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landwriter · 1 year

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Desperate Measures | Dream/Hob | 1.2K | G v silly and fluffy, literally 90% air, dream attempts a romantic gesture, hob is a sap and forgetful, human au, part text fic

for @domaystic drabbles, Day 6: Under the Same Umbrella

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Dream woke up to 26 texts from Hob. He put on his glasses and began his morning read. It’d replaced Times for him. The editorial quality, he thought, was far superior.

Hob (7:19 am) heading out, gave you a wee forehead kiss and you didn’t even stir. sleeping bloody beauty. love you disgustingly much x

Hob (7:26 am) couldn’t find my umbrella anywhere can you take a look if it’s not too much of a bother? feel like i’ve gone mad

Hob (7:30 am) christ it’s bucketing down!! standing under the eaves just to tell you how much it’s bucketing down

plants will be happy at least so will my goth boyfriend ;) hope your writing goes well today love. extra atmosphere!!

Hob (8:42 am) nevermind don’t look for it remembered that i left it in my office told johanna she can use it since i’m at the archives all day anyway glad i’m not the only one who’d forget their own head if it wasn’t screwed on :) :) :)

Hob (10:11 am) you should’ve seen the look lisa gave me when i showed up had to dry myself off in the men’s w half a forest of paper towels there goes my carbon offset from walking i said christ you’re probably still in bed asleep warm dry!! lucky bastard

wish i could come back already and drip puddles all over you

Hob (10:37 am) if this keeps up i’m going to look like mr darcy in the rain on your doorstep tonight don’t worry i promise not to propose marriage while insulting you xx although i do love you most ardently

...elizabeth

Dream smiled, read them all again, contemplated, and then sent his reply.

Dream (11:01 am) Sir, I appreciate the struggle you have been through

Hob replied moments later.

?? you sound like a customer service agent wait you’re quoting the film you can’t reject me if i’ve not proposed to you!! yet!!!

Dream snorted. 'and I am very sorry I have caused you pain' went the line. They’d watched it last weekend. Hob had cried, and Dream had privately decided that if Hob proposed, he’d say yes. Even if it was poorly done. It wouldn’t be, though. Not if Hob was doing it. He sent a second text.

...and I am very sorry you were drenched by rain.

Then he got out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen. His phone buzzed anew as he made tea and toast. He smiled at the sound. On their first date, Hob had warned Dream that he had a bad habit of annoying boyfriends over text. Dream, on his first date in six years, had wondered what it might be like to be so effusively charming that you could have enough boyfriends to form habits around them at all. He hadn’t known what to say, and Hob had ducked his head, grimacing a little, and said, “Just tell me to piss off, please, if I do? I know I can be a bit much.”

Dream believed it, because the man was telling him about his habits with boyfriends after one date. Not that he minded. And three months in, Dream had yet to tell him to piss off.

Turns out, a bit much was exactly what he’d wanted. Needed, in truth. Someone to tether him to the real world. His phone had become a modern-day lodestone in his pocket, a comforting pull of Hob-ness that would always point him back to life whenever he’d emerge, blinking and disoriented, out of the mire of his work. Work that he loved - creating worlds out of nothing, writing stories that would change people - but, coming on the age of thirty with nothing to show for it but recurring wrist strain and an upmarket flat that never had any guests, work that had also made him spend so much time apart from the rest of humanity that he was sometimes unsure how to rejoin it.

The tipping point had been when his eldest sister had found out that he hadn’t spoken to anyone else in between two of their regular dinners. Which were monthly. It had been mortifying. She’d smiled sadly, which was excruciating enough, and then gotten the gleam of a plan in her eyes, which had been far worse. “I’m setting you up,” she’d said. “I know just the guy. We go way back. I think you’ll like him.”

He had. Now, when his phone buzzed, he found himself frowning if it wasn’t Hob. (An exceedingly rare occasion.) But this time it was, of course. Four short messages sent one after the other:

hahahaha ok fine that was v good enjoy your day x

Five hours later, not even the curtain of rain awaiting him outside could douse the anticipation in his belly. An idea, he knew, was a powerful thing. Dream didn’t have an umbrella - Hob always shared with him, and would’ve apologetically nicked his if he had - so he would make the first leg of the journey as Hob did. He intended to go and get something nice, but once in the cold downpour, his resolve failed him almost at once, and he ducked into the first shop that had umbrellas in the window.

“Hiya,” said the girl at the counter without looking up from her phone.

Dream ignored her, blinking the rain out of his eyes, belatedly registering all the merchandise had a unifying theme and that he’d made a terrible mistake, borne of sheer desperation.

“Would you happen to have any other umbrellas? In black?” he asked. Hidden behind the counter, perhaps. If only you knew to ask.

The girl looked at him with an air of disbelieving reproval only accessible to teenagers and the very elderly. “You could try Boots, you know. It’s just down the street.”

Dream looked out the window. Rain torrented down. Commuters hurried past with their sensibly coloured umbrellas. From places exactly like Boots.

“Or we’ve got rain ponchos,” she added. It sounded like a threat.

“Nevermind,” said Dream quickly. “I’ll take it.”

“Enjoy your visit in London, sir,” she called out as he left.

He stepped outside and flicked open the umbrella with slightly more force than necessary.

Dream waited a few paces outside the archives, wanting to surprise Hob properly. Two separate pairs of tourists had thought he was their London Ghost Tours guide, and he was beginning to regret not holding out for longer, drenching be damned. Then Hob emerged, striding out and immediately stopping to pull out his phone. He was smiling at it. Dream smiled too, in anticipation.

A moment later his own phone buzzed loudly in his coat pocket, and Hob looked up in surprise.

“Oh my god,” he said. Then he said it again.

“I heard you needed an umbrella,” said Dream. He’d had the line already, since he got the idea. It had been very dashing and romantic in his head. It was somewhat undermined by the dreadful costuming choice that had been forced upon him.

Hob looked between Dream and the umbrella, bafflement melting into a happy laugh. He ducked underneath, pecking Dream on the lips. “I’m not sure I needed one quite this badly. Did you rob some poor tourist?”

“Unhappily, I paid for this.”

“Oh no,” said Hob, pulling away and pretending to inspect him for injury. “My poor darling. Your dignity.”

Dream sniffed. “I will recover.”

“Here,” said Hob. “I’ll carry it for you. You’ll only be guilty by association, then.”

They began walking, a bobbing Union Jack in a sea of blacks and greys. After the chief sin of ugliness, it was also a little small for two grown men, but Dream found he didn’t resent that at all, as Hob tucked him tightly into his side to keep them both dry. People gave them a wide berth. Tourists could never be trusted with umbrellas.

“You’ve rescued me, you know,” said Hob, nuzzling into his cheek.

“It wouldn’t do to have you dripping puddles all over the floors,” said Dream.

“Even if I looked terribly handsome, all wet and ardent?”

Dream bit his lip and smiled a little. “Perhaps you can be wet and ardent in the shower. Instead.”

Hob laughed again. It was Dream’s favourite sound. “Much warmer than the rain anyway. Deal.” Rain drummed down on their private nylon ceiling. “I was thinking chicken tikka masala for dinner?”

And so they made their way home, and although the rain never let up, Dream was so content and warm that he might’ve sworn they were walking in the sun.

#dreamling #domaystic2023 #this is DISTRESSINGLY sweet you've been warned #the sandman #three days in a row!#new record for actually doing a monthly prompt thing #continuing to just write about today's weather and call it a fic #my writing #the sandman fanfic

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incorrect-lord-of-the-rings · 2 years

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Ladies, if your man

Is blond

Is short

Can cook

Likes gardening (is in fact a gardener)

Wasn’t droppin’ no eaves

That’s not your man that’s Samwise Gamgee and he’s looking for Mr. Frodo because he got lost in a corn field

#lotr #lord of the rings #The Lord of the Rings #samwise gamgee

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frodo-with-glasses · 8 months

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#no art today; i have a headache #but this scene is the next one on my to-draw list and i figured i ought to post SOMETHING for you guys today X-D #samwise gamgee #gandalf #lord of the rings #lotr

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breannasfluff · 8 months

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Mud and Laughter

Today is a collaboration with artist @layraket Be sure to go check out their picture and reblog!

AO3 Link

Wild leans on his arm, one finger tapping on the wood sill. Outside the window, rain traces patterns on the glass. He taps in time with the drops.

The stairs squeak as Hyrule walks up to join him. “Watching the rain?”

“Mhmm.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Mmm.”

The traveler huffs a laugh and sits on the window seat next to him, knees pulled up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. Rain continues to patter on the roof and slide down the window.

