.” He bows, then offers him his customary seat, more out of habit than necessity; this teatime visit was a familiar ritual in a life not too long ago.

They take their places at opposite ends of the low, square table at the center of his sitting room as Xichen opens his tea cupboard. “It’s been a while since we have been able to simply sit and have tea together,” Uncle observes, easily.

Yes; nothing has been right or normal for a long time. “Mn.”

When he continues to set out the cool porcelain cups and the dark pot with no further elaboration, Uncle watches him work, expression a thoughtful blur in his periphery. “...The library is not where I expected your first stop to be.”

He sounds only mildly curious, but Xichen knows that it is unspoken approval that he had not gone straight to Wangji.

He hesitates, then continues his methodical ritual of movement. “There was a time-sensitive matter that I wanted to attend to.”

In truth, after the bath he had taken upon his return--where he had had to call for 3 rounds of water (Do not be wasteful, Rule 23; broken) before it was no longer clouded dark with dried blood and mud and rot--Xichen had stood on the Hanshi’s front porch, staring down at the blindingly white path before him, forking off through the trees.

His heart had tugged him one way and his cowardice in the face of pain another. The thought of seeing more bodies just lying there, of seeing those dear to him--Wangji, A-Yuan, those in the infirmary--suffering while he could do nothing to prevent it was….

It was not something he was capable of, at present. Just for now. Just for these first few hours. It was selfish, but true. And so, he had gone to their records room in the library to request Pan Liu’s will. Pain had won. His heart was weak, choosing the easier duty.

Unable to stop himself, though he knows it will cloud his uncle’s relaxed and pleasant demeanor, he asks; “Is Wangji…?” He trails off.

Awake? Improving? Well? …Alive? A sharp internal rebuke at this last. Do not exaggerate. Rule 671. Uncle would not be so calm if things were dire. He is angry, not cruel. He would have been told.

(A heavy hand on his shoulder. An empty house. Churned snow.)

He would have been told.

Uncle’s face does, indeed, darken. “Hmph.” A mirthless, scornful snort. “He wakes on occasion. He refuses to speak, refuses to acknowledge anyone. He is simply lengthening his own punishment.” Uncle eyes him, adding, “You should be able to talk some sense into him. He always has listened to you best.”

‘And so how could you have let this happen? How could you have let him do this?’

(When will you stop being angry and start being afraid for him?)

Xichen lowers his gaze to the dark wood of the table and scoops the tiny, furled up leaves of the tea into the pot, the smokey green scent tickling his nose

It’s true. Of everyone--their caregivers, teachers, and relatives, Wangji has always responded to him best. He would not always necessarily disobey outright, but he might frown or hesitate before complying or pretend not to hear--especially if he were called to come away from Xichen’s side. “Your class is this way, xiao-gongzi,” the minder would call and A-Zhan would continue his resolute little stride beside him, hand squeezing tighter around Xichen’s fingers the only indication he had heard anything at all.

It was when Xichen squeezed back and knelt down to straighten his robes, smiling up into his serious face, saying, “It’s alright, ZhanZhan; I’ll ask if I can come out early to pick you up, mn? Go on, be good,” that he would allow himself to be led away with no further fuss.

He had been the only one who could finally convince him that kneeling in the rocky ground every month when they should have been visiting their mother would not force anyone to bring her out to them. The first time, he had asked him to come in, come home. But knew his brother. He was not surprised when he silently refused to even show he had heard him.

And so he hadn’t asked again, never having the stomach to fully destroy the hope that he would be let back into the Jingshi if he just waited long enough.

But Uncle had become frustrated, their teachers and nannies muttering. They were impatient with his refusal, seeing it as disobedience. They didn’t see his mourning, only his stubbornness. So A-Huan had had to protect his brother's soft heart from those that didn’t understand. “We can kneel together, back at home,” he had whispered, his fingers screwed tight around A-Zhan’s cold hand. “I’ll wait with you as long as you want. But niang would--” his throat had caught and he had wrestled his tears from his voice. “Niang would hate if you got sick, sitting out here in the cold all day.”

A-Zhan’s dark eyes had bored into him, thinking. Reason and punishment and demands from adults had not moved his stubborn frame one inch, month after month after winter-to-spring month.

Then, finally, this second and last time, A-Zhan had listened to him. Whatever it was about him was what finally got his little brother slowly, stiffly to his feet to hobble back home with him. Xichen remembered that he hadn’t felt relieved at all. He just felt like he had taken their mother from him all over again.

“I will speak with him, shufu.”

Uncle nods, then heaves a sigh. “What news is there from Qishan?”

Mechanically, as if operating his own mouth from across the room, Xichen relays numbers, movements, and times. He almost reflexively scolds himself for lying; the mundane description of dry duty and the lived horror so far from one another that they were entirely irreconcilable. Just words passed across a shining table over fragrant tea, cool wind brushing the sun-pale windows serenely with tree shadows

When he reaches the final fate of Wei Wuxian’s executed Wen contingent, Uncle approves. “It was wise to swear the disciples to secrecy. This has all gotten so inhumane. Denying them burial was an unnecessary cruelty,” he says heavily as he shakes his head, eyes closed in weariness. “I pray that we are done with this madness at last, with that Wei Ying finally taken care of. What a mess.”

There is silence. Xichen cannot fathom what his response to that could possibly be. Should possibly be--as Wangji’s brother, as the Lan Clan Leader, as his uncle's nephew. As Wei Wuxian’s…what. Friend?

…As one who cannot delight in his death, in any case.

Despite the period of kneeling before the Jingshi, Wangji had never been a troublemaker growing up. He was always the Jade who grasped the Lan way of life more easily, molded himself to the rigidity of the rules with that same stubborn tenacity.

It was Xichen who failed in that, who smudged the black and white lines to gray, bent them so they were slightly more comfortable around him; bearable--once he discovered that they could be.

He was the one who accidentally got drunk trying to see if he could filter out alcohol with his core, he was the one to kiss Mingjue first in the Jin Gardens during a Cultivation Conference. The one to urge his brother to befriend a talented teenager who was gleefully and repeatedly stomping all over their Clan’s ancestral rules.

He was the one who had told Wangji to step outside his rigid view of the world, to see people for their hearts. And then Wangji's own heart had been torn out. As his uncle said; Wangji had always listened to him best. This much would never have happened without Xichen's deliberate meddling.

All those years ago, when Wei Wuxian had first cannonballed into their lives, Xichen had just wanted Wangji to be happy. To have friends. Alone didn’t always mean lonely, but he knew he saw it in his brother. Saw Wangji with peers who were merely in awe of his talent, who respected but did not like him, love him, know him, want to spend time with him. He knew the difference, no matter what Wangji showed the rest of the world. The older he got, the less he smiled--the soft, secret ones that so many others failed to see. Xichen had missed them, dearly. And so he had pushed.

Everything that has happened sense feels as if it’s unshakably all his fault.

As the tea is poured, they speak; it passes over him like clouds. Which elder is still in which stage of recovery. The smith they called to repair swords and assess the spirits of those now without a handler.

Something touches him.

“Xichen!”

His hand burns. He is on his feet. Shuoyue’s naked blade buzzes, ready in his hand. He does not remember moving. Every fiber of cloth on his skin feels alive and writhing. Blood courses. Scalding tea is cooling, dripping from his knuckles.

The touch had been spiritual, not physical. From the corner of his awareness and the Cloud Recesses boundary wards at once; a warning, tasting of wild metal (close to blood, so close).

The Western Wards, crossed.

“Do not unsheathe your blade in a residence!” Uncle’s face crinkles from shock to a wince. “And contain yourself, this is not a battlefield.”

It takes a moment. His killing intent is up, streaming from his core like a river of blades, of blood.

Sucking in a breath, he takes the torrent in internal hand and yanks it back, firmly, like the reins of a horse, winding the silk rope of it over again and again in the palm of his concentration, until the thrum of it eases. The pressure that had filled the room with the promise of death ebbs. Shuoyue hums warm, expectant. When he does finally sheathe her, the connection between them flickers, confused.

Above his hammering heart, he hears Uncle continue, frowning, “I felt it, too. Was it someone passing outward or inward?”

His tongue, his mind is mud-stuck slow.

Focus. There is no battle here. You are home. Get a hold of yourself.

“...Outward. Less resistance. Nothing powerful.”

Oddly, at this Uncle’s frown deepens, shadows of concern replacing mere puzzlement. “Hmm. Those were in the West…far….” After a moment of thought, he rises.

As he steps out the door and calls for a servant from the Hanshi’s porch, Xichen continues to try to pull in slow, deep breaths.

Have you regressed to being such a novice that you cannot control your own qi? Your own battle intent? Are you a child? Though his uncle's voice is low and his attention is divided, the words ‘searchers’ makes it through the pounding blood in his ears. Strange.

When Uncle slides the door back open, Xichen asks, “Searchers?”

His silhouetted form hesitates, framed by the sunlight that pours in behind him and dazzles Xichen’s eyes, leaving his expression briefly in shadow. “...Yesterday evening, a child managed to wander into the woods alone.” A spike of cold worry threatens to heighten the wild surge of energy within him once more as his uncle continues, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “We have had several teams scouring the backhill and the whole of our land since then. They are young enough that their spiritual signature isn’t strong enough to register on normal tracking talismans.”

“Why was I not told?!”

It burst from him, harsher from shock than he had meant and Uncle blinks, pausing in settling himself back onto his seat, brow furrowed.

But he cannot bring himself to care about disrespect, just now. Any child alone and lost is terrifying, awful. There is something, though…something about his tone, his expression that has breath caught in Xichen’s throat as slow, glacial horror creeps up from the depth of his gut. He is avoiding specifics.

Why.

“It is being handled already; why would I distract you from your duties? You’ve only just returned and you must--”

“Who. Which child.”

He huffs in irritation, brow furrowing further. And he shuts his mouth, lips compressing.

Xichen no longer needs an answer.

Behind him, he can hear Uncle’s voice raised in startled alarm, but he is already out the door, already leaping from the porch onto Shuoyue. The wind howls in his ears as shoots upward, speeding west to where he had felt the wards ring within him. To where A-Fu has just crossed beyond their safety.

He knows. He doesn’t know how, but he knows.

Xichen can barely breathe around the air battering his face and his own terror. The shrieking sky threatens to rip him from Shuoyue’s blade. Everything at once feels heightened, his awareness expanding to notice how chilly it is despite the sun, how the damp of the wind tearing at his hair and clothes tells of rain in the past day, how dark the woods look beneath the thick canopy blurring by below his feet. He had been alone and cold and terrified, out all night. Had the boy been trying to find his mother? Xichen? The thought made his gut writhe within him.

(They peel his little fingers from Xichen’s sleeve as he clutches and screams…)

Please please please please please

How could this happen? How could he have ever allowed this to happen? There were rivers, cliffs, steep slopes of scree, ponds, caves, animals--gods, animals alone would--

He is well enough to move, to cross the wards.

If it was him. If it were not a strong enough spiritual animal to trigger the alarm.

