#thread :: fractures in paradise

[mxchineherald]

ooc :: when a thread has you by the throat @runes-menagerie

[mxchineherald]

 The kiss Viktor was pulled into fully took him in its sway. It was deep, passionate, and just forceful enough to give him a thrill pumping through his chest. His eyes drifted shut through the kissing, and his hand slipped up her side to grasp gently at her chest. Oh, it was blissful, those moments of sensual contact. As soon as he was let go for Sky to give Jayce his own kiss – received with a surprised hum, followed by a relaxed nasal sigh – Viktor moved down to kiss the skin of her exposed neck.

 Jayce smiled at her consent, finding it to be something of a turn-on to be given permission. He reached up to guide her by the jaw and lock eyes with him. His brassy hues were warm and deep with an intimate desire. “(I can’t wait to show you…)” As he hugged her from the side, he placed his large hand against the crest of her collarbone, dragging fingertips along her skin.

 Viktor wasted no time and moved down to kiss her sternum, then wandering to kiss her nipple. He nuzzled against her breast with a lovesick sigh. As he did, his arm adjusted for his hand to rest softly on top of her pubic bone, fingers wrapping down to apply light, tapping pressure to her clit and labia. Words were hardly needed to describe his emotion toward her in that moment, his devotion playing out in his eyes looking up at her instead.

 Jayce, meanwhile, directed his hand down toward her closest leg, running his hand up and down the skin of her hip, buttock, and thigh. He was mapping roads long since traveled by his partner. “(You’re even softer than I though you would be,)” he said through a confident smile. “(Getting to touch you like this… It feels like a fantasy.)”

Viktor was right to worry although so far there had only been hints of Sky's possessiveness since her death and thus far there had always been a protective edge to it. Anything could become toxic in excess however and it many ways Sky had yet to really push or even find her limits.

"(Jayce, I don't blame you for shooting me. I know you were thinking straight and that you didn't know it was me. I say those things in your mind remember? I can see how much they resemble the augmented parts of my body. I'm not surprised you thought I was one of them in that moment.)" She said with a reassuring smile as she leaned back against Jayce and accepted his affection. "(We'll have your body fixed up and feeling good in no time. We grow medicinal herbs as well as food in the commune so I'll have all I need to take care of you.)"

In truth she had worried that the boys growing closer would push her out of her relationship with Viktor. She had feared that she would once more just be a shadow in the background as she had so often been before her death. Part of her still feared that but it was fading the more they deliberately included her. It would take time for her fears to fade completely but for the moment she felt secure in her place between them.

She let out an amused huff at their antics, not at all surprised by them at this point and gave them both a fond smile. She decided to wait them wait a moment for an answer. A sly smile curved her lips before she leaned in to give Viktor a kiss that would have left him breathless in the physical world. When it ended she twisted around enough to give Jayce the same treatment.

"(Alright. I've made you boys wait long enough mis amores. Go ahead with whatever you've been planning.)" She said in clear amusement before simply relaxing between them to see what they would do next. She had given her consent so now it was time to see what her brilliant idiots had come up with.

[zerun0]

Can you make a fanfic about spending time with Viktor in his greenhouse? 👉👈 Whether it will be more romantic or more spicy is your decision

"Ivy and Iron" — Viktor x Y/N (Gender-Neutral)

English is not my first language. Feel free to comment on any of my mistakes and i will update the post, also I more than happy to receive suggestions, and advice on how to improve my work. — !SFW! — Established relationship, Fluff, Flirting, Garden, kissing. — Word count: — 1,5k (Full uncut version on AO3)

The dome was alive... more alive than anyone had thought possible in a city like Zaun.

Viktor stood among the green area, just above him, fractured glass panes refracted sunlight into shimmering beams that danced across the greenery below. Nature had reclaimed this once-dead space, transforming the ruin into an oasis of color and vitality. Ivy wove intricate patterns along the cracks, mending the broken with threads of green. Flowering vines spilled over from high ledges, their blossoms in hues so vibrant they felt almost otherworldly. Beneath his feet, moss softened the worn stone path, and ferns swayed as if breathing. The air was warm, humid with the scent of earth and blossoms—a stark contrast to Zaun’s metallic chill and acrid fumes.

And in the center of it all was you.

Viktor’s kaleidoscopic eyes lingered on you as you knelt in the soil, gently tending a bed of seedlings. Your fingers moved with careful precision, coaxing life from the dirt with a tenderness that stirred something deep in him. You looked so at peace, surrounded by the vibrancy you had nurtured, your hands stained with earth, your lips curved in a small smile of satisfaction.

He hesitated at the edge of the clearing, his cane tapping lightly against the mossy stone. The sound drew your attention, and when you glanced up, your eyes brightened.

“Viktor,” — you greeted, rising to your feet. There was warmth in your voice, as though you were genuinely pleased to see him. — “You made it.”

He stood there gracefully, his cane tapping softly against the moss-covered stone. The sunlight streaming through the fractured glass dome above dappled his pale face, highlighting the faint glow of his enhancements. The plants had flourished far beyond what he had imagined. Yet, despite the brilliance of the paradise he’d created, it was you who held his attention.

“I could not stay away,” — he admitted, stepping closer. — “You care for this place with such devotion. I wished to see it through your eyes.”

Your lips quirked up in a soft smile. — “It’s your creation, Viktor. I’m just the gardener.”

“You are far more than that,” — he replied, his voice laced with quiet conviction. — “Without your hands, without your care, this place would be nothing compared to what it is now..."

You glanced around at the verdant space, the vibrant green leaves and radiant flowers whispering softly in the warm breeze. Birds flitted between the vines; insects hummed industriously over beds of herbs. Everywhere life teemed, and the air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers and fertile soil.

“It’s easy to care for something so full of potential,” — you said softly. — “But you’re the reason any of this exists in the first place. These plants wouldn’t have a chance in Zaun if it weren’t for you.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. — “Perhaps.”

The two of you wandered deeper into the dome, your pace unhurried. As you walked, you pointed out the various plants you’d been tending—climbing vines heavy with blossoms, patches of herbs growing in carefully arranged beds, fruit trees that had begun to bear their first harvest. Viktor listened intently, his sharp mind absorbing your every word.

“These fruit trees were the most stubborn,” — you said with a small laugh, brushing your hand against the rough bark of one. — “I had to trim back so much of the dead wood to give the new growth a chance. But once they took root, they grew faster than I expected.”

“You understand their needs well,” — Viktor said, studying the branches laden with ripe fruit. His colorful eyes lingered on your hands as you gently turned one of the leaves, inspecting its vibrant green color. — “Each decision you make, every care you offer, it shapes them. Guides them.”

“I’m just following what feels right,” — you replied, glancing over your shoulder at him. — “Plants are a lot like people, I think. They need support, patience... someone to believe in them.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. — “It is not something I have considered before"

You smiled, your eyes softening. — “Sometimes all it takes is a little faith.”

Viktor walked beside you in silence for a moment, his cane tapping lightly against the mossy path. The quiet hum of life surrounded you. The garden felt alive in every sense of the word, and it struck him how starkly it contrasted with the barren ruins this dome had once been.

“Tell me,” — he said at last, his voice quiet but curious. — “what made you decide to take this on? When I showed you the empty space, it must have seemed... hopeless.” — He asked, he seemed to be testing you.

You paused, turning to face him. — “It wasn’t hopeless. Just waiting. Waiting for someone to give it a chance.” — Your gaze swept over the flourishing greenery, the vibrant flowers, the lush grass beneath your feet. — “When I first saw this place, I saw what it could become. I couldn’t just leave it as it was.”

Viktor’s lips curved into a faint smile, the corners of his mouth softening. — “It seems I chose well, then.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. — “You didn’t choose anything, Viktor. You built this space, and I volunteered. If anything, this garden chose me.”

“That,” — he said, stepping closer. — “is precisely what I mean.”

You blinked up at him, your breath catching slightly at the intensity of his gaze. The distance between you seemed to shrink, the space filled with the heady scent of blooming flowers and the gentle rustle of leaves. The air felt charged, as though the garden itself was holding its breath.

“This place thrives because of you,” — Viktor said, his glistening eyes fixed on yours. — “When I imagined this garden, I thought only of potential. Of how life might reclaim what was lost. But it is more than I could have envisioned because you saw not just what it could be, but what it should be"

Your heart skipped a beat at the quiet reverence in his tone. — “And you ... You gave it the chance to exist. Maybe... maybe we both brought it to life, together.”

He stepped even closer. You could see the subtle lines of strain around his eyes, the weight he carried in every step, but here, surrounded by the haven you’d built together, he seemed lighter somehow. — “Together,” — he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue with quiet certainty.

A breeze stirred the air. The moment felt suspended in time, the sounds of Zaun’s chaos beyond the dome fading into nothingness.

“You’ve been coming here more often,” you ventured, your voice gentle. — “Why?”

Viktor’s gaze dropped for a moment as though gathering his thoughts, his fingers tightening slightly around the head of his cane. When his kaleidoscopic eyes met yours again, there was a softness to them that made your chest ache. “Because,” — he began quietly, — “it is here that I feel closest to what I am searching for. Peace. Growth. Beauty.” He paused, his voice lowering. — “You.”

The words hit you like a quiet storm, their honesty stealing the breath from your lungs. The space between you felt heavy, charged with unspoken tension. The hum of the garden, the soft rustle of leaves, all of it blurred into the background as Viktor’s focus remained solely on you.

“You mean that?” — you asked, your voice barely audible.

“I do,” — he said without hesitation.

His words unraveled something in you, a tether you hadn’t realized was holding you back. Without thinking, you reached out, your hand finding his where it rested on the cane. His fingers curled around yours instinctively, the calluses of his palm a sharp contrast to the softness of your touch.

His hand came up slowly, brushing against your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw with a tenderness that made your knees weak. You leaned into the touch, your heart thundering in your chest.

“I should not,” — he murmured, his voice trembling with restraint. — “But I cannot seem to stay away.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you thick with tension. Then in a blink of a eye, Viktor leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both hesitant and searing. His touch was searching, as though he was afraid you might slip away.

But you did the contrary, you melted into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms. His cane fell to the ground with a soft thud, forgotten, as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, and the world seemed to dissolve into the quiet intimacy of the moment.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged. His voice was a hoarse whisper. — “I have never felt this before.”

You brushed a strand of hair from his face. — “Then let’s not overthink it. Let’s just... be.” — Thank you for requesting it! Feel free to send more fic ideas !

[rd0265667]

Magenta x Reader: Of Seasons and Symphonies

A/N: This is a fic that might not catch as many of your eyes, given that Qwer and Magenta aren't as big as the usual groups I write for, but I do hope you guys read this and hope this helps to kickstart the QWER fanfic community

Spring

This isn’t a fairytale. Not even close. Fairytales don’t begin in places like this, where hope feels like a ghost, faint and fleeting, like it’s forgotten why it came in the first place. Once upon a time, the world was flawed but breathtaking—messy and wild in a way that almost felt intentional, like it was daring us to do better. We had room to grow, to screw up, to try again. Choices, too—ones we didn’t always get right, but at least they were ours.

But now? Now, you look out the window and see what’s left. A fractured mosaic of humanity, held together by threads so fragile they shimmer, ready to snap under their own weight. Down there, in the shadows of something that used to matter, people don’t live so much as survive, clawing their way through each day because the alternative isn’t any better. And up here, in a palace of glass and gleaming steel, you just watch. Helpless. Or worse—complicit. You wished you could do something about it. But everything had changed too quickly, and now, there is nothing to do but watch.

The world didn’t fall apart slowly. It didn’t even give us time to grieve what we were losing. One moment, there was a path forward; the next, the ground had disappeared under our feet. But even then, we had a chance to fix it. We could’ve fought for what was left, planted our feet, and rebuilt. Instead, we ran.

We turned our backs on the flames and pointed to the stars. Mars. It started like all big ideas do—idealistic, hopeful, wildly expensive. A handful of the world’s wealthiest pooled their fortunes to terraform a planet and call it paradise. And in a way, it worked. Mars became everything Earth could no longer be—pristine, abundant, perfect. A utopia, if you could afford the price of entry.

At first, it was just the billionaires who boarded the ships, their wealth carving out seats for their families and a few carefully chosen friends. Then it was the upper class, the “almost rich,” their one-way tickets bought with every penny they had. The rest of us stayed behind, watching the rockets vanish into the atmosphere, one by one, taking the future with them.

Governments tried to step in, to level the playing field, but the math never added up. The cost of salvation was always just out of reach. What remained of Earth became a pyramid scheme of survival. At the top, the upper-middle class lived comfortably enough to forget how bad things really were, literally living upon mountains, as if to emphasise their self supposed superiority. Below them, the rest of humanity scraped by, scavenging scraps of a once-golden age, living more like cave dwellers than citizens of the 21st century.

“Focus,” your mother snapped, her sharp tone slicing through the room like the crack of a whip. You dragged your gaze away from the window, back to the banquet table, its surface an explosion of opulence. Gilded plates, sparkling crystal, an array of dishes so rich and vibrant they almost looked alive. Lifeless. It was suffocating. Just like everything else here.

“Apologies, Mother,” you murmured, though the words felt as hollow as the polished silver centerpiece. You should be used to this by now. The rigidness, the rehearsed movements, the unspoken rules that turned every family meal into a performance. And yet, it still felt foreign.

“As I was saying,” your mother continued, turning to the butler who stood stiffly in the corner, “the trespassing problem. What’s the latest update, Beakley?”

Beakley cleared his throat, his voice as measured and flat as always. “There has been an uptick in attempts to breach the mountain barriers. The enforcement units have dealt with the intruders.”

Dealt with. Such a tidy little phrase for what he really meant.

“And those trying to leave?” your mother pressed.

Beakley didn’t miss a beat. “A few individuals have been caught attempting to descend into the slums. They were… managed.”

“Sneaking into the slums?” your father scoffed, his voice thick with amusement. “How utterly moronic.” He chuckled, low and earthy, and your siblings joined in, their laughter ringing out like the clink of champagne flutes.

You didn’t laugh. You couldn’t. You just sat there, hands clenched in your lap, forcing your face into an expression that wouldn’t betray the disgust curling in your stomach.