“It’s peaceful here.”

Wild nods and finally pulls his attention away from the window. “Yeah. It’s nice to be home. It’s too bad Zelda isn’t around to meet everyone.”

“True. But you have a house to come home to.” Hyrule’s gaze is fixed somewhere past the rain and glass. “I wish I had a house like this.”

“Well, I had to chop a lot of wood to get it.” The attempt at humor pulls a smile from Hyrule’s lips. Wild opens his mouth, closes it, and tries again. “You could stay with me. When this is all over; if you want a home. I know your Hyrule isn’t…safe.”

Brilliant green eyes meet his. “You’d let me just move in with you?”

“Sure, why not? It’s too big for just me to knock around in here. Then I’d have someone to bother.” He nudges Hyrule’s leg.

“And someone to keep you from doing stupid stuff.”

“Oh no, I’m dragging you with me for the stupid ideas.”

Hyrule’s laughter is reminiscent of fairy chimes. “What about Zelda?”

“She’s planning the stupid stuff.”

They giggle and resettle on the window bench. “I’d like that,” Hyrule says. “I don’t think we’ll get a choice in the end, but…I’d like that. I hope Legend won't mind. Maybe he can come visit.”

Neither of them address the potential of being cut off from one another forever.

Wild snorts. “You don’t want to stay with Legend. Otherwise, you’ll have to listen to Ravio go on about how Mr. Hero is so amazing all day long.”

“And that,” Hyrule says, eyes gleaming, “is why I said he can visit.”

With a laugh, Wild turns back to the window. The glass is wavy, distorting the view slightly. It’s gray and wet; puddles taking up residence in his yard. The flowers are closed or bent with the weight of the water. It’s nice to be inside, cozy and dry. Especially when so many days on the road are spent in the rain against their wishes.

Still…it’s boring. Wild isn’t made to be cooped up in one place with nothing to do. Normally, if it rained when he was home he’d simply go out and get wet. Do some shopping. Maybe work on a hobby at the kitchen table. The rest of the Chain is taking up the free space in his house, though.

He sighs and leans his cheek against his knee, tracing the path of another raindrop down the window.

“Hey.” Hyrule's voice drops to the conspiratorial whisper he uses when he gets an idea. “How do you feel about getting wet?”

“I don’t mind, why?”

The smirk grows and Hyrule hops off the bench, reaching a hand to Wild. “Trust me.”

He puts his hand in the traveler’s, accepting the light squeeze and tug. They head down the stairs, wave at the boys relaxing around the table playing cards, and then Hyrule pulls them outside.

It’s warm out; warmer than expected. The scent of rain is strong; good dirt, plants drinking in water, and a slight breeze with a hint of the ocean from over the hill. Wild takes a deep breath, filling his lungs, and Hyrule copies him. They stand outside the door and under the eaves for a moment, just breathing.

Then, Hyrule is toeing off his boots. “Come on, take your shoes off!” Bemused, but willing to go along with it, Wild does. “Now, are you ready to have some fun?”

His excitement is infectious and the champion grins back at him. “Show me what you’re thinking!”

Hyrule pulls him out from under the eaves and into the side yard. “It’s time to get wet!”

The grass is slick under Wild’s bare feet and he digs his toes into the dirt on instinct. The traveler laughs and, still pulling him along, jumps into one of the puddles. Water splashes everywhere, soaking the champion’s lower legs.

“Hey!”

“Come on! It’s just water!”

Well, if that’s how he’s going to play it! Wild lets go of his hand so he can spin around. Finding another close puddle he jumps into it, stomping with both feet. Water sprays in an arc around him and Hyrule squeals, legs soaked.

Grabbing Hyrule’s hand, Wild yanks him along as they run through the rain-slicked grass. They share a glance and a grin before jumping into one of the larger puddles together. Water splashes and, joined by the rain, for an instant it’s nothing but warm liquid and the sound of laughter.

Then Hyrule slips on the mud under the water and, still holding onto Wild, goes down. The champion is yanked after him, landing fully in the puddle. He yanks himself up and shakes, sending wet hair flying. Then he glances at Hyrule.

The traveler took the brunt of the puddle on his face, along with a fair bit of mud. Wild snorts, then breaks into peals of laughter at the sight. “You are so dirty!”

“You—” Hyrule doesn’t have a good insult, but his grin is more akin to one of a villain as he scoops a handful of mud. It nails Wild in the middle of his chest.

Askance, the champion stares at the mud on his tunic, then back to Hyrule. The traveler freezes, laughter dying as he waits to see if he went too far.

Wild throws himself on top of Hyrule and they go down in another splash. Having the upper hand, the champion scoops mud and smears it on Hyrule.

“No! No! Not the face!”

Wild gets a nice streak across the traveler's brow. Hyrule retaliates with a muddy handprint on his cheek. They roll in the mud, finally landing in the grass, soaking wet and dirty. Time is going to have a fit when he sees them.

Still, Wild can’t find it in himself to mind. The air is clean and crisp. The rain lessened during their mud fight and a few rays of sunlight broke through the clouds. The grass shines around them, reflecting sunbeams.

Sighing, delighted with the exercise, Wild reaches out and grabs Hyrule’s hand. They lay together on their backs, staring up at the slowly clearing sky.

Soaking wet and covered in mud—Wild is hard-pressed to remember a time he was happier. Family has a way of making even the most mundane moments a shining memory.

#flufftober2023 #8-rainy day #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu flufftober #breannasfluff #mywriting #lu wild #lu hyrule #collaboration #artist: layraket

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perhaps-in-anotherdream · 8 months

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[CN] Victor’s R&S: Unknown Return Date (Eng Translation)

After all, in a world devoid of time, he wasn’t even allowed ‘death’.”

⌚ This post contains detailed spoilers for a R&S, 无所归期, that is yet to be released on the global server. ⌚

[Note]: The R&S covers the events from S2 CH 44 - CH 49, and contains crucial details inlaid with knives that set the premise for CH 49, so the R&S needs to be read before the chapter itself~ (⁠｡⁠ﾉ⁠ω⁠＼⁠｡⁠)❤️‍��

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

[Subbed Video: Fully Voiced]

youtube

──────────

Victor’s dialogue’s will be in bold and italics, and the others’ dialogues will be only in bold.

【Chapter 1】

As the curtain of evening hung low, the colorful lanterns adorning the eaves illuminated the entire lantern festival with brilliance.

Victor’s gaze swept to the end of the sea of people, where the girl’s form had just disappeared. He gazed in that direction for a long time, as if afraid that he would forget something. Eventually, he simply released a heavy sigh, and his breath transformed into a delicate white mist, veiling the barely perceptible hesitation in the corner of his eyes.

The time he had bought for himself by reaching an agreement with Zero is nearly up.

Throughout these two months, he did everything he could possibly think of, mapped out a long-term strategic plan for LFG, entrusted Souvenir to Mr. Mills... everything seemed to be perfectly arranged, except for her.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

Victor lowered his gaze to his wristwatch, where the hands quietly advanced to the next scale, wordlessly announcing the imminent moment. He hesitated for a moment before taking a tentative half-step forward, only to come to a standstill amidst the surging tide of people.

She had no inkling of what was to happen, and for now, it might not be a bad thing after all.

Sure enough, the black vortex appeared on time, and the sensation of space-time distortion enveloped him instantaneously. He turned sideways and stood there, watching quietly, with the vortex signifying the path he was soon to confront. When it came to the unknown, no one could remain entirely unshaken, but Victor displayed no hesitation and even leaned into it before the magnetic force set in.

He must ensure not to leave any room for error – this was a pledge he had made to himself in the deepest recesses of his heart.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

When Victor opened his eyes again, an endless white desert sprawled across his vision, commandeering every color under the sky.

“Now you’re finally being well-behaved.”

The fiery sun was beating down upon the crest of the sand dunes, where an oddly dressed little boy stood, gazing down at him from the height. Victor knitted his brows and turned his gaze to the boy who was waving at him. He felt as if he had met this little boy somewhere before.

“How about you just stick around here for now? You’ve got loads of time anyway.”

Without leaving Victor any chance to inquire, in the blink of an eye, the white sand dunes stood utterly empty.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

Victor glanced at the billowing sand and dust in the distance, and he fell into a brief moment of contemplation. The information obtained from the other party was far less than he had anticipated. But he didn’t remain paused in place for too long, turning around and heading toward the tallest nearby sand dune.

Climbing to the highest peaks in the world often serves as a fast track to gain a comprehensive understanding of the entire picture, a feeling he had known from experience countless times before. Even though, in his heart, he knew full well that there might not be any such thing as an “exit,” just like no one would leave the key to their shackles inside the cage.

