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wmarximoff · 2 years

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in secret | w. maximoff

summary: after spending all of her youth trapped in HYDRA's labs, Wanda Maximoff had no contact with outsiders, and therefore never knew the nuances of human pleasures. but when a young amateur photographer travels to Sokovia, in secret, Wanda discovers more about herself than she ever has done before.

warnings (18+): mentions of tragedy, sexual discovery, masturbation, mentions of sex, voyeurism.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 2k

A/N: guess who finally saw In Secret? lol

this is basically Wanda's journey of discovery about her sexuality and maybe her body as a whole. it's more of a character study than anything else, really.

|masterlist|

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Wanda Maximoff couldn't have pinpointed with unerring clarity the first time that dazzling spark flickered in her fiery center when facing another female figure. When she had started to feel that peculiar way around someone like her – when her gaze had started to take too much of its time just scrutinizing the contours of rosy lips and gentle chins, lingering on the newly conceived idea of the fact that she wanted to touch – she needed to feel – something that she also had.

At some point, as in a summer breeze that comes in the form of an announcement of warm and restrained days, like a verging innocent desire to know something new, the curves of pelvic girdles became more attractive than the prominent muscles and roughness of stubble beard trails, when the softness and the fragility were enough to make her want more of that new idea. For Wanda, there was nothing of an assorted nature that would be able to attract her like that feeling did.

It certainly wasn't, however, during the early years of her pre-adolescence, all carried away in poverty worthy of the structures of a country devastated by war, that she realized this outlandish distinction flourishing within herself. A need. A crave, perhaps. Not like other girls, but for other girls.

At the time, the unfaithful hunger had allowed her senses to arise in no other way than to beg for something other than food to digest within the walls of her stomach; there was no room there to consume the dying butterflies of love, for the hunger was cavernous even when her mother barely tried to keep it from being so – her father worked to keep everyone pleased and healthy, it’s true.

But, at that time, there was a girl a little older than Wanda who lived in the apartment next door, next to that scrawny, tiny room in which she lived huddled together with her parents and her older twin brother – a room that wasn’t quite enough to shelter within itself, in four scraggy walls that barely prevented the frosty draft from outside, the size of a family of four. But they had a small television, a handful of old American sitcoms to watch, and a teenage daughter trying to make sense of the unintelligible.

The Maximoffs made it happen because they had no choice but to share the same bed to stay warm through the cold, algid Sokovian nights. When Wanda had to hug her own hands and only hope she didn’t die of hypothermia overnight.

The neighbor at the time was a rather appealing young woman, tall, typical of Slavic Europe, about nineteen years old, who had been babysitting her and Pietro some seasons before in the summer sun. She was a stunning image that captured the senses of a young Wanda at the height of her fifteen years of age, when things began to blossom like a rosebud and the notion of a child's world was slowly fading away from her cognition, every day a little beyond an ingenuous notion.

When she started fancying to have her own room and own bedsheets like the American kids did in these old shows from the last century – the pinnacle of the American Way of Life, a blatant lie for impressionable eyes –, realizing the unfair limitations of poverty and the true meaning of it in one's life, having lonely teenage nights to discover what hadn't been discovered yet.

There was a need effervescent in Wanda’s spirit, as if her lungs were crying out for oxygen to breathe. It was as if she was shedding her own skin without realizing that she was doing it; until it was too late to turn back. Wanda found the girl buried in the ruins of the popular residence after the second bomb fell on the building's terrace.

Only a pale, unresponsive forearm could be seen dragging itself out of the concrete and splinters, but Wanda recognized the silver bracelet buttoned to the length of her skinny wrist that had sporadically caught her attention when that pretty girl passed her in the hallways, always to offer her a fond, complacent smile that made Wanda's little heart, still so foreign to amorous feelings, flutter strangely when her cheeks heated up like an ignition in a fireplace, burning greedily inside her nerves.

On the lonely teenage nights she liked to daydream about, Wanda began to think about what it would be like to sleep next to the warm body of her striking neighbor; how the silhouette of her sinuous body would look under the covers when it was lit only by the silver moon, and how unsettling her sweet, honeyed scent would be when she bent over her straining guts. It made the hollow half withing her thighs quiver beneath her nightclothes every time.

Maybe she wouldn't snore as much as Pietro did, always so loud and so unkempt, or kick her shins under the thin blankets in her sleep. Her skin would be soft and delicate against the hollow of her calves, like a second mantle, silky and subtle to the touch. Wanda would certainly like to know what her sleepy sighs would sound like tenderly in her ear.

She was armed with the best of intentions when she took the bracelet for herself from that frozen dead arm (unlike the image her unconscious had become accustomed to idealizing in dream lines when flanked by the coming sleep, of that warm forearm encircling her waist and bringing her closer and closer) because she liked that girl enough to keep her memory close even after she passed away.

But crying for her parents, she didn't remember shedding any tears for the girl. She was then made an orphan, after all. She was a lonely girl, absolutely helpless.

Wanda lived to grow beyond the age when her neighbor was faced with the abrupt end of her life robbed by a war she hadn't started, and in which she would never be the one to end it. Even in an orphanage, crammed into a single room in the company of dozens of other little orphans, that girl in the next door still made her think and turn in the uncomfortable sheets overnight.

But she was barely twenty years old when she and Pietro (the orphaned twins then imbued with unusual gifts, Mind Stone energy pulsing in fiery golden color within their blood cells) fled the clutches of the HYDRA organization once and for all, after a few years of a poorly misguided volunteering that only resulted in abilities beyond what a normal human would have, the two of them headed into a world they would no longer see in the same way as they did before.

It didn't take long for Wanda to realize that she didn't truly understand the ranges of her new capabilities and how they shaped and transmuted her as a being, just as she didn't understand that ecstatic feeling that took shape, grew and expanded inside her like a crimson mist. The sun of her childhood had set, and it was time for something new to emerge from her insides.

She wanted to be in Pietro's shoes when he narrated to her, always so pompously, about the secret nocturnal encounters he'd been having with some girl and some other boy in the villages they frequented as they traveled across Sokovia with only each other’s company – the long journey only tarnished with a winding trail of experiences through the still shaken country, Wanda curious, dreamy and experimenting at that point among a collection of shabby maps, disjointed guides and fantasies late at night – every night – as soon as she realized that Pietro was falling asleep.

Wanda couldn't care less about the young man's summaries of what boys were like exposed in the minimal, voluptuous light of a dark room, indeed.

Just how they could be rather filthy when stripped of clothing and guided only by the will of their desires. But something in her craved to know more and more about how a girl reacted to being touched in a way that she had never been touched, nor had she ever touched anyone else before. How would it feel at her fingertips.

So she touched herself in the dead of night, in one of those where Pietro ventured out of their rented room, just rehearsing the idea empirically in her actions.

Idealizing the subtlety of a girl’s gentle touch even though her own probing fingers were amateurish and naively sloppy against the middle of the old sensibility that used to throb between her partially spread legs, so elusive against her panting skin.

There was something wet and pulsing that she brushed lightly with her fingertips, still testing, still knowing, but it caused an awakening of chaos inside her that she didn't want to let go of at that moment.

It felt good, as good as something that shouldn't be that good. If she was a person devout in faith, she figured, maybe it was a sin, because sins seemed to be good to taste. But there was nothing to stop her from moving forward, and everything in her screamed for her to keep going until that knot formed below her belly button came undone.

And then, in a rush of scarlet pleasure that sailed hard through her ruffled veins (her brow furrowed as if in pain, her heart racing like a marathon runner, her wrist aching in that newfound position of the tendons in her joint), with her mouth agape, Wanda understood. She truly did.

It was a sweet secret she had kept to herself. Something she secreted to the four walls of a dark room again, again and again. Everything about it, about the cravings of girls, always seemed to be something to be kept in secret – a secret that no soul seemed to dare to reveal.

A few weeks passed then since a new discovery, you showed up in her life. A photographer from another country, someone at the inn where the two of you temporarily settled down clarified the doubts that were circling Wanda's mind when her mouth opened to ask about you, a foreigner who just didn't seem to be from there – because you really weren't.

You were there to capture on screen the feeling of witnessing the pleasing Sokovian spring landscape, to present the result of a project and get your college degree.

Being a college student, then, you were a couple of years older than she was, but you were a new figure for her to discover and you were just as intriguing in Wanda's eyes as a foreigner could be. You, the idea of what you would be – what you could be –, aroused something exciting inside Wanda.

And she devoted her hidden attention to you like a believer who follows a god, always biting her own lips in a veiled excitement for the times in which you looked so intently with your camera and took a picture of some situation unfolding in your lens, preserved for posteriority in the light of your attentive gaze.

Wanda wanted you to look at her in that same intense way; that you studied her behind a camera and immortalize her in your memory.

She was like a red specter behind you on a particularly warm afternoon, heading into the scrawny beech trees of vegetation that skimmed the edges of that tiny village situated somewhere in the heart of Sokovia.

Like an animal looking for its prey, Wanda followed you along the lines of a shy little bunny, only being guided by the long pauses made by your sloppy feet, all directed to photograph the vibrant landscape or peaceful nature, some humming bird exotic in a funny pose.

Curly trees and elemental rusticities encompassed the natural landscape around you, a mist filled with the slow two-dimensional heat of morning hovering over your slow path, trickling through the tall row of trees clustered before the edge of a silvery-surfaced river like a long mirror.

You had taken a shortcut through the forest overflowing with so many emblems of nature and crossed the river before the dew, and at one point, amidst the vegetation, Wanda got on her knees (her fingers crunching fresh grass between the extensions of silver rings, she on all fours like a child still in the beginnings of that primordial phase of crawling, still not being able to walk properly) behind a tall pasture that served as a direct audience for you, as oblivious as you were just around the corner across the river, so far from the one who wanted you, yet so close that her gaze burned at your silhouette in front of a golden pool of sun.

From somewhere deep within that dark vortex, Wanda felt a new awakening of desire; so monstrous was her appetite for such a distinguish figure that, just a few feet away from her hiding place in the tall vegetation, you only raised your camera before your eyes and then snapped a well-articulated photograph.

Sweat ran in hot drops on the milky pale skin of Wanda’s neck, feeling so suffocated even under the damp shade of tall trees, and a hissing sound broke in the hollow of her parched, parted peach lips as she shifted position on the grass, the hem of the scanty maroon dress clad in the hollow of her crotch skimmed lightly against that secret place of hers reserved for lonely nights only.

“S-shit…” she moaned, half shivering, snatching her lower lip hard between a row of upper incisors.

And Wanda wasn't even at all surprised when she realized that, there, that nerve was throbbing, begging to be brushed again against the thin material of her secondhand dress. She spread her legs a little wider, fitting her pelvis better against the grass, the pale skin of her knees, then scattered here or there with small leaves and twigs, brushing against the grass mat down her inner thighs.

Charm and vulgarity clenched at Wanda's core when it was that she daringly rolled her hips forward one more time, in test form then intentional, only to feel the bun of fabric press against her panties beneath the dark layer of the dress. And it was good.

Then she rolled her hips again. And again. And stronger. And more exasperated. And more excited. And she rode out in search of what she already knew, secretly honoring you, that unknown photographer whose name she didn't even know.

Then Wanda lifted her clouded gaze, tilting her chin at a broken angle, the emerald green veiled by a shroud of sullen need that melted into the anticipation she'd compelled herself to feel, only to find you, right next to her in that bank of the river parallel to the one she was on, fiddling with the camera dangling from your neck, so absorbed in your ecstatic actions.

A nervous lump of hidden arousal formed inside Wanda's larynx – something pressed inside her as the notion descended upon her that you, far away, so beautiful and so immaculate, were just ignorant of her there, brushing nervously with the hollow of her inner thighs against the fabric of her own dress and the dewy grass on the ground like an animal in heat.

There was something bestial about the raw brutality that aroused her; Wanda discovered it there, snarling against her clenched teeth, watching you from afar, the knot about to burst.

“Fuc– fuck–! Fuck!” she grunted as that lump untied, her eyelids partially threatening to close against her eyes that would never dare leave your vision.

As Wanda rode, prolonging that vibrating red burst between her legs as long as possible, she never stopped holding her neck to watch you there, practically salivating, wanting it to be you there beneath her — she could rub herself against your hand, maybe your thigh, or even all over your pretty face.

And something in her shuddered, as you raised your camera in front of her face, even if so far away, and pointed the lens right at the place where she was hidden within the tall grass.

Later, the incitement of an impending night crept in, which dawned behind the avenue, between the tops of comfortable trees and along the green hill where the sun set behind the mounts, in the bliss of a due leisure, to which the moonlight of summer alluded to the amenities surrounding that small Sokovian village.

The candid air was clear, dewy, and humid to the lungs, yet a bit chilly in its European essence. The windows around the inn had all been closed. Wanda was lying on one bed and Pietro on another.

“So,” began the older twin, getting better under his covers, “What did you do this morning when you disappeared? I looked for you everywhere, you know? I was worried.”

And a small smile allowed itself to mischievously slip into Wanda's rosy lips.

“I can’t tell you,” she whispered to her brother, like a child who holds an enigma, “It's a secret.”

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kaigarax · 7 months

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A Shattered Reflection of You

Asagiri Gen x Reader

Quote: "Fall in love with someone you know." & "Fall in love with someone you'd chase after."

Someone You Loved Featuring: The Mentalist

Asagiri Gen never thought much about death.

Sure, he’d been to funerals before and known people who had died but those had all been older individuals who had lived fulfilling and full lives. The full weight of death had never truly impacted him or the people around him.

