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the-californicationist · 3 months

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Good Fences (Fluffuary #17)

FEB17: Caught in the Rain

Springtime was finally here. Now that you were home from your camping trip, you and John had settled back into a predictable routine. Friday was date night, and he had taken you to an incredible Japanese steakhouse. You were stuffed.

“God! That was delicious! Thank you so much, John. I loved it,” you kissed him as he helped you with your jacket.

“My pleasure, love. It was pretty good, wasn’t it? We’ll have to come back here,” he agreed.

The steakhouse had been close enough to your apartments that you considered it to be walking distance, but now that you were filled to the brim with rich, delicious food, your body was begging to relax. You tucked your arm in his and leaned on him a bit while you started the journey back to your home, and he covered your hand with his. It was so nice to be with him in these quiet moments. You knew how important his job was, but spending months apart had been a real challenge for you both. You learned to revel in the little things.

Then, just as you were daydreaming about your wonderful date with your handsome soldier, you felt it.

Cold.

Sudden.

Small.

The first rain drop.

You looked up at John, your eyes wide with worry. He hadn’t felt it. He looked back down at you confused until…

Drop!

An icy little drip had landed right across his nose, and his face spelled out his sudden realization.

“Oh, no,” he lamented.

Neither of you had remembered an umbrella. You started to rush home, walking as fast as you could through the sidewalks and alleyways, taking shortcut after shortcut — but you were still blocks away.

Then, you heard it. The pitter patter of a million raindrops all splashing to the concrete at once. The sky had opened up on you, and you were about to be soaked. He grabbed your hand in his, holding you tightly, and you both broke out into a run.

You couldn’t help but gasp and squeal at the cold water that fell down the back of your neck, soaking your hair and skin as if you were in a shower.

“Shit!” You exclaimed, stepping right into a puddle.

“C’mere,” John pulled you into a tiny alcove, barely big enough to fit you both.

Safe for now, you caught your breath, laughing together and inspecting your wet clothes.

“Oh, my God! I’m drenched,” you told him, exasperated.

“Me, too!” He chuckled, “Are you cold, love. Come here.”

He wrapped you in his arms, warming you with his body, and you weren’t sure if it was the wine you’d had at dinner, or the intimacy of this little damp alcove, but he had taken your breath away just as the storm had done, and you leaned up to kiss him.

“Mmm,” he groaned, obviously enjoying your affection, whispering to you between kisses, pushing the wet hair away from your face, “Are you alright, pretty girl?”

“Yeah,” you kissed him again, “I am now.”

He deepened the kiss, making you take his long tongue into your mouth, towering over you with his wide shoulders, pressing himself into you against the opposite wall. The bricks dug into your back, but you didn’t care. You ran your hands under his wet clothes, finding wet skin and wet fur plastered to him.

“Ungh…” he moaned into your mouth, stumbling a bit as his pleasure coursed through his body, “Fuck…”

You giggled softly, teasing him,

“You remember when we went to the mountains last month?”

He smiled back, kissing you again,

“Vividly…”

You grinned, and then you took your revenge. You moved your hands up his shirt and found his nipples, cold and tight, and you plucked at them as he had done to you on the trail.

“Baby…” He warned, sighing and trembling under your touch, his hands gripping your shoulders to steady himself.

“Yes, John?” You teased him, nipping at his neck.

Suddenly, he grabbed your hands, pulling them out and pressing them to your chest, trapping them between you. He was almost snarling he was so turned on,

“You’re killin’ me, love.”

“Think we could make a break for it?” You asked, looking out of your safe little alcove at the gray skies.

“Not like this. Be scarin’ the neighborhood,” John grumbled.

You were confused at first, thinking he was talking about his damp clothes, but then he pressed his hips forward and allowed you to feel his very visible pleasure.

“Oh,” you smiled coyly, blushing a bit at his display.

“Yeah…” He kissed you again, a wide grin plastered to his face, “Minx.”

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miasmaghoul · 5 months

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honestly something i’d absolutely love to see in your style of writing would be mountain and one of the other ghouls having a relaxing day potting plants in the greenhouse :) maybe they’re talking about something deep, maybe they’re exchanging gossip, maybe they’re working in comfortable silence, but whatever it is, they’re having fun, they’re soft and chaste, and they’re so so in love <3

yes uh huh yep absolutely lets go

soft boys below the cut

Dew sways in place, humming a tune to complement the raindrops pattering against the glass walls surrounding him. A springtime sunshower that makes him feel refreshed, makes his skin buzz and his gills flutter. He's tempted to sneak away, just long enough to get his fins damp and his hair frizzy, but it's a fleeting thought.

Dew's tail swishes aimlessly on the ground, stirs up fallen leaves and withered petals. The result of one of Mountain's seasonal repotting days, of hours spent pruning and stripping and checking for root rot. Of lugging around countless pots and sacks of dirt and the putrid fertilizer Mountain swears by. It's lousy work, really. Delicate but backbreaking, especially for a ghoul of smaller stature. Exhausting.

Dew's been here since just after sunup, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

It's been hours now, the sun hanging high where it peeks through the rainclouds. He has at least six different kinds of soil caked under his nails and streaked across his face, muddy smears covering both his apron and the garbage pair of jeans he'd yanked on this morning. They're more stain than denim at this point, and Dew wears them exactly four times a year. The little ghoul stretches his arms over his head and relishes the way his spine pops.

He's sore all over, truth be told, but it's a kind of good sore. The kind that comes from manual labor, from hard work and dedication. Dew catalogs the places he'll need to ask Aether to rub later, a little quintessence analgesic that he'll definitely have earned; his shoulders for sure, they're starting to crunch when he rolls them. His fingers too, Dew knows his knuckles will be all swollen up otherwise. Probably his legs and feet as well, but that would be better saved for -

"I'm back."

Dew's ears perk up when a deep voice calls from across the greenhouse, accompanied by the telltale squeal of the heavy glass door. Booted footsteps follow, wet soles squeaking against dirty concrete, and Dew hops off the stool he's been perched on just in time for Mountain to round a nearby pallet of exotic ferns.

"Don't get up on my accout," he chuckles, smoothing wind-mussed hair back between his antlers. Dew can just barely see misty droplets clinging to those auburn strands. "Besides," Mountain adds, holding up a paper bag, "I brought you lunch, and you don't want to eat standing up."

Dew's stomach growls mightily the moment he says it, loud enough that they both look down at it.

"Good timing," he says, poking at his belly. Dew hops back up onto his seat and scoots it closer to the filthy bench he's been working on. "Any longer and I might have started consuming things with no regard for signage."

Mountain laughs, but it's true. Dew hasn't eaten anything since he and Mountain found each other in the kitchen this morning. Even that wasn't much, a couple pieces of toast and a container of some weird coconut yogurt he'd found on the bottom shelf of the fridge.

Dew has these four days memorized at this point - three days before a solstice or three days after an equinox - but Mountain still always seems surprised to see him stroll into the common room in his work boots and crusty jeans. Dew supposes that has something to do with the fact that he usually sleeps until at least noon, but that's neither here nor there.

"Wouldn't recommend that," Mountain rumbles, setting the bag on the table for Dew to pounce on. "Last time Ifrit did that I couldn't keep him off me for a week."

"Woe is you, " Dew laments, collecting his prize. "I'm sure you suffered, what with his huge dick and endless stamina."

"It was a struggle like no other," Mountain deadpans, slipping his apron back over his head. He'd hosed it off before Terzo had called him for an unexpected meeting, and Dew had taken the liberty of pulling the moisture from it while he was gone. Left it in dark stains on the floor below instead. "I smelled like him for two weeks."

Dew snickers, opening up the bag. Pulling out a hefty container that's still warm to the touch and a real fork. There's a drink in there too, a bottle of coffee in Dew’s preferred mocha, and a paper-wrapped fruit pie the size of his hand. He looks up at Mountain with a quirked brow.

"What's all this?" Mountain tips his head while he secures his apron, makes a questioning sound. "You said lunch, I figured I'd have a sandwich or something. This is like," Dew gestures vaguely, "this is a whole thing."

Mountain shrugs, rolls up his sleeves. Dew definitely doesn't stare at his forearms for the second or two it takes to open the container. For the smell of it to hit him - roasted salmon with creamy polenta, along with a small pile of green beans flecked with garlic and lemon zest. His mouth waters immediately, and his stomach gives another loud complaint. Dew grabs his fork and gathers up an oversized bite, and it's halfway to his mouth when Mountain answers.

"I stopped by the mess after my meeting," he explains with a casual shrug. "Got there at the right time, I guess."

Dew freezes mid-bite, looks over at Mountain with his mouth still hanging open. He's in the middle of hauling pots onto his own bench, a cart of miniature rose bushes in the process of being repotted sitting beside it.

"You went to the mess?"

