#they flourish and live far longer than they should

[see-arcane]

As I am a fellow enthusiast of pink things and an overanalyzing sap who got too deep in a Steven Universe box set marathon, I am feeling things about this giant rosy space goddess again. Specifically, I am hung up on just how good the character design is for both phases of Pink’s/Rose’s existence.

(Ramble below)

For reference, let’s look at them as-is in the show.

Pink Diamond and Rose Quartz may come from the same color palette, but the composition of their looks is so beautifully, perfectly, utterly opposite.

We look at Pink. Despite towering over the average gem, she’s still laughably tiny compared to her fellow Diamonds. She could stand in the palm of their hand. Fitting, as she has the proportions and appearance of a doll. She is lithe and dainty, and though she is a pretty pink pixie of a figure, she’s also dressed in the most ridiculous and childish costume out of all the Diamonds. It’s a hodgepodge of clashing saturated rose tones, silly harlequin flourishes and the general outline of something a little girl would put together in play. And to the Diamonds, however much they care for her, however many millennia passed, she is a child and always will be to them. One who they treat alternately as a cheerful pet or a toy to be shut back in her box if she makes a mess. There is nothing in her design that suggests a character to be taken seriously. At a glance, she’s only a bubbly bauble there to sing and dance if you wind a key in her back.

(On that note, shout out to the casting decision of having Susan Egan voice her/Rose Quartz. What a retroactive audio whiplash to hear that rich grown woman’s voice come out of a character who looks like she should have a chirpy adolescent soprano piping out of her.)

Now turn to Rose Quartz, the visual Pink ultimately chooses to live in for the rest of her life. Certainly no Diamond-sized stature here, but she does have a physique that looms over and out-bulks the majority of gems in the cast. She is gorgeous but imposing. But more importantly, she looks far more mature and so much simpler. The puffy cotton candy cloud of hair is swapped for intense and weighty curls. The elfin face has been rounded and made fuller. The big bright eyes are now perpetually half-lidded and dark. The elaborate and outlandish form-hugging costume is switched out for an airy uncomplicated gown. Even the funny little ballet slippers and their pom-poms have been banished in favor of bare feet.

Give or take the longer process of inner growth and development, we see Pink Diamond put real effort behind using her new appearance to wholly shed the person she has been so long: A person ignored, belittled, imprisoned and infantilized for thousands and thousands of years. An eternal little girl-pet-toy, unable to protect what she loves from those who claim to love her, never an equal to her family or anything but a figure to mindlessly nod and smile for among Homeworld’s gems, Yes, my Diamond. Rose Quartz in her final shape is Pink putting her (new) foot down and turning her back on that history.

Rose Quartz is a woman, the Matron to Pink’s overstayed Maiden. A leader. A threat. Serene and stately. An enigma even to her closest friends and bitterest enemies rather than the prancing and bombastic Diamond she once was.

The character design is part of the storytelling for all the gems in the series, but this? This contrast is a story in itself.

(Psst, if you want some art of your own, I've got a Ko-Fi over yonder.)

[mydearlybeloathed]

𝐈 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ³

𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞, 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞...

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a ghost from your past makes a surprise appearance, dragging forth all the regrets and wishes you'd spent years trying to drown. and yet, some strange string of Fate keeps you and the future king of the pirates intertwined, for better or for worse.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: opla!luffy x gn!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.6k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: use of Y/N, gn reader, ANGST, alcohol, an existential crisis probably

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: the 1 (long pond), i want to live, son of nyx

series masterlist

If someone asked you how many years you’d been a marine, your answer would be uhm, well, less than five, because the actual number was lost to you. But you knew it’d been less than five. Being with the marines for any longer was a thought that shot nausea straight to your gut.

However long it’d been, things had reached a comfortable norm. You rarely saw Koby those days. Back when you were stationed on the same ship, you and he had grown close, finding something familiar in the soul of the other. Now Koby was a captain, you were just under him in rank as a commander, and the two of you were under different commands. 

You rarely noticed when a day passed anymore. It was all a numbing cycle of chores, reports, and arrests—repeat. Your cohorts had taken to a game they called Make-Y/N-Crack, in which they did everything in their power to draw any sort of reaction from you.

No one had won so far, your deadpan too seeped into your whole being that you’d near forgotten how to smile.

Your main indicator of a passage of time was the wear and tear of Luffy’s wanted poster, one of his very first, and certainly not his last. It was faded in some places and torn in a corner, but you held it close to you wherever you went, including the island your ship was stopped at for supplies. 

Given that the ship would be there for a few days, you and your fellows had one night to yourselves to roam the town and do as you pleased. 

“Commander—”

“We’re off duty, Nia. Call me my name,” you said evenly, cutting off the soldier girl. Nia burned bright red, mouth snapping shut. You sighed. “What do you need?”

“Well, I was just wondering why you’re going that way?” she asked, jutting her chin at the side street you’d been headed toward when she called you back. Behind Nia, a rowdy crowd of fellow marines waited for their friend to join, each casting you a contemplative kind of glower. “We’re all headed to the bar, if you wanted to come?”

They all hated you, for reasons you didn't bother to fathom. All except Nia, who was possibly too gentle to be a commissioned marine, in your opinion. “I’m fine. I know where I’m going.”

She nodded once and turned tail, jogging after her friends who nudged her shoulder with a tease you didn’t catch. You stood for a moment and watched them go; you watched their easy smiles and close camaraderie, and you missed that.

Koby flourished in this line of work, setting out everyday to make this world better. You felt you should be doing the same—that you were doing the same—but it all felt so useless. So mundane. Worthless.

You had yet to cross paths with the pirate Monkey D. Luffy. It hadn't yet been a decade, but what if ten years did pass? What then? Would you continue as you are, mindlessly walking a path you’d carved for yourself?

“I need a drink,” you muttered, turning back down the dimly lit street. 

You were somewhat familiar with the town, having been here once before around a year ago. Koby had been with you then, that being one of your last weeks together before he was promoted and moved to a different ship.

It was your intention to find the cozy tavern once again to maybe mull over some of your less-bitter memories. That thought had you running a hand over your face. What’s become of me?

Sometimes you forgot why you’d joined the marines, and then the poster tucked into the pocket of your coat burned with the reminder. Other times, you wondered why you stayed after all this time (you hadn't found a decent answer for that yet).

You found it was easier to get drunk than to wonder where your decisions had led you.

The moment you stepped into the tavern a wave of warm air hit you, along with the odor of sweat, alcohol, and bread. Not the most pleasing combination, but you trudged inside and beelined for the bar anyway. 

The bartender shot you a tight grin, stress lining her forehead. “What can I get ya?”

“Surprise me,” you muttered, setting some money down on the counter. She swiped it up and made to fetch a drink, but her eyes found your messy uniform first. She hesitated, glancing up at you, before warily continuing on her way.

You threw your head into your hands, heaving a sigh. You really should have changed before leaving the ship. Being a marine didn’t make you popular with a great many people. You liked it when town’s smiled at you even when they saw your uniform, but those occurrences were growing fewer and farther between.

If only you had Koby’s optimism. If only you had the guts to stand up. If only you’d gone with Luffy. If only, if only, if only…

He’d probably forgotten all about you, moved on with the sea in his hair and light in his eyes. 

“Here you go.” The bartender placed a drink to your right. You cast it a glance and pulled it closer, peering into the dark liquid. “Strong stuff. Ya look like you need it.”

You nodded through a huffy laugh. “Thanks, miss.”

After cracking your neck you tipped back your drink, grimacing at the sting and just plain awful taste. She chuckled as she walked away. “Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumbled into the cup, taking another swig and slamming it back down with a cough.

A figure plopped into the seat beside you, the ruffling of their coat meeting your ears. They let free a hefty sigh, and you swore you felt their exhaustion just radiating off their skin. 

“Brandy, if you please.”

You choked into your cup, this time not from the rancid burn. Stiff as a board, you stared daggers into the bar, hands tight around the cup. The bartender handed over a glass to the person beside you.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” That voice was gruff with a sly tilt to it. You knew that voice.

You didn’t want to turn, but you did anyway, wide eyes landing on the profile of a one armed, red haired pirate you thought for certain you’d never see again.

Shanks swirled around his liquor before taking a drink, slamming the cup back down a moment later. Really, you should have fled the site and gone to spend a miserable night with the other marines. But your whole body was seized up, eyes locked on Luffy’s idol.

“I—” you squeaked, cupping a hand over your mouth an instant later as Shanks cast you a side eye.

Immediately, he was curious, wondering why exactly this kid looked so familiar. He turned his head, disturbed by how you stared at him like you’d seen a ghost. scrutinizing your face, it hit him like a punch to the gut; in his mind’s eye he shrank you down a few feet, gave you a set of buck teeth, and placed you next to a little curly headed boy.

“Y/N?” He laughed. “What—You’re so big!”

Though he smiled, you couldn’t help but picture his face in a wanted poster. Your uniform felt all too hot and heavy all of a sudden. “Uh…”

“What’re you doing here, kid?” He clapped you on the shoulder and nearly knocked the breath out of you. “Where’s Luffy? I never thought I’d see one without the other.”

You hated to spoil his excitement at the prospect of seeing the boy, so you avoided the question altogether. “I’m here for work.”

He saw right through you, his smile losing some of its genuineness. “And Luffy?” You turned and tipped back the last of your drink, and Shanks finally noticed your attire, particularly the familiar emblem. “Shit—the Marines? Really?”

Annoyance crept up your mind. You held your cup in both hands, gaze hung. “Commander Y/N, at your service.”

“Commander… wow.” He shifted to completely face you, a grin working up his face. “That’s amazing.”

You had expected a shout, maybe the retrieval of his pistol. Not whatever that was. You faced him warily, catching pride flashing in his eyes. “You’re not angry…”

“Why would I be?” He waved for the bartender to bring him another drink, motioning two fingers at her. “You’re successful. Always knew you would be, Worm.”

A childish part of you fluttered at the mention of that old nickname. Bookworm. Hah. You hardly read these days, always too busy. The bartender put down two shot glasses and swept away. “But… My job is to catch pirates like you.”

He scoffed, nudging your glass toward you. “No offense, Commander Bookworm, but you’re not catching me anytime soon.”

“I wasn't going to try. Just saying.” You picked up the glass and watched him reach to clink his to yours. Letting slide a scant smirk, you accepted the cheers and shot back the liquid in sync with Shanks. 

You nearly gagged again as you set the glass back down, laughing. “God, I hate liquor.”

Shanks nudged you as he called for yet another drink. “Can’t say the same.” The conversation fell short, and Shanks cast you a glance as you fiddled with the fabric of your coat. “Mind if I ask how you got here? I mean, I figured for sure you’d be with Luffy. You’ve seen his poster, right?”

“Of course,” you snapped back, your hand passing over your pocket. “I, uhm… A while back, Luffy escaped…”

His eyes held a misty sadness. “And you didn’t.”

You found yourself shaking your head, hands closing into fists. “I chose to stay behind.”

Shanks waited for you to elaborate, blinking blankly. And when you didn’t— “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Excuse me,” you startled.

“Why the fuck,” he enunciated incredulously, “would you stay behind? He’s gotta be beside himself.”

Straightening up, you narrowed your eyes at him. “Even if he was, it’s been years, Red Hair. He’s gotten over it—”

“Have you?” The question was instantaneous, no hesitation behind the dagger-like words.

“What?”

“Gotten over it. I doubt you have.”

You gaped at him. “You know nothing about me. Don’t think you’ve got me all figured out just because you ruined my life by giving Luffy all those stupid dreams—” You choked, huffed, and attempted to make a quick escape.

Shanks’ hand found your shoulder, gentle yet firm, and you plopped back onto your seat, eyes closed tight. “Let me go.”

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “Okay? I’ll back off.”

Without asking or saying anything at all, the bartender set another glass of that awful drink in front of you. You took a sip, shaking his hand off and taking a moment to breathe. “It was for the best, all right? I would only hold him back. Look how far he’s come. He couldn’t have done that with me lagging after him.”

“Why would you be lagging?” When you didn’t answer, only turning your face away, he nudged you with his shoulder. “Worm?”

That name made it hard to take anything seriously, but somehow, you managed, hissing out a sigh through your teeth. “It’s much easier to read about other people being brave.” Chewing your lip, “I like to read about heroes, mostly to remind myself why I’m not one.”

“You’re a marine. Surely sometimes you’re a hero.”

“Sometimes.” Throwing caution to the wind, you drank your whole glass in one swig, letting the alcohol simmer through your blood and turn your mind hazy. 

“What did you mean,” he asked. “When you said I ruined your life?”

“Oh. It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

You tried to slide off the stool again. “Goodbye, Shanks.”

He didn’t stop you this time, only shifting to watch you slowly trudge away. Shanks scoffed. “C’mon, Worm. What’re you so afraid of?”

Lots of things. You were afraid of spiders and falling, though not of heights themselves, and you quite liked the daddy-long-legs. You were afraid of losing, of failing, of being wrong. Of seeing Luffy again and having him be completely disappointed with what he saw. An all consuming fear that you can’t change what you are, that you’re too far down this road to ever think of turning back.

You hardly realized you’d stopped walking until Shanks was at your side, moving to catch your distracted gaze. “Kid?”

