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thesunisatangerine · 7 months

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against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part seven

alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader

warnings: mentions of death/dying

(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]

word count: 5k

A dull, stabbing pain throbbed in your right rib and you put a hand over it–you hoped to ease it somehow but it remained–as you replied, “I… I don’t know, Derek. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.”

The movement didn’t go unnoticed from Derek’s watchful gaze, especially when he was sitting right there beside you on the couch, and his blue eyes shone with the familiar question, ‘Are you okay?’ You answered him silently with a reassuring raise of your brows and a wave of your hand. Seemingly placated for the time being, he put a hand on your shoulder and squeezed gently.

“There’s no pressure. I just thought I’d let you know before I pass it on over to Jersey and before I inform the client she’ll go in place of you. But if you’re interested in just going to watch, we can arrange that, too.” Derek paused, opened his mouth then closed it, and he looked a bit unsure about the words he wanted to say.

Then he continued, “I… I think it will be good for you.”

The thought of returning back to the field, albeit for sporting coverage, still instilled anxiety in your stomach. Sure you had made enough progress in therapy to pick up a camera again without having a breakdown–you remembered crying out in relief when you did it for the first time after your last photojournalistic coverage–but covering the Olympics with tens of thousands of people present, one of them being Alexia?

It was painfully obvious that that was something truly out of your depth. You just weren’t ready.

But the thing was, would Alexia even care if she saw you there? You hadn’t spoken to or seen her in person in, what, fourteen months? What would she even say? What would you say? Considering that you were just a fling, you doubted that Alexia would even recognise you, much less care. The last time you were tempted to search up her name, you burnt yourself when you saw a candid photo of her and another woman. And the fact still stood that–and she said so herself, didn’t she?–you meant nothing to her.

Another firm refusal was poised on the tip of your tongue when a round of giggles that erupted from the backyard, carefree and full of glee, captured your attention. Through the open sliding door of the living room you found your daughter with her Uncle Robert, head thrown back in a heartfelt laugh at whatever her uncle was telling her with his animated gestures.

You smiled at the sight, chest immediately feeling full and warm.

“For the both of you.” Derek added and when you looked back at him, you found his focus directed to where yours was only a moment ago. You regarded the scene again, fiddling with the string on your wrist as you mulled his words over.

More than a year ago, you couldn’t even fathom imagining that you’d be able to behold a scene such as this. More than a year ago, you almost died–no, you did die–and the months that followed were nothing short of arduous, the first few weeks after you woke up even more so. It was as if the time between then and now existed on its own plane; you remembered it so vividly that sometimes when you sink into the darkest recesses of your mind, it almost felt like you were still there, and this–the now–was an illusion your lamenting mind had conjured to mollify yourself.

This almost felt too good to be real–too tranquil.

And as if awoken by the mere whisper of it, the memories pulled you away from reality and made a spectator out of you as you sank back into the most difficult time in your life.

From nothingness came the noises, followed by sensations, gentle in their intrusion at first before they made their presence more pronounced, rousing you finally.

There was a steady beeping and a gentle, mechanical hum coming from somewhere beside you and as the scope of your hearing widened, muffled footsteps and chattering registered not a moment later. Your mouth was parched but when you tried to swallow, a tightness in your throat prevented you from doing so and you groaned. Then you felt a dull ache along your right side, from the top of your shoulder, to your ribcage, and down to just by the side of your abdomen.

It took considerable effort to lift your eyelids but you managed. You found a grey ceiling to begin with but as your eyes fleeted through the room you were apparently in, you eventually found your mom asleep just beside your bed. She was curled in on herself, bent and tense, knees tucked close to her chin while her arm supported her head as a makeshift pillow against the chair’s arm. Even in her slumber, she didn’t look at peace: her brows were furrowed, the corners of her mouth tilted low, her lower eyelids looked red and raw, cheeks void of their usual carmine tint. From where you were, you could see the lines that had etched themselves on her face as if years had passed since you had last seen her.

She flinched as if a rough hand had jolted her awake, her eyes weary as she opened them at first. The moment she caught your eye she froze–she didn’t even breathe–before her eyes lit up with tears. Then she was beside you, enveloping your head in her gentle cradle as her tears fell on you, searing against your cold cheeks.

In that moment, you didn’t realise how cold you were until you felt your mom’s tender warmth and the comfort it brought. Emotion bubbled in your throat and you sobbed around the apparatus in your mouth for your mom’s presence. So enraptured were you by her grace that you didn’t even realise that the both of you weren’t alone anymore until a nurse urged your mom to step aside so the doctor could check on you.

You’d been slipping in and out of consciousness for the past twelve hours after waking up from an eleven-day coma, the doctor told you in a gentle manner as she assessed you. Satisfied with what she saw, she turned to your mom and gave her a reassuring smile. She said that your state looked promising, that the likelihood of you slipping back into a coma was slim, but you should expect to sleep more deeply–for more than twelve hours a day–during the next week or so due to the damage in your right lung and your increased brain activity. True enough, just the brief interaction and exposure to the stimulants had taken a decent chunk of your energy, and you were beginning to feel exhausted already.

The doctor and nurse left shortly after that and your mom stuck by your side. She clung to your hand, her fear that you would disappear if she even let go for a second as apparent as the tears in her eyes. Her grip was crushing you but even if you could tell her, you didn’t have the heart to do it because you saw how much she needed the closeness, the physical contact, how much it brought her relief so you let it be. And if you were being honest, the slight pain grounded you to her presence–to be present in that very moment.

The door of your ward opened again, the movement catching your attention, and in came your brother. His cheeks were red and he was heaving his breaths through his open mouth, blue eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. As his gaze found yours, his mouth closed in a tight line but not before a sob left his lips, chin shaking and brows furrowing which made the tears in his eyes to finally fall. He nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to your side, his arms immediately around your head as he sobbed out apology after apology against your temple.

Tears welled in your eyes and you longed to grab his face, to put your palms over his ears, and tell him that he had nothing to apologise for. Your heart broke and when you felt the warmth of your mom’s arms around the both of you and felt her own tears against your cheek again, a gravity pressed against your chest as the realisation of what nearly happened finally sank in.

You wept then as it hit you, sobbing into the arms of the people you cared most about in the world.

You cried in relief.

You cried in grief.

And you cried because you were alive to do it.

The next time you woke, a nurse stopped by to take out the ventilator tube from your airway and replaced it with a nasal cannula for your oxygen support. She said that depending on the rate at which your right lung would recuperate, you needed to be on oxygen support for six to eight more weeks.

Your throat felt raw from the extraction but the relief that came from it was very much welcome. You’d been itching to ask your family about what you missed and what exactly happened. There was an empty space in your memory where memories as to how you ended up in the hospital should be–at that point you couldn’t recall anything about the child, the gunfire that wounded you, the dreams; your mind was completely out of the loop.

And you did just that.

In response, your mom pursed her lips in a thin line, stern and stubborn as mothers often were when they got protective of their children, before she shook her head firmly.

“You heard the doctor, hon. You need to rest for now.”

You tried a couple more times that day, even with Derek, to gain some insight but your family remained resolute in preventing you from being stressed out. They reminded you that you had plenty of time to put the pieces together.

Then familiar faces jumped in your mind and the guilt blazed in you, unforgiving. How could you have forgotten about them?

“Derek. Where’s Jones and Gilda?” Tremors made the rawness of your voice all the more apparent, and you stared at you brother in apprehension. The monitor began to beep as it detected your accelerated heartbeat, and your mom was automatically beside you to hold your hand, brushing the hair on your crown to soothe you.

“They’re fine, sis. Breathe.” Derek replied quickly, patting your covered foot over the blanket. “Gilda fractured her wrist and Jones is actually on standby.”

You sighed, tension immediately leaving your body at the information. You nodded your thanks to your brother for at least putting your mind at ease by telling you that.

“That’s enough for today.” Your mom said sternly before she pointed at you. “You. Rest. Now. And you, zip it.”

Derek put his hands up, pulling his brows up and the corners of his mouth down in an exaggerated manner, and at that, you laughed.

Despite your growing impatience over the days that followed, bits and pieces of your memory finally returned to you but not without some help. On one occasion your mom, albeit with a tightness in her voice as if the mere act of speaking about it brought her terrible pain, finally told you what happened after you lost consciousness.

She recounted what she’d been told by the first doctor that took care of you: how a returning convoy with a paramedic onboard heard the gunshots and managed to get to you on time. Any longer and they wouldn’t have been able to–she stopped to wipe her tears and tried to find her voice again–they wouldn’t have been able to resuscitate you when your heart stopped on the way back to camp. Your right lung had collapsed from the penetrating wound in your chest and, along with the ones in your right abdomen and shoulder, you’d lost a lot of blood already that by the time you were put under surgery, you slipped away again. This time, you very nearly succumbed to your wounds for good, and it was a miracle you came back–that the surgeon said you were lucky to have lived.

Derek put a comforting arm around your mom as she put her face in her hands, breaking down again. You ached to do the same but weakness still occupied all parts of your body so the only thing you could do was offer your words.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She straightened her back and wiped her tears away, seeming to have calmed down now but Derek continued to rub her back with a soothing hand and continued where she left off.

They found your press ID badge and contacted the photojournalism firm you were under. After receiving the news, Derek told your mom who–even though Derek told her to wait so he could go with her–flew herself out on the first plane there. He flew himself the next day after he sorted things out around the firm.

“If you’re here, who did you leave in charge?”

“Robert. Don’t worry, he’s fine. I may or may not have told him I’d break up with him if he messed up.”

Your mom gasped at that, scandalised, smacking Derek’s shoulder. “Derek!”

“What? I’m just joking!” Derek asked looking very much like a reprimanded child with his eyes wide in disbelief at being told off. You let out a small laugh, shaking your head at your brother’s antics but you knew that your future brother-in-law was very much capable of keeping the firm afloat.

“Poor Robert. You’re a menace, you know that right?”

“He knows it, sis, why do you think he’s with me?” He wagged his brows and you grimaced at the innuendo–the last thing you’d like to think about was your brother’s sex life. “Anyway, after I landed, Mom and I decided that we should move you to a different hospital. Farther away from the conflict zone. So we took your belongings there and now you’re here. Which reminds me, we have your rolls of film and camera at the hotel.”

At the mention of your camera, images flooded in: the explosions, the guns, the massacre, the blood… and the child. The child! Where was she now? Was she okay? What happened–

“What? What is it?” The sound of Derek’s voice, thick with apprehension, disrupted your thoughts.

“The little girl. I was with a little girl when I got shot. Derek, where is she?” The words gushed out of your mouth.

“I–I don’t know. They didn’t tell me anything about–”

“Derek, please. You have to find her. She’s probably still in the other hospital. I–Derek, I need to know if she’s alright. Please, Derek–” Tremors wracked through your body and your breathing deepened, quickened, every fiber of muscle rigid with tension as the gruesome scenes from that day played like a movie in your mind–the shadows and all the blood and… the beacon of hope–the future–that shone bright in those young eyes.

“Honey, listen to me. Breathe. Breathe.” You felt your mom’s warm hand brushing over your forehead before the sounds and the blurry figures in front of you registered in your mind. There was an incessant beeeping noise coming from the monitor and you didn’t realise a nurse had come in to help calm you down as Derek stood by the foot of the bed with his arms crossed, a hand over his mouth as he watched on with glassy eyes.

After the nurse had left and you’d finally calmed down, Derek sat by your side and took your hand in a gentle grip.

“Okay. I’ll do the best I can.”

You blinked slowly in gratitude and allowed yourself to drift off to another dreamless sleep.

“I think I found her.” Derek’s voice filtered through the room as he entered. You tensed and the instinct to sit up was only dampened by the weakness of your muscles, and the straps and tubes wrapped around you.

“Where? Where is she?”

“The paramedic who was there that day remembered you so he also recognised who I was looking for, thankfully. She’s still in the same hospital but she’s about to be discharged in a few days because they’re running out of space.” Derek began as he sat by the otherwise unoccupied chair beside you since your mom went back to the hotel to get some rest–you insisted for her to go. “Is this her?”

He pulled out his phone, swiped and tapped for a moment, before he held it out so you could see the screen. There, you found a familiar face and it was like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders to know that the little girl was alive. She looked thinner than how you recalled but the light in those eyes remained.

“What’s her name, do you know? Has she found her family?”

“Her name is Elisa. And from what I’ve gathered so far, no.”

Your heart ached as another image came to you, this time it was of the unconscious woman next to Elisa when you found her. What was their relation to each other? Were they family? Her sister? Her mother?

You chewed on your lower lip. “Is… is it possible to transfer her to this hospital? Only if she feels comfortable, of course.”

“Already on it. And I’ve already started asking around for information about her family.”

“Thank you, Derek.”

“What?”

You stared, not believing the words that just left your brother’s mouth.

It was a few days after Elisa was moved to the hospital you were in that Derek brought you the news. He was hunched over himself in the chair beside you like a weight was pressed against his shoulders, head in his hands, shaking his head as if he, too, couldn’t believe the words he just told you.

“They’re dead. All of them.”

And the universe screamed in harmony with the dead’s unheard agony.

During the weeks that followed, your schedule was routine; prosaic.

You were bedridden and sleeping for the most part of your recovery, mainly due to the delicate nature of your injury. You were told it was normal to feel fatigued most of the time and to feel the occasional chest pains but those should go away after enough time had passed. The lightheadedness and breathlessness, though, were a different matter: the damage was irreversible, your breathing now impaired for life, and the risk of experiencing a spontaneous collapsed lung event would forever be with you.

Your schedule was routine and so with that much time in your hand, you began to write.

Elisa’s therapy was going well, you heard from one of the nurses–as well as it could get for someone who had suffered the loss she had at the tender age of eleven. Physically, she was doing so much better. She’d put on a little weight after being transferred and after a few weeks since her initial arrival, she started visiting you and began hanging out at your ward.

During this time, the Women’s World Cup just began and you noticed the way Elisa straightened as she sat cross-legged at the foot of your bed, eyes raptly glued on the mounted TV in your room, animated and dynamic in expressing what she felt as the match unfolded before her. That was the exact moment you knew that Elisa loved football with a passion.

And so a sort of ritual was established, changing your routine and, once again, brought Alexia back into your life as you kept up with Spain’s matches, Elisa’s favorite team. Despite that fact however, you were grateful that Elisa could find reprieve in watching football even for ninety minutes from the ongoing turmoil and her grief.

It was Spain against the Netherlands when you asked Elisa a question. She was curled up beside you, eyes peeking through the blanket she’d wrapped around herself while your mom dozed off in the chair, brows pulled tight in concentration as she scanned over the players on screen. Maybe it was one of the universe’s cruel tricks or maybe it was a sign, but her answer caught you off guard and you wondered how a single name could have this much effect on you; how a name could disarm you completely.

“Who’s your favorite player?”

Without any hesitation and without even taking her eyes off the screen, Elisa replied with enthusiasm, “Alexia Putellas.”

As you watched Spain’s match against Japan with only Derek for company–Elisa had pouted when she found out she couldn’t watch the match live as she needed to go to a therapy session during that time–your brother suddenly exclaimed and pointed at the TV. The noise and the movement startled you, the monitor beeped loudly in response to the spike in your heartbeat.

Derek looked at you abashed, scratching the back of his head as he apologised. “Sorry. But it’s her!”

You looked at the person who he was pointing to: Alexia. You schooled your features and tried to maintain an even tone when you replied. “What about her?”

“She contacted us multiple times asking about you and your work a few days after you left to be here.”

At his words, you heart quickened and the monitor responded to the rise in the rhythm of your heart accordingly. Derek’s eyes flicked from you, to the monitor, to the TV where Alexia was still being filmed, and then back to you.

You cleared your throat, cheeks warm which you hoped your brother wouldn’t take notice of. “And what did you say?”

“That you were unavailable, of course.”

A pause.

“Wait, did you two–”

“No.” The sharpness in your voice nearly made you flinch as your firm gaze bored directly into the blue ones of your brother’s, hoping that he would get the message to drop the subject. Derek opened his mouth but closed it almost immediately. Then he sighed, turning his attention back to the game.

It wasn’t until several minites later that Derek spoke again.

“I have a feeling she’s the reason why you left Barcelona early. But I’m not going to ask. I just want you to know that I’m here when you’re ready to talk about it, sis.”

That night, what Derek told you kept you awake. Did Alexia really asked for you–was she missing you? Ever since you left Barcelona, not once did you let yourself give into the temptation but this new knowledge cut the last thread of your will. So you searched up her name but what you saw made you wish you hadn’t.

A photo of Alexia with another woman: Alexia with her sunglasses on, a black leather jacket over her bralette, and high waisted pants; an arm around the other woman’s shoulder who had her lips on Alexia’s neck and had a possessive hand over Alexia’s jaw. It was recent, you noticed, the article the candid photo belonged to.

You dropped the phone as your hand shook, and you stared up the ceiling. The lights from the passing cars and the nightlife outside created dancing shadows through the gap in the curtain. Closing you eyes, you felt a tear fall dawn and you stuttered out a breath as you reminded yourself.

She wasn’t yours.

She never was.

Yet still… you ached.

It wasn’t until the next morning did the dreams–the ones of your family, of your deceased parents, of Alexia–finally returned to you in vivid clarity. And the pain from the night before returned to you twofold.

