#off saint dominique

[shintin]

Gunpowder Dreams

Chapter 6 (Heartworm)

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

They didn't know a wounded man would show no mercy when they took the best thing he ever had away from him. What did they say? Don't poke the dragon if you can't take the heat; if you do, expect the flames.

Genre: explicit smut, toxic relation, romance, angst (Mafia au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, Alternative Universe/Modern Setting, no spoilers from manga and anime, dominate Vash the Stampede, sexual situations, dub-con, graphic violence, gore, angst, toxicity, gunplay, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, too many smut scenes, emotional trauma, and etc.

Song Recommendation: K'naan, ft. Adam Levine - Bang Bang

Note: Blood again, but this time it tasted sweet.

Chapter Index - Next Chapter

The screams of pain bouncing around the tiled walls were getting a tad annoying. Sometimes it sucked to be both the boss and the hitman.

Vash Saverem. He was known for deriving pleasure from hurting others, but today, he had no goddamn patience for this whiny asshole. Normally, he possessed the patience of a saint; he knew how to bide his time in pursuit of what he wanted most. However, when he was trying to get some real answers, and the dude was too busy shitting his pants and crying to give him a coherent response, Vash's tolerance waned, and his frustration began to surface.

Within the Mafia circles, a proverb echoed: The biggest misfortune for Vash Saverem's enemies was that they were Vash Saverem's enemies.

Poor man.

"This knife is about to go halfway through your eyeball," he issued the warning. "I'm not even going to show you any mercy when I shove it through all the way to your empty brain."

"Fuck, man," he cried. "I already told you; I only visited the port a couple of times. I don't know anything about trades or whatever the hell you're talking about."

Vash concluded coldly, "So, you're useless, is what you're saying." He inched the blade closer to the man's eye. The victim clenched his eyelids shut as if that thin layer of skin, barely a millimeter thick, could shield him from the knife's assault.

Fucking laughable.

"No, no, no," he pleaded desperately, his voice trembling. "I know someone there that might be able to give you more information." Sweat trickled down his nose, mixing with the blood on his face. His unkempt, greasy gray hair was matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. Guess it wasn't actually gray anymore since most of it was painted crimson now. Vash had already cut off one of his ears, along with mercilessly tearing off ten fingernails, severing both Achilles heels, and placing a couple of stab wounds in specific locations that wouldn't allow the fucker to bleed out too quickly. The sheer number of broken bones sustained by the wretched man made it clear that he would never rise or walk away from this place.

"Enough with the crying, start talking," Vash snapped, scraping the knife's tip against the man's closed eyelid. He cringed away from the knife, tears spilling beneath his lashes.

"H-her name is Dominique. She's one of the operation leaders responsible for dispatching men to capture the girls. She-she's a big deal in the port, b-basically runs the whole thing there."

"Dominique, what?" Vash barked.

He sobbed. "I don't know, man!" His voice filled with anguish. "She just referred to herself as Dominique the Cyclops."

What the actual fuck?

"Describe her appearance," Vash demanded with an impatient grin, his words forced through gritted teeth.

He sniffled, his chapped lips tainted with leaking snot. "She's tall, with black hair," he managed to say. "And she wears an eyepatch over her right eye due to an ugly scar."

Vash massaged the back of his neck, groaning as the muscles relaxed. It'd been a long fucking day. Especially since his fucking heart hadn't stopped pounding, he was plagued with the unbending need to find an excuse to see you again—and this monkey face was wasting his time.

Vash's mind felt scorched as if it had been seared in a sizzling skillet. Concentration was a near-impossible feat when the taste of you still lingered on his tongue, and the sensation of you tightly wrapping around his gun remained vividly etched in his memory. You were even more exquisite naked. With the sweet melody of your smoky cries echoing in his head, he would come in his pants if he wasn't this full of rage. Indeed, you had the potential to be a good fucking medicine for his piles of anger.

Crying out loud! Focus dickhead!

"Cool, thanks, man," Vash remarked casually as if he hadn't been torturing him slowly for the past two and a half hours.

The man's breath steadied, and he lifted his head to look up at Vash through disgusting brown eyes brimming with an abundance of hope.

Vash almost laughed.

"Y-You're releasing me?" he asked, staring up at the blond man like a goddamn forsaken dog.

"Sure," Vash chirped. "Come on! Get up and go."

Gazing down at his severed heels, the man was acutely aware that attempting to stand would result in an inevitable loss of balance. "Please, man," he blubbered, "Could you lend me a hand here?"

Vash nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think I can do that," he replied, just before swiftly retracting his arm and driving the blade deep into the man's eye socket. He died instantly. The foolish hope hadn't yet vanished from his eyes. Or rather, his one eye. Huh!

"You were involved in Gasback's affairs," Vash declared aloud, though he was no longer capable of hearing him." As if I would spare your life," he finished with a laugh. Retrieving his knife from the eye socket, he cringed at the suction sound, threatening to disrupt his plans for upcoming meals—which was annoying cause he was feeling hungry. While he did enjoy himself a well-executed torture session, he certainly wasn't a jerkwad who got off on the sounds that accompanied it. The gurgles, slurps, and other unsettling noises produced by bodies enduring excruciating pain and the insertion of foreign objects were not a soundtrack he would ever find soothing enough to fall asleep to.

Wait a minute! There was a contradiction within him. Because he found immense pleasure in witnessing your pussy singing for him while his gun glided in and out of you. It was delicious as it was torturous for him. He imposed the punishment upon you, fully aware that it was ethically questionable. It was wrong, he knew it, but he had no fucking shame. After all, he never claimed to be a good man.

The sound of the door creaking open jolted him from his reverie, and he lethargically lifted his head from the red rivulet trickling across the pristine white tiles, its stream leading toward the drain at the room's center. His gaze fixated lazily upon the figure who had just entered.

Damn it! Not again. Not at this moment. Drenched in soiled blood and ravaged by unholy thoughts chewing the shit out of his mind, the last person he wanted to encounter was Bradd, ready to reprimand him for Devil knows what reason.

"Did he prove to be of any use?" Bradd asked, his eyes scanning the scattered droplets of blood adorning Vash's visage while his disheveled hair hung over his forehead, unlike the upright style he was so into.

Exhaling wearily, Vash averted his gaze from his counselor, using the sleeve of his navy hoodie to wipe his face. "Yeah, he provided a name. Dominique the Cyclops. Rings any bells?"

"Nope," Bradd said, popping the p. "But I'll ask around."

"Maintain a low profile." Vash's voice carried a tone of exhaustion; his eyes fixed on the stream of blood flowing from his black gloves.

"Worried about Knives finding out?"

"No. It's none of his business," Vash responded, raising his head. His eyebrows knitted together, creating a deep crease on his forehead.

With each mention of his brother's name, an inferno of annoyance engulfed him, fueled by memories of abuse and shattered trust. He was merely a child, bereft of his mother, and Kni, his sole remaining family, had spared him no mercy with his blades.

The flames of animosity flickered in his eyes, casting a fiery glow upon his features. There was a time he stupidly yearned for reconciliation, for the chance to mend what had been broken, but the intensity of his hatred held him captive.

His gaze lingered upon the scene before him, a stark reminder of the darkness that pervaded their lives. He knew the bridges between them had not only been burned but reduced to smoldering ashes. The hope of brotherhood had withered away, replaced by a vicious reality—they were forever destined to be distant figures, forever intertwined as business partners in a family tainted by treachery.

Bradd's voice barely reached him, distant and faint, as if echoing from the depths of a well. "You've made saving those girls too personal."

 Vash squeezed his eyes shot. "It is too personal."

"But if news spreads, it could potentially impact the business."

"I don't give a fuck about business!" Vash's voice erupted in a furious outburst, his words laced with venom as he forcefully expelled them. Veins throbbed on his temple, his knuckles growing pale as he clenched the knife tightly, the sharp metal biting into his palm. "It was Nick's fucking last wish, and I'll be damned if I don't make it come true," he growled, his voice unwavering.

"Take a breath, boy," Bradd's voice coaxed, tinged with a hint of resignation. " I've never had much success reining you in once you've set your mind on something. My role is simply to remind you of the consequences and express my genuine concern. Besides, since when do you handle dirty jobs yourself?" Bradd inquired cautiously, mindful of avoiding Vash's agitation and any potential stains on his clean shoes as he approached closer, hands tucked into his pockets. He leaned down to inspect the lifeless body, and his face quickly twisted with nausea—a soft fucking man. Yet, Vash found relief in Bradd's loyalty, remaining steadfast amidst the dark dominion of a world where boundaries blurred, and power was asserted through ruthless actions.

Vash's anger dissipated quicker than anticipated. Interesting. "You know what they say, right? If you want something done right, do it yourself," he replied, running the stained knife blade along his blue jeans. Each deliberate stroke aimed to purge the weapon of lingering traces of claret. At this point, he had lost count of the clothes he had to get rid of because he had started to resent the smell of that shit—a less-than-ideal habit for someone viewed as a monster.

A monster.

Tsk!

This wasn't exactly breaking news.

He was used to it.

But the fact that you referred to him in such a way was a pain in the ass, perhaps because he had grown accustomed to being addressed by that name by people whose sins towered as high as Mount Fuji. Yet, when you, as someone nearly innocent, employed that word as well, something unsettling stirred within him that was definitely not pleasant, and now, he couldn't get it out of his goddamn mind. You had become a persistent distraction—a brain worm. Metaphorically speaking, of course, not the dog-killing kind.

"You don't need to shoulder the entire workload alone. Allow Livio and me to help you with this. Your burden—"

"I was bored," Vash interrupted. "Stop digging my shits. Nothing good gonna come out of it."

"I can't agree more," Bradd said, dragging a chair to a considerable distance from the stinky corpse and taking a seat. He crossed one leg over the other and fixed his gaze upon Vash as though he were a patient under surveillance in an asylum. Well. In a way, here was like an asylum.

Once Vash had sheathed the knife, he removed the gloves and casually tossed them onto the deceased's chest. Then, reaching into his hoodie pocket, he retrieved a cigarette. Rolling the tension out of his neck, he ignited the cigar and drew a deep breath. The tobacco filled his lungs, providing an instant sense of calm.

"What are you doing here, Bradd?" Vash asked.

"Digging your shits," Bradd said and chuckled.

"Haha, quite the comedian now, are we?" Vash reclined, exhaling a plume of smoke that drifted and dissipated in the air. This shit, this acrid residue, still felt foreign, like swallowing an ashtray. It was a far cry from the flavor he truly longed for. He didn't want this permanently residing in his throat but rather savor it on Nick's tongue.

Well. It's unfulfilled dreams that keep us alive.

"No, seriously." Bradd's tone carried a sense of urgency. "What've you done to that girl?"

Upon hearing the reference to "you," Vash's eyebrows arched upward in surprise, partially interrupting the steady flow of smoke from his lips. A brief cough threatened to escape his throat, but he exerted control and suppressed it. Nevertheless, he couldn't hide the subtle gleam of delight that flickered in his eyes, a spark Bradd keenly noticed.

In an effort to divert attention, Vash lowered his head, using his forefinger to tap the cigarette, resulting in a shower of ash falling upon the fractured leg of the man beneath him. "Why are you asking?" he said, careful not to reveal any emotions or intentions.

"Rollo informed me that she likely hadn't eaten for three days since he returned with all the food untouched," Bradd recounted.

Vash pursed his lips as he found refuge in the concealment provided by his hair today. It appeared that you were not easily tamed. Each scratch he left upon you only seemed to sharpen your claws, fueling you with a desire to retaliate with even greater strength. Just like a wild mustang, you adamantly resisted being subdued. Rather than yielding to compromise, you would battle fiercely until the bitter end, refusing to be trapped within a cage, even if it meant facing the risk of perishing within its confines. You were his wild pet, reserving your fears and moans exclusively for your master. Perfect.

"Why are you sharing this with me?" Vash asked, seeming unbothered while bothered. He ran his hands through his hair, fingers pausing at the rough undercut. "Rather than wasting my time with this nonsense, focus on resolving the issue." He tilted his head and fixed a feigned disinterested gaze upon the counselor.

"I tried talking to her, but she just kept staring at the wall," Bradd disclosed, leaning forward to discern any answers from Vash's expression, only to find none.

Oops! It appeared that the opposite had occurred. He pushed you too much and broke your tiny claws. Weren't you a little mouse nested in the clutches of a ruthless cat now?

"Vash?" Bradd called out, only for him to realize that the flame of the cigarette had been burning his finger without him even noticing. He swiftly discarded it, tossing it to the floor and extinguishing it under his boot.

"You're jeopardizing everything to rescue random girls for Wolfwood while you've already taken one for yourself and are breaking her every day," Bradd pressed on. "Don't you think—"

"That's different," Vash croaked, his voice filled with conflict. "She's his daughter."

"She didn't have a say in it," Bradd calmly stated. "I don't think Wolfwood would want you to torture an innocent person."

Vash's head jerked upward in a sudden motion, his eyes widening in shock. How dare Bradd presume to understand what his beloved Nick would desire or not, as if he knew him better. As if he could fully grasp the devastating pain that tore Vash apart from within. And what harm would come if he were to inflict a glimpse of that pain on others?

A surge of anger coursed through Vash's veins, tempting him to grab Bradd by the collar and unleash a torrent of furious screams, forcing him to taste a tiny morsel of the burden he so eagerly offered to assist with, for it was a burden that was bitter as hell, sadly capable of shattering anyone but Vash himself. He didn't care if the world burned in his wake; if only it could provide even the slightest relief from this unbearable pain. However, deep down, he knew that Bradd's words held a kernel of truth. Nick had never harmed anyone and always strived to convince Vash to stay away from it as well. Yet, here he was, drowned knee-deep in the very mess Nick had wished to spare him from.

The realization made Vash's fingers tremble, but he tightly balled his hands into fists, containing the quivering inside. Did Nick despise him for the actions he had undertaken in the name of honoring his memory? It seemed likely. Look at him. He had not only caused harm in the earthly realm but somehow found a way to cause pain to someone on the other side—somewhere Nick used to call Eden.

Despite his lack of belief in heaven or any existence beyond, a flicker of hope persisted within him, for he wished for its reality because, in such a place, Nick would find unbridled happiness. A happiness that surpassed what he could ever offer. Even though he wouldn't be able to meet him there.

