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astaroth1357 · 4 years

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Hello!! Congratulations on your 1,500 followers!!! I was wondering if you could write hc's with the Demon brothers reacting or helping MC with daddy issues(if possible specifically the kinds with an absent father). If possible please make the female MC, but if you would prefer to make it Gender Natural than its awesome as well!! Thank you very much for your awesome work!!💖💖

A F!MC has an Absent Father (Mammon, Beel, Asmo, and Lucifer)

Okay, so this was a pretty tough request (part of the reason why I'm getting to it so late). Having an absent father can lead to a lot of different (very sensitive) issues for their daughters and I always want to try and be as respectful as possible while still producing accurate content… So instead of my usual 7 brothers format, I'll be shortening this to the brothers that I think could best handle the situation at hand. As always, I will try my best to be respectful to those who may be experiencing these struggles, but if anything I say comes across as harmful or triggering please let me know right away. I'll take down/edit the post if need be. Thank you.

Warnings: Absent Fathers, Eating Disorders, Body Image Problems, Depression, Abandonment, Divorce

Mammon

What kind of Dad wants nothing to do with his kids?? From Day One, Mammon just couldn't understand it...

Admittedly, he might have been a little biased. Ever since he watched his baby brothers grow up, he'd always had a little soft spot for anklebiters in general… They made for pretty sweet kids compared to their rude, spitfire-y current selves (even Satan had his moments). Mammon could see that same innocence in a lot of kids, human, angel, or demon.

So when the MC revealed to him that her own father walked out on her mother before she was born, he was just slightly (incredibly) outraged.

Though he'd like to believe the guy had his reasons for leaving, it just didn't sit right with him… Especially after getting to know the MC so well and seeing that she was such a great person!

Hadn't the guy been curious about her at all? Didn't he care?? What was stopping him now?? (You know, aside from being on a completely different plane of existence and all that. Like that would stop Marlin from finding Nemo… Yeah, he likes Pixar. What of it?)

Some people might have gone as far as to say that Mammon was waaay more upset about it than she was herself, which was nice but well… his heart was in the right place.

It was around the time when he offered to track the guy down, hogtie him, then leave him to drown in the 4th Circle that she had to take him aside and explain that, though she appreciated his anger on her behalf, she didn't need him to crusade for her…

She ultimately told him that if he really wanted to help, he could love her and be there for her. Words that he not only took it to heart, but he took very seriously.

She’d never had anyone be as reliable or faithful as Mammon was after that point. As far as he was concerned, he could be what her father never was for her: loving, caring, and present for no other reason than because he loved her!

You know, like you're supposed to be for the people you hold dear...

True, he didn’t always say the right things nor did he always manage to solve every problem for her when he tried to help but he never stopped trying to make her feel loved. He'd spend every Grimm he'd ever had if he had to. She deserved it.

Beelzebub

When you love someone, you usually want to get to know more about them. Things like their past… So it wasn’t unusual for Beel to ask the MC about her home back in the human world, especially after he shared his own past with Lilith and his brothers.

Unfortunately (or fortunately he'd suppose, depending on how you look at it), the intricacies of divorce were a little new to him... Sure, he knew what marriage was and that relationships can fail, but to be frank, he grew up in a very different sort of situation than that of humans.

He didn't even have a mother, much less and traditional father-son relationship. Lucifer filled in that spot for him like he had for everyone else and they left their father of their own accord...

But something about the way the MC talked about how her father left felt… upsetting. She seemed to use different sorts of tones when talking about the whole thing... At first, she spoke it with blank apathy, but then it changed to bitterness, then lastly… sadness. Like she was regretful about something that, for as far as he could tell, was completely out of her control…

He didn't want to pry into her past much more for that reason... Though he could tell something about it had hurt her, probably deeply, he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable so he just waited for her to come to him instead...

And in time, she did.

And ever the patient listener, Beel let her get it all off her chest. He could tell that she felt a lot of different ways about it, and most of them weren’t positive, but he was never one to tell people how to feel about anything. Thinking back on it, he supposed that he’d feel pretty bad too if Lucifer just left the family one day, but even that wasn’t quite the same thing…

What he knew for certain was that it hurt him to see her so upset and, for once, he wasn’t really sure how to fix it… Can you even “fix” these things? Since he didn’t know the answers he just made a simple promise to himself in order to help make things better...

He probably couldn’t bring her father back, nor could he make his absence hurt any less, but he could be there for her instead. Not like a father, obviously, but as someone who could always love her whether or not she felt she needed it...

And from then on, he let his actions so the talking.

If she was upset and needed comfort, Beel was there. If she was feeling lonely or unloved, he’d be the first to notice and hold her close. Even if she tried to push him away to protect herself from any pain, he wouldn't just abandon her. He'd wait patiently for her to be ready to let him in.

He might not have known all the answers for her, but he wasn't going to let her feel all alone… He made sure of that.

Asmodeus

If he were telling the truth, Asmo was already pretty familiar with this sort of thing. Everybody has "Daddy Issues," himself included, and affects people in a lot of different ways in or outside the bedroom.

Which is why he found it particularly disheartening when he noticed some signs in his beloved MC…

The MC had once confided in him that her relationship with her father was… distant. Though he was physically in the family, she never felt like she could talk to him or get to know him… In a sense, he was never as involved in her life as he probably should have been.

That alone wasn't very uncommon for human families, or so he's heard, heck between his Heavenly-but-Distant Father and his Not-as-Distant-but-Always-Busy Brotherly Surrogate, he could even relate… but it was how she seemed to cope that concerned him…

Something about her self-esteem just wasn't where it needed to be…

Of course, Asmo's not one to get on a high horse and preach that looks don't actually mean anything (he's a demon, not a hypocrite) but there's a big difference between practicing self-love and falling victim to self-critique… There’s wanting to look your best because it brings you personal joy to do so, then there’s constantly worrying about rejection when you don't look so nice… He's seen it all before.

Truthfully, it was a painful cycle to witness… the eating and then the starving… the hours she’d spend in front of the mirror or her bitter tears after a "bad" selfie… It made his heart ache uncontrollably just to think about it…

So of course he intervened, he simply had to. Not only was it unhealthy for her but it could have brought his darling so much lasting pain in the long run...

When he finally spoke to the MC, he tried to be as gentle as he could while still expressing his concerns… He told her that he noticed the way she had been acting and that he was worried about her… He genuinely believed that she indeed deserved love with no strings attached. She didn’t need to “prove herself” worthy of it for him or any of his brothers because they would be there for her regardless of what she looked like.

It wasn’t a cure-all. obviously, but never thought it would be. It would take her time to learn how to express love for herself or feel secure that he wouldn’t just start ignoring her one day… but Asmo was nothing if not a caring and patient lover.

He tracked down places and people who could help her with her struggles and what they couldn’t offer he picked up on himself through perseverance, persistence, and a lot of research. He had his heart set on helping her and that was exactly what he planned to do.

Asmo wasn’t going to stop until she believed that she was honestly, genuinely loved... And that was a promise.

Lucifer

Lucifer picked up that there was something a little different about the human early on, even before he was ever told that her father passed away when she was young. She seemed… particularly fond of him.

He didn’t think much of it at first, but over time it started getting more and more apparent that she gravitated to him for one reason or another… She’d hover around him, bring him things while he worked, or act out like she wanted his attention (not completely unlike Satan or Belphie in that regard).

If he were being honest, it flattered him some, but the more he began to think about it the more… uncomfortable it made him for reasons he couldn’t quite place…

Eventually he gave in and had to run the problem by Barbatos just for a little clarity (he figured the butler could be discreet about it) and that’s when the connection between him and the MC’s deceased father finally came to light.

There was no real way to sugarcoat it other than to say that she seemed to think of him as… a surrogate Dad of sorts… Which didn’t exactly ease his concerns at all.

Though he was probably the most “fatherly” person in the House (having more or less become the unofficial father figure to his brothers for centuries), those were still his brothers. He had a large part in actually raising them. The MC was not only a human, but patently not his child. He truly had grown to love her over their time together but that was a very different kind of love…

Something about the situation rubbed him the wrong way… Would he be taking advantage of the MC’s past if he were to try and be with her like he wanted…? Sure, he may be demonic, but he’s not heartless. He only wanted what was best for her and he wasn’t quite sure that was him for once…

While he was still mulling over his feelings, the MC finally jumped the gun and asked him if they could start dating. He knew that it would hurt her (and him) if he said no but he also couldn’t pretend that there wasn’t a problem here…

So he compromised. He agreed to the relationship, but told her that he wanted to take things slow… He was open about his concerns that she may not love him for the reasons she thought she did, which wasn’t the most pleasant conversation to have but it seemed like the one she needed to hear.

It encouraged him that she didn’t appear to reject him outright when he brought it up, nor was she completely broken up about the pace he wanted to set for them, which was a good sign.

He offered to find her people to talk to about her concerns, particularly around her upbringing, at no cost to her. He thinks humans call them… therapists? Whatever they were, he didn’t doubt that they were better equipped to help than he was.

He tried his best to make it clear that he was only concerned because he loved her so deeply that he wanted to make sure that he wasn’t using her trauma for his own ends... She deserved better than that and he wasn’t afraid to tell her such.

It ended up being a slow process to love for them both, but he’d never regret putting the MC’s wellbeing first. No matter what.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #tw: absent fathers #tw: eating disorders #tw: body image #tw: depression #tw: abandonment #tw: divorce

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 3 years

Text

Devotional Hours Within the Bible

by J.R. Miller

The Abundant Life (John 10:10)

Christ always wants abundant life. He is infinitely patient with the weak - but He wishes that we be strong. He accepts the feeblest service - but He desires us to serve Him with the whole heart. The smallest faith, even like a grain of mustard seed, has power with God and can remove mountains - but God is best pleased when we have a faith that quails at no difficulties, and accomplishes impossibilities. A believer may have but the smallest flame of life, and yet Christ will not despise it. "Smoking flax, shall He not quench."

There is a picture of one bending over a handful of cold embers on the hearth, as if he would get them to glow again. Underneath the picture are the words, "It may be there is a spark left yet." This is a picture of the infinite patience of Christ with those who are almost dead spiritually. So long as there is even a spark left - He will seek in every way to make it thrive. But with all His gentleness toward the barely living, He wants abundance of life in all His followers. "I am come that they might have life - and that they might have it more abundantly ."

Every picture of Christian life which our Lord uses, suggests fullness and richness of life. Fruit is the test and measure of it. The fruitless branch is taken away, and the fruitful branch is pruned that it may bring forth more fruit. "This is to my Father's glory, that you bear much fruit - showing yourselves to be my disciples." (15:8). To the woman at the well Jesus spoke of spiritual life beginning in the heart as a well or spring of water. When we receive Christ, a fountain of divine life is opened in our hearts. At first, however it is only a little spring, a mere beginning of the life of God and heaven in us. Then, later, Jesus said, "He who believes on me… out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water" (7:38). The little spring, by and by becomes rivers. Christ came to give life and to give it abundantly .

There have been those in all ages, whose lives became like rivers in the fullness and richness of their flow. This was true of John and Peter and Paul. Streams of blessing and good poured out from them, which reached many lands and thousands of people, and which are still flowing today, wherever the gospel is known. There are those whose influence for good touches countless lives.

What is an abundant life ? It does not need to be a conspicuous life, one which makes itself heard on the streets. There are some good people who seem to suppose that they are living for a purpose - only when they are making themselves seen and heard. Yet there are those who are rich in outward show - but poor in inward experience. One may have abundant life - and yet move among men so quietly as almost to be unheard and unknown. Of our Lord Himself it was written, "He shall not strive, nor cry; neither shall any man hear His voice in the streets" (Matthew 12:19). No other ever had such fullness and abundance of life as He had, and yet no other ever lived and worked so quietly as He did. Noise is not true spiritual power. The real power in life is in its influence, in its character and personality.

Our Lord puts first in the Beatitudes - humility. "Blessed are the poor in spirit" (Matthew 5:3). It is the lowly ones who live nearest to the heart of Christ, and have most of His life in them. Not those who fill the largest places in the eyes of men, even in the church; nor those whose works attract the most attention, have most of God in the - but those who live humbly, with no thought of human recognition or praise.

The abundant life need not be known by its large financial gifts. The tendency in these days is to measure every man's value to the world, by charities. Money has its value. Those who contribute to charity, to education, to religion, if their gifts are wisely bestowed, are blessings in the world. It is the bounden duty of all who possess wealth - to use it in doing good. But money is never the best gift we can bestow on others; and those who cannot give money - may yet be really generous givers.

A man's money is not the only thing a man has to give. He can give love, sympathy, encouragement, hope, or cheer - and these gifts will help where money would be only a mockery. There are great needs which money has no power to satisfy. There are sorrows which money cannot alleviate.

It was an ancient fable, that an angel was permitted once to visit this world, and from the mountaintop to look down upon the cities and palaces and works of men. As he went away he said: "Why, all these people are spending their time building birds' nests. They are building birds' nests to be swept away in the floods, when they might be building palaces of beauty to abide forever!" If all Christians would put the same earnestness into their Christian life which they put into their bird-nest building, what victories would they accomplish for the kingdom of Christ!

Jesus never gave money. Yet the world has never known such a lavish giver as He was. Imagine Jesus going about with His hands full of coins and dispensing them wherever He went among the poor, the lame, the blind, the beggars, the lepers, the sick - money, and nothing else. What a poor, paltry service His would have been, in comparison with the wonderful ministry of kindness and love He performed in His journeyings through the land! Suppose He had given a coin to the woman who lay at His feet crying for her poor daughter's deliverance. Would that have comforted her? Suppose He had put a handful of money in the hands of the blind beggar at Jericho, instead of opening His eyes - would the generous gift have meant as much to the poor man?

"Silver and gold have I none; but such as I have give I you" (Acts 3:6), said Peter at the Beautiful Gate to the lame man. Then the man was lame no more. Was not the healing a better gift to the poor man than if he had filled His hands with coins? Was it not better that the man should be made strong, so that he would not need to beg anymore, than that he should have been supported a day or two longer in poverty and mendicancy?

The abundant life may not have money to give - and yet it may fill a whole community with blessings through its gifts. It may go out with its sympathy, its words of comfort, its inspirations of cheer and hope, and may make countless hearts braver and stronger. Let the well of love in your heart spring up and pour out rivers. That is what it means to have life abundantly.

To others who turn to us with their needs, their heart-hungers, and their sorrows - we should be their comfort, strength and help. They should go away helped. We should always have bread in our hands to give to those who are hungry. We should always have cheer for those who come to us disheartened and discouraged. "How can I help you?" should be our heart's question, whoever it is that stands before us. The life Christ came to give is only love - God's love poured into veins and through us to those who lack. It is more love we need - when we cry out for more life and more power to do good. It is love that the world needs. Nothing else will make people happier or better. Ethics will not heal broken hearts, nor comfort those who are in sorrow, nor quiet a guilty conscience. The only abundant life is the life that is abundant in love.

How can we get this abundant life? Most of us are conscious of the poverty and thinness of our spiritual life. We faint easily under our burdens or in our struggles. We are not living victoriously. We are not filled with the spirit of Christ. We may have other things - we may have plenty of money; we may have pleasure, power, honor; our hands may be full of tasks. But there is only a little of God in us, only a little of heaven. Our brains may be teeming with plans, projects and dreams of success - but of spiritual life, our veins are scant.