Nevertheless, Victor knew he must return, not only for his sake but also to honor the promise he had made to her.

He was acutely aware of the girl’s nature, and Victor didn’t want himself to be the reason for her venturing into danger.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

Victor lifted his foot and stepped beneath the sand dune, and the soft sand instantly swallowed his lower leg. Yet he merely paused for a moment before his other foot stepped onto the sand dune in the same fashion, only this time he was a bit more careful.

As he stands now, he didn’t have the capacity to concern himself with these inconsequential matters. The sand dune at the top of his sightline was his singular focus right now.

And by the time this goal was achieved, Victor’s palms had long been ravaged by the swirling wind and stand. Nonetheless, he unconsciously furrowed his brows, as his bright pupils seemed to mirror some kind of non-committal fact——

The farthest end of the horizon still held an endless expanse of white.

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

【Chapter 2】

In the desert, there are several things that you’re prone to lose effortlessly: hydration, the perception to gauge distance, and the concept of time.

Victor was well aware of this fact, especially when he found himself in a barren desert. Losing the sense of time could plunge a person into a quagmire of emptiness, much like having one’s soul being trapped in the quicksand.

He could only silently engrave the feeling of time passing in his mind, and this was his way of combating this thing otherwise known as “deathly silence.” Yet, even so, his consciousness instinctively began to blur, and “time” gradually became a noun distant enough to be elusive.

The blistering gravel imprinted searing scars on his body, and the bone-crushing pain began to become numb, but Victor never once considered giving up. After all, in a world devoid of time, he wasn’t even allowed “death.”

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

This place was akin to an infinite cage, imprisoning him relentlessly within its bounds. After enduring this repetitive cycle for who knows how long, Victor drew two obvious conclusions. One of which was, this world wasn’t just composed of sand; it also held various peculiar objects.

There were vintage radios, sharp swords, casually discarded water cups... they lay quietly buried amidst the gravel, as if they were abandoned garbage left here by someone.

He glanced down at his own feet trapped in the sand. In this space, the way he was being treated was no different to theirs.

A fierce sandstorm blew in from afar, streaking pale traces of blood on his lips that had long been cracked.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

Victor cast a sidelong glance at the vortex behind him, and this was his second discovery. He wasn’t sure when it had materialized or what it symbolized. However, his intuition told him that he must not allow this vortex to catch up to him; otherwise, it could trigger events he was unable to predict.

The blazing sun shone on Victor’s face, and the dripping sweat had already soaked his clothes countless times. His toes forcefully lifted from the scalding sand, only to plunge heavily into even deeper gravel. Even though every step demanded his entire strength, Victor continued pressing on relentlessly, heading toward the next sand dune in search of a way out.

At this moment, he had lost all scales of time, and no matter how deep his footprints sunk, their trails would eventually be obliterated without a trace beneath the veil of shifting wind and sand.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

The scorching sun continued to burn, and his pace gradually became sluggish. Beads of sweat constantly dripping from his forehead blurred his vision. Layer upon layer of memories projected before him like a kaleidoscope, occasionally flashing dribs and drabs of moments spent with the girl, only to disappear in the blink of an eye. He relied on the physical pain to remind himself that everything before him was merely a prolonged tug-of-war.

Yet another sand dune, and he climbed to its summit once again.

The distant landscape showed no signs of change, and it was still an endless expanse of white. He silently gazed up at the sky, feeling as though his body had been frozen in place by some force. A sentence floated to his mind, “Eternity is the greatest adversary of plans, not fleeting moments.”

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

But this “long-term failure” was also destined to be solved by long-term means.

Victor felt the willpower he had been holding onto for so long quietly slipping away beyond his control, accompanied by sweat blurring his vision. He drew a deep breath, planning to take a short break and trying to regain some physical strength.

This was the first time he had stopped in his footsteps, and he came to regret it soon enough.

When he woke up again, what greeted him was the scenery of Loveland City projected in the sky, the sights that he couldn’t be more familiar with.

His throat quivered slightly, and the sensation of being torn apart coursing throughout his body rendered him unable to move. He was left with no choice but to silently gaze at the sky.

–

[Tidbits]: Taking a break b/c I just want to commend Li Zeyan’s writers for such microscopic attention to detail. The long-term failure, though there’s no need to explain it but I love how it’s a clever call back to the exact phrase (长远的失败) from S2 CH 31, when we first saw the “oblivion” taking effect! (T⌓T)

–

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

Even though Victor clearly knew the difference between reality and illusion, even though he was aware it was a fleeting glimmer of light not worthy of clinging to, he still couldn’t help but pause, even if it was for only a moment. Victor couldn’t help but self-derisively smile at himself— that he would actually be distracted by such a thing.

Nevertheless, the scenery before his eyes etched an indelible mark in his heart, and at the end of that crevice was her image. Within an instant, the moments of the past gradually faded from his mind, reminiscent of sand dunes drying out in the wind.

The girl’s silhouette kept appearing in his mind, and it was both vivid and hazy. At the same time, another question occupied his thoughts.

She... who was she?

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

【Chapter 3】

He gave a reflexive nod when the girl offered to purchase some things for him while they were taking a break.

He couldn’t fathom where this natural acceptance had come from, as if everything was inherently meant to be this way.

The girl had also given him a name, “Vic-Vic.” Even though he was somewhat reluctant to accept it, compared to that peculiar name “Mr. Benevolent Enigma,” “Vic-Vic” always sounded nicer to hear.

And what’s more, this name evoked an indescribable sense of familiarity within him.

Until now, he never felt a need for anything. After all, in his memory, the concept of “possession” had never appeared.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

But as he thought back to how that tireless girl joyfully gave him nicknames and passionately introduced the city, he didn’t find it displeasing. On the contrary, it was the girl’s occasional daring and imaginative actions that made him irresistibly pay more attention to this person who had suddenly appeared before him.

He shook his head, catching a glimpse of the girl’s busy figure through the store window. Toothbrushes, pajamas, even socks and razors... she didn’t leave anything out, stuffing her shopping basket to the brim.

The corners of his lips formed a subtle curve. It seemed that just by looking at her, an entirely novel emotion surged up in the depths of his heart, something he’d never known before.

Even he himself couldn’t put a finger on the reason; this girl always seemed so magical–– miraculously, she brought him out of that place, and miraculously, he was allowed to embrace “life” once more.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

He turned his head, taking in his surroundings. Mottled branches were sprouting tender, jade-green buds, and the area was crowded with people in a rush.

Thump– thump––

Suddenly, the crisp sound of a soccer ball drew his attention.

It was a very young boy, appearing to be at the age of having started elementary school recently.

The boy was exerting himself to swing the soccer ball under his feet, but his amateurish footwork denoted that he was still relatively unaccustomed to instep control.

If he keeps up with this level of force, the next kick will probably send the ball flying out— Victor subconsciously made this assessment to himself.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

Sure enough, as the boy’s toe tapped the soccer ball, an overly vigorous pull at that instant caused his body to lose its natural balance. The ball, previously under control, drew a distant arc through the air following his touch, flying directly toward the middle of the road.

“Ah, my ball!”

As the soccer ball soared toward the center of the road, the boy could only stand there with his mouth agape, helplessly watching it move farther away from him.

“Stopping a ball like this might not be that hard for you.”

As this thought suddenly crossed his mind, Victor’s body reacted as if by reflex.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

He nimbly chested the ball in front of him, and then his thighs moved up and down in fluid and graceful movements as he steadily controlled the soccer ball at his feet.

“Here you go.”

He gently passed the ball back.

But the young boy simply froze in place after he caught the ball.

“Whoa! I actually kicked a ball that had a curve! That’s so cool! I have to show everyone!”

The young boy excitedly ran off while hugging the ball in his arms. But Victor simply remained rooted in place, gazing in the direction the little boy dashed.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

It was a small park. There were swings, seesaws, a slide, and a sandbox teeming with children. Tiny little figures huddled in the sandbox, crafting a multitude of unique sand formations using their shovels and imagination.

He found himself taking steps toward the sandbox. He couldn’t explain why; he just felt like he was following some sort of subconscious judgment. He squatted down and scooped up a handful of fine sand from the sandbox. The solid, fine grains slowly trickled through his fingers, creating a tiny cascade of sand in the air.

