#morrias

His fingers twine deftly at the feathergrass and the long stems of the snow chrysanthemums he's plucked as his path winds towards the caves he's memorized by heart now. By the time Shen San has made it to the mouth of the caves, he's turning a flower crown in his hands as he waits for the inevitable shadow that finds him waiting.

The key in getting away after a HEATED court assembly, as is perhaps the key to anything around the capital - is to dare, more than anyone else dares. As it is right now, he thinks it's actually MUCH BETTER to be staring at the impassive face of the fourth prince while the groups of old ministers pretend not to be looking at him on the steps where they likely originally intended to corner him for another verbal bout. He knows when it's SMART to fight about his beliefs - when someone who can do anything about it is listening - and certainly not uselessly, with a stagnant crowd who have their minds made up already.

" - Dianxia, you have to take pity on me." The plea is sincere, though inevitably touched with a tinge of amusement. "If you won't, all these excellent gentlemen are likely to keep me here till the moon rises or my ears start bleeding."

meme.

🎠 for a scene with a childhood friend

(that AU we were plotting with @morrias ....) The sun had nearly finished describing the arc of its path in the heavens by the time Sylus had finished his organ practice in the east wing domus. He hugged the thick stack of sheet music parchments to his chest as he circumvented the gardens, heart beating wildly against the strain of his lungs in a cacophany of nerves that accompanied the pensive regret of staying so long at practice that he'd miss the last minutes of sunlight.

In his haste, the edges of the parchments dug unfeelingly into the soft bends of Sylus' fingers, prompting a curse under his breath. Those would smart tomorrow, but would not nearly be enough to dissuade him from practicing all day again. To even a trained ear, it would be difficult to find fault with his technique. But the foreign ward was well aware of the eyes on him, and the uncharitable comparisons that would naturally be made against the eminent prince of this land. He and Xavier had begun piano lessons at the same time, but it was quickly and evidently clear that any talent he might have posessed would never be recognized when measured against that of the darling of the kingdom. Not that Sylus had minded: Xavier was an exceptional student in any subject of matter, and was well worthy of the accolades lauded upon him. Xavier himself would find himself hard-pressed to find anyone more devoted and more impassioned about his victories than his childhood friend, who had never for a moment rued him anything. No jealousy, no competition, no resentment existed between them—and would not, if Sylus had his way. And if the only way to dispell any comparisons between them was to force recognition of his distinction in an incomparable instrument was how Sylus had to do it, then abandoning the piano to take up the organ was what he would do. And had done.

There were no regrets in that decision. Not really. Sylus had taken quiet well to the instrument, and practiced his registrations as often as he was able. He was quite deft at it now, to the reluctant pleasure of his instructors, but only after sacrificing hours, days, weeks to the study of his new instrument. But how many hours, days, weeks did he forsake the company of the prince? And the mysterious girl who had started coming with more frequent regularity these days? He'd heard of them spending afternoons together, with Dany teaching Xavier swordmanship. A sport Sylus could never catch up to Xavier's level in without intruction. Even if he'd wanted to. He'd already made up his mind to learn something vastly different. A long-range weapon, perhaps. Maybe even boxing? It hardly mattered.

He reached the hedge that lined the castle walls, followed it to the gate that would open to the rolling hills of pastoral green beyond. Even the noise of his boots tromping through the dried, fallen leaves underfoot could dampen the sound of Xavier's rare laughter. Muffled at first, like he's laughing through his nose, hesitant to allowsuch a bald display of pleasure. But Dany's laughter rings clear and bright bright, a delicate arpeggiation as airy as a windchime's crystals softly tinkling upon a summer breeze. Too beautiful not to encourage the fullness of Xavier's laugh, louder this time, and more free. Through a smile so uncommon and unlikely, Sylus' thoughts are a mess of remembrances of that smile, trying to imagine what it might look like after the entropy of time had faded its brilliance in his memories. Xavier laughs, like a low melody, accompanied by the descant of Dany's laughter like a perfect fioratura.

He pushed through the gate left ajar and roundedthe corner sharply, almost desparately, only to see the pair of them with their backs against the ivy-covered wall, pale blue forget-me-nots tucked behind their ears, brightly-colored frosting and crumbs of cookies and cakes remnant upon their fingers. For a moment, they look at him in surprise, but their delight is no less dimmed with his presence.

meme.

Leave a “Kill Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character killing yours. There is no fucking "Save Me" you made that shit up, gago

Lilit swore to herself as the flaming sword described a terrifying arc above them. The blighted angel, mottled with rot, eyes glassy and unfocused, possessed with the hatred and fervor of his dying god's whim, chanted to himself over and again in the language of the stars. Beside her, she heard the demon slayer stir, the sharp, slick sound of her sword flicked loose from its sheath.

