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stalkerofthegods · 5 months

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Ares Deep dive

Ares

Herbs • Garlic, basil, buttercup, yarrow, ginger, anything with tiny yellow flowers, spicy stuff (ex- peppers, paprika), Water hemlock, Snapdragon, Poppy, Nettle, Magnolia, Ginger

Animals• Vulture, Colchian Dragon, serpents, barn owls, woodpeckers, dogs, horses, Stymphalian birds, boars

Zodiac • Aries

Colors • Red, black, and dark purple

Crystal• garnets, rubies, bloodstone, obsidian, red scoria, smoky quartz, red jasper, carnelian

Symbols• a helm, a shield, a spear and sometimes a sheathed sword, flaming torch, armor, palace, four fire-breathing horses

Jewelry you can wear in their honor• Iron, armor

Diety of• masculinity, civil order, Battle lust, courage, City guards/police, Rage, Violent deeds, Fights, Murder, Manslaughter, Quarrels, cheese, dancing, rebellion

Patron of• the Amazons, City defenses, City defenders

Offerings• Dragons, Dragon imagery, Dragon art, Strong dark red wine, Strong whiskey, Pure water, Black coffee, Black tea, Olive oil, Beef, Red meats in general, Cooked fat from meats, Blood from cut meats, Heavy spices, Spicy foods, Garlic, Red, black, and dark purple candles, Art or statues of Him, Statues of horses or dogs, Weapons, armor, and shields (ex- art, statues, toys, handmade.), Trophies, Spicy jerky, Sport drinks / protein shakes, Hand drawn or printed art of HimArt or images of dogs, horses, and vultures, Feathers from vultures, woodpeckers, or barn owls, Iron or steel jewelry, Red flowers (ex- roses), Thorns, Miniature or toy weapons and armor (especially helmets), Snake skin, Animal teeth, Write down your fears or successes and give them to Him, Medals and ribbons you’ve earned, Antiques, Photos of riots or past wars, hot sauce, Pork ribs, homemade meals, poultry, hare, venison, wolf hearts, chili peppers, lemons, green bananas, unripe peaches, batons, bullets, kendo swords, shields, military helmets, bullet-proof vests, military boots, military belts, dynamite sticks, grenades, lion pelts, shark teeth, ram skulls, explosives (handle carefully), Medals or Certificates, dog fur or dog teeth (ethically sourced), horseshoes, bull horns, war memorabilia, broken glass, spicy jerky or twiggy sticks, Carmel, sushi, stormwater, spicy salsa, Mexican food, chocolate or chia pudding, burnt matches, cigarette butts

Devotional• Create a playlist and listen to music that makes you feel brave/empowered, Donate to the Rape Crisis Center or other similar programs, Donate and support victims of war, Cook with garlic or heavy spices that you haven’t tried before, Try new things and don’t feel ashamed about doing so, Tell Him about your accomplishments, Tell Him about your fears, Learn about shadow work and try it for yourself, Learn about history, past wars, and past riots, Learn what they accomplished or failed to accomplish, Learn and educate yourself about the downsides of war and what can happen to the people affected by wars, Partake in combat sports (ex- martial arts, fencing), Exercise, Play some strategy games like chess, Risk, and Civilization, Stand up for yourself and what you believe in, write to your governor/mayor for things you want to see changed, attend riots, Pray to Him (ex-strength, ability to fight and defeat enemies, courage, to keep others safe, and help in a battle), go to a protest, learn first aid, educate yourself on PTSD, do unharmful things that give you adrenaline rushes (ex- amusement park rides, bungee jumping), watch action movies with him, pet a dog, Playing Strategy Games, Work on managing your anger, bones, go do axe throwing, a playlist that makes you feel, brave, energized and confident, keep track of your successes (this can be daily tasks, when you conquer them cross them off, and then offer the list to Ares), write down or draw art of your fears, go to a rage room, pray or meditate during thunderstorms, watch war movies and documentaries and play war/combat and strategy video games

Ephithets•Adámastos/adamastus/ἀδάμαστος/ΑΔΑΜΑΣΤΟΣ/ἀδάμας -unconquerable & indestructible, Ænyálios/enyalius/ἐνυάλιος/ΕΝΥΑΛΙΟΣ -war-God, Alcimus, Álkimos/alcimus/ἄλκιμος/ΑΛΚΙΜΟΣ/Adj - valiant, brave, Alloprósallos/alloprosallus/ἀλλοπρόσαλλος/ΑΛΛΟΠΡΟΣΑΛΛΟΣ- loyal to the struggle and to the souls who are engaged in it, Ánax/ἄναξ/ΑΝΑΞ -lord, king, Aphneiós/aphneius/ἀφνειός/ΑΦΝΕΙΟΣ -rich, wealthy, Arrectus, Árriktos/arrectus/ἄρρηκτος, ΑΡΡΗΚΤΟΣ -unbreakable, Brotoctonus, Enyalius, Hippius, Hoplochares/Hoplodupus/Hoplophorus, Íppios/hippius/ἵππιος/ÍΠΠΙΟΣ -horseman, Mægasthænís/megasthenes/μεγασθενής/ΜΕΓΑΣΘΕΝΗΣ/μεγασθενές -very strong, Megasthenes/Mægasthænís., Ombrimothymus:See Omvrimóthymos/Omvrimóthymos/ombrimo hymus/ὀμβριμόθυμος/ΟΜΒΡΙΜΟΘΥΜΟΣ/ὀβρῐμόθῡμος -doughty, indomitable, Oplódoupos/hoplodupus/ὁπλόδουπος/ΟΠΛΟΔΟΥΠΟΣ -clattering in his armor, Oplokharís/hoplochares/ὁπλοχαρής, ΟΠΛΟΧΑΡΗΣ -rejoicing in arms, Oplophóros/hoplophorus/ὁπλοφόρος/ΟΠΛΟΦΟΡΟΣ - he who bears arms, Phrictus/Phriktós/phrictus/φρικτός/ΦΡΙΚΤΟΣ - horrifying, Polæmóklonos/polemoklonus/πολεμόκλονος/ΠΟΛΕΜΟΚΛΟΝΟΣ -he raises the clamor of combat, Polemoklonus/Polæmóklonos, Sceptuchus/ Skiptoukhos/Skiptoukho/sceptuchus/σκηπτοῦχος/ΣΚΗΠΤΟΥΧΟΣ -he who bears a scepter, Teichesipletes/Teikhæsiplítis/Teikhæsiplítis/teichesipletes/τειχεσιπλήτης/ΤΕΙΧΕΣΙΠΛΗΤΗΣ—he who storms the cities in battle, Vrotoktónos/brotoctonus/βροτοκτόνος, ΒΡΟΤΟΚΤΟΝΟΣ -the slayer of men.

Equivalents• Mars (Roman), Onuris-Anhur (Egyptian god), Tiu-Tyr (Germanic god), unnamed war-god (Scythian god).

Courting• unmarried, but courting Aphrodite.

Past lovers/crushes/hookups• Aerope, Agraulos, Harmonia, Otrere, Astyokhe, Demonike or Sterope, Kyrene or Asterie, Astyokhe

Personality• He’s a great father, and a great lover, I talk to a godspouse of his and they talk about how he calmed them and was always there. He’s a great father because I’ve talked to a person who their father is ares and he’s always there for them, he’s also generous.

Home• Mount Olympus

Mortal or immortal • immortal

Fact• Ares was the only male greek god that never raped or sexually assaulted any woman

Curses• Routing armies, Cowardice, Death on the battlefield, Military invasion, Sacking of cities, Rebellion, Uprisings, Sedition

Blessings•Driving armies, Bravery, fighting strength & endurance, Averting war (peace), Repelling invading armies, Maintaining civil order, Crushing rebellions, Restraint violent instinct,

Roots• Thrake, Ancient Greece.

Parentage• Zues and Hera

Siblings• Enyo (twin sister), Eris (sister), Apollo (half-brother), Artemis (half-sister), Athena (half-sister), Hephaestus (brother), Hermes (half-brother), Dionysus (half-brother), Hebe (sister), Heracles (half-brother), Aphrodite (half-sister).

Pet• four fire-breathing horses (Aithon (Red-Fire), Phlogios (Flame), Konabos (Tumult) and Phobos (Fear))

Children •ANTEROS (God of reciprocated love, son of Ares and Aphrodite), DEIMOS (God of fear, a son of Ares and Aphrodite.), ENYALIOS/Enyalius (A war-god son of Ares and Eris), EROS (God of love, a son of Ares and Aphrodite), HARMONIA (Goddess of harmony, daughter of Ares and Aphrodite.), NIKE(The goddess of victory, a daughter of Ares), PHOBOS (God of panic, son of Ares and Aphrodite),AEROPOS/Aeropus (son of Ares and Aerope.), ALKIPPE/Alcippe (daughter of Ares and Agraulos), AMAZONES/Amazons (Warrior women of Assyria, daughters of Ares and Harmonia), ANTIOPE(daughter of Ares and Otrere), ASKALAPHOS/Ascalaphus (son of Ares and Astyokhe), DIOMEDES (son of Ares and Kyrene or Asterie), DRYAS (son of Ares), EUENOS/Evenus (son of Ares and Demonike, and sometimes the son of Ares and Sterope), HIPPOLYTE (daughter of Ares and Otrere.),IALMENOS/Ialmenus (son of Ares and Astyokhe), KYKNOS/Cycnus) (son of Ares and Pelopia or Pyrene), LIKYMNIOS/Licymnius (son of Ares most say his father was King Elektryon), LYKASTOS/Lycastus) (son of Ares and Phylonome.), LYKOS/Lycus (son of Ares who used to sacrifice strangers to his father), MELANIPPOS/Melanippus (son of Ares and Triteia.), MELEAGROS/Meleager (son of Ares and Queen Althaia, but most call him a son of King Oineus), MOLOS/Molus (son of Ares and Demonike), NISOS/Nisus (son of Ares, but most accounts say he was a son of the Athenian prince Pandion), OIAGROS/Oeagrus (a son of Ares but some say his father was King Kharops),OINOMAUS/Oenomaus (son of Ares and the Pleaid Sterope or Princess Harpinna), OXYLOS/Oxylus (son of Ares and Protogeneia), PARRHASIOS/Parrhasius(son of Ares and Phylonome.),PARTHENOPAIOS/Parthenopaeus (son of Ares and Atalanta, many say his father was Melanion or Meleagros), PENTHESILEIA (daughter of Ares and Otrere), PHLEGYAS (He was a son of Ares and Dotis or Khryse.), PORTHAON (son of Ares or according to others of Agenor), PYLOS/Pylus (son of Ares and Demonike.), REMUS (son of Ares and Ilia), ROMULUS (son of Ares and Ilia), TEREUS (a son of Ares.), THESTIOS/Thesius (son of Ares and Demonike or Agenor and Epikaste), THRASSA (daughter of Ares and Tereine.), DRAKON ISMENIAN (A monstrous dragon-serpent, it was a son of Ares and the Erinys Telphousia.)

attendees• DEIMOS & PHOBOS (The twin gods of terror and fear), ERIS & ENYO (goddess of strife, hatred and war), KYDOIMOS/Cydoemus (The god of the din of war), NIKE (goddess of victory), OTHER ABSTRACTIONS(spirits described such as Rage, Anger, Threats, Death and Valour)

Appearance in astral or gen• In ancient Greek art, he was depicted as either a mature, bearded warrior armed for battle, or as a nude, beardless youth with a helm and spear.

Festivals • Artemis Agrotera/Kharisteria , and Genesios, maybe.

Day • Tuesday

Scared places• Odrysia in Bistonia, Thrake (his birth-place)

Planet• Mars

Tarot cards• Chariot & Emperor card

Scents/Inscene • Frankensince, Sandalwood incense, resin, burning wood (especially if Himalayan salt in thrown in since it reminds him of blood), and red sandalwood incense

Prayers•

Prayer to Ares for the Safety of a Soldier

Bold-hearted Ares, bright-helmed son of thundering Zeus and noble Hera, well-honored god of war, any battle will you face, any foe will you fight, without fear and without hestitation. Ares, god of warriors, ally of those who risk their lives on the field, to you do soldiers offer their prayers. You know each one’s name, O Ares, you know their lives, you know their worth. Great Ares, I pray to you, watch over ____________ who heeded your call, who practices your art, whose name you know well, for s/he is one of your own who does you honor with each day s/he serves. Ares, I pray to you.

In general

Bright-helmed Ares, strong of arm and stern of visage, firm of stance, unyielding of will, ever ready to face any foe, to hold the line against all who may come, to battle until the end. Ares, son of noble Zeus and wise Hera, cherished by golden Aphrodite, honored by those who call on you for strength and courage, in the north were you much honored in times of old, in Thrace and Thessaly were you held in esteem by those whose lives were harsh, whose world was stony, whose comforts were hard-won. Ares who answers the prayers of the despairing, I honor you

For Courage

Ares, fierce-hearted son of Zeus and noble Hera, full-famed you are as god of war. To you do soldiers pray when battle is most heated, when mettle is most needed. To you as well do we turn in desperate times, to you do we call for strength, for the spirit to endure. You understand the terror of struggle and strife, you confront it in every way. Ares, your courage is unquestioned, your might and your prowess unequaled. Ares, friend to those in direst need, I pray to you, grant me the nerve to face what must be faced, grant me the will to do what must be done, grant me the heart to forge ahead.

