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acelessthan3 · 10 months

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He bought me rowing stamps for my letters 😍

#like i know it's such a small gesture but the way this makes me want to marry this man...#acelessthan3 #stamps #epistolary love

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bookshelf-in-progress · 2 months

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A Wise Pair of Fools: A Retelling of “The Farmer’s Clever Daughter”

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge.

Faith

I wish you could have known my husband when he was a young man. How you would have laughed at him! He was so wonderfully pompous—oh, you’d have no idea unless you’d seen him then. He’s weathered beautifully, but back then, his beauty was bright and new, all bronze and ebony. He tried to pretend he didn’t care for personal appearances, but you could tell he felt his beauty. How could a man not be proud when he looked like one of creation’s freshly polished masterpieces every time he stepped out among his dirty, sweaty peasantry?

But his pride in his face was nothing compared to the pride he felt over his mind. He was clever, even then, and he knew it. He’d grown up with an army of nursemaids to exclaim, “What a clever boy!” over every mildly witty observation he made. He’d been tutored by some of the greatest scholars on the continent, attended the great universities, traveled further than most people think the world extends. He could converse like a native in fifteen living languages and at least three dead ones.

And books! Never a man like him for reading! His library was nothing to what it is now, of course, but he was making a heroic start. Always a book in his hand, written by some dusty old man who never said in plain language what he could dress up in words that brought four times the work to some lucky printer. Every second breath he took came out as a quotation. It fairly baffled his poor servants—I’m certain to this day some of them assume Plato and Socrates were college friends of his.

Well, at any rate, take a man like that—beautiful and over-educated—and make him king over an entire nation—however small—before he turns twenty-five, and you’ve united all earthly blessings into one impossibly arrogant being.

Unfortunately, Alistair’s pomposity didn’t keep him properly aloof in his palace. He’d picked up an idea from one of his old books that he should be like one of the judge-kings of old, walking out among his people to pass judgment on their problems, giving the inferior masses the benefit of all his twenty-four years of wisdom. It’s all right to have a royal patron, but he was so patronizing. Just as if we were all children and he was our benevolent father. It wasn’t strange to see him walking through the markets or looking over the fields—he always managed to look like he floated a step or two above the common ground the rest of us walked on—and we heard stories upon stories of his judgments. He was decisive, opinionated. Always thought he had a better way of doing things. Was always thinking two and ten and twelve steps ahead until a poor man’s head would be spinning from all the ways the king found to see through him. Half the time, I wasn’t sure whether to fear the man or laugh at him. I usually laughed.

So then you can see how the story of the mortar—what do you mean you’ve never heard it? You could hear it ten times a night in any tavern in the country. I tell it myself at least once a week! Everyone in the palace is sick to death of it!

Oh, this is going to be a treat! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a fresh audience?

It happened like this. It was spring of the year I turned twenty-one. Father plowed up a field that had lain fallow for some years, with some new-fangled deep-cutting plow that our book-learned king had inflicted upon a peasantry that was baffled by his scientific talk. Father was plowing near a river when he uncovered a mortar made of solid gold. You know, a mortar—the thing with the pestle, for grinding things up. Don’t ask me why on earth a goldsmith would make such a thing—the world’s full of men with too much money and not enough sense, and housefuls of servants willing to take too-valuable trinkets off their hands. Someone decades ago had swiped this one and apparently found my father’s farm so good a hiding place that they forgot to come back for it.

Anyhow, my father, like the good tenant he was, understood that as he’d found a treasure on the king’s land, the right thing to do was to give it to the king. He was all aglow with his noble purpose, ready to rush to the palace at first light to do his duty by his liege lord.

I hope you can see the flaw in his plan. A man like Alistair, certain of his own cleverness, careful never to be outwitted by his peasantry? Come to a man like that with a solid gold mortar, and his first question’s going to be…?

That’s right. “Where’s the pestle?”

I tried to tell Father as much, but he—dear, sweet, innocent man—saw only his simple duty and went forth to fulfill it. He trotted into the king’s throne room—it was his public day—all smiles and eagerness.

Alistair took one look at him and saw a peasant tickled to death that he was pulling a fast one on the king—giving up half the king’s rightful treasure in the hopes of keeping the other half and getting a fat reward besides.

Alistair tore into my father—his tongue was much sharper then—taking his argument to pieces until Father half-believed he had hidden away the pestle somewhere, probably after stealing both pieces himself. In his confusion, Father looked even guiltier, and Alistair ordered his guard to drag Father off to the dungeons until they could arrange a proper hearing—and, inevitably, a hanging.

As they dragged him to his doom, my father had the good sense to say one coherent phrase, loud enough for the entire palace to hear. “If only I had listened to my daughter!”

Alistair, for all his brains, hadn’t expected him to say something like that. He had Father brought before him, and questioned him until he learned the whole story of how I’d urged Father to bury the mortar again and not say a word about it, so as to prevent this very scene from occurring.

