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kyuuppi · 2 years

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Pairing: Wanderer x Reader (gn)

Contents: established relationship; fluff; Wanderer uses demeaning names for Reader (but still loves them); soft Wanderer; bad at feelings Wanderer; consumption of fish

Word Count: 1.4k

Scaramouche would have never imagined that he would be here.

Then again, there were many aspects of Wanderer's life that Scaramouche would have never imagined. Like this moment now, bustling around the tiny kitchen of a cozy apartment and impatiently glancing at the clock every few seconds. He stirs away at a bubbling pot of pasta to ensure it doesn’t burn on the bottom but remains warm enough to serve when you finally arrive.

Speaking of which where the fuck are you, you promised you’d be home early today— he had made sure of it before you left this morning. But’s already half past six and you’re usually home by six fifteen so you probably forgot and now his plans are ruined and—

The obnoxiously familiar jingle of keys followed by the squeak of the front door interrupts Wanderer’s thoughts. His shoulders slightly droop with relief as he turns off the stove bringing the pot over to the neatly arranged dining room table to finally plate the meal.

“Took you long enough,” Wanderer says as if it were a proper greeting. And perhaps for him, it may as well be.

As usual, his sharp words fall off your back like water, much too used to his pissy attitudes by now, several years into knowing each other and nearly a year into a romantic relationship.

“Sorry,” you huff out as you finally shrug the heavy tote bag off your shoulder.

“I ran into Tigh on the way back from the market while I was picking up some new books,” you begin to explain as you shuffle into the dining area.

“He said he was looking for spices Collei requested for her new recipe. Oh, have you ever had her pita pockets before? I know you’re picky about food but they’re actually really good and I think you– whoa … what is this? ”

Your story is cut short as you finally seem to take in the setting before you. As your eyes dart across the table your mouth falls open, appearance akin to that of a goldfish. If he weren’t so uncharacteristically nervous, Wanderer might have laughed at you for how dumb you look.

But instead, he silently places the emptied pot in the sink, uncaring of the intimidatingly large pile of dirty dishes—he’ll get to those later.

With quick strides, he returns to the dining table, taking a seat in front of one of the two plates of steaming rosé pasta, violet eyes seeming to glow in the dim candlelight as he shoots you an expectant look.

“What does it look like, dumbass? It’s a candlelit dinner,” Wanderer sneers, “now hurry the fuck up and eat before it gets cold. I put a lot of effort in this shit, y’know.”

As Wanderer stabs a picks up a bundle of spaghetti noodles with his chopsticks you seem to finally regain your wits, forcing yourself to move and take a seat as you glance between the crystal vase at the center of the table, filled with deep red dendrobrium accented by thin branches of sakura bloom, the dancing flames of the osmanthus-scented candles placed strategically around the room, and the generous helping of what appeared to be cod roe pasta with rosé sauce plated on the finest china you two owned–a housewarming gift from Zhongli. It most certainly is the epitome of a candlelit dinner if anyone had ever seen one.

Wanderer tries to look unaffected as he digs into his own dinner but he finds himself tensing as you promptly take your first bite. You hardly even chew it before your eyes close in bliss and you moan out words of praise that make his chest burn with something akin to pride.

"Your cooking is always so amazing,” you proclaim.

"This is nothing special. Any fool could make a decent pasta," Wanderer shrugs off.

He hopes his ears don’t look as red as they feel as he hurriedly shovels more pasta in his mouth just to have something else to focus on. Praise was something he had always sought–whether from his creator or a nameless mass of devout followers. It made him feel powerful, above all others, like an archon .

And yet, somehow, praise from you felt completely different. Your praises sent a flutter through his chest cavity that he was sure should not be physically possible. Rather than feeling stronger than anyone else, your praises made him feel just strong enough . Just worthy enough to exist, to atone for his sins, to stand beside you. And he thinks the most disturbing part of it all is how satisfied he is with just that. A vengeful, artificial god who once dreamed of ruling all of Teyvat now equally happy just being by your side–what a strange joke.

"But," you hesitantly start, breaking Wanderer from his self-reflections, "what's all of this for?"

His reply is simple, "today is the day of that silly holiday mortals celebrated in your world, isn't it."

You nearly choke on a noodle at the implication.

“We're celebrating Valentine's Day ?"

Wanderer shoots you an annoyed glare at your incredulous tone before abruptly pulling away from the dining table and approaching your side instead. You’re still seated and gaping at him like an idiot with a pair of chopsticks in your hand, a clump of noodles limply hanging off of them.

"Of course,” he answers smoothly, “we're a couple now, aren't we? And you're quite lucky because my generosity today does not end with dinner."

Wanderer kneels down on one knee before you, a sight no one in Teyvat or even worlds beyond could have ever imagined possible for the egotistical puppet obsessed with the notion of reaching godhood.

But Wanderer was no longer that vengeful Balladeer anymore. He is merely a wanderer, living as a mortal alongside the person who was somehow able to capture his nonexistent heart and give his life a newfound meaning filled with simple joys he never thought possible. And now, he can only hope to return just a fraction of the happinesses you have given him in the form of a little black velvet box.

You audibly gasp when he pulls the small box out of his pants pocket, holding it out in front of you and opening it to reveal a silver ring. In the center of the thin metal band sits a decently sized diamond, accented with small amethyst gems that sparkle under the flickering candle light and remind you of the eyes of the man himself.

"Before you get the wrong idea–this isn't a proposal or anything," Wanderer grumbles, avoiding eye contact as his cheeks flush.

"it's just…a placeholder. I'll give you the real one in a few years."

The last part is mumbled in such a low tone you would have missed it had you not been seated right in front of him.

Slowly–just long enough to have Wanderer’s stomach churning with his anxiety and second-guessing his every decision–your brain catches up and a slow grin splits across your face.

"Thank you, Kuni... it's beautiful," you whisper, eyes watery.

The use of his original names seems to amplify the intimacy of the moment. Wordlessly, Wanderer stands from his kneeled position, plucking the small piece of jewelry from the box and taking your hand with an unexpected gentleness.

He slides the cool metal on your finger—the fourth finger of your left hand.

For a moment, you both admire it in awe. He can’t help the first thought that pops into his head, the thought that it suits you.

Like was always meant to be there.

Like how he was always meant to be here, with you.

"I love you," you murmur.

When he turns to look at you, he finds you already staring up at him, all soft smiles and twinkling eyes, as if he had personally hung the moon in the sky. As if he was the most important person in your world. As if his worth far exceeds anything he was created for and anything he imagined for himself thereafter.

Wanderer doesn't say anything but he firmly squeezes your hand and brushes his thumb against the new ring on your delicate finger.

A placeholder.

#better late than never LOL #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin scenario #scaramoche imagine #scaramouche scenario #wanderer imagine #wanderer scenario #kyuuppi.event

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kinmokuseijam · 3 months

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blessed curse | 1221 words | hiiragi-centric

Tying a holly branch to a treasury pillar in order to protect a household—is this a blessing, or is this a curse? (It’s both.)

Happy Natsume Week 2024! For @natsumeweek's Day One: Hopes/Curses.

𓇢𓆸 on ao3 (or under the cut)! 𓇢𓆸

✽ 柊 (Osmanthus heterophyllus) /ˈhīraˌgi/ noun The Japanese name for osmanthus heterophyllus, a type of holly tree/bush; traditionally used by Japanese households as a lucky charm to ward off burglars and evil spirits at the front of Japanese homes. ✽

Hiiragi doesn't remember when it started.

All she remembers is being part of the mountain, and that she'd been inhabiting a holly plant when her consciousness first came into existence. She doesn't remember if she was the holly plant itself, or just a stray spirit inhabiting it—she only remembers that a holly plant was the first thing her spirit took root in.

When she'd gained enough spiritual energy to wander, she eventually became the mountain guard, but it wasn't long before a human captured her, binding him to the pillar of the treasury in his house.

He hadn't said it, but she knew what her job was:

Stay here and guard the household; ward off untoward entities, spirits and humans alike.

(He hadn't said it, but she knew what her fate was:

Stay here and be cursed to a fate of eternal submission to humans.)

Tying her to a treasury pillar in order to protect a household of humans—she'd wondered if this symbolic gesture was a blessing, or a curse. A while later, she'd realised the answer.

(It's both—a blessing to them, but a curse to her. And try as she might, she could not escape.)

Perhaps this is it for me; cursed to a fate of eternal submission to humans, she'd thought.

✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽

Or so she'd only thought, because one human exceeded her expectations; a human child.

