#mulberry melody

[alittlemelody716]

Nino and the Glaring Cats

Thank you to the people in my team who beta read for me!

“Uhh… Nino? What are you doing?” Adrien asked with clear confusion.

“Feeding wild cats, dude” exclaimed Nino, wearing a feral grin.

“While we’re in New York?”

“I feed wild cats in Paris all the time, M. Rancomproix isn’t as strict on feeding cats as he is on feeding pigeons and rats. If our class is going on this weird tour of the US because Principal Damocles and the mayor wanted to stop the “Akuma Class” label, then I’m going to feed some wild cats” Nino nonchalantly replied.

Adrien was torn between being happy at learning something new about his best friend or concerned that Nino might get himself killed one day by feeding wild cats in alleyways. In his worry, he never noticed that one of the cats had a camera.

—

“Nino, are you feeding wild cats again? We’re in Gotham!” questioned a bewildered Adrien.

Nino just shrugged, “Of course I am dude, I won’t be able to fulfill my daily hobby of feeding wild cats if I didn’t.”

“I-I see….”

There was a pregnant pause between them.

“...Hand me some of the food. We still have time before we have to return to the hotel and I’m not letting my best friend die while feeding cats in Gotham by himself,” resigned Adrien.

Nino placed a hand over his heart, touched, with tears in his eyes, “Bro…”

—

The Joker was ready to take over Gotham Museum. He set up a series of bombs ready to douse the whole place with laughing gas.

As soon as he was ready to set off the explosives and make a dramatic entrance, he was suddenly surrounded by cats.

“What the-”

One of the cats glared at the Joker before letting out a loud “meow!” The cats descended upon the Joker, who could only scream. At around the same time, a visiting class from Paris left the museum, blissfully unaware of the battle that was just around the corner, with one exception. The lone member of the group only smirked and walked towards the waiting bus.

When the Bats found the rogue hours later, he was unconscious. Blood poured out of the many, many scratches on his person. His clothes were torn and covered in blood, barely covering the deep cuts along his arms and legs. One of his eyes lay torn out and on the concrete. The system of bombs was nothing more than a pile of scrap.

—

“Here we are! In the great city that is Metropolis and… you’re feeding wild cats, aren’t you Nino” Adrien sighed.

Nino gave him a cheeky grin “You know it, dude!” He held up a bag of cat food.

“Right, hand some over, let’s go find some cats,” Adrien quickly grabbed the bag out of Nino’s hands.

He didn’t see the bag full of photos at the boy’s feet.

—

Superboy was feeling restless. He just came back from visiting Robin in Gotham where he was treated to one entertaining story about cats attacking the Joker. The day was rather mundane and he was itching for some action.

He flew through the sky on his patrol, only to stop before a rooftop curiously. A lone cat was sitting on top glancing down at the roads below. One cat became two, then three. Before he knew it, there were over a dozen cats on the rooftop.

A bit unnerved, he went to take a closer look only for all the cats to suddenly flip their heads towards him and glare.

“Nope!” Superboy screamed, flying away at top speeds, not noticing the stares of someone below.

—

The class was back in Paris, and Nino was rather bored. It was then that he received a text from his oldest friend. After staring at the text for a while, Nino quickly decided to speed up some of his plans.

Taking his phone, he sent out some messages and then went to grab Chris and tell his parents that he invited some of his classmates over.

—

“Chat Noir! What up my dude!” Carapace happily greeted the feline hero.

“Hey Carapace, how do you like being a permanent hero now?” the hero teasingly asked.

“Ha… it still feels weird” Caparace shyly scratched the back of his head.

“Well, come to me if you need any pointers. You’ll find that I’m a purr-ty good teacher” smiled Chat Noir.

The turtle hero only laughed. “Sure thing, Chat Noir. By the way, I picked up some macarons from Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie before patrol, want one?”

Chat Noir happily accepted the cookies, not noticing the growing smile on Carapace’s face.

—

When Ladybug told him of a secret aid she had among civilians, he was curious. When his lady told him that he got invited to join as a superhero ambassador, he was excited. Now all he felt was shock at the five members in this group.

“Do you have it?”

“Of course we do, who do you think we are? Code, if you would,” the young girl motioned toward her partner.

“Clue and I have compiled a whole list of photographic evidence as well blueprints of the mansion with notes on an off-book construction that seemed to have taken place some time ago” the boy quipped, handing over a thick file of papers.

The other boy took the file with a nod. “Good, Crown, what about you?”

The mentioned Crown, scoffed. “Everything is ready to be uploaded when you give the green light. Let the minions take care of it first, it’ll be all the much more entertaining. Are the minions fully trained yet, Clowder?”

“Trained and ready to attack,” Clowder smirked.

Chat Noir had wide eyes, quickly darting his head around the room.

“What the…” Chat Noir whispered under his breath.

“You’ll get used to it” the last remaining member, Clock, shrugged.

—

Class was rather peaceful for once.

“And then Damian gave me this expensive bracelet…”

“Nevermind,” Marinette sighed under her breath, not in the mood to call out Lila.

She had a date with Luka later, so she decided to spend her time making plans for that instead. Not to mention, her plans with Kagami after school and the talk with Nino during lunch about Adrien’s new Metropolis boyfriend. He seemed nice, but they wanted to be absolutely sure that he wouldn't hurt their best friend.

“-nette, -ari-, Marinette!” Alix screamed.

“Ah! Sorry Alix, what is it?”

“Just wanted to return the notes you let me borrow last week and see if I could commission a banner for my next race from ya,” Alix requested with a smile, passing a notebook to the young designer.

Marinette could barely see the loose paper tucked between the pages.

“Oh, thanks Alix and of course, when is it?”

No one took notice of the small exchange. Nor did they take note of Max’s mad scribbling and Chloe’s furious typing. And no one especially heard Nino’s phone ping as soon as Chloe hit send on her text.

—

Gabriel was frustrated. No matter how many akumas he made, he kept getting foiled by the annoying bug and mangy cat. They got new allies too which only made his job harder.

“Natalie, did you make sure Adrien went to the photoshoot today”

“Of course, sir. Vincent said he’ll send over the results once he is done filtering through them, there seems to be quite a few discarded photos this time around” Natalie replied sternly, flipping through the schedule and emails on her tablet.

“Meow”

Gabriel and Natalie turned to find a cat standing in the middle of the office, completely black with piercing green eyes. The cat’s eyes narrowed at the two, not blinking, into an ominous stare.

“Natalie, why is there a cat in my office”

The woman was confused and a little scared, “I’m not sure, sir, I will have security remove it immediately.”

The cat was removed, only for another one to appear. Then another one, then another. Every time one cat was removed, another one would appear, each staring at the pair with unblinking eyes.

Gabriel soon had enough and ordered his security team fired for incompetence in allowing so many cats to enter the office. If all the fired employees soon found themselves jobs at Style Queen, no one mentioned it.

—

Adrien received some of the most shocking news of his life. “You want me to … what?!”

“In order to boost your image, I have decided it is better for you to start dating Lila Rossi. She is an upcoming model in our brand and therefore I feel that it would be beneficial to both of you.”

“But, I already am in a relationship.”

“I was not aware of such a thing. Who is it? If they are worthy I will let you continue seeing them, otherwise I expect you to break it off immediately.”

Adrien was hurt. He knew his father would immediately tell him to end the relationship if he knew who Jon was. Swallowing his dread, Adrien was ready to reply before a dozen cats fell from the ceiling, and another dozen rose up from underneath the floor that Adrien didn’t even know could move. They all started attacking his father.

Natalie and the gorilla quickly went to help his father, but Adrien could only stare frozen in shock. He recognized those cats.

The police and animal control arrived and his father was rushed to the hospital. All the cats were caught, and Adrien was afraid they would be put down, but Officer Roger assured him that the cats were going to be fine. They were just going to be monitored for a few days. That confused the boy, but he decided to accept the answer.

Another shock came when tons of documents and statements against his father for child abuse and unethical work practices were uncovered online and across multiple news sources while he was in the hospital. Then he received a message from Ladybug, saying that the civilian group had discovered some incriminating evidence towards Hawkmoth’s identity. 

—

“It would seem that Hawkmoth is Gabriel Agreste” Code informed Chat Noir.

The superhero in question was reeling. There were photos of Hawkmoth’s lair within the Agreste mansion. His mother was there too, encased in some kind of coffin. Ladybug was tense beside him, her face pale. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Clowder clenching his fist and Crown glaring at the photos in disgust.

“How… how did you get this,” he choked out.

“Some of the cats found it while they were infiltrating the mansion. We called both you and Ladybug right afterward,” Clock solemnly stated.

Chat Noir couldn’t take it anymore and broke down.

“Chat!” Ladybug yelped in alarm.

—

It was over. With Gabriel Agreste still in the hospital for his wounds, the miraculous team had time to speak with law enforcement officials, recover the missing miraculous and arrest the man as soon as he was discharged.

Chat Noir, now Adrien turned to his friends. “So what exactly is all this?”

“Oh Adrikins, we’re Paris’s Glaring Cats. A group that takes down the lowlifes using cats. I make sure none of the little minions get put down for the stuff they do and handle all the media call outs,” Crown, aka Chloe, replied completely smug.

“Max and I are in charge of investigations and gathering evidence against our targets. Alya doesn’t realize how much information I’m actually getting while I’m out making deliveries,” Clue, Marinette, smirked, “Becoming Ladybug just happened suddenly and I wasn’t sure how Chat Noir was going to react until Nino, as Carapace, made a move.”

“Affirmative, we have all known each other since we were young and had found that we work rather well together, so we established a group centering around Nino’s remarkable ability to train cats,” Code, now known as Max firmly mentioned with a smile.

Adrien stared incredulously. “Alix?”

“Someone had to make sure these lunatics didn’t kill someone with the cats. Clock was the surveillance member who ran information around and misdirected anyone who was catching on,” explained Alix with their arms crossed.

Adrien was even more bewildered. “Nino?”

Nino laughed. “Well, dude, I, as Clowder, feed and train cats to attack people. Cats are smarter than you think dude. We even started an international branch during that trip around the US. We even got Catwoman and Green Lantern in on it.”

“That’s why we were feeding cats throughout the entire trip!”

“Yup! Now onto the more important matter, these are our next targets.”

Nino slammed down two photos. One was a picture of Lila giving Adrien a kiss on the cheek. The other photo was a picture of Jon from his last visit to Paris.

“No one harasses my best friend or bullies Nettie on my watch. And as for the farm boy, well let’s just say he needs to be properly warned about what happens if he breaks Adrien’s heart.”

The rest of the group only nodded along, already plotting. Adrien on the other hand was conflicted on whether he should be touched, embarrassed, or horrified. He decided on being all three before joining in the discussions on how to take down Lila.

@maribat-get-in

#maribat #mulberry melody #m?gi civil war 3 #oneshot #team chat noir

[rotworld]

7: Metamorphosis

(previous)

the girl goes home. you visit an old friend.

->sexually suggestive. contains mild gore, ear penetration, terato, mentions of drugging, mentions of child trafficking and child abuse.

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.

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The last leg of the journey is always a thing of wonder. You unfold your crumpled, egg-stained map and marvel at the neatness of the reality, the momentary certainty of things. This is the understanding you carved out in a corner of the world. This is how far you’ve come. The Drift is mercurial. It won’t last. These cities will have scattered again, these roads you thought you knew winding in strange, new ways. But for now, for just a moment, you bask in a sense of wearied accomplishment. You are still here, despite everything. 

There were tears this morning. Albie drew a map of his own depicting his family’s corner of Verlinda, landmarks painstakingly rendered in colored pencils scribbles and labeled with shaky letters. A little cottage in the forest, surrounded by trees, bordered by a stream and many smiling animals, is labeled “MY HOUSE.” He wanted to make sure the girl would be able to find her way back someday. She has it on her lap, neatly folded, clutched in her small hands. 

“It’s close,” you tell her. 

She watches the scenery with rapt attention, memorizing every detail. “Close,” she agrees, glancing at you in surprise. “How know?” 

“See the dirt? It’s kind of a reddish color. And that spicy-sweet smell is from the mulberry gardens.” The sign is just over the hill, exactly as you remember it; a metal slab suspended between old wooden posts, bearing elegant lettering and a curling ribbon design. “Welcome to Compass Hill,” it says, and your heart beats faster in recognition, anticipation and dread. “I grew up here,” you add softly. 

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: HOW YOU REMEMBER BY AZURE RAY]

Roads into Compass Hill are long, decorated promenades of flattened cobblestone and stately scenery. Here is the visitor’s center, glass-paneled and flower-filled like a Victorian greenhouse. There is a lakeside sculpture garden with abstract figures and lanterns dotting the winding footpath. In the distance, the city’s crown jewel, a sprawling campus of red brick cathedrals—the head office and processing factory of Compass Hill Textiles.

“This used to be an awful place,” you say. “Someone might tell you the story later. Not to scare you, but because you should know. People would bring children of the road here because the company would pay them for it.”

