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crimsonophelia · 3 years

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Can I request for a fluffy friends to lovers fic with Venti and a human gn reader? They’re good friends (but the reader doesn’t know his real identity) and when reader brings up their desire to see a wind wisp in real life Venti decides to surprise them by transforming into his true form and paying them a visit. The reader finds this mysterious little wind wisp at their doorstep and gets excited, takes care of it, and while feeding it apple slices starts talking about how their good friend Venti would love to see them - but oh, he’s less of a friend and more of a crush who I’ve loved for a long time… wait, where did the wisp go? Wait, Venti?! When did you get here?!

featuring: venti x gn!reader

warnings: none

published: june 30, 2021

form: imagine

a/n: thank you for sending this in—i need more venti requests, he’s my baby <3

you could tell that the drink was beginning to hit you hard when you felt your muscles go slack. it was your fourth pint of the night, and although you thought that you could hold your drink fairly well, you could never hold a candle to your bard friend’s seemingly bottomless appetite for wine. venti was on his seventh--or was it eighth?--mug of cider for the night, and was still fairly unfazed, if you consider his usual bumbling amiability to be his default. after a long day of working and whatever it was that venti did in the daytime, you two had decided to meet up at the angel’s share that evening for a drinking night between friends, and to catch up on life and whatever else goes on in the city of mondstadt.

the night had begun with a mug per person, as you and venti caught up with each other. due to your duties at home, and his rather inconstant job as a traveling musician, it was oftentimes difficult for you and the bard to stay in touch--responsibilities always seemed to get in the way. so, naturally, you took advantage of every opportunity you could get to see venti, one-on-one, and simply talk. after knowing him for quite a while, he really was a delight to talk to, always full of witty riddles and forever knowing the right thing to say at the right time. venti really was quite remarkable.

he also had the unique talent of contagious alcoholism; after having spent an hour or so drinking and chatting with him, you unwittingly started drinking more than your usual limit, absolutely carried away with whatever small conversation venti had you engaged with at the moment. the conversation had somehow strayed into the topic of myths and legends of mondstadt. venti was speaking of some strange conspiracies surrounding the origin of the anemo hypostasis up in the mountains, and as the alcohol began to break down your proper judgement, you began to go on and on about how you, as a child, dreamed of seeing an elusive wind wisp.

you had heard stories about the boy revolutionary, armed with his bow and his words, accompanied by a little white wind wisp, leading mondstadt’s journey to freedom. the story had enchanted you when you were young, and clearly you still had not given up hope of meeting a similar wind wisp. perhaps it would bring you the same joy and power to change your life for the better, just like it did for the hero of old mondstadt.

venti listened to your reminiscing closely, looking at you with a quizzical look of interest. your intoxicated state made it so that you didn’t notice the look on his face as if he was plotting something, but, to be fair, venti’s poker face was notable for its impregnability. the night ended with him having to walk you home, propping your arm over his shoulders so that you wouldn’t trip and fall on the cobblestone streets. the last thing you remembered was him tucking you into bed, and singing you one of his funny little songs.

the next morning, you woke with a pounding headache and the bright noon sun peeking through your shutters. archons, was it so late already? you pulled yourself out of bed, trying not to stumble, distracted by the pounding in your head. you had a long list of things to do today that you had to complete, and you severely regretted drinking so much and so late with that damned bard last night (though you could never really hate him--he was too adorable).

slipping on whatever clothing closest to your bed and sluggishly following through with your daily morning routine, you got ready to head out the door to water the carrots and potatoes in your backyard. as you pulled open the door, prepared to step out and face the piercing daylight, you caught yourself as you almost stepped on the little figure at your doorstep. lying there on its side, was a wind wisp. yes, just like the ones you had read about all your childhood and you had mused about endlessly last night. it had its little eyes shut, sleeping probably, its delicate little form curled up on the step.

you were bewildered, partially at the coincidence of it all, but mostly by the rarity of what had occurred before your eyes. a wind wisp, something most people never even saw once in their lifetimes, suddenly showing up right at your doorstep after you had talked about your desire to meet one just the night before. crouching down, you scooped up its little body in your hands. the little thing began to wake, hands rubbing its eyes sleepily, as it made a chirping noise. it was ridiculously adorable.

“hey there, little guy”, you cooed. “what are you doing here?”

as it began to regain consciousness, the wisp floated up off your hands, small gusts of air emitting from its form, and it flew up to nuzzle against your face. it felt like a warm breeze brushing against your cheek, and you heard it chirping in your ear.

you giggled. “well aren’t you the cutest little thing!” you raised your hand to pet it, and it made a little gurgling noise, leaning into your touch. something about its mannerisms felt so familiar, almost like something you had known in a past life perhaps, but you couldn’t put a finger on it. its presence was just endlessly comforting, even though you had only known it for a few minutes.

reaching into your pantry, you pulled out some apples you had picked the day before, and cut it into small slices. the wisp watched you eagerly as you went about your business, like it could understand everything you did. holding up a thin slice to the wisp, a little hole in its void of a face opened up and enveloped the slice whole. a little shocked but certainly entertained, you gave it an approving head pat.

as the day went on, the little wisp continued to follow you throughout mondstadt as you ran your errands. you went outside, behind your house, to take care of the crops you were growing. as you watered your plants, the little wisp helped you disperse the water more efficiently, blowing a gentle wind from your watering can so that you didn’t have to walk as far to water the faraway plants. you go to pick some apples and sunsettias nearby, and the little fellow would fly up to the hard-to-reach fruits and throw himself against them to knock them loose from the branches, right where you could catch them. you worried a little bit whether he was hurting himself by doing so, but he appeared to be pleased just to assist you, and he certainly was not ashamed to take a few bites from the fruits of your shared labor at the end of the day.

considering how efficiently your errands were completed today, of course all thanks to the helper you acquired that morning, you thought it would be nice to use the time you had in the late afternoon to take the wisp out for a picnic dinner at windrise to show your appreciation. gathering some of the fruit the both of you had collected, and some sandwiches you made, you placed it all in a little wicker basket and set off for the great tree with your companion upon your shoulder.

upon arriving, you laid down a gingham blanket in the shade of the great tree of windrise, just a moments away from the ancient statue of barbatos. you felt like a child again, remembering the summers of carefree exploration, tunneling through the thickets in the forest, or catching frogs by the creek, or tumbling down the hills by the sea. and now, a wisp joined you, taking you back to the memories of those years, when life was much simpler.

you couldn’t help but to think of venti, the bard, the friend, who had brought you such comfort through difficult times, whose music, like the warm touch of the wisp, reminded you of home and the beauty that life could bring. your companion was now feasting comedically fast on the food you had brought along, swallowing up fruits whole, and chewing for several moments before helping itself to another. you chuckled and gave it a pat. “greedy little fellow, aren’t you?” you couldnt help but to think venti would have loved to meet the wind wisp, considering his love for nature and all sorts of fauna, and considering the small resemblance between himself and the creature.

“stick around for a bit and i might introduce you to my friend, the bard”, you told it, not really caring that it probably couldn’t understand you. “im actually not sure that we are friends, to be honest. these days we rarely see each other but...” you trailed off, distracted by the sound of the breeze through the branches. the wisp stopped eating and watched you intently. “well”, you began. “i sometimes find myself wishing him and i were more than friends. maybe not lovers, not right away but... i just know that dearly. i cannot be sure that he feels the same, but that is of no matter.” you pat the wisp’s little head again. “if i can make him happy, even just as friends, that is enough for me.”

out of nowhere, a strong wind blew past you, knocking over your wicker basket and sending it flying several feet away. agitated, you scrambled up to chase after it, finally grasping it before it could fly too far. you were perplexed—where in the world could such a strong wind have come from? the sky was clear, and there were no clouds obstructing the setting sun. how odd, you thought to yourself.

you turned around to bring the basket back to your sitting spot, but to your surprise, the wisp was gone. no, in its place was now your bard friend, venti, sitting there on the blanket like he had been there all along. how in the world did he get here without you noticing, and where in the world did the wisp go off to? you hurried over to venti, questioning, “since when did you get here?”

the bard smirked, and fiddled with his lyre that you just noticed he had brought along with him. he had that look on his face again, the one he wore whenever he had some sort of plot in mind. “whatever do you mean, [y/n]?”, he replied amusedly. “i’ve been here all along.”

#genshin impact #genshin headcanons #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin x reader #venti #venti x reader #venti headcanons #venti imagines #venti fanfic #venti x y/n #venti x you #fluff #venti fluff

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translations-by-aiimee · 3 years

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Mistakenly Saving the Villain - Chapter 1

Original Title: 论救错反派的下场

Genres: Drama, Romance, Xianxia, Yaoi

TW for this chapter: Mentions of suicide

I wanted to provide some ~variety~ so I'm doing another novel. I'll give a warning that the first few chapters are kind of intense and I'll keep the TWs updated as they come and put a TL;DR at the end if there's anything too graphic.

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter 1 - The Beauty in Red

Song Qingshi is dead.

After his death, he came to in a strange space, and in the space, there was a sphere randomly flashing red.

The sphere said that he is a book-transmigrating system from a high-dimensional world. There was a xiania novel called "The Exceptional Furnace", which was about to be plagued by readers' resentment due to the tragic fate of the protagonist, causing problems in that world. It needed to find someone who is familiar with the tropes of these novels and someone with the power to change and repair the body and mind of the protagonist, and fulfill the readers' wishes - change the fate of the protagonist, dote on him, and let him live the happiest and most fulfilling life □□ □□□□□

The information in the system came intermittently, and in the □□ there were incomprehensible, alien-like characters.

Song Qingshi suffered from Lou Gehrig's Disease during his lifetime and devoted himself to studying medicine to try and save himself. He was a medical student who studied and experimented frantically every day and never wasted time reading novels.

In terms of emotions, he is even more obtuse. Although he is very handsome and has an attractive and obedient personality, due to his physical problems, even the school bully treated him like a precious thing. With all the excessive loving care and sympathy, not only did he never have a crush, but he also suffered from a slight fear of talking to strangers.

This was the worst soul for this task.

Song Qingshi didn't know how he was picked up by the system. He had read Marxist philosophy novels in vain. But from his messy information and analysis from the system's explanation, as long as he accepts the task, the system will send him to the virtual book world, give him a healthy body, and he will come back to life.

After Song Qingshi realized this, he was ecstatic. A healthy body is was his biggest desire. Not to mention the fact that the system only asked that he take care of someone. Even if the system had asked him to swim through seas of fire, he would have accepted still.

Because of this, he ignored his conscience, structured his response, and lied for the first time in his life: "I have read tens of thousands of books that I have memorized. I have extensive medical and nursing knowledge, have taken a psychology course as an elective, and I could solve all the physical and mental sufferings of the protagonist. And love. . . I have lots of experience with love, I know how to communicate, absolutely, I. . . can definitely accomplish these tasks!"

If there was any blood that could exist in a soul, he would definitely be flushed.

The system didn't notice his lies. It registered the identity of the task performer, and sent a series of garbled commands, mixed with all kinds of chaotic and disorderly information into Song Qingshi's mind, sending waves of discomfort through his soul.

Suddenly, the system let out a sharp alarm and the data transmission was cut off. Song Qingshi's vision went black, and his soul drifted away towards a bright white light. . .

. . .

When Song Qingshi woke up, he found himself lying in the woods, surrounded by the faint fragrance of various herbs. He squinted his eyes and looked towards the dazzling blue sky. There was a gorgeous golden luan bird dragging its long tail feathers, letting out a loud caw as it flew past, with countless immortal birds following it.

Was this the world from the novel?

It seemed too real. . .

A soft breeze blew across the forest, shaking off the dew on the trees. The dew fell onto his pale fingertips, bringing a slightly cool feeling. Then, all the memories of the original body flooded into his mind like a tidal wave, trying to merge with his own soul - this body was also called Song Qingshi, the master of the Medicine King's Valley, and the most talented medical immortal and pharmaceutical expert in the immortal world. His medical skills could heal the dead and revive bones, and the spirit pills he cultivates were considered treasures by every cultivator.

However, the original body's temperament was extremely troubling. He rarely left Medicine King's Valley at all, never made friends, and had no interest in matters other than medicine and alchemy. When a patient sought him out, he only looks at their temperament and never asked their identity. When he was in a good mood, he treated mortal beggars. When he was in a bad mood, regardless of the identity of the visitor, he would turn them into flower fertilizer for his garden. He often used living people to test medicines. Cruel, but because of his Nascent Soul cultivation base and various skills with poisons, the immortal sects didn't dare provoke him easily, only secretly calling him troubling behind his back.

Cultivators in the immortal world had long life spans, and the knowledge and memory of this original body had for its hundreds of years of cultivation had not arrived yet. Various data fragments of the system rushed in frantically, with countless garbled codes, tearing the original body's memory into a mess, leaving Song Qingshi at a loss. It took a long time before he managed to figure out his current situation.

This was Golden Phoenix Mountain Manor, the most luxurious place in the immortal world, where there are rare and exotic animals and countless immortals and beautiful concubines.

The owner, Jin FeiRen, was also a great Nascent cultivator. He was a true romantic, an excessive spender, and had friends from both the immortal and demonic cultivation world. He was a well-known figure.

The original body had always been cold, obsessed with his work, and never touched either men and women. Today's arrival was accidental. The Manor Lord Jin wanted to give him Ten Thousand Year Snow Ginseng to exchange a batch of medicinal pills for him. The original body had recently been lacking Snow Ginseng to make his medicines, so he agreed to the deal.

Since Snow Ginseng grows in the secret realm of the snow mountains of the Jin family. If you wanted to get the ones with the best medicinal properties, you needed to pick them at night and preserve it with a special refining method. Therefore, the original body came here to pick it personally, and Song Qingshi somehow ended up here.

Then, Song Qingshi was sent here by the system. . .

Where was the protagonist? What does he look like?

Song Qingshi wanted to ask the system to ask for more information, but the system seemed to disappear. The materials it sent not only contained no plot points from the novel, but also very little character information. There were garbled characters everywhere, even though the protagonist hadn't been introduced yet. Song Qingshi got dizzy going through all this information before he found some descriptions in the copywriting introduction: the best physique, unmatched beauty shou X□□□□□ gong, procured by trickery, sadomasochistic, □□, □□, □□ There were only three texts that could be read clearly: Banquet of Bea□□□.

. . .

If this were someone who often read these types of novels, they would immediately recognize that this situation was problematic.

Song Qingshi, however, didn't recognize any of this as problematic. He believed that this was a test given by the system to assess his reasoning skills and ability to do things. Song Qingshi was very accustomed to being assessed like this. Usually, when he and his teacher started developing a new drug, he often didn't have any prior results in his hand. It required some experimentation and to experience many errors and difficulties in order to reach the final result. Most of the time, that result was not what they were hoping for.

Many pharmaceutical companies invest billions or even tens of billions in drug research. Scholars have spent decades trying, right until their hair turned grey, only to fail during their clinical trials.

Therefore, every drug researcher is a strong man who has experienced many battles, repeated defeats and never-ending setbacks.

These questions from Teacher System were not difficult!

Scholar-Tryant Song expressed no fear! He will definitely find the correct answer and live up to the teacher's expectations of him!

Song Qingshi thought about the information he was given, determined the goal of the protagonist, and then quickly understood the key points of the novel: the protagonist will appear at the Banquet of Beauties, it will be a male, homosexual, unmatched beauty, superb body; a pitiful character with a tragic fate. He needs to save the protagonist, give him the greatest care, heal his physical and mental health, and then help him find happiness and joy!

During Song Qingshi's time, respect for sexual orientation was written into the law, and same-sex couples could get married.

He once found a novel lost by a rotten girl classmate, titled "His Evil Majesty's Spoiled Husband". On the cover was a handsome and domineering man in a period costume holding a beautiful woman with long hair with a super flat chest. He didn't understand it, and returned the book. When he asked curiously, his classmates told him what Danmei was, and told him that the beauty on the cover was actually male. The beautiful male was the "shou", and the domineering one was the "gong". So Song Qingshi is confident that he would easily distinguish between the gong and the shou in the novel. He would never mistake the gong as the protagonist.

He had thought it through and the direction of problem-solving has been determined. All that was left was to wait for the Banquet of Beauties to start the exam.

Song Qingshi's spiritual sea gradually became clear. The soul and body were merged and became flexible. He sat up with his hands cautiously, took off his shoes, raised his feet, and tried to stretch the toes that had been stiff for many years. The white and round toes curled happily. Song Qingshi stood up shakily, briefly walking forward a few steps with hands and feet before finally remembered the walking posture of a normal person, and his movements gradually changed from jerky to steady. . .

Under his feet was soft green grass and moist soil.

Outside the forest was a calm river. Song Qingshi stepped into the water and took a handful of cold river water to wash his face, confirming that he was not in a dream.

Tears fell out of extreme joy, and the big tears fell onto his palms. His hands couldn't stop no matter how much he tried. The river calmed down from the slight disturbance, and the reflection of the boy's figure appeared.

Song Qingshi was surprised to find that the body given to him by the system was very similar to his high school appearance; he was not very tall and significantly thinner. He wore a Daoist cultivator outfit made of many layers of snow-coloured cloud brocade, wrapped tightly around his body. At first glance, all the layers of clothing gave the illusion of a frail man.

His thin hair was simply tied up with some loose hair dangling freely. His appearance may be related to immortal cultivation. He is a bit more refined than his original body, with a cold, pale complexion and clear eyes. Because he often blocks out the world and focuses on his study, he feels a bit dull and extremely gullible, leading many unlucky ghosts to think that the original was harmless and would become the fertilizer or poison tester.

. . .

After Song Qingshi vented his emotions and saw the red-rimmed eyes in the reflection, he was a little embarrassed. He hurriedly lowered his head and fetched water, trying to wash away the tears on his face, but behind him came the sound of fine bells and ridicule.

"It's useless to commit suicide. It will only cause you needless pain. If you are still not reconciled, you can try and sink slowly to see if you can succeed."

Surprised, Song Qingshi turned around and saw the most beautiful thing he'd seen in his life.

There were trees full of peach blossoms, and under the tree was a beautiful young boy in red. Who knows how long he was watching Song Qingshi stupidly crying. The young man's appearance was blooming, like a scroll of rich colours and ink, painted with all the romantic colours of the world. The warm jade-like skin, the most beautiful thing about him were the dark golden phoenix eyes under the crow-feather-like eyelashes. He resembled a noble and dignified phoenix in the sky, but there was an extremely gorgeous red tear-shared mole under the corner of his left eye, desecrating his nobleness. The dignity of his appearance was crushed, and the phoenix rejoined the mortal world, turning into a creature stained with flattery and seductiveness which made people feel unbearable tempted.

His long hair was untied and hung casually around his waist. The ends of his hair were slightly curled, his feet were bare, and he was only wearing a red dress made of shark silk. The shark silk was as smooth as water, clinging to his body, covering all the desirables underneath.

Song Qingshi did not think anything blasphemous, but because he was caught crying, his social anxiety became more intense. After a long pause of building courage, he stumbled and said: "I, I just..."

His hesitation became reluctant approval in the eyes of the beauty in red.

There are dangerous monsters and birds everywhere in the immortal world. Cultivators were equipped with spiritual auras and keen senses, and can easily detect the wind and grass around them. Even the minor cultivators in the time they were establishing their cultivation base would not miss the sound of mortal footsteps with bells, let alone the Nascent Soul cultivators. If they release their spiritual thoughts, the smallest creatures on the mountain would not escape their attention. Except for Song Qingshi, a newly-born soul who had just arrived in this world, and was still very unused to spiritual power and these world conditions. . .

The beauty in red had completely misunderstood, thinking that Song Qingshi was also a mortal. There was only one use for such a beautiful mortal in Golden Phoenix Manor. He clarified: "A new slave?"

Song Qingshi looked up in amazement. He wanted to ask questions, but his eyes fell on the beauty of the red dress. There seemed to be some strange bruises on his neck as if it had been bitten by a mosquito, but it seemed that it might be something else. He took a few more secretive glances, trying to determine what they were.

The beauty in red noticed his curious glances and his heart grew upset. With growing malicious intent, a very gentle smile appeared on his face, and he said in a sincerely blessed tone: "Don't stare, you will have them soon, too."