She'd been trying in vain to escape again. Her nails broken and hands bleeding, she was nonetheless unfazed—she'd gotten used to injuring herself in the process.

The boy hadn't gotten used to it, though, so he'd gifted her a bandage, along with her first experience of human touch—

Human children are warm, she'd thought at the time he'd tried, hands shaking, to wrap the bandage around her frail, twig-like wrist.

"Human children don't have the power to curse others," is what she'd said instead, because he'd been on the verge of tears telling her about how he'd cursed his mom just by existing, causing her to die; because bad things happen all because he "sees weird things", is what he'd said, on the verge of tears.

"Human children don't have the power to curse," is what she'd said, touching his warm hand, loosely interlacing her cold, twig-like fingers with his. "Your hands aren't made for cursing—they're made for healing. You're a nice kid."

He'd looked at her then, deer-in-headlights like what she'd said was out-of-the-world.

"You're a nice, normal kid."

Human children are so very warm, she'd thought.

✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽

Or so she'd only thought, because the next time she meets the same 'nice, normal kid' is when he's hot on her tails—

He's coming to exorcise her.

Strangely enough, she doesn't mind—the deepest part of her soul knows that it'd be an honour to have him be the one to exorcise her. After all, he'd been the warmest being she's ever had the honour to touch.

And so she tries to make his life easier, and walks straight into his trap.

There's no need to prolong this existence, she'd thought. This cold, cursed existence where human children will never be warm again.

She walks into the middle distance where the exorcist trap lay, pretending she's walking back in time; back into the child's arms.

Human children will never be warm again, she thinks.

✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽

Or so she'd only thought, because she finds that a second human has exceeded her expectations; another human child.

This time, he wasn't touching her hands, or her—he was fiddling with the rope that bound her (the same robe that has cursed her to a fate of eternal submission to humans); it stung, thanks to the curse between the rope and her.

It stung, and so her reaction wasn't kind; she'd charged straight towards him and shouted at him, mustering with her little spiritual energy whatever weak voice constituted as shouting in her books.

"Will you stop that, you brat?" Her voice crackling like a shriveled branch, she'd seemingly startled him, because he jumps at the sudden intrusion. But she also notices that he isn't remotely as startled as she'd expected him to be, because he turns and starts speaking to her in a voice that was too normal for a normal human child his age.

(Joke's on her, because he's definitely no 'normal human child', she realises later.)

"Who tied you up?" He glances at the shackles that have cursed her to human oppression thus far.

She doesn't respond.

"Are you injured?" He glances at the bandages encircling her wrist; she hadn't realised it before now, but they seem to be coming undone.

It's unmistakable, the expression in his eyes—it's been decades since she's seen that sort of expression, and she'd thought that she'd never have gotten the privilege of experiencing human warmth again, not after that child.

Human children are warm, she thinks, as this child tries to rewrap the bandage around her frail, twig-like wrist.

It's a waste, because even spirits aren't immune to the vicissitudes of time, much less human children. She starts making her way again, walking into the trap laid out for her by her one and only final executioner; the one who'd been a warm human child only decades ago.

I'll never get to feel the warmth of human children again, she thinks.

✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽

Or so she'd only thought, because she's lying on the grass, weak but alive, having just survived a lightning strike thanks to the human child and his giant feline bodyguard who'd, for some godforsaken reason, taken the hit for her.

"I figured she had a fifty-fifty chance," an adult voice says, gentle but somehow remorse, the resonance of it simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar (he's an adult now, after all; he won't sound exactly the same, but she can recognise him nonetheless). "She could not escape the curse that bound her to the pillar, so I figured that if the lightning had struck her, she'd at least have finally passed on to the afterlife. And in the best case scenario, if she'd managed to survive, the rope would burn away, freeing her from the shackles of human oppression forever."

The explanation was not directed at her, but she appreciates it nonetheless.

"Thank you for shielding her, Natsume," the same voice continues. "She survived thanks to that. I'm really thankful."

(She's still too weak to speak, but she's thankful, too—thankful that he's thankful, and thankful that humans can be warm, not just when they're only young, but at any stage of their brief existence.)

✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽✽

When she finally awakens, she realises that she's been given a name:

Hiiragi.

"You just look like a Hiiragi to me," Natori shrugs, smiling casually. "Plus, you’ve always been like a holly warden plant anyway—your previous master had tried to use you as a protective charm, too. Come to think of it, they really should just have planted some hiiragi bushes outside their house, instead of trapping you in a treasury."

(She doesn't say it aloud, but she thinks it's a good name for her.)

Tying a holly branch to a pillar in order to protect a household—she'd initially thought that it was a blessing for them, and a curse for her. Now that the events have played out in this direction, she learns the right answer.

(It’s both.)

#natsume week #natsume week 2024 #natsuyuu #natsume yuujinchou #hiiragi #natsume yuujinchou hiiragi #natsume yuujinchou fanfiction #natori shuuichi #natsume takashi #Natsume Week Day One #Natsume Week 2024 Day One #natsuyuu hiiragi #OP #natsuyuu fanfic #natsumeweek

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senanatheskenana · 2 years

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What kind of flowers do Genshin characters get you for Valentine’s Day?

Jean

A modest bouquet of Forget-me-nots and chrysanthemums. These flowers symbolise not only the hope she has for the blossoming of your shared love, but also her undying loyalty to you

Amber

A cute little pot of honeysuckle that smells almost as sweet as she acts around you. This plant symbolises happiness, and she, above all else, wants you to be happy.

Lisa

Jacaranda sprigs and campanulas to symbolise everlasting love, wisdom, and good fortune. She finds that the two plants compliment eachother much like you do with her.

Kaeya

Gentiana had been left on your doorstep, with a letter tied to its pot with blue ribbon. The first of many on your fiance's scavenger hunt.

Diluc

More red roses than you can count. What he lacks in physicality, he more than makes up for in words and romance. These beautiful blooms were hand-picked by Diluc, and you can still feel the dampness from the morning dew on the petals.

Venti

Saxifraga and lilies arranged together to create the meaning of love persisting in death. He knows that mortals are exactly mortal. What he cannot accept however, is the idea that the love you share is merely transitory.

Mona

Mona chooses to gift you Alliums because she senses something wonderful in your future. She only hopes that she may be there to share that prosperity with you.

Albedo

Albedo gives you a flower crown of Plumeria and requests that he paint you. It is a portrait of the shoulders upwards and each stroke is made with such care that you believe he may be creating a life within the canvas. The flowers, you, and the painting are his way of immortalising the love he only experiences with you. Here you are beautiful, and here with him, you will always be beautiful

Rosaria

Rosaria leaves a bouquet of black roses and red spider lilies in a vase on your table. She could not stay to watch you see them because she always falls short of words around you. She cannot stand the thought of your death one day and the only thing that comforts her is knowing that you will both be reunited again one day when all is done.

Eula

Scorpionweed and hyssopus both find a place on your windowsill in your porch. It is Eula's own, chivalrous way of pledging her loyalty to you. The silent promise of staying through it all.

Xiao

A significant prig of prunus is left on your bedside the morning of Valentines day. It had not been there the night before. There is a thin honey coloured string wrapped around its stick, left in a delicate bow and unlike the other time, a handful of blackthorn berries is left there too. This was not the first to be left for you and it will not be the last. The anonymous spirit you had never seen with your own eyes would place a single branch there whenever things seemed uncertain because it would give you hope to endure just a little longer.

Beidou

Beidou promises that each time the Crux leaves port, it will return with something for you. This time she returned with a small pot of Kalanchoe. She hopes this and her promise to always return will help you remember her lasting love and devotion to you.

Ningguang

Ningguang sends you Peruvian lilies and Japanese roses. You love in secret because her status is too high. She could never endanger you like that. And so she must adore from afar most of the time. But she loves just as unconditionally.

Tartaglia

Childe sends you heaps of thornless roses and pots of bright red gladiolus home to you when he's away because he cant bear to think of you being alone on a day meant for you both. The gladiolus is sent to remind you not to worry about him because he will always fight his way home to you

Zhongli

Zhongli gives you a bundle of sweet-smelling osmanthus and rosemary before he spends the day by your side. He tells you anything you wish to know in palatable half-truths, leaving out pieces he can't bear to dampen your spirit with. He has shared osmanthus with you because you are special to him- an angel on earth, and he knows that as he passes the funeral parlour he will one day see you there. But this time, he vows to never forget.

Ganyu

She gently holds the bouquet of blue daisies out to you, her hand shaking just a little bit. She put a lot of time and effort into picking these specific flowers in hopes they can say what she is too shy to. They say 'forever'

Hu Tao

Hu Tao gives you red chrysanthemums and sprigs of cranberry because she knows that the way she loves you is immortalising.

