#perhaps i never had a place in their lives in the first place. just there warming the space for better things

[starsofang]

Finish Line

Street Racer!AU / Part 1

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Summary: Returning to the racing world in a new city proves to be futile when one of the racers has it out for you. He's determined to take you down, and you're determined to win.

TW: will be added for future parts, reader has a biker name but does not have a referenced name otherwise

A/N: if you’ve seen blade runner or cyberpunk, those were the vibes i’m going for. but basically all street racer!141 are in this, pray for me <3

The radiant glow of luminescent neons flooded your vision as you lifted yourself off of the bike you’d ridden into town, casting arrays of purples and blue along the span of your skin, reflecting blinding shimmers off of the glossy shine of your bike.

The city was boisterous around you. The streets filled with a variety of people covered in racing gear or alternative twists in their style. All sorts of glitzy colors adorning their bodies, mirroring the image of the neon city and blending them in. Crazy was the best word to describe it. Hectic, maddening hysteria that littered the city like a plague.

You stood in the midst of it all, taking in the booming voices that carried through the air of excited participants in the race that was soon to begin. It was a frenzy even being in the city, and you found yourself sticking to the side of your bike and opting to watch instead of join. After all, you knew nobody, and this was your first race – at least, your first one in a long time, and in a new city on top of that.

You’d never been in a place so lively before, and perhaps that was the appeal to it all. People were excited. They treated street racing like a sport rather than the crime it was. Illegal, unhinged, dangerous.

It was the most life-threatening sport one could get into, and you were one of those unfortunate souls who had a knack for speed.

“Takin’ it all in?” An unfamiliar voice geared its way towards you through the chaos, and when you looked over, you saw an older man with kind eyes and a heavy-set beard. Upon further inspection, you noticed his left leg was purely robotic, all metal and fancy tech, a neon outline tracing along the ridges and curves.

“It’s a lot,” you breathed in response, earning a hum of acknowledgement from the mystery man.

“Sure is,” he agreed, though his wide smile and twinkling eyes made it seem as if he preferred it that way. “You racin’ tonight, doll?”

You glanced over at your bike from beside you. Purple, matching the fluorescent city, and fast as hell when you knew how to control it. “I am. First race in a while. Are you?”

The man chuckled lowly, shaking his head. He tapped his knuckles against the cool metal of his leg, giving you a cheeky smile that poked through the fur on his face. “Can’t race with a leg like this. People might think I’m cheatin’.”

The tone of his voice was teasing, and it brought your own laugh out. “I wouldn’t say it’s cheating. Maybe just a bit of modification, is all.”

He laughed again, and the sound of it eased the original tension that consumed you from the sight of a new crowd in a new city. “I like the way you think, doll. I’m John. John Price.”

Your eyebrows raised at the name, and you stared at him with a look of surprise and awe. His hand was outstretched to shake yours, and when you shook off your initial shock, you reached out to grab it.

John Price. Even in other cities unlike this one, like your own, John Price was a name whispered amongst other racers. A true street racer, one that took win after win like it was easy. In his day and time, he was the best of the best, and if you knew he was in your race, it was promised fate that you would lose to him.

Nobody knew what happened to him after he disappeared from the racing crowd, but judging from the robotic leg, you could piece together the picture.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you greeted politely, your hands clasping together to give each other a firm shake before releasing. “Heard a lot about you.”

“Really?” he hummed in amusement, feigning humility. “Didn’t take it that others knew about me in other cities.”

“How’d you know I wasn’t from here?”

“Oh, I can tell, doll. You looked like a poor lamb walkin’ into a wolf’s den, comin’ here,” he teased, and you shifted on your feet in embarrassment. “No need to fret. I’ll introduce you to a couple of the other racers, get you more acquainted.”

You weren’t sure why he would bother to do so. This race was a competition, and getting to know the other racers you were about to go up against wasn’t exactly in your books for the night. He seemed to recognize the muted confusion, though, because he smiled and beckoned you with a hand to follow him.

“It’s good to know who you’re competin’ against,” he explained as you walked alongside him. Your bike handles were between both of your hands, steering it beside you, too uncertain of the new area to trust anybody to leave it be. “Good to learn their tricks so you can use it against them.”

“Why exactly are you telling me this?” you asked, and he chuckled.

“Haven’t had a new racer in a while. Not a promisin’ one, anyway. Forgive me, but I tend to get a bit excited when somebody new joins the races.”

That made sense, you suppose. He didn’t race anymore, so he thrived off of the thrill of every race. If he couldn’t join, he could certainly watch and observe. Price probably knew all of the ins and outs of every street racer without their knowledge.

You followed him down the bustling streets, passing by crowds of colorful people who were nearly bouncing off the walls in anticipation. The looks you got along the way had you uneasy, but most of them were more curious than cruel, taking in the sight of your bike and the flashy, purple protective gear you wore.

Finding yourself at a rundown looking building that was littered with a vivid glow, you entered what appeared to be a garage. It was filled with various other bikes, as well as an insane amount of toolboxes lining the walls with spare parts scattered carelessly.

Propping your bike up with its kickstand, you stood a bit straighter when Price called out to a group of men on the other side of the garage. One was working on a bike, while the other two were lounged lazily on a beat up couch, bickering with one another.

The sound of Price’s voice seemed to send them into immediate submission, and they stood, making their way over to you.

They were… certainly a mixed pack, weren’t they?

The first man you took notice of was decked out in a bright blue that glowed in curvy patterns along his gear. His hair was shaved into a messy mohawk that flopped languidly atop his head, and his smile was crooked and toothy, creasing his eyes into wrinkly crescents.

The second one had a warmth to him, despite the edginess of his gear. It was deep red and meshed well with the tan of his skin, and just like everything else in this city, provided a neon blaze that you swore would cause you to turn blind at some point.

The third one was incredibly off putting. Cold, stiff, and eyes that bore into you like a knife digging in your skin. It was laced over with poison, threatening to invade your veins and taint your bloodstream. His eyes were the only thing you could see, for the rest of his face was covered by a painted balaclava, the mouth of a skull covering his own. Dark and dangerous, a racer you grew wary of when the time came for competing.

“This here is Soap, Gaz, and Ghost. They won’t bite,” Price assured. You highly doubted that.

You gave them a polite nod of your head, and Soap clasped a hand on your shoulder, beaming at you. His smile was nearly as blinding as the rest of the city, and you wondered briefly if it hurt.

“New comer, eh? Ever raced before?” he asked in enthusiastic curiosity.

“Yeah,” you replied, and Gaz released a low whistle. When you shifted your eyes to him, he was looking at your bike.

“Looks like you have a new competitor, Ghost,” Gaz teased. Ghost didn’t seem amused by it, his eyes continuing to stare you down in silent disapproval.

“Unlikely,” he rumbled dryly.

You furrowed your eyebrows as you looked at him. Ghost was already giving you the information to know you needed to steer clear of him, both on the streets and off. He was competitive, and you could practically see it burning through his irises, like a raging fire that you had no way of putting out.

It was unfortunate that you were also just as competitive. You had your reasons for returning to racing, and you’d be damned if a man like Ghost attempted to sway you off track.

“Guess we’ll have to see, Ghost,” you chirped. His eyes narrowed in warning, pupils near black from the way he was scoping you out and silently pulling you apart in the clouds of his mind. Price snorted at the tension, but made no attempt to stop it. After all, he liked friendly fire – though, this wasn’t exactly as friendly as it was fire.

“Right,” Ghost grunted, cocking his head at you. His posture was menacing, and you would be smart to ease off the high horse, but you didn’t falter. “Don’t exactly think I caught your name.”

“Maze,” you offered.

Of course, everybody in the racing world only ever went by their biker name. Everybody’s had meaning, a reasoning for being called that. Maze was a name that was pinned to you without so much as a say, based on how effortlessly you could maneuver your way through tangled webs of roads and corners in the midst of chaotic races.

Ghost was a name unheard of, and surely, there was a baleful reason for it.

“Maze,” Ghost repeated with a tongue full of smoking venom. “I guess we’ll see, then.”

It was a threat if you ever knew one, and from the way the others remained perfectly unphased by it, a normal one at best. This was who he was, his true colors, dark and gloomy in comparison to the bright vivids that painted over the city.

Before you could say much else, a blaring sound filled the air, sharp and deafening. It was a shrill in your ears, lacing your eardrums with discomfort

Price’s hand clapped on your back and he gave you a promising grin.

“Best to ready yourself up, doll. I’m excited to see you work your magic.”

You hauled your bike back out on the crowded streets, where electrifying voices shocked through the air like a vice. It was overwhelming, but nothing you weren’t used to. Races were the heat of most cities, and many people partook in the frenzy of events with dripping exhilaration, gathering together in a heap of hectic mess to place their bets on who would come out as the victor.

Tugging your helmet over your head didn’t do much to quiet down the noise, but it allowed you a blanket of dull security, giving you a chance to breathe. You prepared yourself by lining your bike with the others, and when you really studied your surroundings, there were dozens. Each and every bike was crafted with their own unique design and theme, and the drivers occupying them were just as otherworldly. You felt almost like an ant in a big world of antsy animals.

Your gloved hands gripped the handles of your bike, tight and tense, and you sucked in a long breath before releasing it, allowing your shoulders to relax.

Looking around, you noticed Soap was perched next to you on his own bike. When he took notice of you, he propped up his visor to show off his eyes, and from the way they crinkled, you could only assume he was grinning at you. His hand lifted, propping up his thumb in a weak attempt to wish you good luck.

You gave one back to be a good sport, but you knew once the alarms went off and flags were raised, this would be a warzone. There was no friendly competition, only bloodshed and battle.

Ghost’s bike was settled somewhere in front of you by a couple of lanes, and you took a moment to read his body language.

He was just as stiff as before, his shoulders pulled taut and his hands gripping the handles so tight, you were sure his knuckles were white beneath his gloves. His bike was as black as his attitude, nearly disappearing in the night if not for the bright lights reflecting off of them, and his gear matched perfectly with it. The helmet he wore mirrored the design of his balaclava you saw him in, with delicate, white swirls painted on to the mouth of the plastic and etching up to the top.

When you looked at him, he was already looking at you. Even under his visor, you could feel the intensity of his stare, like a looming shadow threatening to pull you by the ankle and yank you into a world of suffocating darkness.

You stared back until he turned away, noticing the small head shake he did to himself, but not minding it.

Competition. This was a competition. May the best racer win.

The wait for the call was dreadful. It racked your bones with unnerving anticipation, edging you towards the fall of a cliff, threatening to push you over. It was a game, body rigid in impatience, but when the sound of a gunshot fired through the air, it all melted away, replaced with premeditated determination.

Instantly, the sounds of revving bikes and screeching tires filtered through your helmet and bled into your ears. Your own joined in the mix, hand quick to accelerate your bike in motion, surging you forward. It was a rush of adrenaline, like a drug shooting through your bloodstream, and it willed you into a state of starved aggression.

All thoughts that had plagued your mind were brushed aside and replaced with nothing but the thought of winning. The prize money was a wealthy sum, and that alone was enough to have you weaving in between the other racers, leaning your body forward for some extra leverage.

Buildings passed by you like a quick blink, the various colors whipping by like a flash. Your vision was filled with the backs of other racers ahead of you, as well as the neon signs that littered every street corner, holograms of food and pretty women from the diversity in night business becoming your most perceived line of sight.

The other bikers were brutal. It showed in the way they tried cutting you off with a sharp flick of their bike when they noticed you trailing behind them, your front wheel nearly kissing their back wheel. It was an aggressive fight for dominance, and for a brief moment, you feared you were biting off more than you could chew.

This was an entirely new city, one you weren’t accustomed to, and these were new riders. You didn’t know the streets like you did back at home, nor did you know the layout for shortcuts. You didn’t know how to adjust to the neon oasis that filled your sight with blinding lights.

The only thing you knew how to do was fight back. And fight back you would.

When you saw the opportunity to speed past the racer in front of you, a man in an all orange suit, you took it. There was a gap so small you were crazy to try and fit through it, but you curled your hand around the bike handle, revving forward and sliding past him so he was on your tail.

You hoped that if Price was watching somewhere, he was somewhat impressed.

The twists and turns of the streets were difficult to maneuver, but not impossible. It was definitely a fight to control your bike on the sharp corners that required lots of tilting of your own body weight, but once you made it past the first couple, it proved to be much smoother than you thought.

The more the race went on, the more your muscle memory of riding came back to you, and it was a thrilling fun rather than a daunting spiral. It coursed through your veins like a fever, and the adrenaline pumped through you in earnest, causing you to feel alive.

The back and forth of you weaving in and out of open vessels caused you to end up in second place, and the only racer ahead of you was none other than Ghost. Now, other riders, you were confident in defeating, but Ghost was a lovely challenge.

He had a couple of yards on you, and the way he controlled his bike was a near work of art. He was positively beautiful at it, and now you were starting to understand his biker name.

Ghost, because he could disappear in the shadows of the night, never to be seen again. Nobody could catch up to him, because he was a spirit in the night riding on a cloud of shadows and devilry.

Maybe you were biting off more than you could chew, because your hands revved up one more time, your upper body leaning impossibly forward on the curve of your bike, and you were determined. If nobody could catch up to him, then you wanted to be the first.

Swerving through impossibly small streets and side alleys, he was becoming more clear in your view. If you could get just a little closer, you’d be neck and neck. With the promise of a finish line approaching, you’d have to do it soon.

Bit by bit, your bike gained proximity. You were nearly right by his side, and the sheer power of it all had your heart thumping like bombs in your chest. He was there, right there, and your win was hanging by a thin string.

Ghost’s head whipped over to look at you when he heard the sounds of your engine, and whatever expression he wore under the helmet, you wished you could see it.

As if fueled by anger, he gripped his handles a bit tighter. The two of you waltzed in a dance of back and forth, fighting for the title of victor. The street was a straight shot now, and you could see the faint holographic sign that hung above the finish line, indicating the near end of the race. It glowed at you, taunted you, beckoned you towards it like a siren of the sea. It sang pretty songs to you, desperate to grab hold of you and claim it as theirs.

The two of you were tightly bound together the closer you got, so close you could practically feel the heat of carbon as it left his exhaust. It scorched you like a blazing fire, but it only proved to encourage you more.

You fought and fought for dominance. The crowds of people waiting at the finish line were as crazed as madmen, shouting and waving their arms, desperate to see who would win.

Just as the finish line became approachable, Ghost surged a few mere inches in front of you, as if waiting for the opportunity. It was a warzone when the race ended, and you slowed your bike to a stop. Taking off your helmet, you gasped for air that was stolen from you from the pure, intoxicating adrenaline, glancing up at the lit up scoreboard that glitched with a chromatic listing of all places that racers fell into.

You were second, Ghost was first.

You wanted to win, yes. But second place was as good as they came for the first race, and you were elated.

