#~💜just living soil things💜~

[kingofbodyrolls]

Sprout | knj | one

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Summary: You love your plants, you love your garden, you do not love your new neighbor. You hate him with all your might— he wrecks everything you hold dear so you do the only reasonable thing: retaliate. 

Pairing: Namjoon x female reader 

AUs: neighbors au, gardening au, non!idol au → strangers to enemies (mostly one sided) to friends to lovers 

Genres: slice of life, smut, humor

Rating: mature

Word count: 3.7K

Warnings: Reader is morally grey; she’s being petty and bratty. There’s some immature pranks and vandalism. Yeah, she’s on a warpath. Otherwise this chapter is pretty tame 😛

Disclaimer: I do not own BTS or know them personally and this work of fiction is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only. The actions and personalities described in the story do not reflect those of BTS— it’s just fiction. Also, if you would kindly read the tags/warnings before reading, that would be lovely: and if you don’t like whatever is described in the tags, just hit return and find something else to read. Thank you 🌸

Author’s note(1): this ended up being a mini series! After I wrote Friendcation I really wanted to write something shorter… So here it is! I really hope you like it 💜

Taglist: @svnbangtansworld

It’s been cross posted to AO3 if you prefer to read there 🙂

Your heart thrives in the lush embrace of your garden, where your love for nurturing life transcends the ordinary. 

It's not merely about gardening; it's an intimate rendezvous with nature's heartbeat. The simple act of plunging your hands into the soil becomes a euphoric ritual, a tactile communion that not only exhilarates your senses but also serves as a conduit to a world where each seed, leaf, and root tells a captivating story of growth and vitality. 

The intimate dance with the earth, the sheer joy that courses through you as you feel the soil's gritty embrace, transcends mere gardening; it's a symphony of life, a celebration of your role as both creator and nurturer.

Cultivating new life from the humble seed is a profound joy that resonates deeply within you. The enchantment unfolds as you witness the delicate emergence of sprouts, each one a testament to the potential contained within a tiny seed. 

It's a captivating journey, from the tentative first leaves unfurling to the triumphant bloom of fruits and vegetables, a tangible manifestation of the joy and sustenance your hands have meticulously cultivated for both you and your roommate to savor.

As the radiant embrace of summer envelops your world, an effusion of life bursts forth, a vibrant bloom unfurling its tendrils both in your garden and within the sanctuary of your greenhouse.

The greenhouse burgeons with a dazzling array of life—a cornucopia of tomatoes, watermelons, peppers, and cucumbers that stretches every inch of its confines. The air is thick with the heady scent of ripening fruit, and the vibrant hues of red, green, and orange create a kaleidoscopic mosaic that beckons exploration.

In your garden, three majestic raised beds stand like regal sentinels, cradling a treasure trove of nature's bounty. Within their elevated embrace, a symphony of flavors and colors converges, boasting a diverse ensemble that includes the earthy allure of onions, the crisp sweetness of carrots, the robust presence of pumpkins, the delicate charm of strawberries, the verdant allure of spinach, and an array of captivating salads. 

Each bed is a symphony of flavors and textures, a carefully orchestrated composition that invites both the eye and the palate to revel in the diverse tapestry of life thriving under your attentive care.

Your garden isn't just a source of pride; it's a living masterpiece, a testament to your dedication and nurturing touch. This verdant haven, bathed in the hues of your hard work, transcends mere admiration; it's your sanctuary, a sacred retreat where the stresses of the world dissolve. 

Each leaf, every bloom, whispers tales of resilience and growth, creating an intimate haven where you find solace and restoration.

In the embrace of nature's symphony, your garden becomes more than soil and seeds—it's a living, breathing refuge, a space where you not only cultivate plants but also cultivate peace and tranquility for your soul to flourish.

Within the heart of your greenhouse, nestled amidst the thriving foliage, is a cozy sanctuary—an inviting lounge set with a round table and two chairs. This intimate corner is not just a seating arrangement; it's a haven where friendship blossoms. Here, you and your friends can unwind, enveloped by the lush greenery, engaging in heartfelt conversations over steaming cups of tea or coffee. 

In the heart of your greenhouse, you stand amidst the verdant symphony, hands adorned with the earth's rich embrace—fertile soil clinging to your fingertips, a testament to the alchemy of growth you orchestrate. Here, amidst the fragrant dance of botanical life, you sow the promise of winter greenery. This isn't your inaugural venture into nurturing winter blooms; it's a sequel to a tale that unfolded with delight last year. 

The memory of vibrant winter greens thriving under your care lingers, a testament to the harmony you crafted within these walls. Driven by the echo of past success and an insatiable love for the seasonal metamorphosis, you embark on this green journey once more.

Within the expansive embrace of your bountiful garden, nature's generosity unfolds, providing an abundant harvest of fruits and vegetables that not only sustains you and your roommate but also extends its benevolent reach to your cherished neighbors.

Which makes you think of the dear Kims—Kim Seokjin and his wife—embarking on a journey to a larger home, carving out space for their expanding family, tugs at the strings of your heart. While you understand the practicality of their move, a somber melancholy settles within you, for they have not just been neighbors; they have been the epitome of kindness and warmth. 

With an earnest yearning, you cling to the hope that your incoming neighbor will show kindness, sweetness, and warmth akin to the cherished friendship you shared with the departing Kims.

He doesn’t.

The day has arrived when your neighbor, Seokjin, faces the bittersweet necessity of moving. The street is lined with colossal trucks, a tangible representation of the imminent change. As tears trace their silent path down your cheeks, you refuse to let the sorrow eclipse the spirit of friendship. 

Despite the weight of emotions, you join forces with Jungkook, your steadfast roommate, to transform the process into a collective effort. Together, you navigate the labyrinth of memories, carrying not just boxes but the shared history of laughter, shared moments, and the neighborly bonds that have woven through the fabric of your days. 

As the reality of parting sets in, the ache of missing Seokjin and his pregnant wife becomes a weight on your heart. Determined to express the depth of your sentiment, you envelop them in tight, lingering hugs, the warmth of your embrace carrying unspoken words of friendship and well-wishes. Amidst the bittersweet farewells, you articulate your genuine hopes for their future, weaving a promise of staying connected. With each heartfelt word, you convey that the physical distance won't sever the ties of friendship.

In a world where genuine connections with neighbors are as rare as finding hidden gems, you've recognized the preciousness of Seokjin and his wife. Their sweetness and kindness have forged a bond that transcends the typical neighborly exchanges. Their generosity extends beyond mere pleasantries—during a challenging chapter in your life, when the looming shadows of unemployment threatened your stability, it was their unwavering support that illuminated your path. 

Together, you navigated the uncertainty, and Seokjin suggested his friend Jungkook as a roommate to help you financially, and Jungkook has since become an integral part of your life as a steadfast and cherished roommate.

Undoubtedly, the Kims have not just been neighbors but pillars of unwavering support and kindness, surpassing any expectations one might have for ideal neighbors. 

In the wake of the Kims' departure, their once-vibrant house now stands silent, a poignant reminder of the cherished moments shared. However, your curiosity, like an invisible magnet, draws you to the window. From your vantage point, you observe with a mix of intrigue and anticipation as a moving truck sidles up next to their now-empty abode. You almost feel like a creep as you watch them unload furniture and boxes.

Whispers in the neighborhood had reached your ears—an intriguing coincidence as a man, bearing the surname 'Kim,' was poised to become your new neighbor. The town's gossip mill hummed with speculation, but you tuned out the rest, your focus fixated on the serendipitous arrival of this mysterious Kim.

Jungkook ambles over, his sudden presence jolting you against the window, prompting an involuntary jump. With a teasing grin, he questions your clandestine observation, his laughter echoing through the room. “Why are you lurking?” he jests, enjoying the playful spectacle of your eye roll in response. 

“I’m observing.” You declare with matter-of-fact precision, and in response, Jungkook simply offers a contemplative ‘hm.’

Throughout the day, the elusive presence of the new neighbor has been a captivating enigma, a puzzle you've been diligently attempting to unravel. Despite your earnest efforts, the quest for a mere glimpse has proven elusive.

“I'm just curious to get a read on the new guy,” you confess, drawing out your words with a touch of playful mystery. As you gracefully step away from the window, the allure of the unknown lingering in the air, you head into the kitchen with purpose.

You fetch the kettle and begin to boil some water for tea.

“Just give the guy some space to settle in, and when the time is right, you can whip up those mouthwatering cookies of yours and give him a warm welcome to the neighborhood,” Jungkook suggests, trailing after you into the kitchen. He deftly retrieves two mugs from the overhead cabinets, placing them in anticipation of the soon-to-be-boiling kettle.

Rummaging through the tea stash, you unearth aromatic sachets—one for yourself and another for Jungkook—and delicately place them into the waiting mugs. As the kettle sings its final crescendo, you pour the steaming water into the mugs, initiating the alchemical process that transforms the humble leaves into an elixir of warmth.

The synchronicity between you and Jungkook is seamless, a finely tuned rhythm born out of the years you've spent living together. Perhaps it's the invisible thread of familiarity that binds you, a connection so deep that you can effortlessly complete each other's sentences, the unspoken language of friendship. He’s much more than a roommate; you love him like a brother, an annoying little brother, even though you’re the same age.

“Good idea! The legendary triple chocolate cookies?” you propose, your eyes lighting up with the prospect of sweet indulgence. Holding your tea mug, you savor the warmth of the liquid against your lips, a comforting ritual that transcends seasons—you're an unapologetic tea enthusiast, even in the heat of summer. 

“Absolutely! Hell yeah!” Jungkook exclaims, his enthusiasm echoing through the room like a burst of unbridled joy. As he eagerly recalls the memory of the last batch you made, his words become a vivid homage to the culinary masterpiece, the taste still lingering on his tongue like a cherished melody. 

Throughout the entire weekend, the symphony of your new neighbor's move has reverberated, a lively crescendo of sound that paints the air with the vibrant hues of laughter and camaraderie. His entourage of friends, a boisterous ensemble, fills the atmosphere with the clatter of unloading boxes and the rhythmic shuffle of furniture being transported from the truck. 

Yet, despite the lively spectacle of your new neighbor's move, his actual presence remains an elusive mystery. The air is thick with anticipation as questions swirl within your mind: Is he old? Is he your age? Does he possess the warmth and kindness that endeared Seokjin and his wife to your heart? Your curiosity becomes a cascade of inquiries, a mental carousel that you acknowledge is just you being noisy.

Up to this point, the sole revelation about your new neighbor is his knack for creating quite the noise. The symphony of sounds, though vibrant in its own way, becomes a stark contrast to the familiar warmth and silence that once emanated from Seokjin and his wife's abode. 

Damn you miss Seokjin and his wife.

While the awareness of ongoing move-in activities tempers your expectations for noise, an unexplainable discomfort begins to settle in. The amalgamation of unfamiliar sounds, even in the midst of anticipated relocation clamor, manages to irk you. 

And you haven’t even met the guy yet.

Several days have elapsed, it appeared that your new neighbor had completed the arduous task of settling in. A glimmer of hope fluttered, suggesting that the relentless clamor would finally recede. Yet, to your dismay, a new auditory storm emerged—his penchant for playing music at an astonishing volume became the unforeseen soundtrack to your days. 

“I already hate him, Guk,” you declare with a melodramatic sulk, dramatically flopping down onto the couch beside Jungkook.

He swivels his head in your direction, a mischievous smile playing on his lips before erupting into a hearty laugh. “Come on, it’s just music. How bad can it get?”

After a patient wait, the oven radiates a palpable heat, reaching the optimal temperature to host the transformation of dough into decadence. With a sense of anticipation, you carefully place the trays laden with the promise of triple chocolate cookies into the fiery embrace of the oven. 

Despite the less-than-ideal introduction to your new neighbor, marred by his thunderous music and a symphony of questionable sounds that you'd rather not contemplate—, there's a resolute yearning within you to extend an olive branch. 

Fueled by the desire for neighborly harmony, you're determined to overcome the initial discord and approach him with a peace offering, a genuine gesture to welcome him into the neighborhood, hoping to mend the dissonant notes that currently define your thoughts about him.

Just as the first tray of cookies begins its enchanting transformation in the oven, your ‘girl boss’ playlist providing a lively backdrop, the symphony is abruptly punctuated by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass echoing from outside. 

A sudden chill races down your spine, the shivers intensified by the ominous realization that the shattering sound emanates from the vicinity of your garden. Locking eyes with Jungkook, a silent exchange of concern, you swiftly transition from baking bliss to a sprinting guardian of your sanctuary. 

The urgency in your steps amplifies the suspense, as you dash outside, propelled by a blend of curiosity and trepidation, determined to unveil the source of the disruptive crash that disrupted the tranquil rhythm of your day.

Shards of glass glisten like misplaced stars in the grass, guiding your gaze to a seemingly innocent purple ball. However, your eyes transform into metaphorical daggers as they lock onto the source of the havoc, revealing a telltale hole in the once-pristine surface of your beloved greenhouse. 

A surge of anger courses through your veins, a visceral reaction to the shattered tranquility mirrored in the glass strewn across the grass. While distant voices from your neighbor try to penetrate your consciousness, your focus remains ensnared by the chaos within the greenhouse—the fractured plants and the disarrayed remnants of what was once a sanctuary. 

Navigating the shards with cautious steps, you venture into the greenhouse, the air heavy with a sense of apprehension and loss. As you survey the wreckage, the toll becomes painfully clear—fragments of tomatoes, cucumbers, and watermelons lay strewn, their promise of abundance now reduced to a heartbreaking scene of destruction.

An inferno of rage surges through your veins, akin to liquid fire or molten lava, an elemental force consuming reason and calm. The greenhouse, once a sanctuary, now stands as a testament to the havoc wrought—its structural integrity compromised, and the once-vibrant plants broken and battered. 