It's a well known fact that Mountain can't stand the parts of the abbey that attract swaths of humanity - it takes real effort to even get him to attend mass - and Dew can't imagine him braving the mess hall on his own. Again, Mountain shrugs.

"It was on the way back from Terzo's office," he offers, collecting a bush from the cart. Setting it on his worktable and brushing a few stray leaves to the ground. "You've been working hard, you deserve real food."

Dew's face goes unbearably warm, but he doesn't argue.

"Thank you," he murmurs instead, soft but genuine.

Honest.

Mountain's tail sways up to pat at his arm in response, the tufted end ticklish against his exposed forearm. Dew finally pops that forkful of food into his mouth, and the taste of it is exquisite. He groans, his eyes fall shut, his shoulders curl, the whole shebang. Surely an overreaction, but in fairness he's really hungry.

"Fuckin' hells, that's good," Dew sighs, popping a green bean into his mouth. "Say what you will about Sister Agata, but that old broad makes damn good food."

Mountain scoffs, shoots him a dramatic, offended look.

"Better than mine?"

Dew snorts, shoveling another mouthful of polenta. He makes a wavy gesture with his hand, a silent ehhh, maybe that Mountain responds to with a shocked gasp. Dew rolls his eyes, flicks his tail at Mountain's calf.

"'Course not," Dew assures him, spearing a bean on each tine of his fork. He gives the other ghoul a wink. "No one burns popcorn like you, Mount."

The end of Mountain’s tail whacks the back of his head, right above the knot he's tied his hair into. Dew waves it off, but makes a happy little sound when that tail settles on his thigh instead.

They fall into comfortable silence, Dew watching Mountain unearth a bush from its home and set it on his table. Munching away while he follows the way Mountain starts gentling its roots apart, spreading them out to better suit the large pot at his feet. No matter how often Dew does this, he can never get enough of seeing the way Mountain gets lost in his element.

If Mountain were anyone else, Dew would've asked where his lunch was, why he was eating alone. But there would be no point; Mountain has a certain philosophy when it comes to food, something that must have come ingrained in his vessel. He believes in only eating what he grows or catches himself - be it fish from the lake and streams, animals from the forest or even the odd, wandering sibling. He wouldn't eat mess hall food if it were the last thing Above.

Plus Dew's pretty sure he can photosynthesize, so there's that too.

Dew polishes off his meal quickly, while he watches flowering vines curl their way up Mountain's antlers. Speckled with tiny pale blue blossoms that Dew knows match his eyes. He's quiet, but his lips are moving like he's speaking to the plant in his hands. Dew imagines him encouraging it, coaxing life back into any fading roots. He's tossing back the last of his coffee by the time Mountain's hoisting the new pot onto the workbench, already lined with rich, black soil that will keep that little rosebush happy for months to come.

"What color will that one be?"

Full and re-energized, Dew slides from his seat and sidles up beside Mountain, observing the way he meticulously shake the old dirt from that mess of roots.

"Pink, supposedly," he mutters, brow gently furrowed. "That's what the label said, at least. Hard to know with these, though. Ivy did a lot of crossbreeding in her younger years. These could be black for all I know."

Mountain settles the little bush into its new home, carefully aerating the new earth with nimble fingers. Dew reaches forward out of habit, helps to redistribute that soft dirt and get those roots covered up nice and snug.

"I hope they're white," Dew chimes in, focused only on the task at hand. "The white ones are my favorite."

"And Zephyr's," Mountain hums, tapping the back of Dew's hand when he's happy with the plant job. Dew pulls back obediently, gives Mountain the space to fluff up its leaves. "Guess we'll just have to wait and see."

"Guess so," Dew sighs, leaning his elbows on the table while Mountain adds a layer of topsoil to the pot. "My turn now?"

"If you'd like," Mountain offers, standing back. "Unless you want to wait until they're all potted first."

"Nah," Dew straightens, cracks his knuckles, "I already walked all the way over here, might as well."

Mountain laughs, a brief but rich sound that Dew treasures every time he hears it. Dew extends his hand, takes a deep breath through his nose and exhales between his fangs. The tips of his fingers tingle, cool in the temperate heat of the greenhouse.

"Soil or leaves?"

"Both," Mountain replies, and with a nod Dew twists his wrist.

This is his favorite part, of course. When it comes time for the watering, for Dew to make himself useful and earn a pat between the horns for his efforts. He holds a flat palm towards the bush and manipulates the moisture hanging around them - in the air, consensed on the glass walls, even the few droplets still clinging Mountain's hair. Channels it all into a fine mist that he's sure to apply to every last leaf and burgeoning bud. Dew hums to himself while he works, cupping his hands once he's happy with his coverage and letting the water fill his palms instead.

"There," he says, pleased, pouring a few modest handfuls into thirtsty soil. "Good enough?"

Dew steps back so Mountain can check his work. He wipes both hands on his apron, smears around the caked on dirt that'll take a chisel to remove by the time the day is done. Mountain rumbles his approval after a moment, and Dew preens from the sound alone.

"Very well done," he lilts, and Dew rolls up onto the balls of his feet just in time to meet Mountain's hand. It rests perfectly between his mother-of-pearl horns, ruffling the loose hairs that have escaped their ties. Dew purrs, Mountain chuckles, and they part once more.

"One down," Dew says, peeking around Mountain at the remaining plants on the cart. "How many to go?"

"Eight," Mountain replies easily, already hoisting the next bush up to work on. "Of these, at least. I think the new guy is almost done racking the orchids, so those will be next."

Mountain looks at him from the corner of his eye, like he's waiting for Dew to complain. To whine about this taking too long, or that it's too boring. The look he gives him every time Dew volunteers to help him with this. Dew gives him a fang-filled smile instead.

"Sounds good," he says easily, striding back to his own work station. "I'm here as long as you want me, big guy."

Mountain chuffs, eyes sparkling. Dew can't believe how much more obvious the gold flecks in his emerald irises stand out on these days. He looks so...whole. Mountain's fingers dance over what will one day be a rose, now just a green bud, and Dew doesn't miss the way his ear flicks.

"Hey, Dew?" His voice carries something deep, something real.

"Yeah?"

There's a long beat of silence, and all Dew can hear are fading raindrops. The sun's getting brighter now, fewer clouds to hide behind. He can see Mountain’s freckles in the warm light, and the streak of copper in his hair. Then,

"I'm...really glad you're here."

Everything around them seems to soften. Dew smiles, unabashed and open, his tail drifting over to tangle with Mountain's just because he can. He huffs our a deeply amused laugh, staring down at his tabletop to hide the way his cheeks flush. Force of habit.

"Nowhere else I'd rather be," he replies, easy as anything, and he really hopes Mountain believes it. "Now gimme something to pot, my fingers are gettin' itchy."

Mountain snorts, shakes his head, but doesn't hesitate to grab another bush and a pot, depositing them on Dew's table. Dew busies himself scooping fresh dirt into the terracotta vessel while Mountain checks the plant for anything that requires pruning.

"This one's even supposed to be white," he says, not missing the way Dew perks up at the words. "Take good care of it, yeah?"

He will, of course. And in a few months, when these plants are hale and hearty and flush with springtime blooms, a bouquet of them will appear in Dew's room. Perfectly trimmed and never wilting, wrapped in silky green ribbon that Dew will save in a secret place behind his sock drawer.

For now, Mountain returns to his own table, and together they work. The silence doesn't last nearly as long this time, broken by Mountain humming a folksy tune that Dew has heard enough times to harmonize with. So he does, the sound bouncing around them and accompanied by the gentle rustle of leaves swaying in a nonexistent breeze. The plants singing with them, Dew thinks. Peaceful.

Soon enough, one of them will speak again. Will break up the monotony with talk of music or recent happenings, or maybe even indulge in a little gossip regarding Terzo's newest summon. He's a hybrid, Dew heard, fire and earth and supposedly just enough quintessence to make him a Problem. Dew wonders if that's what Mountain's meeting was about, but he doesn't ask. Not yet.

For now, all he needs is this.

#miasma's work #the band ghost fic #this is too long to be a ficlet lmao #mountain ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #water!dew #how do i tag this idk #im not reading before posting so if you see mistakes #no you didnt

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butterfly-poetry · 3 months

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Lost words ...

A letter written so that a space remains,

Like air to quiver in tune,

For each breath, a horizon,

For you and me knotted in imagination.

Epris wandering on the whiteness of printed matter,

A few rhyming verses make their way,

Scattered among the trivia of a florilegium,

In the intoxication of the useless in the heart of melancholy.

My endless maxims for so much infinity,

On parchment, like a resonance,

glittering insolences,

Wrapping my soul in depopulated words.

Wounds, like a springtime space,

Fulfilled to a perpetual suspension,

Pure and sober, yet so vibrant,

Overflowing with ardent reticence.