He kept his eyes downcast and watched in silence like this— until the reflection of fine sand in his eyes unexpectedly rendered him somewhat lost in thought.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

In a certain sense, his world had once been nothing but a boundless expanse of sand and illusory goals. He had grown accustomed to silence, accustomed to facing the future with action, and had never once considered stopping. But now, for the first time, he felt the urge to pause, as if the surging tide of time had unexpectedly encountered a minute moment of stillness.

Suddenly, the girl’s shout reached him from a distance, akin to a gently turned gear, propelling his time forward with force.

Everything felt so strangely familiar, as if he had already lived through all this before. But he knew for sure that he had never been through any of this in the past. Even so, in this moment, this sweeping sensation, reminiscent of a tidal wave, bestowed upon him something he had never had before.

“Memories.”

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

【Chapter 4】

Countless shimmering starlight danced on the floor, and underneath the gigantic clock face, two small chairs were placed. It left one wondering whether it was a courtesy to welcome guests or the setting for some sort of interrogation.

This is the place the man named Zero brought him to.

“Victor, I think it’s been a while since we’ve had a chat like this.”

...Victor.

He silently repeated this name to himself, which felt unfamiliar yet familiar at the same time, and sunk into a sudden contemplation.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

Even though there was no indication that he had found the answers to his questions, it didn’t matter at the moment; the clues were already laid out before him.

Seemingly picking up on the wariness in Victor’s eyes, Zero attempted to change the topic.

“You seem to be much more cautious than the last time we met.”

“Is that so?”

“However, apart from caution, I also see something else in your eyes.”

“Unknown.”

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

The stifling air reverberated in the space as the two locked eyes, each seemingly filled with an element of probing.

Zero carried on with his line of words, as if he didn’t intend to give Victor too much time to ponder.

“I hope this doesn’t affect the deal between us.”

Faced with Zero’s words, Victor had no plans to hide anything. He slightly straightened his posture, and his gaze held no sign of evasion.

“You should know very well that currently, I have no idea what the deal you’re talking about is.”

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

In Zero’s probing and evaluative gaze, Victor gleaned certainty and confirmed his conjecture.

During the brief, tense silence, Zero lifted his gaze, but his eyes were sharper than they had been moments ago.

“But that won’t have any impact.”

He paused,

“For the Space-Time Bureau, the existence of ‘Victor’ in and of itself is enough.”

“Since you can use your Evol, it won’t hinder the normal progress of the plan.”

Victor never broke his eye contact with Zero. He was well aware that what the other party had revealed was merely the information he wanted Victor to know, and what he was purposely holding back was the crucial point.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

In any case, he had to find a breakthrough in the conversation. Suddenly, something flashed in his memory: the girl’s astonished expression the moment she saw Zero. Did she also know this person? He firmly held onto this seemingly inconspicuous lead, and a notion sprang to his mind.

It’s highly likely that his existence is connected to Loveland City.

Victor pondered for a moment, and his mind had already formulated the next strategy.

“Tell me about the deal you mentioned.”

“You have to use your ability to bridge the gaps in time.”

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

“You have my word.”

Victor’s sudden lightning-speed response caught Zero off guard.

“However, I too have my own conditions.”

Victor straightened his posture and cast his gaze toward the doorway. He was taking a gamble, betting that Zero wouldn’t dare to let him walk out of here, betting on his own importance in this deal. And he won the gamble.

It seemed as if Victor had Zero’s lifeline firmly in his hands, and Zero’s expression gradually began to sink:

“What do you want to know?”

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

“The execution of the deal will depend on what you’re willing to offer in exchange.”

Victor cast a sidelong glance at Zero, then sat back down in the seat opposite Zero and lifted his head.

“I want to know everything about myself.”

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

【Chapter 5】

The corridor was silent, and it was so spacious that it felt like observing the infinite expanse of deep space with the naked eye.

Aside from the darkness of the faraway cosmos, nothing else could be seen. The clear and crisp footsteps echoed from afar, reminiscent of a tiny speck of light descending from the distant starry sky.

Victor came to a halt at the entrance of the Space-Time Bureau, and the doors behind him silently opened.

“Remember, do not try to use your ability to probe time.”

“After all, your existence itself is already wrongly placed. At least, that’s what it appears for now.”

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

Victor lowered his gaze in acquiescence, while his feet had already taken a step forward. He had already been delayed here for too long.

Although during this time at the Space-Time Bureau, he had finally managed to find some leads in his quest for finding himself, it was far from enough. He had never forgotten everything that happened in the disordered space, and that voice still echoed in his mind.

Move forward, and then go find her.

The girl’s visage appeared before him once again. He wasn’t sure if it was a hint of some sort or simply a lingering imprint of his own thoughts. Nonetheless, he had already firmly decided on his next destination: Loveland City.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

When Victor returned to Loveland City again, he found himself standing on a bustling street teeming with vehicles and pedestrians.

The hurrying crowd brushed past him. Just like before, everyone was oblivious to his existence. He took a step forward and blended into the stream of people, heading in the direction he had planned. It was all thanks to the girl’s incessant chatter back then, which had left him with enough clues.

“Next stop: Loveland City Center.”

Victor remained silently in place, not letting a single passing figure escape his gaze. The days continued to follow the nights, but the girl still hadn’t shown up. He brushed off his shoulders, dampened by the drizzle, and proceeded toward his next destination. Loveland City wasn’t that big, at least not as vast as the desert he had walked through.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

In the garden of the central hospital, the setting sun beneath the distant overpass... and in the park where the stars adorned the sky time and time again.

These were all the places mentioned by the girl, but Victor still hadn’t found a trace of her.

Victor always kept thinking back to the girl’s chirping, her excited manner as she introduced these places to him, and how she would insistently clamor to have him experience them fully – and the way her eyes overflowed with sparkles when she spoke.

Victor couldn’t help but lift the corners of his lips. He had etched these seemingly insignificant memories into his mind without missing a single detail, and it was through them that he had solidified his next goal.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

A lofty building stood in the distance.

“Loveland Financial Group (LFG).”

He quietly murmured the signage in front of him, recalling what the girl had previously mentioned about her connection to this company.

What appeared to be a vague hint now held a substantial hint. “If you go there, you should be able to see her.”

With this thought, Victor took a step forward, leaving the bustling crowd behind him.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈

Clack, clack, clack.

His ears caught the hurried rhythm of footsteps, contrasting with the composed demeanor of the other people in the hall. Victor instinctively lifted his head, and in a trance, he caught sight of that familiar figure.

His time, which had been suspended, resumed its flow forward in this very moment.

──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

[Translation Update Notice]

—

#kid you not when i say the R&S got me staring into the space for two nights straight lmao LZY writers how do y'all write knives like this #LIKE MAN HOW DO YOU GUYS FIND NEW WAYS TO MAKE IT EVEN CRUELER THAN IT ALREADY COULDN'T BE //#we've got another 10K years incoming no biggie hahaha and the mental images are literally fcking killing me #༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽༼⁠;⁠´⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠۝ ⁠༎ຶ⁠༽#mlqc victor #mlqc li zeyan #mlqc #mr love victor #mr love queen's choice #恋与制作人 #李泽言 #love and producer #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc translations

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gogandmagog · 1 month

Note

I really hope you’ll write Peter Pan in Rainbow Valley! You’re the most qualified to match Barrie’s and Montgomery’s respective tones, all your fics are very whimsical and funny. I’d LOVE to read it.

Lol! Oh, thank youuu. That’s so nice! 🥹 And just so you know, I’m really happy to have another J.M. Barrie mutual, I feel like we’re kind of thin on the ground on tumblr. I follow all his tags here, and they’re so rarely added to.

I like half drafted an outline on this, and will keep it in the future-maybe-someday file for ‘fics that want to be written,’ but it’s a real purgatory over there, if I’m being honest. But outlining it has admittedly taken zero effort, because these two stories almost seem meant to be joined. We know Maud was a huge fan of J.M. Barrie, and by extension of Peter and Wendy… and I’ve long personally thought that it was beyond pure coincidence that ‘James Matthew Blythe’ is so similar in name to ‘James Matthew Barrie’… but even Rainbow Valley (place not book), which is kind of this liminal space between fairyland and reality, sacred to childhood and play, has some existing Neverlandness about it already built in. And then there’s these compelling similarities between Mrs. Darling and Mrs. Anne Blythe as well; both charming mothers, both adult advocates for/in/of imagination, and both wonderful storytellers (Peter lingers around the eaves of the Darlings Bloomsbury home to hear her stories) that are devotedly loved by their husbands and children. But for me, I think it's a huge (the hugest) point of interest to loop in Walter, who saw the Piper, like really really saw him, in Rainbow Valley. How easy it would be to kick out the German Pied Piper and drawn in Peter Pan and his flute, instead… two characters who are already deeply linked by folklore. Elsewhere, if the Jolly Roger, did take a wrong star and run aground in the Rainbow Valley brook, it’s just asking to have the suspended-in-time Neverland pirates be familiar with Captain Jim and maybe Lost Margaret, from bygone Life-Book days. I’d even give Shirley a boyish thimble-passing romance with Tiger Lily, the same way I’ve always wanted to see him paired off with a Mi’kmaq girl. Aunt Mary Maria’s hand also shoots right up for the doubling Hook-ish authoritarian/‘grow up already’/take-all-the-fun-away role (Gilbert would never suit it the way Mr. Darling did). But anyway! With all this low hanging fruit, it’d seriously be so simple to neatly tuck these two books into each other at every corner. It’s really all right there.