You swallowed thickly. “I was always content with my fate. Luffy wasn’t, and a lot of that has to do with you. The rest was his own passion.” That incessant burn resurfaced in your throat. “So I stayed because I wasn’t about to drag him down with me. He’s too good. I…”

Dammit. You’d been doing so well. You hadn’t cried in months. Trying to glare, you spat, “Goodbye.”

You made to walk past him and actually leave the building this time, but he caught your wrist. Whirling around, your curses were cut off by a quick and dangerous offer: “Come join my crew.”

Shanks was so sincere, nearly hopeful as he stared into your eyes. You wondered if this is how your father would look at you if he knew how to be kind.

Barely breathing, you shoved every word and every notion down to the pits of your mind, retracting your arm to wrap it around yourself. A singular tear fled your eye and was wiped away in an instant. Shaking your head, you backed away from him, trying not to stumble, and bolted out of the tavern. 

The worst of it was Shanks’ sad sigh you caught as you fled, like he’d expected this, like he was wondering why he bothered to ask.

Later, you found Nia and the others waltzing back up to the ship. Your face was dry and your expression a void, and Nia smiled as she raced toward you. 

“Commander!” She skidded to a stop, backtracking, “Sorry. Y/N.”

“What is it?” you said a little too harshly.

She wasn’t perturbed, grinning up at you. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Your heart held this odd numbness you had come to equate with acceptance. Luffy’s poster burned like hellfire in your pocket. “I think so.”

Nia invited you to join the rest of them in the ship’s galley, promising good conversation and cheap wine smuggled on board. You told her you’d think about it, and she chased her friends up the gangway and onto the ship. 

The sea licked at the wood of the docks and the wind bit at your skin. And you stood solemnly, watching that crumpled wanted poster become saturated by murky water till it sank out of view.

You regretted it instantly, a recurring theme for you, apparently. 

How easy would it be to walk away from the marine vessel and find Shanks again? How simple would it be it to ditch this marine’s coat and set off on your own? Your hands started to tremble at the very notion. Not easy and not simple at all. 

Casting a glance up at the starry sky, you bit back a sob, and you made a wish on the first star you laid eyes on. Please, please don’t hate me.

Stiffening, you set your jaw and cursed yourself. You had to get a hold of yourself. Being a marine was hell for you, but you’d been doing it for years. Seeing a ghost from your past and having him give you a chance shouldn’t be so crushing. Honestly, you should be cursing Shanks for giving you an offer you didn’t deserve. This was all his fault, all Luffy’s fault—

And you broke, breath seizing as a silent cry fled your lips. 

You loved him—of course you still loved him. You would until you died, you think. And that was the problem. With your arms wrapped around yourself, you thought back to the day everything changed.

Luffy’s little broken boat, disappearing on the horizon, Vice Admiral Garp leering at your shoulder. Your first moments entrapped by fear. You’d been proud of that day, once upon a time. Now you weren’t so sure.

Was there any room to turn back, with years of running from your past behind you?

“Oh, Luffy. What have I done?”

A cord in your heartstrings snapped, and your feet scrambled away from the marine vessel. A gasp ripped from your chest, eyes aflame, and your fists tightened desperately around this bout of courage.

Back down the road, back to the little tavern, you burst through the double doors, certain you looked insane as your eyes sweeped the dim room. The bartender’s eyes snapped up from where she was cleaning the many glasses you and Shanks had left behind. A fistfull of beri had been left in his wake.

“Keep going left,” said the bartender. “You might catch him.”

A thank you slipped past your lips as you raced outside, raising your hands in two L’s to pinpoint the right direction, taking off down the street that faded from cobblestone to dirt under your footfalls. 

Over twigs and leaves, under trees that grew thick further down the path, your heart thundered against your ribcage. The sloping road grew thin before it gave way to a secluded beach lit only by the moon. Your chest heaved as sand kicked up behind you.

“Wait!” you cried. “Shanks! Wait, please! I'll go with you! Shanks…”

A little lantern illuminated the dingy too far away to hear you as it rowed closer to the ship anchored out in the bay. A whisper of his name fell off your tongue, throat suddenly dry and stomach sick.

You hit your knees, fists grabbing at grains of sand that slipped through your fingertips. “Come back. Please…”

For the second time in your life, you watched a ship sail away carrying with it the chance of freedom, leaving you on the sand empty and helpless.

જ⁀➴

Luffy rarely dreamed when he slept. When he did dream, he never remembered it, the wild scenes fading seconds after he woke. 

Which is why he startled awake, hands clawing at his hammock, straw hat falling off his face and into his lap. He clung to the sound of your laughter, of your touch grazing his cheek, of the feel of your skin under his hands—

He didn’t dream often, but when he did, he often dreamt of you. 

He rubbed at his sleep crusted eyes and ached for the quickly fading memory. The finer details of the plot were soon lost on him, but he knew in this dream you were happy. Luffy liked those dreams much more than the more common ones where you cried, too far out of his reach to comfort.

“Luffy?” spoke Chopper, his voice hazy with sleep as he yawned. “Are you okay?”

“Huh?” Confused, Luffy realized he was gasping for air. “O–Oh, I’m fine, Chopper.” He glanced down from his hammock to offer the reindeer a trembling smile. “I’m good, really.”

Not buying it, Chopper huffed and stood from his own hammock, making quick work of climbing up to Luffy’s. He sat across from his captain, worry all over his furry face. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“Nah, don’t worry ‘bout it.” He reached over to ruffle the tuft of fur between Chopper’s antlers. “Sorry for waking you.”

He smiled softly. “It’s okay.” Chopper started to snuggle into the fabric of the hammock, obviously having no intention of climbing back down. “I was having a bad dream too.”

Luffy leaned back, doing his best to calm his nerves enough to go back to sleep. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm. Nami was angry at me. It wasn’t fun.”

The captain laughed, promptly shut up by a voice from the hammock underneath. “Shut up, would ya?”

Chopper squeaked, “Sorry, Zoro.”

The swordsman sighed and rustled in his hammock. “It's fine. Go to bed.”

Soon Zoro’s snores filled the mens’ quarters, and Chopper’s calm breathing soon followed. Sanji and Usopp snored in tandem as well, till only Luffy remained awake, staring at the ceiling, trying desperately to recall his dream.

You couldn’t be happy, wherever you were. How long had it been? Far too long, though he wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed since he last saw you on the beach of Foosha Village. 

Would he recognize you? Would you recognize him? Luffy had to hope the answer was yes, and he had to hope one day he’d have the chance to rescue you, to set you free just as you freed him.

“I’ll find you,” he threatened the silence. “You can’t hide forever.”

Miles and miles away, kneeling on the sand, you swore you heard a familiar voice in the wind, but it couldn’t have been. You were halfway near drunk. That must've been it.

Luffy turned his head to look out the window of the cabin, and you tilted your chin to stare at the stars. The stars twinkled down on the both of you, promises and threats hung on the wind and sea that separated you. 

Some endings are always meant for tragedy. Some loves are meant for doom. It was how Fate worked. 

But Fate favored you and Luffy—forever working to save the other, forever aching for the day that would bring you side by side once again. 

>>

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @its-not-too-late-for-coffee @khaleesihavilliard

[m1ckeyb3rry]

── THE GLASS PRINCESS // SEVEN

Series Synopsis: You wake up in a strange room with no memories, broken glass at your bedside, and a prince named Zuko as your only chance at figuring out who you really are.

Chapter Synopsis: You get your first taste of freedom from the constricting walls of the Earth Palace.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Zuko x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 5.2k

Content Warnings: complicated relationships (strangers to friends to lovers to enemies to strangers to lovers to enemies to lovers), amnesia, alternate universe, lots of secrets and lying and mystery

A/N: hello everyone and welcome to part two of the glass princess!! in the next few chapters we will be learning more about princess y/n and how she met zuko/the fall of ba sing se :) thank you all for reading!! and yes i did make up an entire spirit for the #plot 😭🙏🏻 i promise she will have significance to the story later on though!!

Although it was uncharitable, you could not help yourself from thinking that the only reason Long Feng was allowing your brother to keep that ridiculous creature around was because of its apparent resemblance to Quynh. In a way, it could be considered to have been made in her image, and Kuei knew that as well as you did, which was why he was currently leaping about joyfully, shaking you by the shoulders as if he were a child instead of a man.

“I’ve found him!” Kuei shrieked at you for the thousandth time. “I’ve found Quynh’s son! She hasn’t abandoned us after all, Y/N! She sent her son to me!”

“That ghastly, muddy creature is no child of Quynh’s,” you said, wrinkling your nose at the tufts of fur all over the fine carpet. “And Quynh never abandoned us in the first place. I do not know why you think that that is the case.”

“No one has seen her in nearly a century, and it’s been even longer since anyone found Quynh’s Door. If ever she was real, she left the palace long ago,” Kuei said. “Maybe she was never a spirit in the first place — just one of Bosco’s ancestors.”

“That is blasphemy!” you rebuked him. “Quynh is no Agni — she is a concrete spirit, not an abstract deity. If anything, she is far more similar to Tui and La, from the Northern Water Tribe.”

“Who?” Kuei said.

“The ocean and moon spirits,” you said with a heavy sigh, once again finding yourself unimpressed by Kuei and his ignorance. “They live in the Northern Water Tribe and allow Waterbenders to bend.”

“Quynh doesn’t allow anyone to bend. She’s a different legend entirely. You should know that,” he said. You gritted your teeth.

“I wish you would pick up a book for once! It was an analogy, you fool,” you said.

“It matters not,” Kuei said after a second. “I don’t know why you’re so set on this fairytale, but the sooner you give up on it, the sooner you can find the wonder in the real world.”

“By the real world, do you mean my chambers?” you said. “Or yours? Because that is the extent of the world I know.”

“I mean the bear sitting before you at this very moment!” he said, ignoring your pointed response and gesturing towards his new pet with a flourish. “You are more taken with a made up story than an actual natural phenomenon. That’s a problem, dear sister.”

Bosco the bear grumbled at you in agreement, blinking his large, wet eyes at you. And perhaps you might’ve been impressed by his sturdy build and elegant snout, but all you could see when you gazed upon him was a cheap copy, a faded replica that could never hope to capture even half of the original’s glory.

“Well, dear brother, it can’t be helped. Your pet will never be Quynh,” you said.

“Always bringing down the mood, aren’t you?” he said, rolling his eyes at you. “I wasn’t saying he was Quynh, I was saying he resembled her greatly. Anyways, you know stories always inflate their characters; for all we know, Quynh really did once look like this.”

You wanted to argue with him, but of course it would not be productive. Like the element he ruled, your brother was set in his ways — the only qualities he had in equal measure to stubbornness were cowardice and naïveté, both of which he was perhaps better known for. It was true, though, that when he gained a sense of conviction for something, he’d stand by it with a fervor that he rarely displayed otherwise. It was one of the few attributes you could genuinely admire him for, even if it was inconvenient at times.

“As you say,” you said. “I see no purpose in further discussions on the matter. You do not believe in Quynh, and I do. Neither of us can change the other’s mind, so we ought to just move on.”

“Compliment Bosco first,” Kuei said. “On my authority as the Earth King, I demand it.”

“You demand a lot of things on that tenuous authority,” you muttered. Then, you smiled at the piteous looking bear. “You truly deserve to be my brother’s companion. I am certain you are possessed with the same commanding spirit that he is so fortunate to claim.”

Kuei beamed at you. “Thank you. You can return to your room.”

You snickered at him. “It is appreciated.”

Only when you were halfway down the hallway did he shout in protest, realizing your thinly veiled insult. You sped up your pace, running towards your room before he could come and question you or make another demand — you did not put it past him to insist that you compliment his bear properly.

It was one of those ways you had to get back at him. You were ever searching for more, trying your best to needle the brother who was, whether directly or indirectly, the cause of your imprisonment.

Your chambers. His chambers. The hallway in between. These were the confines of your world, according to Kuei and Long Feng, who was his most trusted advisor. It would be dangerous, after all, for a girl with no bending and royal blood flowing through her veins to be wandering the streets without protection, even in a city as safe as Ba Sing Se. So although you had begged to at least see the kingdom which was your own, you had been promptly refused every time, the locks changed periodically and the guards rotated hourly to ensure they stayed alert to your movements.

Escape was impossible, but even in such a life, you could find solace: in your dressing room, a door would sometimes appear, a door which led to the heart of the palace — not the throne room, but the true heart upon which the entire structure was constructed. Quynh’s Den, the entrance to which was constantly shifting between the spirit world and the mortal one, was the only place you had for yourself, though of course you shared it with its other inhabitant: the great mother bear spirit Quynh.

It was there today. Ensuring that the entrance to your own chambers was sufficiently blocked, you did not even hesitate to pull the door open, ducking into the stone passageway behind it eagerly. The only light came from the glowing crystals overhead, but you knew the way so well that you could’ve tread it even with your eyes closed, so the dimness did not trouble you any.

It did not make sense for such a long, winding hall made entirely of stone to be behind your dressing room, but that was because the hallway was not truly there. The door was only a gateway to the realm in which Quynh’s Den resided, but that realm was somewhere else, in some intangible other dimension that did not quite obey the same rules as yours.