Shenhe

Shenhe does not quite understand the idea of giving people flowers. She undoubtedly understands giving you flowers, however. She chooses to leave out the things that mean love because she doesnt need plants to tell you that. She brings you white heather because it will grow with you and protect you when she cannot.

Yelan

Yelan carefully places a pot of blue roses on your balcony before disappearing into the night. You will wake to the smell of love tomorrow.

Ayaka

Ayaka organises a flowerbed in your honour, filled with Nemophila for Valentine's day. She hopes to propose to you there one day. It is on display for all to see because love is a unifying force.

Kazuha

Red daisies and freesia are sent floating on the wind to you. His love follows you anywhere he can't.

Yoimiya

Yoimiya hands you a small bouquet of red and orange tulips as the corresponding fireworks go off behind her. They light up the air around you both, and you suddenly both find it hard to breathe. Then again that happens a lot around each other.

Wolfsbane and purple Morning Glory are planted to encircle a large tree of wisteria. She generally dislikes the idea of people seeing her vulnerable. But she couldn't bear not seeing you. A large portion of the courtyard is now devoted to the cultivation of you. She hopes it will grow in tandem with your feelings towards each other.

Kujo Sara

Sara has filled the rockery with foxglove and winterberry as a symbol of protection and safety over you and danger to anyone who wishes to cause you harm.

Kokomi

pale pink, and lavender roses that symbolise her immediate and passionate love for you. She sends them along with a letter that smells of peach and seafoam to remind you of her.

Thoma

Thoma practically chases you down with a bouquet of yellow and red roses waving in the air. He's excited to see you and you look just as beautiful as you always do. He hands them to you with a kiss on your cheek and a sweet nothing in your ear.

Itto

Itto brings you single coreopsis. He explains to you that he had actually picked a large bouquet but that on his way back he had somehow managed to lose most of them in a fight. At least he tried, and really seeing him come back was enough.

Gorou

Gorou is ever-busy but that doesn't mean that he forgets about you. Gorou regularly sends you letters, each containing an almond blossom, to both assure you it is him, and that he is alive, and that he will return to you.

Yae Miko

Yae brings you to the most vibrant cherry blossom tree to watch the petals fall into your hair. Each one drops with the beat of her heart. She's a romantic.

Ayato

Ayato brings you lotus plants to cover your pond. He believes that they are a hybrid of you both- your purity and his elegance to create something perfectly beautiful.

Tighnari

Tighnari gifts you a potted Opuntia, its flowers the same colour as the one on his shirt. He tells you it symbolises hope, though he does not say what he hopes for. In his heart, he hopes for a safe world to live with you in

Cyno

Cyno does not say anything as he hands you the bunch of hydrangeas, his face bright red and his eyes looking anywhere but at you. After a long moment of silence he replies to your excited thank you. "Tighnari helped me choose one that was as strong and beautiful as our love"

Candace

Candace gifts you a potted blackthorn bush. Admittedly, some thought it was an unorthodox gesture, but she had her reasons. If she was getting you plants, it would not be something redundant, like love. She searched for something strong and sturdy that could support you, and protect you. After the first frost and thaw, the berries are sweeter, much like her.

Nilou

Nilou has chosen to give you orchid cactus flowers. She tells you they are beautiful just like you and they symbolise the admiration she has for you.

Scaramouche

Scaramouche almost decided against the idea entirely. It was dumb, he thought it was just for marketing. He still thinks it is, but he indulges you. He sends you rainflowers and purple and blue anemones. He won't tell you but he feels like he isn't worthy of you because of all he has done.

This took me like two whole days because i had to read up on every single one of those plants ;(

it was fun though :)

#genshin impact fluff #genshin headcanons #genshin imagines #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact x reader #gi diluc #Childe #venti #ayato #tighnari #cyno #scaramouche #itto #gorou

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konjaku · 7 months

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海桐花[Tobera] Pittosporum tobira

Like Hiiragi(Osmanthus heterophyllus), this is also used for the event called Oniyarai(Driving ogre away) in Setsubun. At that time, the branchs of this tree are used to decorate 扉[Tobira](Door) of the house, hence the name Tobera(Tobira.) And, when the branches and leaves are put in a fire, they make a crackling sound and emit foul odor, which is believed to drive away ogres.

I rubbed and smelled these leaves this time, and they did not smell so strong. It may depend on the individual, or different parts of the tree might give different results.

The round fruits that grow in autumn, split open in winter and red seeds covered in mucligage emerge from inside. Then, from late spring to early summer, it produces many small, white, five-petaled flowers, which have a good fragrance.

#nature #japan #nihongo #original photography #langblr

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emotionallychargedtowel · 2 years

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this bittersweet fragrance

I’m a bit of a fragrance nerd, so when the scent of tea olive/osmanthus started to be a sort of symbolic theme in Utsukushii Kare season 2 I looked into what osmanthus is supposed to smell like and how it’s been used in the fragrance world. Among other things, I was curious about how someone who doesn’t live in a region where tea olives generally grow might experience something resembling the smell of the actual flower. I thought I’d share what I learned here in case other folks were interested.

The tea olive, or osmanthus fragrans, is a specific variety of osmanthus, and it’s the one that’s used in perfumery, so either term is correct here. Normally I’d use whichever term was more specific (in this case, “tea olive”), but in the perfume world, it seems the term everyone uses is the more general “osmanthus,” so that’s what I’ll use here.

Caveat #1: I’ve never smelled osmanthus in real life, nor have I smelled any perfumes that feature it heavily (at least, not that I know of--it wasn’t really on my radar before). I’d love to hear any thoughts from folks who’ve experienced it firsthand, especially if they know of a fragrance that captures the smell faithfully.

Caveat #2: I really am just a bit of a fragrance nerd, so apologies if I flub any details here. There are so many levels to this hobby that while I’ve been getting increasingly into it for some time now, I’m still very much a beginner. A couple more things to note first:

The processes for preserving the scent of osmanthus tend to result in an end product that is fairly different from the smell of fresh osmanthus. Of course, this is hardly unusual in perfumery. But the distinction matters if you’re curious about the scent that comes up in the show. (Personally, I went into this curious about both approximating the smell of osmanthus on the branch and about how the preserved form is used.)

Also, osmanthus mostly grows in East Asia but a lot of the biggest fragrance producers are based in the U.S. and Europe. So a lot of folks end up smelling osmanthus in a perfume context while having no way to tell if it resembles the actual plant. This means well-regarded osmanthus perfumes may smell good but not resemble the real thing much at all.

So, what do we know about what the tree in Hira’s backyard smells like? I mean, for those of us who don’t live somewhere where osmanthus fragrans is plentiful. There aren’t a ton of detailed descriptions of the smell of fresh osmanthus flowers online (or, not in English, anyway), but I found a few. It’s almost always supposed to have a jasmine-like quality as well as a sweet, fruity component. One person on BaseNotes described it as “buttery, warm, bright, only slightly fruity, with hay-like and wine-like qualities” (they seem to be in the minority in downplaying the fruity aspect). Some describe it as having a more noticeable green note than the osmanthus absolute used in perfumery, including a bitter greenness that could help to account for the “bittersweet” descriptor used in Utsukushii Kare. I also noticed that reviewers of osmanthus perfumes that are supposed to be on the realistic side often included references to suede, green tea, and/or soap, but I’m not sure how faithful those really are.

Then there’s the osmanthus absolute smell (or osmanthus extracted into other forms, like “concrete”). Not the fresh flower, but the scent that you get when you preserve it. People tend to describe it as having three main components. One is a fairly standard (and apparently, quite pleasant) white floral smell, similar to jasmine. The second is a fruity aspect. People usually compare it to stone fruits, especially apricot and peach, sometimes adding something about honey (e.g. “apricots in honey”) or even cream. The last of the three is a component people usually describe as “animalic” and/or smelling like leather. (”Animalic” refers to scents like musks that, when done right, stop just shy of actual stank and instead smell to us like sweat or a person’s skin scent, with all the affecting associations that come with that. In the past, the materials used to create those notes were usually from animal sources like civet oil, hence “animalic.”) This makes sense given that chemicals called indoles that show up in white florals are also often somewhat animalic (with the potential to cross into being downright foul). In addition to these three main aspects, osmanthus in its absolute form is also sometimes described as having green notes and/or woody notes, especially really resinous woods like oud.