Song Qingshi was very sheltered before transmigrating. He had never encountered malice and did not understand the mystery behind these words. Although he thought this blessing was a bit strange, he still answered politely: "Thank you."

The beauty in red choked hearing this answer. He was stunned for a moment. He looked at Song Qingshi up and down like a fool, and found that the person in front of him was clean and his skin was free of any injuries. He had never experienced the ravages of hell in his eyes. He was pure.

This discovery made him feel pity for the heart that had been tempered by suffering. He retracted his sharp malice and said softly, "After tonight, you will know that death is a luxury." He turned slightly to his side, looking at the river's flow. He warned, "When I first came here, I tried to commit suicide many times, but it was useless. We are slaves who are branded with the Acacia Seal. Our spirits belong to our master. So long as the master doesn't allow it, we cannot die, even by our own hands. . .

The beauty in red was silent for a long time. He slowly stretched out his hand and stroked Song Qing's hair that was soft as the fur of a small animal.

Song Qingshi saw several red rope marks on his pale wrists. He realized that this was pain that the beauty wouldn't want to be questioned about, so he pushed down his curiosity.

The fingertips of the red-dressed beauty slipped from his hair to Song Qingshi's delicate face, watching his innocent expression. He held his hand there for a moment before putting it down, conflicted. He didn't want to say any more. Since he didn't know those nightmarish experiences, it was useless to say anything more. Being able to preserve this kind of innocence, it was one more moment of happiness for him. Finally, he sighed, "You look good, but unfortunately the more your looks improve as you grow, the longer it will be until you're freed. . ."

Song Qingshi was puzzled: "What do you mean by 'freed'?"

"You'll know soon." The beauty in red's expression suddenly relaxed. He glanced around carefully, then stretched out his index finger and tapped his lips lightly. With a voice so light that he could barely hear it, he said ambiguously, "Tonight I will be freed. . ."

The beauty in red turned around with a smile and, with a crisp ring of the bells, turned to leave. His steps were a bit unstable, and each step was strenuous, like a mermaid walking on the tip of a knife in pain.

A pair of exquisite gold shackles were exposed on the beauty's ankles under the red clothes. Each of the shackles was decorated with an exquisite bell. The middle was connected by a slender golden chain. When walking, the bell shook slightly and made a clear and sweet sound, just like a tethered bird.

The golden chain dragged across the grass, and a few drops of blood dropped onto the green leaves.

Song Qingshi mustered up the courage to overcome his social anxiety, and shouted to the beauty who was about to leave: "Are you. . .injured? I, I know medical skills. . . Do you need me to treat you?"

The beauty in red turned back, looked at him for a few seconds, and he couldn't help but smile. This time the smile finally reached his eyes, like a ray of golden sunlight breaking through the clouds, dazzlingly beautiful. He shook his head towards Song Qingshi, and gave himself a sincere blessing: "I hope you have better luck tonight."

He turned his head, and the sunlight in his eyes disappeared in a flash, as if it had never existed, only the dark clouds that would not retreat.

Having endured these nightmares for years, he has long learned not to remember the kindness of others, and not to care about being offered charity from others.

He walked alone in this prison without stopping, step after step, wearing those painful shackles.

#mistakenly saving the villain #chinese bl #english translation #论救错反派的下场 #song qingshi #chinese novel #mistakenly saving the villain translation

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thespianbooks · 3 years

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A Court of Nightmares and Starlight //Chapter 26//

Masterlist

(tags: @thron3ofbooks, @df3ndyr, @courtofjurdan, @art-e-mis, @herondamnn, @the-third-me, @im-still-trying-here, @emikadreams, @paytin77, @mis-lil-red, @sleeping-and-books, @lucieisabooknerd, @amandaraey-sunshine, @easy-p-lemon, @azymondias05, @dagypsygirl, @makeshift-utopia, @fantasyshadowhunters) *bold tags don’t work ;-;

I hope this chapter finds you all well, please enjoy some fluffy Feysand and baby vibes! ❤️

"He's breathtaking," Rhys said quietly from his place beside me.

After the maelstrom of labor had passed, Sebastian entered the world with a resounding wail—the most heartwarming sound I had ever heard in my life. The minutes after passed in a blur; the midwife placing him on my chest as she and Madja worked on cleaning him off with damp washcloths while Rhys and I stared at our newborn babe. We were both too completely and utterly stunned to speak in those first few minutes but sobbed the second he opened his eyes and were met with remarkable violet-blue.

Every part of him was truly incredible; resembling his father in nearly every feature except for the blue in his eyes and the tiny, perfect, shape of his mouth—even better than my own. I touched the soft, dark tendrils of his black hair as I nodded in agreement with Rhys's sentiment.

"He's amazing," I said, my voice still hoarse from my cries of agony.

But, as our gazes lingered on our son, the overwhelming relief I felt outshined my earlier anguish—any I felt before this moment. All the worry that had grown over the last several months, all the pain I had just endured, now vanished the longer I held my son. As I touched his cheek with a tentative finger, my tattoos a stark contrast against his perfectly unblemished skin, I felt a new bond snap into place.

Rhys must've felt it too, because the kiss he pressed to my temple was tender before he whispered to Sebastian, "Cauldron save you, Mother hold you. I, High Lord of the Night Court, vow to shield you with my body, protect you with my sword," I saw his throat bob as he swallowed before carrying on. "And keep you in my heart. My son."

The tears I had been battling to hold back finally fell as he finished those sacred vows, identical to the words we exchanged when he swore me in as his High Lady. My mate pressed another kiss to my brow but didn't pull back as I met his silver-lined eyes.

"Thank you, Feyre darling," he murmured softly, brushing away my tears with his thumb.

I beamed in return, my throat still thick as I touched his face with my free hand and swept away his own tears. "I couldn't have done it without you, Rhysand," I whispered.

Sebastian mewled quietly from his place on my chest, his wailing having ceased shortly after being placed on my skin, my mate and I returned our attention to him; that all-too familiar gentle and soft glimmer pulsing through the bond that now connected the three of us in the flesh.

XXX

"We call it the Dawn of the North." Rhys began, both of us settled in bed, Sebastian covered in a light blanket and still curled up on my chest for the precious skin-to-skin contact the midwife deemed crucial for the first hour of his life.

In this first hour following the birth, my scent and touch was pivotal in aiding Sebastian's development and especially in triggering his first few instincts—nursing being the most important. It was also a vital part of the new and delicate mother-baby bond between us. So, after the midwife and Madja had cleared away the mess from the delivery and provided me with my own postpartum care; instructing me to rest and recuperate after the undertaking my body had just been through, Rhys joined my side in bed; making sure the warm blankets I had been draped and covered with remained intact. With an arm wrapped securely around my shoulders, he waved a hand, his magic turning the bed in the direction of the window opposite of us. When I met him with a questioning stare, he simply smiled and motioned to the window again; urging me to look for myself.

The sky was painted in delicate, rippling curtains of green and blue light. The stars shimmering as the veils of light transitioned from one color to the next; multiple hues ranging from pale green, to red, to pink, and varying shades of blue shining through as they moved in soft waves across the sky. Set against the mountain, Ramiel, those three stars that only appeared on rare occasions in our court now shone bright while the rest continued glimmering in the patterned light. The look of astonishment on my face caused Rhys to grin as he went on to explain its origin.

"In the ancient texts, it's said that one of the first elements that came into being was night. Nyx, the primordial, and often forgotten, goddess of night was the prelude to the creation of our world-to Prythian itself," Rhys continued, his fingers brushing along my shoulder gently as we stared out at the sky.

"She was rumored to have wings and was powerful enough to be both feared and idolized by the ancient beings of Prythian and the continent. One of the many stories I heard growing up was her love of flying. My mother used to tell me that whenever Nyx would take to the skies, she would rattle the stars just from the mighty flap of her wings as she soared through them. In the early hours of dawn that would follow, the sky would look like this," he went on, his hold around me tightening slightly.

"It could only be seen in the Northern territory of Prythian. When the lords and the courts came to be, the sky would shimmer like this almost every night, but like Starfall, it soon faded over time and became a rare occasion—only appearing the night a new heir to the Night Court was born...as a sign of Nyx's blessing and approval." Rhys finished with a smile, bringing a hand up to wipe at a tear I hadn't realized I shed.

"It's beautiful," I breathed as I turned my head to look at him. "So, it can't be seen in the other courts?" I asked, thinking of the snowfall that had appeared in all of the territories following Eira's birth and how it must have compared to the storm that ravaged the Winter court instead.

Rhys's grin was crooked as he shook his head. "It's exclusive to our court alone, but our allies are being treated to a shower of stars similar to Starfall, minus the spirits" he explained, his eyes returning to Sebastian as the newborn let out a small sigh.

I brushed my fingers along Sebastian's back lightly, afraid that anything more might cause him to disappear, or worse. Through the bond, I could feel Rhys's equal level of apprehensiveness.

"He almost doesn't seem real, does he?" I asked as I continued my feather-light touch along my son's spine.

Rhys shook his head. "I have to keep reminding myself that I'm not dreaming," he said. "That I have a son, here in the flesh, and it's not some cruel trick of illusion crafted by the Cauldron as punishment for my sins…"

My fingers halted before reaching over to grasp my mate's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "He's real, Rhysand," I said softly. "Do you remember what I told you all those months ago? How our son, our little Bash, is the culmination of all the best parts of you; of all the good you've done and are?"

The silver lining his eyes returned as he brought his lips down to meet mine with gentle ease in a chaste kiss. "All because of you, Feyre darling," he responded, his voice barely above a whisper before he kissed me again.

I smiled as we pulled apart and turned startled eyes to our son as he let out a tiny grunt. "Do you disapprove of my affection towards your mother, Bash?" Rhys asked softly.

I saw his hand twitch as if he might reach out and touch him, but changed his mind at the last second. You can touch your son, Rhysand, I promise I won't bite.

My mate's chuckle was quiet, but I felt his lingering trepidation. "It's okay," I encouraged.

His throat bobbed as he reached a shaky hand out and placed it gently on the back of Sebastian's head—so tiny and frail in my mate's large hand. Sebastian remained unfazed, eyes still closed and breathing even, as Rhys brushed a thumb along the light wisps of his blue-black hair.

"He is so small," Rhys murmured, voice still thick with unshed tears as he admired our son up close. "His nose, his lips, his eyes...they are the tiniest I have ever seen in my entire existence."

"He's perfect," I echoed before leaning in to press a breath of a kiss to my son's brow.

Sebastian let out another soft sigh at the contact and twisted his head back slightly, prying his eyes open to meet mine and my heart nearly stopped as I stared back at him. Tears immediately sprang back into my eyes as I smiled.

"Hello Sebastian. It's me...it's mommy," I said, near sobbing. "I love you so much…"

Sebastian's eyes slipped back closed, head cradled in Rhys's hand, already spent from our short interaction. Rhys let out a shuddering breath as I turned to look at him, tears of joy still falling.

"I don't know how I'll ever thank you for this, Feyre," he said, shedding a few tears of his own. "For this gift, this life."

You don't ever have to, Rhysand. He is our son, our gift. I said through the bond.

He pulled me closer as he kissed me again, his brow lingering against mine as we relished in this new familial tie between us.

XXX

Once our uninterrupted hour had passed, Madja and the midwife knocked on the bedroom door, causing both of us to tense as I held onto Sebastian more securely and as Rhys sat up in the bed; wings appearing a second later and curling protectively around Sebastian and me. I laughed when I realized just how soon those feral instincts had kicked in for us and touched Rhys's arm gently.

"They aren't a threat, they're just our caregivers," I reminded him.

He nodded, tucking his wings back in as he called the healer and midwife in, but kept a hand on my back as they entered. The two females came to my side, Madja pulling back the blankets I had been covered with in order to survey my recovery—mostly making sure no post-delivery complications were arising as the midwife began instructing me on how to nurse Sebastian. Both Rhysand and I paid close attention to the midwife's direction, taking extra care to the details on how I should position him on my breast and where Rhys could help should the need arise.

It took a bit of maneuvering, including Sebastian's adorably furrowed brow that resembled my mate's own look of frustration and confusion, but he latched on and was suckling in a matter of minutes. The sensation was strange and foreign, but something deep inside of me warmed as I cradled him to my breast, running a finger along his cheek lightly as he nursed. That warmth turned to a deeper understanding of the love I had for my son, and pride in the fact that I was able to nourish him. I was enough—had been enough in order to grow him safely inside of me, and now had the ability to provide him the sustenance he needed to survive outside of my womb.

I was enough.

You have always been more than enough, Feyre darling

I gave my mate an amorous smile, realizing he had been watching me with a level of devotion I hadn't seen before sparkling in his violet eyes. His hand rubbed loving circles into my back as we turned our concentration back to the midwife, who gave us further instruction on the nursing protocol. I briefly recalled seeing Viviane nurse and thought of how easy she made the process look, but as the midwife explained that I needed to switch Sebastian between breasts every so often and make sure he burped in between the feedings that would take place every few hours; all the while taking care of myself during my own convalescence, I couldn't help but feel a bit overwhelmed.

As if she could read my thoughts, Madja placed a comforting hand over mine. "It may seem like an impossible task now, my lady, but we will help you get accustomed and make sure all of your health needs are met," she said.

The midwife nodded in agreement, and so did Rhysand as he stroked the length of my shoulder. "You know you have plenty of support, my love," he said, and I knew he didn't just mean himself or the midwives.

We had our friends, a whole family, waiting for us back in Velaris once Sebastian and I were strong enough to go back. I stared at my newborn babe, wondering how they might react when they first laid eyes on him—only to be surprised when just the thought alone made me recoil, a sense of panic rising in me. Rhys chuckled at my plight, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"Welcome to my world, Feyre darling," he teased. "Having that irrational, primal urge to keep him away, protected from everyone else, is akin to what I felt when our bond snapped into place."

I blinked; my instincts much further along than I earlier realized. "It's so odd," I mused. "I couldn't wait to introduce him to our family before, but now?"

I looked at Sebastian again as he suckled sleepily and rubbed his cheek gently in order to coax him awake. "I don't think I can let them anywhere near him yet," I admitted.

The midwife offered an empathetic smile while Madja laughed. "That is normal, my Lady, and will go away, to a degree, with time," she reassured.

"We should tell them though," I said to Rhys. "Let them know that he's here, and that we're both safe and healthy."

Rhys gestured to the window, the sky still painted with sparkling veils of pale blues and greens. "They know," he said. "I sent them a message via Az shortly after this appeared in the sky."

I sighed contentedly as I stared at the beauty of it, imagining what color paints I would need to mix in order to achieve those specific hues and what size canvas I would need. Nyx's flight I would call it, in honor of the ancient night goddess and my son's birth.

The midwife and Madja left after Sebastian completed his first successful session of nursing, wherein I reluctantly handed him over to their care for his first wellness examination. The midwife weighed and measured him, tested his reflexes and checked his overall wellbeing, all without much complaint from him as Rhys remained close to his side and talked him through the duration of the exam in soft murmurs. I watched from my place on the bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows after Madja performed her own examination of me and wiped my sweaty body clean with a warm damp towel. The magic of the Cabin presented a new shift at the foot of the bed, and the healer helped me change into that as well before helping me settle back into my semi-sitting position.

My eyes stung as I watched the midwife instruct Rhysand on how to properly place and secure a nappy on our son, before offering to show him how to properly swaddle a newborn babe. I saw my mate's enthusiastic nod, realizing he'd get to hold our son for the first time during the demonstration, and glanced in my direction for approval.

I can't do all the work, now can I? I teased through the bond.

His answering smile was just as warm as mine before he set about his task, the midwife only correcting his technique once before Rhys lifted and cradled the babe in his arms. The bundle that was now Sebastian looked impossibly tiny in my mates muscled arms; the Illyrian warrior, the High Lord of the Night Court, now enveloping his newborn son—the son he never thought he'd have, or deserved. I wiped the tears that spilled over as the older females dismissed themselves, and Rhys crossed back over to my bedside, eyes never leaving Sebastian's face as he stood. My heart squeezed as Rhys brought a hand to touch Sebastian's cheek hesitantly, his eyes growing silver lined as he marveled at our son.

"I don't think I'll ever grow tired of this feeling," Rhys murmured, gaze returning to mine.

"No, I don't think we will," I agreed, resting my head back against a pillow as I watched him.

Rhys paused, realizing. "Do you want him back?" he asked, knowing full-well that my maternal instincts were in full effect.

I shook my head. "I love seeing him in your arms Rhysand," I said. "I don't want you to leave my sight while you have him, but after months of imagining what it might look like to see you hold him...I can't picture anything better."

My mate softened at the sentiment before returning his gaze to Sebastian. "We better enjoy this time together while we still have it Bash, before your mother keeps you all to herself," he joked with a wink at me.

"I hope you warned the others," I quipped, a sleepy smile on my face as I watched Rhys make a small lap around the room, staying in close proximity to the bed.

"Mor and Cassian are already begging to come up here first thing in the morning, but Azriel, Amren and Nesta are keeping them leashed."

My laugh was quiet as I thought of their eagerness, but in reality, they all knew that it would be a while before they could be properly introduced to the newest addition of the inner circle. The midwife explained that the newborn bond was the most intense during the first week, and though I wouldn't be completely healed for another five following, we would at least be able to invite our family to meet Sebastian without the overwhelming need to safeguard him threatening to consume us and bare our teeth at our loved ones.

"They are going to love him," I said as I continued watching him move around the room, eyes growing heavier and heavier with the need to sleep.

Rhys heard the exhaustion in my voice and offered a sympathetic smirk as those adoring violet eyes turned to me. "You should sleep, my love, you've more than earned it after your efforts," he said.

I turned weary eyes to the bundle in his arms and he chuckled. "You can trust I won't leave your side, or even this room."

"I know," I said with a long yawn as he crossed back over to my side, taking a seat on the small space provided on the edge of the bed.

"I'll stay right here while you sleep," Rhys promised. "I think I can placate him until his next feeding."

I grinned languidly. "It can't be too hard if he continues to sleep like this," I said, glancing at Sebastian, who had fallen asleep almost immediately after being secured in his swaddle.

"My thoughts exactly, Feyre darling," he purred.

I was too exhausted to laugh, and instead brushed my fingers along Sebastian's cheek as he remained at peace in his father's arms. My heart squeezing as the full weight of realization hit, that our son was being held by Rhysand—his father.

To the stars who listen,

I brought my hand to his and squeezed it as his words echoed through our bond, both of us sharing a tender smile before admiring the sleeping bundle in his arms once again.

And the dreams that are answered.

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hauntedziosportrait · 3 years

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The Relativity and Connections between Jamaasian Lore and Mirabai

WARNING! ⚠️ Very religious themes. I apologise if I have any incorrect or outdated information, it's very risky writing about something surrounding a certain religion when in fact.. I'm an atheist.

The lore of Jamaa has always been a really tricky and fairly eerie topic to cover. It has themes from all sorts of different cultures and despite the main tale being retold, changed and edited one thousand times, the information we receive is clear about who the certain deities and characters are and what their roles to play give.

Today, we're looking more on the more eerie side of Animal Jam- The relationship between Mira and Zios. Surprisingly, we know more about our enemies the phantoms than we do the entities we're serving. Alot has been told about Mira, but on the other hand, not much information has been provided about Zios and his identity making him more or less a very suspicious character to take heed of. That's why there are so many theories regarding him specifically; the most we know is that...

●He is the spiritual highest point of the Jamaa heiarchy, having created Mira and setting the stars and planets in motion

●He is often depicted as a bodyless golden mask surrounded by intricate patterns and grooves

●He was the lover of Mira

●He dissappeared at some point in time and never came back.

To jog your memory, I'm going to be basing this theory more on the Old Jamaasian Lore. Interestingly, the lore was changed to make it appealing to a younger audience, but in the old lore we get a stronger sense of emotion and alot more information about the guardian spirits of Jamaa.

Zios is practically a God. He sets several plants, stars and seas in motion. Eventually he gets lonely and gives life to a deity said to be the perfect incarnation of humble beauty; a graceful grey heron named Mira. Mira and Zios get on well together and she often tells him how talented and artistic he is.

Eventually, Zios falls for her, and creates a beautiful land for he and Mira to share; Jamaa- as a sign of his love.

Mira is ecstatic and suggests and creates the idea of giving live to mortal inhabitants to the land- us, the animals. However, Zios gets a little snappy at Mira for that. He meant for this place to share just between the two and for nobody else to interfere.