Your gaze fixes on the offending purple ball, and in a sudden revelation, the realization lands like a forceful blow—it's a sinister gift from your new neighbor. A surge of fury engulfs you, a tempest that ignites within, transforming your blood into a boiling cauldron of rage until the world before your eyes is tainted with a visceral shade of red. 

Driven by an uncontrollable wave of anger, you storm outside, seizing the ominous purple ball with a fierce determination. Each step to your new neighbor is punctuated by the rhythmic thud of your stampede, a declaration of intent that resonates with your frustration.

Amidst the clash of emotions, a figure emerges—a man with disheveled silver hair hurtling toward you, hands raised in a gesture of surrender, a young child at his side. 

The ball gripped tightly in your hand becomes both a weapon and a question mark as you confront the silver-haired man. The fury in your voice is palpable, a tempest churning within each word as you demand answers. “What is this?” you seethe, elevating the purple sphere as a visual indictment, challenging him to reckon with the consequences of his actions. 

“A ball?” he responds with a nervous chuckle, his hand seeking solace through the disheveled landscape of silver hair at the back of his head. Beside him, a little boy, no older than six, clings to his leg with a grip that speaks of both innocence and trepidation. 

“You think you’re smart, huh?” you begin, the words laden with a potent mix of frustration and mounting anger. The simmering emotions rise like a tide within you, unleashing a renewed flood of resentment that threatens to engulf your entire being.

“I'm so sorry about the ball. We didn't mean to throw it over the fence—” the man starts to apologize, but your tolerance for explanations dwindles to nothing. You cut him off with an air of absolute dismissal, leaving no room for excuses or justifications.

“You shattered my greenhouse!” you roar in frustration, the anger propelling the ball from your hand towards him. In a deft move, he catches it effortlessly against his chest, the tension in the air palpable.

“I'm so sorry, I didn't mea—” he begins, but you cut through his attempt to explain with a dismissive wave.

“I don't care! You should be mindful of other people's property. I had plants in there that are now broken and useless,” you declare, your voice stern and scolding. The words emerge like a verbal reprimand, each syllable charged with the weight of your anger. As you speak, the intensity manifests physically, your breaths becoming huffs of air, mirroring the turbulent emotions that still churn within you. 

You observe the man's persistent attempts at apology, and the child clings even tighter to his sturdy thigh, as if seeking refuge in the face of the storm brewing in front of him.

“Fuck you. Don't let it happen again,” you spit, the words laden with an unrelenting edge. You observe him swiftly cover the child's ears, shielding innocence from the raw exchange. Just as you pivot to leave, a tense silence lingering, he finds his voice once more. 

Observing him withdraw his hands from the child's ears, he takes a measured step in your direction. “Look, lady,” he begins, his tone a blend of frustration and assertion, “I already apologized. There's no reason to be so crude, especially not in front of a kid.”

Your gaze swiftly traverses them from head to toe, a brusque assessment. “Like I give a shit,” you retort with a dismissive snort.

“Joon, why is the lady mad?” inquires the boy, casting a curious glance at your neighbor. 

“Well, we ruined her greenhouse, which we've already apologized for. Now I'm starting to think she's just stuck up and has a stick up her ass,” your neighbor explains in a composed tone to the child, who simply gapes at the blunt choice of words.

The audacity of his words hits you like an unexpected blow. Stuck up? The incredulity courses through you as you grapple with the absurdity of the accusation. Him, the one who shattered your pride and joy, casting you as the haughty one?

“Well, fuck you!” you scream in frustration, punctuating the sentiment with a defiant middle finger. With a final act of rebellion, you storm away, retreating back into your house, your fury a palpable force propelling your every step. 

Gasping for breath, you stumble inside, a disheveled embodiment of raw emotion. Jungkook gazes at you, confusion etched on his face as he questions, “What happened?”

In a huff, you explain, “Piece of shit neighbor broke my greenhouse,” the words tumble out, each syllable a testament to the frustration gripping you. With a perfunctory motion, you snatch the tray from Jungkook, who had kindly retrieved it from the oven when the cookies were ready. 

Now, the sweet aroma of accomplishment is tainted, and the once-desired treats feel like a bitter offering. You contemplate discarding them, convinced your neighbor doesn't deserve the indulgence born from your hard work and nurturing care.

“What are you doing?” Jungkook queries with genuine concern, his worry palpable in the furrow of his brows and the earnest tone of his voice. Clutching the tray, you navigate towards the trash can, your actions leaving an air of uncertainty hanging between you two.

“Throwing them out?” you retort, the words a sharp echo in the air as you lock eyes with Jungkook. 

“Don't! I'll eat them,” Jungkook pleads, motioning for you to spare the tray from its impending fate in the trash. 

A flicker of reluctance dances in your eyes, but the prospect of salvaging the cookies prevails. After all, it would be a shame to let them go to waste merely because your neighbor is a piece of shit

Despite Jungkook's plea for you to set aside your fury and accept the apology from your new neighbor, the ember of resentment within you refuses to be extinguished. 

For reasons unknown, a bitter taste lingers within you, refusing to let go. The turmoil is inexplicable, but the remnants of resentment persist. He didn't just break your greenhouse; he shattered a piece of your sanctuary. Now, held together with a temporary tapestry of plastic, the wounded structure serves as a constant reminder, a tangible testament to the disruption that's not easily brushed aside.

Not to mention the plants that withered away that fateful day. Yes, they perished under the weight of the intrusion, and no, you refuse to consider it as mere drama, as Jungkook suggested. 

Anger bubbles within you, a volatile force demanding retribution. In the crucible of resentment, a calculated decision takes root: to do the only thing that feels just—sabotage some of his. An eye for an eye, the ancient adage whispers in your mind.

Thus, you find yourself meticulously gluing his mailbox together, rendering it an inoperable shell that denies him the simple act of receiving mail or opening the damn thing! 

A sense of self-satisfaction courses through you as you observe him from the vantage point of your living room window, wrestling with his unyielding mailbox, frustration etched across his face. 

A laugh of vindication escapes your lips as you revel in his futile struggle. His bewildered gaze sweeps the surroundings, a clear sign that he fails to comprehend what's wrong with his once-functional mailbox. Frustration etches lines on his face before he concedes, retreating back into the confines of his home. 

Jungkook sidles up next to you, a quizzical expression on his face. “Is that your handiwork?” he inquires, pointing towards your neighbor's now dysfunctional mailbox. 

A chuckle escapes your lips, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Yeah.”

“You're being childish and mean,” he reproaches, shaking his head in disapproval of your actions. A chuckle escapes him, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I bet you like him,” he remarks with a knowing smile, strolling past you. 

You gape at him, disbelief etched across your face. No. No such thing. “I fucking hate him, and he deserves it,” you retort vehemently, the raw intensity in your voice emphasizing the depth of your disdain. 

Author’s note(2): Thank you so much for reading! 🌸 I appreciate every like, comment and reblog, and please don’t be afraid to let me know what you think;  your kind words makes me extremely happy 💜

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[littlemisspascal]

Share My Moon

Part of The Fox, The Mage, and The Cupboard

Pairing: Din x Female Reader // also referenced Pero Tovar x Female Reader

Word Count: 3200+

Summary: If you’d known then of the upcoming hell, you would’ve savored the brief taste of heaven significantly more.

Warnings: Magic AU with mages and familiars, Reader has a backstory but no name or description except having hair, Reader's mother makes an appearance, worldbuilding, Ginger Ale being the supportive friend I wish I had, language, angst, grief, mentions of death, passage of time is kind of wibbly wobbly here

Author Note: I've missed this little universe and felt like pouring out some angsty feels. Expands a bit more upon events referenced in Young Love. Hope someone out there likes it 💜💜💜

Pics in moodboard found on Canva + Pinterest. The Omera + Din pic is merely used for aesthetic purposes and does not depict Reader's physical appearance.