Thieves Don't go to heaven. The teachers had taught him.

And he was a thief. He had stolen Wolfwood's name and besmirched it with his own misdeeds.

Vash released a worn-out sigh and thought tears streaked down his cheeks, but he wasn't crying.

He was just tired.

Something was missing. Or rather, someone. His beloved. His demise. His alibi.

Emptiness consumed him like there was nothing inside of him but this broken heart, the only organ left in this hollow shell. The echoes of screams reverberated within him. He felt the thumping resonating throughout his skeleton.

He had a heart, claimed science, but he was a monster, said everybody—including you. And he knew it all too well. He knew what he'd done. He wasn't asking for sympathy. But could it be possible that you were mistaken? For if he truly were a monster, wouldn't Nick know it? Then why he used to call him his angel…

Yes. He was angry and vicious and vengeful, familiar with blind rage and bloodlust and a need for vindication. But what about the hatred that was like poison, an unrelenting punch to the gut, an injustice that had been injected directly into his bloodstream and had paralyzed him from the inside? It stifled his breath and stuffed itself into his clothes, gradually decaying him in the shadows of his own hatred.

He didn't know what he was or what he might be. However, he knew he would never want to hurt Nick. Never. Ever. Never, ever again.

He was tired—so utterly tired that he wanted to forget he wasn't allowed to wish for things anymore, and he found himself wishing for one thing that would dispel the grip of his hatred: a friend.

You a child, Tongari? Why do you need a friend? You have me. Am I not enough for you? Oh, right. I am dead, because you couldn't save me.

Rising to his feet, Vash paid no attention to Bradd's presence, his focus fully consumed by his inner turmoil, as he walked toward the door, paying no heed to anything.

"Thank you," Vash uttered, pausing in the doorway, his voice saturated with self-reproach. "I'll handle it. Don't worry." He turned his head toward Bradd, wearing a blank stare with a hint of a smile that didn't reach his eyes, instead like a vat of acid seeped into his skin. Then he disappeared in the corridor, but a subtle but palpable piece of hatred seemed to detach from him and fell silently on the floor.

*

Sadness was a strange sort of thing.

It stealthily approached, silent and motionless, taking its place beside you in the darkness, gently caressing your hair as you slumbered. It enveloped your very being, squeezing so tightly that breathing became arduous. It planted lies in your heart and nestled beside you at night, draining light from every crevice. It remained a steadfast companion, holding your hand only to forcefully pull you down when you attempted to rise.

It'd been over four days since Vash was here.

After he left your room and your screams settled down, you huddled in a corner, contemplating your very existence. Sleep eluded you during the night, and all awake, you doubted. You doubted. You doubted.

Did you?

Didn't you?

Should you?

Why wouldn't you?

Even when you felt prepared to release its grip, break free, and be brand-new, sadness stayed with you as an old friend. It stood beside you in the mirror, locking its eyes with yours, daring you to live without it. You couldn't find the words to fight yourself, to fight the words screaming that you wouldn't be free, never free, never ever free from it.  

Sometimes, it just wouldn't let go.

Just like Vash.

"How're you doing?"

Your eyes blinked rapidly, and a gasp escaped your lips as you squinted at his stature. There he stood, in a snug purple shirt, paired with his usual dark pants and meticulously spiked blond hair. Today, however, he had decided to forgo his usual accessories—no holster, no arm garter, or any visible indication of weaponry. Perhaps he believed he wouldn't need them facing a broken person like you.

Sadly, he was right.

Vash whisked into the room like he treaded air for a living. No one accompanied him. "You look lovely," he complimented.

Sitting on your bed, wearing an old, plane shirt and pants of Gods know who, you had leaned against the headboard; your exhaustion and the toll of sleepless nights evident in the dark circles that marred the delicate skin under your eyes. Your hair, disheveled and untamed, cascaded in disarray, its strands haphazardly draping across your face, mirroring the neglect you had endured. Wrapped loosely around your waist, a blanket served as a feeble shield against the chill that permeated the room. Vulnerable. Miserable. Far from anything that could be described as lovely. Fuck you!

"Hey," he said pleasantly. You could tell he was trying to insert warmth into his presence, but it felt like sticking your hand into a fireplace that hadn't been used in centuries.

Closing the gulf, he moved closer, his woodsy cologne enveloping your senses as he intruded upon your space. You wanted to tell him to get the fuck out of your no-no square, but you couldn't imagine that going over well. You had learned your lesson. Yet, try as you might, you couldn't stop your limbs from stiffening and your shoulders from hiking up an inch. Your fingers twitched with the need to curl into fists, but you refrained from doing it, too.

Contrary to your expectations, he maintained a noticeable distance as he settled into a seat beside you, leaning against the headboard. His body heat would do more for you than the blanket ever could, but his shoulders were too far. Sadly. And it caused something in your joints to ache with an acute yearning, a desperate craving you'd never permit yourself to indulge. Traitor stupid body.

He glanced at you, and you rolled it into a little ball in defense. "Is it too cold in here? I can tell them to adjust the temperature if you want."

You turned to meet his eyes with anger and regret it immediately. There were less than 4 feet between you, and you couldn't move because, in his presence, your body only knew how to freeze. Every muscle and every movement became tense as if encased in ice. Each vertebra in your spine felt like a frozen block. You held your breath, your eyes widening, locked, and caught in the intensity of his gaze. You couldn't tear your eyes away. You didn't know how to retreat.

Oh. Gods.

His eyes.

The blue moons in his eyes were shimmering with an emotion you couldn't put your finger on. Only when he averted his gaze did you realize he looked sad. Melancholic. And you wanted to know why, as if somehow his suffering might offer peace to yours. Yet, the words remained trapped within your throat, unwilling to escape for fear of the consequences that may follow.

In a cautious, subdued tone, he uttered, "You don't want to talk to me." You fought to catch your breath. "It's understandable," he added, his voice tinged with resignation. "It's fair," he continued. "I wouldn't stand myself if I could." He dropped his voice. Dropped his eyes.

You turned your head, drawing the blanket tightly around your shoulders until you were cocooned in the tremors that wouldn't stop terrorizing your body. His presence reignited the trauma you had endured, unleashing a torrent of distressing memories. You couldn't make yourself still. It felt like shards of ice were cutting through your skin, horror clotting your veins. Clutching the blanket with a tight grip, you feared it might unravel.

Just as you were about to stand up with the intention of seeking solace in the bathroom, his voice reached your ears, causing you to pause.

"Don't go," he whispered, eyes on you. "Please," he said. "Sit here. Stay with me. You don't even have to say anything."

Some crazed, confused part of your mind entertained the thought of sitting beside him, itching to be close to him. It was as if a connection had been forged between you, born out of shared pain and despair, and the further you distanced yourself from him, the more this bond felt strained, provoking a deeper ache within you.

You must be insane. Still, you remained rooted in your position, perched at the edge of the bed. However, you chose to turn your back on him.

This time, you wouldn't let him—

His hand was suddenly on your back.

You flinched.

But as his touch seared through the layers of fabric, a scorching heat consumed your skin, causing you to inhale frantically as if your lungs had temporarily failed. You were caught in colliding currents of confusion, so desperate, so desperate, so desperate to be close. So desperate to be far away. You didn't know how to move away from him. For fuck's sake. You didn't want to move away from him. You didn't want him to know you were afraid of him.

He whispered your name, his voice hoarse yet so soft. His arms were stronger than all the bones in your body. He pulled your swaddled figure close to his chest, and you shattered into countless fragments of raw emotion, each piece piercing your heart. And amidst the shards of pain, a transformation occurred. The fragments melted into drops of warm honey, their soothing touch caressing the scars etched upon your soul, scars that he himself had bestowed upon you.

The only barrier between you was the blanket, and he tugged you closer, tighter, stronger until you could hear him whispering soothing notes of a melody near your ear. Familiar one. You had heard them echoing through time. However, like trying to grasp the sun through water, the memory associated with them remained out of reach.

Then, he touched your hair.

Your lips tightened, your eyes closing on their own. You were too tired, too weak to resist. You walked into this house with your fire lit, and within a mere two months, the proverbial fingers had pinched the flame, leaving only a trail of smoke behind.

His hands, encased in gloves, tenderly glided through your hair, his soft touch reminiscent of a child playfully engaging with a cherished doll. Each stroke of his fingertips traced delicate routes, leaving a lingering warmth in their wake. Your lips trembled, your heart heavy as you struggled to comprehend the enigma. Why was he doing this to you?

He carefully gathered your hair, and you nearly choked when he began braiding it. How the fuck! He skillfully wove the strands together with each precise movement, creating an intricately crafted braid. Leaning over, he reached for a wristband from the nightstand and gently secured the end of the braid with it. The sheer disbelief of the situation tempted you to twist around like a dog chasing its tail, wanting to witness this surreal scene with your own eyes. However, you resisted the urge, choosing to remain still.

Bastard of a man.

There was no denying that he could be a great father one day, but given the tumultuous life he led, luckily, he would never live that much, and even though the thought scared you, there was a part of you that wanted to have the privilege of seeing his miserable end.

Or at least, you believed you desired it.

The beats humming deep within his chest and the steel of his scent around your body severed ties to tension in your limbs. His warmth dissolved the icicle barriers that had kept you suspended, causing you to thaw from the inside out. As your eyes fluttered rapidly, they eventually succumbed to the moment's weight, closing shut and allowing silent tears to stream down your face. Why weren't you screaming? Why were you letting him have his way with you? You didn't know.

"It's okay," he whispered. "You'll be okay."

Unspoken between you was the understanding that truth, an unforgiving and possessive mistress, never granted respite. Being "okay" was an elusive concept, forever out of reach. His actions to you left an indelible mark, ensuring that you would never fully recover.

You felt a swelling in your throat as you mustered the strength to mutter, "You ruined my life."

With agony all around, you sobbed, and he didn't do anything to calm you. He just remained ominously silent. He didn't say a single thing as you hurled awful, horrible insults at him and accused him of being too coldhearted to understand what it was like to grieve. You didn't even realize he'd turned you toward himself and had pulled you into his arms until you were nestled against his chest, and … you didn't object. You didn't fight it at all. You clung to him because you needed this warmth. Because it was painfully familiar. Because you'd missed feeling strong arms around you. And he just held you. He smoothed back your hair and ran a gentle hand down your back, and you heard his heart beat a strange, crazy beat that sounded far too fast to be human. His arms were wrapped entirely around you—a refuge and trap.

It took every broken filament in your being to untangle yourself from his embrace. It was painful, but you did it because you knew it was necessary, that it was for your own well-being. Each step you took felt like invisible forks pierced your heart, causing you to stumble in your retreat. The blanket snagged your foot, nearly causing you to lose your balance, but just before you fell, Vash reached out to you.

"Love—"

"Don't call me that!" Your breaths were shallow and difficult to swallow, your fingers trembling uncontrollably. "Just don't." Your eyes were trained on the door. His hand extended towards your arm as he rose to his feet, but you pulled away and walked resolutely in the opposite direction.

His unwavering gaze fixated upon you. Unblinking. His eyes traced a path from your face, down your neck, and along your arms, until they halted at your waist. You instinctively followed his stare, only to discover that your movements had lifted your shirt, revealing your stomach. And you suddenly understood why he was staring. The memory of his kisses trailing along your scars, his hands exploring your waist, your bare legs, the insides of your thighs, his gun sliding in your—

You found yourself clenching your fists tightly, willing the physical pain to distract from the memories carved in your mind. You didn't want to remember. You didn't want to think about those things anymore.

"I'm not going to hurt you—"

"Stop lying to me." Your voice was even, flat; your limbs numb, amputated. "If you're here to take it out on me, just do it already. Don't sugarcoat your torture. Don't play games. Just do it and then walk the fuck out."

Through clenched teeth, he responded, "I'm not here for that."

"Then why are you here?" you asked carefully, slowly.

"Can you sit—"

"If you're not here to torture me, then just go. I have nothing to talk to you." The wounds were still fresh. No need to rub salt into them.

You heard his hard exhalation of breath. He laughed a bitter laugh. "Practically, I'm the only one visiting you, and you want to shut me out?"

You closed your eyes and took a deliberate breath. With a composed tone, you responded, "Yes."

He advanced a few steps in your direction, causing fear to surge through you. In a panic, you screamed, "Don't come any closer! Don't touch me!"

A few seconds of silence joined the conversation. Then, breaking the stillness, he uttered wickedly, "Maybe I want to touch you."

Feelings of disbelief tore through your heart like hole punches, leaving behind a painful void. Temptation whispered in your ear, deceiving you to embrace recklessness, to give in to the aching desperation for something you knew you could never have. In an act of self-preservation, you turned your back on him, hoping to shield yourself from your swirling emotions and let lies spill out of your lips. "I don't want you to."

He made a harsh sound. "I disgust you that much?"

Caught off guard by his audacity, you swiftly spun around, almost forgetting your composed demeanor. His dark ocean eyes didn't leave you, his face hardened, and his jaw clenched. His fingers flexed by his sides. As you looked at him, his gaze pierced through you like two buckets of rainwater—deep, fresh, and clear, brimming with hurt.

"You... you traumatized me!" The words escaped your lips, laden with pain.

He tilted his head, his voice sharp with a hint of sarcasm. "Only because I used a gun to make you come, not to make you bleed,"  he snipped.

You snarled, determined to reject his attempt to minimize the impact of his actions. However, his expression shifted, his posture straightening as he spoke with a hint of remorse. "If I possessed the power of magic and could turn back time, I'd do many things differently," he admitted. "But I must inform you that I lack such ability."

You tightened your lips at the condescension in his tone. "I cannot erase or undo the past." Ignoring your request, he did come closer, crowding you against the wall. He inclined his head, bringing his forehead into gentle contact with yours, the tips of your noses brushing lightly. "Let me make amends," he whispered, a plea for a chance to repair the damage he had caused.

Your face was cast in a neutral mold, and your arms and legs filled with plaster. You felt nothing. You were nothing. You were empty of everything. In every sense. You would never move. You were staring at your toes. You'd stare at it forever. Lost in your thoughts, you lacked the will to fight when he gently tipped your chin upward, his finger guiding your gaze toward him.