Before you knew it, the Women’s World Cup ended with Spain emerging triumphant in the end as they blazed their way through the tournament. In spite of yourself, pride bloomed in your chest at the result knowing how hard these women fought–endured and resisted–in this competition and the fact that they did so while resisting their federation made their accomplishment all the more admirable.

An image of Alexia, weary and exhausted, materialised in your mind.

You remembered the way she dragged her feet as she entered the door, eyes downcast and hair ruffled, shoulders hunched forward. When she found you standing in the archway, she clung to you without a word and you felt the gravity on her shoulders, the pressure of being who she was–of being La Reina–settled against your bones. That night, the both of you ended up sleeping on the couch, Alexia’s head against your chest, your fingers threading through her hair to soothe her even just for a moment.

“You’re so strong, Alexia,” you’d whispered, kissing the top of her head. “You’ve carried so much for so long that sometimes it’s easy to forget that you have people on your side in this fight. You’re never alone, Alexia. Please don’t ever forget that.”

And as you watched her with her people on that stage lifting the trophy, the urge to whisper the same words returned to you. Even though you couldn’t, in your mind you did.

In your mind, the words echoed: I’m so proud of you.

Upon your insistence and with a lot of reassurance, Derek reluctantly agreed to leave you to return back to the firm. You promised you would video call with him every night to appease him so now, you were left with your mom and Elisa’s company to keep. But after being bedridden for nearing two and a half months, finally, you were excited to be moving around even if you were aided with a wheelchair.

When you began your physiotherapy, you couldn’t walk for no longer than fifteen minutes before you felt lightheaded. But as the weeks passed on and as you pushed yourself a bit more each day, little by little, you built up your tolerance. The next thing you knew, you didn’t have to be put in a wheelchair anymore, a small triumph but a triumph nonetheless.

The moment the doctor medically discharged you was one of the best moments of your life. But instead of going back home with your mom, you stayed behind as you needed to sort out one important thing.

Throughout your recovery, Elisa had been one of the constant in your life. The moment you knew she had no family left, your heart instantly knew what you had to do and the idea of adoption took root in your mind. You sorted out the paperworks, carefully explained to Elisa what you planned to do–that you wanted to be her legal guardian, sister, aunt, or mother; whatever Elisa wished for you to be–and gave her time to decide herself if she wanted to go through with it.

As you waited for the paperworks and for Elisa’s consent, you supported Elisa through her therapy sessions all the while you busied yourself with being immersed in as much of Elisa’s language and culture as you could out of respect for her family. Elisa was patient with you during the times you couldn’t quite accomodate the phonetics of her language, speaking slowly and enunciating the words multiple times until you got it.

A few months later, you walked through the airport with two passports, Elisa’s hand in yours, heading towards home. The road was not without difficulties, of course, and it took a long time but the fact that you were there was enough.

Even though the conflict abated just before your departure, the tension was very much alive and the cost forever unjustifiable; senseless, a transgression against those that paid for it: the dead and the ever-hungry living. For Elisa, months of therapy had helped–the first time you heard her laugh was truly one of the best moments of your life–but you knew that the wound would never truly heal, the cut too deep that even the sands of time would do little to fill it completely.

But as you looked into Elisa’s wide eyes, hope filled you as you saw it: that eternal flame that burnt in every person, passed to each other as one life touched another, a bright beacon in what seemed to be a never-ending night made from humanity’s long shadow.

A guiding light to a better future.

As the plane took to the early morning sky, as the sun peeked through the clouds to paint everything in its soft, golden glow, you made a promise. For as long as you live–for as long as Elisa would let you–you would do everything to preserve that light.

“And I don’t know exactly what happened between the two of you, but she still asks for you, you know? Sure, it’s through her agent or through her club’s PR department but it’s still her.”

Derek’s voice pulled you back from your memories.

Again, you fiddled with the string on your wrist. The more you thought about it, the more your reluctance grew. But when you looked at Elisa with her Barcelona kit, the number eleven and Alexia’s name bold and proud on her back, seamlessly stepping over the ball as her Uncle Robert tried to defend against her before she performed a rainbow flick that had the ball soaring past her defender, you knew then what your decision was going to be.

It would be good for her.

Your daughter’s love for football was there before you even met her, and it shook you to your core when you learnt that Alexia was her inspiration. She’d told you she loved football enough to pursue a career in it, a dream that was both hers and her parents–her remaining connection to them–a dream that you would do everything to preserve as long as your daughter wanted to chase it.

“Okay. I’ll do it.” You told Derek as you kept your attention glued to your daughter.

As if sensing your eye, your daughter looked over her shoulder to you, the light of the sinking sun made gold from her hair, and you watched her smile at you, dimples and all.

You smiled back.

Yes, that’s right.

After all, you did make a promise, didn’t you?

#ap11 #not proofread #mine #my writing #a/n: a 5k part for yall #also i wrote 7 revisions of this part cause i didnt know how to present it lol #also an extra round of apologies for any grammar/spelling mistakes for this one #hope you guys like this and would love to know what you think about the story so far #apologies for any grammar and spelling mistakes ill work on em later #woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader

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perfinn · 8 months

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let neptune strike ye dead

merman!din djarin x lighthouse keeper!reader

wc: 2.8k

summary: you've spent the last year in near total isolation on an island, tending to a lighthouse and slowly losing your mind. something begins leaving you gifts.

cw: nsfw, no pronouns used but reader is afab and will later be established as a woman, masturbation (not particularly explicit), paranoia, isolation, general decent into insanity, lighthouse keeping inaccuracies (i did zero research)

read on ao3, banner by cafekitsune

The stairs inside the lighthouse have no rails. They're cut from stone, winding up into the heavens as a tower of brick, beaten by decades of crashing waves and brutal storms. Unmoving, unforgiving. And you, godforsaken you, are forced to climb those winding stairs each day and night. Tending to a light that never goes out, once clinging to the stone bricks now confident in your wretched climb. You will not fall, you know, and if you do then there is little more can be done for you. You need only hope that if you do, you'll fall from the lowest steps.

Would they relieve you of your duties if you broke a bone? You doubt it. They couldn't hope to get another keeper in time, this job is as wretched and undesirable as the tower is ancient. You had been tricked into it, you came to realise after a torturous fortnight of lighting that lamp, of clinging to those cold walls along the stairway. Still, your contract was immovable. Two years tending to the lighthouse. Two years of near complete isolation. Two years to lose your mind on a tiny island with only a ship's captain to talk to twice a month.

It's not all bad, the isolation. There's nothing to waste your hard earned wages on, like sweet treats from a bakery. The food you need is delivered by that captain, a sweetener to the deal you'd signed a horrifically long twelve months ago. The wages are generous, too. Without the trappings of rent and bills and little expenses that seem more and more ridiculous the longer you rely on yourself on this island, you're saving thousands of dollars.

Your sanity seems a low price to pay for what will be plenty of financial comfort when you finally return to civilisation.

(Though the longer you spend away from it, the harder it becomes to believe you'll ever be fit for society again. You begin to wonder if you may die on this island.)

There is another hidden benefit to the isolation, you’ve found, that comes in the form of being able to make as much noise as you like. You can scream at the very top of your lungs if you like, and no one will be around to complain.

When your myriad of work is finished for the day, you retire to your measly lodgings. You can't do much to personalise it. You didn't bring any decorations with you, and you can't exactly pop out to get yourself some nice succulents to warm the place up. Succulents would probably die out here anyway. So, with little other choice in the matter, the room is impersonal. Your activities in the room are not.

There isn't a lot to do in order to fill your idle time. You tried cooking– it didn't stick. You tried knitting– the captain didn't bring enough yarn to tide you over until his next visit. The only hobby – which is no true hobby at all, really – that you’ve kept up, is masturbation.

On the mainland, you had toys. Vibrators, dildos, whatever else you desired. You didn't bring them with you, assuming you wouldn't need them.

(Which, for a time, was the case. In the beginning you’d end the day so exhausted that you fell right into your cot and passed out. As your body adjusted to the workload, this became less and less common. You were growing stronger and more durable, and so was your stamina.)

You only have enough service for perhaps one phone call a week, which you usually reserve for your family just so they’re certain you haven't drowned, so internet is out of the question. And you’re not brave enough to ask the ship’s captain about the magazines you’ve seen poking out of a drawer in the bridge of his ship. So, no porn.

You’ve, in turn, gotten incredibly creative with your fingers and your imagination. Were you perhaps deeper in the depths of your impending insanity, you might even go so far as to act out your wildest fantasies like a one woman show. You’re not quite there yet, so the fantasies remain inside your head. That doesn't stop you from making a frankly egregious amount of noise. You scream, moan, whine and yell as much as you please, more than you ever did in the apartment you lived in on the mainland.

The walls were too thin there. They’re too thin here, really, but that doesn't matter, because no one’s around. You make as much noise as is physically possible because you assume no one in the world can hear you.

(You assume wrong.)

You obviously don't notice anything strange during the act, due to all the wanton screaming, that combined with the incessant crash of waves against the rocks doesn't make for a wonderful listening environment. You have every reason to assume that there's no one out there to hear you except perhaps an unfortunate seal or two. The oddities which begin, happen outside of that time.

Seaglass.

There's an abundance of it on the beaches below your island, washing up from decades of glass litter, formed into something lovely. Generally, you leave it to the sea, figuring that if the waves can beat it into a shape they like, they’ve earned the right to keep it. But one day, after a rough storm, a few pieces of it sit on the end of the dock.

It's odd, but not enough to arouse much suspicion. You assume it’s the result of some well arranged wind and waves, and gently knock the pieces of colourful glass back into the ocean.

But then, it happens again.

It's after another storm, (of which there are many, hence the need for a lighthouse) when you’re stood at the paved stone edge of a small cliff and your boot almost crunches on three pieces of seaglass.

You yelp, stepping back to avoid shattering them and crouching down. You pick them up, brows drawing together as you arrange the treasures in the palm of your hand. Two of the pieces are a seafoam green, but the other is a pretty orange. You pluck it between your fingers, holding it up to the rising sun. A smile tugs at the corners of your lips.

You try not to make a habit of keeping seaglass. Don't take too much of the earth’s abundance and what-not. But you do have a few exceptional pieces arranged on your windowsill, and you’ve never seen one this colour before.

“Alright,” you concede in a murmur. You place the orange piece tenderly into the pocket of your overalls. “I’ll keep this one. But you can have these back.”

As you gently plop the other two pieces back into the waves, you try not to think too hard about the fact that you’re speaking to the ocean like it's listening. You briefly consider telling yourself that you’re just talking to yourself, and not the ocean. But that's probably worse.

“God,” you murmur, running a hand down your face. You make a mental note to call your mother.

The odd occurrences stop for a time. That, or your sanity has slipped too much to recognise things as odd. Reality is askew when you’re this alone. Things that are strange don't seem so out here.

Though, you know you can at least attribute your attraction to the supply ship’s captain to the simple lack of contact with anyone else. He’s not ugly, not by any means, but certainly not your type. But Christ, what you wouldn't give to rip his clothes from his body and have him until you finally felt satisfied again.

Your loud masturbation can only satisfy your libido so long. You give it another three months before you’re crossing a lot of professional lines with Captain Fett.

You’ve become friends, at least. He’s your only real connection to the outside world, other than your shoddy transistor radio and your phone calls with your mother that last thirty minutes on average. (Which she only uses to fill you in on family gossip because you generally have nothing of import to tell her.) When he comes by, you force him to sit and enjoy tea with you and tell you about life on the mainland. He’s funny, if a bit gruff. But he makes you laugh, makes you sane.

And then he leaves again, and you watch his ship disappear over the horizon, feel that horrible isolation sink back onto your shoulders and suffocate you. You picture Captain Fett when you scream-masturbate that evening.

The next morning, there's a pile of fish on the edge of the dock.

You stare at it for a long time, brain ticking over as you try desperately to make sense of it. It's a decent variety of fish, all quite massive sizes. Nothing that you generally catch off the docks on the days you try to fish. This is from much further out, in the open ocean where the fishing boats make their rounds. You crouch down, sniffing at the pile. It doesn't smell, they seem as fresh as anything.

Perhaps you have lost it entirely, because you pick up what you know to be a cod and look it over, sniffing it. It smells fishy, obviously, but not rotten. It’ll make a far better dinner than the soup you had planned. You eye the other fish, wondering if you ought to waste them, or let the waves take them back to their fishy graves.

You take the cod inside, and return to the dock with a bucket full of ice in order to collect the other fish. Even if you can't eat them all before they go bad, you’re damn well gonna try. This isn't like the seaglass, you tell yourself. These fish are already dead, it would be wasteful to just ignore them and let them rot away at the end of your dock. As you settle the last fish in the ice bucket, you hear a splash in the calm water.

A tiny thing, barely even a plip. But it makes your head snap up, makes your eyes dart around at the water around you. You curse the fact that the ocean is never completely still, so any disturbance is lost in its perpetual motion. You can't find the source of the splash, but you know it wasn't something innocuous.

(Were anyone to ask you how you knew this, you couldn't tell them. You think it may be some sort of paranoia you’ve acquired in your isolated insanity.)

You feel watched. Perhaps not by something sinister. But watched all the same, like an intent pair of eyes are trained right on you as you accept this gift of ocean’s abundance. You stand up, hoisting the bucket up into your hip as you squint out at the waves. The sun reflects off the water and hits your eyes, and you’d be upset with it if you weren't trying to cherish the rare day of warm sun. You huff, taking one last glance at the slowly lapping waves before turning and heaving back up to the lighthouse to get to work.

You know there’s another storm coming that night. Weather so forgiving is never not followed by something brutal. You’ve grown very accustomed to the mercurial weather of this godforsaken island.

(That, and you heard it on the weather report on the radio.)

Still, generally the best you can do in this weather is make sure the lamp is lit and you’re safe and warm inside. You have two of your fingers buried knuckle deep in your pussy when thunder first cracks. You barely pause, glancing toward the window as rain begins to beat down on the panes, before closing your eyes and focusing on hitting that sweet spot again.

When you’ve moved to rutting against your pillow and letting wanton moans tumble from your lips, an alarm goes off high up in the tower. Your eyes snap open and you look up– the light’s gone out.

The very most central thing that you’re expected to do in this godforsaken lighthouse is maintain the light. Now, in this kind of weather, more than ever. You barely give yourself a moment to pull on a discarded pair of overalls before you’re scrambling up the stone steps to the light. You swear to yourself as you fix the light, glancing out the windows to the dark and stormy oceans.

You pray there’s no ships out there, pray you won't suddenly hear a deafening crash as some poor fishing barge slams into the cliff face. There shouldn't be any ships out in this weather, but that's really the whole point of the lighthouse, isn't it? Just in case.

But you manage to secure the new bulb, relief flooding you as the room is illuminated and the beacon shines out over the horizon. You turn to look out the windows, thankful when you note there’s not a ship in sight. In the five or so minutes where the ancient lighthouse wasn't faithfully emitting its beacon, no one even came near. As you’re about to step away, though, the light illuminates something that catches your eye.

You’re not able to make out much from this distance, or from the brief second of illumination, but you’d swear on anything that you saw someone out there. A head and shoulders, with brown hair, just poking out of the waves.

You’re scrambling on the steps again before you even realise you’re moving. Slipping and stumbling down those wretched stairs, uncaring of your safety since instead your brain is thrumming with fear and adrenaline and a screaming need to help whatever poor soul has somehow ended up in the stormy waters. You grab a flashlight and a floatation device from by the door before you’re stepping into the unforgiving elements.

You don't even know what you’ll do when you get out there. As you rush out into the bruising wind and rain hammering down on your skin, you can't think of any sort of plan. You’re sure as hell not going to dive in to get them, that would only end up with both of you dead. You make it down to the dock, slipping several times in the mud but managing to stay upright. You’re barefoot, you don't have anything to cover you but your worn pair of overalls, so essentially your entire torso and arms are bare to the elements. One wrong move and your tits will probably spill free too.

But you don't think about that. You think this poor drowning idiot won't care that you’re sort-of-kind-of-half-naked, they probably have more important things on their mind. You make it to the end of the dock, shining your flashlight out at the waves.

“Hello?!”

You’re not sure you can be heard over the wind and the rain and the thunder clapping overhead. You can't see anyone either. Whoever it was has probably been pulled under, or out further into the waves where you can't help them. Still, you search frantically amongst the blackened water, eyes wide and breathing quick.

You catch something in the beam of your flashlight. Something, again, so quick you think you may have imagined it. A tail, flicking up before disappearing beneath the waves.

Unlike any tail you’ve seen before, large and wide, a dark colour almost as black as the water. You freeze, flashlight lingering on that spot, silently begging the universe to let you see it again, just so you can know it's a seal or something.

But a seal’s tail doesn't look like that. Nothing’s tail looks like that. You squint in the rain, desperate to prove your insanity wrong. But it doesn't appear again. You’re left only with the memory of a tailfin and the distant view of a person’s head and shoulders, and the sinking feeling of knowing your insanity has reached a point you can't be certain you’ll return from.

When you’re about to give up on the poor soul that you probably-definitely hallucinated, you glance downwards. You think of the seaglass and the fish, and wonder if those were hallucinations too when your flashlight reflects off something new. Another gift from the ocean. You reach down and pick it up, heart thrumming in your chest.