If this sounds more complex than the average floral scent, that’s because (according to everything I’ve read, at least) it is. There’s a reason osmanthus is such a sought-after perfume ingredient. The complexity is a big part of it. Complex smells are just more interesting. Also, since it straddles a few different classes of scents (floral, fruity, and animalic), it’s useful as a note that can blend those types of notes together or place them in a more harmonious composition with one another. It’s also just more distinctive and novel than the typical floral scents we’ve all encountered time and again, at least to European and American noses.

Getting back to the smell of Hira’s tree, there are a few osmanthus perfumes that people say smell a lot like the real thing. Some of these are scented only with straight-up osmanthus, while others are sort of like collages, putting together a lot of different scents to create an osmanthus-like gestalt.

In one forum post I read, someone recommended the osmanthus balm from this China-based Etsy shop, saying that their wife, who was very familiar with the real thing, said it was the closest perfume she’d smelled to the real flower. It was also one of the most affordable options I saw. Some folks praised L’Occitane’s osmanthus line or the osmanthus soliflore oil from Dame Perfumery, but both have somewhat mixed reviews. (They’re also both on the affordable side, though the L’Occitane line doesn’t seem to be for sale from them directly in the U.S.) Inlé (Memo) is also supposed to be good, and on the realistic side. Osmanthus by The Different Company seems to have a big fan base, but also some detractors. The most well-regarded osmanthus perfume I ran across was Miyako (Auphorie). It gets great reviews and is supposed to have convinced legendary fragrance critic Luca Turin to come out of retirement to write about it because he was such a big fan.

In addition to all of these soliflores (single-flower perfumes) and perfumes where osmanthus is exclusively centered, there are a lot of interesting perfumes where osmanthus plays a notable role, but in a more varied context with other scents. A search on Fragrantica yields a long list of fragrances containing osmanthus, many of which sound promising. A few of the ones I ran across in my search made it onto my “to sample” list: Gucci’s Flora EDP, Serge Lutens’s Nuit de Cellophane, and Perris Monte Carlo’s Absolue d’Osmanthe.

Of course, while reading about all of this I got to thinking about what all these qualities of osmanthus might mean for Utsukushii Kare’s story. It has been brought up in a couple of ways on the show so far. The tea olive apparently blooms twice a year, in June and September, but it’s the latter that’s been referenced on the show. For Hira, it’s symbolic of the passage of time. Osmanthus represents his and Kiyoi’s “autumn of immaturity” that comes before “a winter of judgment.” He has a related belief, almost a superstition, that because he was separated from Kiyoi in the winter once before, it’s bound to happen again.

The bittersweet quality of the fragrance is also highlighted in the show. I think this is in reference to the combination of sweet fruity/floral and bitter green aspects some describe in the fresh flower scent. It’s fitting that bittersweetness, commonly a metaphor for ambivalence, is mentioned almost in the same breath as both Hira’s and Kiyoi’s contradictory feelings about their relationship.

Although the smell of osmanthus absolute is a further step away from what’s represented in the show, I think it has a kind of resonance with the story’s themes that is worth exploring. Basically, the combination of notes within the scent suggests youth, innocence, and sweet romance on the one hand and a kind of sweaty, dirty sensuality on the other. To break this overall picture down a bit: At the core is the jasmine-like white floral scent. White florals are associated with romance, femininity, and on the indolic end of the spectrum, a kind of heady, hypnotic sexiness. The apricot/peach aspect provides literal sweetness that mirrors the metaphorical sweetness of a loving relationship. The combination of apricot/peach and white florals is also often associated with youthfulness, even innocence. At the same time, the animalic aspect of osmanthus is sweaty and suggestive. When it links up with the indolic aspect of the white floral notes, they balance out the innocent associations with something more libidinous.

This combination could be said to be metaphorically fitting for any number of BLs or romantic dramas in general--what romance story doesn’t balance sweetness and sexuality?--but I think it’s a particularly good fit for Utsukushii Kare, in which a thread of somewhat warped sexuality is often intertwined with something surprisingly innocent and fundamentally sweet.

Well, I hope this is as interesting for others to read as it was for me to investigate. At some point I’ll probably give some of these osmanthus fragrances a try in sample form, and if folks are interested I’ll report back about that.

#utsukushii kare #utsukushii kare season 2 #utsukare #tea olive #osmanthus #perfume #BL smells

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dream-meister-translations · 11 months

Text

THE TALE OF FOOD

MOONLIT CONFESSIONS - PART 5

━

The light of the ripples of the water from underground reflects the faces of the two people before us.

Though he is dressed differently, I recognize him immediately. The thousands of times I'd imagined our reunion and none of them involved meeting him at this juncture.

YIPIN POT : How have you been, Master?

MASTER : Yipin Pot!? What are you doing here?

YIPIN POT : I have always been here. It's thanks to you I was able to enter Guanghan Palace and witness you unlocking the robo-bunny before finally crossing the rock wall barrier.

I realize what he means and unconsciously grip the rock in my hand tighter.

MASTER : Did Yi Ya send you? What does he want?

YIPIN POT : You should be asking what I want.

He shakes his hand and smiles. A violent tremor rocks everything and the Osmanthus sprigs burst from the ground to twine vice-like around my arms, forcing me to drop the rock!

'HENG'E' : Is this sufficient to remind you of your promise?

Yipin Pot takes the rock in hand and carefully wraps it up in his handkerchief.

YIPIN POT : Don't worry. With this, we won't require the guidance of that hare anymore. Once the power of Guanghan Palace's lunar Osmanthus is restored, you can...

YIPIN POT : Ugh!

MOON CAKE : Hero to the rescue! No one can snatch anything from Master!

Moon Cake suddenly jumps out from a corner, diving straight at Yipin Pot. This could be my chance to wrest the rock back from him!

*FIGHT*

YIPIN POT : !!!

YIPIN POT : Moon Cake, there are 0 records regarding the present Guanghan Palace. Did you ever consider why?

Yipin Pot murmurs into Moon Cake's ear as he brushes past. Moon Cake stands still, stunned.

MOON CAKE : You're saying...No! That can't be! What nonsense!

YIPIN POT : Yes, it's just my hypothesis. But now I'm inviting you to witness the truth for yourself with your own eyes.

MASTER : Don't listen to him, Moon Cake!

I anxiously tear the Osmanthus sprigs wound around my hands, but the force rebounds me into the glass tank.

MASTER : Ugh! That's a lot of blood...

MASTER : Why are these Osmanthus branches multiplying over and over...I can't get loose. Rats!

I promised I'd protect him, protect Guanghan Palace...I can't give up!

MASTER : As long as there's one person, one person who can help me get free of these Osmanthus sprigs, I can...

MASTER : Please, please...Help me!

??? : ...

??? : This power...Who could it be...

His breast shines with a glimmering glow, the tank's surface begins to crack. Immediately after, both the heavens and earth appears to shake violently.

ROBO BUNNY : Warning, warning. Damage to the glass room sustained has caused tremors. Tunnel and chamber will collapse within thirty seconds. Thirty. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight...

The walls of the tank break as he escapes and turns to look at me. His eyes are shaded by lenses and impossible to fathom.

??? : Plants are growing where they shouldn't. Activating gardening module.

MASTER : G-Gardening!?

Before I can say any more, several robotic arms issue from the rock walls, chopping down all the Osmanthus sprigs entwined around my limbs in the blink of an eye.

Like a rusted machine, he turns to Yipin Pot, body jerking. His head is vibrating slightly, as though scanning something.

??? : Good-looking suspect, suspicion level : 95%. Activating offensive module.

The shattering blast of cannon fire reverberates about the tunnel, thick grey smoke and the smell of gunpowder begins to fill the room.

YIPIN POT : Hehehe, Master, you appear to have awoken a rather nasty monster.

YIPIN POT : We don't have long, Osmanthus Wine. Let's withdraw.

OSMANTHUS WINE : ...No.

OSMANTHUS WINE : Why is the insignia on this robot the same as that on your handkerchief? Yipin Pot, are you part of the Micians too!?

YIPIN POT : ...Never mind.

Yipin Pot looks at Moon Cake. Moon Cake does not hesitate and follows him with an air of determination.

MASTER : Moon Cake, are you...Really going to go with him!?

MOON CAKE : Sorry, please don't worry about me. I just want to see the thing he's talking about for myself... It's about Guanghan Palace, I can't sit here and twiddle my thumbs!

ROBO BUNNY : Second warning, second warning. Tunnel collapse commencing. Three, two, one...

The tunnel begins rocking violently once more. In the confusion, Yipin Pot and Moon Cake's bodies form an arc as they jump up and out over the rock wall.