He was…he was…

His eyes and lips blurred and faded into insignificance; you subconsciously reached out, grasping his arm for support. The outside world seemed distant instantly as if transported to another dimension beyond your reach. Gradually, your eyelids grew heavy, closing in surrender. Your mind drifted, carried away by the thoughts that mercilessly kicked you in the heart.

He was fast to catch you before hitting the floor.

*

The ceiling was fading in and out of focus.

Your head weighed heavily upon your neck, causing a haze to settle over your vision. Your heart labored, burdened with the strain of unease. A distinct taste of panic lingered somewhere beneath your tongue, evoking a sense of urgency and fear you were fighting to remember where it came from. In a bid to regain control, you made an effort to sit up, only to be confounded by the fact that you found yourself lying down.

A pair of hands rested gently on your shoulders.

"Are you okay?"

Vash peered down at you. In that instant, a rush of flashbacks flared within your eyes, causing them to blaze intensely. Fucking hell! You had fallen into his arms. For the second time. "Well, at least you're awake," he sighed. "You had me worried."

You tried to control your trembling limbs. "Get your hands off of me."

Vash erupted into a boisterous, full-bodied laugh, shook his head, and smiled at you in the way you'd only ever seen once before, looking at you like you were the sweetest thing he'd ever decided to eat.

Those dimples.

He laughed and laughed and laughed, his eyes brilliant, gleaming even in this dim light. He laughed until it was just a hard breath until it became a gentle sigh and dissolved into an amused smile. And then he grinned at you until he was grinning to himself. His eyes shifted downward, drawn to your hand, which lay limp at your side. He hesitated a bit before his fingers delicately brushed the soft, thin skin covering your knuckles.

You didn't breathe. You didn't speak. You didn't even move. He was cautious, waiting to see if you'd pull away—an action you knew you should take. You knew you should, but you didn't. So he took your hand, studied it, and ran his fingers along the lines of your palm, the creases at your joints, the sensitive spot between your thumb and index finger. His touch was so tender, so delicate, and gentle, and it felt so good it hurt; it actually hurt. It was too much for your heart to handle right now.

You snatched back your hand in a jerky, awkward motion, face flushing, pulse tripping.

Vash remained unfazed, showing no signs of flinching. He didn't look up. He didn't even seem surprised. He only stared at his now empty hands.

"Leave me alone," you managed to utter. You were shaking and trying to push the tears back but shrinking into nothingness. Because you were thinking this must be it. This must be your ultimate retribution, a punishment you probably deserved. "I hate you—"

"So much passion." He looked so calm, so genuinely amused. He stared at you with eyes softer than you ever expected them to be. He took a shallow breath and leaned closer, his face shrouded in shadow. Uncertainty gripped you, leaving you at a loss for what to do. All you knew was that you didn't want to be alone with him. Not now, not ever again.

"I said leave me alone," you pleaded, your voice trembling. "I don't want you here. Please, just go!"

"I can't just abandon you in this state," he protested, his voice filled with genuine concern. "You look as though you've seen a ghost!"

Vash sat near you on the bed's edge, and you immediately crossed your legs to avoid touching him. "Here," he offered, extending his hand towards the plate on the nightstand. "I brought you some donuts."

As you attempted to seize the opportunity to sit up, your face unexpectedly drew close to his. Caught off guard, you inhaled sharply, causing a stifled cough to build up in your throat. His glassy blue eyes glinted and locked with yours.

He smiled.

"Are you not hungry?" His words dripped with sweetness. His gloved hand lightly grazed your wrist, evoking a visceral reaction that made you automatically recoil, almost spraining it in your haste to create distance between you.

"No, thank you." You were so hungry you could eat this room.

He licked his bottom lip into a broader smile. "Don't mistake foolishness for bravery, love. I know you haven't eaten anything in days."

Something in your patience snapped. "I'd rather die than eat any of the food in your house," you declared firmly.

"I'm happy that you're talking back again." He tilted his neck. Fucking maze of tattoos and veins. Why were you staring at them? "Are you thirsty?"

You didn't know if it was because you couldn't think straight or because you were genuinely confused, but you were struggling to reconcile the stark contrast in Vash's personality. It perplexed you that after all the crazy shits of the past weeks, he now sat before you, offering you a glass of water. What had caused this apparent change in him?

You raised your hands and examined your fingers intently as if they were foreign to you. "I don't understand."

He cocked his brows, observing you as though you might've sustained a significant head injury.

"I simply asked whether you were thirsty. It shouldn't be difficult to understand," he stated with a pause. "Drink this," he insisted.

Taking the glass into your hand, you stared at it, then shifted your attention toward him, carefully examining his face before your eyes wandered around the room, tracing the lines of the walls and the network of pipes. You must be insane.

Vash sighed. "I'm not sure, but I think you fainted. And I think you should probably eat something, though I'm not entirely sure about that, either." He paused. "You've probably starved yourself for too long. My mistake."

"What the hell do you want?"

He evaded the question, diverting his response. "I usually eat alone," Vash said, his voice cutting through the layers of your resistance like a sharp spear. "But I've come to the conclusion you and I should be more thoroughly acquainted, considering the significant amount of time we'll be spending together."

"I told you I am not hungry."

"This is not an option, love." You looked at him and realized he was very, very serious. "You're not permitted to starve yourself to death. You don't eat enough, and I need you to be healthy. You are forbidden from engaging in self-destructive behavior or causing harm to yourself. You're too valuable to me."

"I am not your slave to order around," you retorted. He abruptly set the plate down on the nightstand, and you were taken aback by the fact that it didn't shatter upon impact. Coming closer, he cleared his throat, a gesture that scared you.

"This process can be so much easier if you simply cooperate," he said, enunciating each word precisely. A hint of amusement played on his lips as he continued, "Out of all people on this planet, you're stuck with me." He allowed a momentary pause. "Everyone you've ever known has forsaken you. Where is your sister, I wonder? You would go to great lengths to protect her, yet she hasn't even filed a missing person's report for you. You know why? Because she doesn't even know you've been kidnapped. Not only your father hasn't filled her in, but she hasn't even suspected why the fuck your phone has remained off throughout this whole ordeal. I don't know. Maybe she knows about your situation, and your father is preventing her from taking any action. I cannot say for certain, but don't try to convince me that she was incapable of going to a police station for her beloved sister. At the same time, you chose to wiggle beneath me to safeguard her ass from any hypothetical harm. Wake up and face the truth, love: Your so-called friends have also abandoned you to rot here."

A hundred hands slapped your face. There was nothing left. You'd never expected anything from your friends based on their fear of your father, but now you realized that somewhere, deep within, you had been nurturing a small glimmer of hope that Amelia would somehow find a way to help you. Somewhere, deep down, you were still clinging to possibility.

And now that was gone, too.

"And yet—" He laughed openly now. "You persist in making me the bad guy." He met your eyes. "I'm trying to help you. I'm giving you an opportunity no one would ever offer you. I'm willing to give you the power to take your revenge. You and I can make your father suffer for what he did to you, to me. So, I ask you, why do you hesitate?"

He was wrong. He was so wrong. He was more wrong than an upside-down rainbow. But everything he said was right.

Drawing in slightly, he spoke, "Let's assume I really am a monster, but don't dare to hate me so quickly," he continued. "You might enjoy this situation much more than you anticipated. Fortunately for you, I am willing to be patient." He grinned, leaning back again, and added, "Although it certainly doesn't hurt that you have a pretty face."

You were dripping shame on the sheets. An unwelcome stain. He was a liar and a horrible, horrible, horrible human being, and you didn't know if you cared because he was right, or because it was so wrong, or because you were so desperate for semblance of something in this fucked up situation.

"You and I are not as different as you would like to believe," he proclaimed, his grin so cocky it stirred an urge within you to twist it with your fist.

"You and I are not as similar as you might wish," you spat, your nails piercing into the flesh of your palm.

"You're far more stubborn than I thought you'd be, love."

"I did whatever you asked me. I didn't kill myself!" you asserted, lifting your eyes to face his unwavering stare. You were suddenly startled by the immense power his gaze held.

"You didn't do that for me. You did it for that pathetic sister of yours," he said quietly. Bitterly.

You nearly laughed out loud as you looked away. "Why are you even here? You haven't answered me yet." Your tone was like a raining venom.

"I won't answer your question if you won't look at me when I speak to you."

You turned your head but still refused to face him directly. "You murdered people and made me watch their deaths. You tortured me. You humiliated me." Swallowing hard, you continued, "The very sight of you sickens me." Inhaling sharply, your nostrils flared as you struggled to contain your emotions.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

A slow, unsettling smile crept across his face. He touched his gloved fingers to your cheek and tilted your head up, catching your chin in his grip when you flinched away. "You're absolutely delicious when you're angry."

He bit his bottom lip, and you anchored your hands to prevent yourself from falling onto the bed. You knew if it happened, he would be on top of you again, and the thought left you breathless, unsure of your desires. "Too bad my taste is poisonous for your palate." You were vibrating in disgust from head to toe.

"Who says that?" he mimicked, feigning a pout. "I happen to think you taste like honey, and I just so happen to have a sweet tooth."

"You're sick, you're so sick—"

He laughed and released your chin only to take inventory of your throat. His eyes drew a lazy trail down the length of your face. He wasn't squeezing enough to choke you, but you wouldn't forgive yourself if you allowed him to force anything upon you again.

You curled your fist and swung it back into his face; without hesitation, you drove your elbow forcefully into his nose. His head jerked back just in time, your elbow striking true but hardly enough to be gifted with a bloody nose. He let go, granting you a renewed sense of liberation, and it felt like you could finally breathe.

He chuckled, deep and low, as he withdrew. The bastard didn't look the least bit ruffled, but you chose not to dwell on that.

"There you go. That was really good, love." He couldn't contain the emotion in his fucking face. Pride. Amusement and something more profound and far beautiful than the shade of his eyes.

"Finally!" Vash clasped his hands together as if to congratulate himself. "I was wondering when you gonna strike back again. I've been waiting for the fire I know must be eating away at you. Savage little mouse, you're buried in hatred, aren't you? Anger? Frustration? Itching to do something?"

"No."

"Of course you are," he affirmed, a knowing glint in his eyes. "You're just like me."

"I hate you more than you could ever comprehend," you declared, distancing yourself from him both physically and emotionally.

He brought himself close to you as if he was drawn to you like a magnet, only capable of maintaining a significant space between you. "We'll make an exceptional team."

"We're nothing. You are nothing to me!" With each harsh syllable, you spat out the words, anger dripping from your every utterance.

With a smile gracing his lips, slowly, deliberately, he peeled off his gloves, revealing each finger with a measured slowness. Despite the simplicity of the act, it stirred something within you. They were just hands, nothing more, and yet you sensed a profound meaning behind his gesture.

It was as if he intended to convey that he was willing to set aside the hatred that had once consumed him, symbolically shedding the layers of hatred.

Entranced by the unfolding scene, you watched as his hands tenderly cupped your cheeks, causing a wave of fear to ripple through you. However, to your astonishment, his touch inexplicably brought forth an unexpected sense of tranquility instead of intensifying your apprehension. A fleeting stillness settled over you as you realized this was the first time you had physically felt the warmth and touch of his hands upon your skin.

And they weren't soft as hands of a boy. He had the rough hands of a man. The gentle touch of an illicit affair. Gone was the man with guns and bullets. These hands treasuring you couldn't have held a weapon, couldn't have spilled any blood. They were perfect and kind, never touched by death.

Your gaze wandered, fixating on the stitch on his right thumb, an unspoken testament to a past injury. Questions swirled in your mind, wondering why someone had attempted to cut his finger in such a way. A glimpse of a black tattoo peeked out from beneath his sleeve's edge.

His lips hovered dangerously close to yours, causing you to gulp and grip his wrists, trying to stop him. Suddenly, he jerked, and your fingers inadvertently brushed against the remnants of old scars on his left wrist. Horizontal and straight scratches. Not one. Not two. Too many.

He had cut his wrist.

Confusion furrowed your brow as you wrestled with the heaviness of these newfound revelations. How many untold stories remained shrouded beneath the layers of fabric that cloaked his past? Who was he? Why… Questions you would never ask.

Your eyes willingly remained locked onto his, unable to look away. The pain had sculptured him into the person he had become, and his sharp edges had not only wounded others but gifted the deepest cuts upon himself.

What a divine disaster.

"Dear, sweet, beautiful girl," he murmured, a mixture of awe and curiosity. "How did you endure it all and retain more of your humanity than I did?" His scarred thumb brushed your jawline. "You really have become a crybaby, love. You're pitying me, aren't you? Don't you think that, do you?"

You checked your pockets for spare words and sentences, but you found none, not an adverb, not a preposition, or even a dangling participle because there didn't exist a single response to such an outlandish question.

As his left hand let go of your cheek, a chill replaced the warmth, prompting a desire to protest. You were surprised how you were getting used to his touch this quickly.

He picked up one of the donuts from the plate and held it under your nose. "You hardly have eaten anything in the last four days. That can't possibly be good."

You remained silent, not opening your mouth. He let out a sigh, his gaze studying your eyes with such intensity that it momentarily disarmed you. The words you wanted to say and scream seemed to have slipped away, leaving you bare before him. "You're going to eat, and then we'll talk," he stated firmly, his turquoise eyes never abandoning yours.

"Worried that I've poisoned the food?" he said, chuckling. It wasn't the reason you didn't eat, but you watched as he took a bite of the donut, swallowing it without even chewing. Then, with a contented glimmer forming in the corners of his eyes, he turned the donut towards you, right where he had taken a bite himself. "If it didn't kill me, it won't harm you either."

When you still resisted eating, his other hand shifted from your cheek to your nape, gripping it firmly. "We're not playing house, love," he stated with a hint of frustration, pulling your hair back slightly. "If you want answers, you'll have to eat." He held the donut close to your lips again while his thumb caressed your earlobe.

Stubbornness began to feel futile, a foolish endeavor. You knew you were never destined to win against him anyway. Swallowing your pride, you reluctantly took a small bite of the donut, and as you did, you noticed a smile forming on his lips.

"How is it?" he asked, his enthusiasm unwarranted. "Is it to your liking?"

You nodded, not deceiving him. The donut honestly tasted incredible; whether due to your hunger or not, it didn't matter. Ignoring any reservations, you reached up and took the donut from his hand, taking a larger bite this time.