He then snaps at Mira for creating the Animals and the two fall into a fearsome and emotional argument. Mira's tears then, without her knowing, come into accidental contact with the mortal world. Since she is an omniscient deity, mixing such power with normal life would end in ruin- Thus creating the phantoms.

Here's the catch. Mira and Zios are too wrapped up in their argument to notice the phantoms attacking Jamaa. Since the phantoms were created by Mira, they would only obey her. That is why they are after Zios, to avenge Mira. Also a case why we never see the phantoms target Mira specifically.

Then, they notice the peril Jamaa is in and, still angry at eachother, select the powerful and strong remaining animals in their selective tribes as Alphas to defend.

Shortly after, Zios goes missing. We're told the phantoms took him through the phantom portal never to be seen again. However, there is alot of evidence to suggest he fell victim to the phantoms and gave in to their side, furthermore taking control of the Phantom Empire. That may be why, despite their goal being reached, they continue to harass and attack the alphas, Jamaa, and by extent, Mira.

From then, the Alphas succeed, and all is well. Zios, however, is never heard of again.

Despite their argument, Mira is eternally upset. That is why phantoms keep producing, due to her tears. Since Zios left angry at Mira, it may be an extra that she thinks Zios left hating her.

And... That is what is inferred from the old lore. The new lore consists of less knowledge about Mira and Zios, but more information about the Alphas and of course the animal heartstones.

Now, here is the thing. The tale of Jamaa is very familiar sounding to some people. Zios is often seen as omnipotent and very powerful. He's often seen as similar to several different gods in mythology..

●Zeus, the Greek god of sky and thunder (This one is self explanatory, even their names are similar: however I've seen this one cause a bit of controversy as this is comparing Zios to a technically VERY problematic god.. Also, Mira sounds alot like Hera!)

●Viracocha, the great creator deity in the pre-Inca and Inca mythology in the Andes region of South America. He's mainly mentioned in incan and mesopotamian mythology as the high creator god (and this one shares more similarities than you may think!) They both had lovers, both dissappeared after creating the world, both had similar powers (examples of heliokenesis) and they actually look REALLY similar, most likely Zios' design being based off of Viracocha's golden armor. Viracocha pictured below!

●And the last one... Krishna. An important religious figure in Hinduism and the final reincarnation/eighth avatar of Vishnu.

And that last one is what I'm planning to talk about today!

The perhaps most important part of this theory is Mirabai. Mirabai, often called Meera or Mira, was a 16th-century Hindu mystic poet and devotee of Krishna. She was known for her elegant beauty and poetry, as well as her eternal devotation to Krishna.

Meera pictured below as well as a figure of Krishna in the distance.

Surprsingly, we have our own Mira too. And if we're comparing Zios to Krishna, this relationship makes alot of sense. Meera was in love with Krishna, and Mira was in love with Zios. "In her last years, Meera lived in Dwarka or Vrindavan, where legends state she miraculously disappeared by merging into an idol of Krishna in 1547. While miracles are contested by scholars for the lack of historical evidence, it is widely acknowledged that Meera dedicated her life to Lord Krishna, composing songs of devotion and was one of the most important poet-saint of the Bhakti movement period." That paragraph was taken from Meera's Wikipedia entry, and relates alot to the story of Mira and Zios. Its said that Meera one day miraculously dissappeared just like Zios did and they only things she left behind were her poems, music, and of course, her devotion and husband-like considered relationship between her and Krishna.

Krishna pictured below.

Most of Meera's poems are dedicated to God in the form of Krishna, calling him the Dark One or the Mountain Lifter. "Some Meera songs include Radha, the lover of Krishna, and her jealousy and hatred for them. All her poems have philosophical connotations, mainly centered around Krishna."

The "Dark One" and "Mountain Lifter" terms are certaintly strange. Why would somebody refer to a "Dark One" in such a loving term?

Lets not forget the example of Zios not only representing the light in most cases, but spiritually, representing the dark. There's alot of evidence to actually suggest instead of the common thought that Zios represents the Sun and Mira the Moon, it may actually be the vice versa in a yin yang sort of way. Light and Dark cannot coexist without eachother and Zios and Mira are a great example of that.

I may explain the Zios is the moon thing a different time but you're going to have to roll with me here on this one... Zios is a perfect representation of the dark. Dark gives space and life to the light, but of course light always gives life to the dark.

Also, "Mountain-Bearer"... Not much to say here. Quite literally what Zios did to create Jamaa. "In her poems, Krishna is a yogi and lover, and she herself is a yogini ready to take her place by his side into a spiritual marital bliss. Meera's style combines impassioned mood, defiance, longing, anticipation, joy and ecstasy of union, always centred on Krishna."

Let's take a look at perhaps the most well known poem by Meera... And perhaps the one that relates the most to Jamaasian Lore. I am aware Julian2 has covered this in a video before, but here im going to take a proper analysis.

My Dark One has gone to an alien land. He has left me behind, he's never returned, he's never sent me a single word. So I've stripped off my ornaments, jewels and adornments, cut my hair from my head. And put on holy garments, all on his account, seeking him in all four directions. Mira: unless she meets the Dark One, her Lord, she doesn't even want to live.

— Mira Bai, Translated by John Stratton Hawley

Alot to process here. Let's see what we can compare.

●"My Dark One has gone to an Alien Land"- Zios= Krishna: has gone to the realm of the phantoms/alien land

●"He's left me behind, he's never returned, he's never sent me a single word"- Exactly what Zios did. Never responded to Mira and didn't speak to her again after his dissappearance.

●"So I've stripped off my ornaments, jewels and adornments, cut my hair from my head"- Julian2 suggested this may be about Peck running away but this has been outdated. This could possibly refer to the "jewels and adornments" being the Alpha stones as Mira gives them away.

●"And put on holy garments, all on his account, seeking him in all four directions."- This refers to Mira yet again giving the alphas their Alpha Stones and after that she prepares to go out and find Zios.

●"Meera: unless she meets the Dark One, her Lord, she doesn't even want to live."- Unless Mira doesn't meet her Dark One- in this case, Zios-she doesn't feel the will to live, referencing her sorrow and despair without him.

I'm not sure about you, but I'm very convinced AJHQ may have based their lore on this poem specifically.

There is another poem that can relate to the legend of Jamaa, but there's not much to infer. I'm not going to do a thorough line by line analysis, but hopefully looking back on the analysis I just did you can atleast gather some stuff.

After making me fall for you so hard, where are you going? Until the day I see you, no repose: my life, like a fish washed on shore, flails in agony. For your sake I'll make myself a yogini, I'll hurl myself to death on the saw of Kashi. Mira's Lord is the clever Mountain Lifter, and I am his, a slave to his lotus feet.

"Meera speaks of a personal relationship with Krishna as her lover, lord and mountain lifter. (Sanson Ki Mala Pe Simru Main Pi Ka Naam) is written by Meera Bai Shows her dedication towards Lord Krishna. The characteristic of her poetry is complete surrender." -Quote from Wikipedia

The song of Sanson Ki Mala Pe Simru Main Pi Ka Naam is an interesting one-referring to her "beading the name of her beloved on the garland of my breaths". Interestingly, this song refers to Krishna as a Cuckoo Bird- A little bit of a crack theory, but this may suggest Zios could actually be the same behind that mask of his?

Examples of this bird-referring lyric are this quote from that same song:

"He is a melodious bird

He is a magnificent man

This foolish girl has taken

The beloved’s heart as the Lord"

I will link the full song plus English translation below!

https://www.google.com/amp/s/ekta25.wordpress.com/2011/06/23/sanson-ki-mala-pe-simroon-main-pi-ka-naam-on-the-garland-of-my-breaths-i-have-bejewelled-my-beloveds-name/amp/

Intresting... Perhaps Zios IS some sort of bird!

In conclusion, Mirabai's poetry, devotion and songs have alot of connections to Jamaasian Lore! I find this interesting, but this did help us gather quite a bit of information!

#animal jam tumblr #Animal jam #jamblr #lore #ajpc #ajpw #lore analysis

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jengajives · 4 years

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So I know canonically Barahir and Finrod probably never met again after the Bragollach but I just WANT THEM TO

(My personal hc for Barahir and Emeldir is that they’re Gay Besties and her sweetheart died years ago and he never found the man for him but they both really wanted a child so they had Beren and raised him together as friends, and all the people of Dorthonion totally knew what was up but played along anyway.)

Also excuse my Sindarin, i am awful at languages

“My lord.”

The voice seemed deafening in the chamber of Finrod- the quiet space he sulked in when all of Nargothrond’s riches seemed empty and lifeless to him. When the company of his brother, his niece, and all his people just wasn’t enough.

He turned from his tapestry slowly, almost unwilling. If Celegorm and Curufin wanted another counsel, he had run out of excuses to deny them. All he wanted to do was stand around looking at the tapestry of Tirion he kept on the wall to substitute for a proper window.

“What is it?” he asked tiredly, unable even to muster the energy for a proper hello. The attendant bowed anyway.

“It’s the border wardens, your Highness. They’ve apprehended a trespasser on the eastern marches- a Man. He carries your ring, sir. He’s requested an audience.”

It seemed as if everything went utterly still and for several long moments Finrod could not speak.

He had to rub his eyes to ensure he was awake and hearing correctly. This wasn’t just the dream that had haunted him more years now than he could count.

“By all means,” Finrod said in a strangled voice, “bring him before me.”

It isn’t. It can’t be. He’s dead.

The attendant bowed again, all low and respectful. “I’ll let you know as soon as they reach the city, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Finrod wasn’t paying attention properly anymore; he was suddenly very worried about what he was wearing, how he looked. The way he dressed around Nargothrond was very different than his war attire, and it was very concerning when he worried whether Barahir would even be able to recognize him.

No, no. Barahir was dead five winters now. It didn’t matter whether he looked familiar or not, he was dead.

Still, though. There was a chance.

Finrod threw open his wardrobe with something akin to panic.

The woods of Dorthonion were dense and dark, with occasional beams of golden sunlight filtering through the high pine trees and turning the bed of needles to luminous white. There wasn’t too much undergrowth, which made it easy to ride through, and Finrod did so with as much speed as his mare could manage, flying over falling trees and secret glens that few among the Elves had ever looked on, thundering across rushing mountain creeks with all the speed of the Valar. He held his arms out to the wind and let his golden braids flow loose behind him.

When he at last came to the little green valley he’d been directed to, he slowed his mare to a stop and stood there a moment on the ridge. The people of Bëor lived in small homesteads spotted over the highlands, and here a number of them gathered together alongside a cool, fresh creek to graze their animals on its fair grasses. The largest of the wooden homes was nestled just beneath the rolling, forested hills, sheltered by the river’s curve and somewhat apart from the others. It was here Finrod rode, galloping eagerly across the meadows of the basin.

A handful of sturdy horses grazed on the green pasture in front of the house, along with a pair of cows and one freshly-sheared sheep. Finrod rode along the tree-lined lane until he came to the house itself.

It was single-storied, made of finely hewn logs painted with red and gold, and a thatched ceiling that looked freshly lain. On one side stood a small barn for the animals, and on the other a woodshed that had seen better days. Finrod dismounted took a moment to take it all in. A warm smile crossed his face.

At once, the worn blue door opened, and a Man came hurrying out. He was dressed in simple work trousers and a maroon shirt that wasn’t tied all the way and showed off the warm brown hair of his chest, but he was hastily throwing a fur coat over the top of it all as he stumbled down his stairs.

“King Felagund!” he choked, obviously out of breath. Finrod noticed a gleam of gold on his middle finger. “We- I- This is most unexpected!”

“I must apologize for the intrusion, Barahir,” he said with pity. “I was riding back from Hithlum and I became… sidetracked.” Then he smiled again. “I hope it’s not too much trouble?”

“Trouble!” Barahir shook his head a little too energetically. “No trouble at all! It’s just… “ He motioned helplessly to the house behind him. “t’s not much. Certainly nothing like a prince like yourself would-“

“Barahir,” Finrod said, bold enough now to take the Man’s hand in his own. “Your home is beautiful.”

Barahir visibly relaxed. His face went soft.

“It is… very good to see you again, Your Majesty.”

“To you, it’s Finrod.” He gave the hand a squeeze. “You have more than earned that right.”

Barahir’s tawny cheeks went red.

Finrod thought he would have kissed him then, if it had been for the little voice that interrupted them.

“Papa!”

Immediately Finrod straightened up and looked over Barahir’s shoulder to the doorway.

A small, brown face peeked out from inside. Just a beam of light caught on dark curls and turned them shining auburn.

Finrod’s expression went slack for only a moment before the corners of his mouth began to peak upward.

“Who’s this?” he asked eagerly. The child stuck his head out further to show two gleaming dark eyes.

“Are you one of the Valar?” he called, somewhat shyly.

Finrod smiled.

“No, child. Why do you think so?”

The little one gave a sheepish shrug. “You’re glowing.”

“Am I?” Finrod looked down. His tunic was indeed embroidered with gold and there were jewels in his hair. The thought of this innocent child mistaking him for a Vala was a very fond one, though.

“Beren,” Barahir called. “This is King Felagund. He’s a very powerful and noble Elf. Come over here and give a him a nice bow.”

Beren slowly moved onto the steps and made his way over, still cautious. He was wearing a green shirt that was too big for him and clutched a stuffed hound in one hand. Immediately Finrod saw the likeness with Barahir; other than the boy’s darker shade of hair, the two were nearly identical.

Finrod glanced at Barahir as the child approached.

“Yours?”

“Yes, he is.”

When Beren reached his father’s side, he shut his eyes tight and performed a bow so deep he nearly toppled. “At your service, King Felagund, sir!”

Finrod laughed and dropped to one knee so he could look the boy in the eyes. “An honor, Beren, prince of Dorthonion. I could not ask for more steadfast a Man!”

Beren cracked one eye, then the other. He gave a cursory glance to his father, then pointed at the great palomino mare waiting patiently on the lane.

“What’s your horse’s name?”

Barahir clicked his tongue. “Beren, be polite.” Finrod chose to ignore him.

“She is Glânhen, Brighteyes,” he said to Beren, as if he were sharing a secret. “She very much likes to eat. I think she might let you ride her if you find space for her in your pasture.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I can do that, sir!” He squinted up at the horse. “Where’s her bridle?”

“She’ll follow you,” Finrod said. He told the horse something in Quenya and she nickered, and then he straightened to let the bouncing little boy hurry past, motioning to the mare eagerly.

“Follow me, Glânhen! I’ll find you the best grass we’ve got!”

The pair of them trotted off together- the massive steed of Valinor, and the little woodsman’s boy leading her like an obedient pup. Finrod got distracted a moment just smiling at the sight, until Barahir chuckled behind him.

“Well, I… I didn’t know you were fond of children.” He paused, obviously bashful, before he slipped out the name like he thought it might bite him. “Finrod.”

“Very fond. He’s a wonderful boy, Barahir. How old?”

“Five this spring.”

“My.” A wistful smile crossed Finrod’s face. “You must be very proud.”

“I am.” A silence passed, but it was broken when Barahir reached out and took his hand. “Will you come in?”

Finrod turned and the joy he felt looking at that gentle face was unlike anything he’d felt for countless years.

“I would love to.”

Felagund paced his throne room, back and forth, an anxious rhythm like the thudding of his own heartbeat. The tapestries and jewels felt suddenly profane. Would Barahir know him here? Surrounded by wealth and finery and all the glory of the princes of the Noldor?

Of course he would. Barahir would know him anywhere.

But it wasn’t going to be Barahir who walked through his doors. Dead five years at least, cut down in the highlands of Dorthonion all alone and friendless.

Finrod’s fault. He had tried to send help, tried to send forces through to reinforce the outlaws or bring them back, but no one had been able to brave the Haunted Wood. No one could get through. And Barahir had died alone in the mud, because Finrod’s strength had failed.

No. It could be him. He could have escaped. None of the Eldar were there to see him fall. It could be a mistake.

The golden doors swung open.

Finrod turned, suddenly frozen, as a company of his march wardens stepped inside with a Man held between them like some lesser prisoner. He was so thoroughly surrounded that Finrod couldn’t get a good look at him.

“Leave him,” he called, irritation wearing his voice thin. “He is no trespasser here if what I am told is true.”

The wardens bowed, and moved aside, and there in the center of the room stood Barahir son of Bregor with the cares of many lifetimes etched across his face.

The air left Felagund’s lungs.

He looked just as he had the very last time they had seen each other.

Tears blurred his vision, and when he wiped them away, he saw through new eyes, and the Man he saw was not the one he had dreamed of.

The curls were too dark. The build too tall. The face alike in almost every way, but there was something there now that made it painfully obvious Felagund had been mistaken. He deflated at once and collapsed back into his throne, face in his hands, floundering just a moment in defeat.

“King Felagund, sir,” called the Man. “I thank you for your hospitality. I wouldn’t have come if there was any other way, but I need-“ Abruptly, the trembling voice broke on a sob and trailed into tearfulness. “I- I need your help. Please.”

Finrod looked up again and his eyes softened, recognizing the sensitivity behind those eyes. He rose and stepped slowly down until he stood before the Man with pity in his heart and tears running down his face.

He put a hand on the rough-clothed shoulder.

“Beren,” he said softly, as fervent as he could manage. “I will do anything within my power to help you, no matter the cost.”

When Beren at last looked up to meet his eye, it was the same face of the shy woodsman’s son he had met all those years ago, and Finrod decided then that he would go gladly to his death if it would bring Barahir’s son to the fulfillment of his errand.

#jenga makes junk #fanfic #fic #writers #silmarillion #finrod x barahir #finrod #finrod felagund #barahir #beren #emeldir #lay of leithian #the valar #nargothrond #dorthonion #I just want them to be happy is that too much to ask

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doyumacy · 4 years

Text

FALLOUT |LH| TWELVE (ALTERNATE FINALE)

*gif not mine

PAIRING: donghyuck x reader bodyguard!donghyuck

WARNINGS: none

WORD COUNT: 2,2K

@tyongf-sunflower99

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINETEN ELEVEN

After you arrived at the hangar destination, you got off of the car and grabbed your belongings. All of you went to the airstrip where the jet was already waiting for you. Everyone started to board the plane when Donghyuck let go off your hand. You looked at him. "I think I left my wallet in the car. I'll be right back."

"I'm gonna wait for you here," you say nicely.

He nodded and walked back in the hangar where the black suv was. He found his wallet underneath the pilot's seat and took it. He started walking towards the plane again and smiled when he saw you on the staircase. God, he was so in love with you.

Donghyuck hurried his step and as he went up the stairs he gave you a kiss. "All the time you look beautiful, but today you look... radiant."

If you only knew. You thought.

“I needed the mountain air I guess,” you shrug. “Come one, everyone is waiting for us.”

The flight was almost 2 hours, but Taeyong couldn't keep his head clear. He knew that he didn't want you to be with Donghyuck and had a solid plan, but now things had changed. You were pregnant and as much as he hated him, he wouldn't leave a child fatherless.

He’d take care of your father and make sure he would never hurt you or your baby. Taeyong promised that to himself.

When you two got home, you took a long bath stating you were tired from the flight and Donghyuck joined you. You got dressed in comfortable sweatpants and one of his hoodies.

"Nice hoodie," he leaned down and kissed your head. “I’m going to order some Thai. Want your usual?”

“Yeah, sure,” you responded flatly.

After you two ate, you went to your bedroom and Donghyuck was lying in bed on his stomach watching TV. ‘It’s now or never’, you said to yourself.

Climbing onto the bed, you startled Donghyuck's lower back. As you ran your hands up his back and over his shoulders, you commented, “I have some big news.”

“Oh yeah? That feels good by the way.” He answered.

“Feeling relaxed?” you continued massaging his back. His response was a nod. Swallowing the lump in your throat you continued, “Okay. So, God, uh, I’m…pregnant. About six weeks.” You felt Donghyuck tense immediately.

He flipped over making you slide off him. Donghyuck sat at the side of the bed, “Pregnant. As in we’re going to be parents? Okay... okay. Wow.”

Crawling over to him, you put your arms around his neck. He placed his hands over yours. “Are you mad?”, you asked sheepishly.