He hadn’t realised how close to death everyone around him truly is. How fragile and delicate life actually is.

Truthfully, he’d never thought much about death. He’d never thought much about death until you.

They say the wise young die young.

That the most beautiful flowers are picked first.

That there is no fairness in life and death.

At least, Gen thinks, you will forever be remembered in your youth. You will never have to see your brightness slowly diminish and disappear. You will forever shine bright in the minds and memories of those that have loved you. Of those that have ever gotten the chance to know you or be graced with your work.

There’s a large group of people here. Larger than yesterday.

Yesterday’s service was meant only for those deemed closest to you. Your family.

Today’s service is filled with beautiful and handsome faces. Those with startling features and brilliant views of the world. Or at least according to you they all were. Why else would you have chosen them to have been your muses at one point if not because you saw admirable features within them? Your muses.

Gen finds himself wondering if any of the other muses had attended the day before. Had any of them gotten to see the girl behind the lens? He thinks that at least one of them was close enough to you but… you had always been rather fond of your personal space.

Unlike other funerals Gen has been to there are no traditional funeral decorations. Instead a white venue has been chosen with large photos plastered and framed against the wall. Most of the photos aren’t of you, though that’s likely the way you would have wanted. Afterall, you’d always told Gen that you believed the worth of your life wasn’t your appearance but what you had been able to do.

Upon the instructions no one dressed in black or white. In fact it seems that most of the muses had chosen to dress in the colour which you had assigned to them. For Gen, it was ‘a royal purple that was meant only for those of the highest caliber.’

Gen had always liked purple, though he formed quite the fondness towards the specific shade you’d picked. You, unsurprisingly, always had quite a good eye for matching people to colours that matched them. Colours that seemed to bring the deepest parts of them to the forefront and surface.

Even at a young age.

The frame closest to the entrance holds a photo of a young boy. His expression is a mix between a scowl and a smile. As though he’d been trying his best not to laugh. The boy’s eyes are tired, as though he’s already seen too much in life.

Gen wonders what a boy would have had to see to have such tired eyes.

He doesn't ponder on it for very long as he moves onto the next photo.

The photos have a tendency to blur into a mess of colours the longer Gen stares at them. Like the view out of a moving car as you stare out a window.

Eventually though he finds himself at a loss as he stares at the portrait of him.

He’s dressed in casual clothes, resting the side of his head on a dark table as he stares into the camera. And Gen’s surprised for a multitude of reasons. He doesn't recall ever seeing this photo before; the dim lighting and background reminds him of a bar that he just can’t seem to remember the name of; but the thing that surprises him the most is his expression. Gen doubts that there’s another photo out there that holds such a raw and genuine smile from him.

His chest flutters.

Was this how you saw him?

It’s alive, real and strangely magical.

Gen has always known that he’s good looking but he never thought it possible for someone to see him like… that.

You saw such mystical things in the faces of others, but what did you see in yours?

The sound of a man blowing his nose catches Gen’s attention. He turns, surprised at seeing such a familiar face.

“You’re that boy from the earlier photos, the Soldier, aren’t you?” Asks Gen, despite already knowing the answer.

The Soldier is dressed in a forest green suit, his military badges pinned over his heart. His hair is slicked back in the same manner as it was in the photos you’ve taken of him as a child. He turns to face Gen, his expression mirroring the feelings in Gen’s chest.

He looks just as Gen imagined he would. With eyes that have seen too much and a mouth that seems to be perpetually frowning. You always smiled so brightly whenever you’d talk about him and his frown. Did you ever talk about Gen with that same smile? Did you think about him as much as he thought about you?

“Yeah.” the Soldier gives Gen a slight nod, “how’d you know? Most people are surprised when they learn it’s me in those photos.”

Gen smiles, “you have the same eyes.”

The Soldier raises a brow, clearly suspicious of Gen’s motives and actions. Gen, admittedly, has never come off as the most friendly and harmless person. But that was always something you liked about him.

“And the same expressions.” Adds a newcomer.

The pair turn to see a white haired man. The Athlete. He’s a white haired man whose hair has been cut short. He’s a lot shorter than Gen would have thought, especially being an Olympic athlete and all. In fact, he’s shorter than Gen. Not that height ever really mattered to you in the first place.

Gen raises a brow, “the Athlete?”

The Athlete flushes, “I was never really a fan of that title.”

“Why so?” Asks Gen.

“Because it always felt so…” the Athlete trails off, looking into the distance towards a photo of you.

You look quite young in the photo. Not quite as young as you were when you met him but not old enough to be something recent. Your hair’s still short in the photo which means it was probably a little after your break up. When was the last time Gen had seen you smile in such a way? When was the last time you smiled at him in such a way? With so much warmth and excitement?

“Different from who you felt you were?” Suggest the Soldier.

“Yeah.” says the Athlete, not bothering to look back at Gen or the Soldier.

The soldier’s gaze follows the Athlete’s towards the photo of you.

Gen had never really been sure of the nature of your relationships with your muses. He knew that they were people you admired. People you thought were brilliant. How you tried your best to capture the brilliance you saw in them through photos and words. He knew that the relationship between the two of you had always been kept at an arm's length.

Close, but never close enough to be something more.

Close enough to capture the essence of someone. To capture the thing that brought their attention to you in the first place.

Of course, you never seemed to realise that the way you captured them wasn’t in your art but through your personality. Afterall, why else would they all have been here in the first place?

“You know,” Gen begins, “those are titles she picked for you. I think she would have wanted you to look a little deeper into it.”

The Soldier scoffs, “and what’s yours supposed to mean, Mentalist?”

“Well, I’m a magician, aren’t I?” Gen gives one of his best performance smiles, “she was always very impressed by my extraordinary mental prowess. Though… When she said it, she always meant eccentric. Considered calling it ‘the Mad Man’ at some point.”

Gen’s words seem to strike a chord with the Soldier, as his eyes soften and the corners of his mouth turn up, “she wanted to call mine ‘the Brat.’”

Gen and the Athlete share a chuckle.

Of course she would have wanted to call it something like that. It certainly would have been quite a fitting title for the young boy in those photos. Sometimes, Gen can barely believe that you took those photos when you were still a young girl. They seem to capture so much of the personality of the Soldier. In fact, if Gen didn’t know any better, he would have believed that you had gone back in time when naming and taking each of those photos.

The Athlete clears his throat, “did you two know her well?’

“Not as well as I’d like to.” Says Gen.

“At one point,” the Soldier shugs, “did you?”

“I’m not sure.” Answers the Athlete.

Poor thing. Though that has always been your nature. Always sweeping others up in so much adventure and mystery that they forget that they barely know anything about you in the first place. Gen would know it all too well, afterall he had been one of those very people. Getting swept up in the storm that is you.

“Well you’re here so you must have meant something to her.” Says the Soldier in an attempt to cheer up the Athlete.

Gen smiles, “and she must have meant something to you.”

It warms Gen’s heart in a strange way to know that there are other people in this world that cared about you just as much as he did. Especially knowing that he wasn’t there when…

“So, what’s ‘the Athlete’ supposed to mean?” Asks Gen.

“Oh,” the Athlete flushes, “well it’s actually a bit of an inside joke, I think.”

Gen turns his head to the side, “you think?”

“Well, she always talked about how she admired athletes. Talked about how she loved the way they ‘sparked’. Honestly, I’m surprised she chose me in the end.” There’s a small smile that forms in the corner of the Athlete’s mouth, “I guess she couldn’t help but be impressed when she watched me play.”

Gen feels laughter bubble up in his chest.

He can already see you blush. You always blushed when others said things like that. And you always did seem to have a knack for finding people that knew exactly what to say to make you embarrassed.

“Have any of you talked to the others?” Asked the Soldier.

The athlete scratches the back of his neck, “the others?”

Gen looks around the room.

People have sorted themselves into different groups, similar to what Gen and his companions have, likely based on their interest. Though, Gen can’t really tell what it is that everyone here might have in interest with one another apart from you.

Perhaps you would know the difference.

Everyone allowed in here has photos of them displayed within your final exhibit.

“The other Muses?” Asks Gen, a knowing look on his face.

“Oh,” the Athlete flushes once again, “no. Honestly, I’m not really familiar with anyone else here. She never really spoke about the other… muses. I’m basically a stranger to everyone else here. What about the two of you?”

“I’m in the same boat as you.” says the Soldier.

Then they both turn to look at Gen. He shrugs in response, “she always did like to keep her distance.”

The distance between you and Gen was one he could never quite bridge. So he could only ever love you from afar and wonder what it might be like to hear you call out his name. After a long show; or in the midst of a photo exhibit when you introduce him to someone new; in the morning before you leave to work; and after when you come home.

Fall in love with someone you know.

---

A Shattered Reflection of You

‘Beep’

Asagiri Gen stirs, his head pounding and his eyes puffy from the night before. The Mentalist finds it hard to recall what exactly happened the night before but quickly decides against it in hopes of not aggravating the aching wound in his chest.

On any other day Gen would have just laid in bed, thrown his phone across the room and let the world continue to move on without him. If it lasted the night without his presence then surely it can survive the morning as well.

It was definitely stupid. Drinking himself into a drunken stupor and crying his heart out. But alcohol had always been the only way for him to truly let his emotions loose. And Gen definitely needed an outlet before today. Afterall, you deserve nothing but the best from him. His best appearance, his best attitude and his best mood.

The Mentalist pulls himself out of bed, and stares at his reflection in the mirror.

His hair is a mess, the strands of black and white tangled amongst each other with a cowlick standing upright at the top of his head. His eyes are just as red and puffy as they feel and it makes him wonder just how long he had really spent crying the night before. There’s a weird stain on his shirt and he seems to have lost his shorts at some point between his choice to get drunk and waking up this morning.

The suite he’s pulled out for himself is wrinkled; creases and folds plastered in places where they shouldn’t be. And… is that a stain? He could have sworn that he had specifically picked this one because it wasn’t dirty!

You deserve nothing but the best, but this will unfortunately have to do.

The itchy fabric hangs loosely off Gen’s shoulders.

He supposes he could change though he doubts there’s anything much better than what he already has. There’s the dark blue suit he wore to the convention last week but it would be far too tacky to wear the same suit in such close succession. Then, there’s the black suite but it’s way too predictable. Gen pops his head further into the closet and oh-

There’s that purple suite. The same one he wore to your… and there’s the aching again.

Does that feeling ever really disappear or lessen?

The logical and calculative side of his mind says ‘yes’. Every emotional impact dulles and lessens with time. Some just happen to take more time than others. Yes, that’s it. This emotional wound just happens to be one of those that’ll take a little longer to heal. Yet, the irrational and emotional part of his heart says ‘no’. That nothing will ever dull this horrible pain that’s seemed to consume and possess him in his entirety.

Eventually, Gen decides to wear the purple suite.

It looks good on him despite having lost some weight.

Well, purple has always been his colour.

The dusty mirror seems to smile at him from the corner of his eye as Gen attempts to button up his suite. It’s a flickering action. Something that he would have missed had he blinked just a millisecond sooner.

He rushes to push the clothes hanging off the top of the mirror off before leaning in towards it. As if staring closer will make something happen.

Then it flickers again and Gen is almost certain he sees you in his reflection. And that flicking is the nail in the coffin. Gen now knows for certain that he’s gone crazy.

Gen momentarily debates jumping into the mirror but he hasn’t gone that crazy yet.

He presses his finger against the glass hesitantly.

And… nothing happens.

Of course. What was he expecting anyways? Gen didn’t believe in ghosts and even if he did he doubts that your ghost would have wanted to visit him. This must be the result of waking up early while being hungover and sleep deprived.

What was it that you said about ghosts again? Gen can’t seem to recall much and what he does manage to recall is nothing but a feeling deep within his stomach. A rumbling of laughter mixed in with a warmth of remembrance. Quite the strange mix of feelings, huh?

Eventually, the Mentalist manages to stumble his way out of his house.

Has it always been this hard to get out of the house? He can’t seem to remember and truthfully doesn't care enough to figure it out. Not when he’s already out the door.

Now, what else was it that he needed to do?

He vaguely recalls needing to bring something but recalls exactly why and exactly what he needs to bring. He doesn't even remember why he’s going in the first place just that it’s somewhere you would have wanted him to go. And Gen, being the love struck fool he is, agreed.

Gen spots a couple walking hand in hand as they exit a coffee shop.

Should he buy a coffee mug? Everyone always enjoys receiving a cute mug.

And there it is again!

Your reflection in the glass. Almost there yet never close enough.

The Mentalist snaps his head around, expecting to see you there smiling at him as you did before, but you’re gone. When he turns back to look at the mirror he sees the reflection of you walk away.

He shakes his head.

He must be really tired today.

A coffee does sound rather nice right now. A little ‘pick me up’ before the big event. And he can get that coffee mug while he’s inside.

His eyes linger on the translucent glass, waiting for just another glimmer or shine.

The barista standing at the register yawns as she asks him for his order.

Gen shrugs, asking her for the specials for the day.

Eventually, after hearing the lost list of drinks from the tired barista he selects the item that he thinks you would have liked the most before asking for one of the mugs they have hanging on the display shelf. The barista types a series of numbers into the register before announcing the number aloud. Reaching into his pocket, Gen pulls out a wad of cash, handing the smallest bill to the barista.

She sends him a strange look and Gen can only shrug apologetically in response.

He didn’t have time to break down his bills.

She gives the Mentalist a yawn as she reaches into the cash register to make change. Gen, usually, would care to make sure he gets the proper amount but gets distracted as he takes a quick glimpse out the window.

