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romance-rambles · 1 year ago

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modern alkaid | 319 roses and a date

Alkaid gets asked on a date by the girl he desperately wanted to ask out, at least before he found out who the flowers were for. You'd like to maintain that nothing you said was a lie.

2.8k, post-alkaid's florist ending [everything else happens the same way, except alkaid's first meeting with mc happens after godheim], misunderstandings + some angst, mc is reader, series: none

ALKAID STARES DOWN BLANKLY AT the bouquet of white roses in his hands. At some point during his stunned silence, he had unwittingly taken them off yours, just as you had hoped for.

All 319 of them, to be precise—which is a number that, put in a different context, can also refer to 3/19, the day of his birth. Even with the limited capacity he has at the moment to sort out the events that led up to this moment, he can't help the way his heart flutters at the knowledge that you remembered, even though so much time has passed.

"Alkaid?" A gentle tap against his shoulder robs the flowers of their spotlight. "Do you...not like the flowers?"

He looks up and sees you, still here—still dressed so beautifully he's once more in danger of succumbing to asphyxiation, with a fretful expression that makes him wonder if he's already there. When he does not respond, you close the remaining distance between them, obscuring all else from his vision.

It is a problem only because he has nowhere left to run.

"No," he croaks out finally, leaning back over the counter to accommodate you.

Obliviously, you move closer, leaving him with no choice but to avert his gaze once more. Alkaid can only hope you aren't offended—that you don't think he finds you unattractive, with how often he does so. It's only that your beaming smile reminds him of what it feels like to stare down the sun.

"They're lovely."

Satisfied with his answer, you pull back. Your hands are clasped behind your back, and your ponytail sways slightly, once more retreating behind your shoulder. There's an adorable star-shaped pin fastened onto the strap of your cross-body bag.

He sighs discretely, relieved, and pulls the bouquet up to his face as casually as he can. The petals, he hopes, will be enough to cover up the deep scarlet staining his cheeks.

"I'm glad!" You clap your hands together. "I was worried they wouldn't be to your liking. Maybe I should've asked you what your favorite flower was before I tried asking you out."

A self-deprecating laugh slips out as you scratch your cheek. An intricate design spans the length of your nail now—shades of red and green shaped into what he can clearly recognize as halves of a rose hugging the edges—against a black background.

Alkaid bites his lip, converting the interrupted gasp into a quiet exhale.

"You guessed right. I like white roses," he says, hoping desperately that his words are nothing less than reassuring. "Though they share that spot with lilies as well."

"Lilies," you repeat, a determined gleam in your lovely eyes. "I'll keep that in mind for next time."

He bites his lip harder.

THE MORNING HE'S DUE TO hand off your flowers, Alkaid finds himself contemplating the benefits of coffee behind the register.

Though his favorite concealer and his usual color corrector have done much to brighten up his undereyes, they can do little for the grogginess that comes with staying awake the whole night (Why such a specific number? Who are they for? Do you remember him at all?). And, by the time the clock strikes nine, he's already downed three cups of strongly-brewed tea.

What pushes him to finally break away from his usual preferences is a simple headache.

The store is empty, and there remains more than half an hour before you're set to arrive. A sharp twinge of pain in the side of his head as he stands up to check on your flowers draws out a careful hiss. Alkaid, with some amount of lingering hesitance, flips the sign on his door to closed, with a note explaining the rough length of absence. Then he walks out the door, his destination the artsy cafe across the street—the one that makes him think of you whenever he walks in.

Allen, the normally deadpan barista on duty, seems to shut down when Alkaid corrects him on his order. Soon, the news spreads to the rest of the employees, who take turns staring at him as he leaves with a warm thermos of coffee in his hands.

But, in the end, it proves to be an unnecessary trip.

You're already in front of his flower shop when he returns, half-crouched and studying the sign the way someone might study a work of abstract art. Today, too, you have a large, dark blue backpack slung over both your shoulders, its surface decorated with various pins and stickers—mostly of a cat, your cat, but also of a popular manga that you seem to like.