MASTER : Moon Cake!

I haven't quite gotten my balance back before my sight-line suddenly gets a boost.

??? : You can't stay in the danger zone, frail human.

??? : The risk of a geological disaster is extremely high. My propeller stove is about to start up. Please hold onto my head but do not take off my glasses, thank you.

??? : Three, two, one, ignition!

I hear a deafening bang as a hole forms in the rock wall thanks to the explosion. I am greeted by the welcome sight of sunlight as it filters down onto my head. And we are launched into the clouds, as though we were riding on a rocket.

#The Tale Of Food #ttof #ttof story #ttof script #Otome #食物语 #食物語 #食物语新马版 #tof-confessions5

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shiningdesignersreflections · 1 year

Text

Chapter 5: Moving Time

Narrated by Qingyue.

Narrator: After the ceremony ended, I arrived at the Moon Palace with Baishuo.

Narrator: The Moon Palace is not far away from Cloudcrest.

Narrator: Baishuo is playful. He often goes there for things and brings me new books and snacks.

Narrator: One day, he comes back with a poster saying that Cloudcrest is going to have a lantern show at the Mid-Autumn Festival.

Narrator: The lanterns today are nothing more than a memorial for those no longer here.

Baishuo: The lantern show must be wonderful! If you're available, will you go with me?

Narrator: He doesn't seem like a person who would propose such an idea... But it must be amazing to watch lanterns above the sky.

Qingyue: Alright, let's watch it together.

Narrator: The lanterns are as beautiful as I have imagined. The yellow lights give a gentle color to the starry sky.

Narrator: The moonlight shines on Cloudcrest, outlining the street together with the lanterns.

Narrator: On the day of the Mid-Autumn Festival, Cloudcrest is full of wistfulness.

Narrator: The longing floats into the night sky with the lanterns. How touching.

Voice: I hope my child takes care of himself, wears warm clothes, and comes home by the next Mid-Autumn Festival.

Voice: It must be hard to do business outside. I hope Father can come home for the festival!

Voice: Grandpa is not feeling very well recently. I hope he will get well soon.

Narrator: A hundred years pass, and Cloudcrest is a lot different now.

Choose either "Change is inevitable" or "Change is sad."

If "inevitable," ...

You: Change is inevitable.

If "sad," ...

You: Change is sad.

Narrator: The moon seen in the mortal world is different every day.

Narrator: The moon wanes and waxes again and again from a dim new moon to a bright full moon.

Narrator: However, what we have seen are the phases of the moon. The moon itself has never changed.

Narrator: Things in the world are like the phases of the moon. No matter how different they look, they remain essentially unchanged.

Narrator: At least, the wistfulness I have conveyed over the past years is consistent.

Narrator: Time and people change, but the same moon shines on the world.

Narrator: The moonlight will guard this city forever.

Narrator: A petal falls into the tea, making small ripples.

Narrator: The crimson and indigo threads are woven on purple silk. Before long, a picture of ancient Cloud appears on the sachet.

Narrator: Baishuo hops over and looks at the ornament in my hand.

Baishuo: Your embroidery is the best. I can't find an embroidery more detailed than yours in Cloud.

Baishuo: Next time I go to Cloudcrest, I will wear it. If someone asks, I will say it's a family heirloom.

Narrator: His eyes sparkle as he speaks.

Qingyue: You can bring me the latest picture of Cloud next time and I will embroider a fashionable one for you.

Baishuo: Great! I will get it tomorrow.

Narrator: Baishuo hums happily with a fulfilled smile and continues his reading.

Narrator: The mist on the Ocean of Memories gathers again, and the Moon Palace is quiet.

Narrator: Silver light shines, lighting the entire palace made of jade.

Narrator: The osmanthus tree in the courtyard sways its branches and petals fall, like snow covering the ground.

Narrator: On the day before the Mid-Autumn Festival, teahouses on the street are busy.

Narrator: In the teahouse of Cloudcrest Pagoda, Mr. Storyteller is telling the legend of the Lunar Goddess.

Narrator: "After the young lady walked to the pagoda, a bird-drawn carriage appeared and drove her to the moon."

Narrator: "Her blessings allowed the Cloud troops to win the war, and the people in Cloudcrest finally lived in peace."

Narrator: "You may see her holding a rabbit in the moon on the day of the Mid-Autumn Festival."

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

#qingyue #shining nikki #transcript #moving time #chapter 5 #ur designer #cloud #cloud empire #mid autumn festival #lunar goddess #moon #moon palace #cloudcrest #bunny #jade #wistfulness #memories #lanterns

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leahsfiction · 2 years

Text

Song of the Bronze Immortal Leaving the Han - Li He

Foreword: In the 8th month of the 1st year of the Qinglong Era (237 AD), Emperor Ming of Wei ordered his palace official to move an immortal of the Emperor Wu of Han (d. 87 BC) south by cart. This immortal, holding a dew-plate, had been installed in front of the palace hall.

The immortal started its journey once the palace official dismantled and removed the plate, whereupon it shed silent tears.

Upon which Li Changji, scion of the Tang royal house, composed "Song of the Bronze Immortal Leaving the Han." [1]

In fall the youth Liu came lightly by his flourishing mausoleum[2], One heard his horse whinny in the night; he left no trace at dawn.

The rich scent of autumn is hemmed by osmanthus[3] and balustrades, Thirty-six palaces, all, mossing over jade-green.[4]

The procession begins its thousand miles, led by the man of Wei, Out the East Gate, a sour wind like arrows to the eye.

The Han moon was lured outside the royal walls in vain; Our tears turn to drops of lead in imperial solemnity.

Fading orchids in mourning garb[5] line the Xianyang road, If the heavens too could feel, the heavens would grow old.

Bearing our plate of dew alone through moonlit desolation, River and city[6] far behind, the voice of waves grown small.

Li He, Tang superstar "demonic poet", wrote this poem en route from Chang'an to Luoyang -- the same route the statue was taking. (The statue, in actual history, never made it to Luoyang and got left in Ba City, due to the troublesome size or manifested tears, who knows.) The poet was leaving the capital bc he had to quit his post due to chronic illness. (You can see more of my research notes in my tumblr tag for this poem.)

1: I've inserted the corresponding Gregorian dates, but this is all Li He's own foreword contextualizing the poem.

There are 3 dynasties, 3 nested layers of history, at play here.

Emperor Wu ("martial") - birth name Liu Che - the Han dynasty flourished under his rule due to all the conquering and wealth; like many emperors before and after him, he became obsessed with attaining immortality. hence the poet calling his statue "bronze immortal". According to the commentary in my 1983 Chinese-lang Tang anthology by one 朱世英 Zhu Shiying, the statue this emperor commissioned of himself was enormous: 20m (丈) tall and 10m (围) in circumference. The "dew-plate" is a dish designed to collect morning dew as an offering to the heavens (in hopes of exchange for immortality?) - they're found on top of some Buddhist pagodas also.

Emperor Ming - birth name Cao Rui, grandson of the Cao Cao - 300 years later in the Wei dynasty, he ordered people to remove many Han artifacts from the imperial palace to Luoyang, an expensive and dangerous affair, replacing them with his own commissioned statues, etc etc. The "palace official" refers to a court eunuch - not sure if this is meant to be a specific person.

Li Changji, scion of the Tang royal house - the poet himself (Changji was his courtesy name). i wasn't able to find a genealogy but i do know his was a minor branch of the Tang dynasty founding line; he was quite poor and unsuccessful at getting a good court position (poets is the same). You can read more wild facts about his life on his wikipedia page.

The Tang poet is imagining the statue in the Wei remembering the living Han emperor. History repeats. Rulers grow dissolute and wasteful. Dynasties break, unite, then break again.

2: This first couplet seems unmoored from the rest of the poem. Is it a ghostly vision? a memory? The youth Liu, Liu-lang, is a ballsy way of referring to Emperor Wu. He's visiting his own royal tomb, Maoling Mausoleum (it's on wiki - highly rec the satellite photos, it's still standing), literally translated as "flourishing mausoleum". He started constructing it in his 2nd year of rule - he was 16 years old.

3: 桂树：Commonly mistranslated as "cassia" (chinese cinnamon) due to its prominence in traded goods, but in poetic context usually means 桂花 osmanthus - the smell is peaches, not cinnamon. The blooms are associated with the much-vaunted imperial examinations in eighth month (around September); sort of the equivalent to the greek laurel.

4: 三十六宫土花臂：A difficult line to fit in english metre, because "thirty-six palaces" takes up the entire first half of the original line. And then the second half is an odd phrase probably coined by Li He - "earth flower jade-green".