They laughed. Laughed as the world burned.

The dinner continued with that lifeless conversation, you and your siblings finally being excused. As you gazed out from your balcony, you sighed, looking out at the open lands below you. It smelt of Spring. You used to love Spring.

You leaned against the railing, letting your gaze drift across the dark landscape. That’s when you noticed it—a break in the fence. Small, almost unnoticeable, but there. A jagged edge where the metal had bent or rusted away. No guards patrolled nearby.

And then, you heard it.

A voice, soft and low, carried on the breeze, accompanied by the twang of a bass guitar. A song, lilting and sweet, threaded with melancholy so raw it made your chest tighten. The melody danced just beyond reach, but the voice—hers—was unmistakable. It wasn’t just singing; it was an invitation. A tether to something real, something alive, somewhere down there in the darkness.

You pressed a hand to the cold railing, your pulse quickening. For the first time in ages, you felt something stir in you—something reckless, something alive.

The song lingered in the air, tugging at you like a thread unraveling a tightly wound spool. You gripped the railing, your knuckles white against the polished metal, and stared at the jagged tear in the fence below. The world up here, pristine and glittering, suddenly felt suffocating—an artificial cage that smelled of rosewater and desperation. Down there, in the shadows beyond the break in the fence, was something raw and untamed. Real.

Your heart hammered in your chest, each beat urging you forward. You stepped back into your room, quickly pulling on a dark coat over your dinner clothes, its hood heavy enough to mask your face. There was no time to think, no time to second-guess what you were about to do.

The halls were silent, their marble floors gleaming under soft, calculated lighting. You moved quickly, your steps light, your breath shallow. The guards wouldn’t expect anyone to leave the compound. Why would they? No one in their right mind would trade gilded cages for the chaos below.

But the chaos was calling you.

You slipped through a side door near the kitchens, your pulse quickening as the cold night air wrapped around you. The fence wasn’t far, the jagged edge glinting faintly in the moonlight. You crouched low, keeping to the shadows as you moved closer, every rustle of the wind making you freeze in place.

When you reached the fence, your fingers brushed the rough metal, and you hissed as a sharp edge nicked your palm. You ignored the sting and pressed on, tugging at the damaged section. The metal groaned, loud enough to send a spike of panic through your chest.

“Come on,” you whispered, the words barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Finally, the gap was wide enough. You slipped through, the jagged edges catching on your coat as you emerged on the other side. The ground here was different—uneven and raw, dirt kicking up beneath your shoes. You were outside the perimeter for the first time in your life.

For a moment, you just stood there, your breath clouding in the night air, the fence a silent sentinel behind you. And then you heard it again—the song.

It was closer now, the voice clearer, rich and haunting. The melody wound through the darkness like a ribbon, pulling you forward. You followed it, your steps cautious at first, then quicker as the song grew louder. The air smelled different here, earthier, filled with the sharp tang of something alive.

She was sitting under a cherry tree, the blossoms stark and ghostly in the moonlight, her bass guitar resting across her lap. Her fingers moved over the strings with a practiced ease that made the song feel effortless, though you could hear the ache in every note. Her head tilted slightly, the movement revealing sharp cheekbones and the soft curve of her mouth, a contrast that stole the air from your lungs.

You hadn’t realized you’d stopped until the music did.

Her head snapped up, and her eyes—dark and unflinching—landed on you. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then she stood, the guitar hanging loosely from its strap over her shoulder, and planted her boots firmly on the ground.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the stillness.

The warmth of her song was gone, replaced by a razor-sharp edge that made you hesitate. She crossed her arms, her stance radiating defiance, as if daring you to take one more step.

“I…” You faltered, suddenly feeling foolish. What could you say that wouldn’t make this worse? “I heard your song.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You heard my song?” she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. “And you thought that was an invitation to waltz on over like this is your backyard?”

“No,” you said quickly, your heart pounding. “It’s not like that. I just… I couldn’t stay up there anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed, her gaze dropping to your coat, your shoes—both of which were far too clean, far too well-made for anyone who belonged here. “Up there,” she echoed, her voice thick with disdain. “Of course.”

She stepped closer, and you could feel the tension radiating off her in waves. “Let me guess,” she said. “You got bored of your glass palace? Thought you’d come slumming it with the rest of us for a little excitement?”

Her words hit like a slap, but you held your ground. “It’s not like that,” you said, your voice firmer now. “I left because… because I needed to. I can’t explain it, but when I heard you—”

“Oh, I see,” she interrupted, her tone mocking. “You heard a pretty song and decided to go on a little adventure. Must be nice to have that kind of freedom.”

“It’s not freedom,” you said, your chest tightening. “There’s nothing free about it. You think I don’t know what this means? That I don’t know what’ll happen if they catch me down here?”

For the first time, her expression faltered. Her eyes flicked to the fence in the distance, then back to you, as if weighing your words against her instincts. “Then why risk it?” she asked quietly, the sharpness in her voice giving way to something softer. “Why come down here at all?”

You hesitated, struggling to put it into words. “Your song was the first real thing I’ve experienced in, ages.” You took a step closer, your voice dropping. “It felt real. Like I could finally breathe.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her guitar. “Well, that’s poetic,” she muttered, but her voice lacked its earlier bite.

“It’s true,” you said, taking another step. “And I think you know it too.”

She glanced back at you, her eyes searching yours as if trying to decide whether to trust you. “You’re really not like the rest of them, are you?” she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with curiosity.

You shook your head. “No. I’m not.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling through the trees. Then she sighed, running a hand through her messy hair. “Magenta,” she said abruptly.

You blinked. “What?”

“My name,” she said, her lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Figured I should tell you, since you’re apparently risking life and limb to hear my music.”

“Your real name is Magenta? What’s the meaning behind it?” You ask.

“My parents weren’t poets, neither am I, my name’s Magenta, that’s that.”

“Magenta,” you repeated, the name settling on your tongue like a secret. “It suits you.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” she said, though her smirk lingered. “You’re still a rich kid trespassing in my world.”

“And you’re still just a singer with a bass guitar,” you said, unable to hide your grin.

Her laugh was quiet but genuine, and it sent warmth blooming in your chest. “You’re trouble,” she said, shaking her head. “I can already tell.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, your gaze locked on hers. “But so are you.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she looked at you with a mixture of exasperation and intrigue, her walls cracking just enough to let you see the person beneath. The distance between you felt smaller now, the night pressing in around you, making the world seem impossibly close.

“What song was that? An original creation?” you asked, sliding down to sit beside her. You leaned back against the cherry tree, your eyes drifting toward the fields stretching before you—worn paths of dirt and grass where people like Magenta’s family likely lived, their lives tethered to the earth in a way you hadn’t known in years.

“It is. I call it Rough,” she replied, tossing you an apple from her bag with a casual flick of her wrist. “You like it?”

You caught it, weighing the fruit in your hand before biting into it. The sweet juice dripped down your chin as you spoke, your voice laced with the faintest amusement. “You do realize I’m risking my life to hear it, right?”

Magenta raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. “Guess I’m just that good.”

You chuckled but didn’t let go of the question lingering in your mind. “I have to ask, though… is that song for anybody? It sounds… kind of romantic.”

She hesitated, her fingers absently picking at the strings of her guitar. The night felt suddenly heavier, as if the air itself were waiting for her answer. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment, her voice softer, almost unsure. “The lyrics just came to me one spring day, you know? Like they were already there, waiting to be sung.” She turned her gaze away from you for a moment, staring out over the fields. “Guess sometimes the songs write themselves. Maybe I’ll know why the song chose me one day.”

“And you say you’re not a poet.” You say, your eyes with a teasing glint.

“Oh shut it rich kid, or I’ll stop singing.” Magenta teases back, nudging you with her shoulder, her velvet smile more beautiful than anything you had seen in years. Perhaps the most beautiful thing you’d ever see

Summer

The summer sun hung heavy in the sky, draping the orchard in a golden haze. Everything smelled like ripe fruit and freshly turned earth, the kind of heady sweetness that clung to your skin long after you left. You wound your way through rows of cherry trees, the bag over your shoulder growing heavier with each step, though you couldn’t quite summon the energy to care. You already knew where she’d be.

And you were right. Magenta sat perched on the low branch of that same old cherry tree, her guitar resting on her lap, its worn wood catching the sunlight like it belonged there. Her hair shimmered as though she were something out of a dream—or maybe something sharper, something too smart and too fleeting to pin down. She glanced up when she heard your steps crunching over the dry grass and gave you that grin—the one that always landed somewhere between playful and cutting, like a dare and an invitation rolled into one.

“Took you long enough,” she said, her voice lilting in that teasing way that made it impossible to tell if she was actually annoyed or just liked keeping you on edge. Probably the latter.

“I had to smuggle this past a fence, you know,” you said, jerking your chin toward the overstuffed bag weighing down your shoulder. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to climb while also keeping contraband intact?”

Her gaze flickered to the bag, and for the briefest moment, her expression wavered. Her walls went up so fast it felt like watching shutters slam closed. “I told you not to do that anymore,” she said, strumming a soft, dissonant chord. “It’s not like I asked for this. I don’t want—” She stopped, exhaling hard like she was trying to push the words out. “I don’t want this relationship to feel transactionary.”

“Good thing it’s not,” you replied easily, setting the bag down between you and dusting your hands off like it had been some monumental task. “It’s not even for you. It’s for everyone. You just happen to be the only one sitting under this particular tree…the tree I always come to.”

Her lips twitched, but she stubbornly fought the smile threatening to break free. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Funny. That’s not what you said last time,” you quipped, brushing a hand across your brow for dramatic effect. “If I remember correctly, you called me a saint. Or was it an idiot?”

Magenta snorted, finally setting her guitar aside. “Definitely an idiot.”

“Yeah, that tracks.”

For a moment, the air between you held its usual electric charge—the one that always felt just shy of sparking, like a storm that hadn’t quite gathered itself. Then she hopped down from her perch, landing with a soft thud beside you. Up close, she was all sharp edges softened by the sunlight, her quick smile disarming even as her eyes stayed guarded.

“So, what’s the grand prize today?” she asked, nodding at the bag but keeping her hands conspicuously to herself.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you teased, unzipping the bag slowly, savoring her impatience. Her eyes darted toward the contents like she couldn’t help herself. “Honeycombs,” you said, pulling a jar out.

“This is your big smuggling job? A honeycomb?” she asked, though she didn’t put the peach down.

“That’s not what I brought for everyone. For everyone, I brought just a variety of foods, whatever was free at the kitchen and pantry. I got you the honeycombs because you were complaining about your throat that one time, besides, it’s sweet, kinda messy, and a pain in the ass to deal with, just like you.”

“Wow, thanks for the compliment.” she said dryly, plucking the jar from your hand. 

“You’re welcome,” you said, leaning against the tree and watching as she twisted the lid open with her bare hands. She dipped a finger into the jar and took a bite without hesitation, her expression carefully neutral as she licked the honey off her finger. “Good?”

“It’s fine,” she said, shrugging, though the way she reached for another taste betrayed her.

“That’s the highest praise I’ve ever gotten from you,” you said, grinning. “I think I might cry.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible,” she muttered around a mouthful.

“And yet, you keep inviting me back,” you said, leaning back against the trunk of the tree and crossing your arms like you’d won some kind of battle. “Why is that, Magenta?”

“I don’t,” she replied quickly, almost too quickly. Then, softer: “You just keep showing up.”

“Same thing.”

She groaned, throwing her head back, but there was a smile pulling at her mouth now, something genuine breaking through her carefully constructed defenses. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet, here we are,” you said, plucking a peach for yourself and taking a deliberate bite. “Speaking of exhausting,” you added, gesturing to the guitar she’d left lying in the grass. “What’s the latest masterpiece?” You asked, settling back against the tree trunk, your voice light but with just enough weight to make her feel cornered. You knew she hated being put on the spot almost as much as she loved proving people wrong.

Magenta stiffened, her fingers twitching toward the guitar before stopping, like it wasn’t worth the effort. “It’s nothing,” she said after a beat, her voice quieter now, the bravado she always wore peeling away like old paint.

“Oh, come on.” You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, the teasing edge in your tone softening. “I know it’s going to be good, like all the other songs. What’s it called?”

Her jaw tightened like she was chewing on the answer, debating whether or not to spit it out. Finally, with a sigh so dramatic it should’ve come with its own sound effects, she muttered, “Summer Rain.”

“Wow,” you said, letting out a low whistle as you bit into the honeycomb you’d been holding. “Summer Rain for the season of summer. Truly groundbreaking stuff, Magenta.”

She shot you a glare, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Do you want me to play it, or do you want me to murder you?”

You grinned, sticky honey smearing the edge of your mouth. “I mean, ideally neither. But if I had to pick…” You dragged the words out just to get under her skin. “I’d say play it. We can revisit the murder option later.”

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, but the way she lazily slung the guitar strap over her neck betrayed her. She was going to play it, and you both knew it.

She adjusted the guitar on her lap, her fingers brushing over the strings like she was coaxing them into cooperating. The first few notes came softly, tentatively, like they weren’t sure they belonged. Then her voice slipped into the gaps, low and unpolished but so achingly real it made your chest tighten.

She didn’t look at you while she sang—not at first. Her gaze stayed locked on the space just above her hands, like the music might fall apart if she acknowledged you were there. But as the song stretched on, her eyes started flickering in your direction, fleeting and sharp, like she was daring you to say something, to ruin it, to tell her it wasn’t enough.

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

When she finished, the orchard seemed to hold its breath, the buzzing of insects and the rustle of leaves suddenly muted, like the entire world had paused to listen.

“That,” you said softly, the word feeling too small for the moment, “was incredible.”

Magenta scoffed, her fingers still resting on the strings. “It’s nothing,” she said, her tone casual, but the way her hands fidgeted betrayed her. “Just something I’ve been messing with.”

“It’s not nothing,” you insisted, leaning forward like you could physically close the distance she was trying to create. “It’s you. And it’s beautiful.”

She froze, her fingers tightening around the neck of the guitar. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, her expression unreadable, and then she turned her head sharply, her gaze flicking to the horizon like she couldn’t handle the weight of yours.

“Shut up,” she muttered, but the words came out softer than usual, and her lips were already curling into that faint, shy smile she always tried to hide.