But the demon's dagger was faster, already in hand and aiming for the soft of Vendetta's stomach. Lilit drove it deep within in her, deftly avoiding the vital points. The heel of her hand couched the dagger's pommel, driving her down into the jagged rocks upon the ground. "Stay there," she hissed, her golden eyes bright with dispair, begging what her words could not in the exigency of the moment. "Let me give you an opening."

The cinereal puce of her skin faded to a pale, almost bloodless color, her features softening as they regained their angelic countenance. Her glass-grey eyes were funereal as she rose, her gaze lowering as she marked the sight of Vendetta pinned to the earth by her own hand.

But behind her the wretched angel loomed, still chanting his curse that reverberated in the occlusion of the castle ruins around them. "Brother," she called, acclamatory with wonder, voice velvet and velutinous both as she approached, hands outstretched in exultation of his victory. "Glory be to the heavens, may we find grace in your mercy ..."

The burning blade's revolution never stopped, but Lilit saw the angel's head turn to her, a tinge of recognition in those pale eyes. She swallowed, holding out the gilded crown in her hands. Did she still look as she once did— an angel of humility, of virtue, of benevolence? Even if the angel wasn't convinced, it was enough to steal his attention, even for a moment.

Her smile was brilliant, blessed. "As protectorate of this land .... should you not crown yourself as such? So that all who have eyes to see can know your dominion over us?"

To her surprised, the angel descended slowly. Why he did, or for what purpose did not matter, so long as Lilit could hold his attention. She rushed forward, crown in hand, immediately on her knees in supplication to his mercy. Head bowed as a penitent might, she held the crown up in offering. And as she raised her head, she saw the demon slayer's blade slice through the column of the angel's throat, gilded ichor painting Lilit's cheek as she witnessed the death of a demi-god.

The angel's body crumpled to the ground, and Lilit rose to her feet. The crown at her fingertips dropped away, rusting into nothingness as it struck the dirt beneath her. Gleefully, she rushed to the side of the demon slayer. "How perfectly you executed that! Do you see? How wonderfully we work as a team? Shouldn't you thank me for such a brilliant performance?"

meme.

[FLIRT]: sender flirts with receiver to make them blush

The priest laughs. Softly. The sound ascends to the curved exedra above, which cradles the echo of Cirrus's mirth within the occlusion. Like something sacred and secret. Cirrus notes how Felix stiffens, shifts a little where he stands. His gloved fingers thread with a careful affection within Felix's curling brown hair, before tracing down the temple and cheek of the simple floral mask that conceals the vulgarity of his face.

"Go on, little evening star," he encourages, pinching at Felix's chin. There's a wicked satisfaction that floods his veins, prickles his pale skin beneath the sumptuous dark robes he wears — the sight of the tips of Felix’s ears turning a furious shade of red pleases him. Only because Cirrus likes them a little pliable. Bendable. Moldable.

Except the delight of the morning's peace was interrupted by the sight of the newly-minted coffee shop directly across his shop decorated garishly in the bright colors of a grand opening. Which only solidified the upsetting truth of the matter: that his favorite traditional tea house had been taken over and revamped into this new fangled coffee shop designed to accomodate the nfuriating yuppies that had overtaken the neighborhood in the last year and a half. Yan Zhengming hated it and all that it represented. But most of all, he hated it for the inconvenience that it brought him, which in a quotidian sense, was worse to him. Because nothing annoyed him more than needless inconvenience.

He clicked his tongue disprovingly as he unlocked the gate to his flower shop, completing his morning duties with an unusually sour dispsition that had enabled him to focus with an alarming efficiency but left him in a bad mood. Deciding that a cup of tea might be the best cure for what ailed him presently, he marched into the little kitchen area, determined to make himself a cup of the last of his favorite longjing tea... only to find the canister empty except from an ill-scribbled note from Li Yun apologizing for using the last of his tea.

Yan Zhengming took an appropriate amount of time to rage over the sheer idiocy that would inspire someone to leave a note instead of throwing the tin away, or better yet replacing it, before the half-hearted and begrudging decision to cross the street in his desperation to seek a cup of tea.

It was pretty inside, clean. Well, it ought to have bee clean, considering if was the first day of operation. It still hadn't quite acquired that stale coffee smell that clung to the walls after a time. Which, Yan Zhengming wondered, if it might have been better than the chemical smell of drying paint and drywall repairs. He glowered at the menu, already disappointed with the choice of three teas described by color alone, none of them particularly suited for a breakfast beverage. It was a message he hoped to convey in the sharpeness of his eyes that he directed upon the barista who came to take his order. "Don't you have anything more suited as a morning tea?" he demannded disdainfully. "Black tea, green tea—If this is Lipton, I'm afraid I might have to have a word with your manager."