Donghyuck let out a held breath. “Mad? No. Surprised? 100%. I mean I know we really never use protection, so not shocked. Just…wow.”

You sat back on your heels staring at his back. He turned around, “So, a baby. Okay. I’m going to be a dad.” He smiled big. “I like the sound of that.” He wrapped you on his arms.

You smiled and snuggled into his neck. He stroked your hair gently as he kissed your temple.

“We’re going to be parents.” You sniffled. You took his hands and placed them on your stomach that would expand in a matter of weeks. “I’m scared though.” You confessed.

Donghyuck's eyes glint, his focus fixed on your stomach, not able to fathom that he was going to be a father. “Me too.” He placed one hand on your cheek, wiping the stray tears away. “But as long as I have you with me, I think I can manage.”

Smiling at his words, you leaned forward to press your lips against his. Sharing a sweet kiss from the person you loved and trusted the most. Soon enough, the fear was slowly being replaced by excitement. You couldn’t wait to meet your little bundle of joy.

"So... that explains your weird cravings," Donghyuck said after a while. "Who in hell even eats watermelon with salt?"

You laughed. "Apparently our baby."

(...)

“Hyuck, would you calm down a little? You’re gonna hit your head on the ceiling if you start bouncing any higher,” You giggled as you pulled your shirt up for the doctor.

“Couldn’t stop, even if I wanted too,” He said. “I'm gonna see my baby for the first time.”

You winced as the doctor applied the cold gel onto your belly and then smiled as you saw Donghyuck's eyes had lit up with pure joy upon seeing their baby on the monitor for the first time. And a moment later when he’d heard the heartbeat. You practically melted as he looked at you with watery eyes.

The doctor moved the wand over your stomach for a moment, staring hard at the monitor. A slight crease in her brow occurred as she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.

When she didn’t say anything, you fought back a sudden bolt of panic. “Is everything alright?”

Shaking herself out of thought, the doctor smiled and said, “Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry if I alarmed you there for a moment, but it just took me a second to make sure I was seeing this correctly.”

“Seeing what correctly?” Donghyuck frowned.

“You see this here?” the doctor pointed to a blob on the screen. “That’s your baby. And this over here,” she pointed to a smaller blob that was partially hidden by the first. “That’s your other baby. Both are looking perfectly normal at this stage. Congratulations, you’re having twins! It’s hard to definitively say whether they’re identical or fraternal at right now, but I’m leaning towards identical.”

“Twins! y/n, we’re having twins!” If Donghyuck had been excited before the ultrasound, now he was practically jumping for joy as he grinned from ear to ear.

Your response, however, was definitely... different.

“What?!” Your eyes went wide in horror as you stared at the doctor. “That has to be a mistake.”

The doctor shook her head. “It’s not. I can say with one hundred percent certainty that you’re having twins.”

“y/n—”

"Oh, my God."

Back in your house, you were still shocked you were having twins. TWINS.

“You wanna talk about this?” Donghyuck offered.

Nothing.

“y/n. Talk to me.”

Nothing.

“Oh really, the silent treatment? Real mature.”

Nothing.

“Fine,” he conceded. “If that’s how you wanna be. Two can play at that game.” He crossed his arms across his chest to emphasize his point.

He lasted all of one minute.

“Okay seriously, y/n, stop ignoring me. It’s not like this is my fault. It takes two to tango!”

That one earned him a glare so scorching, he could feel the heat radiating on his face. Okay, not ideal.

“You know, twins can be a lot of fun—”

“A lot of fun?! A lot of fun?!” You finally cracked. “Castle! That’s double the crying, double the feeding, double the pooping, double the mess! I’m gonna have to push not one, but two babies, who will have your enormous head, out of my vagina and it’s all your fault!”

“My fault?! How is it my fault?” Donghyuck sputtered.

"You’re the one that has twins running in his family!”

“Okay, hold up. I have like two distant relatives—whom I’ve never even met—on my mother’s side who are twins. That doesn’t mean it runs in my family.”

“I just can’t believe you gave me twins!”

Donghyuck ran his fingers through his hair. “For the last time, it’s not. Completely. My. Fault. And what gives, Kate? I know we weren’t expecting this, but are you really that mad about it that you won’t stop and realize that we just got to see our babies for the first time?”

You sighed.

“What’s wrong? Why are you so angry over this?”

“I just...I’m not gonna lie, it threw me off,” You said. “I went in there thinking we were gonna see one baby and instead we saw two. It never even crossed my mind that this would happen. And to be honest, it scared me.”

“Well I’m not gonna lie, it scared me a little too,” He admitted. “One’s hard enough to handle. But two? Yeah, that’s a lot.”

“I’m sorry about how I reacted. It wasn’t fair of me to blow up at you like that.”

“Already forgiven,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“It’s just a lot to process. Twins are a handful as is, but given your genes,” you said teasingly.

“Hey,” he warned playfully. “I wouldn’t mind a girl and a boy. It’d be nice."

You chuckled. “You better give me both of your hands when I’m giving birth to both of them.”

(...)

Your mouth felt dry and you swallowed thickly in an effort to regain some moisture. Blearily you opened your eyes to a room that was far too white, much too loud, and very much not your own.

“...Where?” You croaked softly, you could feel Donghyuck's presence as though it was a tangible thing, and you knew the fingers that brushed your hair away from your eyes were those of his. Your babies, his little boy and girl. You tried to sit up and you saw a figure cradling your crying children and walking away.

No.

No, your babies. You tried harder to sit up, your body trembling with the effort. Where was that woman going? Those were your children, crying for you.

“Ssshhh, y/n sshh,” Donghyuck coaxed, and placed his hand on your shoulder, gently pushing you back into the bed. Panic and frustration clawed at you. Your babies, your children, that woman was taking them and Donghyuck wasn’t doing anything. You felt hot tears welling up and you looked at him.

“Donghyuck,” you pleaded, struggling to sit up again, your eyes flicking between him and the woman holding your twins, she was dressed in scrubs and wearing a mask, and oh. Comprehension sank in and you fell back into the bed with a heavy thud and while feeling very much a fool. Then you remembered. You slipped and fell down the stairs, hitting your head.

Donghyuck kissed your forehead. The nurse made her way back to the bed and placed the twins -now bundled in blue and pink blankets- into your more than welcoming arms.

Oh, it was the most intensely wonderful feeling in the world and you couldn’t help but smile down at them. These tiny people that you had birthed, back in your arms where they belonged. You slowly rocked them and their soft crying stopped while yours continued.

“They’re beautiful, y/n,” Donghyuck assured him, leaning down and wiggling his finger in each of their faces. He kissed your forehead, and then one on each of the twins’ and then yours a second time.

“They look like you,” you murmured, voice thick. So small, so fragile with only wisps of hair on their heads, the most beautiful things you had ever seen.

“I love you,” He cooed, placing a kiss on top of your head. "The three of you."

“Do you have names?” the same nurse asked.

“Eunwoo and Eunbin.”

The house was clean and quiet, only the faint sound of running water from your bathroom was heard. When you heard the shower turn off, you went to make two cups of Donghyuck's favorite tea. As you waited for the kettle to bubble, you stared out the open window to their tiny backyard. You could smell the faint fragrance of the jasmine.

You were pouring hot water into your cups when your heard Donghyuck's slippered feet padding towards the kitchen.

“Tea?”

“Mm.” You smiled when you felt his warm palm between your shoulder blades. “It’s not so late yet. I thought we could sit and relax, talk about our day.”

“Just like the old times.”

“The old times. Like, seven months ago.”

“It’s weird,” Donghyuck sighed. “It feels like forever ago.”

“And yet…” You turned around and looped your arms around Donghyuck's waist, tilted your head up slightly so you could look at your husband. “It feels like time flies so quickly.”

Donghyuck and you had gotten married almost 2 months ago in a small ceremony with your closest friends.

“It does.” He landed a small kiss on the tip of your nose.

You smirked. "I'm so happy, you know? The three of you make me so happy."

Donghyuck pressed a fond, lingering kiss on your cheek. And then on your forehead. “You’re still my baby tho.” He whispered near your left ear.

You were glad that Donghyuck couldn’t see your face, because your cheeks felt on fire.

“Aish.” You mumbled. You could feel Donghyuck's smile against your hair.

"Hyuck?"

“Mmm?”

“I love you.” You murmured

Donghyuck smiled and cupped your face. He planted a soft kiss and then bite your lip, pulling it. "Should we give the twins a new sibling?"

You growl, pushing him away. "No. Maybe in 3 years."

Donghyuck laughed. "Imagine if this time we get triplets."

"You will never fuck me ever again," you warn.

#donghyuck imagine #donghyuck smut #donghyuck x reader #nct haechan #haechan imagine #haechan x reader #haechan smut

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thestrangestinthisstrangeland · 3 years

Text

I miss residing in this headspace…

Came for the Low

Wedding Chapter NSFW

The tiny bedroom above the restaurant was bathed in golden morning light that crept in through the window and lay in a warm haze over the two bodies moving slowly under the sheet.

Shutting his eyes, Zemo sighed deeply and slid his hand behind his head, cradling it with a smile. He was completely relaxed in spite of his racing heart.

With his free hand the Baron reached and smoothed his palm over the curve of his wife's head under the white linen and opened his mouth with a light gasp followed by a laugh. She was teasing him.

He'd been woken up by the feel of her warm tongue, soft and wet as she sucked him into her mouth and now she was moaning softly as he filled her, growing until he was fully erect and gently thrusting, sinking into the feel of her full lips stretched around the width of him.

Her small hand pressed against his thigh as she sucked, the other gripping the base, working in tandem with her mouth, increasing the rhythm the more tense he got.

It would not take him long, one look down and he caught a glimpse of her under the sheet, cheeks hollow as she bobbed her head, the soft brown skin of her hand in contrast to his own, her hair was all over the place and tickling his stomach. He wanted to grab her breast but didn't dare move, so instead he raised his chin, his head sinking into the pillow as he thought of the way they looked when she sat on him, bouncing in perfect unison, her dark nipples begging to be sucked and licked and...

Zemo's hand came down on her head, pushing until she gave a muffled yelp, but he held her firm. With a final sigh, the tension gave way and he went rigid holding his breath as the first warm rush shot down her throat—her moaning against his sensitive skin making the release into her mouth all the sweeter.

He could feel her swallowing each time he throbbed which only made him want to come all over again, but there was no hope in drawing it out. With a final powerful pulse, he finished and exhaled with a shaking smile.

Christine was wet and aching for attention as she drank him in. Zemo would of course return the favor with enthusiasm, but for now she'd enjoyed making him feel good.

Knowing how he responded to touch afterwards, she pulled away slowly, listening to the way he moaned again as her teeth and tongue very lightly graze the length of his still solid member until she let him fall free and sat up, running her fingers along the corners of her mouth and over her bottom lip.

She sat there looking quite pleased with herself, that smug little grin making him chuckle. The sheet lay over her hair like a veil reminding him of last night.

His bride...

Zemo reached and ran his hand down her arm, gently gathering her fingers into his own hand.

"Good morning husband" She said, her whisper soft voice tickling his ears.

He gazed at her with the sun shining around her head like a halo. "Good morning wife."

"Sleep well?" She asked rising up to sit on her heels.

Zemo gave a lazy laugh, exhausted from the orgasm and shook his head a little. "No, too much orujo"

"Oh you and Gael are wild!" She laughed too. "But so cute."

"Cute?"

"Yes. Like two puppies." She grinned.

He pretend to not like this but shrugged. "I am—cute—yes, I know." He winked.

Christine snickered shaking her head at him. "I thought I might loose you to him at one point. You two are quite a pair." She teased and he groaned, grabbing her arm to pull her down on top of him.

He took her face in hand, pulling her into a kiss. Her lips tasted like him. He moaned a little remembering the feel of that mouth on his cock which was threatening to rise again. She could work wonders on him without even trying...his bride, his wife. "How are you feeling?" He asked when she raised up. He tucked her hair behind her ear and pinched her chin between his thumb and index like he always did.

"Well enough to wake you." She said wiggling her brows at him. "No sickness yet today...oh! I hope I didn't just jinx it."

Zemo sighed and laid his arm over his eyes. "I should have followed your lead. No drinking." He said amused but angry with himself for overdoing it, but how could he not? The night had been completely perfect. Yes, he'd been married before but this was different. There had been an energy around them that filled the village with a sort of magic that does not happen everyday.

What they'd shared was special and no matter the outcome, he would carry the memory of marrying this woman with him, like a homing beacon, bringing him back to center when all else spun out of control...

~Wearing her flowing suit from the little shop in Malaga and a traditional Spanish veil gifted to her by Gael’s wife, Christine clutched the small bouquet of pink and burgundy flowers from the local florist as she walked down the steps, leaving the tiny apartment above to enter the restaurant’s courtyard, where Zemo stood waiting.

He watched as she came into view, white heels taking the steep incline slowly, her pants flowing light as air around her legs and a thin silk camisole under the draped jacket, both in that same bright ivory.

Christine was radiant, but the unexpected sight of her face framed in the scalloped lace stopped his heart. On flat ground, she looked up, her sparkling black eyes finding his and the man nearly forgot to breathe. Tears pooled, wavering in his eyes as she came to him—his second chance…

Gael and Luisa stood back, watching from the kitchen doorway with wide knowing smiles, and very quietly turned to go back inside leaving them to it.

“Hi.” Christine whispered sounding small and nervous as she waited to hear what he thought. She’d never really been the sort to imagine her wedding day, it had never occurred to her that she would have one, but now that it was here she hoped the Baron liked the way she looked as much as she truly did.

Zemo exhaled a shaking breath through his parted lips in disbelief that she was his.

“Hello,” He replied wanting to touch her but was too afraid that she would break she was such a delicate thing, but then he smiled remembering that this was the same woman capable of taking out assassins three times her size and his face relaxed as he pitied all the men on the receiving end of her wrath. “You’re beautiful.” He said simply, but she heard the many layers of love beneath the word and tucked her chin with a shy smile.

Zemo raised his elbow, offering her his arm which she took and smiled up at him. “You look incredible too.” She said nudging him.

He chuckled as he wiped at his eyes, escorting her to the carved gate.

She meant it. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and the resulting shadow was lovely. His parted hair was a beautiful mop of perfectly coifed dark brown that she would run her fingers through later tonight. The jacket and pants he wore —a few shades darker than his hair— were paired with a cream colored shirt left unbuttoned and no tie. She had a laugh to herself because of course he’d been prepared with a bespoke suit. Had he brought it hoping she would say yes or was Zemo just the sort of man who traveled with tailored clothing ready for any occasion at all times? Running her hand along the fine fabric over his shoulder, she grinned not caring. Either way he was glorious to look at.

Arm in arm they left the restaurant and started the walk through the square towards the famous edge of town, to a spot where people had come to watch the sunsets for thousands of years. By the time they arrived, a small group of well wishers and curious villagers had stopped to watch them stand before the tiny old officiant who had married hundreds before them.

The ceremony was said in Spanish with Helmut translating the vows when it was time for her to repeat the words. Her voice was light as she slipped the gold band—identical to her own— onto his finger as a symbol of the pure, and simple truth of their love. And when they shared that first kiss, it was to the applause of the wind coming down from the mountain to bless their union.

Neither of them would ever be able to recall the walk back, they were so lost in the joy of the day, but one thing Christine would always remember was him whispering sweetly in her ear, some of it in English some in Sokovian, and how he’d kissed her cheek and hand often between waving thanks to the well-wishers who passed them by.

Some of the older folk handed them gold coins as they neared the restaurant insisting they have thirteen until they were properly showered in affection and traditions they did not know but graciously accepted.

When the gates to Gael’s place opened, Christine stood frozen by the transformation in the courtyard. The man’s promise was not unfounded. The restaurant was beautiful. Lit by lanterns and string lights, the tables had been put together in one long line and was now covered in a feast of Paella, croquetas, Jamón, Espetos and all the things Christine could not remember the names of, but once they sat, she ate with enthusiasm as her husband laughed and joked with his childhood friends sharing and passing plates of the delicious food.

The whistles and shouts came any time they kissed —which was often— until one of the old men teased that they needed to sneak into the closet and get it out of their system, which drew laughter and calls of approval from the rowdy crowd. But as the small family band set up in the corner struck a note, Christine suggested a dance instead.

One beautiful song was played for them first which silenced the room.

Gael, with tears in his eyes pulled his own wife close as he watched the way Zemo held his bride with one arm, his other hand keeping Christine’s close to his heart as they swayed to the music that filled the air with a slow, haunting rhythm.

The sound of sniffling and the sight of adoring smiles was the backdrop to their first dance as a married couple until the last strum of the guitar echoed along the stone walls surrounding the full courtyard. Christine rose up and pressed her lips to his, her veil concealing them as they shared a moment that everyone who saw, would always remember. There was such strength in the way they held one another. You could see that these two people had been through much more than most, and were so thankful to have found a sense of peace, here in this forgotten place.

And then —because the night was a celebration— out came the anís, sangria, and Gael’s cousin from Barcelona with the Orujo.

Sober but high on the night, Christine kept up with the party, howling with laughter as Zemo and the other men made adorable fools of themselves while the women danced and sang and adopted her into the multiple families that had continued to trickle in, not wanting to miss the party.

At one point Zemo and a few of the others serenaded Christine with an enthusiastic version of a traditional love song that had her and the women cheering by the end and the Baron pulling his bride up and into his arms to kiss her. A kiss that did not end as the aching desire to consummate the marriage reached its peak. He sat her down taking Christine's hand to lead her away from the wild night to the raucous approval of the crowd.

“Goodnight!” She'd shouted from the door way that led to their little room, a glimpse of the white she wore fluttering up the steps as her laughter faded with their climb~

#helmut zemo fanfiction #baron zemo x oc #zemo smut #baron zemo romance #zemo fanfiction #I do #weddedbliss #zemo as a husband #second chances #zemo as a father #i just love him sm

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laurelsofhighever · 3 years

Link

Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again.

CW: mild gore

The light burned low in Alistair’s room, wobbling as the hearthflames sifted moodily through the dying embers for fuel, outcompeted by the gleam of Sevuna through the large windows that overlooked the formal gardens of the Winter Palace. If he had cared to, he could have spoken the command to wake the lyrium glowstones dotted around the room, but he preferred the silence. In the brooding dark, he could look out at the frozen splendour of the grounds, with its hibernating fountains and spears of topiary, and his thoughts could chase themselves in circles at their leisure.

How could the world have tilted so far sideways in such a small span of hours? If he turned inwards deeply enough, a molten core still burned with the anger of being lied to, but the surrounding fire had been doused almost the moment Rosslyn had stepped back into the ballroom, vanishing as the realisation of his own stupidity came crashing down around him. He had lost her. Again. That she was alive, and somewhere within the labyrinthine decadence of Halamshiral, tormented him as much as it made him breathless with joy.

She was alive. But she was also out of his grasp, with no one to blame but himself. His hands flexed against the window frame as his memory spat back the things he had said to her, accusations and disbelief and the promise that he could never hate her turned around not a moment later to be flung in her face.

You aren’t who I thought you were.

And yet, how could he doubt her identity when she had taken the blow with such grace, and pinned him with the steel in her eyes as she left him to the frost. Fear had gripped him then, more tightly than the idea that she had spent two years laughing at his grief; he watched her retreating back with her gaze a haunt of tacit pain, and only the jolt from his reawakened sense of politics had kept him from going after her.

Someone had to be coercing her, and in order to sneak her into the Orlesian court under a false name, whoever it was had to be powerful. Revealing her might only put her in more danger, even without the less than favourable reaction that could be expected from Celene. Not since his soldiers, digging through the ruins of Ostagar, had presented him the battered remains of the falcon helm had he felt such a bottomless drop to his stomach, such a bleed of strength from his legs. When he had staggered back from the terrace his shock had excused him from the rest of the party, but such an early night had so far only given him a better opportunity to berate himself. He doubted sleep would come for him before morning.

A chill whispered through the thin fabric of his sleep clothes, drawing him from his reverie. Confused, he glanced to the fireplace, where the flames burned low but undisturbed, and then to the rest of the dark room. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a slight billow in one of the curtains, from a draught through a window he was sure had been locked.

One of the shadows moved.