The sounds of people celebrating nearly tuned out the angry sound of boots stomping your way. You hadn’t even had a chance to get off your bike before a hand was grabbing hold of your shoulder, whipping you around to come face to face with Ghost. His balaclava remained, even under the confines of his helmet that was no longer there, and his eyes were bristling with those same flames from before that had shifted into a dangerous blaze.

“The fuck was that?” he spat, words stabbing into you like daggers.

“A competition,” you replied calmly, perhaps a bit too cockily. “Was it not?”

Ghost leered at you, shoulders dropping and rising with the heavy breaths he took. His hand was curled into a fist in the collar of your gear, keeping you in place. It tightened its hold, and he leaned closer to your face, glaring into you.

“You need to fuckin’ watch yourself, Maze.” He spoke your name like a sin, as if announcing the Devil himself. “Pull that shit again and you won’t live to see another race.”

He promptly let go of your collar, shoving you away in the process. You could do nothing but watch as he stormed off, out of sight and out of mind. Like a Ghost.

#call of duty #cod #simon ghost riley #cod mw3 #cod x reader #ghost cod #kyle gaz garrick #cod mwii #john price #john soap mactavish #soap cod #simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #street racer au #biker!ghost #biker!soap #biker!gaz

[serpentandlily]

Lost in a Labyrinth Part III Teaser

Lost in a Labyrinth Part III Teaser

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Lonely and heartbroken after his near kiss with Elain, Azriel finds himself at the door to the most exclusive pleasure house in Hewn City, The Labyrinth, taking Rhysand’s cruel advice. What he expected to find was a pretty girl to warm a bed with him for a single night. But instead he finds something he never thought existed—his mate. A mate that is tangled up in something far more sinister than he could ever imagine.

A/n: guys I thought I’d have a lot more time to write today and I, unfortunately, don’t :(( but here’s another lil sneak peek at what’s to come in the Labyrinth Series!

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Part III Teaser

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

…and when he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun.

- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The First Attempt

Poison was the easiest and cleanest way to kill somebody. It involved very little effort on your part, just a slip of the hand to pour the poison into their drink when they weren't looking. It usually didn't involve blood or puke unless you got one of the nastier poisons, which you never did anyways. Some of the girls were more sadistic though and well, you couldn't blame them for it.

But while it was the simplest method of killing someone, it was probably one of the harder ones to pull off. First, faeries had very good senses, especially when it came to smell. One sniff of their drink could expose the poison in it, unless you were able to get your hands on one of the odorless ones. Those were more expensive though and Lydia and Keir certainly weren't willing to fund you guys besides your nightly rate from your clients.

However, when you had made a trip to the apothecary in the underbelly of Hewn City, you had begrudgingly forked over the money for one of those clear, odorless poisons. There was no way anything else would get past Azriel and his shadows.

Your heart ached in your chest as you stared at the decanter of whiskey sitting on the bar cart in your pleasure room. Azriel had been kind to you. He had offered you some mercy by buying out your nights and not returning until that fateful meeting at the party. And while he clearly liked being more dominant while bedding you, his touch had been gentle, soft. No one had ever shown you such care and here you were, plotting out his murder.

But you simply had to do this. Freedom was only one dead body away for you. One more hit and you could finally wash your hands of this place, disappear to another court—perhaps one that would allow you to bathe in the sunlight for the rest of your days, something the citizens of Hewn City had never really experienced.

Kill Azriel.

Kill the shadowsinger and you'll be free to go.

Those had been Keir's exact words.

You had killed before. There was a time when your finger was covered in black lines, a new one added every time you didn't have enough money to pay the house fee or enough for food and had to borrow from Lydia. One every time you failed to perform for a client, no matter what they asked of you. But now you were down to one last mark.

One for the Shadowsinger.

One for Azriel.

You let out a sigh, sitting down at your vanity to brush your hair. Azriel was due to show up any moment now. Ever since that night at the party, he had been coming by at this time every single night. He would buy out all the nights Lydia would allow him to before showing up.

He never even made it seem like he expected sex on any given night. Sometimes the two of you would just cuddle in bed, whispering stories to each other about your lives. Sometimes he would come all tense and frustrated with whatever the High Lord had demanded of him. On those nights you would offer to give him a massage and listen to him complain about how much he hated his work. It seemed like the two of you had that in common, at the very least.

You hadn't made any attempts yet. You told yourself it was because you were planning out the best way to kill Azriel. Poison, knives, strangling. There were a multitude of ways to do it. But you knew deep down what the true reason was. You had grown fond of the Shadowsinger. You didn't want to kill him.

But your wants and needs had never really ever agreed with each other your whole life.

So here you were. Waiting for Azriel to come so you could poison him and be done with this Gods awful place. You wanted out of the labyrinth and unfortunately, this was the only way.

No matter how much you liked Azriel, he was the one standing in the way of your freedom.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #acotar x you #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar

[munariplans]

routine | wanda maximoff

synopsis: a routine to follow; to secretly navigate the delicate balance of your double lives, you and wanda risk it all for just a clandestine affair teetering on the edge of discovery.

wanda maximoff x reader

word count: 2.1k words

warnings: infidelity, angst

a/n: it's only time, and fair, to write for wanda too :)

it all falls into routine pretty quickly; the late-night creaks of her front door, your feet tapping against the solid hardwood of her living room, her arms wrapping themselves around your body, lips finding your own. 

to build a unique relationship that defied categorisation, and to then allow the relationship to morph until it just about justified itself – you weren’t sure who started it first. perhaps it could have been wanda’s lingering glances, could have been your own sharp tongue. either way, you were seeing a colleague that shouldn’t have been your solace, and she hadn’t stopped it either.

it had been a long day at the office. or two days, you weren’t too sure. with a new product launch in the next week, everyone had been working overtime, you didn’t remember the last time you had seen your own wife, and you certainly didn’t remember her reminder to pick up the dry cleaning if you were on your way home. maybe she had even said it last week instead of this one. 

but you did remember the familiar steps to wanda’s house, the ding of her doorbell, the smell of vanilla and wood behind the door. it was already all beckoning to you, the comfort of a place that wasn’t even your own. 

as usual, she opened the door, already dressed in her satin nightgown, hair half-dry from her shower. and you collapsed right into her. wanda stumbled holding you up for a moment, but hearing your satisfied sighs and whimpers from her fingers threading themselves into your hair, followed with your arms melding your two bodies together, she too, couldn’t control the relief she exhaled. 

“you’re late.”

“i know, tom held me back today.”

wanda clicked her tongue. “i saw you asleep in your office last night. wanted to bring you home, but your assistant was working late too.”

she felt you nuzzle your face into her neck, breathing in the lavender and honey from her bath. “mmh. i did.”

“don’t overwork yourself.” her words, and replies, had always been curt. straight to the point, but never malicious. she cared about you, but she couldn’t show so much that she would give you the wrong idea. she knew what this was, after all. a relationship of convenience; a companionship made from two lonely, desperate people. 

she brings you to bed after allowing you to use her shower, your eyes drooping as you lay yourself over her, while she switches on the sitcoms on her television. fingers glide over the splay of your back, absentmindedly tracing the taut muscles there while you relish in her touch. the weight on her own body wasn’t uncomfortable, but more of a reassurance, a reminder, that she was grounded, and so were you, in the present moment. wanda pulls you in even further when the show cuts to a commercial.

there was a notification from your phone, in the bedside table next to wanda. glancing over at it, she feels a certain sting in her chest. she’s not sure why. it wasn’t like it was anything new; she had always known about it, she had full access to your phone anytime she wanted to check on it. 

still, the i love you that you had gotten from someone other than her, while not unfamiliar, irked her. she didn’t know what was up with herself, to only be irritated by something she knew from the start was her reality only now. must be the hormones, it was that time of the month after all. she had already rejected your advances to join you in her shower, and you understood. thankfully. 

you missed the quick swipe of her fingers across your phone, clicking on the message and deleting it. it wasn’t something she wanted you to see tonight. she inspected a few earlier messages, saw that they were causing even more pain to simmer in her chest, and hurriedly shoves it back to where it came from. 

you whined for her fingers to return to where they were, and thankfully, she came back. you mumbled sleepily, “how was your day?”

“we work in the same office, don’t we?” wanda replied, amused. 

“well, different departments.”

“fine,” she quickly said, but at your woeful gaze, she softened, “it was fine. kate invited me for yoga after work. then i got home, tried out a new recipe from the cookbook he got me, and waited for you.”

your fingers interlaced with hers, looking up at her like she put the stars in the sky. wanda found it difficult to swallow the lump in her throat. “you made dinner?”

she nodded. “it’s in the microwave, i can heat it up for you if you want.”

“no, no, it’s okay,” you reassured her, pushing her back down when she tried getting up, “i’m too tired to eat it now. and besides, it’s for him. i shouldn’t…be eating his food.”

“you know–”

“–i know. but i have my boundaries.”

wanda pinches the skin at the nape of your neck for cutting her off. you wince, and she leans down to kiss it, tongue lapping at it quickly after as a way of saying sorry. “it’s that paprikash you like. the one you keep going on and on about. i made it for you.”

a smile crept to your cheeks. “the one jane from legal made for me once.”

the pinch came again, and wanda felt almost guilty at the angry red welt it formed in the wake of her anger. “right. you still fucking her, or…?”

wanda didn’t find the chuckle from your lips even the slightest bit funny. you propped yourself on your elbows, kissing wanda’s neck slowly. “wands…it’s not like that. come on.”

“she wants you. i just know it. everybody knows it.”

“she did invite me out for drinks today,” you quipped, to which wanda sighed irritatedly, but you were quick to recover with, “but i said no. was too tired.”

“because you’re coming home to me.”

“because i’m coming  home to you,” you affirmed. it was only then that wanda let go of the frown on her face, allowing you to come close enough to kiss her, chest rising and falling beneath yours. you held her face as you let her take control, and she brought you down even further to her, as if never letting you go. it was comfortable, and safe, and leaving you lightheaded and giddy, when it really shouldn’t be. 

you really shouldn’t be doing this. but wanda was enjoying this so much, and it would be futile to deny that you weren’t. her skin so soft, her hair silky smooth, there was something just so irresistible about the woman underneath you. she’s got you right in the palm of her hand.

your phone rang this time, and while wanda instinctively shot out her hand to silence it, you were quicker, and took it from her right as her fingers clasped around the device. she groaned in annoyance when you sat up and checked who had been calling you.

“it’s my sister,” you announced, to alleviate some of the jealousy and tension evident in her face. 

wanda listened as you spoke, forcing you to put her on loudspeaker, while her hands ran up and down your thighs, impatient for you to end the call and carry on with what you had been doing to her. she sighed irritatedly each time her name was said, each time your lips even formed the shape of pronouncing it.

“yeah, of course, i know,” you assured your nagging sister, “flight’s at six-thirty. we can’t be late. you’ve booked us business class seats. i got it. natasha and i will be there, sis. we wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world.” 

you felt wanda’s hands lift up your t-shirt, to which you tried pulling her away, but she swatted your hands off first. you reluctantly obliged, as she found your breasts, and began her ministrations on them as you stayed on the phone. she heard her name again, and sat up, lips latching on to your skin, and biting hard. you sucked in a harsh breath, feeling the skin tear before wanda was licking it up again, marking you and then apologising for it. 

“i know,” you continued, wanda kissing up your neck now, purposely as loud as she could. she wanted you to get caught, “look, it’s supposed to be nerve-wrecking. it’s your wedding, for heaven’s sake. i remember when i was getting married to natasha, i couldn’t sleep for weeks! i was just so excited, and–fuck!”

“what was that?” came the voice from the other end. wanda smiled. success.

“n-nothing,” you regained your composure, glaring daggers at her this time, “look, i have to go, but we’ll be there. first thing tomorrow. no, natasha’s not with me right now, i’m sleeping in my office because i have to tie up the loose ends at work before we spend the next two weeks with you for your wedding. i’ll see you soon, alright?’

two weeks. two weeks is far too long. wanda doesn’t want to wait two weeks to see you again. it was her turn to have her glare turn murderous when you ended the call, snatching your phone away from you and shoving it under the drawer. you sighed, indulging her. “six-thirty?”

“i have to go by four, alright? i have to pick up natasha,” a bite to your shoulder, “and get a ride to the airport,” another angry teeth mark. 

it was nearly midnight already. wanda couldn’t believe you failed to tell her you barely had four hours together. “fuck you.”

“wands…”

“seriously, fuck you,” she emphasised, tears already beginning to form at the ends of her eyes. the bitter, choking feeling in her throat too raw to voice out her anger and jealousy. 

“come on, don’t be like this,” you begged, holding her thrashing hands as she tried to buck you off the bed. she refused to let you see her cry angry tears, but you had done so anyway. you held her hands against your chest, kissing them all over until she gave up fighting altogether, until she could only shut her eyes, and face away from you in shame. “you’re always like this.”

“is–it–so–wrong–” she was hiccuping, voice broken, “–to want you around? to have you with me?”

she knows it is. you know it is as well. but neither of you tell the truth around it. you both were too attached to each other to face the reality. “i’ll be back soon, alright? just two weeks. then you’ll have me, for as long as you want. as long as he’s not around.”

wanda let out a cry, heartbreaking and raw; and you bite your own lip in guilt. you hated to see her like this. she never had a problem letting her guard down with you, and you didn’t want her to think it would be a mistake doing so. she cried then, frustrated and angry, “i want to break up! i hate you, i never want to see you again!”

“come on wands…”

“i hate y–” your lips were on hers then, soothing her, placating her, like one would an insolent child. you had released her hands, and they had clawed at your arms, scratching down red, angry lines down your skin. she was doing to you what she couldn’t say out loud. how betrayed she felt, how wrong it was that you were taking her to your sister’s wedding, and not wanda. never wanda.

“just two weeks. i promise. i’ll text you everyday.”

“i want to break up.”

sighing, you challenged her. “...do you really?” 

but then wanda’s lips trembled, her eyes fully glossy now. there were tears streaming down her face, and her nose was turning red. her nails dug into your skin, feeling almost like claws. and after a minute, she shook her head, slowly, sadly. 

you knew it. she could never end it; and neither could you. you always come back. or she does. neither of you want to acknowledge the dirty situation you were in, the games you were playing with each other, and your spouses. how attached wanda was to you, how soft you were for her. it had gained traction, spiralled, and crashed and burned long ago. there was no going back now.

she would threaten ending things with you, you asking her if she really would, and her pulling back just seconds later. the two of you would make up after, never acknowledging how much you actually meant to each other, never saying a word about the other’s feelings. then you would go back home to your wife, and she would wait for her husband to return, and pretend like you were never anything more than colleagues. not even friends, barely acquaintances.

“she’s just someone from work,” you both would say to your spouses, a lie cooked up and chewed and spat out like a routine. and it works, everytime.

#wanda maximoff x reader #scarlet witch x reader #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #marvel cinematic universe #elizabeth olsen #specifically in this scene!