In Passing, that is.

It's about a love triangle featuring a tyrant emperor and a well-liked leader of the rebellion. Even without the reviews praising it for subverting expectations, Alkaid would've picked it up anyway.

He's on the third volume right now, and—

Hmm? His eyebrows furrow. Where did I leave it? In my bag?

All of a sudden, the sleep that had been so insistent on dragging his eyelids down vanishes. Alkaid wracks his brain desperately for the answers, stomach churning at the thought of you finding out about his latest reading material.

Unfortunately, you choose that moment to turn around.

"Oh, Alkaid!"

Your confused expression soon melts away, leaving behind only a cheerful smile. Tightening his grip on his thermos, he exhales silently, before flashing you a gentle smile.

"You're here." Time stops as you begin to approach him, your keychains singing a short jingle to accompany you. Your expression softens, as does your voice. "You didn't forget about me, right?"

Alkaid can only sputter out a half-coherent apology.

The words get drowned out by the insistent, purposeful beating of his heart. It's as if it wants to claw itself out of his chest and entrust itself to your hands, as it is, with shattered bones sticking out of it.

You laugh prettily, as always. "It's okay. I'm just joking."

Then, like a moth to a flame, his gaze falls upon your lips. A soft red, with a glossy sheen, one that matches the color of your skirt. On a plain canvas, it's all the more striking. It leaves him wondering about things he, currently a stranger, shouldn't be fretting over.

He's not sure how long he stares for, with slightly parted lips and a series of half-realized thoughts chiding at him to stop—only that it's not long enough for you to grow uncomfortable.

Alkaid clears his throat, holding up his thermos (I should've bought her something too, he thinks) as an explanation. "I apologize for the wait. I went over to the cafe across the street."

"Coffee lover?" you guess, making room for him to open the door.

"I'm usually more of a tea person." As he slips inside the store, he can't help but chuckle self-consciously, remembering all the different ways he imagined this scene playing out. Naturally, his next words are nothing more than the most blatant lie he's ever told. "I thought I'd try something else for a change."

"Is it a nice place?" Upon seeing the puzzled look he sends over his shoulder, you clarify, "The cafe. I've seen the reviews, but I think only experience can beat the testimony of someone you know."

He considers your question for a moment. "The staff is very friendly. I often stop by during lunch for their sandwiches."

"I see..." you murmur.

"I think you'd like it," Alkaid blurts out as he slips in behind the register, happy to note that his copy of Volume 3 is, in fact, in his bag. "The owner enjoys collecting art—there's a lot of different paintings all over the cafe. Um, since you're an art major."

"Well, now I have to try it out." You don't seem particularly startled that he knows about your major; instead, you take to drawing patterns across the wooden countertop. He thinks he sees the familiar curve of an A. "The cookies you recommended last time were really great too."

When he keeps his silence, the complete opposite of what the state of his mind currently is (she remembers?), you look up.

"Hmm?" You tilt your head, confusion clouding your once smiling expression. "Do I have the wrong person? You're Alkaid, right? From that time in the snow mountains?"

He forces himself to nod, but that too is enough.

A shy smile blossoms on your lips, paired with both a brief flash of relief flitting through your gaze and the slight, almost imperceptible widening of your eyes. Placing your hands above your heart, you sigh exaggeratedly.

"You had me worried for a moment," you say. Your eyelashes cast a dark shadow on your undereyes. "I thought we'd never meet again."

For a moment, he wonders if there's more to your sorrow than you let on. Does it have anything to do with the way you disappeared? Somewhere so far away that no one could reach you at all?

Alkaid shakes off his thoughts.

"But we did," he responds carefully. I never thought we'd meet again either, he does not say instead. "Whether it was destiny, whether it was just a coincidence, we did. All we can do is make the most of it."

A tinge of sadness mars your lovely smile. "I think that sounds lovely."