Before he could cry out, the assassin flashed out a hand, and a glitter of sharp powder caught in his lungs, stinging his eyes and choking his breath so that instead of a shout, only a dry rasp emerged from his throat. On instinct, he snatched up the closest curtain to foil the glint of the blade lunging for his stomach and flung it out as far as he could, already thinking about the dagger he kept within easy reach on the bedside table. The tearing fabric behind him told him he had little chance to reach it. His limbs wouldn’t move as they should. He had to hurl himself across the bed, with a whirl of dark velvet in the air above, throwing pillows and anything else his hands could scrabble at for distraction, before his fingers finally closed on the dagger’s hilt and swept it up in an arc that drew sparks from the assassin’s descending blade.

He tried to shout again as he kicked out and rolled away, savouring the muffled grunt he got for the effort, but only until he managed to right himself. His strength was slipping, adrenaline giving way as the effects of the powder worked into his blood. Desperate, he staggered behind one of the many overstuffed chairs that littered the room, knowing it would do little good. The smirking porcelain mask, floating like a phantom above the assassin’s dark clothing, had blocked the path to the door.

Waiting for the drug to take its full effect.

Then something else moved in the darkness. In the heartbeat it took for the assassin to follow the flick of Alistair’s gaze, a second figure leapt out from behind the bed to collide bodily with the first. The momentum of the blow threw the assassin into the nightstand hard enough to send the water jug shattering to the floor, but not enough to knock them down. As Alistair watched, the white porcelain flashed, turned, lunged forwards – and stopped, impaled on the stranger’s blade.

Even with a blank, black mask disguising her features, Rosslyn could not be mistaken. She straightened as her opponent convulsed in one last gurgle and slid off the end of her sword, impassive but taut as a drawn bowstring, radiating a cold fury that froze Alistair worse than the draught blowing in from the window. He swallowed. If he could just get to her, reach out –

“Your Majesty!”

He turned too quickly at the crash of the door and had to catch himself on the chair to avoid collapsing completely. In the confusion as his guards poured into the room, weapons drawn, he lost sight of Rosslyn, with only a current of air at his back to follow her passing.

“Your Majesty, are you alright?”

He tore his gaze away, from how she pressed herself into the side of the chimney and the frantic, pleading shake of her head as their eyes met. “Uh…”

“What happened?” Morrence demanded. She had already sheathed her sword and was kneeling to examine the corpse.

“I –” Even that small attempt at speech left him coughing. His eyes watered as he tapped his throat and managed to rasp out the word assassin. “Caught me by surprise. Got lucky.”

“Hm.” His guard-commander drew a dagger from her belt and used the tip to lift the porcelain mask away from the assassin’s face. The slender features and scraggy attempt at a moustache hardly made Alistair feel better, but before he could dwell too deeply on the age difference between him and his would-be killer, he caught Morrence peering at the blood trail leading away from the body.

He shifted his weight to block her line of sight.

“Looks like he got in through the window,” one of the other guards called from across the room.

“I want someone out there now to see where he came from,” Morrence ordered. “And alert the palace guard that there’s been an attempt on His Majesty’s life. It could be whoever’s responsible wants to try for the empress as well.”

Both the look on her face and the sullen note in her voice conveyed her suspicion about Celene’s role in the whole affair, the hope – on the slim chance she wasn’t behind the attack – that the assassins creeping into the empress’ chamber were having more luck. Even more than Alistair, she had found Orlais unwelcoming. Dismissed as both a Fereldan and as someone with obvious elven ancestry, her temper had been hanging on rather a fine string ever since crossing the border.

“Either way, it sounds like all the excitement is over for me,” Alistair huffed, flashing a brittle smile at the improving quality of his voice. “What a shame, I do so love being the centre of attention.”

“Your Majesty, this man was killed with a sword.”

He quelled the urge to glance behind him. “Was he? It all happened so fast – are you sure?”

“And yet there’s no sword in this room,” she pressed, rising from her crouch. “I still have yours right here.”

“What are you suggesting, Guard-Commander?”

Her eyes narrowed at the uncommon use of her title. “It would be a good idea to make a thorough search of these rooms in case of accomplices.”

“What? No, I don’t –” He coughed, fixed his gaze on a mountain in one of the tapestries so he wouldn’t give Rosslyn away – “That won’t be necessary, surely? Can’t you just take the body, maybe put a towel over the bloodstain?”

“Your Majesty –”

Sensing defeat, he sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. “Look, it’s been a long day of disappointments, and someone just tried to kill me, if you didn’t notice. I really think if there’d been an accomplice they would have jumped out of the wardrobe while I was occupied.”

“You take your safety too lightly,” she protested. “At least let us get you checked over by a healer.”

“A good night’s sleep, that’s what I need.” He tried to smile again, to hide the lurch in his stomach at the idea that Rosslyn might disappear again if he gave her the opportunity.

“But –”

He held one arm out, the other firmly supported on the back of the chair. “Look at me, I’m not even injured. And whatever got thrown in my face, it’s wearing off. If you don’t take that body away right now and leave me to rest, you can be the one to tell Élodie why I spent half the night being prodded at by Wynne instead of getting my beauty sleep.”

For a long moment, he worried she would insist anyway, but at last she turned with her fingers tight around the hilt of her own sword, and he knew this particular battle was won.

“Fine,” she bit out, and nudged the assassin’s body with her boot. “With your permission, I’ll have Leliana take a closer look at this for any clues about just who might have wanted to kill you.”

“Good idea.”

“One of us has to have sense.” She sighed. “Allers, get over here and help me, would you?”

The guard still standing by the door saluted and stepped forward to take the assassin’s legs, while Morrence hefted him up beneath the shoulders. Shuffling and cursing, they hauled the body through to the next room, while Alistair kept up his smile and eased around the chair to block their view as much as he could, despite the pins-and-needles starting to shoot up his legs as the drug wore off. When the door finally clicked shut, he allowed himself to sag and turned, only to find Rosslyn leaning against the chimney, head bowed forward, a picture of exhaustion that pulled at something unpleasant deep within his chest.

“Rosslyn –”

“Thank you,” she interrupted. “For not revealing me.”

“Thank you for saving my life,” he replied, but the smile died on his lips. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if his legs were strong enough yet to cross the distance between them, or if she would even want him to. “That poison powder has a kick.”

“I remember.”

So did he. The night after they met in the mountains on his return from Orzammar, the first time he truly feared for her life, when had had so much left to tell her.

“It should wear off soon,” she said, pushing off the wall, her eyes still on the floor. “With no permanent damage.” She paused. “He would have killed you.”

“Then I guess it’s lucky you were here.”

No response. She half-turned to him as if to reply, but not far enough to meet his gaze. Instead, her eyes caught on her hands, as if she hadn’t yet noticed the assassin’s blood coating both them and the length of her sword. There lay the last piece of evidence carving away the doubt that it really was her; Talon’s blue-gold colour shone through the gore as it cut the light, the runestone in the pommel winking with power.

“There’ll be a guard outside the window soon,” she started. “I should –”

He staggered towards her. “Don’t. Please don’t go. What I said before – I couldn’t bear to lose you again.”

“What if I’m not who you think I am?” she replied, every word laced with sudden venom. For the first time, she looked at him, not bothering to hide the hurt within the depths of her glare.

“How could I mistake you?” he asked her, or himself. “How could I not recognise the woman who –” His throat wouldn’t work, though his mind screamed what he wanted to say. “I haven’t been able to stop wondering if it was a dream, if I really could be that much of a fool, but I was. I am. You could have let me walk away and I would have deserved it, but you didn’t, and I…” His laugh tasted bitter, and his eyes stung as he dared to edge the distance between them. “It’s crazy, right? Two years of wanting to see you again and the moment all my wishes came true I drove you away. I am so sorry, just – please, don’t go.”

Shrinking away again, she turned her eye to the tapestries, to the fire, to the blood on her hands that gleamed black in the low light, until the silence had stretched for so long it left a ringing in his ears and made his mouth dry, but he didn’t dare move. Finally, she wrapped her arms around her upper body with Talon held carefully to avoid its edge, steadying herself with a breath.

“I didn’t exactly make it difficult for you.”

Hope flared. As before, he approached her with halting steps as if she were an apparition likely to disappear, only this time he reached out to her in full knowledge that she wasn’t, that this encounter really wasn’t some Fade trick or conjuration. Her hands still held the cold of the Harvestmere night, the blood tacky against his skin, but she returned his grip with fingers that bore the callouses he remembered, the ones born from her dedication to her training, and when he breathed her name again she met his eyes with that fathomless winter grey he could spend hours studying without boredom.

“Come here,” he offered gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She followed him through to the suite’s tiled salle de lavage without complaint and watched him turn the taps. “I can manage.”

“Of course.” He tried to smile. “I didn’t mean to… well. You’ll need a new shirt, though, since that one’s got blood on it. I’ve got – I mean, do you want to borrow one?”

She froze with her hands running a cloth under a cool stream of water. Silence pooled like marsh fog between them, where the memories ran thick; once upon a time, his shirts had been her nightly attire, borrowed, and then naturalised to their new owner until her scent clung to the cloth even after he managed to steal them back, until it was the only thing he had had left of her. He shoved a hand backwards through his hair and coughed away the unpleasant rise at the back of his throat, made worse by the aftereffects of the powder.

“You don’t have to if you’d rather keep that one – it is quite nice, now that I’m looking – not that I’m looking – but it’s really the least I can do after the whole saving-my-life thing.”

“I’ll take the offer,” she told him with perhaps a shade of her familiar wry amusement. “Thank you.”

“Great! I’ll, uh… leave you to it, then.”

When she emerged from the washroom a little while later, he had stoked the fire and lit the glowstones, and found a spare blanket to soak up the bloodstain on the floor. He startled from his rummage through his drawers for a shirt to find her still rubbing at imaginary specks of blood in Talon’s hilt, the intense concentration in what he could see of her face throwing him back to old nights on campaign, when they would sit knee to knee, cleaning their equipment as an excuse to spend time in each other’s company.

“What’s so amusing?” she asked when she caught his expression, finally satisfied enough to sheathe the sword and throw the cloth onto the corner of the bedside table.

He turned away to hide the flush of heat up his neck. “Nothing, I just recognise that look on your face.”

“I don’t have a look on my face.” But she touched her fingers to the mask nonetheless, as if to check it was still there.

“If you say so,” he answered, grinning, and held out his least wrinkled shirt. “Here, this one shouldn’t smell too bad.”

The corner of her mouth ticked upward as she took the garment from him, but it faded into uncertainty when she glanced between it and the tunic she already wore. With an apologetic look over her shoulder she turned away, hiding herself from him as she started on the fastenings that kept the mask over her face. He tried not to let the action sting. Two years before, he might have helped her change – or hindered her, if they had time – and more than anything else so far this evening, the idea that she might not be comfortable in his presence cut deep, reminded him just how far the gulf between them had grown. He ought to respect her privacy, and tried to, but as she drew the tunic over her head the swish of the fabric caught his eye, and the sight of her held it.

Her scars were the same. The white starbust on her left shoulder from the crossbow bolt he had pulled out with his own hands on the night they first stumbled into each other; the small leaf-shaped depression below her ribs where Loghain’s sword had pierced her back. He knew them, by sight and touch and tongue, but the canvas upon which they were painted now sent a lance through his chest. What had she suffered to become so thin? How did she still endure, when he could count her ribs and see every strand of wasted muscle working beneath her skin? He had added to that pain. His gut churned with the guilt of it.

Before he was aware of moving, he had crossed the space and wrapped his arms around her waist almost before the new shirt had settled, burying his face into her neck and hating how she tensed.

“Alistair…”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her shoulder, hoping she wouldn’t pull away. “I’m sorry for everything. Everything you’ve been through. Everything I couldn’t protect you from.”

She drew in a breath and let it go, laid her fingers over his. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“The things I said tonight were,” he insisted. “You deserved better. All those vile things – it was unforgivable.”

“And yet you appear to be asking forgiveness.”

She broke his embrace, just enough to turn in his arms, and this time as she looked up at him, without darkness or resined paper to hide her features, he forgot to breathe. The familiar, teasing curl of her mouth drew him in, but he stopped, and brushed a hand along her cheek instead. How many times had he wished for just one more look, bargained his entire kingdom to the dark for one more moment to admire the straight line of her nose, her high cheeks, the way her fine lashes fanned against her skin and perfectly framed her eyes?

“Alistair?” she prompted.

“What?”

“You were staring.”

“Oh! Well…” He resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck. “The clockwork’s a little rusty – you know how it is. I forget to wind it up. Ah.” He swallowed, dared to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “I don’t suppose you’ll forgive me for that, too? I remember you being very forgiving.”

She chuckled. “Do you?”

“Very clearly. You’re the most merciful person in Thedas.”

For an instant, he watched a retort dance on the tip of her tongue, but she held it back and dropped her gaze to the middle of his chest, and he started forward to ask what he’d done wrong.

“You left me,” she said, before he could open his mouth. “On the morning of the battle I woke up and you weren’t there. Why?”

He flinched away from the quiet, even tone of her voice, as if she had shouted instead. There was no answer he could give beyond an admission of cowardice, nothing that would excuse it.

“I have regretted that every day,” he told her. “I couldn’t face that being the last time I would see you, I was terrified I’d change my mind. I wondered, after, if that was why…”

“You think I went and faced the Nightmare out of spite?” she checked.

“No! I mean… Sometimes. In the beginning, I was so angry, but you would never stand by while you could help. I should have known better than to try and make you.” His memories from those early weeks without her existed in a haze of vitriolic self-destruction, recalled only as flashes where he cast blame at anyone who dared come near him, until even Cuno was banished to the kennels after pacing one too many times from room to room, searching for the mistress who had not come home. He had begged the mages to help him, to offer him some hope that she lived, and now before him stood the proof that he should have tried harder.

Cool fingers laced tentatively with his. “I should have let Morrence lead the cavalry.”

“You saved us all,” he insisted, but sighed and looked away, because the wound still throbbed. “And you deserved more from me.”

“I promised you I would stay behind.”

“Shhhh…” Weary to his bones, he pressed a kiss against her forehead. “It’s alright. You’re here. And I should have known that not even death could ever stop you. It probably took one look at that glare of yours and decided to turn tail.”

The comment earned a brief, wet chuckle as he pulled her close, and left in its wake a more comfortable silence than those that had gone before, a relief and a comfort, taming the shadowy beast that since Ostagar had clawed its way through his mind and body both. That Rosslyn now clung to him too opened a new, bright kind of pain beneath his ribs, clean and healing where before his wounds had festered. He never wanted to let her go.

“I did everything I could to get back to you,” she said after a long moment. “I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you sooner.”

“It’s alright,” he whispered, with another kiss to her forehead as if reassuring nothing more than a bad dream. “It’s alright.”

He trailed the declaration down the side of her face, his lips brushing over the lid of an eye, her cheek, the very corner of her mouth, while her hands curled slowly into his waist and the back of his neck. At the last, she turned her head and his mouth found hers of its own accord, instinct more than effort that sent sparks to the tips of his still-numb fingers.

“Say you’ll stay with me,” he breathed, not daring to pull away. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” she promised, and leaned forward again.

“Wait, does that mean you won’t stay or you won’t go?”

The sound of her laugh made him giddy as she pushed into him, rising onto her toes so the arms around his neck could pull him into a deeper kiss. Any caution urged by the overwhelming shadows still ranged against them fell to the press of her body against his, the beat of her pulse under his thumb and the whimper that slipped her throat as his hands wandered.

And yet even here in such a perfect moment, responsibility nagged at him. The gaudy porcelain clockwork on the mantelpiece chimed the early hour and drew them apart, flushed and breathing heavily and still joined by the gentle brush of fingers over each other’s skin. He had meetings to attend in the morning, and Élodie’s wrath to face if he spent them trying to hide yawns behind his hand.

“We should go to bed,” he murmured, with a rush of longing and doubt so strong his head spun. “To sleep! Not for anything nefarious. I mean –”

Breaking into a smile, she stopped him with a swift kiss. “You’ve never been nefarious in your life.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You should know… I don’t sleep much these days,” she admitted. “Not since I came back.”

He stroked his thumb over her cheek, at a loss for how to comfort her. He didn’t want to pry.

“Don’t worry about it. Perhaps this is what I’ve been missing.”

“You say the nicest things,” he replied, to cover, and brought the back of her hand to his lips.

In the few paces to the ridiculously ornate canopy bed, his heart thundered, stalling his breath with memories of the nights he had spent wrapped up with Rosslyn nestled against him, and after, even more nights when the place at his side lay cold and empty. He bit down on the urge to tell her sleep would likely elude him too, for fear of waking to that nightmare again, even as his heart ached with the stilted atmosphere between them, the experiences that had pushed them apart. His body responded to hers in a way it hadn’t for longer than he cared to think, automatically and carelessly, but reaching for her now felt like reaching across a tidal strait too deep to swim, close enough to hear her voice and see her waiting on the far shore but unable to cross the gap. But he would not push. The day he had spent with her in the meadow high in the Frostbacks loomed in his mind, when she had told him of her lacking desire and the fear that to others it would not matter, and the promise he had made to never be that person to her which still held true.

It didn’t mean he had to be tired of kissing her. They had two years to make up. Every line of muscle yearned towards her as he turned and found her still behind him, not an apparition, her hand warm in his and her breath soft and sweet across his face. He felt her smile as he leaned down to her, and then the jolt in his blood when the tip of her tongue darted out over his bottom lip.

“Does that convince you I’m really here?” she teased.

He bumped his nose against hers. “Just about.”

Humming her satisfaction at the response, she left him to sit on the edge of the bed, smirking as she lifted one leg across the other. “What, you don’t expect me to go to bed in boots, do you?” she asked when she noticed his frown. “I’ll get mud all over the sheets.”

“As much as I’d love to explain that one to the servants…” He shrugged as he knelt and waved her hands away from the buckles. “Let me do that.”

“I’m perfectly capable –”

“I want to see if you’re wearing embarrassing socks.”

The brief chuckle earned by the remark drew his eyes upwards. Rosslyn watched him, her head tilted in a wistfulness that reached down through her fingers as she twined them into his hair.

“You’re staring again,” she noted.

He turned to kiss the inside of her wrist. “Must be the view.”

“Hm. Get back to it, Your Majesty.”

Smirking, he did as he was told and set to the straps, content to go slowly, working his way down her calf. The boot slipped off her foot with a minor tug, accompanied by a sigh from above. She had lain back to gaze at the canopy of the bed while he worked, entirely at ease, and the normality of the whole scene eased a sigh between his lips.

“I’m disappointed in these socks,” he informed her as he started on the second boot.

An answering hum of laughter. “I will endeavour to do better next time.”

“Good.” He stayed on the floor a moment longer, kneading his thumb along the lines of hard muscle between ankle and knee until she relaxed under his touch. When he finally moved to join her on the bed, her head lay propped on one arm, her eyes warm as he settled at her side and laced his fingers into her free hand.

“Is that better?” he asked.

“Mostly.”

“Oh?” He quirked a brow. “And what would make it all better?”

The corner of her mouth tugged into a smile as she untucked her arm from behind her head and rose onto one elbow, closer to him, and his eyes fluttered shut with the gentle fingertips she traced along his jaw.

“Just this,” she murmured, and tilted forward to kiss him, long and sweet.

When she finally pulled away, the lack of her froze his skin as if he had turned from a campfire on a cold night. He followed after her, pressing his forehead to hers and curling his hand around the precious shell of her ear. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” She paused. “This beard, however…”

He jerked his head back, one hand already flying to his chin. “What’s wrong with my extremely manly beard?” he demanded.

Laughing, she scooted around him so her legs no longer dangled off the edge of the mattress and did not answer, preoccupied instead with unbuckling Talon from her waist. He noticed she laid it still within easy reach as she peeled back the covers, but he pushed down the twist of pain caused by the implication in favour of a more pressing matter. He followed her up the bed.

“Teagan says it makes me look distinguished, you know.”

“Teagan’s never had to kiss you with it,” she retorted. “Or at least I hope not.”

He frowned as he settled next to her under the covers, on his side with his chest tight and heart dancing for her closeness. Their legs tangled together. As his hand found its old place on her hip, it awoke every forgotten habit his mind had sealed away, like a limb released from a tourniquet and allowed to move again, and when her arm slipped up to rest in a loose embrace, a sigh painting her lips, he never wanted to move again.

“I haven’t kissed Teagan,” he told her. “I haven’t kissed anyone.”