Share My Moon - Candle Cocoon

The times that we exist together. Words not needed. Words not said. Memory past. Baking frenzy, harvest night. Pause, look up, the window is bright. Share my Moon. Feel It’s light. Always know that wherever you go. You just need to know that we share the same moon.

~~~

For as many people called Eldergrove home, there were twice as many who no longer did. They moved on and never looked back. The village and its inhabitants nothing more than tiny specks in the rearview mirrors of their lives. You wondered sometimes, if despite the miles of separation, they ever could feel it when their name was spoken by reminiscing villagers. A pinch of nostalgia in the center of their chest for a chapter of their lives they’d closed. 

Maybe that was what led a handful of souls back to their old stomping grounds, even after some swore they’d never step foot on Eldergrove soil again.

The Miller brothers upped and left after the deaths of their parents. Ben was barely fifteen at the time, too stubborn and too emotionally damaged to be abandoned by his older sibling. Years later they returned out of the blue, bringing with them Santiago and Frankie, and moved back into the Miller household alongside their cousin like they’d never left. You were reminded of a pack of feral dogs, dangerously codependent and easy to spook, distrustful of the friendly hands offering to help them. 

Pero Tovar and William Garin stuck around long enough to graduate school before they packed their things and disappeared. Nobody in the village could figure out for sure where they went or what they did the eight years they were gone. But once William’s ability to kill any prey with a bow and arrow in one shot and Pero’s complete lack of reaction to bloodshed were noticed, the rumor mill blazed with conspiracy theories each more outrageous than the last.

And it hurt to think about how each of these boys who left came back different. They came back as men. Damaged, bloodstained, and exhausted men chewed up and spit out by the big bad world.

It hurt even worse to think about Din this way. Din with his unwavering faith. Din with his impenetrable armor. Beaten and scorned. Unvalued. He deserved a softer life than the one fate had handed him. Nothing could ever convince you otherwise.

On paper, Din had no reason to return. He’d never called Eldergrove home. He’d never called anywhere home. Mandalorians weren’t meant to form attachments outside of their family bonds. Weren’t built for the apple pie and white picket fence domestic lifestyle. 

Still, like the ocean drawn to the shoreline, he came back to you over and over.

You thought that was a constant you could depend upon in your ever-changing life.

And maybe it would have remained one, if not for your brazen act of selfishness. If you hadn't been drowning in grief over the deaths of your loved ones and overwhelmed by Din’s kindness, his fidelity, his everything and stopped yourself from lifting his helmet high enough to slam a kiss against his lips.

If you’d known then of the upcoming hell, you would’ve savored the brief taste of heaven significantly more.

If, if, if…They seemed to multiply like rabbits, invading every corner of your brain.

You’d known it was a mistake in the fragile seconds before he pushed you back, so it wasn’t surprising to find him gone by the time you’d summoned up the nerve to walk out of Ivers Forest. His constant absence the several following months without a single word of contact was another puncture driven through your tormented heart. The kind that kept you up at night, white hot and unbearably tender, but deserved all the same for fucking everything up.

It had made sense back then, in its own twisted way, that the anguish would stick with you forever, infiltrating every last atom you possessed. But life had the annoying tendency of moving on and on and on, uncaring of who it pissed off in doing so, and even the most gruesome of wounds stopped bleeding eventually, leaving behind a couple of jagged scars as reminders of lessons learned. 

And boy did you learn yours the hard way.

You and Din? The shortest of love stories summed up in four words.

Wrong place. Wrong time.

~~

You were a mere shadow of your former self in the aftermath of the funerals and Din’s departure. Shattered without a plan of how to glue yourself back together again. People noticed, of course they did, looking at you with pity in their eyes and offering paper-thin smiles. Turned you into a bit of a recluse to avoid facing them, feeling too much like an object or statue to gawk at rather than a real human being. Though there were some days you didn’t even feel like one of those either.

Your relationship with The Cupboard was a love/hate one, switching back and forth depending on the week or day or hour. It was funny in a pathetic, tragic sort of way how a building you’d known since birth became almost unrecognizable once it stopped being your grandmother’s shop and now belonged to you. You spent days refamiliarizing yourself with every tool and ingredient, the contents of each drawer, the ‘hidden’ nook beneath one of the floorboards you once stuffed shiny pebbles and bird feathers in like your own personal treasure trove. Nothing in there now except a couple of dust bunnies.

Inheriting the shop also meant inheriting your grandmother’s loyal mass of clientele. They sent in their orders by mail from afar, knocked on the shop door if you had the light on, or asked through your mother when you made yourself purposefully scarce. No one commented on the unpredictable hours. Grief could be used to excuse all types of strange behavior.

Wearing the same clothes for several days in a row? Grief.

Locking yourself away in a tiny room with nothing but molds and candlewax for hours on end? Grief was the explanation.

In your defense, you did spend time outside of the shop and your bedroom. Quite a bit, actually. Not your fault there weren’t any witnesses in Ivers Forest to see you collecting herbs or tending to the graves there. Sometimes you’d personally deliver orders to customers who lived beyond Eldergrove’s boundaries rather than send them by post–Rosedale, Bogcaster, once even Sassashire Falls for a woman with a particularly nasty reaction to a bee sting.

A good night’s sleep was hard to come by, no matter the candles which burned on your bedside table. You’d dream of what you’d lost. Who you had lost. And if you weren’t dreaming, you were having a staring contest with the moon outside the window, full and white, a guardian against the worst of the hungry shadows. Stared until your eyes burned and the questions beating against your skull fell mute. The clock numbers ticked by from midnight ‘till dawn. Life went on and on and on.

Mornings were easier. You’d make tea while Ginger cobbled together a little breakfast meal from whatever could be found in the fridge. She knew better than to comment on your tired eyes or frumpy appearance, instead just nudged her elbow against yours in a silent I’m here if you need me. 

You stuffed your mouth with food and stacked the dishes and silverware in the sink to deal with later. Wished Ginger luck on finishing her newest invention designs.

Then back to The Cupboard you went. Same old, same old. 

~~

Your mother worried about you–well, that was always a fact. But she worried even more so that year, had a concerned crease between her eyebrows every time you stopped by, hugged you an extra bit tighter as if she could somehow absorb the negative emotions and take them on herself. 

“You know, darling,” she told you one evening, a couple glasses of wine too many loosening her tongue, “that boy could never hate you.”

Your mother was your closest confidant–boy troubles, irritating customers, crippling insecurities, she knew just what to say to make every problem shrink down into manageable ones. Easy to fix.

But not this. 

“Mom–”

“It was obvious from the minute you brought him home you were tied to each other. He may not be your familiar, but your grandmother and I both knew you would always be in each other’s lives.”

“Not anymore.” You shook your head, a wet sob stuck in your throat. “He’s not coming back. Not again.”

“I know it feels like an ending, darling. Like all hope is lost,” she said, hands squeezing your shoulders. Her eyes were bright and expressive, impossible to look away from. “But sometimes things fall apart because there’s no other way for them to go. And it’s natural to feel hurt and confused and angry. Those challenging moments are meant to teach us new things though, open our stubborn eyes and change us into us. Din will come back when the timing’s right. When you’ve both grown up a bit, walked your own separate paths for a few seasons. Trust me.”

So that’s what you did. 

You grew up, settled into your own skin. You made a name for yourself as a skilled mage and chandler. You started smiling a bit more. 

Missing Din became easier–felt less like the throbbing absence of a limb, more like the yearning ache of homesickness. Curious, since you were the one who had a roof over your head and a mailing address. 

There were still some nights you’d find yourself watching the moon, its waning and waxing. And it became a comfort, imagining Din somewhere out there in the wilds on his own path, sharing the same view.

Take your time, you would think in the lulling seconds before drifting off. I'm not going anywhere.

~~

If not for the stone markers, the graves in Ivers Forest wouldn’t look much like burial sites. The dislodged piles of dirt had been reclaimed by the earth, smoothed out and replenished with green tufts of grass dotted with dandelions doing what they did best. Thriving where least wanted. 

Sunlight trickled in through the overarching tree branches, shimmering beams igniting the dust and pollen floating in the air. The only movement in an otherwise frozen patch of wilderness. Not even the birds or crickets sung their songs there. Used to make you feel nauseous–the silence so still your heartbeat hurt to hear. 

You craved quietness these days. Wished you could preserve it in the wax of your candles somehow, then burn its essence and inhale its effects until your racing thoughts permanently settled down. But every kind of magic had its limitations.  Capturing the hush of a soul’s final resting place, raising the dead back to the realm of the living…it was all too much for you.

The lit candle cupped between your hands flickered, reacting to the negative dip of your mood. An infusion of lavender, bergamot, and a hint of lemon meant to invoke calmness–one of your grandmother’s favorite recipes. Except it didn’t smell like hers, missing the unique, spicy aftereffect of her own magic that you would never in your lifetime be able to mimic. It was a plain and simple fact: you could run her store, you could copy her recipes, but you couldn’t ever actually be her. 

Didn’t stop you from trying to fill your grandmother’s shoes though, to be everything she was remembered and loved for.

A talented mage, a successful businesswoman, a respected member of the community. Accomplishments which matched those of a happy life. Accomplishments you’d earned for yourself, checked off each box through hard work and stubborn persistence. 

You should have been happy. 

But the feeling remained elusive to you. Hovered just beyond your reach, enshrouded in a mist of uncertainty, not so different from a certain bounty hunter you were dearly fond of. 

It was foolish, thinking of him at the same spot everything shattered to pieces. You rubbed at your nose, grimacing against the phantom sensation of blood leaking from your nostrils. If only you’d mourned the loss of your grandmother and Aunt Bunny the way most people did, instead of nearly getting yourself killed trying to bend the rules of the universe to your whim, maybe then things would have been different. Happier.

Your candle’s flame flickered again, angrier this time, nearly snuffing out. 

“Sorry, sorry. Brighter days are on the horizon, I believe you,” you muttered to yourself, staring down at your grandmother’s marker with a rueful half-smile. Some days it felt cathartic to speak out loud, other times a little ridiculous. Regardless, nobody ever replied back. 

“It’s always darkest before the dawn,” a familiar voice agreed from behind. 

Until then, apparently.

Ginger was a great roommate. She was tidy, thoughtful, far more brilliant than everyone else in the village combined. She also knew how to find you when you didn’t want to be found and when it was time to bring you home again. Even when you weren’t ready to admit so.

You greeted her with an arm nudge as she stepped up beside you, shoulder pressing back against yours. She adjusted her glasses, then neatly held her hands in front of her. The stance of someone who intended to stick around for a while.

“Caught up in the past again, hmm?”

“Guilty,” you answered with a sigh. “Can’t seem to shake the habit.”

“You ever think about, maybe, finding someone to anchor you in the present?” she asked, like the question had an easy answer. 

“Someone like who?”

“A boyfriend.”

You hummed a dismissive note. “No. Not even once. Why the hell would I want that?”

“It’s called dating, hon. Lots of single fish out there in the sea, including some of Merlin’s friends.” Ginger tilted her head to meet your gaze, an encouraging look in her dark eyes. “Could be good for you. Why not give it a shot?”

Why not? Because you were still grappling with the consequences of the last (and first) time you kissed someone. Why not? Because dating meant opening yourself up to someone, allowing them to see you. Every crack, every shadow, every shortcoming. Why not? Because someone already had seen you like that…and you’d lost him.

You bit into your lower lip, stared down at the pooling melted wax filling the jar as if the words you lacked were stuck there, waiting to be pulled free. But nothing could be found.

“Change can be scary,” Ginger said after a moment. There was a note of sympathy in her voice, and you didn’t want to hear it. Not there, where out of the corner of your eye you swore you glimpsed the glint of beskar, where the dividing line between past and present had never been blurrier. “But…you’re not happy with the way things are right now, are you?” The expression on Ginger’s face told you she knew the truth. She just wanted to hear you say it.

It wasn’t an easy thing to do. Something about actually giving voice to the problem that had been weighing down on you so long felt akin to tearing your heart out of your chest. Exposed for one of your closest friends in the whole world to gawk at.

“No,” you answered, shoulders curving with defeat. A sour taste in your mouth, you choked out, “I’m not happy.”

“The first step’s admitting it.” Your roommate slung her arm around your back, squeezing your upper arm. Then: “The next step’s taking a leap of faith and doing something about it.”

~~

Later, you convinced a stubborn Pero Tovar to make you a cottage out of The Cupboard. (That’s a whole other story on its own). 

Later, Pero kissed you beneath a sky full of shooting stars. It was unexpectedly sweet. Romantic. (Another story for another time.)

Later, you broke Pero’s heart because (beware of spoilers) for all the potential reasons you might’ve been happy together, there was one glaring detail you couldn’t overlook no matter how hard you tried. 

He wasn’t Din.

And life went on and on and on.

~~

On one shelf in The Cupboard, towards the back where you kept your wax molds, there was a row of candles—different colors, different infusions, each created with a different person in mind. There was a pink one for your mother, a grey one for your stepfather, light blue for Ginger and green for Benny and yellow for Frankie. Din’s was gold, Will’s a dark shade of purple and Santiago’s a vibrant orange. Pero had a black one, though with the unpleasant awkwardness still lingering after the breakup his had become the least burned in your collection—well, actually that was not entirely true. There was one you’d never lit at all. An earthy brown shade and still as pristine as the day you made it for a familiar you’d yet to meet.

None of these people asked for a candle. They didn’t pay for them or choose their colors or infusions. You made the candles in your own free time of your own volition. Because there was something about the process of melting wax and adding scents, about infusing strength and peace and creativity and protection that gave you a sense of purpose, of being a positive force.  

You burned them sporadically, sometimes for hours while you finalized orders, sometimes for under ten minutes as you drank a cup of tea. You burned them when your magic sensed something was needed, a void only it could help fill. You burned them because nothing hurt you worse than when the ones you loved most were suffering, the hopeful vibrance in their eyes dimming and waning. 

There were some tragedies which could not be avoided. Some hardships that must be endured and overcome by one’s own strength. Life was never a smooth path for anybody. For every sunny day there were also moonless nights.

But light would always come again.

Afterall, even the biggest of shadows were powerless against the smallest of candle flames. 

~~

Monday: breakfast at your mother’s house, yummy biscuits and troubled lines along your stepfather’s brow, news of a sick relative, a grey candle burned to bring him peace of mind.

Tuesday: lunch with Frankie, tired smudges beneath downcast eyes, discussions of nightmares, the dancing flame of a yellow candle promised sweeter dreams.

Wednesday: stacks of orders, piles of laundry, Ginger lent a helping hand, a blue candle lit over dinner in gratitude.

Thursday: Santiago and his restless spirit, the notes of an acoustic guitar played by scarred hands, new song lyrics in black ink, an orange candle ignited to summon enlightenment of life’s priorities.

Friday: woke up before the sunrise, magic tugged at your chest, a gold candle grabbed and lit before you even registered its meaning, heartbeat dangerously frantic.

It’s happening, you thought with a laugh verging on hysterical. It’s really happening.

Din was coming back.

~~

Night had descended upon Eldergrove by the time Din approached The Cupboard. It was reassuring to learn his preference for the cloak of darkness concealing his presence hadn’t changed. Helped appease something ruffled deep inside you, eased the tension in your spine. 

He knocked on the door–and that hadn’t changed either, the achingly familiar thud of leather-gloved knuckles against the wood. Even without the gold candle still burning away on your kitchen table, you would have known it was him by the mere sound alone.  

Electricity seemed to thrum along your nerves, pulse spasming and fingers trembling as you gripped the doorknob. Your mom had told you Din would return when the timing was right, and you’d believed her. Except absolutely nothing felt right about then and there. It was an impossible clash of too soon and too long without any middle ground to stand on.

Taking a deep breath, you opened the door and stepped outside. A leap of faith. 

And for the first time in over a year, you and Din shared the same moon.

[jennay]

Something Nice

Master List

An: Just a small little thing. I thought the idea was cute. I hope you like it too. Let me know if you would like any requests done. 💜

Rory Culkin x Reader

Words: 400-500ish

"Did you kill someone?" Rory asks you as he walks up to you with a wary look. He sees the hole you dug in front of you and the dirt on your clothes. "You know I love you, but I'm not sure I can handle any more drama in our lives."

You grin and wave your hand at the hole. "No, of course not. I was just getting ready to surprise you with something special. Come on, check it out." You wink at him. "Don't be scared; it's not a grave. Look, I even got us an apple tree! Isn't it adorable?" You point to the tiny sapling that barely reaches your knees.

"That's kind of a shallow hole for a tree." Rory says, raising an eyebrow.

You shrug and pick up the tree, holding it close to your chest. "I'm doing my best here…I never said I was good at gardening." You laugh. "Besides, I'd rather be inside with you than sweating like a pig out here. But I wanted to do something nice for us." You smile and kiss him on the cheek. "What do you say? Want to help me plant some stuff?" You muster up your puppy eyes and try to convince him without begging.

Rory's blue eyes scan the yard, taking in the assortment of flowers, plants, and vegetables you have scattered around. He knows you well enough to guess you jumped into this project without much planning or research. He sees the desperation in your eyes as you struggle to dig a hole for the tiny apple tree. He chuckles softly. He can't let you do this alone; you'll end up frustrated and bored. You need his help and his encouragement to keep going.

He wraps his arms around you and kisses your forehead. "I'll help, but we'll need more than just some holes and plants." He says gently, trying not to hurt your feelings. "Maybe we should get some soil that's not dried out and some wood slabs to block off an area specifically for the veggies?"

Your shoulders drop with defeat. "Oh god. You're going to make me go to Home Depot again, aren't you?" You groan.

He laughs and hugs you tighter.

"Only if you want to. Or we can order online and have it delivered. It's just going to be extra time." He says, trying to make it easier for you. "Either way, I'm proud of you for trying something new, and I think our garden will be beautiful, just like you."

You smile and snuggle into his chest. "You're too sweet; you know that?" You pause briefly, "Thank you for being here with me."

He smiles and strokes your hair. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

[azrielgreen]

Hey, I was just wondering how you stay motivated to write. I used to be really good at creative writing in school, but I fell off with it and don’t feel I’m half as good as I was. I have some amazing ideas in my head but fear I can’t execute them that well. Or I start something and have no will to finish! Does it come naturally to you? Do you find it hard to stay on task some days? Thanks.

Hi, thank you for this important question. I think so many of us struggle with this and it's really important to share in it.

Firstly, I believe that energy is cyclical. It waxes and wanes. We have to respect the times when we can't do as much as we could the week before, the month before even. Creative writing requires creative inspiration, hence why writing can feel so easy when you're newly inspired by a hyperfixation. All energy ebbs and flows, though, so there absolutely will be times you need a gentle break to indulge in things you love again. If you plant seeds in the same nutrient-depleted soil over and over again, what grows there will be void of minerals and vitamins.

When you find yourself starting new stories (because that feels SO GOOD) but being unable to finish them, you know you're running low on creative sustenance. You can only go so far and what's worse, your brain - a dopamine hungry thing - will notice that you get a little rush when you start something new, but get nothing much from forcing yourself to push on with it and it will annoyingly guide you towards that kind of thing unless given balance.