Links/websites/sources •https://greekgodsandgoddesses.net/gods/ares/

https://twelfthremedy.tumblr.com/post/624476009567289344/ares-offerings/amphttps://aspisofares.wordpress.com/tag/offerings/https://www.tumblr.com/warriots/622104378198933504/a-guide-to-ares-worship https://www.tumblr.com/warriots/622104378198933504/a-guide-to-ares-worship https://scarletarosa.tumblr.com/post/187742800571/ares-greek-god-ofhttps://www.tumblr.com/diana-thyme/722942201197363200/greek-gods-101-ares @enyalios-shrinehttps://greekpagan.com/category/prayers-2/ares/

BIG HELP TO

https://www.tumblr.com/tarotbee

Ares is the Greek god and patron of many things, he is the edge of the sword while you hold the soft side, no god can be the god of war without the bloodshed, so don’t judge so quick, he is an amazing god, we love Ares here. Please excuse my grammar and everything, I tried my best.

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harrisonarchive · 3 months

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Photo by Pattie Boyd.

A look at interior decorating at Friar Park in the early ‘70s — “Pattie has methodically and lovingly put the place together. Lalique and Tiffany lamps blend with the inlaid parquet floors. The Gothic ceilings are painted a wonderful mixture of mauve, rust, green and yellow. In the study, based on Marie Antoinette’s bedroom, lavender, pink, blue, peach, eau de nil, cream and rose are reflected in the shine on the marble floor. From Hollywood she brought green grape lights, snapped up at an auction when MGM was closing down. In the North she found a factory to weave carpets in Art Deco styles. From India she brought back ivory inlaid desks, Buddhas and miniatures. When she finally tracked down just the right shade of creamy slub silk for her drawingroom curtains she had a friend print a swirl of art nouveau patterns in turquoise, blue, and mauve. She’s left them unlined so the sunlight can filter through.” - Ossie Clark, Woman’s Own, 1974 “[On vacation in Portugal in 1973] we would even go to tile stores, as George loved ceramic tile. During one of the visits, he custom-ordered enough tile to make a mural of the Hare Krishna mantra for one of the areas in Friar Park, closely instructing the tile designer. The language barrier was a bit of a hurdle, but I speak Spanish, which is close enough to Portuguese so that I could be of some help. A year or so later, the tile arrived at his home and the mural was finally completed. I remember how happy he was. God-reminding artifacts and environments — glimpses into eternity — were high on his list of priorities, whether expressed in murals, paintings, photos of saints, his gardens, or of course his music.” - Gary Wright, Dream Weaver: Music, Meditation, And My Friendship With George Harrison (2014) (x)

#George Harrison #Pattie Boyd #quote #quotes about George #George and Pattie #Friar Park #Gary Wright #George and Gary Wright #Harrison spirituality #1970s #fits queue like a glove

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xxsycamore · 1 year

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𝐉𝐄 𝐓𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐈 𝐃𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐒 . . . CHEVALIER X READER

► The stroke of midnight is soon to mark the arrival of your birthday, and all you can think about is Chevalier. He's yet to return home.

• rating: G • wordcount: 1,045 • masterlist • title taken from a namesake song by patrick watson, "I'll leave you words"

a/n: This fic is a gift for a dear friend of mine who has a birthday today (perhaps in a couple more hours in her timezone, but shhh...), @aquagirl1978 . Dear Aqua, you deserve the world, all my best wishes wouldn't be enough...thank you for being here, for all that you do for us. I'm not lying when I say that it's because of you that this place feels like home, I'm glad to have met you. I hope you can have many more wonderful moments of enjoying your favorite things, many moments of inspiration for your lovely works, many moments of laughter and many, many smiles. For starters, have a great day today, and I hope this little fic can add to the good mood! 🎉🎉🎉❤❤❤

Night has fallen over Rhodolite, draping it in its deep royal blue, a cloak of the richest kings for the town to slumber calmly underneath. It appears that this king has allowed an act of carelessness - all the gold coins from his pouch have spilled onto the sea of dark blue, rolling down far, so far that they've become miniature to the eye. Come morning, he'd send for them to be collected; right now, they're yours to admire.

The veil of clouds is thick yet you've spotted that little gap from where the tiny starts are twinkling down at you, and your gaze stays glued there as you wander off in thoughts.

You breathe in the scent of the closing page of today, and it bites back from within your lungs; the air is cold, of course it is, it's winter out there and you're wandering off into the cruel weather underdressed. This innocent little tip-toeing to the terrace is not without a reason, though admiring the night sky is more of an afterthought. You simply here with the idea that the chilly air would help awaken you a little.

Chevalier is still not back, and the clock is close to hitting midnight. You've purposely kept yourself busy until now, not wishing to go to bed without waiting for him first.

It's not that you put some sense of grandiosity to the occasion; you're not the one to demand such things, much less from your lover who has enough on his mind already. He might have forgotten even, and still you won't blame him for it - after all, you are getting something out of it. A negligible amount of selfishness, wanting for him to be the first you see on your birthday. A kiss, afterwards. You needn't even tell him, at least until the morning, when he's rested from yesterday's hardships and you can embed the thought of you in some distant corner of his refreshed mind to do with as he sees fit. You don't need lavish celebrations or all of Rhodolite's roses at your feet. A kiss after midnight will do.

You fail to suppress an yawn, despite priding yourself in having mastered that field under the stern eye of Sariel. The puff of warm air that comes with it is another waste of precious body warmth and you start missing the big and comfy bed for a whole another reason besides sleep. In record time the terrace is behind you, the dress discarded somewhere with the last remains of the coldness clinging to it - because you're already in your nightgown, all snuggled up in bed.

You hug what you call the "Chevie pillow" because of its yellow-beige tassels reminding you of his blonde hair. Having just come from outside, it's not too hard to imagine it sharing some kind of warmth with you - everything is warmer than your body right now, after all.

But with warmth comes sleepiness. As your last resort, some stubborn simpleton you are, you feel around on your nightstand for the book you've been reading. It's not some breath-hitching story able to keep you up all night as you were familiar with those, and thus you didn't pick it up sooner, but now… if you were to fall asleep, it wouldn’t be too bad to do it in the company of good book.

A distant sound of a bell comes to your ears, the stroke of midnight as you're used to hearing it. It takes a second or two even for you to realize.

You cuddle the Chevie pillow closer to your chest, imagination fast at work to paint a picture where Chevalier were able to return on time. Maybe it would've slipped from your mouth by now, you're not too good at keeping secrets. Maybe he would've given you that rare wide-eyed gaze enough to get lost in the irises of icy blue. Maybe, right after, a kiss.

It's not a sad thought, no, no, no! Now that the hands of the clock have aligned, the tension has dissipated, it seems. Now or in another hour, Chevalier is returning home, he is returning to you, he's slipping under the covers of your shared bed, and joining you in your dreams. Given that you would be dreaming by then.

Right, the book. You curl your toes under the comforter, feeling silly about the fact that you tried everything yet it was some daydreaming about your lover that finally lifted the slumber from your heavy eyelids somewhat. Taking a comfortable reading position, you open your book at the page where your bookmark faithfully waits for you.

Only, it's not the bookmark that you find there.

You take the note that was cleverly disguised as the familiar item and take a careful look at it under the light. Unfolding it, the breath refuses to come out of your lungs until you've made sure.

It's Chevalier's writing.

To the simpleton reading this well into the night,

Happy Birthday.

These two words on paper fail as a means to congratulate you, as I'd much rather be holding you in my arms right now. Even if I can tell they're most likely enough to make you smile this very moment.

Instead of waiting for me, I suggest you get some sleep. It would be best if you're well-rested for tomorrow.

Chevalier.

Tears fill the corners of your eyes, and you know the Chevie pillow will get to shine again as a replacement for the real thing, catching your tears as you bury your face in it. Instead of a coherent string of thoughts revolving around the fact that he remembered and moreover thought of such a clever way to surprise you, or the promises of the coming day, you make some kind of noise into the pillow that you're for once glad Chevalier is not around to hear and comment on. You stand like that for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe, think, anything.

You haphazardly shut the book with a thud and shove it somewhere in the nightstand, extinguishing the light and curling up onto your side clutching into your beige-colored loyal companion.

There is just one thing now.

How are you supposed to fall asleep?!

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @animeworldsposts @randomanimatedhusbandoseeker @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @starshards26 @pro-cat-stination @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @keen19thcenturygoatsstudent @lordsister @ikemen-banshou @themysticalbeing @canaria-blackwell @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @aquagirl1978 @ikemenlover24 @violettduchess @mcofthemansion @tiny-wooden-robot @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @atelieredux @aceuuuuu @moonstruck-writing Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen prince chevalier #chevalier michel #ikepri chevalier #ikemen chevalier #ikemen series #ikeseries #cybird #ikemen prince fanfic #ikepri fanfic #ikepri fluff

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salthien · 5 months

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when all was said and done, Coronation ended up leaving kind of a bad taste in my mouth, so I didn't really plan to make anything further for blball and especially not for Coronation. that being said, I did have some stuff I kind of liked from before it broke bad, so on request here's a kind-of wip amnesty for one of them.

hands, 1.4k. gen. blaseball does not leave much time for leisure, especially for its captains. elip dean of the hades tigers makes do with what they can get.

“have you thought about picking up a hobby?”

elip’s attention is slow to leave their notebook, still scribbling postgame notes at one of the empty clubhouse tables. their head lifts, eventually, then tilts, one brow arching.

“something small,” mehdi elaborates. “to keep your hands busy.”

they maintain the look, brows furrowing in a challenge.

“you fidget, eli. a lot.” a pause, and mehdi lifts a palm defensively. “don’t look at me like that. i just think it would be good for you. you don’t need to be in captain mode all the time.”

elip ducks their ears as if admonished, but their eyes are smiling as they tip their head in another unspoken question.

“you’ve got options. just something to keep your hands busy - i wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve got needles and yarn stashed away around here somewhere, or beads. paper’s not hard to come by either.”

something clicks, then, and elip’s eyes go wide as they nod excitedly.

----

it starts like this: little paper animals, folded and strewn about the clubhouse. they are imperfect; the white underside of the bright squares peeks out around uneven folds on cranes with wings that won’t sit right, crabs with lopsided pincers, frogs with short bodies and too-long legs.

there have been a few casualties, too, accidentally swept to the floor and caught by wayward heels. elip trashes the crushed ones as readily as anyone else.

“oh– shit.” vela says, prying a bright yellow crane from her cleat one day. “cap, you gotta be more careful with these little guys.”

elip looks across the dugout, shrugs once. later, though, they see vela tuck the crane under a magnet in her locker, its crumpled wing carefully smoothed out. it fills them with a warmth they can’t name long after they’ve left the stadium.

----

they don’t limit themself to paper. as the season goes on, elip swaps craft paper for colored twine, carrying beads in a hidden pocket of their skirt. despite mehdi’s protests, they unwind the first three lumpy, uneven bracelets they make to save material - no use being wasteful.

the fourth, elip presents to stevie with little fanfare. they press it into his hand - a simple thing, pale blue twine, small green beads strung into the weave - as he comes in from striking out in the top of the ninth.

“for me?” he asks, even as elip is beginning to step away. they nod, only half-looking at him, but pause as the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkle with a smile.

“captain dean, you’re too kind.”

they notice it after that sometimes, the twine fastened snugly beneath his glove. it makes them smile no matter how far they’re down on the scoreboard.

----

in the off-season, they throw themself even further into mehdi’s suggestion, whenever training and their duties as captain allow for it. one day in late summer, amaya arrives at the clubhouse to elip, awaiting them expectantly, hands behind their back and eyes bright.

“morning to you too, elle.”

when elip finally reveals their gift on outstretched palms, amaya pauses, surprised, her eyes flickering from elip’s face to the painted clay pieces cradled in their hands.

“you made these?” elip answers their question with a firm nod and lifts the little clay armaments further, gesturing to amaya with both palms.

“seriously–? they’re so cute, are you sure?”

elip rolls their eyes exaggeratedly, and amaya finally acquiesces, taking the miniature silver-and-rose painted sword and shield from their palms with a kind of fond reverence that elip won’t soon forget.

----

by the beginning of season 2, more gifts have found their way into the hands of their team, each stripe carrying a token from their captain’s creative spree. elip abandons their more complex endeavors as the season begins and they turn their focus to the game.

they wonder, perhaps too much at first, about wandering zephyr - cursed and, they hope, making the best of it. he seems happy, no matter what color jersey he wears when they see clips of him online, and that’s what matters.

but pragmatism is the name of the game, especially as players start going up in flames: they stop letting themself worry if he misses Hades, unsure if a yes or a no would bring them more peace.

when they catch one of his interviews, scrounging for news on the rest of the league as much as they dare, they linger on it just enough to notice the beaded corner of an ash-gray keychain hanging out of his pocket. a lump rises in their throat, bittersweet.

----

you only keep what you had on you when you died, say the long-dead as they fill the hall of flame with space and color and depth.

there are ways of contacting the living, but not reliably.

we’re here for you, they offer, but you’ll have to get used to this. chances are you’ll be here a very long time.

leandra doesn’t mind. she’d heard the stories of the hall and still chosen it willingly the day she’d taken the field after mondegreen’s incineration. that does not make the physical adjustment any easier - the dampness, the way her fur clings to her flanks, the way her chest aches for breath that won’t come - but she’s made her peace with that, too.

what does ease her mind is the scrap of maroon cloth she discovers in her breast pocket, surfacing a memory - elip, closing it into her hands the morning of day 79. sewn into it is a sun, pale yellow and filled in with hasty stitches. the captain had not been clear what it was for, only that she was meant to have it. they’d been quite insistent.

leandra finds herself glad for it now, running her thumb gently over the stitchwork. it is, if nothing else, an affirmation of her decision. she cannot imagine elip in the dark of the trench.