About five minutes after that, I knocked over a butter churn when four soldiers burst into my father’s farmhouse and demanded I go with them to the castle. I made them clean up the mess, then put on my best dress and did up my hair—in those days, it was thick and golden, and fell to my ankles when unbound—and after traveling to the castle, I went, trembling, up the aisle of the throne room.

Alistair had made an effort that morning to look extra handsome and extra kingly. He still has robes like those, all purple and gold, but the way they set off his black hair and sharp cheekbones that day—I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked half-divine, the spirit of judgment in human form. At the moment, I didn’t feel like laughing at him.

Looming on his throne, he asked me, “Is it true that you advised this man to hide the king’s rightful property from him?” (Alistair hates it when I imitate his voice—but isn’t it a good impression?)

I said yes, it was true, and Alistair asked me why I’d done such a thing, and I said I had known this disaster would result, and he asked how I knew, and I said (and I think it’s quite good), that this is what happens when you have a king who’s too clever to be anything but stupid.

Naturally, Alistair didn’t like that answer a bit, but I’d gotten on a roll, and it was my turn to give him a good tongue-lashing. What kind of king did he think he was, who could look at a man as sweet and honest as my father and suspect him of a crime? Alistair was so busy trying to see hidden lies that he couldn’t see the truth in front of his face. So determined not to be made a fool of that he was making himself into one. If he persisted in suspecting everyone who tried to do him a good turn, no one would be willing to do much of anything for him. And so on and so forth.

You might be surprised at my boldness, but I had come into that room not expecting to leave it without a rope around my neck, so I intended to speak my mind while I had the chance. The strangest thing was that Alistair listened, and as he listened, he lost some of that righteous arrogance until he looked almost human. And the end of it all was that he apologized to me!

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather at that! I didn’t faint, but I came darn close. That arrogant, determined young king, admitting to a simple farmer’s daughter that he’d been wrong?

He did more than admit it—he made amends. He let Father keep the mortar, and then bought it from him at its full value. Then he gifted Father the farm where we lived, making us outright landowners. After the close of the day’s hearings, he even invited us to supper with him, and I found that King Alistair wasn’t a half-bad conversational partner. Some of those books he read sounded almost interesting.

For a year after that, Alistair kept finding excuses to come by the farm. He would check on Father’s progress and baffle him with advice. We ran into each other in the street so often that I began to expect it wasn’t mere chance. We’d talk books, and farming, and sharpen our wits on each other. We’d do wordplay, puzzles, tongue-twisters. A game, but somehow, I always thought, some strange sort of test.

Would you believe, even his proposal was a riddle? Yes, an actual riddle! One spring morning, I came across Alistair on a corner of my father's land, and he got down on one knee, confessed his love for me, and set me a riddle. He had the audacity to look into the face of the woman he loved—me!—and tell me that if I wanted to accept his proposal, I would come to him at his palace, not walking and not riding, not naked and not dressed, not on the road and not off it.

Do you know, I think he actually intended to stump me with it? For all his claim to love me, he looked forward to baffling me! He looked so sure of himself—as if all his book-learning couldn’t be beat by just a bit of common sense.

If I’d really been smart, I suppose I’d have run in the other direction, but, oh, I wanted to beat him so badly. I spent about half a minute solving the riddle and then went off to make my preparations.

The next morning, I came to the castle just like he asked. Neither walking nor riding—I tied myself to the old farm mule and let him half-drag me. Neither on the road nor off it—only one foot dragging in a wheel rut at the end. Neither naked nor dressed—merely wrapped in a fishing net. Oh, don’t look so shocked! There was so much rope around me that you could see less skin than I’m showing now.

If I’d hoped to disappoint Alistair, well, I was disappointed. He radiated joy. I’d never seen him truly smile before that moment—it was incandescent delight. He swept me in his arms, gave me a kiss without a hint of calculation in it, then had me taken off to be properly dressed, and we were married within a week.

It was a wonderful marriage. We got along beautifully—at least until the next time I outwitted him. But I won’t bore you with that story again—

You don’t know that one either? Where have you been hiding yourself?

Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that one. Not if it’s your first time. It’s much better the way Alistair tells it.

What time is it?

Perfect! He’s in his library just now. Go there and ask him to tell you the whole thing.

Yes, right now! What are you waiting for?

Alistair

Faith told you all that, did she? And sent you to me for the rest? That woman! It’s just like her! She thinks I have nothing better to do than sit around all day and gossip about our courtship!

Where are you going? I never said I wouldn’t tell the story! Honestly, does no one have brains these days? Sit down!

Yes, yes, anywhere you like. One chair’s as good as another—I built this room for comfort. Do you take tea? I can ring for a tray—the story tends to run long.

Well, I’ll ring for the usual, and you can help yourself to whatever you like.

I’m sure Faith has given you a colorful picture of what I was like as a young man, and she’s not totally inaccurate. I’d had wealth and power and too much education thrown on me far too young, and I thought my blessings made me better than other men. My own father had been the type of man who could be fooled by every silver-tongued charlatan in the land, so I was sensitive and suspicious, determined to never let another man outwit me.