Looking after yourself and romanticising your process as much as is ✨HUMANLY POSSIBLE✨ and even beyond is always what I recommend. When writing starts to feel like work, get away from it. Take a break, find new songs, watch new movies, write other stuff, weird new stuff that's just for you. Move your furniture around, make a candle, go for a swim, but don't write for a week at least. Then come back to your desk, light some candles, make a new playlist, let the air in and go absolutely fucking wild.

This is what I do. I make a huge fuss of my process, I treat myself to little things before I sit to write, I make the house nice, I check off errands first (this is actually very helpful too - the uncluttered mind), and I light candles, play Debussy and drink my tea while holding onto the fucking JOY that will come from "that scene" I have planned in my head.

Doing this a little bit every day helps build momentum. I don't push myself as hard as I did before, but I do write every day (outside of monthly breaks), in one way or another and I make it a beautiful indulgent process rather than a harsh grind. Writing everyday, even just 200 words, helps get movement and momentum flowing, helps build your confidence again and above all, prevents burnout. Taking breaks is essential too as I said. I have creativity days where I do new things, open myself up wide to the universe and it's on those days I usually realise how easy it is to close myself off and hold tight to the feeling of "writing felt good before, it felt good again, it's all I need". Writing isn't enough, comments and kudos aren't enough and they should never become what it's all about. If you write ONLY for those things, you'll live in a perpetual state of stress, insecurity and disappointment because those things will fade regardless.

Write for yourself. Make it a process you look forward to. Go wild, have fun, indulge, explore, stay open, look after your body and your mind and let your spirit touch nature once a day. Don't let other people dictate how you spend your energy and above all, please, don't compare yourself to others.

This is what I do.

All my love to you.

Az.

💜💜💜

[sitp-recs]

Very late on this but following tradition here’s a birthday rec post to celebrate our kind, brilliant and inimitable @lqtraintracks! It’s not a secret that I’ve loved LQT’s works for over a decade and am beyond grateful for everything they’ve done for the fandom, for Drarry, and for my fave rare pair. I love using any excuse to rec LQT but after many lists and recs it was a challenge to come up with something I hadn’t done before. Since they’re impressively prolific (how lucky are we?!) I thought of bringing together new gems recently posted and beloved old faves, Drarry and rare pair galore as it should be! So come and feast on another self-indulgent and slutty Liv list, my specialty 😌 Thank you my friend for being a steady, joyful, welcoming presence in the fandom, for gracing us with so many brilliant reads, for introducing me to my favorite rare pair (my whole heart belongs to your Hardy) and for bringing to life the perfect Teddy Lupin - your characterization remains my ultimate headcanon for him even after all these years. I hope you’ve had an incredible day!!! 💜

5 new rare pair fics to read:

🚗 destination unknown (M, 1.2k) - Teddy/James

They’re taking a trip together; they’re falling in love, or already there.

🧨 ballroom, close hold: five, six, seven, eight (E, 1.4k) - Fred/George

If there are two things that don’t go together, it’s sex pollen and going into heat. Or maybe they do go together and it’s just a matter of perspective.

📷 collarbones like a bow, skin an arrow to the heart (E, 4k) - Ginny/Pansy

Gin’s adjusting the lighting for their next shoot when in walks the new model Luna was so enthusiastic about, and that’s when they know they’re in deep shit.

🧹 Like Love Itself (E, 5k) - Albus/James

Albus has spent his whole life chasing after James. It never occurred to him James might want to be caught.

🐾 Eyes Gone Golden Like Coins (E, 5k) - Harry/Teddy

“Wish I could knot you,” I hear myself say. His eyes flash golden, like Galleons fresh from the Gringotts mint. When we’ve finished and we’re lying all tangled up, he asks softly. “You can… can’t you?”

5 Drarry faves to reread:

💔 A Pain of Our Choosing (E, 6k)

It’s 8th year and everyone’s still a bit messed up. Harry and Draco fall into being messed up together.

🎯 check this hand 'cause I'm marvelous (E, 8k)

Harry's had a crush on Malfoy for months now. But it will take a bar full of his friends, some Firewhisky, wagers made on his behalf, and Malfoy himself to get him to act on it.

🎁 Touch Me Fall (E, 23k)

Malfoy was such a ponce. And he was a complete snob. And he was so fucking fit Harry wanted to jump him where he sat. It would be too easy to forget his objective tonight: to really, really, really get Malfoy out of his system.

🐉 Blood and Fire (E, 45k)

Harry has spent the last twelve years in Romania, not returning to England as often as he knows he should. It's complicated. But when Ginny asks him to be her best man and help her plan her wedding, he can't say no. Having a reckoning with his choices, with himself, won't be easy. To say nothing of seeing Draco again.

🎲 Right Hand Red (E, 73k)

Harry felt Malfoy's breath on his lips as they came together over the bottle, hands firmly planted on the floor as though they each needed their familiar soil, refusing to cross into enemy territory. Except that Malfoy no longer felt like his enemy. Malfoy felt inevitable.

Bonus: Liv’s angsty PWP picks 🔥

🥃 Afterimage (1.7k) - Ginny/Ron

Ron comes home drunk (again); Ginny takes care of him. Again.

🌙 Beneath a Foreign Moon (2.7k) - Harry/Teddy

Harry visits Teddy in the middle of the night.

🪞 Slip Free of My Grasp (3.4k) - Harry/Sirius

I don't want to be bad for him. I want to do bad things and still be, somehow, inexplicably, good.

👠 Rogue Waves (6.5k) - Ginny/Pansy

A story of living with the trauma, fucking who you want, and maybe finding a little solace.

🎸 like the lost lyrics of a song suddenly remembered (11k) - Teddy/Bill, Teddy/James

Teddy Lupin, aging rockstar, is making a comeback after his life and career were nearly ruined by an illegal potions habit. Everyone's out to support him tonight. Including the man he's always tried so hard not to love -- as well as the man he's always turned to instead.

[makode-name]

What is Palladi's backstory 👀 been wanting to know for months

Well, he's a victim of someone really wanting revenge :D

What if I told you Palladi never was meant to be in a Jedi Order in a first place!

I was heavily relying on JK and SW storyline while creating him, but that meant that I have to mess up SWTOR timeline, because Palladi needed some space to be born and grow up a little. And I was, you know, kinda alright with that.

UNTIL now, when it raises more questions than answers

So, Sith Warrior campaign helped to create a sort of legacy villain, that I haven't introduced yet, for some reason (maybe cause I totally forgot about him xDD). Hence let's pretend it's the same, or maybe not the same Jedi-Knight and Emperor's Wrath.

Palladi's father willingly outcasted out (hehe) of Order because he felt like he failed in let's say something related to Emperor's Wrath, but most realisticly simply because he wanted a happy ever after life with my smuggler, as mri'tan and mri'te, husband and wife, officially. So they found a nice cozy place to lay low and he promised himself, that if their child(ren) will be force sensitive, he will train them himself, sharing all the knowledge he absorbed over the years and shaping them as a person of their own creed.

Years gone, the baby was born, turned out force sensitive, things were more than alright.

And here where the backfire happens. Emperor's Wrath tracks them down as if there was no better moment, seeking revenge. Long story short, spooky sith pureblood kills Palladi's father by decapitation leaving poor little fella scarred with PTSD and annoying father ghost. Jokes aside, the reason Wrath didn't kill Palladi is to leave him alone with this memory, the image of an enormous sith lord, standing and looking at him with it's deep-red lightsaber ignited and those mad glowing eyes, all the feelings and emotions attached so Palladi will be growing up with his own revenge somewhere deep in his heart and when the time comes Wrath will reappear and drag him more into the dark side. My guy just prepped the soil.

So, little Palladi being around 5-6 years old is rescued by an old family friend (maybe T7, maybe Bowdaar, bc they're the only companions who can live that long) and is given to Satele (oh no cringe) because she served alongside his father and was a good friend to him as well (and probably cause I like the idea of pallade growing together with theron) and that's how he gets into the Jedi Order.

I hope you didn't die by the end 😭

*inhales*

in the Jedi Order, at the beginning, Palladi didn't really want to participate in whatever was going on there. He was quite isolated, often missing trainings to spend more time within books because he wanted to learn more about his father.

somewhere deep he's still a scared little boy, waiting for his papa to return 🥺

thank you for your question 💜✨💚 I hope waiting for this didn't disappoint you xdd

[blackbat05]

Life

Joaquin Torres x Reader

Plot: Life could be a cruel joke. You turn to escapism to meet someone with a unique perspective on your struggles.

Genre: PG-13

A/N: Let’s just say I’ve based this on the shit I’ve experienced so far in adulting and it hasn’t been long yet. Really hope everyone is doing alright and I’m so sorry for the lack of content. Tagging @the-slumberparty for the BINGO card game!💜 I think this fic could fulfill two slots? I don’t think this is how it works? Please correct me if I’m wrong?😅

Life.

It could be a bed full of sunflowers and roses, and you feel like you could take on the world.

But it mostly also involved you being punched in the gut without warning.

Let’s just say, you had enough of terrible working conditions and decided that the only power a poor working woman like you was to quit.

You pulled your suitcase behind you, weaving through the departure hall. Passport in hand, you managed to get through the self check-in with the help of an attendant. In record speed, you found yourself having two hours of spare time to kill.

Making yourself comfortable at the lounge, you satisfied yourself by watching the planes dock and prepare for take off at the landing strip. Your phone beeps and you sigh at the rude intrusion.

It was only your parents who meant well, telling you to take care and text them when you arrived. A rush of emotions overwhelms you as you read how proud they are of you for making this decision.

Honestly? You were feeling pretty shitty. You were ecstatic getting that job you studied so hard for, only to be slapped in the face with reality where the lack of guidance and cliquey colleagues increased your self-doubt and incompetence. When you announced that you were ending your short lived career, there was no surprise. Only nonchalance and a whole lot of gossiping behind your back.

You abruptly stand up, hoping to make your way to the washroom before you experienced another breakdown.

“Shit! I’m so sorry!” You looked down to see a stain the size of a dollar imprinted on your shirt. The man in front of you with an opened juice bottle has what can only be described as a sheer look of terror on his face as he scrambles to hand you napkins from his bag. “Are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere?”

He doesn’t notice you staring at him blankly as he attempts to do damage control. You can’t help but to be reeled in by the way his curls bounce against his forehead rhythmically. Doe eyes furrowed in concentration, the man’s attention turns back to you and catches you looking at him.

“Yeah… I mean, yeah! I’m fine!” You shake yourself awake and into reality. “It’s alright. I wasn’t looking where I was going either. In fact, I could use a drink myself. Please let me get you another drink. I insist.”

The man doesn’t seem convinced, especially when you were about to board a flight with a soiled shirt. But if there was one thing you were good at, it was being stubborn.

An eventful way to pass time even, as you realized that both of you had the same destination on your plane tickets. Credit to the charming stranger, as he does not pry for more information. As the announcement booms through the departure hall, you shake his hand, glad to have made an acquaintance even if it was short lived.

***

The bright lights from the neon signboards mixed with the sounds from the foot traffic was enough to overload your senses. Yet, you felt completely at ease as you walked across the bridge that connected to multiple shopping malls.

Stomach growling, you opted to enter the next shopping mall to make your way to the food court. It was your happy place. Authentic, local cuisine that offered tantalizing flavors.

You weren’t the only one with the idea to come to the food court to escape the humidity. Tourists and locals alike prowl the area in search for seats to devour their purchased food and drinks. Carefully balancing your tray, you crane your neck to keep an eye out for an available seat.

“Y/N?”

You turn around at the voice to find a familiar face beaming at you.

“What a coincidence! You can sit here if you want.”

“Joaquin.” You breathed out a sigh of relief. “Am I glad to see you. Thank you.” You take the seat across him, eager to give your legs a break. “I thought I saw the last of you at the airport.”

“Well, I’m here now. I hope you aren’t rushing off to anywhere because I would like to know more about what brings you to the land of smiles.”

You pause, hesitant in dredging up the horrid memories. Joaquin senses this as he naturally steps in. “I lost a close friend. I can’t tell you much but his death affected me terribly. I needed to get away so here I am.”

He slurps more noodles to fill the silence. You can’t imagine the scars that Joaquin is holding behind his smile.

“I guess you could say I lost someone- well, something too.” You twirl the noodles around your chopsticks. “My sense of worth.”

“All this while, I thought I knew what I was fighting so hard for. I was so happy to be finally be able to make that difference that I always dreamed of as a student. But reality is often disappointing and terrifying.” You slowly savored the noodles as your chest constricts. “Maybe I’m just running away from reality.”

“Looks like the world hasn’t been kind to us both.”

“Touché.” You raise your glass bottle of soda, clinking it with his. “If the world wasn’t going to be kind to me, I figured I should be kind to myself.”

Joaquin nods in approval, taking a sip from his own drink.

As the crowds come and go, you get lost in the conversation with Joaquin, truly enjoying what it means to be in the presence of another human.

***

You had a blast.

It turns out that this wasn’t Joaquin’s first rodeo, as he took you to many places beyond touristy traps. Eating breakfast at a Michelin star coffee shop. Visiting the temple with locals. Meeting adorable canines at a dog cafe. Chilling at the hotel bar to finish the evening.

“I’m definitely coming back here!” You saved another picture of you and a majestic husky at the cafe. “Thanks for the amazing day, Joaquin. I didn’t even know half of these places exist!”

“Glad my reputation as tour guide still stands.” Joaquin takes a swig of beer, watching the vibrant nightlife that had no intention of dying down. You take a sip of your Bloody Mary, still reeling from the adrenaline of the past few days.

Even though you were aware that all good things had to come to an end.

“What’s next? Although being a hippie sounds very appealing but I can’t imagine it isn’t very cost friendly.” Joaquin keeps the conversation light, knowing how touchy the subject could be with you.

Little did he know how much of a positive impact he had on you for the past six days. Sure, it was a trip to shake loose all worries and responsibilities but Joaquin managed to keep you grounded. No one can run away forever, Y/N.

“I’ll try.” You watch the mini whirlpool you created. “But I’m not going to lie, I’m scared. The idea of being disappointed by others when you’ve already gave it your all… I don’t know if I can take it.”

“Then you know how to fall better. Sure, you’ll take a hit but that’s really all we can do. To fail better.”

Joaquin’s wisdom hits you and you wonder again what kind of horrors he had to witness and endure to come out with a rock solid mentality that was unshakable.

“You’re still in the game, you haven’t lost. So keep your chin up.”

“Is this what you tell your fellow soldiers?”

Joaquin chuckles. “No. This is what I tell to the people I care about.”

In the midst of tourists being invested in the soccer match that was shown on the large television and servers expertly serving countless of drinks and meals to hungry customers, time slowed down and the confusing thing called life seemed to make a little more sense in the chaos.

Joaquin checks his phone with a frown on his face. “I’m sorry-”

You waved a hand, dismissing his apology. “Duty calls, I get it. Thanks for everything, Joaquin. I mean it.”

He leaves a bill on the table, shooting down your protests. You can’t help but to feel a pang of sadness at how quickly Joaquin had disappeared from your dreamlike holiday as quickly as he came into your life.

A waitress comes to collect the bill and to your surprise, she slips you a piece of paper. “The gentleman told me to pass this to you once he left.” Her eyes have a knowing twinkle and leaves you to check the content - a number scribbled in blue ink.

Call me, Joaquin.

You toss your head back slightly, amused at the situation. Dialing the number, Joaquin picks up on the second ring.

“So, does this mean I can see you back home?”

“You bet.”

Life.

Maybe it punched you in the gut to fall into a bed of roses.

[fleckcmscott]

The Loss

Summary: Arthur and Y/N come face to face with an inevitable step in the cycle of life.

Words: 3,874

Warnings: Angst, Swearing

A/N: Penny's passing has been alluded to in Things Past and Stepping Stones. But I wanted to explore how these two would handle it in the context of the Watch What Happens series - and pay Penny the respect of being more than a specter in the background. While this story wasn't easy to write, I'm glad I did it. Thank you to @iartsometimes​ for beta-ing! 💜And thanks to @sweet-nothings04​ for brainstorming and help with the summary! 🤗

The call was at once unexpected and as predictable as April showers.

Bowl of cheese curls in lap, Y/N and Arthur had settled on the sofa to catch My Favorite Wife, the seven o'clock feature on Gotham Movie Classics, the tale of a wife lost at sea and a husband moving on with a new bride. 1940's Love and Laughter treat of the year, if the movie host could be believed. With Arthur’s arm slung about her shoulders, Y/N drifted on the lazy bliss of brainless entertainment, and he tee-heed at the same old jokes. The same old jokes suited them both just fine.

Just as the missing wife crashed her husband's second honeymoon, the phone's metallic ringer interjected. Perfect timing. Sucking powdered cheddar from her fingers, Y/N whisked her way to the kitchen and grabbed the receiver.

"Yes," she confirmed. "This is Mrs. Fleck."

As soon as the nurse from Endsbury Place introduced herself, experience alerted Y/N to where this was headed.

Hazel spoke with the considerate candor of someone who imparted bad news on the regular. Penny had eaten dinner in the cafeteria with everyone else. While she'd needed encouragement to finish her lasagna soup, she'd accepted a piece of chocolate cake for dessert. She'd watched Wheel of Fortune in the community room until bedtime. The evening had been uneventful.

But when staff had checked on her an hour later, she'd soiled the bed. Her breath had gone shallow, rapid, interrupted by periods of no breathing at all. She'd murmured and mumbled. About Happy and Thomas. All the while in a fugue state.

Penny was ceasing. She'd be over by the end of the week. They'd better catch the next subway if they wanted to see her.

Y/N held the phone to her chest, where her heart stuttered, and wondered how she was going to tell Arthur. He hadn't seen his mother since finding the Arkham file years ago, brought it to Y/N in an act of desperation or faith.

When there were documents to review, he'd request they be mailed, then sign them without reading. He skipped quarterly progress calls, left Y/N to attend and offer one sentence reports he didn't react to. Greeting cards crafted during activity time went straight into the trash. Such coldness distressed her. And she was about to feel that ice again.

It took Arthur's hitched laughs for her to remember to hang up. She did the courtesy of waiting for a commercial break to pad into the living room. Hands folded together, she lowered herself to the arm of the couch. Prepared to ruin their weekly ritual.

"Who was it?" He seized the TV remote to lower the volume.

"The nursing home. Penny's not doing well." Arthur's face was a blank canvas, gaze cast downward. But every detail Y/N imparted hardened the lines at the corners of his eyes, the tendon of his jaw. Thinned already thin lips to a crooked frown of loathing. She rubbed his forearm, sought to soothe away the reaction she knew was coming. "They don't know how long we have to say goodbye."

"I don't need to say anything."

Sinews tightened under her touch. After a pause, she tried again. "You don't have to forgive her. That's not what I meant. I just don't want you to do something you'll regret. With my parents, I-"

"She wasn't like your parents, Y/N." Delivered in past tense, like he was fast-forwarding to the inevitable. A rasp that threatened to turn into a roar, the truth behind it a knife to her ribs. "I'm tired of having to think about her. I just want it to be done." On a sharp shake of the head, he fled to the fire escape.

She sat there, bereft for words and the certainty of what to do. Bereft of what he needed. For a man as warm as Arthur, the chill fit as well as a father's shoes on a teetering toddler, untied and five sizes too large. It reminded her too much of herself.

A voiceover tried to sell her on a Buttoneer clothing punch, buy one for $9.95 get one free, payable via money order or COD. If only figuring out how to handle a situation every single person would go through was as easy as a frivolous purchase.

She brought their glasses to the kitchen. After putting the lid on their Tupperware to keep the cheese curls from going stale, she put a blank VHS in the VCR and punched record, taping what they'd later learn was a city council meeting on Gotham's public access station instead of the rest of the movie. She studied him through one of the windows.

He was braced on the railing. He hadn't stopped to grab his cigarettes, so the butt he puffed must have been a ten-day old. His shoulders stiffened and loosened in uneven waves, as if on a puppeteer's strings. His lips moved in the orange light of the streetlamp, phrases she suspected she didn't want to hear.

Yet, she padded closer, as if the strings on his back tied them together, fibers that connected them through their bests and worsts. She opened the glass door halfway, enough to make her presence known but not intrude. He gave no indication he cared she was there. The cool breeze snuck up her sleeves, under her neckline. It wasn't what made her shiver.

She spoke with an ease she didn't necessarily feel. "I get it, Arthur. And I'm sorry."

His reply was to flick his cigarette to the street, move ever so slightly towards the metal steps. When he lit another quarter Stutton, she turned to leave him in peace.