SOON AFTER THEIR REUNION, DONE properly this time, down to exchanging numbers, Alkaid excuses himself to go fetch your flowers. When he returns, lovesick heart brimming with curiosity over the recipient's identity once more, he finds you've returned to doodling on the counter.

"Here they are, 319 white roses," he announces.

There's a blank expression on your face when you look up. Slowly, as recognition dawns upon you, it melts away to something bitter and rough. Its jagged edges dig into his his heart, leaving a paralyzing mix of sadness and longing to wash over him.

And then—

"Thank you," you say, and take the flowers off his hand.

His hand twitches, yearning for the camera he still keeps in his backpack, for the days where he feels like memorializing something instead. Lovely is the only word he has to describe you as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ears and pull the bouquet close with a faint smile.

Then, you close your eyes, and you inhale deeply. Once more, you are somewhere else—somewhere far, somewhere he can't reach.

"Ah, sorry." You crack one eye open. Now, the bouquet is clutched against your chest, but your sadness remains. "I guess I'm a bit nervous. I don't know if he'll like the flowers."

He? From some far corner of his mind, he recalls the image of your guardian. A tall man, with long silver hair and a pleasant, but guarded expression. Cael, he thinks is the name.

"For your guardian?" Alkaid inquires.

Your smile drops entirely at the mention of your guardian. A complicated series of emotions flash in your gaze, soon averted to one of the potted plants at the display. Scratching your cheek, you offer him a polite laugh.

Today, only some of your nails are a plain black. The rest remain bare.

"No, it's not for Cael." You answer carefully. "Actually—"

Looking down at the flowers, you take a deep breath. When next you speak, your voice has reclaimed the softness it'd shown him earlier—your searching gaze as well. You leave him with the truth, imparting it onto him like a mischievous secret.

"There's someone I'd like to ask out."

His stomach drops, and you leave him with the memory of lovelorn smile, forever imprinted behind his eyelids.

"I hope he says yes."

[3:00 PM] you: Alkaid, do you have any plans tonight?

[3:17 PM] alkaid: No, I'm free

[3:21 PM] alkaid: Did something happen?

[3:22 PM] you:

[3:22 PM] you: I haven't asked him out yet. Gonna do it soon

[3:23 PM] you: All of my other friends are busy rn.

[3:24 PM] you: Is it okay if I stop by after you close up shop?

[3:24 PM] you: I'd want to talk to someone about it

[4:31 PM] alkaid: Of course

SOMEHOW, ALKAID MANAGES TO GET through the rest of the day.

His heart is held together haphazardly with duct tape and carefully-placed staples, though their efforts are thwarted constantly by a popular refrain (You hardly know him. Of course there's someone else.), and he's one stubbed toe away from being reduced to tears, but he manages. Somehow.

He swallows down his what-ifs and maybes and waits, watching the hands on his wristwatch inch ever closer to six in the evening. And eventually, the vaguely promised time arrives.

As he's stepping out from behind the register, a familiar chime echoes cuts through the silence. Alkaid looks up and sees you, dressed still in red and black, your turtleneck and skirt swapped out for a knee-length dress.

"Hi."

The bouquet of white roses—held in both hands, a stark contrast to the black leather jacket you're wearing—covers up its neckline. You smile sheepishly at him, pulling at the mesh of your bright red skirt to mimic a curtsy.

You're beautiful. Even the flowers surrounding them pale in comparison. Even the aurora they'd seen together pales in comparison. You rob him of his breath and leave gasping for a reprieve, but so long as he keeps his memory in even the smallest capacity, that's simply impossible.

The familiar knife called jealousy stabs into his heart, leaving him keenly aware of his longing. He averts his gaze, but the damage has already been done. You are beautiful, and he has waited years to see you.

"Hi." Alkaid swallows uncomfortably, as the sound of your footsteps draws closer. In a panic, his hands brace themselves against the edge of the counter. "Was something wrong with the flowers? I thought—"

A mysterious expression sits upon your features when you pull his gaze onto you, seemingly oblivious to your magnetic power.