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retroactivebakeries · 24 days

Text

catboys, guns, and money. werewolfgirls in london. desperadogirls under the eaves. I think i’ve got something here. one of you get mr zevon on the phone

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eleanor-bradstreet · 6 months

Text

Let Me Be Your Anchor

Chapter 7: Aubrey Hall

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett An Offer from a Gentleman reimagined Chapter rating: G Word count: 3k

Masterpost Previous chapter Next chapter

The carriage ride to Aubrey Hall passed quietly. Sophie admired the beautiful landscapes of Kent as they trundled along. Every few minutes she glanced over to Benedict to indeed make sure he was still breathing, but he slept soundly for the whole ride, his face pale but peaceful. It was over two hours, just when Sophie was beginning to wonder how much farther they would travel, when the carriage rounded a copse of trees and the grounds of Aubrey Hall spread before her.

Her breath caught in her throat. The house was massive, built of warm brown stone with pillars and rounded turrets. The lawns were dotted with color - pinks, blues, purples - well-tended flower gardens that leant the home a cheery air despite its imposing size. It was grander than any of the houses Sophie had worked in, and settled on an estate that she suspected was as large or larger than the Penwood’s.

When the carriage crunched onto the stones of the drive, Benedict stirred awake. They reached the house and Sophie hopped out, letting the footmen support Benedict as he staggered toward the door. A well dressed man with a grey beard appeared and Sophie watched them have a hushed conversation before Benedict clapped him on the shoulder and allowed himself to be led out of sight.

The bearded man turned to Sophie with the same undeniable look of confusion as the footmen, but he gave her a warm smile nonetheless. “Miss Beckett, I am Mr. Dewitt, the Viscount’s steward.”

Sophie returned a small curtsy, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dewitt.”

“I understand you have been of assistance to Mr. Bridgerton and he is employing you as his nurse.”

Sophie nodded, “Only until he is well. We were caught in the rain last night and he needs to recover. I expect I shall only be here a few days.” She knew she was reminding herself of that, as much as she was explaining it to him. “I am experienced as a housemaid as well so please, I am here to help however is needed.”

Mr. Dewitt remained quizzical. “Very well. I shall introduce you to Mrs. Wiggin who is our cook, but also serves as housekeeper during the season. We are not fully staffed when the family is not in residence, you understand. She shall show you to your quarters.”

“Thank you,” Sophie bowed her head and followed him inside.

Mrs. Wiggin met them at the top of the servants’ stairs. A rosy cheeked, curly haired woman, she greeted Sophie politely if somewhat curtly and showed her to a room downstairs. It was a cozy space with plenty of room to move about and a soft mattress. It was a far cry from the cramped eaves she had lived in with Araminta, Cavender, and her other various employers where the hard beds were little more than shelves. Even though she was still a maid and not a princess, everything about Aubrey Hall made her feel like she had stepped into a fairytale.

Then Mrs. Wiggin took her on a tour of the house. She was led through the dizzying downstairs maze of kitchens, butler’s pantry, store rooms and servants’ quarters, then the ground level of the house with one gorgeously appointed room after another. The marbled entry way, the long halls hung with gilded portraits and elaborate tapestries, room after room of pale blue, cream, yellow, and gold walls and furnishings. The silk upholstered drawing rooms, the expansive ballroom, the well lit dining room, the warm wooden library, all breathtakingly elegant. But still the feeling persisted that this was not just an impressive stately home, but one that was well loved and well lived in. It was evident in the worn spines of the books, the chips in the corners of tables, and the trinkets that decorated the shelves - pinecones, a bowl of small stones, a crudely carved four legged animal of indecipherable species. This home sheltered a family and had seen laughter and memories.

Mrs. Wiggin led her into the grounds as well, pointing out the kitchen garden, rose garden, stables and orangery building. She also pointed into the distance, explaining that the estate held acres of forest, several ponds and a lake. Lastly, she led Sophie back inside and up to the wings of the second floor. She didn’t open any doors but pointed out the many bedrooms for family and guests, ending on Benedict’s bedroom door which was positioned in a corner of the hall.

“You can check in on Mr. Bridgerton after you’ve washed and had some luncheon,” she stated as an order rather than a suggestion. Everything about her demeanor was flustered as Sophie followed her back downstairs. No wonder, Sophie acknowledged, with this enormous house to run plus meals to cook, even with a handful of staff in residence it seemed an overwhelming job. She was sure the last thing Mrs. Wiggin had time for was to tend to a strange visiting maid.

Sophie bathed in the servant womens’ washroom, grateful for the warm water and the ability to slough away the memory of Cavender’s hands, the freezing rain, and her long journey. She had one change of clothes in her bag but Mrs. Wiggin found her a maid’s dress in the house colors, a lavender purple. It was slightly too large but she cinched it at the waist with an apron until it looked made for her.

Over lunch in the servants’ dining room she was introduced to the staff: the groundskeeper, the stableboy, two housemaids Lizzie and Anne, and the two footmen who had traveled with her, Joseph and Finian. Mrs. Wiggin bustled around them, doling out portions of roast vegetables and cold meats. She sent Finian to bring trays to Benedict and Mr. Dewitt before finally settling at the table herself. Everyone greeted her politely but Sophie noted how they also regarded her with some degree of curiosity or suspicion. Lizzie was the only one who spoke to her and seemed to want to make friends. They talked about the homes they had worked in before, though Sophie left out the details of her time with Cavender. Lizzie asked about Benedict and Sophie generalized that he had offered her a ride to the village for errands before they were caught in the rain and he had fallen ill.

The housemaid Anne stared moodily at her as she spoke, scowling with evident jealousy. Sophie shouldn’t have been surprised. Benedict was a devastatingly handsome and charming man, as were all of the Bridgerton men. It was well reported by Lady Whistledown and she had seen them herself at the masque years ago. It must have been torturous working for such a family, seeing them move through their life of privilege and beauty, shining like ideal humans, feeling the chasm of the class divide between you, even when you lived in the same home.

Conversely, Lizzie was enthralled by her story of the rainy night on horseback and carriage ride from the inn. Sophie stated facts only, not mentioning her night spent caring for Benedict through his fever, or the maelstrom of emotions she had been enduring. She liked Lizzie but it was pointless to get too close when she would be leaving in just a few days. She ended the conversation by insisting that she needed to check on Benedict.

She stole into the adjacent kitchen and perused the cabinets and shelves for herbs. Finding them amply stocked, she brewed a pot of medicinal tea, fixed a tray and then headed upstairs through the servants’ passages. She had worked as a maid long enough to become quite adept at memorizing floor plans quickly. One had to if they were to succeed as a servant. She found her way to Benedict’s room and rapped at his door softly.

A muffled “Come in,” replied and she let herself inside. Sophie had seen entire family rooms smaller than Benedict’s bedroom. Adorned as always in cream and pale blue, it was furnished with polished dark wood furniture and every inch of the walls was hung with a framed painting or pinned piece of parchment, splashed with color or a charcoal sketch. It was messy, eccentric, making it clear that its occupant was possessed more by his passions than any desire for tidiness. In the four poster bed lay Benedict, propped against a sea of pillows. He was still pale and weak looking with dark circles under his eyes, but he was resting a sketchbook on his knees and setting down a charcoal pen as Sophie entered.

He looked up at her and grinned, “Ah, there you are,” he croaked. “I was worried you had gotten lost or forgotten about me.”

“Hello, Mr. Bridgerton,” she smirked at him, setting the tea tray down on the bedside table. “How are you feeling?”

“Eh,” he shrugged. “I think I’ll live.”

She shook her head, smiled, poured a cup and handed it to him. “I made you some tea.”

He took it and she pulled a chair from the writing desk to sit near the bed. He sniffed the cup curiously. “It’s an odd recipe,” she admitted. “But one that has always helped me when I am feeling ill. Spearmint, juniper, and orange.”