You slow as you drive past the textiles building. They’ve kept it maintained, you notice, maybe to avoid suspicion. The lawn is trimmed, the hedges bordering the path up to the front steps neatly manicured. There’s a water fountain with an angel perched on top. The plaque set into the stone commemorates an ancient patriarch of the Dewitt family, a name emblazoned all over town. It was the Dewitts who built the mill, after all, a dynasty of textile magnates made wealthy by the harvest and refinement of exquisite silks. 

You point to the factory. “I used to live there. It looks nice from outside, but most of the space is for machinery. Rows and rows of rattling, whirring things that took up whole rooms. The kids who couldn’t weave slept in the cramped, overheated basement, right under all the noise. Eventually, we’d get our license and start delivering silk.” The girl studies the building with a small frown. “It’s different now,” you assure her. “The factory’s closed. Nobody has to sleep on a concrete floor anymore.”

There’s a gate just beyond the factory. Curling wrought iron arches form symmetrical shapes where they meet, an insectoid body with large, sweeping wings. You can hear something just faintly; a buzzing hum. A faraway melody. The gates pull apart with a loud metallic clattering, welcoming you inside. In your rearview mirror, you see a large shape on the roof of the old textile factory. It crouches, spreads its wings, and flits away. The girl sits up sharply, startled and curious. 

“Probably went to tell everyone we’re here,” you say.

“Everyone?” she asks. Something catches her eye and she turns back towards the window, her eyes widening.

“Everyone. You’re home.” 

Beyond the gate is the true, new Compass Hill, built on the bones of the old. Structures are soft and rounded rather than angular, wispy, cloud-like material woven across the city skyline. Gossamer threads sparkle in dazzling neon shades and subdued earth tones alike. The schoolhouse is a powdery blue dome with rocks and flowers woven around the entrance, while the open air marketplace is adorned with rippling canopy shades and decorative arches. Everything is silk as only Compass Hill knows it, exquisite color and unbelievably versatile texture. 

But the girl isn’t looking at the buildings. She’s looking at the people. Peering through honeycomb windows and ambling into the street, a crowd gathers, curiously chittering, all around your car. You stop in the middle of the road to let them see her, and for her to see them. Scaled skin and shimmering carapaces, wings and claws and softly clicking mandibles, bristle-thin hairs and thick, curly manes. The people of Compass Hill are as varied as the silk they spin. A child with slender vespid wings and gangly, striped arms comes right up to the window and the girl stares back at her with tears filling her four eyes. 

“Home!” she wails. “Home! Home!” You unlock the door and she tumbles into the waiting arms of family she has only dreamed of. A woman, pale pink and violet with a mantis’ tapered abdomen and sharp, hooked fingers, gently works the knots from the girl’s hair. The hum rises, louder now, a gentle, rolling melody of a thousand voices harmonizing. It’s the Song, welcoming you both. When you step out of the car, you’re swarmed with gentle touches and fond nuzzling. 

“You’re back.”  There’s a pleased purring beside your ear as four soft, lightly furred arms encircle you from behind. You recognize her quiet, higher-pitched notes before you see her. Chiffon is one of the oldest weavers in Compass Hill, her great wings as thick and heavy as a blanket. She slips in front of you, taking each of your hands in hers, the other two free to cup your face. Her four eyes arch in worry. “Where have you been? And where are you going?” 

“I’ll have to show you my map. It’s been a long trip,” you say. Chiffon chitters with laughter, a sound echoed all the way down the street as she passes the joke through the Song. “And I don’t know where I’m going yet. I was in a hurry to get here before the next shift.” 

“Your hand…” She’s gentle with it, fingers worrying the skin all around your bandages. “I’ll have a look at this later. You’ll stay the night. Rest. He’ll be so happy to see you.” Your smile wanes. Chiffon squeezes your hands, reassuring but also pleading. “Please,” she sings softer. “Please go see him.”

You hear a delighted warble, the melody rising. The girl looks startled, clutching a wad of fresh, glistening silk in her hand, small string still connected to her mouth. The color is like a sunrise, a blue ombre glinting with strands of gold. One of the old weavers bends down and shows her how to braid it, tying off the ends so it doesn’t fray. “That’s hopesilk,” he says, pausing his singing so she can understand him. “Very strong, and very pretty. Someone believes in you very much.” 

You wipe at your eyes and nod at Chiffon. The crowd parts for the two of you as a slow, undulating note enters the Song, a bittersweet melody. They’ve missed you. They wish you’d stay. 

The Dewitt estate is at the very edge of town. Similar grand manors and luxurious homes dot the hills but the others are old, fallen into disrepair. The fences have crumbled, the stately brickwork has eroded, and mulberry branches snake out of the broken windows. They are Verlinda’s by right but remain, dilapidated and unoccupied, out of respect for the children of Compass Hill and everything they have endured.

It is only the Dewitt estate, all the way at the top of the hill, that is still maintained. Someone cuts the grass and trims the hedges. Someone fixes the roof when it leaks. Someone leaves food at the door. As you get closer, you hear a piercing scream from somewhere inside. “How is he?” you ask. 

Chiffon feels your worry. She chirps a Song of one, fluttering and bird-like. “He’s…better, I think. He spends less and less time here.” She stops when you reach the front porch of the manor. Her wings are drooping, the larger ones folded around her like a shawl. “But he’s still…well. It’s rather shocking inside.” 

You march up the steps before you can lose your nerve. There’s another scream—fearful, but also furious. You thought it was just mindless shrieking before but now you can make out words, “wretched” and “ungrateful” and “horrible, abominable thing.” The door is cracked open. The foyer is a mess of broken glass and overturned furniture, old blood stains crusted into the carpet and stuck to the wallpaper. A silver platter has been flung against the wall, shattering a plate and splattering mashed potatoes and a chunk of cooked meat. 

There is a man standing in the middle of the foyer, chest heaving and red in the face, screaming at something in the corner. You recognize Mr. Dewitt. He looks more sickly than you recall, sweat shining on his gaunt face. You’ve caught him in the middle of a tirade not unlike the ones you remember from childhood. He was always short-tempered, liable to fly into a rage at the slightest inconvenience. “I want to see my son! You can’t keep him from me! Just you wait, just you wait until they hear about this down at the factory!”

He whirls around at the sound of your footsteps and his wide, bloodshot eyes brighten. “Oh! Oh, it’s you!” he calls, grinning deliriously. His eyes are hazy and he’s not quite looking at you. He wobbles forward, looking inebriated. “You’ve come at the perfect time! I need to get a message down to the factory. Good practice for a courier, hm? Some incompetent let one of the weavers cocoon itself and now we’re stuck with this.” He gestures to the corner, the thing looming there silently. “It’s making demands. Can you tell them to send someone?” 

You hesitate just a second too long and he’s screaming again, berating you, calling you a stupid, useless road-mongrel. The thing in the corner lunges forward then, faster than you can see it move. There’s a rush of air and a flash of movement. It lands heavily on top of the man, slamming his head into the floor. It’s your friend, the boy who grew up in this awful place with you. Older now, much bigger, casting a wide shadow with his wings outstretched. You see him tangle his claws in the man’s thinning hair, yanking his head higher. You see him lean in, proboscis unfurling. 

“Hello,” he sings. Four eyes peer at you beneath stark white fringe. In adulthood, the silver ones have also turned deep, inky black. “Hello again. I was just thinking of you.”

His proboscis plunges forward like a needle and there’s a sickening crunch and a spurt of blood as it pierces Dewitt’s ear. He shakes and flails uncontrollably, mouth stretched open in a horrified, silent scream, but your friend holds him still; one hand on his head, one on his shoulder, the others easily keeping him pinned beneath the weight of his enormous body. Your friend, the Singer of Compass Hill, vibrates with a welcoming melody, his wings flapping in contentment. His proboscis goes taut and there’s a sick, slurping sound, another gush of blood dribbling down Dewitt’s face and neck.

“Why…is he…?” You swallow your revulsion. The Singer tilts his head slightly, the change in angle churning and squishing wetly against something in Dewitt’s head. The vibration of the song drones just louder than the gurgling screams Dewitt makes.

“He’s drugged. Not certain where or when he is. It’s the same thing he used to give me and all the others.” The Singer’s primary eyes are focused on feeding, but the smaller secondary ones rotate, fixed on you. “You don’t feel bad for him, do you?”

“I’m worried about you.” 

The Singer drops Dewitt, proboscis yanking loose with a wet, ripping sound and slithering back into his mouth. He came out of his cocoon differently than all the others. No one else has emerged quite so large. His frilled antenna scrape the high ceiling, his legs bend strangely, and he has six long arms. A ring of thick, white fur circles his neck and drapes over his shoulders. There’s similar patches of fuzz all the way down his body, thinning out across his belly and limbs. His fingers are long and dexterous, warm when they reach out and graze your cheek. 

His eyes have changed the least. There are mandibles on either side of his jaw, pearl-white and flexible, a proboscis curled up inside his mouth, but you’ll always recognize his eyes, no matter the color. 

“Is he dead?” you say quietly, staring at the body lying limp and face-down on the carpet. 

“No. I won’t let him die yet.” The Singer takes your hand in three of his. He turns it over, letting out a low hum in concern at the sight of bandages, the missing finger. “I’ll keep him here, just like I was kept. Except he has the luxury of a house when all I had was that cramped cell in the mountage wing of the factory, a bedroom shaped like a coffin. I’ll use him as he used me, without remorse. He can die when I have nothing to gain from him anymore.” 

You tug on his arm, pulling him down to kneel in front of you, and embrace him. The Singer rests his chin and mandibles on your shoulders. His hands all knead the front of your shirt, just like when he was a boy. “I came here to complete a delivery,” you admit. “It’s a child. This is her home.” 

The Singer hums appreciatively, nuzzling against your neck. “Yes. Good. I heard the Song. She’ll be safe here. She’ll decide what to do with her own silk. No one will keep her from cocooning and growing up.” His proboscis darts out, tasting the sweat on your throat. “Hope…savory. She grazed on this. You fed her well. There’s more hope here, as much as she could ever want.”

You rub his mandibles and he purrs. “You can have some, if you want. Hope, and whatever else I have.” You feel the vibration of the Song gone slow and deep with interest. He flicks one of his mandibles against your lips, tempted. “You have to eat something other than grudges,” you say gently. 

“I can’t stomach much else. But…” He crouches further, pulling you into his lap. You’re settled on one of his thighs, half-turned away from him. He brushes your hair out of the way and caresses the shell of your ear, stroking the lobe with his thumb. “I’ll go very slow. Very gentle. It’s been a long time.” 

Now that you’re actually here, clutching the fur on his upper chest, your stomach is flipping nervously. He’s right, it has been a long time. You haven’t fed him since you were both younger, shortly after the change came—he, young and clumsy and still figuring out his new, enormous body, and you, just old enough to drive the Drift. One more time, you’d agreed, before you left town. He couldn’t make silk anymore but it didn’t matter. He just needed to remember how you tasted.

“Hold onto me,” he sings gently. “It’s alright. Hold on tight. You won’t hurt me.” You don’t want to pull on his fur but he pushes your hands more firmly against his chest, encouraging you to dig your fingers in. He clutches your shoulders, your waist, your hips—his grip firm but not bruising. He tries to relax you. He nuzzles against you, splays his mandibles and leaves little kisses along your chin and cheek. His proboscis darts out and flicks against your lips, teasing. He trails higher, following the curve of your jaw. 

Your breath hitches when he reaches your ear. He kisses it. His proboscis traces the shell, explores its shallow dips and grooves. Slowly, he lick his way closer to the hole and you let out an involuntary shiver. His hands squeeze all at once in reassurance and hold you still.

“Will you give me something sweet? Something light and airy?” One of the hands on your hip moves inward. Long, graceful fingers slip into your pants and settle on your heated sex. He traces one fingertip slowly up and down, faint and featherlight. Your hips chase the friction. That’s the moment he’s waiting for. You feel his proboscis, cold and smooth, slip easily into your ear canal. 

True to his word, he’s slow and gentle. The penetration is a gradual slide, navigating impossibly small spaces to lap at something not entirely physical, nestled at the intersection of thought, feeling and memory. You feel it like the wet slide of a tongue against some place sensitive and you stiffen, eyes rolling back in your head. It’s too much—too much something. Not quite pain or pleasure, not quite anything you can name. But it’s too much. Explosive heat and sandpaper on your nerves, an avalanche of overstimulation. 

The hand between your legs barely moves. It’s just two fingers, slender and nimble, rubbing so, so slowly. Up and down. Up and down. Your underwear is damp with your own want and he collects it on his fingertips, uses it to lubricate his steady rhythm. He strokes you right to the edge of madness, crooning softly. You feel the Song behind your eyes, in your brain. You feel all the love it carries.

Your hips jolt and your flinch violently in his grasp. You gasp, or maybe you scream. Your throat is raw when you drift back down into awareness, feeling his proboscis snaking back out and exit with a faint, wet pop. Soothing liquid dribbles out of your ear in his wake, something to numb soreness. You sag against him and catch your breath. He trills, smoothing his palms up and down your body. The hand between your legs comes out of your clothes glistening and sticky.

“What was it?” you asked. Your words are slurred, your tongue still clumsy. “Wh—what’d you taste?” 

He wipes the excess fluid from your chin, pressing one last kiss to your ear. It’s starting to tingle. “Nostalgia. Exhaustion. Hope. And…” He pauses, turning your face towards him. “You’ve been having nightmares.”