[sunderwight]

crack scum villain theory: there is no "original" Shang Qinghua

how this works is, neither the world of SV nor the world of PIDW actually existed in any tangible sense before Airplane died. Airplane dying was actually the catalyst for the system, and whatever unfathomable cosmic entities are behind it, to recreate the world from the novel. that's why Airplane transmigrates into an infant, and also why the world mostly follows canon up until Airplane interacts too much with actual plot-relevant characters, and accidentally butterfly effects Shen Jiu into a fatal qi deviation. At which point the system determines that a dead Shen Qingqiu makes fulfilling the basic story requirements impossible or at least dangerously low in terms of odds, and brings in the second play (User 002, Shen Yuan).

SY is able to earn more points from the system than Airplane, but that's mostly thanks to his proximity to the protagonist not actual preferential treatment, and he seems to have more concrete restrictions on his behavior and limits on his mobility (OOC lock, entering into an already-established character, and of course being forced to ensure that Luo Binghe goes into the Endless Abyss) (this does make it ironic that he ultimately changes the most things). whereas Airplane seems to have more freedom to do as he pleases. the system doesn't even seem to dock him points for accidentally contributing to the death of a vitally plot-relevant character.

so the SV world was originally supposed to more or less just be the same as the PIDW world. it didn't change to any significant degree until Shen Jiu died.

I suspect, then, that the PIDW world which followed canon didn't exist as any kind of separate reality until Shen Jiu died of a fatal qi deviation and had to be replaced. at which point the system -- perhaps hedging its bets -- created two splintered timelines. one being the original sandbox for Airplane to play in and continue to alter, the other being a manufactured reflection of the story's original outcome, possibly to serve as some kind of emergency back-up character bank or reference outline.

which means that the PIDW version of this reality isn't a full and cohesive world. though of course the people there don't know that. it's mostly just a tool for the system, which is why we first encounter Bingge being utilized as an enforcer. Bingge and everyone else who exists in the PIDW reality, they all remember their past as the story and are at the end point of what Airplane had written, but none of it actually happened. they instead sprang into existence at their narrative end point.

since the Shang Qinghua of Airplane's novel died well before the end of the story, characters in the PIDW have various recollections of a "Shang Qinghua" and his death, but they are vague and ultimately do not reflect the tangible events of a world the way that the SV timeline does. they are artificial memories based on a story. PIDW Shen Jiu likewise never really existed, although SV Shen Jiu did. similarly, all the history of the SV world that supposedly happened before Shang Qinghua was born never actually happened either. that's all constructed as well, which means that in a weird kind of a way, no one in the world can actually be older than Shang Qinghua either. they can only have manufactured memories that give them that impression. which means Airplane is the oldest being in that entire universe. he'd even be older than his own parents, because they were created to be his parents the moment he was born.

so there's no other Shang Qinghua. everything prior to Airplane's transmigration in the SV world and prior to the last PIDW chapter in the PIDW world is like when a video game designer seeds a dungeon with a skeleton and a bunch of notes about how some lone adventurer got lost and died there. at no point in the game was there ever actually a live adventurer in place of that skeleton.

that's "original" Shang Qinghua. he doesn't exist, because in one reality he's only ever been a version of Airplane, and in another he's a skeleton in a video game dungeon.

#svsss #scum villain's self saving system #scum villain

[arrr-im-a-dead-poet]

tyty!! NEEEEED keatcanons!!!!!! (everyone within a 3 mile radius gasps in shock at mona requesting to write abt keating, children cry, women faint, cars crash, etc)

Mona! I’m finally starting on these today! This got pretty long but here you go!

Mr. Keating Headcanons

We all know his favorite poet is Uncle Walt. But what about John Keats? I mean come on, it’s too close to be a coincidence. Perhaps he changed his name when he was young, but tweaked it a bit so that people might not make the connection.

A famous quote by John Keats: “ The poetry of earth is never dead.” Dead Poets anyone? Also, the dead poets would meet outdoors, literally inside the poetry of the Earth. Keating also said: “The name simply referred to the fact, that to join the organization, you had to be dead. Full membership required a lifetime of apprenticeship. The living were simply pledges. Alas, even I am still a lowly initiate.” Therefore, once you are truly a dead poet, you get to live on through the poetry of the Earth, and the words you’ve left behind for others.

He nicknames himself, to have more control over how people address him, probably because he didn’t like his original name to begin with. I imagine his past is full of trauma. So relating to the last point, they called him “Keats” when he was going to Welton, and “Captain” when he was a teacher.

When he went back to Welton to apply to teach there, Mr. Nolan remembered exactly who he was, and all the mischievous legends he had left behind. Keating had to bring up all the receipts and professionalism to prove that he wasn’t that little hell-raiser anymore. He lied.

Keating sees a lot of himself in Charlie, and sees how far Charlie could go down the wrong path, too far into an explosive mess. He wants to steer him away from that, save him from what he’s seen, what he’s lived, what he knows lies ahead from his own experience.

He knew how Todd felt about Neil. He could see it at the play, and when Todd recited his poem, too. Watching Todd watch Neil acting his heart out made Keating’s heart swell, because it was the first time he’d seen Todd be genuinely happy with no anxiety, and the first time he’d seen Neil be truly free.

When he broke the poet out of Todd’s shell in his spoken poem, he knew he was pushing him. He knew Todd would not like it, but he also knew Todd needed a push in the right direction. He knew he needed to know that his words meant something, that they were not worthless and embarrassing. And he was right. Todd gained more confidence after that.

He struggles with depression and suicidal ideation. That’s why he’s the spirit of fun and freedom and laughter. He doesn’t want anyone to have to feel that way. He sees it all over Neil even when he tries to hide it. He knew when Neil left with his father that he wasn’t going to make it through that. He wants to save him so badly that he barely hears Charlie ask if they could walk back after the play.

When Neil asked why he came back there to teach, he knew Neil wouldn’t understand because Neil was feeling so stuck there, but he had always had it in his head to change Welton after growing up there. He got his foot in the door and started a revolution within his students, all for the greater good.

If he could have, he would have taught there for years, until Mr. Nolan retired, and then swiftly took over that position. It would have been his life’s mission to run that place like it should have been, no paddling, no constant demerits, just a place full of creativity, inclusion, and bright young minds. The 1970s would have blossomed there.

#dead poets society #dead poets fandom #dps fandom #dps #dps headcanons #mr keating #john keating #oh captain my captain

[pugh-bug]

No.42 Chapter 3

Art Donaldson x reader slow burn friends to lovers

Sorry for the wait! The day I set aside to get loads done on this I ended up having to visit a family member in hospital, he’s much much better now. Anyway oversharing. I hope you enjoy this chapter! I loved writing it. Let me know if you wanna be added to my tag list 💕

Part 2

——————————————————————

You woke up on Saturday morning to a missed text from Art.

7:58am - text from Art

Sorry if I woke you when I left. Gone to play hard court today hope you slept alright on that couch.

The sudden realisation that you were not in fact in your bed hit you almost as hard as the loose spring in your back. You groaned, reaching for some leftover pizza. None left. You groaned again.

9:26am - text to Art

Did you eat all your pizza?

To your surprise the boy replied immediately, showcasing his ability to read your mind.

9:27am - text from Art

Afraid so :) Look in the fridge if you’re so hungry

The fridge, despite the tightness of your apartment, had never looked so far away. You’d rather wait the nine hours for Art to return and pass food to you through a funnel. He could create some sort of feeding tube, perhaps he could fashion it out of one of the dozen tennis ball containers Patrick left lying around. You hadn’t seen the floor in years.

It took you almost thirty minutes to peel your lifeless body off the sofa and trudge the eight metres to the fridge. Before all of your fingers had grasped the cold metal you caught it. The smell.

The month you and Patrick were flat hunting had been a difficult one, full of stress and disappointments. A week before you found the flat you now called home, Art had found crying outside your favourite pancake place. You didn’t know if Patrick had texted him, giving him a heads up of your less than stellar mood and where to find you, or if he had simply ran into you by accident but one minute he was there.

The two of you had shared your favourite, strawberry and kiwi pancakes with whipped cream, despite having never spent time alone together previously and it hadn’t been awkward. Any awkwardness had come from your inability to keep your emotions to yourself and not a mess for all to see. Art hadn’t minded in fact, unbeknownst to you, he’d greatly enjoyed your company and had had a shitty day himself before your talk.

10:02am - text to Art

Did I ever mention I love you living here??

Sitting proudly in the fridge, in between Patrick’s abandoned pasta and your pathetic amount of cheese, was a plate of strawberry and kiwi pancakes. You looked at the pile of washing up and noticed essence of strawberry still dripping from the chopping board next to a whisk and bowl.

‘God damn…’ you actually moaned aloud at the first bite. Not only were they delicious but they’d been made especially for you for no reason. No one had ever made you breakfast before, unless you counted the time Patrick threw a box of muffins at your head to wake you up for school. It often didn’t take a great amount of effort to impress you, something maybe a therapist needed to hear about, but you felt justified being impressed with Art for this. They were truly wonderful.

10:20am - text from Art

Come thank me in person if you want, Liam is taking another break

You couldn’t help but smile at his little dig at Liam, whether intentional or not it told you everything you needed to know: Art was the better player. Art was always the better player, he usually wiped the floor with anyone who wasn’t Patrick.

It was only a twenty minute walk to Stanford and although you were ashamed to admit it … you had nothing better to do on a Saturday morning. You decided to pack your laptop, so you could kid yourself that this was a productive thing and not just an excuse to watch Art sweat. The damn thing wouldn’t even get opened and you knew it.

It was a hot day, even for Summer it was unforgiving. You pulled at your tank top, attempting to negate any sweat stains by leaving a gap between your wet skin and the thin fabric. No such luck, the car window reflection of yourself showed you the harsh reality. How did Art do it? How did he look sexy whilst sweating? You felt like a drowned dog, heaving and panting in the back of a muggy car trying to see past the drops of sweat in your lashes.

You reached Stanford earlier than you expected and to your great satisfaction, saw no Art present. That gave you ample time to tidy yourself up in the toilets before meeting him. The college had crisp air con, much better than the pathetic excuse for a fan you and Patrick would crowd round on hot days.

Art didn’t text you directions because he didn’t need to. He knew you’d visited Patrick enough times to know your way around all the tennis courts, hard or otherwise. It didn’t take you long to find the right one.

‘Fuck!’

You scanned the indoor courts for the source of the outburst. Art, third court from the left and he was not happy. For a moment you teetered on your feet, unsure if it was better to wait a bit before interfering with their clearly tense match. Before you could make a decision however-

‘Y/N!’

Liam spotted you, putting his racket down immediately to wave you over. He’d once gotten drunk and told Patrick how much he liked you but that it had been so long ago that you’d almost forgotten and his new girlfriend was a tennis star. On the ‘up and up’ as Patrick’s dad would say.

Although Liam’s hug was intense, sweaty and pretty uncomfortable you were too focused on Art to cringe. He was rubbing his face with his hands, looking more pained than you’d ever seen him. You didn’t know why. He’d been playing well before you arrived.

Noticing the object of your frown, Liam suddenly grinned even wider. ‘He just lost the third set.’ Art took a large swig of water, not noticing the way you stared in awe at the angle of his jaw and the wet curls on his forehead. He was too focused on the racket he was clutching fiercely enough to force the veins of his forearm to pull your attention.

‘I know it’s not over yet,’ Liam panted slightly, clearly Art had still run him ragged. ‘But this never happens - never.’ In the years they’d played together, Liam had never beaten Art. Not in singles or doubles. Not on hard court. Not on clay or grass. Never. You were not convinced, however, that poor Liam had never won a set before so you voiced your opinion without thinking.

‘Art, you can still win. It’s fine!’

Art shot you a glare. It didn’t last long but it burned you a little, the intensity of it. He wanted so badly for you to be right, for it to not matter to him. ‘It’s just a game’ well it wasn’t to Art. It was his entire future and if he lost - if he lost ever - it was him throwing that future away.

‘You’ll win the fourth.’ You smiled, reassuringly. That lifted Art a little and bruised his partner.

‘I thought we were stopping for a bit since Y/N’s here.’ Art watched your face for a reaction, daring you to decide for the three of them. Without removing your eyes from Art you smiled. ‘No, no. I’ll watch.’

You watched them play for another hour and a half. Art just won the fourth set, by the narrowest of margins but that gave him the confidence boost he badly needed to destroy Liam in the fifth. Th-wack! Smash. Th-wack! Slice. Th-wack! Topspin. You were honestly confused why Liam bothered serving. If it had been you - well - let’s just say the floor would have made a more than sufficient bed. It was certainly making a sufficient seat for you to watch Liam get massacred. God was Art good.

‘You win…’ Liam was dripping, his white shirt almost see-through. ‘I need a sec…’ So did you. It was practically a workout just watching them. You clapped as Art walked over to you, looking very satisfied with his win. ‘You happy now?’

‘Very.’

As Liam rung out his shirt, Art gestured to the court with his racket. ‘You and me. One game.’ His eyes were full of amusement.

‘Ha.’

You’d die.

‘One set?’ He smirked, desperate for you to humour him. Not today. ‘Absolutely not.’ You laughed, standing up.

‘Actually, I’d love lunch right now,’ Liam’s suggestion was a necessity. ‘After a shower.’ And so was his afterthought. They both needed one desperately. Art’s hair didn’t even look blonde anymore.

‘Yeah you two go, I’ll wait then we can get food. I’m not super hungry but I can always eat.’

Liam was already rushing to the showers, practically leaving a pool of loser evidence behind him but Art heard. He looked like he was waiting for something from you and for a moment, in your haze, you wondered what. Oh!

‘The pancakes,’

‘Hm.’

‘De-licious.’

‘Good.’

You could tell he was happier with your compliment than he was letting on. The truth was Art craved praise, mostly for tennis but for anything he accomplished. It didn’t matter if he’d made a three tier cake, organised a trip or won every set in a match he wanted to know he’d done good.

‘Seriously, how did you even find the recipe?’ The two of you walked together out of the hall. ‘I’ve been asking the staff for years, pretty sure they hate me now actually.’

‘I have my ways.’ He grinned. ‘Now, I’m gonna go shower-‘

‘Good, you stink.’

‘Fuck off.’

Taglist: @gatorgirl007 @imblushingrn

#art donaldson slow burn #art donaldson friends to lovers #art donaldson fan fic #challengers art donaldson x reader #challengers art donaldson #art donaldson fic #art donaldson fanfic #art donaldson x reader #no.42 #Mike faist #challengers #slow burn #art donaldson fanfiction #x reader

[nuumbie]

BRIGHT STAR

Prompt: And so live—ever or else swoon to death. Dain, what does that strand of hair mean to you? Someone you must kill? Or an object of your penitence?

