#i had such a good time drawing the bamboo | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

marsmarbles · 3 months

Note

If you have the time, could you maybe do a scene with bigb teaching grian how to bake his famous cookies? Or maybe something a bit more angsty, like one of them getting to the other only to find their leftover items? Or whatever you want honestly! Thx for the secret soulmates food! :p

I had an idea for this request but it would be too much to draw so I’m actually gonna try and do some writing instead. Sorry for those who don’t like reading. It’s kinda long.

Golden Light to Silver Shadows

Grian nervously stood before the Food Crew’s bakery entrance, clamping his sweaty hands on a present he had spent all day preparing for BigB. Turning the knob of the door and pushing it open activated an alarm system set up by Fwhip. A bell rang and a few note blocks could be heard. It was a charming little jingle to welcome customers. The bakery was cozy with cherry plank walls and coffee colored spruce floors. A few circle tables were sprinkled in the center of the room with booths lining the walls. Lanterns, succulents, and baskets of flowery bushes hung from the ceiling. BigB was sat behind the counter. He was examining the creases in the floorboards with his head resting on his hand. He had been daydreaming. BigB loved his bakery, but it was admittedly boring to wait for customers. The door jingle alerted him to Grian’s presence.

“Grian!” BigB lit up in excitement, his antennae wiggled with joy. The genuine excitement to see Grian was more than enough to make Grian’s face flush. “Hey, BigB. I uhhh… made something for you.”

Grian slid a bag of cookies across the counter with shaky hands. They were neatly wrapped in a shimmery clear bag, tightly fastened with a blue ribbon with gold accents. “This was my first time ever making cookies, so sorry if they’re bad. Maybe you can show me your secret recipe,” Grian laughed nervously.

BigB gleefully loosened the blue ribbon holding the bag shut, took a cookie, and ate it whole. It was crunchy and thin and….hollow(?)…they weren’t bad by any means. For Grian’s first time, BigB appreciated the love and effort he put in. He had waited all day for someone to show up to the bakery. And the fact that it was Grian made it even better. He didn’t want him to leave just yet.

“How about we make some cookies together! The cocoa beans should be ready in the greenhouse,” BigB suggested, gesturing to the entrance to the greenhouse just behind him.

“I’d love to!” Grian quickly replied. The word ‘together’ was enough.

After BigB stashed away the cookies for later in the top cabinet, he and Grian made their way to the back door to the greenhouse. Grian had to do an awkward shuffle around the counter to keep up. The greenhouse was gorgeous. Golden light shone through the semi transparent overhang and broke through the flowers and leaves. Parrots chirped and bees buzzed. Luscious plants swayed in the gentle breeze. Glow berry vines slung from the ceiling as axolotls and frogs popped out from the ponds, curious of the new visitor. Grian stared in awe. This was more of a massive nature preserve than any greenhouse he’s ever been in.

“Grian?” BigB broke Grian out of his trance. “The cocoa bean farm is over here.”

“Uh right,” Grian said, adjusting his glasses and wiping his mouth and chin with his coat sleeve (just to make sure he didn’t drool while distracted).

BigB led him to a cluster of jungle trees. They reached high, popping out the top of through the ceiling. Podzol and bamboo were dotted around in clumps. Just past the cocoa bean farm was the end of the greenhouse. Through the transparent walls could be a seen an expansive jungle forest, stretching well beyond the world borders. BigB pulled off a ready cocoa bean plant and inspected it for abnormalities. After checking that it was good, he held it out for Grian. “Why don’t you try to break this one open?”

“Uhh I dunno,” Grian held his hands up, unsure.

In that moment, Grian took a pause. Actually, the whole world felt in slow motion. Something unseen had disturbed the peace. His Watcher senses were tingling, so to speak. Something was about to happen….. Suddenly, as the world picked back up in speed, BigB’s calming smile was shot down with an excruciating pain all throughout his body; every muscle, every ligament, every organ, each and every follicle of hair. The cocoa bean plant dropped and exploded on impact with the earth. A jolt went up his spine and his legs went out on him. He tumbled to the ground. He had no process time to scream or cry out in pain. He just fell.

“BIGB!!!!” Grian shrieked, dropping to his knees to assist him just as fast as BigB fell. “B-BIGB WHAT HAPPENED ARE YOU OKAY??”

“I-I…I think I’m going…J-Jimmy…he-”BigB managed to get out with a weak shaky breath.

“BigB! BigB! Please I need you to stay with me BigB,” Grian frantically cradled BigB in his arms. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes. He checked chat…

…Jimmy had fallen to his death…

Oh, fucking of course, Grian thought. Grian hadn’t considered Jimmy being in control of BigB’s lives, but with that confirmation he’d might as well think of this as his final moments with his secret soulmate.

“Grian….” BigB mustered the strength to caress Grian’s cheek and wipe away a tear. “…it’s ok….i’ll be right back….it’s just one life….”

“BigB….” Grian quietly whined, taking BigB’s hand, keeping it held to his cheek. He felt it go cold and his arm become heavy. Grian saw the last of the light in BigB’s dark eyes fade as his body became limp. Grian pulled his lifeless corpse into one final hug. And as BigB dissipated into smoke and billowed away…..Grian was left alone.

All the light and magic that the greenhouse had greeted him with was gone. The birds went silent, the bees hid back into their hives. The trees and flowers went grey and the golden light became silver shadows. Silently, Grian collected BigB’s fallen items, keeping his head down to hide his tearful look. And as he slowly closed the chest he stored BigB’s items in, he heard voices in the distance. It was a collection of people, most notably Scott, Martyn, Fwhip, and Joel, with a tomato faced Jimmy stomping ahead of them.

“Jimmy!!! We’re sorry!! We didn’t think you’d miss the water!” Scott cackled as he tried to explain himself to Jimmy.

“It was bad maths!! Bad maths!!” Martyn pleaded with a giggle.

“We didn’t think you’d die!!” Scott added, trying to breathe through his laughter.

“IM NOT HAVING ANY OF IT!!!!” Jimmy snapped back at them. “PLAYING BUNGEE JUMP WITH FISHING RODS IS THE LAST THING WE SHOULD BE THINKING ABOUT DOING IN A PLACE LIKE THIS!!! WHAT DO YOU THINK IMMA TELL BIGB, ‘THAT IT WAS JUST A PRANK’!!??”

Jimmy stormed into the bakery, and as he slammed the door, Fwhip’s voice was cut off; “but it was just a prank-“

Grian could here Jimmy stomp about in the bakery. He must’ve been looking for BigB. Jimmy ran out into the greenhouse and froze to find Grian and the aftermath of the incident. Grian stood there with a clenched fist and a chest by his feet. He gave Jimmy a stone cold glare with his dark eyes. Jimmy flinched at the sight of his expression.

“I put BigB’s stuff in this chest,” Grian said almost robotically, pointing to the box.

Jimmy desperately wanted to apologize, but Grian looked like he would accept nothing; not even a notch apple. Grian stiffly walked past him.

“I’m sorry….about BigB…” Jimmy made an attempt at an apology, hoping that Grian could find it in him somewhere to forgive him. Grian paused.

“It wasn’t your fault, Tim….” Grian said without turning back to him. “It was their’s….”

Grian continued walking, leaving Jimmy to wallow. He made his way to the bakery and took a seat at one of the circle tables. The room felt cold and desolate compared to before. Like it was a completely different place that the greenhouse had spat him back out into. He shuffled his chair forward and laid his head down, waiting for BigB’s return.

I actually had a lot of fun writing this, even though I wouldn’t consider myself a very skilled writer(and there’s most definitely a lot of mistakes I made lol). I felt like it was easier to depict a full scene compared to a comic(which would’ve probably taken me weeks). So I’ll do more writing like this in the future.

#mars ask #mars art request #chained life au #trafficblr #traffic shipping #mcyt #traffic life #traffic smp #mcyt fanart #writing #my writing #giran #grianmc #bigb #bigbst4tz2 #biggri #jimmy solidarity

42 notes · View notes

artsyspinch · 7 months

Text

Four years ago, I drew my first ever finished digital art piece, using a Huion 420 tablet off of Amazon, and Krita. I was so proud of it, I showed it off to my friends and family on instagram, and I didn’t think I could get any better than this. Fast forward to the next year, and I drew it again, just to see how much better I could make it.

This time I used a Wacom tablet with Krita. It was one of the cheaper ones, but still an upgrade. I was even more proud of this one, but I wasn’t really that happy with it. I didn’t like how Papyrus turned out, and it seemed so awkwardly spaced and posed. I knew I still had more to learn, and I rushed it, since I didn’t think I could do any better. I then decided to redraw it again the next year.

This time I used Ibis Paint X and a small stylus on my phone. I was ecstatic with how this came out. I thought this was the absolute best I could ever do, but I still had little nitpicks about it. Again, I struggled a lot with drawing Papyrus, but this time I was also unhappy with the colors and shading, and how Sans was drawn (I have no idea why I made him thicc). But again, I redrew it the next year.

This one was a huge confidence booster for me. I had just gotten a brand new laptop from my parents: A Lenovo Yoga, with a Wacom bamboo ink stylus. It was the best gift I ever received, but on top of that, they got me Clip Studio Paint PRO. So I was ready to make some good ass art. This time I sketched everything out on paper, then finished it in CSP. I even attempted a background, which didn’t come out too bad. Papyrus doesn’t look horribly off model, and the poses and composition overall was just better. I used a clean sketch for the lineart, since that was a big struggle with my previous versions, and I used colors other than black and white for shading. After I made this, I felt like I didn’t need to continue redrawing it, because I thought I was at my peak.

I redrew it this year.

I used my Lenovo Yoga, but this time I had a Wacom bamboo plus, and Clip Studio Paint EX. I added more characters, and took a little bit more inspiration from the original, but I mostly wanted it to feel more alive. I finally perfected how I draw Papyrus, and Toriel, Asgore, and Frisk aren’t statues anymore. I showed off what I’ve learned about lighting and shading, did actually clean lineart, and I even did a full background! I’m so proud of this, and so happy with how far I’ve come as an artist, and I can’t wait to see what my future self draws next year.

86 notes · View notes

lumiolivierlithium · 3 months

Text

In Another Life

Series: One Piece

Word Count: 5153

Rating: T

Pairing(s): ZoSan

A party at Mihawk's (or his desperate attempt to socialize his protege) takes a strange turn when Zoro hears a piano upstairs.

(I've also never written One Piece fic before. Please be gentle.)

Zoro never saw any point in the large, lavish parties. Nobility or not, Zoro didn’t understand Mihawk’s appreciation to peacock himself. And for what? To show off? To make connections that he’ll ultimately break? Of course not. Mihawk had a difference reason for this particular party. Mihawk was to hold…a flesh auction of sorts. Not for money or anything like that. To see his young protégé finally not mope around their villa another summer.