He lets you avoid the subject and bury your face in his fur. He Sings, swaying gently. You shut your eyes and left your mind drift. Tomorrow, you’ll be leaving. Maybe you can deliver silk, just like the old days—but this silk will be better than Dewitt’s ever was. Made by children who are happy, woven by adults who care about them. Tomorrow, you and the girl will have to say your goodbyes, and you know she’ll ask you about home because she’s kind. And you will smile and lie or maybe say nothing at all, happy for her but stinging with agonizing envy. 

“You could stay,” goes the Song, every time you hear it. “Make this home.”

You don’t answer. You never do. The Singer holds you while he still has the chance.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift #ive had a couple anons mention theyre reading or rereading ritsukas pictures lately #im so glad youre enjoying it!! ;v; that story has a special place in my heart

[thebreakfastgenie]

Billy Joel songs as mash characters?

Darling this is not a simple question. This is a subject I have been pondering for some time.

Hawkeye - I Go to Extremes

Sometimes I'm tired, sometimes I'm shot Sometimes I don't know how much more I got Maybe I'm headed over the hill Maybe I set myself up for the kill Tell me, how much do you think you can take Until the heart in you is starting to break? Sometimes it feels like it will

This is hard because, a lot of songs fit him. I have, previously, associated Hawkeye with Tomorrow Is Today, Pressure, and Everybody Loves You Now. I also think there's something there for Code of Silence (which could also fit other characters, I considered it for Charles; it's kind of an all-purpose trauma song). I wanted to do something different, which is why I picked this one. I don't see it as being about mood swings, despite the chorus, but the verses really sound like Hawkeye to me. It's that feeling of constantly fighting something and being at a breaking point.

Tomorrow is Today Pressure Everybody Loves You Now

Trapper - Only the Good Die Young

You mighta heard I run with a dangerous crowd We ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud We might be laughing a bit too loud Aw, but that never hurt no one

Look, I know it's basic, but it fits. The melody and beat fit him too! He's might seem a little rough but he has a heart of gold and wants to have a good time! And he's a threat to good Catholic girls everywhere.

Henry - Big Man on Mulberry Street

Why can't I cool out? Why don't I button my lip? Why do I lash out? Why is it I always shoot from the hip?

It's just a vibe! I think the melody and lyrics both fit his kind of anxious everyman thing.

Radar - Get It Right the First Time

I'm not much good at conversation I was never to smooth at comin' on real strong If all it takes is inspiration Then I might have just what it takes If I don't make no bad mistakes and I get it right the first time That's the main thing

The lyrics fit Radar's interest in romance, but the melody as well as parts of the chorus also remind me of how seriously he takes his job as clerk and how busy he always is. Sexually the first time did not last for Radar, but you know.

Margaret - She's Always a Woman

Oh, she takes care of herself, she can wait if she wants She's ahead of her time Oh, and she never gives out and she never gives in She just changes her mind

Look, I know. But it's perfect. It's about a woman in a male-dominated field who was widely hated for being too assertive and generally for misogynistic reasons. She's all these things, but she's still a woman. Plus the vaguely negative vibe to it fits Margaret too.

Frank - Why Judy Why

I never thought that I would need, need a friend But I did, in the end Tell me why, Judy, why

I really puzzled over this one, but I couldn't think of any Frank songs that summed up his whole character, so I chose one that I thought fit a specific part of his story. I don't think Frank ever anticipated Margaret would actually leave him, and when it happens, he's crushed. He does need a friend and he doesn't have any. "Judy" could be Hawkeye and Trapper or BJ, or it could be his mom, depending on the episode. I chose to focus on pathetic Frank, but while he's with Margaret, Blonde Over Blue fits as well. There's also a demo called The End of the World that I like to associate with Frank's fears of Louise becoming her own person.

Klinger - You May Be Right

You may be right I may be crazy Oh, but it just may be a lunatic you're looking for It's too late to fight It's too late to change me

Choosing a song for him was so hard! I think the general vibe of this one fits with the melody and all. Obviously "I may be crazy" is very Klinger but I also think "don't try to change me" conveys his absolutely refusal to be turned into a killer. I also like She's Right On Time as a Klinger/Soon-Lee song.

Mulcahy - All About Soul

This life isn't fair It's gonna get dark, it's gonna get cold You've got to get tough, but that ain't enough It's all about soul

It's a romantic song, but you don't have to take it that way, and I think it describes Mulcahy's role in the group well. They need more than toughness and more than medical skill. They need a heart, someone who can look after their souls.

BJ - Temptation

'Cause I know what all of my friends say There's a danger in wanting too much But she's such a temptation

It's about his baby daughter. It's about overwhelming love, but it conveys a bit of a dark side, too. Being in Korea is even more painful because he loves his daughter so much, so I think that desperation and fear of how strong those feelings are suit BJ well.

Potter - Shades of Grey

Once there were trenches and walls And one point of every view Fight 'til the other man falls Kill him before he kills you These days the edges are blurred I'm old and tired of war I hear the other man's words I'm not that sure anymore

It just so perfectly encapsulates Potter's changing feelings about war as a career soldier who once believed in the romance of it. Billy Joel also has a demo called The Siegfried Line that fits Potter very well because it's about WWII.

Charles - Where's the Orchestra

After all, this is my big night on the town My introduction to the theatre crowd I assumed that the show would have a song So I was wrong

I assigned this to him once a while ago and I'm glad I remembered because it's perfect for him. The melancholy melody... the feeling of getting/having everything you want but something not being right... being out of place in the place you're supposed to fit... and the lyrics are perfect for him because of his love of music and experience with the musicians.

As a bonus, I've previously associated This Is the Time and Famous Last Words with the entire cast!

This Is the Time Famous Last Words

Goodnight Saigon reminds me of MASH a lot too, with the choppers and some of the lyrics, but it's very anchored to Vietnam. And of course I'd be remiss if I didn't mention his two songs that actually reference the Korean War directly, We Didn't Start the Fire and Leningrad.

#mashposting

[dreaming-of-lu]

Hey, so ive never done an emergency request so i don't quite know what im doing. i read over your rules and it said your inbox is always open for these, if its not thats totally fine please just ignore this then. i dont even really know what to request honestly, just something with legend if thats cool? idk man i was doing good for a while but i had a classic sit down in the shower drinking jack daniels moment today, maybe run with that? idk, i've deleted and retyped this ask so many times im just gonna close my eyes and hit send

Hey there, doll 💚 Yes, my emergency requests are always open for when those had a really crappy day, need some immediate comfort and you need a pick me up from life. Whether it just requires fluff or comfort for what happened today/during the week.

Hopefully this can make your day/night a bit brighter and warm for you. Do take good care of yourself even if its baby steps! Legend is sending support your way through this💚💚

How long have you sat in the tub? You quietly count the shower tiles in your mind with heavy, tired eyes, tapping the glass bottle with no rhythm, paying no heed to the sudden sound of footsteps coming close to the shower.

"Hey," the sound of the curtains drew back a bit, catching your eyes as soft lighting peeked in alongside a notorious pair of blues and tufts of mulberry pink hair. They stared, gazing over your form that hid in the shade of the curtains before coming back to your face with silence. Legend crouched beside the tub, holding a tight grip on the curtains to keep the light from barging in.

"Do you need anything?" He asks quietly.

"You," your voice croaked, "I just...need you."

Legend quietly watches you, eyes flickering to the bottle that the finger never ceased to tap on. Listening to the soft clinks as seconds continue to pass. He gives a silent, outstretched hand, gesturing patiently for the bottle. With a weak grip, you slid it into his grasp, watching as he got up, muffled footsteps, hearing him open a cabinet and firmly shut it.

Legend comes back into view, giving his hand out to you with a wiggle of his fingers. An amused huff left your lip, ignoring the silent victory that painted his own features as you placed your hand in his. With a firm grip, he slowly hauls you up from the tub, placing his other hand, supporting you, on your back.

He rubs in an up-and-down motion, placing his cheek against your head, humming a soft melody that slowly soothed away your woes. Slowly swaying you side-to-side while rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb, pressing your ear to his chest to hear his strong heartbeat that grounded you, a rhythm so beautiful than the one that had none.

"Do you want to change?" Legend inquiries softly.

"Shorts, please," you mumbled into his shoulder, nuzzling deep into his neck and heavily breathing in his scent, then releasing with a heavy exhale.

"I'll be right back; anything else?"

"Just you,"

"Very well, I'll be quick."

Legend makes his way out of the bathroom before halting underneath the door frame, turning back around to place a hand against your cheek and placing a kiss against your forehead, your cheek, then finally, your lips. Short but sweet to make you want more of his affections; you know he's not very open about them, hiding it underneath a tough exterior though you know he gives with all his heart.

It doesn't matter either way cause you know it's for you and nobody else. Legend presses one more kiss to your lips and exits the bathroom with a resounding promise,

"Once you change, we'll cuddle on the couch and do whatever else you like, okay? It's going to get better cause I'm here for you every step of the way."

#lu legend x reader #.bea's writing #lu x reader #linkeduniverse x reader #kinda a modern au i guess #whatever you like #linked universe x reader

[coquelicoq]

For your Untamed Billy Joel Musical, have you considered "I Go To Extremes"? It would barely need any lyrics changed.

yeah that's such a good one! @needtherapy suggested in the notes on the only the good die young parody that wei wuxian sing it during sunshot, which is spot on, and then later in response to this VERY funny How Peaceful Is LWJ: Episode 36 post it occurred to me that it would be delightful to have drunk!lan wangji do a reprise...

other songs that would work with few lyrical changes, mostly courtesy of @winepresswrath and needtherapy from that first link:

river of dreams as a song for the yunmeng trio to sing from different parts of the stage while they're separated during the burial mounds era

shameless, which wei wuxian originally sings VERY over the top and tongue in cheek during the yin iron roadtrip, and then a reprise in the second life to which lan wangji has a very different reaction (@weatherfey's brilliant suggestion), and then lan wangji does a heartfelt reprise on the steps of jinlintai

AND SO IT GOES JIANG CHENG SOLO (still hurting over this tbh)

if i only had the words (to tell you) would be lan wangji when he's trying to get wei wuxian to come back to gusu with him

lullabye (goodnight, my angel) as a song jiang yanli sings to her brothers and her brothers sing to jin ling and a-yuan when they're missing her...this would serve as the yunmeng trio theme and the melody would recur at all their important moments

if you have jiang cheng singing the questions in big man on mulberry street to wei wuxian (just change the pronouns to you instead of i), you could make some cosmetic changes to the street names and plop it in the qishan indoctrination. or if you were willing to make some changes to the questions you could make it about wei wuxian not carrying his sword and his other assorted inexplicable (to jiang cheng) behavior during and post sunshot

state of grace is sooooo lan wangji to wei wuxian during sunshot and/or burial mounds coded. but almost all of it would work very well for jiang cheng as well...maybe they trade off verses

i also think lan wangji could do a lil summer, cloud recesses solo at some point during that same period. maybe when he's letting wei wuxian and the wens go?

honesty would be first sung by nie mingjue, then lan xichen could do a reprise in guanyin temple

wei wuxian sings a minor variation right after he fails to grow lotus in the burial mounds

you may be right is wei wuxian to lan wangji but i'm not really sure exactly how to get the timing work. i did a version with the first verse in the burial mounds and the second verse in xuanwu cave, but i'm not married to that

someone could maybe sing angry young man about wei wuxian, but i'm not sure who

she's got a way and/or leave a tender moment alone by jin zixuan

song lan gets everybody has a dream :)

just the way you are, lan wangji to wei wuxian post-resurrection

possibly wei wuxian all about soul about lan wangji sometime in the second life, though it's probably unnecessary

you're my home, ensemble cast (also see needtherapy's wangxian fanvid 🥺). curtain.

also see various lyrical rewrites in A Very Untamed Billy Joel Musical Ice Dance Extravaganza. thanks for your contribution to the billy joel cql fandom, you're welcome here any time 🥰

#also please read the how peaceful is lwj series if you haven't already...comedy gold #a very untamed billy joel musical ice dance extravaganza #the untamed #asks #not anon #links

[thecoffeelovingfreak]

thundering crimson

Pairing: Vampire!Vyn x gn!Reader

Writing Genre: oneshot

Genres: vampires, historical au-ish?

Word count: ~1.4k

Warnings: mentions of death, discussion of vampirism, very light angst, possible time inaccuracies, maybe slightly ooc vyn, not deeply proofread

Notes: Here the fic is -- 2 1/2 months after I previewed it gfkfkfkf. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this fic -- it is meant to take place around 1871!