It's a cowrie shell, but that's not what sends your mind spinning into confusion. There’s a carving on its surface. You run your thumb over it, clearing it of raindrops for a brief moment before it’s covered by them once more in the unrelenting downpour. It's a symbol you recognise, Captain Fett has one hanging from the gearshift of his ship. You’d asked him about it once, and he’d recounted an old mariners tale about it.

A mythosaur.

You look back up at the waves, searching their murky depths for explanation. There's none. So, shaken, you pocket the cowrie shell and turn away to go back inside, not noticing the pair of brown eyes that watch you from just below the dock.

part ii

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin/reader #the mandalorian/reader #din djarin #merman!din djarin #theres another chapteri prommy #my work #the mandalorian #din

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queenlucythevaliant · 1 year

Text

Once, Always

(Edmund has an abundance of birthdays)

“I say,” murmured Edmund sleepily as the fire burned low. “When do you suppose it is here? I mean—what time of year? Do you think it’s the beginning of September, the same as it was in England?”

“Summer,” said Lucy. “Certainly summer.”

Peter agreed. “I think it must be Highgrass, if I had to guess. Perhaps later. Greenroof?”

“If it’s Greenroof, then Edmund gets another birthday,” Lucy sighed. “Eleven or twelve, Ed?”

“Neither,” put in Susan. “A thousand, if you’re going to rationalize it that way. Now everyone hush, please, and get some sleep.”

Edmund’s birthday was the fifteenth day of Greenroof by the Narnian reckoning. Greenroof, late summer, when all the leaves were dark and broad. Narnian summers were long, but Greenroof was the last and best of the summer months. Greenroof was hunts through the dense foliage, blackberries heavy with juice, lazy afternoons, bonfires, wild romps, and the pleasant kind of sweat. Edmund’s birthday celebrations were always held on Dancing Lawn in the old days: the sort of long, laughter-bright nights that summer was made for.

The second time Edmund celebrated his eleventh birthday, it was just past three months since he and his siblings had returned home from the country. Their house was glass-strewn and battered, but still standing when they arrived home. By August it was beginning to feel really safe again, but sometimes Edmund still woke in the night to find his mother standing silent in the doorway, drinking in the sight of her two sons returned to her.

The professor sent one of Ivy’s famous spice cakes for Edmund’s birthday. It arrived tied in red string, which made Lucy reminisce fondly about dear Mr. Tumnus. Edmund’s siblings pooled their allowances to buy him the new Nero Wolfe detective novel, and his mother gave him a new cap and an electric torch.

“How do you feel?” his mother asked over dinner.

“I don’t feel any older, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “Eleven feels just the same as ten did yesterday.”

All four of them missed their birthdays the first year in Narnia. Too much else was going on at the time, and none of them was quite sure when their birthdays were supposed to be besides. The measurement of time was a thoroughly tangled issue.

The Narnian year had four hundred days even, divided into fourteen months of inconsistent lengths. Furthermore, the kingdom had only known winter for the last hundred years. The Narnians themselves were still remembering how the calendar worked in a world where the seasons changed. They didn’t have the words yet to explain it to their sovereigns.

“Eustace,” said Edmund, “your journal is wrong.”

“Give me that,” Eustace scowled at once. “I know it’s wrong, but there’s no need to rub my face in it. Aren’t I trying to make up for how I was?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. The month is wrong. You’ve got September written here, but time works differently in Narnia than it does in the Other Place. Haven’t you noticed that it’s summer, not autumn?”

“Oh.” Eustace shrugged. “I followed Occam’s Razor and assumed that the climate here was different rather than time itself.”

“Occam’s what?” This was Lucy.

“Occam’s Razor: the simplest solution to a problem is the most likely—never mind. Well, go on, what month is it?”

“Highgrass,” said Lucy.

“July,” said Edmund at the same moment. “More or less.”

They worked it all out one afternoon as the second spring of their reign was ending. Peter and Susan wrote out the English calendar on one stack of parchment while Edmund and Lucy sat down with the Narnian calendar and penciled in seasonal markers as best they could manage.

“The first crocuses came up right at the end of Cleardome, yes?”

“Yes, I think so. And the snowdrops were in their full glory that month too.”

“How do you want to deal with leap year?”

“Just forget about it. Narnia doesn’t have anything similar, so I think twenty-eight days for February is fine for our purposes.”

“Magnolia in Laceveil, yes?”

“Laceveil is a good marker in general. We ought to set that as May and go from there.”

Birthdays were guesses, no matter how much counting they did. Yet as memories of England receded and Narnia’s world blossomed into everything they knew, those guesses solidified into fact. Edmund turned eleven for the first time on the fifteenth day of Greenroof. He was the first of his siblings to celebrate a proper birthday in Narnia.

The fourth time Edmund turned twelve, he received another electric torch to replace the one he’d lost. He laughed for half a minute, holding that gift in his hand.

“Really, you should have expected it,” said Susan primly.

"I did."

Their mother tsked and added something about keeping track of one’s belongings, but that was alright. His siblings understood.

Edmund flicked on the light and watched the beam land on the far wall across the living room. Bright at the edges and dark towards the center where the bulb was. He moved his wrist sideways and watched the spot of light follow.

Edmund might have forgotten about his birthday aboard the Dawn Treader if Lucy hadn’t remembered. She conspired with the cook to have a spread of Edmund’s favorite foods at supper (such as could be managed at sea) and coerced Rynelf into playing jigs on his fiddle afterwards. While they were dancing, Caspian called for a cask of his best wine, and soon the ship’s whole company was making merry like only Narnians could.

“Didn’t you have a twelfth birthday the last time you were in Narnia?” Caspian asked curiously as the party was dying down.

“Yes,” Edmund replied, “and the time before that too. Confused yet?”

“Ed has all the luck,” Lucy pouted playfully. “We always seem to return to Narnia in the summer, so he gets all the extra birthdays.”

Caspian's face lit up. “How extraordinary! When’s yours then?”

“Cleardome. There’s a year and a half between Ed and me, and he never lets me forget it.”

“It’s really not as exciting as all that,” Edmund added. “We’re not living our lives backwards, or unstuck in time, or any such nonsense. It’s more like—our lives are folded in on themselves, you see? But never the same way twice.”

“I think it’s more like music than anything else,” Lucy said, a kind of fond wistfulness in her voice.

“Yes,” said Edmund. “I know what you mean.”

On the thirteenth of Greenroof, the Telmarines laid down their arms and surrendered to Old Narnia. The next day, messengers were sent forth across the land with news of the surrender and with terms for the Telmarines. Caspian’s coronation followed, and then Edmund woke and it was his birthday again.

Breakfast that morning was long and languid, for Peter and Susan knew that they must say farewell to Narnia, even if the younger ones did not. They lingered round the table with Caspian and Trumpkin and the rest, and presently Peter offered a toast.

“To my brother King Edmund, who is eleven and twelve and sixty-three and thirteen hundred years old today.”

Everyone raised their cups and repeated, “King Edmund.” Caspian nodded and added, “Long live the king,” with an almost ironic tilt to his head.

Naturally, Edmund nodded back. “And to you, King Caspian. Long may you reign.”

Another round of assent followed, and then Lucy cleared her throat. “But also,” she said, “To late summer and the rebirth of Our Narnia. And to the land, the sea, the hills, the trees, the sky, Cair Paravel-by-the-sea and Dancing Lawn and all the flowers that are still in bloom. And to the color green. To all of us here today, and to those who are gone. And to Aslan.”

“Here, here.”

There were tears in Susan’s eyes now. “Happy birthday,” she whispered, and squeezed Edmund’s hand tight. Edmund looked down at his plate, fiercely overcome with love for this place and these people. In a strict, chronological sense, it had been less than a month since his last birthday, but how did the saying go? Time was just a tangled string, or falling snow, or whatever else Aslan told it to be.

“Bother,” said Edmund, “I’ve left my new torch in Narnia.”

Everyone chuckled at this, but Susan said, “Wait a year. We’ll get you a new one for your next birthday.”

#Edmund has a late August birthday #which means that Lucy's must be early in the year if 'really there was only a year between them' holds #AND we still choose to go with the birth years from Jack's timeline #and idk i just really love the idea of the Pevensies repeating their birthdays and just kinda reflecting on it #not in an angsty 'adults in kids bodies' way (ugh)#but just in a sort of 'huh. what a neat opportunity to think about #who i am and who i've been and who i'm becoming' kind of way #that pulls out the growing up themes from the series and examines them #idk i hope that's what i've done here #this is a veeeeerrrrry loose re-write of a really old middle school piece about Lucy having multiple eleventh birthdays #it just makes more sense if it's Edmund given the setup with Prince Caspian #anyway #narnia #the traitor who mended #leah stories #pontifications and creations #working on crossposting to ao3 (hopefully w/i the hour)

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shipwreck-letters · 5 months

Text

Reaping Hook, Chapter Twelve: Out of the Rain

“What have you been up to, Sooga?”

“...It’s a long story. One that we don’t have time for.”

“So give me the short story.”

A Sheikah teenager with uncontrolled powers, eerily resembling Sooga’s, poisoned by a mysterious illness. The “illness” in question are hands, by the way. And the teen is no ordinary Sheikah, but the chosen one of the village to protect the king and princess. Only the Yiga’s most hated enemy. No biggie, Elyse.

Summary: Sooga comes clean about all that he’s been up to lately. Plans are made, everyone is on board more or less. All seems a little too good, but Sooga’s worries finally break the light.

Word Count: ~2.8k

Read the Full Story

---

Esteemed Provost Fallow,

His Majesty, I heard, will be the first one to breach the Sheikah protocols, since the age of King Drake, some 10 thousand years prior. I cannot tell His Majesty what's best, (perhaps you may be better in his court) but I believe that some things are best left forgotten. What kind of horrors lie beneath that caked earth, awaiting to be breached like a dead whale on shore.

And when that near day arrives, I fear we will see another resurgence of that shadow of Hyrule. The Yiga Clan. Be prepared, and watch your back, as well as the backs of your kin. When one falls, we all do.

Sooga peeled the letter away, gritting his teeth at the sound of crinkling, dried paper sticking to another. His mind filled in the blanks with the context he had to mull on;

Everyone in the Clan was there when King Rhoam was crowned. They were there when Queen Zelda Persephe died. Mysterious circumstances, they said, and left it at that. Contrary to belief, the Yiga Clan had nothing to do with Persephe's death. Not that time, at least.

Back to Rhoam...He had made a name for himself like many of the royals before; The prohibition of Sheikah technology remained divine law. But his daughter, Zelda Ivy, was more inclined to that ancient history. Sooga had even heard they were instating a new research facility for Sheikah technology.

"Hmph," Sooga clicked his tongue at his own thoughts--He wondered who the credit for unearthing the buried tech truly went towards; Was the cranky old man having second thoughts, or was his daughter too stubborn to let sleeping dogs lie?

Sooga uncovered another letter, and carefully unfolded it, kicking himself for his messiness in retrieving the letters. He should have killed Rowley a little more to the left.

Lord Rowley,

I share many of your fears and worries about His Majesty’s decision. Though it’s said that the Sheikah are supposed to protect the kingdom---divine duty, as ours is the upkeep of our divided sanctions. Yet I cannot keep my eyes away--our past king to keep us safe from Calamity. That foul clan is-----if something is to fall, they are surely the reason. I don’t trust the Sheikah….

The letters were faded and ink smeared too much to read.

Sooga poured through the pages again before reluctantly gathering them up into a pile of crinkly paper. As much as he hated the idea of bothering Master Kohga, someone had to make sense of it all. The date of the letters indicated they were received by the late nobleman Rowley two weeks ago. The night that Sooga completed his mission.

The Yiga would be safe for the next week, it seemed. But time was flimsy and fickle, Sooga knew. What they think is comfort in the night could be the shadow of a trap.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Sooga pushed back from his desk and reached for his swords to tie back to his waist.

He'd have to fill the rest of the mentors in on his findings. Again. But this time, he realized with a quiet groan, he’d have to talk to Tulsi, the footsoldier mentor. Tulsi always creeped him out.

“Sooga? Sooga!”

Elyse stepped into their shared room, and with a sudden fury, she threw back the curtain-door and marched in. “Where have you been?!”

It had only been a few hours, right? A day or two, yeah? Sooga’s silence as he tried to think back to the last time he had left the Hideout only made Elyse shake her head in disbelief.

“Are you shitting me? No one has seen you for…For at least three days! You got your new sword and dipped, you dipshit! You have forgotten all of your responsibilities, and you are about to answer to Master Kohga if you do not show up for at least one of them today.”

Sooga blinked. “Apologies, Elyse. I have been…It is a long story. And I…” He trailed off. He had no idea what he was supposed to be doing, and Elyse took in an explosive breath.

“You’re supposed to be teaching a class, idiot! Myself, Lareina, Adriel, Tulsi…” She counted everyone on her fingers. “And Adriel’s been covering your spot for every day you’ve been absent. Three. Days. How much longer do you think we can explain this?”

“Apologies, Elyse.” Sooga said again, wearily. “However, I did not forget that I started something within Hyrule Castle, and I intend to finish it. It involves the entire Clan. That’s where I have been this week.”

Elyse, hands on her hips, her shoulders slowly lowered. She tilted her head, her annoyance and irritation burning out. “At least you weren’t slacking.” She sighed. “I’m…sorry for yelling. Have you made any progress on it?”

Sooga gestured to the letters, his mind running to other thoughts. “In an unorthodox way, yes. One that will make sense in the future.” He began. “The five of us. After training.” He decided, and Elyse stared at him.

“What have you been up to, Sooga?”

“...It’s a long story. One that we don’t have time for.”

“So give me the short story.”

Elyse blocked Sooga’s way out, her shoulders tensed again. The two of them stared at each other through their masks. Elyse waited for an explanation, fingers drumming on her waist expectantly, and Sooga was debating on whether or not he should. How could he sum up the past few days without sounding completely ridiculous? Fabricated?

“Well?”

Sooga pressed his hands together-

“Sooga!”

-And he teleported away.

"That is all for class today." Sooga lowered the practice sword, and returned a bow that the few students had given him. "Continue practicing your positions; Partner and make use of the sparring room."

A few chuckles and murmurs went around between the six or seven students. Sooga blinked, and pursed his lips, but let it slide.

As the classroom filed out, familiar faces filed in one by one. Adriel swiped a wooden stick left behind, brandishing it at Sooga with a playful jab. "En guard, Sooga! Eh, eh?" He posed like a Hylian knight, snickering at the exaggerated movements. Elyse walked in behind, scoffing.

"Are you going to teleport away again?"

"Ah, he's gotten the hang of it, finally?" Adriel replied. Elyse crossed her arms.

“Sooga’s only been avoiding my questions, like he’s been avoiding training.” Elyse’s disdain could be heard loud and clear. Adriel looked over at Sooga with a grin in his voice.

“Now, that’s no fun, Sooga. Is that what this meeting is for? To tell us all the gossip~”

“I will, but-”

“Did anyone invite Tulsi?” Lareina asked.

“I did, she scuttled away, said she had to feed Stella.” Adriel responded quickly, before turning his head back to Sooga. “Soooo…We can get started early and fill Tulsi in later. What have you been doing that’s so much more important, Sooga?”

Sooga crossed his arms with a grunt. “You must all swear secrecy. Right now. Hands in front of you.”

The three of them glanced at each other, and Sooga knew this was not how they envisioned it would begin. But Sooga closed two eyes and opened three; He needed to know they weren’t lying as they promised.

Sooga took a deep breath, took a seat down on the mats, and began.

“There is talk that the king will begin excavations around Hyrule. For buried Sheikah technology. Knowing the history of the last Calamity, there is buried technology here in the desert.”

The room was quiet between them. Even Adriel had nothing to say, chin in his hand, attention on Sooga.

“We need guards in and around the village and the hideout.” Sooga explained, and Elyse held up a hand to stop him from going any further.

“Does Master Kohga know about this?” She asked, and seemingly read his mind. “We can’t keep this from him.”

“There’s not enough information.” Sooga replied. “Rumors and gossip is all that’s in those letters, but there is some truth in the talk. Infiltrating the castle again is my only hope to gain more insight. To know exactly when, how, and where it’s going to happen.”

“We can’t have another situation like Faron.” Elyse announced all of their fears, confirmed by head nods. “I didn’t want to pursue it, but…I see now that I need to put my fears aside.”

Silent footsteps came up behind Sooga, and he closed his eyes to hold back a sigh. “Welcome, Tulsi. Did you finish feeding the spider?”

“Her name is Stella. And…Yes. Sorry for my absence.” She said, and Sooga braced himself for another jab. But Tulsi moved around him, and folded her long legs down to sit on the empty mat between Sooga and Lareina. “I have already heard, no need to fill me in. I will train the footsoldiers.”

Lareina lifted her head, quiet the whole time. “I can handle the investigation.” She looked at Sooga. He almost did a double-take. He had no doubt in Lareina’s abilities, but…

“I thought you said you were not a good liar.” Sooga said. Lareina turned her gaze down.

“That’s true, but…I want to help. I can learn.”

“Elyse and I can take up guard duty.” Adriel shrugged. “But that means you’ll have to take up training, Sooga.”