“Make me,” you teased, leaning back against the tree with a grin. “Although, fair warning, you’ll have to use some pretty impressive insults to top that song.”

Her eyes snapped back to you, her smile gone but the light in her gaze unmistakable. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you keep me around,” you shot back, letting the words hang in the air like a challenge.

She exhaled, shaking her head as she set the guitar aside, her hands finally free to pluck the jar of honeycomb from your lap. “That’s because I haven’t figured out how to get rid of you yet.”

“Don’t bother,” you said, your voice dipping lower as she unscrewed the jar’s lid with a deliberate twist. “I’m like this orchard. Sticky, sweet, and entirely too much in the summer.”

Her laugh burst out before she could stop it, a real, unguarded sound that made the corners of her eyes crinkle. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” you said, watching as she dipped her fingers into the jar and pulled out a small chunk of honeycomb. “But I’m also right about the song.”

She popped the honeycomb into her mouth, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as she chewed. “You’re exhausting,” she said, but her voice had softened, the edges worn down by whatever it was you managed to get past her walls.

“And yet, you wrote a whole song about me,” you said, crossing your arms like you’d just won the argument.

“Summer Rain is not about you,” she shot back, rolling her eyes so hard it looked like it might hurt.

“Oh, sure,” you said, raising a brow. “Tell me you weren’t thinking about me every time you sang about love.”

She groaned, leaning her head back against the tree, but this time she didn’t fight the smile. “Shut up, or I swear to god, the murder option is back on the table.”

“Make me,” you said again, your grin wide and shameless.

Autumn

Summer came and went, and soon, Autumn dawned, and all you could think of was, what new symphony had Magenta cooked up

"Your father has requested your presence. You will head to the main hall immediately," Beakley’s voice came through the door, as crisp as ever, a reminder of everything you couldn't escape. His uniform, perfectly pressed and stiff as always, made your stomach tighten, like you were already expected to be something you weren’t.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair and quickly straightening your shirt. You hoped your nerves weren’t showing as you hurried downstairs. Your father sat at the large mahogany table, his expression a perfect mask of authority. Across from him was Mr. Suputhipong, a businessman whose smile didn’t reach his eyes, and beside him—Natty.

"Where are your manners?" Your father’s voice snapped, making you wince. "Come, greet Mr. Suputhipong’s daughter."

You gave a stiff bow, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. "Good morning, Mr. Suputhipong."

He gave a sharp nod, his voice booming but empty. "Ah, lovely. Now, if you would, take my daughter for a walk in your garden." It wasn’t a request. It never was.

You nodded and motioned for Natty to follow you, and the two of you stepped outside, the heavy door closing behind you like a lock clicking into place.

The garden, with its manicured hedges and perfectly laid paths, felt like yet another gilded cage. You didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to walk with Natty like this—playacting under the watchful eyes of parents whose plans were already made for you both.

"So…" Natty’s voice cut through your thoughts, light and easy, as though it were nothing at all. "Guess we're stuck with each other for a bit."

You glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "Looks like it."

She shrugged, her hands slipping into her pockets, her posture relaxed in a way that seemed effortless. "At least we’re outside," she added with a small grin. "Could be worse."

You chuckled at that. It was true—things could always be worse—but Natty’s casual ease made you feel like she didn’t take any of this seriously. You had to admire that, even if you didn’t feel the same way.

“So... this is what we're doing now, huh?” she said, her tone more dry than curious, but there was an amused look in her eyes. “Walking around pretending like we care about all this nonsense?”

You couldn’t help but let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, pretty much." It was like living in a play where you were always the understudy, never the lead. “I can’t say I’m a fan of these… arranged encounters.”

"Arranged, huh?" Natty’s voice was playful, but there was an edge of weariness to it. “Guess we both know why we’re out here. Both are just tokens in their little plan.”

Her bluntness surprised you, but it also made something inside you snap into place. "Yeah," you said, trying to keep your voice light. "Pretty much. Just pieces in a game."

Natty snorted softly, her lips curling into a dry smile. "Funny how they pretend it's all about alliances and family pride when it’s really about keeping us where they want us. Like we're anything but chess pieces."

You didn’t have to think hard to agree. It wasn’t something you’d ever quite put into words before, but Natty had said it exactly right. You both knew the truth, even if neither of you wanted to say it aloud.

"You’re right," you said, your voice quieter now, the weight of it all pressing down on you. "They want us to fall in line. To just... follow the script."

Natty leaned against the garden wall, her gaze drifting across the horizon as if searching for something beyond the perfectly neat rows of flowers and trees. "Yeah, well. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of the script," she said, her grin playful but with a hint of rebellion. "I’d rather be anywhere else right now."

You chuckled, though it felt more strained than you wanted to admit. "I’m getting there too."

The conversation fell into a comfortable silence. You both stood there for a moment, side by side, the shared understanding hanging between you, unspoken but undeniable. The arrangements, the alliances, the families using you as pawns—it all felt suffocating. But as much as Natty was easy to talk to, to be around, the truth was clear: she wasn’t her

There was someone else. Someone who wasn’t part of this world.

Magenta.

You thought of her, and your chest tightened. It wasn’t just a passing thought, either. She made you feel like you could breathe, like you didn’t have to conform to the rigid mold that had been set for you. When you were with her, you could be yourself. Unpretentious. Untethered to expectations.

She was real.

And you couldn’t get her out of your mind. The way her laugh seemed to make the flowers sing back in a harmonious melody, the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about something she loved. The way she never tried to make herself something she wasn’t. You thought about her when you woke, when you closed your eyes at night.

You thought about her now.

But Natty, standing next to you, was just... easy. She wasn’t Magenta, and it wasn’t fair to either of you to pretend that she could be.

"So, what about you?" Natty’s voice pulled you back into the present, her eyes suddenly sharper, as if she had read the shift in your expression. "Anyone in your life?"

You hesitated, the weight of her question lingering longer than you would’ve liked. Magenta’s face flashed in your mind, her smile, her energy, and your chest tightened all over again.

"Yeah," you said finally, keeping your tone neutral. "But it's... complicated." You didn’t need to say more. Natty didn’t press.

She looked at you for a moment, her gaze softening, as if understanding the layers behind your words. "Yeah, me too," she said with a small, knowing smile. "We all have someone, don’t we? It’s just… in this world, it’s never really about what we want. It’s about what fits. Like we’re jigsaw puzzles first and humans second."

You nodded, the unspoken truth between you both like a weight that refused to lift. "Exactly. It’s never been about us."

The silence that followed was comfortable in a way, but it was also heavy. You both knew what was coming, even if neither of you wanted it. The arrangements. The alliances. The marriages.

And the truth you couldn’t ignore: you were both stuck with futures that weren’t yours to choose.

"I guess we just have to play along for a little while longer," you said softly, breaking the silence.

Natty gave a small, resigned nod. "Yeah. For now."

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, a resigned look as you lean on the railing.

“I’m sorry too.” Natty responds in earnest, the both you stuck in this sick game

“You’re late,” Magenta said, her voice teasing but warm as her fingers strummed effortlessly across her guitar, the sound carrying lightly in the cool evening air. She didn’t look at you as she played, but you could hear the smile in her voice.

You chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I swear, you always know when I’m running late. Are you watching me from the window?”

She smirked, still not looking at you. “I’ve got my ways.”

“Uh-huh. Sure, sure,” you teased, walking closer to her, boots crunching on the wet grass. “And what’s your excuse? You were probably waiting here for ages already.”

Magenta finally looked up at you, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I don’t need an excuse. Time doesn’t pressure me the way it does you.” She grinned, letting the last note of her guitar linger in the air before she added, “Though, you’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

“Yeah, well, I’m glad I made it before you started your solo concert,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you took a step back, mock bowing as if she were the star of the show. “Should I be impressed?”

Her lips curled into a playful smile. “Oh, absolutely. But if you’re so impressed, you better be ready to hear my new song.”

“New song?” you asked, leaning against the nearby tree, intrigued. “Well, I’m all ears. What’s it about this time?”

Magenta’s fingers moved with ease over the guitar, the chords shifting into a new pattern. “This one’s called All About You.” She said it matter-of-factly, but there was a hint of something behind her words, something she wasn’t quite sharing.

You raised an eyebrow. “All About You? Seriously? Sounds a bit... on the nose, don’t you think?”

She shot you a playful glare but didn’t respond, letting the song speak for itself. The melody was soft at first, a gentle flow that pulled you in, but it quickly became clear that the song was filled with emotion—warmth, longing, and something far more intimate than you were expecting.

By the time the chorus hit, the words were unmistakably romantic, and the way Magenta sang them made it feel like she was pouring every bit of herself into the song. You couldn’t help but grin, listening closely as the lyrics unfolded, each one wrapping around you like a thread tying you to something she couldn’t hide.

When the song finished, you couldn’t help but give her a knowing smile. “Wow, that’s definitely... all about someone.”

Magenta set the guitar down with a light laugh, but there was a faint blush on her cheeks. “What? You think I wrote it for you or something?” she asked, her tone defensive, though it only made the blush on her face more obvious.

You smirked, crossing your arms as you raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I didn’t say anything. But if I’m the first one that came to mind…I mean, it sounds like it’s about someone. You really think you can write a song that sappy and not have it be about... well, someone?”

She rolled her eyes, clearly flustered, but she wasn’t backing down. “It’s not about you. I didn’t even mention your name.”

You held up your hands in mock surrender, trying to suppress your grin. “I didn’t say it was. But it’s obvious, right? All those lyrics about being captivated, about waiting for someone—come on, Magenta. That’s practically an open declaration.”

She huffed, looking away, but her lips betrayed her with a tiny smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” you said, stepping a little closer, not wanting to push too much. “But that song is definitely about someone. I mean, I could see how someone might get the wrong idea with all that heartache in it.”

Magenta’s eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place—perhaps annoyance, perhaps embarrassment. “It’s not about anyone specific,” she muttered, but even as she said it, you could tell she didn’t quite believe it herself. “Just... inspiration.”

You chuckled, knowing full well that she was trying to brush it off, but it was clear from the way her fingers tapped nervously on the guitar that she was a little more rattled than she was letting on.

“Well, whatever it’s about, it’s a beautiful song,” you said, smiling genuinely this time. “But come on, it sounds like you’re secretly in love with someone. Or... at least have a crush.” You teased, nudging her shoulder lightly.

Her cheeks reddened again, and she shot you a glare. “I don’t have a crush on anyone, okay?” She said, voice slightly tight, though the amusement was still there in her eyes. “It’s just... a song. Not everything has to have a backstory.”

“Sure,” you said, holding her gaze, though you couldn’t help but push a little. “But it’s pretty obvious that you’ve got feelings for someone. It’s a lot of emotion packed into one song.”

Magenta shifted uncomfortably, clearly trying to laugh it off, but you could see it. That flicker of something. She liked someone. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want you to know about it.

You decided to drop the teasing for a moment, though the thought of her love life still hung there, unexplored. Instead, you let the moment sit in the air, both of you feeling the weight of it in silence. Magenta, with all her bravado, wasn’t as immune to vulnerability as she liked to act.

“Well,” you finally said, breaking the tension, “whether it’s about me or not, I still think it’s a great song. Really.”

She sighed, exhaling through her nose with a soft laugh. “You’re impossible,” she muttered again, but there was no malice in it this time. She was just... flustered.

And honestly, you found it endearing.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re definitely hiding something,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

Magenta turned her head, pretending to ignore you as she picked her guitar back up. “Not everything needs to be about me, alright?”

You laughed, but there was something else there now, something more... serious, between the two of you. Magenta had a way of hiding her emotions behind that tough exterior, but you weren’t fooled. You weren’t sure what it was—maybe it was the song, maybe it was just being here together—but it felt like something had shifted.

Then, without warning, you decided to bring up something else entirely, something that had been weighing on your mind since you’d gotten here.

“So, there’s this girl,” you started, and even though you hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, it felt important to say. “Natty. My father wants me to... well, to marry her. It’s all part of some arrangement with Mr. Suputhipong.”

Magenta’s fingers stilled on the guitar strings, the air around you suddenly feeling heavier. She looked at you, disbelief flickering across her face before it quickly morphed into something more guarded. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, her gaze piercing through you like she was trying to make sense of your words.

“Marry? As in, marry, marry?” she finally asked, her voice flat, though there was a quiet tension in her tone that you couldn’t ignore.

You sighed, leaning back against the tree as the weight of the situation settled back on you. “Yeah, that’s what I said. I mean, it’s not definite yet, but with how my father operates... it’s probably gonna happen. My siblings are already being set up with other kids from Mr. Suputhipong’s family too. It’s all this whole arranged marriage thing. Mass marriage bullshit, really.”

Magenta’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought she might say something sharp or dismissive. Instead, she just let out a breath, looking at the ground as if she were weighing her words carefully. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, though—a mix of frustration, confusion, maybe even jealousy. It was there, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she muttered under her breath. “So just like that, you’re supposed to be... what, married off to some stranger? All because your father says so?”

“Pretty much,” you said, trying to keep the tone light, but inside, it was anything but. “I don’t know. I don’t want it, but... it’s just the way things are going right now. It’s all about business and alliances and all that. My feelings don’t even come into play.”

Magenta shook her head, her expression a mix of disbelief and something deeper, something that looked almost... hurt? “And what about you? What about what you want?”

You hesitated, not really knowing how to answer that. How could you explain that you felt trapped, like your life was being decided for you? You wanted to fight it, but at the same time, what could you do against your family’s expectations?

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, trying to brush it off. “It’s just something I have to deal with. You know, family stuff.”

But Magenta was still staring at you, her eyes searching yours, as if she were trying to find some clue in the way you were talking, some hint of how you really felt. She bit her lip, frustration clearly simmering under the surface. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, that defensiveness slipped away, replaced with something that almost looked like vulnerability.

“You’re... not serious about this, right?” she asked, voice quieter now, almost uncertain. “I mean, you don’t actually want to marry her, do you?”

You felt your stomach churn at the question. There was something in Magenta’s voice—something fragile—that made you pause. For a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you standing in the clearing, everything else fading away.