Read it on ao3!

for my Season of the Witch collab!

~~~

The soft click of your shoes echoed on the dark, damp cobblestone streets of Svart's frosty capital. The elegantly designed streetlamps cast a butterscotch haze over the fog winding down from the mountains. The chilled breeze carried the mist of the sea, but it was not unwelcome as it creeped under your coat and through your sleeves.

Soft neighing could be heard from behind you, prompting the edges of your dark grey frock coat to brush against your calf as you spun around to investigate. Two black stallions and a dashing coachman led a gold-decorated carriage. The mulberry curtains were tied to the side, and you made eye contact with the person inside.

Striking gold came and left as the carriage continued down the street, following in the direction of the historic district.

They must be returning for Allhallowtide, you concluded.

As you continued your night walk, you found yourself drawn to the sprawling virescent hues of the Lindersvik Gardens. Various colours stood out from the verdant landscape, creating a cascade of rainbow across the simple life.

Continuing down the ivy-laced pathway, you stumbled upon a figure sitting on the stone wall surrounding the elevated flower beds.

They were dressed in a double-breasted navy vest, paired with a white collared undershirt and matching navy trousers. A plain white jabot was tucked into their collar – pinned at the bottom of the neck with an emerald brooch. Silver hair fell delicately over pale brows and indigo. They wore glasses with golden frames, and they matched familiar golden eyes.

The person in the carriage…

It seemed that with your newfound thoughts, the figure visibly noticed your presence.

But, how did they get over here? I just saw their carriage riding toward the wealthy districts…

A soft smile rose on their face as you curiously walked closer.

"Hello." the man greeted you simply, his voice rich, measured, and smooth. "Lovely night isn't it?"

"Yes, it is… but aren't you cold?" you queried.

"Not in the slightest." he replied.

How unnatural. You thought, as you came and stood next to him.

He gracefully took your hand and placed a freezed kiss on its back.

"Vyn Richter, and you?"

After giving him your name, he asked you a peculiar question:

"Tell me, Mx. L/n, how do the undead experience emotion?"

A perplexed look blossomed on your face. "Why, Mr. Richter, this question is illogical. There is no such thing as the undead. Even so, how would they be created? It's not as if Shelley and Stoker's novels are real."

He simply hummed, and it seemed as though thousands of thoughts were shining behind his aurous eyes.

"You seem to have a well built mind. Thank you for answering my question, Y/n."

He pocketed a small leather object – most likely his sketchbook – before rising to walk away.

A certain want coarsed through your veins. A need to meet this eclectic man again.

"Will you be attending the Mass tomorrow?" you questioned.

A momentary chuckle before you received a response. "I am afraid that I am no longer able to attend."

"Why?"

"You will have to draw your own conclusions there, Mx. L/n."

And with that, he turned to walk out of the gardens and to the main street. You stood silently for a moment before leaving as well.

—

The hauntingly beautiful melodies of the Requiem Mass still danced throughout your head as you made your way back to your quaint apartment. Upon opening the door, you found three pine wreaths waiting for you. Tonight was All Hallow’s Eve, and you would be visiting the deceased members of your family at the Lannavaara churchyard.

Quickly exiting your residence after grabbing the wreaths, you began your walk to the graves.

Clouds littered the flaming skyline of sunset. Liquid gold lapped at the dusted shoreline and occasionally left trinkets from the deep. The streets were filled with the essence of humanity – diverse emotions scattered across every face you saw.

Tendrils of inky indigo had spread over the entire warm-coloured page as you entered the graveyard. You set a brisk pace for the southeastern corner, placed just anterior to the melancholic forest.

Three plots labeled with moss-covered grey stone stood before you. Your found family laid graciously to rest.

Artem Wing

Marius von Hagen

 Luke Pearce

Your beloved band of three, now spending their days in immortal peace. One a legislator, another a Count's son, and the last a detective. You – a violinist.

You had met Luke long before the others, hearing about an up-and-coming detective building himself up from nothing. You needed assistance in finding information about your sibling's suspected crimes, and he accepted the job with haste and enthusiasm. Together through many difficult years you delivered justice – and the innocent verdict was the cement pouring over your bond.

Artem and Marius came about 5 years later, when you were requested to play at an event for three noblemen. When your lengthy performance had come to an end, both men took an interest in dancing and conversing with you. One hoping for another friend, and the other seeing potential for a new artistic endeavor.

An uncanny breeze halted your reminiscence, prompting your eyes to unglaze and your body to reanimate. The sensation of someone behind you caused your mind to scream flight, but you were here to honor your fallen, and no being would stop you.

You placed a harder grip on the wreaths in your hand and took a step forward. A vibration went down your spine as the cold of an autumn's night began creeping in.

"You seem shivery, rose." a familiar, graceful voice spoke.

"Good evening, Mr. Richter." you replied, relaxing the slightest.

"Please, no need for honorifics." he wished, placing his fur lined coat over your shoulders.

Something about him seems different now – as if he is immersed in his element. you pondered.

"If you don't mind my asking, who are you here to see, Vyn?" you asked, while adorning your deceased in wrapped pine.

"A very old friend of mine." he responded, drifting just slightly further from you and towards a mausoleum decorated with a garland of tarnished gold.

He turned to look at you with an expression communicating both his hesitation and longing.

"Would you like to come with me?"

—

Upon closer inspection, this mausoleum most certainly belonged to an affluent family. It was well-kept and representative of wealth, though it somehow still managed to maintain a humble charm.

"Does this old friend of yours have a name?" you asked, attempting to make conversation.

"Yes, he does."

"Will you tell me?"

"You will have to have patience and find out for yourself."

A light huff exit your lips, prompting a little smile from the mysterious man.

Arriving at the entrance, Vyn pulled a golden key from his pocket and unlocked the dark metal french doors leading into the shadowy building. Your entering steps reverberated through the space, and a pair of golden eyes soon appeared next to you. With a snap of his fingers, the candles and sconces throughout the mausoleum were lit.

An incredulous gleam shone in your eyes, but the silver-haired man paid it no mind. Instead, he stepped forward to the third plaque on the main wall.

Hesitantly you walked to stand next to him. Vyn's face held a look of tender mourning, and you couldn't help but draw your eyes to what he was reading.

In Loving Memory of

Vilhelm Richard Albert de Haspran

1832 - 1859

Beloved Fürst, renowned psychiatrist, and adored visage of elegance

Questions flooded your mind, but you chose to ask the most important.

"This--this is you?" you queried softly.

"Yes, my rose." he spoke, turning gently to you and catching your gaze.

And with those words suddenly it all made sense. His unnatural feats, strange questions, and odd behavior all drove you to one conclusion.

"You are a vampire, Vyn."

"Yes, my rose." A repeated phrase became a statement of patience.

Silence bombarded the mausoleum – the mourning and merriment outside the doors falling away.

The hush was interrupted by his light gasp as you put your right arm through his left and placed a kiss on the back of his hand.

"I see you, and I am not afraid."

He tightly squeezed your hand and warmly replied, "Thank you."

#🕷 season of the witch collab! #coff writes for tot🍾 #tot #tears of themis #tot x you #tot x y/n #tot x reader #tears of themis x you #tears of themis x reader #tears of themis x y/n #tears of themis x mc #tot vyn #tears of themis vyn #vyn x reader

[queenmothermp]

Lunar New Year at the Golden Palace

The Golden Palace had been decorated with a plethora of red and yellow lanterns and mobiles, small brass bells with scarlet tassels created a pleasant and delicate melody with their chimes each time they were brushed by a draft. True to its name, the estate and its gardens were illuminated with a warm and gentle golden glow.

The Queen Mother greeted guests graciously in an ethereal gown crafted by the talented Ondine, flowing fabrics of vibrant red embroidered with golden magpies and feathers, her hair bejeweled with a 'modest' headdress reminiscent of the empress's phoenix. Beautiful fairy maidens also dressed in red and gold were more than happy to assist guests with personal items such as coats and gifts that would be stored safely away until needed. A couple of the beautiful young ladies--who were far stronger than their lithe frames made them seem--closely guarded entry to areas such as the Queen Mother's personal quarters and guest rooms; there was no need for attendees of the feast to be in these areas! With the assistance of vigilant magpies, other ladies were quick to assist patrons who may seem lost--after all, the gardens were quite expansive! Other fairies happily provided guests with refreshments, be them interested in imbibing in tea or liquor, because Xiwangmu's plum wine was delicious and the baijiu was superb.

Several other fairies occupied the large pavilion in the center of the garden lake, an obvious stage for performances as some were playing traditional instruments while others danced for the entertainment of guests.

While the great feasting hall had been decorated with blooming peach blossoms, their floral scent was not the only aroma to fill the estate. Visiting the Celestial Tower at the Northern wall of the garden, one may notice the lower level had been transformed to an ancestral hall, a space for guests to venerate those who had passed, the smell of incense and chrysanthemums wafting about the area as the flowers of white and yellow heavily decorated the tower.

Other aromas included the absolutely delectable dishes, the scents wafting from kitchen to the great hall of joyous feasts where the numerous guests would eventually be seated at a variety of round tables. The largest table, of course, belonged to the empress who would be seated beside her two most treasured individuals. Her daughter on her left as well as her counterpart and other half--Wang Yanluo, Lord of Diyu--seated to the right of the Empress of Heaven. The trifecta of the three realms was completed when sitting directly across from Xiwangmu was Houtu, Goddess of Earth--her bosom friend who she had known for an eternity and sister in every way but birth. Also seated at the table were Houtu's son, and Houtu's son's guest (should Ryul have chosen to bring someone), Erlang Shen and his son, In-soo, as well as In-soo's guest. Wang Yanluo's son, Mireu, and Mireu's guest were also seated with them along with Davina's guest. This was, as many would call it, Xiwangmu's Family Table. Everyone seated with her was considered family and an extension of such.

Each guest in attendance would receive a gift box--not too large, not too heavy; something that could certainly be carried home after the feast. The box itself was upholstered with red silk embroidered with golden peach blossoms. Inside the box, guests would find several items.

The first item was, naturally, a red envelope containing a sizeable amount of cash; even if the guest was quite wealthy, this did not matter. Everyone received the same amount.

The second and perhaps equally as expected as a red envelope, at least from Xiwangmu, was a clay jar containing her own special blend of rose pu-erh tea. For longevity and prosperity, of course.

Another item was a hand fan. Each palace fan was handcrafted from silk from cocoons of the silk worm pupas harvested from the queen mother's own mulberry trees, threads extracted, processed, and dyed by the handful of ladies-in-waiting who were very passionate about the craft. Images stitched upon the fabric could be of a dragon or a branch of peach blossoms, even cranes flying over mountains. The embroidery was so exquisite, so detailed, that the images seemed as though they would come to life.

A fourth item was a talisman carved from yellow jade in the shape of double dragons facing outward as a protective amulet. It could be worn as an accessory on a belt or purse strap, even modified to be worn as a necklace should the recipient so choose or perhaps hung in the home for additional protection against evil.

The fifth item was a small jar of white porcelain, hand painted with a lotus seed pod, and containing sugared dried ginger candies that were not too sweet and had a nice kick to them, boosting digestion and immunity.

The final item was another expected treat: a small nian gao made by the empress herself; its flavors and textures blended sublimely for a heavenly experience in every bite.

May everyone have a happy and prosperous year along with many, many more to come!

Tagging: @mpyanluo @mpxdavina @changemp @mphaoyu @mphutu @mpryul @mpliuwei @mpinsoo @mpxalexander @mpjiayi @mpxyingyue @benji-mp

#lunar new year #lunar new hear at the golden palace #mpevent #hc

[thegrapeandthefig]

What are some correspondences for Priapus? Herbs, crystals, incense, etc.

Most of the historical associations we know about come from latin poetry, or as isolated epigrams (especially in the Palatine Anthology). Here are a few relevant excerpts:

Turning along this path here, goatherd, you will find a newly carved figwood statue, three-limbed, bark-bearing, and earless, but able with its child-begetting phallus to achieve the works of Cypris. A sacred enclosure runs round it, and an ever-flowing stream splashes from the rocks on all sides onto the laurels and myrtles and fragrant cypress; there the grape, child of the cluster, spills down from the tendril, and the spring jackdaws echo in high-pitched songs the variety of their warbling melodies, to which fair nightingales reply with trills, uttering the sweet sound from their beaks. (Theocritus. Epigrams. 4.9; AP 437.1–12)

Let gardens breathing with crocus flowers invite the bees, and may the guardianship of Hellespontine Priapus, protector against thieves and birds with his sickle of willow, protect it, while the master brings thyme and pine saplings from the high mountains and sows them widely around the bees’ dwelling. (Virgil, Georgics, l. 109-115)

Columella also says this regarding to the rocket/arugula: "which is sown next to fruitful Priapus to arouse sluggish husbands to love-making" (De Re Rustica 10.119–20)