Damn those grey eyes. The intensity in them could turn a charging horse, or reduce a hardened criminal to gibbered pleading, and Alistair doubted he turned away fast enough to hide the well of loneliness that had eaten away at him for so long – perhaps stoppered now, in her presence, but still aching like the echo in an empty cave. Her touch burned on the side of his face as she sought to comfort him.

“You really don’t like the beard?” he checked, before she could speak.

“You mean these boar bristles?” she asked gently. She stroked her fingers along the edge of his jaw and the unexpected shiver it sent down his back made him want her to do it again. “The overall effect has… a certain charm. Perhaps it’ll grow on me.”

“I certainly hope not! The beard can stay on my face, thank you – but I’ll let you borrow it whenever you like.” He pulled her close, forgetting his earlier caution in her giggle as he held her face and rubbed his stubbled cheeks all over hers as if he were a cat, kissing where his lips brushed skin, until her hands twisted into his hair and they had turned so she was beneath him, wrapped in his embrace with her hair coming loose from its pins across the pillow. She bared her neck to him and he obliged, rediscovering the trail that led along her pulse as her breath turned to gasps and her hands fisted in the collar of his shirt.

But she wasn’t free, not yet. Even as he nipped at her skin and soothed the bite with his tongue, she drew his head up to bring his mouth to hers again, seeking comfort, the frayed ends of their connection severed at Ostagar. He embraced her tighter and at the sound of her name she turned his head and kissed along the exposed length of his neck, the juncture of his shoulder. Eventually they lay wrapped together like tree roots, quiet, lost and found without the need for words.

“Staying here won’t affect your mission, will it?” he asked when he again trusted himself to speak. “You won’t get in trouble?”

Silent, Rosslyn shook her head.

“Tell me about it.” He pulled back. “I want to help, whatever it is.”

“Alistair…”

“I’m serious.”

Defeated, she huffed and pushed him onto his back before tucking herself down against his chest, shuffling until she got comfortable. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” he replied. “Who’s behind it? Not just anyone could keep you on such a tight leash.”

She tensed. “It’s Flemeth.”

“You mean –” The nerves at the ends of his fingers tingled like they had been dipped in hot water after coming in from the snow. “Flemeth Flemeth?”

“She’s the one who pulled me from the Fade. If not for her, I’d still be there.”

The reminder settled like lead in Alistair’s stomach. He curled his arm more snugly about her waist, as if that alone might keep her from being dragged back into the formless world beyond the Veil, to face demons and who knew what else. To turn his mind from the image, he set it the task of wondering what an all-powerful swamp witch might want with the glitter of the Orlesian royal court.

“It’s something to do with Morrigan, isn’t it?”

Rosslyn glanced to him. “You know about her?”

“I met her this evening,” he said. “Very like her mother, though I don’t think I’d dare say that to her face.”

“She has possession of an artefact, an enchanted mirror that acts as a portal to… somewhere, or something. Some ancient elven magic. Flemeth asked me to destroy the mirror before Morrigan can work out how to use it.”

“I wondered why Celene was bothering to keep the templars off her,” he mused. “Ancient magic the world has never seen could be powerful in the wrong hands.”

She hummed her agreement. “And as far as Ferelden is concerned, you can’t get much worse than Orlais.”

“No, you can’t. No wonder you didn’t want to be found out.” Discovering the supposedly dead Queen of Ferelden sneaking about the halls attempting to thwart the schemes of a political adversary would have lit a flame to the waiting pyre of Orlais’ warmongering nobles – could still, if Rosslyn were caught. Celene had made her intentions towards the Fereldan Crown very clear, first by housing Alistair in the Emperor’s apartments under the guise of having nowhere else fit for his entourage, and then by having him attend her and her proxies all evening, her charm a militant campaign of flattery he had no doubt could turn sour the moment she found herself upstaged. And that was without the threat of an ancient weapon held like a knife above the heads of his people.

“I can hear you thinking,” Rosslyn mumbled into his side.

“Not so much of a rare occurrence these days,” he told her. “Kings who are fools don’t tend to last long.”

She pushed herself up onto an elbow and turned to face him properly, palm flat against his chest. “You were never a fool.”

Celene posed a threat. He had no explanation for Rosslyn’s presence, and no way to protect her should the empress discover her purpose in Halamshiral. If she did not succeed, Flemeth might not release her, and Ferelden might suffer an Occupation more ruthless than the last. And yet…

“You do know I’m not letting you go again, right?” he asked though the sting at the corner of his eyes. “You’ll have to stay with me forever, and we’ll have to stay here in this bed because I never want another moment without you.”

Quiet, she leaned forward to stroke his cheek. “There are worse fates.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “Glad we sorted that.”

There was a long silence as she curled into his side again, punctuated only by the command for the glowstone to dim. In place of words, their hands found each other in the darkness and chased random patterns from fingertip to wrist in slow arcs, reassuring touches that gave a focus beyond the disinclination for sleep. For Alistair, it was the lingering fear that Rosslyn might vanish as soon as he closed his eyes, the desire to savour having her warm and heavy against him. They had a whole lifetime for sleep, endless days where he wouldn’t wake and have to steel himself to brave the emptiness on the other side of the bed. At least, so he hoped, if she wanted it too.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #king alistair #king alistair theirin #alistair theirin #alistair x warden #alistair x cousland #cousland #f!cousland #rosslyn cousland #the falcon and the rose

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cherryjuicegf · 4 years

Note

Did you say you were thinking of trying some trissefer?? How about that and #59!! 👀 👀 (OR, if you'd prefer, same prompt but for geraskier!)

thanks so much for this prompt dear!! it was the perfect chance to write trissefer because i'm convinced orange is triss's colour and it fit excellently!! hope you enjoy 💞

59. orange sunsets

send me prompts 🌼

The cool breeze made the heavy leaves of the plant rustle gently. Triss took a deep breath, taking in the scents of summer and smiled content. She tilted her head and took a sip of her coffee, gazing at the sky, painted orange, identical with her airy dress, by the rays of the sun just before its first piece hid behind the mountain. The city lights had just began to flicker open and she was grateful she had convinced Yennefer to get an apartment on the fifth floor.

She smiled again and stretched her legs, resting them on the elaborate railings of their balcony. At this moment, she thought, she needed nothing more. Well, she did, but what she needed wasn't quite available for now. Yet the more the sun lost itself in the horizon, the more complete she felt. Just to be there. Just to gaze at it.

The door was heard from inside and her heart fluttered.

"Triss?"

"Outside, love."

She turned around and spotted Yennefer walking up to her, squinting at the blinding sun, its colours reflected on her satin night gown. Triss peered at her from tip to toes and giggled. She was adorable, her curls wild and tousled from sleep, the pattern of the pillow marking her cheek. Beautiful. Triss tilted her head. "Slept well?"

Yennefer glanced at her and nodded, still sleepy. Then, as if realizing what she was looking at, that is the sun setting, she opened her eyes wide. "Why the fuck did you let me sleep so long?"

Triss chuckled and grabbed her hand to pull her closer. Yennefer obeyed and leaned down, placing a soft kiss on her lips. "You slept like a corpse the moment your head hit the pillow," Triss said and shrugged innocently at Yennefer as she sat beside her on the wooden chair. "Couldn't bear to wake you."

She stared at her and realized that it was good she was drinking coffee, otherwise she wouldn't be able to remain sober, drunk in the love the woman before her flooded her with. The sun made her eyes sparkle, more than usual, embellished their violet with streaks of pink and soft orange. She loved the sun, but if she was to never see it again to gaze at Yennefer's eyes, then so be it.

Yennefer tilted her head to look at the ornate clock around Triss's wrist. She raised an eyebrow. "And why are you drinking coffee at nine in the afternoon?"

"Well," Triss ran her fingers up and down Yennefer's arm, making her shiver, "I figured out you wouldn't sleep soon after and if I'm to stay with you, I needed something to keep me up." She smirked at her and brought her hand to her lips, placing little kisses on her knuckles.

Yennefer smiled at her. Felt her body warming whole just at the thought that she preferred to stay awake for her. It made her heart beat just a bit faster.

She looks like a painting, she thought. The rays entangled in her wild curls, the colours on her dress lighting up her always sunny face. How I adore her, she thought. How I love her.

She took a deep breath and turned to look at the sunset. The sky was on fire. She was never one to be enchanted by sunsets, she had seen many in her life to pretend every time was the first. Seeing, however, the joy they brought to Triss and the way she looked under their light, made her appreciate them more. "It's beautiful," she whispered and Triss knew she didn't mean the sky. She cradled her hand and softly kissed the inside of her wrist.

"Yes, it is," she agreed and Yennefer knew she didn't mean the sunset, not this time.

Triss took another sip of her coffee and passed it to Yennefer. It was Friday night. They would cook, they would take an hour to choose a movie, or two, they would cuddle as they played. They would do everything and nothing at the same time and Triss knew she needed nothing more, if it was to do everything and nothing with her.

Still, for now, looking into each other's eyes, they would watch the sunset together. It was too beautiful to look elsewhere. And what is beauty for, if not gazing at it?

#the witcher #trissefer #yennefer of vengerberg #triss merigold #yentriss #yennefer x triss #chrysa writes #sensory prompts #<1k #fluff #modern au #prompt fill #fic recs #norationalthoughtrequired

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porcelain-blue · 3 years

Text

Embrace the Entirety of the World

When Wei Wuxian comes back into the world, the first thing he registers is pain. It’s a sharp, aching thing, a body filled with bruises and the gnaw of an empty belly. He sits there, for a while, letting it wash over him; the nausea, the headache, the rasp of rough woven cloth under his fingers. It is so much , so distinct, sound and smell and touch a dizzying input where there had only been numbness and nothing before.

He is alive. In his marrow he knows how rare of a chance this is, how short and how fragile a single soul in a single body actually is, how easily lost, how infinitely precious. He is dead but now he is alive, and it feels like there is nothing he cannot do.

He breaks out of that shack with gladness, eager to leave the stink of human excrement and neglect, and inhales deeply, noting the thickness of the humid air, the sound of faraway chatter of a bustling household. He smells dust, and animal, cooking not too far away, and the sensation of it all almost overwhelms him once again, and it feels like something inside his chest clicks , a setting of a phantom bone behind his sternum. Or perhaps it breaks. He feels untethered, unmoored, feral. An animal thing, more beast than human, more sensation than cognition.

When he calms, he spares a thought for young Mo Xuanyu, and makes a mental note to set an offering and perform rites on his behalf. He thinks with a pang that Mo Xuanyu was never treated well enough to ever understand the nature of the gift he had given Wei Wuxian. He will, however, honor those last wishes cleaved into his forearm.

So he saunters into a mystery, absently enjoying the feeling of packed earth under the thin soles of Mo Xuanyu’s boots, and within a few xichen night has fallen and the Mo family is sundered by corpse limbs. Wei Wuxian commandeers a grumpy donkey, marvelling at the stubble-rasp of the animal’s flank under his palms as he makes his way down the mountain, thrust into the gaping maw of the world once more.

When Zidian coils around him and wrenches, he cannot help but grin to himself, a small thing full of bloody teeth. He feels delirious, and everything hurts white-hot, but the feeling-sound-crackle-smell of Zidian is so familiar that it feels like home. If he closes his eyes, the purple of Jiang Cheng’s robes may as well be Yu-Furen’s. Their rage feels the same, physically.

Lan Zhan’s hand is so tight around his wrist that he can almost feel his bones shift, and he hisses at the pain even though it feels good, in a way, to be anchored to this plane of existence.

Later, when he flings himself behind Lan Zhan’s body, the first thing his brain registers is how fine the weave of his robes are, smooth but sturdy under his fingers, the faint threads catching against his rough skin. It’s a weird, incongruent detail that he can’t get out of his head, even as he shamelessly flirts his way out of getting dragged back to Lotus Pier (he cannot, not right now, not like this). Lan Zhan’s voice is deep, deeper than he remembers, and the thrum of it catching his hearing sends the hairs on his nape standing, skin prickling in an uncomfortable awareness.

Later, in the Jingshi, his old friend spread under him staring steadily as he asks him to go back to his own bed, Wei Wuxian feels like the light was never like this when he was last alive, liquid and colourless; that shaft of moonlight cutting through the crystal shape of Lan Zhan’s irises is almost vicious in its beauty. His breath catches, but he plasters a bright smile as he plays the part of shameless, predatory Mo Xuanyu(as though a boy so young and starved could be anything but vulnerable). But all Lan Zhan does is jab a pressure point that makes him go limp and tingly, and all he can focus on is the sharp, clean smell of incense, and the furnace-warmth of Lan Zhan’s terrifyingly strong golden core under him. He sinks into sleep and it’s only a little scary, to go back into darkness and quiet, but the warmth and weight of Lan Zhan’s hand draped on his waist is always there, at the edge of his awareness, and he slips off into the first sleep of 16 years.

As they journey Northwest, Wei Wuxian lets himself go, trails his hands on walls and scuffs his feet just to feel the dirt squish under his shoes. He lingers at stalls, more so than he would have before, touching everything and looking. He buys rouge from a merchant and dabs into the soft, pressed powder with his pinky, marvelling at the texture. He dabs a little, on his lips, for fun. No more than a passing fancy, but in this new body and new life, Wei Wuxian is determined to honor ever passing fancy, feel every sensation he wants to. He thinks, privately, that he has earned it.

Lan Zhan makes an aborted movement at him, when he sees the pigment on his face, makes like he wants to press his thumbs against his lips to wipe it off. Wei Wuxian waits, head cocked to see what Lan Zhan will do. Lan Wangji, however, has never died and been reborn. He is, as always the paragon of self-control and dignity. He would never acknowledge any passing fancies, so he flexes his hand from his fist, and turns away. Wei Wuxian stares after him, not knowing what that was about, beyond the knowledge that Lan Zhan has been denying himself every single day they have been travelling together.

It bothers him. He knows that Lan Zhan is not a person given to doing whatever he wants, but something about the movements, the heavy weight of his gaze, something makes his teeth itch, and Wei Wuxian convinces himself that it is merely concern for his friend, a desire to see him happy and a little more free. I must give him my advice! He thinks privately, amused and mischievous, keen to start a new plan into action.

So he catalogues every time Lan Zhan makes a strange movement, every time those eyes rest on him a little too long. He wonders how long it will take for Lan Zhan’s resolve to break, and he makes sure to repeat every action that catches the attention of the venerable Hanguang-jun.

He dabs the barest suggestion of pigment on his face. Sometimes his eyes, most often his lips, just to see the tips of Lan Zhan’s ears pink when he turns away. It eventually seems tha Lan Zhan is intent on watching him, though, so Wei Wuxian simply loses himself in the joy of being here.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says for the first time, and his blood quickens as he registers the joy of being called, to have a name and to be recognised. The cadence and tone of that voice, and the warmth of those large hands on his calf over his curse-mark feel so real he cannot lose himself in his own traitorous, quicksilver mind.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathes, tasting the words on his tongue as they leave him, intentional, seeking their owner.

When Lan Zhan moves to pick him up, he does not squawk, does not struggle. He reaches up and loops his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck and lets himself be carried, because why not?

Why not live in the moment?

What does it matter, what it looks like, when a man carries another man?

Nothing matters, except feeling safe and warm and grounded, here, pressed up against GusuLan white, the fabric smooth against his skin.

Lan Wangji is still trying to map the parameters of this new Wei Ying. He is much the same, of course, even without hearing the hollow scraping whistle of a bamboo flute butchering the one song he has kept close to his heart for years, Lan Wangji thinks that he would have been able to place Wei Ying before long, through his mannerisms, through the cadence and easy drip of his words.

But something seems looser, in this new Wei Ying. The boy he had fallen in love with so long ago had always been a creature of action and reaction, all whim-chasing wrapped around an unbending moral core. But then, that boy was gone and in his place was a man unyielding and exhausted, and Lan Wangji had almost forgotten what it was like to hear a clear laugh dancing about him.

But apparently lying dead for 16 years and coming back had done something to Wei Ying, and he seems all at once more carefree and young than he has ever seemed, and also still, wise, in a way that he never seemed to achieve before.

He no longer cares about the gaze of others, truly does not mind them instead of the knowing-and-defying that Wei Ying had been known for. Lan Wangji had admired him for that before, but now, knowing about the censure and the tightrope dance Wei Ying had had to do within the bounds of what was socially acceptable, Lan Wangji feels something flutter in his chest, some tight tension from before melting away, bit by bit.

Wei Ying buys rouge with his money, and he knows that this is probably part of a plan to catch him out, to obfuscate his true identity (as though Lan Zhan has ever been so unobservant as to miss all the tells that make up the creature that is Wei Ying.), but even after Lan Wangji reveals what he knows, Wei Ying continues to play with the pigment. He ends up buying this new Wei Ying a box of lip paper, and watches curiously as Wei Ying opens the box, fishes out a sheet of vermillion delicately, and places it between his lips. A press, holding it there for a while, then his mouth parts, and oh, he is beautiful.

Wei Ying has always been beautiful to Lan Wangji, and it was no secret that his old body had many admirers. But even now, in the fine-boned features of Mo Xuanyu, it has always been the light in those eyes and unbreakable spirit that Lan Wangji had been drawn to. But the truth of the matter is - and of course, lying to oneself is also forbidden - that Wei Ying, returned after 16 long years in a new body, with wide guileless eyes and lips stained the same red of his underrobes- Wei Ying is lovely, and Lan Wangji wants nothing more than to dart forward and taste, to see if that sweet smelling paper also would impart flavour, or if Wei Ying’s lips would be the only thing to discover.

“Ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan! I don’t have a mirror, so you’ll just have to tell me, does it look good? I know you think I’m shameless, but what do you think?”

Lan Wangji reaches forward, plucks the box out of Wei Ying’s hands and stows it away in their shared travel bag. He pauses for a moment, glancing at the graceful bow of those lips, then back at those wide, happy eyes.

“Wei Ying has always looked good in red,” he murmurs.

Wei Ying blinks for a moment, surprised, before breaking out into a smile, wide and soft and sweet, vermillion stained.

After gathering the juniors like ducklings, they head into town, and Wei Wuxian keeps tugging them aside to look at stalls in the marketplace, nagging at them to eat more food and buy souvenirs for their friends and families.

“Why are you so frivolous!! You’re so embarrassing!” Jin Ling huffs, red faced and embarrassed that Wei Wuxian is currently trying to shove some tanghulu into his hands.

“Aah, Jin Ling, that’s where you’re wrong!” Wei Wuxian says, brandishing a stick of tanghulu at him. “It’s not frivolous to slow down and enjoy things! It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, there are snacks to eat. You should listen to me! I’m very wise!”

He laughs at the disbelieving looks on all their young faces, and turns to Lan Zhan, who is regarding him with his usual steady stare. He poffers the tanghulu, and Lan Zhan pauses for a moment, before accepting the offering, biting delicately into the candied hawthorn before pulling it off the skewer. He chews thoughtfully, and swallows, and the sight of that pink tongue darting out to lick the remaining sugar off distracts Wei Wuxian into silence.

Lan Zhan hands the skewer back, flicks his gaze up at him, before murmuring, “ Be strict with yourself .”

Wei Wuxian blinks, and vaguely registers Lan Jingyi nodding in agreement with Lan Zhan. But he laughs, and counters airily, “‘ Embrace the entirety of the world ’, Lan Zhan! That was always my favourite rule, you know. After all, how can you fault me! I’ve died once, and am fortunate enough to be here to eat candy and play around.” He smiles, feeling his eyes crinkle, and pops another candied berry into his mouth.

He drinks slowly, now, luxuriating in the feel of smooth liquor on his tongue, the slide of it down his throat. He stops asking Lan Zhan to join him, after the first few times had left his heart pounding and desire pooling in his belly. No, it wouldn’t do to act when Lan Zhan was vulnerable, when he would not remember anything.

He feels like honey, thick and slow-moving. Lan Zhan is a steady presence across the table. He wants-- well, he wants many things. He sits with those feelings for a while, sifting through them like pebbles covered in mud, washing them clean until they are smooth in his hands.

He weighs each desire, thinks about their cost, and whether his heart can take the cost. He thinks of his battered heart, weighed against the steady golden gaze looking at him, always looking at him, and thinks he knows which way the scales tip.