A twirling thought abandoned in a culture,

A fragile, breathless intermission,

A garrigue without an orchard,

Une romance à pas feutré, désirée

For a frazzled spirit, it's an ode,

A debonair sea that stretches,

A volatile resting place in the azure,

An inaudible quietude that desires itself.

The wandering of my words in hushed steps,

A wild white, like a hazard

For a glimmer, a passage, a gallery,

To make company and erase the path.

A time of hope, of silence, of illusion,

The intonations unfurl, display themselves,

In a time that caresses the flickering lament,

In a time of serenity, to contemplate.

30th January 2024

#poetry #beautiful #truth reading #poems and poetry #spotify #thank you

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extraordinarilyextreme · 6 months

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Hello! May I ask you a question regarding MLC?

On ep 38, we see the wedding chamber is named "雨伏風關", and upon seeing the subs "Never ending Winds and Rain", my mind inevitably went to clouds and rain which is, ahem. I wouldn't put it past Jiao jie tbh to name her wedding room Never Ending S** but turned out It's actually a reference to a Du Fu poem https://baike.baidu.hk/item/闌風伏雨/4666705

And the characters are in reverse??? I do not have nearly as enough knowledge in Chinese language to parse out what this means.

Is it a normal idea to name a wedding room Stormy Times to begin with?

Or does it have a different implications when the characters are reversed?

Thank you so much for any brainstorming you can offer, much love! 🥰🥺

hello my friend,

going to be perfectly honest; i did not pay much attention to the names of each of the locations while watching this show. however, i'm willing to bet that the characters on the plaque of the wedding chamber aren't in reverse - it's just that chinese historically is read from right-to-left instead. so it's still 阑风伏雨 as per the line from the poem.

to my knowledge, 阑风伏雨 is typically used as an idiom these days - and indeed it would translate to "the unending wind and rain." it seems it once specifically referred to "the wind and rain during autumn and summer."

as per that baidu page u linked, it seems its equivalent (阑风长雨) came from Tang dynasty poet Du Fu's 《秋雨叹三首》 (Three Laments About the Autumn Rain), and specifically the second part:

阑风长雨秋纷纷，四海八荒同一云。去马来牛不复辨，浊泾清渭何当分？禾头生耳黍穗黑，农夫田妇无消息。城中斗米换衾裯，相许宁论两相值？

apparently it was written during a year when it rained for more than 60 days - pretty dire times! people didn't have food to eat, the heavy rain destroyed their homes, the crops failed and couldn't be harvested... and then the chancellor/prime minister(?) Yang Guozhong happened to find some seedlings that had survived and were growing well, so he proclaimed to the emperor: “雨虽多，不害稼也。” (Despite the heavy rain, the crops are not harmed.)

so...... i'm kind of blanking on how that fits into the context presented in LHL. @ruiconteur & @difeisheng, any thoughts?

BUT another search showed me that the specific character-for-character phrase is also used in Qing dynasty poet Nalan Xingde's 《菩萨蛮·阑风伏雨催寒食》 (The Endless Wind and Rain Ushers in the Hanshi Festival):

阑风伏雨催寒食，樱桃一夜花狼藉。刚与病相宜，锁窗薰绣衣。 The endless wind and rain ushered in the Hanshi Festival; Overnight, the cherry blossoms were scattered into disarray. Such a scene was most fitting: recently ill, I was reminded of the springtime of my youth - that which had gone and could never return. After locking my windows, it was time now that I dried my embroidered robes by the brazier. 画眉烦女伴，央及流莺唤。半晌试开奁，娇多直自嫌。 In my husband's absence, I could only trouble my female friend to draw my eyebrows. But she was not around either, so I had to ask my maid Ying to call for her. When she arrived at last, I was so afraid of seeing my sickly complexion in the mirror that I hesitated for a long while before daring to open the trousseau. Yet to my surprise, I appeared delicate and lovely - I was happy for a moment, then wondered for whom I was dressing up as my husband was not here to see it. At once, embarrassed, I resented my own beauty.

that is SUCH a rough translation; let me know if you want me to clean it up in the future.

typically (given the wuxia context/general historical framing) i'd assume the Tang dynasty poem is the one they're referencing, but i feel like the later Qing dynasty one fits more here with respect to JLQ?

to sum it up: i don't really know why the wedding chamber is called that either. tbh it just sounds like an elegant literary name. (are clouds and rain a euphemism that i'm not aware of?? lol i really did not think in that direction at all) anyway i hope this was at least a little bit interesting <3

#bean-in-dice #ask #mysterious lotus casebook #thank u for the question! this was rly fun; my brain is just kind of fried #my translation #but super rough tl so if anyone wants to use this ill clean it up for u later on lol #莲花楼

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claybefree · 2 months

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Tulip Poplar

Sorrow is my own yard

where the new grass

flames as it has flamed

often before but not

with the cold fire

that closes round me this year

William Carlos Williams- The Widow’s Lament in Springtime

Every spring I have to ask for the name again. Tulip poplar, Saucer Magnolia, something like that, you’d think I wouldn’t be surprised by her anymore. Whereas last week empty arms cast veins of silhouettes across a cold carpet of previous year's leaves, today I’m able to come home from a long day of work, and face her canopy of flowers, half open like teacups, and that is miraculous news. I take it as further evidence that after two years the sucking wound in my chest has finally closed.

Each March was a celebration, a maelstrom of pink hung beneath the blue, pinks so dark along thick shouldered leaves, almost purple, and then bleeding out rapidly to porcelain white, there was no ignoring it. I notched one end of an eight foot pallet we brought home into the main cluster of stems, six feet up and propped the other end with a door. Of course the kids never climbed into the blossoms, but we did.

Now everyone’s gone but me and the whole yard creeps more every year, abandoned gardens filled with weeds crawling out of their beds, privet’s relentless march choking everything in between. A cold wind brushes the tulip against the rafter tails outside my bedroom, waking me. Limbs resting on roof shingles, a stitch of yellow rope left from a swing I hung years ago cut deep into the bark like a tourniquet. Her blooms will turn brown and slimy and clog the already rusted gutters. Neither tree nor house belong to me but as far as I’m concerned, I’m the steward of both, for now.

So I spend sixty dollars that I do not have on a bright orange pole saw from Lowes which I run up into underbelly pierced with morning light, trying not to focus on saw teeth tearing past bark into white flesh, or sap raining onto my cheekbones. I’m grateful for the strength I have in my arms for this work today but I worry I got started too late in the season and the half dozen or more wounds I’ve left will become infected and kill her. Despite all this I work for the better part of a morning, and pile up branches tall as me in the burn pit in the middle of the yard. In the fall I’ll light it up and likely scare the new neighbors. The blossoms lining the crooked pile go for broke and open their white faces wide to the sun.

The days are consistently warm enough and the new tires on my motorcycle beg to be chewed up, but my heart’s not in it. Not yet. One morning soon I’ll blast out 64 sometime before eight thirty, get away from the Florida interlopers that keep trying to kill me and hit the Blue Ridge Parkway and adjacent counties on this side of the mountain- Nelson, Rockbridge and Amherst.

The best road out there is also the most dangerous, and yet with half a dozen ways up to the Parkway, I still find myself on route 56 more often than not. A million years ago I guess, before someone gave it a name, the Tye river cut a gorge out of the mountains, twisting impossibly through the rocks and at some point homesteaders ran a road alongside and named that 56. Highly technical, it’s not the curves that will dump me. Every rental cabin and vacation home has a driveway cut into the shale and sandstone hills which provide, after every good rain, an opportunity for gravel to spill out on the tarmac. If I’m not on top of my game that’s what will kill me.

But before all that, when it breaks off from the Rockfish Valley highway, 56 passes through a couple thousand acres of farmland on one side, and the Tye river on the other. For some reason I think a good bit about the people who work that land. Last year the fields appeared to be left fallow, two years previous, in the fall, thousands of pumpkins were left scattered and rotting on the vine, collapsing into orange pulp. All I could think was that the pumpkin patch contract fell through.

I want to find the old timers and see if anyone will talk to me about August 1969, when Hurricane Camille dumped two foot of water in three hours and drowned birds in trees. When the Tye jumped its banks, broke the back of every bridge that dared cross it and cut the census of Massies Mill nearly in half.

Sometimes I see the pictures they post and get jealous of my friends who travel abroad, but I’ve decided what I need is to ride a motorcycle entirely too fast through the middle of some fields in Nelson county every three months and do that in perpetuity. I’ve been in that valley headed home late in the day with the sun low under the clouds turning everything golden, worried that I’m too far out. I’ve encountered the Tye river in a spring flood, washing across 56 nearly to the point where I had to turn back and find another route. I’ve ridden it half frozen in a driving rain, tucked behind the fairing with a mother of three on the back seat holding onto me for warmth.