Now he knows for certain that he’s gone crazy.

Not because he left behind the coffee, mug and change behind. Not because he ran out without another word. But because he knows for certain that he sees you. Not a reflection of you but your physical being as you walk past the store and down the street. He immediately breaks out into a run, chasing after you.

You seem to catch onto his presence as you break out into a run of your own.

Do you not want to talk to him?

Why are you here at all?

Where have you been all this time?

There’s a nagging feeling at the back of his mind but he can’t seem to remember exactly why he has that feeling in the first place. All he can think about is you. That you’re right there and that you’ve been gone for much too long.

The two of you run past familiar sights. All the places Gen first took you when you first came to the city.

The small bookstore to prove to you that he was actually famous.

The little restaurant you took him to when you wanted some advice for getting into the industry.

The big restaurant that he took you to when you finally made it in.

The ice cream shop that he loved.

The smoothie shop you loved.

And… the park bench where he first met you.

A small bench tucked away behind large sakura trees that seemed to be in full bloom right now. The bushes and vines that have grown over the bench seemed to have been torn away. Sunlight streams in through the branches at just the right angle, casting a spotlight onto you as you stare off into the distance away from the Mentalist.

Gen feels as though everything around him has stopped. That the world could continue on without him as long as he’d be able to have this moment with you.

You smile beautifully as you turn to face him. You pat the seat beside you, gesturing for Gen to take a seat.

His mind feels foggy but his heart feels whole.

“How are you?” You ask.

Gen swallows. There’s so much he wants to say and so much he wants to ask. It feels as though there will never be enough time in this world for him to be able to say everything he wants. But why the rush in the first place? His heart flutters in a way it hasn’t in a long time and Gen wonders if this is what it feels to be alive?

Gen wants to ask you why you left. If you would stay with him a little longer. But he can’t muster up the courage to ask. Instead he answers, “I’m doing well,” because it’s what he knows you want to hear. Because it's what he wants you to hear.

“That’s good,” you swing your legs back and forth in a childish manner, “I’ve been worried about you.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Gen turns away from you and towards the horizon, “no I don’t.”

“Of course you do,” you laugh, “you just don’t want to admit it.”

The horizon is beautiful here. The way the lights seem to sparkle in the daylight remind Gen of his childhood and youth. A moment when everything else didn’t matter as much and it was just him. Perhaps that was how life would still be if he had never chosen the path of fame. If he had chosen to live a normal life.

Gen thinks that… maybe he would have preferred a normal life over his own.

No. He takes that back. Gen could have never been happy living a normal life. Afterall, a normal life would be one where he would have never gotten the chance to meet you. And he can barely stand the idea of the two of you never meeting.

Gen sighs, “sometimes, it’s hard to admit how you’re feeling. Especially when it seems like no one else understands what you’re going through.”

“That’s because you never tried to connect with someone.”

“I connected with you.”

Gen notices that your smiles turned into a sad one when he’s turned to look back at you. The horizon is beautiful but it pales in comparison to you. Like a breath of fresh air on an early spring morning. Even when you smile sadly, Gen thinks the whole world stops to stare.

“Do you ever regret agreeing to help me?”

“Of course not.”

‘Why?”

“Why would I?”

“Because of all the pain I put you through.”

Finally, Gen smiles. Of course you’d be worried over something like this. You did always care too much about the opinions of others. But then again, doesn't everyone?

“Rest easy,” says Gen, “because there’s no other way that I would have chosen to live my life.”

And it’s here that Gen remembers why his heart has been aching so much. Why the world has seemingly begun to move onwards while his life has halted. Why it seems as though his world has ended. Why it feels as though the pain will never stop.

This world moves in such strange ways and time is a constant ticking machine. No matter how much we hope for it to stop it never does.

The sunlight feels so warm against his skin. It’s almost as warm as your hand that brushes up against the back of his own.

And this was the distance you always chose to keep. Never far enough away for someone to forget about you but never close enough that you could be something more. Always never just enough. And it’s a shame that that’s how the world works. That it was how you chose to live your life.

Perhaps things would have been different if Gen had been brave enough to close the distance first.

He wraps his hand tightly around yours, “I love you.”

“Thank you~”

Gen pouts, “(Y/n).”

You laugh, “I love you too.”

‘Beep’

Fall in love with someone you’d chase after.

#dr stone #dr stone x reader #asagiri gen x reader #someone you loved #100 ways to fall in love

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teaspoonofdread · 6 months

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THOUGHTS on Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga

I'll start with two statements regarding Anya Taylor Joy's casting and go from there.

I like her (I know some don't).

I agree she doesn't look like Charlize Theron (and we all know Charlize realized Furiosa as much as Miller did).

BUT a thing that struck me as soon as I heard she was cast was that she had that ethereal vibe of the Five (when I first saw them, the word 'mermaids' wouldn't leave my mind). I could see Anya playing a 'wife', which works with a backstory, I don't think any fan would like to watch play out on the screen...

Now let's try not to be too skeptical: she's tall like Furiosa, there's the probability she was more feminine as a girl living in a feminine world the Green Place of Many Mothers, she didn't need to be as muscular in her youth so she wasn't, etc.

Now. The trailer didn't manage to completely sell me the idea of Anya as Furiosa, but it eased some of my nerves. THE EYES! I saw a troll post on redit literally the day before the trailer dropped with close-ups of Theron and Joy (brown-eyed) captured "Furiosa eye color change?"

I've read the meta, I knew the eyes were carefully retouched in Fury Road in post-production, so I had hope. And seeing Anya's eyes in the trailer, I thought to myself, 'This is THE death stare. This is Furiosa'. And when she screamed all disheveled, I liked that part best. The one with her face covered, making the V8 symbol - second best.

I liked that she was shooting, I liked that cropped-out-seconds-rising-the-tension-rising-the-momentum Gorge Miller magic, I liked how over the top Lord Dementus was, it worked for me. Joe looked like Joe, I believe he didn't have any lines.

I definitely didn't like that head-touch with Tom Burke's character 😕 (sorry. He seems to have a lot of fans.)

And I didn't like the opening and closing shots. Can't quite place why: the opening one seemed like I'd already watched it before, also a bit too long, and the closing felt not authentic somehow. I wish she was more muscular. She just seems fragile in the classic Furiosa outfit.

Last roll of 'complains' before I start with the excitement-inducing points:

The over-explaining in the trailer itself, the big words with the exact number of years and all (like they could've converted into days, like they do in universe) but alas I suppose that's in order to bring in a wider audience. I hope it succeeds, tho!

Is a prequel the story I wanna visit - no. I'd like a movie about the Four - rebuilding, reforming, growing (green and as people), I want Max back even as I know it isn't like him to stay, and finally I want Theron and Hardy side by side, even as I know they wouldn't haha.

All of that is so unlikely. And there are so many spectacular novel-length fics about that. Hell, one such universe has been materializing in my mind for the past year. I almost don't want a movie about what comes after.

Still, I'd prefer a movie about the after rather than the before, but that's what's happening.

But I'm a nobody. The Creator of this world has a story he'd like to share, and it is centered around one of the most incredible characters in recent history, I think we're lucky to be able to witness that.

Now, onto the real excitement!

Disclaimer: this is less coherent even than what came before it.

First of all, we're finally getting a Wasteland movie by Gorge Miller (edited by Margaret Sixel!!!)

I cannot stress this enough!

We're getting chases, and War Boys and shiny mutant-cars, and we're going to GasTown, people! To the Bullet Farm! Helloo, I'm so ready, so curious!

And we're going to the Green Place, y'all! I'm so excited about it. Like they had horses wtf? Mary Jo Bassa! Canon Vuvalini names! Traditions! Defense strategies, weapons, male Vuvalini maybe, crows, so much lore...

But I'm most excited about that Lady driver and the little girl. I'm soo ready for the stories of women in the Wasteland!

To sum up: I'm mostly hyped for the expansion of the world because I love it so much. Because we'd see another of Miller's visions.

And I trust the team behind it enough to know it won't be an unremarkable movie.

I know it won't be another Fury Road because there never will be.

I watched it way too late, and it's my dream to see it on the big screen, which wouldn't happen. So I'm grateful for a second chance to experience something like it. And I'm hoping the fandom will live again, because from my lurking I've found it to be as intricate and smart and fucking amazing as Fury Road itself is, and I'd like to be a part of it this time around :')

#furiosa #furiosa: a mad max saga #mad max: fury road #mad max #lord dementus #immortan joe #the vuvalini #the wasteland

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midorishinji · 3 months

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Blue

Satoru Gojo woke up crying that cold November morning. He swallowed back his tears just as he swallowed the three words he wished he had said in Suguru's final moments, in that alleyway in Shinjuku. "To you, who blooms and scatters like transient flowers, goodbye”

Satosugu ｜Oneshot｜Also published in Portuguese and on AO3

Satoru Gojo dreams of faces that torment him every night. He stops sleeping, eventually; the faces remain even when he is awake, now in his peripheral vision, eternally present. Riko Amanai watches him with the same sad eyes he remembers from their visit to the aquarium, but there is a peculiar hole in her forehead, a trickle of blood running down her nose. Misato Kuroi is always covered in blood, paler than death. And Suguru Geto is smiling, like that fateful day in Shinjuku, when he said that he could never be happy in a world like that.

The day Toji Fushiguro murdered Riko, something inside him died, Satoru concluded. Nothing was ever the same again, and he wasn't the only one who thought so. Shoko gradually had less and less free time, her hands stitching pieces of bodies back into place and putting life into them again, at the cost of her own energy, of her own life, increasingly deeper dark circles and a face that showed how each miracle performed ripped away another piece of herself, and that maybe one day there would be nothing left to take from. Nanami was never the same after he saw Haibara Yu pass under his responsibility: he abandoned, for a while, his career as a sorcerer because he could no longer bear to see the mountain of bodies of his companions that piled up day after day. Suguru stopped being his moral compass when he murdered an entire village of non-sorcerers.

Satoru Gojo was sleeping restlessly, as usual. This time, he dreamed of a world where he had defeated Toji Fushiguro and stopped the Time Vessel Association from completing their goal. Riko was alive, and never got to merge with Master Tengen, who achieved stability despite this setback: she would be an adult now; she had completed college and, in this reality, had just had her first child, a baby girl named Sachiko — “miracle child.” Misato became her legal guardian until she came of age, and cried the happiest tears of her existence when she saw Riko back in her arms, still a fragile child, on that day when she should have merged with Master Tengen. Nanami and Haibara were waiting for him at a bar for drinks that Friday night, to celebrate Nanami's birthday. Other guests included Utahime, Mei Mei, and Shoko, who had fewer dark circles under her eyes and a smile that seemed genuine rather than hollow.

Another person was also waiting for him at the bar. Suguru Geto never killed those people, never abandoned his past, his ethics, his life. He was still the same Suguru who was horrified when Gojo suggested killing all the damn members of the Time Vessel Association when they recovered Riko Amanai's body. Sometimes Satoru thought about how he should have — how he wished he had — killed all those miserable excuses of human beings; it would have been as easy as snapping his fingers, and it wouldn't have made any difference in the grand scheme of things. Maybe that would have made a difference in how things turned out. Maybe not. It didn't matter in that alternative reality, in that dream: Riko Amanai was alive, and happy.

The Satoru of his dream took a long sip from his glass of beer, laughing at one of Haibara's misadventures on the most recent mission he faced. His eyes met Geto's, a talent he had for always finding him in a crowd, and Suguru smiled. When the two returned home, the cicadas sang, filling the cold summer night; in his dreams, it was always summer, like the eternal youth of his Jujutsu High days. The sky was still clear, the setting sun threatening to turn the blue into orange. The glass buildings in the Shibuya region reflected blue, dyeing everything the same color, the color he had always associated with Geto.

The two walked in silence. There were so many unspoken words — in that dream and in reality — that Satoru couldn't express them, the bitter taste of goodbye always stuck in his throat, words unspoken and swallowed desperately; it was the terrible taste of the curses that Geto swallowed, which he did not share with anyone else.

Suguru smiled at him, and there was no anguish or pain behind his smile. — We will meet again, won't we?

Satoru Gojo woke up crying that cold November morning. He needed to blink a few times to dispel the vision of blood on his hands, Geto's blood, which he would never be able to wash off completely. He swallowed back his tears just as he swallowed the three words he wished he had said in Suguru's final moments, in that alleyway in Shinjuku.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo satoru #geto suguru #satosugu #nanami kento #haibara yu #shoko ieiri #toji fushiguro #megumi fushiguro #kenjaku #writing #fanfiction #jjk fanfic

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capuletangel · 2 years

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Slow Like Honey

Inspired By The Song; Slow Like Honey

Word Count: 2333

Story Summary: Ben Solo falls into a deep obsession with the local new baker, and Ben always gets what he wants.

Tags: DEAD DOVE; Stalking, Obsession, Creepy Ben Solo, Non-Con, Bittersweet Fluff, Misogyny, Major Character Death, Dark Themes and Eventual Smut. AFAB.

Also Posted To AO3 | Wattpad

Masterlist

Chapter One; Ben Is A Patient Man

Ben had always gone to the bakery, Lazy Loaf. Though not because he wanted to. God, no. His mother sent him once a week to get bread, maybe some sweet rolls if she asked for them. Always the same bitter old woman that served him, never offering a smile, never asking if he wanted anything else, just him buying bread and leaving.

He’d always appreciated soft spoken women, looked out for them—but after high school it went dry, only catching a brief look at a girl at a grocery store. The sightings were rare. Especially in rural texas. Leaving Ben hungry. Desperate for affection.