He sets aside the jar, ceramic clinking onto the polished wood of the table. Leans forward, far enough to smell sandalwood and jasmine. He moves slowly, eyes never leaving Lan Zhan, telegraphing his movement enough such that Lan Zhan could easily back up, move away, give his answer therien. But Lan Zhan is still as a rock under a waterfall, worn smooth with patience and time. He looks at him, lips slightly parted and cheeks dusting pink.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathes, the syllables sweet on his tongue.

“Wei Ying.”

Had the sound of his name ever sounded so sweet, so fragile and tender? There is nothing different about the way Lan Zhan says it, Lan Zhan has called his name like this for years, but only now, with his mind clear of resentful energy, clever of all the trappings of his past life, can Wei Wuxian hear the tender regard and warmth that Lan Zhan imbues into the characters of his name. The way his lips catch on Wei , the deep breath at the back of his throat- Ying , I love you , it says, soft and tender. I love you without ever asking for anything back , it says to him.

He finally reaches his destination, hands landing on Lan Zhan to balance himself; the left on his shoulder, the right on his knee. He is warm under his palms, but he does not move, save to shift a little to place his hand near Wei Ying’s right, fingers ghosting the side of his wrist. A steadying presence.

He presses forward, brushes his lips against Lan Zhan’s own, swallows the slight hitch-exhale from him, lips pressing together in earnest now. Lan Zhan’s lips are soft, plush, yielding. Wei Wuxian licks into his mouth, taste joining smell-touch-sight-hearing , five senses to catalogue the entirety of Lan Wangji, mapping out the start and end of his being.

Lan Zhan makes a rough, wounded noise under him, and they shift against each other, finding purchase on the seat, Wei Ying crawling into that firm lap as he pushes himself close.

“Wei Ying,” he gasps, broken and in disarray, fragile hope in his eyes as he glances at him, darting, taking in is eyes, his mouth, looking like he wants to drown in Wei Wuxian.

“Shhh,” he soothes. “I’m here now, I’m alive, I’m alive.”

He repeats that phrase, whispering it into Lan Zhan’s hair, into his skin, into his lips again, an affirmation, confirmation of the impossible made fact. There is proof, evidence, all five senses and the events of this puzzle falling around them to prove that Wei Wuxian is here , cradled in the lap of someone who he lives, who loves him.

Wei Wuxian kisses him, his Lan Zhan, his zhiji, his beloved, and feels like he has come into the world anew, born again for the third time, the fibre of his being pulled apart and knit together into a new configuration that wraps around another.

#mdzs #wangxian #wwx #lwj #fanfic #mdzs fanfiction #cw alcohol

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heart-of-flames · 4 years

Note

Do you have a summary of your old story (what the Space!AU is based off of)? Like, what it was about and what was supposed to happen in it. And do you have some ideas of what MCs character could be? Also, you mentioned a few different planets. Could we get a brief description of them, if it's not too much?

Summary-

A world ravaged by war. A family torn apart because of time. Old wounds left to fester and bleed. Memories left to rot until the veil was lifted.

You were young when the war started. Too young to truly realize what was happening. Too young to comprehend why you saw your father one day and then never saw him again. Too young to understand why your mother clutched at her heart and cried at night. Too young to understand the harsh look in your older brothers normally happy face. Too young to understand know that everything was falling apart.

Until you weren’t...

Until everything was ripped away from you. Your innocence. Your home. Your family.

Your identity...

The only thing you did know was that your life wasn’t supposed to be like this. That it was supposed to be filled with laughter and tears of joy. Not screams and cries of anguish. It was supposed to be wrapped around in warmth and love. Not ice and death.

You knew you were supposed to be at home. With you mother who couldn’t cook to save her life. With your father who always tried to make you laugh. With your brother who always cuddled you when you were scared. You were supposed to be with them. Happy.

Not stuck in this cell with two others. With the only source of light being from the fire. You weren’t supposed to be so scared. You weren’t supposed to be hurt. You weren’t supposed to wish to be home.

You weren’t supposed to stare into the face of ones who had torn your world apart. You weren’t supposed to become their experiment.

You weren’t supposed to become their prodigy.

Even as the years slipped by. After the old scars had healed and you pushed your memories away— the feelings of warmth and love. Giving way to coldness and ice— the very things that surrounded you.

As the memories of your fathers smiling face looking down at you. Of the sound of your mother’s soft voice as she sung you to sleep. Or the feeling of your brothers arms wrapped tightly around you at night after you had a nightmare.

You knew your time was coming.

That one day you would be free. Free to take revenge on the people that had done this to you.

You were going to be exactly what they had designed you to be.

Their cataclysm.

Planets-

Ralliea: A land that is more vertical than it is horizontal. Large cliffs and mountains make up the main floating structures of Ralliea— great waterfalls falling down towards the continets beneath. With various patches of clearings and forests strewn between. This allows for Ralliea to be a treacherous land to travel across unless you’re a native inhabitant. As they have evolved to be better suited to their homelands oddities. The Ommir are a breed of avian-humanoids. With wing types varying from inhabitants. As do the character traits of each vary. While others are more human in appearance, there are some that are like the great sky birds that had given them their home.

Cirilia: On the flip side Cirilia is an oceanic planet. With various land masses dotted throughout. Great cities are strewn throughout the seas of Cirilia. Some of which being suitable for visitors- while others are geared towards the old ways of building. Kept hidden from the sight of any that weren’t the Anair.

Itania: Itania is considered to be one of the most beautiful planets in the known reaches of space. With prosperous fields that boasts the great Sah’oth — the steeds of Itania’s army. To the blooming forests that bring with it the sweet smell of nectar in the summer wind. The great mountain range and crystalline lakes only add to the appeal that Itania holds. The two great suns, Zos and Ro, shining brilliantly across the planet.

Uaria: The closest sister planet to Itania that was within the Zephyrus System. It was mainly a fishing planet— as it boasted beautiful bodies of water. However, because of its close relations with Itania it was allowed resources that the outlying planets couldn’t receive. In this way it allowed for the children of Uaria to be exposed to things that were outside their planet— more than the average child.

Chaerus: A planet that has people as forthcoming as its seasons. The seasons on Chaerus can never be mistaken and are unrelenting against those that are unprepared. During the fall months the Great Forest of Casleth turns beautiful shades of gold and red. When winter runs through lakes freeze over and the world is cast in white. Spring coming like a beacon of light— of color— against it. Chaerus comes back to life once more as its forest blooms and its fields blossom with flowers. Summer only heightens the effect.

Kithion: A hub for trade and the secrets that come with it. It’s a world that you’ll have to keep your wits about you in. As the jaw dropping landscapes hide the dark underbelly. The capital city, Iq’quin, is a marvel of glass architecture and bustling life around it. One just has to be careful of the knives hidden within the dark. And the hands in your wallet.

Planets Concepts-

Ralliea:

Cirilia:

Itania:

Uaria:

Chaerus:

Kithion:

#heart of flames #old story #space au #planets #anonymous #I hope this is good enough 😅#sorry if I bored you

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ucflibrary · 3 years

Photo

Welcome to Asian Pacific American Heritage Month!

It has been a difficult 14 months for the world, but our Asian American Pacific Islander (AAPI) brothers and sisters have faced even more struggles. From small harassments to intense acts of violence, the AAPI community has borne the brunt of American fears and grief relating to the pandemic. These malicious acts demonstrate as a country we are not living up to the ideals of our nation. As Americans and Knights, we need to demonstrate these ideals are worth fighting for. Actions you can take range from learning more about the AAPI experience and history to using any privilege we have to push back against racism and violence.

One way to learn more about AAPI history and experiences is to visit the Libraries’ Readings on Race guide. This guide includes a page for general information about racism in America and how to have conversations about it to pages specifically addressing the experiences of marginalized communities in the United States such as Asian America Pacific Islander, African American, Hispanic/Latinx, and Indigenous. Take some time to familiarize yourself with lived experiences beyond your own race or ethnicity so we can stand together and become a more inclusive Knight community.

If you witness or experience incidents of discrimination or violence, report them to the university. If any of these incidents have impacted you, UCF has resources that can help. For more information, visit UCF Cares, Student Care Services or UCF Counseling and Psychological Services (CAPS) if you are a student, and the Employee Assistance Program if you are an employee.

For 2021 Asian Pacific American Heritage Month, UCF Libraries faculty and staff have suggested these 20 books from the library’s collection by or about Asian Pacific Americans. Click the link below to see the full list, descriptions, and catalog links. There is also an extensive physical display on the main floor of the John C. Hitt Library near the Research & Information Desk.

A Burning by Megha Majumdar After a fiery attack on a train leaves 104 people dead, the fates of three people become inextricably entangled. Jivan, a bright, striving woman from the slums looking for a way out of poverty, is wrongly accused of planning the attack because of a careless comment on Facebook. PT Sir, a slippery gym teacher from Jivan's former high school, has hitched his aspirations to a rising right wing party, and his own ascent becomes increasingly linked to Jivan's fall. Lovely, a spirited, impoverished, relentlessly optimistic hjira, who harbors dreams of becoming a Bollywood star, can provide the alibi that would set Jivan free - but her appearance in court will have unexpected consequences that will change the course of all of their lives. A novel about fate, power, opportunity, and class; about innocence and guilt, betrayal and love, and the corrosive media cycle that manufactures falsehoods masquerading as truths. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions and Collection Services

American History Unbound: Asians and Pacific Islanders by Gary K. Okihiro A survey of U.S. history from its beginnings to the present, this reveals our past through the lens of Asian American and Pacific Islander history. In so doing, it is a work of both history and anti-history, a narrative that fundamentally transforms and deepens our understanding of the United States. This text is accessible and filled with engaging stories and themes that draw attention to key theoretical and historical interpretations. Gary Y. Okihiro positions Asians and Pacific Islanders within a larger history of people of color in the United States and places the United States in the context of world history and oceanic worlds. Suggested by Sandy Avila, Research & Information Services

American Panda by Gloria Chao A freshman at MIT, seventeen-year-old Mei Lu tries to live up to her Taiwanese parents' expectations, but no amount of tradition, obligation, or guilt prevent her from hiding several truths-- that she is a germaphobe who cannot become a doctor, she prefers dancing to biology, she decides to reconnect with her estranged older brother, and she is dating a Japanese boy. Can she find a way to be herself, before her web of lies unravels? Suggested by Pam Jaggernauth, Curriculum Materials Center

Asian American History: a very short introduction by Madeline Y. Hsu Madeline Y. Hsu weaves a fascinating historical narrative of this "American Dream." She shows how Asian American success, often attributed to innate cultural values, is more a result of the immigration laws, which have largely pre-selected immigrants of high economic and social potential. Asian Americans have, in turn, been used by politicians to bludgeon newer (and more populous) immigrant groups for their purported lack of achievement. Hsu deftly reveals how public policy, which can restrict and also selectively promote certain immigrant populations, is a key reason why some immigrant groups appear to be more naturally successful and why the identity of those groups evolves differently from others. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

Eyes That Kiss in the Corners by Joanna Ho A young Asian girl notices that her eyes look different from her peers'. They have big, round eyes and long lashes. She realizes that her eyes are like her mother's, her grandmother's, and her little sister's. They have eyes that kiss in the corners and glow like warm tea, crinkle into crescent moons, and are filled with stories of the past and hope for the future. Drawing from the strength of these powerful women in her life, she recognizes her own beauty and discovers a path to self love and empowerment. This powerful, poetic picture book will resonate with readers of all ages and is a celebration of diversity. Suggested by Pam Jaggernauth, Curriculum Materials Center

Frankly in Love by David Yoon High school senior Frank Li is caught between his parents' traditional expectations and his own Southern California upbringing. His parents have one rule when it comes to romance: ‘Date Korean.’ But Frank falls for Brit Means, who is smart, beautiful-- and white. Joy Song is in a similar predicament, and they make a pact: they'll pretend to date each other in order to gain their freedom. It seems like the perfect plan, until their fake-dating maneuver leaves Frank wondering if he ever really understood love- or himself- at all. Suggested by Pam Jaggernauth, Curriculum Materials Center

Ghosts of Gold Mountain: the epic story of the Chinese who built the Transcontinental Railroad by Gordon H. Chang The long-lost tale of the Chinese workers who built the Transcontinental Railroad, helping to forge modern America only to disappear into the shadows of history. In this groundbreaking book, award-winning historian Gordon H. Chang recovers the stories of these "silent spikes" and returns them to their rightful place in our national saga. Drawing on recent archaeological findings, as well as payroll records, ship manifests, photographs, and other sources from American and Chinese archives, Chang retraces the laborers' odyssey in breathtaking detail. He introduces individual workers, describes their hopes and fears, and shows how they lived, ate, fought, loved, worked, and worshiped. Their sweat and blood not only fueled the ascent of an interlinked, industrial United States, but also laid the groundwork for a thriving Chinese America. A magisterial feat of scholarship and storytelling, this book honors these immigrants' sacrifice and ingenuity, and celebrates their role in this defining American achievement. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

Good Enough by Paul Yoo A Korean American teenager tries to please her parents by getting into an Ivy League college, but a new guy in school and her love of the violin tempt her in new directions. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services

Interior Chinatown by Charles Yu Everyday Willis Wu leaves his tiny room in a Chinatown SRO and enters the Golden Palace restaurant, where Black and White, a procedural cop show, is in perpetual production. He's a bit player here too, but he dreams of being Kung Fu Guy-- and he sees his life as a script. After stumbling into the spotlight, Willis finds himself launched into a wider world than he has ever known, discovering not only the secret history of Chinatown, but the buried legacy of his own family, and what that means for him in today's America. Suggested by Ying Zhang, Administration

Last Witnesses: reflections on the wartime internment of Japanese Americans edited by Erica Harth To the writers in this book - novelists, memoirists, poets, activists, scholars, students, professionals - the World War II internment of Japanese Americans in the detention camps is an unfinished chapter of American history that mars the nostalgic glow that often surrounds the World War II home front years. Former internees, like John Tateishi and Robert Maeda, and children of detainees and of camp officials join with others in challenging readers to construct a better future by confronting this dark episode from America's World War II scrapbook. Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

Minor Feelings: an Asian American reckoning by Cathy Park Hong With sly humor and a poet’s searching mind, Hong uses her own story as a portal into a deeper examination of racial consciousness in America today. This intimate and devastating book traces her relationship to the English language, to shame and depression, to poetry and female friendship. A radically honest work of art, it forms a portrait of one Asian American psyche—and of a writer’s search to both uncover and speak the truth. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services, and Ying Zhang, Administration

Monstress by Marjorie M. Liu Set in an alternate matriarchal 1900's Asia, in a richly imagined world of art deco-inflected steam punk, Liu tells the story of a teenage girl who is struggling to survive the trauma of war, and who shares a mysterious psychic link with a monster of tremendous power, a connection that will transform them both and make them the target of both human and otherworldly powers Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions and Collection Services

Paper Son: the inspiring story of Tyrus Wong, immigrant and artist by Julie Leung An inspiring picture-book biography of animator Tyrus Wong, the Chinese American immigrant responsible for bringing Disney's Bambi to life. Before he became an artist named Tyrus Wong, he was a boy named Wong Geng Yeo. He traveled across a vast ocean from China to America with only a suitcase and a few papers. Not papers for drawing--which he loved to do--but immigration papers to start a new life. Once in America, Tyrus seized every opportunity to make art, eventually enrolling at an art institute in Los Angeles. Working as a janitor at night, his mop twirled like a paintbrush in his hands. Eventually, he was given the opportunity of a lifetime--and using sparse brushstrokes and soft watercolors, Tyrus created the iconic backgrounds of Bambi. Suggested by Megan Haught, Student Learning & Engagement/Research & Information Services

Run Me to Earth by Paul Yoon Alisak, Prany, and Noi--three orphans united by devastating loss - must do what is necessary to survive the perilous landscape of 1960s Laos. When they take shelter in a bombed out field hospital, they meet Vang, a doctor dedicated to helping the wounded at all costs. Soon the teens are serving as motorcycle couriers, delicately navigating their bikes across the fields filled with unexploded bombs, beneath the indiscriminate barrage from the sky. In a world where the landscape and the roads have turned into an ocean of bombs, we follow their grueling days of rescuing civilians and searching for medical supplies, until Vang secures their evacuation on the last helicopters leaving the country. It's a move with irrevocable consequences--and sets them on disparate and treacherous paths across the world. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions and Collection Services

Searching for Sylvie Lee: a novel by Jean Kwok A poignant and suspenseful drama that untangles the complicated ties binding three women--two sisters and their mother--in one Chinese immigrant family and explores what happens when the eldest daughter disappears, and a series of family secrets emerge. Sylvie, the beautiful, brilliant, successful older daughter of the Lee family, flies to the Netherlands for one final visit with her dying grandmother-- and vanishes. Amy is too young to remember a time when her parents were newly immigrated and too poor to keep Sylvie, who was raised by a distant relative in a faraway, foreign place. Amy flies to the last place Sylvie was seen, retracing her sister's movements. It seems Sylvie kept painful secrets that reveal more about Amy's family than she ever could have imagined. Suggested by Rachel Mulvihill, Downtown Library

Somewhere Only We Know by Maurene Goo Told from two viewpoints, teens Lucky, a very famous K-pop star, and Jack, a part-time paparazzo who is trying to find himself, fall for each other against the odds through the course of one stolen day. Suggested by Pam Jaggernauth, Curriculum Materials Center

Strangers from a Different Shore: a history of Asian Americans by Ronald Takaki In an extraordinary blend of narrative history, personal recollection, and oral testimony, the author presents a sweeping history of Asian Americans. He writes of the Chinese who laid tracks for the transcontinental railroad, of plantation laborers in the canefields of Hawaii, of "picture brides" marrying strangers in the hope of becoming part of the American dream. He tells stories of Japanese Americans behind the barbed wire of U.S. internment camps during World War II, Hmong refugees tragically unable to adjust to Wisconsin's alien climate and culture, and Asian American students stigmatized by the stereotype of the “model minority.” Suggested by Richard Harrison, Research & Information Services

The Island of Sea Women by Lisa See This beautiful, thoughtful novel illuminates a world turned upside down, one where the women are in charge, engaging in dangerous physical work, and the men take care of the children. A classic Lisa See story—one of women’s friendships and the larger forces that shape them—this book introduces readers to the fierce and unforgettable female divers of Jeju Island and the dramatic history that shaped their lives. Suggested by Sandy Avila, Research & Information Services

What We Carry: a memoir by Maya Shanbhag Lang Lang grew up idolizing her brilliant mother, an accomplished psychologist who immigrated to the United States from India, completed her residency and earned an American medical degree while nurturing young children and keeping a traditional Indian home. Her mother's stories motivated her, encouraged her, offered solace when she needed it. When Lang becomes a mother herself, her mother becomes a grandmother who is cold and distant. Reexamining the stories of her childhood, Lang realized that being able to accept both myth and reality is what has finally brought her into adulthood Suggested by Ying Zhang, Administration

Your House Will Pay by Steph Cha In the wake of the police shooting of a black teenager, Los Angeles is as tense as it's been since the unrest of the early 1990s. But Grace Park and Shawn Matthews have their own problems. Grace is sheltered and largely oblivious, living in the Valley with her Korean-immigrant parents, working long hours at the family pharmacy. Shawn has already had enough of politics and protest after an act of violence shattered his family years ago. But when another shocking crime hits LA, both the Park and Matthews families are forced to face down their history while navigating the tumult of a city on the brink of more violence. Suggested by Sara Duff, Acquisitions and Collection Services

#ucf library #asian pacific american heritage month #aapi #booklr #reading list

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maddie-grove · 4 years

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The Top Twenty Books I Read in 2020

My main takeaways:

I’m glad that I set certain reading goals this year (i.e., reading an even mix of different genres and writing about each book I read on this tumblr). I feel like it really expanded my horizons.

There are a lot of proper names on my Top 20 list this year, which possibly means something about identity? That, or I just tried to read more Victorian novels.

Be horny, and be kind.

Now...

20. The White Mountains by John Christopher (1967)

In a world ruled by unseen creatures who roam the countryside in tall metal tripods, all humans are “capped” (surgically fitted with metal plates on their heads) at age fourteen. Thirteen-year-old Will Parker looks forward to becoming a man, but a conversation with a mysterious visitor to his village raises a few doubts. This early YA dystopia has gorgeous world-building (notably a trip to the ruins of Paris) and expert pacing. The choices Will has to make are also more surprising and complicated than I ever anticipated.