“No,” you said quickly, trying to reassure her. “I don’t want to marry Natty. I don’t want any of this, Magenta. It’s just... expected. You know how it is with my family. But I’d never just go along with it. I don’t want a life like that.”

Magenta’s eyes softened, but there was still a shadow of uncertainty there. She crossed her arms, her gaze flickering away from you as if she were trying to collect herself. “So... you’re saying, if you could choose—” She hesitated, as if the question was harder than it should’ve been to ask. “You wouldn’t marry her? Not if you had the choice?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Of course not. I don’t even know her, Magenta. I don’t want to marry someone just because my father says it’s a good idea. I’ve got... other things I want. And if it were up to me, I wouldn’t go through with any of it.”

Magenta took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as if trying to process everything. Then, after a long pause, she looked at you again, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then what do you want?”

‘You.’ You opened your mouth to speak, but for a moment, the words didn’t come. There was something in the air between you, something unspoken that made the moment feel bigger than it was. You didn’t know what you wanted, not entirely—but in this moment, with Magenta standing so close, you had a pretty good idea.

“I want...” you started, then paused, considering how to put it into words. “I want to be in control of my own life, Magenta. I want to make my own choices, not just follow what other people think is best for me. And right now, that means I don’t want to marry Natty. I don’t want to marry anyone unless I really choose to.”

Magenta’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. Instead, she just nodded, her arms still crossed as she looked down at the ground. Her expression was harder to read now, a mix of relief and something else—something more subtle that you couldn’t place.

“Well,” she said quietly, “I’m glad to hear that. I just... I don’t like the idea of you being stuck with someone you don’t care about.” She shifted, avoiding your gaze for a moment. “And I definitely don’t like the idea of you marrying some stranger.”

You took a small step closer, your voice soft. “I promise that I’ll do what I can.”

Magenta finally met your gaze, the tension in her expression easing just a little. “Good,” she said, a small but genuine smile tugging at her lips. “I mean... if anyone’s going to marry you, it better be someone who actually matters, right? Someone good with the guitar at least.”

You couldn’t help but grin at the way she said it, the mix of playfulness and something deeper that made your heart flutter just a little.

“Right,” you said, your voice light, but underneath it, you both knew there was more to it than just words.

Winter

The winter wind cut sharp, carrying whispers from the upper levels down to where the air always seemed a little heavier, a little colder. Magenta had heard the news—everyone had. Mr. Suputhipong, the head of S2, had announced a new round of transport capsules bound for Mars, seats reserved for his family and their extended network.

Magenta hadn’t cared at first. Space travel was a rich person’s game, nothing to do with her. But then someone had mentioned the list, rattling off names like they were celebrities. One name had stopped her cold.

Natty.

Magenta’s fingers froze over the guitar strings, the name ringing in her ears. You’d mentioned her not too long ago, but it made sense now, all the talk about marriage alliances, the quiet weight in your voice when you’d brought it up. This wasn’t just a rumor. It was real. You were leaving.

You were going to Mars.

You were leaving her.

Magenta let out a low grunt as she slumped back against the gnarled tree. The bark pressed into her spine, grounding her even as her thoughts spun out of control. Her fingers moved again, plucking lazy, dissonant notes from her guitar, but her mind stayed stuck, clouded, frantic.

She couldn’t let you go. That much was clear. But how could she stop you? How could she even begin to ask you to stay? Her mind raced, sifting through excuses, schemes, anything to keep you here, on this Earth, in this moment with her.

But for all her sharp wit, for all the teasing comebacks she always had ready, Magenta couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

She shouldn’t ask. It was selfish. Even by the standards of the upper levels, Mars was the closest thing to heaven. To deny it was stupid, and as much as she’d tease you and prod you for the slight bursts of stupidity that she often found more endearing than anything, you had to jump at any chance to go to Mars. Even if it meant leaving important things here back on Earth, it only made sense to leave. What would you most mind leaving on earth? Magenta wondered if she made the list.

You hadn’t mentioned it to her, this move to Mars, not once. All winter, she’d been waiting for some small hint, some casual drop of your plans. But it never came. A tiny, bitter part of her wondered if you’d ever planned to tell her. Maybe you were just going to disappear, leaving her sitting here under the wish tree, strumming her guitar and waiting for someone who was never coming back.

She glanced down at the scratched notebook in her lap. Her new song, Wish Tree, stared back at her, the ink still fresh, the lyrics mocking her now. It had come to her on the same wind that had carried the news, and she’d written it in a rare moment of hopefulness, her fingers moving faster than her doubts.

Her songs had always leaned melancholy, romantic with an edge of longing, but this one was different. Wish Tree was a hopeful ode, a soft prayer for staying together, for finding a way through the chaos. And now, just as it had started to sprout, the news had come, ready to uproot everything.

Magenta closed the notebook and leaned her head back against the tree, exhaling a shaky breath. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d written about wishes, but she hadn’t made one. Not yet.

She wondered if she’d waited too long.

She was pulled from her thoughts by the familiar crunch of your boots on the soft mud.

“I’m early! Right?” You asked with an almost joking tone.

Magenta smirked, a quick, automatic reflex, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Depends what you mean by ‘early,’” she said, her fingers idly strumming a chord. “You missed the winter solstice, but I guess you’re on time for… Tuesday.”

You grinned, hands shoved deep into your jacket pockets, the wind making a mess of your hair. “Guess I’ll take that as a win.”

Magenta’s gaze drifted back to the guitar strings. She didn’t know why her hands were still moving, picking out a quiet, aimless melody, but it felt safer to look at the guitar than at you. “I wrote something,” she said, almost too casually, like she wasn’t sure the words should leave her mouth.

You tilted your head, curiosity lighting up your face. “Yeah?”

She nodded, brushing her thumb over the strings, the sound soft and tentative. “It’s not finished,” she added quickly. “Probably needs, like… a bridge. Or a chorus that doesn’t sound like a bad diary entry. But I—” She hesitated, her usual teasing confidence faltering just enough to make you take a step closer. “I could play it for you. If you want.”

Your smile softened. “Of course I want to hear it.”

As Magenta began to strum, the light breeze carrying her harmonies, your mind began to whir. The song was hopeful, uncharacteristically hopeful for Magenta’s music. Did she really not know? Not heard about the new capsules? You had been pondering for weeks on how to properly tell her, but now, sat in front of her, mesmerised by her symphonies as you gazed into her eyes, you wondered if it would be better to give it all up. Attempt to run from your family, gargantuan task as it is, risky too, but if there was anyone you’d do it for…

“Did you like it?” Magenta’s voice pulled you out of your reverie. 

“Of course I liked it, Magenta. It was exquisite, just like you.” You almost whispered the last words, catching Magenta’s gaze.

You shook your head, stepping closer until you were standing just a few feet away. “It’s perfect,” you said, your voice quiet, almost reverent.

Magenta’s cheeks flushed, and she looked away, brushing her hair back from her face like she could shrug off the compliment. “You always say that. You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, grinning slightly. “But I mean it.”

The silence stretched, the winter wind tugging at the edges of it, neither of you quite ready to fill it.

And then, so softly it was almost lost to the breeze, she asked, “When were you going to tell me?”

Her voice was quiet, almost steady, but she wouldn’t look at you.

“Tell you about what?” Magenta was right, you really were stupid.

“The Capsules. News travels down here too, you know.” Magenta replied, scoffing, her mood clearly having taken a turn for the worse.

“I…I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure how to tell you, I was-” You tried to explain, but Magenta quickly turned toward you, glaring at you.

“You were what? Going to Mars? Leaving without a word or even a goodbye?” Magenta challenged as she stepped closer to you, almost cornering you into the cherry tree.

“I wasn’t sure if I was going to go.”

Magenta didn’t move at first. Her eyes were locked on yours, disbelief rippling through her like a wave about to crash. Then she laughed, sharp and humorless, the sound cutting through the cold air like broken glass.

“You’re not sure if you’re going to go,” she said, her voice dripping with incredulity. “Do you hear how ridiculous you sound?”

“Magenta—”

“No, don’t ‘Magenta’ me,” she snapped, stepping closer, her words coming fast and fiery now. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying? You’re telling me you’d give up Mars—Heaven, for God’s sake—for me?”

“Yes!” you said, the word bursting out of you like it had been trapped inside too long. “Yes, Magenta, for you. I—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice rising. “You don’t get to say that! You don’t get to stand here, under this stupid tree, and act like I’m worth that. I’m not.”

“Stop,” you said, trying to close the gap between you, but she stepped back, shaking her head.

“No, you stop,” she said, her tone sharp and cutting. “Do you even hear yourself? Mars isn’t a vacation. It’s a whole new life. A better life. And you’re telling me you’d throw that away for what? For me? For some girl who spends her days sitting under a tree and writing songs no one even hears?”

“I hear them,” you said quietly.

Her mouth opened, then closed, her breath hitching for just a moment before she threw up her hands. “Well, great. One audience member. Guess that makes me worth uprooting your entire future.”

“Magenta,” you said again, your voice softer now, pleading. “I don’t care about Mars. I care about you. You’re worth it. Can’t you see that?”

Her eyes burned as she stared at you, her jaw tightening. “No. No, I can’t, because it’s not true.”

“It is—”

“Stop!” she yelled, and the force of it made you freeze. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her voice trembling now, even as she tried to keep it steady. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re just—you’re just trying to make this easier for me, and it’s not. It’s not easier.”

“I’m not—”

“You are!” she cut you off, her voice cracking at the edges. She sucked in a shaky breath, her anger slipping for just a moment, just long enough for you to catch a glimpse of the hurt underneath. “You think this is what I want? You staying here, wasting your chance, looking at me like I’m worth more than heaven?”

“You are,” you said firmly.

She laughed again, bitter and cold, and it broke something in you to hear it. “God, you’re so stupid,” she muttered, shaking her head. Her voice dropped, quieter now but no less sharp. “You’re going to regret this. Maybe not right away, but someday. You’ll look at me, and you’ll see all the things I can’t be, all the things Mars could’ve given you, and you’ll hate me for it. And I can’t—I won’t let that happen.”

“Magenta—”

“Just go,” she said, cutting you off one last time, her voice tight, her eyes refusing to meet yours. “Go to Mars. Forget about me. It’s better that way.”

You stared at her, your chest tightening, words piling up in your throat that you couldn’t force out. She stood there, arms crossed over her chest like she was holding herself together, her jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt. 

You turned and walked away, your footsteps crunching against the frozen ground, the distance between you growing with each step.

You didn’t see her crumble the second you were out of sight. Didn’t see her drop to her knees under the gnarled branches of the tree, her hands clutching the cold earth like it could anchor her to something, anything.

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in broken gasps. She did the right thing. It had to be the right thing. Or else, that would mean…mean that she ruined the only thing she ever really loved.

She pulled herself up from the ground, dragging herself onto the tree that had been your meetup point for so long. Your cherry tree, your Wish Tree. 

Spring

(Imagine the pre chorus but slowed down and sang through sobs)

It had been a year—a whole, impossibly short, impossibly long year—since you appeared out of nowhere, stumbling into her life like some cosmic accident. A stranger, in a place where strangers didn’t just happen. A year since she’d looked up from her guitar, startled by the sound of boots squelching through the muddy ground, and seen you standing there, impossibly wrong and yet somehow exactly right. Like you’d been meant to find the cracks she hadn’t even realized were there.

She’d told herself she wasn’t counting. Not really. But she knew. Knew it had been exactly one year since you wandered into her orbit and tilted everything, just enough to let the light in.

Now, lying beneath the gnarled branches of the cherry tree that had become yours—not hers, not yours, but yours, together—Magenta couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. About the capsules.

The capsules.

Her eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep the image out. It didn’t work. Her fingers dug into the damp grass beneath her as though holding on tight could somehow stop the inevitable. She didn’t want to see it—the sleek, gleaming capsules with their yawning doors, ready to whisk you away. To lift you up, out, beyond. Somewhere she couldn’t follow. Somewhere she wasn’t sure she could even imagine.

She should be happy for you. That was what she told herself, again and again, the words looping endlessly through her head like a melody she couldn’t escape. This was what you’d been waiting for. The chance to leave, to start over, to escape the heaviness of this place. To find something better.

It was what she deserved, wasn’t it? She’d told you to go. Pushed you to go, her voice steady even when it felt like the weight of it might break her in half. She’d told you she couldn’t be the reason you stayed, couldn’t let you throw away a shot at something brighter, something easier, just because she wasn’t brave enough to let you go.

But lying there, staring up at the branches shifting against the pale winter sky, Magenta felt the truth settle deep in her chest, heavy and sharp-edged. She wasn’t noble. She wasn’t selfless. All she wanted, in the quietest, most desperate part of her heart, was for you to stay.

And then it came. That low, growing hum, the sound that swallowed everything else. The capsules, rising in the distance, their engines roaring as they tore away from the earth and into the sky. Magenta’s breath hitched as she watched them climb, higher and higher, until they were nothing but a distant speck. Until they were gone.

Her hands found the guitar beside her, her fingers brushing against the strings like muscle memory. It felt wrong to play it now, cruel, even. The song she’d been playing the day you first appeared. What had once been the beginning of everything now felt like a cruel epilogue to what she’d lost.

Still, the melody spilled out of her, her voice soft and trembling: We are revolving because we can’t meet

We are like parallel lines

If I could run through time and become an adult

I will hold your hand in this cruel world

We aren’t closing in, that one tiny bit

We are like parallel lines.

When the last note faded, Magenta folded forward, her body curling into itself as the tears came, hot and unrelenting. She pressed her forehead against the guitar, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in broken gasps.

And then, softly, the words she’d never expected to hear again, carried on the breeze like an impossible dream:

“Would it be too much to ask for an encore?”

Her head jerked up, her breath catching. And there you were, standing beneath the cherry tree, the same tree where it had all begun. Your face was sheepish, almost apologetic, as you took a slow step toward her, then another.

Magenta blinked, her tears blurring the edges of you, but there was no mistaking it. You were here.

Before she could stop herself, she was on her feet, her fists against your chest, her sobs spilling over as the words tore out of her.

“Why didn’t you go?” she shouted, her voice trembling with anger and heartbreak. “You could’ve had it all! You could’ve gone to the closest thing to heaven, and you stayed—for what? For me?”