“Very well.” Sooga nodded. But something lingered on his mind. “There is one more thing that I have discovered. It seems the royals do not trust the Sheikah. And I….I have met one that was exiled from the castle, it seems. The way the old Sheikah was exiled long ago.”

The others all stared at Sooga, Elyse being the first one to whisper, “What?!”

“A young kid. I found him far away from the castle, farther than any castle Sheikah has ever gone. They are usually bound to the king or princess, but this one was injured outside of the Highlands.”

“A spy, then.” Elyse snapped. “Did you ever think of that?”

“Of course I did.” Sooga responded. “But I know how to detect intentions. He shares the same curse as I do. He’s had multiple chances to betray me, and I have had ample times to betray him.”

“Aaaand you’re friends now?” Adriel guessed, deadpan.

Tulsi tilted her head, listening intently to Sooga.

“You know as well as I do that the Sheikah and Yiga are closely related. I am not heartless, Adriel. He was attacked by a monster we’ve never seen before in the Tabantha fields. It has left him with a poison that only grows worse every night. If he were a spy, he’d have returned by now, or been retrieved. No one has come.”

“I want to see them.” Tulsi spoke up, every word clicking in sound. “If they are Blademaster size, then you two can work it out amongst yourselves. But if they are Footsoldier size, I will be the judge.”

Oh, no…Sooga held back a long and weary sigh. “Fair enough.” Sooga braced a hand on his knee. “Are we all at an understanding?”

“Adriel and I will take a few students to begin guard duty. You and Lareina will work on infiltration. Tulsi will continue training, and apparently have one more student.” Elyse rolled her eyes at the last part.

With that, Lareina, Adriel and Elyse all filed out one by one, to work on their next tasks for the night. Tulsi did not leave, instead unfolding herself as Sooga stood. When she stood, she towered over him with her height alone. The decor of her mask never helped, and neither did the fuzzy tarantula walking across her shoulders.

“Your son?” Tulsi asked, and Sooga did a double-take on that.

“Wha- No!”

“Only a question.” Tulsi giggled- A chalky, gritty laugh, and her spider--Stella--Crawled up the sides of her mask to rest on her head. “I want to meet them.”

“Why?”

Tulsi stared at Sooga. Better not to ask again. Sooga sighed, and nodded begrudgingly. “Fine. Fine…”

He just hoped Kiso was where Sooga had left that morning. But something wavered inside of him that hinted otherwise. Call it a hunch, or…

“Do you hear that?” Tulsi froze.

Sooga stopped, and Tulsi cocked her head to the side, farther back as she turned her head side to side. The commotion grew louder; Young voices arguing, shrieking, yelling.

That bad feeling grew. Sooga and Tulsi glanced at each other, and walked at a brisk pace through the halls. They followed the noise until Sooga rounded the corner, hand on his sword.

“What is going on here?!”

Kurre stomped her way past two nervous footsoldiers trailing along, her hand wrapped tightly around Kiso’s wrist with an iron grip that he couldn’t let go of. It didn’t stop him from trying, though, and the sight gave Sooga an immediate headache. Kiso’s feet dug back, but Kurre’s grasp was stronger; She was literally dragging him behind her like a ragdoll, and Kiso growled at the two footsoldiers that unfortunately wandered too close. His face was shielded by a Yiga mask, he was dressed in traditional clothes of the culture.

He could have fit in seamlessly, if not for the ghastly, glowing miasma on his skin, now coiled around his fingers.

The footsoldiers immediately stopped and bowed to Tulsi and Sooga, nervously announcing their names in respect.

“Let me through.” Kurre demanded. “I’m going to see Master Kohga.”

“Can you please explain to me the meaning of this?” Sooga gestured to Kiso, and he tried yanking his arm away again.

“I’m fine!”

“He’s NOT fine. He collapsed in the street. His blood is infected-”

“I’m FINE.”

“-And the corrosion has grown worse since last night. I have no references to treat this, and the other doctors in town are a waste of time. I am taking him to Master Kohga.”

Tulsi leaned down, watching Kiso’s hand flailing. “How terrifying it must be.”

She raised her head as Kiso moved again, quickly joining his hands to teleport with Sheikah magic. A blue flame erupted from his palms, and combusted with a loud pang, and Kurre flinched- Enough for her grasp to loosen, and Kiso tore away, stumbling back into the footsoldiers.

Everything happened within a matter of seconds.

“Woah!” They shouted, and caught him easily, and Kiso’s mask flipped up for a brief second. Sooga’s mouth fell open as he saw the corrosion had taken over half of Kiso’s face, turning his left red eye into something monstrous; He saw yellow, red, a sharp pupil and the swirling poison before the mask fell again, and Kiso grabbed at his chest.

He saw Kiso’s third eye alight.

Kiso’s gaze whipped upwards to the walls in panic, and Sooga followed; There was nothing there, but Kiso tore himself from the footsoldiers grip and scrambled farther into the dim hall.

“Sooga, it’s-!” Kiso shouted, before his words were cut off with a choking gasp. His back flew to the adjacent wall and was pinned. His head lifted as if something were strangling him. Tulsi snapped at the footsoldiers and they nodded and took off.

“What is going on, Sooga?!” Kurre shouted, and Sooga quickly removed his own mask as he sprinted forward.

Sooga closed his eyes, reaching out to Kiso, and finally saw what the Sheikah did.

All the warm lights in the room bursted with a wailing scream; A bloody creature had its long hand wrapped around Kiso’s neck, and the color of the poison matched the creature near perfectly.

Something like blood poured down from the walls too quickly, taking shape as another hand-like creature, one with a single eye darting around before landing on its fresh target.

“Help….Me…” Kiso wheezed.

Sooga tore his gaze away and moved to press his palm against Kiso’s forehead; To make it all stop like the last time. But something unleashed and a flash of red across his vision made Sooga shout, and he felt his body crash into a stack of boxes nearby.

Someone shouted; He couldn’t tell who.

Long fingers grabbed underneath his arms and lifted, and Sooga fought against the urge to elbow a monster in the face, but Tulsi’s scarf stopped him from starting a fight.

He saw Kurre kneel down beside Kiso, hands reaching for his neck.

“WHAT is GOING on here?!!”

Kiso let out a gasp, and then a rough cough as he crumpled to the floor in Kurre’s arms. Sooga tried to stand before his legs and brain connected, and Tulsi held him afloat by his arms.

“Ah,” She said with a tense voice. “Good evening, Master Kohga.”

Oh, fuck.

---

#yiga clan #breath of the wild #hyrule warriors age of calamity #sooga #master kohga #kiso ashikana #abzu's writing #fanfiction #writing #the legend of zelda #botw #aoc sooga #reaping hook

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feralkwe · 4 months

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tell me more about "all the ways it isn't fair"

well, as i mentioned in the meme post, i have a few fics that are less an organized fic and more a fistful of one-shots that are connected by the source material and written out of chronological order.

there is nothing, imo, fair about being the warrior of light. it is a classic chosen one narrative in many ways, thrusting the main character into the cruel cycle of saving the world through ever-increasing stakes, but never losing grip of it's main theme of hope in all it's messy, ugly, and yes, beautiful iterations.

kit left her home to avoid being thrust into a life that was chosen for her only to become the chosen one of this story. despite her adventurer's heart, she often finds herself isolated, and "all the ways it isn't fair" is snaps and flashes of her grasping onto something she wants for herself while she marches forward, stalwart in her dedication to always do what will serve the greater good.

hilariously, what kit wants was very much not what i wanted, and that complicated both our lives in a way that has been fun to write. her love life, past and present, is a treasure trove of agonizing comedy for me.

have a very rough excerpt of a first draft i wrote back in august that may or may not make the final cut of the story:

"You look like you have something on your mind." As he was wont to do, Thancred surprised her on soundless steps, no small feat in the snow, startling her out of her reverie. He rubbed his hands up and down over her arms when he thought no one was watching. Kit shook her head. "It's nothing that can't wait." His eyes narrowed, disbelief clear on his face, but he didn't argue. "If you say so." He draped his arms lazily around her waist and leaned up just short of kissing her. "Consider me at your disposal should you change your mind." Kit stepped back. "I know you are, and I am grateful for it." It was tempting to try to explain, but Kit knew once she started talking about Elpis there would be no stopping until it was all out. It was still too raw, too recent despite being the distant past. In a way, her distant past. Even thinking about what she'd lost brought a sting to her eyes, even if it wasn't all hers to mourn. She knew Thancred, knew how he'd felt about Emet-Selch. He was nothing if not vocal about it. Despite how Thancred loved her, part of her was certain that he would just not accept or understand everything that now hid in her heart regarding the man she knew she must have loved some twelve thousand years in the past. The man whom she knew beyond a doubt she also loved when she'd very recently killed him. Or, maybe she wasn't giving Thancred enough credit. Despite his loud and even justifiable opinions on Ascians, perhaps he cared about her enough to try to offer her a modicum of empathy. "Actually," she started, bulling her way through her hesitation, "could we go somewhere more private?" He replied with the lift of an eyebrow, then nodded. "Of course." He gestured toward one of the structures that had been converted to a shelter. She took the lead, and was almost there when she caught sight of a flash of fur on a very short body. Stutter-stepping, she stopped, and turned in the direction she'd seen it. "Is that a Loporrit?" She jerked her chin in the direction she was now headed. Thancred followed her line of sight with his own, then frowned. "I believe so." They followed the tracks around the side of the shelter where a sizable group of the moon rabbits gathered. They were looking around excitedly, chattering away, their voices overlapping in their fervor. At their center, fielding their countless questions, was Urianger. What was complicated had just become more so.

reading this now, it's full of buck wild things even by final fantasy standards. i can only imagine how it reads out of that context. enjoy!

#b writes fic #ask memes #fic asks #from the annals of my askholebox #squeeful

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friendlessghoul · 8 months

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Anon

I'm not upset at your message. Im inserting a read more because this is long.

I understand your confusion. I think you need more understanding of the time. There are parts that make me uncomfortable, as long as we acknowledge and know that we don't agree with that, we are still allowed to enjoy what we're watching. It is a completely different time. If we only watch things from the perspective that we have now, we would not be able to watch the majority of media from the past. Even within the past 10 years or less.

Watching things from the past give us a view of how things were; how similar we are but also how different and how we have progressed.

In regard to Buster enjoying Birth of a Nation. Yes, he had said that it was a movie he enjoyed, it was the movie that made him realize the potential of what films could do.

I'm pretty positive I know which article you read who mentioned it. I can only say my opinion on that. I don't think Buster was amazed by it because of the story, but because of what they were able to achieve visually on film. No one was really doing epic films like that. From A Filmmakers Life - James Curtis, Page 100 " "You must never forget," Arbuckle had told him, "that the average mentality of our movie audience is twelve years old." Such advice didn't sit well with Buster, who started taking films seriously after seeing Tillie's Punctured Romance, Sennett's pioneering 1914 feature, then thrilling to D.W. Griffth's Birth of a Nation, which he considered a masterpiece. "I thought that over for a long time," he said of Arbuckle's pronouncement, "for three months in fact. Then I said to Roscoe, 'I think you'd better forget the idea that the movie audience has a twelve-year-old mind. Anyone who believes that won't be in pictures very long, in my opinion.' I pointed out how rapidly pictures were improving technically. The studios were also offering better stories all the time, using superior equipment, getting more intelligent directors... 'Every time anyone makes another good picture.' I said, 'people with adult minds will come to see it.'" " In The Man Who Wouldn't Lie Down by Tom Dardis, page 31 -

"In 1917 the motion picture business was growing at a furious rate. The building of new theaters solely devoted to the showing of films gives some idea of how deeply serious the passion for movie-going had become. Starting in April 1914, with the widely successful opening in New York City of the Mark Strand Theater, which had been built with a seating capacity of three thousand on two floors, the construction of ever larger and more opulent theaters proceeded all over the country. The number of paid admissions per week soared into the millions. If any single person can be held responsible for this ever-increasing, consuming interest in films it was surely D.W. Griffith, whose final triumph in mastering film narration during his days at Biograph Studios in the period 1908 through 1913 was summed up in his Birth of a Nation in 1915. It was not uncommon for people to see this film repeatedly; Buster claimed that he'd seen it at least three times shortly after its opening. Everybody saw it, for it was truly the "coming of age" movie for the entire industry."

Same book on page 47 while they're talking about the area around Hollywood it says, "That same year Griffith's The Birth of a Nation appeared, the film that quickly made Hollywood the film center of the world."

It's not just Buster who found the film to be one of their favorites, everyone did. It's what made people take film seriously, not just Buster. A lot of people regarded films as a fad and would fade away and they would go back to live performances. I implore you to read more about the time period, about vaudeville, the beginning of films. Watch more silent films from others rather than just Buster. Chaplin, Lloyd, Langdon, Laurel and Hardy if you just want to do comedy, those are the main ones. I'd say watch Birth of a Nation for yourself. Watch Wings, Ben Hur, Phantom of the Opera, Faust.. Read up about the other actors of the time, I think if you want to better understand Buster and his films, you also have to see what others were doing but also who they were as people. Explore the environment. I know I didn't answer all of your questions, it would be much easier to talk via messaging. But that's up to you. I hope that I at least helped in some way.

#ask

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claiborneart · 1 year

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Interview with The Most Famous Face in The World

Todd Smalls is a reporter for the Daily Times; specialising in celebrity news, gossip, and marketing. Article originally posted on 6/16/96; last updated on 6/24/96

When Mr. Arno Dun opened his door to let me into his tiny downtown flat, up on the twelve story and with that last-century 'one-bedroom' antique layout, even I was starstruck.

I've done interviews with everyone from CEOs to world leaders to the faces of A-list actor-musicians, but this was The. Arno. Dun. I, like most of our readers, grew up seeing his face on every box of cereal, snack bar, every ad both at home and on the street.

The face of the The Most Likeable Man, whose likeness had been leased by a a tenth of all companies in existence, lived in an apartment that was not worth the price of one minute of his own face.

The first thing he said to me, he confessed, was that he couldn't afford his own likeness either.

"I kick myself every day for letting that clause stay in the contract," he told me. "I didn't realize at the time, or I thought, or hoped, that they weren't serious about not letting me use my own face for personal use."

The room we were sitting in was nice enough, well-lit, and with family photos on a nearby desktop. While the grown children in the group photos shared close resemblance with Dun, his face was, of course, notably absent.

"I spent half my royalty money buying an old cottage out in the middle of nowhere," Dun said. "but that just made everything worse. People looked at my face, and wouldn't leave me alone. Here, at least," he gestured out the window at the city around us, "there's more people to blend in with, so I don't stand out as much. plus, most people are using ARG or some other, so I can go shopping in peace, most days."

"And," he added, smiling wryly, "at least no one asks for a photo."

Q: what made you decide to sell your likeness?

A: it seemed like a lot of money for very little effort at the time, so of course I said yes immediately.

A: Wish I had a lawyer read the the contract before signing, now, but a part of me thinks if I had asked to change anything they would have just moved on to someone dumb to sign it at that first meeting. Hah! I guess I was that dumb*** (swears have been auto-omitted, courtesy of cleanAirBroadcasting™)

There had been thousands of people who had signed similar contracts, nearly every single one for far less money than he, but it didn't seem the right time to remind him of such info.

Q: but was it a good payout, once you add in royalties?

A: Royalties…..well, some years it was enough that I didn't need to work, or only needed to work part-time, but they expired at the 50-year mark….hah! When I was young I thought 50 years was impossibly far in the future, and that getting old was for other people. Now look at me.

I did.

It was interesting, after seeing over 50 years of pre-aging for various brand and demographic-nicheing needs, how the most famous face in the world had actually ended up looking. More frown lines, and a saggier neck.

Still, a face rated most appealling to Broad Demographic Marketing aged more gracefully than most could ever hope for.

Q: so you've worked other jobs then?

A: oh for sure, sure-- whatever I found, here and there. I used to like working with people, but with my limitations, it's made that rather difficult. Nowadays I work for ******* (company name has been auto-omitted, courtesy of cleanMarketRelavance™), which is hard work, for someone of my age, but what can you do?

Q: How do you feel about the alternate-face clause, over half a century into the contract?

A: I don't mind it most of the time, to be honest. It means I don't show up in the background of stranger's videos as myself, so at least I never go viral that way. But…

at this he paused.

A: I don't like it when I want to be in a photo. with my friends. with my family. I don't like seeing a stranger's face in the middle of them, instead of me.

[The banner image, which under usual contract compliance included an ai-generated random stand-in face, was edited to a pixelated mirage on 6/24/96, at the request of Mr. Dun.]

#scifi writing #writing #flash fic friday #flash fiction #short story #ai futurism #ai #not art #scifi #prose #.....hope this story makes sense to anyone who's not me #mostly I draw comics-- so prose is always fun to try! every time it's like: wow that sure was fun......but I cannot tell if it's any good #self-critiquing art is always much simpler for me

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ainarosewood · 2 years

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Change

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

FFxivWrite 2022 Day 24 Prompt Vicissitude

Below cut due to length and Spoilers for the Shb Role Quests

Cyella could tell something was definitely wrong ere the Warrior of Darkness managed to reach her and ask a word in private. The Paladin had not looked this wain since she had the Light raging through her aether.

Swiftly the elf finished her rounds with the customers and met the Elezen as she requested at her quarters in the Pendants.