~~~~~

The temperature was stifling hot, a good eighty degrees. Y/N unbuttoned her smoke taupe coat and left the nurse's station, headed down the hallway to the third room on the right.

She'd visited in-laws before, just not like this. Jeff's parents had been...fine. Their connection had followed the latest etiquette guides, been a model of polite kindness. No sense of disapproval had lurked - but they hadn't mourned each other after the divorce, either. Whereas Penny and she had had one brief interaction, in which the older woman had paid her a compliment and cut Arthur to the quick.

A deep breath steeled her at the threshold of 208. She allowed herself a moment of doubt as to whether she should be here at all, especially since the only break in Arthur's silence had been a spartan note on the counter: Be back later.

It wasn't a vague veneration of mothers and fathers that'd brought her here, but an inkling of The Right Thing. So she stepped in.

Antique bouquets and scrolling vines splotched faded wallpaper, the tan of age and humidifiers. A bulletin board hung halfway up the wall across from the bed. Alongside Penny's name was the latest Christmas card Y/N had sent and a color photocopy of the Niagara Falls honeymoon photo, the one Arthur had goaded her into. A television was on the bureau to the left, turned to black and white reruns and muted. Two frames stood beside it. One held a snapshot of Arthur sitting backstage at Pogo's, studying his journal. In the other, he blew on a wooden spoon just before tasting the tomato sauce he'd tried his hand at. (Another teaspoon of dried basil, he'd noted. And cut down on the salt.)

Her throat tightened. She'd maintained a fishline of connection in case Arthur ever changed his mind about see his mother. He hadn't. Had those photos and letters made any difference, brought a modicum of comfort? Or pricked whatever was left of Penny with reminders of what she'd lost?

Sunbeams spilled past canvas curtains, struck the visitor's chair abutting the footboard. Extra bedding covered the seat. A bed pan, a wash basin, yards of tubing that said no one had sat there since her admittance.

​Upper body angled at thirty degrees, Penny lay in bed. Eyes open, pointed at the TV, as unfocused as the thousand-yards-away. An overbed tray hovered above her lap, on which were a nurse call button​​​​, a box of Kleenex, and a paper cup.

When Y/N straightened the purse strap on her shoulder, Penny's stare drifted to her own. Y/N wasn't sure it was intentional until Penny's weak "Happy?"

The desperation, the quiet hope in that rasp propelled Y/N forward. "No. Arthur's home."

Flaking lips mouthed unreadable syllables. She sat on the bed at Penny's side and took the drink from the tray. A sponge swab floated in the room temperature water. Y/N tapped the lollipop stick on the rim, pressed the sponge to the corner of Penny's mouth. Using faint pressure, Y/N dragged it along her gums, first the top, then the bottom. A gesture she'd learned a lifetime ago.

Possibly understanding, probably wondering who the hell Y/N was, the older woman turned away. Lashes fluttered, gnarled fingers picked at the satin edge of her polyester blanket. Y/N grasped her hand, enclosed it between her own. Cold, frail, skin as thin as tissue paper. It was like holding an orb-weaver, made of glass and ready to crack.

Bruises webbed along her wrinkled wrist, a side effect of the blood thinners she'd taken since her stroke. They called to mind the newspaper articles in the Arkham file. The swollen black eye featured in Penny's mugshot, lip thick with dried blood. Had she been too scared to act? To protect her son? When Y/N had worked on family matter cases, money was often used as a thousand-pound cudgel. Penny and Arthur had lived hand to mouth. Had that poverty kept her shacked up with a monster masquerading as a man?

Y/N swung her leg back and forth. This wasn't much different from when they'd met at Gotham General, a girlfriend making pleasant conversation at a stranger. "Hazel gave me a good report," she started. "She said you're one of the nicest residents here and loves your smile. I'm sorry I've missed seeing it.

"You know, when Arthur and I started going out, he mentioned you'd taught him to dance. You told him any gentleman should be able to waltz. I'm so grateful for that, because I love dancing with him. All I have is two left feet, but he manages to make it right. You raised a wonderful man. My life is better for knowing him. I wish you could understand how lucky you were to have him, too."

Sharp as a sewing needle, that last bit made Y/N wince. An unwelcome frankness given the current situation. Kinder words might have come easier if she listened to the whispers of her heart rather than the stubbornness of her head. Yet, her heart had tuned into Arthur, not Penny.

Her old psychiatric evaluation stated she was mentally ill. A woman who claimed her child was the son of a business magnate while adoption papers hid in her file. A lobotomized drug user who wore a shoe as a hat, laces tied under her chin. A difficulty that high and low society had done its damnedest to discard. There were too many factors, too many possibilities, all of which boiled down to awful.

Y/N turned the dial to AM. "Ms. Fleck, you've had more than your fair share of hardships. They kept you from being who you wanted to be. From loving Arthur the way he deserved. I know it's hard not having him here. But you don't have to worry about him. He's doing well. He's safe with me. And…wherever you're going, you'll be safe there, too."

Penny's eyelids grew heavy, drooping. Respirations slowed to a subtle rise and fall of her breast. Y/N brushed silver hair from Penny's forehead, held the back of her fingers to her skin. It bordered on feverish. But the passive hold Penny had on her hand became active, the feeble squeeze of the fading fast.

"Rest now," Y/N said. And squeezed back.

~~~~~

She was dead. She was dead and he was still taking care of her.

An encyclopedia of paperwork stood between Arthur and a free afternoon. The funeral director explained each form, went over each procedure. Buckley Funeral Home would alert social security to Penny's passing. She had no estate, no life insurance, no pension, so filing in probate wasn't necessary. They'd get copies of the death certificate after the medical examiner determined what'd killed her, give it about a week.

It'd be Arthur's responsibility to contact a mason. There was one a couple blocks down that did good work. His mother had reserved a plot in Potter's Field cemetery, a strip of land squished between Otisburg and Burnley, his old life and new.

He had no idea what to write in the obituary. Y/N suggested the facts but softened. She'd been wrong a lot as of late.

Penny Fleck was born in Gotham to parents he didn't know and perished in the same city. She'd worked as a maid for the Wayne family and never let it go. She'd left behind the son she'd left behind twenty years ago and the daughter-in-law who'd meddled too much, whose loving parents had won the race to The End. Penny's later years were marked by the sacrifice of others and lies. A graveside service would be held Friday afternoon, which no one would attend.

Arthur rubbed his face halfway to his skull. As a boy and as a man, he'd idolized his mother. While her occasional digs stung, her admonishments when he'd reveal his sense of humor, she was the sole person he could feel comfortable around. Even if he'd put on a happy face. Even if she couldn't fathom the chasm of malaise in his chest, the flatness of most of his days. The conviction he could do anything he set his mind to married to the knowledge nothing would ever change.

She'd been the only one to appreciate him. His condition wasn't a curse but a divine gift to make others laugh. God had given it to him because he'd been chosen. No one liked him because they couldn't understand how special he was. Penny had needed him when the world wanted to throw him away. When he'd wanted to throw the world away.  

Sometimes he wished everything hadn't gone to shit around him, that it hadn't all crashed. Not that he'd be stuck caring for her - he liked his life now, liked leading his own and having a wife. But that the puzzle pieces fit together another way. A placid landscape instead of a skyline engulfed in flames. A ritual of Sunday night dinners at their place, holidays at hers. The mother he'd cherished and the woman he adored bonding over how important he was.

Dreams that'd crumbled under the weight of reality.

Two days ago, he'd made an emergency call to Dr. Ludlow, left a rambling, rapid message that'd filled the machine's tape. Courtesy of a patient who'd no showed, she'd called back within two hours. And thank god for that. Fury had taken up residence in every nerve ending the second Y/N had suggested a fond farewell. Signed a lease when she'd disrespected him by spending her energy on comforting a woman he didn't want to forgive. Energy she should have spent on him.

"Y/N knows what she did," he'd said, a fit of laughter aching his belly. Frustration dampened the armpits of his thermal shirt. "What- What kind of person does that?"

"Did you ask her not to go?"

"I shouldn't have had to!"

Dr. Ludlow had taken a long sip on the other end. "Emotions are high right now. That's normal. Take a deep breath." When he didn't, she repeated the instruction. Then she continued her infuriating reasonableness. "You've said that one of the things you love about Y/N is her ethics. That she does what she believes is moral. This is an extension of that, not about absolving your mother. You don't have to agree with Y/N. Being angry is all right. But she can feel how she feels. Look, do you think she has your best interest at heart?"

He'd gulped down enough irritation to answer. "Yeah..."

"Try to keep remember that. And Arthur: even though you hated Penny, it's natural to grieve. For most of your life, you loved her. Give yourself permission for both."

He browsed caskets in the display room. (Display room, arrangement room, reposing room. Every room had a sanitized name.) Back in 1945, Penny had done Arthur the courtesy of prepaying for her own funeral. In an imitation of taking this seriously, he stroked his chin, considered which casket would fit within the budget, when a refrigerator box would've sufficed. Hatred still won out.

Hand hooked in the crook of his elbow, Y/N followed at his side, a palm rubbing the center of his back. She spoke in hushed tones, with a reverence entirely unearned. Said they'd cover any extra if he preferred other options. Though she meant it as caring, it felt like fretting. He stepped out of her grip to a pine box known as Going Home.

A rack of dresses stood in the corner, inoffensive sea foam and daffodil, the pastels of Easter eggs. None of them reflected the woman he'd known, the one who wore rouge and red lipstick in spite of being a shut-in. As if she expected Thomas Wayne to suddenly waltz through the door. The funeral director opened a nearby closet and presented last summer's leftovers. The swish of a skirt recalled Arthur's requests for his mother to dance with him.

Silence ensued. He chewed a cuticle. He picked the dress with roses in Penny's favorite color.