----

they don’t talk, much. derrick is fine with that. the silence is comfortingly familiar, and elip seems equally unbothered by it. they commiserate over bad games, elip might ask a question or two about the hall or about derrick himself, but mostly they seem happy to simply have him around as quiet company while they read or study games or make things, sequestered for a handful of hours in elip’s hades flat or derrick’s tiny new apartment.

on one occasion - post-finals, when elip’s in charleston for vela’s memorial - they bring a bright sheaf of paper and seat themself on the floor with it, one cowled ear tipped toward where he sits on the couch. it’s a kind of quiet intensity he hasn’t seen from them much.

aren’t those good luck? he asks in sign, the quiet too comfortable to break with his voice - it's easier, sometimes, and elip's fluency in the common languages of the league makes up for his spotty hall-earned education. elip looks up between cranes, a brightly-colored row of them lined up in a semicircle on the rug. elip's ears tip back in confusion, and derrick repeats himself.

their expression doesn’t change; if anything, they grow more confused.

“those’re good luck, right?” he says, out loud this time, and the understanding that dawns over their face is quickly replaced by amusement, their shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

lucky, they sign with a smile, middle finger lifting off their chin, and derrick realizes his mistake before their hand can even make it back to their face to demonstrate what he’d said instead.

“y’know– fuck it. maybe i do want to know if they taste good.” he grouses with a lopsided smile, leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. once elip’s laughter subsides, they nod, signing lucky again as they set the newest crane with its fellows.

“gonna need a lot more cranes than that to help either of us, i think.”

elip’s ear flicks dismissively beneath their tichel, and they pull another piece of paper from the sheaf to their careful creases anew.

derrick doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes later to find his apartment empty. the only evidence of elip’s departure is a text comprised entirely of emojis - happy face, shushing face, waving hand, sleeping face - and a small navy blue crane they’ve left in his upturned palms. he smiles faintly, leans to set it on the side table and only jumps a little bit when something crunches softly behind him.

he starts upright, turning halfway, but there’s nothing behind him except the back of the couch and another crane. a third falls into his lap with his movement, and he connects the dots at last, pulls the collar of his sweater around to find that elip has in fact filled his hood with yet more palm-sized paper birds.

derrick doesn’t believe in luck, really – but he gathers the little pile of birds onto the old side table and carefully slides the blue one into his phone case for good measure.

#blaseball #hades tigers #elip dean #velasquez alstott #mehdi caper #amaya jackson #stevenson heat #zephyr mccloud #leandra beech #derrick krueger #derrick's not a tiger but he's in there. bad pitchers club

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whatavery · 7 months

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Late Summer Lullaby (Lucaby)

A short story written as part of an art trade with @blogplutocrat featuring Lola de Luca and Rocky Rickaby. This was written as a short companion piece to her Lucaby comic, set during the transition between summer and autumn, inspired by an old, Danish lullaby Sensommervise. Hence the title. Anyhow, hope you Lucaby fans like this one!

___

In the glow of the midday sun, the yellowing leaves on the trees almost looked like tongues of fire, dancing off the branches as they swayed in the wind. As Lola plucked steel strings, the clear, bright tunes emanated from the resonating chamber inside her trusty, white six-string. Each note rang out into the still warm autumn air.

A few people were out and about today, though not many were paying attention to the golden feline with the white guitar. And she liked it that way. She was seated on the grass of Forest Park where she could overlook the nearby lake.

Eyes closed, Lola’s left hand traveled up and down along the neck of the guitar, fingers gripping the fret board as she plucked with the fingers on her right hand. She was so used to playing, she didn’t even need to look to know where she was gripping by now. It was all muscle memory at this point.

She was playing an old-world tune, one of the ones she’d learned to play when she was younger. However, now she had the skill to pluck more than one string at a time. Utilizing all her fingers, Lola could work four strings at once or in rapid succession, the deeper bass strings complimenting the higher ones beautifully.

Clad in a thin, pastel green summer dress, Lola had taken to sitting on her brown jacket, using it as a makeshift blanket. Autumn was here, though it was still early. The sun still beamed down upon St. Louis enough to make it warm enough to go outside without warm clothes. The lawn was still vibrantly green, blades of grass swaying in the breeze, like a miniature ocean with tiny waves.

Opening her bright blue eyes, Lola took in the beautiful idyllic scene before her; Forest Park in autumn was as picture perfect as an illustration in an old fairytale book. As she played, a rose-tinted scene unfolded before her eyes, as vivid as any dream she might have at night. Lola’s fingers never stopped playing as she beheld a little girl and a little boy standing on the bridge that crossed the lake.

Though no boats sailed on the lake in the present, Lola pictured those as well. She could picture them from memory, see them floating on by, rowed by couples, while the kids above watched them. The gray tabby boy was dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and a pair of blue denim pants held up by suspenders. Even these many years later, Lola could clearly picture the broken seams along the sides of his pants legs. She could similarly picture the wear and tear to the knees from many hours of being outside, running wild, tumbling and crawling around. The little girl, she wore a frilly, little summer dress, white as the clouds that floated overhead. Well, safe for those unsightly grass stains around her knees. Oh, her nonna was not going to like that one bit…

“Oh, look, look – down there!” Lola smiled as she pictured the two of them leaving the bridge, hurrying down to the water’s edge. She could see the boy’s bare, gray- and beige-furred feet sinking into the soft ground where water plants were sprouting. Lola remembered how many insects were around on that day. Dragonflies were patrolling, mosquitoes were lazily bobbing along in the air and water striders were skating across the surface of the lake.

“Rocky, what are you doing?” the little girl called to the gray tabby as he peered out into the water.

“Look, you see that fish? The one right there? Bet you I can grab it!” Present-day Lola chuckled as a cool stray breeze reminded her of getting splashed as Rocky lunged forward, reaching for the fish, but accidentally submerging himself in the process. And of course, doing so without managing to catch the fish with his tiny hands.

“Awww, rats… that would’ve made an excellent meal too,” those had been the words Rocky had sputtered out once he got himself back on dry land. His gray, striped fur clung to his lean form, as did his soaked clothes. The golden-furred little girl giggled as she looked at her drenched friend. Their blue eyes met and they laughed together, leaving the lake behind.

Lola came to a halt with her song, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, those deep blue eyes settled on the very lawn in front of the St. Louis Art Museum. The very same lawn where Rocky had spent his time drying off with her under the intense summer sun, while they were gazing at what few clouds were in the sky.

As Lola put her guitar down by her side, the golden cornicello attached to her guitar dangled to and fro, glimmering in the sunlight like a spark. Leaning back, Lola placed her bright golden hands down into the soft grass, each blade bending under her weight. She cast her blue gaze upwards at the equally blue sky, watching the clouds above, just as she and Rocky had on that day.

She tried to think back on it, tried to imagine what a ten year old Rocky might have to say about the clouds she could see now. Large, fluffy shapes that floated high above her… One looked almost like a bird with a wide, seemingly flat form in a very… very vague wing-like silhouette. Maybe it was more of a kite-shape…

Lola imagined Rocky might call it pancake shaped. That’s what he did for all the clouds that had shapes that were too vague back then. She chuckled. Even if they weren’t round, he’d try and describe what might have happened to them; one could have been dropped on the floor, another chewed on, another cut to pieces.

Somehow, it always came back to pancakes with Rocky.

Stretching her back, Lola tossed her voluminous, golden locks around slightly, getting them out of her face. Another stray breeze caught her hair, the wind current streaming through each strand of it like an invisible comb. It was such a pleasant feeling, especially paired with the wind gracing her bright, furred face. It carried a faint scent of ripe berries from somewhere within the park, the kind she and Rocky might have picked back in the day. Oh, she’d shared many a summer around here, both with and without Rocky. Her most vivid memories always seemed to center around the energetic, gray tabby, however.

She reached for her guitar yet again.

Lola resumed her melancholic plucking as she remembered other summers with her childhood friend. As was sometimes the case, this childhood friendship had lasted into their teens – lasted and grown.

It was also here in Forest Park that they’d shared more adolescent memories together. Walking together along the lake shore, they’d even been among the couples that sailed in the small rowing boats here. As Lola’s blue eyes looked back at the lake, she could remember one time in particular…

Rocky sailing her across the lake during an afternoon, the sun low in the sky, the fireflies out and about, frogs singing; it was the perfect romantic scene, especially for two teens who still had their own sort of idealized version of romance in mind.

Rocky had always had a flair for the dramatic, for theatrics and for poetry. Lola could effortlessly picture herself in a boat, seated in front, facing Rocky who insisted on standing up, using the paddle as if he were steering a gondola. It was something Rocky had seemed to insist on, given Lola’s Italian heritage, even if it wasn’t quite the ideal type of boat or paddle for it. But who was Lola to deny her boyfriend’s efforts to impress her?

And of course, no such boat ride would be complete without Rocky reciting poetry at her. And although the ride was slightly bumpy, at the very least Rocky hadn’t taken a dive in the lake on that night.

Just as the rose-tinted mental image of the two in a boat faded, so did the music from Lola’s guitar. She released the fret board as she felt her throat tighten slightly as she pictured her memory being torn up by the wind and made to dissolve in the air. Lola watched as the wind drew patterns on the surface of the dark water, like a rippling blanket where she had envisioned her and Rocky in a boat.

Her time with Rocky was the happiest time Lola could recall, but they hadn’t been together for long before he left town – and by extension left her. She hadn’t known what was happening at the time, nor had Rocky explained anything to Lola before he’d essentially disappeared.

When he first left, it almost felt like a betrayal, even if he had told her he was going to. The reality of not having him around had hit her rather hard. He was a manic sort of presence that made her life brighter, more exciting. Not many would put up with Rocky’s antics, but Lola had. She’d stuck it out and gladly stuck with him through it all. At least until he left.

Though Lola had no way of contacting him, she had received his letters. He’d sent her pictures, drawings, recollections, even what seemed like diary entries. Lola hadn’t know how hard things were for Rocky at the time.

The letters she received were a reminder that he hadn’t forgotten her, a reassuring thought, even if she herself had no way of reaching him. She had received very few letters that were sent from the same location; Rocky had seemingly been constantly on the move. Every last letter from him was kept in a special box, which she had hidden away under her bed; her father had never been too fond of Rocky, to put it mildly. When Lola and Rocky were little, he used to excuse his unorthodox tendencies as being a byproduct of his age. As Rocky and Lola got older and started dating, however, things got… complicated.

Though Rocky certainly matured, like Lola and their peers, he didn’t outgrow many of his habits that Lola’s father had overlooked when he was younger. He might have even found them amusing at one point. However, when Rocky seemed like he’d never lose that manic, unpredictable edge, it was more often than not too much for Lola’s father to stomach. She and Rocky spent much time away from the de Luca home – far easier to get away with seeing Rocky that way.

Though Rocky did turn out to be rather harmless, at least as far as most fathers were concerned, it never changed Lola’s father’s mind about the young tabby. He did seem to take great pleasure in loudly discussing Rocky flaws at the dinner table when it was just him, Lola and Lola’s nonna around. He’d used quite colorful language, both in English and Italian to describe “that Rickaby boy.” As mean-spirited as much of her father’s commentary had been, Lola never dared speak up to defend Rocky. However, saying that Rocky had “spaghetti arms” was one of the few things he’d said that she had told Rocky about. The term had since become somewhat of an inside joke between the two. They had laughed about that many a time.

Bringing the memories to an end with a single strum of her guitar, Lola let the open chord ring out till it faded, carried away by the breeze. Looking up at the sky, Lola once more gazed upon the clouds, before she got to her feet. Right hand firmly holding her trusty six-string, Lola’s free hand reached for her jacket, draping it over her left shoulder, like a cloak.

She cast one last look at the dark lake water, before she turned to walk along the park towards the exit. She’d best get home and get ready for tonight. She had a gig to attend.

The golden-furred feline’s fluffy tail swayed behind her as the wind picked up ever so slightly. It was still a gentle caress for now, but Lola had a feeling a storm might be blowing in. The brown jacket she had draped around her billowed slightly as she walked. It wasn't unlike her lonely walks after Rocky’s departure, except a gentle autumn breeze like the ones she felt now would have felt like a cold monsoon to her back then. The world had seemed so dull, lonely, quiet.

She had forgiven him, especially now that he was back and she knew why he left. But a decade ago, suddenly losing him had hurt her badly. She’d take lonely walks in Forest Park, reminiscing, trying to feel close to Rocky, despite him being many miles away. The memories they’d made together remained so vivid and clear to her, and Lola knew that Rocky too remembered them fondly.

Lola also knew she ought to bring Rocky along next time she visited the park; it likely wouldn’t be long until it’d be too cold for a little picnic. A picnic did sound good; her, Rocky, an obscene amount of pancakes, watermelon… Just the thought made Lola’s mouth water, but she did her best to push the thought from her mind. She ought to enjoy more watermelon soon, while they were still available to her…

Stepping through the gates to Forest Park felt like crossing over into a different realm. Leaving the green grass, the golden leaves and the beautiful flowers, Lola stepped into a monochromatic world of cobblestone, bricks and concrete. The earthy tones of her brown jacket and pastel green dress stuck out here, like a random tree sprouting out of the sidewalk.

The scent of the city likewise wasn’t one she was as fond of. Especially when compared to the scent of flowers, nature and ripe berries that the wind carried in the park.

It was also as if noise was much more prevalent here; cars driving to and fro on the road and people on the sidewalk seemed more talkative and noisy than in the park. Lola walked with purpose at a brisk pace. Though she hadn’t brought a strap for her guitar, she wished she could put it on and play as she walked. Songs were bouncing around in her head; songs she’d come up with, songs Rocky had suggested to her, and tonight’s set list for the house band she was now part of with Rocky.