There is no boy hanging among them THERE IS NO--

The invisible boundary rears up in his senses, mere seconds full tilt sword ride from the Hanshi but so, so far for a tiny child, wandering in the night. Beneath the canopy, before Shuoyue even manages to drop to a reasonable height and speed, he has already leapt off, landing at a sprint. Internally, the memory of the disruption in the web of the spell warps around his spiritual awareness like a broken arch as he crosses in that exact place. The ground is not suddenly more treacherous, the trees no more menacing, but beyond the relative safety of the Cloud Recesses, his hammering heart sees the whole world is a death trap for this little child.

(He cannot bear to see a tiny body, he can’t, he can’t--)

Skidding to a stop, he wheels in place, eyes scouring everything at knee level and below. “A-Fu!” his throat is pinched, his mouth bone dry. “A-Fu?!”

The ground cover is thick with bushes, shrubs, trees both young and fallen. The sun shines spots into his eyes through the swaying leaf cover above, dappling the floor with shadow and light, dancing, blurring. Silence. Even the birdsong had stopped when this strange being had suddenly crashed into their peaceful little clearing. He sucks in a breath to call again--and then he hears it.

There is a small child crying somewhere nearby.

Quiet and hoarse but unmistakable.

He isn't slow, gentle, or cautious or anything that a terrified child might need right now; something else has a hold of him, now. He blindly crashes through the brush towards the sound, half skidding down a slope until--until! There!

A blur of white amongst tree roots halfway down, a curled shape and-- “A-Fu!”--a little face, smudged and red cheeked and tear stained raises and his little eyes light with recognition and he scrabbles, fumbling and crawling out as Xichen tears back up the slope--slips, rights himself--and reaches and the boy throws himself off the lip of the hollow and into his arms, colliding hard with his chest like his heart coming home.

He staggers, momentum and sudden weakness buckling his knees. A gnarled tree catches his side and he slides them down into the huddle of its roots, curled around him. Against his chest, wrapped in his arms, A-Fu is damp and chilly. He is covered in muck and sticks and burrs but he’s alive--alive--safe and hiccuping and piteously hoarse, tangling his hands through Xichen’s hair as he clutches him back, gasping.

He can breathe. He can finally breathe again.

Some unnameable agony, like some wild beast, is thrashing, welling up, bursting from his chest. It shakes him, tearing at his throat, his heart, his lungs, burning. It’s not relief. It's not fear. It’s…

Heedless of stitches cracking and bursting, he yanks his thicker outer robes open and over the child, tucking him deep into the pocket of warmth. He can feel him shivering, his tiny heart speeding.

He had forgotten that his head is so warm, that his hands are so tiny, just how real his weight is in his arms. When he buries his nose in the baby fluff of his hair, under the dirt and musty forest chill is that wild-sweet child smell he remembers from carrying him for days beneath his chin--and long ago from when Wangji was young.

He tries to pull back to check him for injuries, for bruising, but he latches onto his neck and sobs. Mere minutes before, Xichen had never wanted to hear another scream again--but now he wishes A-Fu’s cries were as loud as the first day he held him, deafening and demanding, sure and strong in their conviction. These sobs are private, weak, exhausted little things. Not calling for attention. No longer certain of a trusted adult’s return.

“P’ease,” he croaks and that pain, that pressure bears down on Xichen and it feels like drowning; it feels like dying.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m here,” he whispers back, thick and choked (that thing inside him that aches, that wails, that loves is strangling him), and he draws up his knees, he wraps his robes tighter and rocks and rocks them both as it breaks--all of it, calving and crashing and surging and molten and ugly and broken--and he wants to beg ‘scream, little love, scream your heart out; someone is coming, someone will always come,’ but he doesn't have enough breath as it tears from his locked throat in silent sobs, because with unworthy hands and heart, he holds this blameless little life that has wandered through the halls of his heart leaving muddy fingerprints, and does the cruelest, most selfish thing he can ever recall doing.

He realizes that he cannot let him go again.

#'Xichen has emotions and wishes he didn't' is the name of THIS chapter!#3zun raise jingyi au #3zun raise jingyi au content #my fic #my stuff #untamed fanfic #mdzs fanfic #SORRY FOR THE LONG ASS WAIT AND THE INCREDIBLE AMOUNT OF ANGST HE HAD TO WORK THRU SOME STUFF #I'll try to post happier fluffier things next #Maybe some 3zun fluff in Snowed In. Or the next chapter of And A-Fu Makes 4 which has fluff #Or the next chapter of In Your Hands because I PROMISE we're working things out #ANYWAY LOVE YOU G'NIGHT

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justcallmefox89 · 10 months

Text

Gale and the Gith: Chapter Five - Push and Pull

Love is like lanceboard; Gale makes his first move.

“I had no idea you were such a voyeur, Gale,” X’aa’nath murmurs, silver eyes fixed on the wizard. “Do it again and I slit your throat.”

Gale shudders as he remembers the flinty tone of the sorcerer’s voice, the threat dripping with menace. He hadn’t meant to peek into X’aa’nath’s memories like that, of course he hadn’t! Well… maybe just a tad but –

Astarion thumps down next to him, interrupting his train of thought. “You’re brooding, darling.”

“I am not brooding. I am pondering.”

“Don’t quibble. It’s the same thing.”

Gale sighs and his gaze slides over to where X’aa’nath sits next to the campfire, rummaging through his pack. “He hates me.”

“Of course he does, my dear. You peeked up his mind’s metaphorical skirts. Consider yourself lucky; if it would have been Lae’zel she’d have killed you where you stood. The real question is: why do you care?”

“Why do you care that I care?”

“I abhor a mystery.” Ruby eyes fix Gale with a hard stare. “Enlighten me.”

Gale shifts away from Astarion, hoping to hide the rapid reddening of his cheeks. “He’s talented, powerful… I’ve always had an interest in githyanki culture. Why would I not be interested in learning all I can from one of their warrior mages?”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “You’re an abysmal liar, darling.”

The wizard crosses his arms and huffs. “And if I just simply admire him as a person?”

“He’s threatened to kill you no less than five times.”

“Still…” Gale falls silent. “There have been moments where I’m sure I’ve seen him, truly seen him, and he is so much more than he’s presented himself to be so far. I know he is.”

Astarion stays quiet for a long while, his gaze occasionally flickering between Gale and X’aa’nath. Eventually he releases a heavy sigh. “He is young, the youngest of us all, and a gith at that. He’s lived through and done things some of us could never imagine. He grew up alone in the wilderness with his guardian as his only companion. His interactions with other people consisted solely of other gith trying to kill him for sport. There’s so much blood on his hands he’s fairly drowning in it, Gale.”

The wizard turns to the elf, warm, brown eyes gazing at him kindly. “I would not hold the things others forced him to do against him, Astarion," he says softly. "Nor would I hold it against you."

“Hm.” The elf smiles briefly, then stands, dusting off his trousers. “Maybe there’s hope for you two yet then, my dear.”

Gale waves in farewell as Astarion saunters off, taking a few moments to gather his courage before standing himself and walking over to where X’aa’nath still sits by the campfire.

****************************************************

I lay out my supplies on a clean blankets before me, softly touching each one in turn to reassure myself that everything I need is present.

Thread. Bowl. Hot water. Clean cloths. Needle. Bandages. Healing salve.

“X’aa’nath, may I - ”

“Tsk’va!” The wizard’s voice startles me, and I flail momentarily, nearly upsetting my neatly laid out supplies.

“I’m sorry! So sorry!” Gale reaches out to steady me but quickly yanks his hands back, instead they flutter uselessly in the air about me as I attempt to regain my composure.

Scowling, I bat his hands away, refusing to acknowledge the swooping feeling that occurs in my stomach when my skin touches his.

Soft. Warm.

So different from my own rough, leather-like skin that I’m nearly overtaken with the urge to keep touching him, to explore that pale skin hidden by his wizard’s robes. I cross my arms tightly over my chest, praying to Vlaakith that Gale’s weak human eyes cannot see the flush that is surely blooming over my face.

“What do you want?” I snap, using anger to mask the confusing swirl of emotions I always feel whenever the wizard is nearby.

“Oh. Yes. I, well, I wished to apologize once again for what happened. I assure you that I did not purposely invade your thou- What on earth are you doing?!”

I toss my ruined tunic aside and glance over at the shocked human. “I am injured. It requires stitches.”

I wet a cloth and dab it against the gash in my side, cleaning away dirt and dried blood. Gale watches in silence, looking slightly queasy.

“I know you did not mean to enter my thoughts on purpose,” I say quietly. “All the same, do not let it happen again. And do not speak of anything you saw in my memories.”

“Of course,” he hurriedly assures me, nodding his head. “I would never. Are you sure you don’t want some assistance with that?”

Gale watches with wide eyes as hold a large, wickedly curved needle over the campfire, waiting for it to glow red before removing it from the flame and splashing it with a generous pour of mermaid whiskey. I wipe it dry with a clean cloth then deftly thread the needle with my specialized thread, my hands shaking slightly under Gale’s close observation.

“No.” I shake my head, hissing as I splash my wound with another pour of whiskey. “Neat stitches are required for minimal scarring and quick healing. No one else will do as good a job as I will.”

Gale says nothing, but I can feel his eyes roaming over my torso, taking in the myriad of other scars that I’ve stitched myself. I adjust myself slightly, ensuring that my back is towards the shoreline, guaranteeing that none of my traveling companions can see my back. Especially my kin.

Deep breath in, slow exhale. Calm. Open your eyes. First stitch…

I wince when the needle pierces my skin for the first time, but I keep my breathing calm and even, and eventually settle into the familiar rhythm of stitching my own skin. Gale watches, silently, transfixed.

“You have done this often,” he finally says. A statement, not a question.

“As often as required.”

“I’m sorry,” Gale murmurs, soulful brown eyes meeting mine.

I raise one eyebrow in question.

“That it was required so often.”

“Hmm.” A slight smile lifts my lips, an unfamiliar warm sensation buzzing in my chest at his concern. I finish the rest of my stitches in silence, it is only when I am tying off the final knots that Gale speaks again.

“What on earth is that thread made of? I never seen anything quite like it.”

I hand him the remaining thread, waiting until his running it through his hands before replying. “It’s unique. Cured and made from the intestines of enemies that I cut down in battle.”

Gale freezes, the thread dangling limply between his fingers. He blinks once, then twice, his eyes fastened on his hands before lifting to stare at me. “Remarkable. How… um… how on earth did you manage such a thing?”

I duck my head, flush with pleasure at the wizard’s interest. “Well I…”

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whinlatter · 1 year

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Hello Elizabeth, I’ve loved all your metas so far, and you do a great job of pointing things out that we as readers may have overlooked. You honestly made me want to read the HP series again because I feel like I missed out on so much. Apologies if you’ve already done a meta on this before and I missed it, but how abused do you think Harry was by the Dursleys? We know the basics: malnutrition, neglect, and emotional abuse for the majority of his life, but I remember reading the book as a child and getting this uneasy feeling that he was being physically abused. If you read between the lines and pay attention to his interactions with the Dursleys in the beginning of each book, I think it's indirectly mentioned... but maybe I've been reading it wrong all these years? What is your take on this?