~~~~~

The service was blessedly short. Patricia stood to his left, Y/N to his right, he was stuck in the middle in his rust-colored suit. Penny hadn't been part of a parish, so Buckley's had provided a priest, a job that struck Arthur as similar to his own. Rent a clown, rent a clergy. The Father scattered dirt, read a verse or two, something about troubled hearts and loving kindness, blah blah blah. Offered the opportunity to share stories of the dearly departed. None were.

"Fleck" looked lonely on the granite gravestone, as if waiting for a second name to be inscribed in the space under "Penny." The stone's size said its proper place was a family plot, but he wasn't planning on being buried anywhere near her. The ground was soggy from spring thaw. Y/N laid a spray of white lilies and blue statice on the fresh burial mound. Arthur counted the seconds until Patricia drove them home.

"Thanks for coming. It was nice of you," he told Patricia once she'd parked in front of his building. And he meant it.

She leaned across the bench seat for a loose hug, maternal pats on his back. "Losing a parent's hard. I'm sorry." He resisted the impulse to counter that he hadn't lost anything. That would come off as weird.

Safe and sound in 4A, he loosened his tie with one hand. Changed into pajama bottoms and put his suit in the dry-cleaning pile. Y/N sat on the side of the bed to rub the soles of her feet, hung her skirt and blazer back in the closet. He left her in bra and slip to make coffee, acting on Patricia's instruction to relax.

But as the java dripped, his mind returned to the cemetery. The coldness of the earth, that Penny would be beneath it forever. Ripples of thought that wouldn't calm. His gaze drifted to the cardboard box of her belongings, tucked against the rear side of the console stereo. Out of the way, nearly possible to ignore. Now it begged for attention, called to him, a broken record stuck on a discordant song.

He lugged the box to the dining table. Dragged the trash can to stand just under the table's edge.

Bottles of blood pressure medication and aspirin rattled under his clawing hands. There were reading glasses and makeup, the clothing he'd sent when she'd been admitted. He shoved it all away. The "Golden Years, My Ass!" mug must've been a bingo prize, because his mother wouldn't have picked it out. Ladies didn't swear. It clunked to the bottom of the garbage.

"Want any help?" Y/N asked from behind him, where coffee splashed into a mug. Her even delivery meant slow down, take it easy, don't let anger get the better of you. But anger was what drove him. And desperation to excise the dreaded feeling at the base of his throat, that the part of him that still referred to her as mom might miss her.

A decorated cigar box sat the bottom of the carton. Penne and rotini decorated the edges, shells comprised a poor attempt at a flower, painted gold with a satin finish. It recalled the costume jewelry she'd kept on the corner of her vanity, amongst spray perfume and talcum powder. He lifted the lid.

Y/N had asked if she could send photos and letters, but he'd had no awareness of how many she'd written. There must have been two dozen. He unfolded one with trembling fingers, his grip tightening on the edge of the box. The corner bit his palm.

Last month he did two sets at open mic night and got lots of laughs. He's a diligent student when it comes to comedy. (Was he just as good in social studies?) I love your son very much. He's happy performing and seeing him happy makes me happy.

He slid the crinkled paper back in the box and closed the lid, then pushed it to the side of the table furthest from the trash can. It would be the entirety of the keep pile. He could read how happy he made his wife all day.

But "he's happy..," "...your son..." Those twin phrases haunted, too close to Penny's secrets.

Throat narrow as a straw, he struggled to swallow. "Now I'll never know."

"Know what?"

"Who my father is. Who I am. My real name."

He glanced at Y/N long enough to read pity in her face but quick enough to miss the tender invitation. Coffee forgotten, he slunk to his desk. Dropped in the chair, snagged a pen. The scratching ballpoint echoed off the quiet of the apartment. Wetness burned the whites of his eyes. A defiant sniff as he wiped his nose.

She treaded behind him. Setting his mug on his desk with a deliberate slowness, she said she was going to read the paper and turned towards the couch.

His forceful grip on her wrist halted her. He crushed her to him in a fierce embrace, buried his face in her stomach, clenched his teeth. Cried for the truth he'd never know, grieved the mother he'd never have.

Fingertips threaded through his hair, gathered his curls at the nape of his neck. When Y/N spoke, the gossamer of her voice turned him right side out. "You're my husband and I love you," she said, and kissed the top of his head. "Doe, Wayne, or Fleck."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​​ @ithinkimaperson​​ @sweet-nothings04​​ @stephieraptorr​​ @rommies​​ @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1​​ @another-day-in-chuckletown​ @hhandley80​​ @jokerownsmysoul​​ @rafaelbottom @ralugraphics​​ @iartsometimes​​ @fleckficgirl​

[cookinguptales]

wwdits tarot: the world

Finally, the last of the Major Arcana, XXI. The World. I will be doing one more post on the Minor Arcana tomorrow, and then posting it all to the tag for people to read at their leisure.

(And then we’ll have a tarot weekend on my blog to celebrate.)

I do think, overall, this project came out to about 15k-20k words of meta, so… I do appreciate the people who’ve stuck with me all this time, and the people who will be catching up now that I’m about done. I know that these weren’t as popular as my usual meta posts, but I had a lot of fun writing them!

Thanks for indulging me. 💜

So we’re finally at The World. I actually struggled more with this card than any other, mostly because I actually had a fairly strong idea of what I wanted as soon as I thought about it, but I kept wrestling with why I wanted it.

I think I get it now.

The World is a card about wholeness, totality, and the end. The Major Arcana is often read as a journey, and The World is where that journey ends. It may not be the end forever, but it is the culmination of a cycle that has finally finished. So the end of a chapter, perhaps, if not the whole book.

There’s a sense of fulfillment to this card, like whatever you set out to do, you’ve done it. There’s a finality to it, too, like you’re looking back on what you’ve accomplished with satisfaction.

It’s also a card about the literal world that we live in. There’s a sense of unity and interconnectedness to this card, like through it you can access a connection to all other things. It also tends to have implications of literal travel, like journeying all across the world.

The World is about wholeness and completion and feeling at one with all things. It’s about reaching out and touching the world around you.

And I haven’t chosen a character at all, but instead a thing that connects them. It is, in a sense, quite genuinely their world.

What I’ve chosen to symbolize The World is in fact ancestral soil. Grave dirt, if you will.

In a very literal sense, obviously, we’re talking about earth. But we’re also talking about both freedom and restraint. Ancestral soil is a physical limiter on them, but also the thing that gives them full access to their powers and the ability to move around — if they’re clever about it.

Moreover, it is a thing that they all share. All of our (traditional) vampires have their own ancestral soil, and Guillermo is the one who collected it. (Colin… is more complicated, and I’ll get into that soon.)

Soil is one of those things that just keeps coming up again and again and again and again in this series, whether it’s Guillermo burying them or Colin being buried. It’s Nandor carrying soil around in his Jansport but also all of them searching for assorted corpses in their front yard.

There’s a sense of soil as foundation that seems to resonate through this series, and it affects them all. And every time I see Guillermo dig a hole in their yard, I look at that pile of dirt and wonder if he’s gonna have to keep it in a bag one day.

The soil that they all live on has become his ancestral soil. And he has fertilized it well.

Colin Robinson, the only one of them who has no interest in ancestral soil, and the reason why they all lost their original bags, still seems to have an intrinsic connection with the land they live on. He’s buried in it, obviously, both his clones and his decaying body, which presumably is still somewhere either in the basement or the yard.

He has an odd physical attachment to the house they live in, too, as evidenced by his need to burrow into those walls even before he died.

They all have soil of a kind, and they all have territory. And I’m obsessed with the idea of them mixing their soil.

I’d say that soil seems to represent both an end and a beginning for them all. I mean, it’s graveyard dirt. Originally speaking, vampires’ soil was supposed to be taken from their graves. WWDITS is obviously a little more lenient, especially because many of their vampires were never buried, but there’s still a sense of that finality in the soil they do have. There’s still a sense that the soil they have to carry around is a symbol both of their death and their rebirth.

And then for Guillermo and Colin, again, we’ve got this idea that they live in those holes, they die in those holes, and they too have both experienced a kind of rebirth. Guillermo has been reborn as a slayer, and Colin has been quite literally reborn from his own hollow shell.

So it makes sense to me, I think, that soil in this deck would represent an end to all things, a grave, but also a beginning. There’s a sense that no grave remains entirely unstirred in this show, and what is usually a symbol of finality becomes a symbol of liberation and ascension. Soil restrains them but empowers them as well. It is what connects vampire and human and slayer.

We all have dust beneath our feet.

Now, onto the last card.

More than any other card, my The World will be a radical departure from its RSW counterpart. The RSW image is that of a dancing woman surrounded by an endless wreath. It is the beginning and end of all things, and the violet symbolizes success and the red ribbons eternity. There are four creatures in the corners, and they are the same ones found in The Wheel of Fortune. They symbolize the four elements that make up everything and are a symbol in this case for pure unity and harmony.

The only thing I’m keeping here, I think, is the sense of fours.

What I actually want for my The World is a scene from the house. Or rather its yard. I want a freshly dug grave, a mound of upturned dirt next to it. Three sacks of earth sit in front of it, heaped on top of one another. And next to them all, one lies empty, waiting to be filled.

In the background, foreboding and familiar both, is their home. It is where they all live and over the centuries it has become their World, all five of them.

And slowly, they are finding completion.

wwdits tarot masterpost

[winterandwords]

15 Very Normal Questions

@kaiusvnoir tagged me in this and it's glorious. Also, there are only ten questions. Here goes...

Do you prefer owls, capybaras, or flamingos? Flamingos's legs freak me out (intrusive thoughts about bones snapping *shudder*) and owls are basically heads with wings, so I'm going to have to go with capybaras.

What is your favorite soup? Soup is one of my favourite things to make and I go through phases of being obsessed with certain flavours, but at the moment it's lentil and chilli.

What is your favorite…rock (idfk)? Amethyst or industrial, depending on what kind of rock we're talking about.

Choose a familiar: - very dumb, very loving disobedient dog. He loves you but will never listen to you ever - a raven that speaks but it only ever shrieks the name of various fast food restaurants - a toad that screams like a teenage boy instead of croaks I'll take the raven because I feel like I could blame it for indulgent dietary choices. "Raven, what should I have for every meal today?"…"TIM HORTONS!"…"Well, OK then."

Which planet do you feel like would be kind of an asshole if you met them? Uranus is the obvious answer here, but I think Pluto might be working through some kind of identity crisis which might make them complicated to communicate with.

if you were a worm would you love me? Sure. I wouldn't love you as much as I love being a soil tube and not getting eaten by early birds, but you're cool.

Least favorite type of clothing? Anything restrictive or with scratchy seams or labels. Sensory nightmare.

You are now in a horror movie-so sorry. Chance of survival? Pretty good if someone was making my decisions for me and I just had to drive an armoured camper van and blast things, but fucking awful if I was making my own choices because I'm absolutely the reckless "What the fuck are you doing? No! Get out of there!" person in most situations. Also, I'd probably die stupidly and my last words would be something like "I couldn't find the instructions to fix the roof gun, but it doesn't matter, right?" or "Shut up, zombie cats are still cute"

Would you rather: the ability to instantly grow a perfect mustache, or ability to talk to vegetables? I can already talk to vegetables, but it's a very one-sided conversation.

What do you think of whales? OK, story time. When I was a kid, I had one of those books that depicted scenarios to teach words. One of the pages had a picture of two dudes in a tiny boat and a fucking massive whale in the water beneath them. The text said, "The whale is big. The boat is small. The men are in danger." The fact that I remember this thirty-something years later is indicative of how much it unsettled me. So I love huge majestic things that live in deep water, as long as they aren't directly endangering me.

Tagging @manathen, @nanashi23, @ezestreet, @thegreatobsesso, @i-can-even-burn-salad and @sergeantnarwhalwrites, if you'd like to do it 💜

[gust-jar-simulator]

HGS AU

Prompt: Kiss

Characters: Dark, Nightmare

•💜🦋🐦‍⬛🦋💜•

Grass was an… experience.