When Faith came to her father’s defense, it was like my entire self came crumbling down. Suddenly, I wasn’t the wise king; I was a cruel and foolish boy—but Faith made me want to be better. That day was the start of my fascination with her, and my courtship started in earnest not long after.

The riddle? Yes, I can see how that would be confusing. Faith tends to skip over the explanations there. A riddle’s an odd proposal, but I thought it was brilliant at the time, and I still think it wasn’t totally wrong-headed. I wasn’t just finding a wife, you see, but a queen. Riddles have a long history in royal courtships. I spent weeks laboring over mine. I had some idea of a symbolic proposal—each element indicating how she’d straddle two worlds to be with me. But more than that, I wanted to see if Faith could move beyond binary thinking—look beyond two opposites to see the third option between. Kings and queens have to do that more often than you’d think…

No, I’m sorry, it is a bit dull, isn’t it? I guess there’s a reason Faith skips over the explanations.

So to return to the point: no matter what Faith tells you, I always intended for her to solve the riddle. I wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t—but I wouldn’t have asked if I’d had the least doubt she’d succeed. The moment she came up that road was the most ridiculous spectacle you’d ever hope to see, but I had never known such ecstasy. She’d solved every piece of my riddle, in just the way I’d intended. She understood my mind and gained my heart. Oh, it was glorious.

Those first weeks of marriage were glorious, too. You’d think it’d be an adjustment, turning a farmer’s daughter into a queen, but it was like Faith had been born to the role. Manners are just a set of rules, and Faith has a sharp mind for memorization, and it’s not as though we’re a large kingdom or a very formal court. She had a good mind for politics, and was always willing to listen and learn. I was immensely proud of myself for finding and catching the perfect wife.

You’re smarter than I was—you can see where I was going wrong. But back then, I didn’t see a cloud in the sky of our perfect happiness until the storm struck.

It seemed like such a small thing at the time. I was looking over the fields of some nearby villages—farming innovations were my chief interest at the time. There were so many fascinating developments in those days. I’ve an entire shelf full of texts if you’re interested—

The story, yes. My apologies. The offer still stands.

Anyway, I was out in the fields, and it was well past the midday hour. I was starving, and more than a little overheated, so we were on our way to a local inn for a bit of food and rest. Just as I was at my most irritable, these farmers’ wives show up, shrilly demanding judgment in a case of theirs. I’d become known for making those on-the-spot decisions. I’d thought it was an efficient use of government resources—as long as I was out with the people, I could save them the trouble of complicated procedures with the courts—but I’d never regretted taking up the practice as heartily as I did in this moment.

The case was like this: one farmer’s horse had recently given birth, and the foal had wandered away from its mother and onto the neighbor’s property, where it laid down underneath an ox that was at pasture, and the second farmer thought this gave him a right to keep it. There were questions of fences and boundaries and who-owed-who for different trades going back at least a couple of decades—those women were determined to bring every past grievance to light in settling this case.

Well, it didn’t take long for me to lose what little patience I had. I snapped at both women and told them that my decision was that the foal could very well stay where it was.

Not my most reasoned decision, but it wasn’t totally baseless. I had common law going back centuries that supported such a ruling. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all. It wasn't as though a single foal was worth so much fuss. I went off to my meal and thought that was the end of it.

I’d forgotten all about it by the time I returned to the same village the next week. My man and I were crossing the bridge leading into the town when we found the road covered by a fishing net. An old man sat by the side of the road, shaking and casting the net just as if he were laying it out for a catch.

“What do you think you’re doing, obstructing a public road like this?” I asked him.

The man smiled genially at me and replied, “Fishing, majesty.”

I thought perhaps the man had a touch of sunstroke, so I was really rather kind when I explained to him how impossible it was to catch fish in the roadway.

The man just replied, “It’s no more impossible than an ox giving birth to a foal, majesty.”

He said it like he’d been coached, and it didn’t take long for me to learn that my wife was behind it all. The farmer’s wife who’d lost the foal had come to Faith for help, and my wife had advised the farmer to make the scene I’d described.

Oh, was I livid! Instead of coming to me in private to discuss her concerns about the ruling, Faith had made a public spectacle of me. She encouraged my own subjects to mock me! This was what came of making a farm girl into a queen! She’d live in my house and wear my jewels, and all the time she was laughing up her sleeve at me while she incited my citizens to insurrection! Before long, none of my subjects would respect me. I’d lose my crown, and the kingdom would fall to pieces—

I worked myself into a fine frenzy, thinking such things. At the time, I thought myself perfectly reasonable. I had identified a threat to the kingdom’s stability, and I would deal with it. The moment I came home, I found Faith and declared that the marriage was dissolved. “If you prefer to side with the farmers against your own husband,” I told her, “you can go back to your father’s house and live with them!”

It was quite the tantrum. I’m proud to say I’ve never done anything so shameful since.