Christ came to give us just what we need - life. We can get it only from Him, and we can take it only as His gift. We have no conception, we who are merely living, with no great, strong, victorious life, what it is possible for us to become as Christians in this world - if only Christ would possess us fully, wholly.

Henry van Dyke tells of two streams that emptied into the sea: One was a sluggish rivulet, in a wide, fat, muddy bed; and every day the tide came in and drowned out the poor little stream, and filled it with bitter brine. The other was a vigorous, joyful, brimming mountain river, fed from the unfailing spring among the hills; and all the time it swept the salt water back before it, and kept itself pure and sweet; and when the tide came, it only made the fresh water rise higher and gather new strength by the delay; and ever the living stream poured forth into the ocean, its tribute of living water - the symbol of that influence which keeps the ocean of life from turning into a Dead Sea of wickedness .

But there is no way to save our lives from being swallowed up in the bitter floods of sin in this world - but by having them full of divine life. A feeble stream of spiritual life has no power to resist the evil of the world. Only the abundant life can keep itself pure and sweet.

A wild gypsy girl was sitting for her picture, in an artist's studio in Germany. Opposite to her as she sat, hung an unfinished picture of the crucifixion. One day the girl asked, "Master, who is that?"

"That is Jesus Christ," replied the painter.

"Was He a very bad man, that they treated Him so cruelly?"

"On, no! He was the best Man that ever lived," said the artist, carelessly.

"Tell me more about Him," pleaded the girl, who had never heard of Jesus before.

Day after day as the girl came to the studio - her eyes remained fixed upon the picture of the Christ on His cross. When her sittings were ended and she was going away, she whispered: "Master, how can you help loving Him who, you say, died for you? If anybody had loved me like that - oh, I'd like to die for him!"

Has not the love of Christ for you - power to win you to love Him?

#J.R. Miller #The Abundant Life #Devotional Hours Within the Bible #John 10:10 #September 2 #2021

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unlockthelore · 4 years

Text

Pressure

Under good intentioned pestering, Lisa allows herself to be fussed over but she doesn’t hesitate to return the favor.

Lisa smiled softly as Paimon’s insistence for a celebratory dinner at Good Hunter’s echoed through the main hall, much to the chagrin of the on-duty knights. Hushed pleas for silence succeeded by Paimon’s snippy rebuttal were assuaged by a gentler, kinder voice belonging to the heroine of the hour.

There was a brief lull in silence as the pair’s resulting squabble grew fainter and hazy, leaving naught in its wake but the ticking pendulum clock and gentle humming from the pendant light’s bulbs.

Lisa lifted her arms, folding them loosely over her chest. Her awareness of the dull, annoying tingle in her fingertips persisted despite her best efforts to smother the prickling needlepoints beneath her gloves. The crystal’s crimson moire had been attractive in the beginning, but such knowledge wasn’t worth the incessant pain. Still, she did have her reservations of leaving such an artifact in the traveler’s hands, whether it proved dangerous to them or not.

Not out of a sense of distrust, Lisa reminded herself. The regret on Lumine’s face, stricken with guilt as she hurriedly pulled the crystal back to her, couldn’t escape Lisa’s notice. Such palpable remorse couldn’t be fabricated easily, and Lisa knew surely they could entrust this little cutie. All she could do was offer a bit of humor to alleviate the mood and wipe the concern from their faces but her unease held long after Lumine and Paimon departed.

While Lisa could admit it was amazing how someone so young could achieve feats grander than those twice her year, it was also quite disheartening. Stories of daring youths willfully throwing themselves to peril rarely ended happily. Through their efforts, selfless and kind, many were saved and those who regaled their deeds inspired others to follow suit. However, the romanticization of sacrifice hid its true weight, leaving those who carried the burden to suffer alone.

Or become deified as a caricature of who they truly were.

She could only hope that Lumine would be able to brave the incoming storm, literally and figuratively.

Lisa sighed and brushed her black-clad fingertips over the gold embroidery of her sleeves, picking lightly at invisible dust. The lapse in silence lingered long enough for the pendulum clock to toll. Her gaze lingered on the Acting Grandmaster perched near the window behind the polished desk, shoulders sloped toward the ground and hands loosely clasped at the wrist behind her back. Hardly the upright and focused posture one would expect from a soldier but with silvery-blue dustlight streaming through the windows, illuminating the golden accents in her hair — Jean seemed more mythological than personable.

Lisa could almost imagine this would be what the Dandelion Sea was, if they weren’t surrounded by carpets upon polished wooden floors and walls filled to their brims with texts. Separated by a plush red carpet emblazoned with the Knights of Favonius’ symbol - golden swords crossed at their blade silhouetted by wings and a shield.

Freedom at its finest. Yet, with the grilles’ silhouette criss-crossing over Jean’s face, Lisa wondered if this was freedom or a prison. She winced and shook her head, dispelling the thoughts as she caressed the railing’s smooth nobs, climbing up the steps. The book she’d abandoned for their earlier conversation left cold and wanting on the shelf near a ornate picture frame. Lisa scooped the book in her arms and held it to her chest, eyeing the photograph longingly.

A golden-haired girl winked back at her, her lips split in a grin and cheeks reddened likely from laughing if the smiling red-headed young man beside her was any indication. Their eyes twinkled with mirth as they shared a conspiratorial look just outside of one of the windmills. From the blue blur in the background, Lisa deduced Kaeya must have tripped before the photograph could be taken. Why else would Diluc allow himself to be immortalized with such obvious glee?

Simpler times, Lisa thought demurely, sparing a glance at the woman the girl had grown up to be. Strong and revered but suffering in silence. At the mercy of her thoughts as she was to the world around her, as well as the people she served. Concern coupled with pity but Lisa knew Jean needed neither. Not now when the weight of Mondstadt hung in the balance and the worse was yet to come. The people’s faith placed in a traveler from where, no one knew, and the Dandelion Knight attempting to stay strong despite the hollowing winds.

Lisa sighed. It’d be best not to let her melancholy get ahead of her. After all, such thoughts were increasingly troublesome. “Well, I believe that’s enough excitement for one librarian’s night,” she announced, descending the steps, careful not to step on the carpet’s gold trimming. “I think I’ll be taken my leave now.”

She scarcely turned to walk along the small strip between the raised floor and the carpet when Jean called out to her, “Ah, wait a moment, Lisa!”

It hadn’t occurred to Lisa how thick the air became between them with Jean’s thoughts until she spoke. Or perhaps, she hadn’t noticed how deep she was in her own. Achingly slow, she turned to face the source of the voice and internally sighed with relief as the dour expression was replaced with another. Whether this was better or not, Lisa wasn’t sure, but Jean was remarkably earnest and transparent with her concern. Guileless blue-grey eyes roved over Lisa but lingered somewhere below her chin. If not for the book she’d been cradling to her chest, Lisa might have teased about wandering eyes and temptation.

Still, she couldn’t help herself. “For you, Acting Grandmaster, I could spare a moment or two.”

Jean’s eyes widened, pink dusting her cheeks and Lisa could have sworn that the air around them had grown warmer. “Your hand…” Jean cleared her throat, simultaneously succeeding and failing to change the topic.

Lisa feigned a shocked gasp and shielded her parted lips with still-tingling fingers. She noticed how Jean’s gaze wandered to her hand and hid a smile behind her palm. “Oh, Jean as sweet as that is,” her eyelashes fluttered and she reveled in the slight confusion twisting Jean’s lips into a pinched frown. “I believe you should have a good night’s rest before you propose marriage. Who knows if you’ll regret it in the morning.”

Now, Lisa was sure the air was definitely warming between them and Jean’s pink-tinged cheeks darkening to a charming shade of scarlet was the cause. “Wait, wh— no! I was..” Jean scoffed, pitched as her rebuttals fell silent. A breath dragged in before she uttered in a firm, rushed enunciation. “When you touched the crystal, you said that it hurt.”

Lisa tucked a knuckle beneath her chin and hummed, letting her gaze fall to the potted plants by the door or the pins and notes attached to the map. “I see, you’re worried about me.”

“O-Of course I am,” Jean sputtered, her voice low and wistful as she muttered, “Why do you sound so surprised?”

Lisa could practically feel the hurt rolling off her words and batted them aside, ignoring the guilt squeezing her chest. “Not surprised at all,” she said gently, glancing around the room. “Just.. analyzing.”

Papers flecked with ink were messily across the conference table, a stack held down beneath an adorably decorate teapot and cup. Books stacked horizontally on shelves and on the floors near their lower cupboards annoyed and confused Lisa at the same time. When was the last time Jean cleaned in here?

With how often she was working and on the move, Lisa doubted there was time for neatening her things. Yet, considering how thorough Jean was with even her work station’s neatness - perhaps it was cause for concern.

Lisa could feel Jean’s gaze, cutting as the wind, attempting to slip through cracks and chinks in her armor to no avail. Eventually, Lisa relented with a sigh. “I can’t quite describe the pain, but I doubt there was a wound inflicted. Nothing to inspect, really…” She trailed off. Jean’s eyes dimmed at the dismissal and her hand, perched upon the edge of her desk, tightened ever so slightly around its trim.

After a moment, Lisa relented once more. “Though,” she began, blatanty ignoring the twitch and hopeful look Jean gave her as she strode over to one of the sofas. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to be thorough.”

She sat down, fully aware of the steady gaze as she fiddled with her dress then situated herself against the pillows. A brow arched at the deep blue blanket tossed over the couch’s left arm. The pillows seemed squashed and a connection slowly made itself known as Jean sat down on the other end.

Barbatos guide me, has she been sleeping in her office?

Crossed between upset and exasperated, Lisa remained silent as Jean beckoned for her hand. Only stopping a second from impatiently laying it in her own when she remembered the wound was skin-deep not on the layers of her gloves. Taking a moment to inch her fingers free, she thought on Jean picking at the couch’s upholstery and fidgeting as she waited. It was increasingly difficult to be crossed with her when she was so earnestly worried.

Finally, the glove slipped free from Lisa’s hand and she bestowed it to Jean, palm ward up. The knight descended upon inspecting her with the graveness of a life-threatening wound. Agitation’s final simmering quelled as Jean’s gloves brushed from palm to fingertip, only inciting the faintest of prickling when she applied pressure. Lisa must have given away a pained response because cooling relief seeped beneath her skin and chased away the fiery prickling. Her heart fluttered as Jean delicately traced the creases on her palms. Tingling remained where her fingers laid, a hollow sensation remaining long after they fell away.

“You seem fine,” Jean sighed, seeming pleased with herself, a smile resting on her lips reminding Lisa sorely of the girl.

Lisa curled her fingers around Jean’s gloved ones, a giggle bubbling up. “Why, thank you,” she preened. “That’s quite the compliment coming from you.”

“Lisa…” Jean’s brow twitched and the pink flush returned, prominent as they were bathed in the pale moonlight.

“Although I must say,” Lisa continued as if she heard nothing, her still-gloved hand stretched out, fingers grazing the underside of Jean’s jaw. “You are seeming a little pale. Are you sleeping well?”

Muscle flexed in Jean’s jaw as her eyelids fell, golden eyelashes barely obscuring stormy depths. Lisa ignored the shiver rolling down her spine and thumbed at the clenched muscle, rubbing slow circles.

“Well enough,” Jean said. She turned her head, inadvertently bringing her cheek to rest at the crook of Lisa’s forefinger.

Lisa tapped her cheek lightly, wondering if Jean’s skin would be as soft and soothing as her winds. Faint circles wearily tightening their grasp beneath Jean’s eyes dispelling the thought. “By your standards or that of the average young woman?” Lisa inquired, nonchalant and taunting.

Jean scoffed, her grasp on Lisa’s hand tightened then loosened as if she’d been electrocuted and with how charged the air was, she might as well have been.

“Weren’t you the one who said I wasn’t average?” Jean asked, pulling her hand away and Lisa sorely missed the light touch. Her knuckles knocking against the book in her lap with a light thud.

“Yes,” Lisa began, savoring a fleeting touch along Jean’s jaw as the woman pulled back from her grasp. Fond exasperation disquieting her calm as she watched Jean rise and amble over to her desk. “Nevertheless, I don’t recall saying you were invincible either.”

Her fingers curled around her book’s spine while Jean hovered dangerously close to the armchair. “Dandelions are quite delicate, you know.”

Jean paused with one hand set on the chair’s pointed rail, a rigidity to her shoulders despite the weariness in her sigh, “I’m not a dandelion, Lisa.”

Lisa smiled sadly. She disagreed in every way. Jean was beautiful, she inspired hope and care, she was delicate although her being wouldn’t give away such a thought — and if one strong breeze came her way, she may be gone. Lisa prayed to the Anemo Gods, to Barbatos, that she would never have to see that day.

“No, you are not,” Lisa said as she stood. “Dandelion Knight.”

Jean’s shoulders tensed and Lisa knew once the words came free, there was no taking them back. Perhaps the gales were still covering Jean’s eyes and she couldn’t see the folly in her own good intention but Lisa could.

“I know the situation with Stormterror is weighing heavily on your mind…” Lisa said to her as she slipped on her glove. “But perhaps you would be better suited to tackle it and the Fatui’s ambassadors, if you had a break.”

Jean’s hold on the chair tightened and Lisa could hear the wood creaking but she stood and approached carefully. The faint trembling in Jean’s shoulders matching her own heart’s ache.

“You would also set a better example for our newly appointed Honorary Knight,” Lisa pointed out. “A girl barely grown, armed with a sword and wits, sails through blue skies on wings of freedom laden with the hopes of many…”

It was like a fairy tale. One that would end with the hopes and joys of many answered, and the hero standing on top. But between the lines, the secrets were told and Lisa was always thorough in her research.

“I wonder who that reminds me of…”

“Your point’s been made,” Jean said tersely, her trembling stilled as Lisa curled her fingers around her shoulder in a light hold. She knew if Jean wanted, she could shrug her off and dismiss her but the knight did neither. Her blue-grey eyes, dull and longing, as Lisa gleaned them over Jean’s shoulder.

All she could do was offer a smile and ease her hand down the length of billowing white sleeves, her fingers curled along ones clad in black gloves.“Then for tonight..” Lisa breathed in the words, whispering them softly to Jean’s waiting ears. “You are dismissed, Acting Grandmaster.” Bitterness tinged Lisa’s smile and she nodded, holding Jean’s hand loosely. “So shall we be off, Jean?”

She received her answer in a gentle squeeze around her fingers.

#genshin impact #genshin impact lisa #genshin impact jean #fanfiction #my fanfiction

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faejilly · 4 years

Text

I was tagged by @la-muerta & @facialteeth & @thedivinemissema for the WIP/Title Game

rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you and interests you and i’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it!

AND THEN by @shadoedseptmbr @msviolacea & @ravenclawnerd for the “stories you want to write... but for some reason haven’t yet”

so this will be a mish-mash of both? The WIPs will mostly have blurbs in this case (to fit the second meme) but you are still welcome to ask follow-up questions, if you’d like ;) Assuming you make it through the list, it is uh. Not Short.

Anyone who would like to play with their WIPs, please consider yourself tagged in either or both of these. :D

Misc Fic Folder:

“untitled document” - where I’m working on fictober fills so I have word-counts for my GYWO tracker. I am not working on these because Brains Are Dumb and also Going Back To Work Is Exhausting

I made a file called “YULETIDE!” which has nothing in it but I’m determined to finish this year so that is definitely technically a thing in the Unending WIP List of Doom worth mentioning. (Tho obviously that’s all I could say even if I had started, because anonymous.)