“Do we have to do this, Mihawk?” Zoro whined as he went through yet another suit fitting, “Can’t I just sit this out?”

“No,” Mihawk stood his ground, watching the tailor’s hands work quickly, “You’re going. Like it or not.”

“I’m leaning toward the not part.”

“Zoro,” Mihawk groaned, “How long has it been since you even knew what a woman looked like?”

“I’ve seen women before,” Zoro rolled his eyes, beyond irritated with him, “It’s not like I’m a stranger to people.”

“Then, why do you always act like it?” Mihawk asked, “Zoro’s too good to be around other people. Zoro’s always going to be off by himself. Zoro would rather be alone playing with his sword than having someone else play with it for him.”

“Can we not be disgusting?”

“Can you simply humor me for the night?” Mihawk ordered, “It’s not like I’m asking you for a vital organ, Zoro. I’m asking you to actually socialize. Locking yourself away isn’t good for you.”

“Do I not see you every day?” Zoro pointed out, jerking at the pin prick in his hip, “Ow! What the hell?”

“I’m so sorry,” the tailor winced.

“Don’t make it a habit,” Zoro let it go.

“I’m serious, Zoro,” Mihawk insisted, “You need to be more socialized. You’d be amazed at what a little elbow rubbing will get you. Consider this another lesson.”

“You teach me in the ways of the blade,” Zoro reminded him, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Then, consider it a bonus,” Mihawk did his best to hold his composure, but the thought of running Zoro through with his own blade gave him much temptation. But then, it dawned on him. What had Zoro so antisocial. But he needed to guide the conversation in the right direction, “Why do you refuse to make any connections?”

“I don’t need them,” Zoro blew him off, idly staring into the mirror in any other direction but his own eyes.

And that’s when all of Mihawk’s theories made sense, “Is this about Kuina?”

Zoro’s jaw tensed up at the mere mention of her name. The last time he ever truly got close to someone. His grief tightened up in his stomach. And he shot a piercing glare at Mihawk, “You had no right. You had no business bringing her into it.”

“So, it is a Kuina problem,” Mihawk shooed away the tailor and sat at the edge of Zoro’s bed.

And without hesitation, Zoro drew his blade from its sheathe. Even when being poked and prodded at by the tailor, he wouldn’t be caught without it on him. He held the tip of his blade in Mihawk’s face, “I said, you have no business speaking her name. Drop it.”

“And what have I always told you?” Mihawk lowered Zoro’s blade, “Don’t draw your blade unless you intend to draw blood. Calm yourself.”

Zoro wanted his blade to taste blood. To let the iron fortify the blade even more. But he conceded and returned his sword to its sheathe, “I stand by what I said.”

“As do I,” Mihawk assured him, “You will be there. And for a change, you will be socialized. Do we understand each other?”

“Please, Mihawk,” Zoro begged, “Don’t make me do this.”

“I’m not making you do anything,” Mihawk got up from the bed and started walking out, “I’m merely saying you’re going to be there.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“I’m not putting bamboo splinters under your fingernails, Zoro,” Mihawk started walking out, “You’ll live. It’s just one night.”

The moment the door closed, Zoro threw himself into his bed, hoping to get in a quick nap. Yeah. It’s just one night. Easy for you to say. You’re used to this garbage. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get in a drink or two. Or three. The prospects of the evening started to sound a little better. Mihawk usually does bring out the top shelf booze for this. Maybe it won’t be so bad. As long as he’s not lining them up for me, we should be fine. Zoro stared up into the gilded ceiling. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad. And slowly, Zoro started to drift off.

But then, night fell over the palace. And the staff were abuzz with party preparations, decorating, showering the palace in all the lavish furnishings and fabrics Mihawk insisted upon. And of course, Mihawk oversaw everything. From the colors, the textures in the drapery to the food left out for the guests to help themselves to, nothing would be put out without Mihawk’s seal of approval. Which brought him to his next task. Quite possibly the most important one he had. Making sure his flight risk protégé didn’t prove himself a flight risk. Alright, Zoro. Where have you run off to?

Mihawk checked the gardens, the stables, the library, the study. Zoro was nowhere to be found. But then, he realized who exactly he had been looking for. And the one place he failed to look. Mihawk trudged upstairs and knocked on Zoro’s bedroom door. And was met with silence. I know you’re not napping at a time like this, Zoro. At least you better not be. Mihawk didn’t bother with the invitation and walked into Zoro’s bedroom. Sure enough, still sleeping like a baby, Zoro continued to drool on himself, ever so slightly.

“Oh, Zoro,” Mihawk let out a heavy sigh of exasperation, “You’re lucky I don’t want you dead. Get up.”

“Mmm…” Zoro rolled over, ignoring Mihawk entirely.

“You know,” Mihawk sat at the edge of the bed, “I have you mostly pegged as a flight risk. But I should know better. And truly, that’s on me. Because why would you run from tonight’s party when you could simply sleep through it?”

“You’re letting me sleep through it?” Zoro mumbled into his pillow, “Thanks, Mihawk. I knew you’d understand.”

“Zoro…” Mihawk growled, “If you’re not awake, alert, and fully dressed in the next hour, I am taking all of your swords and running them through different parts of your body. Do you understand?”

“Alright!” Zoro snapped, reluctantly rolling off his bed, “I’m up. There. Happy now?”

“Quite,” Mihawk praised, “Thank you. Go on. Your suit should be finished and in the closet.”

“Wonderful,” Zoro dragged himself toward his bathroom. But he made a quick stop at his closet, noticing the garment bag hanging in it.

“You could’ve chosen any color under the rainbow,” Mihawk pointed out, “And yet, you decide to go with black.”

“It’s simple,” Zoro took the hanger and brought it with him, “Is that a problem?”

“Not what I would’ve chosen for you personally,” Mihawk shrugged, “If I had my say, it would’ve been a deep red. It’d suit you.”

“Black is good, too,” Zoro brushed him off and shut the door behind him.

Mihawk rested his head on his knees, beyond done with Zoro’s reluctance. It still seemed like yesterday this sad boy begged at his knee to teach him the ways of the blade. Better than what anyone had ever taught him before. And how irritating he was then. But the fire in those sad eyes got to him. And Mihawk couldn’t tell him no. His raw talent was too good to just throw away. It needed to be nurtured and cultivated into something great. However, it was a shame Mihawk couldn’t do the same for Zoro’s personality. At least, that was how Mihawk saw it.

“Zoro,” Mihawk leaned against Zoro’s bathroom door, grateful to hear the bathtub running, “If you need anything, come find me.”

“What about the house staff?” Zoro asked, already slipping into his bath water.

“They’re busy,” Mihawk insisted, “You find me directly. Alright?”

“Fine,” Zoro shut his eyes again, doing his best not to fall back asleep. But he knew sleep would elude him. He had bigger things on his mind. Why would Mihawk be so hellbent on me finding someone at this party? Is he really getting that sick of me? I thought we were good. It’s not like he’s asking me for a kidney. I guess I’ll suck it up for the night. It’s just one night, right? Unless I have to sit and deal with whoever ends up finding me tonight for the rest of my life. Ugh…Just what I need. I can’t just have a good night with some decent booze, can I?

As time passed, Mihawk took one last look at himself in the mirror, appreciating what he saw. Because there’d be no way that at the very least Mihawk would go with a cold bed tonight. However, this party wasn’t for him. And as he walked down the hall, he kept his fingers crossed. Please, Zoro. Don’t tell me you went back to sleep. Tell me you didn’t continue your nap in the bathtub. Tell me you’re fully dressed and ready for this party. Because I don’t think my heart can handle you still being in shambles.

“Zoro?” Mihawk didn’t even bother knocking. He just walked right into Zoro’s bedroom.

Where Zoro had come out of the bathroom, doing his best to figure out how cufflinks worked, “You call for me?”

“Thank God,” Mihawk let out a sigh of relief, getting an eyeful of his prodigy. Although, he couldn’t help himself, “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to put these damn things on,” Zoro continued his struggle, “How does anyone put these on?”

“One cufflink at a time,” Mihawk took them away and pulled on Zoro’s sleeve, “Honestly, Zoro. Have I not taught you better?”

“In a perfect world,” Zoro grumbled, “This shirt would’ve had buttons on it like I asked.”

“But,” Mihawk stood his ground, “I told them purposefully to leave the buttons off because of the cufflinks I got for you.”

“You didn’t get those for me,” Zoro pointed out, “You won them in a poker game. That I watched you cheat at.”

“You get my point,” Mihawk hushed him, “Is this the kind of attitude I can expect tonight? Because I’m not canceling. There are already guests arriving. And you’re not going to embarrass me.”

“Do forgive me,” Zoro rolled his eyes, still wanting no part of this. Unless it had a proof on it.

“Zoro,” Mihawk begged, “Please. At least try to have a good time tonight.”

“Fine,” Zoro caved, already with his eye on a good sake.

“Thank you,” Mihawk finished off his cufflinks, “Now, go downstairs. Go meet a nice girl. Call it a night. Will that be so difficult for you?”

“Probably not,” Zoro walked out of the safety of his bedroom with a sword on one hip and two swords on the other. Because he wasn’t going to leave without a little piece of Kuina on him.

Once he made it to the ballroom, Zoro established a nest. Granted, he knew he wasn’t going to be at one of the tables in the back. Oh, no. That meant going unseen. The head table was where he’d be. That didn’t mean he couldn’t still make his nest. He had a bottle of sake for the table and his favorite bottle opener. Carefully, he ran his blade along the cork and started drinking. Although, the sudden pop caught some attention. Zoro knocked the bottom of the bottle on the table, tipped it toward the ceiling and got his first drink down. Just a little something to take the edge off. And he could tell right then and there.

This party would be his hell.

The last thing he wanted to do was sit and listen to Mihawk talk shop with the other nobility. He didn’t care how their businesses were doing. He didn’t care about their personal lives. None of that interested him. If the goal was for Mihawk to find a lovely young lady to keep Zoro warm for the evening, the bottle of sake was a much better place to look. No one was even worth Zoro giving them a chance. He just wanted to spend a little time alone. However, at the height of the party, Mihawk wasn’t going to let him leave so easily.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mihawk grabbed Zoro’s wrist.

“Bathroom,” Zoro brushed him off, “If that’s alright with you.”

“Fine,” Mihawk stopped him, “It’s funny, Zoro. I haven’t seen you with anyone all night. In fact, you’ve hardly strayed from my side.”

“Maybe you should’ve invited better guests,” Zoro played it off like he didn’t care, but he was bored out of his skull and he wanted nothing more than to…use the bathroom. Yes. The bathroom. Just as he told Mihawk.

“Or better yet,” Mihawk growled, “Someone else should be a little more personable. I asked you one thing, Zoro. And I need you to come through on that.”

“So,” Zoro groaned, “Do I get to go to the bathroom or not?”

“Go,” Mihawk let him go, “Maybe you’ll sober up some.”