To my surprise, Faith took it all silently. None of the fire that she showed in defending her father against me. Faith had this way, back then, where she could look at a man and make him feel like an utter fool. At that moment, she made me feel like a monster. I was already beginning to regret what I was doing, but it was buried under so much anger that I barely realized it, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to back down so easily from another decision.

After I said my piece, Faith quietly asked if she was to leave the palace with nothing.

I couldn’t reverse what I’d decided, but I could soften it a bit.

“You may take one keepsake,” I told her. “Take the one thing you love best from our chambers.”

I thought I was clever to make the stipulation. Knowing Faith, she’d have found some way to move the entire palace and count it as a single item. I had no doubt she’d take the most expensive and inconvenient thing she could, but there was nothing in that set of rooms I couldn’t afford to lose.

Or so I thought. No doubt you’re beginning to see that Faith always gets the upper hand in a battle of wits.

I kept my distance that evening—let myself stew in resentment so I couldn’t regret what I’d done. I kept to my library—not this one, the little one upstairs in our suite—trying to distract myself with all manner of books, and getting frustrated when I found I wanted to share pieces of them with Faith. I was downright relieved when a maid came by with a tea tray. I drank my usual three cups so quickly I barely tasted them—and I passed out atop my desk five minutes later.

Yes, Faith had arranged for the tea—and she’d drugged me!

I came to in the pink light of early dawn, my head feeling like it had been run over by a military caravan. My wits were never as slow as they were that morning. I laid stupidly for what felt like hours, wondering why my bed was so narrow and lumpy, and why the walls of the room were so rough and bare, and why those infernal birds were screaming half an inch from my open window.

By the time I had enough strength to sit up, I could see that I was in the bedroom of a farmer’s cottage. Faith was standing by the window, looking out at the sunrise, wearing the dress she’d worn the first day I met her. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in golden waves all the way to her ankles. My heart leapt at the sight—her hair was one of the wonders of the world in those days, and I was so glad to see her when I felt so ill—until I remembered the events of the previous day, and was too confused and ashamed to have room for any other thoughts or feelings.

“Faith?” I asked. “Why are you here? Where am I?”

“My father’s home,” Faith replied, her eyes downcast—I think it’s the only time in her life she was ever bashful. “You told me I could take the one thing I loved best.”

Can I explain to you how my heart leapt at those words? There had never been a mind or a heart like my wife’s! It was like the moment she’d come to save her father—she made me feel a fool and feel glad for the reminder. I’d made the same mistake both times—let my head get in the way of my heart. She never made that mistake, thank heaven, and it saved us both.

Do you have something you want to add, Faith, darling? Don’t pretend I can’t see you lurking in the stacks and laughing at me! I’ll get as sappy as I like! If you think you can do it better, come out in the open and finish this story properly!

Faith

You tell it so beautifully, my darling fool boy, but if you insist—

I was forever grateful Dinah took that tea to Alistair. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the loophole in his words—I was so afraid he’d see my ploy coming and stop me. But his wits were so blessedly dull that day. It was like outwitting a child.

When at last he came to, I was terrified. He had cast me out because I’d outwitted him, and now here I was again, thinking another clever trick would make everything well.

Fortunately, Alistair was marvelous—saw my meaning in an instant. Sometimes he can be almost clever.

After that, what’s there to tell? We made up our quarrel, and then some. Alistair brought me back to the palace in high honors—it was wonderful, the way he praised me and took so much blame on himself.

(You were really rather too hard on yourself, darling—I’d done more than enough to make any man rightfully angry. Taking you to Father’s house was my chance to apologize.)

Alistair paid the farmer for the loss of his foal, paid for the mending of the fence that had led to the trouble in the first place, and straightened out the legal tangles that had the neighbors at each others’ throats.

After that, things returned much to the way they’d been before, except that Alistair was careful never to think himself into such troubles again. We’ve gotten older, and I hope wiser, and between our quarrels and our reconciliations, we’ve grown into quite the wise pair of lovestruck fools. Take heed from it, whenever you marry—it’s good to have a clever spouse, but make sure you have one who’s willing to be the fool every once in a while.

Trust me. It works out for the best.

#the bookshelf progresses #fairy tale retellings #inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale challenge #four loves fairy tale challenge 2024 #the farmer's clever daughter #theme: eros #story: complete #this one was *so much fun*#i was grinning throughout the brainstorming process #faith and alistair just *loved* telling me their story #and especially in the first scenes i kept stopping just because i was having so much fun with the lines #maybe it's horribly boring to read but as a writing exercise it was fantastic #i love these two so much #i haven't had this much fun since writing last year's epistolary story

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profoundbondfanfic · 16 days

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Dear Western Red Cedar #2409

Dear Western Red Cedar #2409 by MittenWraith (@mittensmorgul) Rating: Mature Word Count: 63k

For a decade, Dean had been living his dream life in Montana as a national park ranger. When Sam and Eileen followed him there a few years later, he had no idea how to tell them about his side gig as the author of a wildly popular series of novels loosely based on his own experiences. Well, minus the monster hunting. He never expected them to become bestsellers—or potentially a tv series, if his agent could only convince him to out his real identity. While Dean's also writing his latest bestseller on a deadline, a misunderstanding and his own social ineptitude leave him completely cut off, aside from his new pen pal who Dean only knows as Bluebird. Cas had spent the last two years desperate to hold Dean’s attention. Right when he felt they might be getting somewhere, Dean was called away on an emergency. Of course he had to go and lament about his troubles to a random tree, thanks to a distracting plaque inviting the public to participate in a new town project. To his surprise, he seems to hit it off— completely anonymously of course— with Western Red Cedar #2409. Through a ridiculous series of coincidences, it could be the best thing that ever happened to either of them.