Your hands found her shoulders, steady and warm, and when she didn’t pull away, you pulled her closer, wrapping her into the kind of hug that felt like it could hold her together, even as she fell apart.

You pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and lingering, and when you spoke, your voice was quiet, like a secret meant only for her.

“Oh, my love,” you murmured. “What’s heaven got that beats a picnic in spring, just you and me?”

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Prairiewolf -Deep Time

One more plug for Prairiewolf's new album — Deep Time! It's out today on digital, LP and CD (the latter edition with a mystery bonus disc 👻). Very proud of it, though it's really Jeremy and Stefan who make this shit sound so good. Also shout-outs to Matt Loewen for his insanely great clarinet solo on "Revisionist Mystery;" Sean Conrad for his expert mastering; our labels Centripetal Force (North America) and Worried Songs (UK/Euro). And thanks to anyone out there who listens! I'll shut up now, but after the jump, you can read what one of our favorite writers, Brent Sirota, had to say about the album:

Prairiewolf make easy listening music for an age of fracture. They almost do it in spite of themselves. No one can seriously question the head music bona fides of the members of this Colorado-based trio. Guitarist Stefan Beck has already assembled a formidable discography of jewel-toned guitar zone-outs under his Golden Brown moniker. And keyboardist and guitarist Jeremy Erwin and bassist Tyler Wilcox have both made their reputations as chroniclers of the vast world of out music. Erwin helms the indispensable Heat Warps blog, a performance-by-performance archive of Miles Davis’s labyrinthine electric period. And Wilcox has been covering the ragged edges of psychedelia and experimental rock at Aquarium Drunkard and other publications, not to mention his own virtual basement for heads, the great bootleg blog Doom and Gloom from the Tomb. These guys come by it honestly. And yet, given their backgrounds, Prairiewolf’s self-titled debut last spring was remarkably free of face-melters, brown acid blowouts, and ascendant spiritual jazz odysseys. Instead, they dropped a record of beautiful, elegant, low-key cosmic groovers that sounded like the piped-in background music to a resort hotel on Jupiter. It was an unlikely psychedelia, brocaded with mid-twentieth century sonic threading from the hi-fi era: vintage synthesizers, smears of spaghetti western, luxe tropical details, the faint schmaltz of space age pop. Imagine something like a Harmonia residency in the airport lounge. And yet somehow it all worked brilliantly. Prairiewolf became last summer’s cool-down standard.

After a year woodshedding around Colorado’s Front Range region, the Prairiewolf boys have fired up their trusty Korg SR-120 drum machine for another outstanding collection of suborbital exotica. The appropriately titled Deep Time operates in its own chronology, unspooling at its unhurried pace. All its incongruous period and stylistic references—the new age pulses, Hawaiian steel, shaggy hippie rambles, lysergic guitar spirals, and orchestral synthesizer flourishes—float atop the album’s own singular temporality. Deep Time makes its own time. From the moment Beck folds his slide guitar, origami-like, into a sound resembling the call of gulls on the tranquil album opener, “Peach Blossom Paradise,” there is a sense of departure from everyday life. The shimmering “Lighthouse” has a similar sunbaked nonchalance, like an afternoon passed day-drinking in a seaside bar. That they named their lush, kaleidoscopic downtempo track “The Meander” pretty much says it all. The ranging, propulsive “Saying Yes to Everything” seems like a nod in the direction of Rose City Band’s brand of wookie krautrock. And the motorik noir of “Demon Cicadas in the Night” also goes hard. Beck and Erwin’s intertwined guitar jam on the eerie album standout “The Cold Curve” evolves into something that sounds like primitive computer music. A genteel bassline from Wilcox on another album highlight, “Revisionist Mystery,” sets the stage for a loopy space jazz turn from guest clarinetist Matt Loewen of Rayonism. The title of post-rock cowboy tune “Another Tomorrow” might refer to the alternative future that so many critics heard in the music of Prairiewolf’s first album. Or it might simply refer to the persistence of time, however deep.

Either way, I’m thankful for the way Prairiewolf make each of their tunes a little oasis or sanctuary, each subsisting according to its own crystalline little logic for a few minutes. It is no simple task to filter out the omnipresent anger and anxiety of everyday life these days. But Prairiewolf are out here making it seem easy.

Brent S. Sirota

[umbry-fic]

stack overflow

Summary: Unhandled exception at 0x00007FF785431786 in Arcaea.exe: 0xC00000FD: Stack overflow (parameters: 0x0000000000000001, 0x000000FD920C3F18).

Hikari, at the end, and at the beginning.

Fandom: Arcaea Characters: Hikari Rating: G Word Count: 1150 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 01/12/2024

Notes+Warnings: This is a sequel to new Paradise(memory = null);, though it can be read as a standalone (one or two paragraphs may be a bit confusing). This was originally posted on AO3 as two chapters, but is combined here.

Spoilers for Final Verdict!

~~~

There were words scratched on the rotting wood of the lectern found in the crumbling ruins of the church, a single ray of light forcing its way through the cracks in the ruined ceiling rendering them just barely visible in the dreary grey. Hikari’s fingers traced dispassionately over them, flashes of memory coming through even as she violently severed her connection to the well of memory that lived around her.

Nails gouged frantically against wood, hand shaking as fresh trails of blood ran down the sides of the lectern. They dripped onto her dress, adding to the massive stain of red that was already there, splattered over white that would never be clean again. The fingers of her other hand curled and uncurled over the hilt of a sword that no longer existed, recalling the sensation of driving it through soft flesh. Hikari gasped -

All around was emptiness, pressing heavily down with the weight of the sky. It would have been enough to bring her to her knees, had she not been a god, standing uncaring in a dead world. There was not a single sign of life, every shard of glass laying still at her feet, silenced at long last.

She sighed, raising her head to stare at a fractured sky, cracks splintering across its glass-like surface. There was nothing left to do here, in this quiet, quiet world. She had tried, again and again, to take hold of happiness, digging sharp claws into its aching brightness that burned her flesh. To have Tairitsu’s warm hand clutched in hers again, to wake up to her gentle smile. Yet no matter how many times she refashioned her from nothing but glass, painstakingly building a paradise for her, only betrayal awaited. Inevitably, she would choose the truth over joy. Hikari had been left with no choice every time but to destroy the memory of her, tarnishing her again and again.

A dark cloak of weariness wrapped tight around her shoulders, perfectly curling around her form, impossible to escape. She’d been forcefully shoving it off for… For years, for decades for centuries. She couldn’t remember how long it had been. There was nothing left but an empty hole in her chest, her heart as dead as the rest of this world, crumbled to dust long ago. And with nothing left to do…

This world was nothing but memories. Memories of other worlds, memories of itself, threads upon threads of recollection that spiralled randomly, folded endlessly over each other to form its very core. Once, long ago, she had seen a memory of herself, staring blankly back at a bright world that had nearly burned her soul to ashes. She had pulled from its depths before, searching among an endless deluge of data to gather the sweet memories of a kind girl.

She began to do so now, travelling over threads that led to random memories, rapidly jumping from location to location in her pursuit of a specific memory. Tugging and unravelling the many deeds that had occurred and been captured in glass since this world’s conception, witnessing the many souls that had stumbled helplessly over its lands, desperately searching for a purpose.

A girl who sought the truth of this world. A girl who drowned herself in endless battles. A girl who had lost everything, as almost all of them had.

She pulled and pulled, uncaring of the threads that snapped under her grip, their records pouring into the overflowing reservoir. Rifling carelessly through the great tangle of it all, ripping through knots without hesitation, until she finally reached the end. The memory of a lonely girl huddling on her bed, wishing only that there was a world out there where she could be happy.

And she fell.

~~~

A girl blinked awake, head resting against a crumbling wall. She stared up at the sky, shielded from the sunlight by the wall’s shade, softness beneath her.

Her name came to her next, and she slowly pushed herself to her feet, gaze curiously tracking the shards of glass that flitted around her. Gently, she reached out a hand, and giggled when they pushed eagerly at her fingertips.