“Yeah,” Zoro walked away. Wouldn’t that be a damn shame? He couldn’t stand it anymore. He wanted nothing more than to escape that party the second he stepped foot in it. The ballroom was abuzz with activity, with people dancing, with people talking. It was maddening. And Zoro wanted nothing more than some peace. And if he had to retreat to the bathroom to get that peace, then so be it.

However, on his way, the faint sound of a piano caught his attention. The band played in the ballroom, but none of them had a piano. It was oddly soothing. The only room with a piano in it was the drawing room and it was a rarity anyone was ever in there. Regardless, Zoro followed the sound. Because anything was better than the overcrowded party in the ballroom and going back to Mihawk. And someone had to have been playing it. Zoro would finally socialize the way Mihawk wanted him to. And then, Mihawk wouldn’t have a reason to throw a tantrum.

The closer Zoro got to the piano, the faster it played. He just wanted Mihawk off his back. But he kept a tight grip on his sword hilts. Faster and faster, the piano played on. Zoro couldn’t even recognize the song. But once he got to the piano, no one was there. Zoro scratched his head. Where the hell was that coming from? I know I heard a piano up here. It’s right there. So, who was playing it? Regardless, Zoro knew there was someone up there. There was someone who wandered away from the party. And no doubt with Mihawk’s treasures in mind. So, he drew his blade.

“Show yourself,” he called out to the empty room. And yet, silence. Zoro looked all around the piano. Still nothing, “I said, show yourself!”

And yet, the still silence remained. Zoro sat on the bench, still not sure where the music came from. He put his fingers to the keys. Where was it coming from? Am I finally losing it? There was a piano playing in here, right? Clearly, there’s a piano. But who was playing it? Zoro let it go and rested his head on the keys, letting out a messy chord. Whoever it was, at least I get some peace and quiet for a change. I told you already, Mihawk. This party was pointless. I need the rest more than I need to socialize. But just as Zoro sat back up, a sudden chill ran through his head.

“Soft…” a voice echoed through the mostly empty room.

“Who are you?” Zoro stood up and drew his blade, “Show yourself!”

“Soft…” the voice spoke again, “Like moss…”

“I said, show yourself!” Zoro spun his blade, waiting for someone to show up, “I won’t ask again.”

“I heard you the first time,” the voice moaned, “I can’t help it. I’m shy.”

“Then, tell me who you are,” Zoro looked around for where the voice was coming from and yet…There was no one there.

“I guess it’d be rude of me not to talk to you face to face,” the voice finally took form on the piano. A man, “You’re easily worked up, mosshead. Did you know that?”

Zoro had seen a lot in his time. But never did he see someone apparate out of thin air, “Where the fuck did you come from?!”

“Thank you for proving my point,” he laughed, “Like I said, you’re easily worked up. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you just saw a ghost.”

“I…” Zoro blinked a couple times, still coming to grips with what he just saw, “I…Are you a ghost?”

“Unfortunately,” his incorporeal legs dangled over the edge of the piano, “I am sorry if I startled you. But your piano was too pretty to pass up. Do you live here?”

“Last time I checked,” Zoro backed away, “I’m almost positive there’s a priest downstairs. You need to go.”

“No…” the ghost begged, “Please. I don’t want to go yet. I heard the party downstairs and…It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a good party.”

“Who are you?” Zoro asked, “There’s no way you’re just some random ghost that busted into Mihawk’s house like this.”

“Mihawk…Mihawk…” the ghost thought it over, “No. Sorry. Not ringing any bells. But you think I could see?”

“See what?” Zoro scoffed, “Mihawk’s sham of a party?”

“Sham?” he wondered, “What makes it a sham, mosshead?”

“Would you quit calling me that?” Zoro rolled his eyes.

“And I’ll tell you mine if you’ll tell me yours,” the ghost laid on his stomach, his elbows up on the back of the piano, “Deal?”

“Why should I tell you my name?” Zoro argued, “I’m not the one who lured me up here.”

“Did you like it?” the ghost asked, “It got a little heavy toward its end, but someone was coming and I figured I’d get out as much as I could.”

“Not really my thing,” Zoro brushed him off, “It’s Zoro, by the way. Roranoa Zoro.”

“Sounds like a mouthful,” the ghost rolled over to his back, “Tell you what. If you bring me down to that party you say is downstairs, I’ll tell you my name.”

“That wasn’t our deal,” Zoro pointed out, “You said you’d tell me yours if I told you mine.”

“So, I’m renegotiating a little,” he shrugged, “Come on, Zoro. Please? I’ve been up here for a thousand years and I’d love to see a good party.”

“Have you really?” Zoro asked, “You’ve been a ghost for that long?”

“Not really,” he giggled under his breath, “I’ve only been like this for the last couple years.”

“And,” Zoro started to relax a bit more, sitting back down at the piano, “What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I got stuck on a rock in the middle of the ocean,” he told him, “And I didn’t have anyone to come rescue me. It was a long few months being out there, but now, I’m free. I can come and go through here all I want. And no one’s going to tell me no.”

“What if I told you no?” Zoro argued.

“But you won’t. Do you know how I know that?”

‘How?”

“Because,” the ghost smiled, “You haven’t looked away from me for the last ten minutes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you thought I was cute.”

“Please,” Zoro shook him off, “Why would I think that?”

“Because I am cute,” the ghost retaliated, “I mean…Come on, Zoro. Look at me.”

“Yeah,” Zoro scoffed, “I’m sure you had all the ladies swoon over you in your living life.”

“You’d be amazed,” he got up from the piano, “Would you feel more comfortable if I was more tangible?”

“What do you mean?” Zoro looked at the ghost strangely, “You can do that?”

“Of course, I can,” the ghost’s translucency went away as he sat on the bench next to Zoro and held his hand, “See? I’m just as solid as you are. Truly, mosshead, I’m starting to think I’m the first ghost you ever met.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong,” Zoro got up from the bench and checked the liquor cabinet. And came up short, “Damn…”

“What?”

“I was looking for a drink,” Zoro told him, “But it looks like I have to go downstairs for that.”

“And I could come with you,” the ghost insisted, doing a little spin, showing off his dark, pinstriped suit, “It’s not like I’m not dressed for the occasion. Please? I just want one party.”

Zoro wanted to go back to the party like he wanted to be shot in his foot. But his curiosity got the better of him. All he wanted was to know who haunted the halls of Mihawk’s mansion. And if that meant him going back to the party, then so be it. But that would come with some stipulations, “If we go down there, are other people going to be able to see you?”

“Just as much as you can see me now,” he nodded, “They’ll also be able to feel me, too. I’ll be just as tangible as anyone else in the room. They’ll have no idea I’m a ghost.”

“And,” Zoro went on, “What will you being at this party entail?”

“I just want to go to this party,” the ghost fell back over the piano, “Is that so much to ask?”

“It’s one of Mihawk’s parties,” Zoro grumbled under his breath, “So, yes. It is. Fine. I’ll take you downstairs.”

“Wonderful!” he hopped down from the piano, “Let’s go!”

Zoro knew he’d live to regret this night, but if it meant him having Mihawk out of his hair, he’d be alright with it. And so, the two went back downstairs to the ballroom where the hustle and bustle seemed to only get bigger. Zoro rolled his eyes at the spectacle. Great. Just wonderful. And yet, he looked over at the ghost, who couldn’t have been more thrilled to see such a beautiful ballroom. The food, the string quartet, the people, the dancing. It all completely swooned him.

“Zoro…” the ghost took his hand, “Thank you. I don’t think you realize it, but this is the best gift you could’ve given me.”

And in that moment, there was a strange tug in Zoro’s chest. One that he didn’t know was possible. But it managed to force a smile onto his face, “You’re welcome. I’m glad I could do this for you.”

“And I know it’s making you uncomfortable,” the ghost took his arm, “But really. It’s not going unappreciated.”

“Don’t mention it,” Zoro shook him off, “I’m going to go get a drink. Can you do that?”

“I can,” the ghost nodded, “If it’s not too much trouble, cabernet.”

“What the hell is cabernet?”

“Oh, dear, sweet Zoro,” the ghost teased him, “It’s the one in the pretty black bottle. Probably with a red label. Says cabernet on it. Maybe even Cabernet Sauvignon. You can read, can’t you?”

“Of course, I can read!” Zoro snapped, “And now that I’m thinking about it, I brought you to your party. You still haven’t told me your name.”

“My memory’s a little fuzzy,” the ghost sighed out, “Maybe a little red will bring it to light.”

Great. This one thinks he’s funny. I’m keeping you away from the actual clown here. Regardless of Zoro’s opinions, he was still a man on a mission. And there was a beautiful bottle of sake sitting unattended on the top shelf. And next to it were all of Mihawk’s wines. Zoro skimmed through the labels, hoping to find one that said cabernet on it. Fortunately, a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon sat on the shelf. He let out a little sigh of relief as he poured a glass for his new…friend. Or the ghost that seemed to attach himself to Zoro. And he knew the rest of the night would be miserable, so Zoro just grabbed the sake bottle.

“Here,” Zoro sat at his spot at the table and put the wine in front of him, “I got your stupid wine.”

“Mm…” the ghost picked up his glass and meticulously studied his wine.

“What?” Zoro scoffed, “Afraid I poisoned it? You’re already a ghost. Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a sadist?” the ghost assumed.

“I’m not a sadist,” Zoro took a heavy drink straight from the bottle.

“Fine, fine,” the ghost backed off, “But…I suppose I couldn’t trouble you for a dance, could I?”

“You said you wanted your party,” Zoro pointed out, “You didn’t say anything about me having to participate.”

“Please, Mossy?” the ghost begged, “If you dance with me, I’ll tell you my name.”

“Uh-huh,” Zoro rolled his eyes, “You also said you’d tell me your name if I brought you to this party. And you’d tell me your name if I got you your wine. Why should I believe you’ll tell me your name if I give you a dance?”

“Because,” the ghost rested his head on Zoro’s shoulder, “I asked nicely for that dance. And I swear on my past life and my current one that I will tell you my name. But you have to dance with me.”

Zoro hated his own curiosity. But he wasn’t going to break. Instead, he just got up from the table, “I’m going to go get some air.”

“Wait, Zoro,” the ghost called after him, “Don’t go.”

“Don’t follow me,” Zoro took the bottle with him, “I don’t need this party. I don’t need the socializing like Mihawk said. And I sure as hell don’t need to be jerked around by some fucking ghost.”

“Zoro…”

But Zoro was already gone. Lost in the crowd. He really did just need to get some air. Something about the gardens were quite peaceful. Zoro found himself under the gazebo and sat on the cold ground. It’s just some damn ghost. Why am I letting him get to me so much? Zoro knew the reason. Zoro knew exactly what it was. And he hated himself for thinking it. Because it meant proving Mihawk right. It’s because it’s not her. I would’ve thought if I had a ghost attached to me, it’d be Kuina. Why? Why does it have to be him? I don’t even know what his name is. Why is he getting to me this bad?