“coda-fics, rewatch!” -yes, that exclamation mark is important! it’s to keep me motivated! (it didn’t work). Much like untitled, this is for putting stuff so I can do word count tracking even if I don’t know what I’m doing. Currently I think it just says “MARYSE” because I was working on my SH 1x6 coda-fic and then got distracted and haven’t typed anything up yet. (Yay notebooks? Boo notebooks? Not even sure at this point.)

WNIP (works not in progress) Folder:

“TOG” - I had one vivid mental image of how Nicky & Joe met (blood-stained evil smiles?) but then no idea for a follow-up story and also the fandom is insane and I’m not sure I want to deal with all of *gestures vaguely* all that

“Shan Xia Notes” -for a TTRPG that never quite got off the ground; she was a semi-tragic selkie who was still in love with the evil queen/lady who stole her skin and I got to play her for like one session and she was surprisingly chaotic neutral, which wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting. But the game never really got off the ground, so I never had enough info to really delve into writing backstory fic

“post-Kruschev” -Kruschev’s List was the last episode of Scarecrow & Mrs King, and I was debating writing an epilogue in place of the s5 we never got, to try and tie up some loose ends, but the fandom’s three old-ladies in trench coats and I never quite worked up the gumption to get it anywhere

“Code Realize warm as silk sequel” -there is literally nothing in this file except “SEX! Only a little angst” because I wanted to write some “we can’t actually touch each other” smut but never actually did. 🤷‍♀️

BioWare (also all Not-In-Progress Anymore)

“seb/adelaide”, “Theia” & “DAI Erana” -these WIP folders were cannibalized for ficlets for the last few times I did fictober, and while originally I had ideas for longer epilogues for all three of them, at this point I don’t think any of the remaining bits could support a story any longer.

”whispers in the dark” -Maia Ryder never really got much fic at all; the cancellation of any further Andromeda stuff was really disheartening, and at this point I’d have to play the game again, and I don’t think I’m gonna manage that any time soon

”TSP” -a Mass Effect 3 Shepard AU collab project that kind of went off the rails, and our mutual brains/lives never quite seem to line up so we can try and rebuild it ”Ngaio & Tane” -my one truly ruthless Shepard (Alliance background, who romanced Traynor) whose father Tane Shepard was, I think, in PsyOps, and I wanted to figure out their complicated relationship but never really did know where I was going with it

”JE Zu & Yaling” -so I’ve rambled about my Tragic Sagacious Zu Romance Thoughts regarding Jade Empire more than once (#Icy Yaling should have most of it) but apparently I want to yell about it more than I want to actually write it? Whoops.

”CI sequel: 5 times fic?” -Cruel Intentions is a kinkmeme fill that I started and then it sat for like five years before I actually finished it, and I liked the ending, but it does leave a giant fucking question mark in terms of how those people got from there to where they are after the game, and I kind of wanted to write a proper h/c fic rather than just... leaving them wallowing in all that trauma?

But I didn’t. I don’t even remember for sure how I wanted to frame the 5/1 of it all, besides it being something sad about allowing people to see you or touch you in some way. (Prayers maybe, since I think there was definitely some Sebastian & Fenris & faith stuff going on in there.)

“candles” -Merribela prompt fill that I never was happy with? Not sure what I might do with it at this point, so it’s just sitting there all sad and lonely and neglected-like.

Shadowhunters

pt1: WIP LIST ONLY

“Persuasion” -so I keep trying to write Persuasion AUs in many fandoms because it’s my favorite Austen, but I think I like it too much, I have no real solid concept of how I’d transform it, and if I don’t have anything else to say about different characters within that framework, I have no push to actually write anything? Also this SH version of it suffered from MASSIVE scope creep when I started outlining and it got too big for me to handle so I like, killed it twice? Whoops. This one is really probably never gonna happen.

“oosdt sequel” -I wanted to write more about the Forest That Eats People and Magnus & Alec as Guardians Between Worlds, and also some background Magnus’ Found Family & Lightwood Family Feels (maybe some clizzy?) and I left a Madzie plot-thread dangling from the first one on purpose even but I think this one had too many ideas and not enough focus so it’s sort of sprawling all over a doc with a lot of “???” in it

“procedural-ish” -this was originally going to be a sex-farce. and then it turned more serious. and then maybe kind of copaganda which was uncomfortable in terms of the Everything That Is The News in 2020, and then maybe it was more a Mafia AU and at that point I had self-inflicted tone whiplash and I wished the voices in my head were a little more forthcoming about their plans so I stopped before I brained myself on my computer monitor in frustration.

“I had rather a rose than live forever” -I started a reverse!verse Malec (Shadowhunter!Magnus, High Warlock!Alec) for bingo last year, and I couldn’t quite get it together in time, so I made a moodboard inspired by the bits I’d started instead. I may see if one of my prompts from Bingo this year help me finish it?

“fall fright fest (practical magic au)” -exactly what it says on the tin! almost exactly a year old & neglected! IDEK ANYMORE (I talked about this one with the WIP meme last time tho: here)

“priest!kink theology?” -I thought it was gonna be smut? I like priest!kink. I have made other people like it and yell at me even! But then I kept diverging into demon!Magnus thinking about Priest!Alec’s faith and as usual, IDEK ANYMORE *laughs*

(If they’re remotely canon-adjacent or divergent, a bunch of these are in here because I need to rewatch the show to get the pacing/timing/tone right and I haven’t, and I don’t know why, because I enjoy the show, but BRAINS! Are Dumb! So I guess that’s it?)

“I do” -I have tried to write this damnable Malec arranged marriage fic like six different times. I have signed up for fic exchanges and bangs with it, I have rewritten massive sections, trying to change tone or structure or POV or whatever, and it basically comes down to they like each other too fast and I keep not gutting it enough to get back to a useful pace, but by the time I realized that I was on take six and kind of sick of it. I may get back to it eventually

“wing!fic” -canon divergent in early s1, trying to deal with the consequences of Simon’s kidnapping as the Truly Serious Event that it should have been. It uh. Got heavier than I expected with those consequences (considering it was originally just supposed to be Alec’s wings flirting with Magnus) and also see above re: rewatching for pacing.

“2x20 aftermath/date night/pandemonium porn“ -yes that is the actual wip title. It used to be “spite fic” because I was originally inspired by fighting against a lot of fic!Alec characterization that was clearly based more on the books and ATG syndrome than the Alec in the show, which is the Alec I know and like and want to read about. BUT, pacing and etc. again, I think. Also I have somehow entirely lost my knack for writing porn, which makes it difficult to finish something originally intended to be smut!fic. Or even teasing almost!smut.

“rubbish heap” -so this is about three different fics that I realized complemented each other really well so they’re now all in the same file as I try to turn them into the sequel of “with an if in its soul”. It includes amnesia, parabatai lore shenanigans, a s3 rewrite, and some truly awful Owl adjustments that make me wince in horrified authorly delight and pain. BUT, as with the other ones in this file, the scope is large and I normally write short-fic and I kind of just threw up my hands in exasperation. I may have to break it back up into the three different fics instead, if I ever actually want to write it. Them? But also I need to take better notes on s3 to make sure I have what I need in here.

SH Pt 2: Started posting or not yet in hiatus because it’s actually almost ready to be a thing in the real world! maybe!?

“kisses (firsts)” -I actually started publishing this one, a “series of firsts” that was supposed to be kind of relationship milestones and kind of an excuse for smut, and then there wasn’t that much smut and I lost momentum and also dear lords & ladies the timeline is stupid, wtf. I may not ever add to this one, tbqh. It doesn’t stop in a terrible place, and they’re all ficlets so they stand alone all right.

“clizzy epilogue” -this is blank atm, it’s more a reminder for me to keep poking away at my “girls who can’t breathe air, only fire” collection BECAUSE I WOULD LIKE TO ACTUALLY GET TO THE CLIZZY AT SOME POINT

"mer!alec" -pts 2-4 of a series, but apparently having an actual plan gets in the way of me *writing* the thing, and I haven't managed to throw the half an outline far enough away from my brain to be able to write again. Or something like that.

"ibhww" -if broken hearts were whole is a soulmate fic I started a million years ago, and purposefully set aside to finish some other WIPs because I thought they'd be quick, and now it's just buried under two and a half years of regret and shame so it's hard to get back to it

"iafy" -i am for you is a delightful & frothy semi-epistolary fluff piece that also just lost momentum because Life & 2020 & etc. It's far and away the most popular thing I've ever posted on AO3, which also makes me feel weird sometimes, and I feel like the fact that there's no grand conclusion planned, just a bit more fluff and settling in, might end up being disappointing? Basically, it's the first time I think I've psyched myself out about reader expectations, and until I get over that I'm going to have trouble finishing the last couple chapters. (There really are probably only two more chapters though. IT’S SO CLOSE, I wish I could just... write it. And yet?)

“fake-hating” -I do not like fake dating as a trope that much, I just do not get it, but I love outside POVs and arranged marriages and there’s this delighful tumblr post about how they wished there was more fic about people who were together but had to pretend they werent’, and uh. This may be that? Eventually? I’m not exhausted by my failure to finish it yet, so it’s still in the regular folder rather than the hiatus folder, even though nothing’s been posted for it.

AND I THINK THAT’S IT?

Not as terrible as it could be, but still. MANY WORDS THAT MAY NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY. Posting the equivalent of one’s old ratty sketchbook is always a weird feeling. :D

#on writing #writing memery #unending WIP List Of Doom

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brianc521 · 4 years

Text

Adjusting | Nap Date 7

They’ve technically been living together for over a year now. Truthfully though Shawn’s been on tour for the last nine months so they’ve only really lived together for three months. Now that he’s back they are certain that they can finally put the final touches on their condo and really make it a home.

The issue Shawn’s been running into though is that she’s kind of already put the final touches on the place. Not in a bad way, it’s just when you live somewhere for a year you make it feel lived in.

Everything has a place, a certain place, and he can never find it. He’ll finally start to think he’s got the hang of the kitchen, but then he needs a whisk and he’s back to square one. It’s rough for him to adjust to her space. He just, feels like an outsider?

“Babe where did you say the laundry detergent was?” He calls down the hall, knowing she’s in the living room reading.

“Top shelf to the right, next to the fabric softener.”

He mumbles what she says to himself, looking in the spot and finally locating the bright orange container. Unscrewing the lid he groans a little when he finds it empty.

He walks down the hall and slips his shoes on while she looks up from her book slowly. Not wanting to take her eyes off the page.

“Where are you going?” She asks, brows furrowed.

“We’re out, gonna go pick up some more.” He grabs his key from her key dish that looks like a big ugly leaf. “Need anything while I’m at the store?”

“Could you get me pads?”

“Sure, what kind?”

“Just the kind I always use.” She shrugs, looking back down to her book.

Shawn blanches for a moment, trying to rack his brain on if he remembers the kind she uses. He draws a blank and opens his mouth to say something, but when he looks at her again she’s so lost in her world, with so much trust and faith that he knows. So he doesn’t say anything just walks out into the cold towards his Jeep and tries to assure himself that he’ll know it when he sees it.

He doesn’t know it. He doesn’t even know what fucking type of detergent they use. He’s so tempted to just pick the first thing he sees off the shelf but he doesn’t want to be wrong. He’s groaning and trying to remember the color of the container. Was it yellow? Or green? There’s a green brand in front of him, no yellow though. Lord he’s probably so wrong, it was probably white or something.

He’s about to give up when his phone starts buzzing in his back pocket. He sighs a little when he sees it’s her name on the screen.

“Hey.” He answers.

“Hey it just occurred to me that you’ve never gotten me pads before, and that I told you to get the kind I always use. You don’t know that, I’m sorry. I get the brand Always, it’s gonna be like a darker green plastic package. I get the night time ones, with wings. The pads themselves should be orange.”

“Orange!” He turns around to the other side of the aisle.

“Orange?” She asks softly.

“Fuck it,” He sighs. “Baby what type of detergent do we use?”

“Oh.” She responds. “We use Tide, orange container, original scent, it’s the pods.”

“Okay thanks, and you said Always right?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, thank you Emi.” He smiles, throwing the orange container into the cart and moving on to another aisle.

He comes home to find her vacuuming the living room, hair now thrown into a messy bun, his shirt and her sleep shorts adorning her body. He’s learning that Saturdays are for errands and cleaning the condo.

“Did you find it?” She asks, turning the vacuum off.

“What?” He snaps out of his thoughts, “Oh yeah. I hope I got you the right kind.”

She starts to dig through the bag and nods when she pulls out the package. “Yep, thanks Babe.” She kisses his cheek, wandering off to the bathroom. He takes the tide and goes to the laundry room to start some laundry, only to find that what he had in the wash before he found out they were out of detergent is different now. He can hear the patter of her feet and turns to look at her.

“Sorry, I just,” She leans against the doorway. “You have to separate darks and lights.”

He blinks and looks at his clothes. “I did.”

“And colors.” She cringes. It’s then that he realizes she’s taken all the dark reds and blues from his grey pile.

“Oh.”

“But now you know.” She leans up to kiss his cheek again. He sighs when she walks away.

He feels like such a little kid, learning how to do basic adult tasks. It’s a little disheartening that he can’t help her out. She has to show him how, and that has got to be worse than just doing the chore yourself.

She catches him with his face in his hands as she goes to put the vacuum away. She stares at him for a moment, watching him breathe and grumble to himself. She then watches him angrily toss one more black shirt into the wash and practically chuck a pod into the washer. He gently closes the door though, remembering how she told him that if he did it too hard it would break. He clicks a few buttons, mumbling something about cold or hot water and finally going;

“Fuck it, they’re just shirts they can be washed in cold water.”

She wants to laugh a little, but she can see the underlying tension he’s holding.

“Hey.” She whispers, causing him to jump and turn around towards her. “Wanna watch a movie?”

“What about the dishes?”

“We’ll get to them later. I wanna cuddle.”

He nods, and looks to his clothes. “Let me clean this a little and I’ll be right there.”

“Shawn.” She stops him. “It’s you’re home too. If you wanna leave clothes on the floor I’m not gonna get upset with you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Baby come here.” She holds her hand out to him.

He takes her hand and allows her to lead him to the living room, that now has a candle lit in the middle of the coffee table and her favorite throw blanket on the back of the couch.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, tugging his hand for him to sit next to her.

“Nothing.” He responds too quickly.

“Shawn.” She gives him a look.

He sighs and looks to his lap. “I’m trying to adjust, but I’m struggling.”

“Struggling? With what?” She asks, leaning closer.

“Feeling like an outsider in my own home?” He whispers.

“What?” She gasps, leaning back.

“I’m sorry, not like that.” He reaches for her.

“Then like what?”

He tugs at his curls, “Not being able to find anything, or almost messing up the wash, or not knowing what cups to hand wash and what cups can go in the dishwasher. I didn’t make the bed right and I-”

“Hey.” She turns his face towards her. “Do you think I knew how to do all that shit?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t. I’m literally making this shit up as I go. I make the bed different every single day, because I can never remember how I made it the day before. The amount of cups I’ve melted in the dishwasher is incredible. I’m still learning too. You’re not alone.”

“Really?” He sighs.

“Really.” She nods. “You’re so cute.” She caresses the side of his face. “And I love you.”

He looks over at her with a pout on his lips. “I love you too.” He mumbles, leaning forward for a kiss.