“Delightful,” Hikari breathed, and set out into the world.

~~~

The glass watched, as it always did, recording all that it saw. Even as the world ground to a halt, protesting and shuddering as it was rewritten, it still remembered. This world’s purpose was to make its god happy, and it would do all it could to accomplish that. But memory could not be truly overridden - all that a desperate wish could accomplish was the construction of more frames over that which existed before, hiding it from view. But traces remained in a reborn world, echoes of forgotten memories spilling through.

The first time - a young girl in white, unknowing of the world she had created. Naive, searching for hope among the emptiness until she found another who had been devoid of it, who did her very best with bared teeth to crush the final seed within her heart. Desperate and seeing no other way out, she had run the other girl through, only to collapse from the grievous wound her counterpart had left her. Leaving nothing behind but a cry of grief, a prayer that those who came after would not repeat her mistakes. That world had collapsed backwards with her death, for it had been built to grant her wish, and it could not do so when its mistress had perished.

The second, who had walked in the footsteps of her predecessor, but had decided to take this world’s power into her hands, to let it flow through her veins unchecked. She had made herself goddess of ruined towers and collapsed churches, and ruled over an endless empire of glass - but had failed to escape the abyss within herself, forever yearning for a warmth she could never have again.

The third, who had never made it out of her downward spiral into madness, succumbing to an endless white.

The fourth, who had found the church early, and horrified by what she had done in another lifetime long ago, wished for it all to stop.

Through it all, the glass watched, doing nothing to change the fate of the two girls who seemed to orbit around each other. They observed the endless different endings that arose from the smallest of changes, continuing to write new memories and add them to the stack. Contributing to a towering edifice that threatened to crumble beneath its own weight, groaning as it wobbled. Minute cracks begining to spread like an insidious spiderweb among the foundations, originating from the words carved into the very core of this world, unchanged even after so long.

Make her happy.

And many, many times later, when a girl clad in white would hold the hands of a girl clad in black, gently exploring a dying world.

[jack-of-crowns]

(inspired by @flashfictionfridayofficial) <3

'For I Will Not Away' by @jack-of-crowns

His tomb; a thousand shades of moonlight, reflecting it back to her. In every facet of every manifest future, there is always his tomb. Lane has cast cascades of spells upon the inevitability of this monolith, but though the breaking waves of kargaşa she hurls upon his darklines crest with foam-flecked probability amplitudes, the receeding tides of spacetime bear less and less trace of their entanglement with each successive incantation.

"We have not yet come to the certainty, my love," she whispers frantically to the myriad refractions of all the lives they may have lived, paging through scrolls, scrolling for the one which will allow Yakışıklı Prens to live, but the only writings comprehensible to her fracturing selves are the verses of the hattats, graven in the serpentined marble of the tomb at the end of every web of tangled darklines she conjures.

"Anything could happen -," he begins, had begun.

"- when His will is obeyed," she finished, finishing, teasing the passage of the proverb out, even the somber nikah memuru permitted, permits himself a smile. They dance together beneath pomegranate trees in sharded moonlight, but the shards are barred by highset windows in coursed ashlar, set as the courses of a mortal man's life. The handsome prince is a mortal man, motes of dust adrift for brief moments in cold moonbeams, finally to alight on turbans of stone. All of his tomorrows will collapse, even those where the assassin's dagger did not pierce his heart, and none of the chaos magic Lane attempts to wed their disparate threads together can alter the singularity of this inevitable loss.

She is Jinn, she is Nightshade, the superposition of shadow upon substance; and yet no sihir can bind that which the will of the One Who Is All has not bound. Even Mistress Qeral, the Yüce Büyücü herself, knows this truth; as surely as the greatest gift given to their kind after banishment is to wield the magic that is beyond spacetime, to weave the darklines of karanlık madde into seamless retellings of Alternity. Lane ceases her castings, transiliency spell effects dissipate; her essence no longer a frothing goblet brimming with kargaşa but only a crystal chalice now, lees of tears and wine.

"For I will not away," she sighs, spurning the recollection of a tragedienne's lament from a night at the Vartovian as she gathers herselves together.

"I will not dissolve our lives in the corrosive poison of what cannot be; for what was, is now, and within me ever shall remain, my Prince." High orbitals of acceptance replace low matrices of rage, and a thousand uncertain moons resolve into one nur, full and pure, shining down upon gardens of trellissed hyacinth and jasmine; they dance together beneath pomegranate trees. Their love, human and Jinn, was a leap across vaster gulfs than any magic could ever bridge, and Lane will carry it with her through all the possible pasts and improbable futures she will ever traverse, for these moments are the only Paradise an exile such as herself will ever know.

[musedelafleur]

She, Lily La-Rue.

On a day when the sun seemed to stretch its golden fingers with a touch of celestial brilliance, when flowers unfurled their petals in an extravagant dance of color, when the hummingbirds serenaded the world with an aria of divine melody, and the breeze wove through the air with an almost sacred gentleness—it was on such a day that the heavens chose to bestow upon the earth an angelic gift. This gift was none other than a girl whose eyes held the enigmatic allure of far-flung islands, a hazel gaze encircled by lashes as delicate as whispers of dreams. Her cheeks, kissed by the blush of freshly unfurled blossoms, held the soft hues of morning dew, while her lips, tinted with the most enchanting pink, seemed to glisten with the glow of celestial light. Her beauty was a tranquil symphony, a visual ode that carried the fragrance of divine gardens. Thus, she was named Lily, Lily La-Rue.

As if nurtured by the chaste caress of an eternal sun, Lily unfolded into a vision of resplendent grace. Her heart, suffused with an inherent tenderness, appeared to reside within her very flesh, its gentle essence permeating every fiber of her being. Raised in the vibrant embrace of Marseille, France, Lily’s spirit was enriched by an adoration for the arts. Though she may not have wielded the brush as an acclaimed maestro, her love for painting was profound. Her childhood was a vivid tableau of orchestral harmonies, operatic splendors, and the timeless beauty of classical performances. These moments were shared with her father, Antoine, and her mother, Marianne, within a cocoon of love and warmth that seemed to defy time itself.

Yet, as the threads of fate wove their somber patterns, the once-harmonious chord of Lily’s life was rent by the discord of betrayal. Her mother’s infidelity fractured the sanctity of their union, casting a shadow over Lily’s tender years. At the age of twelve, she was thrust into the abyss of heartbreak, forced to navigate the world with her parents now divided.

With her father as her steadfast guardian, Lily’s path was fraught with trials and tribulations, but they faced each challenge with unwavering resolve. In a gesture of healing and renewal, her father chose to adopt a Siamese cat, a creature of serene temperament, whom Lily named Jinji. This gentle addition breathed warmth and comfort back into their lives, transforming their once-cold abode into a sanctuary of affection.

As the seasons turned and the river of time flowed on, Lily emerged into her twenties, embarking on a new odyssey far from Paris, choosing the sun-drenched paradise of Bali, Indonesia, as her new sanctuary. Meanwhile, her parents, now reconciled and reunited, had settled into the picturesque city of Lyon, France. Lily’s life, now a harmonious blend of contentment and joy, is graced by her beloved Jinji. Their love, a solemn proof to unshakeable and unabating bond; a living ode to the divine grace that first touched her life.

[briskofmisery]

THE GRUDGE

TW: Death

“‘It was a mistake,’ you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you.” — David Levithan

How is it possible to remember every word you ever said but still feel trapped? Floating above my very being, the palm of my hand dripping with uncontrollable sweat, reminiscing over the infinity necklace I held in my hand just a few moments before. The soft, almost metallic embodiment of a long thread of hope; for Belly �� for us, and everything we could be if we let ourselves. If I let myself. Deceit consumed me then, but I let it slip through the cracks to prove that my pain meant nothing; that whatever feelings enveloped me into a messy heartbreak was a falsity. Holding memories of us in my hand. 

In the car, lacking wishful thinking, a burdened anxiety weighted over me, the sight of the two of them still engraved in my mind like a forever memory. My words of manipulation and hurt were laced with betrayal, the opposite of remorse. The highway stretched on for endless miles, the brief respite of clapping thunder shook the cloudy skies on the boundless road. Soon, a heavy downpour of grim rain ran through the still air. For a moment I ached for the smell of rain, some relief after poking and prodding Belly and Jeremiah in the car. 

Cousins Beach was three thousand miles away from where I stood; a distant paradise where the warmth of a sunny day felt like an unattainable treasure – a rarity. I could see it, or I wanted to at least. A glimmer of hope amidst life’s chaos. Some hope in the waves when everything went to shit. Regret filled the air, knowing I had let Belly go, even if it was for a single moment out on Brown’s campus. I let her think that whatever this was between us wasn’t real; that it was just a figment of her imagination. Jeremiah was the one who wanted her, ached for her, cared for her – I made sure she believed it too.

But somewhere in the hushed darkness was just us. My last chance. My last chance to tell her how I felt. “Belly? I didn’t mean it. What I said earlier, I didn’t mean it. I still want you. Of course I do,” I whispered, the soft, enveloping light had buried us. I always wanted her; that hadn’t changed a thing. It was steadfast. Yet, a burgeoning sense of betrayal gnawed at me. That unforgettable night played in my mind like it was magic. Now, roads never cleared, traffic never let up, and an enduring storm refused to pass.

I loved her, the emotional turmoil of the day settled within me. I had picked up Belly’s favorite sour patch candies at a gas station off the highway, an attempt to prove something to myself, to Belly, and perhaps even to Jeremiah. Everything was out of sorts, as if we were all set adrift in the fractured memories of our pasts. At the motel with a single bed, a wave of hurt washed over me, seemingly endless. My earlier resolve to fight the urge to show what I felt seemed difficult now. The sun dipped below the horizon, and nightfall descended like haunting spectors of forgotten wishes. Somehow, I craved a sense of tranquility amidst the storm – a moment to think in my own crumbled silence and make sense of what had happened. 

Beneath the relentless rainstorm and occasional rumble of thunder, I found myself gazing up at the night sky, savoring the evening air that carried the scent of rain-soaked earth and fresh grass. The stars, twinkling in starlight, offered a solace that made calming anxieties easier. Made it feel safe. Yet, words seemed simply inadequate to convey to someone else, like a lost sanctuary slipping away in a receding tide. 

The raindrops trickled down my cheeks, mingling with my tears. I didn’t look at Jeremiah. Instead of invigorating me, the profound sense of betrayal left me more shattered than I could have ever imagined.

I swallowed my saliva harshly, wrestling with an overwhelming vulnerability that had remained hidden deep within me. It was something I hadn’t let myself feel because I refused to let anyone see how ugly my heart was. How hurt I was. But the truth was clear – I still loved her. That I couldn’t help.

The truth was real; I thought Belly knew that my love was raw and real when we kissed on the beach a summer ago. I thought she understood that our night together in December meant everything to me. I remembered every word she spoke, her hands brushing my chilled cheeks, the cold air enveloping us. However, this time, nothing was the same. The fear of losing her haunted me for a lifetime. She had chosen Jeremiah. I had witnessed them together that morning, waking up amidst my own blood and tears, and in the wind, there she was embracing Jeremiah’s arms. She was his, a reality that cut deeper than any knife to the heart.

I wished for us to exist in an eternal embrace beneath the starlit sky and the gentle caress of the sea breeze brushing up against my skin. I wanted us to be infinite. I should have read the signs when she returned to me, but by then, I was already lost. Gone. In the confines of that small motel room, she stood before me in Jeremiah’s Finch sweatshirt, doubt consuming her, and the weight of our loss hanging over us both. She had made her choice, and it was crystal clear. Beneath the comforter on the bed lay the infinity necklace; it was hers, it had always been hers. Letting her go seemed more right than ever before. Fighting it seemed pointless. I felt like a coward for letting Belly walk away once more, but this time, we felt over. Yet, I had made a promise to my mother on her deathbed the night she died – a promise that I would always do right by Jeremiah. It felt like the last act of righteousness in a long line of wrongs. It was like closing a chapter in a book I never wanted to end. I had chosen to bear the pain instead of hurting those I loved. Perhaps it was my downfall that made the pain unbearable. Because despite my loyalty, I let her go.

It was final. Moving on proved a far more daunting task than I ever imagined. Cousins Beach had become my home again, a place now healing and ushering in new beginnings. My mother wished for this house to embody a sense of hope, renewal, and joy, even in her absence. It held a special place in her heart that would never fade. It was boundless. Cynicism was mine; I was a coward, and I knew it. But this, coming back to this house, was the one thing I couldn’t afford to mess up. My mother had wished for all of us to be okay, to eventually find happiness, and move forward without her. The warmth of the house when I entered it consumed me, but it wasn’t the same. The echoing emptiness reverberated in my ears like a haunting nightmare. My mother’s vacant bedroom tore at my very soul, and it hurt in this regretful, remorseful way. It felt like happiness had been locked away and someone threw away the key; things would never be the same. Boxes upon boxes, remnants of our lives, returned from the movers, scattered throughout the house. In Belly’s bedroom, the blue-white, starless wallpaper still clung to the walls behind the furniture. My chest constricted, tightening slowly and steadily. It then dawned on me that she wasn't mine to lose anymore.

No one ever claimed that letting go was easy; they only said that it’s been done. We hold onto those we love like moths drawn to a flame. People who were once embedded in our minds, like pieces of our souls. When we lose them, their absence becomes etched in our hearts forever. All this time, I had hoped that infinity would mean something to her, a love that would sing a thousand times over, but it never did, not in the way it did for me. Even when I thought I was too late, my words were simply not enough. In my heart, I understood that hurt people hurt people, as painful it was to admit. We both drew blood, but I know those cuts were never equal. I’m the one left because now you’re gone.

[levis-coffeecup]

Turning Page | Levi. A

Summary

The underground is filthy and dark. Dim lights, dull alleys, and desperate hearts. A place Levi knows as well as the back of his hand, and a place he would do anything to get out of.

Chapters of life roll by and with the turn of a page, things drastically change. In front of him is the opportunity to live on the surface. And the flimsy bridge that he has to cross. From an uncivil criminal to a disciplined soldier.

But life on the surface seems tougher amidst all the mockery, civilities, and the gaping hole left in his heart, after the demise of his dear friends Isabel and Furlan.

Content/Warnings

canon- compliant, canon-typical violence, mostly pre-canon, spoilers for No Regrets OVA, descriptions of PTSD, grief, depression, heavy angst and themes, strong language, self-hate, physical assault, death.

Author's Note

This story is purely self-indulgent. And it has stemmed from my desire of Levi being doted over, taken care of, and being supported and loved through all the tough times.

This is a Levi x OC story, but I have tried to keep my OC as relatable as possible.

My OC is a civilian, and she's not super pretty and this is not going to be a love at first sight kinda story. It's a slow burn and the build-up is going to be long. She's shorter than Levi, and she is fair (canonically everyone in paradise is of caucasian descent). And I'll mention her eye color in a future chapter, but that is all.

Her body type, hair, nose shape, etc, are left open for imagination. So feel free to imagine yourself as her if things fit right!

The story starts just after Levi has lost Isabel and Farlan, so his age would be around 27. And by the time Trost gets attacked he'll be 32.

There are going to be frequent time skips (usually one-month gaps) because I'm only going to pen down events that actually progress the relationship. So do check out the date in the start of the chapter.

Also, I already have the first 12 chapters ready by now. So I'll be posting them regularly, every Sunday. Thanks to @someonestolemyshoes for proofreading and helping me with this fic.

You can message me if you want to be a part of the taglist!

AO3 | Wattpad | Playlist | Other works

Table of Contents:

Chapter One

Cookies on 25th of December | WC-4.7K

Chapter Two

Blood, Sweat, and Scattered Pages | WC-5.5k

Chapter Three

Social customs and cravats | WC-4.0k

Chapter Four

Lost innocence | WC-5.3k

Chapter Five

Olive Cloaks and Helpless Eyes | WC-6.5k

Chapter Six

New Moon Night | 4.9k

Chapter Seven

Cleaning Party | 5.1k

Chapter Eight

A Fight and a Fall | 6.6k

Chapter Nine

The Beginning of Something New | 5.5k

Chapter Ten

A Mess of a Mind | 5.1k

Chapter Eleven