He leaned back and watched you eat. The scrutiny made you uncomfortable, particularly when it came to eating, but he had made it his mission to challenge all of your boundaries. Protesting was pointless. He placed the plate with two more donuts in front of you. "I can bring more if you want. You just need to ask, but I think eating light foods is better for now. Your stomach might hurt."

As you glanced at him while picking up the second donut, a serene smile graced his face, but his blue eyes were still missing their sparkle. The baby blue color was lifeless; it was your first clue that something had broken within him, too, since your last encounter.

"Do you have any particular meal in mind?" he inquired, his eyes widening as you picked up the third donut, but then they turned wary and resigned as if this had reminded him of something he no longer had. Sorrow lined the edges of his lids, and the sight would forever haunt you.

You shook your head as a no. To be frank, you could devour an elephant at that very time.

He grabbed a napkin and gently wiped the corner of your mouth. It should have disturbed you, but if he was willing to clean up the mess he had made of you, you wanted to watch him try. It seemed like a win-win situation for both of you.

With his defenses now down, you resolved to take every chance. "Let me go," you said, the words running out of your mouth before you had a chance to choose them carefully.

"No." Except for the sadness in his tone, his voice didn't falter. He let out a weary sigh and lowered his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. Ask me anything but not that."

Your lips filled with a touch of frustration, and you asked, "Why not?"

"Because I can't. I just..." he trailed off, clenching the napkin as he tugged at his fingers, clearly struggling to find the right words. He cleared his throat, briefly averting his gaze to the ceiling before meeting your eyes again. "Because I need you."

"You need me for your grand revenge!" you exclaimed, stopping eating.

"Don't you want it, too?" he asked, tilting his head.

"How dare you—"

He burst into laughter, the sound resonating loudly. "You're free to lie to yourself if it makes you feel better."

Your hands started shaking, and you gripped them tightly, trying to steady yourself. "You don't know anything about me."

"I have a ledger binder filled with your info. I know everything there is to know, love," he retorted. Smug asshole.

You clenched your jaw, not trusting yourself to speak. Instead, you slammed the half-eaten donut back onto the plate. Dropping your head into your hands, you tried to stay calm. Took a steadying breath.

"At the very least," you gasped, the words catching in your throat like a thorn. It was hard to believe what you were about to say. "Allow me to leave this room. I don't want to spend all my hours trapped here."

"If I let you out, what will you do for me?" His eyes were deceitful.

"Nothing."

He shook his head. Your response was not satisfactory to him. "That won't do. I may consider your proposition only if you agree to a condition."

You clutched the sheets tightly with your fist, bracing yourself for his reply. "What do you want?"

The smile grew more prominent than before. "That's a dangerous question," he said, a hint of intrigue and mischief in his tone.

"What's your condition?" you clarified, impatient. Motherfucker!

"Be my friend."

"WHAT?" Your gasp was so loud it caught in your throat before racing around the room.

"I want you to be my friend," he reiterated, his voice steady, his eyebrows taut, tense.

"I don't want to be your fuckbuddy!" You exploded. "I won't let you—"

"Screw sex," he spat. "I want you to be my friend—a genuine friendship—"

"No—" you protested, vigorously shaking your head; it left you feeling dizzy. "No. Never. You're crazy—I won't—" Your words stumbled and collided as you struggled to articulate your refusal.

"You will, actually."

"I will NOT—" you vehemently declared, but he glared at you. There was no other way to describe it. You could almost say he hated you right now. Hated you for denying yourself this opportunity.

"We have to … work … at one point or another," he stated, making an effort to moderate his voice. "Even if you were to reject my condition, I still have a reason to justify keeping you alive, love. Originally, you were kidnapped so I could end your life and deliver your deceased body to Gasback. But as you already know, a change in the plans has occurred. I require another purpose: for you to become my ally," he explained.

"You expect me not only to remain here but also to help you in your twisted schemes? Are you—"

"Yes," he replied, a smile spreading across his face. "Forgive me if I'm being direct, but you made it clear that you're a big girl and don't require me to sugarcoat stuff for you."

"You—you—" you sputtered.

"You have a debt to repay. After all, I played a part in rescuing you from that man you call a father and the other psycho I used to call my brother," he asserted and set his gaze at you. "Maybe I understand you, love. Maybe it's time for you to place your trust in me. Maybe you should come to terms with the fact that I am now your savior."

He looked at you, and for a moment, he seemed almost human. For a moment, you wanted to believe him. For a moment, you wanted to sit on the floor and cry out the ocean lodged in your throat.

"Love," he whispered, his hands tenderly grasping your shoulders. "You don't have to pretend to be nice anymore. You have the power to bring him down for all the pain he has caused to you, your mother, and—"

"I don't want to bring down anyone," you told him firmly. "I don't desire to hurt—"

"But he deserves it!" he exclaimed, pushing away from you with frustration evident in his actions. "How can you not want to retaliate? How can you not feel the urge to fight back—"

You moved aside, gradually rising to your feet, shaking with anger. You desperately hoped that your legs wouldn't collapse beneath you. You walked away from bed. From him. "You think because I am unwanted, neglected and —and discarded—" Your voice rose with each word, the raw emotions suddenly pouring out of you, unleashed from your lungs. "You think I don't have a heart? You think I don't feel? You think because I have a chance to deliver pain, that I should? You're no different than him. This suffering will never end—"

"Love—"

"No."

You didn't want this. You didn't want this life. You didn't want to be anything for anyone but yourself. You wanted to make your own choices and never wanted to choose violence. Your words were slow and steady when you spoke. "He's a despicable man, and I am sorry for what he's done to you and others. I really am, but I can't help you take his life."

He opened his mouth to speak before he stopped; he laughed out loud and shook his head. Then he smiled at you.

"What?" you asked before you could stop yourself.

"I'm not concerned about your moral dilemmas. You're just stalling for time because you're in denial due to your reluctance to face the truth," he asserted. "But rest assured, You'll get over it. I can wait a little longer."

"I'm not in denial—"

"Of course you are. You don't know it yet, love, but you are a very naughty girl," he said, clutching his heart. "Just my type of friend."

This conversation had become intolerable. Your blood pressure rose, and you struggled to suppress your growing anger. "How can you possibly expect me to be your friend after everything you have done? Are you nuts?"

The surprise on his face surprised you even more. His eyes were fighting his lips for the right to speak. "I didn't do anything against your free will—"

"YOU LEFT ME WITH NO CHOICE." You were about to grab and throw the water glass at his face.

Vash turned away from you, his profile now in view. His hands clasped together, he seemed to be deep in thought, tapping the tip of his fingers to his lips. "For that, I apologize," he uttered, tilting his head back just a little. "You must understand just how sincerely sorry I am that I—" He smiled a strange, unhappy smile. "That I treated you like that. I confess I had no idea you would shoot me for it."

"I didn't," you interrupted, your voice firm and resolute. "Just stop, I don't want your excuses—"

"I promise you," he said. "I would never have acted that way if I didn't believe you wanted me to. I am a lot of things, but not that."

And you were so shocked that, for a second, you forgot all about everything. You met his heavy gaze and managed to steady your voice. "I told you not to touch me!"

"Yes," he replied, nodding in acknowledgment. "Well. You'd be surprised how many people lie to me daily." His lips twitched. "And in response, you tried to kill me."

"That amuses you."

"Oh, yes," he said, his grin growing. "I find it fascinating." He allowed a brief pause to hang in the air before continuing. "Would you like to know why?" You stared at him. "Because all you ever said to me," he explained, "was that you didn't want to hurt anyone. You didn't want revenge."

"I don't."

"Except for me?" he questioned. He looked like a balloon that fell in love with a pushpin that got too close and ruined him forever.

There was glue all over your tongue, stuck to your teeth, your lips, the roof of your mouth. You couldn't speak, you couldn't move, you were pretty sure you just had a seizure or an aneurysm or heart failure or something equally as awful, but you couldn't explain any of this to him because you couldn't move your jaw even an inch.

"That decision was so easy for you to make," he said. "So simple. You had a gun, you wanted to escape, and you pulled the trigger—four times. That was all it took."

You shook your head.

But you were a liar. You were lying through your teeth, but you had to because he was right. Because despite repeatedly assuring yourself you had no interest in hurting people, you somehow found a way to justify it, to rationalize it when it served your desires.

Vash. Doctor Conrad. That man named Steve.

You wanted to kill every single one of them. And you would have executed them if the universe hadn't cooked your goose.

What was happening to you?

You shouldn't be alone with Vash. Not like this. Being alone with him was making your insides hurt in ways you didn't want to understand.

You leaned your back against the wall, slowly lowering yourself to the floor. With your knees drawn up to your chest, you wrapped your arms around them.

"You have every right to feel angry and frustrated about your situation. Even being angry with me for kidnapping you is valid. Life strips you of power often, but what you can control is pointing the blame in the right direction. So, you can either redirect all the effort you've been putting into acting like a brat and channel it towards something useful, or you can continue to be powerless in the situations life throws you in. The decision is yours to make, love. Because I will no longer force you into anything."

You had completely forgotten what it felt like to be chastised like a child. Your father did it often, but considering that was all he'd ever done, it felt less like being scolded and more like a normal conversation. But now? You felt nothing but small and bent out of shape like a piece of paper wadded up in Vash's boots. Pride bucked against that feeling, and you wanted nothing more than to snap something clever back and hold on to your dignity. But you would only prove him right. He'd look at you with superiority, and you'd only shrink further beneath him.

But to your surprise, he sat up and crouched down before you. Bringing himself to your level, not leaving you to roll in the deep all by yourself. Lowering his body, you noticed a bruise starting to form under his eye. Oddly enough, it just made him look sexier, and you wanted to punch him in the face for the tenth time all over again for it.

"What changed your attitude toward me?"

Seated on the floor, he positioned himself with his legs partially spread before you, resting his elbows on his knees. His head dipped, and his voice came out as a whisper, "Nick." You couldn't help but notice his hand reaching for his left wrist, where he clasped his scars with his palm. "He made me reconsider," he confessed, a fleeting smile briefly gracing his face before vanishing.

You froze. Faltered. Failed to breathe. "How—"

"So many questions," he mused, lifting his head and meeting your gaze. You found yourself searching for answers within his eyes. You didn't know what expression you must be wearing, but his smile grew bigger, and his eyes looked at you hard, too, like he might be savoring the moment, memorizing every second of it. There was a spark of instinct urging you to trust him because you wanted to make him happy. Because if he were happy, he would let you go. Because if he let you go, you would be able to be happy. Probably.

Vash shifted so the length of his leg was pressed against yours. You forced yourself to breathe as you focused on your fingers, the non-existent ants, and the wooden floor to stop yourself from blushing or flinching. The internal struggle made it difficult to discern which reaction was more prominent.

You found yourself grappling with his proposition. "If I become your friend, will you let me go once you've accomplished whatever you want?".

He leaned his hand to his temple and stared at your lips, studying you in an entirely new way. "My promises aren't worth much, love. Or have you forgotten?" he whispered. "I'm an exceptional liar."

Realization crashed into you like pounds of common sense. You shouldn't be doing this. You shouldn't be making deals with him. It was a grave mistake. The mere thought of contemplating torture sent shockwaves of alarm through your being. Dear Gods! You'd lost your mind. Your fists were balled at your sides, and you were shaking everywhere. You could hardly find the strength to speak.

In a quiet and timid voice, you mustered the courage to ask, "Will you ever release me?"

His response came with a heavy breath, and he spoke. "Yes," he affirmed. "I promise once your father dies, you will be set free. But till that day, you'll be my guest. No harm will ever come to you." There was no regret, no remorse, no sympathy in his voice. He could be talking about the weather.

"You could be lying," you stated, searching his morals.

"Yes, it's a possibility," he admitted, his demeanor shifting back to his mischievous self. "But that's not the case." As you watched, clearly taken aback, he shaped his hand into a firm fist, his fingers curling inward. Bringing his hand closer to his face, his lips grazed against his knuckles in a fleeting and unconventional act. With a playful manner, he extended his fist toward you, tapping the tip of his boot against your leg to capture your attention.

"What're you doing?" You raised an eyebrow.

"This is our friendship fist bump," he explained cheerfully, akin to when the beast had found the beauty to lock her in his dungeon. "I'm Vash Saverem, by the way," he added, introducing himself with a touch of charm.

"Excuse me?"

"My last name," he clarified. "Nice to meet you, Miss Mcfly."

Your gaze shifted from his face to the outstretched fist, but rather than reciprocating the fist bump ceremony, you clenched your own. This shit wasn't a child play. "Don't address me by my last name, or else the deal is null and void."

"Only if you stop calling me a monster, Miss Mcfly," he responded casually, relenting and lowering his fist. Unsure of what to do with his hand, he absentmindedly brushed off imaginary dust from his pants.

“Go to hell, Vash Saverem.”

His smile was sprinkled with dynamite. "I'm working on it, love."

Taglist: @julk4e - @lune010 - @beanibon - @emptybrain01 - @changingchances @awkwardchick87

P.S.: In this chapter, I included quotes from "Bungo Stray Dogs," "Jujutsu Kaisen," and some other books I've read.

#vash the stampede fluff #vash the stampede x reader #vash the stampede x you #vash the stampede x y/n #vash the stampede smut #trigun x reader #vash x you #vash smut #vash the stampede angst #toxic vash the stampede #vash x reader #vash fluff #trigun smut #toxic vash #vash x y/n #vash stampede x reader #trigun fanfiction #vash x wolfwood #vash and wolfwood #vashwood #vash the stampede art #vash our beloved #vash the stampede #vash angst #tristamp #nicholas d. wolfwood #vash the stampede fanart #trigun stampede #trigun vash #Gunpowder Dreams

[penncilkid]

How’d you get here? /lh

Regardless how you found this, welcome to my current pinned post! My name is “PK” or “Pency”, whichever you prefer. I create narrative audio roleplay videos as well as screech over other narrative audio roleplay videos (/lh). I may eventually post art here as well, who knows, I kind of go with the flow.

That being said, I’ll be providing an overview of my characters and setting for those who are interested. Enjoy!