“Do me a favor.” She hums. “Tell me when you feel like an outsider, so I can pull you back in. Okay?”

“Okay deal.” He grins. “Fun fact, you can pull me back in with kisses.”

“Oh good to know.”

“And lunch.” He nods, grinning as she shakes her head at him.

“What do you want?”

“It’s already on its way. Should be here within a few minutes.” He grins, reaching forward for the remote to turn on Netflix.

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kyndaris · 3 years

Text

Flower Trains and Musicality

Seeing an old bridge as we drove along the new Grafton Bridge towards the place we were staying at, my mother immediately wanted to find a way to get close and snap a photo. Put upon by my mother’s disappointment that she hadn’t been able to do it when we arrived, I made sure that, as we packed our bags ready for the next leg of our trip around northern New South Wales, to find a way to get underneath the rickety, single lane death trap for an opportunity with the camera. And as we greeted the morning joggers, it wasn’t long before we were back in the car to take a gander at the park that my grandmother visited a year and a half ago, when COVID-19 was still just a tickle in someone’s throat.

As it was not quite the season, the treas were mostly bare of the iconic purple flowers. My grandmother was quick to reminiscence about her time there, spent with a gaggle of other elderly ladies such as herself. Looking around, she was surprised to see a new playground that had recently popped up. True to form, both my mother and grandmother regressed to their childhood years as they swung on the swings and tried to make music out of colourful xylophones. Being the only adult there, I snapped a few shots and was eager to leave within minutes of arriving. After all, there was still a lengthy drive ahead of us and I wanted to get a good head start.

Our next stop on the tour of northern New South Wales was Armidale. The reason why? Because my mother was eager to take photos of the university campus. Along the way, we rested briefly at a lookout for the Guy Fawkes river. Terrified of the huge flying wasp-like insects, it took me a good long while to sit my tush down on the toilet seat. But I did! By the time I left the compost toilet, my mother had already scoped out the area and was heading down a nearby track to take a look at the scenery. She was followed by my grandmother, who admired the nearby waterfall that she felt was much more admirable than the one at Natural Bridge.

Once I had safely herded the two children back to the car, we were back on the road, winding through several road work projects, before we finally arrived at Armidale at noon. By now, we were hungry and so I, being a faithful navigator, searched up a few local restaurants. With a lot of choices vetoed, I decided to try Paper Tiger - a fusion of West and East. To my surprise, both my mother and grandmother were open to the choices and we had an excellent meal before we headed to the University of New England.

Driving around campus, my mother admitted that she had not taken a photo with the Hogwarts-esque building at the University of Sydney. As an alumni of the University of New South Wales, I was disheartened to hear her say how superior the architecture was at the rival university and tried to point out many of its flaws. Still, it did not deter her and there’s every possibility that one of these days, she’ll go visit the University of Sydney campus just to play Chinese tourist.

Most of the buildings around the University of New England was less than impressive. We did, however, stop by a Museum of Natural History. It had a tortoise display near the front and what appeared to be a dinosaur behind it. Unfortunately, it was closed. And so, we resumed our impromptu look around UNE. Satisfied that we had taken photos of the most prominent buildings, we started on the long journey to Tamworth: the home of Australian country music.

We arrived quite early. After checking in, summoning what little energy remained, we headed to the Golden Guitar. After snapping a shot of the sculpture outside the visitor information centre, my mother was adamant about seeing the Australian Standing Stones. To her dismay, she learned that they were NOT in Tamworth, but actually in Glen Innes.

In the end, she settled for the busts of many music greats at the Botanical Gardens of Tamworth, though she wasn’t very happy about it.

Our last day of travel was really a mad dash back to Sydney. Knowing that my friend had returned from Western Australia and was temporarily staying at Muswellbrook as they looked for more permanent lodgings due to the nature of her husband’s job, I also determined to drop by and say ‘hello.’ This we did. As we caught up, chatting about life and future career choices, we also looked out on the horde of bats that had set up home in the trees behind her hotel. It made me a little uneasy, wondering if there was a possibility of new diseases springing forth from the Australian country.

COVID-19, while contained and subdued in Australia, was still threatening the livelihoods of many people around the world. Still reeling from the disaster of the pandemic, it was very easy to see the spread of more deadlier viruses. All trapped in those blind flying mammals.

An hour passed in quiet chatter before we were on the road again, reinvigorated for the last part of our journey home. In many ways, it was a mad dash. Three hours it took (trapped due to traffic once we had finally arrived in Sydney because of school zones), for us to finally arrive at our front door. But it was all worth it in the end as we unpacked and unloaded and I finally got to go back on my computer.

The trip around northern New South Wales had its ups and downs. After all, it wouldn’t have been a family trip if we didn’t have a few arguments along the way. While I didn’t get to spy on the Hemsworth family or stalk Zac Efron, I did get to see a few interesting things on my trip, as well as sneak in a bit of gaming. And while I don’t think I’ll ever feel a hundred percent comfortable in the country towns of Australia - I know that I’m no stranger to this country. Small pockets of diversity exist, even in the most far-flung places. True, Sydney probably has them all beat in terms of quality and authenticity of multicultural food, but it’s also nice to see friendly faces everywhere.

#personal blog #travel blog #visit nsw #domestic travel

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richmond-rex · 4 years

Note

🌹🌹 - If I’m not too late!

Oh, you’re definitely not late! I was here thinking to myself which excerpt I could post without giving too many spoilers away, and I remember I wrote the first chapter of a character study about Cardinal Beaufort on the days before my thesis’ viva—I needed to decompress and I couldn’t possibly try to write my usual fics and characters because nothing would come out right. But I had no emotional attachment to Henry Winchester whatsoever besides a mere curiosity and for once I wanted the challenge of writing a devious, cunning character. The fic is entitled Four Kings, Five Scenes and each chapter was supposed to portray the cardinal during four different reigns: King Richard II (ch 1), King Henry IV (ch 2), King Henry V (ch 3), King Henry VI (ch 4) and King Henry VI again (ch 5). Obviously, I realised that no one would want to read this story lol. It really was the stress of the moment that made me write the first chapter. Well, since I’m not going to publish it anywhere and the chapter is fairly small compared to my usual chapter length (5k or more), you can read it here below the cut! Tagging @nuingiliath because she might be interested as well.

OLD TEMPLE, HOLBORN

Late September 1398

“Tell me what I ought to do, brother.”

Henry Beaufort, newly-appointed Bishop of Lincoln, rolled the episcopal ring on his finger—amethyst flaring under the sunlight—and let out an exasperated, long-held sigh. He could see its tracking ascendence in the air, the way the dust specks caught in the sunbeam would spiral and dance. Though old as its very name suggested, Old Temple was still one of the finest episcopal houses in London, bought for the exclusive use of the bishops of Lincoln after the Knights Templar decided to move within the borders of the City. A dusty residence it might be, but it was still one of the various privileges acquired after Henry’s consecration, or perhaps more importantly, his legitimisation. Everything was coming together, and yet, all hung at the brink of destruction.

“You are the eldest of us, John,” Lincoln replied, voice softening. “It is for you to lead us once Father is gone.”

His brother turned from the arched window, face twisting into a frown. He looked lost, utterly and completely lost, the tip of his red chaperon thrown over one shoulder as if the very fabric was trapping him in place or threatening to coil around his neck and squeeze out his breath.

“You’re the family’s clergyman.” He entreated, stepping closer. “Tell me, brother. What would God have me do?”

It was Lincoln’s turn to frown. By then the morning had given way to noon and the bishop had just finished donning his purple robes, a gold-threaded stole hanging from either side of his neck. It was almost time for Lincoln to resume his administrative duties concerning his diocese—let not anyone claim Henry Beaufort had earned his mitre by bribery and favouritism. He ran a hand along his tonsured head—he still had to send for his zucchetto hat to be brought to him—and paused in that pensive state, partially choosing what to say and partially assessing when he should schedule another shaving.

“God would have you love your brother—” He clasped his hands before his stomach, magnanimously. “—and obey your king.”

It was the first opportunity the two Beauforts had to discuss Bolingbroke’s banishment from the kingdom. It was an urgent matter: Henry Bolingbroke was Duke of Hereford and Earl of Derby, and—that was the most important piece of information—their father’s rightful heir. He was to inherit the large possessions and prodigious fortune that belonged to the Duke of Lancaster, the richest man in the realm—or so it had seemed, at least until the moment King Richard sent him into exile. The king had not mentioned his Lancastrian inheritance but as all invisible things, it still had its own weight, it still cast its own shadow. Lancaster himself was no less worried for the omission of the matter. It hung heavily, unresolved, in the air.

His brother John, lately elevated from his earldom of Somerset to the marquessate of Dorset, resumed his speech after a brief moment of consideration.

“I say Bolingbroke is a good Christian, brother. He has vowed to defend the faithful and I know he means well and true.”

John would know, the two of them had gone crusading together. While John, Bolingbroke and Swynford were bonding over tournaments and military expeditions, young Henry had his head buried deep in manuscripts and missals. For a time it had been a fancy of Henry’s to imagine himself a Knight Templar fighting for the kingdom of Christ in the Holy Land: the armour, the tabard and the red cross, entire armies under his command as a Grand Master. A child’s fancy, yes, for the Templars were no more—yet there Lincoln stood, at the very place those brothers had once called home. There was a rightness to it, a taste he could feel at the very tip of his tongue. Lancaster might have arranged for the trio of brothers to be admitted into the Confraternity at Lincoln’s Cathedral but it was he—Henry Beaufort—the one chosen to command the entire diocese now.

His brother John didn’t even seem to notice his state of reminiscence. He kept talking, his words coming to Lincoln’s ears in all of their ardour again.

“—I didn’t speak for Uncle Gloucester at the time and now it weighs on my conscience! Worse, brother, I condemned him! I called for his very arrest!”

“Woodstock was a traitor of the realm.” The bishop deadpanned. “It was your duty as a peer to call for his arrest. You know that as well as I d—”

A boy holding his purple zucchetto was just about to enter the room. The bishop dismissed him with a sharp turn of his head, shooed him away with a glare and a quick motion of his hand. The boy scurried away, his hurried steps echoing on the flagstones. Lincoln frowned, pressed his lips into a thin line: his own brusqueness had displeased him. He should be nobler in his actions, loftier, gentler even, a true shepherd of Christ. As he turned, he saw John had already stepped back to the window. Once again, he didn’t seem to have noticed any commotion around him.

“Be as it may, this time is different.” John restarted. “Our brother has done no wrong against the king. There is only one explanation for this—” John stopped short before he went further, checking himself at the very last minute. He didn’t utter the word, but it hovered just above them, somewhere over their heads. Retribution. Vengeance for the time Bolingbroke joined the Lords Appellant and rebelled against cousin Richard. One by one those rebels had been crushed.

The glass panels tinted his brother’s face with green, spots of red covered his face as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. Shocking blue, poisonous red, a liquid green so fresh one could almost drink.

“It was cruel to make him fight Mowbray to the death, but there was still honour in it. There’s no honour to be found in exile.” He closed his eyes. “He has six children, Henry.”

This time the bishop’s reply was swift. “Father will take care of them. As will we if it comes to such an end. We shall support the family as we always have.”

John, still looking very much disheartened, acceded with a small nod. “You know,” he smiled weakly, eyes growing distant like a far-away ship. “I used to look up to him when I was little. All I ever wanted was to be like Bolingbroke, a true son of Lancaster.”

The sensation was familiar to the bishop himself, only his brother still seem to hold to that boyish memory as his heart’s truest wish, even now that his aspirations were supported by law: standing there at the bishop’s residence, John was dressed in Lancaster blue and white, their father’s SS livery collar hung over his shoulders, the S-shaped links crafted in pure gold and held closely together.

A sting of bittersweetness washed over the bishop. What if… what if the king had Bolingbroke attainted? Surely, King Richard was unpredictable those days—no one had been quite able to placate his moods ever since Queen Anne had died—but if the king did attaint their brother, neither he nor his children would be authorised to inherit Lancaster’s lands and title. Perhaps… perhaps King Richard would choose to pass them over to Lancaster’s next legitimate male heir, in that case, his brother John himself.

“Dear brother, why do you choose to dwell in such sorrowful thoughts? Father loves you best.”

John turned to him sharply. “You cannot know such a thing!”

Oh, the plain irony of watching his brother’s face turned into a scowl that mirrored exactly the one their father was famous to possess! John had Lancaster’s same strong nose, as did the bishop himself, yet now at his anger, his brother had turned into the very picture of John of Gaunt. It was oftentimes that natural children would have their sire’s face if not his name, as if it was an underhanded way of nature to compensate for their social ostracism.

“He does.” The bishop repeated in a firm voice. He clasped his hands, a position that gave him reassurance in difficult situations. “Recall that Father has done everything in his power to make us his true children. He appealed to Parliament and His Holiness the Pope Himself, he moved mountains to secure our charts of legitimisation. All this time, he has extensively defended our cause to the king. Now, that same king has banished his heir from the land and the Duke of Lancaster poses no resistance. Why do you think that is?”

It was not exactly true, but it was what his brother needed to hear. Lancaster had, in fact, negotiated with the king to the best of his abilities, a piece of information that the bishop suspected his brother John knew already. The Marquess of Dorset was, after all, well-placed within cousin Richard’s circle. A more credible point against the bishop’s claim would be, however, that the Duke of Lancaster rarely ever showed his true emotions, fatherly or otherwise. It would be impossible to say whom he loved best.

“If Father will not risk his head over this matter, John—John, my beloved John! Heed my words now. You should not risk your own!”

John looked at him with such heaviness it bore into the bishop’s own soul. Henry walked over to his brother and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You have a good heart, John. It is loyal and true and it bears testament to your character, but it will get you killed. Remember who gave you your earldom of Somerset, who made you marquess of Dorset, knight of the Garter, who married you to that illustrious lady, the king’s own niece. He who appointed you as Constable of Dover—”

“—Warden of the Cinq Ports, Admiral of the Fleet in the North and West, Lieutenant in Aquitaine, I know, I know!” John took a long breath. “I know. The king, our cousin.”

King Richard himself had fastened the earl’s belt during John’s girding; the king himself had draped the velvet cloak across John’s shoulders. The ceremony had been clear enough: the earl’s power derived from his authority and his authority alone.

The bishop retrieved his hand from his brother’s shoulder slowly, pulled it back inch by inch until it was safely resting against its twin counterpart, flat against his stomach.

“Father has been unwell. When the Lord deems time to call him to His side again, who will look after us? Remember our brother Tom, so young and not yet a peer. Remember Joan and her children. Remember Mother.”

“No. No, brother, you speak true.” John conceded with a nod. “I can’t endanger your safety nor leave any of you unprotected. I cannot defy the king.”

There was resolution on his face, yet there was sadness as well. The bishop still sought a way of soothing his brother’s heart. “Let me be the one to speak for our brother. Cousin Richard already knows I’ve had my whole diocese pray for him. I stand safer as a prelate than you do as a courtier.”

In a second, his brother gripped his shoulder, displaced the stole hung around the bishop’s neck with a heartiness that surprised him. As though they were mere, simple children again, John smiled in truth at last.

“You have always been the wisest of us, brother. Yet,” He looked down,chuckled. “Yet sometimes I still remember that boy who vowed to God he would become pope.”