Author’s Note: The Road Not Taken Trailer stuck with me. Abyss Prince/Princess ! Reader. Something overtook me while writing this… I wrote this so I’ve officially have proof of writing for all three fandoms this blog writes for… but at what cost… ( my sanity )

Trigger Warnings: Depression and not being mentally good is pretty heavy handed, the idea of “missing” someone, grief and loss, just generally upsetting mental concepts. And of course. Genshin Spoilers…

Codependency, babes!

Cursed to live as an immortal. His life no longer belonged to only him. For every life which could no longer speak-- he would live in their place. Until his body had decayed. Until he could no longer move.

And that day would never come. It would haunt him forever until he’s become so numb to everything.

When he meets you all he's managed to save is the sky. The sky to the world which has taken everything from him. He wondered if his brethren would be happy to continue the shared existence of this world even after they’re gone. To care for the soil which they once lived.

Yes, he was a traveler back then — directionless and without a purpose. Without meaning. A wanderer without a home to return to.

Such different lives. Yet you met at the same road at the same time. Khaenri'a Land. He remembers the destruction, the screaming, all the lives lost.

You share those memories. Why was it. That fate chose to let you both live? Was it destiny’s cruel game? That you both found yourselves in the same world with the same matching wounds.

He wonders when you changed paths?

The world moves on while you both stand there. Firmly rooted in that place and time. Perhaps, he could have stayed there forever.

He remembers— you’re the one who broke the silence. The memory grows farther and farther. But his time with you is something he’s yet to let go.

“The Gods.” you walk next to him, you’ve already seen to found your answer as you tilt your head up towards him. You’re the first pair of eyes in a long time who’s peered into him to acknowledge his existence. He hasn’t communicated in awhile. He can’t remember how long. “Are the worst.”

He stares out at the fallen rubble before meeting your gaze. There’s a burning light. “They are.”

“The Gods look down at the people all the same, yet they meddle with their lives and twist them so.” you laugh. “It’s just not fair. Why is it out of my control?”

Dainsleif’s eyes catch the bodies underneath the rubble. “It’s not fair. You’re right.”

“Hey, you’re traveling too, right? I know you are.” You glance over the fallen wreckage as if that’s proof enough that he’s looking for somewhere to go. “I’m a traveler too… I’m looking for my sibling.”

He can hear the yearning in your tone. You have faith unlike him. He acknowledges. You still have a chance.

Your voice says you believe that so firmly with all of your heart. Dainsleif glances at the gathered proof there’s nothing left for him at his feet.

“…”

“Come with me.” You finally say. “Travel with me.”

“Why?”

“I’m lonely.” Is your only reply. You don’t look at him. A life-long regret. He’ll never have gotten to known what you were thinking. Not really. “You seemed lonely, too.”

Did he?

He hadn’t noticed.

He thinks about it.

And he has nothing else to do but to live.

“500 mora.”

“Huh?” You squint your eyes. “I— that’s too cheap. Why? Is this a weekly payment or something?”

“In a way it is.” He sighs. “500 mora every week.”

“It should around as much money needed to buy the ingredients for sticky honey roast.”

You give him the stink eye.

But you’re lonely enough to begrudgingly take the mora out into his hands.

And so you both go on a journey. People change lives. You’ve changed the impact of his.

-

Your first stop is Mondstadt. He’s buying the ingredients for tonight’s dinner. He has a bit extra change to spare. Mondstadt’s prices are cheap.

It’ll get harder to save when you reach the other nations. So, it’s better to save up now.

He realizes you’ve escaped his side a little too late. He looks around— when he isn’t looking you’re already a distance away from him. Even though you’re the one who asked him to walk this path with you.

You’re staring at the Mondstadt Fountain. In hindsight. It’s a very pretty fountain. But you’re staring at the water a bit too closely. He walks up from behind you and stares at his own reflection which looks back at him.

You both do look strange in comparison to the locals. People have been giving you both odd-stares. He makes a face at the water and tries to smile.

He doesn’t look very accommodating nor welcoming at all. His smile drops. And he’s glad that your eyes are always directed everywhere but him.

Glancing towards you. You don’t look at the water like it’s a reflection of yourself but something else.

You finally notice his staring though it’s far too late. You jump up a little — but you pretend like you weren’t so lost in thought that you hadn’t noticed him sneak up on you. Like always. He doesn’t tell you he knows. You’ve fallen into a pattern like that.

“Do you have a coin?” You glance at him and try to change topics quickly. “Dain.“

“Ah.” He looks at you and blinks as he realizes what’s going through your head. Though, he wonders if it’s something else. You were staring at your own face. “Oh, that is a Mondstadt Custom. Making wishes… I see.”

He takes out the coin. The leftovers. It’s a meaningless gesture. But, you stare at him like it’s what matters most in this world.

The borough keeper does not have anything to wish for. He realizes rather quickly. He glances down at the coin.

His hand grows a little shaky at that thought. Nothing to wish for. So, he instead directs it towards you.

“You should do it, then.” He offers the coin to you. “You’re the one who has a wish. So, why should I?”

Dumbly, you take it. “Huh? Seriously…?”

“Fine… I guess I will then…”

You think— it doesn’t take that long.

Not nearly as long. You’ve already have your mind up. You glance at the water. “I’ll have to make it come true myself in the end. I’m still going to work as hard.”

“Then, what’s the point of the wish?” Dainsleif asks.

“It’s insurance.” You sigh. “It’s comforting. You seriously have no trace of romance in your heart.”

“What did you wish for?” Dainsleif looks at the coin sunken at the bottom of the fountain.

“If I say it then it won’t come true. You’re meant to keep it a secret, Dain. That’s how wishes work.”

Is that so?

He knows what you wished for. But he doesn’t say it.

Some things are better kept never never said.

-

He's growing older.

You travel to a Liyuan Village, Quingce. It's the perfect day. You’ve both arrived at perfect timing. They’re holding a small festival to celebrate the living.

The joy they experience is vibrant. In comparison. The both of you stand out. Throughout the laughter, the joy, you both sit there in relative silence. Two unhappy people painted against a happy scene.

The sky being dyed in such unnatural colors reminds him of memories that are turned into reasons. He wonders what those colors mean to you? He wonders what goes on in your head.

You're whispering. Do you expect him not to hear? The sound of the fireworks is loud. Each with a loud pop. He wouldn't expect you to be paying attention to him instead of the loud bursts of light.

"We don't belong in this world." Is the words that leave your mouth. He doesn't respond. You repeat it quieter. "We don't belong here."

You’re looking at the children.

You’re curled up in fetal position. Your knees pressed against your chest. It looks painful. You stand at a ten foot distance to him.

You don’t say anything else and continue to watch the fireworks.

When you walk back to your hotel room your voice is weak and you’re clutching tightly to your own shirt.

“Dain.” You make conversation. “Do you think we could be happy?”

He doesn’t know.

“There’s still a long way ahead. Don’t lose hope.”

“I know I can’t.” You sigh. “I know that.”

“It’s just hard sometimes.” You look outside. “They don’t know a thing.”

“It’s just unfair.” You laugh. “Why can’t I live like that?”

“But that’s how it is.”

“…”

There’s a silence which lasts only a little. It seems you don’t wish to continue down this line of thought. You give.

“Guess so.” Your eyes meet his and you smile sheepishly. “I’m glad I know you. I’m not alone.”

But you are. That’s why you asked. Because you felt there was nobody who could understand.

And, perhaps, he still doesn’t know you either. No. He’s sure he doesn’t.

When you bring a topic up. It’s very likely you never bring it up again.

He doesn’t usher it out of you. The next morning you wave the children goodbye— wishing them happy lives.

They’re younger than you both yet you’ll both grow to outlive them. You’re fundamentally different. Dainsleif presumes that’s the same case with you both as well.

-

In Inazuma you take a quick resting stop. You plan on camping that night. You seem enraptured that night. You’ve gone into the slow flowing river. It seemed clear. So, he hadn’t stopped you.

You reach your hands towards a bright sky.

You’re in a far off place. He wonders if he could reach you if he really tried.

He doesn’t bother. He sits there and watches your distant figure watch the stars.

He watches after you. Some days. He feels like a bystander in your life.

You stay like that for awhile before you finally return to him. You’re holding your shoes in your hand— you drop them before awkwardly plopping yourself next to him.

“They told me if I was ever lost. All I needed to do was look up to the stars because we’d be looking up at the same sky.”

"I wonder what they'd think if they saw it. The stars are beautiful here. Even though the sky itself is the cause of all my problems. I still love the stars. They won’t ruin it for me.”

“Dain, what do you think?”

You’re not really asking him.

“It’s nice.” He responds. “I think they’re beautiful, too.”

You rarely talk about yourself he notices. You rarely think about yourself.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

“I do. But it hurts. Does that make sense, Dain?”

“It does.” He replies and he hopes that gives you some ounce of peace.

You smile a little. He wishes it could last.

You’re someplace far away. He looks down at you— and, making a move, for the first time he offers you his hand.

You take it and fall asleep against his shoulder.

He clings to your warmth and holds you.

When he wakes up you’re already gone.

You revert back to your normal and neither of you bring it up. But even if it’s left unspoken.

It’s already been said.

-

In Sumeru while exploring the wilderness you’ve sunken to your knees. The sight of something has caught your attention.

It's rare to see you stray from your goal.

You gaze down at the white flowers for a few seconds. Most often your eyes dance around. It's very rare that something strikes you enough to linger on. To hold still for just a moment in time.

It's rare that you let anything hold you back. Each nation. You grow a little faster. A little more distant.

You glance up at him, wordlessly as you go to kneel to clutch the flower between your palms, it's often that you do things just like this. Ask him to speak up on the matter and info-dump so you can understand the world better. It's the little conversation you both have.

“Dain, what is this?”

"It's a flower native to Kharenri'ah." His heart winces a little at the word. It appears that the wound has not mended itself. It won't ever. He's made peace with that. He merely wonders when he'll learn to live with that truth. "It's called the Intreyvat. It has 2-weeks before it wilts. It's aligned with elemental energy as for why it glows. Elemental Energy isn't edible nor does it taste very good for those who've tried it. So please do not eat it."

You don't respond. So he continues with other facts assuming you're not satisfied. "It's called the wanderer's flower for it's properties which--"

"I'm not going to eat it, idiot. I'm not insane to eat flowers. You're my emergency food rations." Contradiction. He thinks that cannibalism is more insane than eating flora. But, he chocks it up to either sarcasm or a testament to your oddness. It's likely the former. Your face warmed up. Embarrassed that he’d even imply it. Melanin rushing straight to your face to the tips of your ears. you whisper, hushed, as you cradle the flower delicately in your arms. Like it can hear your argument. It can't. It’s not alive in that sense. a fact he would point out. But he knows it’s not the time for that. He opts for silence as he usually does. "They just grew these back home. My actual home. Before it got destroyed."

You have a deep longing in your eyes. All-consuming devotion. "Some things remain constant through different worlds. There's likely another you somewhere on one of the many worlds that exist."

"I saw these with my sibling when I first arrived at Teyvat. The flower were the first thing we saw. A field of them." you churn out. your grip on the flower grows tighter. it's petals crush beneath your fingers at how tight you hold it. you don't seem to notice. " All things meet similar fates. So, of course these flowers were meant to fade away in this world too."

"It’s okay. These aren’t actually my homeland’s flowers. It’s not mine.” You laugh as you let go of the flower. leaving the crushed white petals lay dirtily discarded on the floor. "It was never mine. But the sight of it regardless bought me joy."

It's left in the dirt. You stand on wobbly knees. He thinks to mention it but you have enough to worry about already.

Dainsleif knows it’s better not to linger as well. So he chases after you. At some point it changed from him walking meaninglessly.

He drifts after your footsteps. Behind you.

-

You’re always changing. Slowly, bit by bit, the person he met so long ago becomes a stranger distant in his mind.

Time is passing. He doesn’t keep track. Do you?

When you’re at Fontaine you finally let yourself break.

So maybe you are. It explains why you finally go mad. The process of traveling place to place.

It must have been draining.

His hand curls around your face. You’re both doing an odd-job for money to travel so often from place to place.

You’ve both finished killing another hilichurl camp which stood in the way. Wiping the splattered blood from your cheek. A little too closely but you don’t seem to mind. “Is it yours or theirs?”

You don’t answer. Which does nothing to ease his worries. He goes to wipe the rest of the blood to see if you have any injuries. This isn’t like either of you. To dote on another like this. These moments are sparse, few and far between in your own words until you’re at a certain breaking point — nothing more than travel companions until you need someone to catch you before you fall. That’s why you called for him.

Because you were alone. Because he was alone.

It’s transactional.

It should be, anyway. You tremble and bite your lip hard enough that it bleeds. What you have feels heavier than that.

“I don’t want to ever kill another hilichurl again.”

Ah.

“We’ll never have to kill another one again.” He tries to soothe you. “We can stop taking requests like this.”

It must be bad. You’re holding still. Barely reacting to the feather-light touch. He squeezes your face.

You react at that. Your eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He lets go once he sees that’s enough to rouse you out of your own head.

“We should take a break.” He finally says. “We haven’t had one in awhile-“

“I don’t want to stop.” You reply back. “It gets worse when we stop.”

You‘ve been tired for a long time.

Wiping the rest of the blood on his cape. He doesn’t struggle. But that doesn’t mean he’s entirely indifferent to the process. But he never struggles against you. So he doesn’t even budge. He just looks at you with that prey animal stare reserved for only you. “Ah.”

“My cape.” He holds the tassel and flops it around. As subdued and subpar as it is. “Isn’t a napkin.”

“We’re both dirty, now.” That brings an odd joy he’ll have to worry about later. You ramble as you use it to wipe your tears away as well. “Now we both need showers and…”

“…”

“Dain.” You ask quietly. “Why do you stay with me?”

Oh.

You’re not yourself. You’ll regret this later. He comforts you now and answers regardless.

“I care about you even if it doesn’t seem that way at times.”

You stare at him like his words are hard to believe. Your mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Who would expect that? He can see the thoughts racing behind your eyes. But, what you settle on is— “You’re so stupid.”

You don’t seem entirely unhappy with his answer despite the words that you say considering you’re laughing. It’s an oddly sad laugh.

He tries to ignore the pink color that rises to his cheeks.

“So stupid.” You cry a little harder.

He knows you wish someone else could hold you.

He knows that it isn’t the same nor will it ever live up to the real thing.

-

You both never purposefully kill a Hilichurl again.

He does his best to avoid them on the roads. Whenever you see one — a deep sadness falls over you. So, he does his best to stifle that grief and ease that burden,

You haven’t asked as much questions lately since arriving at Natlan. You’ve quit speaking entirely at some points in time.

Your light has dimmed. This world is killing you.

“Dain?”

“Why do you travel at all?”

He stares at you through a mouthful of mushroom-chicken skewers.

You’ve never asked before. You’ve asked all sorts of questions. But never that.

“It was sort of implied at the fountain that you didn’t know.”

“Did you figure it out, Dain?”

…

Maybe he did.

He thinks about keeping it to himself. Holding on to that answer just this once.

But maybe it’s something worth saying.