5: I know my friend has explained this one already but I just need to yell again about how many images are packed into two characters, 衰兰 "withered orchids". (a) 衰 pronounced shuai, "frail," "old." The flowers are withering because it's autumn. (b) shuai, "reduced." There are few flowers left, and the flowers represent the crowd seeing the procession off. Barely anyone cares about the statue in this new dynasty. (c) pronounced cui, "mourning garments." Now this is a bit of a stretch, but I'm imagining the orchids as white with brown edges (the withering) - as in white and sackcloth mourning clothes. They're symbols of mortality they're the last few loyal mourners they're moved by emotion and thus are able to age, unlike the unfeeling heavens in the next line.

6: Originally says 渭城 "Wei City" in the poem, i.e. city on the Wei river, i.e. Chang'an. Both the Wei and Jing are famous rivers - Chang'an sits near where they touch. There's a nice parallelism b/t the sound of the waves growing small (or faint) and the heavens not growing old in this stanza that not many existing translations point out.

#poetry #translation #my translation #gushiwensday #li he #金铜仙人辞汉歌

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rebellicnrising · 1 year

Text

zoe robins . cis female . she/her ➶ I RECOGNISE THAT FACE ! that’s AMARANTH , the TWENTY SEVEN year old UNDERCOVER MEDIC from DISTRICT ELEVEN. they’ve been in the capitol around SIX MONTHS , long enough to gain a reputation for being so GENTLE & ALOOF . they’re so lucky getting to live in the tribute center for the duration of the games! ( character IS part of the uprising )

BASIC INFORMATION

full name: amaranth nicknames: mara age: twenty-seven birthday: september 21 zodiac: virgo district: eleven gender: cis female pronouns: she / her orientation: bisexual profession: harvester, healer, rebel, undercover medic

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

face claim: zoë robins hair color: black hair style: braided, long- reaches down to the small of her back when not gathered up eye color: brown height: 5'8" scars: a thin scar on her left cheek from a fall as a child, an entry/exit scar on her right shoulder from a bullet

RELATIONSHIPS

father: taurus ( deceased ) mother: evangeline siblings: rue ( older sister, deceased ); osmanthus ( older sibling ), oleander ( youngest sibling ), two younger siblings significant other: tba

EXTRA

mbti: infp-a ( the mediator ) temperament: melancholic moral alignment: true neutral primary vice: pride primary virtue: charity element: earth

BACKSTORY

TW: sibling death, gun violence

ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ: ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴀʀᴋꜱ

your mother carried you and your sibling together-- they against her heart while you grew under it and once you made you entrance into this world ( silent almost long enough for concern before letting that thin cry erupt from small lips and your parents breathed a sigh of relief ), you took the place against her heart while he rested against her back, the heat of the sun beating against the tops of your heads while she worked in the fields you would take your first steps in. sometimes the heartbeat would change- your father tying your sling against his barrel chest so your mother could rest or the fluttering rabbit heart of your big sister who patted your back with a hand that was still soft and round with her own baby fat as she held you against her chest, seeking shelter from the heat of the day under a shady tree -- but each beat of those hearts echoed with love. it takes a village to raise a child- much less three under the age of five- and you learn to be lulled to comfort by the sounds of your neighbors hearts as they lend their own arms and chests to carry you and your siblings as the days grow longer, the sounds of their voices whispering soft lullabies to keep you quiet and still. you wouldn't realize for many years just how little your family had but one thing that there was always abundance of was love-- you were raised on love, cradled by community.

oz learns to walk before you and little legs almost immediately start running after rue while you are still curled against those hearts and when your legs are finally strong enough to hold you and carry you up and down the rows of fruits and vegetables, you never venture far from your mother's skirts. another baby takes your place against her heart and then another. and then another-- and all at once, you're too big to be carried, too big to be held and lulled to sleep by the sounds of a heartbeat. too big to be carried but too small to follow after rue and oz as they scramble up to the tops of trees-- they try to teach you how to find the knots where your toes can grip, the branches that would support your weight and drag you upward-- but you're barely off the ground before fear paralyzes you and you scream out of fear. you don't stop screaming until your father's hands come to pluck you from the tree as easily as he would a low hanging apple.

he tells you to keep your feet on the ground and you cry, wailing about being left behind; rue and oz could flit from tree to tree as easily as the birds in the air but you-- you were planted deep in the earth, afraid to let yourself stray too far from the dirt that covers bare feet. some people were air- like oz and rue- and others were water- like your mother-- you were earth, planted and rooted. your father tells you that he's also earth and there's a peace in knowing that you share that with him; both of you planted with your feet firmly on the ground, firm and unmoving as mountains for the family that you love. and when oz and rue slip out like whispers of wind in the night to the fields, you stand watch beside the small and dingy window, large eyes waiting for them to come back on those feet guided by the air that whisked them one way or another-- always waiting for them to come back home.

ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʟᴅ-ʏᴏᴜʀ-ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʟᴇᴛ ʟᴏᴏꜱᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ-- ᴡᴇ ʙᴜʀɴ ᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ

you're only seven when rue's name is called, holding your younger siblings hands almost too tight to keep them from trying to run after her, seeing your mothers hands biting into oz's shoulders to keep them from doing the same. you think you understand- you know that the names that are called on This Day are faces that leave the district-- and they never come back. you haven't watched the games before-- not really, not with any sort of attention that would tell you what is really happening on the screen-- you're just a child whose attention was always occupied with games that rue invented and there's a sinking feeling that this year, there would be no distracting stories or games to keep you from seeing what is played on the large screens. ( an even more sinking feeling that maybe you would have to come up with the games this year for the littles and knowing that you were never as creative as rue. ) you want to ask your father what it Means but there's a look on his face while your mother sobs that has the question shriveling on your tongue.

the littles can only pay so much attention- you understand, it wasn't so long ago that you were five and four and three-- and your mom and dad can't peel their eyes away from the screen. neither can oz. you try to keep them occupied, telling them the stories that rue has told you- imaginary tales she spun from the thin air that she seemed to be able to walk on- and playing games with the rocks and dirt around the feet of those who stand frozen, focused on the screens. there are times when you tug on oz's shirt, asking them to tell you what's happening-- and you act as if you have any idea what they mean when they answer you. there's a part of your mind that doesn't want to understand, that wants to reject the idea that rue would be among those that didn't come back-- and for a moment when they tell you about how rue has found a friend in the bigger girl from twelve, there's this thought that maybe she won't be. after all, you've seen it from the time you were born: none of us can do it alone; everyone needed someone. and when your eyes lift to the screen, your youngest sibling curled in your lap sleeping, you see the same sort of warmth and light in katniss' eyes that you've seen in rue's when she looks at you-- the same light you know is reflected in your eyes when you look at the littles. it soothes your heart a little; rue has found someone in That Place that loves her and you feel like maybe that chance of her coming home is greater than most would think.

you would think-- until your mother screams and your head snaps up from where you've got the littles gathered in the dirt at their feet, listening to another rue story that falls silent on your tongue at the image of your sister with red blooming against her stomach. you're not too young to understand death and it hits you in the same place- grief like a wound, ripped open by the image of your sister falling back into the arms of the girl from twelve who loved her and the sound of your mother screaming- and your hands are reaching for the littles, gathering them close to you like a mother hen as tears trace lines in the dirt on your cheeks. you huddle them around your mother, holding the skirt at her waist as you cry, pressing the littles' faces against your shoulders or tucking them against your mother's legs-- they shouldn't see, you don't want them to see ( you're not even sure if they fully understand or if they're just crying because everyone is ).

you're certain your mother will never stop crying-- her wails have quieted but the tears keep falling; your father's eyes are dry but the look in his face is not that of the earthy man you've always seen yourself reflected in. he almost smolders as he stands with his back and eyes straight and when hands start to lift in that silent salute, his almost shoots up and that fire in his face blazes. it all happens so quickly- the way he pulls from oz, from your family, charging like a bull down the aisle and your mother's panicked voice is telling you and oz to get the babies as chaos erupts. you gather oleander in your arms and reach for a small hand, shouting at oz to come on-- because you can see that same fire burning in his face and it scares you to death.

you lose your sister and your father in the same night.

ʟɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ꜰɪʀᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ, ʀɪᴠᴇʀ ᴊᴀɢɢᴇᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴄᴀʀ ᴡᴇ ʙᴜʀɴ ᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ-- ᴀɴᴅ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴜʙʙʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ

a year later, you think you'll lose oz too; you're not sure if your mother can handle another loss. the district healer comes by every day with fresh bandages and poultices made from the wild plants that grow on the outskirts of the fields and you're fascinated. you hover when they visit, wide eyes taking in each step and questions falling from your mouth, a mind eager to learn. their hands guide yours, bringing bundles of wild medicine and they teach you their names, their uses and how they work together in different ways to help heal and as that hole in oz's side begins to heal- with the healer's and your aid- there's a feeling of accomplishment and a small fire lit in your own heart-- a passion. something that you could look at and see the good and help that it makes.

your days are spent in the fields, trying to pick up where rue and your father left off-- there are still mouths to feed and your mother is only one person now; she tells you and oz that she's lucky to have such strong children. you play second mother to your younger siblings, directing and guiding them when exhaustion sweeps over your mother-- you fight with oz when they continues to sneak out like the wind at night, particularly when it looks like one of those younger siblings might try and follow them in the way they had followed rue. you're a mother hen trying like hell to keep your chicks gathered under your skirts, safe from the storms in the district that brew like low hanging clouds filled with lightning or the predators that lurk just outside the door, ready with sharp teeth and bullets. your father is dead and now it's up to you- that earthen daughter, built from clay and rooted in the ground- to be the rock for your family; no one gave you this duty but yourself.

your nights are spent in the healer's home, learning the tricks of their trade. you learn how to create tea blends that ease headaches or muscle pains, poultices and salves that pull out the sting of the sun or an insect bite, how to set and bind broken bones. as those storms outside the doors continue to brew and those predators grow more bold, you learn how to dig out bullets-- how to prepare the dead for burial. it's something you throw in oz's face, tears standing in your eyes, when they try to sneak out-- how long before you're cleaning out another bullet hole in them? how long before you're washing and wrapping their body in linen to be buried? would they do that to their younger siblings who have already had to bury a father and a sister? would they do that to your mother? to you?

time goes on and you and oz stand in those crowds, waiting for names to be called and then your once-littles. the healer grows older and so do you and the time spent in the fields is exchanged for the cool of the healer's hut, surrounded by hanging herbs and flowers or walking across the district to whoever might need a healer's touch, a basket on your arm filled with natural medicines and hands that have learned the body and how to mend. you bring babies into the world and ease the pain of the elderly before they slip out of it. you soothe stings and burns and broken bones and sicknesses that whip through sections of the district like wildfire-- and you learn that a healer's price is higher than most can afford and you meet their needs with mercy, demanding nothing in return but accepting whatever blessings they give freely. you find yourself caught in that storm whether you want to be or not. you never ask for forgiveness from oz for your harsh words and your anger at being caught in the same storm- of being in the eye of it; you only reach for their hand to let them know that they won't have to walk through it alone.

until the day they have to-- your anger at them being caught, of their face being known as part of the eye of that storm and how it would bring those predators to your door, is smothered by the fear for their safety-- of the heartbreak of knowing you can't go with them. not when your littles still have to stand in the crowds on reaping day, not when your mother stands strong in the face of losing yet another child. you're the rock after all, the one who stands firm and unmoving. your mother sends them with food and water; you send them with medicine and your love and a promise: that once the danger of losing those younger siblings to the hunger games passes that you would join them in thirteen. oz would carve the way and you'd follow that path with the rest of your family.

you never hear from them again-- you don't know if it means they reached thirteen safely or not.

& ɪᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ, ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴏᴍᴇɴ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ, ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ

years continue to pass and you mark the passing of time by those reaping days, breathing sigh after sigh of relief when they pass and your siblings are passed over by that angel of death. you devote yourself to that important work of a healer and the storm that continues to grow in district eleven, passing messages in tea bags and salves from those who couldn't move with the same freedom as a healer whose business takes them to all corners of a district. you watch those younger siblings and how they follow in the path carved by oz and your heart damn near stops when you realize it but the anger you had with oz has tempered over time to concern-- to worry. oh, how you worry about them.

you fall in love-- you don't expect it to happen and for a long while, you tell yourself there's no time for such things. but the two of you are caught in that same storm and before you know it, you're swept up in it and it's their hand that you reach for in the eye. you don't forget that promise to oz but for a while you pretend it isn't there-- you wonder if it's a promise even worth keeping, if they are even alive to still hold you to it. there are new promises whispered, foreheads pressed together and hearts that beat together with legs tangled; there are new dreams imagined and for once, you think maybe you understand the fire in oz's and your father's eyes because your beloved's fire sparks your own and it burns in your chest-- a love for rebellion, for a life with them without fear, for children that won't die on a large screen like your sister had.

there's a fire-- a real one, set by that rebel storm-- to train cars loaded down with the bounty of eleven bound for the capitol. the fire is set but before that storm can move, the peacekeepers are there with guns that mow them down; that riddle the bodies of those freedom fighters and you, who were waiting in the grass for trouble, go barreling forward the moment you see them hit by the biting bullets only to be caught in the hold of a peacekeeper. he drags you away from the fray, hand over your mouth and presses you against a tree and there's a fear in your heart when his hand goes for his belt, only for him to press a small handgun in your hands along with a small disc that he whispers quickly is full of information for the rebels-- for thirteen. he tells you that you have to be the one to take it to them, tells you to shoot him to make it look like you overpowered him ( because who knows better than a healer which places will heal or harm ); he tells you what paths to take and which to avoid-- wishes he could give you a map but that you have to run. there's no time to go back to your home, no time to tell your mother or your siblings goodbye-- no time to check on that beloved who had fallen, never knowing if they died in the dirt or not.

you aim for his knee, the gunshot lost in the chaos-- and you run.

ʙᴜᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ

it takes you nearly two months to make it to thirteen, following the directions the peacekeeper gave you- fully expecting it to be a trap. the journey isn't easy- it's longer than you expect to get from eleven to a place that isn't supposed to exist anymore- but is made easier when you run across others who are fleeing towards that same dream of freedom. it doesn't matter that you all hail from different districts or that your stories are so vastly different-- you're all pilgrims trying to reach that promised land and when you stumble upon it's ruins, there's a moment where hope almost fails. to think you have come all this way only to find a graveyard-- of course there was no district thirteen. movement from the rubble has your gun lifting, finger pulling the trigger and then pain explodes in your shoulder as you fall back into the arms of companions who scream out words that sound muffled: sanctuary! sanctuary! the gun falls from your hands as you're lifted into arms and the pain in your arm becomes too great and you fall to darkness.

when you wake, you think you must still be dreaming because it's real. district thirteen, hidden under the ruins of former glory and might, and you fish the disc from your side, pressing it into the palm of a healer who attends to your shoulder. time passes; you heal. time passes; you become another one of those healers in the white uniforms, treating those who have grown in the underground and those who fought like hell ( like you ) to find it. time passes; you train. you never find oz and after months of speaking to anyone who will give you the time to ask about them- to give detailed descriptions of your sibling, the scars on their body, the way their mouth turns up when they smile- you finally stop asking. oz never made it to thirteen and you're told death would be a kinder ending to imagine for them. you try to get news of eleven- of your mother and the littles who are now grown; you never learn much.

five years pass and you're approached with a mission-- to be sent to the capitol along with others to pose as a medic, infiltrating the tribute center and act as support for those who have been deep undercover as the clock ticks down on district thirteen making their move. it's been six months since you arrived in the capitol under the cover of night, set up in an apartment paid for by those who allied themselves with rebels with papers and credentials that make you a different person. for now, your job is to wait but the closer the games come, the more anxious you are for action-- you won't move until that signal is given but once it is? you'll let that fire consume you in the same way it consumed your father and your sibling.

if you're going to burn, you might as well burn bright.

TFLDR + EXTRAS

the third of rue's siblings, born after oz

the lil momma hen of the siblings like def Acts like the Oldest even if she isn't

started becoming interested in healing after oz got shot and followed that passion to apprentice w d11's healer and eventually sort of took their place

at first was very against oz being involved with the rebellion but as a healer she ended up sort dragged into it whether she wanted to be or not and really just. got over it.

swore to oz that she would go to thirteen after the rest of their siblings were old enough not to be reaped

ended up falling in love with another rebel from 11 and almost doesn't keep that promise but when a plot to burn train cars full of produce for the capitol goes awry, she's pulled by a peacekeeper (secretly allied w d13) who helps her escape

meets up with some folks who are also trying to get to thirteen and ends up getting shot when they get there bc she's got that happy trigger finger and tbh she shot first

stays as a healer/medic in 13 for some time and trains to be a soldier when she realizes oz never made it to 13

gets picked to go undercover in the capitol as a medic to act as support for those who are also there-- has been in the capitol for about 6 months as 'mara'

CONNECTIONS

D11 CONTACTS-- people from the homeplace that would know her as the former healer of the district, people she grew up with, whatever-- just the home folk

LOST LOVE-- okay so,,,,,,, mara doesn't know whether her lover survived the clash at the trainyard or not. i think it could be. inchresting if maybe they did and they find each other after five years.