Dark was taking the opportunity to get comfortable with the idea, laid out under a tree and watching the wisps of sky through the verdant branches. The day was warm, the soil was cool, the shadows were dappled with sun. Shadow himself was off trying to figure out what time period he’d launched them all into. Dark could help.

He adjusted a little out of the way of a rock near his shoulders, sighed for the pure hedonism of breathing, and idly watched a bird preen itself far above.

Somewhere off to the side, Nightmare did one of those off-key faery chimes again. Pleasure in reverse. Dark answered before he could really think about it, a soft snatch of song that spoke of green wind and dandelion puffs. There was a sharp noise, almost a jingling, and the other shadow leaned into Dark’s field of vision with a quizzical ultraviolet squint.

What was that?

“A song,” he murmured, glancing between Nightmare’s blue curls and the color of the sky. A touch too green, maybe? “I don’t know. Hylians don’t chime like that.”

One of Nightmare’s ears twitched, and he didn’t move from his spot. Dark subtly arched a brow at him. Rather than getting back to whatever he was doing before, Nightmare gave him a clinical once-over for something Dark couldn’t guess at.

“…we haven’t fought.”

The faery huffed quietly, dismissive, and retreated from Dark’s personal space to do something that sounded like… messing with leaves, maybe? Whatever it was, it meant Dark could go back to watching the bird in the tree go about its business.

It was gone. Dark frowned.

Do you remember the bar fight last week?

“What bar fight,” he muttered flatly. “I broke a man’s nose on the bar and you had the rest screaming for their mothers.”

It counts as a fight. You did break a nose. Nightmare held something up, and in his peripheral Dark could make out a tightly woven flower crown. It apparently passed, because Nightmare set it carefully aside and started working on another. That… motion the man with the chin scar did. When he grabbed Shadow, and then Shadow kneed him between the legs. Shadow called that the man trying to kiss him, yes?

He nodded. Honestly, Dark hadn’t seen the whole mess go down, Shadow had just been spitting like a cat with a taller Hylian saying something about Gerudo that sounded incredibly unsavory. He decided to stop giving a damn about moral restraint and staying under the radar right about the time the drunkard grabbed Shadow’s arm.

Slamming the man’s face into a table was a crude, but effective deterrent. And say what you will about Nightmare, but the dark faery had an excellent sense for when to live up to his name.

Why bring it up, though? Frowning a little more, he tilted his head to watch the other dark, settled neatly in a tailor’s seat weaving red and white clover together. Nightmare’s eyes shifted lazily between red and magenta, the only visible sign of the magma-dense roil of magic in his veins.

I remember, he hummed thoughtfully, something about kisses. I think the princess gave my hero one or two.

“It looked violent,” Dark disagreed. “Princesses can be violent, but…”

No, Shadow wasn’t kissed. That was him refusing, I think.

Well this was going nowhere then. “Just ask him when he gets back.”

No, no. I think I know what it is, Nightmare corrected, I just don’t know why it happens. Or why someone would be violent to get one. Shadow’s like us, isn’t he? Never getting the princess? I don’t think he can answer me.

“And I can?”

There was a neutral chime, neither here nor there, and Dark rolled his eyes.

“Maybe it’s like the bread thing. Or the milk.” He gestured a little, vaguely, zoning out in the direction of the sky again. “It might be fun, or feel good. It might be a culture thing, like shaking hands. Shadow likely has a better answer; he spent time among Hylians.”

Hylians can be rude, Nightmare grumbled, a more discordant chime than usual. I understand why my sisters stay away and make deals. Better to have them come to you, disadvantaged and supplicant, than ask something so grossly near a favor.

“Arrogance is a natural pitfall of being blessed,” and the murmur tasted a little too much like old blood and iron. He ran his tongue over the edge of his teeth, tasting stagnant well-water. “Any animal will take when it perceives it can. People are no different. Your sisters do it too, don’t they?”

Of course. He twisted a few stems together, brow furrowed and ears restless, alternating between pinned back and angling forward, thoughtful. I’m not trying to moralize here, though. Your meditations are insightful as always- I’m simply curious about physical affection. He turned away from his project to look at Dark, eyes gone bright ultraviolet and very honest.

Oh. “Ah.”

The other dark raised a brow. Ah?

“You…” Dark couldn’t say he hadn’t thought about such things. His Link hadn’t received much of it, but enough to tantalize. Mostly idle moments, like this, with Saria and her ocarina in place of Nightmare and his flower crowns. Still. Hair tucked behind an ear, a goodbye hug, the bump of a hand when passing dinner. Link had valued those in some small way.

He still wasn’t going to sit up for this. Dark beckoned a little. “Let me borrow your hand.”

What, take it off?

“No.” He beckoned again, a twitch of fingers, and Nightmare tilted his head with owlish curiosity. The third flower crown finished with a deft twist, and he carefully laid his hand across Dark’s palm.

He kept it very courtly, fingers lightly grasping Nightmare’s own and retreating from palm to palm contact entirely. The angle was odd, but they were odd, all cold dungeon fire and matte skin that swallowed the light, even glamoured. Dark held his hand like that for a moment, considering, imagining Sheik.

Then he gave a mental shrug and brought the other dark’s knuckles to his lips.

Nightmare’s brows flew up towards his hairline, mouth dropping softly open with a startled hum of magic. Dark could feel it, bubbling against his skin like mineral water, and glanced over at the faery to read him better.

It took a couple of blinks, and a visible stutter in his thought process, but Nightmare eventually collected himself with a soft little sound like a breeze through flowers. Dark let him go, watched another moment to be sure, and then tucked his hands beneath his head to stare at the sky some more.

It took several long moments for Nightmare to say anything else, and he didn’t pick up his flowers again. Ah.

“Ah?”

Oh do shut up. The faery dropped a flower crown on him without further warning, but it didn’t quite cover Dark’s very small smirk.

[aniron48]

For the WIP game, I'm so curious about all of these!! If I had to pick, though, I'd really like to know more about Goodnight Noises Everywhere and Liminal if you're willing to share :)

Hi @dhampir72! Thank you so much for the ask, friend, and so sorry it's taken so long to respond--I ended up getting pretty sick this week and it derailed all the things!

Goodnight Noises Everywhere is a Gen fic where Q is plagued with insomnia because of [spoilers redacted] and the rest of MI6 makes it their personal mission to help him get some sleep again. It's a 5 +1 fic, and though a lot of it is lighthearted, it's also an exploration of what it means for a workplace to be both the source of trauma, and the source of some of the only other people who understand and have lived that trauma. (She said, projecting all over her fic from 15 years in the human rights field. Oops.) So, kind of a niche fic, I guess, but one dear to my heart. Oh, and the title is from Goodnight Moon!

Liminal is very different. I started working on it just last month, and it's a 00q fic that was inspired in part by various Hopper paintings. The plot isn't super solid yet, but loosely, it involves Bond and Q growing closer through their meetings at liminal times of day (eg very early mornings) and in liminal spaces. Here's a bit from the very beginning:

Like so many rituals, it started by happenstance. Bond was between flats, flying back to London on a red eye, and Mallory balked at amending Bond’s travel orders to pay for a hotel room he would only occupy for the four hours between when his plane landed, and when he was due at MI6 to debrief. “I could break into his house,” Bond suggested from his spot near the gate, waiting for his flight to board. The woman across from him shifted in her seat, pulling her suitcase closer to her. Q huffed into the phone. “Fancy being shot on home soil for a change, 007?” “Variety is the spice of life, Q,” Bond said. He took a bite of the stale ploughman’s sandwich he’d purchased from the airport coffee shop and grimaced, pulling off a bit of wilted lettuce and dropping it into the cardboard container. “Maybe our routines could do with a bit of shaking up.”

Thank you again for the ask! And happy weekend to you! 💜

[dujour13]

Late to the party on this but 2, 3, and 5 for the character development asks for Siavash? I seriously want to know what he has in his pockets

Thank you!! 🥰 I had fun with these 😁

2. What is/was your character’s relationship with their mother like?

Lucky kid has a stable home in Almas and two loving parents who are still alive. He’s kindred-raised—both parents are half-elves. He has three older sisters.

Siavash is his mom's little cutie. She’s much more indulgent with him than his father is, which is funny because the impression she gives is that she’s the stricter parent—proud, proper, smart, no-nonsense, in contrast to her musician husband.

As a magus in the sense of a student of magic rather than a practitioner, Nilufar is thrilled that he has a knack for things like music and magic. She listens to him play less critically than his dad does. Her three daughters have carried on her family name each in a respectable way (it’s her name, Mirani, that the whole family took), so she doesn’t need him to live up to anything. She just adores him.

Secretly, Siavash finds her a little boring. Someone settled and content, whose interests are lively but fixed. He may not know her as well as he thinks.

3. What is/was your character’s relationship with their father like?

Again it’s the opposite of what you’d expect if you meet them. Doran’s the bohemian at first glance—moving in artsy circles, partly responsible for Siavash’s “taste” in clothing, fully responsible for Siavash’s tendency to cry easily. He is a classically trained lutenist in the prestigious Almas Municipal Orchestra and having children with musical talent was his dream come true until Siavash started flaking out of lessons to spend time playing garbage bard pop songs with his friends.

He tried so hard to get him to sit still and learn proper music theory. He put his whole soul into trying to make something of Siavash’s talent and he can’t help but take it hard that his son refused the offer. He doesn’t blame Siavash nearly as much as Siavash thinks though.

Siavash carries a burden of guilt for letting him down that occasionally feels almost slightly bitter. So, daddy issues, but not very bad ones. He and Siavash do love each other.

5. On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

Ooh! Me! Me! I’ll answer this one. I do stick my cute dragon nose in his pockets sometimes. What has he got today?

Ooh! Candy! Cookie crumbs. Um, lint too. It gets all mixed with the cookie crumbs and then they don’t taste so good. Once there was a piece of marzipan in there. I think he broke it off of the Cavalry Sculptors’ kalavakus but it was really stale, yuck.

Shiny rocks, you know, the ones from the magical transmuting soil on the island! Keys too, but something tells me he doesn’t even know what they’re all for because when I ask he makes up funny-sounding places like Halaseliax’s underwear drawer.

Also guitar strings and picks. Little folded pieces of paper with lines and dots and poems on them. Bits of songs!

Oh also a Druman multipurpose folding knife he uses to whittle little animals and open bottles and cut my claws when they get long and scratchy.

Sometimes he has potions. Like there’s one that smells like flowers. 💜

[humanuser0613]

For anyone that doesn't quite get it.....

Do you see all your own friends or family members as providing you with the exact same level of support, stimulation, discussions, fun, experience, or advice? Do you have certain people you go to for different discussion topics? Or support with different projects? Or to comfort you? Or to have fun? Can you do the exact same thing with every single one of them and have them all react the very same way as each other?

Would you go to Home Depot if you were looking for a fancy dinner?

We have different relationships in our lives because we're complex humans with diverse needs and emotions and we have to nurture all parts of ourselves to feel fulfilled. But not everyone is gonna be your water, sunlight AND soil. They can be your sunlight, or water or the soil you need to spread your roots.

Do you talk to your crazy uncle about politics? Do you share the same fashion sense as your aunt who is 30 years older than you? Are all your friends good at the same school subjects that you are?

And it's not fair to put 100% of your expectations on one person. That's too much of a burden for them to fulfill so many roles in your life when they might not have a strength in being comforting or fixing plumbing, or being a shopaholic or knowing multiple languages (as examples). It definitely sets your relationship with them up for failure. They won't be able to meet all your needs at a level you need from them leading to many disappointments and frustrations.

You need different people to meet all your different needs as a multifaceted person.

That's why it's so beautiful seeing how all 7 members interact and love and respect each other. They don't each have the exact same relationship between each other and they understand this and utilize this strength to get diverse opinions and opportunities put together for the whole group.

And as this is usually something men struggle with (and I just watched a video indicating that Koreans, in general, may struggle with this) it makes all the work they've put into understanding and being there for one other so much more precious to witness. 💜

Here's the video link if anyone is interested: link

When you actually watch them and listen to them, you actually get to understand just how complex human feelings and relationships are because so many people spend time arguing about who Jk is closer to when the truth is, he is close to Tae and Jimin in very different ways so you cannot even really compare

could you explain what you mean by this a little more?

Hey anon,

For so many years, tons of people have spent time fighting and arguing about which pair is closer, Taekook or Jikook and this is because most people imo haven’t been able to understand that Jk who is the common person between these other two is extremely close to them both just in very different ways. People don’t seem to understand the complexities of human relationships and emotions and how we can need different things from different people. It’s not always going to be a matter of “pick one” or “choose one” because sometimes the different friends or loved ones we have provide us with very different things that we need which makes us feel closer to them and asking Jk to pick between Vmin is like asking someone to choose between their lover and best friend for over a for 20 years. It’s impossible because even though these two people mean very different things to you, they are equally important.

Jk has very different connections with Vmin and imo, taekook have a more social and outgoing dynamic. I think with Tae, Jk feels more socially confident and comfortable in public and i’m not just saying this for the hell of it. Jk has spoken a few times about Tae helping help break out of his shy shell and when taekook were younger, I noticed that Jk had this habit of wanting to be around taehyung when they were in public or in situations where he felt shy or uncomfortable. Some friends just provide us some distinct social needs and seeing how it was thanks to Tae that Jk got to break out of that shy shell of his, it makes perfect sense why he would seek him out when he is in certain uncomfortable or unusual environments or settings. Tae excels in group setting and he can be extremely outgoing, quirky and fun. Tae and Jk also share common social interests so Tae might be the preferred choice in environments where group activities or interactions are involved. I can remember a few instances of Jk picking Tae over everyone else to play games with when they were younger or how Jk said he wanted to share a room with Tae and when asked why, he said so they could play games all night. If you really look into Taekook’s bond and just pay close attention to when they gravitate to each other the most, you notice what I am saying.