Bishop Beaufort felt his lips quirk up—a genuine, delicious thrill elicited by the memory—and so, accordingly, he lowered his eyelids in modesty. “All wisdom comes from our Holy Mother, the Church. All grace from God the Lord Almighty and His Son, Christ the Holy Lamb.” His prelate answer given, he glanced up again. “Sometimes I caught myself thinking of that boy as well, dear John, yet times have changed.”

John raised an eyebrow, apparently befuddled. “Have they?”

“Yes,” The bishop replied, no longer speaking of the ambitions held for a long time inside his heart. “If for the better or for the worse, only the future will tell.”

_______________________ *notes: it’s said that John Beaufort, while still suporting Richard II at the time of Bolingbroke’s invasion, might have played a double game. When he was captured by his brother’s forces and the Percys called for his execution, Henry IV is supposed to have said: “I beseech you do him no harm, for he is my brother, and has always been my friend; see the letter he sent to me in France.” Henry IV later made John Beaufort his Lord Chamberlain.

Henry Beaufort remained close to his brother John up until his last breath. The bishop stayed by his side at St Katherine’s hospital while he was dying. Henry was made executor of John’s will, a mark of deep trust, if not also affection the brothers had for each other. It may explain why Cardinal Beaufort vouched for his nephews, his brother’s children, so fiercely in the coming decades.

#lady-plantagenet #fic: four kings five scenes #hoping to god tumblr will not mess this post!#cardinal beaufort

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voicesfromthelight · 4 years

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The Ship Metaphor: Identity, Goals and Dreams in The Time of COVID-19

Dear Readers,

I hope you and your loved ones are all safe and well. How are you getting on in this time of such great change?

I have been keeping busy in my solitary quarantine. I am working remotely for my non-profit day job, doing readings, and working on finishing up a short film I wrote and directed. I have so many things I want to write about over here - especially about dream symbolism, which I know has become increasingly important during this crisis, which has many of us dreaming more intensely than before! However, a conversation I recently had online with a friend of mine made me feel like I had a more pressing issue to share.

The pandemic we are currently facing has meant that many of us have seen our lives disrupted as never before. Our social connections have been pared down to a minimum. Our hopes, plans and dreams for our future have suddenly been cast into uncertainty, canceled, postponed, or reframed in unfamiliar terrain.

Each one of us is having a somewhat different experience of the same thing. Probably whatever wasn’t working in your previous life, personally, politically, financially, emotionally - has now become magnified under pressure, ripe for transformation.

As my spirit guide Natalie so eloquently put it: “When you are in quarantine, your mind easily mistakes the unfamiliar, unsettling sense of restriction for a lack of hope in the future. This is an illusion.”

My friend recently expressed on a post how completely disheartened she felt with her current situation under the current restrictions in NYC, with no end in sight. Right before the pandemic, she had accepted her dream job at an illustrious cultural institution. Now, she said, it was likely that job would be gone by the time the crisis was over. She felt like all her hopes had been dashed. Isolated, her savings dwindling, everything that brought her joy, that made life worth living, seemed to be fading away. She said that without her dreams, she felt like her sense of identity was beginning to disappear. She no longer knew who she was.

My heart hurt for her. So many of us are facing loss, crisis, transformation, and a tearing down of our old lives. I really wanted to find the right words to comfort her. And then, I was reminded of something my guides taught me sometime ago. As with so many of their teachings, this pandemic has brought into stark relief just how practically applicable their advice can be.

The lesson they taught me through clairaudient dictation was about thinking of goal-setting and our life trajectories as our soul being a captain sailing her ship.

The captain of a ship gets to choose the destination and chart the course of the ship. It is also up to her to take good care of the ship, to keep its sails full. She has a crew to help her. (Our guides, they tell me, are our crew! Isn’t that a lovely thought?) However, the captain doesn’t control the weather the ship sails on. Sometimes the weather will be warm and pleasant, with a strong wind in the desired direction, and sometimes things can get a bit rocky. The captain can keep her feelers out, and learn to see a storm coming, but it’s not always up to her whether the ship can stay the course during the storm. Once the storm passes, however, she can get back on her journey to her destination, if she so chooses.

The important thing is to not confuse a patch of stormy weather with a deliberate change in destination. Sometimes you just have to weather the storm and continue on. But ultimately, whether or not you decide to permanently embark on a different journey is entirely up to you and your free will.

A storm is just that: weather that will pass. It is a circumstance. It cannot take your hopes and dreams from you if you do not surrender them to it. “The charting of the course is up to you. Plan ahead for the weather, but do not let it dictate your destination,” say my guides.

Your goals are your destinations. (Destination and destiny share the same root!) You are the one who gets to pick them! And the love, joy, and inspiration you pour into everything you do is what keeps your sails full.

And here’s the thing: We are all sharing in this crazy experience together, across the globe. When has humanity last had such an opportunity to really think about our shared trajectory and destination - where our collective ship is headed?

Some people have countered the platitude of saying “we are all in the same boat” regarding this pandemic, with “We are all in the same storm, but in different boats.” Well, yes! Not only is this true in the sense that some of us are better sociologically equipped to weather the fallout of this crisis than others, but in a spiritual sense, we are all souls helming the ships of our hopes and dreams on turbulent waters, dreaming of our own destinations.

And guess what? When this crisis is over (and it will be over one day, sooner than many of us fear), all of us will still have those same hopes and dreams. We will still have our talents, and our preferences, and our capacity to love. We will still be our Selves, for our true Selves are eternal. All of us will be raring to go, wanting to pour all of our energy into rebuilding, reimagining, and transforming the world.

We will get through this!

So, for anyone out there who is beginning to lose hope, I beg of you: put a little faith in our ability to collectively come together, a little wiser for wear, and create something new, something better than what came before.

Love,

Emily and The Team (The Crew!)

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taggedmemes · 5 years

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SENTENCE MEME ⟶ THE WOMBATS / THIS MODERN GLITCH always feel free to tweak the sentence to fit your muse.

“We don’t admit it but we’ve never seen eye to eye.”

“There’s hell to pay for my cowardice and your bad timing.”

“It was the perfect disease we had.”

“In its absence lies a painful fact.”

“We all need someone to drive us mad.”

“You were never the honest type.”

“I miss those games we had of Jekyll and Hyde.”

“Life is carefree and equally as boring.”

“I need you in every single which way.”

“We’re self-imploding.”

“I wear a suitcase under each one of my eyes.”

“I know now what it takes.”

“If you love me, let me go back to that bar.”

“It’s where the demons from my past leave me in peace.”

“The grass will be greener on the other side.”

“I’m sick of dancing with the beast.”

“What a great achievement it was to get a hotel room this late.”

“I bet they charge by the hour here.”

“It’s the kind of place where you should bring your own UV ray.”

“It’s not a big problem with me.”

“You don’t looks that hygienic anyway.”

“I wanna twist the structure of my average day.”

“We feel nothing so we jump into the fog in the hope we hit the ground upright.”

“I just hope it’s your bones that shatter, not mine.”

“I’m a non-believer, but I believe in these dirty little wicked games.”

“I feel the day deserves a truly sordid end.”

“I’ve made some bad decisions, I’ll admit that freely.”

“Life tastes sweeter when it’s wrapped in debauchery.”

“There’s not an ounce of faith in this leap.”

“Please allow me to be your anti-depressant.”

“We kicked back and let the pills do the talking.”

“Our vivid dreams are just like big production movies.”

“Please rethink, or use my trademark strategy.”

“It’s hard to smile when you’re as flattened as a pancake.”

“Perhaps I’m being unjust, or perhaps you agree.”

“I threw away my meds. I need more than what was in those 40 milligrams.”

“I felt as grim as the reaper man.”

“I’m a good friend and an excellent lover.”

“I can fool myself just like no other person can.”

“I’m turning into a twisted man.”

“I haven’t got any time for selfless deeds.”

“What I do for you is indirectly for me.”

“There’s nothing here you can break or destroy.”

“Last night I dreamt I died alone.”

“For now I’ll curb the cynical speaking.”

“That dream has sent the biggest chill through me.”

“Someone once said I don’t have any feelings.”

“I think that emotions can be misleading.”

“I tend to cry in a room full of laughter.”

“I’ve never been known to frighten easily.”

“We use our penguin costumes more than our evening dresses.”

“Don’t you know I’d chop a limb off just to have a good time?”

“Shut up and move with me, or get out of my face.”

“I didn’t queue for an hour to leave straight away.”

“I never knew I was a techno fan.”

“This is not a weird weekend, it’s an angry wormhole.”

“I’m talking like a city boy, but drinking with a northern soul.”

“I’m in debt to you, but don’t feed me plant food.”

“Though war was breaking out all around me, my concerns were with prank calls.”

“The more I give, the less I get.”

“I need a lover, not a friend tonight.”

“I’m not cut out for this modern life.”

“Now she’s always wasted.”

“She’s a total looker, the kind of shivering wreck I adore.”

“I can’t offer you a rescue, but I can tell you what I’d do.”

“I will be your freudian slip.”

“You and I are just walking disasters.”

“Consumption makes her stronger.”

“You’ve lost all that you have left to lose.”

“What we’ll never want, we’ll always need.”

“Right now we need some pop psychology.”

“We don’t care for romance.”

“We don’t care for lovers if loving’s all that they’ve got.”

“I’m a man of simple tastes.”

“What I feel is what I say.”

“I like girls and fast cars.”

“You will feel this shallow, too, when one melts your little heart.”

“All they represent us how to go from bad to worse.”

“Let’s not feel disheartened.”

“We’ll stick to what we know, and what we know is not a lot.”

“I’ll pay well over the odds just to have some teenage abandon back.”

“I don’t get angry when I’m feeling down.”

“Might as well be proud of last place.”

“My bad habits are taking over all the good left inside.”

“You were always the emo type.”

“I don’t care much for fashion or socialites.”

“The nihilists always get my vote.”

“All she ever wanted was a little direction.”

“All she ever needed was a friend.”

#roleplay meme #rp meme #lyric meme #sentence meme #sentence starters #KIND / SENTENCE.#KIND / IN CHARACTER.#BASED ON / LYRICS.

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letssunshinethelife · 4 years

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Shades of Life

Shades of life, we all have different shades in our lives. Yes, I am talking about the phases we went through out our lives. Each will give you a good/bad experience. But every experience is a learning lesson to an individual to improve., to progress, and sometime to move on. Currently, we all human are became machines, we don't have time for anything, Right! Every relation became fake in today's scenario. Wait is that so, is that the life we lived earlier - in our childhood, or our parents has teaches us how to be selfish, and self-centered person. Have they ever taught us, how to cope up with the life challenges. How to deal with failure, are they told us failure is not important, YOU are important. Its YOU, its your LIFE, which really matters.

Well, about my childhood days I lived in a world of fantasy, I live in a dream world, obviously the reality is completely different. Yeah, I have a unwavering faith on my beliefs. When I entered to adulthood I realized many such things, which are different from my fantasy world, or those world are only for the lucky one's - likewise, born with silver spoon. But this was merely my perception towards things was happening with me at that time. I was so disheartened with the struggles in my life, with my abusive marriage, things becoming depressive. I started isolating myself. I was disconnecting with the people who I love and who loves me unconditionally.

Today, my blog is related to 'Depression'. Recently I was coming across a news related to a suicide of well established personality from Entertainment Industry. I thought to write my experience about the depression. How to know a person is 'depressed', does it show any symptoms like a Cancer patient, or like any other physical illness. NO! Its a mental illness, please try to differentiate it. its a emotional imbalance, we cannot see with bare eyes but we can feel it, whom we truly cares. A person in depression needs little more love, little more care, little more support, he/she needs reassurance that you will support them. They want someone to stand with them, without mentioning his/her mistakes, without any humiliation like that you are not worth it for anything, don't make them a failure person in life, because the ramifications are awful. They need more moral support from their close ones to cope up with failures. Communication plays a major role to overcome from depression, but the fear of society they confined to themselves.

In the year 2016, I was evicted from my estranged husband home by my father in law. I have been sent to my maternal home with my 1.6 year old baby girl. My father in law alleges so many things to prove me a bad daughter in law, a bad wife. In that duration I lived with my parents in their home for 15 months with my little daughter. My parents wants me to reunite with my estranged husband and even my wish was the same to reunite at any cost they want, because I want my daughter will get all the love and care from both the parents. At that time, my only thought to reunite with my husband, for my daughter betterment, for her future. I have no communication with my estranged husband, he has blocked my number, I used to sent the pictures of my little daughter on his WhatsApp Handle, but as usual he ignored. I used to call his Aunt, I request her to do something, actually I beg her to save my marriage. My only motive was to be with him. My only dream to live a happy married life like others, but some marriage are not meant to be happy, when terms and conditions are applied. With all such things I started becoming depressed, I was not taking care of my little daughter, I was living in my world, disconnected with all, I was not doing my daily prayers, suddenly everything became hefty and I was becoming a irritated person, Adversely, some of my close ones started treated me a failure person, blamed me a reason behind my complicated marriage. This things really breaks me a lot, I started hiding with people. Actually, I stopped living my life, like I use to live it earlier. I was fed up of proving myself again and again. At that time I was not me, I became what my estranged husband father made theories on me.

But, I overcome from this phase of my life, when my mom showed a faith on me. She stood for me against all. She fought for me, she takes care of my little daughter. She helped me at that time, when no one is trusting me. Though I reunite with my estranged husband in 2017 with their terms and conditions applied, and I agreed it for my daughter's future. But as earlier I posted in my blog that marriage with 'terms and conditions has a validity period. Now, I am a happily single mom, does all my household chores, I start my day with yoga, I play with my girl, we dance, we sings, and mostly we dress-up and take pictures, that's our favorite thing to pass the time. I am reliving it. Depression can be curable without any medicine. If you trusts them, supports them and moreover stands with them. They just needs a confidence, a reassurance that you are with them. Love them, because only Love and Care can heal a wounded person, then only they became invincible.

My message with this blog is, Don't end your life, it's just a phase, sooner or later it will change. Just believe your life is more valuable, more precious. Just believe "Each day is a learning day and at the end of the day it always teaches us something new."

Love & Peace

#Reliving My Life #Lets sunshine the life #Love Yourself

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eterneli · 5 years

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ACT 2 - [EVENTIDE]

when he woke, there was an odd warmth lingering in that narrow space between his lungs and diaphragm, and a glimpse of the sun kissing his lashes. the air was, however, algid. a little too hard to breathe, a little too much like a thousand shards of ice lacerating his nostrils.

above he could make out the darkening skies, filled with lavender and indigo clouds, covering up the last stars of the night. a swirl of apricot and dead azure transfigured the horizon as a bright star 149 million kilometers away began rustling out of the confinements of its crib, mere fingertips peeking by the horizon, leaving behind a sliver of charcoal for the moon to lay on. the remaining phosphorescence from the gradually lighting sky danced along reflection of a calm lake to his left.

by the edge of said lake, dipping toes into the water, was désirée.

meanwhile baekhyun struggled to rise from the comforting bed of nature, where frosted grass tickled the back of his neck and pierced through the fabric of his clothing. he managed, after a few moments of recovery from disorientation. and as he walked towards here curious eyes wanders. left, right, up, down.

it looked like a crib built between two tall mountains, hiding secrets away, a large corridor leading to an endless horizon -- the edge of the earth, perhaps. whatever it was, it felt almost ethereal, too exquisite to be real.

something had to give. the lack of a heartbeat was what did it for him.

“where are we?” he finally spoke.

for a good thirty seconds she did not speak, serenely humming a random tune as slender toes danced upon the surface of the water. he waited.