[Setting]

The main city where most of this universe is set is Noderum. Characters off the top of my head who specifically don’t live here are Dominique and Kordelia. The existence of magic and such is hidden from stagnants, but stagnant and vivified people alike live in this city. 

[Characters (as of last update)]

Romeo [he/him]: Cupid neighbor who might as well be scowling 24/7

Nova [mirrored pronouns]: A Necromancer who doubles as a healer. Also an avid nicknamer

Jessalyn [she/her]: A Water Derivative, she’ll sleep when she graduates. Maybe.

Valora [she/her]: Residential Vampire Girlfriend

Mycah* [they/them]: Loving partner, that’s honestly it /lh /pos

Kordelia* [she/her]: Local mail carrier (and bookish friend) who’s just trying to make it through each day

Solstice [she/they]: Friendly Cupid, feel free to hit her up anytime you need something

Serena [she/her]: Flirty Werewolf and the Beta of one of Noderum’s Werewolf packs (the Coulson pack, to be specific)

Eritus [he/she/they**]: (Fallen) Cupid Roommate

Harley [they/he]: Our 2nd residential Vampire or the “Vampire Lover”

Emerson [they/them]: Nervous HIVE classmate

“Retriever” [she/her]: Yandere Best Friend (Only given a nickname. For now.)

Dominique [they/them***]: Mysterious Flirt (and a speaker from early days of the channel) 

Dante [he/they]: Tsundere Server dubbed "The Ice Prince" by many

Grayson [Any pronouns]: Southern Werewolf Mate

*Stagnant characters

**Pronouns shift/change

***Also utilizes/is comfortable with masculine identifiers and pronouns at times.

[Note: While Solstice has no canonical visual design, her, Kordelia, and Dominique are all intended to be black characters. (See FAQ for more info)]

[Listener Nicknames]

“Sunshine” - Romeo’s listener* (but they pop up in other characters’ audios as well), a Light Derivative

“Doll” - Nova’s listener, a Werewolf**

“Peaches” - Jessalyn’s listener, a Cupid

“Beloved” - Valora’s listener, a Dynamic

“Baby” - Mycah’s listener

“Dear” - Kordelia’s listener

“Hon” - Serena’s listener, a Dynamic***

“Fangs” - Eri’s listener, a Vampire (big shock /lh)

“Gorgeous” - Harley’s listener, a stagnant human

“Saint” - “Retriever’s” listener, a Dynamic (specifically studying music)

“Sweetness” - Dominique’s listener, a stagnant human

“Sugar” - Grayson's listener, a (telepathic) Surveyor

And for those curious, Solstice has multiple listeners but has a recurring listener nicknamed “Bee” (An Earth Derivative)

*Now shared with Emerson as well

**Also referred to as “Bait” by Serena/their pack

***Nicknamed “Flashlight” by Dante, their coworker

[Potential FAQ]

“What kind of content do you make?” - Loosely speaking, I’d describe the channel as “4A”. I have characters of varying genders (including non-binary) so to label myself one way would be a bit counterproductive. To put it simply: You can expect M4A, F4A, and NB4A content on the channel.

“What does [insert character] look like?” - The only characters who have canon designs are Kordelia and Dominique, as shown in the older videos. Everyone else is up for interpretation based on their respective audios. 

“What gender is [insert listener] and what do they look like?” - Also up for interpretation! All listeners are referred to with neutral pronouns for this reason, so go wild. 

“What does stagnant/vivified mean?” - Stagnant = Humans without the ability to practice magic, or in simpler terms the unempowered population. Vivified = Non-stagnants, any individual who is capable of practicing magic. Cupids are also considered a vivified species despite not being humans.

“What vivified species are there?” - As of current canon, there are Cupids, Derivatives (beings whose abilities are tied to an element outside of themself), Dynamics (non-specific vivified humans), Necromancers, Vampires, Werewolves, Sirens, Divinators (beings who can naturally practice divination), Surveyors (there’ll be an audio at some point /lh), and Tailors (general shapeshifters). 

“How do Nova’s pronouns work?” - Mirrored pronouns mean you use your own pronouns to refer to Nova. You use he/him? Great, so will Nova. They/them? Go wild. Neopronouns? Whatever you use, Nova’s down to use too. You’ll hear speakers do the same when referring to Nova. 

#Noderum Records #PennCilKid #PennCil Kid #narrative asmr #audio roleplay #asmr roleplay #original characters

[dear-indies]

Hello lovely Cat! I was just wondering who are your current fave fcs 30+? If you can't think of any, maybe you could list the most underused fcs off your list, in your opinion? Please and thank you!

Non-binary:

Sara Ramirez (1975) Mexican, some Irish - non-binary (they/them).

Parisa Fitz Henley (1977) Afro-Jamaican - non-binary (they/them).

Ser Anzoategui (1979) Argentinian, Paraguayan - non-binary (they/them).

Janelle Monáe (1985) African-American - non-binary (she/they).

Mae Martin (1987) - non-binary (they/them).

Nico Tortorella (1988) - is nonbinary, polyamorous, and demisexual, (any pronouns).

Poppy Liu (1990) Chinese - non-binary (she/they).

Alex Newell (1992) African-American - non-binary (he/she/they).

Two-Spirit:

Kali Reis (1986) Wampanoag, Nipmuc, Cherokee, and Cape Verdean - Two-Spirt (she/her) and queer.

Women:

Angela Bassett (1958) African American.

Michelle Yeoh (1962) Hokkien and Cantonese Chinese.

Ming-Na Wen (1963) Macanese / Chinese Malaysian.

Christina Applegate (1971) - has multiple sclerosis.

Dominique Jackson (1975) Afro-Tobagonian - is trans.

Ursula Yovich (1977) Burarra and Serbian.

Michelle Buteau (1977) Haitian [African, some Lebanese] / French, Jamaican [African, Indian, possibly other].

Natasha Lyonne (1978) Ashkenazi Jewish.

Lauren Ridloff (1978) African-American / Mexican - deaf.

Daniella Alonso (1978) Peruvian of Quechua descent, Japanese / Puerto Rican.

Jaime King (1979) - has polycystic ovary syndrome.

Chrissy Metz (1980)

Jana Schmieding (1981) Miniconjou Lakota Sioux, Sicangu Oyate Lakota Sioux.

Dichen Lachman (1982) Nepalese Tibetan / German, English, some Scottish.

Lupita Nyong'o (1983) Mexican Luo Kenyan.

Savannah Welch (1984) - is a leg amputee.

T'Nia Miller (1985) Afro Jamaican - is a lesbian.

Nathalie Kelley (1985) Argentinian, Peruvian of Quechua descent, possibly other.

Monica Raymund (1986) Dominican / English, Ashkenazi Jewish - is bisexual.

Wunmi Mosaku (1986) Yoruba Nigerian.

Da'Vine Joy Randolph (1986) African-American.

Jurnee Smollett (1986) African-American, possibly other / Ashkenazi Jewish.

Roberta Colindrez (1986) Mexican - is queer.

May Calamawy (1986) Egyptian / Jordanian, Palestinian.

Michaela Coel (1987) Ghanaian - is aromantic.

Aidy Bryant (1987)

Anna Diop (1988) Senegalese.

Danielle Brooks (1989) African-American - has openly dated a woman in the past but has not labelled her sexuality.

Damaris Lewis (1990) Afro Kittian.

Tanaya Beatty (1991) Da’naxda’xw and Himalayan.

Nakkiah Lui (1991) Kamilaroi and Torres Strait Islander.

Sofia Black-D'Elia (1991) Ashkenazi Jewish / Italian.

Dai Si (1991) Uyghur.

Michaela Jaé Rodriguez (1991) ¾ African-American ¼ Puerto Rican - is trans.

Sofiya Cheyenne (1991) Taíno, Dominican, Syrian, Italian - has spondyloepiphyseal dysplasia congenita.

Dilraba Dilmurat (1992) Uyghur.

Men:

Eric Bogosian (1953) Armenian.

Michael J. Fox (1961) - has Parkinson's disease.

Esai Morales (1962) Puerto Rican.

Benjamin Bratt (1963) Peruvian of Quechua descent / German, English, Sudeten German.

Paterson Joseph (1964) Afro-Saint Lucian.

Zahn McClarnon (1966) Irish, Polish, Hunkpapa Lakota and Sihasapa Lakota.

Peter Dinklage (1969) - has achondroplasia.

Don Lee (1971) Korean.

Daniel Sunjata (1971) African-American / Irish, German.

Richard Armitage (1971) - is gay.

Adrian Holmes (1974) Afro Bajan.

Matthew Macfadyen (1974)

Nonso Anozie (1979) Igbo Nigerian.

Lee Pace (1979) - is queer.

JD Pardo (1980) Argentinian / Salvadorian.

Jesse Williams (1980) African-American, Seminole / Swedish - is autistic.

Mahesh Jadu (1982) Indo-Mauritian [Bihari, Gorakhpuri and Kashmiri].

Daveed Diggs (1982) African-American / Ashkenazi Jewish.

Brian Tyree Henry (1982) African-American.

Brian Michael Smith (1983) African-American - is trans.

Iko Uwais (1983) Betawi Indonesian.

Michael Malarkey (1983) Palestinian, Italian-Maltese / Irish, German.

Richard Cabral (1984) Mexican.

Clayton Cardenas (1985) Mexican and Filipino.

Alex Meraz (1985) Mexican of Purépecha descent.

Rahul Kohli (1985) Punjabi Indian.

Miguel Gomez (1985) Colombian.

Martin Sensmeier (1985) Tlingit, Koyukon, Eyak, Irish, and German.

Cooper Andrews (1985) Samoan / Hungarian Jewish.

Ryan O'Connell (1986) - is gay and has cerebral palsy.

Uraz Kayg��laroğlu (1987) Turkish.

Laith Ashley (1989) Afro Dominican - is trans and asexual.

Nyle DiMarco (1989) - is deaf and sexually fluid.

Harvey Guillén (1990) Mexican - is queer.

Dev Patel (1990) Gujarati Indian.

Eric Graise (1990) African-American - is a double-leg amputee.

Kiowa Gordon (1990) Hualapai, English, Scottish, Danish, Manx.

John Boyega (1992) Yoruba Nigerian.

Hey anon! Here are my faves who have resources at the time of posting and please let me know if you want more specific suggestions!

#fc help #rph #rpc

[lewisrises]

i was tagged by @kevin-durant to post six albums i’ve been listening to recently (thank you bestie!)

from right to left they are:

dear amelia by renforshort

black neon by kennie

high highs to low lows by lolo zouai

lean into life by petey

renaissance by beyoncé

off saint dominique by renforshort

bc i’m lazy i’m just tagging any mutual who wants to do this! <3

#lots of women we love that for us #tagged #kevin-durant

[myinspirationjournalquotes]

Reading List 2024

Currently Reading:

Coma by Robin Cook (Started 04.17.24)

Bitch: On the Female of the Species by Lucy Cooke (Started 03.04.24)

It by Stephen King (Started 01.20.24)

Emma by Jane Austen (Started 11.06.23)

The Lightning Thief by Rick Riordan (Started 05.27.23)

Finished:

Clytemnestra by Costanza Casati (11.04.23 - 01.10.24)

Motherthing by Ainslie Hogarth (01.09.24 - 01.16.24)

Off-Balance by Dominique Moceanu (01.10.24 - 01.19.24)

The Best American Poetry 2022 by David Lehman (05.25.23 - 02.13.24)

Barbarian Mine by Ruby Dixon (12.03.23 - 02.20.24)

The Vegetarian by Han Kang (01.17.24 - 02.22.24)

Barbarian's Mate by Ruby Dixon (02.24.24 - 02.26.24)

Barbarian's Touch by Ruby Dixon (02.26.24)

Morning Glory Milking Farm by C.M. Nascosta (03.13.24 - 03.15.24)

The Lost Bookshop by Evie Woods (02.27.24 - 03.01.24)

Ariadne by Jennifer Saint (03.07.24 - 03.14.24)

Iron Widow by Xiran Jay Zhao (03.27.24)

Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder (03.30.24 - 04.02.24)

Hell Followed With Us by Andrew Joseph White (04.11.24 - 04.15.24)

The Best American Poetry 2023 by David Lehman (02.13.24 - 04.19.24)

Sweet Berries by C.M. Nascosta (04.20.24 - 04.24.24)

*Any books that I would vehemently not recommend will be marked using an astrick.

#yes I am fully aware that several of these are shameless smut books #I read them and I enjoy them #poetry #literature #reading list #my goal is 40 books within the year of 2024 #I read all of 3-4 books that weren't class essential since high school #so I'm thrilled with this list

[brookston]

Holidays 8.29

Holidays

According To Hoyle Day

Black Book Clubs Day

Clean Your Keyboard Day

Day of Loose Talk

Day of Remembrance of the Defenders of Ukraine (Ukraine)

Fennel Day (French Republic)

Flag Day (Spain)

Happy Housewives Holiday

Head Day (Iceland)

Individual Rights Day

International Day Against Nuclear Tests (UN)

Judgment Day (in the film “The Terminator”)

Michael Jackson

Miners’ Day (Ukraine)

Municipal Police Day (Poland)

National Caretaker Appreciation Day (Canada)

National College Colors Day

National Monterey County Fair Day

National Police’s Day (Poland)

National Sarcoidosis Awareness Day

National Sport Sampling Day

National Sports Day (India)

Nut Spas (Russia)

Potteries Bottle Oven Day (UK)

Slovak National Uprising Anniversary Day (Slovakia)

Targeted Individual Day

Telugu Language Day (India)

Third Onam (Harvest Festival; India)

World Day of Video Games

Zipper Clasp Locker Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Chop Suey Day

Gnocchi Day (Argentina)

International Peppercorn Day

Lemon Juice Day

More Herbs, Less Salt Day

National Swiss Winegrowers Day

5th & Last Tuesday in August

Lammas Fair Day (Ballycastle, Ireland) [Last Tuesday]

Touch-A-Heart Tuesday [Tuesday of Be Kind to Humankind Week]

Independence Days

Hjalvik (Declared; 2020) [unrecognized]

Mivland (Declared; 2018) [unrecognized]

Veyshnoria (Declared; 2017) [unrecognized]

Feast Days

Adelphus of Metz (Christian; Saint)

Beheading of St. John the Baptist (Christian)

Blobfish Day (Pastafarian)

Dr. Lily Rosenbloom (Muppetism)

Eadwold of Cerne (Christian; Saint)

Euphrasia Eluvathingal (Syro-Malabar Catholic Church)

Feast of Agios Ioannis (Halki, Hittitie God of Grain)

First Day of Thoth (Egyptian New Year)

Gahan Wilson Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Hathor’s Day (Pagan)

Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (Artology)

John Bunyan (Episcopal Church)

Medericus (a.k.a. St. Merry; Christian; Saint)

Nativity of Hathor (Egyptian Goddess of Joy & Drunkenness)

Papin (Positivist; Saint)

Sabina (Christian; Saint)

Sebbi (a.k.a. Sebba), King of Essex (Christian; Saint)

Thiruvonam (Rice Harvest Festival, Day 2; Kerala, India)

Vitalis, Sator and Repositus (Christian; Saints)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Prime Number Day: 241 [53 of 72]

Tomobiki (友引 Japan) [Good luck all day, except at noon.]