Back in 2022, at my lowest, whenever I talked about tulip flowers or graveyard moss carried home from a chapel where it crosses over the mountain and heads down toward Vesuvius, my closest friends would encourage me to move out. They’d point to the marks on the door casing in the kitchen chronicling each child’s growth, five years worth, both hers and mine, and yeah, I got it. My argument was I’d have to find something else just like it- a shed for my tools, a garage for my bikes, somewhere to write. I dunno, man, I would say, it just feels like I belong here.

One of these days, instead of waving to them on their harvesters, I’m gonna pull over and talk to one of these guys. Yeah me, a wild eyed weirdo biker from the city rambling on about something I don’t know if I could even put into words. The idea of the two of us having a shared language with a place, a connection, whether it be on a tractor or a motorcycle, bound by both sorrow and joy. The connection running deeper because you’ve seen it flood, seen it bake, seen it come alive every year in a blaze of green.

Clay Blancett, 2024

#my writing #mine #motorcycles #massie mill #clay blancett #flash nonfiction #Fuck Denver Lol

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princesssarisa · 1 year

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Sleeping Beauty Spring: "La Bella Dormente nel Bosco" ("The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood") (1922 Italian opera by Ottorino Respighi)

Name any famous story, and it's almost certain to have been adapted as an opera, whether or not that opera is often performed. Here we find an Italian operatic Sleeping Beauty, with a libretto by Gian Bistolfi, and music by the renowned composer Ottorino Respighi, best known for his tone poems Fountains of Rome, Pines of Rome, and Roman Festivals. It was originally conceived and performed as a marionette opera, with the story enacted by puppets while the singers sang from offstage. While rarely performed today, it does have occasional revivals, some with singing actors performing the roles onstage as in any other opera, and others with marionettes. One complete sound recording is also commercially available, as is a filmed performance from the Teatro Lirico di Cagliari.

Divided into three acts, but fairly short at an hour and forty minutes long, this opera follows the familiar plot of the fairy tale, yet with interesting creative embellishments. Act I opens with an atmospheric nature scene where a nightingale, a cuckoo, and a chorus of frogs sing their evening songs, before the King and Queen's ambassador arrives in search of fairies to attend the newborn Princess's christening, and seven fairies heed his call. At the christening, the villainous Green Fairy curses the Princess to prick her finger at age twenty rather than fifteen or sixteen (some productions of Tchaikovky's ballet make the same change), and not to die, but to sleep forever. Twenty years later, in the old spinning woman's tower, the spindle itself is sentient and sings, as does a cat: the Princess dances a cheerful dance with the two of them, but when she pricks her finger, the spindle gloatingly reveals itself as an agent of the Green Fairy. The following scene begins comically, with pompous doctors trying to diagnose the sleeping Princess's "illness," but then gives way to lamentations by the King, the Queen, and their court. That is, until the kindly Blue Fairy arrives to put them all to sleep as well, and only now does she alter the curse so that it will break when the Princess receives "the kiss of love." In place of the traditional briars or thick forest surrounding the castle, giant spiders weave an enormous web around the castle to protect it.

Act III reveals an especially unusual and quirky change from traditional versions of the story. The Princess and her court have slept for three hundred years rather than just one century, and the action now takes place in the 1920s of the opera's premiere. The entourage of Prince Aprile (yes, his name means "April" – the libretto is full of springtime imagery) includes a club of rich Americans led by the comical "Mr. Dollar Cheque," who resolves to buy the sleeping Princess after they learn her story from a woodcutter. But Prince Aprile takes a more romantic approach and battles the last of the monstrous spiders, causing the web to fall away, and then wakes the Princess with a kiss. After the lovers sing a romantic duet, the newly awakened court joins the modern world in a playful dance finale, which starts as a minuet and ends as a foxtrot.

Respighi's music lacks any particularly "hummable" melodies, but its beauty stands out all the same, with a tone of shimmering fairy-tale Romanticism balanced here and there with moments of humor. The influence of many great Classical and Romantic composers can be heard, particularly from Wagner, but with a welcome lighter touch than the famous German composer brought to his operas. The "modern day" final act also includes passages of ragtime and jazz, which somehow never clash with the rest of the score's Romanticism.

Ultimately, this opera's blend of gossamer beauty and quirky playfulness give it a unique charm. Whether or not it's anyone's favorite opera, or anyone's definitive version of Sleeping Beauty, it most definitely deserves to be performed more often. At any rate, as both an opera lover and a fairy tale lover, I'm glad to have discovered it, and I plan to listen to it again before long.

@ariel-seagull-wings, @thealmightyemprex, @faintingheroine, @reds-revenge, @thatscarletflycatcher, @comma-after-dearest, @the-blue-fairie, @paexgo-rosa, @autistic-prince-cinderella

#sleeping beauty #fairy tale #sleeping beauty spring #opera #la bella dormente nel bosco #ottorino respighi #gian bistolfi #1922 #italy

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deans-baby-momma · 11 months

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A/N: Just a little something I came up with on the LOOOOOONG trip home from vacation. Inspired by a song we listened to. Anyone wanna guess? LOL

Lightning flashes across the sky illuminates the otherwise dark highway, thunder tumbles in the distance indicating another springtime storm approaching.

The headlights of my car barely penetrate the sheets of rain to reflect the lines of the deserted highway. Rural roads are not known for their stellar lighting, no streetlights and not many homes that have bright bulbs to shine out that far.

I can barely see five feet in front of me as I maneuver the rental car I’m using between the lines. I am ready to get to the next town, find a hotel and take a good hot shower before falling into bed. Today has been tedious and tiresome.

Another flash of light from the sky bounces off something on the side of the road and I slowly apply the brakes. As I get nearer, I can make out the silhouette of another vehicle on the side of the road. Dark, maybe black; sleek but big. Not a truck but an older car, one that is made from actual metal and chrome and not the fiberglass and plastic the newer ones are manufactured with now.

I look out the passenger window as I pass to see if the driver is inside or if someone is standing nearby but I see no one. Hopefully some other good samaritan came by and picked them up and they aren’t walking in this torrential downpour from the sky. I don’t know anyone who would enjoy walking in this crap.

A couple of miles down the road, though, I see someone walking along the edge of the asphalt, hands in their pockets and their shoulders slumped over trying to shield the rain. I can tell it hasn’t worked as the whole top half of their body is soaked through, their clothing clinging to them like a second skin. He has no umbrella or coat, like he wasn’t expecting to have to walk in this mess

As I get closer, I can tell it’s a man. Tall, muscular and bow-legged. His cowboy swagger gives away his condition and makes me swoon. Cowboys are my weakness. When he notices me, he turns his head and I swear my heart stopped. Not only was he built like a God but he looked like one too!

I pull up alongside, rolling down my window and offer him a ride. His response is a smile as he reaches for the door. As soon as he is out of the elements and the cabin is once again a reprieve from the outside, I press the gas and continue my journey.

“Thanks again,” he says and his voice is smooth like honey. “I didn’t think I’d ever see another vehicle.”

“Yea, not many people out at the time of night,” I responded. “Especially in this storm.”

We ride along in silence for a while until we start seeing the telltale signs of the next town. I sigh in relief, thinking of how I’m that much closer to that hot shower and nice, warm bed that awaits.

“Is there anywhere you want me to drop you off?” I ask, silently lamenting that my time with the stranger is coming to an end.

“I guess just point me to the closest motel. I was just passing through and I doubt there is a mechanic shop open this late to go get my car.”

I pull into the Motel 6 and put it in park. “Well, I’m staying here. I’m just passing through too.”

“Thanks for the lift,” he says as he opens the door and steps out, heading to the lobby.

Grabbing my bag from the backseat, I climb out of the vehicle and close the door, locking it and walking toward the lobby myself, to check in. As I step inside the building, I hear the concierge telling the stranger that there are no vacancies.

“You gotta be kidding me!” he huffs as I see rain drops drip from his hair and slither down his neck into the back of his shirt. “There’s nothing? Not even a sofa in an empty corner?”

“No sir,” the young boy says. “We are booked solid.”

“You can stay in mine,” I say as I approach the desk. “I have a room and most of these places have at least a cot.”

The stranger and the boy behind the desk look at me bewildered. Yes, I just offered a stranger a place to stay so he doesn’t have to sleep outside in the rain. This is the same stranger I picked up on the side of the road not even an hour ago. So what? I’m a nice person.

I step up to the desk and check in, grabbing my key and turning to the man standing behind me. “We’re in room 23. Come on,” I smile as I walk out of the lobby, my suitcase rolling along after.

The storm rages outside the window as we settle in for the night. As I predicted, the room provided a full size bed and a couch with a pullout mattress. After my shower, I snuggle down under the comforter on the bed and listen to his teeth chatter.

“Get over here and get in the bed,” I tell him, sitting up to see his silhouette shivering under the thin sheet. “I didn’t pick you up just to let you freeze to death in my hotel room.”