Time, too, felt strange in this place. You did not know for how long you walked; you never did. You could only keep going until the narrow passage opened into a large cavern, the walls of which were studded with the same glowing green crystals that the entire hall had been encrusted with. The majority of the space was taken up by a massive black form curled up on a bed of ghostly white moss, her head resting on paws that were several times your own size. You knew from past experience that if you were to stand right beside her when she was in such a position, you would barely even be able to peek over her nose.

“Quynh,” you said. Twin jewels blinked open — her enormous eyes were the same luminous shade as the crystals surrounding her, and they, too, shone with a mysterious, intrinsic power.

“Y/N,” she said, the cavern rumbling with the depth of her voice. “I was wondering when you would come again.”

“I come whenever you allow me to,” you said, moving so that you could sit in front of her. She huffed, tilting her head so that you could clamber onto her paw and lean against the plush fur of her cheek, which would be several times warmer than the cold stone floor.

“It’s not under my control,” she said. “You know my limitations.”

“Yes, of course I do,” you said. “That’s how it’s always been. I was just reminding you, so that you are not angry.”

“I do not blame you,” she said. “For not visiting. I know that you cannot unless the circumstances align. Rather, it is that I am bereaved when you are gone. It has been many years since I could say this with certainty, but the truth is that I miss your company.”

“And I, yours,” you said. “Though you should not feel too complimented by that. It is you or Kuei, and I am, as ever, irritated by him at the moment.”

“You should not quarrel with him,” Quynh chided you. “He is the only family you have. It does you no good to fight with him so frequently. You will be sad if something happens and those are the only memories you have of him.”

“I wish that you were not inclined to defend him!” you said.

“Whether you like it or not, he is of the same line as you. I love him as well, for that fact. I am bound to,” she said. You pouted.

“You ought to love me more. He doesn’t even think you are real,” you said. “I’m the only one who’s believed in you in decades.”

“A mother cannot declare favorites,” Quynh said diplomatically. “And so, neither can I. You ought to know this by now.”

“He’s found a bear,” you muttered obstinately. “It’s a disgusting creature. Rolls in mud whenever given the opportunity and barely knows to shut its jowls when it’s eating.”

“A bear?” Quynh said, one of her ears flicking with interest. “I did not know of any which existed.”

“I suppose there is this one,” you said. “He is a true bear; I have ascertained as much. He does resemble you, though it is in the way that quartz resembles diamond.”

Bear was not quite enough to encapsulate what Quynh was. Certainly, her form was as such, but she was in a sense phantasmic, and so ascribing a physical species to her was disingenuous. That was why you found it so grating that Kuei was frolicking about and proclaiming that he had found her equal — she had no equal. Quynh stood alone.

“It is unfair,” she said, “for you to hold that against him. If you were possessed with an uneducated eye, you, too, would mistake the quartz for the diamond. He cannot be blamed.”

“I would know,” you said. “Even if I were blind, I would know. The diamond possesses something which the quartz never can.”

“And what might that be?” Quynh said.

“I don’t know,” you said. “But there is some such quality.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps you are upset about something entirely different and are taking out your frustration on an animal that cannot help its ancestry and a brother who is known to be a fool.”

“On that much, we can agree,” you said with a self-satisfied smile. “Kuei is a fool.”

“Y/N,” Quynh warned you. You hung your head in defeat.

“I asked Long Feng if I could leave again,” you said. “I thought he was in a generous mood, considering he raised no complaint about Bosco being moved to the royal chambers, but he refused! I told him I would not stray from my guards’ side, that I only wished to go for a matter of minutes, but still he said no.”

“Did he give his reasons?” Quynh said.

“The same as ever,” you said. “Until Kuei marries and has children, I am next in line for the throne. As the heir, I must be kept with the utmost of caution, and the only place I can be safe for certain is the palace.”

“He’s not entirely wrong,” she said. “The world is dangerous. More than you might think.”

“I don’t think anything,” you said, though you immediately felt poorly for snapping at her. “I cannot even form an opinion on the city I might one day rule. What sort of a princess does not even know her subjects? To say nothing of my brother the king, who himself has not left the palace walls in years and is entirely comfortable with that! I cannot understand it. I cannot understand why he has no desire to know his people, the very people who love him so dearly as to accept him as their ruler.”

“Not everyone is like you,” Quynh said, nudging you as gently as she could. “And your brother’s past shaped who he is now. You cannot blame him for desiring safety when he was there when it all happened.”

She spoke of your father. You had never met the man, for he had died days before you had been born, so you felt no grief at the reminder, but you knew it was not the same for Kuei. After all, your father’s death was the only reason your brother had taken the throne in the first place; a throne which, at his young age, he had been ill-suited for.

Due to Kuei’s fondness for animals, which he had had since he was very young, your father had taken him to the zoo for his birthday. There, a wayward assassin of the Earthbending variety had sent spikes of stone into your father’s heart, killing him before the guards could even react. It was all they could do to save Kuei and run — the assassin, as far as you knew, still walked free today, for they had been too concerned with your brother’s protection to chase after the killer.

The zoo was shut down. The child Kuei was crowned king, though your mother was deemed his regent. Days later, she fell gravely ill. Giving birth to you was the last thing she did — she never left the childbearing bed, using the final remains of her strength to push you out and hold you tightly against her chest until she stopped breathing entirely.

One child there for your father’s last moments. The other, for your mother’s. Quynh was not exaggerating in saying that Kuei was the only family you had left, but your lives had been so dissimilar as to be entire opposites. He had his ministers and advisors to replace the gap your father had left in his life. You had Quynh to serve as your mother, in whatever way she could.

“The guards will be vigilant,” you said. “And anyways, even if I am Kuei’s heir, I doubt that anyone would have cause to assassinate me. I am not important enough to the kingdom. If I were killed, Kuei would simply marry earlier, and have more children, so it would be a net loss for any assailants.”

“You know that I am not opposed to it,” Quynh said. “It is your brother and his advisors who forbid you; I am only reminding you to respect their wishes, for they, in some manner, have your best interests at heart.”

“But I am dying of it,” you said. “Every day I languish in the palace, I can feel my spirit being crushed by the ever-encroaching walls. My only respite is visiting you, Quynh, but even that is not enough. I am still captive.”

Quynh sighed. It was a great sound, whistling and low, teeming with disappointment and worry and affection, all in equal measure. You rubbed your hand against her fur, waiting for her response, though you doubted it would be any different than every other time you had asked.

“You want me to open a door to the kingdom,” she said.

“Yes,” you said. “If I go alone, in the garb of a commoner, then I should escape notice entirely.”

“Alright,” she said. You opened your mouth to argue before closing it.

“Alright?” you repeated. “You’re saying yes? What about the usual rebuttals? It’s too much of a risk, Y/N, you won’t even be able to find Quynh’s Door.”

“It’s true,” she said. “You won’t have that guarantee, but of course, I can manually open doors back to the palace. The danger in this is that you will have to wait until I can open a door to allow your return, even if you want it earlier. As you well know, time is different here. I could open a door for you mere seconds after you’ve left, but that still might mean you must spend hours in the city.”

“I do not mind,” you said. “I will make good use of that time. But what has changed your mind? Why have you never offered before?”

“Something has come to the city,” she said. “I can feel it. There is a presence, or perhaps multiple presences, that can change the course of Ba Sing Se’s destiny — and, more importantly, of your family’s destiny. I am not sure, but I feel as if it is imperative that you leave, or else I will be depriving you of that destiny. And that unto itself is a fate, but not the one which you are meant to find.”

“Who are they?” you said. “These presences. How will I know that I’ve met them?”

“You won’t,” she said. “There is no way for any of us to know. Even they, themselves, may not yet be aware of it. It is just like that. You needn’t endeavor to find them; if you are meant to, you will.”

“I see,” you said, and then you leapt off of her paw, beaming up at her. “Then the only thing I will

“I hope you do,” Quynh said. “Furthermore, I hope you do not regret your decision.”

“I won’t,” you said firmly. “Thank you, Quynh.”

“It is my duty,” she said. “I am obligated to. To be sure, it is difficult, for there is always some difficulty when a mother must let her child go, but it is necessary. It is a story older than even I.”

“And this story is just as old,” you said. “That even when you let me go, I will return to you. Of my own volition, I shall return.”

“So you shall,” she said. “Go, then, Y/N. And return with as much haste as you leave, so that I may not miss you for too long.”

A new hallway formed in the walls of the cave, and without a backward glance, you walked towards it. Striding down the passage, you kept your eyes forward, knowing that if you turned around, you would see the stone closing behind you. You could not go back; it was not the nature of Quynh’s power. There was only one way to go, now that the decision had been made: forward.

All of the passages made by Quynh were the same length — barring the one behind the famed Quynh’s Door, naturally — so it was a trick of your mind that made the trek to Ba Sing Se seem longer than when you returned to your room from her den. Still, eventually, you came to another door, and your entire body shuddered in anticipation as you placed your hand on the knob, because this was the moment that you waited your entire life for.

Unable to delay for a second more, you swung the door open, taking your first step into the city of Ba Sing Se, your silk-slippered foot toeing delicately onto the cobblestones. Shutting the door behind you, you glanced over your shoulder to ascertain that it had disappeared. As you had expected, the wall was smooth and bare, giving no indication that there had ever been an exit in the first place.

There were people everywhere. You had never witnessed such a large crowd before; people milled about by the fading light of the setting sun, jostling one another as they rushed to and fro. At the fringes of the throng, two men with long torches went about lighting the street lamps, though they took their own time doing so, talking and laughing with whichever passersby that they recognized.

Another person might find the chaos to be ugly, hideous in its disorder, but you found a kind of mystical appeal to the hustle of the street. These were people who were living their lives as they were meant to, with no awareness of the simple freedoms and small joys they possessed. They gave no care to the idea that their daily lives were so remarkable to you, that their going-ons were the most wonderful thing you had ever seen.

You were too afraid to step into the sea of people, so you stayed along the sides of the road, admiring them, watching them, wanting more than anything to be one of them. But of course you were not. You would never be.

The door had spit you out near a small tea shop. It was not run down, exactly, but it was lived in, homey, the wood polished and the chairs worn. You opened the door to the establishment, but found it to be devoid of any patrons. There was only an old man behind the counter, sorting the change with toughened hands, though he looked up when he heard the bell chime announce your entrance.

“Hello, miss,” he said. “I’m afraid we are about to close for the night.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem,” you said. “I wasn’t wanting tea, anyways. I was just admiring your shop.”

“Why, thank you,” he said, grinning at you. “Though it’s not my shop, so I can’t claim to have any hand in the decor.”

“It smells so lovely,” you said. “It reminds me of a very beautiful thing, though I can’t name which.”

“Flowers?” he guessed. “Maybe a garden full of jasmine blossoms, their petals facing the moon, with a few drops of rain scattered about on their surfaces?”

“Actually, yes,” you said, amazed at his accuracy. “How did you know? That was exactly correct.”

“It’s the new blend of jasmine tea we’re brewing for tomorrow. My nephew picks the flowers himself, so that we can be sure of the condition of the jasmine before we make the tea. It’s the best way to allow the flavors to come through!” the man said.

“Wow,” you said. “I never knew there was so much thought put behind tea. I just drink it.”

“Most people don’t care enough,” the man said with a nod. “That’s what sets our tea apart. It’s only when you pay attention to the most minute details that you can ensure your final product is as close to perfection as can be found in a teacup. It’s a grave sin to think that tea begins and ends with the boiling of water; in truth, it starts when you plant seeds in the soil.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” you said. “Though I hadn’t it until now. Thank you for telling me. I shall pay more attention the next time I have tea; perhaps then I, too, will be able to understand its origins from a mere sip.”

“It takes practice,” the man said. “But no harm ever befell the man who paid attention. Or woman, in this case.”

“Of course,” you said. “But I should leave you to close. I apologize for bothering you in the first place.”

“Don’t apologize,” the man said, waving you off. “It’s always a delight to have a conversation with a willing partner.”

“The delight was mine,” you said.

“Do come again!” the man said. “Perhaps earlier in the day, though. I can serve you tea — or, better, I can make my nephew do it. I think he’s about your age, and he is wanting for friends. But don’t tell him I said that! He’s not aware of it quite yet.”

Your eyes widened at the thought. You had never met someone your own age, nor had you ever had a friend — Quynh and Kuei were your family, for better or for worse, and the servants never dared speak to you beyond the barest of formalities. So, in a way, you were alsowanting for a friend, but you could not tell the man this. Instead, you smiled slightly at him, bowing your head in gratitude.

“I should like that,” you said. “If ever I am nearby again, I will surely come.”

As the night stretched on, the streets began to empty — or was it that you were wandering further and further away from the main crossroads? Regardless, there was certainly a shift in the air, and it was only when you entered a deserted neighborhood that you realized there had been footsteps following you for quite some time now.

Turning around, you saw no one. The streets were devoid of life. The footsteps had stopped, but you could not help the nagging feeling that something was wrong.

Where was the door? It had been long enough — you should’ve been able to find it by now. You should’ve been able to go home by now. But there was no door. You were alone, and you suddenly understood why you had been forbidden from leaving the palace.

“Who goes there?” you said. “I — I am armed, so show yourself, but proceed with caution!”

“Armed?” a voice said. “Don’t fool yourself, your royal highness. Everyone knows you aren’t armed.”

“Your royal — how do you know who I am?” you called out. “Coward! You dare to hide in the shadows and hurl such insults at me?”