TW: generalised non-specific discussions of child abuse and neglect

Thank you so much for the question and for reading all my jumbled thoughts! Totally relate - I re-read the books for the first time in the better part of two decades last summer and was like, sorry all this stuff was there the whole time and I missed it? I learn so much for other writers' close readings revisiting these texts (@ashesandhackles's re-reads spring to mind, but there are many others) and love to be a part of these ongoing conversations.

On the Dursleys and child abuse... I haven't written anything on this before, and the short answer is: yes, I think it's clear that Harry experienced some level of physical abuse at the hands of the Dursleys, at the hands of both Vernon, Petunia, Marge and, to a lesser extent, Dudley.

That said, I do have some caveats. One is that I think fandom speculation over the extent of the physical abuse can sometimes risk overstating the canonical scale of the physical abuse (any abuse, including psychological abuse, is awful enough, and some fics claiming canon-compliancy can sometimes risk gratuitous depictions of really horrific abuse in problematic ways). Two, I think sometimes fanfic depictions of Harry at the Dursleys' can risk overstating how canonically Harry perceives his treatment at the Dursleys, in ways that risks predetermining how child victims of abuse ought to feel about their experiences rather than how they describe them themselves. Three, and the one that's particularly interesting to me as a historian, is how Harry's treatment at the Dursleys shines this fascinating light onto changing audience tastes and attitudes towards depictions of harm to children in mass-market children's and YA literature between the time of HP's initial publication and the present day.

I've done a longer little lunch-break discussion of some of this below the cut. Yes this quickly became a long-winded discussion of the character of the abused orphan/child in the publishing market for late twentieth century children and YA literature and Thatcher's Britain. I am sorry about that, and know that I apparently simply cannot be stopped.

It's undeniable that what happened to Harry at the Dursley's was child abuse and neglect, for all the reasons you rightly cite. Both Harry and the loving adult caregivers he finds in the Wizarding World recognise that he is abused and neglected at the hands of the Dursleys. This includes physical abuse, with examples readers rightly cite off the bat: Harry being held tightly around the throat by Vernon and later citing 'a need to duck' around his uncle (OotP), Petunia trying to hit twelve-year-old Harry with a frying pan (CoS), Marge hitting Harry with her walking stick (PoS), and repeated instances of the Dursleys withholding food and confining Harry to small physical spaces. I hope it goes without saying that these instances are plainly incidents of physical violence against children. Each is horrific on their own terms, and likely part of a pattern of repeated physical roughness and low-level violence towards a child (I say low-level only because the strangling incident takes place after Dudley appears to have been harmed in OotP, and Harry's response to Vernon holding him by the throat suggests this violent incident is particularly extreme even for Vernon).

It's also clear, though, that while Harry bitterly hates the Dursleys for all of the harm they have done to him, he does seem to see this physical abuse as part of a broader set of failings they committed as his caregivers, and doesn't single-out physical abuse as uniquely traumatising. Confinement, being shouted at, and failing to protect him from bullying by other children are all crimes the Dursleys commit against him that he clearly views as just as harmful as the physical abuse he endures at their hands. We don't know how Harry the character would come to think about his experiences with the Dursleys in adulthood, of course, and it's reasonable to speculate that he may come to acknowledge himself as a child abuse victim and have either suppressed memories of traumatic incidents he endured as a child. With that said, I personally feel a certain level of discomfort with fan speculation about further or escalated incidents of child endangerment against Harry at Privet Drive beyond what we see either in the text or is implied within patterns of the Dursleys' behaviour. What the Dursleys do to him in canon is bad enough as it is, and exaggerated depictions of the Dursleys' treatment can get dangerously close to implicitly suggesting child abuse has to be a certain level of physically egregious to be sympathetic to the reader that the canonical text doesn't achieve, which I think is intensely problematic.

One thing I will say, though, is that I think the example of the Dursleys' treatment of Harry is a fascinating case study in HP's reception history and the cultural acceptability of depicting and using child abuse as a plot device. The topic is such a good a litmus test for the gulf between how the series was read and consumed when first published and how it is increasingly thought about and revisited by audiences. Changing attitudes about Harry's experiences with the Dursleys reflect how HP as a piece of literature which was written, edited, published and marketed to a consumer audience with certain expectations about depictions of harm to children, but which now continues to be closely re-read/revisited through the films and consumed by a market audience with increasingly different comfort levels and expectations about child welfare.

Children's and YA literature in the mid-to-late twentieth century had certain certain norms and conventions. Often, this took the form of the orphan child as either the protagonist or as a key sympathetic hero. Lots of media used the abused child both as an immediately sympathetic character for audiences to empathise with, and also used the absence of things like family, safety and love as central motivators for these characters, which then sets up the plot of the media at hand to resolve. The literature that for most UK school-children became canonical between 1980 and 1997, so in Thatcher/John Major's Britain, often centred characters who were usually orphaned or bereaved and who experience child abuse, neglect or mistreatment, often depicted in a slapstick and almost pantomime-esque way. This includes predecessors to HP like Roald Dahl's Matilda (1988), Michelle Magorian's Goodnight Mister Tom (1981) and Jacqueline Wilson's various books but especially Tracy Beaker (1991). This period also saw enduringly popular older works of literature experience a resurgence as older English-language TV or film adaptations made in the UK or Hollywood became even more commercially successful and entered 'classic' status - Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (Roald Dahl wrote the Child-Catcher into the 1968 film - he's not in the book!), Ken Loach's Kes (1968), Peter Pan (including Hook (1991), the Spielberg version), or mid-nineteenth century works of literature that became commercially successful popular musicals after 1950, like Oliver Twist or Cosette in Les Mis. Even in media where children appear in dysfunctional but fundamentally loving homes - Billy Elliot (2000) - or face physical violence at the hands of adult villains - Home Alone (1990) - we can see from both critical reception and popular audiences responses that the consuming publicly were on the whole less likely to be disturbed by either violence or the threat of violence against children than audiences, especially young audiences, three or four decades later, who typically find such depictions, even in their slapstick form, abhorrent.

In this period of writing (and particularly publishing and/or market media production beyond print fiction), there was far greater flippancy about depicting violence or the threat of violence against children as an empathy device for readers, especially young readers. I think this is for reasons that I think relate to changing ideas (and legislation) around children's agency, child welfare, endangerment, protection and the boundaries of the state and family life in late twentieth century Britain and elsewhere (a mammoth topic for another day). These were increasingly pressing political issues into the 1990s, especially the late Thatcherite/Major period into the Blair years. The violence that was depicted in literature during this transitional period almost always had a slightly farcical, or even slapstick or comic dynamic to it that I think is true also of the Dursleys around Harry in those early books - the frying pan being a classic example. We're supposed to think of the Dursleys as ridiculous, a parody of Thatcherite Home Counties surburban culture. While authorial intent is to show a character defined by the absence of familial love at the hands of clear villains, the Dursleys aren't intended to be read as vicious child abusers inflicting irreparable psychological and physical harm on a pre-teen child. They're supposed to be within this genre convention of cruel but ridiculous adults who behave badly and embarrass themselves and who the reader is supposed to immediately root against.

My point, really, is that we as readers can certainly revisit these books decades later having absorbed this greater popular literacy about child trauma responses and PTSD and see these characters differently, but we should keep in mind that this is a lot about the changing sets of ideas and expectations we have as a reading audience than it does about how the author and the text's editors intended these characters to be received. If we are reading the Dursleys' treatment of Harry and thinking - how is Harry remarkably fine after all of this? How could Dumbledore leave him with these people? - we're asking questions that HP as an artefact of literature fulfiling certain genre conventions was never set up to be able to answer. I just think is something that fandom discussions and fanfiction authors (particularly those drawn to canon-compliancy) need take into consideration when trying to reconcile their horror at the Dursleys' treatment of Harry and interest in how this abuse would shape him as a character, with an interest in remaining true to the canonical text.

(I absolutely don't mean to be overly relativist about this, and want to make clear I'm talking about depictions of children's abuse in literature. In reality, children who have experienced violence and harm at the hands of adult caregivers have always felt some level of pain and distress. My point here is less about the lived experience of abuse and neglect, and more about changing cultural norms, attitudes and tastes about fictional depictions about abuse and neglect.)

#ok lunch break's over i'll shut up now #i've talked a lot this week even i am sick of me #my ask box is full of interesting Qs i am v grateful for and desperate to answer #but don't want to spam everyone's feed so will be pausing/slowing down answering for a little while if that's ok!#the dursleys #meta #writing #fandom discourse #TW: child neglect

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sircesimblr · 9 months

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Manon: Pardon me?!

Stam: What kind of a suit is that?!

Klaus-Ove: Me? Mine?

Manon: Why, yes!

Orbin: Mine, probably.

Stam: Orbin! You're positively reeking of mothballs! Don't - ugh, don't even think of coming near Rachel in that thing. You'll ruin your... why! am I even saying this?

Orbin: Sorry. It's my father's wedding suit. He wore it on the happiest day of his life. I don't own a suit myself so I figured it "suits", haha, to borrow it, for a special day like this. Don't I look, like, "flashy"?

Manon and Stam: "Flashy"?

Manon: Oh, my eyes are hurting me, Mr. Larsen. I cannot look at you. Flashy? Those colours are thunder flashes to the soul. You may be artistic, little pup, but this isn't exactly a display of good taste and modesty!

Klaus-Ove: And why not?

Manon and Stam: Why not?!

Klaus-Ove: People, look at the big picture. Squint your eyes. I am just a simplified representation of this breathtaking nature all around us: the green and mustard grasses, the grey skies and waters, my seven ginger strands of hair, hahaha. I could've gone a little more with the greys, I admit. But imagine Rachel next to me. She's got her hair up. She wears a long dress, like, teal, or soft flaxen... white? Would she not be the only one, anybody would be looking at, next to me? Exactly. And nothing would make me happier. Mr. Stam "let me show some more of my chest so everyone will notice how hot I am" Hardenes!

Stam: I.. I... Oh, shut it.

Klaus-Ove: Hahaha, just teasing, man. You don't care about looks, I know, it's okay, you probably lost a button when you changed. I'll help you look for it later.

Manon: Oh, this is terrible. Absolutely terrible. My apologies, dear Rachel, this was a true misreckoning on my part. Please, please, erase their formal appearance from your mind when this is over... They were such fine, charming gentlemen before... Do - I urge you - do take them to a taylor's first, before you'll debut with either of them in society! Now, gentlemen, let's not prolong this and take our leave. A final bow, a kiss, to our esteemed lady!

And with that, Miss Rachel Murray, I feel my little adventure, my story about love, is coming to an end.

It wasn't an easy task, but I'm honoured to feel a little of what it must have been for you. My big little nibbles, presenting their solemnest of hearts to only you, dearest and loveliest you. By now they're all behaving like loosened hosiery, pardon me, but you've seen them. Their ways and wishes, words and dreams, and in between the lines, who they truly are.