He shot her another crooked grin. “And you said you weren’t a nurse.” He took a tentative sip, raised an eyebrow, then took a full gulp. “It’s very good Miss Beckett, thank you.”

Sophie blushed. Now what was she supposed to do? He seemed perfectly well taken care of with the footmen helping him around and bringing him meals. He was no longer running a fever. So what precisely was she supposed to do to help him recover?

Thankfully, he came up with something to say before she was forced to. “How do you like the house?” he asked.

“It’s magnificent,” she sighed, probably letting too much emotion leak into her voice. “The most beautiful home I have worked in.”

He nodded as if he had heard similar sentiments before. Sophie didn’t want him to think she was only flattering him, so she continued. “Truly,” she held his gaze. “I can tell that these walls have seen many happy memories, which is rarer than you’d think.”

Benedict stared back at her, caught off guard. This maid had a perceptiveness and frankness that was unusual and admittedly engaging. She was right of course, that Aubrey Hall had seen many years of happiness: scores of births, celebrations, holidays. It was where all of his siblings had spent their childhoods and where his mother and father had been happiest. It was where his father had lifted him onto his shoulders and read to him from his favorite books. It was where Benedict had learned to hunt and ride and fence alongside Anthony, and where he had raced down the halls after his siblings, giggling as pranks were pulled and good natured roughhousing broke out. It was where he had his first chaste kiss with a girl whose name he forgot, outside during a country ball hosted by his family, and where he had first started sketching, capturing flowers in the gardens.

What Sophie didn’t know was that it had also been the site of the worst tragedy to befall his family. That the walls had seen the screams and tears of his mother and his siblings when his father had died, yards away on the front lawn. That as a teenager, he had been solely responsible for all five of his younger siblings in the weeks that followed while Anthony struggled through a rapid education in handling business as the new viscount, and his mother had all but disappeared into her grief. That the halls had echoed with his mother’s wailing and Daphne’s haunting singing when Hyacinth was born on a thunderous night while he had rocked tiny Gregory in his arms for hours, wondering if they would still have a mother when the sun rose.

He blinked to stop the chain of his darkest memories, grateful that they were only in his mind and not evident in the house as Sophie had seen it. “I’m glad you like it here,” he said softly, and took another sip of tea.

Sophie’s eyes wandered around the room, taking in the showcase of art on the walls. Mostly landscapes, but a few portraits and figure studies as well. Had he made them? She thought she could see small squiggles in the corners that certainly looked like two Bs. Then there was the sketchbook in his lap. She’d never dreamed that he was an artist. She remembered on the night of the masquerade he had mentioned going to Europe to see the works of masters, but she had assumed it was an appreciation only, not a study he engaged in himself. It seemed appropriate that the man who had captivated her for years with the beauty of his demeanor and his words would be someone that captured the beauty of the world in art.

She asked the obvious. “Do you draw, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He leaned forward, closing the sketchbook and tossing it aside on the bed. “Eh, it’s just a hobby.”

Sophie could sense there was more he wasn’t saying. She looked around the room again. “These are quite good. I imagine you could be a great artist.”

Benedict chewed the corner of his lip, furrowing his brow. “I thought so too once.” he sighed. “I even went to the Royal Academy. But…” he shook his head, staring into the distance. “I was fooling myself. Reaching beyond my capacity.”

No one had spoken to him about his art in years since he had stopped pursuing it as a formal career. Not any of his friends, not even Eloise or Anthony, his two closest siblings and greatest supporters. Once he had told them he was leaving the Academy, they hadn’t asked him about his artistic ambitions again. Maybe they were just trying to avoid upsetting him, or maybe they had enough going on in their own lives to pay much attention to him. Either way, he was touched that someone was showing an interest, even if Sophie was just being polite.

“Now my art is just for me. Just doodles really.” His lips pulled into a thin line, putting an end to her questioning. He asked about her instead, trying to lift his mood, “Do you enjoy art?”

“Oh, yes,” Sophie’s face lit up, then she seemed to pull back into herself. “Of course, I know nothing of the process or even who the artists are, but I admire it very much.”

Benedict’s shimmering blue eyes stared into hers, encouraging her to continue. “Landscapes especially,” she smiled. “Some of them just open up and invite me to stand within them. Though I might be scrubbing the floor or dusting a table nearby, my mind can be somewhere else entirely. In my position there is so much work to do that there isn’t much time for reading. But the paintings are always there, ready to take me to other places.” She realized she was staring off dreamily, imagining her favorite painting in her father’s country home - an expansive landscape of an autumnal field, warm with auburn and golden tones.

After a beat of silence, she snapped back to herself, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I’ve talked too much.” She had been rambling, daydreaming out loud. She had to remember her place. But that was hard to do with this man, the one member of the ton who had treated her, if only for their brief interactions, as an equal.

Benedict shook his head. In truth, he had been holding his breath as she spoke, realizing that she saw landscapes in the same manner as he did. Not as mere ornamentation on a wall, but as doorways to other worlds. Again, he didn’t know how this maid had become so insightful and eloquent. “Do not stifle yourself on my account. I find you rather…” He paused, obviously searching for the correct word. “Refreshing.”

“Oh,” Sophie blinked. “Thank you.” Her heart started to beat faster. She hoped that she was only an interesting curiosity to him, not anything more. They couldn’t be drawn any closer to each other or she wouldn’t be able to bear it. She would care for him for a few short days and once he was well, she would take her earnings and leave, sparing herself a heart broken by the impossible barriers between them.

Benedict suddenly perked up. “Would you like to read?” His eyes were so gentle they made her quiver inside. “To me?”

“Sir?” she asked.

“While I’m confined to this bed I feel I may go mad with boredom.” She could sense that he was intentionally rasping his voice again. He laid back on the pillows, jutting out his lip in an exaggerated frown.

Sophie smirked, realizing Benedict had probably gotten everything he had ever asked for by pulling a face like the cheeky devil and charmer that he was. “Very well,” she said, standing up. “What would you like me to read?”

“Oh, anything,” he said with a blithe wave of his hand.

Sophie moved to the bookcase and surveyed the titles. “Poetry?”

“Splendid.”

She pulled out two volumes and held them up for him to see. “Byron?” she asked. “Blake?”

“Blake.” he said quite firmly. An hour’s worth of Byron’s romantic drivel would probably send him quite over the edge. She placed the slim volume of Byron back on the shelf and returned to her chair.

For over an hour she read to him, verbalizing Blake’s verse with what she hoped was an appropriate cadence. Benedict leaned back against the pillows and finished the pot of tea, his gaze far off as he listened. By the time she had read through half of the book, she looked up to find him nodding off, fighting to keep his eyes open.

“You should sleep,” she said softly, setting the book on her chair and collecting the tea service from the bedside.

He attempted to say, ‘Thank you, Sophie,’ but was already half-asleep so she heard “Mmmm, Sophie.” She caught her breath, savoring the sound of her name on his lips. As he slipped back into unconsciousness she snuck out of his room as quietly as she could, a wide smile on her face.

Tagging: @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @eg-dr3amer3 @time-to-hit-the-clouds @lyta2323 @autumn-grace @sadprose-auroras @the-other-art-blog @goldrambutan @colettebronte @heeyyyou @musicismyoxygen84 @faye-tale @ambitionspassionscoffee @starchaser325 @malna4903 @sincere-sarcasm @kmc1989

#let me be your anchor #an offer from a gentleman #benedict bridgerton x sophie beckett #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #sophie beckett fanfiction #benophie #benophie fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #sophie beckett #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #head canon

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rockingrobin69 · 9 months

Text

Perpetual motion, golden-bright

(1234 words, also on AO3)

Autumn came early that year; drizzling droplets of amber and ruby, sprouting golden and bright-yellow-green in the shrubs around their building. Outside the windows of their little flat the world was shaking, wet-dogged-like before an exhale: ready, ready. Draco wasn’t. Stirring a cup that might have gone cold, staring at the one branch of reddening leaves sway with the wind.

A shuffle: at the kitchen door, impossibly lovely, sleep-crusted face scrunched on a frown. Harry, in his old jumper and boxer shorts, in, infuriatingly, only one sock. All at once it rushed in Draco’s belly, gushing and tight: affection so large it barely even fit, surging hot and fierce right through him.

“What are you doing,” Harry grumbled, “out of bed?” coming to collect him, two arms wrapped around his waist. Forgot to put on his house coat, forgot he was cold. Forgot that this was breathing, in, out, with the guiding rhythm of Harry’s chest.