Your response was an enormous boulder shooting towards you. You squealed and dropped to the ground, covering your head with your hands as the boulder smashed into the wall behind you, bits of rubble raining down. There was a stinging pain on your knee, and you frowned as you realized that you had scraped it when you had initially dodged.

“What are you doing?” you said. “You will kill me! Stop it! You craven hound, I command you to stop what you are doing and face me like a man! If you cease your actions and explain yourself at once, I shan’t have you put to death. I will even pardon you of your every crime!”

Again, no response, and your heart dropped as you realized that might be his goal. What other reason would the man, who apparently knew your identity, have for attacking you? It was unfathomable, but you were reminded that it had not been so long since your father had been assassinated. Whatever sentiments had driven that attack…what if you had been wrong? What if you were, for whatever reason, the target for the next assassination?

It reminded you of a story, one you had read on the tenth anniversary of your father’s death. You thought it might comfort you, or more specifically your brother, to read the tale of another king who had been assassinated but whose reign had continued on regardless; in truth, though, only one quote had stuck with you, and this quote was neither comforting nor kind.

Sometimes, these things just happen, it had said. Kings are murdered. There isn’t always an explanation. Sometimes, the only reason is the action itself. Sometimes, people just kill for the spectacle of killing.

Maybe that was the case. Maybe you were just going to be killed for the spectacle. The show. The king’s beloved sister, murdered in his own city, the safest city in the entire world.

Right when the second boulder was about to hit you, there was a metallic sound, and then something sliced through the boulder, cutting it in half before it could reach you. When you looked up, there was a man in black standing in front of you, twin blades held in each hand, his posture confident but wary.

“Who are you?” you said. The man did not respond, scanning the area. He must’ve determined it to be safe, as abruptly, he relaxed his stance, sheathing the swords and then shifting to face you.

You could not stop yourself from yelping. Instead of a face, there was a blue mask regarding you, frozen in a grotesque grin, though when you got over your initial surprise, you realized you recognized the guise.

“The Blue Spirit?” you said. He nodded. “I’ve read the play, but I didn’t realize that you were — that you were a real being!”

The Blue Spirit was motionless in the wake of your words. Or, no, that was not correct. It was not that he was motionless, but that every part of his body was constantly shifting and changing, on high alert, so that the sum total was a man that was both ever at rest yet ever moving.

You pulled yourself to your feet, careful not to hurt yourself on the scattered stones surrounding you both, and just then, right behind you, a door appeared. You laughed ruefully at the ironic timing.

“What were you doing here, anyways?” you said. He mimed opening his hand; you did so, your palm facing the sky, though you had no idea what he planned to do with it. But he had saved you, so you thought that there was no harm in trusting him for a moment longer.

He did not do anything as dramatic as grabbing it or carving his name into it. He just dropped something into it, something soft and light and white.

Jasmine flowers. The delicate cups of the blooms were opened, seeking out the moon, and twinkling in the starlight against the silky fibers of the petals were a few drops of water — holdovers, you assumed, from the day’s rainfall.

You closed your fingers over the flowers, careful not to crush them in your fist. You did not know what they meant — an offering? A price? Something else entirely? Regardless, you knew that they were important, and you vowed to reread the story of the Blue Spirit once you returned home, so that you could understand their significance.

“Thank you,” you said. “For the flowers, and also for rescuing me. If we should ever meet again, then I will thank you in a better way, but for now, I have to go. The longer I linger here, the more danger the two of us are put in.”

Opening the door, you took a step in, but before you closed it, you looked over your shoulder, back at where the Blue Spirit had stood. That strange person…you owed him your life. The least you could do was look back at him, afford him a final glance before you sealed yourself away entirely.

When you turned, though, he was already gone. The only proof that he had ever been there in the first place was the flowers in your hand, the pluming dust in the air, and the heart which steadily beat in your chest — that beat which meant you were still alive, at least for now.

You did not stand there and mourn his absence. Allowing the door to swing shut and the passageway to close behind you, you began to walk home.

taglist (comment/send an ask/dm to be added): @rinisfruity14 @c4ttheart

[jeanclamence]

Pour Les Poètes

For Poets by Jean-Clamence (me)

Poets! What admirable creatures they are. They possess the magnificent ability to create beauty out of sheer nothingness.

They adorn paper, flat and dull, with little ornaments and pretty trinkets, vowels and consonants, big and small, some letters like the bark of paternal trees; rising with narrow loops, and some curving gently downwards like the sides of a stout hill. Then all of a sudden, there it is! There, lying inert on the paper, is creation. Only they can bring it life and give it's cheeks a plump vitality, a rosiness to be admired. They are sparks of brightness amidst an endless sky, distinguishable from the uncommon manner of their illumination among all the spilled stars. On some nights they stain it with coffee after a careless move or crumple it, driven by the height of emotion and hopelessness. With each stroke of their pen and each sentiment of their mind, they proliferate their vices as well as present their goodness. They free words and enslave them all at once. They are devoted to their craft, but they cheat on conformity, observing both life's intricacies and acknowledging it's shallowness, then creating something brilliant out of it.

I have not fallen to the belief that art represents the entirety of the artist, nor does literature represent the entirety of the author (though that may be the case, or partially the case for some.) I am not them, I cannot assume anything about them solely from reading their work. We will never be able to thrust ourselves into their minds. We may never be able to fully grasp their thought. Within them, there is something far more amorphous and irreducible than what they speak and write of. They may write of joy and love, and yet on the other hand, they might live dismally, quite contrary to the beliefs held within their own creation. They show the world themselves yet simultaneously, they hide themselves.

Though eloquent and skillful with words, they too—as a result of their humanity—, realize they can no longer find any words to describe the feeling that stirs in the depths of their heart and their string of thought. A dissonance is born, echoes through their theatre, and their orchestra comes to a halt. 'Should I shuffle through my brain or some dictionary again? Should I give up?' They think and enter into a conflict with themselves. Then, they must think again to settle the dispute. That is when they fall to their knees and resolute, either with all the burdening regretfulness of their heart or with a candid indifference, to turn away.

May the poets of the world burgeon, and may the love of literature and language flourish.

[amnevitahwritesstuff]

What if the House of Wind decided it didn’t want Nesta to leave?

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Nesta/Cassian

Rating: Teen

Triggers: Horror, Spooky Stuff, Tragedy

Chapters: One-Shot

Length: 1,984 words

I had planned to post this at midnight on October 1st to kick off Spooky Season…but I’m old and sleepy so it’s going up a couple hours early.

Anyway, it’s Spooky Season somewhere so I’m starting it off right with a haunted house story! Enjoy! 👻🎃

Read on AO3 or below the cut

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The Hungry House

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It was little things, at first. 

Her hairbrush disappearing from her vanity. The water from the tap refusing to warm. Books she swore were on one shelf appearing on another. At first Nesta thought the House was playing a game with her. Like a child teasing a friend by hiding a piece of cake behind their back before eventually producing it with a giggle and an exaggerated flourish. 

But then, slowly, it was more noticeable things. 

Food appearing for her but not Cassian. Doors that would take just that little bit of extra time unlocking. Rooms that refused to warm up no matter how high she built her fire. 

“Stop it,” Nesta told the House one day after it had locked her in the library. It was the fifth time that week. “Let me out.”

It had relented eventually…but only just. As if it were reluctant to do even that. 

Nesta and Cassian began to wonder. Did magical houses get melancholic? Was it angry they were gone so often, like a neglected child bitter at the absence of their parents? Perhaps it was just in a mood? Either way, they figured it wasn’t anything to be too concerned about. After all, it was just a house. What could a house possibly do besides mildly inconvenience them? 

Or at least, that’s what they told themselves right up until things began to get very strange. 

Suddenly, they found that doors they’d relied upon for years to deposit them into the rooms they desired…led them to new places entirely. Cassian would open the door to their bedroom only to end up in a strange new office. Nesta would open the door to the library only to find herself in an unrecognizable hallway. 

“We should leave,” Cassian finally said one morning after he found her in a strange room he’d never seen before. He told her afterwards that he had been looking for her for hours. 

The House, however, had other ideas.

It became very clear very quickly that the House had no interest in letting them go. As soon as they had spoken those words into the ether, Nesta heard every door in the House snap shut and then the telltale click of a lock clunking into place. 

It took Cassian barely a moment to blast through the door…and only a moment more to realize how trapped they were. 

Yet again, they found themselves in an unfamiliar hallway. An endless series of doors stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. 

“Well,” Cassian said. “…Fuck.”

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They quickly lost track of time in the House. 

There were no windows in any room they entered, the magical lamps being their only source of light. Was it day? Night? Mid-afternoon? Neither could be sure. Every day bled into the last until their lives became one endless series of doors and hallways. And every room they entered…grew stranger than the last. 

In one room the walls seemed to…melt. As if they couldn’t bear to hold their shape a moment longer. In another, gravity became a mere suggestion with furniture floating halfway to the ceiling. And in yet another room reality seemed to morph and bend in such exotic ways that Nesta was forced to slam the door closed before she could risk her brain leaking out of her ears. 

It was alive, this House. Nesta had always known this, of course, but it was never more clear than now when she spent her days wandering the halls and could hear the House groaning like a living thing. Sometimes she could even feel its breath as the air circulated through the hallways, as if she were standing in the throat of some great and terrifying beast that had swallowed her whole. 

And how did one even escape from the belly of such a beast? 

At least the House didn’t let them starve. If anything, it left treats for them wherever they wandered. Slices of cake lying innocently outside a door. Whole rooms filled with feasts laid out as if waiting for them to sit down and indulge. It was clear that it didn’t want them dead. 

But it also didn’t want them to leave. 

This became abundantly clear every time it decided to play games with them, the same way a lazy house cat would toy with its prey. 

It most delighted in separating them. 

Nesta often found herself wandering into a room only to discover that Cassian had not followed her inside. And, of course, by the time she would realize her mistake and whirl back, it would already be too late. She would reach for the door, hoping it would swing open onto her mate’s face and instead it would open into a new room or hallway. 

If they were lucky, they would sometimes be reunited after a few hours. 

If they weren’t, they might not see each other again for weeks. 

“Never again!” They would always murmur to one another whenever they eventually stumbled upon each other again. “Never again!”

It took days before either of them felt comfortable letting go of the other. Always paranoid they would be snatched away again without warning. 

And so it went. 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

At first Nesta didn’t think much of the room. 

Initially it seemed like every room she often wandered in at random (though wether due to pure chance or the whims of the House, she couldn’t truly be sure anymore). Though, after a moment, it seemed like a rather odd room to dump her in for one very strange reason.

It was a children’s playroom. 

In the corner she spied a chest overflowing with toys. A little dolly with black hair and little brown wings. A picture book filled with exotic animals and creatures she wasn’t sure even existed. A little wooden sword, dented and well-used. 

That couldn’t be right. There weren’t any children who lived in this house. At least, not to her knowledge. 

And yet…

It continued to puzzle her until Cassian spoke. 

“Oh,” he said, a strange look on his face. “So this is where he kept her things.”

“Her?” Nesta asked, suddenly wondering if Rhys had some illegitimate children he never told Feyre about. If he did, she would happily give him a piece of her mind the moment she finally got out of this place.

(If she ever got out of this place…)

“Rhoslyn. Rhys’s sister.”

Nesta couldn’t keep the surprise off her face. 

“Sister? Why have we never met her?”

Cassian’s face was all the answer she needed. 

“Oh.”

“She died long before you were ever born. Rhys doesn’t speak of her because I think he feels responsible in that self-sacrificial way of his. Everyone loved Rhoslyn. She was a bit like Feyre. Impulsive. Stubborn. Rhys let her get away with anything.”

He stared at the little wooden sword with a faraway look. 

“Come,” he said finally, pulling her back out of the room. “We don’t belong here. This place is…haunted.”

“Haunted.” Nesta’s lips pinched together. “And the rest of this place isn’t?”

He shook his head. 

“Not haunted by magic. Haunted by memories.”

She cast a long look back into the room, wondering what kind of memories could’ve led to Rhys requesting the House seal away the childhood he had shared with a once beloved sister. 

Then, carefully, she followed him out and shut the door once more. 

As they left, she decided not to tell him of the dolly she had slipped into her pocket.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

“What do you want?” Nesta asked the House one day as Cassian slept. 

It didn’t answer with words. It never did. She didn’t think it could. But she received an answer all the same. She felt it deep in her bones. 

It wanted her. 

And only her. 

And so Nesta made the only choice she could. 

“I want to make a bargain.” 

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

She stared at Cassian for a long time after that. And even after he woke she couldn’t stop gazing at him like a woman starved. 

“We’ll get out,” he promised her, misinterpreting her despair. It was the same promise he made her every day. 

Nesta didn’t bother to correct him, instead laying her hand over her heart. Right over where her new bargain tattoo lay hidden. 

“Yes.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

When the exit finally appeared it was almost…anti-climactic. 

Cassian had grown so used to opening a door only to find himself in some random room or hallway that when he finally opened one and was greeted by blinding sunlight he just…froze. 

He stood there, squinting up into the beating sun and wondering how on earth he had forgotten what the sun had felt like on his face. Behind him, Nesta made no move to leave the doorway with him, only brushing a single kiss against the back of his neck. 

“I love you,” she whispered in his ear. 