With a deep breath, you thrust the flowers at him, knuckles brushing against his chest. You pull back for a moment, taking your flowers with you, and the soft coral of your blush makes it difficult to discern whether you find yourself a victim the of same scarlet blooming across his cheeks.

"That's—" You cough politely. There's a heart-shaped pendant dangling from your golden necklace. The dress is either strapless or your jacket has covered up the straps. "—what I'm here to find out."

Alkaid tilts his head. His confused gaze darts across his surroundings and stops at the glass window of the store's display, thinking perhaps that your mystery boy might be outside. But while the streets are not barren, there is no one outside his store.

You say his name in the same way you told him your secret. Like it's something precious. Like it's something you love. And the truth begins to settle into his bones with a finality that deafens the half-coherent puzzle pieces he's been trying to fit together—he is the only one you could possibly ask out in this empty store.

He has no choice but to look back. At you, and the bouquet you're offering him.

"Would you like to go to the movies with me?"

AND THAT IS HOW HE finds himself with the beginnings of a bruise forming on his lip. He doesn't mind, not when the sting he feels as he wets his lip reminds him that this is not, in fact, a dream (It feels like it though, he thinks), nor a fantasy.

"You...you don't have a girlfriend, do you? It's been a while since then..."

You rub your arm lightly, muttering about something he can't understand, and what else is Alkaid meant to do but take your hand? He squeezes it gently, tickled to find that he can return the favor for all the times you've stolen his breath away.

Your lips part slightly, but whatever you hoped to say does not leave the confines of your mysterious mind. Instead, you draw some of your hair from both sides over your flushed cheeks.

"Nothing like that," he reassures, smiling gently at you. "I'm just surprised. I didn't realize you were talking about me."

"That's a reli—what." In a single moment, your voice goes from girlishly breathless to an irritated flat. Releasing your hair, you blink uncomprehendingly at him. "How?"

Watching you descend into another muttered ramble, Alkaid shrugs. "If you'd still like that date..."

You whip your head in his direction. "Then it's a date!"

The first time he met you, it was when you had fished out of the snow and offered him a warm drink to fight off the cold. They had talked about miscellaneous things, from your half-hearted desire to request a camera for your birthday to who could make the better model between them both.

And back then, he had thought to himself that there was no sound more beautiful than your laugh.

Almost four years after the fact, as he watches you giggle, Alkaid can confidently say his past self had the right idea. Such a specific title leaves him with room to declare your follow-up smile to be just as breathtaking.

#fics by aya #lovebrush chronicles #lovebrush chronicles x reader #alkaid mcgrath #alkaid mcgrath x reader #lovebrush alkaid #lovebrush alkaid x reader #lbc alkaid #lbc alkaid x reader #little painter #rambles from here on ->#i feel like lars has the common sense not to act like a ceo in a manhwa but i really do think cael would think this is fine #i feel like he'd probably be like “this is the least i can do”#that said i am curious if mc paid for those flowers with her own money?? is her mom rich too #i feel like she'd still be funded by lars (because fan) LOL he also coached her on how to ask alkaid out it's the blind leading the blind #should i write mc's pov too LOL #this was just supposed to be silly little misunderstandings and now there's ANGST and BACKSTORY and MORE ANGST

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paintersknife · 8 months ago

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Lost

I was asked for a Silver Knight fic, so here's a Silver Knight fic

TW: suicide (it's not graphic)