Thankfully, Lola’s apartment wasn’t too far. When she made it there, she made her way up the stairs in the hall, after she greeted her landlady, who was on her way out. Lola did her best to be polite, even holding the door for her and everything. She was in hot water with her for bringing Rocky around to her place when she really shouldn’t. It wasn’t decent for a woman to bring a man home like that. That and it was also against the rules around here to bring a man home.

Ascending the steps, Lola felt as though she were climbing the steps to heaven itself, knowing what most likely awaited her in her apartment. As it turned out, her door was unlocked. To most, this might be an alarming thing to be greeted by, but to Lola, it made her heart soar. As she turned the knob, an all too familiar, sweet, hearty scent greeted her.

Smiling, she closed the door behind her and called out, “Rocky, I’m home!”

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy fanfiction #lucaby #rocky rickaby #oc x canon

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tavina-writes · 3 months

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Plant Update

I'm slowly hoarding plants (and by that I mean I own six orchids one lucky bamboo plant, one aloe vera, three baby cacti, SOME NUMBER OF SUCCULENTS and like 30 assorted flower bulbs. (Stay tuned on the flower bulbs tbh something may come of them yet!!! LILIES MY BELOVED).

And tbqf this year alone I've gone from like, (1) orchid to (6) orchids so. Two of them are not phalaenopsis orchids (though tbh my largest and most successful one is a white phal. The yellow phal (david lim) has got, if i'm counting correctly THREE buds on it right now so I'm very excited.

The other two phals were rescued from the grocery store discount clearance bin so I have no idea what color they're supposed to be (probably white though, is my guess since I rescued them from the grocery store clearance bin) and their roots were a MESS because they were shoved in (1) tiny pot together, so you may imagine what distress they're in. But also they cost like 7.50 usd so who am I to complain. They've since been repotted but like, that's the state of things there.

I got my Cymbidium as a baby -- it was only planted in December 2022! -- so it's probably going to be a long time before it flowers alas.

My Lycaste is.... doing something. I don't know what. Most of the leaves have fallen off, but the roots are fine, so I think it's in winter dormancy right now but honestly I don't know! We'll find out if I killed it in a couple months I guess!

Anyway I feel like I'm well on my way to becoming an orchid whisperer so stay tuned. There's an orchid auction every year in August/September-ish so I will be keeping my eyes PEELED for new types....and other colors....

EDIT: I somehow forgot to add that I rescued a miniature rose from the same grocery store clearance bin as well. I have no rose growing experience but we'll see!

#plants with tav #plant update #personal

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subtotechno · 1 year

Text

[this fic is like 3000 words long!! enjoy <;3]

The flower was oddly light and warm in his hands. Plants typically had a certain coolness to them, the slight chill of water right underneath the surface. This flower, a gift from a goddess, was not just any plant. It was made of soft light. It was magic. It was a two-way ticket into and out of the afterlife.

Techno sighed, glaring down at the flower as if it would make the whole situation any easier. He’d honestly expected Kristin to hear his request and gently turn him down. ‘Nope, no visiting dead people. Sorry. Guess you have to wait a few hundred years for a one-way ticket.’ But no. The goddess of death was a bit more generous than he expected, honestly.

And now, for the first time in eighty long, immortal years, he could see his family.

Just the thought of it almost made him chicken out again.

Instead, he steeled himself, and carefully pulled one petal from the rose, exactly as Kristin had instructed him.

As soon as the petal detached, his familiar attic dissolved around him like the magical rose was spilling the void out of itself, swallowing everything in impenetrable darkness. Techno blinked a couple of times, but his eyes never adjusted. Total, complete darkness.

“Okay. Cool.” He said lamely. The void seemed to swallow the sound. “Kristin, this better not be a prank-”

A glimmer of dim light broke like dawn in front of him. A single star in the night he’d found himself in. He went to walk towards it, but his attic floor had disappeared from underneath him. It caught him off guard for a second as he pinwheeled in the darkness, but the afterlife apparently took pity on him, or got fed up with him, and a strange force rose underneath him like a swelling wave. The force shoved him forward, toward the hint of light. It almost felt like a massive hand underneath him, scooping him up. The void echoed silently with laughter.

“I mean, I don’t know what you were expecting from me,” he said to Kristin. “I don’t get too much practice swimming in the void.”

She dropped him off in front of the dim red light, jostling him playfully for good measure. He tried to act affronted by it, but he was pretty sure she knew he took comfort in it.

The light was floating before him, a miniature star. It cast him in warm light, reds and yellows, that seemed to fill the void around him with life. Techno reached out to touch it on instinct, and the closer the tips of his hoof got the bigger and brighter the light became. By the time he held it in his hand, the light was all around him, swallowing him whole.

This time, when he blinked his eyes open, it wasn’t to an endless void. Instead, the first thing he saw was a forest.

A familiar forest.

Crimson vines swayed in the warm air, humidity thick but not uncomfortable, the hazy glowing shroomlights filtering through the various plants crowding up the trunks of the trees. It all seemed almost dreamlike, colors drifting and blurring together, details vague. The netherrack ceiling was so close that the trees brushed up against it if they got a little bit too tall. Even the lava bubbling was quiet here, replaced by rustling leaves and hooves scuffing through the thick, red mycelium. There was a path through it that Hace had carved so that Forgeflare could haul buckets of lava to work on their tools and weapons.

He almost turned back, almost sat down on the netherrack somewhere and waited for the rose to lose all its petals and send him back to the cold familiarity of the tundra. But he didn’t.

Techno followed the path. Even after so long, he could remember the way home.

Home was a patch of soft moss and dug-out hollows in the ground. It looked exactly like how he’d forgotten. Exactly how they’d left it. Some of the crimson wood was cut into planks, lashed into palettes and structures big enough to house them all as they slept in shifts. Forgeflare’s forges were glowing hot, chests full of gold and salvaged supplies stacked carelessly to one side. A few makeshift target dummies were propped up a little ways off. The old cooking pot was still bubbling with god-knows-what over a little campfire that had never seemed to stop burning.

The sight of all of it made him feel like he was drowning, just a little bit. It had been years. It had been decades. It felt like he’d never left. Everything and nothing had happened since he was here. A petal fell off the rose and drifted to the packed netherrack, dissolving into nothing.

“Uhm…?” A voice from behind him spoke, in the hoglin language instead of the common he’d grown so used to. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around. “Spirits, Forge, what happened to your fur…?”

A hoof-like hand grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

Bellfire was like a beacon against the backdrop of red. Her fur was even more blue than he remembered, like the twirling vines of the warped forest she was born in. Her eyes met his. She looked around his age, not like the full-grown old person she’d looked like when he was younger. He was around her height now, when had that happened-

Her breath caught in her throat, one hoof going over her mouth. “Techno?” His name came out as a whisper. Just hearing it made him want to collapse.

“Hey.” His voice was just as quiet as hers, dragged out of his throat. The language was unfamiliar, snorting and squealing instead of carefully formed vowels and consonants.

“Oh my- You- You’re here? Techno-”

She nearly jumped at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He hugged her back weakly, barely able to keep himself from collapsing to the crimson moss at her feet. It felt exactly like he remembered, she smelled exactly the same. Another petal fell off the rose.

“Bell? Who the fuck is that-”

Bellfire pulled away from him. He could see the tears in her eyes as she turned toward the new voices, toward the hoglins walking into their old camp. He couldn’t look up at them, he only had the strength to stare into the forest over Bellfire’s bright blue shoulder. Everything was overwhelming, rocketing between good and bad emotions. He could feel eyes on him, could feel Bellfire’s hand on his shoulder. He took a deep breath.

When he looked up, the first eyes he met were Dell’s.

“Guess you were right,” he said, shakily, “I never did end up taller than any of you, did I?” The joke drifted in the air between them, and for a second he was nervous, but-

“Told you so.” Dell responded automatically, like the words were there before she could decide to say them. She was smiling, in the tentative way she did sometimes.

His family was looking back at him, coming home from what looked like a successful mushroom hunt. Dell was smaller than he remembered, but not by much. She was still that same orange-red that made his heart hurt every time he saw a similar shade in the overworld. Stonehigh was next to her, holding his father’s hand. Spring himself had a look in his eyes that Techno had never seen before, a mix of sadness and hope and excitement and grief. He had a dark brown spot of fur on his cheek that Techno had forgotten.

Forgeflare pushed through the little crowd, her pink fur shot through with white streaks Techno had never inherited from her line. All he could do was stand stock-still as she approached him, slowly, as if he’d melt away if she moved too quickly. She stopped in front of him, reaching out to rest her hand on top of his head.

“Well?” Forge asked in her low rasp. “What took you so damn long?”

Like a spell had been broken, Technoblade was tackled to the ground.

Dell was nearly shrieking with laughter rolling him over in the mycelium and shaking him like she always did when they sparred as kids. Between the peals of snorting laughter she squeezed him until he was laughing too. Stonehigh jumped on him, digging his boney knees into Techno’s side. Bellfire was back to hugging him as much as she could without getting caught in Dell’s crossfire. Bubbleflow was laughing nearby, crouched and trying to pry Dell off. “You’re gonna suffocate the poor boy, Dell, at least give him a minute-”

Bubbleflow only got dragged into the pile of hoglins for his troubles.

For a glorious moment, everything was familiar smells and snorting laughter and piles upon piles of limbs and faces he’d nearly forgotten. Another petal fell off the rose.

Eventually, Dell caught her breath enough to begin her interrogation. “So you finally kicked the bucket, eh? Took you long enough. Spirits, we almost started a bet that you’d gotten lost out in limbo or something-”

“But it was too sad. So we stopped.” Stonehigh cut in.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. No but like, seriously? Where have you been? I ‘ve been waiting SO long and all of these people,” Dell gestured to everyone else in the pile. Everyone was making themselves firmly comfortable with Techno stuck in the middle. “All of these people are SO boring. None of them even like to fight me anymore because I always win-”

“Untrue.” Hace said, grinning.

“Shut up, old man-

Hace laughed. “At least give him a chance to talk-”

“You’re no better. Stop picking flights with your daughter.” Bellfire snorted, running a hand through the braids in Techno’s mane. His was longer than any of theirs, fur longer and thicker than it would ever get in the nether.

“Let the boy speak.” Forgeflare’s words fell like a blanket over all of them. They all went quiet, expectant.

Techno felt like he was about three feet out of his body, firmly somewhere else. All he could do was lay there in shock for a silent moment, until. “Uh. Well.”

Another petal came loose, falling off the rose. Techno watched it go.

“I’m just here- to, uh. To visit. I guess.”

“What?” Dell asked, the same unreadable emotion in her eyes that her father had. “But you- you just got here-”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” Bubbleflow snorted quietly, staring at the rose in Techno’s hand. He had always known more about magic than any of them. He always said he was going to teach Techno how to write enchantment books eventually. They never got around to it.

“Yeah. Y’know, immortality. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“Visiting.” Forgeflare said slowly, sharing a look with Bubbleflow.

“Visiting.” Techno parroted back. In the center of their haphazard circle of hoglins, the rose glowed its alien white light on all of them.

Dell squeezed him tighter. “You mean you’re leaving?” Her voice was tight, holding back a mountain of emotion that Techno could feel pressing down on him.

“I’m sorry-”

“Don’t apologize.” Bellfire was crying, holding his forearm and smiling through the tears. “Spirits, Techno, we were starting to think we’d never see you again- Don’t apologize. Please don’t apologize.”

“I- I really didn’t mean to be gone for so long…”

“Immortality.” Hace said, taking a deep breath. His tusk was still broken like it had been the day all of them had died. A wound that never truly healed. “That’s a heavy thing to carry, kid.”

“I know.”

“Clearly, looks like you’ve got more scars than me these days.”

“That’s not a compliment, man.”

Hace grinned wickedly, just like he had when Techno had hit his first bulls-eye with his crossbow. “I didn’t mean it as one.”

Techno rolled his eyes, shoving Hace’s dumb snout away. A bit of the ice melted, even if the tears didn’t dry. Dell didn’t let him go, and he didn’t ask her to. She was his best friend after all, she was allowed.

They talked and joked, shared stories, picked up the slack when Techno couldn’t find words to say. It felt like being folded back into the pages of an old book he’d been torn out of. The petals fell until only a few remained. With each one that fell, Dell held him tighter and the grief in Forgeflare’s eyes got deeper.

“I’m sorry for- y’know.”

“Killing us?” Stonehigh said, deadpan as ever. “I guess I can forgive you. Maybe.”

“Stonehigh.” his mother scolded him.

“What? He stabbed me!”

Techno shrank into himself a little bit.

“Ignore him.” Hace snorted. “C’mon, kid. You did what you had to. I mean, Spirits. You did what I taught you. And a damn good job of it, too.”

Spring nodded. He looked a little guilty. “If we knew that the rot would come for us, we would have found another way out. There’s no changing the past. I’m glad you made it out.” He smiled. “Even if it took getting stabbed a little bit.”

Here, with all of them around him, Techno could pretty clearly remember what they’d looked like on that day. The green eating across Spring’s skin, the ugly gored holes in Forgeflare’s stomach from Stonehigh’s tusks, Bubbleflow roaring at him even as holes were rotted through his face. He remembered how the blood in the snow seemed like it was glowing. He remembered the total silence after Dell had bled out, the two of them surrounded by the corpses of everyone else. He remembered it all.

But it felt more distant, now. It felt like it was scarring over instead of bleeding. Right now, all he could see were his family smiling and talking and arguing like always. He held onto the memory with both hands. This was what he’d remember, he promised himself. This is the memory he would keep.