She knocked on the door and shortly after Sallee opened it her leaf green eyes bright with what was overtly a fever.

As the door closed behind Cyella the other woman asked softly, "How long after a bite does it take for an elf to become a warg?"

Cyella's pale blue eyes widened and she asked sharply," When did it happen?"

"This morning when Alphi, Ali and I were exploring Laxen Loft for the guard. It got a tooth through the underpinning of my vambrace. Ever since I've been feeling worse."

The elf nodded, "To be expected and since Elves and Elezen are so alike it seems to be affecting the same…" swiftly she did some mental calculations then swore, "It will happen tonight, there's a full moon."

Shivering from the fever Sallee asked,"So what do I need to do?"

"We need to get somewhere isolated with no one around. I believe I can guide you through the transformation to retain your mind since well I myself was able to but…I don't know if I will have the ability to restrain you should there be a need…I was not exaggerating when I said I no longer had the strength to wield my blade and armor…"

"You might not but G'raha…sorry the Exarch, would. He has a spell that can stop a person in their tracks…"

Cyella was filled with anxiety at that suggestion; she well knew how violent the transformation could make someone But, she couldn't think of another recourse. “Very well let us go to him that is if you can manage,”

Sallee nodded, “I can,” She then took a breath and did her best not to look as worn and ill as she was. Cyella prayed silently that no one thought to waylay them. Elezen and Elves seemed to be similar enough that the change shouldn’t take her before the moonrise but the elf couldn’t be certain.

Together they made their way to the Dossal Gate and Sallee informed the guard they had urgent business with the Exarch. The man let them through with nary a word overtly curious as to what the pair would need but trained enough not to ask. They made their way swiftly up to the Oculus and found the Exarch waiting for them.

“What is wrong,” he asked, concern etched across his face and together the pair explained the situation.

His crimson eyes widened and he asked, “Are you sure this will affect Elezen the same?” turning toward Cyelle.

The Elf nodded, “So far all the signs are the same. And with the moon rising full this evening, the shift will be upon her then.”

The Exarch nodded in understanding, “Here then, I think, would be best I can seal the Tower and no one would dare challenge that much less get through it. That way it would be just you and I in any sort of danger.”

Sallee nodded and then fell to her knees choking back a cry. Instantly the Miqo’te was at her side and she pushed herself up taking several breaths and trying to give him a reassuring smile, then it faded and her eyes widened, “Raha, this may be more complicated than normal for an Elf.”

The Miqo’te cocked his head confused and asked, “Why?”

“Recall I am Ishgardain born…”

Jerking in response to that he exclaimed, "By Thaliak! Do you think that…"

Sallee nodded grimly," From what I've heard a similar sort of change…" she then turned to Cyella, "You used your blood as a catalyst for the first ones…yes?

The elf nodded confused, "Aye..what does that have to do with anything?"

G'raha's crimson eyes filled with sorrow as he explained, "A thousand years ago on the Source, at least by its reckoning Thordain and his knights twelve, the then leaders of Ishgard betrayed, murdered and then consumed the eyes of a dragon of the First Brood Ratoskr. The short of it is any Ishgardian that takes so much as a sip of dragon's blood can transform into a dragon."

Cyella's eyes widened in shock, her own people's history echoing in her mind as a similar tale but with wolves instead of dragons. "More similar than you think. On the Thirteenth shard I could tale you a similar tale of betrayal by Elves and an intelligent race of wolves…your concerned both could happen."

The Elezen nodded then looked at G'raha, "Be ready you of all people here know how to deal with a dragon considering Allags history with them."

The Miqo’te nodded stating, "it shouldn't change how the spell works but I will be prepared."

With that he went into the hallway and informed the guard there to send Lyna to him. Within moments the Viis appeared and he stated, “Have the guard and any of the citizens within the Crystarium evacuate the Crystal Tower. I will need to seal it this evening for something and I do not wish for any to be caught within.”

“Is aught amiss my lord?” the Viis asked sharply looking between the trio where they stood her keen eyes overtly not missing the condition Sallee was in.

“Naught that is not easily handled by what I have within Lyna, worry not. Tis simply a precaution to deal with a situation that the Tower environs themselves are best suited to.”

Giving him a dubious look she simply saluted and stated, “As you will my lord, we will have the Tower clear shortly.”

With that she turned heel and made her way out of the Oculus calling to the guards outside as she went. True to her word, within less than a few candle marks the entirety of the tower was cleared. As soon as G’raha verified that the trio was indeed alone He went into the Umbilicus and activated the terminal. Within moments there was a brief rumbling and Sallee knew that meant the tower doors were closing.

After that they made their way to one of the large platforms of the tower there G’raha swiftly gathered a few things to make a makeshift bed for it was clear to him that Sallee was reaching the end of being able to be on her feet as the pain wracked her body.

Once the bed was made he had her lay down to wait. They tried to have light conversations in an attempt to distract the Elezen from her pain when she was actually awake. The times she wasn’t Cyella reassured the Miqo’te that this was normal for the progression of the shift.

Several uneasy hours passed and finally as the sun began to set Cyella shook awake the Elezen.

The other woman snarled in rage at her but the elf caught her gaze stating firmly, "The main thing you need to do is focus, Sallee keep foremost in your mind who you are what you care about or you will turn into a ravenous beast."

The Elezen took several breaths and nodded painfully, moving to a more open spot. A few more hours passed then Sallee who had been sitting trying to stay calm tensed and let out a blood curdling shriek.

“It's happening,” Cyella said, her body tense with worry and she repeated from earlier, “Remember hold on to who you are Sallee. That is the best thing I can do for you at the moment is remind you of that.”

The other woman nodded grimly before curling over herself crying out again in pain. Shadows seemed to envelope her and both Cyella and G’raha could hear the sickening pops and snaps of bones altering their form.

When the shadows cleared neither G’raha or Cyella were prepared for the form before them. Its head was wolf-like with scales covering the top of the snout from nose tip to mid forehead. A pair of graceful horns swept back between the wolf-like ears. Ceylla had expected a bipedal wolf but instead of forearms the Elezen had a pair of leather wings that she was flapping, sending violent bursts of air toward both the Elf and the Exarch. The rest of the body was very wolf-like with a thick tail that like the snout had scales from base to tip across the top.

A blend of a howl and roar rang out from the newly shifted Elezen and suddenly G’raha’s voice rang out, “Break”

Suddenly swirls of pale colors surrounded the Elezen’s feet and she whirled towards him growling. He stood his ground stating, “Come back to us Sallee I know you're in there! Please dear friend,”

A full actual roar rang from her throat and she strained against the restraint he had placed around her. Alarms sounded within the Tower and she growled, laying her ears flat and looking for the source.

“He's right Sallee, remember who you are, or the beast is all you will be!” Cyella snapped.

G’raha then began speaking again, talking about the woman reminding her of all the things she had done and stood for. Cyella was amazed and listened with interest as he spoke to the woman of her deeds. What she had told him was her wants, desires.

Still annoyed at the restraints and alarms she did not heed him at first and began straining his spell. Worry etched his features and he said, “This won’t hold much longer…”

No sooner stated and the spell shattered causing the Miqo’te to fall to his knees from the rebound of it. The changed Elezen began charging straight for him and Cyella shouted, “No!”

Suddenly shadows surrounded her and she felt a surge of her old powers grabbing onto that she used the shadows to reach out and ensnare the other woman preventing her from continuing her charge.

Shock filled the Elf for she had thought this power long lost to her since her defeat at Ardbert’s hands. But it seemed some of the man’s influence and insistence to do the right thing always rubbed off on her.

At first the warped Elezen roared and strained at the shadows. G'raha, seeing she would not be able to finish her lunge, once again spoke to her reminding her of who she was. Slowly the restrained beast stopped struggling and began to listen to the Miqo’te’s words. After a few moments her eyes went from feral rage to what seemed like an intelligence behind them and a gravelly version of the Elezen’s voice came from the beast's maw.

“Thank you, both of you…Cyella I think I am good now. Sorry for losing control at first.” it stated

The Elf nodded and slowly called the shadows back, watching closely in case it was a trick but the warped elezen simply dropped forward onto the “hands” of the wings and looked toward her.

Satisfied that the woman would not lunge again she stated, “To be honest I wasn’t expecting to be of much use had you lost control….”

Sallee dropped the jaw in amusement, “I knew you had it in you. Even if you were intending to use them you were still friends with Ardbert and the others despite your best intentions. You were a hero of the Thirteenth before its fall. Such things are not easily lost.”

Cyella turned away annoyed. They may have been different people but this woman was all but the spitting image of Ardbert in attitude and it was slightly infuriating even if it was also endearing.

The Exarch gave a smile at that then sobered asking, “Will she be able to return to her Elezen form? I think even with the moniker of Warrior of Darkness or Light people might struggle to accept her as their hero like uh this…”

Cyella nodded, grateful that the Miqo’te chose to change the subject, “Aye once the sun rises since she has her senses she can choose to return to her Elezen form.”

Looking at the woman she stated, “All you will have to do is think about what you looked like and the shift will revert. Now understand this until you master it. strong emotions can cause the change to occur.”

The Elezen nodded settling down and stating, “Then please share with me how to control it,”

For the rest of the night Cyella explained to her the nuances of how to be able to control the shift at will.

#FFxivWrite2022 #oc Sallee Reinard #elezen #wildwood #aether data center #midgardsormr #sentinal elf

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kazescharacters · 9 months

Text

Day 2 - Bark

FFxivWrite2023

Barking… Loud barking. That was all he heard as he ran through the mud and the debris of the half collapsed trench as the pair of canis pugnax chased not far behind. He dared not look back, his heartbeat the only thing louder than those infernal beasts. He would need a miracle to outrun them, but there were no other options. Pushing himself to his limits he continued to run… To where? It didn't matter… As far away from his Garlean captors as he could manage. He was done fighting as one of their expendable cogs. Chained, and thrown into a war, with barely a weapon… 'Charge or die!' they would order them, whips cracking to keep them in line.. and if that wasn't enough… A bullet would be even more convincing. At times, he wondered if that would've been an easier option than escape.

His thoughts returning to the present. More vicious barking, that horrible horrible barking. Run. Don't look. You know they're there… Just go! He was starved, exhausted, bloody…. His body burned to the core as he tried to find energy that just wasn't there, gasping for air as he ran. Running so hard, his vision faded… Yet he still ran. He ran right till the end… But if this was his final day… He would die on his terms…. Finally.. Something he could call his own. If he could not life his life, he would take heart in knowing he at least chose his death. the xaela fell to his knees as the barking drew closer. Louder and louder it grew, as he finally turned to face the warbeasts. Sharp golden eyes locking on to the pair as they ran towards him. He would watch as long as he could stomach it. Thoughts racing through his mind in those last few seconds. No one would miss him. Just another runaway slave that didn't make it. Something new for the Garleans to laugh at. One less meal they would need to prepare for their dogs. A life wasted in chains. A shame he had to die tired…

Then the bang came. That loud, hope inspiring bang. He watched as one pugnax let out a horrid yelp and collapsed mid run, as a large figure ran out from behind the xaela and charged the second beast. He blinked, eyes focusing as he watched; A hrothgar in black and green armor… A Bozjan. He made it. He made it to the Bozjans. He couldn't watch as the hrothgar made quick work of the second pugnax… No he simply collapsed back into the mud, staring blankly towards the sky.

"MEDIC!" the hrothgar yelled as the figure blocked out the xaela's light, kneeling over him as he started to check on half alive xaela. "It's alright, you're safe, son."

Soon a second.. A woman, who started to heal his body with swirling green aether. He could instantly feel an improvement, but most of all it calmed him down. He tried to speak, but his throat was so raw, barely a groan escaped his lips. The tears in his eyes, however, spoke a thousand words. For nearly twenty years he had been pinned under Garlean rule. Forced day after day to march into the battlefield to wage war on the people who were now tending to his wounds. Who wasted no time in helping him… He was right to find them.

"He won't die but we have to get him back to camp. He's in rough shape. Some of these wounds are going to take a long time to heal. Twelve.. What did they do to him?" The woman speaking with a concerned tone to her voice, looking to the Hrothgar.

"They've done enough. Alright big fella, let's go." the Hrothgar dropping his gunblade as he threw the weakened xaela over his shoulders. "Geeze, Marsak… Be careful with him." "I am being careful! Now move it before more of those dogs show up… Or worse." he grunted as he quickly gathered their supplies and started to double-time back towards the camp the xaela passed out after barely a couple steps…

It was several hours later before he regained consciousness. Groggy and confused, he looked around to get his bearings. Nothing was familiar, which was the biggest relief as he laid back down. He was alive. He was free. No chains weighed him down… Several bandages and a splint on his leg leg sure did though. "You're awake." the deep voice called out, as he looked over to see his rescuer sitting on a chair nearby. "Wasn't sure if you were going to pull through. Honestly I'm impressed you made it as far as you did from the castrum. You're lucky."

He coughed a few times testing his voice, which had recovered enough finally speak, though it was if he had a mouth full of gravel as he did so. "Am… Are you the resistance?"

"We are. I'm Marsak. You got a name?"

"N-no… We weren't allowed… names… Just numbers… Brands… To keep track of us." lifting out his left arm, rolling it until it was wrist up, and mixed in with the scars from his chains, as well as many aged injuries was a faint brand, barely visible in the xaela's pale white skin courtesy of the IVth Legion. Though most of the brand was no longer visible, Marsak could read the following: IV-0… The following numbers illegible from the age of the brand and the many cuts and scars that now decorated his body.

"Fourth Legion… zero…. zero…. Gah I can't read the rest. Leaning back away from the xaela's arm. "Not that that matters anymore…." The hrothgar offered a warm smile, as he stood up moving towards the exit of the tent. "Get some rest, you're safe here. turning back to look at the bed ridden xaela one last time. "Actually… That's what I'll call you…"

"I'll call you Zero."

#ffxivwrite2023 #Zeiro #ffxiv

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tombeane-blog · 10 months

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The Writer's Strike - Part One

“Doublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one’s mind simultaneously and, accepting both of them.”

George Orwell - "1984"

I've been mentally trying to organize three possible blogs - "Quantum Computing", "The Girl From Ipanema" and, "Artificial Intelligence versus The Three Stooges".

But something keeps interrupting these conflicting trains of thought because this writer's strike ticks me off.

First: The unjust way we are programmed to care or not care about this, that, or the other.

Second: It is ultimately a losing cause i.e, trying to stop progress in order to protect jobs.

Capitalism finds it's way forward no matter how much they try to destroy it.

Obviously, the sooner I transfer this organically grown homemade crapiola about this strike from my brain to yours, the sooner I can get back to more more important projects.

Yep, The Hollywood Writer's Strike and the quazillionaire movie stars who march bravely alongside their brothers in arms for a half hour on the weekend.

If Hollywood and the T.V. Industry stay on strike for even a quarter or a third of an eon, what is the downside?

Is it having more time for reading, watching old movies, learning a hobby, going outside, spending time with family and friends, traveling around or listening to Pink Floyd?

Don't get me wrong. I feel sad for anyone who loses their livelihood through no fault of their own.

I weep much less for those who voluntarily walk out just to get more money. And I have none tears for those making millions of dollars while virtual signaling that it is all about standing up for the common man.

As usual this is all about the money - no matter what they say.

I know, you know and he/she/them know that some of these striking writers make a metric ton of money and own gated homes overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

We also know that not one single out of work blue collar Bud Light truck driver owns one of those houses.

Even further, the writers chose to strike without caring about the thousands of poor working minionites forced into the unemployment line with them.

Who deserves our sympathy more?

And how do we as a society choose who to weep for? Or is it not us that chooses?

It seems many of the ones who get the sympathy are the ones that are part of a favored group. Trust me, there are few groups more favored than Hollywood elites.

After all, they tell us how to vote, when to wear masks, and who is allowed on social media.

"Oh no! The guy who wrote that genius dialog for those twelve Fast and Furious movies is out of a job! - For God's Sake, Somebody Please Help Them!"

"What's that? A Bud Light driver lost his job as a result? And he had a wife and three kids and just bought a house?"(cue the cricket sounds...)

Maybe it is simply about the money.

Inner city deaths by gangs and child thugs kill thousands every year and more thousands die on the streets poisoned by Chinese Fentanyl.

"Hey babe, would you change the channel please. This is depressing"

Religious zealots crash into a building, killing some 3,000 people and America goes to war and spends billions upon billions of dollars and loses even more American lives. "U.S.A.! U.S.A.!"

No Americans died in Ukraine but there we are still - spending billions upon billions - a lot of it going to U.S. weapons manufacturers - while humongous problems plague every city and town in the U.S.

Thousands of these deaths or thousands of those deaths. Those we should care about. These we shouldn't.

Who is manipulating us? This is worth saying twice. Who is manipulating us?

We are told to choose who to sympathize with, who to reward or what we care about based on what? Which is more newsworthy and attracts eyeballs? Which produces the most clicks? Which produces revenue? Or just which more closely aligns with the reigning ideological bent?

I just can't generate any sympathy for the Hollywood actors/writers and their overseers who preach to us about how to live our lives, who to love, who to hate and who to care about. And they push Hate America and sewer trash on children - and are now crying for more money and guarantees of future revenue streams.