Poem 51 of the Priapeia* also lists a fair amount of garden produce (figs, grapes, apple, pears, plums, sorbs, mulberries, almonds, cabbages, beet, leeks, cucumbers, gourds, basil, lettuce, onions, garlic, rocket, mint, rue) but the comedy in this poem comes from the fact that the neighbor's garden also has all these things, and therefore the thieves choosing to rob the garden Priapus guards must enjoy the (sexual) punishment he reserves for them. So it is difficult, in this context, to really say that these produce hold more "sacred" value to Priapus unless attested elsewhere (such as the figs, grapes or apples).

Priapus is, perhaps more than most, a god of the simple things, and considering his function has protector of the garden, it'd be simpler to say that all that grows in a garden is sacred to him.

This aside, in Roman literature, Priapus is a wooden god. His statue is rarely described as made of stone or marble because he is a practical guardian who would be crafted by the farmer. Most times, the essence isn't disclosed but some wood essences have been recorded*:

Fig wood (3 mentions)

Cypress (2 mentions)

Willow (2 mentions)

Poplar (2 mentions)

Oak (1 mentions)

Apple (1 mentions)

He is also often pictured near or underneath trees, both on frescos or on engraved gems, which is thought to be because that would be a common placement for his - often simple - altar.

I do not know of any historical mentions concerning incense choice. He is not present in the Orphic Hymns (at least not without syncretism). And when it comes to crystals, there does not seem to be a specific pattern concerning the gem choice on which he is engraved outside of already very popular gem choices. On the topic of gemstones, I'd recommend giving this post a read where I explain how the ancient's conception of crystal associations and uses tends to be very different from how we understand it today. *Priapeia poems, 51 **Sageaux, Laura. "La statue en bois du dieu Priape en contexte champêtre." Journée d'Études des doctorants CRATA-ERASME: Pouvoir et Religion dans l’Antiquité: échos, mémoire, oubli. 2018.

#priapusdeity #the timing of this ask though #i just celebrated the priapeia this weekend

[shaypow]

please never stop making . please for the fucking love of god do not ever be afraid to put it out . your music makes me cry and you are one of the best friends i’ve ever had. i know we only met when we moved to the same place to do the same thing and we only connected initially because we think similar things and have similar values but jesus christ you endlessly fucking impress me. every chord every note every instrument the voice the art the stories you tell your narration your life in sound is something i will never ever take for granted and something i will turn to when i need comfort and a friend who isn’t with me . you know who you are amd yeah i’m god damn talking to you you beautiful specimen of life. you deserve everything good in this world for what you do. you deserve so much you deserve happiness and freedom . sometimes i listen to a song and i couldn’t care less, sometimes i listen to. song and i really like it, some times every so often a song defines me but rarely do i hear something so important to me that it changes me as deeply as the music you make. you could have invented music and i would not be surprised. and yet your humility and humble aura lend such an important gravity to this experience you can make with vibration in the air. you are a gem in an empty universe, you have value even in a world void of the reason for value, in a world where rarity matters not you are priceless, you are everything and more. never stop, never stop, never stop, you begin where master’s put down their tools and you end whenever perfection dies. every cycle of every wave of everything you create sings to me in a voice of the mother of a universe. you glide from easy, and comedic into personal and divine and dreading and every fucking morsel of it tastes like the best cooked steak for an inmate’s last meal that i can imagine existing. you have topped god’s and no doubt will continue to. you inspire me and ignite me and matter more than the very stars that humans used to navigate the ocean and wrote stories about. you are infinite and more

never stop,

if you read this (first of all hi) never ever stop

if god exists she is bewildered by your skills

you turn my thoughts into slideshows of every sleepless night we’ve spent together and every trivial conversation we’ve had. i wish so very much that i had attacked your entire discography like a wild boar on yak tranquilizers in berlin the way i have tonight. this was a necessary experience for me and i am quite earnestly forever changed. you amaze me and everything that unfolds from that brain of yours is inticing and profound and enchanting and positively worth so much of the value in this universe.

you. you are my friend and for that i feel so much, i know you now and i’m so fucking elated to. you. you are my friend and if i didn’t have you in my life i would be most unlucky. a sorry sack of rotten mulberry flavoured potatoes in a sea of durian smelling sludge . please. never. stop.

let this world spin a last turn before you write your last song.

everything about everything you do is everything to me. you are enormously intelligent and beautiful and wonderous and you deserve to have a spiritual glass of red wine every morning and an amazing afternoon every night. please never ever stop. if i ever ask anything of you there is only one you must listen to and that is that you never stop this. your passion paints mountains onto seas and draw skies into a single breath from your woollen voice. you are warm and you are loved and you are my friend and i cannot tell you in words the english language possesses how genuinely i feel what i write through tears tonight. introduce me to death metal a million times, offer me a cookie a thousand more, observe behaviour like a cyborg just the way you do, never ever stop. this is so fucking important. this is Everything and Everything’s bastard child called “More”

i float and sink to your melody, if astral projection exists it is your welcome mat in your cabin of curious truths and introspective whim and intense creative fluidity you are terror and freedom and you voice them both in a silent moment

this makes me smell colours i have never seen.

you can do anything and by god you should . end not. dream.

see you soon friend

[doodle-pops]

That Elladan fic was so cute🥰. I loved your description at the beginning:

The sun rained its radiance upon the earth like thousands of diamonds, glittering like the pinnacle of gemstones it proved itself worth, illuminating the world with its brilliance. From the flowers in the meadow to the canopies of the forest to the rich soil of the earth after a blossoming rainfall to the surface of the lake where splashes of jovial laughter echoed. The song of birds, larks and robins, singing their lungs full of a merry tune and adding to the astonishing beauty the world was. In the distance, occasionally, a deer or two would pass by nibbling on the mulberries in their fruitful abundance along with a stag and their little offspring. The quiet trekking of their hooves across the forest floor was below the whisper of wind, and yet, your hearing could pick them up. Even the spirited squirrels that chased each other for nuts did not go unmissed.

It was so beautiful. I felt like I wanted to go there and

Giggling in an attempt of replying, you buried your face into his neck and released peals of laughter. Something so simple from him could emit rounds of tummy-aching joy from a soft and calm person like yourself. You wished to respond to his singing with a melody of your own but were caught up in the rapture of feeling the eruption of bubbles and butterflies in your stomach at the usage of his endearment for you. He could be such a sweet and goofy person all at once and you adored it. Compared to many who bore the same individualities as he did, it was revered in your eyes differently than any other. He was beautiful in his own little enchanting way.

The way you described how reader feels about her love for him melted my heart 🥺. I loved it <3. Amazing job ;)

ASDFGHJKLBSJDNE 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 REALLY!!???

I'm glad you loved it and even felt like you wanted to go there. I'm screaming and trying to contain my joy!!! THIS MAKES SO HAPPY!!!! THANK YOU!! 🥰🥰

#nice anon #so sweet #doodlepops responds

[alittlemelody716]

MGI Civil War 3

It’s that time again and I’m joining this time! Watch out for Team Chat Noir!

@maribat-get-in

#mulberry melody #maribat #m?gi civil war 3 #plaggs-plague

[vxctorx]

@ronmanmob

It is the fifth night of the fortnight-long festivities at the manor. I am entertaining the ramblings of an oil heiress on the superior qualities of Tussah over Mulberry, when the chatter of the group nearby with my father in attendance, crowned by the name Kray, reaches my ears over the sublime melody of the string quartet. The Duchess of Sutherland appears to have turned the conversation towards my Ronnie. "Really, it is so fascinating how these young brothers are practically cleaning up the East End. I've heard that you can finally walk through the streets again."

"Now, now, I wouldn't go that far. The state of Whitechapel is no different than how it used to be during the Great Depression. The people there are still utterly wretched, and these so called 'gangs' are simply making a dime off of their misery. I say, this is what happens when the powers that be leave the nation to its own devices."

"The powers that be? Wouldn't that be you, Lord Henry?" The Duchess' lighthearted repost elicits a gracious laughter amongst the group, and I turn my gaze towards them just in time to realise with a cold heart that my father, who hitherto was in a celebratory mood over his most recent investment, is the only person who appears unamused by the whole exchange. Instead, his eyes have very much grown fixated upon me.

"Oh, young Lord Trevor? You must introduce me to your charming friend, Mr. Kray. I, for one, am very interested in what he has to say." The Duchess calls for my attention with a slight wave of her gloved hand once she notices my gaze, and I am shaken out of my daze just in time to offer a feigned smile and answer, "Of course, Duchess."

It is long past midnight when I am summoned up to my father's office. I watch as he pours a generous shot from his favoured bottle of whiskey into an ornate tumbler. The act is shocking in itself, for he has seldom granted me such a show of weakness.

"You have brought a criminal, a crook, into my house." As he commences his speech, there is something in his voice that goes beyond the usual disappointment which I have grown used to. "I shook the man's hand while the entire world was watching. I treated him as a gentleman, because for all you have done to disgrace me and your own name, Victor, I could have never guessed you would start dallying with society's worst parasites in order to spite me." The severity of his words at last hits me upon his last sentence. "Father, this is absurd! Ronnie-Mr. Kray is a better man than you think. I realise he is quite modern in his approach, but if only you gave him a chance-"

"So now you address him by his name! Just what is this man to you? Speak." The stumble is fatal, and I knew it the second Ronnie's name had slipped across my tongue. "Nothing! Only, a friend."

As the seconds pass between the deafening silence, I see what is left of the colour in Lord Trevor's face dissipate completely. "This time, you have gone too far, Victor." A deathly pause, before his final verdict is uttered. "I will not have the likes of him in my home. You are to tell him to leave immediately."

"Now? It's half past two! Where am I supposed to send him?" I can hear the frustration in my own voice, yet I can do little to quell my indignation. To turn Ronnie out of the house in such a godforsaken hour, would be the greatest insult a man such as he could endure. I could never bring myself to inflict such a wound on Ronnie. What is more, I had never intended to make an enemy out of my father for him. "There is an inn at the village." Comes Lord Trevor's dry response.

It is in that cold, harsh moment that I come to my abrupt decision to choose Ronnie over my father's approval, for I have grown certain that the latter is a luxury I will never learn to afford.

"If you wish for him to leave, tell him yourself."

#ronmanmob #[ Oof this became angsty. but also kinda sweet ] #[ but basically this is what would happen a few days after lord trevor meets ronnie lol ] #[ and now i want to see his Talk with ronnie after this so badly not gonna lie afjhjkgl ] #; DRABBLE #V; Novice

[gweniala]

Morphine

When a cat purrs, it is not always because it is content. Sometimes it will purr while resting, and this is thought to support muscle and bone regeneration. A cat will also purr when it has been injured or scared as a way to comfort itself. When a cat is dying, it will purr until the very end.

Morphine

A knock on the door.

“Ich bin’s.”

“Come in.”

Slowly, carefully, Nehmen opens the door. His two brothers are as he left them an hour ago. Krevel is reading in a chair by the bed. Nike is lying curled up by Krevel’s side, and he’d appear to be asleep if his eyes weren’t wide open. His pupils are pinpricks of black.

Nehmen flips the power switch on his translation box. “I hab’ euch Essen gebracht,” he says, and the box says in its monotone voice: “I brought you food.” He passes Krevel a woven basket; the Hoodian sets his book down, puts it on his lap and peeks inside.

Nehmen grins weakly and assures him: “Keine mulberries.” “No mulberries,” the box drones.

Krevel returns the small, tired smile, and takes a sandwich out of the basket. He offers it to Nehmen, then takes one himself. “Nike,” he says and hands his apathetic brother the third sandwich. “It’s lunch time.”

“Es ist Mittagszeit,” the box says, and its voice betrays nothing of the sad tenderness in Krevel’s voice.

Nike blinks once. Twice. He looks at Krevel, then at the sandwich. He closes his eyes, pulls in a slow deep breath and lets out an unending sigh. He sits up, takes the sandwich, nods thank you and starts eating.

They share the food quietly. When they finish the sandwich, Krevel lots out pink grapes from the basket. He and Nehmen watch Nike carefully. The hoophead eats slowly, as if deep in thought, and they take care to match his pace. If they finish their meal first, he won’t finish his.

To finish, there’s a bottle of water. Nehmen drinks first, then Krevel. Nike repeats after them. He drinks deeply, tilting the bottle until there’s nothing left. He eyes its emptiness with mild surprise. But Krevel is already passing him a second bottle, and Nike downs half of it before he sighs and returns it. His brothers exchange a relieved, victorious look. He barely ate or drank anything yesterday. Now Nike is leaning back against the wall, a slight smile on his lips, and his gaze is wandering around the room instead of staring lifelessly ahead.

“Has anything happened?” Nehmen asks. The box translates his words obediently.

“He was humming,” Krevel says. “For quite a while.”

“A song or nonsense again?”