The fluffy pining in this one is enough to form its own forest. Park ranger and secret writer Dean and socially inept librarian Cas really shine in this two person love triangle.

They are both so earnest in person and in writing and it's clear early and often that they will be so good together if they just get out of their own way. It was miscommunication with a touch of longing in person combined with a sweet vulnerability when they corresponded that had me wanting to lock them in a room until they figured it out.

This is the perfect comfort fic for when you need some soft pining with a soft landing.

#destiel #fic rec #spring celebration #mature #50k to 100k #au #human setting #modern setting #misunderstandings #librarian!castiel #writer!dean #park ranger!dean #pining!castiel #pining!dean #secret identity #two person love triangle #epistolary #author: mittenwraith #Dear Western Red Cedar 2409

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parvuls · 10 months

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I know I keep dropping random au ideas everywhere like a trail of breadcrumbs, but listen, I just had this thought:

bitty is a single dad to a six-year-old kid. and this kid is, uh, bitty's kid? and therefore has big brown eyes and an adorable little nose and also killer adhd. it was honestly a constant battle to get them to work on their writing/reading skills through first grade.

but that summer the kid goes to summer camp for the first time, and comes back smiley and sun-burnt and telling bitty all about mr. z, who is apparently now one of their favorite people and also somehow got bitty's kid to sit down and read at camp. possibly by using magic, because bitty has certainly tried bribe before (to no avail).

so when bitty's kid begs him for help writing letters to mr. z over the school year... well. it's in bitty's best parenting interest to say yes, isn't it?

#omgcheckplease #omgcp #zimbits #jack and bitty becoming pen pals through bitty's kid is not something I knew would take over my evening. but here we are #seriously if I had a nickle for every au I posted here for nothing but my own amusement I'd be RICH #if only I had the time to turn them into fics ahhhh #y'all KNOW how much I love epistolary #text #prompts #jack x bitty

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wangxianficrecs · 4 months

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💙 Between the Lines by Witch_Nova221

💙 Between The Lines

by Witch_Nova221 (@witchnova221)

M, 153k, Wangxian

Summary: As Wei Wuxian walks a lonely road, he writes frequently to Lan Wangji in Cloud Recesses, unable to receive a reply as he moves from place to place. When fate forces him to remain in place for longer than anticipated, his friend is finally able to reply. With a page and distance between them, words come easier and slowly they come to an understanding of their feelings for each other. When Lan Wangji receives an unexpected letter from Wei Wuxian's hosts though, his hopes of a future for the pair of them is shattered. Refusing to give up, Lan Wangji makes a journey and learns to read between the lines of the story he has been told. Kay's comments: This story. THIS STORY. I was reading it when it first came and out and I have found myself re-reading it frequently, because I like to hurt myself. No worries, there's a happy ending, but... BUT! There's going to be a part in this story where you won't believe that a happy end is truly coming, but it is coming, I promise. It follows The Untamed canon, with Lan Wangji becoming Chief Cultivator and Wei Wuxian travelling and then they start exchanging letters and they confess~ Very sweet, if it wasn't for the heavy angst (which I also love and live for.) And also, impecable found family vibes in this one <3 It starts with as an epistolary but not the entire story is written as an exchange of letters. Excerpt: I do hope you will find time to send a line or two, even if it is just to let me know that you are all well. I keep you all in my thoughts and in my prayers if I ever do pass a shrine that calls to me. Think of your old friend won’t you. I think of you often. As always, I hope you are safe and well and happy. Oh and I shall fathom another guess, as I do every letter, of the title of your song. Today I think it works along the lines of 'ode to a ridiculous boy who is daft enough to get half chewed upon by an ancient tortoise'. Am I close yet? Will you tell me if I have already guessed it in my other letters? I look forward to knowing when I finally get it right. Faithfully yours Wei Wuxian

pov alternating, post-canon, post-the untamed, the untamed compliant, chief cultivator lan wangji, epistolary, letters, love letters, developing relationship, eventual romance, getting together, love confessions, long-distance relationship, families of choice, angst, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, lan wangji/wei wuxian get a happy ending, heavy angst, cultivation sect politics, podfic available

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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cocrante · 5 days

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What if—

After the event in Sumeru, Kaveh decided, somewhat regretfully, to leave for a while to study other things, to explore other places, and "a month" turned into months and then a year.