“The appointment,” he remembered to say. “It’s, we don’t have much time. To prepare.”

“What’s there to prepare?” a huff of a laugh, warm and slightly moist on the back of his neck. “You ridiculous creature. It’s not even seven.”

“And we need to be there by ten,” admonishing, but gently. “I have your clothes ready.”

“Do you.”

“With a tie, and so help me, you’ll wear it. We need to make a good—impression. If we want…” a helpless look up and then down to the floor. Colour rising high on his cheeks, warm-warm and telling.

“Darling,” Harry breathed. Pressed a small kiss to the back of his head. “It’s going to be fine.”

“But what if—” turning in his arms so he could valiantly—no, hide in the crook of his neck: “What if it goes wrong.” The problem, as always, was jumping ahead of himself; the problem was he was already in love with the place. With the ivy on the walls and the copse of trees at the back, with the window that looked out onto the burn and a faint, persistent smell of lavender that lingered in the eaves. That it could be theirs, this little dream. Draco’s never allowed himself…

Gentle fingers in his hair; his eyes closed on their own. “Nothing’s going to go wrong. We’ll get the loan approved, and the house is ours. Mrs. Tinsberry said—”

“I know,” tightly. “I know what she said.” Heard himself swallow under the rustling of the wind. “It’s only, I can’t help but think—” the words jagged in his throat: “I wasn’t meant for such loveliness.”

His parents’ estate with its neat garden, rigid, clean rows of perfect blossoms; rooms that were so scared to move even their air froze still, beautiful things that were to be looked at and never-ever touched. Straight-backed chairs and tall, lean windows that offered magnificent, manicured views of a world that wasn’t real, never could be. And Draco inside it, so frightened to breathe too loudly or speak at the wrong turn or make the slightest deviation, the most miniature of mistakes, and ruin everything.

Had ruined everything. Should not be rewarded for cowardice or for cruelty. And the little house on the burn with its wilderness of a garden, with its crooked corridors and bright curtains and wonky chimney, with its nooks and cheerful cabinets and tiny attic, it was—it was perfect, and not for him. For Harry, yes, with someone good and beautiful and sweet, someone who could keep him safe and take care of him the way he deserved. For… the words stung in his chest: for Harry and his family.

Resolutely: “I—” but he wasn’t ready for those green eyes, for the look that went all the way from his lip (trembling) to his nose (sniffling) to his eyebrows (frowning) to his forehead (scrunched).

“Draco,” Harry said, “you idiot,” and proceeded to crush him so tightly it robbed him of air, of reason. Draco let himself melt into the embrace the way he always did, and forgot what was still crushing in his windpipe.

(Read more on AO3 or under the cut)

Harry’s hand on his chin—fought it on instinct and lost. Gulped a bit, miserably, at the determination on Harry’s face. “Silly creature,” he said in a thick voice. “You deserve all the loveliness. You—no, you absolute goose, look at me. This is our life now. You and me, do you hear? We’ll get the house and we’ll be so fucking happy in it, together, and I won’t—I’ll never let you forget just how much loveliness you deserve. Draco, it’s all of it.”

Whimpered, fought to be released, to bury his face in Harry’s jumper and never have to see him again, pretend he didn’t hear the words. In his heart he knew he’ll ruin this too, ruin anything good, and also, in his heart, he knew this: Harry won’t let him. Insufferable Harry, brave and generous and too kind, stupid and loving and gorgeous and soft.

Draco shook, and the smell of the jumper (lemony-sweet and wool) and the warmth of Harry’s skin seeping from under it and the pinch of cold air on his exposed shoulders—this early morning and all of it, all of it, stuffed so tight and humming, incessant, relentless.

“All right,” he surrendered, as always, “all right, enough. We have to—Harry, let go, we have to get ready. The car! We need to pack the car. And the biscuits still need to go in the oven. Please, darling, I have to do this or I’ll drive myself crazy.”

“Er,” Harry grinned. “Crazier.” But he petted Draco’s cheek, once, and took a step back. “You’ve made more biscuits.”

It wasn’t a question. Draco still answered, “Mrs. Tinsberry seemed to like them.”

Laughing: “Sweetheart, she already agreed. You don’t have to try so hard.”

“Of course I do. And it’s not all… I’m not trying to bribe her. I simply—” embarrassment sizzled in his throat, made him cough. Harry, for once, was merciful, and didn’t ask.

“I’ll go pack the car. And make sure we have all the printouts.”

“Thank you. Would you also mind—”

“Boots? Already cleaned. Honestly, love, you don’t need to worry. We’ve got this.”

Something burst inside him, impossibly bright, terribly tender. “Thank you, Harry,” in this rasp of a voice. “You’re—” something he couldn’t put into words. Harry smiled.

“Go on, get the biscuits ready. You already know I will pinch some.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” said Draco, who planned to make a whole tin just for Harry.

With a wink, Harry disappeared behind the door, in his one sock and his face and his hair. Once he managed, Draco turned to the kitchen counter, to the bowls he’d prepared and promptly forgot about.

It was autumn already although it was August. Perhaps every morning is a little bit autumn, this early on: from blinking warmth to fresh, crisp cool, to a hint of something coming, something big. Outside the windows of their little rented flat the shrubs had gone golden-yellow, and the trees up the street had turned, drizzling amber like teardrops onto the pavement.

Autumn came early, and with it this—yearning. For something he knew he shouldn’t have, that he longed for with all of his being. That Harry won’t let him shy away from. Something warm like a jumper and sweet, and too-close and unbearable.

Draco breathed it in. Ready, he thought.

#drarry fic #1234 words #soft soft #self-worth issues #met with fierce support #wrapped entirely-too-lovingly #autumn #rockingrobin69

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iconuk01 · 5 months

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Icon_UK muses on Discworld scenes

I would be VERY hard pushed to state my favourite scene in the Discworld books. There are so many magnificent scenes, memorable characters, and dialogue to make your heart weep with so many emotions, but favourite entire scene, that's hard?

Death and Susan's discussion about the need for fantasy is, of course, high up that list. No one who reads it ever forgets "To be the place where the falling angel, meets the rising ape", but is that my favourite?

It might be Granny Weatherwax's discussion of religion with Mightily Oats in "Carpe Jugulum".

But I think I have to give it to a minor scene in "Lords and Ladies" involving a regular character in the Witches books who doesn't get much page count, and this may in fact be their longest single scene in all the books, and it's such a GOOD one!

Jason Ogg, master blacksmith and farrier, pumped the bellows of his forge once or twice for the look of the thing, and sat down on his anvil again. It was always warm in the forge, even with the wind whistling around the eaves.

"He could shoe anything, could Jason Ogg. They'd brought him an ant once, for a joke, and he'd sat up all night with a magnifying glass and an anvil made out of the head of a pin. The ant was still around, somewhere-some-times he could hear it clatter across the floor.

But tonight. . . well, tonight, in some way, he was going to pay the rent. Of course, he owned the forge. It had been passed down for generations. But there was more to a forge than bricks and mortar and iron. He couldn't put a name to it, but it was there. It was the difference between being a master farrier and just someone who bent iron in complicated ways for a living. And it had something to do with iron. And something to do with being allowed to be very good at his job. Some kind of rent.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Jason dons a blindfold, awaiting the arrival of a late night visitor, one whose feet make a click-clack sound as he walks across the floor, doesn't seem to breathe, and who TALKS LIKE THIS. He has a horse needing new horseshoes.

Which Jason does (the blindfold being no challenge to his skills) whilst maintaining polite (and extremely respectful) small talk with his visitor, whilst internally acknowledging that he does not wish to know who his visitor is, depsite knowing EXACTLY who he is.

The final exchange is my very favourite in the whole series, as Jason gives in to inevitable temptation.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“M'lord?”

YES, MR. OGG?

“I 'as got one question . . .”

YES, MR. OGG?

Jason ran his tongue over his lips.

“If I were to . . . take the blindfold off, what'd I see?”

There. It was done now.

There was a clicking sound on the flagstones, and a change in the air movement which suggested to Jason that the speaker was now standing in front of him.

ARE YOU A MAN OF FAITH, MR. OGG?

Jason gave this some swift consideration. Lancre was not knee-deep in religions. There were the Nine Day Wonderers, and the Strict Offlians, and there were various altars to small gods of one sort or another, tucked away in distant clearings. He'd never really felt the need, just like the dwarfs. Iron was iron and fire was fire - start getting metaphysical and you were scraping your thumb on the bottom of your hammer.

WHAT DO YOU REALLY HAVE FAITH IN, RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT?