Unlucky Day (Grafton’s Manual of 1565) [38 of 60]

Urda (The Oldest Fate)

Premieres

At Your Service Madame (WB MM Cartoon; 1936)

Balls of Fury (Film; 2007)

Cat-Tails for Two (WB MM Cartoon; 1953)

Definitely Maybe, by Oasis (Album; 1994)

The Fugitive final episode (Most Watched TV Show; 1967)

The Full Monty (Film; 1987)

Here Today, Gone Tamale (WB LT Cartoon; 1959)

Independent Women, by Destiny’s Child (Song; 2000)

It’s A Pity To Say Goodnight, recorded by Ella Fitzgerald (Song; 1946)

Kid Galahad (Elvis Presley Film; 1962)

Mary Poppins (Film; 1964)

Move It, by Cliff Richard and the Drifters (Song; 1958)

Pretty Woman, by Roy Orbison (Song; 1964)

Ridiculousness (TV Series; 2011)

Runaway, by Janet Jackson (Song; 1995)

Saint Errant, by Leslie Charteris (Short Stories 1948) [Saint #29]

Shanghai Surprise (Film; 1986)

Signing Off, by UB40 (Album; 1980)

Today’s Name Days

Beatrix, Johannes, Sabine (Austria)

Anastas, Anastasi, Anastasiya (Bulgaria)

Bazila, Ivan, Sabina, Sebo, Verona (Croatia)

Evelína (Czech Republic)

Johannes (Denmark)

Õnne, Õnnela (Estonia)

Iina, Iines, Inari, Inna (Finland)

Médéric, Sabine (France)

Beatrice, Johannes, Sabine (Germany)

Arkadios (Greece)

Beatrix, Erna (Hungary)

Battista, Giovanni, Sabina (Italy)

Aiga, Aigars, Armīns, Vismants (Latvia)

Barvydas, Beatričė, Gaudvydė, Sabina (Lithuania)

Jo, Johan, Jone (Norway)

Flora, Jan, Racibor, Sabina (Poland)

Nikola (Slovakia)

Juan (Spain)

Hampus, Hans (Sweden)

Candace, Candice, Poppy, Sabina, Sabra, Sabrina (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 241 of 2024; 124 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 2 of week 35 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Coll (Hazel) [Day 22 of 28]

Chinese: Month 7 (Geng-Shen), Day 14 (Ji-Wei)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 12 Elul 5783

Islamic: 12 Safar 1445

J Cal: 1 Aki; Oneday [1 of 30]

Julian: 15 August 2023

Moon: 97%: Waxing Gibbous

Positivist: 17 Gutenberg (9th Month) [Papin]

Runic Half Month: Rad (Motion) [Day 2 of 15]

Season: Summer (Day 69 of 94)

Zodiac: Virgo (Day 8 of 32)

Calendar Changes

Aki (Month 9 of 12; J Calendar)

#calendar #Holidays

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 8.29

Holidays

According To Hoyle Day

Black Book Clubs Day

Clean Your Keyboard Day

Day of Loose Talk

Day of Remembrance of the Defenders of Ukraine (Ukraine)

Fennel Day (French Republic)

Flag Day (Spain)

Happy Housewives Holiday

Head Day (Iceland)

Individual Rights Day

International Day Against Nuclear Tests (UN)

Judgment Day (in the film “The Terminator”)

Michael Jackson

Miners’ Day (Ukraine)

Municipal Police Day (Poland)

National Caretaker Appreciation Day (Canada)

National College Colors Day

National Monterey County Fair Day

National Police’s Day (Poland)

National Sarcoidosis Awareness Day

National Sport Sampling Day

National Sports Day (India)

Nut Spas (Russia)

Potteries Bottle Oven Day (UK)

Slovak National Uprising Anniversary Day (Slovakia)

Targeted Individual Day

Telugu Language Day (India)

Third Onam (Harvest Festival; India)

World Day of Video Games

Zipper Clasp Locker Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Chop Suey Day

Gnocchi Day (Argentina)

International Peppercorn Day

Lemon Juice Day

More Herbs, Less Salt Day

National Swiss Winegrowers Day

5th & Last Tuesday in August

Lammas Fair Day (Ballycastle, Ireland) [Last Tuesday]

Touch-A-Heart Tuesday [Tuesday of Be Kind to Humankind Week]

Independence Days

Hjalvik (Declared; 2020) [unrecognized]

Mivland (Declared; 2018) [unrecognized]

Veyshnoria (Declared; 2017) [unrecognized]

Feast Days

Adelphus of Metz (Christian; Saint)

Beheading of St. John the Baptist (Christian)

Blobfish Day (Pastafarian)

Dr. Lily Rosenbloom (Muppetism)

Eadwold of Cerne (Christian; Saint)

Euphrasia Eluvathingal (Syro-Malabar Catholic Church)

Feast of Agios Ioannis (Halki, Hittitie God of Grain)

First Day of Thoth (Egyptian New Year)

Gahan Wilson Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Hathor’s Day (Pagan)

Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres (Artology)

John Bunyan (Episcopal Church)

Medericus (a.k.a. St. Merry; Christian; Saint)

Nativity of Hathor (Egyptian Goddess of Joy & Drunkenness)

Papin (Positivist; Saint)

Sabina (Christian; Saint)

Sebbi (a.k.a. Sebba), King of Essex (Christian; Saint)

Thiruvonam (Rice Harvest Festival, Day 2; Kerala, India)

Vitalis, Sator and Repositus (Christian; Saints)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Prime Number Day: 241 [53 of 72]

Tomobiki (友引 Japan) [Good luck all day, except at noon.]

Unlucky Day (Grafton’s Manual of 1565) [38 of 60]

Urda (The Oldest Fate)

Premieres

At Your Service Madame (WB MM Cartoon; 1936)

Balls of Fury (Film; 2007)

Cat-Tails for Two (WB MM Cartoon; 1953)

Definitely Maybe, by Oasis (Album; 1994)

The Fugitive final episode (Most Watched TV Show; 1967)

The Full Monty (Film; 1987)

Here Today, Gone Tamale (WB LT Cartoon; 1959)

Independent Women, by Destiny’s Child (Song; 2000)

It’s A Pity To Say Goodnight, recorded by Ella Fitzgerald (Song; 1946)

Kid Galahad (Elvis Presley Film; 1962)

Mary Poppins (Film; 1964)

Move It, by Cliff Richard and the Drifters (Song; 1958)

Pretty Woman, by Roy Orbison (Song; 1964)

Ridiculousness (TV Series; 2011)

Runaway, by Janet Jackson (Song; 1995)

Saint Errant, by Leslie Charteris (Short Stories 1948) [Saint #29]

Shanghai Surprise (Film; 1986)

Signing Off, by UB40 (Album; 1980)

Today’s Name Days

Beatrix, Johannes, Sabine (Austria)

Anastas, Anastasi, Anastasiya (Bulgaria)

Bazila, Ivan, Sabina, Sebo, Verona (Croatia)

Evelína (Czech Republic)

Johannes (Denmark)

Õnne, Õnnela (Estonia)

Iina, Iines, Inari, Inna (Finland)

Médéric, Sabine (France)

Beatrice, Johannes, Sabine (Germany)

Arkadios (Greece)

Beatrix, Erna (Hungary)

Battista, Giovanni, Sabina (Italy)

Aiga, Aigars, Armīns, Vismants (Latvia)

Barvydas, Beatričė, Gaudvydė, Sabina (Lithuania)

Jo, Johan, Jone (Norway)

Flora, Jan, Racibor, Sabina (Poland)

Nikola (Slovakia)

Juan (Spain)

Hampus, Hans (Sweden)

Candace, Candice, Poppy, Sabina, Sabra, Sabrina (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 241 of 2024; 124 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 2 of week 35 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Coll (Hazel) [Day 22 of 28]

Chinese: Month 7 (Geng-Shen), Day 14 (Ji-Wei)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 12 Elul 5783

Islamic: 12 Safar 1445

J Cal: 1 Aki; Oneday [1 of 30]

Julian: 15 August 2023

Moon: 97%: Waxing Gibbous

Positivist: 17 Gutenberg (9th Month) [Papin]

Runic Half Month: Rad (Motion) [Day 2 of 15]

Season: Summer (Day 69 of 94)

Zodiac: Virgo (Day 8 of 32)

Calendar Changes

Aki (Month 9 of 12; J Calendar)

#Holidays

[fuzzytimes1]

This $16 French red wine is an ideal partner for beef stew or roast

Comment on this story comment If the winter weather has you thinking of slow-cooked stews or hearty roasts and a cozy evening by the fireplace, here are three delicious red wines to round off the occasion. We offer a Rhône Valley red well above its price point, a Bordeaux-style blend from Washington state and a superb Montepulciano from Italy. Reserve Saint Dominique Le Bourdon…

View On WordPress

[musikblog]

MusikBlog präsentiert renforshort Wer da? Renforshort, bürgerlich Lauren Isenberg, eine kanadische Singer/Songwriterin aus Toronto. Und was macht die so für ‘nen Sound? Sie selbst bezeichnet ihre Musik als “tastefully weird”. Aber eigentlich ist es ein bisschen Indie-Rock gemischt mit Urban-Pop. Auf welchem aktuellen Tonträger kann man sich das anhören? Auf ihrter aktuellen EP “Off Saint Dominique” vom letzten […] #Renforshort https://www.musikblog.de/2022/06/musikblog-praesentiert-renforshort/

#Alternative-Pop #Indie-Rock #News #Urban-Pop

[animasmusicdiary]

#wannabe #renforshort #off saint dominique ep #29.06.2021

[wellntruly]

The thing is that Victor Hugo's Les Miserables Vol. I, Book Third, Chapter I - 'The Year 1817', may be the best piece of history writing every published.

You could get a masters degree just in trying to learn about every person and event he lists off, and yet even utterly lost in the references, it sings. It's written in the most fascinating tense, a strangely present past that gives it this rolling, living energy. The breadth of detail could overwhelm, nearly does, if he didn't deliver it all with this concise, dancing deftness of phrasing that is often so funny, always so human.

All my notes from Book III are just from this chapter and are all variously verbal exclamations over the quality of the writing I was reading. Here are several of these sections:

---

"In 1817 Pelligrini sang; Mademoiselle Bigottini danced; Potier reigned; Odry did not yet exist. Madame Saqui had succeeded to Forioso. There were still Prussians in France.

...

In 1817, in the side alleys of [the] Champ des Mars, two great cylinders of wood might have been seen lying in the rain, rotting amid the grass, painted blue, with traces of eagles and bees, from which the gilding was falling. These were the columns, which two years before had upheld the Emperor’s platform in the Champ de Mai. They were blackened here and there with the scorches of the bivouac of Austrians encamped near Gros-Caillou. Two or three of these columns had disappeared into these bivouac fires, and had warmed the large hands of the Imperial troops. The Field of May had this remarkable point: that it had been held in the month of June and in the Field of March. In this year, 1817, two things were popular: the Voltaire-Touquet and the snuffbox a la Charter. The most recent Parisian sensation was the crime of Dautun, who had thrown his brother’s head into the fountain of the Flower Market.

...

The palace of Thermes, in the Rue de La Harpe, served as a shop for a cooper. On the platform of the octagonal tower of the Hotel de Cluny, the little shed of boards, which had served as an observatory to Messier, the naval astronomer under Louis XVI, was still to be seen. The Duchesse de Duras read to three or four friends her unpublished Ourika, in her boudoir furnished by X in sky-blue satin. The N’s were scratched off the Louvre. The bridge of Austerlitz had abdicated, and was entitled the bridge of the King’s Garden, a double enigma, which disguised the bridge of Austerlitz and the Jardin des Plantes at one stroke. Louis XVIII, much preoccupied while annotating Horace with the corner of his fingernail, heroes who have become emperors, and makers of wooden shoes who have become dauphins, had two anxieties—Napoleon and Mathurin Bruneau.

...

L’Epingle Noir was already plotting in his own quarter. Delaverderie was conferring with Trogoff. M. Decazes, who was liberal to a degree, reigned. Chateaubriand stood every morning at his window at No. 27 Rue Saint-Dominique, clad in footed trousers, and slippers, with a madras kerchief knotted over his gray hair, with his eyes fixed on a mirror, a complete set of dentist’s instruments spread out before him, cleaning his teeth, which were charming, while he dictated the monarchy according to the Charter to M. Pillage, his secretary. Criticism, assuming an authoritative tone, preferred Lafon to Talma. M. de Feletez signed himself A.; M. Hoffman signed himself Z. Charles Nodier wrote Therese Aubert. Divorce was abolished. Lyceums called themselves colleges. The collegians, decorated on the collar with a golden fleur-de-lis, fought each other apropos of the King of Rome. The counter-police of the chateau had denounced to her Royal Highness Madame, the portrait, everywhere exhibited, of M. the Duc d’Orleans, who made a better appearance in his uniform of a colonel-general of hussars than M. the Duc de Berri, in his uniform of a colonel-general of dragoons—a serious inconvenience.

...

The quarrel over the valley of Dappes was begun between Switzerland and France by a memoir from Captain, afterward General Dufour. Saint-Simon, ignored, was erecting his sublime dream. There was a celebrated Fourier at the Academy of Science, whom posterity has forgotten; and in some garret an obscure Fourier, whom the future will recall. Lord Byron was beginning to make his mark; a note to a poem by Millevoye introduced him to France in these terms: a certain Lord Baron. David d’Angers was trying to work in marble.