“Zoro…” a familiar voice floated through the air.

“I thought I told you not to follow me,” Zoro grumbled.

“I know,” the ghost sat with him, “Why’d you run off?”

“I had a lot on my mind,” Zoro kept cryptic, “I needed somewhere to make it all stop for a while.”

“If it was because of me,” the ghost took his hands, “I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to jerk you around like that. It’s just been a while since I had anyone do anything for me. I liked it a little too much.”

“Oh,” Zoro let it go. But there was a sense of peace in his thoughts again. And the music drifted outside. Zoro got back on his feet and offered the ghost his hand.

“What’s this for?”

“What else?” Zoro shrugged, “You did say you’d give me your name if I gave you a dance.”

“Oh?” the ghost managed to muster up a smile, “Alright. But ask me properly.”

“What?” Zoro looked at him strangely, “What do you mean, ask you properly? Do you want to dance or not?”

“Wow,” the ghost giggled a bit, “What a gentleman. Hard to believe you haven’t been married off ten times over by now.”

“The sarcasm is not appreciated,” Zoro took the ghost’s hand and pulled him a little closer.

“Alright,” the ghost teased him, “I see someone’s not feeling shy anymore.”

“You’re pushing it.”

“Sorry, sorry,” the ghost reveled in the feeling of someone else’s touch. And in Zoro’s movements, “Hey…Mossy…Can I ask you something?”

“What?” Zoro started to relax a little more, the sake finally hitting his bloodstream.

“Do you think…” the ghost nestled his head in Zoro’s shoulder, “Maybe we met in a past life?”

“I don’t know,” Zoro spun him around, “Maybe. How do you think we met?”

“I don’t know,” the ghost thought it over, “Maybe we met on a boat. A big boat. With a restaurant on it.”

“Maybe we hated each other.”

“But maybe…We didn’t.”

“What?” Zoro wondered, “You think we were friends?”

“I think we were more than that,” the ghost admitted, “But you have your thoughts of our past life together and I’ll have mine. We’ll close our eyes and pretend like both are real.”

“Who knows if our past lives together are real or not?” Zoro brushed it off, “But…We got tonight, don’t we?”

“Zoro…” the ghost awed, “That’s the sweetest thing you could’ve said to me.”

“Don’t read too much into it.” But Zoro couldn’t take his eyes off the ghost’s. So deep, so beautiful…And his face so soft and gentle…And the ghost’s slender hips against his own…And he found his peace.

In the silence, the ghost couldn’t help himself. He knew there was no way Zoro would make a move. So, the ghost moved into Zoro’s face, barely an inch away. And to his surprise, Zoro pulled the ghost in for a deep, sweet, and tender kiss. One that put everything into alignment. And everything would be ok. When he pulled away, Zoro still couldn’t believe it happened. On his list of things that could’ve happened that night, kissing a ghost in the garden was not on it.

“Zoro…” the ghost’s voice broke, “You…”

“Again,” Zoro blushed, “Don’t read too far into it.”

“Fine,” the ghost couldn’t stop smiling, “Do you really want to know what my name is that badly?”

“After that…” Zoro admitted, “I don’t even care anymore, Ghost. Tell me. Don’t tell me. But…I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to do that again.”

“Well,” the ghost rocked back on his heels, “What if I wanted to?”

“Then,” Zoro thought, “I guess I’d have to prove you wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

Zoro pulled the ghost back in, his kiss getting deeper, his tongue finding its way into the ghost’s mouth, “I can be a gentleman if I want to be one.”

“Is that so?” the ghost melted inside, “Why couldn’t I have met you in my living life?”

“Because,” Zoro pointed out, “Then, I would’ve had to mourn you twice.”

“Zoro…” the ghost gave him one last little kiss, “My name is Sanji.”

#fan fiction #one piece #one piece fan fiction #zosan #one piece zosan #op zosan #zoro x sanji #zosan fanfic

51 notes · View notes

scribbling-dragon · 1 year

Text

i hunt for you (with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground)

summary:

The point of the sword presses to his chest, not even hard enough to break the skin. It shakes, wavering in the water as the shouts behind them turn distinctly louder- the splashing growing closer.

(ao3 link)

(2,816 words)

The explosion rings in his ears. White noise buzzing as he backs, step over step, one foot behind the other, towards the edge of the island.

He can feel the sugar cane at his back, can barely hear the rushing of the waves over the buzzing in his head- the ringing of his ears. He swallows, and it’s thick in his throat, breath coming short and fast with anxiety as the yellows stalk closer.

It had been coming- it had always been coming, but he didn't think it would be like this. Couldn't be like this- he thought it would be somewhere else, not cornered in his own, half-destroyed home as they advance on him like predators after a weakened creature.

The water laps at his ankles, spilling over the edge of the island and onto his bare feet.

He hardly even has to think about it. He considers it, one second no longer because if he thinks any longer he’ll probably back down and back away and then it would be truly over- because then they could just kill him. And they're going to do it, Grian has that look in his eye, that glint and shimmer that he only ever gets when his gazes are set on his target- when he’s honing in on his next victim.

He hardly has to think about it.

He turns and dives, shoving through the bamboo, ignoring how it cuts and scrapes at his skin. He ignores the shouts behind him, overwhelmed first by the ringing in his ears - the ringing of the explosion and destruction of his home - and then by the crashing of the waves and the silence of the water that swallows him.

He didn't want it to be like this. For the yellows to dive in after him only to find him changed. He sees them pause, for a moment- a split second as they consider him and eye him up and weigh up the chances of them catching him; but it’s barely a moment and he is watching them too. Watching for any reaction beyond the bloodlust and the greed for more time- time that will only get them hurt, nothing good ever comes of having more time. Maybe the extra time is a punishment itself.

And then the water splashes, fizzling with bubbles as they charge after him. He darts away, but he feels sluggish and tired, his ears still ringing, barely able to hear the frenzied splashing and shouting behind him as they start to encircle him.

And he’s tired.

He’s so incredibly tired. Everything aches. His bones feel leaden and weighed down where normally he would feel light as a feather, swift as he darts amongst the coral.

He scrapes his tail against a branch of coral, flinching away from it with a startled hiss as it draws blood. Blood that seeps into the water- bright red against a deep blue- crystalline blue.

They know where he is. There isn't anywhere for him to go. Nowhere to escape to and nowhere he would want to escape to. To escape would only delay the inevitable, would leave him free to be hunted like a common animal until his timer ticks down far enough that they view him as friend rather than foe- if only for a little while longer.

(And even that isn't enough to stop everyone. To turn on your friends is easy, as though it is second nature to smile at them as they face you, then drive a knife through their back- through their heart the moment they trust you enough to turn away.)

He turns, snarling as one of them gets close enough to make a grab for him. Their hand bounces easily off his scales as he turns, lunging towards them like a viper from its den. They pinwheel their arms, legs kicking uselessly as they flounder backwards.

He can't see who it is- eyes blurred by saltwater and panic and the overwhelming need to get away- run until they can't find you anymore, hide until there is nothing left to be found.

He grins, a mean and sharp grin as the yellows chasing him give him a wider berth- they eye him warily, watching carefully as though they are only just realising that they have caged in a wild animal. As though they've only just processed that caging him in, caging themselves in with him, has only made them easier targets. That they have stepped foot into territory that is not theirs- land that they cannot navigate with ease, and their regrets are only just beginning to surface.

He lunges forwards again, lips pulled back in the beginnings of another snarl, teeth flashing-

Something- someone catches him on the arm. Draws blood that spills easily into the water around them, snaking upwards, towards the sky.

And like sharks sensing blood in the water, so do the yellows sniff out the weakness. He is tiring, quickly and easily, movements slow and jerky, though it was enough to keep them away- keep them at bay for now.

They push forward, ignoring the way he snarls at them, the way he swipes and claws at them- his sword is gone, lost somewhere amongst the rubble of his home. He hadn't stopped to dig for it, his heart had already been rabbiting in his chest, head wailing and ringing, both from the explosion and with warning. Aware that their sights would turn to him before long.

He swims further from the island, backing himself up further and further, towards the mainland. Away from the deep ocean that could aid him if he was just a little bit faster- a little bit more energetic. He could do it, if he weren't so exhausted. If he hadn't been chased across the entirety of the land and back again.

But his bones ache. Everything hurts and he’s tired, but he agreed- he made a pact, promise this life, his time to another person if it came down to this. And it has. It has descended to the levels he thought were only a worst case scenario.

He crams himself further into the corner he’s found, watching the searching yellows with wary eyes. He tracks them, watches as they push from the seafloor, shooting back towards the surface to gasp in great lungfuls of air before sinking back down, resuming their searches.

His gills flutter, heart slamming against his ribs hard enough to bruise. He feels almost breathless from it- light-headed as he attempts to slow his heart, one hand pressed to his chest.

Something - a hand - ghosts across his scales. The touch is so light that he can barely feel it, would barely feel it normally. He turns to them with a snarl ready in his throat, threatening to bubble over.

Martyn stares back at him.

His eyes are wide, pupils so dilated that he can hardly see the yellow of his iris- a thin ring around his pupils as he stares at Scott. Martyn’s wrist is held in his grip, tight enough that Scott can feel the pulse thrumming through him, thundering in time with his own heart.

The moments tick down slightly, bubbles escaping Martyn’s nose and mouth. He can feel the shifting of bones beneath his skin, where his hand wraps around Martyn’s wrist- can feel the warmth of his flesh, can feel how easy it would be to snap his wrist and escape. To run and not look back, to keep running until no-one chases him anymore. Until he is free to return, the seconds remaining showing that he is friend and not foe.

He releases Martyn’s wrist.

Martyn draws his hand back, his own hand ghosting over where his sword rests, tucked against his side. His clothes billow about him in the water, being tugged first one way then the other by the tide. The question in Martyn’s eyes is clear, even as his eyes remain wide and worried.

The yellows behind continue searching. They have not turned their gazes upwards, but it won't be long until they do. And then they will see Martyn- but they won't see Martyn, they will simply see an obstacle to their grab at more time- their chance of clawing back a few precious moments.

Martyn’s hand continues to hover. There is no decision there, only question and sorrow in his eyes.

Scott seizes his wrist and Martyn tenses. He can feel the shifting of muscles beneath his hand, though Martyn does not move to wriggle himself free. Scott guides his hand downwards, positioning his fingers until he wraps them around the hilt of his blade. He does not look at Martyn’s face- cannot bring himself to look into his eyes as he asks him to do the unaskable.

The sword doesn't even make a sound as they pull it free from where it sits, snug and comfortable against Martyn’s side, nestled safely in its scabbard. The water muffles the shing of metal as it breaks free. It moves slow and steady through the water.