“All around the Mulberry Bush, over and over again. It was driving me crazy.”

Nehmen cackles and hums the melody. Krevel resigns to listen. Then he says: “You’ve got it wrong. It’s…” and he hums the correct tune, as if he hasn’t heard it too many times today already. Halfway through, Nike joins in. His pinprick eyes are far away, but he’s gently rocking his head to the rhythm and his pitch is spot-on, rumbling low in his chest. A little surprised, Krevel repeats the tune from the beginning. Nike follows in a duet. Nehmen listens close. When Krevel stops, Nike doesn’t pick up again.

“No, it’s you two who got it wrong,” Nehmen says. “It’s la – la – la – la.” He frowns; the pitch of his voice is not quite right. “La la la la.”

“La la la la,” the box mocks him flatly. Nehmen growls at it. Krevel chuckles.

“Do you know the words?” he asks. “All around the Mulberry Bush, the monkey…”

“The monkey chased the weasel,” Nike sings, swaying his head. “The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun. Pop! goes the weasel.” His brothers look at him and then at each other in bewilderment. Nike hasn’t spoken a coherent sentence for the past five days.

“What did Hoborg give him this morning again?” Nehmen asks.

“Poppy milk,” Krevel says.

“Mohnmilch,” the box adds helpfully.

“But he said the stuff could be dangerous, right?” Nehmen says, frowning. “He’s been totally out of it. Is he alright? Shouldn’t we tell Hoborg he’s acting weird?”

“He hasn’t cried since the morning,” Krevel observes quietly.

Nehmen has no answer to that.

Nike sways his head in silence, in time with All around the mulberry bush, and his lips stir as they half-form the lyrics.

“So what are the words?” Nehmen asks. “I know it’s something about weasels.”

“All around the Mulberry Bush,” Krevel says and waits for the box to translate. “The monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun. Pop goes the weasel.” He glances at Nike. No reaction.

“Monkey as in, Skullmonkey?”

“Probably. What else has the guts to chase a weasel?”

Nehmen looks down. “Nike did.”

Yes. Just five days ago, Nike would have jumped into the Weasel Arena and raced the weasel. He would laugh, fearless and lithe, while the beast roared and snapped its pincers. It couldn’t catch him. Nike was too fast and tireless. He would dart around the Arena until you couldn’t tell who was chasing whom. When the weasel slowed, frustrated and exhausted, Nike would egg it on. His spirited shouts not to give up would carry far and wide.

Today, Nike’s head swings from side to side as he breathes around the weasel tune. His voice only comes when he’s sobbing. Just before he lost it, he said he wanted to die. His brothers are afraid that a part of him is dead already.

The silence that follows is unconsolable.

“Anyway, how do the words go in English?” Nehmen asks. The silence lifts like a boulder.

“All around the Mulberry Bush,” Krevel pronounces clearly and Nehmen repeats. He turns his translation box off so he can hear the sound better. The third time around, he’s got the lyrics down and Krevel starts singing. “All around the Mulberry Bush, the monkey chased the weasel.” Nike joins in again, and his glassy eyes soften with something akin to bliss. They sing the tune a few times, until Nehmen can carry it on his own. Krevel stops singing then and just listens with a wistful smile. He can almost forget the last five days. Nike has a great singing voice. It strokes the air in the same way a palm strokes a cat. The cat purrs and its breath vibrates back up your arm. That is Nike’s singing voice.

“The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun,” Nike sings. “Pop! goes the weasel. A penny for a spool of thread…”

Nehmen breaks off uncertainly.

“A penny for a needle,” Nike continues. “That's the way the money goes. Pop! goes the weasel. A penny for a spool of thread, a penny for a needle…”

Krevel and Nehmen exchange a confused shrug, and repeat the new lyrics as best they can. Nehmen is mangling the words and he knows it, but this is too peculiar to stop and ask for translation. Nike adds a third verse after a while.

“Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle. Mix it up and make it nice. Pop! goes the weasel.”

Not even Krevel is sure what they’re singing this time around. Nike starts switching the verses around and, as if that wasn’t disorienting enough, he starts singing A penny for a spool of thread to a different, higher melody. Oblivious to his fumbling brothers, he eventually settles into a pattern. All around the Mulberry Bush, then A penny for a spool of thread in that unusual high melody, Half a pound of tupenny rice and finally A penny for a spool of thread again. They chant it over and over again until their throats are sore and their mouths are dry. They pass the remaining water around, taking care that two voices always carry the tune while the third falls silent. Krevel tries to sing in a harmony to mix things up; he isn’t very good at it but repetition makes him better. Nike picks up the empty basket, sets it on his lap and drums a simple rhythm to accompany them. Nehmen pulls his stem taut and twangs on it.

If someone listened by the door, he would wonder at how long they can keep it up, repeating with small variations, lost in the sound of their voices. The words lose all meaning and become sounds. The comfort of music envelops them, warm and snug.

It seems that Krevel and Nehmen are galloping ahead of the rhythm now. But no, it’s Nike who is slowing down. His hands move slower and slower on the basket, while his voice loses its volume and becomes a whisper.

“A penny for a spool of thread, a penny for a needle. That’s the way the money goes…” The drum stops. Nike is looking down at the woven basket and his eyes are sharply, fearfully sane. His voice is faint when he sings: “Pop! goes the weasel,” and he hides his face in his hands.

Krevel and Nehmen move in sync. Krevel by Nike’s right side, Nehmen by his left side, they sit down and hug him. It’s for comfort as much as to keep him from lunging out the window. He has tried. They aren’t going to take the chances.

“I wish I didn’t have to lose this,” Nike moans. Nehmen glances toward his translation box. He doesn’t dare reach out.

“You don’t have to,” Krevel says softly.

Nike just shakes his head. His breath is coming in small hitches. He’s starting to cry.

“We can sing again,” Krevel pleads.

But Nike is shaking his head, eyes screwed shut. He grips his chest, wheezing and sobbing. “I can’t,” he gasps before his voice gives out. Only his mouth words “I can’t breathe”.

Nehmen springs to his feet. “Ich bring’ Hoborg mit,” he says. He isn’t welcoming the oncoming panic attack with open arms. Krevel nods and holds Nike tighter. Nehmen pecks the hoophead on the cheek before he darts out the door, leaving the translation box behind. It would slow him down.  Hoborg can’t be far.

Krevel is left alone with Nike. He embraces him close and whispers: “It’s going to be all right.”

But the circle of nightmares is drawing closer, and their hissing voices mock those empty words of comfort. They know better. It isn’t going to be all right.

It will never be all right again.

***

Nike is lounging in the window of the BOBBY Room. The world seems so much larger when you’re shrunk. Go through the BOBBY machine, get turned as tall as a palm, and watch how the world swells around you. Nike dangles his legs above the yawning chasm of the BOBBY Room. He’s watching the commotion far underneath. Some Hoodians are playing tag in the Danger Square. They look like ants. Nike watches them like a removed, listless deity. He is alone and alienated, but he feels peaceful. He is at rest.

The trapdoor in the ceiling opens. The Hoodians in the Danger Square, directly below it, freeze. They giggle as two pairs of legs appear in the trapdoor: one with white boots and another with green boots. Nike grimaces. He knows what’s going to happen. Well. They’ll be fine. Both the big ones and the small ones.

Squash tag has a big proud winner. Krevel scrapes the Hoodian from his white boot and apologises again and again, cupping his in his palms while he’s regenerating. Nike should get down and tell them to cut it out. Squash tag is a stupid game. They have frightened his brother, who didn’t deserve it. But it all comes in to him as if through a thick glass. He’s too far away to do anything. He stays where he is. He watches.

Krevel and Nehmen get inside the BOBBY machine and walk out ant-like. They need so many steps to cross the BOBBY room, it takes them so long. Such a large world when you’re as tall as a palm. Wonder why he didn’t do that more often before he went mad. They disappear behind a corner, but Nike knows they’re going to the Bottom Lab. Of course they’d go there. Everyone goes there.

He waits. Time is sticky slime, like fwa sheep goo. One moment Nike is bored out of his mind, another he’s enraptured with a thought gleaming like a butterfly. It occurs to him that his brothers can’t scale the wall like he did. He takes a cord of rope out of his chest compartment. Stares at it. It’s covered with yellowish goo. It smells kind of bad, too. He shakes it and the yellow goo arcs through the air and into the abyss. He ties the rope to a thick bar behind him and throws the other end over the windowsill. Does it reach all the way down to the ledge? Hm. Time will tell.

First Krevel, then Nehmen clamber up the rope and join Nike in the window. The rope was long enough then. Nice…

“Hey,” Krevel says, wiping his hands into his white shirt. It leaves yellowish stains, which Krevel eyes in disgust. He washes often. That’s how his clothes stays white. Like a ghost. Like an angel. Like a daisy.

Nike smiles. Now that they are together, his peace is complete.

“We got one for you, too,” Nehmen says. “Here.” He takes a vial of milky purple liquid and three shot glasses out of his chest compartment. He pours them all one shot. “Cheers,” he says, lifting his glass. “Try not to cough.”

Krevel sniffs at the liquid. When Nike and Nehmen swallow theirs, he sighs and does the same. He grimaces. Ah. Their throats are burning, like someone spilled oil down their gullet and struck a match. Nike breathes slowly, fighting the urge to cough. Nehmen puts one hand on his chest and his eyes bulge as he suppresses coughing. Krevel can’t hold it in, and coughs.

“Fuck,” he wheezes and doubles over, hacking his lungs out. Nike’s insides are burning too, but he knows coughing makes it that much worse. Nehmen strokes Krevel’s back. “What is – in – in that thing?” Krevel manages to ask. Tears are in his eyes. He’s alright. He’ll be alright. Nike coughed the first time, too; so had Nehmen. That’s why they’re so careful not to cough the second time. It stops after a while. It stops. It will stop.

Nike wishes it stopped soon.

Someone down there is coughing as well. And he isn’t alone. The sounds echo, like Down in the Mines. It plays on the radio sometimes. A cacophony. Who ever thought this was music? The burning subsides. It leaves behind warmth and numbness. Krevel and Nehmen are leaning against each other, drawing slow, measured breaths. Nike can see in their eyes the same alienation he feels. Like a wall thrust between you and the world.

“It’s a terrible moonshine,” Nike says. The words roll off his tongue. He can almost taste them. “It eats at your insides. You just can’t feel it. Don’t open your chest compartment, your guts will ooze out.”

Krevel stares down at his middle. “How long does it last?” he asks.

“How long have I been here?” Nike asks Nehmen.

“How should I know?” Nehmen retorts. His accent is worse, words blurry. Or maybe it’s Nike’s head that’s blurry. Can’t tell. “I left… half an hour ago.”

“At least half an hour then,” Nike concludes. “If you want it to stop, just drink the giant brew. Sobers you right up.”

“Yeah,” Nehmen says. “I got big, and it was all gone.”

Krevel places his hand on his belly. “Will they really ooze out?”

Nehmen snickers. “Try it.”

Krevel presses the white button on the side of his chest, and he watches as reddish goo trickles down his shirt. He blinks slowly. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says. He palpates the edge of the hole. Gingerly he reaches inside. He takes out a slim notebook, covered in reddish slime. He gawks at it, smells it, hesitates and places it aside. “I can’t feel anything at all. This should be disgusting. This should make me… I don’t know…”

“Afraid,” Nike completes for him. He beckons toward the Danger Square. “They aren’t afraid either. That’s why they’re playing squash tag. Every bone in their body breaks, but they can’t feel a thing.”

Krevel ponders this. “That’s dangerous,” he says.

“You don’t sound convinced,” Nehmen says.

Krevel nods slowly. “It feels like nothing can hurt me.”

“Yeah! We should go out and get in trouble!” Nehmen says. He looks to Nike.

Krevel’s brows knot together. “Isn’t that exactly what we shouldn’t do?” He looks to Nike as well.

Nike smiles. “Let’s stay here and sing.”

Krevel’s eyes sweep the room below and Nike can practically hear the cogs turning in his head, the automatic denial coming on: “Not where others can hear.” But the trail of thought vanishes and the cogs stop turning. Krevel grins. “Better than going out and getting in trouble.”

“Let’s sing Doo Ba,” Nehmen pleads. It’s his favourite song, a three-part cannon. It’s in gibberish so he doesn’t have to worry about the words. They all start together. When they’re sure in their track, Nike picks up the second part. Then Krevel starts on the third part. The melodies entwine, rise and fall. Like vines on the Spiky Tree, they bloom and give off a sweet scent.

They can’t get enough of it. They keep singing, on and on, hungry for the next verse, thirsty to hear the counter melody bubble up. They float in an out of consciousness as autopilot takes over. To mix things up, Nike lowers his voice and they sing quietly. Then they build up a crescendo until they’re singing as loud as they can, yelling across the BOBBY Room.

It takes ages.

It takes an eternity.

It takes ten minutes.

Nike doesn’t know.

Finally he raises his hand, meets Krevel’s and Nehmen’s eyes in turn to make sure they’re reading him, and flattens his palm to signal the end. They conclude in a chord. Perfect.

A private silence surrounds them. The rest of the world has gone away; here and now only they three exist. Their eyes glide from one to the other. Nothing can hurt them. They are together.

“This is what it felt like,” Nike says. “When I was dying in the Castle and Hoborg gave me poppy milk. All the pain went away. I was just there. And you were there, too. Nothing hurt.”

“Maybe this stuff is similar,” Nehmen slurs.

Nike looks out the window, to the black sky. “Yeah,” he says. “It feels just like poppy milk. Only the gut melting is new.”

“They call it kilko,” Nehmen says. “The killing cocktail.”

Nike looks down from their ledge into the cavernous BOBBY Room. He says only: “Fitting.”

They sing until Hoborg storms in and orders everyone to sober right up.