No, maybe it’s something…

He just wants to admit. To say out loud. Just once.

Even though he knows you know.

“I want to see your journey to its end.”

You instantaneously groan.

“I’d thought you’d answer that.” You pout. “When did you grow so obsessed with me?”

He doesn’t know himself. He doesn’t know why or how.

“You should live for yourself.” Hypocrite. “Beyond Khaenri'ah and beyond me.”

Dainsleif sighs and…

He continues. Despite the voice in his head. Telling him it likely isn’t right.

“I really like you.”

Time stops.

He’s a little surprised the words actually came out of his mouth. But they did.

He can’t take it back now that it’s been said. That’s how it works.

“Huh?”

He could pretend that his words had a different meaning. He could create some lie. And you could just eat it up.

But he chooses not to. Why is that?

“I like you. That’s why I wish to see it through with you. I wish to see you happy. Typically. You wish to be with the people you like.” He repeats. Louder. So you can’t misinterpret it or pretend you’ve heard him wrong, He chews on the mushroom skewer. Feeling his face heat up. Some days. He wished his mask covered the entirety of his face.

He feigns how okay he is with these words leaving his mouth. Pretends like he isn’t pouring a deep part of himself out to you. “Don’t mind where. I just wish to be by your side.”

“You’ve been my reason for awhile now.“

“I want to see you achieve your own happiness. If I could be there till your end. I would.”

And he continues. A little too much. He realizes. He stops and looks at you to use as measure for how much he’s talked.

Quite a lot. You stare at him in horror.

“I— don’t repeat it!” You yell and look around like somebody can hear you both. There’s nobody for miles. In the end. It’s always you both alone. “What’s gotten into you?”

“You asked.” Dainsleif points out and bites down on the shame. “I answered.”

“..-!?”

“It wouldn’t work.” You stumble. “You and me—“

“It doesn’t have to be as lovers. My… current goal… the… reason I’m traveling with you… what I want most is just… to see you be okay.“

“Your terminology was confusing! It’s not my fault—“

“But if you want to entertain the idea… of… us being partners and such. I wouldn’t mind traveling with you. To see other worlds. If you could bring me.” He can’t bear to look at you. “Though, I have a task as a Borough Keeper… I…”

“You wish for me to live for myself. Is that not proof I am? Willing to find a reason to live past that role?”

“T-Travel with me…” the room grows hotter. “Wait, that’s not the point!”

“It still doesn’t work!” You yelp. “Just…”

“…”

“Maybe at the end of the road when I reunite with my...” You mumble. “I… no…”

“No… I don’t think… you… we should.”

…

“We shouldn’t.”

You don’t explain why.

Dainsleif flushes… and looks away. Understanding. He tries to be understanding.

Even if he’s not very good at it.

“I understand… I told you. I just… wish for your happiness.”

“You shouldn’t.“

…

And you don’t elaborate. You never really do.

He doesn’t understand how bad it gets until it’s too late.

-

Because you were right.

Thinking about it now, it was an omen, a warning more than anything. You likely should have thrown him loose a long time ago.

Did you not think about that? Or was it now when everything’s finally proved that this was where your path must lead? Were you hoping that there was another option?

Was this your last choice?

Well, it’s already history. You must have known that. That’s why you were so insistent on it. To limit the heart-ache. The tragedy. If you held on even tighter. Then, the pain of separation would hurt even more.

You’re already painfully familiar.

You should have never offered your hand to him at all. But it was this journey it was knowing which made you into this, wasn’t it?

He was there to witness your unraveling. And he didn’t do a thing to stop it.

The sword has pierced through his stomach. He’ll survive. That’s what he was cursed to do. To eternally grieve. You know that. You aren’t actually trying to kill him. You’re sparing him. And that’s even more painful.

There’s no light in your eyes. You’ve chosen the road ahead. It’s a road you cannot travel back from. You will die. You will destroy everything. And you will repeat the endless cycle of bloodshed.

This is the second time his reason for living was entirely stolen. How fun. How grand. How sick. But he should have known, too. Even if you’re immortal as well—

The things he loved were bound to get torn from him. His life will forever be a game of give and take.

“There’s nothing else.” You glance out into the darkness. “For me to see. I’ve seen it all. And it’s driven me mad.”

“I understand now. You don’t have to follow me anymore. You’ve done your job of seeing me through to the end. And I thank you for that. You’ve been a good guide. I’ve cherished this time together.”

Like this isn’t it. As if you aren’t severing your paths entirely. You dig the sword deeply into his stomach like you’re cutting whatever has connected you both all this time to each other.

But it did matter. Everything mattered. It mattered so much to the point where you’ve come down to this. He holds the sword and tries to push it out.

You’ve detached. When was it when you pulled yourself away from him entirely? He never noticed the gap between you had grown so deep.

“Dain.”

“You’re not joining me are you?”

“I’m not.” He responds from the floor. He chokes on his own blood. It isn’t the first. Nor will it be the last time. He can see his future from here. Because life refuses to let him live languid life. He could never agree with the tragedy you intend to cause. The world you wish to ruin— still belongs to him. “You’re right. I can’t agree. I could never agree.”

And more than that, you’re likening yourself to a monster. This path. Paved in blood. If you walk it you will be no better than them. You’re making a mistake. You’re so much more than this. And he knows. Because he was there for you for so long.

“If this is the path you plan to take. I will oppose for eternity.” He spits.

For some reason that gets you to share with him a rare smile.

The way you smile at him then still haunts his dreams.

“I knew you could do it.”

It is your hands which he trusted so which push him into the abyss. The hands which he had done his best to have lovingly held. It is his first betrayal.

And yet he still tries to have faith.

Your paths diverge…

But regardless of that.

You’re not out of reach.

He can still save you.

Is this how you’ve felt all this time? With a flickering inch of hope? Given so little yet still believing in that faint chance of reunion?

He’ll force your paths back together himself.

-

Mondstadt.

He’s begun to try to count the time.

He just measures it against the day which took everything.

500 years.

He's come here before. The bar called Dawn Winery’s-- it's peaceful in comparison to the other worlds. Though so dreadfully close to Celestia. You’re close. He knows you are. Thus why he’s here to begin with.

The bartender has changed again since he was last here. He’s witnessed many faces since that time so long ago. He almost got mistaken. It seems it’s the previous incarnation’s son? He wears his father's skin, has his bright crimson hair, the only thing lacking is the life in his eyes. He must not be have taken the loss well.

Dainsleif's taste buds have faded with time. But the wine goes down as easily as he remembers. He relies on his sight to enjoy it. It’s changed over the years. The bottle itself. The liquid’s color isn’t as he remembers and it never is the same—

Footsteps.

A familiar voice.

He can feel time pause.

“Hi… I’m an adventurer from the adventure’s guild!”

He doesn’t respond.

The voice is insistent despite him clearly ignoring them.

“How do you do… I’m an honorary member of the Knights of Favonius!”

If he turns around, if he wants so deeply, then it feels as if it’ll be even farther. If the very act of wanting will make it so Celestia tears it away from him.

But the voice continues. A different one. There’s another. There’s two?

“Wow… he has no intention of paying us any mind.”

“So… uh… I’m a traveler.”

Two people, one pair of footsteps. This isn’t an ordinary person.

…

Dainsleif doesn’t look back but he repeats a question. A question from a long time ago.

“A traveler you say. Why do you travel?”

He can feel the awkward smile tugging on the other party’s lips. There’s a light. Unending. Unendurable.

“Well… looking for my lost relative… could it be possible that you’ve seen them?”

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #dainsleif #dainsleif x reader #🗑️ trash writes #x reader #finally the holy trinity is completed #i’m sorry this is all based on the line where he talks about saving #dainsleif canonically goes ‘i can fix them’. he can’t. 😭😭😭 #technically can be read as Dain Aether or Dain lumi #but they’re self inserts for a reason… let me project #genshin angst #genshin impact x reader

[seaofgoldensand]

a love so cruel, it's a sin.

rafayel x mc (they/them | GN reader)

god of the tides, forbidden sea timeline

word count: ~1.5k

tw: angst, blood, murder, stabbing, major character death

summary: love will be the downfall of lemuria. rafayel has heard this one too many times and thought of it as a bunch of rubbish words, not that he would ever fall for someone, right? how can someone fall when all they have been taught is to protect and rule over an entire civilization. he would have a horrible wake up call that forces him to choose... his people, or them.

writer's note: this is the first time i'm using they/them, so if you see any mistakes or me using feminine pronouns, please excuse it. i'll look through this again at a later time. anyways, i hope you all enjoy this because phew... it's been a while since i posted something like this and oof. just stashing it.

to kiss a lemurian is to grant the human the ability to breathe underwater. 

they remembered something in the myths they read through the duration before the day they were to be sacrificed to satisfy the sea god and keep the lands safe from the god’s rage. so they had already accepted their faith; however, of course that acceptance washes away like the waves crashing against the ship that held the offerings and them.

rafayel, annoyed by the humans, could only scoff as he overheard the men speaking about what the sacrifice and offerings will do for the sea god. all rubbish. 

and he thinks they’re no better than the rubbish he was brought up to believe in or rather place his duties upon. 

to protect and rule over the entire civilization of lemuria. 

love would be the downfall of lemuria. 

suppose the seas are lucky that rafayel had no inkling when it came to love. it was hard to even form some understanding with the concept when it was never introduced. his devout follower shouldn’t have anything to do with him possibly falling in love with them. they were just a tool for the elders (such as himself) to ensure the survivability of lemuria. 

the elders never truly cared for anything else other than their sea god and lemuria.

and rafayel had no inkling as to why he would save the human, perhaps it was to get back at the humans for the misconceptions about sacrifices and to appease the angry god or perhaps he was so desperate to find a devout follower just to get elder amund off his back about the prophecy. regardless, he now had the human with him, but he didn’t know how much they were going to mean to him.

the elders saw it immediately the moment rafayel brought the human into one of the rooms rather than in some cellar below the palace. they see the way rafayel looks at his newfound devout follower and what was once something innocent and nothing derived from feelings within they had made sure rafayel would never experience to make the ceremony run as smooth as possible. 

the past transgressions of the prior sea god were beginning to show in rafayel and the elders have then since begun panicking. somewhere in the cracks of the prophecy on the slate spells the tragedy of a god falling in love with a human and the downfall of lemuria would commence.

it was hidden underneath the gold paint that was near impossible to wash off, so no one, but the elders knew of the mistakes that were made and what had to be done in order to ensure the fall of lemuria will never come true. 

that is why rafayel’s teachings had nothing to do with falling in love. if anything, they would deter him from even looking into the subject. 

“what exactly is love, elder amund?”

“something that will bring down the entirety of the civilization we have lived with for many years.”

“is it truly that horrible?”

“love blinds you from your duties. it pulls you into the depths of nothingness—a facade of something beautiful that evidently makes you forget your people. you... forget who you are.”

rafayel thinks thinks it’s a bunch of bullshit, but then again, the concept of love never crosses his mind. if he were to pursue such a thing, it would be to spite the elders. and so he thought that was exactly what he would be doing.

until it wasn’t just out of spite, but out of feelings that they managed to pull from him. it is shared between glances towards one another, the subtle brush of rafayel’s fingers against theirs, and the fleeting kisses the god would steal from them. 

it is only a tragedy when the god loves a human back. 

rafayel figured out what the elders were planning to do. the day he brought the human back to the surface under the guise of having them show him what the sunrise looks like, he meant to keep them there and not to return to lemuria, but little did rafayel know that the elders had already spoken to them about the truth of the ceremony.

how rafayel needs their heart otherwise he and the rest of lemuria would be turned to seafoam and all its glory would crumble to ruins. they agreed to continue the ceremony unbeknownst to the god himself. that is until something his devout follower stated made him aware that they were willing to give their heart just for him to continue his duties. 

his duties he never wanted to begin with. 

and it is then that he utterly despises, not only the elders, but his existence in general.

the night comes to where all hell is let loose. 

rafayel had made it clear to the elders that he would not abide to prophecy and surely there is some other way to maintain the entirety of lemuria without having to cut the heart of a human out of their chest. 

“it is rubbish.” 

“it is the prophecy, rafayel!” 

“then i refuse to do so... i—” 

“do not speak it, those words should not be carried through the currents.” 

rafayel pauses with a smirk on his face. “i love them. i will not take their heart even if they are willing to do so.” 

“rafayel!” 

but rafayel was already gone and meeting with his now lover, holding them close and cupping their face. they share a kiss and then more, limbs tangled between the sheets as they proclaim their love to one another. neither of the two lovers knew of the horrors that would come after their first and last time intertwined both in body and soul.

that would be their final night together. spoken secrets between the two, the pinnacle of lemuria’s impending downfall. 

it comes too quickly and rafayel is enraged by his foolishness. he is too late when he meets with them again. he already felt something off. the way they smiled at him wasn’t the way he remembered them doing so. it felt distant, as if something else was controlling them. they weren’t the person he had allowed himself to fall for. 

“rafayel, my love... come closer. i’ve missed you. i need you.” they whisper with a knife behind their back. “let us leave this place and live together happily. would you not like that, my lord?”

“you—” he shakes his head, but his feet move. his body yearned for theirs, there’s a scent he catches from them, oddly enough through the currents of the water that pushes against them, their clothes flowing by it and he couldn’t help but continue the steps towards, almost as if hypnotized as he gets closer to to them before stops before them. “this is not you.” 

“or perhaps... you never know who i truly was. did you not wish to take my heart for the sake of all of lemuria? how foolish, rafayel. you are utterly fool—” 

they stop the moment rafayel grabbed their face and pressed his lips hard against theirs as if somewhere in the back of his head, that kiss would break whatever spell the elders had placed upon her. “come back to me.” he whispers, desperately as he clings onto them. “come back to me, and we will escape this place. just me and you—” 

but his efforts are proven futile; his lack of ascension to godhood did not match the ancient powers of the elders who have lived much longer than he has. their magic is far more potent than anything he was able to conjure. and he knows this the moment he feels a dagger—his dagger—stabbed through his chest. the blade twists and pulls, repeatedly. he lost count after the first few stabs and yet he holds onto them tighter. 

“i will not... i cannot kill you like they wish for me to do... my love, my devout follower... my... my beloved pearl.” he speaks weakly, between harsh breaths. 

but he watches as his lover’s face twists into something foreign to him. the look in their eyes lost to the spell and he watches as their resolve slips.

they’re laughing.

they’re taunting.

“oh, rafayel, help me! help me! save me from this wretched curse placed upon me!” they giggle with a mocking tone that pierces through rafayel's chest until he finds himself collapsed on the floor.

he couldn’t understand if this was their true nature or the nature of the spell, but he feels the pain intensifying even more as his lover’s face contorts to something of sheer insanity. they flee the palace and the wake of their rampage, shrills coming from within the palace walls carry through his ears. and his final moments punctuated by the elders filing into the room. 

“we tried to help you, sea god.” 

“those who go against what is written in the prophecy must be punished.” 