The man stood up as a flash of lightning lit up the room. He was in nothing but a pair of boxers and I salivate at the sight. He is pure brawn, muscles sinewy and taut; his stomach has a small paunch but other than that, he looks like he could take care of himself in any situation.

His skin is ice cold as he slides into the bed alongside me, causing goosebumps to erupt on my skin. Or is it the fact that I’m absolutely turned on by him?

We lay on our backs, both of us staring at the ugly yellowed ceiling above our heads. I close my eyes and will myself to sleep but before I can accomplish that, I feel his hand begin to run along my thigh.

Before long, we are in the throes of passion, his body thrusting into mine with ease. He was doing everything just right and had me cumming in minutes. I screamed out my release as I heard him grunt and then felt his spendings filling me full.

After cleaning up, we cuddled and drifted off to sleep. I’d never felt more like a woman than I did in this stranger’s arms. It was magical,

The sun shining through the window woke me up and I lay there, still in his arms as I lamented what had actually happened. I had picked up a stranger on the side of the road, brought him into my hotel room, where we made love and I hadn’t even asked his name!

The man who rocked my world was still asleep when I was dressed and ready to leave. I grabbed the complimentary pen and pad and left him a note. It’s the least I could do.

‘I am the flower you are the seed. We walked in the garden, we planted a tree

Don't try to find me, please don't you dare.

Just live in my memory. you'll always be there.’

To be continued…..

2nd A/N: Hopefully the last part will be posted this weekend (6/16-18)

@spnbaby-67 @sea040561 @delightfullykrispypeach @larajadeschmidt13 @atc74 @vicariouslythruspn @squirrelnotsam @sandlee44 @blacktithe7 @hoboal87 @mogaruke @supraveng @deandreamernp @akshi8278 @lyarr24 @kazsrm67 @chriszgirl92 @deanwithscissors @raisinggray @fanfic-n-tabulous @hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @brownbearhusky @purpleeclipseeggsland

#all I want #song inspiration #a lil drabble #first person pov

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femdomliterature · 6 months

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FemLit 0533 - Ask Yourself Ladies...

Once upon a time, you’ll remember, your husband would bring you flowers, open doors for you and generally offer you his open and sincere heart. If your marriage is like most marriages it has grown comfortable and, let’s admit it, stale, over time. “The thrill is gone,” is the lament of so many married couples…

Familiarity and routine, recriminations and disappointments, take a predictable toll on happy-every-after relationships. Husbands and wives drift apart, physically and emotionally, or maintain alliances of custom and convenience, keepers of a flickering flame. By the time you hit midlife, your marriage is “settled” and most often things start to cool down. Certain aspects become repetitive as people take each other for granted. The love may still be there but it is a less passionate, more platonic love; a familiar love. In the most negative instances this can lead to increasing unhappiness and frustration and ultimately, in the worst case scenario, infidelity and divorce. Even in the best cases, It will offer, it is less of a marriage than it could be…

If you don’t believe me, allow me to refresh your memory a little. I am now talking to women who are married or who were married before. Remember when you were first dating? Remember how accommodating your future husband was and how all his desires were directed at you? Think back…

Remember how he was so sweet and kind. Remember how he used to bring you flowers or little gifts? He would do whatever you wanted to do and go wherever you wanted to go. Do you remember what it was like, how exciting it all was? Remember your wedding day, and the love and romance of your honeymoon? Remember that? Remember how much you loved him then? Let me ask you this. Has it changed? If so, what do you think changed…

Of course once you got married, your day-to-day interactions will almost always have changed, become more domestic. Maybe relatives or in-laws took more of your time and in many cases children entered the mix. Regardless of this evolution, almost certainly your husband’s attitude changed, didn’t he?

-Did he tend to ignore you? -Did more and more often something become a fight and/or an argument? -Did he become a little more selfish? -Did he start to disrespect you in private or maybe even in public? -Did he started to hang around his friends again? -Did he become absorbed with work and work related activities? -Did he start to refuse to go with you to visit your friends and family? -Did he refuse to go with you shopping? -Did the flowers and gifts stop? -Maybe he became cheap and tight with money? -Then there is the sex. Sex used to happen anywhere or anytime, used to last all night and be so exciting. Now, has it become boring, predictable and fast? -Perhaps you have asked your self, what happened to the passion? What happened to the romantic guy that you were dating? While it is unlikely that all of the above symptoms apply in your particular circumstance, I’m sure virtually every married woman will be able to point to some of the above as prevalent in her marriage…

There seems a sad inevitability in all this. Most wives assume that this is the natural course of marriage like the erosion of a rock by a river or the fading of paint in the sunlight. Love has its seasons, as John Gray reminds us in “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus”. It’s folly to expect eternal springtime, perpetual romance. Most marriage counselors would agree. Divorce attorneys can be even more pragmatic. They know that once the cancer of disaffection has spread, the damage is almost always irreversible…

#female led relationship #femlit

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echizen-division · 1 month

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Springtime had already arrived here in Echizen as the little dashes of light pink were fluttering everywhere in the park where the errand boy of Clockwork Lament was strolling aimlessly.

To be honest, he didn’t know why his proud two legs had taken him here to this place, but to take some little breather from his usual rushing life didn’t sound like a bad idea. The park here had quite an exquisite scenery during this season by the way —It was no wonder why his team leader would pick it as his favorite place to leisure around whenever he has time.

…And speaking of the devil, here the devil came. At that moment, Kohaku heard the voice of his team leader calling out to him from behind.

“Fancy seeing you here, Haku-chan★ How is your day going~?”

Quickly turning his head back, however, the errand boy was instead finding no sight of his horologist friend around.

—He wouldn’t hear it wrong, would he? He was sure that it was Shi-shi?

The boy thought to himself while looking at other directions. He did believe in his sense but …something was bugging his mind.

“Looking for someone~? I’m right here, little Umbrella-kun~”

With an exact the same voice of his team leader playfully whispering not far away from one of his ears, the wild instinct of an ex-syndicate member in him has gone off. The boy instantly leaped away to create a safe distance between himself and the sudden stranger.

—That’s right! Even though he knew how playful or a bit flirty his friend was, Nishio has never added ‘-chan’ after his name before!

“Woah~ Don’t act so cold. I come here with a good intention, you know? My fragile heart can be hurt too ;-;”

After seeing the younger’s reaction, that stranger with Nishio’s voice dramatically put one hand over his chest and the other gracefully(?) at the corner of his eye as if shedding some imaginary tears. His gesture was flawless only if he didn’t do that while wearing a pair of shady sunglasses over his face. And even if this funny dude was definitely a different person from his team leader, he could still sense some similarity of Nishio overlapping with this mysterious stranger

“…”

Okay, why the heck has Shi-shi never told him about this mischievous doppelgängers of his before? He was hella confused right now… The boy could only thought.

“My bad, you don’t have to be so scared~ I’m not that low to attack someone on their birthday. It’s just that my sweet little friends in Nara are unfortunately busy at this moment, so they couldn’t come here by themselves —That’s why I decide to offer a bit of my help. And here you go, they’ve got some pretty presents for you~~ ”

Grinning wide like a certain cat in one children’s book, there the dandy dude(?) handed Kohaku a paper bag which he has reluctantly taken it with some caution. After being assured that whatever was in this bag was safe, the errand boy opened it and found

—The two jars filled with his favorite sweets, the kohakutou! They were no doubt from a certain shop in Nara where he regularly stopped by to get some treats. And the presents didn’t end with just that, there was a purse in the shape of delicious breakfast bread —It seemed like this one was from the team leader of Miraitabi who he had once collaborated with during the shuffle event. Woah! He has never thought that those two would remember about him though!

Getting a bit excited over the new presents he received on his birthday, the boy somehow didn’t notice that the mysterious stranger was now approaching in his range before he did something unexpectable.

“It’s such a regret that I’ve to go soon~ But worry not, I believe that this is not the last time we’re going to meet…”

Within a blink, suddenly Kohaku’s land of sight has gone black! But that’s not something to worry since the blind was only lasted for a few seconds before he found out that it was just a pair of funny sunglasses sneakily wearing over his eyes.

“Happy Birthday and Adios, fellow informant-kun★ Could you also tell the clockmaker that I said hi~~”

However, when the boy got a clearer view —That sneaky cat was now gone, leaving only their amused farewell ringing in air and his own confusion.

…Seriously, Shi-shi, who did your flirty ass attract this time!?

“Oi! Where did he went???”

Kohaku in absolute confusion, looked around for any sign of the “cat” after pulling up the glasses stuck onto his face, still holding onto the bag handed to him by the mysterious stranger.

Eyes roaming to the left, and later on to the right… yeah, whoever he was, he’s nowhere to be seen anymore.

Taking one last glance at the interior of the paper bag, the boy smirked.

“I better tell Shi-shi about this!”

And so he darted off like he usually does toward a familiar antiques store.