A long ten years had passed since high school, and he remained the same hungry man he’d been in senior year. She reminded him of how much he craved. Her weakness made Ben aware of it.

Stern and distasteful. Husky tone from all the cigarettes she’d shoved into her lungs, excessive frown-lines burnt into her face via the insufferable Texas sun, subpar bakes if you asked for Ben’s opinion and a crooked smile which revealed her cramped rotten teeth.

He’d never have gone if his mother hadn’t wanted him to. Ben would find any excuse to not visit it, resisting bile that raised in his throat at the mere sight of the wretched hag. And that was Ben being polite.

But then, the baker passed. Good riddance, Ben thought. Leaving the bleak store empty for a few months. Fading away in its cul-de-sac, surrounded by other derelict stores.

A good three months before new sage green paint layered the front of the shop, in contrast to the former beige. Delicate, trendy font spelling out ‘LOAF’ instead of the former cheesy name written in the boring, dated, comic sans font. The inside is decorated with a display, organised — cared for, soft wall lamps and a sight for sore eyes.

Poor Ben’s eyes thumped at the sight of a girl. A woman, if you will. Small, kind, sweet. Confused when he first saw her. Wondered if he were so desperate he’d formed a hallucination. If he’d gone insane from being so touch starved. So abandoned by the lack of feminine touch.

Her cheeks were rosy, plush with youth. A coating of flour smudged over her left eyebrow. Dressed in a sweater which hid underneath a linen apron, thin blue stripes contrasting against the off-white fabric. Soiled with splashes of food colourings, batters and icings, some faded — some fresh. Hair clipped up into a messy bun. A tender smile.

Instantly wrapped around her finger. She would smile at him, holding the most beautiful grin he’d ever seen. She wishes him a good day and laughs — flushes at his jokes. Nothing like the stale old woman who worked there for years beforehand. The woman who reminded him more of a man rather than any lady.

No, she was a delight. To talk to. To look at. To know. He found it hard to take his eyes off of her. Adorable. With her delicate voice, her coquettish blushed cheeks, and her bakes. Her bakes were to die for.

Far better than the previous owners. Ben found himself going bi-weekly, instead of just on his mother’s command. He’d get two Danish pastries each time. He’d go to the store hungry, but not for the baked goods. Graced by her presence. The cadences of her small talk and the dainty hands which seemed so fragile, yet made such pretty patisseries. Award worthy.

“Will that be all?” she would ask him, and he smiles every time she does. She knows his order like it’s the back of her hand, but she always insists that he should experiment, try something different. But, he refuses each time, and she still says it without fail.

She’s teasing him, he thinks. Flirting. Flirting in such an innocent way.

He looks like a mess compared to her, his dirty plaid shirts and stained jeans from working on the ranch. Huge, overly large hands that could crack her if he wanted to, but he didn’t, he reminded himself.

He wanted to see her in one of his flannels, imagining how they’d reach her mid thighs. How the material would drown her. Cover all of her, he’d be the only one to see what was beneath the material. He’d make sure of it. Protect her, even if it meant he’d have to capture her.

Of course, he doesn’t go into the bakery every day. That’d be creepy. Ben isn’t creepy. Ben is a nice guy. He just likes to see her. He wants to guard her.

Ordering the same thing each time, two Danish pastries. He isn’t sure why. Perhaps they remind him of when he first met her; they were the first things he bought. She always tells him he should change it up, that the buns are just as good, but Ben doesn’t like change, so he tells her maybe next time.

She just moved into town. He wondered why she’d come here — to this broken-down town in rural Texas. It must’ve been fate, he thought. There was no other explanation. A gift from a higher power for all the struggles he’d encountered over the last twenty-eight years. A present, just for him. But, he is also for her. A hulk of a man, though Ben was also soft. He’d hold her, soothe all her worries. Ben would take care of her.

She told him she was from Seattle. He knew little about Seattle. God, he’d barely even left Lakeridge.

He’d been to Houston a few times, and a small town near Waco for a shipment issue. She talked about how she missed the city, missed the rain, and her friends. She’d come down to live with her father — he was ill and she wanted to live a simple life with him until he passed.

That made him even more entranced by her. She cares about people and sees the best in them. She wants to nurture them. Ben wants to be nurtured by her. Have her hands run through his hair as he cuddled her. Whisper sweet nothings until they fall asleep in each other’s arms. The time would come, he knew that. He was hopeful. But most importantly, he’s patient.

Ben is a patient man. He reminds himself each time he walks into the bakery. He is a patient man. Ben had always struggled with the concept of patience, but he’d wait for her. He would wait a lifetime if it meant one day she’d be his.

She isn’t like the other girls he’s been with. She would understand his needs, understand that he cares, understand that he’d die for her. And besides, she doesn’t want any other male attention. He can see that. He knows that. He knows her. He’s always been excellent at reading people.

She wears the same sweaters for everyday of the week, organised. Like Ben. But she’s quirkier than him. Ben wears tattered flannel shirts over and over again. But, she wears unique sweaters.

Monday is a brown chunky knit. It hangs so loosely that it shows her left collarbone, and if he’s lucky, her bra strap too. When he first saw it, he had to tear his eyes from her, instead forcing himself to act as if he was interested in another loaf of bread. Imagining how soft her skin was. How she’d feel beneath him. How she’d taste.

Tuesday is a multi-colour knit. It hangs off of her in such an adorable way; she has to roll the sleeves up so they don’t dangle over her hands. That’s another thing that drives Ben into a frenzy. How tiny she is, compared to him. He works with his body all day. Heaving heavy equipment, which built up an impressive amount of muscle. She came up to his chest. So meek for him.

Wednesday is a cream cotton, she wears a turtleneck underneath it.

Thursday is another multi coloured knit, but it’s jagged and thick. She made it herself. She told him. He couldn’t contain his smile when she told him that. So feminine, baking and knitting for fun. He knew he wasn’t wrong about her. She had a nurturing energy about her, a natural caretaker.

Ben’s mother Leia wasn’t like that. He’d always craved it as a boy. Wishing that his mother could be gentle and ladylike. But she was stern. Ben broke that out of her. Eventually.

Friday is a green fluffy material. He wants to cuddle her in it, nuzzle into her chest, he finds himself leaning in sometimes when she wears it. He wants to feel her tender touch.

She is classic. Unchanging. He likes that.

She isn’t after attention. She’s herself. She laughs at Ben’s jokes. When she tilts her head back, some hair falls out of her bun and falls in front of her face. Ben wants to tuck it behind her ear for her. But, he resists, he’ll do it one day. And he’ll follow it with a soft kiss, and she will blush and kiss him back so tenderly.

Thursday is his favourite day. That’s when she’s happiest. Of course, she is always happy to see Ben. She wears her hand-knitted sweater, and it makes him feel so light. He can’t wait for her to knit him something. Even if it was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen, he’d cherish it. Cling to it. But it is closely followed by Monday. Her skin does something to him. She does something to him.

He knows she is desperate for him. Just as desperate as he is for her, but she wouldn’t make a move because she thinks Ben would say no. He knows she feels that way because of how shy she is. Submission runs off of her.

“Hey kid,” he hums as he sees her, swiftly running his eyes over every inch of her, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the semi he gets from the excitement of her presence.

Whenever he sees her, it’s like time is standing still. He basks in her presence. He wants to stand in that bakery for hours, watching her knead bread, glaze buns, and decorate the small cupcakes she makes. Watching as she smiles as he talks to her. She blushes easily.

“Hey stranger,” she flashed him an angelic smile. Sometimes Ben wonders if she is an angel, so delicate and talented. “I have no idea what you’ll order,” she taunts. She’s so horny for him. He knows it. He almost doubles over as she speaks, but he plays it cool, raising an eyebrow and playing along with her flirting.

“What do you think would best suit me, ma’am?”

“Well, I’d love to encourage some experimentation, we have cherry turnovers this morning—fresh out of the oven—fruit tarts, eclairs, apple strudels, but...” she’d already made her way over to the danish pastries, sliding two into a brown paper bag, “I think that you’re a classical man, unchanging, old-fashioned... so I’m going to make the brave decision of handing you some danish pastries, is that completely outspoken?”

Ben looks at her with fake disgust, clutching a hand to his chest, taking the bag she passed him and peering inside with a grimace. “I can not believe that you would lower me to a danish pastry.”

There it was, that laugh. Tilting her head with a delightful giggle as her lips parted, a smile reaching her eyes.

A piece of her hair detached from the up-do, dangling in front of her face, which she tucks behind her ear, looking up at Ben with an expression that made his semi turn into a full erect one. So tempted to have brushed it away with his own fingertips, feel her skin beneath his fingertips, inhale her scent—which was vanilla and lavender.

“Thank you,” he says, giving her a five-dollar note that had been crumpled in his fist due to lust and bewilderment. Wondering if she knew what she did to him, but shook off those thoughts. Of course she does. She means to. She wants to. Just as he wants her to.

It isn’t unrequited, they just both struggle with words. Two awkward people finding an interest in each other will always be difficult. But he’ll wait for when the time is right. He is a patient man. And she doesn’t want to make Ben uncomfortable. She is only twenty, after all. Still young. She feels like he’ll be disgusted. But she’ll learn he won’t. She’ll learn.

“Is that a new jumper?” He furrowed his eyebrows at the dark orange wool. It had small specks of white running through the yarn. He had never seen it before. She wore cream cotton one on Wednesdays. It upset him. She wasn’t sticking to her routine jumpers.

“Oh, this?” She smiles, running a hand over the sweater, rubbing the sleeves under her dainty fingers, “I made it the other day—I spilt something over my old cream one which was oddly a godsend, I’d just finished making this thirty-minutes before, do you like it?” God. Ben thought. He didn’t mind the change when it came to knowing she made it herself. It turned him on.

“Yeah, it’s nice—the colour suits you.” The words flew out of Ben’s mouth before he could catch them. Tensing, would she think that’s creepy?

“Thank you. Orange has always been one of my favourite colours.”

Ben nodded stiffly. It was getting harder and harder to not touch her. To ignore the ache in his groin. He is a patient man, he reminds himself. Tearing his eyes away from hers. “Thank you,” he ushered, holding up the bag, almost like it was a toast.

The bell jingled as he opened the door to leave, giving her a tight smile as he turned his head to look at her again. “Have a good day, Ben!” she called.

Even his name on her tongue made him spiral. He couldn’t wait until she was screaming it.

#ben solo x reader #ben solo x you #adcu fanfiction #adcu smut #adcu community #dead dove do not eat #dead dove #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #ben solo fanfiction

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thepastisalreadywritten · 11 months

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(WARNING: Sensitive Content)

SAINT OF THE DAY (July 6)

July 6 marks the feast day of St. Maria Goretti, a young virgin and martyr whose life is an example of purity and mercy for all Christians.

St. Maria Goretti is best known for her commitment to purity and the courageous defense of her faith at the young age of eleven that made her willing to undergo death rather than participate in a sin against God.

She is also remarkable for the forgiveness she willingly granted her attacker as she lay on her deathbed.

Maria was born on 16 October 1890 in Corinaldo, Italy.

Her father, a farmer, died of malaria when she was young, and her mother had to work to support their six children.

Maria took care of the younger children while her mother worked. She prayed the Rosary every night for the repose of her father’s soul.

She grew in grace and maturity. Her cheerful obedience and piety were noticed by those around her.

On 5 July 1902, a neighbouring farm hand, Alessandro Serenelli, tried to rape Maria.

On several prior occasions, Alessandro had harassed Maria with impure advances, all of which she had vehemently rejected.

This time, he locked her in a room and tried to force himself upon her. She fought against him, shouting, "No! It is a sin! God does not want it!" and warning him that this was the path towards hell.

When Maria declared that she would rather die than submit to this sin, Alessandro angrily grabbed her and stabbed her 14 times with a knife.

Maria was found bleeding to death and rushed to the hospital.

As she lay dying, she forgave Alessandro for the crime he had committed against her, saying, "Yes, for the love of Jesus, I forgive him...and I want him to be with me in Paradise."

Although the doctors tried to save her, she died on 6 July 1902, only eleven years old.

Alessandro was sentenced to 30 years in prison. He remained unrepentant until one night, eight years into his prison term, when Maria appeared to him, dressed in white, gathering lilies in a garden.

She smiled, turned towards Alessandro, and offered him the flowers. Each lily he took transformed into a white flame. Then Maria disappeared.

From that moment, Alessandro converted and found peace. He repented of his crime and changed his life.

He was released from prison three years early and begged forgiveness from Maria’s mother, which she duly granted.

Alessandro moved to a Capuchin monastery, working in the garden as a tertiary for the remainder of his life.

He was one of the witnesses who testified to Maria's holiness during her cause of beatification, citing the crime and the vision in prison.

Many miracles were attributed to Maria Goretti after her death.

Pope Pius XII beatified her on 27 April 1947 and canonized on 24 June 1950.

She became the youngest Roman Catholic saint officially recognised by name.

She is the patron saint of purity, rape victims, young women, and youth in general.

On her feast day in 2003, Pope John Paul II spoke about St. Maria Goretti at his Sunday Angelus, noting that her life provides an exemplary witness of what it means to be "pure of heart."

"What does this fragile but christianly mature girl say to today's young people, through her life and above all through her heroic death?" asked the Pope.

"Marietta, as she was lovingly called, reminds the youth of the third millennium that true happiness demands courage and a spirit of sacrifice, refusing every compromise with evil and having the disposition to pay personally, even with death, faithful to God and his commandments."

"How timely this message is," the Holy Father continued.