For just a moment, as the conversation rumbled on and on around him, he felt like a kid again, sitting with his family around the fire under the shade of the netherrack ceiling. He smiled around his tusks, and they smiled back.

It was only a moment. And then it passed.

The second to last petal fell before he was ready. There was so much left to say, so much left to do. He still hadn’t gotten to talk to Spring that much. He hadn’t gotten to hug Bellfire again. He hadn’t found a good way to apologize to Stonehigh. Dell hadn’t let him go yet. He needed more time. There wasn’t enough time in the world , and there certainly wasn’t enough time left in one measly little rose petal.

Dell had her face pressed to his shoulder. She was mumbling something, alternating between begging him to stay and threatening him to keep himself safe.

“I love you, I missed you too. I love you.” was all he could respond with. It wasn’t enough.

Hands closed around his, squeezing them around the rose. He looked up and met Forgeflare’s eyes. His grandmother, even if there wasn’t a translation of the word to hoglin. She gave him a watery, gentle smile.

“Techno-” She said, voice low and rasping. He swore to himself he’d never forget what it sounded like. A tear fell before he could stop it, her smile only softened around the edges. “Technoblade, go home. You don’t need to be here.”

Stonehigh made a soft noise of complaint. Spring shushed him. Dell only shoved her face deeper into his shoulder.

“We’ll see you again, when you’re ready.” Forgeflare said softly, sadly. “Don’t come back even a day before then, alright?”

Techno went to speak, but words failed him. All he could do was nod.

She smiled again, and pressed her snout to his forehead. For that last moment, everything was warm. “You’re alright, it’ll be alr-”

The final petal fell.

The nether faded away. He opened his eyes to total, suffocating darkness.

Dell’s comforting, familiar-but-forgotten weight was gone. Stonehigh and Spring were gone. Bellfire was gone. Hace was gone. Bubbleflow was gone. Forgeflare-

The void closed in around him. Two massive, unseen hands cradled him like a lit match against the wind. The darkness buzzed with warm compassion. She held him until he caught his breath, until the tears slowed and the surreal memory of his family’s afterlife felt less like a live wire in his mind. She held him a little while after that until finally, finally, letting him go.

His attic faded back into focus around him, chasing away the endless darkness. All that was left was the crumbling, ashen twig of a rose stem in his hand.

Techno sat for a while, staring as the stem dissolved into the air, leaving nothing behind.

“...Thank you.” He snorted in his native tongue, not ready to go back to common. Somehow, he knew Kristin could understand him.

#bell.ring #fire.works #s2t.fic

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yuichi-ro · 2 years

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◈ 𝘈𝘴𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘪 𝘎𝘦𝘯 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

◈ 𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Gen knows an awful lot about flowers

cw: fem!Reader, POV Third Person, fluff, unedited word count: 1.2k

◈ ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ/ʙʟᴀɴᴋ/ᴀɢᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ ʙʟᴏɢꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ʙʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ◈

“A personal favorite, black nightshade.” Gen held up the ironically white blossom sporting a vibrant yellow center, showing it off for the both of them to admire while he twirled the severed stem in his fingers, “One I’d often use in my shows because of it’s meaning. Liar.”

With eyes not set on just one bushel of flowers. The woman next to him took a quiet moment to see more than just what the magician was showing her, “Tell me more.”

Gen’s brows pinched together making him look away from the flower in his grasp, “What?”

She cocked a brow up at him inquisitively, “What? I said, tell me more.”

“About...nightshade?”

His confusion made her snicker but quickly she shook her head and pointed at the otherwise disregarded flowers and plants around them on this miniature hike right at the base of the waterfall, “I already know about that one. Tell me about the other flowers.”

At his disposal was no florist shop he could quickly visit to conjure up the correct species with his words. And yet the renewed world was teeming with some varieties he was quite familiar with around the village of science and it’s inhabitants. Gen’s petrification scar curled up into a grin as his own lips found themselves smirking as well, “One you should know because of it’s popularity, a lily. White for a purity. But the red ones for your final goodbye to a loved one. And if that isn’t enough one bearing the color orange might as well be a gift of hatred to a foe.” Gen dug through his knowledge of flowers and recited them all as eloquently as the day he’d been turned to stone, “A hydrangea, a beautiful flower colored by it’s pH balance, may be given in conjunction with an apology or thank you letter. Collect the blossoms from a falling cherry tree and know those petals mean hope and renewal just like the time of year they bloom. Chrysanthemum very much so reflected the imperial family as it was printed on the fifty yen coin. Though we may never care about that anymore thanks to the stone age. And camellias, specifically those striking red ones, were once laid among the mighty samurais that lost their life.”

“Is there a flower you don’t know the meaning to?” She inquired with quite a bit of curiosity after Gen recited his knowledge like he had prepped for a pop quiz. It couldn’t be helped, the smile growing on her lips as the master of slight of hand and apparently flowers stopped to see his audience hanging onto every word he had. Gen’s cheeks came to life with a dusting of blush that would not be deterred even if he looked away from his audience. Who of course giggled at him and reached over to take the nightshade from his fingers, “I’ve loved flowers since I was a little girl. So I’m sorry if I’m being pushy.”

“No no no.” Gen squeaked a little as he tried to disregard her apology as nothing at all, “An engaging audience makes it all the more fun if you ask me. So-” He cleared his throat and mustered his sanity to stay a foot above his blushing complexion when looking back over at her, “What flower exactly do you want to know it’s meaning of? Warning, I may be a little rusty if it’s not native to Japan.”

What he expected was the classics. Asking about a rose. A daisy like the one school kids made chains out of. Even ready for something a little more difficult like a peony or an iris as he recalled them being popular. What he wasn’t ready for was her to immediately get up. No warning. And really no explanation to it. His brows knitted together in confusion when his hiking companion looked as though she’d lost a contact or earring with the way she scanned the ground.

“Um....what are you doing?” Gen titled his head a little unsure if he should assume she was loosing it or worse ate something and was looking for the suspect to show him.

When there was no answer but a good a-ha moment. Gen was not expecting to see her sit back down with the flimsy singular cone petal of common, over growing and weed like morning glory. One she’d pinched a bit of stem off with. And proceeded to present it to him when she sat back down on the log where they’d taken up residency.

Delicate little blue petals with it’s streak of almost pinkish color leading back to it’s stamen. The look of proud satisfaction on her face was more akin to a cat bringing home a dead bird. And not someone who’d picked one of the most common weeds that previously plagued school playgrounds.

Gen finally broke the silence without a lick of understanding, “That’s uh...”

“Morning glory.” She nodded frankly not sharing in his confusion, “Morning glory, right?”

“Yeah....it’s morning glory.” Gen untucked his hands from his robe and pointed at it almost derogatorily, “You know that’s just basically a weed right?”

“Oh I know.” She surprisingly agreed making him wonder why exactly she’d pick that, “But-” Her eyes softened staring down at the little thing when she twirled it between her fingers, “It’s important and I remember it from when I was a kid. Do you know what it means?”

While morning glory was something he’d of never bothered with in an act. It was pretty common so if she really didn’t know it’s meaning Gen was surprised, “Uh, something like, innocence and love, kids would give it to each other kind of thing. Why, did someone give you some or something?”

“No.” She said somberly which Gen was taken back by. As he stared at the flower in her grasp she took one last look at it before reaching out and tucking it behind the short pieces of black hair around his ear. Making the magician freeze with wide eyes when she sat back to inspect the flower tucked in his ear and the endearing look of worry on his face. It made her laugh all the same when Gen’s face officially blossomed in as much red as some of the flowers around them, “No one ever gave me one when I was a kid. So I hope you’ll let me give you this one now even if we’re technically a few centuries old.”

Gen not realizing he’d sucked in a breath and held it before his lungs were burning. Could not bring himself to break eye contact with the woman staring at him across the log. Only reaching up to touch the delicately soft petals of the otherwise useless weed no one spent two seconds on centuries ago. But now it felt like the most valuable flower he’d ever held in his hand.

Not removing it from his ear Gen couldn’t believe the fast one she’d pulled on him when it was his idea in the first place to try and impress her with this nature walk. Still touching the petal tucked against his ear Gen couldn’t stop the sheepish smile breaking his showman façade, “I’d love this flower so much more, if you were perhaps to have a matching one as well.”

“Well then,” She stood up from the log and offered a hand down to the blushing magician, “Our hike isn’t done yet, lets find another one shall we?”

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wouldyoustilllovemeifiwasawyrm · 6 months

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Brightblooms in the Well

Linktober 2023 Day 27: Light/Sparkle/Bright As soon as the idea popped into his head, he knew he had to act upon it before Zelda stopped him. He closed the gap between himself and his princess, cupping her face with nectar-soaked hands, pulling her into a kiss. A small gasp escaped her as she realized what he’d done. Her own hands flew to her cheeks as she pulled away, her fingertips brushing the glowing handprints he’d left. “Link!”

The evening sun begins to dip below the tree line of the western woods. Fireflies flicker to life along the well-trod path up the hill between Bolson’s model homes. Fresh, small footprints remain in the dirt, pressed in from the afternoon’s drizzle. A set running in, a much fresher set running back out toward Hateno.

No smoke rose from the chimney of their cottage this evening. Her golden horse nickered at him from the stall. Link clicked his tongue, leading Spot by the reins over to his own trough and stall box. He patted both horses on the nose, offering them each half an apple. Their soft lips tickled the palms of his hands.

Though he listened for signs of activity within the house, he heard none.

Curiously, Link climbed up onto the ledge beside the window, peering inside. No fire lit in the hearth. Not even a candle beside Zelda’s desk.

He furrowed his brows, trying to make out any sign of her in the darkness. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d returned home after a day of teaching and fell asleep. He squinted, just barely ascertaining the perfectly tucked sheets still intact on their bed.

No Zelda.

He frowned, trying to recall if anyone had said anything regarding her whereabouts to him on his way back to the house after working the fields with Reeve. Nothing came to mind. Quite the opposite, even. Clavia remarked that Zelda appeared in a rush to get home when the children finally ran out of the schoolhouse doors.

He walked along the raised pathway down the side of their home. There was still one place to check before he needed to worry. He peeked his head into the small storage room in the back of the cottage. Nope. Not in there. Though, as his eyes passed over the small tomato plant beside it, he noticed only the orange and yellow fruits remained. He doubted the children picked them, as most of them claimed to hate raw tomatoes and would only eat them when cooked onto something else. Zelda, on the other hand, ate them raw like apples.

With a hop, Link descended onto the stone step and back to the ground. He hefted himself over the edge of the well, slid down the ladder, and landed with a soft thud on the wooden dock beneath.

A blonde head turned quickly, her eyes wide in surprise. Ink stained her right cheek.

“You’re back early.” Zelda observed, incorrectly.

“It’s after seven.” Link informed her.

“Is it?” Zelda quickly checked the small timepiece on her desk, a gift from Robbie. A failed version of a miniature Sheikah Slate, not useful for much of anything except to tell the time. In blue symbols, the time shone across her features. “Oh, so it is. I’m sorry. I had intended to start making supper at five.”

“S’alright.” Link assured her. After checking that the book in front of her had a different color cover than her diary, he approached. “What have you been studying?”

Zelda held up a small, greenish-blue bud. “Brightblooms. I’ve been trying to discern what makes them glow.”

Link took the bud from her hand, examining it curiously. “And what have you found?”

Zelda heaved a heavy sigh, shrugging her shoulders. “Very little, I’m afraid. I’ve discovered that it is the nectar within the flower that supplies the light. See, here, the translucent skin of the petals. But as for what exactly within the nectar causes the luminescence, I have no idea. I thought perhaps it was a similar substance to that as is within fireflies, but I’m not sure.”

While Link had passed by brightblooms dozens of times, using them frequently in his explorations of dark caves, he hadn’t thought much about the why. He smiled. Of course, Zelda, in her inexhaustible curiosity, wanted to know what made them glow.

She slid her notebook toward him. Sketches and theories dotted the pages, which she flipped through as she spoke. “Fireflies produce a yellow light from inside a closed system. I believe it also has something to do with electrical signals that the firefly produces when it’s alive. Based on my observations, only living fireflies produce light. But that may not be the case at all. I’m afraid I don’t have the heart to squish one and observe whether the glow remains. I’ve only dissected ones which I’ve found already deceased.”

Link would offer to squish one for her and record the results, but that would defeat the purpose of her good-natured hesitation. He’d just tell her he squished it by accident.

“As you can see with this bud here, it also appears to be a closed system, emanating very little light.” Zelda continued. “But when the buds are struck, or else left to bloom on their own, they produce an abundance of light, but for a shorter duration. The ones I’ve planted down here will need to be replaced when their light eventually fades. They respond to physical stimuli, such as being struck, with quickly blooming and sticking to a surface.”

Link nodded, quite happy to listen to her talk science for as long as she wished.

Zelda produced another book, flipping through the pages until she reached a small sketch of a firefly. “This author speculates that the firefly produces light by the interaction of an enzyme with a kind of sugar located within the body of the insect. This book, in general, is about enzymes and their various uses. Fascinating material; you really ought to read it. It’s a perfect interaction of biology and chemistry.”

En-zime. Or, no, enzyme, with a Y. He quickly scanned the page, which had only a handful of words he recognized and several diagrams which he couldn’t hope to interpret. Lines and triangles and letters, arranged in some order that he was sure made sense to Zelda.