Dearest Rachel, I wish you the very best of luck. Meeting my gentlemen, and the many more that seek your friendship and affection. Have fun, dear girl, on your journey. I bow to you too. And please, let me, or let my Watcher know some day, how it all turned out for you. It's not only love, it is life.

So, good-day, Watchers, Authors and Readers! Thank you so very much for spending your time with us. And now: back to our own worlds.

(behind the scenes:)

The gentlemen: Thanks, Miss de La Haye. A bow and a kiss for you too. Here. Here!

Manon: Stop it. Stop it.

The gentlemen: Well done! Good job. Rachel will be over the moon. We'll take it from here! But we'll forever and always be your big little nibbles too.

Manon: My heart. My goodness. Give me a minute to breathe, to recuperate, before our Watcher just magically poofs us back to where we came from. Please excuse me, lovelies. This is not the easiest thing to say good-bye to...

My big little nibbles. This desolate, lovely island. My heart, my heart, connecting with these gentle souls, like it does with each and every one of my children... it's, it's - how did I ever get to experience this? How do I go back to Praaven remembering this? Knowing these kind of men exist, knowing this kind of love exists, ready to be given to one special woman... Not me...

How do I live on, with all this inside of me?

What... And what... if she makes me... forget? What if my Watcher makes me forget this ever happened, when she sends me back?!

Heavens, no! To forget what became so dear... I don't want to, no... she can't - is that hell? Will she truly send me through hell, to get back?! All of us?!

My goodness, my goodness!! May the heavens help me!!

Stam: Guys, something is wrong with our hostess. She's having a ... meltdown? Miss! Miss de La Haye, are you alright?!

Orbin: Miss de La Haye? Are you in pain?

Klaus-Ove: Miss de La Haye!

(prev)

#a man for rachel #@kimmiessimmies #intermezzo AU mini story #that's it!#we'll see what happens over on kimmiessimmies' simblr!#and don't worry about manon #she came through hell remembering nothing but she awoke with a sudden strong determination #to raise her little nibbles a little different than she used to do #she would send a whole different generation of men into Praaven's historybooks!

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kaylinalexanderbooks · 5 months

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Character voice

Thanks to @elsie-writes here, @elizaellwrites here, @mk-writes-stuff here and here, and @willtheweaver here.

Rules: rewrite a given line in your OCs' voices!

Got long, under the cut :)

"I've got a headache."

Lexi: "Oh, man I got a headache. Well, that's what ibuprofen is for. Time to go out to a crowded bowling alley!"

Maddie: "I've felt worse. I'll be fine." (Is dizzy)

Ash: "I have felt worse before. Maybe I should use those probing devices :)" (bad idea)

Gwen: (if she has nothing to do) "I should probably go lie down. I don't feel good." (If she does) "I feel terrible, but I'll push through. For [person]."

Robbie: "Pfft I'll be fiiiine don't worry about it! I have braved through more before!" (Is later seen lying down)

Akash: "No need to worry about me. I'll take some Tylenol and be okay."

Jedi: "I will be alright. We have medication for a headache." *Injects himself with some over the counter drugs*

Carmen: "Everyone BE QUIET I have a headache!"

Everyone is so healthy here (:

Prompt: Uh oh, you forgot to do something very important!

Lexi: "Oh no! I forgot!?? How??" *flips frantically through her color-coded planner* "I couldn't have forgotten to write it down.... it's not possible...it has to be here somewhere..."

Maddie: "I did? Whoops."

Ash: "Oh. Sorry. Uh, guess I'll try and remember next time."

Gwen: "Oh my gosh I am so sorry I forgot!! I've been under so much stress lately... It won't happen again. What can I do for you to help?"

Robbie: "Oh SHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT--" *scrambles around trying to get it done in five seconds*

Akash: "WHAT?! Shit, there's no way I forgot... Guess I did, huh. What is wrong with me? This is why I write stuff down... Oh, um, sorry I forgot, man. Uhh hey is there any way I can make this up to you? Like now? Cause this may haunt me."

Jedi: "Oh, I am terribly sorry... It must be sleep deprivation... I apologize, I will go do that now."

Carmen: *borderline panic attack, likely kicks or punches something*

"Where are we? How did we get here?"

Perfect for TSP actually

Lexi: "Wait, what just happened? Everything just simultaneously changed. The temperature and humidity levels are different. I must be dreaming." (Anxious)

Maddie: "Woah that was super weird. Where do you think we are? (Excited and curious)

Ash: "What-- that isn't possible...but it clearly is... what happened?" (Is also genuinely curious)

Gwen: "Woah. How did we get here? It's... admittedly cool here. Beautiful even."

Robbie: "Holy shit, where are we?! Did I blackout? Or was I just walking and not paying attention so much I took a wrong turn?"

Akash: "Dude...what happened? Did we take a wrong turn? I don't think we did - I was paying attention."

Jedi: "Well... *looks around and pokes at the map on his tablet* it appears this map was not as straightforward as I assumed. I frankly have no idea how we got here. I suppose we are lost. Well, if we must be here, let us survey the area and collect data." (This is what I call the Star Trek Voyager method)

Carmen: "Who gave me wrong directions?! There is no way I possibly got lost. Who can tell me in precise detail how we got here?!"

"I don't have enough curse words for how much you pissed me off."

This one was harder than I thought because most of these guys don't get cold angry, but I'll try.

Lexi: "I have a pretty large vocabulary. I know all the synonyms for, like, every curse word. But I don't think that I know enough for you!"

Maddie: "Hm. I'm not sure I can think of enough curse words that can describe how I feel toward you. Like, none of them work."

Ash: "I would love to cuss you out, but nothing is accurately describing how mad I just got."

Gwen: "I'm not exactly one for swearing, and I'm really pissed that I can't use any cuss word in English, Spanish, or Italian because you're making me so angry."

Robbie: "Bro, I have the most creative swears I know, and even I can't think of one you deserve."

Akash: "Y'know you're pissing me off so much that I literally cannot think of a good enough swear for you."

Jedi: "I will have you know that I am not one for expletives, and I see that this is because I have never been able to find one that quite describes how I am feeling toward people like you."

Carmen: "I would love for you to see how angry I am, but unfortunately you're such an irritating idiot that I cannot find a single swear in my vocabulary that can accurately depict that fury!"

"You want me to eat that?"

Lexi: "Oh, you want me to eat this? Um, that's...fine, thank you.... Y'know I actually ate a lot earlier, and I don't think you want me to eat anything else...thanks though. Really thoughtful of you."

Maddie: "I don't want to eat that."

Ash: "No offense, but I'm not going to like this."

Gwen: "It was very sweet of you to think of me, but I don't actually like [ingredients]. Yeah...sorry. I feel bad, can I do anything for you?"

Robbie: *long exhale* "Look, man, I know you worked really hard on this. And...yeah it's awesome for you to uh....do this. But...I don't think you want me to eat that."

Akash: "That food looks interesting. Oh, you want me to eat that? Umm. Okay..."

Jedi: "It would...be my pleasure to eat this. However, I am afraid I don't quite like this meal."

Carmen: "Why would you want me to eat that? It's gross."

Alrighty that's finally done. Softly tagging @aziz-reads @atelierwriting @mysticstarlightduck @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @stesierra @rickie-the-storyteller @sam-glade @memoriethereaderandwriter-blog @ahordeofwasps @spitefulbull + anyone else who wants to

Your phrase is, "Who would leave milk on the counter?"

TSP intro

TSP tag list (ask to be +/-): @thepeculiarbird @illarian-rambling @televisionjester @finchwrites

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emonydeborah · 11 months

Text

@justreckin made me think of young Una and the young Clark Kent parallels drew themselves

Our favorite regal Amazonian was once a lanky, awkward teenager. We know her homeworld wasn't built for her superstrength, but her house probably was. At least when she was little. Baby girl must have had a couple reinforced teething toys. And from then on she would have been taught always to hold back. Never even enter a situation where your abilities could be revealed.

But then she went to the Academy. She's here to start over, and let go of her past, and, unfortunately, do some physical training.

Una has never worked out with humans. She may not have ever worked out period; team sports probably weren't an option. AND FROM HERE comes a list of shenanigans:

After a two mile jog with her class, Una is not sore. Maybe if they had gone faster and longer, it would have taken a little effort. "Don't you ever sweat?" someone pants incredulously. Una looks at her classmates in varying states of exhaustion and drops to the ground. "My muscles," she groans. "Ow."

She is clearly not from Earth or a colony with strong ties to Earth. She doesn't get references and misses jokes. Some people are nice about it (like the equivalent of shouting BILL BILL BILL if your new friend mentions they've never seen Bill Nye the Science Guy). Others are not. Some jerk tries to jumpscare her and she freaks and "misses" when she punches at her target. jerk laughs and walks away. Una is covering a hole in the wall, conveniently the size of her fist.

Una smacks her computer when it isn't working and rips it off the wall. After a moment to panic, she walks away and claims no knowledge of the incident.

Team building exercises are awful the first few semester. Tug of war and running a log up a hill and the like. Una can just stand and hold the rope and not budge.

Once she learns "normal" human limits, though, those exercises are fun. Her team almost always wins.

One of her friends accidentally takes a bite of her doctored up dinner and spends the night rolling around in pain. "...I like things spicy." "Spicy? That was acidic! That burned off a layer of my esophagus!"

they are required to participate in a sport each semester. Track is best, once Una learns how to look like she's in pain. She's consistently second or third, despite the coach's firm belief that she could do better.

Wrestling and martial arts are the worst. They learn martial arts all through the Academy, and Una has to apologize for several bruises and a few broken bones. One guy is dumb enough to make her angry before fighting her. He's in the infirmary for a week. Una manages to pass it off as a slippery floor.

Baseball isn't quite dead, and it's another learning curve to find out that humans cannot, in fact, hit the ball out of the stadium nine times out of ten. Una breaks a few bats and has a terrible time hiding them.

she bends a few utensils, and those are fun to hide, too.

Una opens a hatch in a training simulation, and a full inspection is done on the hatch to find out how it got so loose.

Una flicks a pebble and breaks a window.

she's struggling with a fitted sheet and it straight up. disintegrates.

Una gets frustrated with a glitchy door panel and Pelia gets a completely hypothetical question about how to fix door panels.

(also, if Una really was this awkward, Pelia definitely knew her secret. She does not care. She thinks it's funny.)

if we want to get angsty, there's an accident. No one should have survived the explosion, least of all Cadet Chin Riley, who threw herself over the exploding comm panel and suffered horrific burns. The other cadets remember someone carrying them out. they couldn't see who. There's no way it was Una, who was found several yards away, where the explosion threw her.

Una is still Una, and it doesn't take her long to adapt and master herself. But for the first few semesters, I can picture awkward Una breaking things.

#snw #una chin riley #strange new worlds #baby una #loml

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dan-whoell · 3 months

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what are some phancoded songs?

@fryday has covered this a ton recently, but some I doubt anyone else will say:

How Far This Can Go by Bowling for Soup. The chorus??