And then, before his brain could process why exactly she would tell him this at this exact moment he felt her heave all her weight against his shoulders and…shove him out. 

He stumbled forward in shock, only to quickly whirl around again. Cassian’s last, horrifying image of his mate was Nesta framed by darkness in the doorway…before the door slammed shut. 

And then disappeared. 

“No!” He roared, pounding the empty wall until his fists were bruised and bloody. “Give her back!”

Cassian’s rage and grief echoed through the sky but no one was there to hear it. 

“What did she promise you?!” He begged. “Please, I’ll give it to you! Take me instead! Just let her go! Please!” 

But the wall didn’t answer. 

That was how his friends found him. 

Rhys was the first to step forward. 

“Cassian…”

It was like he couldn’t even hear his High Lord, so fixated as he was on that empty wall, clawing the stone until his fingers ran bloody. 

“Where is Nesta?” Feyre asked, frantic. “Where is my sister?!”

But her words only made Cassian moan like a wounded animal. He didn’t have to answer Feyre’s question. It was clear to all there where Nesta still was.

Rhys felt helpless as he watched his oldest friend rage and plead with that empty wall…only for something at Cassian’s feet to catch his eye. 

At first it looked to be a crumpled heap of cloth that had fallen out of his pocket…but then, as he drew closer, he saw it was a…doll. 

A very familiar doll. 

The familiar little toy tugged at his memories as he bent to pick it up. A tiny wisp of a girl danced to the forefront of his memory. A rebellious creature with riotous curls and a sly smile who always told him she hated dolls before carefully tucking them into their little doll beds when she thought he wasn’t looking. 

This one had been her favorite. Long after their father had insisted upon her behaving more like a lady she had kept it safely hidden on her bookshelf behind an old etiquette book. He had found it again after she died and the grief had been too fresh. Too much. 

He had thought, after sealing all his family’s things away that he would never see it again…and yet…here it was. 

“…Where did you get this?”

Cassian didn’t answer but he didn’t have to. Somehow, Rhys knew. 

She had done this. 

Nesta. 

His most aggravating sister-in-law, the one he mostly tolerated for the sake of his mate, had taken the time to not only find this last forgotten piece of his sister, but had ensured it would find its way back to him. 

And now they were both gone. 

It felt like a blow to the chest. 

“I thought she hated me,” he whispered. “Why…?”

No one answered him. 

No one could. 

Because the one with the answer to that question had been swallowed whole. 

Enjoy this fic? Looking for another like it? Check out my ACOTAR Fic Masterlists.

Thanks for reading! ❤️

[sundogsandrainbows]

Of Elves And Humans: Redux, Chapter 60: Dying To Live

QUICK LINK TO THE CHAPTER UPDATE

STORY SUMMARY: Trust is a delicate flower that needs to get nurtured and time to grow. Even more so love. A tale of two disparate Wardens forced together, of finding a way to overcome the distrust, and their own painful past in the time of the Blight. Very in-depth, character-focused exploration of the Dalish origin/warden, of all DA:O companions, and their relationship dynamics during the Fifth Blight. Follows and expands on canon events; AU in some ways. Multiple POV's and pairings. Slow burn af.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Morrigan returns to a home that no longer is one and has to face what this means for her, as well as her struggle with her own emotions she derides as weakness. Zevran might be able to help… (Also catch up on the prior chapter Heal My Wounds, Part II , if you missed it.)

READ IT HERE || [OR READ FROM THE BEGINNING]

Chapter-excerpt under the cut:

[...] Morrigan used her body to shield the book from the elf's overly curious view. “Have you been following me?” 

“Hmm, not as much following you as to stretch my legs after a much needed clean, my dear.” He pointed to his head. Pfft, as if his vanity wasn’t his most prolific trait. “And to get to know every nook and cranny of our new, exciting camping spot, of course.” His gaze lingered straight ahead, the nonchalant shrug only betrayed by the twitch of his lips. “Though I confess, I didn’t expect to walk into a funeral.”

“Funeral?” Morrigan scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Flemeth was your mother, was she not?” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Are you planning to leave her there like that, to rot? A bit callous, tsk. Not to mention unsanitary, with us around here, no?”

“I didn’t even know she—” Halting, she bit her tongue before giving away more than intended. Finding her here while searching for a quiet spot to read, had been an unwanted revelation. No one told her! “And why shouldn’t I just leave her there?” Morrigan settled for instead. Anger was… easier, safer to express. “Since my mother tried to take over my body!”

“Ah, family! Either the joy or the bane of your existence, no? In some cases even… literally.” The elf chuckled, and he kept his tone light, but there was much he left unsaid. There often was, unnervingly so. To decipher all the hidden meanings behind his words and flourish was more a headache than it was worth to solve. Of course he didn’t cease his theatrics but added to them with a sweep of his hand over the unperturbed greenery of the swamp here. “The destruction didn’t reach this part, I see. Rather a serene view, is it not? Perhaps this is why Sten brought your mother’s corpse back here. Aw, old softie.”

“So you knew that—ugh, maddening.” The nerves of this damn Crow.

“As smart as you are beautiful, I see. Indeed, the perfect mixture.” This damn elf only laughed at her glare and prolonged groan. “But perhaps I can help you here? I do have a bit of an expertise in dealing with death, after all.” 

“Help with what exactly?” She scoffed. Again. How easily he elicited annoyance out of her was nearly on par with Alistair. “You are—”

“Handsome? Kind? Ridiculously awesome? Hmm, all of these?” 

“...a fool who spends far too much time on his hair.”

He bunched strands of his hair and grinned anew, or rather hadn’t stopped yet. Ugh. “Ah, but look, the mud made it even shinier! What’s not to love about it?” Letting go of it and his humor, both, he cleared his throat. “Though to answer your actual question: building a pyre, maybe? Sadly, one does not often get the chance to say goodbye, so you should use it, no?”

Or to ascertain her mother would not rise again and claim her after all. Fire was good for that. “Fine.” Resigning with a sigh, she stowed her tome in a safe corner at the back of the building. Unfortunately, it seemed its study had to wait. “Let’s get this over with.”[...]

[catofadifferentcolor]

Stray (2022)

You were my friend, the very best I could have asked for.

Very rarely my brother will recommend me a video game that changes my whole outlook. Stray is the latest.

Contrary to what it must seem like from my game reviews, I'm not a big gamer. I've probably played more video games this year than I have in the last 7 combined. But I was replaying Dragon Age: Inquisition in honor of the upcoming Veilguard release and about halfway through I got burned out. DAI is almost interminably long if you try to hit all the side quests, and before I even hit the middle I was getting bored.

My brother recommended Stray as a palette cleanser.

I was hesitant at first as the very concept seems to hint at harm to animals, which is perhaps my biggest hard limit in media. Luckily, the orange cat’s fall at the beginning of the game is the worst that happens - though my heart was in my throat for that entire cut scene.

It is, on the surface, a very simple game: a lost cat tries to escape the city and rejoin their family on the outside. It is above all a puzzle game - a delightful one which, oddly enough, reminds me of Assassin's Creed and Jedi: Fallen Order without the combat bits. And yet one barely needs to scratch the surface to understand that Stray is, at heart, about the triumph of the human spirit.

This should be an absurd thing to say. There are no humans in the game. You have four feral cats and a whole bunch of robots living in a dystopian future where humanity has destroyed itself, leaving behind a world of sentient robots and a horrific body-horror parasite called zurks that consume anything alive. And yet humanity flourishes in the robot slums where few still dream of the world outside.

Humans have destroyed themselves. Unknown horrors must have lead to the walled cities, now filled with robots aping their creators in the truest possible ways. And yet:

“But we were born of risen apes, not fallen angels, and the apes were armed killers besides. And so what shall we wonder at? Our murders and massacres and missiles, and our irreconcilable regiments? Or our treaties whatever they may be worth; our symphonies however seldom they may be played; our peaceful acres, however frequently they may be converted into battlefields; our dreams however rarely they may be accomplished. The miracle of man is not how far he has sunk but how magnificently he has risen. We are known among the stars by our poems, not our corpses.” -- Robert Ardrey African Genesis

That is the heart of the game. Everything that makes humanity worthwhile lives on in our creations - our love for our families, our kindness to strangers, our art, our music, our hope, our sacrifice, our courage. By all rights a people who have never seen an organic that doesn't want to kill them should destroy that organic when it enters their homes... but the robots are kind and welcoming to a stray orange cat even when it might kill them. And that is the game.

Yes, there are puzzles and chase sequences and a fight against an oppressive government for freedom, but that's not what the game is about. It is about finding kindness and friendship where it should not exist.

Beyond that the mechanics of the game itself are fairly simple - as I said, it reminds me a lot of the non-combat portions of Assassin's Creed and Jedi: Fallen Order. If you take your time and explore every nook and cranny, you still can finish the game in under 6 hours. But Stray leaves a mark far deeper than many far longer games I've played.

Random additional comments include: 1) The best cat graphics I've ever seen, and the most cat-like cat in a game. The orange kitty moves and acts and sounds like a cat. They do cat things. Knocking things over and causing occasional random destruction are key parts of the game. The post-apocalyptic cat pc is never anything but a cat. I love it. 2) The fact that sleeping for an hour in the game is its own achievement brightens my day every time I think about it. 3) The end of the game manages to capture the triumph and tragedy of the human condition - again, without a single human in the game. I cried. 4) The implication at the end that the entire game was just another adventure in a long line of adventures for the orange cat was pitch perfect. 5) The only thing I'd change about the game is the orange cat carrying B12 out into the sun instead of curling up with them in the control room, but I understand why they didn't.

In short: I love this game. I will replay it the way people save and savor fine wines and expensive chocolates: rarely, on special occasions, when I need to remember something good and pure and inspirational about the human race. 5 out of 5 stars. Cannot recommend enough.

[kitty-is-writing]

Luke & Theresa - The Straws

another part of my prequel/origin story/lore about Luke and Theresa, for anyone who was following it! (masterpost for anyone who wants to catch up) This is directly after this part, showing the events that led to their separation later.

The party had gone on far longer than anyone had expected. Discarded meat bones and bread crusts littered the long table, tipped over cups spilt their last drops across the rough wood. A fair few people had over-imbibed, and slept off their indulgence by the dying fire. Luke slowly packed away his lyre, checking the strings and wrapping it in the protective cloth he kept it in.

Theresa was sitting at one of the smaller tables with Astrid, holding the younger girl as she dozed. From the look of it, she had snuck more than a few cups of mead during the party. Though technically too young to drink, few among the group were likely to deny Astrid much. Her actions in the last few attacks before settling in this place had saved dozens of lives, and most felt they owed her. At least she would be spared the worst of the mead’s effects, judging by the faint wisps of gold Theresa was directing around her.

He had just swung his lyre over his shoulder when Bennett and Alec picked their way through the party debris. “Something wrong?”

Bennett was quiet, looking at the ground. Alec hitched a sickly half-smile onto his lips as he spoke. “Just coming to find you and the young ladies. We have the straws ready to go, and thought we should get the whole thing out of the way.”

Luke froze. “I thought we were doing the draw first thing in the morning?”

Alec shook his head. “May as well do it tonight. No sense waiting around, keeping everyone awake worrying about it.” He still had that awful not-smile plastered across his face, the one he always put on when he had some plot in the making.

Luke simply glared at them. He should have known they would do something like this, try to throw off any plans he might have made to sneak away in the dead of night. But he hadn’t thought, had been too sure of his own cleverness, had failed to make a contingency plan. It was too late, now, to simply flee the village. Not that he would abandon Theresa to their schemes, anyway. He would have to face this head on.

Bennett mumbled something about fetching the others and walked away, leaving Luke alone with Alec. Silence hung between them like the line of a tripwire, ready to spring horror on any who broke it. After moments that dragged like years, Bennett returned with Mark, who held a handful of cut straw, and the rest trailing behind. Enyeto shuffled along at the back with a scowl, wearing his nightclothes. “This better be quick, Wythe. I only just settled down after that racket you were all making out here.”

“It shan’t take long at all, I assure you.” Bennett ushered everyone into a rough circle, bringing Theresa and Astrid over from their table. Mark stood in the centre, holding the straws. “We all know why we’re here. Mark, whenever you’re ready.”

“Here we go, then. These straws are magically binding, enchanted by the Weyr Mother herself. No takebacks, no running away.” Mark looked directly at Luke as he said this last. “Who’s first?”

Enyeto leant forward, whipping one out of Mark’s hand. “There. Long straw. I’m going back to bed.” He left the circle, grumbling about late nights and lack of sleep.

Theresa was next, drawing hers with a slight tremble. It also came out long, and Luke breathed a sigh of relief along with her. At least whatever plot the rest had cooked up would not punish her.

Then Bennett, beside Luke, with another long piece of straw. There was no hint of expression on his face, only a blank stare at the strand he held.

Mark turned to Luke, presenting the fistful of straw with a flourish. “Your turn, boy.”

For a second, Luke imagined refusing. Spitting in the man's face, denouncing this whole thing as a sham. But the impulse fled as soon as it had come, and he pulled one of the straws.

It was barely the length of his smallest finger.

“Tough luck, lad,” Bennett said, patting his shoulder.

“We should keep going. There might be a shorter one,” William said.

Mark and Alec exchanged a look that only Luke caught. “Fair enough. Paul, you're next.”