...

M. Francois de Neufchateau, the praiseworthy cultivar of the memory of Parmentier, made a thousand efforts to have pomme de terre, pronounced “parmentier,” and succeeded therein not at all. The Abbé Gregoire, ex-bishop, ex-conventionary, ex-senator, had passed, in the royalist polemics, to the state of “Infamous Gregoire.” The locution of which we have made use—passed to the state of—has been condemned as a neologism by M. Royer Collard. Under the third arch of the Pont de Jena, the new stone with which, the two years previously, the mining aperture made by Blucher to blow up the bridge had been stopped up, was still recognizable on account of its whiteness."

---

The rest introduces young Fantine and her friends in a lushly besotted portrait of Romance and betrayal and it simply cannot compare to 'The Year 1817'; the fourth book is 12 pages.

Books 3-4 /48 ✓✓

[Brickolage]

#Les Mis 2 More Mis #Brickolage #Victor Hugo #god and also: #Isabel Florence Hapgood #translator #Les Miserables

[handfuloftime]

Time for a post about my favorite improbable romance of the Napoleonic era!

Maria de las Nieves Dominique Antoinette Rita Josèphe Louise Catherine Martinez de Hervas was barely fourteen when she married Géraud Christophe Michel Duroc in 1802. The daughter of a Spanish banker and diplomat, she had been educated at Madame Campan’s school along with Hortense de Beauharnais, Caroline Bonaparte, and several other young women who would go on to marry marshals or generals.

While not the outright disaster that some of the other marriages that Napoleon arranged were, the couple’s relationship seems to have been distant. Duroc stayed in Paris, busy with his duties as Grand Marshal, while Hervas spent much of her time at the château de Clémery, outside Duroc’s hometown of Pont-à-Mousson in Lorraine, accompanied by her sister-in-law Jeanne Magdeleine Duroc. It was there that she met Charles Nicolas Fabvier in 1805. 

Also a native of Pont-à-Mousson, Fabvier was a decade younger than Duroc; after studying at the École polytechnique, he had joined the Grande Armée as an artillery officer in 1804. What Hervas initially thought of Fabvier, we don’t know; he became a family friend, though that may have been Duroc taking an interest in a fellow officer from Pont-à-Mousson. Fabvier, however, fell hopelessly in love with Hervas. 

Writing to his brother Nicolas in 1808 from Constantinople, where he had accompanied a diplomatic mission, Fabvier reflected on the intensity of his feelings: “I’m afraid it’s a disease. In the midst of my labors, while crossing the desert, on horseback, I always find her in the same place, face to face with me...”

In another letter to his brother, he continued: “I have such a veneration, such a high opinion of her that I don’t dare speak of it without permission. If you could only see, if she knew that throughout three years’ absence I thought of her every instant!...But what’s the use? She is a princess now; would she still recognize an unhappy knight, even by name? In short, that woman never leaves my thoughts, let alone my heart. May God bless her and bring her happiness.”

After returning from Constantinople, Fabvier became Marmont’s aide de camp in 1811, and fought in the Peninsular War. He rode the entire length of Europe in the summer of 1812 to bring Napoleon news of Marmont’s defeat at Salamanca, arriving on the eve of the battle of Borodino.

His long absences from France did nothing to dull his feelings for Hervas. After visiting her in Paris in the spring of 1813, he wrote to his brother, who must have had the patience of a saint: “Her presence illuminates, her approach warms; she passes by and one is content; she pauses and one is happy; to regard her is to live; she is dawn in human form; she does nothing else but be there, that suffices, she Edenizes the house, she exudes a paradise.”

As Marmont’s aide-de-camp, Fabvier took part in the campaign of 1813 in central Europe, which meant that he was present for Duroc’s death that May. Having visited the dying man once to say goodbye—”He recognized me,” he told Nicolas, “[and] bade me farewell with kindness and calm”—he returned again later that night, spending hours at Duroc’s side. He wrote to his brother a few days later: “I can’t describe to you all the grievous pains that overwhelmed me while, sitting on a bench and without him seeing me, I watched the man who had been so happy until now…I wanted to speak to him, to help him to move. I never dared.” In his journal, he was more frank about the conflicting feelings produced by seeing his beloved Hervas’s husband mortally wounded: “I fended off, or rather I avoided having, those [thoughts] that I should not have had. I owe myself this fairness. But Nives [sic], if you weep for him, why did I not die for him!”

Later, he added: “Strange fortune! Do you show me the possibility to make me feel my unhappiness all the more keenly? Her rank. Her family. The Emperor. Such obstacles that I'll never overcome…” He worried about the effect the news would have on Hervas, who had already suffered the death of her fifteen-month-old son in 1812. He told Nicolas not to mention him to her in case that would remind her of Duroc—”unless you’re asked whether I wish I could have taken the unlucky bullet; reply: yes”.

After Napoleon’s downfall, Fabvier spent much of the early 1820s getting arrested on suspicion of being involved in Bonapartist plots to overthrow the government. In 1823, after being acquitted for a second time due to lack of evidence, he left France for Greece, where he became a hero in the War of Independence. Hervas remained at Clémery, raising her young daughter Hortense, and was eventually granted a pension by Charles X. When Fabvier returned to France in the late 1820s, he found Hervas still greatly affected by the losses she had suffered, and wrote to his brother (as always) that he “trembled lest fortune send that unfortunate woman yet another horrible blow”.

His words proved prophetic: Hortense Duroc died of pneumonia in September 1829, aged just seventeen. Hervas was so overwhelmed by Hortense’s death that doctors feared for her life; ordered to travel abroad for her health, she went to Italy, accompanied by Fabvier. They visited Hortense de Beauharnais, who was living in Switzerland, and returned to France shortly before the July Revolution.

Twenty-six years after they’d first met, Hervas and Fabvier were married in Paris on May 16, 1831. Their son, Louis Charles Eugène, was born in December of that year.

Fabvier had his happy ending at last; it’s less clear what Hervas felt. Passages from Fabvier’s letters and journal survive in a pair of early twentieth-century biographies, but none of Hervas’s writing, letters or otherwise, is publicly available. Perhaps she shared Fabvier’s feelings; perhaps, after the devastating death of her daughter, she simply wanted stability. Regardless of how she felt about Fabvier, Hervas seems to have considered Hortense’s death, as well as the death of her first son, the defining events of her life. When she died in December 1871, having outlived her second husband by sixteen years, she left money for a funeral monument with the inscription “To the unhappiest of mothers”.

Images: “La baronne Fabvier,” in W. Sérieyx, Un géant de l’action: le général Fabvier (1933), which gives no information about the artist or date. “Charles Fabvier (1782-1855)”, artist unknown, The War Museum, Athens, Greece.

#this post is a mess but fabvier's letters are just So Much that i wanted to share them #maria de las nieves martinez de hervas #charles nicolas fabvier #duroc #napoleonic wars

[temporoom]

Thank you for your clothes analysis, it was very interesting and well written!! As for Jeanne and the Crimson Moon vampires, all I can think of for now is her and Faustina both being in those tubes at some point during the story? Though still need to wait for Mochijun to expand on that whole thing…

Thank you so much! I'm glad you enjoyed it ! \(^^)/ And also... I'm glad you mention this Faustina thing. *Pulls out powerpoint*

Listen, a clothes' analysis is pretty restrictive, and I tried to avoid making as many wild assumptions as possible so people can make their own opinions of the facts I listed. But to be honest, there is a few more things to say.

I've mention the magenta as the symbol of the Crimson Moon, and how it sets Jeanne as Vanitas' opposite, he who represents the Blue Moon. So if we consider that Faustina is the Crimson Moon (in the sense the original representative) and Luna is the Blue Moon, it would mean both are heir of their respective "moon", which sets one link towards the fact that Jeanne has something to do with Faustina.

But you know what else links Jeanne to Faustina? Royalty symbolism. How? This:

You see those flowers around her? Those are lilies, also called fleur-de-lys. They represent french royalty. Just like how roses represent England's monarchy, or the chrysanthem the Japanese emperor, in France, lilies represent the monarchy. Really, you can't make more blatant symbolism than this. (I want to also mention that this is something all french people know, so really, it's THAT blatant for me)

Though you can also note that Jeanne d'Arc has lilies on her flag (held by the "angel of misericord" as she would call it). So it could also be a reference to that. But to be honest, french tended to associate anything divine and royal to the fleur-de-lys.

And to finish off with this image, she is wearing a pearl necklace (forget that it doesn't work in the anime becasue they made them gold). Do you know who is knows for their pearl necklace? Marie-Antoinette. Do you know in which manga is Marie-Antoinette? Versailles no Bara. Do you know who references the main character from this manga in VnC? Dominique. And what does Dominqiue wears: magenta gloves, the same color as Jeanne's base color. Boom. Also to add to the Marie-Antoinette thing, she was beheaded by a "bourreau", and this is exactly what Jeanne is... There is a link to make here. (Okay maybe this one is kind of far-fetched, but any theorist should consider all possibilities available to them, also the thing with Dominique being linked to Jeanne is very real and I think we should think about it more.)

Not just that, but to go further with the tube thing (and the recurrent theory the fandom has that Jeanne might be Faustina's clone), Jeanne d'Arc is also known to have received her own kind of look-a-like throughout the years. People who claimed either to be Jeanne d'Arc and who have survived the condamnation, or either people claiming that just like her, they could hear the voices of saints speaking to them. Most of the time, the fraud was found out though.

So while Jeanne has more references to Jeanne d'Arc overall, I don't think we can completely ignore her links to french royalty in the small details. (She also sees herself as the prince in her fantasy of being in a fairy tale). As you said, there is still a lot to be seen and said, but honestly those small details fuels me for now.

#vnc #vanitas no shuki #vanitas no carte #les memoires de vanitas #the case study of vanitas #theories #theory #jeanne vnc #dominique de sade

[pachucojuan]

"She was exactly like a Yves Saint Laurent drawing, a proud head on a long neck, very slim but with strong shoulders, made for haute couture."-Dominique Deroche

"My parents wanted me to be a historian and an archaeologist like my father. But I didn't want to continue my studies, and I ran away to Paris. I told them I'd be famous, that I'd be a big star. They said that I'd end up a whore. My parents were angry for a long time but they forgave me and became very proud."-Katoucha

"Losing him (Yves Saint Laurent) and losing Katoucha. Katoucha was a big part of my life with Saint Laurent because she used to teach me how to take off a cape or a coat."-Naomi Campbell (2008)

"From the late '80s to the mid-90s Katoucha was one of the show models most in demand around the world."-Barbara Summers

"Modeling, she said, was a kind of revenge for the terrible experience of genital mutilation which she was put through, in accordance with custom in parts of Africa, when she was just nine years old."-Andy McSmith

#katoucha niane #part 2

[st-louis]

JONATHAN DROUIN: 2016 every player on the montreal canadiens [10/28]

drafted 3rd overall by the tampa bay lightning in 2014

he is from sainte-agathe-des-monts, which is a picturesque summer tourist/cottage destination

he also played tennis when he was younger

in the 2013 qmjhl/chl playoffs, he and nathan mackinnon, playing under dominique ducharme for the halifax mooseheads, won the president’s cup and the 2013 memorial cup

somewhat infamously, one of his teammates kissed him right on the mouth during the celly

things in tampa did not go smoothly and there was some ~controversy over his attitude and feelings he should have cracked the lineup sooner

he was injured in the 2014-15 training camp and again bounced up and down from the nhl to the ahl

in january 2016, he was suspended without pay for failing to report for a crunch game against the marlies. according to drouin’s camp, a trade was imminent and he didn’t want to get hurt playing for an ahl team right before that; he eventually did report for duty

in march 2016, he was traded to the habs for mikhail sergachev, who’d only played a few games for the habs at that point, and a conditional 2018 pick

he immediately signed a six year extension

although he matched his career high point totals in his second season, he was always kind of a controversial player for the habs. they tried to play him at center, and he just didn’t work out there. there was always the belief that he “wasn’t trying” or took games off.

in 2019, he suffered a wrist injury (a torn tendon) and unfortunately, his shot was never quite the same / it never fully healed.

he was great in the 2019-20 playoffs with nick and army; he was stellar to start the 2020-21 season playing with nick and josh anderson

he has twice forgotten to take his skate guards off and fallen over. once he accidentally got some kind of irritating cream down his pants and started just. taking them off on the bench.

please enjoy this very cute video of him interviewing fans and like no one recognizes him which is also very bittersweet because one of them tells him not to take montreal too seriously

nicolas deslauriers would ABSOLUTELY NOT trust jo to babysit his kids for an evening (jo WOULD let nic pick his first tattoo... interesting) (nic deslauriers also believes that while jo is capable of pulling off a man bun, he should not -- the clear divide here between the hipsters and the non-hipsters in the quebecois contingent)

begrudgingly said phil danault would have better hair in 30 years but that he was going to watch the tape then to compare

phil would not let jo take his math exam for him

jo: what does your mom think of me? phil: no. put it back

picked shea weber as the smartest guy on the team and ben chiarot as the best looking guy on the team

possibly because of the nagging wrist injury, he had a hard time shooting, it seemed. although he was still getting some assists, his play definitely suffered

he’s a really talented player regardless, and was one of the best and most effective habs at skating the puck through the neutral zone.

he used to bag skate HIMSELF when he felt that he wasn’t playing well

media and fans online were pretty hard on and toxic towards him (phil danault spoke at length about how hard it is and how much pressure there is as a quebecer playing for the habs). towards the end of april 2021, he took an indefinite leave of absence for personal reasons and was placed on ltir. he did not return to the team during the cup run. it was truly sad what happened; you can tell how close the team is and losing him that way definitely hurt them and i’m sure that for him to do that, whatever was going on was truly unbearable. it was pretty brave of him to leave and could not have been an easy decision.

there is a lot of speculation that he will be traded in the offseason or will somehow end up in seattle. a change of scenery and to get away from the mtl hockey market/media might not be the worst thing for him.

wherever he is, and whether or not he chooses to play hockey again, i hope he’s happy and doing well.