REBEL PEACEKEEPER-- ok so mara wouldn't have gotten out of d11 or to 13 safely without the help of this peacekeeper. they dont have to be currently assigned to d11 but would've been at least 5 years ago.

DONT BE SUSPICIOUS-- would love some non rebels who are squinting p hard at her bc lbr she Plays at being a capitolite medic but there's something Distinctly District about her and maybe her storylines slip from time to time and don't quite add up.

literally anything yall know the drill

#mj.intro #mara temp tag: intro.#me @ me: we're doing bullet points on this intro #me @ me: bitch why tf u lyin #anyway i did it #again no proof reading we die like men

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riiseandfall · 1 year

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kit young . genderfluid . he / they ➶ I RECOGNISE THAT FACE ! that’s OSMANTHUS , the TWENTY - EIGHT year old AVOX from DISTRICT ELEVEN . they’ve been in the capitol around NINE YEARS , long enough to gain a reputation for being so CLEVER & IMPATIENT . they’re so lucky getting to live in the tribute center for the duration of the games! ( character IS part of the uprising )

Basic Information

Full Name: Osmanthus Nicknames: Oz nobody calls them Osmanthus ugh Age: 28 District: Eleven Gender: Genderfluid Pronouns: He / they Orientation: Bisexual Profession: Harvester, Avox

Physical Appearance

Face Claim: Kit Young Hair Color: Black Eye Color: Brown Height: 6'1" Piercings: Pierced earlobes & upper lobes Scars: A scar on the right side of his lower stomach

Relationships

Father: Taurus (deceased) Mother: Evangeline Siblings: Rue (older sister - deceased) , four younger siblings (ages: 27, 25, 24, & 23) Significant Other: N/A

Extra

MBTI: ENFP-T (The Campaigner) Temperament: Sanguine Moral Alignment: Chaotic Good Primary Vice: Pride Primary Virtue: Kindness Element: Air

BIO-[TW: MENTION OF DEATH AND TORTURE]

It's daunting, life in Eleven. As soon as the sun is up, those who are old enough are out working -- when it is the busiest season, they don't come home until long after the sun has set.

You're the second oldest in your family, bright-eyed and curious. Those long days never seem to get to you, full of all a child's wonder. It didn't matter that you were working, you were with family -- and Rue always helped keep things fun.

You run after her, always chasing, wanting to climb the tallest trees right there with her -- she helps teach you how, teaches you about the flowers that grow outside the fields (your favorite are blue stars). Teaches you about her 'special friends', how to signal and sing for them -- you find joy in the way they echo it right back to you. A secret way of passing messages, of signaling the end of the day.

Of alerting each other to peacekeepers at night when you both sneak out to the fields, smuggling as much extra crops as you can. There are too many mouths to feed back home and what the capitol provides isn't enough.

Maybe that's where your rebellious nature started.

Or maybe it is when your sister's name is chosen -- when she walks up to that stage and you want nothing more than to follow after her (always chasing), to beg anyone to take her place. But no one does. The district is quiet and your mother holds you back while your father stares at the stage with a steely expression -- (you've never seen him look like that before).

You never did want to watch the games -- but this year, your eyes never leave the screen. The capitol adores Rue, how could they not? You hope it will be enough, hope beyond hope that it can get her back home, back to where the two of you can sit among the high branches of a tree and listen to the mockingjays.

But it isn't enough. How could it be? That hope is dashed and shattered with the single throw of a spear. Your father has that look on his face again, your mother screams, the siblings who are old enough sob but you -- you feel an emotion in your chest you never felt before. Something that burns (it isn't fair, it isn't fair, it isn't FAIR), it feels like those words choke you as you hold them back.

You're far too young for the rage that flows through you.

The girl from District Twelve is there. The girl on fire. Does she know how much that song eases the pain in your heart? Does she know how much Rue would have loved the flowers she chose? Does she know how hand after hand raises in the crowd to mirror that gesture back to her? How it sparks and ignites something in those among the crowd.

Your father is the first to charge forward. His hand ripped from yours as your mother pulls you back, she tells you to help her get your siblings home.

Your father never comes home.

Things don't get better in Eleven when the dust settles. People rally when and where they can, your mother tries to shield you from it, guides your head away from those painted symbols, but you see them. It is like they're branded in your eyes.

A year passes and your mother is fussing over your outfit, you complain as all children do. But she says it's an important day. The Victory Tour. There are tears in her eyes already but she holds it together for you. And you hold it together for your siblings.

The projected image of Rue makes it difficult as you and your family takes your designated spots, your hand grips your mother's tightly. She's strong. You have to be strong too.

It is bizarre, to see them both in real life. They look taller than you would have thought. And even while Peeta offers a kindness of his own -- winnings for both families, Katniss just looks at your family as if she had seen a ghost.

There were some who said that what she did in the arena was a play -- a way to garner sympathy. But no one among your family. And when she steps forward to speak, to talk about your sister, you aren't strong enough to keep from crying. You know how she feels -- you see Rue in every mockingjay and every single blue star.

That symbol is raised, three fingers pressed to lips and held up. A spark.

You recognize the old man, have seen him in the fields. You're panicked when he's pulled forward, when the crowd turns violent the way it did a year ago, people rushing forward against peacekeepers who pushed back. Your mother holds your siblings tight and the victors are led away as a a gunshot rings in your ears and the old man slumps to the ground. There are two more shots, fired carelessly to get the crowd to more back -- so loud and resounding that you don't even notice that blooming pain in your side until it becomes unbearable. You heard your mother scream as you fall to the ground, feels tears that land on your cheeks before your fall unconscious.

You are only allowed a couple of weeks to heal before you are thrown back to work.

Of course those promised winnings were shut down, but even that one month that your family did receive went far. As the years pass, things continue to get worse in Eleven. Peacekeepers began to watch everyone more closely.

It just meant those who rebelled got sneakier -- more clever. You whistle new songs to the mockingjays now to avoid detection. You climb the highest trees and keep watch for those below. And when the sun sets and you whisper a song to those mockingjays (lay down your head and close your eyes--), you wonder if Rue would be proud of you.

When you're older, you spread the word -- you recruit, you listen and report back to District Thirteen.

They never catch you. You were quick on your feet and quiet, a shadow like your sister before you. But not everyone in Eleven wishes to rebel, all it took was one person -- one whisper in the right ear, a traitor -- to bring it all crashing down.

You escape the peacekeepers that descend on a once secret meeting, others aren't so lucky. But you know you can't stay. They know what you are now -- and you can't put your family at risk. Your mother is teary-eyed but strong, she provides you with a few extra supplies. She hugs you for as long as she can. You kiss your sibling's temples. A goodbye that doesn't last long enough before you slip away into the night, past the district's borders.

You don't make it far.

You run, but you aren't fast enough. You fight, but you aren't strong enough. And now? You're a rebel and a deserter.

You don't know how long they had you for -- how many days and nights were spent being questioned and subjected to pain after pain when your answers didn't satisfy -- and they rarely did.

They wanted names. You gave them nothing. They wanted to know locations, what the songs meant and you kept quiet. You would give them nothing.

It is quiet for a time, no more questions. You wonder if they are trying to lull you into a false sense of security when they send a doctor in to speak with you. To explain. They call you a dangerous insurgent -- as if you had ever wielded a weapon other than the truth -- other than your voice. But they would take that from you in the end.

Part of you wishes they had just killed you.

By the time the Capitol is done, you're close to broken -- shattered into so many pieces you fear that you will never put yourself back together. The assign you to the people of the Capitol -- a silent servant. An Avox.

But you have nothing but time. Time to gather those broken pieces and attempt to make them fit back together -- you're stubborn, clinging to blue stars and whistled songs to find your way back. It takes years, but you do it. District Eleven has taught you nothing if not diligence.

This year is different. You are pulled from the manor you were stationed at, placed into the Tribute Center -- assigned to the penthouse apartment for those from District Twelve.

This year is different. The rebels are no longer standing idly by. They are angry, the victors are angry, and you are angry.

A spark turned into an inferno.

#mj.intro #osmanthus.intro #//stfu bitch damn writing fuckin novels over here

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