So who do we choose - voluntarily striking writers and Hollywood glitterati? Or involuntarily out of work truck drivers, camera operators, grips, sound technicians, makeup artists, nearby restaurants and catering crews, et al, who are also out of work.

"You there on the right thrown into the unemployment line - sorry about that."

"You there on the left who walked out on your jobs - the nation is here to help."

But, they also say it's really about A.I. taking away their jobs...

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thesilkentheater · 2 years

Text

the kingdom of eflheim

For the children of the kingdom of Eflheim, it had been eons since this decision had been made. For the triad rulers, however, it had not felt very long at all, and simultaneously an eternity ago; they both remembered the life they had before, and forgotten what it felt like to live.

In reality, it had been no more than five thousand years. But that is a long time for someone who had not been eternal, much less three of them; and it was a very long time for the people who would die in a hundred years, give or take, due to the nature of mortality.

It was simple, really. A single ruler could not be trusted, for all the power vested in them could be corrupted; and a set of two could not be trusted either, for the nature of twin desires is too strong. Thus, it was decided that the rulers of Eflheim would three, coming from three different sections of life, and made eternal so that their positions and natures and sensibilities could not be altered by the choice in candidate over the years.

And so there were the three, whose names no longer mattered: The King, The Princess, and the Jester. Each with equal power, but of different minds and matter and likenesses.

The King, whose disposition was often grim, would present a problem more often than not. Before this decision had been made, he had been the ruler, and so had naturally taken to instructing the Princess and Jester on the role he had played before this strange situation. Though serious, the people trusted him the most, for he seemed the most reliable and consistently empathetic, and mostly was the one to take on troubles in the throne room from the townspeople.

The Princess was quick-witted and energetic, though a knife always hid behind her back. With a smile and a wave she would be presented an issue and within a few minutes have the solution written out in perfect cursive script, pitch black indelible ink staining laws into existence or subsidies to be given. And yet she was also their defender, for an incident in her early existence had led her to be deadly with a sword.

Then, finally, was the Jester, who only the Princess and the King had any respect for. Among the townspeople it was often said that the Jester had no purpose in reality, for all they seemed to do was laze about and chat nonsense. Perhaps they'd compose a poem, or draw, or tell a joke or seven, but no actual work. And yet the Princess and King spoke so highly of them- surely it was a jest? In good humor, everyone supposed.

They did not see the ravens perched about the kingdom that watched with beady eyes. The Jester, being disrespected, was treated no differently than people among the slums, and they might visit and hear a rumor or twelve and a complaint. The voices that might not be heard, they ensured, would be shouted from the rooftops; no corrupt guards or crafty upper class families could pierce the strange tricks of the Jester.

And thus the three of them worked in harmony. The King, a beacon of hope and bastion of strength and unity; the Princess, an innate problem solver and a deadly warrior; the Jester, whose tomfoolery and japes kept spirits up and voices heard.

This persisted for the aforementioned five thousand years, and all was well. But the King, while responding to letters to the castle, came across an issue he hadn't an idea how to resolve. And so, as was customary, he took the offending object- the sent letter and his both- in hand, and made his way to the Princess's study. He knocked three times, and then waited for her voice.

"Come in."

And so he did, and sat down, and explained his conundrum, which went as such:

The balance of all three of them was dependent on each person in the loop. This is all well and good, as for the most part these are things that you cannot lose. The Princess could not get dumber, simply stop improving, which seems nonsensical; the King could become callous, but after all this time it would seem strange that he should.

No, the letter said, it is neither of them they consider. It is the Jester.

For the Jester, for all their faults and positives, has had a habit of strange behavior inexplicable to anyone else. For a week, once, they locked themselves in their room for a week and came out with the strangest, most emotionally challenging art anyone had ever seen. Likewise, once other time they had done the same thing for three days and came out moping, their gentle fairy bells disheartening and depressing.

What, then, the letter asked, could be done if the Jester were to lose their heart? For if the Jester would lose heart, it would reason that the Princess and King would follow; and that would be the end of them. "Surely," they wrote, "There is an idea, even if it has never been put into practice. I am sure you are all busy, but nonetheless it would assuage me plenty to hear of this plan, even in vague terms."

"But we have no plan," the King explained, "So I am not sure what to write."

"That is, indeed, a problem." The Princess closed her eyes and hummed, deep in thought. This persisted for several minutes, which was rather uncommon for the Princess, who was almost never so quiet for so long, until finally she spoke: "Why, I don't think I have an answer."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

"Let us call in the Jester, then. We have failed them in this, surely; they will know what we can do."

"Yes, that's certainly true. Call them in, then."

And so the King set off in search of the Jester, sure they would be easy to find within the kingdom. For many constants were known within Eflheim, one such being the Jester's uncanny ability to appear wherever they were most needed, and disappear when they weren't.

But the Jester was nowhere to be found. Not within the castle, not within the city streets, nowhere. No one had seen hide nor hair of them for several hours, it seemed, and though this was not uncommon it was worrying now that they were being searched for.

So the King brought this problem to the Princess, who looked rather distraught as she sighed. "I suppose we will simply have to wait for them."

"I suppose we will," said the King, sitting down at the desk once more.

#writing #short story #creative writing

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brownarthur7 · 2 years

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Learn How To Play Poker - Instructions On How To Play Poker

If you are not familiar with the game and don't understand its odds, then you should be prepared for big losses. Poker is not a game of luck or chance. It is more about maths and nerve than luck. The years between 1981 and 1997 had been a hellacious repetition of drug abuse, gambling and personal torment. Married to a childhood sweetheart. Stuey witnessed the birth of Stephanie and the adoption by Madeline of Richie's son from a previous union. Richie killed himself shortly after his prom in high school. This was a tragic event that would drive Ungar to drugs and create a huge hole in his family's life. Stu and Madeline split in 1986 and Ungar turned to drugs and gambling for vengeance. The next ten-years saw 'The Kid? fall from grace. Even when backers stepped up to help Stuey get back on the tournament circuit, his addiction to drugs cruelly thwarted any resurgence. I use a re-fillable leather journal cover that Barnes and Noble gave me. Here's why. Leather is good! It gives your thoughts importance and heft. Leather is durable and comforting. This journal will help you become better. It can be refilled and has a place for a few pens. All of these are important to me, as I need my journals to be available and able to cope with my busy lifestyle. I go through one refill every nine to twelve months and keep the old journals as a reference. I keep my journal with me almost every day and make notes in it frequently. I hope that you're convinced that a poker diary will add value and improve your poker game. The HOW is very simple. Simply start doing it! Here are some things that I have done over the years with my poker journal. Hopefully you will find some useful. Poker Forums: The largest online poker forum has thousands of members. These members range from beginners who only know how to play a few hands of poker to the most experienced players. Your game will improve just by reading the discussions. If you feel brave, you may add your thoughts to these threads. If you don't answer correctly, you may be flamed (internet lingo for shouted at). situs slot online bonus new member 100 don't have to worry about it as this is a great forum to get feedback on how to play winning poker game poker. Take a deep breath, take a deep breath, and dive into the shark waters. Expect to be cut down, but eventually helped. Be familiar with the psychological combats in poker. Poker is a challenging card-game because of the psychological fights between players. This in fact, makes poker quite a challenging game to master and win. Even if you are proficient in all aspects of poker, it can still be difficult to read the minds and cards of your opponents. Poker players who are great at poker have a 'poker-face', or a face that is difficult to read. The less difficult it is for your opponents to read your reaction, the better it is to win in poker. You should have more chips than your challenger to win this move. If your challenger has fewer chips than you, this is the best time to make this move. He may lose all his chips, but you will only lose a few. James McManus can make it happen. In 2000, McManus went to the Series to write a piece. He soon fell for the trappings of Las Vegas, and ended up losing his advance to the Main Event. He was allowed to participate and ended up as final tabling. The whole story has been immortalized in 'Positively Fifth Street' and is well worth an afternoon of anyone's time.

#situs slot online bonus new member 100

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melancholyshadow · 3 years

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Well...since you asked, I have a druig request😁😁 The reader is an eternal and druig broke her heart when he left but she comes with the others and sees him the first time since then and idk somehow they makeup, druig is very loving towards her

vengeance || druig

summary: druig broke not only your trust, but also your heart. when you did see him for the first time in hundreds of years, it went the opposite of how you had expected it too.

pairing: eternal!female!reader x druig

warning: angst-city, talks of mind control, heart break

an: another request woohoo! another one should be out in the next couple days, my school starts back up on monday so i’ll be a little less active for about two weeks and then i’ll be on winter break for about a month!!!

Something switched in you that night, you were never the same. Some part of you went with Druig when he left. That bubbly, sociable person was gone, and she never did come back. For months your fellow Eternals tried their best to patch you back up, but this was one mission they never did complete. And after Ajak decided to disband the remaining ten of you, it only got worse.

For years you avoided them, purposefully making yourself hard to find. So, when Ikaris, Sersi, and and Sprite showed up at your doorstep, you were surprised. Without a word, you reluctantly let them into your apartment. “Ajak is dead.” Those were the first words you exchanged with one of your fellow Eternals in hundreds of years. “How?” You asked, a quick waiver of your harshness pressing through your tone “Deviant.” Ikaris answered, not looking up from his lap.

It didn’t take long for them to convince you to join their cause. Mostly to avenge Ajak, but a part of you, deep within yourself, knew this journey would land at Druig’s feet. Eventually, you would have to face him again. You couldn’t tell if this excited you or if you dreaded it. It was a mix of both.

The system was similar with Gilgamesh, Thena, and Kingo. After hearing about Ajak, they were quick to tag along. Thankfully, Gil had some idea as to where to start looking for Druig. He was in the Amazon, hidden away from the rest of mankind, no one was surprised.

When you came across his compound, it wasn’t hard to tell it belonged to him. The people hadn’t advanced past their way of life since he took them. It was traditional to say the least. Growing their own crops, no electricity, living in homemade huts. It was quaint, really, it reminded of your life those thousands of years ago. The good old days, before everything fell apart.

“Hello Sprite.” Just hearing his voice, even if it was through a mouthpiece, made a shiver run down your spine. Almost in sync, the seven of you turned your head towards a lone chapel, it’s doors were pushed open. And who would it be other than Druig himself. He had always been quite dramatic, good to see some things never do change. “I’ve missed all of you.” His tone was sarcastic, and he garnished it with a cocky smile.

After Sersi explained the situation with Ajak, the deviants, Arishem, and the whole nine, Druig seemed to be speechless. Something new. But when he did finally speak, it was right back to his usual self. “That’s a lot of bad news in one go, Sersi.” He said with a shallow chuckle, obviously finding nothing about the news funny or entertaining. Things escalated quite quickly from there, and before you knew it Karun’s backup-backup camera was in a pile on the floor.

Kingo was in Druig’s face, and Druig seemed to be having the time of his life. A dark smile on his face, almost like it was saying “hit me.” When no one spoke up, you decided it was your turn to get involved. It was time for him to get a taste of his own medicine, something he hadn’t gotten in twenty generations. “That’s enough, knock it off. You’re both acting like you’re twelve.” You scoffed, standing from your seat on the bench.

That smile on his face only seemed to grow more sinister now that he had your full attention. “My beautiful, beautiful (Y/N), how’re you?” Those nicknames may have worked on your before, but not anymore. Okay, maybe a little bit. “I’ve been better.” You admitted. Slowly, very slowly, making your way to where the two men were stood. “Did you miss me?” He asked, his words like venom.

A scoff passed your lips before you could even fully process it, followed by a chuckle, you were astonished at his words. “Not nearly as much as you hoped.” If you were anyone else, you wouldn’t have noticed, but his ego took a slight blow at your words. Only giving you more confidence. “But it’s clear to see you haven’t changed much, at all really.” You began gesturing around the room. “Still throwing your little hissy fit, when are you gonna grow up?” Another blow, this time more noticeable to the others.

“(Y/N)…”Sersi warned, her voice quiet. You had now reached Druig, only feet from him, your head tilted upwards to look at him. “No, no, let her finish.” He pushed. That smile had disappeared, and his lips were sitting in a flat line, eyebrows furrowed together. “You’d think after hundreds of years you’d have time to think about your actions. But you’re never wrong, right?” Your index finger made contact with his chest.

“You’re Druig, Mr. Right, I have a moral high ground. Do you really?” You asked, another cackle erupting from your throat. “It’s real ethical of you to keep these people tucked dee in the Amazon, take away their free will, and control their entire existence.” With each syllable your finger made contact with his chest. “You wanna talk about morals, huh?” His crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not the one who stood around while they let millions of people kill each other.” He raised his voice, another thing he had never done to you before. He was quick to compose himself.

His eyes burned holes into yours, he was grinding his teeth, and you could see steam leaving his ears. That’s when he grabbed your wrist, catching you off-guard. “That’s enough.” Ikaris butted in, placing one hand on one of yours and Druig’s shoulders, creating some distance. You ripped your hand from Druig’s grip, storming out of the chapel. One, wanting to get as far away from Druig as possible, and two, to get some air.

You didn’t want to cry. You couldn’t cry. It was stupid. But the tears still spilt down your face, desperately you tried to wipe them away before anyone saw this. You couldn’t stop them, you felt stupid. This wasn’t how you wanted this to go. This wasn’t how you thought it was gonna go. You hadn’t seen him in hundreds of years, you just wanted for things to back to the way they were before that night in Tenochtitlán.

“(Y/N)…” Someone called out behind you, it was Thena. “Hey!” You exclaimed, wiping away any stray tears, acting cheerful. “Are you alright, darling?” She asked, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Yeah-Yeah, just overwhelmed is all.” You chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “And that’s okay, take all the time you need. I think we’re gonna be here for a couple hours.” She glanced over her shoulder. You saw Druig and Ikaris yelling at each other, before Druig stormed off deeper into the camp.

You decided to pass the time by interacting with the people in the compound. They were instantly interested in all of you, Druig must have told them stories about you and the rest of the Eternals because they had a ton of questions for you. They seemed to like your powers a whole lot, element manipulation.

It was getting semi-dark and you decided to help the townspeople find some wood to burn for the torches inside their homes. You ventured along the outskirts of the compound, and Druig took advantage of the distance between you and the rest of the compound. Quietly walking up behind you, admiring the way you moved. You hadn’t changed all that much since he last saw you, but he never got tired of watching you do even the simplest of tasks.

“They started to not believe me, ya know. About you guys.” His words made your whole body tense. You stood up slowly, reluctantly spinning on your heels to face him, the pieces of wood wrapped up in your arms, becoming heavier than before. “They thought I was just making you guys up.” He chuckled, arms folded over his chest, body propped up on the trunk of a tree. “They thought I was the only one like this.”

You didn’t trust your speech. You could feel the hurt creeping up your throat, water building behind your eyes. God, you hated being so emotional. So, you just nodded, trying to keep yourself distracted by looking for more firewood. “I’m sorry, (Y/N)…” Those words sounded foreign leaving his mouth.

“Are you really?” You asked, ignoring the crackle in your voice. “We were best friends. Inseparable for thousands of years. Then you just leave me, no contact, cold turkey.” The waiver in your voice only growing with each passing word. “You threw me off to the side like I meant nothing to you. To fend for myself.” You continued, the anger bubbling inside your stomach.

“I regretted my decision everyday if that’s any consolation.” He shrugged, avoiding your gaze. “No call? No letter? Not even a fucking carrier pigeon.” You let out a mix between a scoff and a laugh. “I thought you would want nothing to do with after I left.” He admitted, taking no credit for his actions. “Druig…” What you were feeling was so confusing. You felt scared, angry, relieved, and frustrated all in one.

“I was in love with you, idiot. Did I really have to spell it out for you? I made it so obvious. Of course I wanted everything to do with you.” When you confessed this, your gaze faltered. wrapping your arms around your torso to feel small. “What about now?” He asked, kicking himself off the tree stump, his large steps bringing him closer to you.

“What do you mean?“ You asked, noticing his sudden closeness. “Do you want anything to do with me now? Do you still feel that same way?” Your mind and heart were fighting against one another, and you didn’t know which one to listen to. “Dru, I-I don’t know…” You still trusted this man with your life, but you couldn’t say the same about your heart.

“I don’t need an answer now, but I don’t know how much longer we have together.” His voice faltered, his warm hands coming to cup your cheeks. Red and stained with tears you hadn’t noticed until now. He was right, time was no longer indefinite. You might only have a few days left on this planet, with this version of Druig.

You didn’t know if it was the mix of emotions or your sudden realization of imminent death, but your lips flew forward against his. They were soft, tasted like mint and some sort of flavored tea. Yours must have been chapped and salty, from your tears, but he didn’t seem to mind as he pulled you closer. Your chests now touching, and your hands resting on his.

You had wanted this for hundreds of years and it was just as good as you had imagined it. His body moved in sync with yours, the curve of your bodies fitting together like a puzzle, like the two of you were made for each other. He removed one of his hands from your face, sliding down the small of your back and under your t-shirt. The skin to skin contact made a warm feeling grow in the pit of your stomach. When Druig pulled away he didn’t go far, placing his forehead on yours.