Let’s take it fast to slow Hold our breath and jump into whatever this is Grab a coat and let it all rain down If we never stop believing, it’s gonna be alright But if we don’t try, we may never know How far this can go

It's very early days, but also every adventure they've had??? Like even as recent as resurrecting the gaming channel, if they hadn't taken the chance on doing that we might not be in the middle of whatever the phagenda is now. I also think about Dan being 18 and still not having coming to terms with his own sexuality, but still jumping into whatever was going to happen with Phil.

By the time the curtain's falling There'll be standing under and screaming out our names Can’t you hear the future calling Will go all the way and never be the same, yeah

I mean. Self explanatory. Makes me cry to think about everything they've built. And I love the love the audience has for them. I can't think about it too long or I end up a pile of goo.

Come Monday by Jimmy Buffett. I grew up listening to this man, I've done a list of some favorites. But this one specifically gives me dnp vibes.

Come Monday, it'll be all right Come Monday, I'll be holding you tight I spent four lonely days in a brown L.A. haze And I just want you back by my side

Again, I think about them in the early days, hanging on every visit and always trying to get back to their bubble together. But also Dan on tour. I wish I could remember who it was that made a post about why now as far as a potential rebrand/launching so hard into joint content again, and the tldr was after wad, Dan coming back and and being like 'Okay. I've done it solo, and I've realized I don't want to do this without you.' And that's the same vibes I get with this song. Being away from each other sucks, and I just want you back by my side.

I can't help it, honey You're that much a part of me now Remember that night in Montana when We said there'd be no room for doubt?

You know. Their lives are so intertwined. Phil literally said our life. They own a house together. They have their own fucking language. They know each other so well. I've said it before but although I don't believe in soulmates, they are the exception to the rule. As for the second half... I mean. Early days. Jump in. See how far this can go.

I hope you're enjoyin' the scenery I know that it's pretty up there We can go hiking on Tuesday With you I'd walk anywhere

It's the idea that everything they've done for 15 years, and everything they will do, they'll do it together. In the sense of a joint endeavour, or just supporting one another in solo projects. Them doing shit they'd never normally do on their own, but they have their soulmate by their side so how bad could it be?

(This one is depressing so apologies in advance)

Haunted by Spanish Love Songs. Sort of a Phil perspective on Dan's struggle with depression.

You're not haunted You just miss everything You're not a cautionary tale So don't you vanish on me

And you're not haunted It's just the devil in your skin It'll be this bleak forever But it is a way to live You're not alone You just miss everything When you're feeling like a ghost Would you come haunt me? Please come haunt me

I'm not gonna say a lot here, but I know what it's like to love someone so fiercely and be heartbroken that they cannot see themselves for who they are. I've also been the person who can't see it. I think a lot about Phil always being there for Dan, and I'd love to hear him talk about the experience of love in those situations. (And if he never does I totally get it, it's private and it's not really our business. Just from a relatability standpoint.)

This is in the same vein but Washington Square Park by The Wonder Years, specifically this:

She said, “I let this slide when we were younger You know you don’t have to write like this The whole world’s full of losers If you get a chance to win, (you should) take it!”

Like. Phil always trying to get Dan in colors. Dan face down on the floor and Phil being there to pick him up and distract him. I love a love song as much as the next guy but this is my bread and butter.

To end on a happier-ish note, Love Will Keep Us Alive by The Eagles.

I was standing, all alone against the world outside You were searching for a place to hide Lost and lonely, now you've given me the will to survive When we're hungry, love will keep us alive

Early days??? Phil being the first person that made Dan feel safe??

Don't you worry Sometimes you've just got to let it ride The world is changing Right before your eyes

Coming out??? Meeting so many queer fans on tour and that being a push to come out themselves?? HELLO??

Now I've found you There's no more emptiness inside When we're hungry, love will keep us alive

I think about the state of things now, how fucking happy they've been since coming back. How different it feels from when they started. There's always been laughs, always been fun, but there is so much joy now. I'm sure I've said it but personally my heart feels so fucking full when I see how far they've come. When I see what they've built for themselves.

Anyway I could go on and on about songs that make me think about dnp, especially stuff that's not top 40's pop or is 30+ years old, but I think I've yapped enough on this particular post.

#i tried looking for the 'why now' post so i could link it but tumblr search function has defeated me :(#also may i hope it's okay i tagged you. i just couldn't not given the subject #also also this is nothing against top 40's pop! i just tend to listen to the same shit ive been listening to for 15 years #so i miss a lot of newer stuff #thank you anon for giving me the opportunity to yap about music i very much enjoyed this #anon #phan #music #ks chats #dan and phil #god ive got my tags all mixed up idk what im doing #if there are typos im sorry ive done my best

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lya-dustin · 7 months

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Petals Consumed

For the spring @hotd-bigbang with the image prompt below: Cherry Tree/Cherry Blossoms

Some angsty Rhaecole/Rhaenyra x Criston Cole that takes place in my Aemma Velaryon fics (except shock and delight) particularly Someone Will Remember Us. Setting wise its a year into Rhaenyra and Laenor’s marriage since Aemma was born exactly 9 months into their marriage.

Title inspired by a sonnet of Pablo Neruda from his book of 100 love sonnets

Please don't ask for a word count i measure my fics with my heart not numbers.

There is a cherry tree in the gardens, it wasn’t meant to be there, fruit trees were meant for the kitchen gardens and the hothouses, but someone many decades or a century ago had eaten the fruit and left the seeds to their fate.

It had grown, just as the castle and their house had done. Gone from the Aegonfort to the Red Keep, from three siblings to a family with all its troubles.

Rhaenyra knows who comes here even if the sound of his boots and armor would make him blend in with the rest of the Kingsguard.

“Your highness.” Criston speaks quietly, shame heavy in his words and yet there was something there that tied them back to their shared past.

“Ser Criston.” Rhaenyra doesn’t look at him, the events of last night had her wondering how it all came to that.

She had feared he’d hurt her sweet little Aemma for what she did to him. To think she was so quick to misjudge the man she once trusted enough to give herself to.

“I apologize for my behavior last night, I assure you it was never my intention to scare you or have you believe I would hurt your child.” He apologizes, not the false and forced things he does when he is caught by Ser Harold, but the genuine things that came easy to them before.

“I should be the one apologizing, I cruelly misjudged you when I know you are not the sort of man to hurt a child.” She misses him, as shameful as it was. She had cared for him, perhaps not loved him like she loved Daemon, but Criston still had a place in her heart that couldn’t be so easily removed no matter how sweet Harwin Strong is to her. “For that and all the pain I have caused you, I am sorry.”

His silence is enough to have the Princess of Dragonstone break her resolve to shit the door completely and turns around.

There is no forgiveness, at least not one spoken, but her white knight’s face says it all.

He is in disbelief of her words, forgetting the spoiled princess was more a shield she hid under and not the real woman he knew.

She still loves him, loves him in the mix of something between both lover ---as a terrible idea it had been then and remained now--- and her friend.

He looks as handsome as he did that first time she brought him here, a spring just like this one where there was only laughter and joy and sense of understanding built on knowing they will never see you as one of them.

She had many companions and only a handful she’d consider a friend and now those two Rhaenyra had called her friends had become her enemies. Rhaenyra had underestimated the venomous hold Ser Otto had on his daughter whom he had sold like a whore to her father and she had overestimated the passion and love Criston once held for her.

In Alicent’s case she had hoped her reason would prevail, in Criston she had hoped reason would fail. Rhaenyra had managed to hurt them so much they now wanted to usurp her with Aegon.

There is no going back now, it was stupid of her to think he would forgive her even if the became strangers from now on.

“I will go, I will not force you to forgive me, Ser Criston, I know your forgiveness is undeserved.” It hurts, as all injuries do, but she cannot make peace and move on with her life without apologizing to him.

She supposed Laenor’s aunt, Septa Teora, knew what she was talking about when they spoke about it yesterday morning during their walk together.

One day she may apologize to Alicent, but Rhaenyra doesn’t know when will Alicent allow her to speak to her alone.

The princess takes her leave and just as she is about to shut the door forever, Criston stops her, his hold on her wrist firm and gentle and before they knew it, his lips were crashing onto hers with all the pain and love and hate and sweetness only kisses in mummer’s tales have.

There is no forgiveness, especially when she takes Harwin as her lover to hide the fact Jacaerys was conceived that morning under the cherry tree.

#hotd bigbang #rhaecole #rhaenyra targayen #criston cole #rhaenyra x criston cole #someone will remember us fic #hotd fic #hotd au #hotd big bang spring 24 #hotd spring prompts 24

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cruxymox · 1 year

Note

Prompt: throwing rocks at the moon

Three angels were sitting on a lonely hill outside the city. It was a Tuesday night, the same night I started writing again - though that part is fairly insignificant as I have stopped and started and stopped and started many times before and since then. I do not know what month it was, nor year exactly, but maybe that does not matter. I have gone off the rails here with this tangential information, I am rambling. Let me start over.

Three angels. A lonely hill. This city, that mostly slept. It seems now that it was extra quiet, that night.

// read the rest below. it isn't terribly long, and has music if you'd like to hear one of the angels speak.

I do not remember their names, those angels. I apologize for that. I am sure they all ended with '-iel' or '-uel' or '-ael', as that was the standard for angel naming at that time. But I would only be guessing.

The first of the three was larger than the others, their robes fitting more tightly about them, so I will call them AUDRIEL.

The second angel spoke infrequently, and when they did it was only in whispers, and because of this, I will call them SUSUEL.

The third angel will be called TREIEL. It may turn out that TREIEL was the most important of the three angels, regardless of their name now. It may have been otherwise, I cannot be certain.

TREIEL spoke first, though they were the third, and when they did it sounded like a song. Flammenmeer, L’Ame Immortelle. Something like that. ~There are stones here on this hill that should not be. The small smooth ones, just there. I fear something important has changed, or will do so soon. It is a sign.~

~Shhhh,~ SUSUEL warned quietly, a finger to TREIEL's lips. ~Someone will hear.~ If TREIEL's words were of song, the few of SUSUEL's were of a quiet river in the evening, slow-flowing, ever meandering.

TREIEL wrapped their hand around SUSUEL's wrist, and gently pulled it away. Dim Atmosphere, Die Verbannten Kinder Evas, ~Perhaps, SUSUEL, perhaps. If so, it will be only one small soul, a poet of minor significance. AUDRIEL, what do you think of these strange stones?~

AUDRIEL bent down, and placed a hand over one of the stones, not quite touching it. They were silent for a moment. ~They are of the moon.~

~The moon!~ Fairy Dance, Ophelia's Dream. TREIEL feigned surprise.

~The moon.~ AUDRIEL affirmed. ~Let us leave them here, such that–~

SUSUEL pressed many fingers to several lips. ~Someone comes.~

—

I climbed the hill and sat myself down to look up at the night's myriad stars. They made me feel less alone and more so all at once, if that makes any sense at all.