“As for the brightbloom, there is no mention of it in his book, and so I’m left to grapple with the mechanism with which it produces luminescence. I don’t believe it to be electrical.” She pursed her lips, tapping her fingertips on the wooden desk. “I’ve been comparing a bloom to these buds for, well, I suppose it must be several hours now. I had intended to discover something about the nature of the glow tonight. Symin and I were going to compare notes in the morning and discuss a lesson plan on bioluminescence for the children. But, it seems, that will have to wait, and I can only hope that Symin has made more progress on the subject than I.”

Link turned the bud over in his hands, examining it closely himself. The petals were very closely tucked together, with only the faintest glow emanating from within. If he struck the bud, or threw it against the wall, it would stick and bloom brightly. That much he’d observed firsthand. But what if he-?

In a moment of pure curiosity, he smashed the bud between his palms.

Blinding light burst in a sparking display and dripped between his fingers, sticky nectar splashing him in the face.

“Link!” Zelda cried, shielding her face from the splatter, specks of light landing on her hands and sleeves. “Hylia’s wings, why did you do that?!”

He could barely make out her exasperated expression from the light that shone around his eyes, obscuring everything in the darkness of the hidden study. “I wanted to know if it was air-reactive.” He answered honestly with a shrug.

“You- Well, Professor Link, what do you think?” Zelda asked.

“I think,” Link compared the split halves of the smushed bud in his palms, each of which glowed like a tiny, dripping star. “It might be.”

Zelda stood from her desk, pushing the little wooden chair back into its place tucked underneath. “I think that’s a very astute observation.” She took a small handkerchief from her pocket, and began trying to wipe away the nectar from his face—gently at first, then more aggressively as the stubborn nectar refused to budge. “Goddess, Link. This stuff will not come off!”

He winced as she dragged the handkerchief across his cheek rather forcefully, like she was trying to wipe his skin away.

She huffed, pulling the useless, now-glowing fabric away. “I think that only smeared it. I suppose we could just wait for it to stop glowing on its own, though there’s no telling how long that will take.” She folded the handkerchief carefully, keeping the glowing nectar from touching the surface of her desk. The palms of her hands also sported droplets of light, faraway celestial bodies blinking in and out as she moved. “Perhaps it’s water-soluble.”

“You want me to jump into the pool?” Link offered, already taking a step backward toward the edge of the platform.

Zelda pursed her lips. “I suppose that would be one way to remove the nectar, though a wet rag would probably be sufficient.”

“Aw, but that’s no fun.” Link teased. If this nectar really was water-soluble, which he hoped that it was, for his own sake, then there’d be no harm in… sharing it.

As soon as the idea popped into his head, he knew he had to act upon it before Zelda stopped him. He closed the gap between himself and his princess, cupping her face with nectar-soaked hands, pulling her into a kiss.

A small gasp escaped her as she realized what he’d done. Her own hands flew to her cheeks as she pulled away, her fingertips brushing the glowing handprints he’d left. “Link!”

Link laughed, the sound echoing off the stony walls of her study. “Now we match!”

“Oh, you cad!” She scolded. Though he couldn’t tell for sure beneath the glow on her face, he thought she might be blushing. Or maybe it was rage. Something in that range. “Give me that!” Zelda snatched the remaining brightbloom bud from his hands.

“Aw, come on, Zel. I was only jok-,“ Link started, cut off by Zelda’s very firm return of the kiss. Rather than her hands resting on his face, as was her typical habit, they roamed. Down his neck, up to his ears, tangled in his hair. All the while, the drip of nectar followed.

When she finally pulled away, a satisfied smirk on her lips, he could only imagine the state she’d left him in. “Well, what do you know? Maybe there are some similarities to fireflies after all. You certainly look like one now.”

Link would not be outdone. “Nah, a firefly is more like-,“ He grabbed Zelda’s ass, giving a playful squeeze. “-that.”

Zelda let out a small squeak of surprise, though she made no attempt to push him away. “You’re terrible, you know that?” Despite her admonishment, she soon returned the favor, grabbing his ass in return. “Just terrible.”

Link snickered, resting his forehead against Zelda’s. “You know, I bet this stuff washes off of skin much better than it does fabric.”

Zelda raised a brow. “Probably. Why does that matter?”

Another light-filled kiss brushed against her lips, leaving a celestial glow around her mouth. “Because,” Link whispered, trailing kisses toward her ear. “I want to cover you in it. And it would be a shame to ruin your nice blouse.”

#linktober 2023 #zelink #loz link #tears of the kingdom #loz zelda #loz fic #legend of zelda

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chaewandz · 10 months

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ROSE — chapter 9: meet me in the dining hall

synopsis: after she turns 18, y/n’s parents arrange a competition for young suitors in her town to compete for her love, a family tradition that brought about her parents’ marriage. twelve men are selected, but who will win her heart?

At 9:30 am sharp, the twelve suitors gathered around the breakfast table, the guest of honor missing from her own event. the silence that filled every corner and crevice of the great dining hall on that late summer morning was unbearably loud.

not one man in the room could find any words to fill the space in the air. even the guards who stood what felt like every few feet apart seemed uncomfortable. there was no explanation, nor was there any person in charge supervising. no butler or assistant; someone high up on the castle’s totem pole to make sure the day was running smoothly.

there were simply twelve men in overpriced pastel dress as if they were on their way to a golf retreat, staring blankly at one another, taking pauses only to admire the same stitch on their khaki shorts for the umpteenth time that hour.

the light within the golden chandelier that adorned the ceiling was becoming all too yellow and the sound of throats being cleared became all too overbearing. It was to the point where the thundering opening of the grand double doors located at the back of the dining hall almost went unnoticed.

all of the suitors jumped slightly and all heads shot toward the source of the sound. as the oak doors swung open, two guards in white uniform adorned with golden buttons stepped aside.

what happened next could only be described as the sudden appearance of a glittering rainbow shining through your bedroom window, this was of course the entrance of the princess.

her hair was pinned in a braid crown with a few curled strands to frame her face along with miniature flowers carefully placed all around the top of her head. she wore a strapless baby pink gown that stopped at her knees with small pink flowers laid out all across the bodice and skirt. her neck was decorated with a small pearl necklace and she wore white lace gloves with matching white babydoll heels.

she looked like a painting. her bright smile bounced off of the walls and carried on for miles. it felt like every single being in the room was holding their breath at her presence.

“good morning, gentlemen!” she announced, strutting towards her place at the dining table. a butler suddenly appeared at her side and pulled her chair out for her, placing a napkin beside her plate. more and more butlers appeared doing the same for all of the suitors accompanied by a dozen chefs carrying plates of food.

in seconds the table was decorated with plates of tea cakes, macarons, pancakes, waffles, orange juice, and basically any and every breakfast dish you could ever imagine.

riki glanced around the room at the others. they all wore the same nervously excited smirk, their eyes sparkling at the sight of her. as if the food wasn’t even there.

“so…” she started awkwardly. “…i hope you guys enjoy todays breakfast! i selected the menu based on your food preferences from your applications and i hope you like it! or that your preferences haven’t changed since then…but we have so much food that there should definitely be something for you. but if there isn’t just let me know! i can figure something out.” she rambled on nervously. it was ironic that she was the nervous one when she had all power in this competition.

the suitors exchanged glances with the princess and each other then quickly nodded as to put her worries to an end. eventually, she slowly picked up her fork and began serving herself a muffin and some pumpkin bread. at this motion the table erupted into movement, each boy reaching for something different to eat. even with the commotion of the boys gathering food, the room was still quiet. no one spoke and nothing could be heard except the shuffling of chairs and movement of cutlery. noticing the awkwardness, the princess quickly put her fork down and dabbed her mouth with a napkin before making an announcement.

“guys… feel free to talk amongst yourselves by the way! or to me, i mean truly im not that scary.” she laughed and picked up a glass of apple cider and took a sip. riki locked eyes with her at this statement, flashing her a brief smile while sunghoon turned to sunoo to begin gossiping.

“the macarons are so good… sunghoon please i am in heaven.” sunoo exclaimed, grabbing more to add to his plate.

“dude. look at the fruit platter.” sunghoon tapped sunoo’s side, motioning towards something at the end of the table.

the fruit platter in question was a three tier masterpiece decorated in finely cut fruits in the shapes of flowers. the blend of the strawberries, oranges, pineapple, grapes, and watermelon created some sort of garden diorama that stood towering over the end of the table.

“rich people are crazy.” sunoo whispered, unable to take his eyes off of the display.

“sunoo, you are rich people.” sunghoon replied, staring at him intensely.

meanwhile, on the other side of the table taehyun sat still, rolling his eyes at the sight of beomgyu going back and forth between the muffins and the macarons. his plate was so covered with different foods that you couldn’t even tell there was a plate beneath all of it.

hueningkai sat oblivious while gingerly spreading some strawberry jam on his toast and taking a sip of orange juice.

“ooh i haven’t tried one of those yet!” beomgyu declared, glancing towards the corner of toast that hueningkai dropped next to his plate.

“you’ve never tried TOAST?” hueningkai questioned, absolutely baffled.

“well duh I’ve tried toast. i mean i havent tried fancy and rich kingdom toast.” beomgyu smiled as if it was obvious. “i’m sorry it’s just that i want to try everything!!!”

hueningkai and taehyun rolled their eyes with a smile, going back to their own food.

down the far end of the table, heeseung casually engaged in conversation with princess y/n.

“so…dining hall looks about the same since i last saw it.” he whispered, looking around the room. y/n smiled.

“yeah. i mean apart from that corner over there that had to be repainted and covered with spackle because somebody decided to skateboard through here in the dark.” she teasingly replied.

“oh that was one time. and you know it was funny!!!” heeseung fought back. cutting through their laughter, riki decided to engage in his own conversation with the princess.

“princess y/n?” he formally asked.

“yes riki?” she looked up from her plate. riki’s face softened at the sound of his name from her lips.

she remembered my name. he thought.

“how are you today?” he smiled.

“i’m great! how about you riki?” she grinned back at him.

“im great as well. any plans for today?” he questioned. she laughed, brushing her hair behind her ear.

“yes but it’s a surprise!” she whispered, leaning in closer to him. he teasingly rolled his eyes at her.

“i know you want to tell me.” he said, giggling.

she rolled her eyes back at him.

“oh relax you’ll know soon. like after breakfast.” she gave him a quick wink and went back to her food.

smiling to himself, riki turned back to his plate and took a bite of his chocolate chip pancakes. (they were his personal request on his application).

“so guys… since we’re all snacking now, i think it’s the perfect time for my questionnaire to get to know you all better! i’ll just ask random questions which were all written by my lovely friends sakura, isa, joonie, and youngeun. okay?” princess y/n looked around and smiled.

riki thought it was cute how she was just as nervous as they all were.

“okay first question. what is your passion in life?” she asked putting down a cue card she pulled from her lap.

sim jaeyun cleared his throat and adjusted his posture, clearly nervous to speak.

“well my passion is my friendship. my best friend and i chose to open up a cafe a few years ago and it’s the most fun i’ve ever had. i know it may not seem like much, but getting to work with my best friend and serve people great coffee really makes me happy.” he had a small smile on his face and his eyes lit up while talking about it. it was sweet to watch.

knowing his best friend in question was none other than lee heeseung, y/n couldn’t help but smile.

sunoo’s eyes lit up the moment y/n asked the question, already having a perfect answer. waiting diligently until jake finished speaking, he cleared his throat.

“I love makeup and skincare, so much so that I designed and launched my very own makeup brand about a year ago. i have loved getting to design my own products and packaging and hearing other people tell me how fresh my brand is. it’s so rewarding watching something you’ve only dreamt of come to life before your own eyes.” sunoo explained, his face glowing. whether that was because of his skincare brand or just his natural glow is unknown.

nervously tapping his foot on the carpeted hall, riki exchanged glances with each of the suitors as they began sharing their answers. eventually, sunoo nodded towards him encouraging him to answer.

awkwardly clearing his throat, riki prepared his answer.

“I’m not sure if this counts as my passion in life because I mean, I love a lot of stuff but I guess what I do most is photography. I love trying to capture the world’s most naturally beautiful moments. I try my best to find ways to keep record of life through a human’s perspective because I think it’s just so cool. I mean how do cameras even work? I have no idea. but it’s fun pretending I do. I guess that’s it.”

as riki spoke, his eyes nervously darted around the room, failing to settle on a singular subject. but y/n found this particular habit of his to be quite endearing.

once the questionnaire segment came to a close, the princess clasped her hands together wearing a bright smile.

“I really enjoyed hearing about you guys and I look forward to learning even more about you over the next few weeks! but, for today we have a very fun activity planned. so please, head back to your rooms and your assignment will be waiting for you.” The princess ominously announced, still wearing a mischievous grin as she stood and curtsied before leaving the dining hall followed by the same two guards she entered with.

as she exited, the twelve suitors all shared glances of confusion and excitement as they speculated what today could hold.

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author’s note: HELLO!!! hi my dears. I know it’s been like a year or something. Yk this chapter has been in my drafts since September but I just got around to polishing and finishing. I love this au. i am going to finish it!!! ty for reading and sticking around. I <3 you.

taglist: (open!!) @cwsana @emoworu @strwberrydinosaur @justbored48 @flwrsforriki @deafeningballoonnacho @faiirybread @captivq @1lovestrawberrymilk @bigtoewinwin @yeletbz @palajae @sd211 @shinsou-rii @nomurahayami @viagumi @sfthyuka @byvrn @hyunsllvr @sickandtired129

*also!! small note on the taglist. since it’s been so long, some of u have changed users and I may have also lost track!! so I’m terribly sorry if you aren’t included just send me an ask abt it and I’ll fix!!

send an ask to be added to taglist :)

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a-lonely-dragon · 6 months

Text

Whiteridge Chapter 1

M!Monster x F!Reader

Content Warnings: Stalking, Missing Persons

The chilling autumn air greets you in a breathtaking sweep when you open the front door, making you burrow further into your cardigan before braving the outside world fully. Soggy remnants of red leaves cling to the dark wooden planks of the porch, and as you scan the yard you find the nearby trees stripped half bare. The storm last night had been a monster, howling and raging into the early hours of the morning.