In the meantime, he sent letters to al-Haitham. All beautiful, all energetic, sometimes a bit melancholic— accompanied by many lovely drawings of the things he saw: statues, exotic flowers, animals.

But he never told him about the dangers he sometimes encountered; often it was a peaceful journey, other times a bit less so.

He knew Haitham was worried about him, but he didn't want to make him even more anxious. But when his return was imminent ~♡ in his last letter, he had written to wait for him, he couldn't wait to be back in his arms.

#maybe #📌 : wip #would love writing an epistolary ff ;;#maybe when i will be free from other works :( ?#kavetham #haikaveh #genshin impact

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wordsinhaled · 2 years

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Have you considered the unwritten extremely affectionate letters that regency Hob has unwittingly left in Lucienne’s library?

oh god—anon, no, i had not previously considered this but now i can think of nothing else

how many letters did hob actually write and destroy and are they there too? are they written in faded crimson ink that made hob think of his stranger’s ruby when he saw it in the shop?

in lucienne’s library are the letters bound in a book or are they a little bundle of actual parchment letters still folded into squares and tied together with a ribbon?

i die

can you fucking imagine!!!!

Dearest My own

Dear nameless Stranger:

First, I must endeavor to impress upon you how wretched I feel in the very writing of this Letter, for it is true that we have never before uttered such words as these to each other, and indeed I have but little cause to hope that the wholly untoward affections herein expressed shall ever be returned by you. I am consoled only in the knowledge that I will soon fling this paper onto the fire presently burning in my study, banishing my sentiments once again to the realm of Fantasy where they rightfully belong...

It is seventy-two years to the day until our next meeting, dear Stranger, and I have sustained myself all these long years since our last with the most earnest and fanciful hope that I might one day yet unburden myself to you and be absolved of this monstruous longing. I am a different man; I am certain you shall not recognize me; for I walk in the world, yes, but as one walks in a dream.

I think it will amuse you to learn how insistently this officious summer society dotes on me. Wherever it is you remove to when we are not together, let it be a more pleasant place than this! In a fortnight I return early to London, and the day cannot come quickly enough for my liking. For months I have endured covetous glances, suffered in airless ballrooms, all the while my mind fixed, steadfastly and ceaselessly, on you...

How this present society wearies me, my friend

My friend!—No, I do not fear your reproach; I shall not. I pray you will allow me, within the sanctuary of this Letter, and perhaps without, to attach this word to you, in all its manifold complexities of meaning, for in my most private heart it is how I think of you. And is it not true? Are we not friends? For what is a Friend, if not one’s dearest counterpart, that mirror of one’s soul, who abides with one in constancy through all the dreadful and glorious seasons of one’s life? You are all this to me, and more...

Here I end, lest I reveal more of myself and turn you from me for ever. Though it is all I would deserve, I ask that you withhold too harsh a judgment on me, for I am always, most ardently and humbly,

yours in friendship,

#just fuck me up #the sandman #dreamling #HE LOVES HIM YOUR HONOR #regency epistolary dreamling

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cherryblossomlion · 2 months

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A Letter from Mizu

Now to send a reply to that troublesome onryo...

Thanks so much for starting this project, @todaywefvight. Doing the most for our girls!!!

#mizukemi #akemizu #blue eye samurai #akemi x mizu #wlw #Fanfic?#epistolary #love letters

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outworldletters · 4 months

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My lovely apprentice.

I hope I have taught you enough for you to know you should not touch suspicious letters that you have found under your pillow with your bare hands.

But if you did, there is no telling what the magic I imbued these words with will do to you. Please, tell me if you feel any strange urges immediately. Like the urge to kiss me.

Just kidding! Actually, you won't be able to unglue your eyes from my words. I mean, literally. Try throwing this letter away from you.

You can’t, right?

it appears that your senses of caution haven’t improved under my tutelage

Anyway, I should have your undivided attention, no? Be a good apprentice and listen to my words.

Did I tell you we are invited to the Owlight Festival Ball? We are tasked with making sure there is no foul play in the main event. Therefore, I have been developing this gluing spell.

The ball takes place after dinner, once the street food stalls have closed and night has fallen. Lanterns of all shapes and sizes are hung on the canopy of trees, their gentle glow illuminating the dance floor covered in wildflowers. The air is filled with the sweet, succulent fragrance of nectar and the smell of underhand shenanigans I will explain later.

To take part in the ball, the guests must don their moths and butterflies inspired finery, and be blindfolded for part of the festivities.

Ah, picture us, fluttering and flying in an endless dance, spinning in a gentle whirlpool of color and light!!

The rules of this dance are simple and require you to match twice with your pair in order to win a prize. During the first dance, all the Moths guests, blindfolded, give their name-cards to the Butterfly guests. During the second dance, it is the opposite - the Butterflies exchange their cards with the Moths guests, while the Butterflies guests only have their hunches to guide them.