Martyn’s hands tremble, eyes wide as he looks back up at Scott. His pupils are no longer dilated, revealing the bright yellow of his eyes as he looks up at Scott, watching him carefully, anxiously. Something flickers behind those eyes, some memory that shimmers, just below the surface, before disappearing once more. Like an elusive fish.

His hand slips from Martyn’s wrist, leaving him holding his sword by himself, with his own two hands. He slips the hand to Martyn’s waist, tugging him closer, pulling them until they are pressed against each other, their faces inches apart, water filling the gaps between them.

He presses his other hand flat to Martyn’s chest, fingers splayed. He can feel the thumping of Martyn’s heart, like a panicked bird trying to escape the cage- to burst free from his ribcage and continue beating in the palm of Scott’s hand. His own heart feels as though it is about to do the same.

The point of the sword presses to his chest, not even hard enough to break the skin. It shakes, wavering in the water as the shouts behind them turn distinctly louder- the splashing growing closer.

Martyn tries to turn his head but Scott grabs the back of his neck before he can, holding him in place. He holds him carefully, pressing their foreheads together.

No words are exchanged, no words need to be exchanged.

Martyn watches him, and Scott watches him back. He doesn't blink, doesn't waver in the face of Marytn’s questioning. The splashing grows closer, the cacophony filling his ears- he wouldn't be able to hear any parting words even if they were spoken. He grips Martyn’s wrist, holds the sword steady as it continues to shake and scrape over his skin, not quite able to commit to burying itself within his chest.

He drives it forward, watches the blood blossom in the water around them, twining between them.

Martyn’s mouth opens in a soundless gasp, bubbles drifting towards the surface. Yells surround them, the yellows giving up on the hunt as they realise they have been beaten.

He ignores the pain that flashes through his body as he drifts slightly closer to Martyn, ghosts his lips over Martyn’s in both apology and farewell. He doesn't miss the hitch in Martyn’s chest, even with the fire flooding his own.

He watches Martyn until he cannot watch him any longer.

And then he is stood in water. Inky darkness surrounds him on all sides, stretching on for possibly forever. His hair drifts about his face, as though he still beneath water, yet when he opens his mouth it is air that floods it instead.

The air smells of iron.

The water laps at his ankles, but it does not rise higher. The darkness does not recede, leaving him stood in the darkness. He does not move- They have him exactly where They want him and he does not intend to move before Their judgement has been exacted.

The water laps at his ankles, splashing over his feet. It is cold, chilling his bones. His heart throbs in his chest, tearing itself apart before stitching itself back together- only to repeat the motion once more, tearing itself over and over again, every single time it attempts to beat.

The water laps at his knees. And it is rising now, where it did not rise before. Still, he does not move. He refuses to bow in Their presence, will not lower his head in deference when They cannot even bring Themselves to utter words in his presence.

They have spoken to the others. He has heard his servermates speaking of the way They spoke, the way Their voices echo every and nowhere at once- reverberating through the mind. And yet They do not speak to him, do not grace him with the sound of Their voices.

He refuses to bow in the face of Their silence.

The water presses down on his chest, compressing his lungs. The water has not been his foe for so long that it is hard to forget that it seeks to drown- to consume everything in its entirety. It eats away at land, eager to reach the living creatures that stand upon it so it may devour them too.

The water brushes over his lips, and he opens his mouth, allowing it to rush in, to fill his lungs. He does not choke or splutter. He will not give Them the satisfaction. He will play Their games, and he will play them on his terms, or he will not play them at all.

He blinks his eyes open. His lashes are crusted with salt and his skin feels tacky from seawater.

His heart throbs in his chest as he sits up, beating uncomfortably fast- uncomfortably hard as he glances around himself. Then down.

His hands are clawed- scales dot his arms and cover the backs of his hands. They shimmer beneath the light as he turns them back and forth. He is…not as surprised as he should probably be.

The scales had been a cruel joke from the start- a weakness where no-one else has one. He’s certain it was some kind of punishment from Them, and it seems their punishment has progressed to the next stage already.

He feels off-kilter, head throbbing still, wounds barely healed over. His chest aches.

“Scott!”

Martyn bursts onto the island, head swivelling back and forth until he finds him, eyes landing on where he lies. Those same eyes widen, yellow glinting in the light- yellow eyes that Scott now shares.

“Scott,” Martyn drops down beside him, words hardly above a whisper, as though spoken on an exhale. “I- I'm sorry, I didn't know what else to do and you said we should do it like that but then in the moment I wasn't sure whether I should still do it. And then you did it for me, and I don't want your blood on my hands. Not again, I can't do this again-”

“It’s alright.” He cups Martyn’s jaw with a careful hand, aware of the way his claws scrape along the sensitive skin there. Martyn shudders at the contact, falling silent, eyes dropping. “I asked you to.”

“But I still killed you,” Martyn protests, eyes wide again, leaning backwards and away from his hand.

“And if it hadn't been you it would have been someone else.” He chases after Martyn, leaning forward and out of the bed. He catches Martyn’s face again before he can retreat too far- before he can pull away entirely and leave him here, alone. “I am glad it was you. I would not want it to be anyone other than you.”

“But Cleo-”

“Was a favour for a friend.” He says. Martyn leans into his hold, skin warm against his hands. His hands are cold, leeching the warmth from Martyn’s skin, and yet he continues to lean into him without hesitation. “You are more than my friend, Martyn. I would have hoped you knew that by now,” he pauses to laugh, “it’s not just any friend that I-”

“Alright!” Martyn cuts him off, hand grabbing at his wrist. He almost expects Martyn to pull his hand away, but he doesn't, simply holding onto him. “Alright, I- I get it.”

Scott hums, low and in the back of his throat as he considers Martyn. He can feel the pulse in Martyn’s neck, can feel the way it has been slowly picking up throughout their whole conversation. “I don't think you do,” he hums, voice low. “Perhaps you need a reminder?”

Martyn runs a considering hand up his arm, fingers trailing carefully over the scales that dot his skin now. He does not seem to be put off by their presence, instead regarding them with something similar to reverence.

“Perhaps I do.”

#mer scott (+ fishfucker martyn)#juno.writes #majorwood #scott smajor #inthelittlewood #limited life smp #limited life scott #limited life martyn #mean gills #coral kids #trafficshipping #trafficblr #traffic smp #traffic series #limited life smp fic #limited life shipping #martyn inthelittlewood #trafficfic

176 notes · View notes

karmiya · 9 months

Text

I actually do a lot of research and am collecting what may one day be an entire bookshelf's worth of reference books, so I thought I'd share one. This is my pride and joy, at least as far as research goes:

To Live as Long as Heaven and Earth is a translation of the Shenxian Zhuan, a series of biographies of Daoist immortals by Ge Hong. The (extensive) introduction by Professor Campany also includes a lot of the translator's own research, drawing on various sources in order to provide a good overview of practices attributed to Daoists in common folklore. If you're interested in the Xianxia and Wuxia genres and their origins, I think this is an invaluable English-language text. Its focus is entirely on traditional beliefs, but through it you can see just how much of the modern fantasy genre in China is based entirely on traditional folklore.

The images of talismans, for example, are extremely familiar to any viewers of modern fantasy dramas or donghua. These look very similar to the talismans we see in the Modao Zushi donghua, don't they?

This is a really interesting little section describing levels of ascendance. It's a lot simpler than modern novels with their million stages of core formation, isn't it? (Though, to be fair, most novels I read are by authors who don't care to get into that level of detail and focus on characters and storytelling, thank goodness!) The 'tianxian' sound a bit like heavenly officials in more recent stories, don't they, whereas the dixian are regular immortal cultivators who still live on earth. The use of shijie (corpse simulacrums) meanwhile, seems to mainly be maintained as a means of faking one's death, not as a means of escaping the notice of the officials of the underworld!

The main paths of immortality outlined in Ge Hong's work are: internal cultivation, external cultivation (alchemy), the arts of the bedchamber, and diet. The first three are very familiar, but I've noticed that diet-based cultivation shows up much more rarely in modern stories. I can only immediately think of Ye Baiyi from Word of Honour, who begins to age again after descending from the mountains and imbibing mortal food once more.

One thing I found interesting is that most accounts of immortals flying either depict them doing so under their own power, or placing a talisman within a bamboo staff and flying on that (or sending some poor soul on a sudden trip across the country!). Flying swords seem to be a much more modern convention.

One thing that's really amusing to me is how much energy the author (Ge Hong, not the translator) dedicated to poking fun at Confucius and Confucianism. Even though the three major religions eventually became known as the Three Teachings and are in modern terms viewed as very harmonious and complementary, historically there was often a huge amount of religious tension. Confucians and Daoists bickered with each other a lot, and then Buddhists got into the fray as well as Buddhism became more and more popular in East Asia. While Buddhism was present in China in Ge Hong's time, it had yet to reach its later popularity; this is probably why Buddhism is barely mentioned in Ge Hong's writing. There are a few indirect references and borrowings from Buddhist tales, and Professor Campany posits that some were intentionally used in competition with Buddhism, while others may have been added by later compilers/transcribers of the text who were Buddhists themselves.

A lot of Cnovels depict this sort of religious tension (Thousand Autumns is a good example), and it's really interesting to see that in these translated historical texts. Even though there are plenty of texts I can't get access to and/or wouldn't be able to read in the original language, there is a huge amount of English-language and translated scholarship on Chinese history available. A lot of it is fascinating to read from a perspective of a fan of Chinese fantasy, since the genre draws so heavily on real history and folklore.

#xianxia #wuxia #chinese fantasy #history research

102 notes · View notes

bullet-prooflove · 2 months

Text

LA!Series Part Two: Important - Manny x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx @darqchilddaydreamz @theesirenteller @wnbweasley @skyesthebomb @delightfulbelieverwerewolf @redpool @trublu2u @fleureeee @thiashazzywriting @lauraaan182 @hatersaremymotivators @fanfic-n-tabulous @ravennaortiz @just-a-throw-away @yousigned-upforthis @kabloswrld @keyweegirlie

Part One: Relax - Manny takes some time to relax with you when he gets to LA.

Manny goes out and buys a suit.

He leaves you sleeping and heads out onto the boulevard wearing a pair of sunglasses and sipping from a bamboo coffee cup filled with expresso, because he actually gives a shit about the environment. He thinks you’ll doze well into the morning. You’d barely stirred when he’d smoothed the hair away from your face and placed a kiss upon your forehead.

You’d been on the fence about attending the event tonight, the one exhibiting your photographs. You didn’t like being in the limelight, you prefer to operate in the background, showcasing other people’s talents.

“You should be proud Mami.” He had told you last night, his thumb ghosting along your jaw. “They’re honouring your work.”

The two of you were laying face to face amongst the plush pillows of a bed that costs more than you make in a year. He knows what the issue is, you have a problem with vulnerability, it doesn’t come naturally to you. Those pictures, it’s like sharing a part of yourself, letting someone see inside your soul.