He has been here before. He has been here before, too many times to count. So why does it feel different now? Has she always had such fear in her eyes? Something twists in his gut, a long forgotten instinct. Like a beast recoiling from fire? No, something deeper, like a bird hearing its chick call for them with the melody that only they share. On instinct, Cael clutches her closer to himself, seeing the flicker of hope that ignites in her eyes. The hope that reality will soon smother, that misplaced dream that he can save her. As desperately as he wants to fulfil that dream, he knows it’s impossible. He knows that his hands were made to destroy, not to save. Never to save. Blood bubbles out from the corner of her mouth as she tries to force out the sounds that make his name, and memories surface, unbidden. He remembers her whimpering his name the first time he held her like this, trying to comfort her in the purgatory that lasts until time finally resets itself around her. He remembers the time after that, when she had clutched his sleeve– Just like she clutches it now– how her fingers lost their grip as life ebbed from her body. He remembers how every single time, his name had been upon her last breath. How every single time, his face was always the last thing she saw. The only thing he can do now is to comfort her, to stroke her hair as her ragged breaths quiet and finally cease. She won't remember this death, just like she wouldn't remember the countless others before it, but that is barely any consolation.

Before the world around him dissolves into static, he is overtaken by the urge to press his lips to her forehead, and so he does, his touch lighter than the snow falling around the both of them.

The motion feels familiar somehow, like something half-dreamt and barely remembered, but somehow right.

But before he can question it any further, he finds himself once again in the Silver Knight’s tent, lonelier and colder than it has ever been.

His gloved hands curl into fists as he sends Liam away with some perfunctory words. None of this had bothered him before, so why now?

She is merely the charge left to him by his superior, an obligation, a burden. So why does she suddenly stir something in the deepest recesses of his memory, in a murky place that even the Empire hadn’t been able to touch?

These thoughts are of no help to him. All he knows is that he cannot bear to see this happen to her again. He will let her go, severing this cursed bond that he has trapped her with.

Her own path lies ahead, unwritten.

He should not interfere.

Even after he sets her free, Cael isn’t able to stop himself from watching her journey from afar. She’s breathtaking, he muses, seeing her fight. The complete opposite of his creations that she destroys, the painter is meticulous, precise, just like her brushstrokes, shattering their rime crusted wings into crystalline dust. There’s a dancer’s elegance in her movements, and he laughs ruefully, knowing that this was something that she doesn’t realise about herself.

The fire in her eyes was made to temper, not consume.

So how can he dare to covet it so?

He’s envious of her, of that changeability, that limitless growth. It won’t be long now before she surpasses her mother, his superior that he had looked up to.

How will he see her then?

With the same reverence?

With pride? Suddenly, he’s afraid, a deep ache making itself known in the space under his ribs. She’s a beautiful thing, never staying still, always evolving. He’s the opposite, like cold marble to her limitless ivy. How long would it take for her to outgrow him? She would deny it, of course, but he knows her well. He has already seen it in their unwritten future, how she would cripple her own wings for his sake, and never for a moment blame him. Regret was something she would never do, so he would carry it for the both of them, even knowing that it would ruin them both. He can already see himself as the hand that pinions her, taking the hand she offers him only to pull her down.

The painter scatters the last of the butterflies in front of her, taking a moment to catch her breath before she hurries off again, going to check on the people that came with her. The Silver Knight watches her treat their wounds with care, her smile warm enough to drive back the harsh bite of eternal winter.

It is in her nature to love others, and receive love in return.

A stray glacial butterfly flutters towards him, the sole survivor of her earlier performance. Its flight is crooked, its wings bent and torn by her illustra.

It is in his nature to destroy, to be the hand that seizes victory.

His fingers close around the butterfly, beautiful, ethereal, and fragile, just like she is. Tearing his eyes away from her, he finally leaves, crushed gossamer wings the only trace of his presence.

There’s an emptiness in his chest, an endless abyss. One that he never knew was there. Until now.

Cael yearns to step into the light beside her. Prefect Silver knows that it’s impossible.

The place by her side could not ever belong to him.

The script demands the Silver Knight attack the capital and he plays his role dutifully, knowing that she should be safe beside the man that she has chosen.