Can you imagine the joy we'll feel on finding our match, not once, but twice in a night?

It is all about trusting the connection that you feel in your heart and being perceptive enough to recognize the signs that your partner gives during the dance, even being blindfolded.

Or it is all about using the right tracking spells.

You would not believe the length some couples would go to guarantee they can find their spouses. I heard matching with random strangers does not do wonders for a couple that enters the ball together.

Alas, our job is to guarantee no one cheats! I trust you will study hard all the most used tracing and marking spells on the three worlds. For my part, I will be enchanting all the name-cards to ensure they cannot be traded again once exchanged.

Hence the glue spell you are currently experiencing. Neat, yes?

Would you be mad if we mismatched, my dear apprentice? Jealous? To me, matching with you would be the ultimate prize and the icing on the cake of an already perfect night. But if we do not match, I will still be incredibly proud and thrilled to have spent time with you. The festival and the prizes mean nothing to me compared to your happiness and our connection.

That being said, I am pretty confident in my abilities of finding you blindfolded.

You have a special aura that sets you apart from others, and I can always recognize it. I have become attuned to your essence, your thoughts, and your feelings. Your presence would feel familiar and your body would fit into mine perfectly. There is no darkness, no distance or separation that can ever be enough to separate us completely. For I know you like the back of my hand, my love, and I know what I am capable of when you are truly in my grasp.

You know, this festival has a sweet little story behind it. Do you want to hear it?

Ah, yes. You have no choice but to keep reading. Next time, don’t stain your fingertips with my magic, yes?

Once upon a time, there lived two birds- one a songbird and a night owl.

Although they lived under the same skies, they never saw each other.

The songbird sang every day and the song of her voice filled the owl’s dreams with melodies so pure and so exquisite that the owl fell in love with her. Yet, they never saw each other, for day and night are two worlds that never meet.

The owl, wanting to get to know their love better and not having any other option, offered something he thought a day-dweller would cherish the most - night moths. Every evening, the owl would carefully choose a moth to present to its love, putting it where they would find it.

The songbird, not knowing who offered her the gifts, was nonetheless touched by her admirer's love. She would catch and carefully select the loveliest butterfly she could find to present him.

Thus, these lovebirds continued to offer each other gifts, never knowing their time or fate is soon to come. And so, one day, a sudden change happened. As the songbird collected its butterflies, a shadow passed over.

It was the Owl, who had decided to offer something more special than moths. He was willing to hunt for something beautiful and unique to the day - something like a colorful bird that caught his eyes. However, what the owl did not realize was that his own lover was what he had caught.

I can only imagine the shock and the guilt at that moment. He thought this was what his love wanted, instead all it did was destroy them both.

And so the Devildon found that this cheerful little story was an excellent excuse to make a whole festival out of it. Demons, yes?

But I get why it would tickle their fancy. For them, it is a cautionary tale of the dangers of offering more than what ones receive. About keeping the equivalent exchange. In a way, the owl and the songbird had a clear pact going - butterflies for moths. The owl overstepped.

For a talented sorcerer like yourself, my apprentice, you seem to have almost a distaste for the give and take.

I am used to pacts. That our relationship is not built upon one makes me nervous sometimes. At first, I used to tally everything that you gave me, so I could make sure I would reciprocate you exactly. Nothing more, nothing less.

It is easy to put a price on magic and power. But you, my lovely apprentice, made me discover I had no way of measuring what you gave me.

I’ve only ever focused and obsessed over those complex, arcane patterns that I could break down and recreate into something new. All this time, I’ve lived life looking for something grand and grand and grand… yet to you, all it takes is small things. And it is through you I’ve realized that small things can also add up to something grand.

Your first gift to me was the gift of perception. I have come to cherish and find beauty in even the simplest things, like a cat sleeping on a cushion. The way the wind brushes my face or the stars glitter above me at night. Your kindness, empathy, and affection fill me with such joy every day you wake me up with a kiss good morning. The taste of food prepared by you or the comfort of a hot bath after a long day. I have even found joy in your constant teasing or the way you love to sleep on top of me at night.

I look at your face and I am immediately drawn to the simplest things - your lips curving into a smile or your gentle eyes full of questions. I love the way your eyebrows twitch when you're confused or how you tuck your hair back when it falls in front of your eyes. The invisible freckles on your nose that I could just about kiss. The way you curl your legs up underneath you to make yourself smaller when you are feeling unsure. The way your skin gets glazed by moonlight, your breath on my neck. The way you bloom under my tongue.

It is you, the grand thing I was looking for. You, the sum of all these simple, delightful little parts that makes for the complex being that is you.

My sweet, intelligent apprentice, I am more than happy to give you anything you want. You have helped me see and treasure a hundred small things I would have just glanced over and forgotten otherwise. There is not a single thing you could ask of me that would ever be too much.

You are worth more to me than you could fathom. I feel I don’t give you nearly enough. So tell me, what would you like in return? I know what you would say - you want for nothing.

The owl and the songbird: I don’t see their story as the demons do.