He's inches away, Jason thought. I could reach out and touch . . .

There was a smell. It wasn't unpleasant. It was hardly anything at all. It was the smell of air in old forgotten rooms. If centuries could smell, then old ones would smell like that.

MR. OGG?

Jason swallowed.

“Well, m'lord,” he said, “right now . . . I really believe in this blindfold.”

GOOD MAN. GOOD MAN. AND NOW . . . I MUST BE GOING.

Jason heard the latch lift. There was a thud as the doors scraped back, driven by the wind, and then there was the sound of hooves on the cobbles again.

YOUR WORK, AS ALWAYS, IS SUPERB.

“Thank you, m'lord.”

I SPEAK AS ONE CRAFTSMAN TO ANOTHER.

“Thank you, m'lord.”

WE WILL MEET AGAIN.

“Yes, m'lord.”

WHEN NEXT MY HORSE NEEDS SHOEING.

“Yes, m'lord.”

Jason closed the door and bolted it, although there was probably no point, when you thought about it.

But that was the bargain - you shod anything they brought to you, anything, and the payment was that your could shoe anything.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

I love that the Discworld's anthropomorphic manifestation of a universal inevitability speaks to a village blacksmith as an equal, as a craftsman, to be acknowledged and respected as such. There's something gorgeous in that combination of the mundane and the cosmic.

And the subtle little "reward" Jason gets from his customer as he leaves, an assurance that the next time they meet it will still be as "blacksmith" and "customer", not "recently departed" and "collector of souls"? Sublime.

#discworld #gnu terry pratchett #jason ogg #death #lords and ladies

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sleeplesssmoll · 6 months

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Schneider Snippets from the Atlas

Vertin’s responses to the narrator are in italics. Let me know if I missed anything. This is a long post and it looked nicer in my Google Docs. If anyone has suggestions on how to format this into a way that's easier to read, I am all ears. Spoilers for Ch 2 & 3. My dumb little notes are in purple and are not part of the main text.

The Opportunist and the Sticky Gum

Source: 2-1 Wretched Brats

Now those little brats are knocked out. You Notice that old gum is sticking to the bottom of their shoes, like crushed leeches.

What happened to the gum?

Tragedy. A sympathetic encounter. It has fulfilled its mission cautiously and conscientiously. But clearly no one cares.

I dare say it's the most popular mint gum now. When the Chicagoans lost their rights to get drunk, they could only turn to this nasty upstart stuff. The sales champion is the bubble gum near Wrigley Field. The old gum from the kid's soles also comes from there.

Some gravel mixed into the squeezed gum base. The off-white sand. The synthetic waxed elastic fiber. In the South Bank, there is only one place where such a politically symbolic floor is laid–St. Pavlov Foundation.

It's very lively here in the square, just like every day in the past. Speculators, who advocate mankind supremacy, are trying to get the attention of the Foundation through demonstrations. They are on the same side as the Foundation, but the Foundation has no intention to treat these protestors as allies they want. They even sent a little girl to go through the motions as a perfunctory response. (this “little girl” is Sonetto.)

Little girls? An excellent topic. (Vertin, this is not how we behave.)

Yes. Yes. No one will ignore them. They are honey colored. They are the morning sun in California. They are the dazzling spot on the doe that you'll never catch. For those hypocritical politicians the little girls are the delicacies that they would drool over (ew). Luckily, this little girl is not one of their prey. She is nervous but not panicked. She doesn't seem to be good at dealing with these slick politicians. The mission capsule of the Foundation grew hot in her tightly clutched fist.

And on the other side of the square, another little girl in a black suit is looking gloomily over here. She stood by the Foundation's air outlet, the best place for her. The position is too marginal to be marginalized. That's the best portrayal of the second generation immigrants in the 20th century. (This is Schneider.)

Who is the girl in the black suit?

She's someone you will know in the future. Now she shudders and shivers like a cricket desperate for shelter. She's looking for an eave or piece of rubble in the Storm.

Her figure might be frail, but her eyes are filled with cold anger. Maybe she had been rejected just now or even insulted. She walked up to the square center with a firm step, like a warrior.

This snippet in the beginning foreshadows so much of the story it's insane looking back.

From One Castle to Another

Source: 2-9 Security Carnival

Mrs. Greco puts down the phone. She is now as calm as any Italian mother you've ever met. You know, they're usually making a yummy pie before they pull out their guns.

There are enough people in black outside, enough to prevent any eavesdropping or violent conflict.

Mrs. Greco glanced blandly over the one, two, three, four ... nine, ten, eleven children in front of her. This is a big family, and it has grown bigger and

bigger over the past few years because of Schneider.

Who are they?

They're Schneider's sisters. It's hard for the Grecos to tell them apart. But Schneider is different. She was born in an earthquake, all covered in blood, and didn't let out her first cry until two hours later. It wasn't until she was one year old that her father noticed that she had never been baptized.

The Grecos are not good at dealing with gang affairs. They can't even figure out when their daughter has grown-- grown into the backbone of the whole family.

When Schneider took out 500 dollars from her pocket and put them on the table, they were completely shocked, and that's just the beginning. Schneider... Schneider, the youngest daughter they seldom cared about. It's impossible to keep every child well-fed. Schneider could not even get a piece of bread in the Eucharist.

But a good daughter would not let anyone worry about her. She sat on the bench outside the church and hummed. She found a way out for herself. She walked to the underground market, fascinated by what she saw ...She announced her "new identity" one day.

What "new identity"?

The identity you know now. In the process, she lost something old but gained something new, no matter if she wished for it or not.

"Now," Mrs. Greco said, "we live, or we die. If Schneider comes back safely tonight... we will leave when the moon rises. The doors are closing in front of us, one after another. But the benevolent Maria will give us the ultimate shelter. My children, remember today forever." Her words speak for her status. But Mrs. Greco's eyes never moved away from that small Madonna on the table. The hem of her clothes were soaked in tears. 4 p.m. A family is determined to start a new journey.

Unnamed Poem

Source: 2-13 Rattenfanger (This is the chapter where the “eave or the rubble” line comes from)

Surrounded by imposing barriers, Epics never sing of those about to die. Look up, keep looking up, A broken tile is the only shelter in the tempest. People always knew how they took the wrong path, So they regret the unregrettable nights, laugh at the laughable fools. At the bottom of the cliff, a river always flows.

An Unpopular Children's Song 😭

Source: 3-3 Green Oranges Who killed the Snowy Dove? I, said the cricket. With my heart and musket I killed the Snowy Dove. Who saw her die? I, said the owner of the suitcase, With my vision and sight, I saw her die. Who dug her grave? I, said the cricket. With my pick and spade, I dug her grave. Who'll make her shroud? I, said the owner of the suitcase, With my little suitcase, I'll make her shroud.

Long Night Trip (I left out the first bit since its the Narrator being…himself. The man loves to hear himself talk.)

Source: 3-8 Popular Literature

Trust me, you won't regret listening to this story.

Fine. Let's start the bullshit.

I will never be offended by your humor. Okay. The past is waiting for us to look back. It's winter in the early 20th century. The gloomy rain never stops. The square on West Jackson Avenue is alive with people. There is an Italian Renaissance-styled basilica. You rarely see so many people get together without making a sound. This is a black requiem mass. The priest is chanting the requiem, and the people mark a cross on their chests.

He must be respectable.

"He was a father. He dedicated to a sinner of ... Lord shall give him eternal peace." A woman in a black robe turns to you and whispers. She turns back. Explaining this makes her unpleased. More and more people are queuing for the funeral. The square is alive with chants here and there. The Grecos are among them. They're covered by the dark cloud of long- handled umbrellas. Soon, their voices are replaced by whimpers. You can hardly tell whether they are pleased or sorrowful. But you can't find Schneider. (This part in purple was written like that in the Atlas. Its clunky as heck. Idk what they were trying to say.)

Where is she?

Look in the direction of Mr. Greco's broken left palm. Yes. Look from the bandage-wrapped end at his cuff. 3390 feet away from the crowd, in the shadow of the church, stands the girl you want to see. She is pale and thin, as if she has just recovered from a serious, long illness. But her fist clenches, her eyes burn, and her figure is an open defiance of the ubiquitous chants. You don't know why she looks so-so furious. Is she... what, 11 years old? And the mass is about to usher in the ultimate climax. It rains heavier. The priest opens his arms to embrace the sky, "The Lord be with you."

"And also with you." Schneider responds in a voice that could hardly be heard. She puts her hand on her heart. This is the first time she responds to the Lord. And it will be the last.

#reverse 1999 #reverse1999 lore #schneider #long post

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