“this is what lemuria becomes because of your betrayal.”

“this is your fault.” 

“you chose them over your people; you chose love... and love will be the downfall of lemuria.”

the words ring in his mind as visions of lemurians being slaughtered fills his head and the last of it was the beginning and ending to the lemurian civilization and whalefall city brought to ruins with the rest of lemuria soon to follow suit.

all because he had chosen love. and tragedy spares no one, not even the gods.

#not beta read btw #blood #stabbing #murder #major character death #angst #rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel lnd #lnd rafayel #rafayel lnds #lnds rafayel #rafayel l&ds #l&ds rafayel #love an ddeepspace #lnd #lnds #l&ds #rafayel x reader #reader x rafayel #lnds drabbles

[thisgirlnamedblusy]

Hi,

Could I perhaps request GP!Donna x maid in a situation loosely similar to Donna and Mihaela from your fic but not quite. Basically reader is Donna’s maid(not bc of Miranda just a normal maid) and they both catch feelings and get kind of together in the sense that they are lovers but haven’t quite spoken about what they mean to each other. Reader has a kid by Donna and starts to feel insecure as the months go by…….who exactly are they in her life? Maid? Lover? Spouse? Co-parent? Dalliance?

Feel free to ignore and hope you have a great day!

(PS really love your fic and other oneshots)

YesYesYes!!! You're the first one to request me something about this fandom!!! Thank you very much!! Have you enjoyed my fic? Oh, that's great! Thank you again, your words lift my spirit! <3 Here it is!! I hope you like it, and I hope this is what you wanted!!! Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Thank you again!!! :)))))

What am I to you?

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem, Maid! Reader

Warnings: Angst, insecurities, slightly implied smut, G!P Donna, they have a baby,

Word count: 5,161 (sorry if it's too long)

Summary: You have to work, it's the only way to take care of yourself in that village. Then, you met her, a strange woman that has a thing for hidding her feelings as well as her face...

N/A: Again, sorry about the language mistakes!! Requests are open!! I love you all :))))

Some people say that fate is inevitable, that from the moment you are born, you have a purpose in life, a marked path that you must follow, that you will do it even if you don't want to, even if you don't even realize it.

Surely the people who said that nonsense didn’t live in that village.

Even though when you were little you dreamed of the day you would leave that place, that leaving there would be your fate, it didn't take you long to realize that you were wrong.

The years passed and you grew up, seeing how the world around you remained the same. There was no future. Sometimes you thought that time didn't even pass in that place.

For a 20-year-old girl like you, there was no way out. Your parents already had too much trouble raising chickens to feed you and your siblings. Praying to Mother Miranda was not enough to guarantee even something as basic as your survival.

If you didn't want to spend the rest of your life serving an unwanted husband, you had to do something.

What was the only thing a young woman like you could do in that place to feel fulfilled? So you don't have to get married? To serve.

Not to serve an ungrateful man whom you didn’t love, but to serve those people who were above you, the lords.

Like any girl who grew up in that place, you had heard horrible things about all of them. They were like scary stories to tell by the light of a campfire. You never really knew how much truth and fantasy there was in those stories.

“What do you want, young lady?” The lady of the castle, Alcina Dimitrescu, asked.

The legends always erred on the side of exaggeration. You had knocked politely on the doors of her castle, as you knew several of your friends had done. You were no worse, or clumsier than them. It wouldn't be difficult for you to become just another maid in that place.

“Mm...” She murmured when you finished exhibiting all your qualities, which were not few. “You certainly impress me…. What did you say your name was?”

“(Y/N),” you said, sure of yourself, but trembling with fear at being in that castle.

“(Y/N)...” The lady in white sighed, “I would like you to be my maid, but…”

“But?” You repeated immediately, scared by that reaction.

“You see, lately my maids are having room problems. I know it seems like a poor excuse, after all the castle is big but... Believe me, it's not.”

The disappointment was visible on your face. If your childhood friend, the one who even didn't know how to read, had managed to work in the castle, why you not?

“Surely you don't want to spend all day cleaning and taking care of my needs and then have to sleep with two roommates in a tiny bed, right?”

“No, my lady,” you responded with a sigh, bowing your head.

“It's a shame, you're gorgeous...” Alcina whispered, with a listless smile on her face. “But hey, maybe I have something for you. There may be someone who needs a maid...”

After that, she sent you to the house of another of the lords, Donna Beneviento.

No one you knew had worked for her. Well, you had heard that she had a gardener, a man you used to see often at church. One day, he disappeared, you never saw him again.

You hoped that the things they said about that woman were nonsense, and that that gardener was still out there somewhere. You were only fooling yourself, you knew better.

“Who are you? What do you want?” A shrill voice, which bounced in your ears making you cringe, asked you. A doll, Donna's doll, Angie, was the only one who spoke when the door to that house opened.

The lady holding her didn't say a word, she just stood... You assumed, looking at you through the black veil that covered her face.

“I’m... I’m, (Y/N), Lady Dimitrescu sent me. She told me that you needed a maid,” you said timidly.

“I don't need a maid,” the doll said, with a slightly different tone. “Go away.”

You, determined to flee out of the marriage of convenience that your parents had prepared, made a stupid move, putting your hand on the door to prevent it from closing.

“I... I... Please... I'm sure I can be really helpful. I don't need a lot of money and I can clean, cook, do the laundry... I'm sure you need some help it in such a big house.”

“Are you deaf, stupid? Donna told you she didn't need you help,” the doll sang. Yes, the lady was the one who rejected you.

“Please, please... Give me a chance, I can be very useful to you,” you said with pleading eyes, ignoring the doll and looking at the woman in black, who sighed tiredly.

The doll looked at its owner, who remained serene, standing, without moving beyond her breathing.

“Are you so desperate?” the doll asked with a sinister laughter.

“Maybe...” You admitted, lowering your head. “Please, if I don't get the job, they will force me to get married. I'm very good at what I do, I promise, you don't even have to pay at first... At least try me.”

Doll and lady looked at each other, and then their heads turned to you.

“Oh, it's fine. You will stay for a trial week,” the doll said while the lady moved away to let you enter the house.

After those words, you started working at the Beneviento estate.

Cleaning, cooking… Everything you hoped to do. You weren't worried, but you weren't calm either. That woman was strange, lonely. It's like she's trying to avoid contact with you. She always walked like a shadow around the house, as if you didn't even exist.

But you were there. The Angie doll served as a reminder that you were really working, that you were a maid, her maid.

The week passed and… Nothing. You continued with your work. You figured you were useful enough to Donna.

She paid you well, you had a room to yourself and you didn't lack anything. The only bad thing was that incipient feeling of living in absolute solitude, a feeling that grew as the days passed.

How many times you asked her didn't matter, or how many times you looked at that portrait on the stairs. Nothing could resolve your doubts about Donna. Nothing could get her to say a single word to you in her own voice.

“Where did you learn this recipe?” The lady asked one night, making you turn around immediately. You hadn't hallucinated, it was her voice. A soft, hoarse voice. She was really asking you.

“Oh…. Well… I have been cooking since I was very young. I have 4 brothers and my mother couldn't handle everything by herself,” you explained, feeling a strange relief when you let your voice come out of your throat. It wasn't unusual for you to go entire days without speaking in that house.

“Mm,” Donna murmured, nodding, making the fabric of her veil move slightly.

It may have seemed like a stupid conversation, but after that one, many more came, increasingly longer and more interesting conversations.

You may have been afraid at first, especially when you remembered that poor gardener, but little by little you began to relax. She didn't seem like an evil woman, just strange, complicated. You knew that she had problems, that she often had a hard time controlling her emotions. It was never a problem for you. Your hand on her shoulder and words of comfort were enough for Donna to relax.

That strange confidence settled in, like another routine in your tasks. A conversation about literature, lived experiences, anything... Anything other than what was behind that black veil.

When you accidentally discovered it, everything went back to the beginning, as if it had been a complete restart.

Donna was a beautiful woman, despite the scar that covered her right eye. You probably had more important things to think about, but ever since you saw her face, you couldn't help but remember it each hour of the day.

Being attracted to a beautiful woman was not strange for you, but your conscience told you over and over again to forget about those feelings.

“You don't have to cover yourself, my lady. You are a beautiful woman,” you said one night coming up from the kitchen, watching as Donna put on her veil so that you couldn't see her once again.

“Liar,” she whispered, barely with a thread of voice.

“I'm not lying,” you said in response, moving closer to the table.

“I'm not going to raise your salary because you flatter me. I don't need your false compassion,” your wife scolded you, holding the fork tightly.

 “It's not what I intend”

“Liar!” Donna screamed, for no reason beyond the embarrassment she felt about her face.

There were a couple of tense weeks, weeks when you were somewhat afraid. If Donna got angry, something bad would happen, or so the people in the village said.

Things calmed down as time went by. What didn't calm down was your attraction to the woman in black, who seemed to forget about that little incident and regain the trust you had worked so hard to earn.

This attraction worsened to the point that you were the one who needed to be close to her, have those absurd conversations and feel the fabric of her dress very close to yours.

A short time later, after a small discussion relating again to the beauty that she denied having, your lips collided impatiently, melting into a passionate and unexpected, but longed for, kiss.

You could say that everything changed after that kiss, but really... It didn’t.

Everything about Beneviento remained the same. Maybe a kiss, a caress... The vision of Donna without the black veil… They were small and insignificant changes, but not insignificant to you.

Recognizing that you were in love with Donna was an important step for you. You kept wondering if she felt the same way. She may have talked to you. She may have whispered words that you didn't understand, but... You didn't really know what she thought of you, if she felt the same way.

Nothing important, in your opinion. Her hand caressing yours while you read or ate together was more than enough for you.

Her kisses went from being innocent to being desperate, insecure... You could notice her desire in her already discovered gaze, the smile that formed on her lips when you hugged her, when she hugged you.

The heat of those new kisses became almost unbearable. It didn't matter the things she said, the things you thought... You just gasped when her arms surrounded your back, when you lay down on the bed next to her, when you let yourself be carried away by a delirious, almost desperate desire.

Donna might seem like an ordinary woman, but she wasn't one at all. Mother Miranda's infinite power not only caused that horrible scar, but it also made certain things different about her body. It was not a thing that really mattered to you. Until that moment you hadn't even stopped to think about how madly in love you were.

She was affectionate, tender and insecure in her movements. An insecure woman, who trembled at the sight of you naked, at having you at her mercy in a way that you doubt she even imagined.

“I... I've never been with anyone. You'll have to be patient with me...” Donna whispered as she got closer, caressing your cheek while she undressed herself, showing that her attraction to you was more than evident.

“Me neither...” You said, with a lump in your throat, with multiple insecurities that began to cloud that special night.

None of the problems you saw were an impediment to not feeling loved as you did that night. Her movements were erratic, inexperienced, just like yours. Despite this, feeling her inside you, making love to you slowly, without rushing, with her soft moans causing you chills, were enough reasons to stop being afraid, to feel free to love her and be loved.

While her gentle thrusts filled your mind with unimaginable waves of pleasure, your hands cupped her face, caressing it gently.

“I love you,” you said, at the limit of your sanity, when she lifted your legs to have better access to you.

You expected a response, a loving comment. You didn't have it. The only thing Donna did was smile, without stopping moving, closing her only eye to feel even more pleasure being inside your body. That was it: a smile and her warmth settling inside you after a heavy gasp.

Just like your first kiss, making love to Donna didn't change anything in your routine.

Yes, there were many nights in which passion was the protagonist, in which she took you and loved you in an unimaginable way. You even slept next to her many times, hugging her body.

Questions began to plague your mind while, as the months passed, your body began to weaken. Were you starting to have doubts? Of course you had doubts. Donna was gentle, affectionate, kind... She showered you with kisses, compliments, she caressed you, she talked to you about her concerns. She shared her life with you. But, you were nothing but a maid. You continued doing your job, despite your body's discomfort. You served her breakfast, lunch, dinner... You did the laundry, you cleaned the dust...

If she had feelings for you... Why  she didn’t tell you? She doesn’t feel the same?

“There's nothing wrong with her, Donna. She's fine,” the supreme witch of the place, Mother Miranda, said with a sigh, after checking your temperature.

Yes, your discomfort seriously worsened, causing dizziness and nausea to prevent you from doing your job normally.

Seeing the priestess as something similar to a doctor made you shiver, feeling even worse.

“You are very kind, Mother Miranda,” you said respectfully, sitting up on the sofa. The blonde simply smiled, standing up and clasping her hands together.

“Congratulations, Donna. (Y/N) is pregnant,” she said as she was talking about a simple cold.

“What?!” You shouted.

You should have guessed it. Those nights of unbridled passion you had not been careful. Well, more like, she hadn't been careful. The news fell on you like a bucket of cold water, but you couldn't help but feel a certain excitement.

You loved Donna, you really did. There was no other place you wanted to be than next to her. Nothing could change your mind. Despite her silence regarding her feelings, and not knowing what she was to you, or what you were to her, you couldn't deny you were madly in love and that a baby, a child with her, was the best news.

“A baby… It's wonderful, tesoro,” The lady in black whispered, placing a cushion on your back so that you would be more comfortable.

“Yes, it is,” you said with a smile, taking her hand and squeezing it tightly in yours. “I love you, Donna.”

It was a pathetic attempt, one of the many times you tried to get her to return the feeling, to get her to say those three words you so badly needed to hear. Like other times, there was no response, just a horrible silence, followed by a slow and tender kiss on the lips.

Time passed without respite, without letting you think about things coldly. Donna took care of you, you couldn't deny it, even Angie did everything she could to make sure your pregnancy wasn't a problem for you, more than usual, of course.

Maybe it was the hormones, the changes in your body, but you started crying at night, those nights when Donna was already asleep, when her arm passed over your body and her legs served as chains to keep you from leaving.

Joy, sadness, disappointment... You didn't know exactly why you were crying. Well, you had a slight idea. You had everything you wanted: a home, a wonderful woman by your side... Did you have it?

Every day, when the sun set behind the mountains, you looked at the horizon wondering if you were really as important to her as she was to you.

While you caressed your increasingly bulging belly, you thought about everything you experienced every day. Kisses, words of love, affection, smiles and caresses to your belly...

It might seem like enough, but it wasn't. The most important thing was still missing: an I love you from her lips, a marry me. What were you and Donna really like? What were you to Donna?

The torture that your pregnancy entailed ended months later, causing this new being to be born in the bed where it was conceived. Hours of pain, suffering, words of support and an irrational fear of bleeding to death, despite being well cared. But it was all worth it. Little Giulia Beneviento had been born and she was more beautiful than Heaven itself.

The baby meant a radical change in your life. Now you had someone to take care of, who you and Donna loved dearly. She helped you with everything she could. If she had been any other way, you would have been devastated.

But all that joy that Giulia caused had an expiration date. It didn't last long, like a glass of water on a hot day. Doubts and fear returned to your bed every night to not let you sleep.