#jonathan drouin #every player on the roster #habs #i'm very fond of him honestly and still very sad about how things turned out

[steliosagapitos]

           “Portrait Of Madame Du Barry”, 1789-1820, by Élisabeth Vigée-Le Brun (French painter, 1755 - 1842).

   The subject of this elegant portrait, Jeanne Du Barry (1743-1793), was one of the courtesans of the eighteenth century that Élizabeth-Louise Vigée Le Brun painted in the course of her long career. What is known of her life reads like a cautionary tale. Jeanne Bécu was born out of wedlock into the servant class of Vaucouleurs, a town on the Meuse river in the province of Champagne near the frontier separating France from the Duchy of Lorraine. The child’s mother, Anne Bécu-Cantigny (1713-1788), was a seamstress, while her father is usually presumed to be Jean Jacques Gomard de Vaubernier (1715-1804), called père or frère Ange, a monk of the tertiary order of St. Francis (Picpus) in whose institution Anne was occasionally employed. With her young daughter, Anne Bécu, travelled to Paris in the company of a financier and supplier to the royal army who had interests in the area, a certain Billard du Monceaux, entrusting them to the care of his mistress, “Mademoiselle Frédéric,” with whom they lived both in the city and in a country house at Courbevoie. When Jeanne was six, her mother married a servant, Nicolas Rançon, who was given employment in a warehouse on the island of Corsica that had recently become a French possession. Over a period of eight years, Jeanne received a sound education in a convent school for indigent or wayward girls run by the nuns of Sainte-Aure not far from the church of Saint Étienne du Mont. She then served for a time as a companion to the widow of a tax concessioner, Madame de Delley de La Garde, one of whose sons became infatuated with her, causing her to be dismissed. She had a brief dalliance with a hairdresser named Lametz, the result of which may have been the birth of a young girl called Betzi. For a time Jeanne apparently made her living as a shop girl under the signboard À la Toilette on the rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs. Eventually the lovely “Mademoiselle Lange” or “Mademoiselle de Beauvernier,” as she was then alternately calling herself, worked as a prostitute and may even have been employed for a brief spell in the brothel kept by the maquerelle, Marguerite Gourdan or in the gambling den of the so-called “marquise” Dufresnoy. She was ultimately taken up by a notorious sharpster belonging to the minor aristocracy of Gascony, comte Jean Du Barry de Céres (1723-1794), who was known to the Paris police as le Roué (the Rake). He quickly turned his lodgings into a place where he could hire out his “protégée” to men who could pay the exorbitant prices she could garner, among them the Duc de Richelieu and the Treasurer of the royal navy, Maximilien Radix de Sainte-Foix. By the spring of 1768 Jean Du Barry had contrived to present the young woman to Louis XV’s premier valet de chambre, Dominique Lebel, who for years had served his master as a procurer of girls lodged in a house in the town of Versailles, the Parc-aux-Cerfs. Through the intrigues of Richelieu and Lebel, Jeanne was introduced to the monarch, who was immediately smitten with her charm. These famously included an exquisite complexion, a beautiful bosom — as can be seen from the marble bust of her carved by Augustin Pajou, Musée du Louvre—, a profusion of ash-blonde hair, blue eyes that were often half closed and a pronounced lisp, which gave her speech a childlike innocence. Until this time, Louis’s official mistresses had been either of the highest aristocracy or, in the case of Madame de Pompadour – who had recently died at the age of forty-three of physical exhaustion and tuberculosis – of the highest ranks of the moneyed class. Once she had been stealthily married off to Du Barry’s younger brother Guillaume – who was quickly dispensed with – and titled “comtesse Du Barry,” Jeanne was formally presented at Court in the third week of April 1769. She was assigned luxuriously appointed apartments in Versailles and other royal residences and was immediately surrounded by a coterie of courtiers, male and female alike, military officers and state officials. The Comtesse du Barry soon incurred the intense loathing of the royal family (the king’s spinster daughters, his grandson and heir, the Dauphin, and especially the latter’s wife, Marie Antoinette) and the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the duc de Choiseul. Madame Du Barry found herself in the crosshairs of much of the Court and the representatives of the underground press, for whom she was easy prey. The comtesse, who was clever beyond her years and quickly assimilated the tastes, manners and conventions of the aristocracy, was installed in great opulence at Versailles, and her official presentation to the royal family took place on 22 April 1769. Considerably less grasping and meddlesome than the Pompadour, she did exercise some influence in the realms of fashion and the arts. The painters Joseph Vernet, Jean Baptiste Greuze, Jean Honoré Fragonard and François Hubert Drouais, the sculptor Augustin Pajou and the architect Claude Nicolas Ledoux all derived considerable benefit from her largesse. Undeniably, the finest work of art she ever owned was Sir Anthony van Dyck’s full-length Portrait of King Charles I of England at the Hunt (Musée du Louvre, Paris), a painting she sold to Louis XVI after her fall from grace. In the area of politics, she finally brought about the banishment from Court of her nemesis, the powerful Choiseul, who was unrelenting in his hostility to her. Through some of her allies — notably Choiseul’s replacement, the duc d’Aiguillon (old Richelieu’s kinsman), the Comptroller General of Finance and head of the fine arts administration, the abbé Terray, and the Chancellor of France and Keeper of the Seals, René Nicolas Maupeou — she may have had an impact on the conduct of affairs of state, but less than her higher-born predecessors had had. That being said, she was profligate and lavished great sums of money provided to her by the royal bankers on herself, her Du Barry relations and the favorites who paid court to her. The king purchased for her the Château de Luciennes (the eighteenth-century spelling of Louveciennes), and she commissioned Ledoux to design and construct an exquisite little neo-classical pavilion for which Jean Honoré Fragonard painted the four-panelled Progress of Love in the Hearts of Young Girls (The Frick Collection, New York). She foolishly rejected these masterpieces and replaced them with a set of more fashionable but rather insipid neo-Greek compositions by Joseph Marie Vien. The four years of her tenure as official mistress of the king were the highpoint of Madame Du Barry’s life. After Louis XV died of smallpox in 1774, Jeanne Du Barry was disgraced and banished from Court. After a period of confinement in a convent, she lived in retirement at Luciennes, where she was visited by new lovers, most prominent among them Hyacinthe Hugues Timoléon de Cossé, duc de Brissac, the governor of Paris. As the Revolution approached, Madame Du Barry remained unswervingly loyal to the monarchy. She eventually came under the scrutiny of agents of the local revolutionary clubs. The reported theft of her jewels in 1791 was the pretext she used to make several crossings to England where French spies noted her close contacts with exiled supporters of the old regime. She even wore morning in London when Louis XVI was guillotined. In early September of 1792, Brissac, whom Louis XVI had appointed commander of his Swiss Guards, was killed by a mob as he and other prisoners were crossing through Versailles; it is said that his head was carried to the château at Louveciennes. Denounced for crimes of aristocracy and treason, the comtesse Du Barry was arrested on September 22, 1793. At first incarcerated in the prison of Sainte-Pélagie, she was later transferred to the Conciergerie. At her trial some of her servants, notably her cook Salanave and her Bengali groom Zamor, betrayed her (J. Baillio, ‘Un portrait de Zamor, page bengalais de Madame Du Barry,’ Gazette des Beaux-Arts, vol. CXLIV, no. 1065, October 2002, pp. 233-242). On receiving the death sentence, the distraught woman revealed the location of many of the valuables she had hidden on her estate. On 8 December 1793—18 Frimaire an II of the revolutionary calendar—Jeanne Du Barry and her Flemish bankers, the Vandenyvers father and two sons, were executed. How Vigée Le Brun originally became acquainted with Madame Du Barry is unknown. It could have been through her brother-in-law, Jean du Barry, whose portrait she had executed when she was only eighteen. Or, more likely, it could have been upon the recommendation of the duc de Brissac, whose portrait “en costume de cérémonie” she had executed in pastel in the early 1780s, a work exhibited at Pahin de la Blancherie’s Salon de la Correspondance in 1781 and 1782. In the dated list of portraits and subject pictures done between 1768 and 1789 that she appended to vol. I of her memoirs, the painter accounts for a number of likenesses of Du Barry: a copy of a portrait of her by another artist done in 1778 (unlocated or unidentified); a portrait done from life in 1781, which is either the half-length in which she is shown wearing a white muslin chemise or peignoir and a straw hat, a work that exists in two more or less well preserved autograph versions (figs. 1 and 2), or the almost knee-length portrait showing the comtesse wearing a creamy white satin dress à l’espagnole holding a wreath of flowers and leaning on a porphyry column, a work completed and signed and dated the following year (fig. 3); and a full-length portrait (1787), which either never existed or has not survived, and one of the aforementioned portraits of her wearing a peignoir. There is no mention however in the lists of the present portrait, which she began at the Château de Louveciennes during at the end of September 1789, leaving it unfinished only weeks before she felt obliged to leave France. She does however refer to it in the text of the Souvenirs: “The third portrait that I did of Mme Dubarri is in my house. I began it around the middle of September 1789. From Louveciennes, we heard incessant cannonades, and I remember the poor woman telling me. ‘If Louis XV were still alive, certainly none of this would be happening.’ I painted the head and sketched out the body and the arms, then I was obliged to make a trip to Paris. I hoped to be able to return to Louveciennes to finish my work, but Berthier and Foulon had just been assassinated [22 July 1789]. I was out of my mind with fear, and I could only think of leaving France. I therefore left this painting half finished. I know not how by chance comte Louis de Narbonne came into possession of it during my absence. Upon my return to France, he returned it and I have just finished it.” Madame Le Brun left Paris with her daughter in October of 1789, the same night that the royal family was forcibly removed by a mob from the Versailles and made to take up residence in Paris at the Palais des Tuileries, a major step in the eradication of the centuries-old monarchs. She settled in Rome and on July 2, 1790, after a financially profitable stay in Naples, she wrote to Madame Du Barry that she was hoping to return to Louveciennes to complete the portrait in October of that year. “I was hoping to stay here only six weeks, but I have so many paintings to do that I am staying six months. That postpones my beloved project for Louveciennes, that of finishing your portrait, but I will come back with pleasure, because there everything is lovely, everything is fine…” This is undoubtedly the unfinished portrait of the comtesse Du Barry which the duc de Rohan Chabot found in the Paris townhouse on the rue de Grenelle, of the murdered duc de Brissac, reporting in a letter to her, “I picked up the three portraits of you which were at his house. I kept one of the smaller ones. It’s the original of the one which shows you wearing a white chemise or a peignoir and a hat with a plume, the second is a copy of the one in which the head is finished, but the clothing is only sketched in. Neither of them is framed” (C. Vatel, Histoire de Madame du Barry d’après ses papiers personnels et les documents des archives publiques, Versailles, 1883, III, pp. 201-202).Here Madame du Barry is shown seated on a bench in a garden next to a tree with an ivy-covered trunk. The skin tones of her face are florid, and there is a beauty spot under her left eye. Her left hand fondles a thick braid of the unpowdered tresses, but the rest of her hair is arranged in curls around her face or falls to her shoulders. The artist has woven a gold bordered transparent veil into this coiffure in the manner of a turban knotted at the top and falling onto her back. Over a filmy long-sleeved shift attached with gold buttons running down the arms to the wrists, she wears a golden ochre gown shot with green reflections which is caught up under her ample bosom with a sash of pink silk tied at the rear into a large bow. In her right hand she holds a nosegay composed of a white lily—a symbol of Madame Du Barry’s royalist convictions—and a pink rose she has just picked from the flowering bush at the lower right of the portrait. Vigée Le Brun returned to Paris after her twelve-year exile from France during the period of the Émigration and took up once again residence in the Hôtel Le Brun on the rue du Gros-Chenet. Sometime after this event, the portrait was restored to her by the comte de Narbonne-Lara, the son of a lady-in-waiting to Louis XV’s daughters, Louise Elisabeth de France, Duchess of Parma and Piacenza (1727-1759) and Madame Adélaïde de France (1732-1801). On December 15, 1802, eleven months after her return from exile, the Prussian composer Johann Friedrich Reichardt (1752-1814) visited with a group of friends the French artist’s studio. Among the many works he noticed were unfinished portraits of Marie Antoinette (possibly a bust-length picture) and the Comtesse Du Barry, the work under discussion. It inspired him with melancholic thoughts: “Melancholic reflections in which I did not expect to indulge myself in the cheerful studio of the genial artist were inspired by the view of two unfinished portraits placed near each other: that of Mme du Barry and that of the unfortunate queen of France. How many thoughts does a similar, rather strange, juxtaposition by Mme Lebrun, not elicit, it seems to me.” (J.F. Reichardt, Vertraute Briefe aus Paris Geschrieben in den Jahren 1802 und 1803 […], A. Laquiante, ed., Paris, 1896, pp. 148-151.) Details of why or precisely when Vigée Le Brun returned to the present portrait and finished it are few. She refers to its completion in her Souvenirs only briefly: "I know not how by chance comte Louis de Narbonne came in possession of it during my absence. Upon my return to France [in 1801], he returned it and I have just finished it." As Vigée Le Brun began writing her celebrated memoirs in the early 1820s—they were published in 1835—one may presume that she resumed work on the painting and completed it in the early to mid-1820s, a dating that accords with the style of much of the drapery and landscape setting. The finished portrait was hung in the second of Vigée Le Brun’s two salons that contained the most important of the paintings she had retained, rooms overlooking the garden of the townhouse she occupied at the end of her long life, the Hôtel du Coq, which was located at 99 rue Saint-Lazare across from the construction site of the locomotive station that later became the Gare Saint-Lazare. A red-chalk copy of the bust by the engraver Alexandre-Vincent Sixdeniers (1795-1846) is today preserved in a private Swiss collection. A patiche of the painting showing Madame Du Barry wearing a green silk dress over a short-sleeved undergarment, which is usually attributed to Vigée Le Brun's niece by marriage, Eugénie Tripier Le Franc, formerly in the collection of the subject’s biographer Charles Vatel, is today in the Musée Lambinet, Versailles. Élisabeth Vigée-Le Brun, the daughter of a minor painter, Louis Vigée, was born and brought up in Paris. She became a member of the Académie de St-Luc in 1774 and of the French Academy in 1783. She was a highly fashionable portrait painter, patronised particularly by Queen Marie Antoinette. Between 1789 and 1805 she travelled in Europe and visited Russia.