”somewhere. nowhere. everywhere.”

brows furrowed and his jaw clenched.

yet another vague response, yet another dead end. why did he take her hand again?

just as lips parted to protest a giggle consumed the echo-prominent valley. his head snapped to the right to find a field of kaleidoscopic daffodils and a small figure running through it, a puff of chestnut locks bouncing atop its head with each hop and small hands caressing the surface of the flower ocean with the tenuity of a bee.

“who is that?”

he asked, but the answer was already at the back of his mind.

“why don’t you see for yourself?”

she finally glanced over, jet-black locks being tucked behind her ear and a nauseating simper stretching her porcelain cheeks.

although unwillingly, he turned on his heels and marched east. the closer he got to the child, the clearer its features became. the pianist only halted when he was a few three feet away, mostly because the child stopped running and turned around to face him.

the little boy’s cheeks were imperceptibly round, the kind of round that comes with the age, rosy lips formed a curious pout, the fair complex contrasting with the dark material of his clothing as long lashed fluttered with each blink, tiny palms clenching the hem of his shirt while a perfectly sculptured nose scrunched up over the pollen swirling in the air.

in that moment, time stood still and so did his breath.

unknowingly, he reached forward. for what? he was unsure.

but that was futile, and he knew it. he knew it as soon as cold fingertips met the soft and warm skin and the boy busted into a trillion speckles of light, eaten away by the wind as she materialized in the boy’s place.

”what...” he wanted to shout, or maybe collapse when his legs threatened to give in. only a whisper made it out, choked, cracked as lips curved into a disheartened smile. “is this a joke?”

she chuckled, all too calmly as bare feet traveled along the fresh green down below, pacing around through dainty flowers as these parted to make way, as if she was majesty.

“it is not.”

infuriating. she was utterly infuriating.

“then what?! what is this place? what are these mind games?” he inquired yet again.

and yet again she dodged, tone unwavering, unlike his.

”you wanted help, did you not? to go back. and i can help you bring that part of yourself back.”

he breathed because, really, that was all he could do. in and out. maybe it would help suppressing the urge of ripping her heart out (did she even have one?).

“i’m certain that you are already aware of how everything has a price in this world of ours. this is no different, particularly because it doesn’t please the gods. defying nature is a dangerous thing, baekhyun.”

tell me something i don’t know.

“i know.”

she beamed, slender fingers coiling around the middle part of a flower’s stem before breaking it in half and snuggling it into her locks, at her temple’s height.

”my ways are unconventional. it has a one hundred percent success rate though.”

“what even are you? and what is in it for you?”

silence filled the dormant valley as she settled by the edge of the field. each breath she took was one borrowed from his lungs.

”i am something, yet nothing. i am darkness but also light. i am someone offering the one thing you desire the most and that is all you need to know.” vague, but that he already expected. “all i ask for in return is a favor, one that i shall collect when the time is right. you are not allowed to refuse it when i come nor question whatever i ask of you.”

”sounds ominous and much like selling my soul away.” he retorted.

”at least you would have a soul to sell.” (she wasn’t wrong.)

”how would we go about it?”

she looked aggravatingly triumphant.

”you would be put through trials, however many it took. we would seal a formal pact, bound by words and blood. you actually already forged the papers when you took my hand, only your signature is missing.”

talk about selling your soul to the devil.

”what kind of trials?”

her head tilted and, under that light, she almost looked innocent. except there was nothing innocent nor holy about this woman.

”it depends on your nature, your desires, your past and your vision for the future. it takes different shapes for different people.”

“what’s the catch?” he almost sounded monotonous and she must’ve not expected it because her brows raised for a brief second.

”what makes you think there is one?”

”there always is.”

“you are clever.” her palms clasped together. “it isn’t much of a catch, but there is something. if the trials take too long you risk crossing the line and getting lost in your own mind, beyond saving. but as i said, one hundred percent rate of success so far.”

he didn’t question if it would physically hurt because the thought of being stuck in his own mind sounded a little more terrifying than any external injury. it should be fine though...right?

”and the consequences? no one comes back from the dead unsullied.” that much he gathered on his search.

”it varies. as i mentioned, it is a process particular to each person. it’s a leap of faith you would have to take.”

”how can you guarantee any of this? how can i trust that you will keep your word and help?”

she clicked her tongue and he pondered if she was finally getting impatient.

”the pact. it is not a one-way transaction. it is me, devoting a fragment of my existence, while you promise me something in return. if the pact is not honored, by either party, death is certain.”

”i thought you were immortal. actually immortal.”

”you are brilliant, baekhyun. brilliant enough to know there is no such things. the gods wouldn’t be pleased with a creature greater than them now, would they?”

it wasn’t a lie. nature has its balance and would punish any and all who got in its way.

”what other oddities should i be made aware of?”

by then he had made it back to the lake, as did she, standing a few feet apart.

“you will age the retained years. seven, in your case, as you are lucky enough to be a young vampire. and you will carry a mark on your body until i come to collect the debt, as will i. it manifests in the shape of a tattoo, more discreet to the human eye.” her demonstration was discreet and mute when raising the sleeve that had been cloaking her arm up until then, exposing a myriad of ink art etched into her skin, familiar and foreign pieces, a sight he caught by the corner of hazel hues before she could roll the silky material down again.

”any further questions?”

there was one the vampire had been mulling over ever since she brought it up. a part of him wished to voice it immediately, but apprehension over a possible answer lead to hesitation, which lead to a longer pause than originally intended. she didn’t seem to mind though, judging by the way she had been drawn back to the water, feet barely dipped fully into it. (it seemed cold, but so was she.)

“am i allowed to make a single request in this pact?”

he wouldn’t call it discontent, exactly, the way her demeanor shifted upon his inquiry. it was more of discomfort, as if he was pushing her out of a comfort zone, or maybe past the limit.

”speak and we shall see.” her tone wavered then and there. it was stern, different from the dull one she had been using ‘till then.

”i do not wish to be asked to kill any of my loved ones.”

perhaps he should be offended, enraged even, because she laughed. boisterous and short, but she still did.

the edges of her lips had curved into an impish simper, features contorting into a somewhat mocking expression. ”ah, yes. you innocent children seem to think you are the center of the universe. do not worry, baekhyun, for i am not here to disrupt your insignificant life. any favor i ask of you will be of my interest, not yours.”

he didn’t respond, didn’t really know how to. (she seemed to always render him speechless at some point. it was irritating.)

so she filled the space and he almost thanked her.

”anything else?”

”no.”

”are you ready then?”

”i am.”

those penetrating chocolate orbs seemed bottomless as she approached him, closed the distance step by step. she offered him a smile, candied this time around, as the world around them seemed to begin to deteriorate, falling into a pit of ventablack below their feet. they were left in complete darkness, except he could still see her clearly, as if a particular light illuminated them.

she held a hand out, pale and dainty, just as she did before.

he glanced over at it and then at his own.

“will you trust me?” she giggled. it made him uneasy.

he wanted to say no and run. run far away.

but he didn’t.

he took it.

and this time her touch wasn’t warm.

it was cold. the type of cold that burns.

#memoriae.#BBH: i am you; you are me.#( i didn't mean to make it this long #but it happened #anyway. 5/6 more to go?#p.s: if u read pls ignore grammatical errors. it was 3am #my brain was dead. )

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deejadabbles · 5 years

Text

Peachshipping Week Day 5: Magicians!

Okay, went a little overboard with this one, but I actually really like how this turned out~

This was by far the weirdest dream Anzu had ever had.

Well, she didn’t know exactly if this was a dream or not- but it just had to be! One doesn’t just find themselves behind the stage of a high-class show, in front of the one and only Dark Magician Girl, with Happy Lover to boot by any other means, do they? Even with all the magic clad adventures she and her friends had been on, a dream was still the most logical reasoning she could think of.

The last thing she remembered was sitting in Yugi’s room, Duel Monster cards scattered about as her best friend helped her strengthen her deck. It was late, past dinner even, so it was little surprise when she looked over and found Yugi curled up, dozing peacefully at the foot of his bed. He looked so peaceful and cute, she had found herself staring before snapping herself out of the daze the sight put her in.

She must have nodded off soon after, and, considering she had been trying to figure a good way of special summoning her most favorite Duel Monster, that explained the magician’s presence.

What Anzu couldn’t figure out, was why Dark Magician Girl was sitting at a makeup vanity with the air of a teenage girl at her best friend's sleepover about her. Happy Lover made cute purring noises from her spot on the vanity, stagehands bustled about in the extravagant backstage of the theater and Dark Magician Girl was powdering her nose, looking back at Anzu through the mirror with a bight, excited grin.

“Alright, how many of these late nights at Yugi’s house is it going to take for you to just kiss that poor boy!”

Anzu practically stumbled back at the question, “Wha- what? Why would you ask me something like that?! No one’s kissing anyone!”

The magician let out a halfhearted sigh of exasperation, set her makeup down and spun her stool around to face Anzu fully. “Master, you can’t fool me. I know how much you adore him, you just have to take that leap and tell him!” Happy Lover made a noise of agreement to the woman’s words.

Apparently not interested in any other points of denial Anzu was willing to make, the blonde got up from her seat and started walking, the fairy monster floating right beside her and purring at Anzu as if to say ‘come on, you too!’. Anzu did follow, taking in the strange, hazy quality of the dream world around them.

“Master Yugi is much too unsure of your feelings to take things in his own hands. Besides, you're a take-charge kind of woman, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be the first to confess.” Dark Magician Girl nodded matter-of-factly, Happy Lover mirroring the movement.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t just risk everything between Yugi and I like that,” Anzu mumbled, her eyes cast to the ground as the mere idea of things becoming awkward between them made something hard and sharp twist painfully in her chest.

The fairy and the spellcaster shared a long look as they continued to walk. “The two of you can work through anything, especially since he feels the same way, you know he does. Maha, back me up!”

Anzu looked up and indeed saw Maha Vailo walking about, examining a clipboard in hand as if he was some sort of stage manager. The robed man looked up at them, casting the women a smirk as he nodded silently in answer.

“See, all of us can see it!”

Biting her lip as they came to a stop at some luscious stage curtains, Anzu weighted just how crazy it would be to argue her point to trading card characters. Then again, they always had seemed more like real people than just that, and this was her dream after all.

“It’s not that,” Anzu whispered, just loud enough for them to hear, as if saying it any louder might expose her to anyone who might be listening in the waking world. “It took me a long time to sort out my feelings about Yugi, especially with my feelings about the Pharaoh mixed in. I...I don’t want to hurt Yugi. What if things don’t work out? What if I’m too late?”

That hard, sharp thing in her chest reared its head again, as it did every time she thought about telling Yugi, saying the same thing as if it were a more cynical version of herself: ‘Too little too late, Anzu. You missed your chance to be with him, nice going’.

Again Dark Magician Girl and Happy Lover shared a look, this one soft and understanding. Then the blonde turned to her with a small, calm smile. “It’s okay to be uncertain, Anzu. You’ve always been the girl who follows her heart, and deep down you know it’s saying that you and Yugi are meant to be. Take that leap of faith, Anzu, and everything will work out like it should.”

With that, the magician and fairy took hold of the curtains and pulled them open, revealing a warm light that enveloped Anzu, the Duel Monsters, and the fabulous stage in its glowing rays.

Well, this wasn't the weirdest dream Yugi had ever had.

Of course, finding himself in a police-style interrogation room, with Kuriboh in his lap and Dark Magician himself sitting on the other side of the table, did make it crack the top five. This had to be a dream, right?

The last thing he remembered was helping Anzu strengthen her deck. He was laying on his bed, watching her pick through spell cards, biting her lip while she thought in that cute way she always did. Had he drifted off in the comfortable silence then? He had to of, given his current situation. Even the Pharaoh's Puzzle couldn’t conjure up something like this.

Dark Magician set the paper he was looking through down with a snap, then steepled his fingers as he peered over at Yugi across the table.

“Master, may I ask why you haven’t told Anzu how you feel yet?”

If it wasn’t for Kuriboh being in his lap, Yugi might have bolted up from his seat, instead, he settled for a gasp and, “What? Why are you asking something like that?!”

The purple-clad man sighed. “You know how you feel about her, you’ve been in love with her since grade school. Why haven’t you, as they say, ‘made a move’ yet?”

Yugi wanted to will away the heat in his cheeks, even as the brown fuzzball in his lap made a little ‘kuri kuri’ sound to comfort him. “L-look, it’s not that simple. Just like I told the Pharaoh, I can’t just come out and tell her.”

“Why not, especially now?” the magician picked up the papers again, consulting them as he said, “You’ve made great progress in regards to your confidence and maturity in recent years, is that not true?”

“Well yeah, of course I have, but-”

“And one of the main reasons you never told her before was that you were concerned that you still needed to grow as a person before entering a relationship, correct?”

Yugi’s disquiet made him shift in his seat. “Yeah, that’s right. I know I’ve grown up a lot over these past couple years, but Anzu...”

“Another reason is your uncertainty regarding her own feelings towards you?”

A silence settled for a moment, in which Yugi sighed, barely even noticing that he was petting Kuriboh’s soft fur as he thought, eyes averted to the ground.

“Anzu will be leaving for New York soon. She’s following her dream and I... If I tell her how I feel and she feels the same way, she might think she has to stay here to make it work. I can’t stand in the way of the thing she’s worked so hard for. I just want her to be happy...”

The silence rose again after Yugi’s heartfelt proclamation. Kuriboh made a disheartened noise, his eyes drooping at the master’s sudden melancholy. After a moment Dark Magician sighed, then gave a soft, understanding, patient smile.

“Anzu knows you well. She knows you would never be so selfish as to keep her from her dream.”

There must have been a door in the room- or more likely, the dream was acting in that disjointed manner dreams usually do, because Celtic Guardian was walking up to the table now. He passed the spellcaster more papers, a badge pinned on his cloak, further enhancing the police-style atmosphere.

“If I may,” the blonde elf started, “if she leaves without knowing the depth of your feelings, she may decide to move on while in New York. Your chance to be with her will be gone.”

Apparently having said his piece, Celtic Guardian took his leave as Dark Magician nodded in agreement, and Kuriboh made a noise of approval at the statement.

Then the magician set his hands on the table, that small smile still aimed at Yugi as he said, “If anyone could make a long distance love work, it would be a couple who have a deep connection such as you and Anzu do. I think anyone who knows you two well would agree.”

The brown ball of fluff in Yugi’s lap bounced up and down, again making purring ‘kuri’ noises to show his agreement.

Honestly, Yugi had been optimistic about the idea of a long distance relationship working between them. Video calls would make the time apart between visits easier and she had already said that she would come back every summer. Still, even with such thoughts, he wanted to tread carefully. Was he really considering confessing to her even more now?

Then, Dark Magician got up from his seat, skirted the table and plucked Kuriboh from his lap. “I hope you take our words into consideration, master. Now, you should be getting back to her.”

He beckoned Yugi to stand, then indicated a door Yugi hadn’t noticed with his arm. The door opened, revealing a glowing light. Kuriboh waved his little green hands goodbye while the robed magician still trained that smile on Yugi.

“Good luck. Follow your heart, just as you taught the Pharaoh to.”

The warm, inviting light from the doorway enveloped them like a favorite blanket, leaving Yugi to wonder just how much of this was an actual dream.

Both teens woke slowly, Anzu feeling an ache in her neck from the lolling it had done in her sleep and Yugi having to lift his head from a pile of cards with one sticking to his cheek.