The event tonight, there’s going to be kids there from the art programmes you’re hoping to support with your donation. They’re going to have questions and that means you’re going to have to answer them. You haven’t talked about your past, what led you to travel the world. He senses that those wounds have never really healed. He thinks it’s telling that you’ve chosen to dedicate your work to a place that helps support children in the care system.

“You were a foster kid, weren’t you?” He whispers into the darkness.

“It’s hard for me to go back there.” You say quietly. “These kids are looking for me to share my experience, I don’t know if I can do that…”

“They’re looking to you for inspiration.” Manny tells you, his nose trailing long the length of yours. “They see your success and it gives them hope, something to aspire you. They want to know how you did it, how they can do it.”

“Manny…” You whisper and his lips brush over yours.

“Think about it.” He murmurs as he kisses you again. “That’s all I ask.”

It’s six in the morning when you wake him up to let you know you’ve made a decision, he can tell it’s been on your mind most of the night.

“I’m going to do it.” You tell him as your fingertips ghost over his skin, chasing the pattern of his tattoos.

He finds himself pinned to the bed underneath you, your thighs hugging his hips. Your fingers entwin with his, drawing his hands up above his head. Your mouth covers his and he’s lost in the sensation. It’s been a while since he’s submitted to anyone, he’s forgotten how good it can feel. You ride him slowly, drawing out his pleasure until you have him gasping, arching, desperate. Still, you don’t relent, you leave him hanging at the precipice before you start all over again.

During the whole thing, his eyes never leave yours. He can’t tear himself away because being like this, it creates a sense of intimacy he wasn’t prepared for. He may be learning your secrets but you’re learning his too. He needs someone else to take control, to ruin him because his life has become all about maintaining it, holding onto it so tightly that he’s terrified about what happens when he lets go. When your hand slips down to his throat he welcomes it, his breath turns ragged as your fingers squeeze just a little and it sends him through the stratosphere. His hips thrust up, burying himself deep and he comes harder than he has in his life, spilling himself inside you. He’s coming down from the high when you kiss him, it’s soft and tender, a simple brush of the lips. He moans into your mouth, as your thumb ghosts over his cheek because this is what he wants, to feel safe with another person, to know that he’s loved, cared for.

You’re the first person whose made him feel like that in years.

He thinks about it as he stands in front of a mirror in a suit shop in the middle of L.A. tugging at the cuffs of a fitted black suit. He looks good, the white of the shirt contrasting against his skin, highlighting the tattoos on his throat. He’s contemplating a tie when the sales assistant approaches him.

“Important event?” She asks him as she picks up a black tie and holds it up against him.

“Yea.” He says, considering your conversation from the early hours of this morning. “It’s pretty important.”

Love Manny? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#manny montana #manny #manny mayans #manny x reader #manny x you #manny mayans mc

21 notes · View notes

celerydays · 5 months

Note

What program do you use to make your fanart? Is it on just an average ipad or is there special ones just for art? Your work looks so good! I’m wanting to try digital art but unsure where to start :)

I use the Procreate app for all of my digital art! ✨

It should be available on any iPad 💗 I personally invested for my birthday this past year and I have the 12.9" M2 iPad Pro, but I'll even occasionally use my fiancé's iPad Mini and the Procreate app on there in a pinch since it's so small and portable~

The only real difference is that performance might suffer a bit, the larger an art piece is or how many layers your work has, depending on the iPad. But if you're just starting out, I probably wouldn't find that to be much of an issue!

(More rambling about digital art origins under cut ✨)

There's definitely a learning curve, especially if you're more used to drawing traditionally! It can help to still sketch traditionally (if that's what you're used to) and then upload a photo of your drawing to your tablet to work over digitally (this is personally how I started out and I used to just make little digital doodles by tracing and coloring over my traditional sketches.)

A small doodle from my sketchbook that I traced and colored digitally, from around 2011-2012, I think? Uh, happy Doctor Who day today!

My very first digital art set up was actually a tiny Wacom Bamboo tablet where the drawing space probably wasn't even bigger than my hand, and a super old bootleg version of Photoshop CS2 which was already a version that was 7 years too old for the time (CS5/CS6 was the most updated version by the time I had started on digital art).

Everyone else in my class had the bigger/fancier/professional-grade Wacom Intuos and I remember my professor taking one look at my baby tablet and just going like "how tf are you drawing on that" lmao.

But still! Experimenting and doing little exercises can get you a long way – I would say to approach it with similar exercises you would do as if you were learning to draw traditionally for the first time.

Shade in circles/nail down basic lighting. Gesture drawings. Random scribbles. Just things that help you get used to the feel of digital art!

Test out different textures you can achieve with one brush, then expand it to see how other different types of brushes can behave and add to the experience.

For proof that even just one brush and not the best/most updated tools can work: these are two of my first more "serious" digital art projects I did in college (with my tiny tablet and mega outdated version of Photoshop) and 99% of the rendering was just done with the "soft airbrush" brush.

But even then, we were taught to create our base sketches traditionally and upload them to the program to work over.

Then one day I decided I wanted to just be able to also do all my sketches digitally and just worked on getting used to sketching straight on my digital program. It was then that besides the all-powerful undo-redo buttons, I started to really make use of the transform/canvas flip/liquify features which I don't think I can live without now lol. (Caveat: I'm now a little too dependent on those features so I keep a traditional sketchbook to do silly doodles in occasionally to exercise my hand because sketching traditionally without the buffer of those digital tools is pretty difficult for me now lol.)

That was a little long-winded, I'm so sorry hahaha. I hope something in this rambling could be taken as somewhat helpful for starting out on digital art!! 💗

#ask #anon #celdraws

34 notes · View notes

iraprince · 10 months

Note

Hoya I'm currently saving up for a tablet aswell, because I'm drawing on my school's ipad that I have kept well past the due date, but have to give back now that I'm moving out of my boarding school that I'm sponsored to be in, and i wanted to ask for tips/recommendations what to get, because I have literally no money, and am scared to blow it on a tablet that sucks or something

advice on what to get can vary, but i am VERY opinionated on what not to get: fuck wacom lol. this from someone who's been on an intuos pro for years, but while they at least have longevity going for them, mine has had constant driver issues and a major hardware failing -- years ago the port for connecting it to the comp AND FOR CHARGING IT via usb failed for no reason, which is apparently a common issue for my model, so for years i have been forced to 1. only use it via wireless connection, which makes the driver fussiness WORSE and 2. buy a separate universal camera battery charger, bc w the port failing that was the only way to charge the thing. wacoms are fucking EXPENSIVE, and they're lovely to draw on, but imo for the price they should be massaging my balls as a bonus, not breaking constantly and making me tear my hair out. they are just not worth it unless you have the cash to burn and you're a HUUUUUUGE stickler on all the really technical stuff.

rant aside. i have heard nothing but lovely things about huion, which is why it's what i'm switching to now; here and there i've seen ppl say the drivers can be fussy on mac, but it doesn't seem like a dealbreaker. huions are also pretty damn affordable if you're looking at a standard tablet rather than a screen one.

if a huion is outside your budget, i think i can recommend a monoprice -- my first tablet ever was a tiny wacom bamboo, but my first "serious" tablet that i used constantly/daily was a monoprice. it was dirt cheap and it worked absolutely fine and it lasted me for ages. i haven't used one in a very long time, so i can't speak to if the quality is the same as when i used one, but i always think fondly of the one i had. i remember the first-time driver setup being awful, but once it got working i don't remember ever having issues with it again.

in terms of just general tips: get the biggest one you can afford. it's better for your wrist, and even though it's scary to invest in something when you're not sure you'll like it, it's usually worse to pay for something crappy that you'll end up wanting to replace eventually anyway. even when i've had really cramped workspaces or no real workspace at all, i've never found that the compact-ness of a tiny tablet has made up for how ergonomically shit it is to draw on one; i would rather awkwardly wrangle a slightly-too-big tablet any day.

good luck, i hope this is helpful!

74 notes · View notes

mistresslrigtar · 2 months

Text

Chapter Twenty-four: Candles (written for @zelinktines24 day 24 prompt)

Read below or HERE

Zelda is quiet and reserved the days following their friends departure. From a brief conversation Link shared with her directly after Mattison’s party, before Zelda fell asleep, she confessed that enjoying a festive moment with their friends has triggered long slumbering grief for the previous Champions. It hadn’t helped matters when Link retrieved Mineru’s construct from his Purah Pad before Purah returned to Hateno and entrusted it to her, requesting she remove the secret stone without damaging the machinery. Mineru had fallen silent since they defeated Ganondorf, and Link assumes she’s moved on, but Zelda remains uncertain, claiming Mineru’s spirit would not leave without first saying farewell.

While they had a formal ceremony several years ago to commemorate their long departed friends, perhaps Zelda needs to recognize theirs’ and the ancient sages' sacrifices to save Hyrule. With that thought in mind, while Zelda naps, Link gathers the materials needed to construct floating lanterns. Celeste joins him in the rooftop garden, where he’s chosen to work, sprawling across the thin parchment that will comprise the sides of the lanterns, and soaking up the afternoon sun.

He soon becomes lost in the work fashioning twelve simple lanterns out of bamboo and parchment. Once complete, he picks up an ink pot and brush, that he has to pry out from beneath Celeste’s paws, and with broad strokes, paints the names of the sages and Champions in shaky, but legible Hylian calligraphy. It doesn’t help that Celeste continually paws at the brush in his hand or tries to drink the dirty water he’s set aside to clean the brush.

Link’s just pushing her away for what feels like the thousandth time and lifting the twelfth lantern, debating whether or not to paint Rhoam’s name upon it when he hears a scuff followed by a stifled yawn behind him. Looking over his shoulder, his heart thuds loudly in his ears when he sees a tousle-headed Zelda wearing one of his soft work shirts that reveals a goodly amount of her bare legs, standing in the doorway, a questioning look in her green eyes.

“What are you doing?”

Time seems to come to a standstill as he takes in how breathtakingly beautiful she is. From her small toes curling against the warm wood of the deck to her flaxen hair reflecting the late afternoon sunshine, she’s perfection in the flesh. Celeste bats impatiently at the forgotten brush in Link’s hand, pulling it from between his fingers, and splattering ink on his trousers. Growling softly, the kitten pounces to gnaw at the pointed end.

Zelda’s giggle draws Link from his trance. Heat courses through him and his cheeks flame when he realizes he’s still staring.

“I thought perhaps, you’d like to sail lanterns on Lake Akkala this evening, to honor our friends and mentors who’ve passed on?” Link belatedly answers.

Despite the tears that spring to Zelda’s eyes at his words, the corners of her pink lips turn up. “That sounds lovely, Link.”

Stepping closer, she kneels to scoop Celeste into her arms. He nods, his chest tightening as she rises gracefully with Celeste pressed against her shoulder and heads back to her room. It’s good to see her returning to the vibrant woman she’d once been, and Link hopes the lanterns will help lift more of the melancholy that still befalls them on occasion.