It only takes a second, a momentary lapse in his usually impeccable awareness. The dagger that buries itself into his side is meaningless to him, and he easily tears it from his body, slashing the throat of the knight that dared to wound him. Cael’s legs lose their strength and he realises it was coated with venom, but even then, it is nothing but an annoyance, something that would only immobilise him momentarily. What makes his blood truly run cold is the familiar voice that screams his name.

He turns, and he can remember that look on her face, the earth shattering grief that looks as if it would crush her. It was something he saw often when she lost her mother, but he doesn’t understand why he sees it again. That was a look reserved for those she loved. It can’t be for him. It shouldn’t. By his own hands, he has ruined this world she holds so dear and is so fervently trying to save. They are soaked with the blood of multitudes, stained so deeply that nothing could ever wash them clean again.

He wants to call out to her, to tell her that monsters don’t die so easily, but the toxin still has him in its sway.

She falls to her knees, desperate, trembling, as she closes her hands around the hilt of the dagger. Distantly he is aware of the sound of someone screaming the painter’s name, blissfully ignorant to the fact that it comes from his own lips. In a cruel twist, time seems to slow around him, binding his movements more than the toxin does, rejecting his mastery over it as it forces him to look, to only watch her from a distance, just like he had been for the last few years. Her hands are quivering, the tip of the blade wavering as she raises it towards herself, but her expression is as dauntless as it has ever been, as if this is the only thing she's sure of.

Her lips curl around the syllables that form his name, but he cannot hear it.

With one thrust, his own heart is pierced.

And shatters.

He roars, finally breaking the intangible chains that have shackled his being in place, his arms barely moving in time to catch her body as it falls.

Hot tears fall on her cheek, looking like dew on her eyelashes for a moment before they freeze in the frigid cold. He's unaware of them falling from him, unaware of anything except the numb void in his mind and the all consuming ache in his chest as his fingers fumble for the lapis necklace.

The static he's so intimately familiar with is nowhere to be seen, and his stomach drops, knowing that he would be consigning her to remember this. To remember the disgrace she had to suffer, all for him. His stomach lurches again, but he presses the cold chain to her anyway. He has to. The alternative is unthinkable.

“Please,” he entreats, voice hoarse, fingers clenched so tight his already pale skin loses any remaining colour. He doesn't even know if he's begging her, or begging all of creation or even begging himself. “Please don't. You can't.”

Finally he feels the pull as time begins to realign itself once more and he crushes her limp form to his chest, not wanting to let her go. Afraid to let her go.

He has always been cold, but her tiny, fragile, broken body seems to sap all the warmth he could ever feel. He doesn’t care. It is the least he can give to her, who had the misfortune of meeting the likes of him.

Her path forward should always be one free from thorns. The one without him.

She’s not sure if the memory is even real, or a half recalled dream, twisted by her own despair and longing into the reality that she desperately wishes for. She thinks she remembers the fleeting feeling of his lips brushing her forehead, of words whispered in her ears in that liminal space between dreams and wakefulness.

“Forgive me.”

The only thing she knows is that he’s gone. Others have noticed his absence as well, but it’s easy for them to brush it off as the same as one of his countless routine disappearances. A business trip. A sabbatical. A conference. A vacation. Everyone has an explanation for her, but when she sees the concern and pity in their gazes, the unspoken question of ‘ He’s your guardian, didn’t he tell you?’, she stops talking about it.

So she goes through the motions, as if she too is a ghost that isn’t really there. Time has no hold over her, but now it seems to stretch on infinitely, each solitary second an entire lifetime.

Are the words that twist in on themselves in the restless nights like unfulfilled infinity even real? “You’ll understand in time,” she thinks he said, but she still doesn't understand. She can’t understand anything, least of all why he isn’t here by her side, his graceful fingers brushing her hair out of her face as he whispers quiet comfort. Instead, she can only mourn him like she mourned her mother, except this time, she’s alone.