Up above, the sun is well-hidden by a blanket of gray clouds, a promise of more rain to come.

Coffee mug in hand to help stave off the chill permeating the air, you head for the mailbox while avoiding the worst of the puddles and taking a bracing sip of coffee as the wind kicks back up, whipping your loose pajama bottoms around your ankles.

The street is quiet, as always. There aren’t many neighbors to be had at the edge of town, right at the mouth of the woods. The road isn’t even paved, just loose gravel that crunches beneath your shoes. There’s only the distance rumble of a train and a single bird’s call.

In the dim morning light, out where streetlights are just a myth, the only beacons in the fog beyond your yard comes from across the street. Margot, the elderly widow, would be puttering around in her fluffy robe, radio crackling around some 80’s rock hits. She, you’d learned after moving in, was an early bird and couldn’t fathom anyone being on any other schedule.

You miss so much by sleeping in so late, she’d scolded you over hot chocolate and dominoes, you need to be out and about, enjoying every hour of your youth and making the most of it. Late nights seem to be your body’s jam, staying up past midnight and soaking in the silence. Unfortunately, life often demands you be awake during daylight hours, such as today.

The mailbox’s hinges shriek in protest as it opens. You gather the bills and junk mail in one hand then slap the mailbox closed once more.

You dance around puddles and step back up the porch, only to pause as something catches your eye. A bold burst of red that stands out in the misty gray of the morning.

There, resting on top of the rocking chair’s cushion, initially hidden from your view when you stepped outside, is a small bouquet. Even before you pick up the bundle, you’re certain it isn’t from the local florist’s shop. The flowers are unlike any you’ve seen, almost resembling miniature roses but with their pinkish hue going from stem to strange, scaly petals. The flowers droop forward like snowdrops and the tips of their petals are almost a sickly yellow. A spot of white in the center catches your eye, recognizing the pale bloom. The flower in the center is ghostly white, translucent almost, with a bell-shape that hangs its head like its companions.

A ghost pipe plant. One of your favorites. And rare, the type of plant that you couldn’t just pick up at a florist’s shop. They grew in small batches throughout the woods, foragers made medicinal teas from them typically. Your heart gives a pang.

Tying this strange show together is a simple, crudely cut strip of frayed black cloth.

Your immediate reaction, silly as it might be, is to look around once more as if the person responsible is still nearby. As if it wouldn’t be creepy and unnerving for someone to be waiting for you to spot them on this foggy morning. There’s only you, the line of trees, and the road at your back.

It’s a strange, strange gift. Was it for you? But who knew about your favorite plants other than Llewelyn? Or were they for Grandpa’s anniversary tomorrow? They were gorgeous plants, there was no arguing with that, and the unfamiliarity made them seem all the more special. A heartfelt gesture that someone must’ve gone out of their way to find such odd little blooms.

Maybe they’re from Margot, you think, but it doesn’t seem likely. Early bird or not, you couldn’t imagine her coming all the way over before dawn even broke. Besides that, the alien plants and crude cloth didn’t seem her style.

No, it had to be from someone from town. They must’ve been dropped off right at the break of dawn, right after the storm finally died, for the small plants not to be flung away by harsh winds. Which, again, is a bit weird, but perhaps they’d been shy?

Maybe they left a card?

You check beneath the rocking chair, beneath its cushion, and do a cursory sweep of the length of the porch, but you can’t find anything. With a little frown, you take the gift inside with you, setting the bouquet on the kitchen counter with the mail while you search the cabinets for a vase or cup to house the flowers for the time being.

Finding a small glass, you set the bouquet inside and place it on the windowsill above the sink. You’d never found a ghost plant before, let alone picked one, so you aren’t sure if water will do anything for it, but against the gloomy backdrop, they give off a very gothic air. Perhaps they were for Grandpa’s grave. They’d look much at home against a tombstone.

You swallow around the lump that grows in your throat and scrub your eyes furiously. You could practically hear Grandpa snort and say, Crying over a crotchety old man? You’re a bleeding heart just like your mother!

You’d agree with him, because he was a sharp-tongued jerk for the most part. But he was also the man who took you on nature walks through the woods as a kid, gave you a room to sleep in when you’d had that massive fight with Mom junior year, and, of course, left you this house.

Tomorrow it would make a year since his death, and coincidentally, a year since the disappearance of a friend. When it rains, it truly does pour.

Sighing, you pulled away from the window and brought up your phone, typing in a description of the plants in hopes of finding out what they were and if they had some hidden meaning. You weren’t particularly big on the language of flowers, but perhaps whoever had left the mysterious bouquet was and you could suss out who’d left them by that alone.

It takes a bit of trial and error describing the plants, but you’re fairly certain the red plants are pinesap, which are as hard to find as ghost pipe. Also like ghost pipe, they feed off of nearby fungi. The term your results use is parasitic. Huh.

Am I being likened to a parasite? You slant your mouth and continue scrolling. They were pretty, in a way that was out of the norm like the ghost pipe. Lacking chlorophyll and reaching down deep into the earth to suck the nutrients off fungi. Perhaps the sender was trying to make some convoluted jab at Grandpa—he hadn’t made himself the most popular person, always more prickly than not.

It came as a surprise after his death when you’d found his house and swatch of land left in your name. If anyone were to inherit the house, you would’ve suspected his only daughter, your mother. She hadn’t been too put out by it, though, and even seemed relieved she didn’t have to deal with it. Though she expressed some concern over your decision not to sell and, instead, move in.

You can’t seriously be okay living in the house where he died, Mom had said, a familiar look of dismay on her face at how strange she found her daughter.

People die everywhere all the time, you’d replied, I’ll take a devil I know over a devil I don’t. She hadn’t found your reasoning as sound as you found it. Grandpa would’ve laughed at the joke, you were certain.

~*~*~

Your jeep rumbles through town, windshield wipers sweeping back and forth and heater on blast. The trees flash by in shades of red and gold, under a thin veil of mist. Piles of leaves have been swept to the edges of the sidewalks and became soggy mounds of future mulch. It started sprinkling shortly after you left the house, but now it was petering out once more. A cardboard cup holder sits shotgun, two to-go cups of coffee sloshing as you swing the car down the street, past the gas station and diner, the massive library and the row of similar-but-not-the-same dollar stores, into rows of small one-story houses broken up by short chainlink fences.

You turn the jeep into 414’s driveway, parking just behind a vehicle shrouded by a tarp that made it look like a crouching, hidden beast. Elaine Brust didn’t have her license, so the car sat untouched, waiting for its owner’s return.

The small yard sits before a squat blue house with a row of overgrown bushes lining the front wall. Actual spiderwebs litter the leaves and branches, as well as what appear to be remnants of toilet paper. Lifting your eyes to the roof, you see more white scraps. Last night’s storm had washed away most of it, but there are enough lingering bits and pieces that it’s clear the Brust home was a target of a tp’ing.

Your fingers graze the tarped car as you pass, and you flinch away from the cold material. The front door swings open at the second knock. Ms. Brust gives you a bruised smile and pulls you into a tight hug. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You return the greeting and give her a small squeeze before parting and take her in. She’s tall and broad like her son, but Nathan’s disappearance has weighed her down physically, her shoulders slouching, the bags under her eyes dark, and new streaks of gray cut through her thick black hair.

You can only imagine how awful it feels for her. Her only son, missing and none of the authorities lifting a finger to help.

“Llewelyn couldn’t make it,” you tell her. “She got called into work. It’s just us today.”

She tuts. “They’re going to work her to death.”

“If she doesn’t burn the place down first,” you say dryly. Your eyes catch on a snarl of toilet paper hanging from the porch fence.

Elaine sees the look on your face. “Kids getting their kicks before Halloween’s over. The storm did most of the work last night, but I’ll spray the rest with the hose later.”

“Ever think of setting up booby traps around the yard?”

She huffs a laugh before ducking back inside for a moment, remerging with a box balancing on her hip. “Only occasionally.” She waves off your attempt to help close and lock the door behind her.

Five minutes later you’re parking in the crumbling lot of the Save-N-Get, pulling into the spot right next to the pothole that’s been there since you were in school. It was a good way to guarantee nobody would try and jam their vehicle in right next to yours.

Elaine pops the trunk and divvies up the sheafs of paper with practiced ease. Both of you have your routes down, and you’ll work your ways around opposite blocks until converging back at the jeep. Afterwards you’ll head to the other side of town to put up the rest of the missing posters. Then it’s lunch at the diner.

Elaine hands you a stack of papers then closes the jeep’s trunk. “See you in thirty.” She marches off, a woman on a mission.

Making your way across the lot and towards the post office, you can’t help but stare down at the picture you’d become so familiar with over the past year. Month after month you drove to the Brust home to help Elaine put up posters and replace ones that have been destroyed or torn down.

In the photo, Nathan stares beyond the camera, likely at his mother taking the photo based on his weary but affectionate grin. Half of his shoulder-length black hair is pulled up in a style you hadn’t seen him in often but suited his face so well. The photo cuts off just below his collarbone, but you know the shirt he’s wearing in it is one of his favorites, an old Friday the 13th tee. Three days after the photo was taken, he was gone.

The first half of the trek goes uneventfully. There aren’t many people out and about in this damp chilling weather, and the ones that see you coming with a large pile of papers in your arms artfully dodge you, not meeting your eyes, which is fine by you. You hang posters without a hitch, enduring the pitying looks thrown your way.

It isn’t until you’re making your way back towards Save-N-Get that you feel a prickle on the back of your neck. Something deep in your gut tells you that someone is watching you.

As calmly as you can, you stop at the community bulletin board hanging outside the new smoothie place, its sign so shiny and new against the old brown bricks that make up the building. Bright pink LED lights line the large windows and set the surrounding area aglow. There are a few customers huddled inside around tiny tables.

Reassured by the sight of others, you flick your gaze to the side, trying to look natural and catch anyone creeping at the same time. But none of the scant folks trudging along are even looking your way.

Get it together, you’ve been reading too much horror.

The bulletin board is a smorgasbord of bright colors and advertisements for other shops and services nearby, along with random fliers about upcoming local events. A corner of the poster you’d put up last month peeks out from behind an announcement for Spaghetti Dinner at Joe’s 11/2. You lift the paper on top, meaning to return Nathan’s poster to the top layer when you freeze at the sight of it. Your features contort and you grit your teeth.

Someone had scratched out his eyes and crossed out the word “missing,” and right below that, in bright red, wrote MURDERER. Disgust and rage rise in your chest.

Growing up, you heard about a spirit that lived in the woods surrounding Whiteridge. A monster that stalked the hills, slipping through the shadows of the trees and then killed anyone stupid enough to go hiking alone. Every kid and teen who grows up here encounters the legend at one sleepover or another, dares one another to venture into the woods on moonlit nights for shits and giggles.

You’ve got no problems with legends. What’s a town without its own haunted house or Devil’s Tramping Ground? Horror came in many forms, and you loved all of them, there was no doubt about that. The gooier and stickier and gorier the better!

However, in the wake of Grandpa’s death and Nathan’s disappearance, someone had taken the legend and Frankensteined it to wear Nathan’s face. You’d known about the rumors that sprang up about why he’d vanished, but hadn’t known about the transformation of poor Nathan into the town’s own boogeyman until the girl you used to babysit, Tawny, told you about what they were saying in the halls of Whiteridge High.

Nathan Brust is still out there, they whisper around their bonfires and warm beers, waiting to kill again.

You have the sneaking suspicion that a former-classmate-turned-PE teacher might’ve encouraged those whispers.

It wasn’t the first poster you’d found like this, and you doubt it’s the last, but it still makes you want to scream every time. How could people twist both tragedies together like that?

Because they were outcasts. Because they were disliked. Because it makes for good gossip.

The sudden SNAP of a digital camera goes off from somewhere nearby. You tense and whip your head around, but the closest person is across the street, headphones on and hands jammed in their coat.

Were you hearing things? Maybe it hadn’t been a camera at all. Eyeing the nearest alley warily, you edge towards the corner of the building, pressing flat against the bricks. A quick peek reveals a couple of trashcans, nothing else. The door dings next to you and a couple leaves the smoothie place, throwing you curious looks. You quickly straighten, face flushing with heat.

You huff and turn away, storming back to rip down the defaced poster, crumple it and shove it into your jacket pocket to toss later then slap a new poster up. God, you hoped Ms. Brust didn’t find any like it.

When she’d first went to the police to report Nathan missing, they had brushed her off. He was a grown man, they explained, there was no danger to himself or others, and if there was no sign of a struggle there wasn’t really anything they could do.

Ms. Brust had taken it in her own hands after that, seeking out help on social media and plastering Nathan’s face across town. When you’d caught her doing so, on foot no less, you’d immediately offered help because you couldn’t quite believe that he’d just left, either. Why would Nathan just up and run off without a word to his mother? To you?

Because maybe, Deputy Locke told Ms. Brust once while you were in earshot, he didn’t want to be found. You’d grappled with that, wondering if it was less painful to believe he’d really skipped town than the awful alternative of him being truly lost.

A truck speeds by, kicking up a flurry of leaves in its wake and jostling the remaining posters in your arms.

Despite being raised in the same town, you didn’t cross paths with Nathan outside of the paint-chipped walls of Whiteridge High until your later teen years.