Proposal | 4.2k

Chapter Twelve

Broken Tea Cups | 4.2k

Chapter Thirteen

Silent Rains | 5.4k

Chapter Fourteen

Hopeless Fools | 5.6k

Chapter Fifteen

All that is lost | 9.9k

Chapter Sixteen

Sun Rise | 6.0k

Chapter Seventeen

The Ocean in between | 4.6k

Chapter Eighteen

Stand Still | 4.0k

Chapter Nineteen

Tangled Threads | 6.3k

Chapter Twenty

Through the Storm | 6.3k

Chapter Twenty One

Carnival of Life | 5.1k

Chapter Twenty Two

Lovesick | 3.9k

Chapter Twenty Three

Sanctuary | 4.9k

Chapter Twenty Four

Fracture | 6.2k

Chapter Twenty Five

1 step forward, 3 steps back | 4.0k

@LEVIS-COFFEECUP 2022. Do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works without permission.

[bocceclub]

📖 anything about light, dawn, morning

📖 anything about weapons like a bow and arrow

Morning:

1. The day passed in this way—each of us buried in whatever detritus filled our own heads, silent, eyes on the road ahead. Only when we stopped for a brief meal and a rest did we speak to each other, and even then in hushed tones, short sentences, as if we each found it crucial to return to our own private equilibrium.

The character of the day did not help; it had been cold since morning, cloudy, the overcast sky hanging above us in an unbroken sheet of pearly gray-blue. What should have been raucous summer birdsong in every tree and thicket we passed was muted, somber, as if even the creatures of the wilds were afraid. No wind stirred the trees’ leaves; the air hung dead, so humid it almost felt as if we were swimming on dry land.

In early evening, just as the sun began to slope on its downward path to the line where land met sky, we crested a ridge and found ourselves looking down into a valley, at the bottom of which lay a long, narrow lake, like a spearpoint driving true to the sea in the west. A town sat clustered on the near shore at the lake’s eastern end, spreading outwards from the water in an untidy sprawl, the small mean huts of laborers built right on the waterfront among the wharves, while larger houses belonging to merchants and the town’s nobility sat further up the hill, away from the rabble and mud and stink of fish. A low wall of timber encircled the whole town; its condition and the lack of guards patrolling it demonstrated that though it had no doubt been a necessary defense at one time, it was more of an afterthought now. A relic of early imperial occupation.

“The town of Seren,” Kalani said, breaking the hours-long silence. “We will spend the night here.”

2. We arose the next morning in the sun’s wan first light, packed up, and followed the road out of town. It wound for a time through the valley and up into the hills, past crofts where sheep still lay asleep in their folds and the dogs guarding them barked at us halfheartedly as we rode by. After a half hour’s riding, the road came to an end at an old stone shrine to the islanders’ gods, standing alone on a barren hill against the great mouth of the sky. Despite its age, evident in crumbling stone and the lichen growing up its walls, it was still obviously used as a place of worship. An offering of flowers and bread and fruit stood on the cracked altar, placed there recently enough that the blossoms were not yet wilted, and the food hadn’t been picked over by the birds and other wild things.

Bow:

In its aftermath, Fort Pamalyana stood in ruins, its stout stone walls laid low by a landslide that had swept down the steep, rocky wall of the valley. It had taken much of the garrison with it, men and women I had lived alongside for three years, buried now in tombs of mortar and fractured stone, their only funeral pall the shroud of choking dust that had settled over the ruined fortress.

It was to this scene that I had returned; when the earthquake struck, I’d been afield, hunting to stock the fort’s kitchen with something other than the stringy mutton we could haggle for from local farmers. In the sudden eerie silence of the aftermath, I’d threaded my treacherous way through the woods, ducking fallen trees and skidding over shale slides, bow slung over my shoulder, clothes ripped and coated in mud. When I’d reached what little remained of the fortress, panting, heart beating nearly out of my chest, it had been too late. And what could I have done if I had been there? Either died with half the garrison under the crushing weight of the fallen walls, or been just as helpless to save them as the other survivors had been.

Even now, though, I could see it every time I closed my eyes. Could taste the chalky dust coating my throat, and hear the sickening grate of stone on stone as the remains of the fortress still slumped and settled, like a great beast in its death throes. Felt the tears of shock and anger and grief sting my eyes as the garrison commander offered a murmured prayer to the gods, asking them to have mercy on our fallen comrades, that their souls would find their way to the next life swiftly and joyfully. That paradise would ease the pain of their last moments of life—bones broken, lungs choked with cloying powder, the slow unwinding of the body, the frantic racing of the heart unwilling to accept that soon it must stop. What kind of gods, I dared not ask, would end a soul’s time on earth like that? The cruelty, the wanton chance, of such a death staggered me. No gods should have allowed it.

All three of these are from Bitter Days, a novel from the perspective of an imperial soldier in the north whose troop is sent on a seemingly impossible mission. 

[mxchineherald]

ooc :: me, watching @runes-menagerie's Sky absolutely REAM Viktor for ignoring her affections despite also having feelings for her......for EIGHT YEARS

[neoculturetechxgot7]

Gardenia on the crown - J.J.H

4; dreams of sunshine eyes

pairing: Jung Jaehyun × Reader

genre: angst and the shy touches of fluff

length: around 2,5k words

warnings: mild swearing

// masterlist //

``

Starry flames flicker on the hundreds of candles saturating the ballroom with golden hues, reflecting on expensive pearls and tangling through lace trim and floral paterns. Nobility swirls around the soft notes of violin and piano, men in tailored suits kindly asking for the pale hand of shy princesses, inviting them to a dance that will stain the night with their scent.

You’re standing in middle of it all, fitted flawlessly in the embrace of a young prince's arms and slowly losing your sanity to the sight of his stunning features, iridescent shadows from the crystal chandeliers casting a sparkling galaxy on his skin. His eyes, those that captured your thoughts from the very moment their Egyptian caramel shade dipped into your soul, still have you mesmerized and utterly lost in their enigmatic depths.

He spins you around so gently, cremé gown blooming around your ankles in the heated rhythm and a moment later, you feel his fingertips sear a temptingly slow path around your waist when you step forward.

"You haven't told me your name yet..." A breathless whisper falls from your lips, accompanied by the over-accelerated pound of your heart. The charming stranger who managed to gather all of your attention to the excellence of his dance and the alluring electricity beaming from his entire presence is still hiding behind anonymity. The ache to discover something as simple as his name is swallowing you alive.

"My name is Jung Jaehyun, my lady...”

You wake up suffocated in the cradle of cloud coloured sheets, nightgown clinging low on your decolté and a rushed pulse racing through your veins. Midday sun refracts from the window, brushing peachy shimmer on your skin and a sweet heat around the endless void of the room.

Yet, somehow, your body feels absolutely numb. That night... Your brain is playing the filthiest game by reminding you of it.

Your glance swivels around the intricately decorated wooden furniture in protest to your mind trying to shove more images of that dying dream before your eyes. Sweaty fingers reach up to rub them a little too harsh, leaving you with a shadowed vision of a vortex of colours and a low sigh dips past your lips.

If you only knew that magical night would be your very first meeting with the devil personified, you would've locked yourself in the cozy escape of the underground library, or your room or maybe the kitchens...Hell, even the moldy, freezing dungeons your father caged criminals in would seem like a better option than being in that ballroom, at that time, with him...

Two sharp knocks on the door slice through your self-pity thoughts just as you're about to hop off of the comforting warmth of the bed, naked feet hitting hardwood floor.

"Come in!“ You shout, hands instinctively tugging on the white silk of your tiny sleeping dress to conceal the exposed expanse of your chest.

But the relieving sight of your maid has your limbs going slack as she walks in, a smile on her face that makes some type of jubilation sizzle under your skin.

"My Lady, you're finally awake!" The girl chirps with the lightness of her kind heart and then quickly trods towards your still seated form. "Will you be attending the morning assembly in the dinner hall or would you prefer breakfast in bed?"

At her mention of any kind of...well...social interaction with the arrogant existence of the royals, your body goes limp and fluffy pillows hug your backside as you fall back. The sole idea of seeing Jaehyun again exhausts you. It's barely been a day since you first arrived and his face is plastered everywhere. Even your damn dreams...

The maid presses her lips in an empathetic line before sparing you the most understanding of all glances. Oh, she knows better than anyone how you'd hate to see that man after having spent the entirety of last night listening to a nice, long monologue of unspeakable and profane adjectives to describe your soon-to-be husband.

Sometimes you wonder what level of patience one must hold to be able to withstand your -borderlone hysterical- hate speeches.

"I'll inform his wonderful grace of your absence, my Lady." With that sarcasm dipped remark, the girl pivots on her heels and strides towards the door, blush skirt flowing behind her. "And bring you some breakfast."

"Thank you."

♤

You finish the very rich meal within minutes -the cooks around this place are priceless, a blessing for your tastebuds- and after a little bit of sinking in a puddle of self loath and cursing your failure of a fate, you decide to distract your mind by simply getting lost in the magic of a book. Literature is a hidden paradise for you, poetry, a little heaven.

Back home, you'd always have a book resting by the wooden extend of your nightstand, every night fading between yellowed pages and inked words that took you on a trip to fantasia. Maybe reading something can help now too...right?

No.

Because you're running a dainty finger over the red and black book spines lining every shelf of the grand bookcase only to skim the leather binding of old catalogues and dictionaries. Your eyes frantically scan each and every title in search of the slightest trace of good, classic literature, those pieces that leave you gasping after the very last sentence, but to no avail. Annoyed at the obvious lack of quality writings, you pull one of the many useless books out, trying to check if the one behind it, on the inner lining, is any different.

An hour later there's a sea of stacked books expanding on the floor of your bedroom, over the oak bureau by the window and some even sprawled across your unmade bed, yet nothing seems close to your taste. You found a couple of fairytales, the ones mothers escort their kids with to the sweetness of sleep. Even dug out a little notebook full of scraped poetry, written in midnight ink and infinite pages of dreamy calligraphy. But it didn't really pick at your interest either, so it now lays untouched on your nightstand, keeping company to ruby necklaces and a porcelain vase filled with roses.

Your knees bend over the plush mattress as you take a good seat in the boredom that has already started to define this day. With nothing else to do but stay in your room and stare at the elegant carvings on the walls, your pinky is twitching; sign of the bottled up energy that's currently restricted due to your absolute refusal of meeting eyes with the royals.

If only you weren't this stubborn and lowered that ego, maybe today wouldn't completely go to waste...

Then, something tickles at the back of your head; an idea?

A library. They must have one here, right?

Maybe visiting the palace library will be a convenient option. You can still spent time alone, buried in the wrinkled edges of lettered paper, while also keeping that well needed distance from Jaehyun and his awful family.

But then again, you don't even know how to get there and the so unpleasant possibility of bumping into too familiar faces has your skin coated in a drizzle of coldness.

Even so, your feet subconsciously plant onto polished floor and lead you to the door, expensive golden silk with embroidered morning stars blossoming around your ankles. It takes you no time to step delicately into those pointed heels that clank an air of intimidation with every step, as you -for the umpteenth time- curse every forsaken force in this damned universe for binding you with such a fate.

Having to sneak out of your own royal chamber like a common fugitive simply to enjoy the smallest comfort of reading a book. Pathetic, to say the least.

♤

You find yourself striding down the seemingly endless stretch of a hallway, peach tinted light bouncing of off smooth stone that arches into a high ceiling. Large, curved openings formed the one side and thick marble columns separate them.

It took a lot of wandering around wide halls and visiting two of the many towers of this palace for you to reach this point, the faintest wave of spring heat kissing your neck and cheeks as a reward. Surprisingly enough, you were met with no person you knew, only kindy greeted by maids dressed in creamy beige, a humble smile on their faces. Once, you actually happened to spot -what you thought would be- one of the ladies of the court and her small escort following shortly behind, heavy gowns of cotton and purple satin flowing with her every delicate step. She bore an almost blank expression, lips pressed together in a manner that made you wonder if she disliked this place as much as you did.

Taking a peak outside the enormous windows, you realise you're walking the perimeter of a circular yard, the expanse of its area covered in emerald, neatly cut lawn. A whole lot of people are gathered, small kids playing around with leather balls, servants scurrying to get some random task done and a big group of men standing on the very middle, some carrying weapons of all sorts.

With feet inching closer to the stone edge, your stare rakes their sun bathed faces and thankfully you recognize none. They are all of noble ascent, from what you can tell at that distance, golden threaded crests decorating the corners of their uniforms.

While your eyes fight to grab onto the stitched details, they happen to -so tragically- fall straight onto another pair of breathtaking brown orbs and within a fracture of a heartbeat you're pulling back and hiding behind the column.

Fuck.

Momentarily, the edges of your vision blacken as you suck in hungry inhales, a nice bunch of profanities roaring in your head to mix with the thumping in your ears.

You just can't avoid him, can you?

Shaking your head to get rid of the slight panic possessing it, you slowly slide to the side again, solely to catch another glimpse of Jaehyun. He’s surrounded by a small crowd of men, holding a steady grip on a steel forged sword that's so well polished it seems almost like platinum.

What a sight.

His glove clad fingers tighten as he ducks to an attack stance, raising the light reflective metal in the air as if it's the lightest feather. You notice the absolute perfection in his technique, balanced from the very handle all the way to the sharp tip and can't help but admire how, the next second, it comes down to slice morning breeze and barely scratch Jaehyun's opponent. He's incredibly skilled, every move laced with such precision, and you notice the subtle flames his eyes emit when seizing each chance.

The other is quick to deflect any incoming hits, but still overwhelmed by their lighting speed and strength that eventually goes in for an attack himself. He bringing his own blade up and aims for the prince's chest, leaving you watching with complete devotion to the scene, as he takes a hasty step forward.

Something inside your chest clenches in such an unexplainable manner and time itself dramatically unfolds, each second slower than the previous.

But then, Jaehyun ends the match with a swift and simple dodge to the side, sword simultaneously flying to crash against the side of his opponent's armor with a loud, echoing bang.

He should’ve watched the ribs. Always watch the ribs, you think while gazing the loser gasp in slight pain.

The nobles all around the young prince cheer -much like you do on the inside without realising-, yelling out praises along with a well-deserved applause as he drops his heavy weapon, that sunshine blessed smile making another appearance. His cheekbones literally shimmer with the milky glow of victory, all of that aristocracy putting even the highest of angels to shame. He stands proud and tall, fingers carelessly ruffling auburn strands of auburn hair, their tips dripping sweat but still giving him the look of effortless beauty.

You're about to retreat back to the shadows and run away before your body gets completely enchanted by the spell of his irresistible attractiveness...but that ice in the pit of his gaze cuts straight through your unprotected soul once his head turns.

You're suddenly frozen in place, prematurely surrendered to the way his eyebrows furrow and your expectation is yet another cocky grin and probably another stupid comment meant to irritate you the moment you face him. If it weren't for the starstruck expression plastered on your face, mouth slightly agape, maybe it wouldn't have been this bad but no, that's not the case today.

It's pretty damn obvious you've been watching, pretty damn obvious you've been lurking like a creep and gawking over the impressive ability of fighting he has conquered.

And he's well aware of that fact because those pearly, white teeth get covered by a way too smug and way too annoying smirk, it's curvy edge cutting through your dignity harder than any knife ever could. You note the way his chest heaves from the lightness of a chuckle.

Oh the embarrassment, oh the pain of your intimidating facade being all wrecked down in a split second.

If only never seeing him again was an option...lf only you could stay away from his stupid beauty and bluntly cold demeanor...

"Greetings, my Lady." A honeyed voice suddenly disrupts your desperation, causing your reflexes to stick your back falt against the smooth stone in horror.

Yet when your gaze snaps to the source of those words, you find a curious and somewhat charming a pair of sunshine filled eyes trained on your form. A toothy grin, white and beaming with luxury, is spread across the young man's face, a perfect contrast to his autumn skin.