Paul's was the same length as the others. Rachel, then Alec, then William, all long strands. Only two remained when young Astrid took her turn. She flashed a quick smile at Luke, and pulled hers at a slight angle, so it snapped in Mark's fist.

“Mine’s shorter than Luke's,” she said, making an exaggerated frown. “I guess I'm staying behind then.”

Oh, gods bless that sweet child, Luke thought. The others would never let her go through with this, he knew, but it was kind of her to try.

“No, it just broke as you pulled it. See?” Mark opened his hand, showing the rest of Astrid's straw alongside the last one. “And that last long one is mine. Looks like Miller’s going to be staying here.”

“No!” Theresa, shaking her head, staring across at Luke. “No, we have to do it again. Best of three, I’ll draw again.”

Bennett turned to her. “Then what? Best of five, of seven, of nine? When do we accept the result? We all agreed to decide it this way. It’s done. None of us want to stay, but one of us has to. Young Luke certainly has the talent to seal the gateway behind us, and plenty of reason to keep the device safe.”

“So do I, I’ll stay behind instead! I’ll trade places with him,” she cried. “It doesn’t matter who stays, as long as one of us does, right?”

Mark whirled around, taking a step towards her. “So you can half-ass it and leave us all at risk in the hopes of opening it back up again in a year or two? With you on the other side, the boy will do everything in his power to keep the damn thing closed and protected. He stays, you come with us.”

“But…”

“Resa.” Luke looked over at her, the short straw digging into his clenched fist. “It’s fine. Let’s just spend our last night together, okay?”

She flung herself into his arms, sobbing as the others left one by one. Astrid gave them both a sad little wave, and William offered the formal parting bow of his people, but the rest walked away without a word.

“We… we can still leave, can't we? Like you said earlier, just you and me,” she said, voice thick with tears.

“Ah, love, I wish you’d said that an hour ago.” Luke held her close, near to joining her in weeping. “You heard Mark. We’re magically bound to the outcome now - at least I am. I'll have to stay, and seal the gateway after everyone else leaves.” He had felt the prickle of a bond form as he held the straw, a subtle thing, but one he was powerless to break in the short hours he had to work with.

“I'll talk to them first thing, before we go through. Bennett ought to see sense, at least. There has to be some other way to do this.”