“God, I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

#druig #druig imagine #druig eternals #druig one shot #druig x you #druig x reader #druig fic rec #druig smut #barry keoghan #barry keoghan one shot #barry keoghan imagine #barry keoghan x you #barry keoghan x reader #all things druig

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roger-that-cap · 3 years

Text

brand new eyes

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: having a penpal in the sixth grade was overdone, in your opinion. and handwritten letters just weren’t convenient. you weren’t happy at all to start talking to some random girl your age across the sea, but once you started, neither of you could find it in you to stop.

warnings: fluff!!!! mutual pining. badly written letters (actually the whole one shot). brief battle with sexuality. a seriously strong connection between two characters (almost soulmate territory here tbh). every single mistake here is 100% mine!

word count: 8.7k!

At first, you were sure that the pen pal letter suggestion for extra credit was stupid. Why would you handwrite a letter when you could send an email? Why would you send a letter by mail that would take much longer? It took two weeks for a handwritten letter to arrive, and only seconds for an email. It didn’t make any sense.

And then you got your first letter.

You realized very quickly why handwriting was what your teachers asked for. You never knew that handwriting could be so vulnerable, so open. You had never seen letters that were so loopy, so delicate. That letter was written so neatly and so personally even if the girl who had written it hadn’t meant it to be that way, and you knew that a computer even with all of its special fonts wouldn’t be able to do that.

You understood why the handwritten rule was there.

But you didn’t like it when it was your turn to craft something so beautiful.

It wasn’t a competition by any means, but you didn’t want your letter to look anything like the words you scratched down into your notebooks. You wanted them to be neat and pretty and most of all understandable for the girl behind the pen and across the sea, because she had done the same for you.

By the time you stopped ogling over the letters and started actually reading the words that the girl had written, you learned her name. You learned it within the first line, actually.

Wanda Maximoff.

She was obviously from Sokovia, she spoke English as her second language, and she had an older twin brother that she both adored and was annoyed by. She was in the equivalent of your grade in her country, and she liked to cook with her parents. The letter was basic and slightly elementary, just an introduction to what she was willing to share with a stranger that lived thousands of miles away.

But that didn’t make it any less special.

You started on your return letter minutes after you let her pretty words sink in.

You drafted your letter and let it sit for an hour without you looking at it, and then came back to it only to cross things out and revise it, and then put it on the expensive paper that your mother had bought for you. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours. It started with a greeting, your name, and then into the same sort of things that she spoke about in her own letter, the things that people that went to school with you had learned in passing over the years.

It felt like giving someone the rundown of your uneventful life so far in the simplest of ways. It felt like someone getting to know you as you wanted them to, because you were telling your story. There was no other side, or truth, or lie, just what your pen and your brain decided to write. It was controlled chaos. And you adored it.

Your print was easy to read. It wasn’t loopy like hers or as “girlish”, as one of your classmates said when you brought both letters to school to get an extra one hundred. It wasn’t fancy and alluring like hers, but there was still something magical on the pseudo-aged parchment.

You sent it off to the post office the next day, and you put her letter on your desk.

§§§

By the time that your third letter from her came, you already were drafting your own. It came straight to your mailbox and when you checked the mail that morning, you were ecstatic to see it waiting for you, like a pet waiting for it’s person to come home. As usual, it started off with the gentle scrawl of your name, just a bit larger than all of the rest of the words that were on the page.

I can’t believe that it’s already been weeks of us writing. We started in August, and it’s nearing the end of October. Speaking of, is it starting to get cold there for you? It’s already cold for us. Our grandmother always makes us the best tea and soup when it gets cold outside, and I could send you the recipe if you wanted!

My brother and I are curious about one thing, and we hope that we get your answer in time, but, is Halloween really a thing? We have both heard of it, but we’ve never done it here. It sounds magical. I’ve always wanted to dress up however I wanted and get candy for it. If I were to do it, I would probably be a Disney Princess, maybe Merida. Sadly, we don’t do that here. Does it really happen in the United States, or is that a movie thing?

Hopefully you don’t mind my questions much, or my short letter. Pietro likes to read over my shoulder while I write and receive the letters, and I like to write at the kitchen table. There’s no escaping him. You’ve never talked about siblings, do you have them?

The rest of the letter was like that, aloof yet curious and bouncing around all the same, and then signed with her always rushed conclusion, which was nearly the same every time.

You read it and put the letter in the box that you had bought from a thrift store, a box just big enough for the size of the neatly folded and tied off letters that she gave you. You clipped the box shut and put it back under your desk, and then started working on your response.

Instead of just a letter, you sent her a letter in a small box that had the candy that you had gotten on Halloween night, and the mask that went with the rest of your costume. It wasn’t the Disney Princess that Wanda wanted to dress up as, but it was something. It was your something.

§§§

As the December portion of your letter writing, you and your penpal were supposed to learn of the other’s traditions during the Holidays, whether you or them celebrated or not. A huge slide show about the culture of your Sokovian friend was supposed to be shown, and you knew that there would be a lot of the same PowerPoints, a lot of the same pictures and sayings and explanations. You wanted something different. You also had no idea if Wanda did Christmas, but you had to ask.

Wanda,

I’m sure that you know that our assignment now is to present a slide show about what our penpal does during the Holiday season, but because I don’t know whether you celebrate Diwali or Christmas or Hanukkah, I’ll start with asking you about New Years, because I’ve never met a person who didn’t celebrate New Years.

What do you do on New Years Eve? I’ll start by telling you that I watch the ball drop with my family, eat food, and drink cider after it hits midnight. It’s a big deal here for us, because the new year is a time for self revolution, apparently. I’ve never done a New Years resolution, but maybe I’ll do one this year. Have you ever done one?

I know that food is very big over in Sokovia, so what kind of food do you traditionally have when you’re celebrating? Do you like it? Can you cook it yourself? Because I know that you have the same questions for me that you have to put in before you leave for Winter Break, I’ll answer my own questions.

And you did. You were thorough, partly because you thought that it was kind of you to do so because she should get a good grade, and also because she had written that she was thankful for your descriptions on multiple occasions. You had noticed that she was the more whimsical writer and that you came off as the more grounded one, and it intrigued you.

You wondered if you two would come off that way in person to other people, if you ever got the chance to meet.

When her letter came two weeks later, wrapped in aged string as always, you skipped to your bedroom, already pulling the box out from under the table and starting to read it. You smiled through the whole thing.

In her own way, not as precise or even in order as you, she had told you everything you needed to do a good slide show about Sokovia during the Holidays.

§§§

You were emotional at the end of the year. Not because you were leaving the sixth grade and going to a new building in the school and leaving behind your kind teachers, but because the pen pal assignment was over.

No other assignment had been so important to you, or eye opening. You were only twelve years old, but you were old enough to know that you had never found a friend like you had in Wanda, who was still thousands of miles away. No one else, not even the people that stood feet apart from you, offered you friendship like Wanda Maximoff did.

You couldn’t stop writing to her.

It was your turn to send a letter, the final letter that you were supposed to send, and then her closing letter was supposed to come two weeks later. You couldn’t just close it. Your entire mind was screaming at you to not close the book that you had hardly started yet.

So, as your pen rested on the parchment paper (without drafting first), you lifted it up, and changed your mentality from a “goodbye” to a hopeful and questioning one, as you hoped that she felt the same and wanted to talk just as much as you did.

Wanda,

It’s the end of the year. Technically, we should be done with our letters because it’s the end of the year, and the assignment is graded. This should be a closing letter, but I don’t think that our friendship was ever dictated by the grades that we got. We were always closer than all of the other pen pals at school that I knew, and I was hoping that you would want to continue writing.

You couldn’t write much more after that, because your pen was shaking and you were starting to get in the danger zone of dropping tears on the paper. If this was your last letter to Wanda, you wanted it to be pretty. Just half as pretty as she always made hers, if you could manage it.

You sent it off the next morning after finding an old string that was nearly the same colors as hers and getting your friend across the street to hold it down and color the outside of it for you.

§§

A part of you wanted to say that you wouldn’t have been expecting to still write handwritten letters to a girl in Sokovia in the ninth grade, but you certainly were. While everyone else in your class had lost contact after the assignments were done or tried and failed to keep contact afterwards, you and Wanda continued talking all through the years.

It astounded your parents, who were sure that in the beginning, you were just obsessed with someone who was your age and who wasn’t exactly like you. They thought for sure that you would have lost interest in talking to Wanda, but after three straight years, gas spent taking you to the post office, and money spent on special stamps and the same paper, they were starting to finally get the hint.

Because you were so close with Wanda, you hardly had close friends in your neighborhood, and maybe two or three at school. There was no one that knew you like Wanda did, and no one that knew Wanda like you did. One particular letter where you confessed probably the worst thing you had ever done to her that no one else knew was what finally let you know that she was the most judgement-free person in the world, and that you would do anything to keep her. You would never forget how the letter went, and how her response sounded.

Wands,

I’ve done something terrible. I may have accidentally gotten involved with a boy who already had a girlfriend, and I had no idea. I had literally no idea, and today she just called me out of nowhere and started crying over the phone to me, and I had no idea that he was with her. At all. It was so pitiful, and she’s not mad, and she says that she won’t tell anyone it was me, but still. She seemed to really like him, and I think I may have just ruined a relationship. I have no idea what to do, and all I feel is guilt. Nothing more or less. Should I send her something? Give her a gift card? I feel terrible because she was just so sweet about it.

The letter went on and on with your scripted rambling, so repetitive and panicked that you were shocked to know that Wanda had, in fact, read the entire thing. She got a message back to you rather quickly, and that made you both nervous about her verdict and glad, because you felt like with an answer so quick, she must not have judged you too harshly. You remembered opening it with shaky hands, and inhaling and exhaling when her first words after your nickname were “breath in” and “breathe out”.

Wanda once said that writing to you was like writing to a diary who always wrote back, and you couldn’t agree more. She knew everything, and she never judged. And, when the time came for her to put all of her eggs in your basket of trust, you did the same for her.

You distinctly remembered getting the few letters that you kept at the bottom of your letter stack, even though you liked to have them in chronological order. In the eighth grade, Wanda was having a crisis over her sexuality. Being anything but straight in Sokovia wasn’t the best thing to be, and you knew that. The first letter she ever sent you about her sexuality had dried spots on it, where she had obviously cried. Her handwriting wasn’t anywhere as neat as it usually was, and it sent you into a state of panic.

We talk to each other about everything, so here I am asking for your advice because I won’t be getting anything here. I know that usually we keep our letters formal for aesthetic purposes, but I can’t this time. Also, no one other than you can read this.

From there, she told you that she was sure that she liked women, and that she was even more sure that her parents would be upset at her. She told you that she had been dwelling on it for a while, thinking about it and having it weigh heavily on her mind. She was all over the board with it, from her parents being upset to her being afraid that you were going to be opposed to it as well, or tell her that she was “too young to think that way”. She ended the letter by telling you that you were the first person that she had ever told.

You started your letter with your own confession, and Wanda Maximoff was the first one you ever told, too. You were past having your crisis, though, and you helped her through hers without a second of complaints. You always wished that you had someone to help you when you were down and questioning yourself, so you knew that you would be that for Wanda without hesitation.

You two grew together even more, and by the ninth grade, you both knew that there wasn’t going to be anything in the world that could stop your letters.

You came home one day after a long day and checked your mailbox out of habit, knowing that a letter wasn’t due for a few more days. But there it was, wrapped and sitting pretty for you. Your name was scrawled beautifully on the front in the handwriting that got better and better with every year, but you would recognize it anywhere. A smile grew onto your face as you walked to your front door, unlocking it and rushing inside to get to your desk. Of course, your name came first in the loopy letters.

I hope you’re doing alright! Things have been busy over here on my side of things, but never busy enough to not write you back. I just wondered, have been wondering for a while, really, if we were ever going to meet. We’ve been writing to each other for years, but I’ve never seen a picture of you. I know everything about you, but I’ve never met you. You are my best friend in the entire world, but I’ve never heard your voice. One day I would love to finally meet you. Would you be open to thinking about one of us flying out? Maybe after school is over for the both of us, we could make it happen. Number

It was much longer than that, but that was what caught your attention, more than her description of her busy week did. You read the letter three times. And then again. Your heart thumped in your chest as you tried to get a grip on yourself, irrational nervousness gripping your throat like an iron fist.

You knew the day was coming. You knew that it was. You two didn’t know what the other looked like at all, and neither of you had ever asked. Sometimes, you thought about it, but other times you found that it really didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what she looked like because she was the best friend you had ever had, so you forgot about it. But that wasn’t what worried you.

The thought of meeting her nearly put you in cardiac arrest. You couldn’t meet her. What if you met and you two were totally bored of each other? What if how close you were on paper didn’t reflect at all in real life? What if you two found roadblocks in conversation that you never saw before? You didn’t want to meet her, not at all. You were terrified of it.

Because if you didn’t connect with Wanda on sight, then you doubted that you would ever be able to connect with anyone else. If you were wrong about Wanda being your person and her being yours, you would be crushed. If you figured out that the person who you gave your all for didn’t like you anymore after meeting you, you would die on the spot. You couldn’t afford to find it out.

You sat at your desk for an hour after reading her letter, smoothing your hand over the paper like you always did before you wrote your response. You knew what you needed to say, you just didn’t know how to say it.

What she had already written helped you, too. She was implying that they met up after graduation, which was still years away. You had time to hold off on it, to not talk about it for a while. You had some stall time in the bank, for sure. And you were going to use it.

§§§

You made the mistake of not putting the letter in your box.

Your mother came into your room, and she saw the letter. Your desk was typically off limits, so you were upset that she read it anyway, but what she said led all anger out of your body and made way for fear.

“You should totally go see your friend, sweetie!”

“What?”

“I’d pay for you to fly out,” your mom said. “I’d come with you, but I would pay for you to fly out and see your friend. You’ve been writing each other for three years now, and you’ve never seen each other. You guys should do it.”

“You’d fly me out to Sokovia?”

“You’re a great kid, of course I would.” You took the letter from her hands gently and put it in the box, and she gave you a look. “You don’t want to go, do you?”

You didn’t answer.

“Why not?”

“I’m scared to meet her,” you admitted plainly, and then your mother gave you a look.

“She seems so excited to, after all these years. She’s such a sweet girl, what are you worried about?”

You couldn’t answer that. Your fears were your own, and they sounded ridiculous out loud. They made no sense to everyone else, and sometimes not even to you. Wanda Maximoff was nothing but sweet and kind and a good friend, and there you were, trying to blow her off because you were scared of a possible lack of face to face connection.

“Can we just drop it?”

And you did. In fact, all four of you did, until later.

§§§

By the end of your junior year, you were done for. Not because of tests or applications or any of that, it was because you realized that you were in deep for Wanda Maximoff.

It all made sense. The need to keep writing to her, the excitement you had felt getting a letter since sixth grade, the way you marveled over her penmanship and loved everything that she said and did. You were so in love with her, and it was irreversible. You were in love with her and what the two of you created together.

And you couldn’t lose that because of a bad meeting.

You avoided the topic of going there or Wanda coming to you, and you finally got each other’s numbers so that you could text on some international texting app, but primarily, it was still the heartfelt letters with the occasional heart stamps and constant string coming your way. And you wouldn't haven’t wanted anything different.

You sat at your desk on the last day of school as you wrote to her, writing about how you were about to watch some of your slightly older friends graduate in a few days. You also mentioned how you were excited to be a senior and get through your last year of high school just so that you could go and do whatever it was that you wanted to do, because you were only seventeen, and you didn’t know anything.

Sunshine,

I can’t wait to get out of high school. It’s not bad, just boring. I wish the people here were like you, and then maybe I could actually carry a conversation with them. Have you told your family yet? I told mine. My mom was… shocked to say the least, but she was fine with it. I think she might have suspicions about us writing to each other now, but who cares? I want to know if you’re alright.

How’s your new job going? I know you were excited to get one, so I hope it’s treating you well. It’s funny that you and Piet work across the mall from each other. I knew it was gonna be like that, even though you said it wouldn’t be! You two are inseparable, it’s so cute. Does he have any idea what he wants to do after we get out of school?

I kind of think that I want to start my own business. A flower shop, maybe. You know how I sort of have a green thumb. I think it would be good for me to own something. What do you think?

You wrote for about thirty minutes more, answering the questions she had asked you in a previous letter and signing your name at the bottom, a small smile on your face as you thought about her and her brother making food together like they always did.

You loved her. You really did.

§§§

It was in the middle of your senior year when you realized what the problem with her coming was. You had been keeping it so far in the back of your mind that you didn’t even realize that the alarms were blaring in the back of your head.

You knew that if you saw Wanda in person once that you would never be able to let her go. You would have to pick up and move to her country or she would come to yours, and it would kill your mother for you to move. So, that would mean that you would be asking for Wanda to leave her own family to be with you, and you couldn’t be selfish.

So, you would be selfish in a way that was also selfless by holding off on seeing her.

You hadn’t told her that you loved her, and you planned on never admitting it. You were sure she kind of knew, even just a little, but she never said anything. The way that you were holding onto the idea of her probably said enough for her to know. You just hoped that she knew that you were in love with her as a friend, at least. Wanda was the type who needed to know that they were loved, and she so was.

You loved her without even knowing what she looked like. You loved her without knowing whether she had a nasty habit or if she was a neat freak. You loved her without seeing her in a dress or in your favorite color or even looking into her eyes. You had never even heard her voice before, but that didn’t matter at all. You fell in love with her hand writing, then the way that she wrapped her letters, and then her words themselves. And then, you just were in love with Wanda Maximoff. All of her. All that you knew. And the things that you didn’t.