The moon was partially obscured by a wispy cloud line that felt unnatural, that felt as if it came from the city's thousand chimneys. It was beautiful, but the thought upset me. "I hate this."

I saw some rocks on the ground by my feet, and moved to pick them up, to throw them at the clouds, at the moon, to throw them at everything. I just about reached them when I heard a song come from … everywhere.

— Seven Days Till Sunrise, Black Tape For A Blue Girl —

AUDRIEL shook their head. ~You should not have done that, TREIEL. What are we to do now?~

The three angels looked down at me.

TREIEL offered a solution, Le Secret, Leitmotiv. ~The poet sleeps now. We shall make it a dream.~

~And when he awakens? What then?~ SUSUEL whispered to the others, palms gentle upon my ears.

AUDRIEL touched my hand, then touched the moon stones. ~We need not do anything. The stones will play their part in his hands, they will - but for a moment - depict the helpless defiance against the epitome of romanticism, and then no more.~

SUSUEL nodded silently, and faded into the folds and threads of night.

AUDRIEL stood, and gazed towards TREIEL fondly. ~Continue the dream. It will end as they always do, in a half memory, in a haze, as the clouds were.~ AUDRIEL then walked down the hill, away to the city.

TREIEL pondered, and gave a path for the dreamer to wander down.

— Premier Pylone, Ozymandias —

As I bent over to pick up the rocks, I felt dizzy for a moment, suddenly very tired. I knew I should go back soon.

I looked up and saw the clouds were gone. I looked up at the moon and stars, in awe, as always. I threw the rocks anyway, as hard as I could, then brushed my hands off and walked away. I thought that at the very least I might try to write something about this, once I rest.

Once I rest.

—

TREIEL drifted to where the stones landed, near the bottom of the hill. Knowing they were the last of the angels here, and no one was to see - for now - they picked up one of the stones. In TREIEL’s hands, it turned into a brilliant white bird which flew into the night, to the moon, like a different sort of dream.

—

The Beginning

#prompted #throwing rocks at the moon #i don't know how this happened #prose poetry #definegodliness

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uchihashisuii · 1 year

Text

to listen, to suffer. (to entrust unto tomorrow)

Summary: "Have you slept?" Joshua asks, voice hushed as to not break the facade of peace that permeates the air. Because of course he begins with that; Phoenix is ever the healer, the caregiver, the protector. Concerned only for the well-being of those around him and not a whit for his own ills or pains. | Spoilers abound!

Pairing: Dion Lesage/Joshua Rosfield

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1994

Content warning for introspection, romance, character study, brief mention of suicidal thoughts, and a first kiss long overdue

Author’s Note: rises from the ashes HEH with some brand new nonsense. you ever see two characters you Know are gonna be your faves and you're like. oh i'm gonna make them kiss. and then you discover there's actual substance for aforementioned faves and why they should kiss??? yeah as close to rapture as i'm ever gonna get i wanna thank not only god but jesus for all the joshua and dion content

also the summary lied to you its actually the morning but listen. listen. sunrise is more romantic than sunset fight me on that. plus using eve just sounded better

title is from answers from ffxiv cause i have a disease

Ao3 link

-----

With eyes turned eastward, Dion watches the darkened haze that drapes the world, a startling reflection of that which envelops his heart. Hours, days, weeks; time passes, but even years hence the results of his patricide and his ensuing loss of control will continue to dog his heels, to haunt his every thought.

The clawing shadows of agony swirl around him, enshrouding him; a burden he refuses to allow a moment's respite. For to refuse it, to ignore it - would be as forgetting what he had done. The blood of his father, his people, his home. Red-drenched gauntlets and the wind beneath Bahamut's wings buffeted by the anguished cries of those he swore to protect. Dion resolved himself to ridding Sanbreque of its poison, and instead took that which made her complete. Shining citadels and grand streets could be rebuilt - but one cannot hope to restore the laughter and strength of a people, the love of a father; on Dion's heart will the guilt ever weigh down.

He refuses to dwell on that which he has lost. No, his mind turns only to what he has taken. A home, a people, an emperor. Grieving stars shine through the haze, pinpricks of light weeping for what has been done. There is nothing he could do, no apology or deed grand enough to encapsulate the void of his sorrow, of his remorse.

Dion is not naive nor self-absorbed enough to think throwing himself unto his lance would absolve him, would pay the impossible due of his transgressions. He darent even hope for the opportunity. The unthinkable deeds have been done, and never once would he think himself worthy of forgiveness. There are none left in the ruins of his home even left to offer it. All that remains is the steadfast hope, the will to bring a better tomorrow, reflected in the haunted eyes of Phoenix and Ifrit. And it will cost his life -he hopes, he prays it does- but still he will take to the skies as Bahamut once more, grief punctuating every beat of his wings, as he bears on his back the hope for a future he does not deserve to see.

-----

Joshua finds him still deep in contemplation in the early hours, before the first rays of dawn could break across the horizon. There is a chill dancing about the air, breath fanning forward in pale wisps as they stand in comfortable silence, content to simply gaze out upon the world gone so utterly, ruinously wrong.

He tries not to dwell on it. Where heartbreak threatens to split him in twain, he remembers there is hope. In those surrounding him, in those that look to Ifrit and those whose hands may shape a brighter future. Maybe, even, some hope for him; just a little.

"Have you slept?" Joshua asks, voice hushed as to not break the facade of peace that permeates the air. Because of course he begins with that; Phoenix is ever the healer, the caregiver, the protector. Concerned only for the well-being of those around him and not a whit for his own ills or pains.

He cares too much for one so young, Dion remembers thinking when they met as children. This small boy, this Dominant of Fire, who kneeled in the dirt and coughed from the dust dispersed. Only stopping long enough to look annoyed about it, before using his abilities as Phoenix to heal the broken wing of a bird.

Who heals the healer? he thinks now. Certainly nobody he would even allow, insisting others be placed before himself. Dion believes, wholeheartedly, that he'd have made a fine Duke, were things - different. A man he would have been proud to stand beside, uniting their lands and ushering in an era of peace.

He'd left whimsical dreams behind long ago, the only thoughts left remaining were ones of how to ensure Sanbreque's victory and the survival of his people. But something about Joshua -his earnestness, his optimism, his very presence- makes Dion want to believe. Makes him think he's worthy of it.

"A scant couple of hours," is all Dion says in reply once he pulls himself from spiraling thoughts, unable to lie to one so gentle. Gazing out over the calm waters surrounding Ifrit's hideaway in staunch refusal to meet eyes too kind to be cast in his direction. To stare too long would prove his undoing, in more ways than he is comfortable putting a name to. Still, Joshua moves in his periphery, until the press of a bony elbow brushes into his forearm. When he glances a look, just as he expected, Dion cannot look away.

He's beautiful, in the calm of morning. No expectations, no fuss or hassle. The wind tussling his mussed hair, pale eyes bright with something warm. He belongs here, Dion thinks somewhat softly to himself. With the gossamer glow of sunrise bathing him in light, throwing his delicate angles into sharp relief. Impossibly long lashes of burnished gold brushing against the tops of his cheeks, mouth curving up into a secret smile that has Dion turning his attention swiftly elsewhere.

It is a struggle, sometimes, to see Joshua. Unlearning habits take time, but Dion works at it even amidst the fire and flame. His entire life Dion has been defined by simple measures; he is a Dominant, he is crown prince, he is dragoon commander. He is Bahamut, and not simply Dion. A symbol of light, a means to protect the empire. Faceless. A beacon. Simple.

Joshua is not simple. And yet he is; he's merely a man, holding fast to his convictions and his heart. A man with a sweet smile and gentle hands, who loves as fierce as any wildfire. A kind man, who paradoxically keeps any and all at arm's length in the hope that weakness and vulnerability are kept carefully hidden beneath those carefree smiles.

It comes full circle as all at once the taste in his mouth is reminiscent of the ash that blanketed Sanbreque. Dion is no longer any of these things, and those childhood fantasies of finding someone who saw through the gilded silver veneer of an imperial Dominant to unfurl the man trapped beneath - perhaps now, at the end of all things, there is the chance to simply be. Be understood, be - Dion.

Simple, he thinks with a bitter quirk of his mouth, just as I wanted.

"It's a lovely morning," Joshua remarks at his side, leaning just so until he can brush his shoulder against Dion's. Expertly wielding word and action to pull Dion from distraction; his frown shifts into something softer, something worthy of a serene early morning at the side of someone precious.

When he turns to respond, it is to the sight of Joshua looking to him and not the view. Something clenches just beneath his ribs, and it is only in the quietude of an unassuming morning that Dion feels the world around him fall away, locking gaze with a still-smiling Phoenix.

Dion was never quite able to see himself in Joshua; too starkly different in method if not desire. But perhaps they're more similar than he first surmised, evidenced in the way the younger man studies him awash in the glow of sunrise, in the understanding clear as glass in those lovely eyes. The pressure that comes part and parcel in being fundamentally nothing more than a tool for your people, be it as weapon or shield. The trauma of a lost home, lost family. The guilt of bearing responsibility for so much loss, so much death and destruction. Dion finds himself reflected in those eyes, that have seen and wrought as much pain as he has. But even still, so too is there love, and acceptance, and maybe even peace.

"Lovely indeed," Dion whispers, eyes still locked on Joshua's and soft words nearly lost to the wind.

There are no further words, but none are quite needed. A grin, beautiful with closed eyes and full of teeth and tender joy, breaks across Joshua's face like the dawn. He laughs, very nearly shyly, and brings a hand to cover his mouth. As though he were embarrassed of his mirth, as though he wished to hide from Dion's searching expression.

It is not a morning for hiding, nor is it one for things left unsaid. Dion doesn't expect to see the next rising of the sun, and shrugs off the idea of his own indulgence. The world and his life have gone to hell, yet the rise of a new day is stunning to behold. Paling very nearly to the pink that dusts Joshua's cheeks, to the way nerves and delight seem to wash from him in near-tangible waves.

He's beautiful enough to break hearts, Dion thinks. In face and in soul both, in equal measure. His heart must feel much as he does right now; warmth from the gentle light of the sun, filtering through clouds to bathe them, for a moment, in something greater.

Dion feels nearly as shocked as Joshua looks when, not a heartbeat later, his gloved hand moves to curve over Joshua's elbow. The thrum of awareness carries between them, and yet again the world has gone quiet. Breath held, a moment in limbo; anticipation gathers heady around them. Dion cannot move further, cannot make his mouth work to tell Joshua above everything else I see you, I hear you. As you see me, as you hear me.

The linger does not last, Dion jolted from his yet once more spiraling thoughts to find Joshua cupping his cheek. Hand bare, his skin softer than silk. Thumb rubbing small circles beneath Dion's eye, lips parted and something familiarly unspoken dancing on the tip of his tongue. He runs warm, Dion realizes. Some quirk of Phoenix's power, perhaps; or maybe there is some merit to the rumors that all those from Rosalith have fire in their blood. Or perhaps, he thinks, when Joshua leans forward to close what distance lingers between them; perhaps it is simply Joshua. Sunlight manifest.