Luke stayed silent, unwilling to shatter her hopes. The time for protestations had passed, without either of them realising, and all that remained was facing the consequences of their lack of action. Whatever came with the dawn, he wanted one last night with Theresa.

~~~

taglist (ask for +/-): @eli-t-spoon @write-with-will

[daluy0ng]

(   emma d’arcy  .  nonbinary  .  they/them  )       —       blasting  twilight time by  the platters  down  main  street  we’ve  spotted  LUCIEN WESTCOTTE  sporting  their  golden sun necklace given by their father.  the  thirty (physically, real age unknown)  year  old  VAMPIRE  who’s  been  in  town  for  fifteen years  often  can  be  seen  watering their flowers in their back garden early in the morning, shopping for art supplies every weekend, then working quietly in their balcony as they enjoy some jasmine tea,  or  working  as  a/n  OWNER  at  MIDNIGHT STEEP.  people  say  they  display  adaptable  and  enigmatic  traits,  but  we  rather  trust  their  vibes:  their gummy smile that they rarely show, paint on their fingers that has dried up that they haven’t noticed, their washed, slightly faded plaid shirts from second chances.  also,  we’ve  heard  they  love  STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE !   aren’t  they  fascinating ?   

FULL NAME: lucien of westcotte NICKNAMES: luci AGE: 30 (physically) / real age and birthday unknown GENDER & PRONOUNS: nonbinary, they/them FACECLAIM: emma d’arcy HEIGHT: 5’9” SEXUALITY: queer OCCUPATION: owner of midnight steep

tw: illness, death

king gareth of westcotte, his whole life had always wanted a son. his wife, queen altheira, was a delicate thing, her foot was always in the grave at every pregnancy she went through, and loss they’d always experience, when it comes with male offsprings. they only had little girls, princesses, and regardless of what he wanted, the king loved them all, even when the fact of not having a son threatened his position. lucien, they were one of the siblings he’d spent time the most, given they were the oldest, he passed on so many things to them, knowledge, most importantly, as most people underestimate the power it has, that was how he kept his kingdom, his people only flourishing and far from unharmed. not a blood shed, for years, not even when he chose lucien as his heir to the throne, nobody dared to question such decision, as he was firm.

if there was one thing that gareth and lucien didn’t agree with, it was having them marry to strengthen their claim for the throne. lucien felt like it was unnecessary, and the king…deep inside, he understood, but if they wanted to be the one to lead this kingdom one day, they had to make sacrifices.

it was no secret how close lucien and princess selene of thorenvale are. it was…as if, the two were attached to the hip, always spending time together inside and outside of their study. lucien admired selene so much, her knowledge with battle, they would sometimes sit in the corner and watch her train, and there were often times she’d teach them too, in case one day they were left with no choice, but to defend their kingdom. eventually, in secret, the two fell in love, and it was something that was so strong that for the first time in their life, lucien rebelled against their father. they didn’t want to marry anyone who isn’t selene. they were relentless, and almost every day, the king and their child would argue and it could be heard in the halls of their palace.

but one day, the last argument they had, the prince suddenly lost their strength to stand and fell into the arms of their father. it was kept secret that they fell ill, as nobody wouldn’t know what it was, as it was rapidly taking lucien’s strength to survive away. their father felt….desperate, and somehow, lucien felt close to succumbing to it, given the chance to say their goodbyes to their loved ones, to selene, and as everybody would find out, lucien of westcotte has disappeared.

only the king knew where lucien really was and took that to his grave. their father had a friend who lived longer than any human should, a vampire, somebody he saved back when he was younger, and a favor was owed, if they ever needed their help, they could come to them, and out of despair, he did. he asked for lucien to be saved, and to be under their care.

and for so long, longer than they can remember, lucien has lived, surrounding themself amongst people, not wanting so much attention as they travelled around the world for many generations through the help of their guardian. until fifteen years ago, portum showed up along their path, and the need to hide isn’t there anymore, lucien was too exhausted to hide anymore.

and as of this time, they are now the owner of midnight steep, living amongst the residents of portum, feeling the belongingness that they have looked for forever.

[storyteller-kara]

The Different God

"Human's can not have power. The mortal world we built for harmony, peace, a land where life can flourish and be happy with the content of their lives.” The Elder god seemed against all aspects that meant giving any more power to the mortal realm they had just created. Everyone was seeming to agree with him as well. Many other gods talked, offering their opinion and reasons as to why. “If we give them more power than we have, it could lead to corruption. Many would die and yet we would need to rebuild all we worked so hard for, it would be shameful to bring life into a world just to have it all destroyed by death in seconds.” “Their greed would control their minds before we know we even acknowledge it.” “I agree.” The meeting seemed to go on for hours and hours. A woman at the far end seemed rather not amused, as the white cobra which laid happily upon her seemed to keep her at bay. Her more clear blue eyes mixed with white seemed to hold a grudge against the words being spoken. Why make a race if you couldn’t give something you have within you to them. It seemed unfair, a moral to which the women didn’t like in the slightest. The Elder god seemed quite curious, all the gods were speaking, voicing, and yet one wasn’t. “Silence. Madelief?” The woman tapped her shoulder twice, a signal the cobra seemed to understand as it moved. Slithering from her lap, all the way to the designated area, her shoulder. The woman then stood up. Her hair seemed a bit longer than her shoulders as it was a bit fluffy and curly as the silver locks didn't move as much. Her black outfit seemed to outline some of her features, trims of gold seemed to contrast greatly to the obsidian color. “Yes Elder?” Her voice, although she looked intimidating, was soft and gentle, holding back any emotion of rage that so desperately wanted to seethe through like snake venom itself. “I want you to voice your opinion. You’re rather quiet for someone who is always so straight forward.” Madelief scoffed, she hated being mocked for her behavior not being as ‘God Like’ as the many who sat before her. The cobra on her shoulder hissed as if it felt Madelief’s pure intentions inside. “I find the idea of not giving them a bit of our power revolting.” The room was silent, no one dared to whisper. The Elder seemed more enraged by this answer, clearly not one he had hope to hear. “What is your reasoning? Clearly only you think otherwise, which is preposterous given who you are.” “My power and status as a god has nothing to do with whether or not I agree or disagree with your child-like behavior. I’m simply thinking and speaking for myself and like everyone else in here my statement should be accounted for. And for that I believe the mortals should be given a small fraction of our power. We do not know how they could use it to thrive and become functional, or burn everything ablaze in their path of destruction. If I am a God as you all say I believe we should take a risk.” “YOU ARE A MERE GOD! THIS SUCH IDEAS ARE FOOLISH! YOU MAKE A MOCKERY OF YOUR FAMILY AND THE ONES WHO CAME BEFORE YOU ON HOW THEY COULD LET A CHILD LIKE YOU TURN INTO A GOD.” The Elder pointed to the door. “Take you and that vermin out of my domain. As your Elder, you are the only one with that option out of us all therefore your ‘option’ has been demolished. We will not be giving the mortal realm our powers, that is not up for discussion.” Madelief walked out of the room, the bottom of her dress swayed elegantly as herself seemed unfazed by the slander she had taken. “If that is what you wish, then shall it be written. If those people suffer, because someone thought of the negatives, I'm glad I’m not to blame for being in charge.” With that she was gone, and no there uttered a word, standing by the Elder who still seemed to be fuming.

[majimalicious]

Chou no Doku Hana no Kusari SS fantl

花の名は - The Name of the Flower (Majima)

Info: First published in Sweet Princess Vol. 10 and later in the second artbook.

Beneath the bright early summer sky, trees with lush green leaves swayed gently as they were carried in on wooden carts, one after another.

The scene was like a moving forest—familiar, yet always evoking a quiet sense of awe in me.

Old gardener's apprentice 

"Mr. Majima, should we plant this maple tree here?"

Majima

"Wait a moment... It would be better a little farther back. Yes, right around there."

The soil, painstakingly dug and prepared over the course of several months for this very day, received each tree as the men skillfully planted them one by one.

I worked as the live-in gardener for this estate, but this task was far beyond what I could manage alone. To assist, I had called upon another gardener, an older man who had brought several apprentices along.

His face was ruddy and weathered, yet even past his 60s, he remained strong and full of vigor. He regarded me with a hint of surprise.

Old gardener

"So, you're the Viscount's personal gardener at such a young age? Quite impressive."

He said, looking at me as if I was his grandchild.

As our casual conversation went on, it became clear that he knew my former master. At that, his expression grew even more nostalgic as he studied me.

Old gardener 

"I see... So you're his apprentice."

Majima

"Everything I am today is thanks to my master. He took in someone like me, a complete nobody, and taught me everything."

Old gardener

"Yeah, he was a man with a big heart. Lately, he’d been going on about taking in a talented new apprentice... Turns out, that was you."

The deep wrinkles etched into his face, like lines carved by a chisel, briefly took on a faintly sad look.

Old gardener 

"If only he'd lived a little longer, he would have been able to see you make a name for yourself. You’ve got real talent, you know. The trees seem to love you."

I felt unworthy of the praise, insisting that I had only been lucky to be noticed and taken in. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a little uncomfortable.

Hearing those words from a seasoned gardener made me feel like I was pretending to be something I wasn’t—acting as if I were a fully qualified gardener when I still had so much to learn. I knew I wasn’t there yet.

Even so, I took great pride in this garden. The estate might belong to the Viscount, but the trees that grew here—they were mine. I had cared for them, nurtured them, watched them flourish under my hands.

The previous gardener had passed away suddenly, and I had been fortunate enough to take his place. But I held a firm belief that I had brought this garden to life in ways it had never known before.

These trees were my children.

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

The workers left, and I stood alone in the garden, quietly taking in the scene that had grown livelier with their work.

The newly planted trees blended perfectly with their surroundings, standing tall with an air of quiet dignity, as though they had always been there. I let out a satisfied sigh.

...Beautiful. And strong.

Even though they had been transported from some distant land, the trees had firmly rooted themselves in this new soil, determined to thrive.

Though their transplantation was entirely artificial, they still relied on nature’s sacred forces to stand tall, spreading their leaves, blooming flowers, and bearing fruit. And if they should wither, their remains would nourish the earth, giving life to the next generation.

This cycle of life—though it may seem ordinary—is, in reality, a mysterious, carefully balanced design of the world.

Every time I witness the grandeur of nature, I am moved, never failing to be awed by it.

This harmony of nature is a work of art far greater than anything man could create.

Hatsu

"My, it’s become quite grand, hasn’t it?"

The peaceful moment was broken by her voice. I turned, as though waking from a dream.

The woman approached with a smile, walking in a slightly exaggerated way. She was, if I remembered correctly, Hatsu, the maid who had recently joined the household.

Hatsu

"Isn't it all just for the ball? For that young lady's birthday, right?"

Majima

"......Well, the lady is at that age now. The lord and the others must be really putting their all into it."

Hatsu 

"Heh. So that childish lady is at an age where her parents are going all out for her like that?"

Hatsu snorted in amusement, clearly not impressed.

Hatsu

"If they've got the time and money to make the garden this grand, they could at least be more generous with our pay, don't you think?"

The boldness of her voice made me furrow my brows.

Majima

"Hey...cut it out. What if someone hears you?"

Hatsu

"It doesn't matter... Haven't you heard?"

When I asked, "What do you mean?" Hatsu swayed her curvy body as she leaned in closer to me.

Hatsu

"This household, you know, it's already run out of money. It's on the verge of collapsing."

Majima

"......No way."

Hatsu

"I'm telling you, it's true. All the servants know. You must have heard a little bit about it, haven't you?"

Majima

"I don't know anything."

Hatsu

"Hehe. You really only care about the garden, don't you...?...But that's kind of nice, too."

Hatsu pressed her large breasts against my arm. I instinctively tried to pull away, but she clung to me, not letting go.

Then, she pressed her lips near my ear, blowing a breath against it.

Hatsu

"Hey... you. Why don't you come with me and leave this place?"

Majima

"...Huh?"

Hatsu

"I've got a good offer. There’s a place that’ll pay us better. Let’s go there, just the two of us."

Her sudden proposition took me by surprise, and I paused for a moment.

When I looked back at her face, her slightly protruding, drooping eyes were filled with a confident, determined light.

Hatsu

"I’m telling you this because it’s you. If I’m leaving this place, I’d want to do it with you."

Majima

"I appreciate the offer, but I’m not planning on leaving right now."

Hatsu

"You’re quite the loyal one, aren’t you... But almost everyone else is already looking for other options. You’ll have to do the same soon enough."

Majima

"But..."

Hatsu

"Hey, it doesn’t have to be right away. Just think about it, okay?"

After saying this, Hatsu gave me a tight hug from behind. Then, with a final glance over her shoulder, she made an exaggerated pose and walked back toward the estate.

I stood there, feeling as if my peaceful thoughts had been disturbed, and turned my gaze back to the garden.

—Leave this place and go somewhere else? Just the two of us?

I had noticed that she had been making her intentions clear for a while now, but of course, I had no intention of accepting her invitation.

What puzzled me the most was that it was me she was asking. I knew she was sleeping with Saburou, the manservant.

After all, nearly every night, I couldn’t help but hear the lewd sounds coming from the next room—so loud it almost seemed like she was trying to make sure I heard. Sometimes, I would even see them doing it in the bushes, clearly visible from my window.

For her to make such an offer to me was utterly baffling. Why not Saburou?

I decided to stop thinking about Hatsu. It was pointless.

More than anything, discussions about wages and such have nothing to do with me.

I am not here for money.

I am here for this garden, and—

My gaze falls upon a white lily blooming in the corner of the garden.

(The bud that was closed this morning has already opened.)

Its pure white petals, seemingly just opened a moment ago, remind me of the lady.

A faint warmth stirs in my chest.

(Should I offer this lily to her?)

Of course, flowers are most beautiful when left to bloom where they are. Yet, that tomboyish lady barely pays any mind to the flowers in the garden.

Just a few days ago, she had gone out with a friend and returned by evening, covered in mud like a mischievous child. Before sneaking back into the estate, she came to me in secret and asked if I could wash her feet.

When I asked what had happened, she looked a little embarrassed and hesitated before answering.

Yuriko

"I tried to save a cat that was about to be run over by a carriage, but I ended up falling. And after all that, the cat I rescued just scratched my arm and ran off. Isn’t that awful?"

Hearing that, I couldn’t hold it in—I burst into loud laughter.

She may have been born with an air of elegance, but her behavior was anything but that of a noble lady.

As I laughed without restraint, she puffed out her cheeks in anger.

Yet, I could see a hint of embarrassment peeking through, which made her all the more adorable.

(She really is just like this white lily.)

A creature entirely different from that maid earlier. No longer a young girl, but still too young to be called a woman.

She seemed like a naive and ignorant lady, yet there was an intelligent light in her eyes, as if she could see straight through the psychology of things.

Though others describe her as childish and innocent, I could sense the changes in her—how she was growing more beautiful with each passing day.

The lady was maturing—yet there remained an untouched purity, a noble grace.

She was unlike any other woman. And it wasn’t because she was a noble lady.

I didn’t know how others saw her. Perhaps to me alone, she was a special existence.

I held this beautiful, newly bloomed flower for her.

I picked a single delicate white lily. With a small sound, its fresh stem easily snapped.

The lady was just one step away from becoming an adult.

I wondered who the man she would be with in the future might be.

Suddenly, a cold sensation spread deep in my chest.

The evening breeze seemed to slip into the cracks of my heart.

Even in my hands, stained with dirt, the lily remained a pure, untouched white—almost impossible to tarnish.

I gently kissed the flower's petals. Amid its sweet fragrance, a faint emptiness lingered.

[ceekbee]

When Texas Republican congressman Brandon Gill said on CNN, that people of Canada should be “honored”, of all things, “…to bring these territories (sic) under the American fold…” he illustrated why among my Canadian friends, not one would feel honored; more like horrified.

I do watch CNN, between commercials, but not Fox “News”, where Jesse Watters reportedly said that being “taken over” by the U.S. should be deemed a privilege. My heavens…how could anyone smart enough to button a shirt think such absurdities? His shirt is buttoned, right?

That question is rhetorical. Otherwise, it might cue a rant on American exceptionalism. But let me skip that and return to the point. NO! Canada and the U.S. are very similar, with shared histories and a shared continent, and there are many things about the U.S. we Canadians greatly admire, enjoy, benefit from, are happy about. But others, like peaceful transfer of power, are already down the tubes, although alive and well up here and in many other democracies.

And incidentally, when Americans worry about the end of democracy, I wish they’d put the qualifier “American” in front of “democracy”. It does flourish elsewhere in spite of best efforts of men (rarely women) who decry fact based policy, and democracy, while desirous of power over others.

The average lifespan of Canadians is longer than the 74.8 years of an American male. In Canada it is 81.3, or a couple of months younger than I know am, which explains why I’m typing as fast as I can! We prefer living longer. Our infant mortality rate, latest figure I can find, was 4.3 per 1000 live births, while it was 5.6 in the U.S. and right or wrong, we cherish that 1.3 baby. And, although it was hard fought decades ago, we are happy that women get the reproductive health care they decide upon in consultation with family, advisors, doctors. The state has no business in the wombs of the nation.

We like our kids not having to worry about being shot, the number one cause of childhood death in the U.S., with the number of school shootings in the U.S. pegged at 83 last year.

We prefer, and had, none.

Sure, there are more Americans than Canadians, but even on a per-capita bases, our capitas were all safely learning, laughing, living, in school, and not under their desks in locked classrooms dialing 911, or lying bloody and broken on the floor.

Our healthier kids could also, in part, be because Canada’s unacceptably shameful child poverty rate of 9.2 percent is still only half of America’s 18.6 percent. And of course, our adults, all of us, are far more likely to be able to afford our universal health care, upon which much less money is spent than health care costs in the U.S., without us having to mortgage the house or declare bankruptcy, or simply die. The system is not perfect, but the results of it are well documented.

Americans come to Canada for affordable medication, not vice versa.

Oh, and speaking of drugs, why would Canadians feel honored to live in the country that has the highest drug addiction problem in the world? We prefer living in a country that lacks such a distinction.

We Canadians also don’t want the distinction of holding more people in jail than any other nation, and that’s before the concentration camps for immigrants to be deported are up and functioning, cue the watch towers, razor wire, and searchlights. Canadians do put a higher value, obviously, on freedom – or else we are less criminally inclined. Either way, we like it.

In fact, having slept many nights in the U.S. both in private homes and hotels and motels, I like our lack of bars – the kind on windows, I mean – not the beer serving kind, and I like not having that feeling of terror that comes from forgetting to lock the front door at night. If I hear a strange noise after bedtime my concern is that it a raccoon in the attic and not an armed drug addict in the living room.

We have bad guys, yes, but obviously a lot fewer of them. If we are really all that more law-abiding why would we want to be part of a country so much less so? Most of us are happier with how things are.

And speaking of bars, the gin-and-tonic serving kind, well, both countries are, according to the World Population Review, practically as teetotaling as Donald Trump himself, compared to the country he so loves – Russia. But just to help folks like Brandon and Jesse understand why not everyone wants to be an American, the percentage of people over 15 who have alcohol use disorder in the U.S. is 13.9% while for Cananda, it is 8%, although I suspect it will rival Russia’s 20.9% once Trump’s foreign policies kick in.