Even dreams now bring anguish instead of bliss. All she can find of him there are his faint afterimages, dull, muted, lifeless, as if all the colour in the world has been drained from them. It’s a curse, to be one step behind him where before she would walk by his side, his stride held so she could keep up, something he did only for her. But that was when they had each other, before he left her with only memories and regret.

Some nights she can almost feel his familiar presence, like how she used to when they were merely temporarily parted, and she’s almost sure that if she looks behind her, she’ll be gazing into those lilac eyes and their untold depths. He’s a traveller too, and far more experienced than her so the illusion always shatters, she’s always a mere step behind him, but that step might as well be infinity. Those nights she wakes with tears soaking her pillow and a sadness that curls itself in her chest, settling there to roost. Every night she prays she won’t dream, sometimes she wishes she simply wouldn’t wake.

“I have to do this… for you.”

How can this be for her own good if she hasn't felt whole since? Like there’s a rent in her soul that can never heal, like how a newly missing limb leaves a person collapsed each time they forget its absence.

But something deep inside her knows, has always known that he isn't coming back.

Not now. Not ever.

The only thing she can do is spend the rest of her life chasing after a mirage, an apparition, for the words she desperately wants to believe she heard, but will never hear again.

“I love you,”

Yeah I know I posted that last bit before but it worked so perfectly here that I just adapted it

#lbc #lovebrush chronicles #for all time #lovebrush cael #silver knight #cael anselm #don't come for me you two you literally asked for this

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brianakane · 8 months ago

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Why selwyn talk in strange way

He thinks talking all mysterious will make him look cool and edgy but it just makes him look like a pathetic wannabe grandpa.

But in all seriousness it's either something about him being the SK son OR just because he's a merlin and all Merlin's tend to talk like that 😭 I mean he did grow up around his mother and then the Merlin academy so he prolly just caught on to the way that they speak.

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ehrzeth · 4 months ago

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random 5 AM and I haven't slept thought hours.

Okay so like. The how i ended up on this line of thinking isn't important (well i mean you could look one post down on my blog and figure it out probably; it's about ascribing morality to concepts that don't innately have it). But thinking about Alkaid and how he's a selfish person and how he also thinks he's a selfish person. And you're natural line of thinking is probably "Ehrz that's mean. He's really nice and he does things for MC all the time." And yes! He does! Thing is that he tends to do things without considering MC's wants or rather, he does things according to his world view and wants without consideration for long term effects and yadda yadda yadda. I have a writing about this tucked away somewhere that I'm too lazy to go dig up at the moment I lie I went and found it. Paraphrasing, his compassionate actions are not truly altruistic as they are in service to a desire of his which tends to be benign or simple and harmless when simply stated as a wish. The problem then becomes how he pursues these often to the point of destruction of self or others. At which point that is no longer altruism as regard for others has been discarded. Anyway. Not the point. The thought I had was about how we ascribe morality to the traits "selfish" and "selfless". Bad and Good. And how it's really kind of wrong. In LBC they've actually been riffing off of this frequent moral conundrum with Alkaid because he so often expresses guilt at being "selfish". And we see two iterations of the solution to this guilt issue of his. We've seen it occur and MC reassure him that his actions are not selfish. And we've also seen a questioning of why being "selfish" is wrong. Because it's not. We've just acribed morality to them when there really is nothing wrong with being selfish or anything innately good about being selfless. And if I don't stop myself on that tangent here you will get paragraphs of philosophy about that. Anyway. I find it impressive that the writers are choosing to walk a metaphorical tightrope-balancing act with a character who is a knife's edge away from condemning a world for someone he loves at any given moment (I'm being a bit hyperbolic, but you get the idea) while simultaneously making that character a story of reassurance and healing, especially about selfishness and wants, where the reassurance and healing could tip him over into doing "Bad Things" if not handled well. Absolute madmen (I love the writers)

#lovebrush chronicles #lbc #alkaid mcgrath #i should be sleeping but i'm instead my brain spat this out #yes i did forget what my point was partway through why do you ask

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xbalayage · 2 years ago

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this whole time, my deadass eyes misread ayn’s height as 170 cm when he’s actually 179 cm AKDNSK 😭

Yeah, he's 5'8" he's the shortest of the guys. 😭 But he's still hot idc idc idc.