First it was at the town’s Get-N-Save, where you’d worked part-time as a cashier to start saving up for your own car senior year. Nate worked there as well, you’d come to find out, but as a stockboy. His size and strength, which singled him out in the halls, were his greatest asset in the backroom where he was constantly lifting, loading, unloading, and lugging around the carts laden with pallets.

He didn’t so much as blink, however, when he’d glance in your direction or pass by while you were buzzing around your station, so you didn’t see a reason to try and socialize either.

However, that same year, you discovered that Nate also did yardwork for your grandfather. This was the more confusing and most surprising crossing of streams. Your grandfather was often prickly, a stereotypical crotchety old man who preferred his own company to that of anyone else. Your visits were few and far between, but that summer he’d called and asked if you wanted to make a few extra bucks helping him clean out the attic. Looking to a future where you didn’t have to rely on anyone to chauffeur you around, and perhaps hoping for a bit of quality time with the old bat, you’d agreed.

Upon arriving, dropped off by Mom, you were surprised to see an unfamiliar gray car in the driveway next to grandpa’s old truck. He wasn’t known for entertaining guests, apart from maybe Margot from across the street.

You’d knocked on the door, curiosity niggling at you, greeting Grandpa with a small wave before being ushered inside with a “What took you so long? The boy’s already done half the work for you!”

Boy? He’d asked someone else to help with the attic? You wracked your brain and tried to calm your anxiety as you followed Grandpa up the stairs, trying to come up with who might be the one thumping about right above your head. Most of the people your age shared their older relatives’ opinions on Grandpa (you’d come over to clean up soggy toilet paper and eggs more than once), who would come over to work for hours in his dusty, creepy attic?

And there he was again—Nate Brust. As startled to see you as you were to see him. (You wonder to this day if Grandpa had been trying to play matchmaker.) The first hour passed in suffocating silence, the both of you like magnets with the same polarity, unable to go within so many feet of each other without feeling the need to give the other more space.

You’d been so scared to break the silence, completely unsure of what to say to the guy you hadn’t shared a single word with since grade school. You remember how you’d worried what he thought about you in that moment. If he thought you were stuck up. You knew he wasn’t popular at school, always to quiet or wore too much black or scowling.

It wasn’t until Grandpa called for lunch that the dam broke. Both of you had idled in front of the attic’s ladder, unsure of who should go first.

Grandpa plopped two sandwiches down on the dining table along with two Cokes.

“Thanks, sir,” Nate said, sandwich already halfway to his mouth. Grandpa waved off his thanks and shuffled back to the living room, the canned laughter from some gameshow echoed through the hall.

Nate had devoured his sandwich before you even finished a quarter of yours.

“I, uh, like your shirt,” you said, staring down at your sandwich like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

He’d glanced down, as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing, then said, “Thanks.”

His stomach growled. Loudly.

You eyed the other half of your sandwich before shoving it towards him.

“Hey, no,” he protested, a flush to his cheeks.

“Hey, yeah,” you said, getting up before he could shove the plate back. “I haven’t been lifting half as much as you, and you’ve been here since, like, eight. I had a big breakfast. Just take it, dude.”

He did, albeit a bit slowly, as if waiting for you to change your mind.

“So, I was thinking we can probably start bringing down all the photographs now that we’ve sorted them out, see what Grandpa wants to do with them?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

So began your tentative friendship with the social outcast, Nate Brust.

“Hey, you alright?”

You’re not proud to admit it, but you jump.

Catarina Stokes frowns down at you, eyes darting from the bundle in your arms back to your face.

“I’m fine,” you say, trying to shake off the chill that’s settled over you. You readjust your jacket. “Just thinking.”

With a weak smile, Catarina nods. She doesn’t believe you, and you don’t you either. “You’re still putting those up, huh?” Her voice is low, a hint of disbelief rings out.

You tuck Nathan’s posters closer to your chest protectively. “He’s still missing, so yeah.”

Catarina had been a grade above you in school. She’d been the girl everyone knew, the cheerleader at the top of the pyramid, always in the most pictures across the yearbook and somehow gorgeous in all of them. She’s still gorgeous, sleek black hair in a braid that hangs over her shoulder, large brown eyes ringed by long black lashes. Her sharp features have only become more attractive as she’s grown older.

“It’s kind of you,” she says, “helping Ms. Brust like this.” Poor, poor, Ms. Brust, she must think.

“If I don’t, who will?” Your husband? you add silently, scathingly.

Her face scrunches up with pity. “I hope he knows, wherever he is, how much she misses him.”

Of course she believes that Nathan skipped town. If people weren’t demonizing him one way, it was another. “You didn’t happen to see anyone sketch, did you?”

Catarina’s eyes go wide. “What?” Much like you earlier, she glances around. “No, why?”

“Nevermind, my mind’s playing tricks on me.”

“Are you really okay?” She sets a gentle hand on your shoulder, her tone sympathetic. “You look a little. . . peaky. Your grandfather—”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, pulling out of her grip. She lets her hand drop. “Thanks. I gotta finish getting these up, so—”

“Yeah. Right. Take care of yourself, okay?”

More vehicles wait in the parking lot when you finally arrive back at the jeep. It hasn’t gotten any warmer as noon creeps in, but the promise of more rain later seems to have pulled people out to run their errands now.

Elaine is on the phone, you see from a distance, picking your way across the pitted concrete. You don’t know who she’s talking to, but by the stony expression and white-knuckle drip on the phone, it’s nothing good. As soon as she sees you, she gives a curt goodbye and hangs up.

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

She waves your concern away with a tight smile. “As it can be. Ready to head out? What do you think of us hitting the diner early, I can hear Denise’s chicken and waffles calling out my name.”

“I’ve got no objections,” you reply. Some hot comfort food was just what you needed right about now.

“Honey, I hope you know how much your help’s meant to me,” she says, after buckling her seatbelt. You turn the key, the engine grumbling to life and heat ekes out of the vents. You feel it before she says it, there’s a sense of finality in the air. “I’m not giving up hope, don’t even think that for a second, but I’ve been thinking about visiting my brother. Getting out of town for a while.”

You nod. “I understand.” And you do. How could she not want to get away from Whiteridge for even a short time? Away from the awful rumors, the familiar faces that turned away from her, her empty house and the car rotting in the driveway. “Know when you’re going?”

“In a week or so, I think.” She turns to you, as much as she can in a car, and takes your hand gently. “I’m not going to ask you to keep putting up Nate’s posters while I’m gone. We’ve plastered half the town in ‘em, they should last. . . for a few months at least.” Her voice is steady, resolute.

“Of course,” you say, because you can’t think of what else you could say.

“Tell Llewelyn I said thank you, as well. You girls have been more help than those losers in uniform by a mile.”

“We try our best.”

The skies opened up around midafternoon, preceded by plenty of rumblings and the clouds darkening so it was as if someone had thrown a shade over the town. You dropped Ms. Brust off at her house, offering to take her to the airport or bus station whenever she decided to leave.

The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm the entire way home. Tomorrow you’d meet with Mom, head to the cemetery together. For the rest of this evening, you’d wine and dine yourself. Try to relax. Put on a horror flick or two. Yeah, that sounded great.

You have to make a mad dash for the front door, damn near slipping on the first porch step but catching yourself just in time on the railing. For the second time that day, you notice something left for you there on the front porch. It isn’t a bouquet, but an envelope taped to your front door with your scribbled across it in barely legible letters.

You peel it off the door and step inside, shutting the door behind you with your hip and throwing the lock into place. Could it be the missing note to go with your haunting bouquet?

Inside is a single Get Well Soon card, which confuses you a bit, but you suppose it could be construed as comforting someone grieving. Hopefully there’s a signature. When you flip it open, a glossy picture slips free from the card’s crease and plops to the floor facedown. You stoop down and pick it up by the edge, vacantly noting that you really need to sweep, and turn it over.

Your stomach drops and the blood turns to ice in your veins. What. . .?

It’s you. From earlier, in front of the smoothie shop, awash in pink lights, and glaring at the defaced poster of Nathan.

#dragon writes #fic #exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster lover #monster x reader

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violettduchess · 2 years

Note

Clavis 13 fall fluff

A/N: Here you go anon! Some Clavis fluff 💜

Fluff fluff fluff

Word Count: 1180

“Cinnamon liqueur?” You turn the long, elegant bottle over in your hands, squinting at the liquid as it sloshes around, a rich orange color with tiny little flakes of gold dust shining like miniature suns. It is certainly one of the most beautiful drinks you have ever seen.

Clavis nods as he carefully pulls off his dark gloves, tossing them on the nightstand next to your canopied bed, a motion deeply domestic in its casualness. His cheeks are still tinged pink courtesy of ardent kisses from the cold autumn air, his eyes still alight with the triumph of his meeting.

He walks past you, unbuttoning his signature purple jacket, hanging it in its usual place over the back of your white wooden desk chair.

“This particular group of merchants will only gift someone a bottle of their rarest export if they feel the meeting went well.” He reaches up, undoing his silken cravat with nimble fingers, nodding towards the bottle in your hands with an extremely self-satisfied grin. “Ta da.”

You walk closer to where he is, the soft, filmy material of your rose-colored nightgown whispering against your bare calves, and settle yourself on the soft edge of the bed, lifting the bottle to examine it in the light of your nightstand lamp. A tiny golden galaxy swirls around inside the expensive crystal. Clavis unbuttons the first few buttons of his white shirt while somehow removing his boots at the same time. His ridiculous number of belts are tossed on the same chair as his jacket before he joins you on the bed, leaning over to admire the liquid the same way you are.

“Try it,” he says with a grin. “Reap the rewards of my hard work. I would be honored.”

You arch a brow at his request, but can’t deny that you are intrigued. You do like cinnamon a lot, especially now when the seasons have toppled over, green leaves turning to shocking reds, oranges and yellows in the fall. He leans back on the bed, resting on his forearms and watches you with eyes practically twinkling in anticipation. Carefully you undo the silver topper. The rich scent of cinnamon hits you immediately, floating out of the bottle like a genie now freed.

“Oh my-” You know you’re making an overexaggerated face but Clavis is laughing and it's your favorite sound in the world so you keep it up, wrinkling your nose as you hold the bottle at arm’s length. “You sure they don’t give this to people they consider enemies?”

He pushes himself up again, running a hand through his soft, midnight-colored hair.

“Try it. I dare you.” Mischief, thy name is Clavis. He knows you are not one to back down from a dare, especially when it concerns food and drink. This is, after all, the man who dared you to eat five slices of wedding cake in a row at your own damn wedding and then got his just desserts when he had to carry you around for the rest of the night because you actually did it. And even chased it down with a glass of champagne.

You shoot him one last Look with a capital "L" before lifting the bottle to your lips. The heavy bottom tilts upwards, the lustrous liquid slides down the neck of the bottle and…..the taste hits you like an avalanche of molten, cinnamon fire. One explosive pull is all you manage before lowering the bottle hastily.

“Whoa…..” You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, blinking excessively. Your voice sounds hoarse to your own ears. “That is….extremely….cinnamon.”

“Is it any good?” He takes the bottle, stopping it again and leans around you, one hand instinctively coming to rest on the small of your back as he sets the bottle down on the nightstand. It almost looks like it’s glowing, more akin to a magical elixir than a bottle of liqueur.

Maybe it’s the warmth that is now spreading from your midsection out to all your extremities. Or the strong, lingering scent of cinnamon cartwheeling across your tongue. Or maybe you’re just happy he’s finally home. Or perhaps it’s the combination of all these things that has you reaching up, catching your husband’s chin in your fingers, your eyes as bright as his.

“Come here and find out.”

The pitch of your voice is a lasso, roping him tightly and pulling him toward you. You naturally shift, reaching out to wrap your arms around his neck, crossing your wrists behind his head and tilting your face up, ready and eager to receive him.

At first he simply presses his lips to yours, sweet and chaste. He’s teasing you and you know it. The small, annoyed growl at the back of your throat breaks him for just a moment and he laughs, soft and breathy, before he kisses you again. And again.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, between a series of tiny kisses, “I don’t think I’ve quite got it. I’ll have to approach this from another angle.”

And then you’re falling backwards onto the bed, Clavis’s strong arms wiggling you so you are both more in the middle. Your laughter fills the room, warm and rich, throaty with joy and desire. Now this is more like it.

His arms hold him up as he looks down at you like you are the most fascinating thing he has ever seen. One of his hands begins traveling down your side, inching its way toward the smooth skin of your exposed thigh, your nightgown having gotten bunched up around your legs when he moved you. The other smooths back your hair before he bends down, close to you. “Let’s try this again.” He tastes your contented, cinnamon-flavored sigh of pleasure when he kisses you. You bend one leg, feel the firm grip of his hand on the outside of your thigh and open your mouth to let him in.

He is thorough in his exploration, kissing you deeply until you are dizzy and you know it isn’t the liqueur. It’s just Clavis and the feelings he pulls from the depths of your heart, the golden strands of love and lust and affection that wrap themselves around him until he feels warm and safe and thoroughly treasured.

It may have been only a few minutes or it may have been many, many more, but at some point, he lifts his head to look at you, his hair falling into his flushed face.

“And?” Your voice is a soft, delighted whisper as you reach up with one hand to brush back his soft, twilight-colored hair. “How does it taste?”

His smile is more beautiful than a thousand bottles of liquid gold. He is very still for once as he drinks you in, his gaze as soft as silk wherever it touches you.

“Like heaven,” he finally answers as he lowers his mouth to hover just a inch above yours, a man ready to sink back into the cinnamon-flavored bliss of your lips, “Just like heaven.”

🍂

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