Lack of sleep was present in your usual tasks. You didn't even know why you kept acting like a maid. You weren't, or so you wanted to think.

“(Y/N), I don't think I could live without your food,” Donna said, while you had dinner together, like every night.

You barely moved after those words, after those praises that had become a routine that was beginning to consume you.

Mimicking her usual responses to your declarations of love, you briefly lifted your corners to offer a fake, half-hearted smile.

“Now that the weather is starting to be nice, we could go for a walk in the forest, I'm sure Giulia will love it,” she said, ignoring your gesture of contempt.

Your patience had been exhausted for a long time, long before the girl was born. You were nervous and anxiety had caused you to become a very different person than you already were.

“She's two months old, Donna, I doubt she can even notice,” you responded, drinking your glass of water and setting it down on the table with a thud.

“Well... I...” The doll maker stammered, playing with the spoon in her soup, disturbed by your reaction.

“Besides, tomorrow I have to do the laundry. I don't think I have time for a stupid walk,” you said, wiping yourself with the napkin, causing Donna to look at you suddenly, with a cold and a scared expression.

“Oh, come on, (Y/N), that can wait,” Donna said, smiling the way she knew made you melt.

“Really?” You asked immediately, before her beauty prevented you from saying what you thought, again.

“Tesoro, are you okay?” The lady in black asked, studying your cold expression carefully.

“I'm fine, don't you see me?” You responded ironically.

“(Y/N)...”

“Of course I'm not okay!” You screamed, letting that repressed rage come out, slamming your fist on the table, making what was on top of it shake dangerously. “I'm fed up, Donna.”

“Fed up?” She asked, with a familiar gleam in her eye. Anything would make Donna lose control, but for some reason, she knew how to stay calm. For a moment, in your rabid alienation, you wished you had never taught her how to control her anxiety.

“Yes, fed up,” you repeated with a grimace of disgust. “I'm sick of you.”

“What have I done?” She asked curiously, with her hands trembling on the table.

“Stop pretending you're an idiot, Donna, I know you're not,” you said, standing up abruptly. “Tell me, what the hell am I to you?”

“You know I don't like when you talk like that,” she hissed angrily, hardening her gaze.

“I don't give a shit,” you replied, letting your subconscious enjoy disobeying her. “I've been here for two years, with you, and I don't even know what I am.”

“What are you?” She asked, shaking her head.

“What are we, Donna? We are lovers? Am I your wife, your girlfriend? What do I mean in your life? I've been trying to tell you all this time the things I feel about you and you do nothing but ignore me...” You said furiously, narrowing your eyes.

“I don't…”

“Shut up!” You interrupted, making her step back, resting her back on the chair. “You have no idea how stupid I feel… How distressing it is not to know how the hell you feel about me.”

“(Y/N)...”

“I said... Shut up,” you growled, resting your hands on the table, leaning in to look threatening. “Now it is my turn to speak, even if I am just your maid. Is that true? I am just your maid, the mother of your daughter, a servant...”

“What are you talking about? Tesoro, I...” Donna said, shaking her head, blinking in disbelief.

“We've been together a long time, Donna. We have laughed, we have cried. Damn, we made love, we have a damn daughter and I'm still serving you breakfast every morning. If only that's what I mean to you, have the courage to tell me.”

“You're wrong, (Y/N)”

“Did you even ask me if I wanted to have a baby? No, you didn't. You have always done what you wanted with me. Now I'm starting to realize it.”

You didn't want to bring up that topic. You didn't want to tell her that you weren't ready to be a mother. Giulia was the most important person in your life. You decided to keep those first thoughts to yourself.

“You never say that you love me...” You murmured, calming your nerves, letting a tear slide down your cheek. “You don't need to be a genius to know what that means. You never loved me. Damn, if you keep paying me to be your maid, do you know how that makes me feel?”

“You're just talking nonsense...” Donna whispered, gritting her teeth, letting you know with her eye  that you were making her more and more nervous.

“Nonsense? Is showing your feelings nonsense to you? Very good, very good, Donna,” you said nodding, moving away from the table. “I resign.”

“What?”

“You’ve heard me, pay me what you owe me and I'll get out of here. And Giulia is coming with me.”

“Don't you dare to leave!” She shouted, getting up furious.

“Oh? Are you threatening me? Now I’m clear about what do you think,” you said mockingly, defiantly.

“(Y/N), I, I don't...” Donna said, breathing deeply so as not to scream again.

“You're no better than your siblings, Donna,” you said.

“No, I'm not like them,” she defended herself, clenching her fists. “I… I…”

“You, what?” You insisted, making her shake her head and her breathing hitch again. “I deeply regret being so in love with you. Don’t worry. I don't have the courage to leave. I guess you've been lucky with me being your slave,” you sighed, feeling that statement was terribly true. “I hate loving you!”

Her eye was cold, angry. Her gaze didn’t leave yours but her lips didn’t move. They remained half open.

Your tears ran down your face and crashed onto the wooden floor.

“Hello hello!” A shrill voice interrupted that argument. Angie arrived from the elevator. “Little Giulia is crying, I think she is hungry,” she said in a sing-song voice.

You sighed, closing your eyes and nodding.

“Okay, I'm going to feed your daughter,” you said contemptuously, taking one last look at the table. “Don't worry, Lady Beneviento, then I will pick this up like the maid I’m.”

To emphasize your anger, you walked past her, bumping her shoulder on the way. She didn't move. She stayed rigid, in the same position. She didn't even turn her head to look at you. You didn't worry too much about it either. You had said the things you wanted for a long time.

“Let's see...” You murmured as you picked up your daughter from the crib. She was crying inconsolably. “Don’t cry, my love. Mom is with you,” you said with a broken voice, sitting on the bed to feed the baby, who calmed down as soon as she touched your skin.

You couldn't help but sob, even with the little girl in your arms, you felt deep sorrow. You thought that everything you had experienced was just an illusion in your head, that Donna's cowardice in saying what she thought was simply that, cowardice.

But you were sure that you were no more to her than any maid in the castle was to her lady.

“Your mother Donna is stupid, you know?” You said affectionately, stroking the baby's black hair. “But… I love her. I will love her even if she doesn't feel the same way about me.”

The baby sighed, causing the false sensation that she was listening to you.

“I just want to her to be able to tell me what she thinks, what she feels...” you murmured again, when Giulia squirmed in your arms, indicating that she was done. “But… You know what? It doesn’t matter. If I'm sure of one thing, it's that your mommy Donna loves you madly. You should feel lucky. At least she tells you, she will always tell you.”

“(Y/N)...” A hoarse, broken voice sounded behind the door. You rolled your eyes, as you lovingly moved the baby in your arms. “Please, let me in.”

“Do it if you want to, this is YOUR home,” you whispered reluctantly, getting rid of the baby's gases.

The woman in black entered. Her face betrayed tears and regret. But you were too tired.

“Your daughter eats too much,” you said. “She has drained every last drop of my energy. I don't have the strength to talk to you, Donna.”

The woman sat next to you, petting the baby, but without looking you in the eyes.

“When I was 14, I fell in love with a girl from the village,” she began to say, picking up the baby from your arms and rocking her daughter to sleep.

You didn't want to, nor did you feel like shutting her up again.

“I know it was impossible for her to feel the same. My scar wasn't as horrible as it is now, but people still avoided me. I thought that... Maybe if I told her what I felt, she would listen to me.”

“There was nothing wrong with your scar then and there is nothing wrong with it now,” you said seriously, also avoiding looking at her face.

“Well, I... I wrote her a letter, telling her what I felt about her. Do you know what her response was? No one could ever love you, you are a monster,” the lady in black said sighing, repressing a sob.

“I'm sorry,” you managed to say, feeling that your idea of ​​seeming angry was blurred by the mere fact of hearing her voice.

“One morning, my parents told me that they were going to take a trip, that it would only be a few days. I told them I loved them before they leave,” she continued telling, her voice becoming weaker, her hands trembling as she cradled her daughter.

“I don't understand what that has to do with...”

“They died that day. They jumped into the void, in front of me,” Donna explained. You knew that story, but you had never dared to ask her about it.

Donna stood up, carefully placing her daughter in her crib, tucking her in tenderly, before sitting back down next to you.

“Don't you understand, (Y/N)? All the people I have loved have hurt me, or abandoned me,” she said with a slightly stronger tone, her breathing heavy.

“So the best thing is to never love anyone again, right?” You said with a bit of irony.

“Do you think I don't love you?” She asked suddenly, turning her head towards you, now looking into your eyes.

“I don't know, Donna,” she sighed.

“Girlfriends, lovers, wives... All of them are just meaningless words, labels. They don't mean anything to me,” she said, shaking her head, extending her hand to take yours. You didn't take it away.

“But they do for me. You don't know what it's like to be thinking about what I mean to you. Not knowing if the kisses you give me are something more than mere kisses, if you make love to me because you really feel it, or if you do it just for fun. Sometimes people need to know that you love them, you understand?”

“I've never been good at dealing with people,” Donna said with an amused smile, caressing your hand with her thumb.

“Oh, fresh news,” you ironized, letting out a brief laugh that she shared with you.

“I, I have always felt alone... Always… Until, until you came.”

“The fool who fills the void of your loneliness... Is that what I am to you?”

“No, (Y/N), you... You are everything that makes me feel like life is wonderful. I like to see you wake up next to me. I like when you hug me, when you love me. I feel like I'm not afraid of dying because hell is insignificant compared to spending the rest of my life without you...”

“Wow...” You said, excited by that strange statement. “I guess that means you love me.”

Donna nodded profusely, turning your body to face her so she could kiss you softly on the lips.

“I love you, (Y/N). You and Giulia are the only things I care about.”

“I... I love you too,” you said with a smile, kissing her again, relaxing your spirit after hearing the words you longed for so much. “You don’t know how much I do.”

“Could you forgive me?” She asked in a tone of supplication, of true repentance. “I promise you that not a single day will pass without me telling you how much I love you, I promise you.”

“No, Donna... You have to forgive me. I've gone too far with you. I should have understood you better. But…”

“But?” The lady asked, startled.

“You have not answered my question. What are we, Donna? What am I to you?” You asked, running a hand over her cheek, suppressing the desire you had to kiss her deeply.

“You are...” Donna whispered, searching for an answer in the cracked walls of the bedroom. “You are my family.”

#donna beneviento x reader #donna beneviento #re8 village #re8 donna #requests

[eldritchqueerture]

For the @malevolent-monthly May prompt "First Dream: John has his first dream or nightmare"!! First time posting in this, hope I did it correctly on ao3 <3

Summary:

For a moment he didn't know what was happening. His whole world shrunk to this one moment in time, this one-track minded fear of unclear origin, and he thought he was dying. He had never been dying before. --- Or, John has a nightmare, followed by an existential crisis over the inevitability of death.

To say John was familiar with death would be a grave understatement. As the King in Yellow he remembered watching lives end, sometimes having a hand in it as well, for time untold; the Dark World in itself was a clear picture in his mind when thinking of the topic. He knew death too intimately for comfort - even Arthur in his frail form had teetered on the edge of it far too many times for John's liking.

But he was never afraid of death. Of the Dark World – absolutely; there had been nothing more frightening to him than that wretched place of shadow and suffering. And perhaps in his previous form, he would not have been able to tell the difference.

It was the second night after they had performed the ritual that granted John his own human body, that he woke up startled and in cold sweat. His heart beat too fast in his chest, his breath shallow, coming in small gasps and never providing enough oxygen. Shakily, he sat up, pulling himself up to lean his back against the headboard, trying to gain back control of his limbs. For a moment he didn't know what was happening. His whole world shrunk to this one moment in time, this one-track minded fear of unclear origin, and he thought he was dying.

He had never been dying before.

Arthur stirred beside him, and John froze, unwilling to wake him up when his body was performing something so inane and out of his control. He had seen Arthur wake up from his nightmares enough times to recognize the similarities to what was happening; he wasn't actually dying for some mysterious, unknown reason - he would be fine if he could just calm the fuck down—

"John?" Arthur's bleary voice made it to his ears from between the pillows, and the man turned to him with a sleepy grunt.

John wanted to say something like 'Go back to sleep', or 'Everything is fine', but he found his voice trapped in the tightness of his throat. His muscles only tensed against the trembling, and the fear surged in his chest.

"John," Arthur whispered more insistently, not having received a response, and grabbed John's arm. "What's wrong?"

His eyebrows drew inward in worry and his voice had that slight tremble of freshly sprouting fear.

"It's fine," John growled, much harsher than he'd intended. He did not move though, and Arthur's hand only gripped him tighter.

“Are we alone? Is everything—”

"Yes, we're alone," John replied in much the same tone. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"I don't know, John," Arthur hissed, now fully awake. "It wouldn't be the first time you woke me up to something wanting to kill us."

John unwittingly drew a breath, that fear surging again despite the somewhat calming familiarity of arguing with Arthur. If something were to kill them...

"What's going on?" Arthur sat up next to him, not taking his hand away. "You're shaking."

But it was stupid, wasn't it? That unknown fear without a cause, without anything that would allow him to control it. He could handle fearing the Dark World, he could handle fearing creatures, and monsters, and people acting like them. This, though? This vague shadow that clung to his every thought, permeating skin, and bone, electrifying every nerve in his body…?

"John, I'm getting worried," Arthur said. "We thought the ritual went well, but if there's something we missed—"

"N-No, it's..." John swallowed tightly. "It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"I..." He took a breath. "I dreamed."

"Oh..." Arthur blinked in realization, rubbing the skin of John's arm with the thumb. "Not pleasant, I take it?"

John gritted his teeth. Flashes of images that passed through his mind in the night appeared before him; not enough to fully distinguish their content, just vague impressions of dread and pain, leaving him trembling anew with thoughts that all but forced their way into his head. What if Arthur died? What if he died? How would it feel to die? He'd never died before – not really. Even the memory of the split from the King in Yellow that landed him in the Dark World and trapped him in the book had been tainted by this human anatomy and how it processed the world. Even though he knew that the Dark World was what probably awaited them (him and Arthur) after death – and even if not, he knew of other worlds that could potentially be a destination as well – that perspective was clouded, veiled by this massive, roiling fog of fear.

"John, it's alright," Arthur repeated quietly, and John realized he had been talking for some time. "It's alright. Just breathe, okay?"

The sensations came in gradually – first the heaving breath, gasping like a man drowning, then the racing heart that threatened to rip his chest open right there. His muscles trembling, his legs pulled up, body curling in on itself as if that would protect him from the looming prospect. And Arthur's warm arm around his shoulders, his body close, whispering gentle assurances of their safety.

But they were never safe, were they? Humans were so fragile, dying everyday of so many feeble causes. Even now, he could have a heart attack and die. Arthur could trip on his way out of bed and hit his head. How many undetected illnesses had he seen take humans' lives? And that is not even to say what could be after them specifically – Yellow, Kayne, Lilith, whoever else found the idea of killing them amusing.