"Today, pleasure, selfishness and directly immoral actions are often exalted in the name of the false ideals of liberty and happiness.

It is essential to reaffirm clearly that purity of heart and of body go together, because chastity ‘is the custodian’ of authentic love."

#Saint of the Day #St. Maria Goretti

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thescribeoflostmemories · 1 year

Note

Reader: Maiko

Name of guest: scaramouche

Type of service:

flower set!

Additional(s):

dessert teehee

i hope im doing this right TT

Order received!

Warnings: R18+ for desserts, minors do NOT interact! Mostly fluff, some angst not the main couple, OOC Scaramouche (Probably butchered him, I have no idea on how to write him), Most likely inaccurate Geisha.

@mellowwillowy , @eliciana

"To those are lost, shall find within their inner most good and their greatest wish." - Scribe

"One hand, one heartbeat"

============= Few months earlier =============

A young Maiko dressed in her finest has fled the community out of shame, you have seen it. The news of Kazuo’s infidelity had reached you, he had sworn to be true to you once you had retired at your coming of age. Now his little affair is on every news board for everyone to see, including you. “Curse you, Yashiki!” Maiko screeched, crying your heart out. Bumped into someone and with a gauche, you fell down…

“My apologies.” trying to say sorry but hearing the snooty reply of a person

“Tch, it's you again. Look where you’re going, girl!” The short, young man scolded you.

“Jerk!” taking your apology back and just taking off, not knowing who you bumped into. Who ran after you to demand an apology.

Following the twist and turns then arriving at a meadow behind a curtain of odd purply veils. Sullen, wrapping your arms around your knees, pulling it to you. Sitting down next to a patch of wildflowers. “Can you even believe it? I’m just a whole circus to him, curse him, CURSE YOU YASHIKI!”

“All that rude talk for a plot of land? Can’t imagine how wretched your life must be.” You heard a person, huffing as your finger petted a flower’s fragile petal.

“Leave me alone sir, I’m just a stranger to you.” Grumbling, hearing him come close to you.

“You’re right, it is none of my business.” He huffs, just as he was about to walk away he suddenly turned around and faced you. “But tell me anyway.”

Looking at the red flower, it made your blood boil with anger.“Just someone I thought I knew my whole life.”

“You should have punched him if that was the case."

"I would, but. I couldn't, it may be the solution at the time. Though they probably think it's better this way."

" Who? "

" My other friends." You gestured to the frail and growing patch of flowers next to you. This place has always been your secret place, your sacred rabbit hole.

“They’re just a bunch of flowers. They’ll be gone the moment you look away from them.” The indigo haired youth frowned in distaste.

“Even so, they’re the only ones that could understand me in this terrible job.” Pulling your knees closer. “I could almost hear them, if I could just give more time.” A rather fruitless endeavor, but a goal nonetheless. “I’m sorry for taking up your time, I should be going. My matron is most likely looking for me.” Standing up, you dusted off the dirt off your clothes.

He scoffed ,“You better be. I’m not here to babysit you until dusk, you know.” Crossing his arms.

“I’ll try to make it up to you somehow!” waving goodbye to him before leaving.

The Balladeer didn’t move away, he merely looked at the flora you cherished. "You guys better learn how to talk properly to her, or else." Scaramouche hush-ly threatened a harmless meadow of flowers.

==========

Sometime later ===========

“Oh, it’s you… Going to cry again, shortie?” You didn’t expect to bump into the stranger from a few days ago. Nor did you plan on hearing him insulting you. Though what makes his insult odd is that, you’re kinda taller than him thanks to your geta.

“If you wanted a fight, you could have just said so instead of making it public.” Sighing to yourself, thinking you could easily apologise to a stubborn person like him.

“And what’s a poor Maiko like yourself going to do, hmmm?”

“dear sir, I’d appreciate it if you could just please follow me since I still have an apology to give you.”

“You better make it worth my while.”

And so you two shared lunch on you by the flower patch, “Sorry that this is sub par on what you’ll eat where you’re from.” It’s half of your usual simple light meal.

“I don’t believe you made this.” He says since girls like you wouldn’t be allowed by your matron to lift a single thing that isn’t part of their training.

“Then don’t, it’s not like someone has a weapon to your head to say it.” you munch on the eel and rice. Smiling with content at the flavors that blend together well with the white blanket of rice.

You then noticed the young man just stares absent minded-ly at the meal. He felt your gaze and snapped “What?”

“You don’t like it?” raising an eyebrow at him who, in return gave an irritated look.

“Bah! You need this meal more than I do anyway!” He shoves the meal back in your arms, making you a bit confused as to why he does this.

“Uhm Sir-” he cut you off.

“Scaramouche, or Balladeer to you.” Raising your hands in defeat since he seems on edge.

“Alright, alright, Scaramouche.” the name feels familiar, you ought to ask your Mada about him.

“Good, you better learn some manners.” Now this one is a real head scratcher for you. But you just smile at him.

“Do you like flowers?” You suddenly asked him.

Another frown. "They're just flowers." He once remembered a time where he just gaze at the flora and just be content with it.

"Then you like me to make tea for you?" He just laughs, not in a 'haha, that's so funny! ' kind of way.

"I bet it's not even that good."

"I could ask to give you a first time discount." He just gave you this weird look, as if he knows where you work.

"Don't tea houses only take in loyal clients?" That's true, at least until recently.

" We do, but. My mada says we need to change up the rules so everyone has a chance to experience it. " You try to explain to him.

" It might be better to let it stay as is, instead." Scaramouche mumbled.

"True that, though. I'd rather let things move… I mean there has to be something good in the future, yes?" There you are, trying to be hopeful. Failing miserably with how your own mind doesn't seem to like something new… "So, you're coming to have that tea ceremony, right?" Matching indigo eyes with his hair looked at you, opening his mouth and giving a strong.

"No."

============ Present =======

You couldn't help but crack a tiny smile. 'What happened to that, 'No', though? ' Going near him, you patted his shoulder.

“Lord Harbinger Balladeer, would you like to play a game with me?” You offered to play Tora-tora with him, now that you and him meet again in your workplace.

“Go bother someone else.” he tried to shoo you away like some house fly.

You only patted his shoulders to avoid showing any kind of emotion. “Look, nearly everyone’s joining in.”

“I’m still not convinced.”

Poking his cheek. “You'll miss out if you don't join in."

“Fine, fine!” He groaned in annoyance, relenting.

"Everyone please look at the bamboo grove which extends thousands of miles." You all- well the staff started to sing.

Seeing the young looking Harbinger so displeased at the notion of playing Tora tora with you. "There was a vast forest, take a peek and you won't believe what you'll see… " While the older Geisha played the shamisen, both you and him saw each other by peeking at the side of the changing screen. " Wearing a golden headband and a sash. The watonai with all his might has indeed caught, Tora tora tora tora… " clapping as you two start to ready yourselves to get into the stance.

Using your hands in an elegant pose as if you were one of the many spearmen of Inazuma. " Tora tora… tora" stepping out to reveal each other and Scaramouche is in a tiger position, making you the winner of this round. For some reason he has this disgusted look when you do the spear formation.

Another round, this time you were pretending you were the tiger on the prowl. Revealing yourselves to each other and this time he's the Spear man. A triumphant smile graced his lips.

Time has passed, and it's nearing the end of the party. And you're still attending to the youthful harbinger. "I'm glad you enjoyed that, Lord Balladeer." You smiled back at him, letting only him see it.

"Because you wouldn't shut up about it, so I don't have much of a choice." He tries to reject the idea that he liked it.

Accompanying him outside of the pavilion.“I guess, this is goodbye, Lord Balladeer.”

"I can always visit you here." He doesn't seem to understand

" I am bound to my Mistress.” You reminded him, having a personal affair isn't allowed. Even then, you young and dumb for trusting that guy in the first place. "I just wish that time would just sit still for a while… You know?" If you had a vision, you'd probably use it to travel around and not care about the world anymore. Thinking about it right now, didn't Kazuo have a vision? A pyro one at that. Were you also subconsciously using him as well?

You didn't notice the tears that escaped down the ground, until he held your hand with his. "Mukae ni iku." Scaramouche proclaimed boldly.

That tugged on your heart strings a little bit. "Thank you for thinking of me. Goodbye, Scaramouche.” you sniffed, and wiped some of the tears that smudge your makeup.

============ Weeks later. ============

“I told you, I can’t love you Lord Balladeer.” It had been weeks since that party, he hasn't forgotten his promise to you that day. In a few days you'd be a Geisha for completing your training. It was night and you haven't been visiting the flowers as of late. But this Fatui Harbinger just barges into your room through your window.

He huffed, "Then come with me to Sumeru, you'll have better flowers over there. I bet those guys wouldn't let you cry as much as Inazuman's Flora." Replying with confidence as if it were the obvious answer.

With a hand over your face, you said. "Lord Scaramouche, I can't just leave my job and go-"

"Take her Balladeer, as far away from here as possible." The voice of Fuuka can be heard from the door of your room.

"Lady Fuuka! " You turned around and made a deep bow to her.

"That’s Ma’am Wong to you, outsider. I’ve made my decision.” a potent scent of tobacco lingered around her, even when there's a screen between you. “I’m well aware of your intentions, Balladeer. My sons have told me so of your eyes that have been placed on my establishment for quite some time." She let out a puff of smoke. "Treat my daughter well or I’ll have to retrieve her back.”

“Lady Fuuka.” another tear emerges and streaks down your face.

“Go, before I change my mind and sic Kazuo to have her hand instead." The shadow only showed her waving her hand dismissively at them, back turned.

Scaramouche is understandably suspicious of Fuuka's intentions. “You’re rather compliant to let her be with me."

“ I would like to have my child to be happy, rather than to live with regrets in her short life. You may both leave tomorrow. Have some rest before leaving.”

========== Dessert =========

You don't know how it happened but it did, while travelling to Sumeru, you and Scaramouche decided to take a bit of a detour from the main path to the city. Here you two are, having a bit of fun before continuing your journey.

“I told you to keep your mouth shut.” Grunted the Balladeer who has you pinned against a tree, using your thighs to satiate himself.

"Nyah..!?" You groaned when he suddenly touched your breast, playing with it with his free hand.

You could hear some rustling. Out of fear of getting caught, you squeeze your thighs together causing Scaramouche to moan.

"You … - ngh… " His hips moved faster. "If you talk again… your thighs won't be the only … thing… mghn… "

"… What..? "

" That's it! " He forces you on your knees so you're at eye level with his shaft. "If you're going to keep talking."

A/N: Sorry these two took too long, last and this current month have been a bit overwhelming. I’ll be posting the last couple reqs for the event sometime this month. Sorry once more!

Next reqs would be "All I want is love" Yan Pantalone/Yan Capitano

#Falaila's Dessert #scaramouche #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #fatui x reader #fem reader

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metataxy · 1 year

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I share my dreams with ghosts, #2

Summary: The man who calls himself Luthen Rael was a Jedi once. This is how he survives Order 66, and what comes after. Part 1 here.

Not posting to AO3 until I figure out where this is going!

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He recovers. He is moved to the manor house Luthen shares in the country with his mother.

The real Luthen Rael had gone to the Outer Rim on an art purchasing expedition five years ago. He’d been killed in a raid on the kind of backwater brothel illegal on most civilized worlds. The Jedi accompanying the raid, Halber Rue, had recognized the Rael name. Decades earlier, he’d accompanied his Master to the manor house of one of the Alderaani elite to consider a pair of twin girls for induction to the Jedi Order.

The younger of the two, Elsyn, was Force-Sensitive. The elder, Menica, was not.

As it happened, Halber had maintained a connection with the Raels, and knew Luthen Rael’s mother, Menica, rather more closely than a Jedi should know a rich heiress. He knew what it would mean for her and her family, if their peers learnt her son had been involved in sex trafficking of underage sentients. And he knew what a Shadow could do, given the freedom to move among the Inner Rim elite.

Given just this, electing the correct Jedi for the job and persuading Menica Rael to accept him as her surrogate son would have been simple, but there was an additional advantage: he was her nephew. The same year Menica Rael gave birth to Luthen, Rael Aveross was born to Elsyn Ral, an Educorps Officer teaching refugee youth on the Outer Rim. They sent him to Coruscant as soon as they saw his midicount.

The Jedi Order does not record family names or lineages. They do not recognize parent-child relationships, at least, not in the way the rest of the galaxy understands them.

This is not to say the Jedi do not have children.

But it is to say that there is no documentation to prove a connection between a Jedi born into the Order, and their relatives outside it. No one, outside of Halber and his mother, who he’d only met once in passing, knows—knew-- his background, and so no one was suspicous when he took his cousin’s place. In build and appearance, he was almost wholly alike Luthen. With the aid of some small surgeries and voice training, the distance vanished.

He became Luthen.

Menica is old and fragile, and her memory is failing. He thinks she forgets, or has forgotten, that she is not really his son. So much the better. It had made him feel guilty before, when he would arrive home, and she would run down the stairs to receive him and take him into her flaccid arms and kiss his cheeks with her withered lips.

He opens the door to the manor, and she runs to him now, and all he feels is gratitude.

At least someone is alive to welcome him here.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Physically, at least, he recovers more quickly at ‘home’, probably because no one here will leave him alone. He is grateful for it. He is frustrated by it. He wonders if Bail Organa suggested to the medical staff that he be placed on suicide watch.