#hypmic oc #hypmic #hypnosis mic #hypnosis mic oc #clockwork lament #echizen division #kohaku meguno #cheese.#Nara division #happy birthday kohaku 2024 #sorry for the hella late reply

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triste-guillotine · 9 months

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VARATHRON "Genesis of Apocryphal Desire" CD Compilation 1997 ('Ygnai Fthig Nga Sothoth - Ym'Bd'Nig Ch'Eye Do Xna Ngrktl 'Ftythech Gia Nghaa - Jug Mglo Mnyg Nafth. Within his castle in R'lyeh - The dead Cthulhu awaits, while dreaming...')

"The golden cities once - Desperately loved to rose From fathomless grey mass - Blue lakes and abyssic mountains

Fear, for something that will gonna be Fear, for something that will never (gonna happen) Mercy and mighty echoes lamentation and tearing From a voiceless face (without ending)

The shining towers of Hy-Brasyl - Earthy and heavenly paradise Where men walked with gods - And with beasts of the forest

Time when springtime and harvest Were as one ; flowers and fruits - Hung heavily on every bough Like a dream beyond the dimensions The wind was blowing like a lover's touch Caressing the highest towers The mist like a sinful soul - Was searching its salvation

The time when hands moved Only in grace and giving, the eyes smiled The lips spoke with love without shame

Spirits travelling on a labyrinth Without fear but passion - Bravery without bloodshed

Pictures from the past - Unspoken dreams of today Mysterious visions for the future It's time you will learn from yourself"

#Varathron #Black Metal #Occult Art #Stefan Necroabyssious #Jim Mutilator #Themis Tolis #Spiros 'Captain Death'#Giannis Vekiris #Stavros Mitropoulos #Pyrphoros #Adrastos #Cursed Productions #William Hogarth #Hellenic Black Cult

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saintchrollo · 1 year

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ten million jenny: summer, night fifteen

tw: discussion of suicide (brief) a conversation and a reluctance. (this is pasting in times new roman idk if it'll stay like that?) ao3

calendar | earlier | tomorrow morning

The day comes to a hideous halt outside of a pleasing restaurant. Contra. The stairs that lead up to it are marble, the doors heavy even from your distance. As Kuroro sets his foot on the first step, you stand still, his hand sliding out of yours.

Kuroro turns and takes a step down, relacing his fingers with yours. His head tilts to the side, confused by the sudden stop to the day’s pleasantries. It had been going so well. Day at the beach, a nap on the water, and now, dressed nicely for dinner.

“I don’t want to eat here,” You say, swallowing heavily, answering his question before he could even voice it. You can feel your body going into overdrive, able to feel every little thing. The humidity on your lotion on your skin, the way your shoes lace their way up your shins and calves. The metal of Kuroro’s rings against your hands, which you can already feel become clammy with nervousness. You need to reapply your lipgloss, or at least your chapstick. Did you bring it with you?

“Why not?” Kuroro asks.

Your mouth opens and then shuts. You glance around you, at the various other couples walking around.

“Darling,” Kuroro says, placing a finger under your chin to draw your attention back to him. “We don’t have to eat here, but I do want to know why not.”

“I’ve already eaten here with you,” You whisper. While not here with him, your words connect enough dots for Chrollo. Under his lips, you can see as displeasure clicks his jaw.

You can tell, without much prompting, that the annoyance is not directed towards you.

“I’m actually really tired,” You truthfully tack on. The day in the sun has drained you, and trying to not think about the other night weighs you down. You’d been so excited just the other day to climb these very same steps.

Taking it in stride, Kuroro winds his hand from yours and around your waist, resting on your lower back. In the nighttime lighting, softened by the yellow glow of the pathway lights, your boyfriend looks just as innocent as he had in the springtime breezes.

“Of course,” Kuroro murmurs. “We’ve had a long day, haven’t we?”

You nod, “We have.”

“We can order food,” Kuroro says, leading you back the way you’d just come. As if nothing ever happened. As if you truly were just tired. “However, you do look ethereal tonight. I’ll have to lament not being able to show you off.”

The compliment you’d gotten so used to feels off, in light of your newfound discovery about Kuroro’s true profession. You bite down a quip about how he has much more loss currently regarding your relationship to lament.

—

It’s almost like nothing is wrong. If you don’t think hard, nothing is wrong. Each of you have changed into pyjamas— You in a slip dress and Kuroro shirtless in satin trousers that pool around his ankles. Kuroro sits opposite you on the couch, there’s takeout in your hands, and beers on the coffee table. Only: there’s no hum of music or television in the background. Your legs aren’t spread out to be in Kuroro’s space, they’re tucked up under you. Neither of you say anything to each other.

At least, not until you’re full and you set your half-eaten container on the coffee table and pick up your beer.

“What business did you have to go do the other day?” You ask, tentative. Your heart pounds in your chest at the question, doubt settling in that you won’t enjoy the answer.

But sinking won’t get you anywhere. You might as well swim.

Chrollo sighs and sets his fork down, letting it rest against the flimsy aluminum. “Do you actually want to know?”

“I am asking,” You say, then tack on: “Willingly.”

With a deep breath, Chrollo mulls over his words, picking them carefully. “The son of one of the Dons hides here. I went to go pay him a visit. It took longer than expected to get the information I needed from him out of him. By the time I returned, I knew someone had already beat me back here.” He pauses. “I shouldn’t have left you here by yourself.” Another pause. His hand comes up to push his hair out of his face, followed by a self deprecating laugh. Hollow, short lived, absent of any sort of joy. “I should have noticed that something bad always happens when I leave.”

“Hindsight’s twenty-twenty,” You say, in the same manner. Hollow.

“I’m surprised you haven’t tried to kill yourself,” Chrollo says.

“I’m not thirteen anymore.”

Chrollo raises his eyebrows at that.

“And maybe I’m hoping that I’ll wake up and this will all just be the most vivid nightmare of my life. And anyways... Keeping secrets like yours kills. I don’t know how to describe it, but... You look healthier.”

Chrollo brings a hand to touch his cheek, to feel your compliment against his soft skin.

“You’re glowing in a way I haven’t seen before.” A sorrowed smile pulls at half of your lips. “Unfortunately I have morals.”

“You don’t want to bend them?”

“For you?”

“For me.”

Your faux-pensiveness abruptly turns real, and Chrollo watches as your face turns from joking to serious, as the mischievousness leaves your eyes to seriousness. The hope that bubbles inside of him catches him off guard, enough that he has to suck in a breath to remove it. It doesn’t go down easily.

“I can’t change my morals. But I... Unfortunately, to some degree, I can understand where you’re coming from.”

“We don’t have to agree on everything, do we? That’s what makes relationships interesting.” Chrollo’s words are a parrot of yours, from over a year ago.

You sigh, shaking your head. “Kuroro... When I said that, it was because I don’t like the texture of pudding, not because one of us is a murderer.”

“And I forgave you for not liking pudding.”

“I’m not going to forgive you for being one of the most wanted criminals in the world, Kuroro.” You let out an exhale. A slimy feeling runs up your back, enough for you to sit up straight and set your shoulders down before relaxing again. “It makes a lot of sense, though. If I’m being honest.”

“I love it when you’re honest with me,” Chrollo says, truthfully and wholly.

You bring the bottle back to your lips. “Mhm. Can I ask you another question?”

“Darling, you can ask me any question you want.”

“Why’d the assassin hang around? Why didn’t he just. Kill me and go have a margarita or something? That’s what I would have done.”

“You wear too much perfume to be an assassin,” Chrollo says, eyes trained on the way your lashes flutter away from him as you try to hide the small smile. He goes on to admit: “I’ve been thinking about that as well. I don’t know. Perhaps he was dumb enough that he thought he could kill me as well.”

“Would he have been able to?” You ask.

Chrollo smiles to himself, and picks up his own beer bottle. “Absolutely not.” He shakes his head while he takes a pull, licking the bitter drink away from his lips.

“You seem confident.”

“I am. Can I ask you a question?”

You hesitate. “I— Maybe.”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Chrollo says, voice gentle. “How come you didn’t know the man was me?”

“I’m not— I don’t want to talk about that,” You say quickly, looking away.

“We don’t have to, we don’t have to,” Chrollo assures you.

Your bottom lip pushes out, and you take a deep breath to try and control it. “I just— I want to know why I didn’t know too. He was so distant, I thought you had just— I thought work just hadn’t gone well because you’re distant sometimes. He couldn't— It was like I had two heads when I spoke French. I just— I had no reason to not think he was you.”

You place your bottle on the table with more force than you intend, hand shaking slightly. “I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t,” Chrollo says. Slowly, his hand reaches over to yours. It draws your gaze up to him. His thumb slides across the soft skin. “I know you didn’t, darling. I’m not mad at you.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, glancing between his eyes.

“Absolutely,” Chrollo says. He raises your hands up to his lips, and gives them a brief peck. A selfish question rests on the tip of his tongue.