“Sorry, I think I dozed off for a minute,” Yugi said as he scratched his fingers through his hair.

Anzu gave him a weak smile, “It’s okay, I did too.”

Both took a moment to clear the haze of their nap and stretch. Of course, while they did the peculiar dreams regarding their deckmasters came floating back. They were just dreams, nothing more, right? Right. They had just dreamt about the magicians because they were messing with Duel Monster cards! It’s not as if their favorite spellcasters and company were actually coming to them in their dreams to give love advice, right? Right?

Still...

Anzu picked up the Sage’s Stone spell card from the card tray, remembering the duel where she used it. Yugi’s Dark Magician came to her aid and helped Dark Magician Girl win Anzu’s duel, and thus, saved her life. Yugi was always there for her, always.

Yugi looked at Anzu from his spot on the bed as she looked deep in thought. She would be gone soon. He knew their friendship could endure the distance, but, what if he was making a mistake by keeping his deeper feelings quiet? Anzu could become ‘the one that got away’ so easily.

“Yugi, would you like-”

“Hey, Anzu, I was-”

Both of them spoke up at the same time and broke down into giggles after realizing what they’d done.

“You can go first, Anzu,” Yugi smiled.

“Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to go out on Saturday. We could get lunch together, maybe visit some shops downtown, go for a walk, that kind of stuff.”

“Hey, that’s what I was gonna ask you! Maybe not exactly that, but if you wanted to hang out this weekend.”

Again they both chuckled at how in-sync their minds seemed to be. And, unbeknownst to the other, they both thought the same thing in the next moment.

“I’ll finally confess how I feel then. Whatever happens after, I know we can get through it.”

#peachshipping #peachshipping week #ygo #Anzu Mazaki #yugi mutou #Tea Gardner #yugi muto

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hanalwayssolo · 5 years

Text

Date and Time: Ch. 2

A/N: Second part of the commissioned piece for @valkyrieofardyn!

Tagging some pals! @bleucommelhiver @raspberryandechinacea @blindedstarlight @hanatsuki89 @gowithme @emmydots @animakupo @lazarustrashpit @noboomoon

Link on AO3

A stifling heat slowly drags you awake. Eyes half shut, a jarring myriad of colours dance before you. A kaleidoscope of blue, green, yellow. Your surroundings unravel little by little: lush, massive trees, a vibrant foliage, the glade of sylleblossoms. The gentle breeze whistles past. A hush chorus of birdsong lifts through the air. Overhead, the canopy of leaves welcome a bright morning, basking the forest in glorious sunlight...

A shot of panic seizes you. You haul yourself up, but you stagger with a sudden, throbbing pain. You press a palm against your temple and you feel the bandage that has been wrapped around your head. Frantically, you survey the area—closely this time, despite the splitting headache—and you immediately snap into focus. Behind you, an extinguished bonfire rests in its ashes, and a cloth bag sits by the foot of a weeping willow tree. There is no one else around.

But all that aside, one thing remains clear as this bizarre, sunny day: This is definitely not the Lucis that you know of, nor is it anywhere close to the woodlands of Tenebrae, or even then remote jungles of Galahd. You have been almost everywhere, and considering your exceptionally clear memory, you know very well that the whole world has been plunged into darkness. There isn’t supposed to be sunlight, or any sort of light for that matter. And before you got knocked out of consciousness, if you take your exceptionally clear memory into account, the last thing you recall is a snap, and—

“Johanna!” you yell, and your voice echoes all throughout the meadow that you startle a flock of birds into a sudden flight. If this is all her doing, then gods have mercy on you for ever doubting (and possibly pissing off) a bloody Messenger, of all people. “Johanna, where are you—“

“If you are pertaining to Lady Johanna, Messenger of Bahamut, you will not find her here,” says a familiar voice—an all too familiar voice at that.

You turn, and your heart plummets at the sight of the man before you.

“Ardyn?” you say doubtfully to the man who is obviously Ardyn. Or at least, someone who uncannily looks just like him. It’s difficult to ascertain when this man of different hair and eye colour, of plain and pale clothing, carries a manner and bearing that is abysmally opposed to the Ardyn you have come to know. But there is no mistaking the sharp features of that face, the chiseled jaw, that gorgeous mouth—

“How do you know my name?” he asks curiously, his eyebrows furrowing in utter bewilderment. “When you fell from the sky, I can remember that we never had the chance for proper introductions—“

“I’m sorry—“ you raise one incredulous hand— “I fell from where?”

“The sky? Up there.” He points upward, as if unsure on how to tell you the most obvious of facts that the sky is blue, the sun is shining, and that the water is wet. Eerily enough, his tone is not of sarcasm nor condescension. It is simply voiced out of confusion, and a tinge of concern. As he makes his way over to you, he asks, “How are you feeling? I was worried that you might not wake up anytime soon. You have been unconscious for a day.”

Worried? You gape at him—for the genuinely worried expression that mellowed his face, or for the fact that you have been knocked out cold for one whole day, you cannot entirely decide. “You can’t be fucking serious,” you say under your breath.

He looks at you strangely, purses his lip as if to consider your choice of words. “I’m afraid I am, uh, rather serious.” He clears his throat, reaches for your head but hesitates. “I have gathered herbs to help soothe the wound on your forehead. May I?” he asks.

You are uncertain on what to say—there are so many questions racing in your mind at an alarming speed, a series of where am I? What year is it even? Why am I here? all at once—that you stare at him for a painful second. And then another more.

Instead, your only meaningful response is a weak nod.

Ardyn ushers you underneath the willow tree, beckons for you to sit. “So, what business do you have with Lady Johanna?” Suddenly, the expression on his face is mired with a grave worry. “Please do not tell me you have offended her. She is not the type to be trifled lightly—“

“No, it’s nothing like that!” you say, way too defensively that Ardyn might have been convinced otherwise. “It’s… well. She’s the one who brought me here. I think. And she’s the only one who can explain what’s going on, why I’m here, and what I have to—“

You abruptly cut yourself off, sparing Ardyn a cautious glance. Of course. He is the reason why you are here. The only problem now is, Johanna failed to brief you with the instructions. She did not even give you a clue on what you are supposed to do.

Ardyn hums pensively. “Well, she is back in the Capital. From here, the journey will take a fortnight by foot. Less than a week by chocobo.”

“And by here, you mean where exactly?”

“Duskendale Forest. South of Lestall.”

Your eyes widen. The bare mention of the name Lestall—Lestallum’s name in its nascent years—is enough for you to confirm that this place is somewhere out of your own time. He must have sensed your shock and unease that he says, “I know it’s a lot to take in, to be a stranger in a foreign place—but please, allow me to tend to your wounds.”

You say nothing. He begins to grind leaves in a wooden bowl as he goes on to tell you the circumstances that brought you here: how a flash of light brought you falling right in his camp, and how relieved he was when he checked your pulse. His voice, though it is as you remember it to be, is far gentler, far kinder. A solemn silence rests as you watch him prepare his balms. The smell of oil and lavender hangs rich and fragrant. It is unsettling to see this version of Ardyn who is neither a stranger nor an enemy, neither a friend nor a lover.

A whiff of herbs linger as Ardyn leans over to you to unwrap your bandages. His sudden proximity makes you flinch, if only a little. If he even noticed it, he is kind enough not to say a word. With him this close, almost a breath away, you cannot help but look at the deep blue of his eyes—a jarring sight to behold when amber is the colour you have grown to love on him. He spreads the salve over your forehead with a light and careful hand, and you try your best not to stare at his face too much. And also his mouth. Especially his mouth. Gods. It goes without saying that you are failing this effort quite miserably when Ardyn catches your watchful gaze.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly. “Um—” you look away, training your eyes at the palm of your hands— “it’s, well… you remind me of someone I know.”

Ardyn only nods, his lips curving into a small smile. He begins to wrap a fresh strip of cloth around your head. Determined to change the subject, you bring yourself to ask, “So, how do you, um—how come you know how to do these things?”

“I was taught by good friends of mine,” he says. This time, a wide smile spreads across his face. “Troublesome pair of siblings, I should say, but they are quite generous to put up with me nonetheless.” He tucks the hem snugly under the wrap. “There, all done.”

“Thank you,” you say. Ardyn holds out his hand and helps you up. “So—“ you slightly fiddle with the bandage— “you don’t suppose you could accompany me to see Johanna? To this Capital you speak of?”

Something in the expression of his face turns cold and distant. “Do forgive me, but I fear that I won’t be much of help,” he says, avoiding your gaze. “There is somewhere else I need to be, a settlement up north that requires my aid.”

“Oh. Okay.” Your attempt not to seem disappointed is betrayed by the drop of your voice. Good thing that you are never the type to be disheartened so easily that you boldly suggest, “Then surely we can go to the Capital after that?”

“We?” Ardyn lifts a curious brow. “You intend to join me in my travels?”

“Yes. Why ever not?”

“I am loath to put you in danger.”

“I’m used to danger, and I can protect myself just fine.”

“It may not seem like it, but the road ahead does not take kindly to strangers.”

“And I may not seem like it but I mean it when I say I can protect myself just fine,” you repeatedly insist. “I see that you are trying to persuade me from accompanying you.”

“And I see that it is clearly not working.” Ardyn sighs in resignation. “Are you always this difficult?”

Not as difficult as you. You shrug off the sudden pang of an endearing memory you thought you have forgotten. “I’d say I’m persistent,” you say evenly. “Look—” you rest your hands on your waist, firmly holding Ardyn’s gaze— “right now, I don’t know my way around here, and you are the only one who can bring me to Johanna. I don’t mind sticking around to see your business, if I have to. Just… please. I need your help.”

Ardyn considers you for a thoughtful moment. ��Very well.” A kind smile graces his face. “But before anything else, you know of my name and yet I do not know yours.”

Against your mindless hesitation, you tell him. He repeats. To hear him say your name after such a long and grueling time, you might as well consider this a homecoming. A bittersweet return from exile. He never shies away from calling you by your name all throughout the tiresome journey, even as he asks you many other things: how you learned how to fight, who taught you how to pick up a sword, what meal you like best. You oblige him with answers. You share him tidbits of your life, and he shares his. The open road and the campfire bear witness to what has been said, a faithful audience to an unlikely companionship between a stranger and a healer. But the one thing he does not ask you is where you came from, or how you know of his name in the first place. You do not tell him. You choose not to. Not when it pains you to even try.

In the weeks that followed, you are no longer a stranger to Ardyn’s healing miracles.

The first time you witnessed it, you were just as skeptical as any scholarly scientist in Gralea. It is hard to believe that any man could relieve anyone’s illness with a single touch, let alone the lethal plague everyone calls the scourge. From one settlement to another, you have seen its fatalities. You have seen the ghastly faces of countless innocent men and women, young and elderly, who have been suffering from it. Those who have succumbed all faced the same fate of being turned into monsters. Daemons.

But Ardyn, no matter how hapless the situation, attends to the needs of the afflicted. The ground does not tremble in his footsteps, nor does the sky thunder when he speaks. There is no spell nor spectacle. But one touch from him commands the sick to be well from the scourge’s curse.

Still, even after all is said and done, Ardyn chooses to do more. He does not rest. He knocks on every door, listens to every cry for help. He cares for people with the same utmost tenderness of a mother who nurses her child: gentle and patient, wielding a quiet and an unearthly compassion. You have taken it upon yourself to learn his way of crafting potions just so you could extend a helping hand to ease his burdens.

“I was supposed to be the one helping you, and now you are helping me,” Ardyn had said, when he first taught you how to brew the plants he had gathered from a nearby forest.

“It is the least I could do,” you had replied. “You are doing so much, and you’re only one man.”

Which is true. Too painfully true at that. He is only but one man, and he has chosen to bear this beast of a burden all by himself. He is used to doing things on his own. He offers everything he has to the people in need of him without expecting anything in return.

And so it brings you to wonder how this Ardyn before you—a simple man of noble solicitude, who cares deeply, who loves and loves and loves to the point of his own ruin—could be the same vengeful person you saw that day sitting on the throne, seething in fury, wrathful in his spite towards his brother, his family, the rest of the world. My brother wanted me to be the villain, then the villain I have become, he had said. You wonder why this once kind and selfless healer chose to ferment his anger and make himself a monster. Hate is a strong word, but it is the only strength I have left, he had spat out. You wonder how one so blessed and sanctified could ever stumble to be so condemned and vilified. A saint turned sinner.

Perhaps good men—even the best of men, the most honourable of them—are still just men. Still just human, in no way different from the rest of us. We may hold them at a pedestal, but they tiptoe on its edge. One false step is their fall from grace.

And how painful must it be to be so human, to be so fragile, in the face of such a godly burden.

In the small town of Steyliff, a few ways south of the massive ruins in the grove, more laborious days drifted. Ardyn never tires from reaching out to the villagers, and you support him in any way you can. This time around, he does not hesitate to accept your help. He lets you. While you hunt, he heals. The roots and herbs he forages, you prepare them for food and potions. No menial task is left undone. The town chief is generous enough to spare one of their stone huts, even if it is only at night that the two of you ever find a moment’s respite.

“About our journey to the Capital,” Ardyn begins to say one particular evening, firewood still in hand, “I’m afraid I can only accompany you as far as the outskirts of the city.” You immediately notice the tactfulness of his voice, the careful choice of words.

You look at him curiously, shifting a little in your seat. A cold breeze flutters from the window. The aroma of basil and Valerian root on the table wafts in your midst. “Okay. But may I ask why?”

He hesitates. You can see it in his eyes, even from the sickly glow of the lamplights that hung in the wooden ceiling, that he is slowly shaping his response. “It has been quite some time since I have returned to the city,” he says. He turns away, unloading the wood by the hearth. The fire crackles.

You swivel to face him. You might be inclined to believe that you have lost all form of prudence when you hear yourself say: “This is about your family, isn’t it? About your brother?”

The way Ardyn stiffens at the mention of it delivers a pang of guilt in your chest. “Indeed, it is,” he says, after a doleful pause. He takes the empty seat beside you, folds his hand over the table. A pensive look has settled on his face.

“Look, I know it’s not my business to be involved with your family affairs,” you say, “but can’t you talk this through? You are brothers—bound by blood before anything else.”

“I know,” Ardyn says solemnly. “See, back when we were children that’s what we always cared about. Being together. When we first learned how to wield a sword, we vowed our blades to protect each other. To protect our family, to protect our people. Somnus proved to be much better than I was, but I didn’t mind. I was proud of him. Always was.” He pauses, and a sad smile passes over his face. “And yet, here we are. Separated by our differences that have been far greater than we had expected—“

“And that’s why you both need to talk,” you say firmly. “Don’t you think it would be infinitely better if you both focus on the things that bring you together than what sets you apart? From what I can see, you both want the best for your people. Imagine the things you could both do, the lives you could change.”

Ardyn looks at you with a curious expression on your face. He says nothing, and dwells on a brief pause. Then, he says, “You always make a fine point.”

“I know.” You smile giddily at him. “So, is that a yes?”

“Yes to what?”

“Going to the Capital. Talking to your brother. And by talking, I mean with words and not with swords.”

“I’ll consider,” he hums, and you swat his arm. He laughs as he nods and says, “Alright, I promise.”

“Good,” you beam triumphantly.

“Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask…” Ardyn trails off, heaves a nervous breath before he continues, “You seem to know me well, even in the short weeks we have been together. Back in Myrl, I was actually surprised that you know what kind of wine I would like. It’s the little things, but seems to me you know me more than anyone I know.” He fixes his eyes on you, firm and curious. “Am I right to assume that you are not from this time?”