After an early supper, they walk hand-in-hand down the road to the north end of Lake Akkala. The butte atop which Tarrey Town sits has all but disappeared in the growing darkness, and the lamps in the windows and torches on the streets twinkle like stars in the night sky.

Link sets the lanterns just above the waterline, having decided to leave the twelfth one plain, to commemorate all the souls that were lost in the battles waged against the Calamity and Upheaval. Zelda follows after him, placing candles in the cradles within and lighting them. Once completed, they send each one adrift, offering up silent prayers to the heavens. The lanterns’ glowing soft light is reflected in the smooth glassy surface of the black waters. Sitting side-by-side on the sandy shore, Link and Zelda watch them float serenely away.

“I’m ready to pick our life back up in Hateno.” Zelda’s voice is barely audible over the lapping water, rustling leaves in the trees, and the restless crickets chirping in the long grass.

‘Our life’. The words kindle a long dormant longing in Link, fanning it into a roaring flame. Their shared life consisting of her students’ laughter in the morning, and lazy afternoons where Link dozed beneath the apple trees in the orchard while Zelda worked in her well study. Quiet evenings spent sitting on the embankment behind the paddock, listening to the soothing whickers of their horses, watching the sunset fireflies appear to dance amongst the trees. Reading by the fire for an hour or so before retiring to bed.

Looking over at Zelda, Link finds she’s studying him, a soft, shy smile gracing parted lips he yearns to kiss. Without a word he leans forward, gently cupping her face with trembling hands, and captures her lips with his.

#legend of zelda #zelink #the legend of zelda #tears of the kingdom #breath of the wild #zelinktines24 #daily prompt #sailing lanterns

17 notes · View notes

kjack89 · 8 months

Text

Back to Where We Started (Chap. 2/?)

The E/R Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU continues. Read Part 1 here (tumblr | AO3)

Modern AU, established E/R.

Three Years Later

The village president heaved a sigh so loud that it actually caused feedback on the shoddy microphone system set up in Village Hall. “The Board recognizes Mr. Smith for public comment,” he said with a reluctance usually reserved for someone agreeing to a root canal.

Enjolras stood to head up to the podium, but before he could even inch away from his seat, a board member raised her hand. “Mr. President,” she said shrilly, “I would like to remind the speaker that public comment is limited to three minutes per speaker.”

She had the audacity to smirk at him, and Enjolras ground his teeth together as he glared at her. He was well aware of the rules, especially since the so-called ‘Smith Rules’ had been voted into effect only the prior year, and only after he had successfully filibustered the village board into not renewing an entirely unnecessary TIF district.

Of course, he was also well aware that the local ordinance on public comment was in direct violation of state statute, just as he was equally well aware that he had no ability to fight it lest he do the exact opposite of his intended purpose and draw attention to himself.

After three years, Enjolras was fairly certain that this was his personal hell.

Still, he took a deep breath and forced his expression into something slightly less murderous as he stepped up to the microphone. “Good evening,” he said. “Four days ago, the village library board of trustees voted in a meeting that was not advertised to the public – in violation of the Open Meetings Act, I would add – to remove a number of books from the shelves without any public input. These books—”

“Mr. Smith,” the village president interrupted, sounding bored, “if you have an issue with the library board, you should take it to the library board.”

Enjolras gritted his teeth and counted to five in his head before continuing, “As much as I would love to take it to the library board, that board has implemented even more draconian rules when it comes to public comment, including submitting a request to comment five days in advance and then subsequently denying such requests. Therefore, I would like to use my time here to make sure the public record reflects—”

He was again interrupted, this time by a different board member. “Motion to table public comment,” he said.

Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “You can’t table public comment—”

“Seconded,” another board member said.

“All those in favor?” the village president said quickly, before Enjolras could say anything else. He didn’t even wait for any of the board members to speak. “The ayes have it and public comment is tabled. Turning now to our committee reports…”

Planning how to best simultaneously firebomb the entire village board’s houses using nothing but common household goods was the only thing that kept Enjolras from losing his entire mind on the drive home.

Grantaire glanced up when Enjolras stomped inside. “I’d ask how it went, but…”

Enjolras snorted and flopped down on the couch. “I think putting bamboo shoots under my fingernails would be preferable,” he said dryly.

Grantaire nodded. “Want me to take your mind off of it?” he offered.

Enjolras sighed, considering it for a moment. “Yeah, ok.”

“You know,” Grantaire said about twenty minutes later as he looked for wherever he had tossed his boxers on the living room floor, “if it bothers you that much, you can always just not go.”

Enjolras propped himself up on his elbow, frowning. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” Grantaire said with a shrug, tugging his jeans on. “You don’t have to go to every single village board, library board, school board, whatever the fuck board meeting in this town.”

Enjolras stared at him. “But then how will things get better?”

Grantaire gave him a look. “You tell me.”

Now Enjolras sat up, his frown deepening into a scowl. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just…” Grantaire sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You’ve been doing this for how long now? And has anything gotten demonstrably better?” Enjolras opened his mouth to respond but Grantaire beat him to it. “And don’t give me that, the arc of the moral universe thing—”

“Yes, Dr. King is generally fairly difficult to argue against, so I can understand why you wouldn’t want me to bring that up,” Enjolras said coolly.

Once upon a time, this would have devolved into an argument, the kind that had them shouting at each other and usually ended with them fucking on the floor until one or both of them had rug burn. Now, Grantaire just shrugged his shirt on and buttoned it with nimble fingers. “Anyway,” he said, “I’m gonna go order food. The usual?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, a little dully. “The usual.”

Grantaire nodded and headed into the kitchen and Enjolras got up off the couch, grabbing his own clothes and putting them on mechanically, his mind elsewhere.

Mainly on continuing the argument he and Grantaire should’ve been having in his head. Where he always won, of course, though it wasn’t nearly as satisfying this way.

He started to follow Grantaire to the kitchen but paused in the hallway in front of one of Grantaire’s photos, blown up and framed. It was one of Enjolras’s favorites, a close up of an elephant sloshing through mud, and a sudden memory popped in his head, unbidden.

Grantaire pressed a kiss between Enjolras’s shoulder blades as they lay tangled in the sheets in their hotel room in Nairobi. “What are you thinking?”

“Mostly that what we just did could get us sentenced to jail,” Enjolras told him.

Grantaire laughed lightly, reaching down to lace his fingers with Enjolras’s. “Yeah, but it was worth it, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer, trailing kisses up Enjolras’s neck until Enjolras turned over to kiss him properly. “But I don’t think our committing illegal acts of sodomy is the only thing on your mind.”

It hadn’t even been two days and Grantaire already knew him better than anyone in a long time, and Enjolras sighed, scratching his fingernails lightly across Grantaire’s stubble. “It’s not,” he admitted, “but what I’m about to say is going to sound stupid in comparison.”

Grantaire turned his head to brush a kiss across Enjolras’s palm. “Try me.”

“This whole time that I’ve been in Africa, I never got to see an elephant.”

“Seriously?” Grantaire said with a light laugh, though his expression softened when he saw the look on Enjolras’s face. “I’m sorry. That’s not stupid.”

“You say after laughing,” Enjolras grumbled.

Grantaire leaned in and kissed him, slow and sweet. “How about this?” he said softly. “I’ll bring you back to Africa one day, and we’ll see all kinds of elephants.”

It was a ridiculous thing for anyone to say after only two days, but for some reason, Enjolras couldn’t find it in himself to make fun of him. “Ok,” he said instead. “That sounds like a plan.”

But they never had made it back to Africa, or anywhere else for that matter. Combeferre had seen to that, in perhaps some kind of extremely thorough retribution for Enjolras going just slightly rogue.

He had seen Combeferre exactly once since returning stateside three years prior, on the day he and Grantaire went to fill out the paperwork for their marriage license, when Combeferre had brought him a driver’s license, and nothing else.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Enjolras asked, almost insulted, as he squinted at the driver’s license Combeferre had just handed him.

“Nothing,” Combeferre told him, unusually dry. “That’s sort of the point.”

Enjolras frowned at him. “You’re not even going to give me a passport?”

Combeferre just gave him a look. “I give you a passport and at the first sign of anything exciting happening in some country halfway around the globe, you’ll be gone, defeating the entire purpose of this little exercise.”

He was right, of course, not that Enjolras would ever admit that. “So, what, I’m just stuck here for the rest of my life?”

“Only for the next three to five years.”

Combeferre didn’t say it harshly but Enjolras still flinched, the reality of what faced him hitting for perhaps the first time and settling like dread in the pit of his stomach. “But what am I supposed to do for the next three to five years that’s actually worthwhile?”

For the first time that morning, Combeferre looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh, or at least smile. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘act locally, think globally’?”

Enjolras stared at him, incredulous. “You want me to change the world from here?”

“No,” Combeferre said honestly, “but I suspect you’re going to try regardless.” He fixed Enjolras with a stern look. “Just as long as nothing you do gets absolutely any media attention outside of this town, county at the most, you’ll be fine.”

“Do you have any idea—” Enjolras started hotly, but Combeferre cut him off.

“This was your idea,” he said, matching Enjolras’s tone. “Don’t blame me for trying to make sure it gets executed properly.” He paused, giving Enjolras a searching look before adding, deliberately casual, “Unless you no longer want to go through with this.”

Enjolras’s stubbornness more than anything kept him from admitting that he’d been thinking just that. “I didn’t say that.”

Something flickered in Combeferre’s expression, and he shrugged and looked away. “Fine,” he said. “Then if you do want to go through with this, this is how you do it. You stay here, you keep your head down, and you don’t draw any attention to yourself.”

Enjolras swallowed and nodded. “Fine,” he said, tucking the fake driver’s license into his pocket. “Then I’ll see you in three to five years, I guess.”

But of course, all of that was easier said than done, and not just because dealing with the village board and all the other nominally elected boards in the village were enough to drive Enjolras to drink the way that Grantaire did. There was also the small matter of Grantaire, who had apparently taken his promise to take Enjolras back to Africa seriously.

They had spent much of the first few weeks of their marriage lying in bed next to each other, Enjolras’s head pillowed on Grantaire’s chest as Grantaire enthusiastically told Enjolras all of the places that he planned on taking him for their honeymoon, or on vacation.

And every time, Enjolras would demur, or hedge, or make up some reason why now was really not a good time. Until, on the fifth time Enjolras had suggested that they should instead reupholster the living room furniture, Grantaire had rubbed a soothing hand down Enjolras’s arm.

“I just want you to know,” he said, his voice quiet, “I understand, and I want to try to help you.”

Enjolras frowned, rolling onto his side to look up at him. “What do you understand?”

“Your PTSD,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras stared blankly at him. “I wish I had put it together sooner, but…that’s why you don’t want to leave, because of what happened in Burundi.”