“Are we safe here?”

“I won’t let anything else happen to you,” Chrollo promises.

Your brows crease together, rightfully of doubtful of his claim. You answer his selfish question without knowing so. “I can’t help but love you.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Absolutely.”

“Only if you make it out to be a bad thing,” Chrollo says softly.

You look down at your hands, avoiding Chrollo’s intense gaze you’ve come to swoon for. “Want to go smoke?”

“I’ll come with you,” Chrollo says.

“I’m sure you will,” You huff, taking a deep breath before standing. You run your fingers through your hair, before stretching your arms up. You can feel some of the pressure from your joints release, and with it some of the stress from your day.

“You’re going to want this later?” It’s both a statement and a question that Chrollo poses to you, while he picks up the food you left on the table.

You glance over at it. “Of course. Do you want a shirt?”

“Do you not like seeing me shirtless?”

You close your eyes to avoid looking at his cheeky grin, and turn on your heel to go upstairs. “Don’t think I’m not still irritated with you because I’m being nice.”

“You wound me, darling. I don’t think you realize how much power your words have over me.”

You ignore him, in favor of climbing the stairs and once more entering the bedroom area. It doesn’t take long for you to find your cigarette case and a lighter, pull on a robe and grab a shirt for Kuroro. Coming down the stairs, you’re stopped by the recently-startling figure of Kuroro in the doorway.

“Mes dieux, Kuroro,” You say, stopping and placing a hand over your chest. “You scared me.”

“Apologies, cara mia, I wanted to come and get a shirt,” He says.

“I grabbed you one,” You say, holding up the fabric in your hand. Black and soft, loose enough to billow in the wind, should he leave it unbuttoned.

Kuroro’s expression turns soft, has a hint of pride underlying the love. He takes the shirt from you and slides it on. “You’re an angel.”

You hum in agreement and slip past him, avoiding a kiss that may or may not come. “I know.”

Outside, you trail down to the beach, letting your feet rest in the cool sand. The beach at night is serene, eerily so. Like walking on another planet, the Earth light years away. The breeze is cool, fluttering against your skin, ruffling the silk of your pyjamas in its quiet movement.

Earth zooms back into your atmosphere upon feeling Kuroro join you on the beach. He’s quiet, but your ears pick up his presence with little prompting.

Muscle memory, perhaps.

“Coucou,” You say, selecting one of the rolled cigarettes with green instead of brown at the tip. Holding it between your lips, you ignite the lighter and cup your hands against the seaside wind.

“Hello to you, too,” Kuroro says, a faint smile on his words. He takes the lighter from you, steadying the flame.

You inhale, the tip of the spliff lighting up a bright orange. The lighter clicks off as you exhale.

“What does this say about me?” You muse, crossing your arms, fingers before your lips.

“You’ll have to be more specific, darling,” Chrollo prods.

You hum, taking another drag. “You scare me.”

Chrollo has the sincerity, at least, to not feign dumb. To not question why you’d be scared of him. “What does that say about you?”

“But...” Shaking your head, you look out at the darkness that swallows the horizon. “Nevermind. I wasn’t going anywhere with that.”

“No?” Chrollo hums, raising his eyebrows. The breeze is cold against his exposed chest. Or perhaps it's your attitude.

“When I’m done out here, I’m going to sleep,” You state, ignoring his question. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Chrollo says. “I can go a while without sleep.”

Nodding through your inhale, you watch the smoke which leaves your lips with more interest than your conversation. “This is what I mean. You scare me, but I’m concerned about your wellbeing. Isn’t that funny?”

“Endearing,” Chrollo’s voice is as gentle as he can make it.

Instead of swooning, you scoff. As you pass the spliff off to Chrollo, your fingers brush against his, avoiding the lit end. “Sure. Make sure you sleep tonight, we had a big day.”

Before he can follow behind you, to lure you into telling him more about your thoughts, you’re back inside. He’s stuck, out under the moonlight, with a lit cigarette and nowhere but chills white sand to ash.

#ophelia.fic #tmj posting #chrollo x reader

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kinfriday · 1 year

Text

Sacred Days

My eyes slowly open and I know she is waiting within the deep clearing in the wood.

Emerging from the hollow of my oak, my focus is only forward, as I make way deeper into the forest.

The path has been burned into my memory by uncounted repetition, over and over again as sure as the sun rises to trace its path through the daytime sky, I know the way.

And soon enough, the wood thins to give way to a grass filled clearing, and there is my Lady Eostre, waiting for me. This time there is no harness; no rolled up paper waiting for me to carry it. No, this time she calls me to her side, and I know I am to accompany her.

The where is not important. Sometimes we ascend the ridge, and watch the dawn break over the horizon, other times we travel through the mists to other lands, distant places filled with new scents and human structures.

It is all the same to me.

Places are places, days are days. There has never been a questioning of a moment, or the reason for its happening. In all of my memories from that life, there is only one time I wonder why something is occurring and that is the moment just before my death.

But we are not there yet. How far is it? Who is to say? There is no conception of days having a number, or a purpose beyond being what they are. I only know that I am what I am.

Words have never defined that life, only experiences, moments that shine like stars against the back drop of a night sky of being, interconnected like constellations, shining in relation to each other, but when viewed as a whole, a chaotic wonder of place and time.

And so devoid, of labels like December, Tuesday, or even Yule, I am only left with those moments, stripped of everything but their contents, and in this moment, she is with me, and she is my purpose. As certainly as I know myself, I know she is the focus of my being, as sure as any instinct, or anything that I do know in that life, I know I am hers.

___

It’s been on my mind this last week, as we’ve neared Solstice and all the winter time celebrations that come along with it. I’ve gone through my traditions, performed my small quiet rituals before the Altar, lit the Yuletide candle, listened to Tim Curry read Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.”

It’s astoundingly good, and I highly recommend it.

Gradually, in a way, relentlessly the time has moved towards peak holiday season, these last days of the year having a peculiar gravity to them, as the entire world of western culture seems to come into celestial alignment with these days. Ugly sweaters abound, diets explode before temptations of bounty, as we celebrate every good thing in our lives.

But the Yuletide is just a series of days, a season in our lives. With our calendars and our complexities, it comes predictably once a year where we unpack its sentiments, dutifully recite its lessons, then pack them away with the tree, the decorations and, with rituals completed, seal away the eldritch abomination of Christmas music for at least one more year.

Mariah Carrie sleeps fitfully, encased in a prison of holly, awaiting the moment just after All Hallows before she will rise once again to torment us all.

And thus, until Ragnarök...

“I will keep Christmas in my heart and observe it all the year.” Says Scrooge upon his reform, and this season, that phrase has stuck with me, along with Marley’s lament...

“Mankind should have been my business!”

Those words ring with conviction as I reflect on the fact that for all my memories of my true life, none include a Holiday, or knowledge that one day was any more important than another.

It was the moments that mattered, and who was a part of them. The presence of my Lady was total, the whole of my world and focus. When she was not there, I was waiting for there, when she was there, all I wanted was to be near or please her.

We’d travel, I’d occasionally run messages, and often receive treats of apple for my efforts.

In the springtime she would sit and sing with me sprawled across her lap, blissfully half conscious, while she stroked back my ears.

The days themselves were not sacred to me, they were what they were, but she was sacred to me. Those moments of togetherness and the love I had were and are sacred to me though I did not have the words to define them so then.

And while I do not have any memory of holiday, I think I had it right. The holidays are moments not made sacred by their moment, but by their content, what they remind us of. That family, that having enough, that love, and hope are all blessings to be cherished. That life is precious and fleeting. We only have this moment for sure so let us make the most of it. Let us love with our whole heart and strive to live in fullness of the now.

A blessed and happy holiday to all. May the blessings of the Gods find you throughout the year!