Most of us Canadians like living in a country where the judicial system is based on law, not politics. Many of us Canadians can name U.S. Supreme Court members and their political affiliations, but even a law student friend of mine couldn’t name a single Canadian Supreme Court member, let alone their political affiliation. Neither can I. We like living where no one person, even the head of state, is immune from legal prosecution. And most of us like the idea of allowing equality among religions, without allowing one to dominate, or direct governmental policies.

I’d love to see a fair form of proportional representation replace Canada’s “first past the post” electoral system. Outgoing Prime Minister Justin Trudeau promised that, but broke his promise, contributing to a decline in popularity that had nothing to do with Donald Trump. But at least each ballot cast by each Canadian voter counts equally, with no Electoral College involved.

I believe that a majority of Canadians like living in the most educated country in the world, with a 2017 UNESCO report rating us in first place, Japan second, the U.S. sitting at number 9, respectable to be sure, but perhaps a rating that helps explain a country where a person who thought revolting Americans gained control of British airports in the 1770s could win an election.

I know, of course, that Americans love to brag about their high average income, certainly higher than here in Canada, with our much higher tax rate. Greed is highly motivating, and that’s why the leader of Canada’s conservative party’s slogan is “Axe the tax”. Extreme right wingers love cutting taxes. But Canada is well to the political left of the American right, or even what passes as the American left, so we are more inclined to wonder, what essential social service that allows us to be so much safer and healthier, and freer than our southern neighbors do those taxes pay for?

And whose taxes get cut?

America has a higher rate of income inequality than Canada. That’s important because income inequality is an indicator of poverty. The countries with the highest income inequality tend to be also the most highly impoverished, what Donald Trump has called, with regard to the African ones, excrement emitting cavity countries, although he uses somewhat different words than us polite Canadians. But then he also uses a grade six vocabulary, suitable for Brandon, Jesse and the red-hat crowd, maybe, but less so for Canadians.

And so, looked at another way, my Googling informed me that for Canada, thirteen percent of households are poor, while for the U.S. the figure is 19, notwithstanding far more concentrated distribution networks for goods and services in the far more densely populated U.S., than is true of Canada.

In other words, there are more billionaires per capita in the U.S., than here, and I understand why, given the motivational power of greed, they support Trump, with the world’s richest man happily helping Trump to make sure the rich get richer. But there are more poor people, per capita, in the U.S. than in Canada. Odds of not being poor are better here, odds of owning your own plane and crew, a fleet of yachts and some mansions, not so much.

Look, I could go on giving reasons why Canadians support our sovereignty, but it is not because of hatred for our neighbors. America has produced brilliance in the fields of science, the arts, the humanities, and no, no country is perfect, or without historical baggage or the presence of criminals and con artists. Much of what is so negative about America has been exposed by Americans themselves, and so long as there is that ability to speak truth to power, to base information on verifiable fact without facing government reprisal America will continue to be, if not so great, a generator of greatness.

But with the power and wealth of the U.S. comes attitudes that most, not all, but most, Canadians and many other peoples, including very many Americans, to be sure, reject.

The reason why so many people seek to leave more dangerous countries and try to find shelter in the U.S. is because they value their lives, their children’s lives, and have swallowed, as have people like Brandon and Jesse, the great streets of gold myth of the U.S., based, perhaps, on the aspirations of the Founders, all white males. Those Founders assumed, as I garner from reading about them, an informed electorate, and presumably a trajectory away from the “might makes right” rule that distinguishes all living creatures, including our ancient ancestors, and in the direction of civility, the self-constraints of self-imposed law and order, the extension forward of “rights”. Those rights are absolutely not “inalienable” at all, but flow from the strong to the weak and depend on custom, laws, rules, regulations, and enforcement to be implemented for the benefit of the country overall.

I hope that we Canadians do not define “strength” in the terms of a Putin, Viktor Orbán, or Kim Jong Un, where the word is a synonym for brutality – primitive might makes right in the jungle having evolved in the reptilian depths of our brains.

So, at the end of my life I again am to be bullied by a man of absurdly infantile characteristics who seeks to impose policies that will invariably hurt me financially; a billionaire who likes to hurt people, to see the expression on the face of a person hearing his favorite words, “You’re fired”, who wants to punish all who have not obeyed him. The bullying will be, if he follows through with threats, economic, to the detriment of a country that has only aided and defended and contributed to U.S. interests. And in fact, he puts all but the rich and powerful of his own country at risk, as well.

I thought, when the Access Hollywood tape was released, Donald Trump’s political career was over. It was not just that he bragged about grabbing a woman’s vagina – there are lots of sickos out there who would do the same – it was his assertion that, if you were a celebrity the woman could do nothing about it. It was this desire to dominate, to force others to his will, only, that highlighted inadequacy that drives an extreme narcissism that never characterizes a true leader, a stateman, or anyone I can admire. That’s what renders Donald Trump such a bad choice for leadership.

So no, Canada does not want to be the fifty first state. I know whoever wins the Canadian election will deal with the U.S. in accordance to values I may or, perhaps most likely, will not, share, but we share one value…we do not want to be American, not now, not ever.

- by Berry Kent McKay

[aria0fgold]

Whumptober day 5 prompt: "If my pain will stretch that far." (Lottery Winners, Burning House)

Character: Lady Irene-Janine-Karine (The Cursing of Château Castle)(In Stars and Time)

Lady Irene-Janine-Karine, a name well known in high society, famous amongst the nobility. She's regarded as the epitome of a noble lady, graceful and beautiful, she carries an air of dignity that many women envies and many men are drawn to, and with the weight that her title holds, it was no wonder that just as many desires her hand in marriage.

And yet, of all that she is known for, no one truly knows the truth behind the mask she wears. She trains diligently every day with barely any rest, it was the expectations that her family holds, the very foundation of the bars of her cage.

She hates it.

The effort she pours into her hard work were nothing but a dirty puddle in the ground for others to ignore and step on.

“You need to work harder.”

“This isn't enough.”

“You can do better than that.”

The more she lingered in her cage, the tighter the thorny vines around it grew, suffocating her further, blocking out any light, plunging her in a darkness she fears she will be lost in.

She hates it.

All her life, she had lived meeting the expectations around her, she had lived breathing for others, she had lived relying on praises she realizes were nothing but hollow. All her life, she hasn't spent a single moment living for herself.

And she hated every second of it.

“IRENE-JANINE-KARINE! What do you think you're doing?!” Her mother stormed into the training grounds with anger painting her face, it was a look Irene was more familiar with than a loving face that a mother should have for their child, “Let go of that sword right now! You should know better than anyone that ladies should never hold such objects! What would happen to your hands then? Your skin?! What would happen should a scar appear then?!”

She continued her barrage of scolding that Irene paid no mind to, she merely kept swinging the sword, as she had seen the knights done before.

“IRENE!!!” Her mother bellowed, she stomped towards her, heels clicking loudly into the training grounds' stone floor, she moved to slap the sword away from Irene's hand.

Unfortunately, Irene was tired. She was tired of how she had been living, tired of how she had been treated, she was tired of it all that she did not care for her mother anymore. So she swiftly moved backwards and pointed the sword to the woman she once lovingly called “mother.”

She gasped, fear and anger mixing in the features of her face, “Have you lost your mind?! What do you think you're doing, threatening me like that?!”

“From this day forward, I will not heed your words, I will not bow to anyone, and I will live for myself.” Irene spoke, voice stern and leveled, with an unyielding resolve and determination, she made clear that she will no longer be bound to the invisible chains they entangled her in. She will break free from her cage, no matter how painful it may be. “I'm tired of being who I am not.”

That was the last time she had spoken to her as Irene was forced out of the house. Not quite disowned, and not quite abandoned. She was her family's most prized trophy, she knew they wouldn't let go of her that easily. She was placed on house arrest, in a smaller mansion farther from the capital, situated in a poor town.

Irene didn't mind it, she lived her life forcing herself past her limit, and this, will be her greatest rebellion.

If my pain will even stretch that far…

...

I can just force it to.

Her family hoped that she realizes there was no other choice but to live as she always had. Irene will destroy that hope with her bare hands. No matter what happens.

I'll make this town flourish. And obtain a greater wealth than my family will ever have. I'll make them regret throwing me away, when I'm no longer useful to them.

She looked up to the clear sky, darkless and bright and prayed to the Change God her silent vow.

[raytm]

@gunnhildred continued from here. Once, Mondstadt had been his home, a sanctuary where their youths flourished and then, subsequently, wilted and blackened. It did not take much to discern that the Young Master who had once lived with such fervor had become indurate after weathering anguish and grief in abundance. The young, promising knight that had marshaled their exhilarating journeys through knee length foliage and clustered trees and then, later on horseback to repel encroaching monsters, did not harbor the same stern, jaded visage that he did now. They were so different as to be incomparable, his father’s death, leaving to pursue the fatui, whatever harrowing things he had witnessed had changed him irrevocably. Working in solitude was far better suited to him now, not knowing precisely how to bridge the swelling cavern that had fractured between him and Kaeya, nor how to return Jean’s rueful smile. What felt more innate to him now was fighting, a fierce and bitter conflict that when left unchecked spilt over into the vestiges of what once had been his life. The winery felt desolate despite those attending to it and often he was besieged by shuddering, vivid images of the life he had led before, how abruptly that could have been stolen from him. Diluc would have preferred it if he had gone on convincing everyone that his return was not lamentable, that taking up the mantle of the wine industry and setting into normalcy could accommodate him even as he was now. He should have known that of all of those who laid eyes upon him, even in passing, it would be Jean who could see past his solemn front, that beneath that there was unbridled ire and sorrow that he dare not speak of. 

It had taken such an effort from her to glean anything from him, a strenuous process which involved him recoiling, erecting fortified walls as to remain unfaltering. He did not find much comfort in solicitude, as if he had forgotten how to accept it, permitting it to ease the disquiet that wore away at him. Things had changed, the shifting of time showed no clemency for its deserter, even if he stepped back into that life, wore it like an old coat a size too large, it would be unsettling. She, however, despite no longer being so much shorter than he, still remained similar to the one preserved in his memories. Jean had grown into her position but her kindness was still ever present, the sort that had sat beside him as he stubbornly covered his eyes and sobbed when he had fallen from his horse and scraped the skin off his knees, that had held both his hand and then Kaeya’s as they lept gracelessly across wet stones protruding from the river. In his desperate pursuit of revenge he had felt sequestered from them, powerless to salvage the relationships he had left behind. There was guilt harbored within him, because he had made the decision to leave, to chase the apparitions of his father’s life into peril without considering those around him, too young or brimming with rage to comprehend the sort of irreparable damage that could be done with that act. With the way he had reacted to Kaeya. There was so much that weighed on him now that the stolen moments of solitude where there was no need to present with decorum gave way to insurmountable exhaustion. Sometimes the act of wading through the shallow waters of his day to day felt akin to trudging through mires which were swallowing him, towing him further and further away from them. 

How much does it take for Diluc’s confession to be verbalized, for him not to flinch away from the concern that he recognizes in her steady gaze. Jean’s attention upon him is penetrating, astute as she was there was no deceiving her with evasive reassurance. So he says something true, it felt like the first time in quite a long time that he had uttered something so profoundly candid. It’s not as if it’s explicit, nor does it really reveal the hardships he’s enduring but it’s enough, he knows so because her reaction is awkward, leans on Kaeya’s penchant for jesting without knowing how hard to. He wishes he could have laughed, expelled the stagnant air in his lungs and rewarded her efforts, instead, his gaze merely lingers, then, shaking his head. “ I don’t know if even that would be enough.” She cannot alleviate what ails him, too much of it is moored in the past, things that cannot be rectified now, the dead unforgiving and his brother, such a vast distance lay between them. But still she crosses the threshold that he had inadvertently wedged between them and when she sits beside him her presence is a welcomed one. She coaxes him into her lap as if he were a wounded animal, wary and inclined to bolt, her fingers resting gently on the curve of his shoulder, easing him into her lap. He hasn’t sat with her like this since they were children, in a field brimming with dandelions, their gossamer florets swept up on a playful breeze. He is struck then by the sentimentality of it, dreams which had once encompassed the both of them lost to the incessant flow of time, he allows his eyes to close and the soft noise he makes, almost a hum, is in assent to it, the severity of his features lessening, as if he were not afforded a moment of respite.  “  you always were good with us,  Jean.  thank you.” knowing how to deal with both of the brothers, being the infectious grin that would have all three of them laughing, he wonders if her recollection of those times are as vivid as his are. 

[whumpcateyes]

First little part of following the prompt from this post, I'm still working on it, but its something (also does anyone have any idea how I should tag this?? I do not know how to tag properly): (oh also any names, I'm not sure what to call these guys yet)

(content warning for: manhandling, and I think that's it)(so far :)

"You really don't know who I am, do you?" The cruel-looking woman cocked her head, eyes glittering with curiosity in the flickering lights.

Beads of cold sweat trailed down X's forehead, whatever he had walked into, it was most certainly dangerous. "Uh- No. Sorry..."

She stood from her desk with a flourish, letting her long, black, trenchcoat flutter around her waist. X's eyes couldn't help but catch on the pistol tucked into her belt. She traipsed up to where her guards were holding X on his knees.

"So then... If you're not here for the games, then what are you doing here? Wandering into my offices in the middle of the night?

X tried not to look her in the eyes, as if she was a dog who would see eye contact as a challenge. "The- The storm was starting... I didn't know there was anyone here."

The woman looked unimpressed with his excuse, "You didn't think there was anyone inside the well-lit building with guards patrolling around it? Really?"

He tried to come up with some kind of response that would placate her. X really did think the place was empty up until a couple heavily armed dudes grabbed him by the shoulders and started berating him with questions about what he was stealing.

She tapped her sharpened nail against his forehead, "I'm waiting, rat."

Nothing would come to mind, and X ended up mumbling, "I really didn't know. I swear it..."

The woman sighed theatrically, then turned her back on X and returned to her desk. She waived dismissively at the guards, "Just kill him then. I don't need an infestation finding its way in."

X's stomach dropped as he was pulled roughly to his feet, pinned between 2 massive arms.

"W-Wait!! You don't have to kill me! Please! I can just leave- Y-You don't have to bother!!"

The woman faked a yawn and half-heartedly directed her guards to the door.

X panicked, brain searching for any excuse to keep him alive for longer, it caught on something and he blurted out, "Y-You said something about the games!! W-what if I played in them??!!?"

As the guards continued inching towards the door, she chuckled, "As if- heheheh-" When her quiet laugh died down, she cocked her head once more and looked X up and down, then motioned for them to bring him forward, and studied him up close. "You obviously don't know what my games are, rat. I don't think you'd stand any sort of chance."

X wrung his hands, "It's better than getting outright murdered!"

An ingenuine smile crossed the woman's face, X noticed that her teeth were filed into sharp points. "I would disagree, personally... But I like how desperate you look right now." She leaned in uncomfortably close and dragged a nail across X's chin, making him flinch. "Are you absolutely sure you're up to it? Because I can promise a quick death right now... I can't promise you'll get that luxury in my little spectacle."

X could feel her breath on his face, it smelled sour and smoky. He steeled his nerves and looked her in the eye, "B-But there's a chance I'll live right?"

"In theory."

"Then I'll do it."

[nelithic]

Excited steps echoed through the halls of Abyss as mismatched eyes searched for short black hair or crimson eyes that would tell her she found the right person. One corner followed another and one person looking at her with confusion was met with another doing the exact same thing, but Alear didn't mind being a little lost since this was a special day worth celebrating.

Her quickened pace slowed the moment the Divine Dragon found the Fell one, each step she took was meant to be silent as possible to bring surprise to the few gifts she had prepared. Once she was close enough the Divine One chirped.

"Happy birthday Nel!"

Lifting both her hands Alear put both gifts to display, a small bouquet of windflowers and a dog shaped plush. One thing Nel could hopefully enjoy for a fleeting moment and another that would last for longer due being lifeless. "Here you go, these are for you."

"I know windflowers won't live long since sunlight doesn't reach the Abyss, but i thought you might like it. They're red but they reminded me of your eyes." She said, a smile blooming on her face as she prepared to talk about the second gift. "As for the plush, well, i wanted to give you something cuter to match how caring you are. I hope you like them."

Taking a step back, the dragon spoke one last sentence. "I hope you never forget that really appreciate having you around and most importantly that this isn't the last birthday you're getting a gift from me. For as long as we can see each other you'll get a little something from me."

war-tested senses had long detected a presence following in her footsteps, but what had risen of caution had been just as quickly snuffed out in moments, allowing shoulders to settle again and blood to thaw its hardening ice. her pursuer harbored no ill intent. their tailing, over time, grew quiet, but not enough to vanish entirely, and there remained a quickened heat of expectation to their temperature and heart rate unlike that of an assassin or one who bore some other ill intent.

it did not appear to be simply curiosity, so she anticipates that she need only continue about her means, and they would show themselves soon enough.

she does not expect the divine dragon to be the culprit, however.

wide, blinking eyes greet the sudden happy announcement, then fall to the assortment of fragrant, delicate blossoms clutched in eager hands. the rich hue immediately catches her eye — blood-scarlet, impossibly vibrant. enchantingly so. though she has become more accustomed to seeing all manner of verdant life bloom here in this new land, evidence of its flourishing is nevertheless deeply moving to see.

and the other prize? ... this one, nel has more difficulty comprehending, and fretfully, alear's explanation clarifies little. she is uncertain that her vigilance for others can be likened to ' cute ' in the manner of a plush toy. —but, she supposes it is different from the usual descriptors.

a huff escapes the faintest of upturned lips. " . . . hearing you say such things is gift enough." for their long-lived species, she knew companionship and memory to be worth far more than any trinket. though these did not go unappreciated, nevertheless. "thank you, divine one." into her hands, she accepts the bouquet and the soft, stitched creature, admiring the former once more. "in truth, i had forgotten the occasion today."

and would it be the first time— the date would not be shared with her twin?

tucking the dog beneath one arm, she presents the flowers once more to her gifter in a gesture of affinity, that certain slant of gentleness returning to her eye. "come with me above ground to plant these. they should not be left to languish here. perhaps the greenhouse will suffice, or a spot beside it. a space with ample sunlight and fresh air . . . "