“No, that’s not—” Enjolras cut himself off and pushed himself away from Grantaire, his blood inexplicably pounding in his ears. “I don’t have PTSD.”

Grantaire watched him with something wary in his expression. “Ok,” he said, though he didn’t sound like he believed Enjolras even remotely. “Just know that I’m here for you, in whatever way you need me to be, and for however long it takes.”

But it hadn’t taken long for Grantaire to stop asking altogether, and as their life together settled into a well-worn and, to Enjolras at least, miserable pattern, the gulf between them had grown to the point where they might as well have been in separate countries, if not continents. Enjolras spent most of his time on his computer or phone; Grantaire spent most of his time at work or in his dark room he’d set up in the garden shed; and neither of them said anything to fill the space between them.

Maybe that was just how marriage was supposed to go.

“Food’ll be here in twenty,” Grantaire said, breaking his reverie so suddenly that Enjolras flinched, startled. Grantaire frowned slightly, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing?”

Enjolras jerked a shrug. “Just looking at this picture,” he said, before throwing caution to the wind and asking, “Do you remember promising to take me back to Africa?”

Grantaire’s eyes slid to the picture then away again, his expression unchanged. “Yeah,” he said shortly, before telling Enjolras, “Don’t forget, I have an early start tomorrow morning.”

“Right.” Grantaire nodded and started to brush past him but Enjolras reached out, grabbing his arm. “Grantaire, wait. I—”

He broke off as Grantaire looked back at him, something almost pained in his expression. “What?”

Enjolras’s throat felt tight, and he shook his head. “Never mind,” he said. “Food’ll be here in twenty?”

Grantaire nodded again. “Yeah.”

“The usual?”

“Yeah.”

After three years of marriage, what was even left to say?

— — — — —

Enjolras woke up the next morning alone in bed, and it took him a moment to remember what Grantaire had said about having an early start. He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, trying to summon the motivation to get out of bed for yet another day of the same exact thing.

Without warning, he heard the shrill sound of his cell phone ringing, and he heaved a sigh, turning onto his side to reach for his phone on his nightstand.

But that phone was silent, its screen black, even as the piercing ring continued, and Enjolras was suddenly reminded of the only other thing Combeferre had given him.

“Here,” he said, a little gruffly, handing over a small black flip-phone. “Paid for in cash, entirely untraceable. Use it if there’s ever an emergency.”

Enjolras scrambled out of bed, dropping to the floor to paw through the storage bins under the bed until he found the phone in question, plugged in underneath the bed where he’d put it almost three years ago.

With trembling fingers, he opened the phone and held it up to his ear. “What happened?”

“Good to hear your voice, too,” Combeferre said, and Enjolras allowed himself about thirty seconds of smiling at the automatic relief of hearing his best friend and partner-in-crime’s voice after so long.

“It is,” he said. “Good to hear your voice, I mean, but I don’t think you called just because of that.”

“I didn’t,” Combeferre confirmed, suddenly serious. “Someone leaked a number of top secret documents relating to foreign, namely American, interference in Burundi.”

Enjolras went very still. “With Lamarque?”

“Yeah,” Combeferre said. “The documents included a redacted file on Lamarque’s killer.”

Enjolras stood instantly, his heart pounding. “Then it’s go time,” he said. “Three years are long enough for the moral universe. Time to get some justice on our own terms.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, something strange in his voice, “the documents were leaked.”

“So?”

“So someone wanted us to find them. Counted on us finding them.”

Enjolras shook his head, not following where Combeferre was going with this. “And?” he said impatiently.

“And I need you to remember that,” Combeferre said, his voice low. “Whatever was released was deliberately chosen by someone and leaked in such a way that they knew we’d find it. That you’d find it. And they had a reason for doing so.”

“Combeferre what—”

“It was Grantaire.”

Combeferre delivered the words with solemnity, like he was dropping a bomb onto Enjolras’s life, and Enjolras paused, trying to understand what he was saying, and what Grantaire could possibly have to do with any of this. “What was Grantaire?”

Combeferre took a deep breath. “Grantaire killed General Lamarque.”

>>Read Part 3 Here>>

#exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #fanfiction #les miserables #modern au #spies and assassins au #mr and mrs smith au #flashback heavy chapter sorry #some things are easier to show in a movie lol

33 notes · View notes

ruibaozha · 10 months

Text

The Dragon Boat Festival; and Nezha the Dragon Tamer

There are many topics I have yet to discuss here, but as the Dragon Boat Festival draws near I want to talk about how even with a celebration as widely spread as the Dragon Boat Festival - this too could not escape Nezha's indomitable influence. No matter how you celebrate, near or far, I hope you can enjoy this post.

Warnings before Reading: Suicide by drowning in relation to an origin myth is discussed.

To begin, I would like to describe the Dragon Boat Festival's signifigance in the Chinese conciousness and where it came from for those otherwise unaware or encountering it for the first time in this post. As these points are repeated numerous times in various places, I feel comfortable forgoing the usual providing of as many citations as possible. I am happy to present citations regarding the festival itself upon request.

The origins of this festival are commonly attributed to the death of Qu Yuan, a poet and member of the Chu Emperor's Court during the Warring States period. Qu Yuan had been exiled on suspicion of deceit and betrayal through suggesting an alliance with the state of Qi to better defend against the ever growing threat that the Qin state was becoming. His prediction would prove correct, the Qin captured the Chu Emperor and the state of Chu was fully surrendered. Hearing this news, and despite his exile, Qu Yuan would drown himself in the Miluo River of Hunan Province in 278BCE (1).

Qu Yuan's choice to drown would go on to inspire the origin of the much beloved zongzi, common food fare during the festival. Depending on who you ask, upon learning of his suicide, the nearby villagers would throw rice into the water to either prevent the fish from eating his body or to feed his now disembodied water spirit. Despite these attempts it was noted that 'dragons' would always interfere, the culprits likely being massive whiskered catfish in the river. With this frustration it is said Qu Yuan would go on to tell the villagers to wrap the rice into the now iconic bamboo leaves they are steamed in, making it impossible for the 'dragons' in the river to consume it.

But why dragons, you may ask? Within various pieces of Chinese folklore and popular mythos it is confirmed consistently that dragons' element is water. Controllers of the rain, rivers and seas, creators of the four great rivers in China following disagreements with the Jade Emperor himself when he trapped four dragons under mountains for bringing water to the villages during a disastrous drought.

What's the deal with the long dragon boats then? Though they are exclusively designed for races in mondern days and were only sailed in honor of Qu Yuan starting around the 5th or 6th Century AD, they historically were more aligned with farming purposes. In the Lunar Calendar the month of May typically lands during the Summer Solstice period - a crucial time period in growing rice where the seeds need to be transplanted. Across southern China the farmers would ask the dragons to watch over their crops and help prevent droughts (2). In honor of the dragons these farmers would carve the bow of their boats into a dragon's face, the action of rowing symbolic of replanting the rice crop. Even the tetrahedral shape of zongzi can be explained here, said to be in the image of a cow's horn, a most auspicious symbol for good crop yields.

Though it has been argued that dragon boat racing originated as a military exercise (3) within the province of Hubei, both explanations have come together under the umbrella of honoring Qu Yuan (4). It is always important to remember the non-linear nature of many myths and folk tales, changing and adapting with the people who cherish and retell them.

At this point you surely must be asking how Nezha factors into any of this, but I assure you, he is celebrated during this time as well.

Even if the only tale of Nezha you are familiar with is his conflict with Ao Bing and subsequently Ao Guang, it is important here to establish his reputation as someone that subjugates dragons. Even within the pages of The Grand Compendium of the Three Religion's Deities this was a point not to miss (5). His reputation as a dragon tamer would even inspire eighteenth-century belt makers to dedicate a temple to him near Beijng's Black-Dragon Pool (6).

This reputation would only be enforced during the Yuan-era of Beijing, called Dadu at the time. A fourteenth-century legend would state that the capital was modeled after Nezha's likeness, the eleven gates corresponding to his three heads, six arms, and two legs; his reputation giving reason for posturing him as the capital city's guardian (7). This story was so widespread that in Yuan-era literature the city of Dadu was also referred to as Nazha Cheng (Nezha City) (8). However Dadu was extremely susceptible to droughts and periods of flooding at the time, both things attributed to the Dragon King.

It is Nezha's duty as the city's celestial guardian that attributes one of his birthday to coincide with the Dragon Raising Its Head - a period of time when Dadu's citizens would pray and beg the Dragon King for good weather (9) and historically an important date that welcomes both spring time and a very long farming season.

This is a much lesser known connection that is shared between Nezha and agriculturally significant events, but it would not surprise me if one day Nezha himself sat on the bow of one of these dragon boats cheering for the rowers to go faster.

Bibliography:

(1) Latsch, Traditional Chinese Festivals, 58; Singapore Federation of Chinese Clan Associations, Chinese Customs and Festivals in Singapore = Hua ren li su jie ri shou ce (Singapore: Singapore Federation of Chinese Clan Associations, 1989), 55.

(2) Latsch, Traditional Chinese Festivals, 55; Tan Huey Peng, Fun with Chinese Festivals (Singapore: Federal Publications, 1991), 58. (Call no. JRSING 394.26951 TAN)

(3) Latsch, Traditional Chinese Festivals, 58, 60.

(4) Within northern China it is actually not Qu Yuan who was initially honored but someone completely different, a man wronged by his lord who fled into the woods only for this same lord to set the woods ablaze killing him. A very similar story hails from Fujian province of a man named Wu Zixu who was also wronged by his lord in a story far too long to be kept in a citation. However his body was thrown into a river upon his death, his anger powerful enough to create raging tides. He is worshipped as a river god and connected to the Dragon Boat Festival in this way. Even the pervasive filial piety makes it's appearance in the form of the Han Dynasty story of Cao E who searched up and down the river bank for her drowned father's body. She had wanted to provide a proper funeral but eventually threw herself into the river on the fifth day, only to be revived and presenting her father's body in her arms - the Gods smiling upon her filial action and granting a blessing. Qu Yuan however is remembered best for his love of his country and ultimately his self-sacrifice.

(5) At five days old Nezha overpowers the dragon-lords and even kills their king - implicating his father Li Jing and serving the basis of their feud.

(6) Li Qiao, Zhongguo hangye shen chongbai, (Beijing: Zhongguo Huaqiao, 1990), 199-200.

(7) This is a fairly fantastical retelling of how the architect Liu Bowen developed the idea to give Dadu eleven gates and isn't rooted in the reality of the process. Dates, names, and places are severely inconsistent but it is itself indicative of Nezha's influence.

(8) Xiao Dengfu, "Nezha suyuan", 20-23.

(9) Hok-Lam Chan, Legends of the Building of Old Peking, 72–73.

#li nezha #nezha #lmk nezha #nezha 2019 #nezha reborn #the legend of nezha #monkie kid nezha #nezha lego monkie kid

46 notes · View notes