The smile on your face falters. You say nothing. He waits for you to answer, yet you dither with the heavy silence.

When you fail to speak, he does on your behalf. “Are we… are we ever acquainted? In your time?”

The sigh that leaves you aches with longing. “Acquainted is an understatement,” you mutter. You cannot bring yourself to look at him, fearing he would see right through you, just like he always does.

The hearth hisses. The silence is more brooding than the last. Then, he asks, “Was I good… at least, to you? I mean, this version of me that you know.”

You steel yourself to face him. “That version of you has been a friend to me when I had no one else. He’s not an easy man, I should say. You’re not an easy man.” You crack a small laughter, but the sound of your voice teeters on the edge of tears. “But still, even at his worst, I… I—”

“You loved me.”

The manner in which he says me and the certainty in his voice only invites more reason for you to cry. Still, you force yourself to smile as you say, “I did. In fact, I still do.”

Ardyn does not permit another silence to stretch into a moment. He crosses the breathing space between the two of you, sealing his mouth on yours.

In the small town of Steyliff, Ardyn cherishes the sweeter days that meandered with you by his side.

At night, he delights crossing the hollows of your skin, feeling the warmth where his limbs tangled with yours. More often than not, for some reason, he would stay up and wait for you to lull into sleep. He does not know why, but he likes watching your face soften in the moonlight, listening to the quiet hum of your breathing. But out of all these things, Ardyn takes pleasure when you invite him to play this little game you seem to have invented for your own amusement. Let’s plant kisses on our favourite parts, you would tell him, as if the two of you are voyagers weary and exhausted out at sea, finally finding land for the first time, keen and wanting to mark territories on each other’s bodies. His hands, arms, knees—all yours. Your lips, neck, thighs—all his.

Even if he closed his eyes, Ardyn no longer remembers what it was like to live without you. Your body is now his holy ground, and his is nothing but a fervent worshiper, only for you. Down on his knees, his head between your legs, is how he prays for the sound of his name on your lips. Your pleasure is his scripture. Let this be his gospel. Your mewling praise is the only one that matters. Not once did he ever consider himself being a holy man—not pious, not a devout, not at all righteous—but with you he finally understands why sacrifices are made at the altar, why crusaders march for faith, why people cling their lives onto religion. It is all for this. It is all for love.

One terribly sunny morning, as you return to Steyliff from a hunt, you are welcomed by the sight of Ardyn, who appears to be in a serious discussion with the town chief and a familiar woman.

The woman is not exactly familiar, so to speak. The woman happens to have an uncanny resemblance to Lady Lunafreya, but with much shorter hair and a certain lightheartedness in her bearing. You would have loved to introduce yourself, but when you overhear her referring to Ardyn as her fiancé, you feel as if the world has stopped spinning on its axis.

“There she is,” the town chief calls out for you, and both Ardyn and the woman turn to your direction. Ardyn does not say a word, but the look on his face is just as inexpressibly dumbstruck as yours.

You give them a short and brief bow before you wordlessly take your leave, walking back to the hut with startling haste. You can feel your heart violently hammering against your chest, your breaths growing more and more uneven. You want to cry, but you could not bring yourself to do it. Instead, you sweep Ardyn’s vials of potions sitting on the table, shattering every fucking bottle you can possibly find. The rage is frothing at the tip of your tongue. Your hands tremble with the urge to destroy. You would have broken every single hard work you have done if Ardyn had not interrupted your catastrophic breaking spree.

“Stop—“ Ardyn grabs you, his one arm on your wrist and the other around your waist— “please, I can explain—“

“Explain what exactly?” You shove him aside, your voice is as scathing as a newly whetted blade. The sound of a departing carriage occupies the silence. “Ardyn, you had all these months—all this fucking time, gods be good—to tell me that you are engaged to be married. Fucking hell—“ you draw an exasperated breath, squeezing your eyes shut— “I have always assumed that you were a jackass in your past life, and I shouldn’t have been surprised to find out it’s fucking true—“

“I am so sorry, I really am, but please—“ Ardyn raises his voice, pleading, begging— “if you can just listen to me—I’ve been meaning to tell you about Aera, but—“

“But what?” You jab a finger on his chest, seething. “You needed a good fuck, huh? Test the waters whether you’re sure she’s the right one? So what, everytime you kissed me, were you thinking of her? When you’re inside me, were you imagining her—”

“Do not dare say that,” Ardyn says, his voice surprisingly grittier, sharper. He takes you in his arms, wrapping you in a firm embrace. “I love Aera, yes, that much is true. But not in the way you think. Not in the way that I love you. Because you—“ his breath cracks, his lips now quivering with every word— “I will move heaven and earth if that’s what it takes for you to believe me that I only want to be yours.”

Truth be told, the thing you really want say next is, Let go of me. I’m tired of getting hurt by you. This is not going to last. This is the most logical thing you could ever grant yourself, for both of your sakes.

But love knows no logic. Love traps the words in your mouth because love knows that what you wanted to say may be logical, but that is not the truth. Because the truth will always be this: you do not want to let go of him. You would rather be hurt by him than anyone else. You know that this time with him is not going to last, but you’re sure as hell going to make it count.

So in your silence, he crushes his lips with yours. You let him. You kiss him deeper, your hands weaving through his hair. He moves you to the bed, peels you off your clothes, his kisses arriving in a boatload to the shores of your skin, returning home to his favourite parts. Lips, neck, thighs—all his and only his.

To hell with the saints. To hell with the martyrs. If this love is this sinful, you are willing to suffer for it until it nearly kills you.

“Do you still intend to go to the Capital?” Ardyn asks as you rest your head on his chest, your body pressing closer to his. He knows as much as you do what the trip to the Capital means, and there is a silent plea in his voice that seems to beg, Please stay. Just a little while. Just a little longer.

“I have to,” is what you force yourself to say. “And you have to. You told me you are going to speak to your brother.”

“I don’t remember saying something—“

You playfully poke his chest. “Ardyn, you promised.”

He laughs. “Very well,” he says finally. He presses a kiss on your forehead. “We leave on the morrow, my love.”

Ardyn keeps his word and accompanies you to the Capital. A long journey, to be sure—more than just a fortnight, opting to take pit stops in between to rest, or most often, to make sweet love underneath the night sky wild with stars—but you both gladly make it in the metropolis in one piece. He takes you past the main thoroughfare, and into the grandness that is the Caelum Manor.

“Holy fuck, this is where you live?” You let the image before you sink in: a massive iron gate, a sylleblossom field for a front lawn, bleach white columns, the ivory walls. You suddenly wonder where all of this has ended up in the present time, but you decide against dwelling on the miserable thought.

“Well, I used to,” he says, visibly amused by your surprise. “Come—“ with a smile on his face, he takes your hand, laces his fingers with yours— “Lady Johanna usually stays in the west wing.”

He walks you through the great halls, and he leads you inside a large chamber teeming with bookshelves that could only be the manor’s library. In the midst of the rows of oaken desks and the glorious scent of old books and parchment, there in the middle of this grandness is an old woman with the distinctly silver hair and elegant face that could be no other than Johanna. She first appears to be busily leafing through the pages of a thick volume, with Aera closely behind her, keenly observing, lips pressed into clinical concentration.

The moment you and Ardyn walk into the room, their attention is immediately drawn to the two of you.

“Finally!” Aera excitedly runs toward Ardyn, throwing her arms around him and pressing a kiss on his cheek. Your hands unknowingly tighten around the hem of your shirt.

Meanwhile, Johanna warmly welcomes Ardyn with an embrace. “You have been gone for far too long,” she tells him as Ardyn slightly lowers himself just for Johanna to cup his face in the palm of her hands. “Oh, my dear boy. You have grown more mature, I see.”

“I apologize for worrying you, my lady,” Ardyn says, pressing a kiss on her forehead. “If I may, Lady Johanna, I brought someone who is keen to meet you—“ he turns, and he smiles at you. He takes your hand again in his as he introduces you to Johanna and Aera. His fiancée.

As courtesies and pleasantries are exchanged, Johanna does not seem to bear any recollection of you. If she feigns indifference, she expertly keeps her expression stern and neutral, not a single hint betraying the lines under her sharp blue eyes. Meanwhile, in Aera, you see no signs of contempt. You wish there was. If she hides any ill-advised feelings against you, she is entitled to it—but it irks you that she hides it well. Woman to woman, you know that she knows. One furtive and knowing glance is enough.

Johanna reaches for your arm, ushers you by her side. “The journey must have exhausted you, child,” she tells you kindly, a more gentler expression easing on her face.

“It’s quite alright,” you say, smiling sheepishly. “There is a matter of urgency in the subject that I wish to speak with you. I came here as soon as I am able.”

Johanna nods pensively. “I suppose you may leave us now,” she tells Ardyn. “Us women have a lot to catch up on.”

“Understood.” Ardyn smiles, offers a short bow. A vague uneasiness stirs. He does not know that he is about to leave you in a den of lionesses, but you do.

“And please, meet with Somnus,” Johanna urges sharply. “He is at the pavilion with Gilgamesh and Circe. Your willful brother is up to something and I do not like it. Talk some sense to him, I beg you.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Ardyn says, before he shuts the door, leaving behind the echo of a soft, hushed click.

Johanna and Aera leads you to a small round table. “We have been expecting you,” Johanna says. “Please, do be seated—“

“I think I’ll prefer standing, if you don’t mind,” you say, almost too curtly.

Johanna and Aera trade glances. “We are not enemies, I can assure you,” Aera says with a kind smile. She walks over to you in graceful strides. She is so beautiful you can hardly stomach it. “And I believe we have met, yes? Back in Steyliff?”

“Yes.” You purse your lip, gathering every effort to maintain your tact. “I… I must apologize if I have left without properly introducing myself.”

“That’s quite alright.” Aera nods agreeably. “You know, I have seen your face in my visions. I did not expect that it will be through Ardyn that we will be finally meeting.”

It is impossible to tell with Aera’s mild manner if there is a knife well-hidden in the way she mentions Ardyn’s name. If there is, she has earned every right to wield it.

“You seem to be taking this all too well,” you hear yourself say too pointedly. Perhaps it is you who is wielding a blade after all.

Aera nods, a private gesture, as if in confirmation. “You are far too kind to consider me so,” she says. “But it is rather difficult, as it is for you. Here we both are, in love with the same man, desperate to save him from such a cruel fate. And I love him. And I know that he loves me.” Now, that is a knife in plain sight. “But you… the love he has for you is something else entirely. And between the two of us, it seems that you are the only one who is truly able to free him from the curse that awaits him.”

Setting aside Aera’s candid frankness, it did not take long for the realization to dawn on you. “So you know.” You look at Aera, then at Johanna. “You both know.”

A tensed silence drifts, one that is swiftly broken when Johanna begins to speak. “I must confess, I have seen many iterations of what the future holds.” A solemn expression has graced her face. “Quite frankly, I am strictly forbidden to speak of it, let alone to exercise my own accord to bend the universe to change the course of time. It is the will of the Draconian. I am to do nothing until I am to do what I was told. That is my calling as his Messenger.

“But as a Messenger, it is also my calling to guide and protect. To offer my counsel, to be the bridge between gods and men. We tiptoe in a never-ending paradox, but it is the very nature to which my brethren and I are created. And throughout these endless years of mine, to have been tasked to protect this royal line of kings and queens have been both my greatest joy and sorrow.” The solemnity of her face drifts into a wistful smile. “See, I am no mother, but Ardyn and Somnus—bless those precious boys, though men grown they may have become—are the closest I have to sons. I never wished for them to have gone down the path of ruin, the one you have seen in your lifetime.

“And seeing you here… Long have I waited for this day.” She rests her hands on your shoulders. “I have gambled and risked all that I am to bring you here, and forgive me for doing it in such a fashion, for keeping you in the dark. I had to.”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean exactly?” Out of the corner of your eye, you see Aera’s face shift to a more grave expression.

“Had I told you what was in store,” Johanna says, “you would have hesitated. You would not have done what you did today, persuading Ardyn to return here with you.” She holds your hand, firmer this time. “But I must tell you the truth, for you deserve nothing less: I know you are hoping for me to bring you back to your time, but I’m afraid I cannot do so. You being here is a ripple and crease, one that affects your existence and mine. Which means—“

“I will cease to exist.” The finality of your words barely scratch the surface of the hollow feeling that suddenly gutted you.

“And so will I,” says Johanna. “I will face judgment of my lord father soon. But that does not matter to me. I am prepared to face his wrath. I do not regret any of the things I have done. I could only hope you can forgive me, in another lifetime at the very least.”

You nod, staring vacantly at Johanna, then Aera. Perhaps you have known this all along. How it all makes sense. How things like these always come with its consequences. Frankly, against all your fears, you have been willing to pay the price of it all along.

Love really does make the smartest of men the dumbest of fools.

Though the shock is numbing, the one thing that you manage to ask is: “But Ardyn… will he be fine?”

“Yes.” Johanna smiles. “He will be. They both will be.”

“Then I suppose that is good enough for me,” you say, your voice nothing but resolute.

Ardyn looks out the window of his bedchamber, struggling to admire the Capital in its prosperous glory. It has been ten years since the steady rise of the city to become the melting pot of commercial affairs, and the crown on his head weighs heavier in each passing moment. The bustling plaza, the marketplace, statues and monuments of marble and gold, the pristine shrines and temples all seem to fall in lackluster before his very eyes.

In the midst of his ruminations, Somnus makes his approach, quiet and wary. But Ardyn is aware of his brother’s presence, stealthy as he may claim himself to be.

“Have you ever been in love, brother?” Ardyn suddenly asks out of nowhere. He does not turn. His gaze is still fixed on the thoroughfare.

“Now that is an interesting way to say hello, Your Majesty,” Somnus says, his voice clear with sheer amusement. “Now, where is that question coming from?”

“Simply out of curiosity,” says Ardyn. He faces Somnus, and he is greeted by that snarky smile of his.

“Well, it’s been a long time since my elder brother has been keen to know my state of personal affairs,” Somnus says dryly, taking a seat on the velvet couch by the bed. “But this isn’t about me. So, how’s Aera? Heard from the attendants about the morning sickness.”

“She’s doing well, in spite of it all,” says Ardyn so simply. A strange silence rests. Somnus regards Ardyn with a painfully knowing smile.

“You still think about her, don’t you?” Somnus asks. His face has turned more concerned, more solemn.

Ardyn avoids his brother’s burning gaze. The memory of you disappearing without a trace is a bright specter that still demands to be felt, even after all this time. And as if by some cruel jape, a whiff of lavender and earth drifts through the window, that he is suddenly taken aback on those nights in Steyliff, your face, your smile. Something in him aches, painfully and brutally so.

And so Ardyn does not look at his brother. He chooses to fix his eyes out the window. “Not a day goes by that I don’t,” he tells Somnus. “And I suppose it is her that I will ever think about for the rest of my days.”

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #ffxv fanfiction #ardyn izunia #ardyn x reader #feat.#somnus lucis caelum #writing commissions #my writing #you know what #call me that bitch who self projects an ideal happy ending but #in an ideal world where open communication and understanding and love actually stops a war #this is it #this is the 'if only these asshole brothers tried talking shit out' route + reader's participation lmao #my god #anyway i have so many feelings for this esp writing that scene with aera SHEESH

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