Lars is 6'1"

Alkaid is 5'10"

Clarence is 5'11"

And Cael is 5'11".

I love these kings. ❤️❤️❤️

#lovebrush chronicles #lbc #for all time #ayn #lars #alkaid #clarence #cael #celiciaa #asks.

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thyrinea · 2 years ago

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"Man first stumbles, then he walks, then he runs, one day he will fly"

Hello Limbus Company tag! Don't mind if I just slide this smol chibi of my oc, Baltasar. I'm still planning things related to her, but expect me to post more art of her soon!

#thyrine art #limbus oc #limbus company oc #lbc oc #feel free to ask me about my oc!!#She's based on a portuguese novel called “Memorial do Convento”#Also known as “Baltasar and Blimunda” internationally

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ad-hawkeye · 1 year ago

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tot is definitely trying harder because they have more competition in the mobile cn otome scene (esp deepspace lol)but i will not complain it as long as they don’t force us to relive the artem midfest

about the high school au card general thoughts from weibo are holy shit artem why are you making everyone hard pity or almost hard pity smh. the card is good and it does a good job at giving you a cute innocent school romance/crush some posts giving praise to both artem and rosa’s lines + writer/writing team as well

joining the war on love and deepspace on the side of love and deepspace solely to ensure that tot feels pressured to actually write a decent story and to also care about character consistency again

it's interesting from a market perspective. love and deepspace has a really strong grip on those who like "spicy" content, especially because of its 3d models. that's what it's marketed as, and that's what it really excels at. i know of several other cn otome games with better borderline nsfw content too, ones that lean into it fully and a lot more openly than tot. i also know of several other cn otome games that are completely outdoing tot in terms of writing and art - lovebrush chronicles for example.

tot is fascinating bc it originally found a niche as a whodunit mystery game with otome elements and interesting characters. it also had a boost being a mihoyo made game.

but then they noticed people liked the steamier content, so they abandoned their original niche to chase after fanservice at the expense of their storytelling and characters. and now that other games out there are doing the whole borderline nsfw thing much better than they are (because let's be real, tot sacrificed their writing in the name of extremely mediocre softcore porn foreplay and tropes that other games do better), it feels like they're trying to bring back the original writing and are trying to think outside of the box in terms of art and new official art styles.

i wonder where tot will go from here, or if this will work?

god okay, additional side rant incoming. but before i do - that's fantastic news about the high school au cards.. thank you!!

did you know lovebrush had the mls have their first kisses with mc at different times? ayn's happened on white day, cael's happened in an ssr card story following white day, and the remaining boys had theirs happen during their azure island routes. and you know what? it made sense for their characters!

ayn is very blunt and straight forward. cael had several other card stories dedicated to building up their relationship. alkaid is too afraid of upsetting mc and would not make the first move. clarence is still getting used to being in a romantic relationship. lars is a hopeless romantic who seems preoccupied with waiting for the "right moment".

and it just. keeps reminding me of tot's second anniversary. where the writers planned to have luke propose to rosa because of his whole "i'm dying in three years" thing which... makes sense! that makes sense! but why on earth would you make the other three guys propose when it doesn't make sense for them?? i just. ugh.

sometimes i wonder if it's too late for tot to fix their writing.

and the funny thing! lbc has a wedding event in the cn server! but you want to know something even funnier?? it's not an actual wedding! it's a photoshoot event! none of them are engaged!

tot could have gone so many routes and they took the ones with the worst writing and it's mind boggling. you CAN do fanservice with good writing!

#tears of themis #lovebrush chronicles #asks #anon #tot spoilers #lbc spoilers #cn spoilers #sorry this is probably such a biased mess of a rant but. ughhhh

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