Menica Rael dotes on him as though he were a child. The first tenday after his arrival, he had spent in the canopied bed of his five-room suite, with curtains drawn over the windows. The servants had brought meals to his bedside. He’d eaten perfunctorily, though everything tastes like paste now. He had barely left his bed to use the fresher. His manservant—a new hire, since conveniently, all of Luthen’s personal attendants had died in the same raid as their master—pleaded with him to drink his soup, to avail himself of the new soaps, to let him be dressed in something other than the same nightclothes he’d worn since his release from the hospital.

The tenth day, his ‘mother’ had unlocked his door with the master key and wheeled in her walker, an extremely fat tooka wandering behind her.

“Mother—” he protested.

“Still moping about in bed?” she’d tut-tutted. Her damned maidservant peeked after her. She scooted slowly up to his bed and settled her skinny haunches down on the edge and took her his chin up in a bony thin hand. “Is it a girl again?” She released him, patted his cheek. “I told you, Luthen, you shouldn’t pursue such young ones. They’re not serious enough at that age. You need someone who will settle down with you.”

Luthen stared bemusedly at her. The tooka leapt up on the bed and began to purr.

“Why is it so dark in here?” she squinted. “I can barely see you. Hemilia, the curtains. Open the curtains.”

The maidservant dashed in and set to it with a right will. Menica hmmed approvingly. “Well that is much better, Luthen, and—oh, why are you still dressed in your nightclothes? Bannett,” she called to Luthen’s cowering manservant, who’d tucked himself by the door. “Why is he still in his nightclothes!”

Poor Bannett shrank back under her scrutiny. “Master Rael asked to—”

“Poppycock. I told you, didn’t I, Bannett, that my son occasionally needs a solid bit of encouragement to get out of bed after he’s been disappointed by another one of those hussies?” She took the nightcap from Luthen’s head and flung it across the roof, and then began to unbutton his shirt, as though he weren’t a fifty-year-old man, and she, an octogenarian with chronic arthritis. Luthen’s mouth fell open. She fumbled at the fine fastenings, and then glared across at the hapless Bannett.

“Well?”

Bannett hurried over and undressed him, while Menica turned her back to them and chivvied Hemilia into selecting an appropriate outfit from the wardrobe.

Several repeats of this, and he is willing to be persuaded by Bannett to shower and dress before his mother need get involved.

He is depressed, and she will have none of it.

If he isn’t eating as much as she expects, she harangues the chef to overspice his food. When he comes to breakfast with bags under his eyes, she orders him a new bed, wide enough to sleep five, and chides Bannett to see to it that he sleeps at a normal hour. If he tries to doze during the day, she opens his windows so that the early winter air chills his chambers. And when he doesn’t bathe, he awakes to find a very attractive courtesan in his room who smilingly informs him they’re to bathe together.

He finds himself settling comfortably into the life of Luthen Rael and hates himself for it.

Because all Rael Aveross would have wanted was to be home at the Temple, on his thin pallet with the worn blanket passed down through so many of his people’s hands that you could almost fall asleep from its memories of their slumber. He would have wanted to smell the dry, reptilian musk of the Trandoshan master next door, the faint smell of diesel from the Coruscanti traffic outside, to look out his window to see the thousand lights of Coruscant beaming back at him.

Luthen Rael saw the Temple on the Holonet in flames.

He tries to avoid the Holonet and fails. His ‘mother’, for lack of any better company than himself and the servants, watches it at meals and in between meals. So he watches the dictates of the newly declared Emperor over their breakfast table, and tries not to choke on refried rice and legumes.

The news is dismal. During the Jedi’s betrayal, they are blamed to have assassinated dozens of politicians who had, coincidentally, opposed the war and the consolidation of power by the Chancellor’s office. With the deaths of his opposition and the Jedi, Chancellor Palpatine is establishing a dictatorship. Politicians who support him? Their primary objective for office seems to be stripping as much wealth from their home planets and into their bank accounts as possible.

The main Inner Rim news channels are full of propaganda. The few journalists marked for their integrity seem to have vanished overnight. In the privacy of his room, he turns to the comments sections and the more local broadcasts, and it gets worse.

Social services, already cut back under wartime austerity measures, now cease to exist. Military enrollment is opening to civilians, who welcome it as a way out of poverty. He can’t connect at all to news sites from the Outer Rim. He expects the new government is blocking any independent broadcasting networks from outside the Alderan System.

There is no word of Jedi outside the triumphant news of their murder, or the wanted holos.

He allows himself one indulgence: he downloads every last one of those holos via VPN to an encrypted drive on his computer.

In the evenings, after the servants have at last put his mother to bed, he goes to his chambers and locks the door, and turns on their holoimages.

Some of them he knows intimately: the ExploraCorps pilot with a lop-sided grin he’d bedded whenever they were both at Temple. A Bothan padawan he’d found on search, when she’d been as small and soft as an anooba pup. Some he has seen in passing, across the crowded canteen in the years before the war, over his blade during a quick bout in the salles. Some he has never met.

He hopes he will yet meet them in this life.

He opens a spreadsheet and starts to write down their names for himself, a plan emerging in his mind. At his elbow, the holos of their faces flicker, transparent as ghosts.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He revives his business trading in art and antiquities, with his cousin’s original stock, along with artifacts retrieved from the caches the Shadows kept for missions such as these, and the contents of one of Dooku’s vaults. Three decades, two padawans, and a galactic war, and the man hadn’t changed the passcode.

It didn’t fit with how meticulous his master had been. The likely conclusion is his Master had wanted him to have it.

The vault’s contents only confirm his suspicions. There are artifacts he could sell to Coruscanti museums for half their year’s acquisitions budget and chests of antique clothes and fossils from worlds where sentient species emerged, and all this, to him, to Dooku, is so much garden variety trash. He lays his eyes on the real treasure at the back: a chest made of some dark wood that had laid at the foot of his Master’s bed from the beginning of his apprenticeship. He punches in the code. With a click and a hiss, it unlocks and unseals. His hands tremble to see the familiar contents.

Holocrons. Probably stolen from the Jedi Archives, though a couple he remembers retrieving with Dooku from extinct Temples during their missions. He’d never given them over to Temple. He lifts one cube carefully from where it lays cushioned in loose wool.

It’s inert and dim in his hands.

He wants to hurl it at the wall, but more than that, he wants to throw it with his mind, and cannot.

Instead, he replaces with a care he does not feel, and removes a red-hued tetrahedron from the wool next to it. A Sith Holocron.

There is a short note beneath it, written in runes only a handful of Archivists could fluently read.

Rael. 1. Start here.

He checks the other Sith holocrons. They’re numbered, apparently to provide a progression through the lessons Master Dooku had planned for him. There are also notebooks, similarly written in ur-Kittat, the ancient written language of the Sith.

He sits down before the chest.

For how long had his Master considered betraying the Jedi? Had considered taking Rael with him?

Not during his apprenticeship, he thinks. He hadn’t learnt the Sith language for that reason. Master Dooku and a handful of other traditionalist had always written to each other in dead languages. It had been simpler than inventing a code ab novo. Rael had learnt ur-Kittat out of the conviction that the messages Dooku and Jocasta passed to each other through him were love notes. When he’d finally decoded a message, he’d found a summary of the minutes for every council held while Dooku was off-world, followed by a dry note expressing Nu’s gratitude that someone had downloaded the grammars for ur-Kittat for the first time since she and Masters Dooku and Sifo-Dyas had been Initiates. He’d been mortified.

But no, Master Dooku hadn’t betrayed them during his apprenticeship, or else he would have tried to turn Rael with him. He’d expressed as much during their last holocall, shortly after the beginning of the war.

“You will never attain the full measure of your potential as a Jedi, my old student,” Dooku had told him, looking serious as ever. “I know you. I know the measure of your passions. I taught you to contain and control them.” The man’s mouth twists. “I would teach you now how to use them. Desire is a compass. We do not fulfill ourselves in denying it.”

“My only desire is that my Master wasn’t such a treacherous ass,” he’d scoffed into the holocomm.

The conversation had devolved from there.

He considers the contents of the vault, the limited space in the smuggling compartments of his ship, the risk of being examined at customs.

He takes several journals filled with his Master’s notes, and a Jedi holocron. After a moment, he gathers the first tetrahedron into his arms.

It’s not as though he can use it anyways.

Go to Part 3 -->

#Luthen Rael #Andor #Order 66 #Star Wars #Jedi #Dooku

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whatqueen-wildcats · 1 year

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Answer the evens for the music ask 🤪

Here u go finally hahaha

2: A song you like with a number in the title

6/10 - dodie

4: A song that reminds you of someone you would rather forget about

Sweater weather - the neighborhood

6: A song that makes you want to dance

Beyoncé RENAISSANCE, just all of it lol listened to it a lot this past summer

8: A song about drugs or alcohol

Idk uhh Juice - Lizzo also a very dance-able choice

10: A song that makes you sad

Wolves - Jensen McRae

Don't think I've ever heard this song without crying

12: A song from your preteen years

Stars - Switchfoot (any early sf qualifies tbh, but got to dance and scream to this one live last year with a couple of fellow ex-youth group queers in one of the weirdest and most healing concert experiences I've had yet lmao)

14: A song that you would love played at your wedding

I Wanna Dance with Somebody - Whitney Houston haha every time I hear this song I just picture the reception dancing and singing along with a room full of people I love and my brand new spouse and it being such a moment of joy

I don't have super significant ones I want for ceremony or first dance or whatever cause i feel that's very dependent on the relationship, but this tune is a Must at some point on the dance floor

16: One of your favorite classical songs

Mmmm idk which individual piece would be my fave but i do love to listen to Chopin (To be a bit pedantic, he's a Romantic period composer, not properly Classical period, but in the Colloquial Sense of Classical it counts 🤣)

18: A song from the year that you were born

*hastily googles songs released in 1994*

Basket Case - Green Day

Very strong memories of hearing it for the first time about 10 years after its release from my cousins shiny new mp3 player and being SUPER jealous

20: A song that has many meanings to you

Twenties - Semler

Always a bit of a mindfuck to listen to honestly -- lmao press X to skip this monolog but please do listen to the song, it's excellent.

cause I so easily could have (and indeed for most of my life thought I was going to) follow the path of the ex-friend in the song, the good Christian girl just looking for any nice guy to settle down with and meet all those traditional expectations... it's what I thought I wanted. I'm sure if the first boy I wound up dating had actually been a good person and didn't fully shatter my entire already-fragile sense of self, I would've stayed on that path for decades and a couple of kids before even getting close to figuring out why I was so miserable. It's all I knew. And I think of all the people I know who did take that path, the friends i grew up with and no longer speak to... the repetition of the line "how long will you live until your life is your own?" I think of my mother and grandmothers. I hope they're all happier than I would have been had I stayed. I think of all the ways I still people please, and think with gratitude for all the ways I no longer do. I could go on but I won't lol.

22: A song that moves you forward

Idk what exactly this is even supposed to mean? Like, motivates me? Gives me hope? Who knows but youre getting

City - Thao & The Get Down Stay Down

24: A song by a band you wish were still together

tbh I can't think of one? I'm sure there are some, but several that I would've said a few years ago have either come back already or I no longer care for them lol. And of course there's plenty of Before My Time bands that would've been cool to be around for but feel like that's not the point of this question.

Idk, what keeps coming to mind is Foo Fighters - they aren't actually broken up but Taylor Hawkins, their drummer, passed suddenly last year. For the song I'll pick "But, Honestly"

26: A song that makes you want to fall in love

So maaannyyyyyyyyyyyyyy ughgh

If We Were Vampires - Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

Makes me absolutely SICK that I haven't met the love of my life yet and every day that passes is one less that I get to spend with them in this mortal existence 😫

Addendum: I've taken so long to finish answering these that I've found a new answer in the meantime that I'd like to share, Kevin Atwater, several of his songs apply, but going with My Blood is Your Blood *foaming at the mouth*

28: A song by an artist with a voice that you love

Probably the best and most ENCHANTING voice I've had the joy of getting to hear live so far in my life is Florence Welch of F+TM, I'll pick the song Cassandra

30: A song that reminds you of yourself

Okay this would be SO EASY but i really don't wanna pick a sad or self-deprecating song. Those have their time and place but I'm practicing them not being my default lol.

Gonna answer with one that, maybe doesn't exactly *remind* me of myself? but helps me embrace myself: Hit or Miss - Odetta

Thank you, as always, for facilitating my long-winded nonsense! 💖

#ask

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existentialmagazine · 9 months

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Review: Avi Kytes’ new haunting indie-folk single ‘Cult’ captures warm acoustics and star-crossed lovers

Rolling off the back of his previous successes ‘Roll Over’ and ‘Naked’ the upcoming indie-folk artist Avi Kytes has now prepared a new offering to grace your ears in the form of ‘Cult.’

Wrapped between the warm sonics of acoustic instrumentals and Avi’s glowing vocals, ‘Cult’ right from pressing play embraces you within its familiar arms, a comforting presence all the way through despite its melancholic undertones. With a tenderly picked acoustic guitar riff looping through the verses beside the occasional reverberated twinkling and water droplet-esque sound effect, Avi has set up a soundscape that levitates through its intimate tones and soars, complemented the entire way through by Avi’s airy vocal flow that nourishes the sound perfectly. The chorus continues these delicate touches, flourishing with the addition of soothing backing vocal ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s that make the track only more whimsical and magical. An instrumentally encased bridge bursts out of its fragile seams, showing off more dominant acoustic guitar strums, whirring synth-esque sound effects and keys, heightening not just the volume but the emotional impact too. One final chorus concludes the interlaced seams of ‘Cult’, carrying through it the soft resonance littered the entire way through. Every second of the three minute play-time of ‘Cult’ is a journey worth sticking around for, ebbing and flowing with a multitude of carefully constructed layers that will haunt you long after it leaves you.