***

Singing becomes their retreat. A soft nest of security. A playground where they can handle bad surprises. They pick up instruments to colour their singing. Nike drums because his brothers can’t keep a rhythm for the love of Quater. Krevel falls in love with the twang of the bass guitar. Nehmen, who is self-conscious of his singing voice, learns to play the saxophone. The sax does the singing for him. Its voice is cracked, like Nehmen’s. Whimsical. Ironic. It can be understood no matter which language you speak.

When people start asking about their first concert, it amuses Nike how his brothers react. Nehmen would love to show off what he has learned, but he’s embarrassed to perform alone. Krevel has little confidence in his skill and public performance terrifies him. So they both look to Nike to defend them, and Nike says: “Maybe later.”

Frankly, why would anyone want to listen to their music? The way they play is ad infinitum. They repeat and repeat, soaking in the mood, giving each other space to improvise. Their music runs like a river. Always the same. Never the same. It is music for making, not music for hearing.

Still. The idea of performing is growing on them. They discuss – hypothetically – what their band would be called. Krevel says the first thing that pops into his mind.

“Morphine.”

They look at him blankly.

“It’s the painkiller in poppy milk and kilko,” Krevel explains. “It’s called after Morpheus, the god of sleep and death.”

“Ah,” Nike says. “So the audience knows that our music will put them to sleep.”

“And then kill them,” Nehmen adds with a laugh.

Morphine sticks.

They play when they’re bored, when they’re lonely, when they want space. Making music together is their panacea. It is a getaway and a connection in one. Others join in sometimes, the Hood is full of musicians after all, but no one sticks around. Nike knows why. It’s because Morphine is theirs alone.

Trees bloom. They give fruit. They bloom again. Hoborg gives Krevel a custom-made bass. It’s red-and-white and it has only two strings. Nehmen thinks that’s hilarious, and he shows up to the next practice with two saxophones. To their surprise, he can play them both at once. It doesn’t sound half bad either. Krevel starts making counter-melodies for the sax as well as the voice. He’s getting better at it. Even if he says otherwise.

They blame each other when Kalikat sows them stage costumes. Who the hell put the idea into the tailor’s head? Apparently he thinks they’re starting a poppy-themed band! He takes them to the Workshop one day, gives each a bundle of clothes and tells them to put them on. He turns away while they change, too excited to be proper and leave the room.

“We look pretty good,” Nike reckons. Kalikat looks them up and down, and blushes with delight. Nike continues: “The poppy armbands are a nice touch and the fit is great. But tell me one thing.” He shuffles his feet. Blue winks up at him. “Why are they so revealing? You had our measurements. Don’t tell me you don’t know where our markings are.”

Kalikat smirks. “Of course I know where your markings are. They peek just~ a little bit to give you zazz.” He gazes at Krevel, who is trying to tug down his crop top and hide the white stripe on his stomach. Krevel returns him a sour grimace. Even Nehmen, the showman, is anxious that his golden star is peeking from under his ruffled top.

Nike sighs. “Can’t you fix it?”

“There is nothing to fix.”

The stage costumes embody Krevel’s anxiety. He doesn’t want to hear that they’ve become good. While Nehmen is trading front row tickets for favours, while Nike is piecing together the song list, Krevel keeps finding flaws in their performance. Insists they try again. Practice, practice, practice, it can’t be anything less than perfect. What if it is less than perfect? Then… then he will never play with them again. You can’t say much to that kind of threat.

So it happens that the first time they perform, they are all high as kites.

They don’t get to keep many memories of the concert. Morning after says it was… improvised. Krevel’s guitar is plugged into the wrong socket and Nehmen can’t find his other sax. Hoborg is livid. Apparently Klester mixed all of the forbidden brews for his party. The chemical H-bomb explains the amnesia, the headache, and the fact that they had a concert. For the first time in his life, Krevel is glad to have forgotten something.

The second concert comes strangely easy. They just set everything up in the Public Park and go through their repertoire while Hoodians come and go. It isn’t painless, and Krevel wishes he weren’t sober, but they manage.

The third concert. The fourth concert. They stop counting.

Somehow they become one of the established bands. Somehow Hoodians like their style of repeat-and-improvise, their poppy-themed costumes, their off-world music. They become a band which plays in the evening. Half their audience is asleep by the time they finish. They like it that way.

They haven’t written any songs yet.

***

“…and she said: ‘I’m not wasting any more time with you, fwa-sheep-goo-for-brain.’ and she left!” Nehmen expects outrage of his two listeners. Krevel, sprawled on his back across purple swirls, just groans.

“She leaves for five minutes and she’s all you talk about,” he says. “Can’t we do something better than replay Caline’s day?”

Nike smiles and suggests: “We could play.”

“Yeah!” Nehmen says. “Let’s compose a song for Caline.”

Krevel groans again and curls up. Seeing the red-skinned brother is not willing, Nehmen addresses the hoophead instead.

“You’ll help me perform it, of course. I need your help with the lyrics, too.”

Nike gives Nehmen a non-committal look. “You want us to compose and perform songs so you can court Caline?”

“You’ll do it for me, right?”

Nike stays silent for a while. Then he says: “Krevel, look up. He’s doing his best puppy eyes.”

“That’s why I’m not looking up. I don’t want to compose any songs for Caline.”

Nehmen whines: “Please!”

Krevel groans, loud and long. He doesn’t, doesn’t want to do this. He sits up. “Alright,” he says, “but Caline can’t come to our practices until the song is done. Ah, ah, ah - otherwise it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Nehmen thinks hard.

Nike laughs. “You should drive a harder bargain. Demand that Caline doesn’t come to our practices ever again.”

“But she likes them!” Nehmen protests.

“She makes Krevel nervous,” Nike points out. “And she’s useless both as a singer and as a player.”

Nehmen glares at him. “She’ll learn if she keeps coming.”

“No, she won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can. She doesn’t have the gift. We can all see that. You can see that.”

“If she just keeps trying…”

Krevel ponders whether the song should be in a major or minor key.

***

They’re supposed to play on Caline and Nehmen’s wedding. It took them months to prepare the gig.

Five days before the Day, Caline disappears. Her suicide note is addressed to Krevel. It says she didn’t feel truly loved. It says she can’t go on anymore. It says her world is living hell.

The wedding is cancelled. The gig is cancelled. Everything is cancelled. Morphine would be cancelled, but comfort is too rare to give up these days.

The abandoned Nehmen buries himself in the company of his two dozen friends. Just don’t mention Caline and he’s fine. She went for a nap or something. He’s happy. He’s good. Good. The facade is all that’s keeping him together.

But in the evening, when darkness falls and all grows hushed, Nehmen can’t sleep. He keeps seeing the love of his life in his mind’s eye. With each memory and each future plan that won’t unfold, his heart shrivels. He cries and cries and anything is better than that, so he gets his brothers together and they play. While darkness thickens, while the Hood becomes eerily silent, long after midnight… they play. As long as Nehmen’s sax is singing. As long as he needs it.

When Nehmen dozes off, Nike and Krevel lie down beside him. They curl his stem around their hands to make sure he doesn’t give them the slip. But Nehmen isn’t like Nike. He isn’t like Caline, for that part. The void scares him too much. All the warmth he knows comes from his loved ones. Whatever awaits him in the drain is worse than what little he has here.

They keep tabs on him night after night. But they can’t keep it up forever. One night, he slips away. He looks down the drain for a long time. Then he walks away. He steals the lifeseed Hoborg has prepared for them. And he creates Alan, a son to be with him forever.

Alan Zurückgeben makes Nehmen better. He takes his life’s mission very seriously. He does what’s best for his father, in spite of his father if he has to. He’s kind, which earns Krevel’s favour. He’s principled, which earns Nike’s favour. He has no taste in music, and he doesn’t pretend otherwise. So he’s allowed to attend their practices.

Nehmen’s broken heart slowly mends. You still can’t mention Caline around him, but at least he stops crying at night. He’s a millennium older. The weariness doesn’t suit him.

One day, he requests they write a song about… her. Yes, normally he hates when she’s brought up. But he feels like this might help. There are things he needs to say and he doesn’t know how to say them. They’ll help him out, right? As long as they don’t say her name…

Candy asked me, if she died, if I could go on. Of course I said I couldn’t, and of course we knew that’s wrong. But Candy, I said, Candy no, you can’t do that to me because you love me way too much for you to ever leave.

They disguise the elegies. Change the names, add nonsense detail. As they sing about “her”, the distant and cruel and tantalising one, longing for something that cannot be attained becomes the core of their music. After all, most pain in the world is unfulfilled want.

Take me with you when you go. Don’t leave me alone. I can’t live without you. Take me with you. Take me with you when you go.

***

Something incomprehensible has happened.

Caline has returned to the Neverhood.

She says jumping down the drain doesn’t kill you. She says you just fall and fall. She was lucky to land, too. Even if it took half her life out of her.

Nehmen cannot reconcile the last fifteen years with Caline being alive. So he discards the past. They are to be married in five days. She’s just cold to him because she’s nervous.

Nike cannot fathom why Caline would return. This place was her worst nightmare. Why revisit it? He asks Caline, and she says she must test her new self against it. Nike finds a new appreciation for her then.

Krevel is too afraid to ask the thing he doesn’t understand. If they failed her so badly, why would she still want to be their friend?

Nehmen tries to court Caline, but it is in vain. He thinks she’s playing hard to get. Sure, he’s done wrong, but he will change. Their wedding is in a few days, for Quater’s sake! This isn’t the time to be throwing a tantrum.

He’s still hopeful on the morning of the Day. He gets all dressed up. He finds Caline and gives her the gold ring. Caline dashes it off the Neverhood.

That is when Nehmen finally understands.

He lashes out and blames on her everything that has happened since she left. That she jumped without asking for help first, so that she could hurt him. That she took revenge and had the audacity to return. That it would have been better if she had stayed dead. He’s screaming and crying and Alan, Nike and Krevel are trying to take him away but they can’t handle him. Nehmen is losing the love of his life a second time. He didn’t think that was possible.

But who would want him now? Who could forgive all of this pain being displaced on them?

It takes Hoborg to intervene. He creates a cup and forces Nehmen to drink from it. Nike and Krevel exchange looks. Nehmen’s eyes glass over. He stops fighting.

“Can we play?” he mumbles as his brothers take him away. “Anything.”

You’re a bedtime story, the one that keeps the curtains close. And I hope you’re waiting for me, ‘cause I can’t make it on my own. I can’t make it on my own…

***

Nehmen gives up on trying to comprehend his fate when Alan leaves his side. He plays his heartbroken saxophone while his brothers sing: Last night I told a stranger all about you. They smiled patiently with disbelief. I always knew you would succeed no matter what you tried, and I know you did it all… in spite of me.

Morphine is theirs only, after all.

Only theirs.

***

A clear stone lies silently on the blue guest room bed. It is as big as a Hoodian curled into a tight ball, and just as heavy. It does not speak. It does not move. It is a stone.

And yet Nike and Nehmen still think of it as their brother. Their world is bright with pain, dull with hurt. Why would Krevel leave them like that? Why did he do this? Why did he do this to himself?

The clear stone lies silently on the bed and never answers, even though they talk to it. In their dreams, it laughs at them. It laughs in Leverk’s voice, shrill and grating.

They bring their instruments and they play to the stone. But the music is empty without the bass. They bring the two-stringed guitar as well, and place it on top of the stone. Krevel, play.

They waver.

This is ridiculous.

They leave their instruments in the blue guest room. In a few months, some good soul puts them under the bed. The two-stringed guitar, the saxophone, the drums. They are left to rot.

Rot, rot, rot away!

Like Krevel did.

***

It takes Krevel twelve years to comes back to life. He finds his guitar under the bed and he strums on it, nodding his head happily. Just like that, whoosh, the twelve years are gone. Twelve years of painful silence. Erased. Like Leverk. Like the wish.

If only it worked that way.

***

Nehmen and Krevel stay on the Post Island for hours, long after Nike and Klogg have disappeared in the black distance, long after everyone else has left. Hoborg was the last to go. He invited them to come with him, think about something else. They declined.

Huddled on the ground, they are lost and tiny. Nike is gone.

Nike has left them.

Their fingers itch for their instruments, but they can’t play without him. Just like Nehmen and Nike couldn’t play without Krevel. It’s preposterous.

Finally, Nehmen says: “Let’s get some kilko.”

Krevel blurts: “Quater, yes, please.”

***

Nehmen rushes into the Garden. When he meets Krevel’s eye, they both blush and hesitate.

“You didn’t tell me you were playing again,” Nehmen blurts out. He sits beside Krevel, takes his two-stringed guitar from his lap and examines it. A century of neglect has done nothing to it. That’s best klay for you.

“I’m sorry,” Krevel says.

“What made you start?” Nehmen asks.

“The Garden. And the gardener.”

Nehmen glances at Arig. The gardener is busy pretending he isn’t there.

“Huh,” Nehmen says.

They stare at the ground. Krevel doesn’t dare raise his eyes.

“Can I play with you?” Nehmen asks.

“Of course!”

The gardener clears his throat.

Krevel leaps to his feet. “But not here. Let’s see if the combo still works.”

Nehmen skitters after his brother. “Oh man. I gave my saxes away. I don’t know if I can get them back after all this time.”

Krevel laughs. “You’ve forgotten all the fingerwork anyway. I know I have.”

It is not acceptance. If they accepted Nike was gone for good, they’d never play again. Because then Morphine would be gone for good, too. But they know Nike is still out there. So they can play. Even if Krevel’s voice doesn’t purr like a cat and their tempo is all over the place.