The press of his mouth to Dion's feels startling natural. Much like in all other aspects Joshua is reserved, but not timid, when he kisses. Testing the waters, searching for an answer in Dion's reverent silence. And silent he remains; breath stopped short, a gentle gasp stolen with the rush of his pulse. Loud in his own ears, Dion hesitates for barely half a moment before he allows himself to simply feel.

Eyes slipping shut, Dion moves until he grips tight, certain, to Joshua's slim waist. Pulling him close with desperate, grasping fingertips until they are pressed tight enough they threaten to fold together into one. It's heady, made more intoxicant by the way he can feel more than hear the soft moan from Joshua, heat and desire making Dion's head spin. He breaks the kiss, basking and breathing, before pressing another, and another, to Joshua's pliant and waiting mouth.

He doesn't question, doesn't hesitate. Fate and the future are ever fickle, and whether he deserves even a moment's respite in a question he refuses to entertain at present. Instead Dion savors it, when he grips tight to the hair at Joshua's nape just to hear that sweet sound once more. Perhaps there is nothing that awaits him this day save further agony, perhaps only a quiet death is all he deserves. But for now he has Joshua in his arms, against his mouth. Swallowing down Dion's every small sound, holding tight and refusing to let go. He is no longer shy, no longer gentle; Joshua licks into his mouth and every slick glide of their tongues has Dion falling just that little bit further.

The sun finishes its ascent, blinding even to Dion's closed eyes. The warmth that surrounds him, that resides within him, echoes and builds with every harried pulse of his desperate heart, resonating like the beat of a firebird's wings.

#phoenixflare #dion lesage #joshua rosfield #dion x joshua #joshua x dion #ffxvi #final fantasy xvi #final fantasy 16 #jules writes

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mysteryshoptls · 1 year

Text

SR Sebek Zigvolt Lab Coat Personal Story: Part 1

"I will most definitely remove that for you!"

Part 1 (Part 2)

[Mister S's Mystery Shop]

Sebek: Hm? I see you, Silver. What are you doing at the Mystery Shop?

Silver: Ah… Sebek… Did you come… to buy some food…?

Silver: You truly are a glutton…

Sebek: Hey! You're just stumbling around again, I see. As one of Malleus-sama's retainers, you should shape up!!!

Silver: …That's why I'm buying… something to help wake… Zzz…

Lilia: Oh, you two. How rare seeing the two of you in the same place like this.

Sebek: Lilia-sama! Whyever are you here, are you doing some shopping?

Silver: Of course he is… This is the school store, what else would he be doing…?

Sebek: Sh-Shut up! It's just small talk…!

Lilia: It's splendid to see both of you so spirited.

Sebek: Ahem… Anyway, what are you buying here, Lilia-sama?

Lilia: Malleus said he was a tad hungry, so I thought I would get him some fries.

Sebek: S-So, the young master also has snack cravings at times, too!?

Lilia: Even someone such as he is still a growing boy. Of course he'd at least want a hot snack here and there.

Lilia: See, doesn't this look delicious?

Sebek: It does seem warm and tasty… But are you content with simply choosing the plain salt kind?

Lilia: What do you mean?

Silver: Recently, here at this Mystery Shop, you can flavor them with all sorts of different sauces.

Silver: They have BBQ, chili sauce, butter… and many more interesting flavors that you may find you like, Father.

Lilia: Oho, interesting. Alright, I'll get one of those sauces, then. I wonder what Malleus would like…

Sebek: I shall go fetch one, Lilia-sama! Please wait a moment!!!!!!!

Lilia: Mm, thanks, Sebek.

Silver: He's dashed off pretty quickly...

Sebek: Lilia-sama, I've brought it! I'll pour it for you now.

Silver: That's just ordinary ketchup. Will that be alright? There are other kinds of flavors.

Sebek: I am sure that my liege likes ketchup on his fries. He used it during lunch just the other day.

Silver: You… really remember every minute thing.

Sebek: Rightfully so! It is the retainer's duty to know what his lord and master's dietary preferences are.

Silver: Even so, I don't think it's a necessity to memorize what he prefers to cover his potatoes with...

Sebek: How could you say that!? This is the sort of information that is vital to the young master's daily comfort!

Sebek: I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS FOR SOME TIME NOW, BUT DO YOU NOT REALIZE YOU ARE LACKING AS HIS RETAINER!!!!???

Lilia: Come now, Sebek, lower your voice. You're bothering the other customers.

Sebek: BUT, LILIA-SAMA!!!!!!

Malleus: Lilia, class is about to start… Oh, dear me.

Sebek: M-My liege!? A thousand apologies, in my carelessness, I bumped into you… Are you injured at all!?

Malleus: No, no harm done.

Silver: Ah… Malleus-sama. There is ketchup on your uniform.

Malleus: Hm? …Ah, it must have happened when Sebek and I bumped into each other.

Malleus: Since the lab coat is white, the stain definitely stands out.

Sebek: What have I done…! My sincerest apologies!!! I shall use my magic to clean it up posthaste!!

Sebek: Hiyah!

Silver: …It looks as though the stain simply spread out further.

Lilia: Sebek, you haven't learned cleaning magic yet, have you?

Sebek: B-But I cannot leave his attire in such soiled disarray!

Sebek: My liege! I will most definitely remove that stain for you! Please entrust your lab coat to me!!

Malleus: Hm… You want me to take this off, then?

Malleus: Here.

Sebek: I deeply thank you for allowing me the opportunity to redeem myself. Now then, I beg you to allow me a moment!

Silver: Ah, hey…!

Malleus: Leave him be, Silver.

Silver: Is that alright? A stain of that nature would be nothing before either of your magic, no?

Lilia: True. But…

Malleus: Sebek was very adamant. I'll see how he deals with it.

Silver: …If that is what the two of you wish. Then, I shall go and fetch you a replacement lab coat.

Silver: You were dressed as such since it was necessary for your next class, is that correct?

Malleus: Correct. I appreciate it.

[Interior Hallway]

Sebek: Urk…! No matter how much magic I use, the lab coat isn't getting clean at all…

Sebek: DESPITE THIS, I MUST RECOVER FROM THIS BLUNDER BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY!!!!!

Azul: Whatever could be causing you to raise your voice so loudly, I wonder…?

Azul: Ah, you are Sebek Zigvolt-san from Diasomnia, if I'm not mistaken. Is something troubling you?

Sebek: You're Octavinelle's… It's nothing, go away.

Azul: Oh my, and here I was reaching out to you out of the goodness of my heart.

Azul: …What is with that lab coat? It has quite the terrible red stain.

Sebek: I-I told you, it's nothing! I have no need of your assistance!

Azul: Is that so… What a pity. Why, just the other day, I developed a very potent detergent.

Azul: I am very confident that it would remove even the most obstinate stain.

Sebek: What…!?

Azul: However, it seems you're not willing to try it. Ah, oh what a pity.

Azul: Well then, I shall be heading back to Octavinelle now.

Sebek: W-Wait!

Azul: Oh? Is there something you still needed, Sebek-san?

Sebek: Urgh… About that detergent…

Azul: Yes, what is it? I'm afraid I cannot hear you because you've lowered your voice.

Sebek: I said to tell me more about this detergent you developed!

Azul: I see, well, that's no problem whatsoever. My, my, I am so ecstatic that you've changed your mind.

Azul: Now then, please follow me.

Sebek: W-Wait a moment. Why do we have to go somewhere else…? H-Hey, listen to what I'm saying!!

Part 1 (Part 2)

Requested by @dida-books.

#twisted wonderland #twst #sebek zigvolt #azul ashengrotto #malleus draconia #silver #lilia vanroute #twst sebek #twst azul #twst malleus #twst silver #twst lilia #twst translation

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echoweaver · 9 months

Text

New Year's Resolutions 2024

Thanks to @nocturnalazure for tagging me!

Also, anyone else I might've missed. 😢 I don't know if there's a way to distinguish being tagged on a post vs on a comment in tumblr, but it would be helpful when I know I was tagged a bit ago, but I don't remember by whom.

What's your resolution for your simblr?

OK, I guess I have some categories of goals.

Modding resolution: Release the Warriorcats Mod.

This mod is really close to done, but I'm in animation muck. I both hate seeing animations look bad AND I'm not an animator. For training interactions, I need multi-sim animations where one sim observes while the other acts, and when I tried to do this, I realized that I have a lot to learn before I can make this do what I want. I need one more good run in a geeky minset, and this thing will be read to at least release as beta.

This thing is bottlenecking other smaller mod ideas. I'm proud of it, and I want to finish it. But the turn of the year has been really bad for high-effort hobby energy.

For those who have sent me asks about this mod, I am going to say something that you should absolutely not apply any other modder, including me, for anything else. Bugging me about this (in a nice way!) is probably the best way to get it finished. Hearing from folks who use my pets mods makes my heart sing. Knowing that someone cares is the best source of positive energy I have.

It's a new year, and some very high-stress stuff in my personal life has improved. I know can do this in 2024.

In my points of low mood, I have wondered if there's even any point to finishing something this high-effort for a game this old. But, like Minecraft, TS3 never seems to die. 2022-3 was actually a modding renaissance. I have built some interest in TS4 at the end of this year, but it hasn't made me even a little bit interested in abandoning TS3. So I'm going to do my best to set that demotivating nonsense aside.

Gaming resolution: Finish the Samples.

I can't believe I actually wrote that, but it could happen in 2024. Generation 8 is starting in gameplay, and in a 10-generation legacy, this is the last "complete" generation.

I will never do another 10-generation anything. There are two many different and interesting

Blogging resolution: Catch the Wonderlands up to the present.

I stopped playing halfway through Gen 3. I originally started posting this challenge on tumblr during Gen 2 when I created this simblr some horrifying number of years ago. Gen 1 was all on Wordpress and is new to the simblr. I've been reluctant to play forward on the challenge until I can bring the simblr with it.

2. What do you want from the sims franchise?

Haha. That's a complicated question. I think I may always be a TS3 player at my core. I send retroactive apologies to every TS2 players I looked askance at ten+ years ago. With that in mind, I can't reasonably expect much of anything from EA on my core hobby.

My pie-in-the-sky dream would be a 64-bit update for TS3 on Windows. That's not completely impossible, but it doesn't look likely to happen.

I'm keeping an eye on Project Rene. EA has given a good sense that they learned from the player response to TS3 & 4, and 5 could be a good synthesis. OTOH, the PRIMARY ask I have from them is 100% offline play, and I don't have a lot of hope. Though EA made the commitment to offline play for TS4, they've been clawing it back by inches over the years, and they even quietly made it impossible to install fresly-downloaded TS3 store content on 1.67. I'm fighting hard to keep my TS3 game at 1.67 because I want to be able to play on airplanes and in places I simply cannot log in. I don't give a !@#$ whether EA can validate my license. They're making enough money. They can stuff it in their butts. So, with that said, I am just assuming that TS3 1.67 is going to be the core of my fandom for the forseeable future, but my mind isn't closed. If TS5 is otherwise awesome, I can branch out.