19. What Happened at Midnight by Courtney Milan (2013)

John Mason wants revenge on his fiancée Mary after she skips town following her father’s death...apparently with the funds that her father, John’s business partner, embezzled from their company. When he tracks her down, though, she’s working as a lady’s companion to the wife of a controlling gentleman who refuses to pay her wages, and John’s fury turns to sympathy and curiosity. This is a smart, well-plotted Victorian-set novella about a couple who builds a better relationship after a rocky start.

18. Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes (1943)

It’s 1773, and fourteen-year-old Bostonian Johnny Tremain has it all: a promising apprenticeship to a silversmith, the run of his arguably senile master’s household, and...unresolved grief over his widowed mother’s death? When a workplace “accident” ruins his hand and career, though, he must “forge” a new identity. Despite its jingoism and surfeit of historical exposition, I fell in love with this weird early YA novel. It’s a fascinating, heartbreaking portrayal of disability and ableism, and, to be fair, Forbes was just jazzed about fighting the Nazis.

17. Something Happened to Ali Greenleaf by Hayley Krischer (2020)

After universally beloved jock Sean Nessel rapes starry-eyed junior Ali Greenleaf at a party, his queen-bee friend Blythe Jensen agrees to smooth things over by befriending his victim. Ali knows Blythe’s motives are weird and sketchy, but being friends with a popular, exciting girl is preferable to dealing with the fallout of the rape. This YA novel is a complex, astute exploration of trauma and moral responsibility.

16. The Color of Law by Richard Rothstein (2017)

Rothstein details how the federal U.S. government allowed, encouraged, and sometimes even forcibly brought about segregation of black and white Americans during the early and mid-twentieth century, with no regard for the unconstitutionality of its actions. He brings home the staggering harm to black Americans who were kept from living in decent housing, shut out of home ownership for generations, and denied the opportunity to accumulate wealth for generations. It’s an impactful read, and I was honestly shocked to learn Rothstein isn’t a lawyer, because the whole thing reads like an expansion of an excellent closing statement.

15. My Friend Dahmer by Derf Backderf (2012)

In this graphic memoir, Backderf looks back on his casual, fleeting friendship with future serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer, a high school classmate who amused Backderf and his geeky friends with bizarre, chaotic antics. Backderf brings their huge, impersonal high school to life, illustrating how the callousness and cruelty of such an environment allowed an isolated, troubled teen to morph into something much more disturbing without anyone really noticing. It’s a work of baffled, tentative empathy and regret that stayed with me long after I finished it.

14. Daniel Deronda by George Eliot (1876)

Gwendolyn Harleth, beautiful and ambitious but with no real outlet, finds herself compelled to marry a heartless gentleman with a shady past. Daniel Deronda, adopted son of her husband’s uncle, finds himself drawn into her orbit due to his helpful nature, but he’s also dealing with a lot of other stuff, like helping a Jewish opera singer and figuring out his parentage. I love George Eliot and, although this bifurcated novel isn’t her most accessible work, it’s highly rewarding. The psychological twists and turns of Gwendolyn’s story are a wonder to experience, and Daniel’s discovery of his past and a new community is moving.

13. The Plot Against America by Philip Roth (2004)

The Roths, an ordinary working-class Jewish family in 1940 Newark, find their quiet lives descending into fear, uncertainty, and strife after Charles Lindbergh, celebrity pilot and Nazi sympathizer, becomes president of the United States. This alternate history/faux-memoir perfectly captures the slow creep of fascism and the high-handed cruelty of state-sanctioned discrimination, as well as the weirdness of living a semi-normal life while all of that is going on. Also: fuck Herman and Alvin for messing up Bess’s coffee table! She is a queen, and she deserves to read Pearl S. Buck in a pleasant setting!

12. David Copperfield by Charles Dickens (1850)

Young David Copperfield has an idyllic life with his sweet widowed mom and devoted nursemaid Peggotty, until his cruel stepfather ruins everything. David eventually manages to find safe harbor with his eccentric aunt, but his troubles have only begun. Although the quality of the novel falls off a little once David becomes an adult, I don’t even care; the first half is one of the most beautiful, funny, brilliantly observed portrayals of the joys and sorrows of childhood that I’ve ever read.

11. The Rise and Fall of Adam and Eve by Stephen Greenblatt (2017)

Greenblatt examines the evolution and cultural significance of the story of Adam and Eve from the Bible to the modern day (but mostly it’s about Milton). I can’t speak to the scholarship of this book--I’m not an expert on the Bible or Milton or bonobos--but I do know that it’s a gorgeously written meditation on love, mortality, and free will. Greenblatt brought me a lot of joy as an unhappy teenager, and he came through for me again during the summer of 2020.

10. The Music of What Happens by Bill Konigsberg (2019)

Self-conscious seventeen-year-old Jordan is mortified when his widowed mother hires Max, an outgoing jock from his school, to help out with their struggling food truck. As they get to know each other, though, they realize that they have more in common than they thought, and they end up helping each other through a particularly challenging summer. This is an endearing, exceedingly well-balanced YA romance that tackles serious issues with a light touch and a naturalness that’s rare in the genre.

9. Red as Blood by Tanith Lee (1983)

In nine wonderfully lurid stories, Tanith Lee retells fairy tales with a dark, historically grounded, and lady-centered twist. Highlights include a medieval vampiric Snow White, a vengeful early modern Venetian Cinderella, and a Scandinavian werewolf Little Red Riding Hood. Fairy tale retellings are right up my alley, and Lee’s collection is impressively varied and creative.

8. A Room with a View by E.M. Forster (1908)

Unnerved by an impulsive make-out session with egalitarian George Emerson on a trip to Florence, young Edwardian woman Lucy Honeychurch goes way too far the other way and gets engaged to snobbish Cecil Vyse. How can she get out of this emotional and social pickle? This is an absolutely delightful romance that gave a timeless template for romantic comedies and dramas for 100-plus years.

7. My Ántonia by Willa Cather (1918)

Jim Burden, a New York City lawyer, tells the story of his friendship with slightly older Bohemian immigrant girl Ántonia when they were kids together on the late-nineteenth-century Nebraska prairie. It was a pretty pleasant time, give or take a few murders, suicides, and attempted rapes. This is one of the sweetest stories about unrequited love I’ve ever read, and it has some really enjoyable queer subtext.

6. Mister Death’s Blue-Eyed Girls by Mary Downing Hahn (2012)

In 1956 Maryland, gawky teen Nora’s peaceful existence is shattered by the unsolved murder of her friends Cheryl and Bobbi Jo right before summer vacation. Essentially left to deal with her trauma alone, she begins to question everything, from her faith in God to the killer’s real identity. Hahn delivers a beautiful coming-of-age story along with a thoughtful portrait of how a small community responds to tragedy.

5. The Lais of Marie de France by Marie de France, with translation and introduction/notes by Robert Herring and Joan Ferrante (original late 12th century, edition 1995)

In twelve narrative poems, anonymous French-English noblewoman Marie de France spins fantastically weird tales of love, lust, and treachery. Highlights include self-driving ships, gay (?) werewolves, and more plot-significant birds than you can shake a stick at. Marie de France brings so much tenderness, delicacy, and startling humor to her stories, offering a wonderful window to the distant past.

4. Maus by Art Spiegelman (1980-1991)

In this hugely influential graphic novel/memoir, Art Spiegelman tells the story of how his Polish Jewish parents survived the Holocaust. He portrays all the characters as anthropomorphic animals; notably, the Jewish characters are mice and the Nazi Germans are cats. I read the first volume of Maus back in 2014 and, while I appreciated and enjoyed it, I didn’t get the full impact until I read both volumes together early in 2020. Spiegelman takes an intensely personal approach to his staggering subject matter, telling the story through the lens of his fraught relationship with his charismatic and affectionate, yet truly difficult father.

3. At the Dark End of the Street by Danielle L. McGuire (2010)

McGuire looks at a seldom-explored aspect of racism in the Jim Crow South (the widespread rape and sexual harassment of black women by white men) and the essential role of anti-rape activism led by black women during the Civil Rights movement. This is a harrowing yet tastefully executed history, and it’s also a truly inspirational story of collective activism.

2. In for a Penny by Rose Lerner (2010)

Callow Lord Nevinstoke has to mature fast when his father dies, leaving him an estate hampered by debts and extremely legitimate grievances from angry tenant farmers. To obtain the necessary funds, he marries (usually!) sensible brewing heiress Penelope Brown, but they face problems that not even a sizable cash infusion can fix. This is a refreshingly political romance with a deliciously tense atmosphere and fascinating themes, as well as an almost painfully engaging central relationship.

1. Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (1814)

Fanny Price, the shy and sickly poor relation of the wealthy Bertram family, is subtly mistreated by most of her insecure and/or self-absorbed relatives, with the exception of her kind cousin Edmund. When the scandalous Crawford siblings visit the neighborhood, though, it shakes up her life for good and ill. I put off reading Mansfield Park for years--it’s practically the last bit of Austen writing that I consumed, including most of her juvenilia--and yet I think it’s my favorite. Fanny is an eminently lovable and interesting heroine, self-doubting and flawed yet possessed of a strong moral core, and the rest of the characters are equally realistic and compelling. Austen really made me think about the point of being a good person, both on a personal and a global scale.

#books #reading #rape #racism #genocide #murder #(it was a more cheerful reading year than these tags indicate)#(or was it? i don't know)

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precious-whumps · 4 years

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a rokka no yuusha/braves of the six flowers whump summary

hey all, i didn’t know there was such a thing as whumplr until recently. my excitement is immeasurable and my day is made, and i thought it’d be fun to join the community with this offering~

i see that y’all know about rokka and gif the boy a lot, but it seems like most don’t even know about anything that came after the anime. i was so obsessed with the characters and the story that i purchased the light novels and was not disappointed — at least on the whump front. the books are kinda pricey since barnes and noble was the only retailer i found that had it and the author never continued after volume 6, so if you happened to want to know the whumpy details, i’ve got them for you right c’here.

be warned though! there’s major spoilers from this, not limited to the identity of the seventh and the climax to the first (lol only...) main conflict since context, at least for me, adds everything to the moment. i also don’t have the books with me, so the descriptions here are just off the top of my head. small plot details might be wrong. once i get my books out of storage, i’m happy to post excerpts if anyone’s interested in that :)

alrighty so vol 2 picks up right after the end of the anime. the braves make it into the howling vilelands (book translation, i can’t remember what they called it in the anime), but they’re soon accosted by tgurneu. adlet has this spike thing with crystallized saint blood on the tip. after some desperate fighting and help from hans and mora, he manages to get close enough to stab tgurneu with it. the beautiful dumbass just stands there though, watching, waiting for that sweet sweet vengeance. tgurneu looks up at him and says, “are you seriously trying to kill me?” then, lightning fast and with inhuman strength, he punches adlet square in the face. the hit fractures his skull, knocking him out instantly, and sends him flying into the woods. he rolls and hits a tree i think. fremy screams for him :’c

mora gets to him first. i definitely remember that she feels his neck for breaks. it might have been my imaginings, but i’m pretty sure she pulls his arm across her shoulder and carries him in a semicircle around tgurneu who hasn’t died yet. hans comes up and takes adlet from her, saying he’ll get everyone to the next checkpoint which is a cave that has a special protective barrier the saint of the single flower made however long ago it was. he runs with both adlet and chamo (who’s been poisoned) on his shoulders all the way there. tough kitty. the others catch up eventually ‘cause they were dealing with more fiends attacking them and having trust arguments with each other, fremy and mora specifically with fremy ending it by outright saying that she’s worried about adlet. at the cave, they’ve laid him down by the spring, and mora heals him with the power of the mountain since bones aren’t rolonia’s forte. he’s still unconscious for a few more hours, until evening i think. she notes his resilience when he wakes up.

this volume also introduced me to the joys of hans whump..he gets my absolute favorite kind here. it’s revealed that tgurneu got to mora some years before, threatening to murder her young daughter if she doesn’t kill “at least one brave.” but she’s smart and dedicated, so she recruited rolonia, trained her to be both a strong enough fighter to be chosen as a brave, but also to be an insanely powerful healer too, because mora’s plan is to kill a brave to free the daughter but then immediately have rolonia resurrect them. she’d decided to use adlet since he was both healthy (had the best chances of being revived) and the easiest for her to deal with (lol), but there’s a hiccup in her attempt to separate him from the group. she ends up with hans instead because he sensed something was fishy, wanted to scope the situation out himself. it’s too late to fix it, so she fights her little heart out with him, finally managing to get a solid, heavy punch to his chest, stopping his own heart. she collapses from the licks he got on her and has to drag herself to his body. she pricks his jugular, all the while rolonia’s freaking out cause she wasn’t in on the plan, and the rest of the team swarms them. mora just yells at rolonia to pump hans’ spilled blood until his heart starts up again even as the others are yelling at her, believing she’s the seventh. i think adlet gathers the situation a bit and kneels by hans’ side across from rolonia, asks her if she needs him to do anything. i don’t remember the dialogue exchange, i just know that he’s holding hans as he comes back to life, and the poor guy, this hardened, i-ain’t-scare-of-no-things assassin, touches his neck where he was pricked, then starts screaming from the realization that he was dead. i love it. i’m so unbelievably salty we didn’t at least get the second season for this scene alone.

oh i also remember a flashback scene from when adlet met rolonia on atro’s mountain, it might’ve been in this book. it was one night, after a long day of struggling just to get nowhere with his training, he lamented that he was born a man, meaning he could never be a saint and have the power he needed to get revenge for his village. rolonia had her own issues at the time too, mainly that she didn’t want to be a saint, so the two ended up sobbing together all night.

vol 3 didn’t have a whole lot of…anything really. it was mostly goldov’s backstory (he takes a beating, i think, with nashe by his side for a little bit while he’s recovering) and the braves running around in circles like idiots trying to find nashetania. she loses her arm *shrug*. i guess i can say this one was important since it was showing the first signs of adlet’s strong man veneer cracking. boy’s getting stressed out by this whole leadership thing.

vol 4 also didn’t have much physical whump, but the emotional is pretty nice. it’s actually my fave in the series because it made me cry ;-;

the braves push deeper into the vilelands and come across the ruins of human villages. now, there’s a fiend with the special ability to implant parasites into the brain stem of humans and control them. they can still be ‘alive’ even after they should be dead, like this small army of zombies have long since starved to death, but their minds are sort of still there. and one of them just so happens to be adlet’s childhood friend rainer, the kid that he thought died with his sister. rainer heard information from the fiends that he knows the braves need, so most of the book is him trying find a way to tell them. he’s not able to until the very end as he’s lying in the woods, dying for real and singing a song from their village because it’s the last thing he can think of. he sort of recognizes adlet, saying, “you look like someone i know,” just before he’s gone. hans tells adlet it’s okay to cry if he needs to, and he’s all, ‘no i’m fine, we need to go.’ he takes a few steps away then stops and says, “actually, hold on,” then “presses his face to a tree trunk and weeps.”

vol 5…i gotta admit, i honestly don’t remember this one very well. adlet gets “beat to a bloody pulp,” but i can’t visualize it since some of the plot was hard to follow, and he’s honestly had worse already so i was barely registering it. the braves suspect him again of being the seventh, and real evidence comes forth showing that he likely is, and fremy tries to kill herself to protect the braves? like it’s just a big dramatic thing. so it’s kinda half revealed that tgurneu, who ~somehow~ still isn’t dead, has some kind of control over adlet involving ~the power of looove~, and it’s starting to be more clear that he has an unnatural compulsion to protect fremy. so like, yeah, he’s having to do a bunch of shit to stop her from killing herself, stop the braves from trying to help her with that, and stop them from suspecting him. i think fremy shoots him in the leg? i legitimately cannot recall. i do remember that he finally manages to craft a lie that convinces them that hans is the seventh and that fremy doesn’t have to kill herself, that her death might actually hurt them. she’s kneeling on the ground for some reason, he runs over to her, just stands there again looking at her, asks if she’s okay. she feels bad about him being injured and gently places her hands on his torso to keep him steady. it’s a super sweet image to me, yeet. he drinks some potion thing goldov uses to keep pain at bay with the warning that he’ll “be in hell once it wears off.” that’s all i got for this one, sorry >.<

and finally vol 6. it’s fully revealed that yeah, tgurneu is mind controlling him to love fremy so that she can fulfill her engineered purpose (she wasn’t aware of it. she’s such a brilliant, sweet girl, i love her so much), which is to drain the magic from the braves’ crests while they’re in the vilelands. of course, this will kill them as soon as the protection from the land’s poison is gone. so adlet’s for sure the seventh but he never knew it until now (or he didn’t accept it, i think he did realize it back in 5). his entire life was manipulated for this scenario. most of his POV in the book is his mental breakdown dealing with all of this. like he tries to force himself to stop loving fremy and being willing to betray his friends and destroy the world for her, but he just can’t shake the control, making him cry again from the stress.

at some point, he and hans are cornered by tgurneu’s special forces. they’d reverted to enemies after the previous book’s shenanigans but when hans realizes what’s going on in adlet’s head, he feels bad for him. adlet doesn’t do much fighting, leaving hans to deal with it. “not an inch of his skin is clean of blood” as this fight goes on. later, to keep adlet from causing any problems, tgurneu has one of the big fiends swallow him. he’s stuck in there a good while with its weird prehensile organ cinched around his throat and the potion wearing off.

finally towards the end with the rest of the braves coming to the rescue, he finds the will to escape and attack tgurneu, thanks to some clever situation-manipulation by mora once again.

a good slash to hans’ gut takes him out. adlet holds him again for a minute before chamo has one of her swamp fiends also swallow him for safe keeping lol.

oh i should probably mention that the prologue for this one showed a younger adlet still in training with atro. he’s told to ‘surprise me or gtfo’ because up to this point, he’s shown zero promise or skill, relying only on his need for vengeance. this is when he’s first given the saint blood spike, and it’s also shown that this was when the love spell took effect - a dream about a girl he doesn’t know but wants to protect at all costs. he has to figure out how to use the weapon in a way that no fiend would see coming. so he holds it up and stabs his own chest.

now back to his final battle with tgurneu. he conveniently had two spikes only, used one already that didn’t work because tgurneu is actually a fig-tree thing that controls any fiend that like..vores him, so the saint blood only killed his meatsuit before (he’s now in a large bird-like one). adlet knows he won’t get another lucky stab in, so he lets tgurneu rip his stomach open. he slips the crystal from the second spike into the wound, then grabs tgurneu by the face. his now toxic non-saint blood bubbles up into his throat. tgurneu, ridiculous fool that he is, can only watch dumbfounded as adlet pries his beak open and spits a mouthful of that blood into him. it reaches the fig portion of his body, killing the new meatsuit and forcing him to retreat. he’s helpless like this. adlet only has to go pick him up, tear the fruit-body apart to reach the fiend’s core. adlet stands there, holding the core in his palm. it’s occurring to him that everything he’s become is about to be gone because the love spell was the only reason he became the strongest man in the world. then he crushes the core and collapses, half dead.

fremy goes to him and tries to treat his wounds, but his blood burns her hands. the fiend army is still bearing down on them, so she wraps him in her cloak and carries him on her back herself to the next safe zone. at some point, he wakes up a little bit while they’re still running. his mind is so scrambled, and he feels an indescribable terror that knocks him back out. five hours pass, and when he wakes up to the others arguing about what they should do with him, he finds that he doesn’t feel anything for fremy anymore. he looks at her sitting next to him, says her name like three times, but he can’t summon back that love he felt so strongly.

hans is just in the background sleeping off the second healing session he must’ve had with rolonia. everyone’s pretty worn to the bone.

and that’s basically it. there’s cliffhanger plot stuff that i’m sad i’ll probably never see developed further. oof not to mention the destruction of adlet’s character and his romance with fremy. i can only assume yamagata-sensei intended to rebuild it in the next arc considering tgurneu truly believed that adlet’s capable of achieving the impossible. but yeah, i’ll compile some excerpts for y’all when i can xx

#rokka no yuusha #whumplr #anime whump #temporary death #evil influence #concussion #emotional whump #self sacrifice #stabbed #otp #&#brotp #worry

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