Exploring themes of star-crossed lovers from differing worlds, ‘Cult’ flourishes in a narrative of youthful innocence and naivety, seeking love in the purest of forms despite their opposing lives. As the protagonist introduces their lover by explaining ‘she was part of a cult out of town’, it’s immediately established their beliefs are perhaps clashing and their lives are split not just by these thoughts but their locations too. Romantically flowing lines like ‘in her eyes, she was stolen by me’ express their connection with a heartfelt sincerity regardless of these weighing issues, implying the pair exchange and bear their souls to one another, seeing each other entirely as more than simply where they’re from and what they believe in. A self-awareness of their situation is constantly seeping through and tarnishing their love with embers of reality though, expressing through more poignant thought-provoking lines that there is a depth to their relationship well beyond their years: ‘I might say I was head over heels for a girl seeking forgiveness, but I know in her eyes I was just a doomed guy in a world shredded to pieces.’ Further lyrics like ‘taking part in small talk… then we’d kiss in my room in silence’ seem to emphasise their reluctance to be open with one another, sharing intimacy and closeness in the form of physicality rather than speaking aloud thoughts that may not align. It’s beautiful and heart-wrenching all at once, capturing the stirring of a doomed love along with all the butterflies that can’t help but fly regardless of their eventual ends.

Check out ‘Cult’ here if Avi Kytes warm rays of sound and multi-faceted lyrical narrative is one you wish to carry with you forever to come.

Written by: Tatiana Whybrow

Photo Credits: Unknown

// This coverage was created via Musosoup, #SustainableCurator.

#music #singlereview #avikytes

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ahb-writes · 10 months

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Book Review: ‘HIGEHIRO’ #2

Higehiro: After Being Rejected, I Shaved and Took in a High School Runaway, Vol. 2 (light novel) (Higehiro: After Being Rejected, I Shaved and Took in a High School Runaway by Shimesaba My rating: 4 of 5 stars Sayu, frantically running away from her past, has run so far and so fast such that she has forgotten to allay herself of the benefits of having run away in the first place. That is not to say she hasn't indulged in the freedom of movement and behavior; rather, she has neglected to explore the emotional latitude one often earns for oneself when finally unshackled by the presumptions of home. HIGEHIRO v2 pivots, holding Sayu responsible for her actions and forcing her to confront the fragility she hides with five different dishonest smiles. Also, Yoshida's work life is getting more hectic. Also, Sayu snags a part-time job and makes new friends. Also, more folks within Yoshida's inner circle are clued into his home situation. Also, an adulterer barges back into Sayu's life. More and more developments layer the precedent, and readers are left to wonder how long it'll be until Sayu, or Yoshida, or any of the supporting cast, breaks down. HIGEHIRO v2 is about surviving the fiery backdraft of emotions left unattended for far too long. The novel isn't a tearjerker, but it's definitely heartbreaking on multiple accounts. It's a reality check, and nobody emerges unscathed. The expanding number of characters with baggage and a hustle and misconceptions about social propriety grows with each chapter. This novel series' premise hasn't changed. The tale of a "nice guy" office worker trying his best in spite of the world's emergent ills remains the primary theme. But the deeper readers wade into Yoshida's life, the more they come to find he's an aberration in more ways than one. In HIGEHIRO v2, Yoshida butts heads with characters whose perception of the world is falsely colored according to what they desire most. Airi Gotou is still the object of the young man's affections, but the woman's pretentious virtue nearly wrenches their whole dynamic off course. Mishima, Yoshida's kohai, still pines for her do-gooder colleague, but her indecisive disposition marks her for one who can never attain what she needs because she never voices what she wants. This is a character study on down the line. New characters are not immune to these clashes with reality. Asami Yuuki, for example, is a casual gyaru and one of Sayu's coworkers at a local corner store. The girl is a brilliant high-school student whose home life is the telltale consequence of neglectful parenting. The connections she makes, and the ruptures she inveighs, are direct consequences of these experiences. HIGEHIRO v2 tips its hand a little, strongly implying that Yoshida has found himself dead center in the most undesirable harem in the history of humankind: a gorgeous prude, a lazy and unambitious sidekick, an immature runaway, and a mature latchkey youth. Whether the man will acquiesce to one of these rotten desires, or fold his cards and walk away, is as of yet unknowable.

Light-Novel Reviews || ahb writes on Good Reads

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iwrite-sinsandtragedies · 11 months

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Ahh yes, we've finally made it into step 4 boys, girls and squirrels!

and, I've quickly realised that China is most definitely a wreck. Which is sad, considering she was always such an fiery and confident person up until Baxter got through with her.

She's 'got her own buisness' or rather, she does art and it's made her reasonably well known and gets put up in galleries. She uses it to cope really, people appreciate the emotion that's envoked from all her pieces. She also has a black and white cat that she loves dearly and that keeps her sane most days - his name is Alexander. She also lives with Cove! He's her rock, really🥺

Her hands frequently shake now, she's emotionally fragile - her tomboy-ish vigor from her youth has been replaced with a softer, quieter version of herself. She's always low on spoons.

But! Very in her nature, she still goes out of her way for everyone😂to her own detriment, I'm sure. If anything, she'd gotten even more independent than she was as a youth, which is.. saying something considering how independant she was back then. Now she only really ever relies on Cove, and her cat ofc. This tiny little lady will carry her own bags, thank you very much!

You can have all the hugs though. In fact, she would prefer to hug everyone, all of the time, actually - and never let go🥺yeah...

#olba #ol:ba #ol baxter #ol mc #our life beginnings and always #ol cove #cw trauma #cw seperation anxiety #cw depression #iwrite words #mc china

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fucknathanieljacobs · 2 years

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Nate Jacobs & Cassie Howard: In The Dead of Night

Nate had never held Maddy, he had never truly held anyone, he had no desire to. What was the point of a momentary pause, a disruption rather, slipped between much more potentially lustful actions.The concept of physical intimacy outside of sexuality bored Nate to the point that he’d previously never cared to experience something so seemingly undesirable. Perhaps that disdain stemmed from the utter neglect of affection that burdened the pivotal years of his adolescence. In fact, the majority of his previous gestures in courtship had been feigned emulations of tired romantic standards or of tropes popularized by films and television; meaningless boxes of chocolate, hastily selected bouquets, or lingerie which was without a doubt more for his selfish pleasure than his partner’s. Even his dialogue choices within his relationships seemed to fall off the pages of scripted, tired Hallmark movies, mimicking empty lines he’d heard recited before. He would go through the motions vacantly, incapable of feeling a truth to the “love” he had convinced himself was present.

That was however, until he witnessed Cassie Howard cry on New Years Eve; the small of her back pressed tightly against the frame of the door, her baby doll eyes wide with the sheer terror of a circumstansial possibility that had yet to even happen as she desperately searched his gaze, pleading silently with him for guidance as the gentle warmth of her cry began to cascade down upon flushed cheeks. There was danger in the moment and not simply from the pounding fists of his impatient ex girlfriend booming upon the opposing side of the wood of the door; one hasty movement, he felt as if he could crush Cassie entirely as her delicate, nearly angelic head rested between the calloused skin of his two palms, heavy hands instantly softened as his thumb lightly began to stroke the damp flesh of her porcelain cheek. In front of the boy who felt nothing was the girl who felt everything. Nate was entirely fascinated by Cassie; how could something so fragile exist in such an unforgiving world? There was a strength in her that his emotionally stunted youth would forever prevent himself from comprehending fully but he felt deeply privileged to witness her as she was truly art.

He felt a sacred power in familiarizing himself with her fragility and knew without hesitancy that from that moment onward, he would go to any length to protect her exquisite vulnerability.

Any length including facing the demons head on that his father had left scattered in his wake. Laying to rest the inherited shame of his past enough to attempt to dig out any fraction of a heart he had buried under his aggressive, guarded exterior in order to allow Cassie in would be essential to embarking forward into this new chapter with her. Perhaps to an outsider, seemingly spontaneously moving this girl into his home cloaked in the dark shadows of the midnight hour would be an act of extremity but to Nate, it was strategically calculated planning, the culmination of his unconventional personal redemption arc and above all, it was the next logical step in protecting her. She belonged to him, that he knew from the moment she smiled in his direction from the moonlight stained passenger seat of his truck that fateful night, but what was completely uncharted territory for the football star was that for the first time in his life, he felt as if he irrevocably belonged to another in return. 38 missed calls later and he had not recoiled from her affection, and be it Maddy, he knew his phone would have been thrown across the room after berating her for her impatience. He needed Cassie close, all of her, in every form and as her palms frantically pushed against his brawny frame, he knew what it felt to yearn to hold another, to simply exist in the peace of the aftermath of the skepticism and judgment and pain they had trudged their way through to end up there in that moment, alone together in his bedroom, or rather for the foreseeable future, *their* bedroom. His eyes fluttered to a brief close, cherishing the rarity of this experience he felt he had waged a lifelong war with himself to reach. Nate’s lips fell upon the crown of her head, pressing a deep, lingering kiss upon the golden strands of her hair, trailing his lips downward to land steadily upon her forehead. As he seemingly towered over her, his body slumped slightly to match her height, his arms remained enveloped around her petite figure, holding her, *actually holding her* without the thought to rush forward to whatever came next. He needed her to feel safe and Nate Jacobs ached to be her safety. Replacing his lips with his forehead, he ran his palms upward, tracing over the fabric of her clothing until they settled into place upon her cheeks, his gaze immediately taking hers.

“I…think you may be my fucking world, Cassie.”

His tone was low and gruff yet inquisitive, almost as if he was discovering the depth of his emotional attachment as he spoke.

“I’m not a good person, Cassie, that is no secret. It’s always been me against the world but for some fucking reason, I need you by my side. I’ve done things you couldn’t even begin to fathom….but the way you look at me, this blind faith you have in me…I have this desire to do it all a little differently now.”

The last letter of his sentence lingered in the settled quiet of the room and he searched her expression for any concept of her reaction to this hurricane they had found themselves in the eye of.

#euphoria #Euphoria RP #euphoriaroleplay #euphoriarp #NATE JACOBS #nate jacobs rp #natejacobs #nate jacobs roleplay #natejacobsrp #roleplay #roleplayer #role play #tumblr roleplay #euphoria roleplay #cassie howard #nate and cassie #writing #fanfic #fan fiction

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swiftsalchemy · 3 years

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Snow White - Diluc Ragnvindr

A/N: I had a dream about this last night & ever since I couldn't help but think about it. so now I'm writing this to make sure it gets stuck in your head too. remember to drink water! :) also this may not be written the best since I’m really sick atm and a little out of it.

summary: diluc ragnvindr is in love with you and a certain brunette woman gets a little too jealous

pairings: diluc ragnvindr x female!reader

warnings: poison, themes of death, fluff

word count: 3.7k words

It was safe to say that you were the most desirable woman in Mondstadt. Not only were you pretty, but you were kind and incredibly friendly. You also were quite the hard worker - always going out of your way to help others in need. Despite working as Lisa’s assistant in the library from the early hours in the morning to late at night, whenever you got a break, you would always head into the center of Mondstadt and help any way you could. Your most favorite person to help out was Diluc Ragnvindr.

You often stopped by the Angel’s Share on your breaks and would help serve people drinks to ease the workload on other’s in there - even Diluc himself. Due to this, you often saw Diluc and you two grew rather close. Even though you were a worker in the Knights of Favonious, he admired how desperate you were to help those who lived in Mondstadt whenever you could. Plus, you were always so kind to others - no matter how rude anyone else was to you.

Occasionally during your late nights helping Diluc at Angel’s Share, you two would share those special moments. You two never kissed nor brought it up to each other after the fact. However, your meeting gazes, almost too close bodies, and hands overlapping or bumping into each other caused you both to slowly fall for each other.

Diluc often would be extra sweet to you and bring you lunch and gifts while you were at work. Sure, he didn’t like being in the Knights of Favonious building but if it meant that you were taken care of while you were at work it brought him a peace of mind. Rumors spread like wildfire around Mondstadt that you were Diluc’s girlfriend. You both always denied the rumors, but your actions towards each other made the entire town not believe you two.

Most of Mondstadt liked the idea of you two being together, two hard-working citizens finding comfort in each other. However, there was one woman who despised you for getting so close to Diluc, Donna. She believed you had used witchcraft on the firey red-head and bewitched him into dating you ( which you weren’t even in that kind of relationship anyway ). So, she wanted to take the matter into her own hands and end whatever relationship you and Diluc were sharing.

Donna had heard of a local witch that lived just outside of Mondstadt who specialized in poisons. One night, Donna had left the stone walls that echoed the whispers with the rumors about yourself and Diluc, her recallings of everyone talking about you two only fueled her enragement more. She walked over the stone bridge and into the nearby forest. She had only a dagger and a lantern that emitted a yellow glow out into the dark woods. Unlike you, she had no hydro vision that balanced out with Diluc’s pyro vision so well. She was just a normal girl who lived a very unimportant life.

Eventually, Donna made it to the wooden cottage where the witch lived. It was so dark and menacing looking ( even with her lantern lighting up the building ). A part of her wanted to turn around and go back into her safe home. However, she would never turn away this chance to make you pay for stealing her precious Diluc away.

The woman gingerly approached the rotting wooden door of the cottage and raised her fist, knocking it softly against the door. Donna waited a few seemingly long moments, her heart racing with each fleeting second. Slowly, the door had opened before Donna and a tall, youthful woman stood before her. The woman looked around her mid-twenties and had black hair that flowed from her scalp to beautifully. There wasn’t a single dark curl that was out of place. Glowing yellow eyes peered at Donna as she sized the visitor up.