Jimin on the other hand provides distinct emotional needs for Jungkook based on everything I’ve observed over the years. Jimin is the person he goes to talk to when he is unsure about what part to take in his career. Jimin is the one he prefers to spend his down times with outside of any social or fun activities. Jimin is the one he thinks of going to when he craves comfort and companionship. Jimin offers him deeper emotional support or companionship in more private or vulnerable moments, making him the “go-to” when he is bored or lonely, or disturbed or sad or happy or any moments of high emotions. This is not to say he can’t have fun with Jimin or can’t be vulnerable with Taehyung but he might just prefer to go to Tae in more social or outgoing occasions while he goes to Jimin in more vulnerable moments when they need emotional support. We have seen how chaotic and fun Jikook can be together and how much fun they have when they are together regardless of what they are doing but comparatively I think his go to person when he thinks of fun is Tae.

So Tae and Jimin are both important to Jungkook but he needs them and connects with them in very different ways. That’s why I said it is difficult to compare because these two people are extremely important to Jungkook so while some people think it only has to be one person providing him with everything like companionship, or social needs, I say that doesn’t have to be the case. It’s just like in our lives, we have different people whom we connect with in different ways and even our partners cannot be everything to us. Jimin cannot be everything to Jk and vice versa no matter how much they love each other. Tae cannot be everything to Jk no matter how much he loves him so in those moments when they connect the most, you would see Taekook probably gravitate to each other more while in the moment when he connects with Jimin the most, you will see him and Jimin gravitating towards each other more. That is why when you pay attention, you notice that in most social and public settings, Jungkook is more likely to gravitate towards Tae than Jimin but in more private, intimate and vulnerable moments, you would always hear of Jikook being together.

In essence, this behavior suggests that Jungkook sees both people as important, but in different ways. One provides more emotional depth in more private and intimate settings, while the other offers a connection more suited to social and public contexts. This balance is natural and reflects the multifaceted nature of relationships, where different friends fulfill different needs. That is what I meant anon.

I do have to mention though that even though I said it is useless to compare, it goes without saying that out of the two, Jk clearly has a deeper emotional connection with Jimin and does prefer to be with him in more vulnerable, intimate and private moments (based on all we’ve gathered through out the years) which means if at all there is any romantic relationship in the mix, it most likely would be with Jimin than Tae.

[ciara-sims]

Evergreen- gardening, horses and farmer

You and  grandma have been kicked out of the house for some kind of reason. Your mother told you the reason because your grandma has cheated on your grandpa but as your first grandchild you know her very well. He is a lying cheating scam, who cheated on his wife first and that’s messed up how your family believes your grandpa and not grandma. but at the end of the day you and grandma found an abandoned home, which has been abandoned for four years. So  grandma said she knew this person, but she died a long time ago. She was your aunt. Your aunt died from cancer. Your grandma told you a long story about what happened but what thing your grandma.did not  point out to you about was your aunt used to be a horse rider while she used to be a farmer as well? Throughout generations our family has been farmers and also having farms and pigs and also horses. Because of that, your family has been famous, your dad is famous but your mom is not not for some kind of reason which you’re suspicious of. But you have 12 friends throughout elementary to high school to college? But one day you found a love mascot. Who was the basketball mascot his name is drake Easter stand which is a weird name because it’s funny but that’s not the point of the story you want to find out how your generation of your family turn out to be good at farming  That’s what your mom wants  but your grandma wants you to but  Do you went to!!!!!!?

—————————————————————

Gen 1 Farmer lover /colors🟤🟠🟢⚪️

———————————————————-

🩵Wellness skill 10 

🤍Cooking skill 10 

🩵Baking 10 

🤍Fitness 6

🩵Charisma 7

🤍Singing, 8

🩵you must start off with a 50 x 50 lot 

🤍you must have your grandma and your dog but 🩵you were having three years old like your very 🤍first pet that you wanted

————————————————————

🩶you must have two ex-boyfriend and get 🤍pregnant with two of them at once 

🖤have 8  children 

🤍Had to be employed/no job just stealing food on your lot 

———————————————————

🤍The rules

You can use free real estate on your first cheat in this challenge to get the lot that you want

💜You must have a Bandan home with  a Garden and also, if you have laundry day, you can also add some laundry stuff to the lot.

You must take out money  so you have to start with $200 after you finish building a Bandan home

———————————————————-

💛You must have 12 friends and 2 ex best friends

🧡You have to be bisexual?

💛The colors are spring  if you  love Spring

🧡The last name must have evergreen in it,so can  make sense, but you don’t have to

💛MC command center

__________________________________

🩷 Pregnancy woohoo up to %89

🤍R-woohoo %91

🩷How many kids in the household must be 8

———————————————————

❤️You have to be bisexual and already out?

🤍Meet seven different bisexuals friends 

❤️How parties and complete the goals

🤍Adopt one one  kid as your next GEN

Or

❤️Pick which care the best relationship with the 🤍parent as you’re next GEN

———————/———————————

🤍Traits

🩵Old soul is a cc traits

🤍Ambitious

🩵Loyal

🤍Aspiration-Freelance BotanIst

🩵You must complete your aspiration 

————————————————————

🤍Traits and challenges for your lot 

🩵1 home studio

🤍2 Eco lot

🩵3Great soil 

🤍For the challenges 

🩵1 curse

🤍2 bad neighborhood

🩵3 off the grid

🤍4 quake zone

🩵5 reduce and Recycle

🤍6 creepy crawlies

———————————————————

🔓Pack required

🔒Bass game

🔓Eco living

🔓City living

🔒Laundry day

🔒Werewolf

🔓Bunch of other packs is 1:44 am in the morning I can’t do it🥲💀

———————————————————--------------------------------------------------------------------

[admirableadmiranda]

No worries if you feel like not answering and reccing, but do you have any all time fave recs for MDZS? I would love (and trust you) to hear more about them 💜

Hi Anon! You're so sweet, I just had to give you some answers!

Because I am a fickle person about faves, this is by no means an exhaustive list, but here are some of the ones that I return to over and over again. Some of these will have either characters or relationships that people may not care for so much, but you asked for my favorites so I will still share openly.

Falling to the Rhythm by Selenay just makes me really happy, it's a Strictly Come Dancing au where Wangxian are paired together and fall in love over the course of the shows. Features some light Yunmeng siblings and JC being a grumpy brother, but I rarely find that annoying in modern aus where he's not in the same positions he is in canon and the dances and ways they fall in love make me so happy. Also perhaps an unfairly tagged oblivious WWX, he's no worse than genuine canon CQL WWX who doesn't have reasons to make connections sooner than he does.

Preparing the Soil by Rynne is one of my all time favorites, where Lan Wangji creates a space for his husband in the Cloud Recesses and the effects of the Lan Qiren forbidding the juniors from talking to Wei Wuxian rule are dealt with. Lovely and warm and full of how much Lan Wangji loves Wei Wuxian and how much Lan Wangji himself is loved, it makes me smile and is one of my comfort reads.

Sunny Horizons by Justdoityoufucker (now orphaned) A really sweet fic that a former friend wrote for me containing happy Wangxian and a hearing disabled Wei Wuxian. While sadly our friendship seems to be over for good, this fic still makes me really happy and reminds me of the good times.

Wei Wuxian's Birthday Oneshots by origami79 is one of my favorites for just being a very cute collection of somewhat interwoven fics and a couple of art pieces all about celebrating Wei Wuxian! While the author hasn't returned to it yet, it's a reread for whenever I want a reminder that Wei Wuxian is also really loved.

Catching Your Reflection Passing By by Suspicious Popsicle is a very sweet story about soulmates in a very different way from how I've seen it any other time! Containing a Lan Wangji who has grown up seeing Wei Wuxian in shared reflections and a Wei Wuxian who can sometimes open doors and see Lan Wangji in doorways, it was really sweet and warm. Contains the same Yunmeng siblings/modern au disclaimer as Falling to the Rhythm.

The This River Runs To You series by sundiscus. My first Dragonji and also a case fic/modern cultivation that scratches the right itches. A smart Wei Wuxian and happy ending. Same Yunmeng siblings/modern au disclaimer.

glitteringmoonlight in general. She has a lovely array of works for all moods and all of them celebrate my favorite characters very well.

A Feast for the Eyes by Lareine. This one is just fun; both Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji run youtube cooking channels and A-Qing absolutely geeks out over getting to watch the two of them together. Only has two chapters, but what two we get are just a lot of fun and I really enjoy the free silliness of the story.

Grandmaster of Cultivation: Walkthrough and Guide by athylia

A very fun take on a fic where it's a guide to getting (or not) the secret route for the video game bachelor Lan Wangji in Modaozushi the video game!

notes on a scene by wishingswell. Another dance au where Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian are ballet dancers. Soft modern au, but the focus is really on Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji.

Both parts of constellations by northofallmusic. A story set during the Sunshot Campaign where Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji have to hide in a cursed tomb from Wen soldiers and it changes things just a little bit.

fish & wild geese by impossibletruths. Modern farm au where Lan Wangji returns from the big city to his childhood home and works through the grief of losing his mother and reconnecting with Wei Wuxian who lives on his grandmother's farm.

the place where you are by BlackWiresOnHerHead. A space travel au where Lan Wangji is a scientist on a mission to catalogue data of a supernova and Wei Wuxian is the mechanic of the ship that will take them through this solar system before it explodes. Has one chapter with a higher concentration of Jiang Cheng than I'd like, but otherwise I find the fic really enjoyable and the very sciency space ship traveling feeling something not easily done nor replicated.

Unavoidable by diamondbruise. Lan Wangji does not know who this Wei Wuxian is, but Wei Wuxian is in the Cloud Recesses to break a curse on his beloved. Lan Wangji can't shake the feeling that something is wrong about the whole situation. A curse fic that doesn't make me cringe or wince at the Wangxian and has the really adorable part where if Lan Wangji forgot he loved Wei Wuxian the first time, he'd just fall again.

Themes and Variations in F# Major by defractum (nyargles) this time it's a Wangxian are musicians au! Lan Wangji is a professional violin and pianist, Wei Wuxian a flute prodigy. While they traveled in similar circles since they were young, this is the story of when they finally connect. Contains some Jiang stuff I usually ignore as I'm not in it for the Jiangs, I'm in it for the Wangxian.

make this chaos count by devotedbones. Wei Wuxian gets to clock a guy in the jaw with his flute. Also contains one of my all time favorite lines "They had one foot in childhood and the other in the grave" describing the young men who went into the Sunshot Campaign. Fully CQL characterization.

CSI: Gusu Edition by Stratisfyre. I'm a sucker for fics where cultivation is blended with other more real world stuff and Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian being basically forensic scientists with cultivation is a really lovely blend. Contains some good uncle Lan Qiren and more CQL level characterization, but I still enjoy it more than a year later.

Future Cultivation AU by Aki_No_Hikari. A modern cultivators in college au in a world where Mo Xuanyu did not sacrifice himself to revive Wei Wuxian, but Wangxian's reincarnations met again in the future anyway. I love all the world building and thought put into it. The fifth installment is a particular favorite.

vinegar jug by dandelion-san. Future Lan Wangji arrives in Cloud Recesses Lectures and decides to entertain himself while waiting to go home by indulging all of little Wei Wuxian's whims easily. Little Lan Wangji tries and fails to not completely die of jealousy. Hilarious and the right tone for the situation.

Four Parts Honey and One Part Vinegar by masked. The juniors try to determine why Wei Wuxian never gets jealous when people are fawning over or trying to seduce his husband. In the end, the answer is very simple.

花无百日红; the flower that withers by yiqie. Sort of a time travel fic and sort of not. Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji encounter an invention that sends them tumbling back through their memories, unable to change anything but revisiting their pasts through fresh eyes, forgiving themselves for the things they did to survive.

and so my heart beats wildly by lily_winterwood. Modern cultivation au where cultivation is now an olympic sport! A bit more heavy on the misunderstanding level than I usually like, but they're teenagers for most of it so it fits more here, and they solve it pretty quickly once they get the hang of actually talking instead of walking on each other's hearts by mistake. Also contains yunmeng bros and kind of sad JC, but in a way that I really don't find that annoying.

shadows in the sun rise by Yuu_chi. Another Lan Wangji is cursed fic, but this one is absolutely about the highlights of how well Wangxian understand each other. As Lan Wangji's senses are locked to him, they are able to continue communicating almost the whole way through until the curse is broken, a very lovely difference from the way a lot of these curse fics go.

grow by Cafecliche. Wei Wuxian is temporarily cursed to be a small child. The juniors take good care of him.

moonlight caught in mutton fat by Raitalzen. This time it's a Twin Jades get cursed fic and Wei Wuxian and Lan Qiren team up to break the curse before it kills them for good. Seems to be following entirely CQL characterization so normal feelings about good uncle LQR are rendered irrelevant and also contains one of my favorite violently murderous Wei Wuxian because someone tried to kill his husband tropes.

The Guests of Cloud Recesses by cafecliche. There's a ghost in the Cloud Recesses and Wei Wuxian is uniquely qualified to deal with its problems.

Turnabout by miixz. A new favorite that I accidentally missed cause I started on page 2 of my bookmarks. Lan Wangji unexpectedly travels back in time and through his knowledge of what will come, changes the world for the better.

Tread Lightly on my Ground by AshayaT'Reldai. A rarepair fic of Lan Xichen and Qin Su! Before she can marry Jin Guangyao, Qin Su is assaulted by Jin Guangshan and runs off to Gusu in hopes that Lan Xichen will protect her and her unborn child from the Jin. Warnings should be taken into account.

I hope some of these wet your whistle, these are the fics I like to reread when I want something familiar.