-Sister Snow Hare

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necrosin · 7 months

Text

WHAT DO PEOPLE DO, WHEN THEY'RE ABOUT TO DIE? it's not something he's given much thought to / curse-eater / curse-bearer / cursed / accursed. he's only ever thought of death tangentially, obliquely, never quite in relation to himself, only ever in relation to OTHERS, as though it were a condition he were separate from, as though it could never happen to him —— as though because he doesn't believe himself exempt from death / simply GODLY he may be, practically godly he may seem to the monkeys clamoring for his so-called blessings, but suguru is a man like any other, a jujutsu user like any other / this path is LITTERED WITH CORPSES and his proximity to death has simply made him ( ... ) distant from the idea of it. goal driven and idealistic as ever, getou suguru, he's lived and lived and lived for his cause, his reason, to better the world, to exterminate the pests and create a better, kinder world for jujutsu sorcerers, where they would not have to die BECAUSE OF and IN SERVICE TO the damned and accursed creatures that are good for nothing at all, besides sacrifice. in that ideal, in that wish and hope and want and dream, there is no space to consider death, no time to ponder it, no room to linger within painted with the IDEA OF HIS OWN DEATH —— he's not quite fatalistic enough, for such things.

well —— it's a lie / it isn't a lie at all / it's simply part of the MORTAL CONDITION OF LIVING to consider death every now and then, isn't it / he'd thought of his own death often as a teenager, in that grey-cast year / but in recent years —— only every now and then. an occasional thought brought upon by a near brush, by one of his family being brutally injured, by the loss of another dear to him. and in those thoughts one thing has remained constant, from the fumbling springtime days of his adolescence until here, now, at the very end : HE IS GOING TO DIE IN SATORU'S ARMS.

suguru does love being right. even about his own death.

yet the question remains : WHAT DO PEOPLE DO, WHEN THEY'RE ABOUT TO DIE? lament? weep? sob? plead? reminisce? simply pass away? it's a strange train of thought, nonlinear and sprawling. irrational, not quite incoherent, things that he's never considered and isn't quite considering, now, simply a passing thought, something morbid and not quite morose. disjointed and almost humorous.

the sun could be out / the moon could be glowing / rain could be pouring / snow could be falling —— suguru doesn't care much for the sky, doesn't pay much mind to the pain resonating through his body, gives little thought to his utter lack of an arm. it seems that his world is eternally destined to narrow down to : satoru.

any last words? he had asked / only for satoru to speak as if HE WERE GIVING HIS FINAL WORDS, a quiet admission, knelt and gazing at him —— for a moment suguru had almost been offended h was so fucking far away, though the offense was buried beneath shock and something like awe, a mixture from long lost boyhood, something that felt almost melancholic. and suguru could only smile, could only laugh, of course, of course —— of fucking course.

AT LEAST CURSE ME A LITTLE BIT AT THE VERY END.

satoru is crouching, still. looking at the ground / looking at him / looking at him / looking at him —— had satoru ever looked away, truly? what a strange thought. what a romantic though. ❝ satoru, ❞ he says, name covetous, name as a brand, name as a devotional / suguru lists to the side. blood loss, dizziness, impending death, true and unconditional and absolute and unending love. ❝ come here. ❞

and always, always : SATORU COMES. the distance closes / he takes suguru into his arms easily, as if it's second nature, it is second nature, his body aches with the movement but it's far—away, utterly distant, as separate from him as death, itself. satoru's body is familiar against his, this body he knows as well as his own, the press of his chest against his shoulder, the smell of him / the scent of his cursed energy like lightning lingering in the air / the gravitational pull they make / INIFINITY AND THE VOID : the destruction they wreak. there's no room nor time nor space for regrets, and even if there were suguru would have none at all.

always living for the future. always striving for something. always, always, this silly tangle of MORALITY and JUSTICE and A CAUSE TO LIVE AND DIE FOR. those things satoru had always hated.

❝ you said any final words, yet here we are, ❞ he can't help but point out, just to be aggravating, even now. ❝ usually that's when you'd kill me, you know. ❞

❝ —— shut upppp, suguru, ❞ worn and affectionate, a roll of his eyes, ❝ of course you'd be an asshole on death's door. ❞

❝ as if you won't be, ❞ the thought is strangely harrowing, heavily melancholic —— suguru sets it aside / satoru isn't immortal, a man like any other and some day in the future he will die / but he'd rather not dwell on his death.

he is going to die in satoru's arms, he can feel the slight tremor of his muscles, allows his head to dip back to gaze into his eyes, those eyes that had taken him from the moment they met / and had NEVER LET HIM GO / satoru is too selfish to have ever let him go truly, fully, even as the risk of pride and honor and other worthless things. saotru is too selfish / suguru is too selfish / their minds and bodies and hears and souls and the endless expanse of them entangled for all of time. a distant recollection occurs to him / their bodies intertwined and sheets shoved to the side, the press of satoru's body against his, inexorable and perfect, satoru's teeth against his collarbone, suguru's hands tangled in his hair / or was it satoru's hands tangled in his hair? a quiet, amused, TEASING thing : ❛ when you kill me, don't use hollow purple, ❜ as near as he could to saying : you will kill me / you will kill me / I'LL GO NO OTHER WAY / isn't this the ultimate act of love?

( satoru had stared at him, as if aghast, mouth twisted into something that should have been ugly but wasn't, because he's satoru, before rolling his eyes and lamenting how dramatic suguru was, honestly, what the fuck, before biting him hard enough to leave a coveted bruise. )

devoted love. adoring love. springtime love. long lasting love. twisted love. he's never said it, has he? never spoken the words aloud, just like satoru, not out of PRIDE like he supposes satoru has twisted himself into —— in the spirit of ROMANTICISM. suguru loves satoru, that is as absolute a fact as the earth revolving around the sun / as the existence of curses being because of monkeys / as the depth of satoru's gaze / as absolute as satoru. why should he ever have to say it aloud? is it not enough to claim, possess, adore him in the only way he knows how? EVEN NOW, AT THE END OF HIS LIFE, SATORU IS HIS / AND HE LOVES HIM.

it's simply shocking that satoru had said it at all. 愛してる. the only thing satoru could have possibly said to shock him. though, really, if satoru was ever going to say it, of course it would be NOW, of course it would follow ANY LAST WORDS, of course it would be as his hand settles against suguru's neck / as if it's any other day / as if they'll fall into bed and into each other and into each other and into each other so deeply they'll never find a way out / as if they ever want to.

they're both fucking idiots, honestly.

satoru's eyes are solemn, are burning, are vibrant and vivid and he's always been expressive. expressive / and logical / and realistic. suguru loves him, endlessly, will love him beyond death, to the ends of the world, until satoru dies, and beyond that, too. ❝ satoru, ❞ close to a proclamation of love / satoru can hear it, he knows, he knows by the way that his eyes widen and his lips part / by the way that suguru takes his hand from his neck with his only remaining hand / by the way that he tangles their fingers together.

❝ come here, ❞ he says again because of blood loss and imminent death and weakness overtaking, tipping his chin up, imperious and demanding as ever. satoru's hand is warm in his, slightly damp, he smells like the remnants of lightning and the vestiges of battle / suguru thinks of his family / of his daughters / hopes they'll be alright. knows they'll be alright. satoru huffs, as if suguru is asking SO VERY MUCH OF HIM, before ducking his head down and letting suguru lean up to kiss him : adoringly / determinedly / violently / gently. the way they've shoved themselves together. the way they've gouged out spaces in each other for the other. the ragged, tender, FAITHFULLY ARDENT WAY THEY SEARCH FOR EACH OTHER WITHOUT END. satoru's arm supporting his shoulders squeezes him, painfully tight, blood spilling everywhere and anywhere. their mouths part and crash together again / satoru shakes his hand free and grips suguru's face strongly enough that it hurts, a throbbing pain, thrumming alongside his heart. suguru presses his hand against satoru's chest, over his heart, as if he could leave an imprint of his hand in his skin, nails digging as though he could claw his way through, as if he could stay with him forever.

violent and wretched and caught in each other until the very end.

suguru got to see his daughters grow / not fully and not wholly / the others will have to look after them now / treat them to crepes and whatever else their hearts desire / he hopes they will / he hopes they will / he cannot say such a thing to satoru who his daughters will not forgive / but he hopes they understand : this is how it is meant to be, isn't it?

satoru will mourn him / he cannot protect satoru from that / protection as an instinct as an act of love / satoru who is the strongest who is just satoru, to him / a tragedy amongst many.

infinity kisses the void desperately, searchingly, seekingly. what do people do when they're about to die? something about confessions, perhaps. it echoes in his mind, satoru's words, his horrible words, his wonderful words, sending suguru's heart skittering and careening and keening in his chest : HE REGRETS NOTHING AT ALL / this is how he's meant to die / he's going to die in satoru's arms / he has done his best and his family will carry on without him / and satoru will mourn him.

❝ —— 愛してる ❞ a vow / a curse : delivered to the soul, sealed into his skin, pressed into his mouth, carved into the marrow of his bones, in all of the shadowy and sunlit corners that suguru has claimed in this body that is an extension of his, in this man he loves so dreadfully, in his other half.

satoru's hand spasms against his face / they crash together / and suguru ————

THE INTIMACY OF HANDS.—— [acceptance] for the sender & receiver to sit / lay somewhere in acceptance of their ends together. in a final act of closeness, the sender places their hand in the receiver’s own.

#GETOU，in char.#GETOU，devoured.#mastabahs #mastabahs : satoru.#hahahaha what the fuck???#i feel like there should be a point where i will need to put like.#a readmore or smth. and near 2k should be it. like. logically.#i say as i still do not apply a readmore. SDKJGNSKJ anyways #IDK. I DON'T. KNOW. I DON'T KNOW I FEEL INSANE MAN. and #yeah i ignored half the prompt. depending on how u look at it #haha. haha ahahha ha. ha.#death /

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