“ Let me guess what you’re here for, one of my varying poisons, no?” The tall woman asked, her voice melting in Donna’s ear. It was so collected and warm - it matched perfectly with the vibe the woman had.

Donna nodded, “ yes ma’am. I need a poison that’ll kill the woman who seeks to take away my lover,” she answered, her previous rage was bubbling back up in her chest. Donna despised you.

The witch laughed, raising a pale hand to cover her red-stained lips. “ None of my poisons kill. However, they all are extremely difficult to reverse the effects of. It’ll take far much more than an antidote to wake your victim up from their deep slumber. “ For a moment, the woman disappeared back into her dark cottage. Donna narrowed her eyes, trying to find the woman and see what she was doing. However, it didn’t take very long for the witch to come back to the door. This time, she held a woven basket filled to the brim with apples in her fragile hands.

“ Here, these will do your job perfectly. Just give one to your victim and watch as your victim chokes on the poison-filled apple and falls into a deep slumber,” she spoke, holding the basket out to Donna.

Donna took the basket, holding the handle tightly in her free hand. “ How much do I pay you?”

The woman shook her head, “ there’s no need for that. I do not require payment, Mora is unnecessary to me. “

“ Oh- ok. Thank you ma’am, I really appreciate it,” Donna said before the witch nodded and closed the door on Donna - ending their conversation. The brunette smiled slyly as she looked down at the basket with poisoned apples in her hands. Finally, she would get her revenge on you. Making everyone believed you had died and then she would swoop in and be the shoulder Diluc cried on. From there, she would make him fall for her. It was a perfect, foolproof plan.

Donna eventually made her way back to Mondstadt. She blew out the light on her lantern and slid her hood further down to cover her face. She knew around this time you would just be walking home from Angel’s Share. It was the perfect place to poison you, no one would be awake to see it.

She spotted you approaching your house, and Donna began to make her way over to you. “ Y/N!” She called out excitedly, acting as if you two were the best of friends. The woman was excited, not to see you but to see you suffer right in front of her eyes.

You turned your gaze to look at Donna, a bright smile adorning your face. “ Donna, hey!” You called out back, making sure to keep quiet and not wake up your neighbors. “ What’s up? Is something wrong?” You asked Donna as the woman approached you.

“ No... No, nothing’s wrong. I was just out apple picking, people say they’re best picked at night, and I wanted to have you try one. I trust your judgement and wanted your insight on if I should put them in a pie or not,” Donna explained, trying to make sure that you couldn’t tell she was lying about the situation.

You eagerly nodded. “ Sure, I’d love to! I’m pretty hungry anyway,” you responded, your voice so full of kindness and innocence. For a moment, Donna almost felt bad about doing this. However, she couldn’t risk you getting with DIluc and taking him away from her forever.

Donna took the shiny red apple on top and handed it over to you, another wicked smile coming onto her lips as she watched you take the red apple with your hand and hold it up to your lips - taking a large bite out of it.

An initial taste of sweetness hit your mouth and you were about to tell Donna how good it tasted when suddenly the chunk of apple got stuck in your throat and a new bitter taste emerged. Everything that was in your hands dropped to the stone pavement below you as you lifted your hands to your throat. Trying to cough up the bite of apple that was stuck in your throat. You couldn’t breathe and the bitter taste was getting worse by the second. Your eyes met Donna’s for a brief moment and the friendliness that was once in her eyes got replaced by pure hatred and amusement of your suffering. You felt betrayed, someone you trusted had just fed you a poisoned apple and was smiling about it.

Diluc, who wanted nothing but your safety, had followed you home. Always staying a good distance away so you couldn’t tell that he was following you. When he turned the corner to look at your doorway, expecting to see you enter your him, his heart dropped when he saw your body stumbling back and a cloaked figure standing before you.

Donna glanced behind you, her body panicking when she saw a familiar firey red-head rushing in her direction - having just watched the whole thing unfold. She quickly turned away and began sprinting away from the scene. The last thing she wanted was Diluc knowing that she was the one behind the whole thing.

Just as you were about to fall backward onto the pavement, losing most of your body strength and consciousness, Diluc had just gotten to you and caught you in his arms. He held you tightly, your back resting on his forearms. He almost though about chasing after whoever did this to you, but the moment his eyes saw your struggling body and pained face any desire to chase your attack vanished. Now, all Diluc wanted was to get you to help. He wasn’t about to see another person he loved so dearly die in his arms again.

He lifted you up in his arms, holding you bridal style and he briskly began to make his way to the church. Diluc didn’t know how to help you and he knew that one of the sisters would be there and could get you to Barbara to help. Every step he took, he moved his legs faster and faster - feeling your breathing slow and seeing your eyes start to close. The apple chunk had almost finished dissolving, leaving poison now running into your system. As he ran, flashback’s from his father’s death began replaying in his head. He couldn’t let you die, he wouldn’t let it happen again.

Diluc had just barged into church, startling all of the sisters that were inside praying, when you had succumbed into your deep slumber. The sisters had quickly rushed over to Diluc, staring at your seemingly lifeless looking body.

“ Get Barbara please,” Diluc said, some what annoyed by their lack of action. At once, one of the sisters left and rushed into a side door of the church. Moments later, she returned with Barbara and Acting Grandmaster Jean.

Jean was startled to see Diluc standing in the church looking so distressed. Until her gaze fell on your body being held tightly in his arms. “ What happened?” she asked as the trio got closer.

“ I was following Y/N home as usual when I saw her stumbling away from a cloaked figure. When I got to her, she was struggling to breathe and losing all consciousness. Can you help her?” He asked, trying to keep himself composed. The last thing he wanted was for everyone to see him get upset.

Barbara nodded, “ I can take a look at her. Do you know what the person might’ve given her?” she asked as Jean carefully took your body from Diluc’s arms and held them tightly in hers. After that, she began to carry you to the infirmary.

“ No- But I can go back and see if there was anything left behind that would’ve caused this. I’ll be right back, “ Diluc responded back to Barbara. At once, he exited the church and ran back to the front of your house just as quick as he ran leaving there. He looked around on the dark ground, looking for anything that looked like it could harm someone.

At first, he almost went back to the church empty handed when the gleam of a round object hit his gaze. Diluc walked over to the object and crouched down and grabbed the object. Upon closer inspection, it was an apple with a bite taken out of it. He lifted the apple to his nose and inhaled the scent from the bite. There was an overwhelming amount of sweetness, that would’ve masked a bitter smell if Diluc wasn’t used to sniffing out different scents from his wines. He took the apple away from his face, furrowing his eyebrows. There was no doubt that this is what the person used to harm you. The apple was laced with something. Standing back up, Diluc once again made his way back to the church.

Back inside the church, Jean set you down on one of their open beds. Staring down at you sadly, feeling sympathetic for Diluc. Despite his greatest efforts, Jean knew that he was distressed. The others may not have, but she could see it as clear as a sunny day. Barbara entered the infirmary shortly and took a seat next to the bed you laid on. The younger girl looked at you, studying your body movements. You looked still, as if you were dead, but the girl felt a faint heartbeat. You were still very much alive.

The familiar red-head came back to the church, this time bringing an apple with him. “ This was all I found. It’s not a normal apple - there’s an unusual scent on it,” He explained to Jean and Barbara, handing it over to them.

“ Thank you for bringing this to us. I’ll have Albedo and Sucrose take a look at it later,” Jean said, nodding her head at Diluc. “ If anyone can find out what’s something’s made up of - it’ll be those two. I know you don’t like the Knights of Favonious, but please, put your trust in us this once. We’ll figure out what’s wrong I promise. I suggest you go back home and get some rest, go back to your daily life. It’ll be a while before we can try anything to get Y/N back to good health.”

Diluc didn’t trust the Knights. They had let him down in a time of need and they could very well do it again. However, he did trust Jean and if she made a promise, she would see that her promise got fulfilled. “ Alright,” he gave in, letting out a tired sigh. “ Please, as soon as you find something out. Let me know.”

“ I will,” Jean told him, giving the man a tired but honest smile. With that, Diluc said his goodbyes and walked out of the church.

_______________

Albedo and Sucrose eventually came back with the results of their testing they did on the apple. They had discovered that there was a poison inside of it. Not a deadly one, but something to keep a person quiet for a very long time.

The citizens of Mondstadt took quick notice of your absence everywhere and was constantly asking Knights where you were. So much so, that Jean had to release an official statement that you were currently terribly sick and bed-ridden for a long time. Which wasn’t that far from the truth. Barbara and the rest of the sisters had all tried their hardest to find some antidote for the poison that seemed to ever linger in your system but to no avail. It’s like there was no cure and you were doomed to stay in this state forever.

As much as Diluc tried not to, he couldn’t help but lose faith in you ever waking up again. Donna had seen his saddened state and couldn’t help but smile to herself, her plan was working. However, as much as she tried to get close to Diluc and be the person he vented to - all of her efforts were for nothing. The man didn't want to talk to anyone that he didn’t have to. Her grand plan had his a wall. Especially when one day Barbara barged through the doors of Angel’s Share, a brand new idea on how to wake you up.

The blonde approached the bar Diluc was working at, heavy breaths coming out of her mouth due to the fast running she had just stopped doing. “ Diluc... I have... an idea...” Barbara said in between pants.

Diluc looked at the Deaconess furrowing his eyebrows at his words. Had she really come up with something that might wake you up? “ What is it?”

“ You know, in those fairytales about how true love’s kiss is the strongest thing? Well, what if you...” She trailed off, hoping Diluc picked up on what she was saying. It sounded childish, but it worked in every fairytale she read so who says it can’t work now?

“ You want me to kiss Y/N in hopes that’s what can wake her up?” Diluc asked in disbelief. He set down the glass tankard he was cleaning on the wooden top of the bar.

“ Yes, I believe it’s worth a shot.” The two stood across from each other in a long silence. Before Diluc nodded, letting out a sigh. Barbara smiled at his agreement to the idea. Jean was actually the one who encouraged Barbara to bring it up to Diluc, she knew he was desperate and would try anything. No matter how outlandish it seemed.

The two made the all-too familiar walk to the church in silence. They entered the infirmary, Diluc frowned at the state of you still under the spell of the poison. He thought for a brief moment that maybe this was all just a hoax and when they arrived at the church, you would actually be awake. However, his hopes were false and this crazy idea Barbara had was really a possible antidote.

Jean looked up from her pile of work once she heard the footsteps enter the infirmary. She gave Diluc a tired smile and stood up from her seat, stretching slightly. “ Barbara and I will leave you two alone. I do hope this works,” Jean said softly, walking past Diluc and grabbing Barbara’s hand as they left. Leaving only Diluc and your almost still body alone in the room.

“ This is bizarre,” Diluc whispered to himself as he approached your bed and looked down at you. He leaned down, his face hovering only inches above yours. Slowly, he closed his eyes and closed the remaining distance, connecting his lips and yours. He kept his pressed against your soft ones for a few seconds, resting the palm of his hand on your cheek.

A few moments passed and he opened his eyes, standing back up. He watched your body for a moment, biting his bottom lip in anticipation as he waited for something to happen. Just as he was about to leave the room in defeat, a twitch of your eyelids made his chest soar with happiness.

Slowly, your body was starting to wake up. Your eyes fluttered open and the the first thing you saw was the cream colored ceiling of the building you were in.

“ Y/N...?” A voiced called out from your side and you slowly flickered your gaze to your right, seeing Diluc standing next to you. His face contorted with disbelief and happiness. You quickly sat up, moving to stand up, when Diluc’s strong arms had picked you up. He pulled you into a tight hug as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

Diluc held you in his arms for a long time, not wanting to let go of you anytime soon. It felt like hours before he gently unwrapped his arms around you - only pushing you far enough away so he could see your face. The man tenderly put a gloved hand on your face and another on your hip, looking into your eyes with his that were full of love.

You remembered what had happened that night all up until entering the church. You didn’t know how you woke up or how long it was from Donna feeding you that apple to now.

“ Diluc, how did I wake up? What happened after I came here?” You asked, your voice hoarse.

“ Well, we found out that you ate a poisoned apple, Barbara and the other sisters tried everything to wake you up. Eventually, Barbara came up with the idea of a true love’s kiss...” he trailed off, feeling slightly embarrassed about it. “ That’s what worked.”

You only nodded, trying to hide the smile that wanted to appear on your face. “ Than you, for waking me up.” You two continued to stare at each other, adoration and love in both of your eyes. Without even thinking, Diluc leaned back down and put his lips against yours. You almost instantly melted into the kiss, enjoying the warmth of his lips being on yours brought.

“ Oh my- are we interrupting something?” One of the sisters said, startled by the scene that was before her. Diluc and yourself quickly pulled away from each other - your cheeks a matching shade of red.

“ Uh no... we were just leaving. I wanna get Y/N back home safely now that she’s awake. Tell Barbara and Jean that she’s better now and to visit the Dawn Winery if they wanna ask her questions or visit her,” Diluc said, taking his hands off of your face and waist and grabbing her hand with one of them.

Together the two fled the church, unknowing that Barbara and Jean were right there watching as the two lovers were rushing off with each other. The two sisters looked at each other and smiled, it’s always the craziest of ideas that worked out in the end.

_______________

Despite eventually going back to work and living your normal life, Diluc was much more protective over you now. He made you live at the winery with him and would escort you everywhere. Especially if it was at night. He promised that he wouldn’t let history repeat itself. He would keep you safe at all costs.

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