***

They are astonished Nike still remembers their songs. He’s got new verses, too. He’s been singing them for relief for the whole journey. A hundred and five years later, he has them all fresh in his mind and his voice is more pleasant than ever.

They throw themselves at practising. Krevel and Nehmen feel what Nike won’t say: that he isn’t here to stay. He yearns for the vastness of space. They need to get their music into shape before his claustrophobia kicks in. They play in a frenzy, drinking while the cup isn’t empty.

They don’t make it.

“I’m leaving for the Brokenhood tomorrow,” Nike says. “Just for a couple of years.” It’s absurd that it seems like a short time to him. It is a short time. Neverhoodians have an eternity. It shouldn’t hurt so much.

But it stings and burns and drives tears into their eyes, so they pick up their instruments and play for Nike to come back.

There’s something sourly missing from the music they’re making, and the rhythm drifts faster and faster until their fingers can’t keep up.

But a sour drink is better than no drink. The alternative is chemical. They don’t want to go there again. The Guardian of Water wouldn’t let them anyway.

***

“I was wondering if you needed a drummer,” Ruze says.

Nehmen shifts his two saxophones, exchanges a wary look with Krevel. “Why would we need a drummer?”

“Because you can’t keep rhythm for the love of Quater.”

“Hah!”

They don’t want the Guardian of Invisible Forces as their drummer. He’s too pushy. He always wants things his way. He makes them restart time and again because they can’t nail the timing.

But damn, does he remind them of Nike. With his loud, deep voice. With his intolerance for bullshit. With his desire to lead them to a safer place.

It’s just for a little bit. It’s just for the concerts. It’s just… it’s just…

When Ruze gets a drum set, they know. They know they have betrayed. Morphine isn’t theirs alone anymore. The set sounds incredible. But Krevel has to sing the lead now, be the frontman, entice the crowd. He grows into it, all charm and caramel. He doesn’t sound as good as… but that doesn’t matter. Nike was the first to betray them. He needs his freedom more than he needs them. He loves his partner more than he loves them. And Morphine changes. Evolves with time. Everyone needs a balm for the soul. Theirs is music. And each other.

I’ll kill you dead! Is that a threat? Rubella, mumps and measles. Light another cigarette. Pop! goes the weasel.

They can’t make kilko anymore, anyway. The Guardian of Water watches the Labs like a hawk.

***

Something has changed the next time Nike comes back.

He watches from the audience while Morphine plays. There are tears in his eyes.

Then he tells them of the Empire.

***

Lights are blinking overhead. Red and white. Stars for the first time in a millennium.

No one knows what to make of them. No one knows anything anymore. Not since Hoborg disappeared. The angelic Klaya, the five Guardians, the black-eyed Tao, all followed him, vanishing without an explanation, without a trace. How could they make sense of this? They were supposed to live here together forever.

The answer lurks in the back of their minds. They do what they can to block it off. Because if it’s true… then nothing they do matters anyway. Eternity is coming to an end. And they can’t even enjoy the last moments because their hearts are too swollen in their chests.

Krevel and Nehmen sit together by the Mulberry Tree. The tree doesn’t scare Krevel anymore. It went barren a few months after the gardener disappeared. The two sit, back to back, and play something. They repeat it over and over. They have been at it for days.

I know a ship that’s leaving soon; in fact, this very afternoon. So don’t forget your parachute, and I’ll be there to catch you.

Where is Nike? Where is Ruze? Where are their drummers? Where is time?

Time is the blinking stars overhead. Time is staring into the Seer’s eyes and seeing nothing but despair. Time is in the slow beating of their hearts. In the numbness that settled in when they ran out of food to eat and water to drink. Even electricity ran out. Krevel had to put his red-and-white bass away and take up an acoustic guitar.

They are husks, unable to die, and the music is filling them.

Hand over hand up the lifeline. Luckily the knots stay tight. Silhouettes of the two of us climbing, climbing up the rope on fire.

What day is it? They stopped counting. Hoborg used to keep the time. And the sunsetter. They are both gone now, and the rest has lost count.

They played for them to come back. They played to be forgiven. They played to forgive. Not anymore. Today, they only play to forget. Lose themselves in the music. Pretend nothing exists but the two of them, two brothers, two lovers, the last two people in the world. Pretend their music is everything. The notes wrap around them. Comfort them. Drive everything else from their heads.

They sit by the Mulberry Tree, play and sing.

The red and white stars come closer. Strange shapes block them out. Roar of engines. Whizz of flybys. The Hood shakes when the first vessel comes gliding from the sky and carves a line into the Weasel Arena. A figure climbs out, shines a flashlight about him. He trains the light upon them. Their eyes water in the bright flood. The music peters out. More crashes, more shaking, as more vessels make contact.

“Hands in the air, swines!” the pilot bellows. “What are you looking at? This is an invasion! All hail the Emperor! Put those things away and get up!”

They stay close to each other. When they are herded into the Public Park together with everyone else. When they are boarded onto a spaceship. All they can think of is staying together.

The music is still ringing in their ears.

Someday, there'll be a cure for pain. That's the day I throw my drugs away.

#neverhood #fanfiction #morphine #krevel #nike #nehmen aber zurückgeben #alan zurückgeben #caline #hoborg #ruze

[ubaid214]

Discovering the Style: Setar for Purchase

On earth of audio, certain tools possess an undeniable appeal, weaving stories of tradition, culture, and artistry. Among these, the Setar stands as a shining example, charming fans having its wealthy history and soul-stirring melodies. Nowadays, the opportunity arises to delve in to the sphere of Setar as we discover their significance, craftsmanship, and the trip of locating a Setar for sale. setar for sale

The History of Setar: Originating from Persia, the Setar holds a prestigious place in Iranian classical music. Its name, "Setar," equals "three strings," embodying the quality of their design. Crafted with thoughtful focus on depth, this tool includes a little, pointed human body, a fretted neck, and, true to their name, generally three strings, although some options may have four. The Setar's distinct noise evokes feelings which range from sadness to delight, rendering it a versatile tool in the arms of an experienced musician.

Quality and Artistry: The creation of a Setar is a job of love, requesting expertise passed on through generations. Master craftsmen meticulously choose the finest resources, usually opting for mulberry wood for the human body and a slim membrane produced from lamb or fish skin expanded over the soundboard. Each element is cautiously designed and built, with the frets exactly located to ensure optimal resonance and playability. The intricate outlining, from the fine digging on your body to the ornate inlay work, addresses volumes in regards to the artisan's talent and dedication.

Seeking the Great Setar: For anyone desperate to embrace the enchanting world of Setar audio, the pursuit of the perfect tool begins with locating a Setar for sale. While standard markets in Iran may provide real handmade Setars, fanatics worldwide can explore a number of ways to acquire that prized possession. Online marketplaces, niche music shops, and artisan workshops offer as useful assets, giving use of a diverse range of Setars designed to different preferences and talent levels.

Facets to Consider: When browsing Setars for sale, a few facets warrant concern to make certain a good match between musician and instrument. Firstly, assessing the quality of artistry is important, as this straight impacts the Setar's sound and durability. Also, knowledge the instrument's requirements, such as for example chain material, focusing, and degree size, supports selecting a Setar suitable for specific enjoying styles and audio preferences. Finally, budgetary constraints may possibly play a role, with Setars ranging from economical student designs to exquisite, handcrafted designs strong higher prices.

Enjoying the Setar Knowledge: Beyond their audio expertise, having a Setar embodies a profound link with lifestyle and tradition. Whether embarking on a journey of self-discovery as a newcomer participant or focusing skills handed down through years, the Setar serves as a gateway to exploration and expression. More over, the Setar's eternal elegance and melodic draw transcend limits, fostering connections among lovers worldwide who reveal a passion for this interesting instrument.

Realization: In the world of audio devices, several evoke the same feeling of question and reverence while the Setar. From its storied sources in Persia to their enduring history in traditional audio, the Setar remains to enthrall artists and lovers alike having its beautiful craftsmanship and soul-stirring melodies. As seekers of audio elegance set about the quest to find a Setar for sale, they set about a journey of discovery, enjoying not merely a guitar but a classic tradition steeped in culture and artistry.

[edisonblog]

There is no wind at this time — Ouyang Xiu "Picking Mulberries" Anfu County in Jiangxi Province was called Yingzhou during the Sui and Tang Dynasties. During the Wude Period, it was placed under Jizhou, which today belongs to Ji'an City. This is the hometown of the great scholar Ouyang Xiu, his home and spiritual comfort. When he came to the end of his life, he suddenly discovered the poetry and tranquil beauty of his hometown, so he wrote ten poems "Picking Mulberries" to express his love  of his hometown. These ten poems are very fresh, full of pictures, emotions, and aesthetic taste and vision. More importantly, this group of words implements Ouyang Xiu's lifelong belief in promoting the ancient prose movement. His goal is to use smooth rhetoric and meaningful artistic conception to replace the piling, carving, and even the need for antithesis, rhyme, and allusion. It makes people feel the poet's lingering whisper in the ear and the melodious language characteristics in the world of literature. And all of this comes from Ouyang Xiu's summary of life experience, understanding of the meaning of life, and affirmation of self-worth. -/- (1) A Light Boat With Short Oars (Picking Mulberries) A light boat with short oars- West Lake is good. A gentle curve in the green water, Fragrant grass along the dyke, The faint sound of pipes and song follows me everywhere. Without a wind, the water's surface lies as smooth as glaze. I don't notice boats passing, Tiny movements start up ripples, Startled birds rise from the sand and graze the bank in flight. -/- --- A poetic description of a serene and tranquil scene. The mention of a "light boat with short oars" suggests a peaceful location, possibly a lake. "Without a wind, the water's surface lies as smooth as glaze" paints a serene picture of undisturbed water, perhaps reflecting a tranquil day without any disturbances. "Tiny movements start up ripples" captures the delicacy of the environment, where even small actions can create ripples on the water's surface. "Startled birds rise from the sand and graze the bank in flight" adds a dynamic element to the scene, as birds react to some disturbance, creating a moment of movement and life.

#edisonmariotti 

edison mariotti

欧阳修 (1007-1072) Ouyang Xiu

采桑子  采桑子  采桑子  采桑子  采桑子  采桑子  采桑子  采桑子  采桑子  采桑子  

.br

Não há vento neste momento — Ouyang Xiu "Colhendo Amoras" O condado de Anfu, na província de Jiangxi, era chamado de Yingzhou durante as dinastias Sui e Tang. Durante o Período Wude, foi colocado sob Jizhou, que hoje pertence à cidade de Ji'an. Esta é a cidade natal do grande estudioso Ouyang Xiu, seu lar e conforto espiritual. Quando chegou ao fim de sua vida, de repente descobriu a poesia e a beleza tranquila de sua cidade natal, então escreveu dez poemas "Colhendo Amoras" para expressar seu amor por sua cidade natal. Esses dez poemas são muito novos, cheios de imagens, emoções, gosto estético e visão. Mais importante ainda, este grupo de palavras implementa a crença de Ouyang Xiu na promoção do antigo movimento da prosa. Seu objetivo é usar uma retórica suave e uma concepção artística significativa para substituir o empilhamento, o entalhe e até mesmo a necessidade de antítese, rima e alusão. Faz com que as pessoas sintam o sussurro persistente do poeta no ouvido e as características melodiosas da linguagem no mundo da literatura. E tudo isso vem do resumo da experiência de vida de Ouyang Xiu, da compreensão do significado da vida e da afirmação da autoestima. --/- (1) Um barco leve com remos curtos (colhendo amoras) Um barco leve com remos curtos - West Lake é bom. Uma curva suave na água verde, Grama perfumada ao longo do dique, O som fraco de flautas e músicas me segue por toda parte. Sem vento, a superfície da água fica lisa como esmalte. Não percebo barcos passando, Pequenos movimentos iniciam ondulações, Pássaros assustados emergem da areia e pastam na margem em vôo. --/- --- Uma descrição poética de uma cena serena e tranquila. A menção de um “barco leve com remos curtos” sugere um local tranquilo, possivelmente um lago. "Sem vento, a superfície da água fica lisa como esmalte" pinta um quadro sereno de água imperturbada, talvez refletindo um dia tranquilo sem quaisquer perturbações. “Pequenos movimentos iniciam ondulações” capta a delicadeza do ambiente, onde mesmo pequenas ações podem criar ondulações na superfície da água. “Pássaros assustados levantam-se da areia e pastam na margem em voo” acrescenta um elemento dinâmico à cena, à medida que os pássaros reagem a alguma perturbação, criando um momento de movimento e vida.

[blogfairy]

Mulberry shortcake

In a garden lush with green, Where sunlight dances, unseen, There grows a berry, sweet and rare, A treat beyond compare.

Oh, mulberry shortcake, how divine, With layers of flavor, so fine. A symphony of sweetness, it sings, As we savor each of its heavenly rings.

First, the berries, plump and red, Juices bursting, ripe and spread. Their tartness mingling with sugar's embrace, Creating a melody, full of grace.

Next, the shortcake, soft and light, A tender crumb, a pure delight. With buttery richness, it melts away, As we indulge in each decadent sway.

And atop this masterpiece, a crown, Whipped cream, airy and light as down. A dollop of clouds, a touch so pure, It makes every bite an adventure, for sure.

So let us raise our forks on high, To this dessert that makes us sigh. Mulberry shortcake, we salute thee, A symphony of flavor, for all to see.

#poets on tumblr #poetry #original poem #writers and poets #poetic #happiness #recently