I believe the moths and butterflies were also representative of the Songbird and the Owl themselves. The moths, which belong to the dark, were the Owl. And the butterflies, which belong to the light, were the Songbird. The insects were, to them, representative of their bond and were the closest thing they had to communicate their feelings to one another. So, in the end, their tragic fate may also be seen as a representation of the owl and the songbird becoming unable to distinguish themselves from their offering. So much so that the songbird ended up on the beak of the owl.

This - this was your second gift ever for me - the understanding that love is not a magical transaction or a pact, nor should it be tied to what one party offers to the other.

You are not what you give me - and I am not what I give you.

I don’t want your magic or your power. Instead, I want to hold you in my arms and comfort you on your bad days. I want to be by your side and watch your dreams come true. I want you.

I love everything about you- your wit, your humor, and your sweet innocence. But what I love the most is your curiosity, your intellect, and your desire to learn and grow. I have met no one capable of asking so many questions and never being satisfied with the answers. You fascinate me with your unique take on everything, your ability to see beauty in everything around you, even things most people would deem ugly. You humble me.

Still, there is a gift and there is a pact I would wish for us to trade and firm.

First, a gift for my songbird.

It is something I already gave you long ago, which you continue to hold every single second we are together: my heart.

And as for the pact, I hope that as soon as you finish reading this letter, we can do the simplest exchange: my warmth, your presence.

With love, Solomon.

P.S. If you managed to get your eyes and fingers unglued from my words, that was just the first part of the spell. The real challenge is getting me unstuck from your mind. Good luck!

#obey me #obey me solomon #solomon x reader #solomon x mc #solomon x you #epistolary #love letters #wizard #folk lore #the night owl who ate the songbird #magic #demons #outworld letters

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elmundodeflor · 4 months

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In the span of 10 years, Hanji writes Levi one letter for each birthday they spend together.

"12 Things I Never Told You" pays homage to his and Hanji's bond through space and time, and depicts the loving light in which they saw him.

You can read the full fic and 12 letters here, on AO3.

In the meantime, here's one of the letters for you to check out;

Levi,

When I gave you the tea-can earlier, the look on your face could have only meant two things:

1) "This must have been expensive as hell."

2) "You're batshit crazy for spending on it."

I told you, though! I wasn't gonna throw you a birthday party, but you had to expect a gift from me, at least. I like going all out!

Anyways, it was a nice surprise that you came down the lab with two mugs instead of one. And that you talked about your mother.

You told me that you had this same tea-can at home, in the Underground. And that your mom had gotten it for trade from one of her clients that lived up here. Your entire face softened when you mentioned her— how graceful she was. It was like seeing sugar melting on the stove.

Of course, I didn't ask— if she's alive, or what happened to her. I didn't mean to be intrusive. But the way you spoke in past-tense... oh, I'm sorry, Levi. I'm so, so sorry. Really. If she was anything quite like you, then I'm sure she was a wonderful woman.

To be honest, I don't know either— whether my mom's alive or not. You see, I never talk about this for a reason. I ran away from home when I was fourteen. My parents were... well, let's just say... not good people. I was mischievous, and rebellious, and asked too many questions. They most definitely did not like that.

My grandpa was the closest thing I ever had to a father, or a friend. He did die, though. He was mischievous, and rebellious, and asked as many questions as I did. I guess, back then, it not only made my parents uncomfortable, but the Military Police as well...

It was the reason I joined the Survey Corps, you know? You may not believe this, but I was once full of rage, too. I'm just lucky I could turn it into something better— passion, purpose. I'm certainly not proud of how it used to be. You should have seen me, all those years ago; shouting down the hallways, kicking titans' heads... I just hope you never get to see it again. If you do, I'm scared you might never look at me the same, and that I never forgive myself for it.

I have no clue how you do it, though— carry yourself through life. Back then, if they'd given me the names of the fuckers who took my grandpa, I'd have killed them on the spot. You, on the other hand, (and I know you'll get mad at me for saying this) are gentle. If you wanted to, you could break necks with a single blow. Or seek revenge towards the world for what it's done to you. But you choose not to. You actively, every day, choose not to.

Yeah, yeah, you probably don't like me reminding you of all this. But you're kind, Levi. You stay in the lab with me while I’m working, and you trust me enough to tell me about your mother. And you share this expensive-ass-tea I bought for you.

You're a good person. Much better than I'll ever be. I know you don’t think that you are, and that you worry others may also think that you’re not. But it’s true— you’re a good man.

See? It doesn't even matter I spent half my budget on this! (You’ve been warned, you won’t ever hear a word about it). You deserve to have nice things, little one. Also, it was pretty neat to hear that tiny hum of satisfaction you made when you drank from your cup. I know not many things surprise you nowadays, either. So, I'll take my pride in knowing I did— HA!

Hope you had a good night. And that you had a great birthday— yeah, that too!

Happy you're with me for another year.

See you around,

Hanji x

P.S: Thank you for the tea. Literally the best one I had!