My biggest hope for the franchise is from the fandom -- that the TS3 modding renaissance will continue. We keep renewing this old game, and as it continues to be renewed, there continue to be amazing fun new ways to play it. Thank you folks so much.

3. Any other new year's resolution?

Getting my Hobbit fanedit accepted by the Fanedit Academy at fanedit.org.

Heh. So, I have a very long drama story about my fanediting hobby. I flamed off the fanedit.org community when I attempted to submit my first edit years ago (The Hobbit, which should surprise exactly nobody who has looked at fanedits). I was floored when, in 2023, I was contacted by the head of that site to apologize for that situation and ask me to resubmit. It appears that my treatment by the reviewers prompted him to clean house and build a more welcoming community. Wow.

So, now my very first edit is under review by the "Faneditors Academy," which is the primary way to reach new viewers and gain feedback in this hobby. The site leader is involved in my review, but one of the reviewers is one of guys who treated me badly the first time, and he's complex to work with -- there's an undercurrent of him trying to justify rejecting me without a review the first time. I am determined to see this review through to the end. I am very proud of this edit. Also, the feedback is definitely leading me to take it the next level.

But I'll be honest -- working through the criticism and revisions is one reason I haven't touched the Warriorcats mod in months. I need to clear my mind and my plate to really focus on addressing feedback, and the criticism level makes that draining.

[Sharing from personal life -- another reason my modding dropped off is that this winter my trans wife came out to my socially conservative parents. We are not disowned, but it's been complicated and emotionally draining. Lighthearted play with stream-of-consciousness commentary is about as deep as I've been able to go for months.]

#echoweaver #memes #new year's resolutions #meta-sims

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aladaylessecondblog · 7 months

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Fallen Star pt. 8

Author's Note: The chapter was running a bit long and still wasn't done so I cut it in half because I had to be up early this morning.

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The lips of the mask were cold, and when Voryn pulled back, the chill remained on her skin.

"Apologies," he said, "In dreams, I never take it off."

"It's fine," Sadara replied. She looked up and realized they were now no longer indoors, but outside and under the stars. A garden, perhaps, or a courtyard. "I suppose I must have been here, once, but the garden I do not remember."

In the back of her mind, that fear of forgetting reappeared. She took Voryn's arm when he gestured, and he lead her further out. The crowd of people began to thin as they walked, and the ordered courtyard of a garden began to look less arranged and more natural.

"There's no need to worry about that now," Voryn said, "Don't let the state of the sleepers fool you that way. Those who ascend in my service prefer not to remember what came before."

"I know, I spoke to Ulen. Is it true, the tale he told me? That his daughter was murdered, and...that's how he came to you?"

"Indeed it is, because I saw the memories as they were erased. His daughter fought her captors bravely, and they were all the more cruel in their killing of her as a result. He found her at a point far past death, far beyond any hope of healing and his grief...it consumed him. He turned to skooma and then to drink and it was only then that I reached him. He asked only the erasure of the cruelty he witnessed in return for his service. He was left only with the knowledge that she was murdered by those bandits, and the sight of her body burning on its funeral pyre. No children have come to the Sixth House yet, but he has asked, if he may, to be a part of guiding them if they do. Even though he has forgotten the source of the pain, its echo remains."

"But all your followers...do all of them forget their lives?" Closer now, to the question she actually wanted to ask.

"It is often easier for them that way."

"Even before they have...committed to the cause?" Sadara took a deep breath. "Because...I've noticed myself forgetting things. I'm not accusing you of doing it intentionally, but...I wonder if it is a side-effect of the corprus that I simply didn't notice until now."

"It often plays havoc with some minds," Voryn replied, laying his other hand over the one of hers clinging to his arm. Then he sighed. "Like a thief who steals from the ill-guarded, perhaps you only noticed that things were gone when you reached for them. I cannot predict how it behaves in most minds...but now that you've had your case stilled, I'm certain there will be no further worries."

"No, you wouldn't want your Nerevar to forget this time, would you?" Sadara asked, "I suppose my life is...less important."

There was a pause. Voryn stopped moving, and for a moment she was afraid.

"Your life is what brought you back to me," he said. His voice was gentler when he spoke again. "Am I so terrifying to you?"

"You aren't what you were before, Voryn," Sadara said, trying to choose her words carefully. "And I am still unlearning things that they attempted to put into my head about you. Being able to visit me like this I didn't expect, and your being able to hear my thoughts here, it's...it's not that I fear you exactly, but all this is overwhelming. Imagine it from my side - you come from nothing, you struggle and fight. You get kidnapped in the dead of night and sent to a country where no one wants you there, and start taking orders from some agent of the Emperor because what else are you going to do? The note you gave Dagoth Gares was the first real welcome I felt."

She gulped slightly.

"But at the same time everyone I met, except for the dreamers, told me how dangerous you were. The ashlanders especially. When I asked Nibani Maesa if there were not some way to save you, she told me not to bother. That a merciful end was the best course of action."

She knew she was running at the mouth, but she couldn't stop.

"How glad I am that you decided against that course of action."

Sadara squeezed briefly at his arm. "I know if our places were exchanged I'd want the same consideration. I know someone will eventually try to do what all of Morrowind seems to want, but I want you to understand: it won't be me."

"I already know that."

"I just wanted you to hear it," she looked up at the golden mask.

There was a pause, and then he started walking again.

"Did we do this before? Or is this simply you wanting no eyes on us?"

"Both," Voryn replied. "I was warning you about some worrying rumors to do with the Dwemer...and wondering why you seemed half out of it."

"Perhaps I was drunk?" she gave a slight laugh. "You did mention I liked to drink a little too much at these events."

A step onto a more overgrown path, the sight of a few daffodils and forget-me-nots. A memory stirred, and a thought along with it.

Could Kagrenac really be thinking of doing that? Dumac would never approve...

Walking beside Voryn, just as she was now.

By Azura...those cheekbones, that jaw. He's going to make such beautiful children, I only wish...

She shut her eyes.

"I was trying to tell you something serious," Voryn said, having heard both thoughts, "And you were admiring me."

"Well...perhaps there's a reason I incarnated as a bard," Sadara gave a short laugh. "We are infamous for such things, aren't we? I think...I think I must have thought I'd be able to handle it, that there was nothing to worry about."

She took a deep breath.

"That Azura would protect me, if anything went ill. Perhaps I should have paid less attention to your cheekbones and more attention to your words. Maybe then I'd have been smart enough to know you'd never betray me. I was too full of myself..."

Fog gathered at the edge of her vision. Voryn lead her off the path and under the hanging branches of a willow tree.

"It will be different this time, Nerevar. You know better now. Things will be as they were--no, better than they were, and you will be where you apparently always wanted to be: at my side."

"Just don't ask me to lead your armies," Sadara replied. "I'm tired, Voryn. I want to rest. I will keep your house ordered, your bed warm, your halls filled with music...but I don't want to lead in battle anymore. It would be best if there were no need for battle at all, but I...I know I can't convince you of that."

"I don't want to make my people suffer, but it will be necessary, to drive out the--"

"--mongrel dogs of the empire," she finished for him. "I know...I know. But you know the suffering will be worse this way. Surely Azura will send another champion, one far more likely to be bent to her will. Perhaps actual support in battle, rather than sending them off with more than just orders to do this or that. She told me I was chosen. Not to fear, that she was watchful. But the only one who has truly watched me is you...and I want to keep it that way. I don't want to lose you to a cocksure overpowered ordinator or something like that."

"You fear too much...which I can't say surprises me," Voryn said after a long silence. A flower (red salvia, she thought) appeared in his hand and he reached forward to tuck it behind her ear. "I can understand wanting to be less than what you were...and it is fortunate that I am the one leading now. I can give you all that you ask for."

She looked up at him, smiling weakly, not wanting to think the things she feared more. Knowing she must keep her mind clear, that he would hear anything she thought in this dream.

The fog grew denser, and she reached up to rub at her eyes. "I'm glad to hear it. I had...I had thought you might be angered by my...lack of enthusiasm to fight at your side."

"I could never be angry at you over so small a thing." Voryn's tone was softer than it had yet been, and he lifted her chin to look her in the eye. "We are too well entangled for that to happen."

There was a pause. She rubbed her eyes again.

"Someone is trying to wake you," he said, "Time can pass much differently here than in the waking world. I shall have to make my next visit longer."

He brought her hands to the lips of his mask and pressed a cold kiss to her knuckles.

"Awake or in dream I think of you, Nerevar. I will always think of you. Now that what you hoped has come true, no treachery will ever part us again."

Bliss filled and surrounded Sadara as the fog grew thicker still and finally blotted Voryn from view.

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Her knuckles were cold when she woke to find Dagoth Ulen standing beside her bed. She jolted, before remembering where she was and why she was there.

"I, I'm sorry," she muttered a quick apology, "I...I've been attacked by ash zombies after falling asleep now and then and I...I..."

"A perfectly natural response," Ulen said, "And it is why I am waking you, and not Rather."

He turned his back while she dressed, and when he turned back she spoke up only a little awkwardly.

"The pre-dawn is Azura's time...do any of you ever hear her?"

"If others do, they have not said," Ulen replied, "I have not heard her since coming here."

"Did you, before?"

She ate some of her rations and then left the room with him; Rather followed along once she'd left it.

"I can't fully recall. I remember cursing Azura's name once, before I came to the Sixth House, but...that, along with the memories I do retain, is a bit foggy. And speaking of the Sixth House..."

He held something out to her. A Sixth House amulet.

"One of the ash poets wanted to give you this."

Sadara gave a brief smile, and took it. "I thought I would have to join the house to get one of these."

What harm could there be in wearing the thing now? Certainly there was a spell attached to it, but wearing it wouldn't trigger the thing. She'd handled a few of these before...and it would help her ongoing masquerade.

She slipped on the amulet and took a deep breath.

Ulen handed her off to Rather at the front door, and she stepped out into the lightening air. It was clearer weather than she'd seen in weeks, no blight storm, no rain, no fog, simply a clear dark sky that was getting slowly brighter.

Sadara walked to the edge of the outdoor courtyard and sat face eastward, staring at the shift of color, the darker reds, the golds, the brilliant orange, like the sky around the sun was aflame.

And as she sat, and thought, she realized three things.

One, that the delicious fluttering in her chest and the warm glow she felt when she looked at or thought of Voryn was no longer merely animalistic lust.

Two, that she was NOT going to given up saving Voryn just yet. He was softer than she had ever seen him before in the dream from before she'd woken, and he was clearly pained by the idea of hurting others. There was a chance. There was a chance.

Three, that there were in reality three possible courses she could take if, in the end, she could not persuade Voryn. To do what Azura said (which she already knew she couldn't), to join Voryn in full, or to spurn both of them and leave Morrowind entirely.

And then, a voice.

You have disappointed me, failed incarnate. For clearly, that is what you are.

#girl wants to save daddy d so much #dagoth ur #nerevarine #fanfiction #morrowind #tes #tesblr #elder scrolls #nerevoryn

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