Taking in a short breath of relief, your royal instincts kick in and you bow respectively at the gentleman, while he moves forward, hands folded behind his back in a kind manner. "Good morning my Lord."

"I'm afraid I do not recognise your face, darling. Are you new around here, perhaps?" He asks and it seems as if heaven lost one of its angels; his whole being radiating a unique kind of divinity as he stands so confidently.

"Oh yes." Your knees bend once more as you quickly introduce yourself, trying to sound as formal as possible, getting over the previous scare. "My name is (Y/N) of the (Y/L/N) dynasty and I'm present here as the rightful betrothed of prince Jaehyun."

His eyelids momentarily shot open after hearing your title, almost in shock, and that smile flashes impossibly brighter before he bends in respect. You feel warm fingers snake behind your own and with an airy pull he places a fragile peck on the back of your palm, as soft as freshly picked petals, to make you shudder.

"I'm so delighted to finally meet your grace. I am prince Heachan, cousin of your beloved."

You internally cringe at that last comment...As if Jaehyun and his wholesome stupidity could ever be loved...

"Nice to meet you too, prince Heachan." Your reply comes with a slight tilt of your head, pleasantly surprised at how well behaved and gentle he looks and acts, despite being a member of that horrible family.

Heachan takes a short look around, as if searching for something, and then aims his friendly glare back at you, this time baring a questioning expression. "And you're here without your escort?"

Your shoulders quickly stiffen, realising you have to explain yourself for carelessly wandering around the palace without a single maid accompanying you, something highly unusual for someone of your importance.

He notices that and chuckles and your heart softens at the way the apples of his cheeks shine with such a dull pink.

"Well, I'm looking for the library and..." Your eyes trail a regretful path down the hem of your dress, feeling a little embarrassed at the words you're about to speak. "I think i got lost..."

The boy laughs again, this time a little louder and more genuinely, one hand propping on his waist, sinking into the bejeweled red velvet of his shirt while the other makes an airy gesture. "This definitely isn't the library, or anywhere close to it, dear."

He extends an inviting palm, eyes glimmering with traces of a blazing summer and the tint of pure gold as he continues. "But I can take you there, if you please."

//

previous || next

[naruhearts]

Deep breaths...

Ok, I see that people (myself included — of course no one wants permanent trouble in paradise; no one wants lovers’ angst) are severely upset over the 14x18 promo of Dean yelling and being angry at Cas (plus this alternate version, which seems to make it more clear that Dean is actually addressing him).

I stood back and looked at this from various possible narrative/characteristic angles. This lovely fandom is in need of gentle reminders. 

Firstly, most of us have speculated that Mary may be the one who dies, and now that 14x17′s aired alongside establishing the gloomy direction SPN’s narrative is heading towards re: TFW fracturing apart a final time, I definitely believe it’s her (I’ll watch 14x17 in full if I can sometime tomorrow). Calm before the storm, then the storm shall pass.

Secondly, we know that Dean Winchester has been conditioned since childhood to handle and confront grief in unhealthy ways — ineffectively compartmentalizing his emotions and bottling them up until they’re released in an explosive display of vitriolic upset words — and although he’s made fantastic progress in Season Who Am 14 (SO much good catharsis, positive growth and self-introspection on his part!!), this is another case of necessary regression.

Thirdly, if we are correct and Mary does die — killed by unifying TFW mirror Jack (who is now undergoing his Winchester Dark arc and poised to navigate his own dualism as a Nephilim: angelic nature vs human nurture) — Dean’s reaction to Cas not telling him about Jack’s condition makes sense. This can absolutely call back to S5/6 (6x20 in particular -> Cas resurrected a soulless Sam, and the repercussions of that, mirroring dark Jack’s own soullessness in S14, were dire; in S14 Cas is once again seeking his father WOW the Samulet!!) with grief-stricken heartbreak and betrayal being the one primary emotion funnelling through Dean’s hurt. Also recall Dean’s understandable cruelty towards Jack re: Cas’ death in S13. It’s a pattern not far outside the realm of Dean’s canon personality.

Without reiterating 6x20 as a whole, point is, Dean’s subtextual spouse wasn’t transparent with him. In fact, they still aren’t wholly honest WITH EACH OTHER (again, final regression before final progression), and the remaining threads of miscommunication should finally come to a head/culminate into a lesson for both of them.

6x20:

x

Dean finding out about Cas’ deal with the Empty can truly apply, too. It’s a painfully similar characteristic premise — the Lover’s Betrayal trope. 

14x18:

Now, the core difference? Dean and Cas’ relationship is no longer the rocky distrustful one they had in S5/6 (amongst the growing subtextual pool of sexual attraction, which soon graduated from comic homoeroticism to serious romance in S7/8). It’s an inverted S5/6 redux, contrasting the Old vs New.

We’ve observed their tangible character development together onscreen, especially during the recent seasons of Dabb’s New Beginnings Era, where they deviate from dishonesty and learn to engage in better communication, trust, and mutual interdependence as a domestic unit; the subtext/narrative continue to frame Dean/Cas as overall solid and stable romantic partners — one is independent from the other yet their romance-grounded respect for their counterpart, of equal footing, is all-encompassing.

Destiel “have been through much together, you and I,” and I believe they are fully capable of moving past it. Emotional maturation, my friends. True love’s strength.

They’ll be okay. Dean’s feelings for Cas have undergone a drastic evolution since 2008: deep love and deep pain (yes @dotthings) go hand-in-hand. Do not forget canon, which speaks to Destiel’s resilience time and time again.

I can only hope, with a cautiously optimistic heart, that 14x18 — leading up to the S14 finale — emphasizes this as a final lover’s quarrel. It’s in-character and expected!! Trouble in paradise is temporary. Today’s SPN thrives on angst so that hope can be achieved. Personally, I choose to have faith...faith that Berens and Co will formulate a proper resolution for them, in that the Dean and Cas of S4-6 have been left behind. After all, this show ALWAYS throws curveballs, and it narratively fits if textual Destiel is the endgame!!

[joeys-piano]

@feu-eau asked: For the characterization game: 🤯 for Oda and/or 🤩 for Dazai. You don't need to do both (or either tbh lol) but I couldn't pick between the two options so I'll leave that to you haha. Also the ask is for the Youkai AU but if you want to answer it for their canon counterparts it's alright with me ♥~

                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ll confess and say that I know a lot more about their youkai!AU counterparts than their actual canon counterparts, mostly because I’ve dedicated a lot more time to one rather than the other. And maybe (just maybe!), I like the youkai!AU interpretation of their characters a little more than canon.

There’s something about putting two characters into the year 1287, watching them bumble around, and you can’t help but root for them and hope that they’ll find Paradise. That they’ll finally find a place where they belong, a place where they can finally be happy even though the rest of the world doesn’t want them to be.

TL;DR - lots of characterization, where Dazai’s a linguist when it comes to lying while Oda is proficient in the language of honesty. And ask was accidentally deleted but thank every deity on this earth that I wrote my responses on a Google Doc.

🤯 - what's a fact or bit of knowledge they don't know but which would absolutely blow their minds if they found out?

Dazai almost never talks about his past so whenever Oda does learn something, it elicits this reaction. Funnily enough, 95% of the things he knows about Dazai has come from other people and youkai rather than from the kitsune, himself. Oda refrains from nudging Dazai to speak more about himself, and he often reminds Dazai that they can drop conversations at any time if it’ll make the kitsune more comfortable. Although he says these things, there are a lot of questions that lurk in the back of Oda’s mind. They’re largely unspoken and unanswered unless Dazai brings up a topic or answers a question on a whim.

The only time Dazai has ever told Oda about something from his past, it happened near a mountain shrine. The two arrived near tengu territory to visit a famous shrine, dedicated to a legion of kami that are said to bless and protect travelers from harm on their journeys. When the two arrived at the base of the mountain, a wandering priest told them that if they were going to visit the famous shrine, they should also visit the neighboring kitsune shrine that’s behind it. Having never heard of this second shrine, the duo rest near a clearing as the wandering priest recounts them the tale of how that second shrine came to be.

Unlike the famous tengu shrine, the kitsune shrine is much younger. Only about a hundred and four years old. It’s a small shrine, dedicated to a renowned kitsune that used to live in the forest surrounding the upper half of the mountain. In the midst of the wandering priest’s tale, Oda and Dazai learn that this kitsune had a unique ability where they could produce and shine light from a marking on their forehead.

As the tale goes, the kitsune had often used this light to guide travelers who’ve found themselves lost and to banish away malicious youkai that have used the forest as a hunting/feeding ground. At the end of the tale, Oda asks of what happened to the kitsune. He catches the wandering priest by surprise and  asks what Oda meant by that.

Oda replies that if the shrine was built in honor of a kitsune that used to live around here, it means the youkai is no longer here. Curious as to what happened to them, Oda asked if the wandering priest knew. Unfortunately, the wandering priest doesn’t and he admits that even the locals don’t know what happened to them either.

Ninety years ago, the kitsune just vanished one day and no one has seen them since. Over time, public knowledge about their shrine began to fade from history and only those that live around the mountain know of its existence. Upon hearing that, Oda suggests to Dazai that they should visit the shrine and Dazai agrees.

As the wandering priest leads them to the shrine, the duo notices a stream of lanterns hanging from the trees. The wandering priest comments that the locals have hung them up there to act as guiding lights in case the kitsune ever grew lost and couldn’t find their way back home. At least on the way, they could see how much of an impact they had on the people and it may prompt the kitsune to return to their former post. Oda considers the gesture as quite heartwarming while Dazai remains silent on the matter.

When they finally see the shrine, obscured under a tangled undergrowth, Oda helps the wandering priest by clearing out some of the flora and foliage and cleaning it. Oda remarks that the shrine is beautiful. Although simplistic in design, it speaks much about the character of whom its dedicated to.

As the wandering priest prepares his offerings and lights a few incenses, Oda studies the shrine and notices that the name template had been destroyed. As if a bolt of lightning had come down from Heaven and struck the template down, obscuring the kitsune’s name (moniker) for future generations. Oda knows better than to ask of what the kitsune’s name was. Having learned from Dazai, names are a rather sore subject to bring up, especially if the name belonged to a youkai.

Instead of asking a direct question, Oda asks Dazai if he ever met the kitsune. Dazai teases Oda and asks if Oda assumed that he would know about them because they were of the same kind. Not skipping a beat, Oda confesses that he did. That if anyone knew what had happened to the kitsune, surely another kitsune would know. Dazai doesn’t argue with that logic and says that he encountered the kitsune, once.

That the kitsune never knew that they were adored and prayed to by the locals, that the kitsune awaited for the day of their own demise, and that the kitsune felt that they never really belonged with other youkai. That the kitsune was ostracized from their own home and left for ruin by the very same tengu flock that had come to it, seeking for protection from the creatures of the night.

In the way in which Dazai responds, it’s not difficult for Oda to connect the dots and to believe that the kitsune that the shrine is dedicated to is, in fact, Dazai. Oda knows for himself that the kitsune would never admit any of this out of his own volition unless there was a way for him to lie about it.

Oda is very sure that Dazai made up the fact that he had met a kitsune that shared the exact same experiences as the ones he described. Even so, Oda doesn’t push and ask Dazai on why he made that part up. If that lie made it easier for Dazai to talk about himself, Oda wasn’t going to corner him in this conversation.

Playing along, Oda expresses his wish that the kitsune may eventually find a place where they could belong and feel happier having found it. Dazai expresses the same wish as well, approaching the kitsune shrine without a hint of hesitation holding him back. Running his hand faintly over the name template, Dazai wonders quietly to himself of what name had been here, originally. Tracing his finger over the template, as if he could make out the faded and destroyed characters, Dazai writes out the name ‘Shuuji’. Oda barely catches it from the corner of his eye.

🤩 - what's something they're absolutely amazed by?

Perhaps the one thing that never ceases to amaze Dazai is the ungodly amount of honesty radiating from Oda. Honesty is such a rare occurrence, rare amongst youkai and even rarer when a youkai is bound to a human. Under the verbal promise or contract that they’ve agreed upon, there’s nothing in the exchange that explicitly says they have to be honest with one another.

Dazai could lie and lie and Oda would never know because the kitsune is a linguist when it comes to that. But if that area is within Dazai’s expertise, imagine his shock when he discovers that Oda’s proficient in honesty!

It’s downright impossible for Oda to lie. It’s as if the man made a pact with the gods and agreed to cut out his tongue if one were to ever slip from his lips. Of course, if such a pact did occur and that was the price for the lie, Dazai would vouch himself a liar if he said he didn’t want to see it happen.

He’s cornered Oda into dead end conversations, pushing the man closer and closer to the edge to see what would come from it. Would Oda finally lie to him, or would he continue with his stark honesty? Frankly, both options unnerved Dazai.

If Oda lied to him, it meant he wasn’t so different from the other humans Dazai had encountered in his life. And for reasons in which Dazai couldn’t answer for himself, the idea of that hurt him. Oda had always been honest with him, even in the moments where a lie would’ve been easier on the ears. Oda never sugarcoated his words and the man was blunt, he was gentle in what he had to say.

Dazai would consider himself a liar, moreso than he actually is, if he couldn’t admit that he was drawn to Oda’s honesty. Because of that honesty, because Oda had never lied to him before, it felt easier and safer for Dazai to finally be himself. To lie was to fracture one’s trust in another. If Oda were any other human, Dazai wouldn’t care if it happened. But because Oda wasn’t like other humans, the kitsune wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

By the same thread, although woven onto a different cloth, Oda possesses a startling amount of honesty. Enough, where Dazai’s not-so-vaguely afraid of the man at times. Oda means what he says so perhaps, Dazai fears the day where Oda would say something that will drive a rift between them. It’s happened quite a few times before, where both have struggled to understand each other’s worlds and the rules bound to them. But each and every time, an understanding was eventually met and they moved on.

But what if they didn’t move on? What if they couldn’t see eye-to-eye, and Oda decides to leave and never come back? What if the man expresses genuine disdain and there’s nothing Dazai could do about it? What then?

It’s quite ironic how a liar could fear, cherish, yearn for, and stumble weakly in the presence of an honest man. The very thing that Dazai loves about Oda is what he’s terrified of the most. Somehow, that amazes Dazai.

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Prompt 01 - Feral Elegance

Prompt 02 - Iron Wings

Prompt 03 - Star Insight

Prompt 04 - Golden Armor

Prompt 05 - Firefly Nights

Prompt 06 - Glamour Threads

Prompt 07 - Loyal Service

Prompt 08 - Metallic Grace

Prompt 09 - Clubbing Level

Prompt 10 - Casino Style

Prompt 11 - White Blossom

Prompt 12 - Fractured Beauty

Prompt 13 - Wild Plumes

Prompt 14 - Astral Splendor

Prompt 15 - Memorial Hearts

Prompt 16 - Sable Color

Prompt 17 - Polychrome Rite

Prompt 18 - Desert Phantom

Prompt 19 - Wreathed Gala

Prompt 20 - Midas Aura

Prompt 21 - Monochrome Eve

Prompt 22 - Roaming Wilds

Prompt 23 - Muted Tapestry

Prompt 24 - White Mystery

Prompt 25 - Gloria Regali

Prompt 26 - Sombra Invoke

Prompt 27 - Extrinsic Run

Prompt 28 - Liquid Flame

Prompt 29 - Scavenger Assassins

Prompt 30 - Golden Age

Prompt 31 - Hallow Gray

Prompt 32 - Gilded Era

Prompt 33 - Ancient Masque

Prompt 34 - Tinker Sky

Prompt 35 - Secret Checkmate

Prompt 36 - Chivalry Twilight

Prompt 37 - Deep Witchcraft

Prompt 38 - Kintsugi Way

Prompt 39 - Wasteland Lost

Prompt 40 - Sylvan History

Prompt 41 - Untravelled Path

Prompt 42 - Nature Mosiac

Prompt 43 - Gambler Paradise

Prompt 44 - Silent Killing

Prompt 45 - Moonlit Night

Prompt 46 - Honor Oath

Prompt 47 - Majestic Sands

Prompt 48 - Floral Orchestra

Prompt 49 - Drapery Business

Prompt 50 - Stygian War

⭐️ Keep in mind it's a first-come-first-serve. So be quick about your decisions and keep in mind you might not your first choice or even your second choice. For more info see the rules and timeline

⭐️⭐️ We collected the prompts on our pinterest, it should work for everyons even if you don't have an account

⭐️⭐️⭐️ You can decide if you want use both parts (menswear and womenswear) of the prompt or just of one them.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ If a single prompt proves to be not enough for you, please check out our free prompts. There are more then 50 prompts for you to draw or write about, that so speak did not make the final cut.