You thought about a confession letter for a long time. You were terrified of it, to say the least, because what if it backfired? What if she thought that you were only interested because she came out to you? What if she thought that you didn’t mean it at all?

Or worse, what if she just completely didn’t feel that way at all? What if the feeling she got when she wrote to you was nothing but platonic? That would be the biggest nightmare of all, and you had no idea how you were ever going to be able to pick up your fancy pen and put it to your special parchment after reading that.

By the time that you finally stopped wrestling with yourself about whether you were going to tell her that you were in love with her, you got a letter in the mail. A heart stamp was on the outside and it was tied with the string it always was, and the familiarity calmed your racing heart. You opened it gently, like you did with all of the letters you got, and then you saw her familiar scrawl.

How could someone’s handwriting feel like home?

Moonlight,

I would love to tell you about everything that’s been happening here, but I believe that it’s rather boring compared to what’s been bursting at the seams in my own mind. With every letter that I’ve ever written to you since we were thirteen, I’ve hesitated with my pen over telling you what I know has been true for years. I think that, finally, I know that I have something to say to you. I’ve always wanted to admit this to you, ever since the seventh grade.

I think that I fell in love with you, a long, long, time ago. I think that I know I did. I haven’t told you, and I never intended to tell you, because I was scared. I’m still scared here, as I write this letter, but I can’t keep it to myself anymore.

Pietro already knows, but he knew before I even did. I’m sure it has something to do with us being so in sync, that he knew where my heart, love, and loyalties were before I even knew myself. I tell you everything, and something as monumental as falling in love with someone, I believe that you should know. But I couldn’t tell you. Not in the beginning, and apparently, not even after a year or two.

I’ve never seen you or heard your voice or held your hand, but I don’t need that to know that I truly have fallen in love with the person that you are. You are a beautiful person with the most gorgeous soul I have ever had the privilege of talking to, and I think that we have stumbled upon a connection that we may never see again, if you feel the same way.

If this made you uncomfortable in any way, please tell me. I’m sorry if this came on too strong, or too up front. I never want to make you upset.

It’s okay if you don’t want to carry on writing to me after this letter. I just thought that I needed to tell you after all this time. We never lie to each other, and I think that this lie to save me from possible embarrassment or losing the greatest friend I have ever had has expired. Thank you as always for reading, Moonlight.

Your Sunshine, Wanda.

Your jaw was slacked, and your mouth was open. Your heart was beating so quickly, but it wasn’t frantic. Your mind was going at a thousand miles a minute, but you were calm. You were supposed, but you weren’t. It simply felt… right. It felt like you had secretly been expecting it all along, like your soul had known the whole time, or maybe even like it had known that you felt the exact same way. It felt like you were receiving news that you had already heard about.

But that didn’t take away any from the pure elation that you felt. You set the letter down so that you didn’t accidentally wrinkle it, and then put your head in your hands to hide your smile and think, like they would help you any.

She loves me. Wanda loves me. And not in the way that friends loved each other, that’s not how she loved you. She felt what you had been feeling, a bond so strong that it could be felt on paper.

Your hands shook as you reread the letter. You scanned over it for a second time, a third time, and you were tearing up by the fifth, finally setting it down again and leaving it on your desk. It didn’t deserve the beautiful darkness of the box where it’s predecessors went, not yet. Probably not ever. You would have framed it in the moment, if you could have.

Part of you was glad that she admitted it first. You were going to, one day, maybe. But the worst part was the hypothetical wait for the letter to cross the pond. Whoever sent the confession letter would have to wait about two weeks for a response, and that felt like forever. You knew that just as much as she did, and she still took the chance to do it.

So, with the most fond and gentle smile on your face, you took out your special pen, wrote Sunshine as the entrance, and then professed your own love right back at her, trying as hard as you possibly could to make it as beautiful and raw for her as you felt on the inside, and as the one that she gave you. But, all you could think of were the first two sentences, but you knew that you were going to go for much longer than that.

Sunshine,

Oh, Wanda. How I wish we were both brave enough to do this earlier.

§§§

By the end of your senior year, you two were dancing around each other, taking it slow, as if you both hadn’t professed your love for each other. You kept writing your steady letters to each other, the same nicknames, the same doting words and pretty scratched across the paper with dark ink.

For the most part, nothing changed. But neither of you could deny the way that you wanted to see each other. And so, your time was up. You had to stop messing around.

The first time the two of you planned to see each other, it was supposed to happen over that summer break. It was supposed to be a nice experience for everyone, at a time that was actually pretty convenient.

And then, right during the week she was supposed to come, her aunt passed away, right in her sleep. It didn’t even come to your mind to think about rescheduling so fast, and that was the first time you had ever gotten an email from Wanda. She emailed you the morning that she found out, saying that she would rather send the first email than have you show up at the airport upset because you didn’t know she wasn’t coming. She was able to resell her ticket and you assured her that it was totally okay for her to not be coming, and you gave her condolences, as well. Wanda was very close to her family, and you knew that she felt that loss.

The next time the plans fell through, it was because you were going to surprise her. Your mom paid for your ticket, and you had finally grown out of your own mind and realized that it was going to be what it was regarding meeting Wanda. But, when you emailed her two nights before, spilling the beans because you didn’t want to just go to the airport without knowing how the hell to get around, you got a quick response. Turns out, she wasn’t anywhere near her house, or the airport. She was on a marine biology trip in some waters off the coast of Romania, and she hadn’t gotten the chance to write you all about it yet. You begrudgingly canceled the trip and told her that of course, it was alright. That night, your mom assured you that the two of you would just try again later.

But then life happened. You went off to culinary school, a last minute yet sure decision after Wanda had taught you that there was so much more to love about food other than the taste. She had your new address and you had hers, because she moved from Sokovia to Italy for her marine biology major. The letters came and went faster, with the smaller amount of mileage.

Long story short, neither of you had enough money to go and spend thousands on a trip, and not even one helping the other out or splitting the cost helped much. Wanda was getting increasingly nervous about whether it was ever going to happen, and though she never stated it directly, it was very obvious. You were getting there, too.

The thing that kept you going was the letters. The same as they had always been on her end and yours, they were the one constant in your life. Wherever you went, you knew that her letters would follow you, and that you would still write from your heart and send your own across the sea over to some place in Europe. You knew that as long as her letters were lengthy and detailed and that if she took the time to wrap them as gently as she had been, that you two were strong. And as long as you kept giving advice and writing her entire short stories about you week, she knew that you were still hers.

You would be hers until your heart stopped beating, and long after that. You were there for her for as long as she wanted you to be, and that was widely known.

§§§

It took four years for you to get back home and in a place where you could afford a ticket in or out. Wanda took a little longer, but that didn’t matter. It only gave you even more time to save and plan for when she came, and the date came.

You were both twenty two when you bought her the winning ticket. You were flying her out to Florida for a week and a half. The Keys, to be exact. You knew that she was going to love it and the beautiful waters that came with it, and it was away from the meddling eyes and mouths of your family, the ones who had been routing for you from afar (and in the beginning, behind your back). It was just going to be the two of you in a condo, and you knew that it was going to be heaven on earth.

Now, hell on earth was the anticipation of waiting at the airport. You had no idea what Wanda Maximoff looked like, partially because it didn’t matter while you two wrote, and also because you wanted to see her for the first time in person. You two had a flare for dramatic romantics, another reason that you two clicked so well.

You stood with a sign that you had made the night before with paint that you had mixed yourself into her favorite shade of red, a scarlet, almost pink color. You were in a sundress because it was sweltering outside, and you were almost nervous about how she would take the heat after being somewhere so cold all of her life. You were rocking back and forth on your feet without even noticing, and your stomach growling was the last of your worries. Your heart was racing and your hands were shaking, but you willed them to stay still so that she could at least have a chance of reading it.

You were sure that you were about to pass out. It seemed like it had been millennia and a day all the same with her in your life. Everything that you had written each other was really about to come to life, after ten long years. You felt almost like it wasn’t real at all, like you were about to be woken up by your alarm back in your apartment over at your old school. But it was very, very real, and all the receipts and your racing heart advocated for the truth in it all.

The gates opened, and all of a sudden, people were lazily walking out, as one would do after a long flight. You were certain that the woman who was standing next to you could hear you start to slightly hyperventilate, but you didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to you in that moment was Wanda.

A man came up from behind you and bumped you, and he said his apologies while you bent down to pick up the sign. Despite your nervousness, you stopped to tell him that it was okay, sign still face down on the floor. He grinned at you and then frowned when he looked up, causing you to mirror his expression.

Your name. It was clear as day, accented, close, and sounded like a sigh of relief and wonder floating in the wind. It came from a woman you didn’t know the voice of, and just like that, you remembered what you were doing. You left the sign on the floor, stood up, and turned around as fast as you could, eyes slightly wild as they soaked in everything about the woman standing in front of you.

Her hair was almost a cross between light brown and light red, even in the fake lights of the airport. She had light makeup on and she looked a little tired from the flight, but the look of elation on her face wiped it all away. Her pink lips were curved into an open mouthed smile, like she had forgotten the words while they were already halfway to her tongue. Your heart raced as you looked at her, and you didn’t even need to question who she was. Or who she was to you. You couldn’t look at anything but her face, the face you had been missing so achingly without ever seeing it before, the face that you knew was bound to give you comfort that you had never felt one in your life, until the end of your days. Her eyes were wide and a clear blue as they stared back at you, reflecting your exact expression, and you sensed that the two of you had already synced up and gotten on the same page, just like you had both predicted.

“O-oh my god,” you breathed out, just inches away from her. “Wanda!” You went in for an embrace at the same time, both of you somehow knowing which way to lean your head to avoid collision, and just where to put your arms. You fought shaking when you held her, your nerves completely shot at it finally happening. You were actually with Wanda, in an airport, hugging her like there was all the time to spend in the world. “Oh my god,” you repeated, and you felt her squeeze you a little closer to her. You could have cried in that moment.

“You,” she pulled back from you to take your face in her hands, her blue eyes scanning over your face like she was studying priceless art. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it was the way she looked when she watched the animals underwater. She shook her head slowly, eyes welling up with the thinnest layer of tears as her lips turned up into a smile. “You are beautiful.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked downwards, feeling yourself get hot at the bold and sincere compliment. You knew that anything more than about three words was going to smoke you stutter “Wanda, have you seen yourself?” She laughed, a soft sound that you had imagined hearing so many times that you almost thought you had made it up, until you saw the upturn of her mouth and the mirth in her eyes.

“I’m- I can’t believe I’m actually here,” Wanda breathed out, and you felt the same exact way. How had you pulled it off? After nearly a decade of pining that was mutual and writing to each other about every little detail in your lives, she was finally right in front of you, where you could see her and touch her.

“How’d you know it was me?” You asked after a second of grappling for something to say. “I didn’t have my sign up when you came.”

The smile that was on her face went from being flat out joyful to content, almost peaceful. It rubbed off on you immediately as you leaned back into her touch, ignoring all of the people bustling around in the busy airport. “I just knew that it was you.”

§§§

For the entirety of the day Wanda arrived, all the two of you did was stare at each other and hold onto each other, like you were both equally terrified that the gods were going to come down from wherever they resided to split you up again. There was hardly even any talking when you arrived at the condo, and it felt natural. The two of you had already spoken so much, and now you needed to catch up on just seeing her. You’ve seen her soul, her mind, her heart, and now you were seeing her face. It felt like you had always known it.

But you were the first one to speak as you held hands on the deck, her thumb drawing subconscious hearts on the back of your palm. “You have a way with words, sunshine.” The name contrasted to the sky, which was dark but illuminated with an almost full moon and stars. The city was mostly behind you, so the natural light was what you got. It was all that you needed.

You felt her content fade into joy. “Really?”

You knew that she was nervous about her English, but to you, it was perfect. From her accent to the way that she sometimes missed connotations that were specific to the language to the idioms that accidentally slipped into your letters, you loved it. “Mhm,” you hummed, leaning your head on her shoulder. “And I never would have imagined that you sounded so… sweet.”

“Sweet?” She parroted, and you smiled even though she couldn’t see it. Somehow, you knew that she could feel it, in some strange way. “Can I ask you something?” The answer was yes. It was yes, and it always would be yes. So, you said that. She cleared her throat, a quiet sound that you stored in your memory to keep, simply because she made it. “Did you… did you mean what you wrote?”

You were stumped. There had to be hundreds of letters between the two of you, and thousands upon thousands of topics. But you couldn’t question yourself for long, because then you knew exactly what she was talking about.

Did you truly love Wanda? The question came up a few times between you and your mother when you were in your first year of culinary school. Were you in love with Wanda Maximoff, or were you in love with the idea of Wanda and the mystery she brought? The question had been brought up, many times by your mother, who was only just making sure that you were being smart, and the answer never once varied. Yes. You loved Wanda Maximoff with every breath you took, every stroke of your pen, every glance at her pretty script. You knew that Wanda was it for you, and seeing her only solidified it. The way your hand fit together like they were the missing parts of a lost artifact made it concrete. The way she gave you everything back and the way you did the same told you everything you needed to know.

You leaned off of her shoulder and turned to face her, a soft smile on your face as the moon came out from behind the singular patch of clouds in the night, illuminating her features. You saw her face and her spirit through brand new eyes, and it was wonderful. It was all you could ever ask for. “Wanda,” you started, your voice quiet enough to not disturb the moment, and the sound of waves crashing not too far away. “I’ve loved you since I knew what love was, and I have been in love with you for as long as I knew what the difference between the two really was. Everything that I have ever sent to you, every word, I meant it all. And I’ll mean it for the rest of my life.”

She was staring at you blankly, with only a bit of something lingering in her gaze. Then, as soft as a breeze, she was muttering something under her breath in her mother tongue and putting her hand on your face. “Can I kiss you?”

You ignored the way that your heart surged in your chest. The moon was still out and bright, shining down on the two of you like you had paid for it to be a spotlight. “You never have to ask,” you said, and then, as fluidly and gently as humanly possible, she tilted her head and leaned forward, and you met her halfway.

§§

You had never been scuba diving before, but Wanda was in her element. She helped you suit up after she told the instructor that she was certified, and then rolled her eyes playfully when he checked behind her work. You cracked a smile. The entire time he was instructing, she was nearly bursting at the seams to get into the water, and the second he said that the two of you were allowed to go, she was holding your hand and asking if you were ready.

You never thought that Wanda could look more beautiful than she already had, but in and near the water, she was something else. She was in a state of grace and peace all the same, and you wanted nothing more than for her to be so tranquil, for the rest of her life. All you wanted in return was to be privileged to see it.

The gods that made you fear a bad trip were actually on your side, because Wanda excitedly pointed out a group of migrating sea turtles, not even paying either of you any mind at all, carrying about through nature. You smiled at them and at her, unable to decide which one was going to be the apple of your eye at the moment. You chose her.

§§§

You got out of the shower, your skin still slightly damp and the air humid from the heat of the water. You smiled at Wanda when you caught her looking at you, giving you that same blank stare that she had the first night the two of you got there. You stopped in your tracks, giving her the encouraging look that you knew she needed. “You okay, Wands?”

“I love you.”

Your breath hitched. It was the first time she had spoken the words aloud, and you both knew it. The weight of the words and the confession felt so true, so genuine, that it went straight to your heart and made it swell with warmth. A small yet generous smile stretched onto your face as you felt everything fall into place. “I love you, Wands.”

“More than I’ve ever loved anything,” she continued, like she hadn’t even heard you, and you looked back at her with a doting expression. “And, I’ve been holding off because I don’t know how to say that,” she paused, and then she fell into deep thought.

You took a step closer, assuming that the small language barrier had come up. When it took her more than a few seconds and you saw the little scrunch of confusion between her brows appear, you spoke up. “There’s no rush,” you said gently.

“If other people were to look at us, they would say that we have only known each other for three days,” she said, and you nodded. “But, I feel that we’ve known each other for thousands of years. I feel that we were made to meet, and that we were always going to no matter what came up. Why else would we both be so focused on talking to each other? I have always seen you as someone special to me, always, but now that we have finally seen each other face to face, I think that my… heart is recognizing you as it’s other part.”

You had no words in your mind at that moment, because they were all in your heart. You couldn’t open your mouth to convey the pure shock and relief that you felt at her admitting something that you had been feeling the whole time. You swallowed and felt your eyes burn with tears, but before they could fall past your cheeks, Wanda stood up and wiped them from your face before pulling you close.

Nothing mattered. Not the fact that you were still wet and she was in her pajamas, not the fact that you were in a towel, not the fact that the pizza man was knocking at the door. It was you and her, like it always had been in your mind, and Wanda’s too.

You were it for her, and she was it for you. And while you hugged it out in that beautiful condo in Florida, you silently thanked your sixth grade English teacher for making you write to a random girl your age all the way across the Atlantic, and you thanked Wanda for being the one who wrote her way right into your life.

so. uh! hiiii! i hope y’all liked it! i loved writing it, even though she was a lil bit of a challenge, not gonna lie. feedback is always appreciated!!

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #marvel fanfic #wanda fluff #scarlet witch #marvel au #wanda maximoff fluff #lgbtq #lesbian!wanda

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