"John. John, look at me."

Arthur's hands were on his face, gently guiding his head in his direction. He wiped the tears that John couldn’t remember appearing from his cheeks.

"I—I..."

"Talk to me, John," Arthur whispered. "I want to help."

"I don't... I'm... Afraid," John said almost soundlessly, the words somehow sprouting bitter shame in his gut. As if fear wasn't enough.

"You had a nightmare," Arthur said. "Yes?"

John nodded slightly, enough for Arthur to feel it under his hands. His thumb travelled upward, and he tucked John's hair behind his ear – possibly more as a comforting gesture rather than from the need to get the hair out of his face.

"But I don't really... remember it," he spoke. "Not exactly. Just... feelings."

Arthur hummed sympathetically with a nod.

"Do you want to talk about them?" He asked.

"I..." He faltered. "I've never..."

He let out a breath and hang his head forward, closing his eyes. Arthur took that as a cue to wrap his arms around him again.

"It's okay."

"Humans are... afraid of death," John stated in a hushed tone. Arthur blinked in confusion for a second, then he smiled slightly.

"Yes, very much so," he said. "It's probably the one most primal fear, of all animals I think."

"Are you?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows in thought. "Of course. I mean, I probably have some more... deadly experiences on my account than most people would have in a lifetime, but... Yes, John." He tilted his head slightly. "And you?"

"As the King in Yellow I was... immortal," he said. "The concept of dying was something mortals did, something... low. Below me."

Arthur let out a small chuckle.

"Even when I was trapped in your head, I didn't fully comprehend it. I feared returning to the Dark World, I feared... I knew that you could die. But I was never scared for myself. Of—Of my own death."

"Oh, John..."

"And it's... frustrating," John continued, the words unstoppable once allowed to flow freely. "Because I've witnessed countless deaths throughout millennia, I know it's unstoppable and uncontrollable, and—and I had no reason to fear it before. Not like this."

"I can imagine why that would be frustrating," Arthur nodded. "But that fear... I'd say it's one of the most human experiences you can have. Knowing your demise is inevitable and that there is nothing you can do about it."

John looked down at him in slight bewilderment. "How do you... deal with it?"

Arthur let out a laugh. "Everyone has their own ways, I suppose. Religion for one – some people find... solace in the idea of a god waiting for them on the other side. Some people just look for distractions, you know, things that keep their attention in the material world – wealth, power."

"A sense of control."

"I suppose so, yes. Then, you have art."

"Art?"

"Poetry, music, paintings, all sorts of creative endeavours," Arthur said.

"How does that help?" John frowned.

"Well, you don't push those feelings away," Arthur explained intently. "Instead you engage them, you analyse them, and make them... beautiful. But at the same time, familiar."

"And it goes away?"

Arthur laughed again, not unkindly. "I wish, my friend. But no. It never fully goes away. But it can fade."

John grumbled under his breath. He still felt jittery, the cold feeling still cloying at the insides of his chest, but he felt himself relax ever so slightly. Arthur's presence was familiar, and his voice was a gentle music to his ears.

"I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground," Arthur begun reciting. "So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind. Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned with lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned."

John laid his head on Arthur's shoulder, taking a deep, calming breath. He closed his eyes and listened to Arthur's heart beating in time with his words.

"Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you. Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust. A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew, a formula, a phrase remains, —but the best is lost."

His own heart slowed, the trembling subsiding under Arthur's touch. He felt the tendrils of sleep seeking entrance into his mind - the exhaustion of the panic catching up to him - and he relished the haziness that came with it, following Arthur's steady voice.

"The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love, —They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve."

Arthur's voice gained a more intent edge at the last sentence, spoken with a warm breath into John's hair.

"More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world. Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave."

Arthur sniffled. "I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned."

---

The poem is called "Dirge Without Music" by Edna St. Vincent Millay for anyone interested 🥰

#malevolent #niki.writes #malevolent podcast #arthur lester #john doe #private eyes #jarthur #malevolent fanfic #malevolent monthly

[sleketon666]

So... I decided to post that little writing I did for my Tav Marie and her first meeting with Rolan, Lia and Cal. I couldn't help myself and added some friendly banter between her, Astarion and Gale in the end

Just for the record - I've never written anything properly in English and it's been a while since I've written in my native language as well. So pardon any mistakes that you might see

Tags: fem Tav, first meeting, fluff

While walking into Emerald grove, Marie takes a good look on the place first. She has always been a cautious type who needed to spare at least a few seconds for studying her new surroundings before engaging in any conversation.

Even if she hadn't talked with Zevlor prior she would still know that some kind of conflict was unfolding here: the tense atmosphere in the grove made it clear to any adventurer that strangers were unwelcome in this place. Nor were welcome those seeking for a refuge.

Before searching for healing from Nettie and meeting Kagha, Marie and her two more talkative companions - a fellow wizard and an elf rogue - decided to stop for a trade. Even facing the risk of not living to see another day, they'd still rather lighten their pockets and exchange whatever junk they could find with some coin. And in case the tadpoles in their brains let them live a little more, they'd need supplies.

Before stumbling upon the grove Marie took the lead in their group. She has never been the one who wanted to be in charge of anything and tell others what to do, mind you. Gale just didn't seem to want that either and Astarion- well, he didn't seem like a reliable sort. So it appeared to be that Marie was the only one competent and willing enough for the role of a leader. It's not like she was not responsible or never put the needs of others before her like good leaders do, quite the opposite - she possessed such qualities. But not the charisma. If someone more endearing, easy-going and more capable of giving inspiring speaches and such will join them, she will gladly follow their lead. But for now she'll have to wait for such person.

Speaking of which, while trading with a halfling, Marie for once took a step back, allowing the other wizard do the talking (and the rogue - the pickpocketing). Meanwhile, she herself took her most loyal companion, her old notebook, and started writing down everything - the list of supplies they needed and the amount of gold they were about to both gain and spend. She always did the counting quicker than most (in which she took a lot of pride) so she made herself useful even when speaking wasn't required.

A few minutes passed by and trading turned into one of the most tedious things to ever imagine - a small talk. As Marie was putting away her notes and not listening to the other three men talking, her gaze started to wander. This time instead of the grove itself she looked more closely to the people in it. More druids seemed to be further, at the heart of the grove, while here only tieflings remained. Most of the ones she saw looked rather tense - and no wonder, giving the circumstances. Poor people, she thought to herself. Back in Baldur's Gate she heard very little of what happened to Elturel, but the stories and rumours she heard of were already enough to let her know that the refugees had been through a lot. So if simply talking to the new leader of the druids could help them, Marie will help for sure.

As Marie was getting lost in her thoughts, her feet lead her further away from companions and closer to the center of the grove. Still wanting to remain a silent observer, she kept her mouth shut when other tieflings passed by, and she pretended not to notice how they looked at her. At the end of the day, she was just as much of a new face for them as they were to her.

But her peaceful and quiet observations weren't to last forever. Marie felt her pointy ears twich slightly when she heard a few voices - all loud - getting closer to her (although, perhaps they were approaching the gate rather than herself). "I won't leave them behind!" she heard an angry yet pleading female voice first, and then a male one: "You're going to get us killed!" She shifted her gaze towards the direction from which the voices came and saw three tieflings arguing.

"We don't even know these people!" the voice belonged to a male tiefling who was the one walking towards the gate and looking behind his shoulder to continue bickering. The staff on his back and his colourful robes let Marie assume that he was another spellcaster, perhaps a wizard even, much like her and Gale.

"That doesn't matter." Said the woman following him with an angry look on her face, as if she was convincing him to stop, to stay.

"Of course it does. You would choose strangers over us!"

"That's not what I said." The woman's voice now held more spite in it than before.

"Can we all stop shouting? No?" The third tiefling, the tallest and seemingly the strongest one, finally spoke up just for his words to go completely unnoticed.

Despite his desperate attempts to seize the exchange of accusations and sharp words, the heated conversation continued. By that time Marie had already figured that the three must be close - perhaps friends or a family even. And it looked like all of them were incredibly stressed over the need to sit and wait either for a chance to escape or for their doom. Honestly, she couldn't blame any of them. She too would be restless if she found herself in situation like this one.

"This is about your precious Baldur's Gate." Getting more and more frustrated, the female tiefling now stopped the pleading and instead started to accuse her stubborn companion.

"I care about our lives. Our futures." He kept saying, almost unfazed.

"No. You just care about your stupid apprenticeship!" This time her words struck a nerve and made the man stop and turn around.

"Take that back! Right now!" He now sounded not just furious or bitter, but offended. And it didn't look like his friend was about to apologise. Instead, she only glared at him.

Now not only did the argument get more personal, but it's participants stopped too close for Marie's comfort which left her in an awkward position, even if the others weren't bothered by her presence. She would gladly continue eavesdropping, but preferably at a longer and safer distance. So, trying to not attract any unwanted attention she started to quietly walk away, leaving more privacy to the three tieflings until the conflict escalated further. It was none of her business, after all.

"Hells, we can't just leave. They're kin," surprisingly, the woman now sounded calmer. Perhaps she noticed presence of a stranger nearby and decided to lower her voice? Or perhaps, she herself was getting tired of arguing.

"I'll not gamble our lives, our futures, on people who are as good as dead. We must leave for Baldur's Gate at once."

The woman sighed loudly, clearly with annoyance, as a reply for the man's stubbornness.

"Can we all just take a moment? Please?" the tallest one kept trying to calm the others.

"You! You were one of those who fought at the gate, right?" She then suddenly pointed at Marie, completely ruining her attempt of making escape out of an unwanted social interaction. "You saw those goblins fight. Tell Rolan how without us those people can't stand a chance against them!" She said glaring at the man who she was arguing with. Rolan was his name, apparently.

"Um.. well," taken by surprise, Marie stood still, unsure on whether she actually should say anything or not. Ugh, great. Just as she wanted to rest a while from the stress of beginning conversations with strangers, she was dragged into one. And a quarrel no less! Feeling out of place, she desperately tried to gather her thoughts into a sentence.

"What's the point of blades and spells if we don't bloody use them? We should stay," the woman kept talking before Marie could do so much as say a word. "These people aren't fighters. We can help."

"Or yell louder, that's fine too." Clearly tired of arguing and being ignored, the third tiefling too started to get annoyed.

While her eyes were hidden under dark glasses, Marie took a quick look at each of the tieflings she was now, apparently, talking with. From what she could tell, the conversation could go on forever, exhausting each of its member. She couldn't be sure that whatever she was about to say wasn't going to be dismissed, but perhaps she could give it a try. The situation in the grove was already uneasy enough for the tieflings, there was no need for more bickering. But the woman was right - the refugees needed all the help they could get.

"The goblins had put on a hard fight," as Marie saw all three tieflings now looking at her, she tried to keep her posture as calm and neutral as possible, hiding her slight nervousness. "You can be of great help to your people and it would be safer for you to travel in larger group, too. A single blade or spell can make a huge difference."

"Thank you!" A smile finally appeared on woman's face as she looked at Marie with gratitude. Then, she looked back at the others. "It's the right thing to do, and you know it."

"Lia's right, Rolan. We're better then this," the tallest one added, hopeful (just like Marie) that this will put an end to the argument.

"Zurgan. Fine. I'll stay too," likely unconvinced by Marie's words but annoyed at his friends, the one who was named Rolan, exhaled sharply. "Lest you both end up with your throats slit by goblin's blade."

The glare Rolan gave Marie at the end didn't go unnoticed by her. She only replied with a slight smirk and a tilt of her had as a sarcastic "you're welcome". She knew that she did right by convincing them to stay, and she wouldn't allow his frown make her feel bad.

"Thank you, Rolan," Lia spoke calmly, ending the conversation at last.

The three turned back and started to walk away, only the third tiefling, the one who's name still remained a mystery, stopped before Marie.

"I'm Cal, by the way. Thank you for helping out. Both with goblins and these two," he said the last sentence with a relieved smile and held his hand for a greeting.

"Pleasure. Name's Marie," she replied politely. As Marie held her hand back to Cal, she felt his handshake to be much more firm and confident than hers, but not in an unpleasant manner. "By the way you tried to calm them down, Lia and Rolan are prone to arguing, I take it?"

"Yes, they are. They both will never admit it, but they'd take an arrow for each other. Also stab each other. Not sure what'll come first," he said with a shrug. "But I'm afraid they are gonna do the latter if I linger for too long. Nice meeting you!"

And before she could say anything, Cal already made himself scarce. Ah, a family then, not just friends. A grin spread out on Marie's face.

"Stabbing would certainly be more entertaining to watch," a familiar and disappointed voice sounded over Marie's shoulder. "Or at least another good punch in a face, like before."

Astarion spoke, clearly amused by the memory of his company's stoic and composed leader trying to reduce the tension between Zevlor and Aradin just for her to loose patience and throw hands at the adventurer.

She let out an irritated sigh at another of Astarion's whining before turning her face towards him.

"That guy had it coming, unlike people here. And I'm not proud of what I did to him, alright?"

"Oh? Is our leader feeling a gnawing pang of conscience?"

"A bit. I should've given the pleasure of hitting that brute to Zevlor. And his punch would be considerably stronger than mine, no doubt."

Surely, Astarion was expecting to hear a lecture about morality, so seeing his face light up with surprise and more amusement than before was a sight.

" Ah, there you are," soon, Gale started to approach the two." It seems that both of you weren't present in a conversation that I had with Arron-"

"Who?" both Marie and Astarion asked.

"...The trader?" The wizard said with a hint of chastising in his voice. "As I was saying, I had the pleasure of learning from him that there is a certain crypt nearby. And since we have a chance of being in a shortage of gold sooner, rather than later, I suggest we at least take a look at it."

"A crypt, you say?" a glint of interest light up in Marie's eyes (albeit hidden behind glasses).

"Ugh, I'm not usually in a mood for searching through dusty old tombs, but if among the bones and skulls we'll find a treasure, I suppose it'll have to do." Said Astarion with a pout.

"It is tempting, but it'll have to wait. First things first, we need to talk with the druids." Marie spoke up, dismissing both the annoyed roll of the rogue's red eyes and approving smile of the wizard. "Moreover, if my eyes did not deceive me, the Blade of Frontiers himself joined our fight with the goblins before. He could be a useful ally, so I'd have a chat with him as well."

"Just wonderful, another bleeding heart to join our ranks." Astarion said under his breath, but loud enough for his companions to hear and disregard his complaints.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 tav #tav marie #astarion #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 astarion #bg3 gale #bg3 wyll #wyll ravengard #rolan cal and lia #rolan #rolan nation #holy rolan empire #bg3 cal #bg3 lia #bg3 rolan

[bookwyrminspiration]

ah! i forget sometimes not everyone knows abt the khmer rouge haha--ofc i don't know it in great detail but again another way my parents were different, where most other people we know who went through the same thing are pretty closed off to their kids abt what happened they told us a lot of stories about what it was like living there both before and after the regime. so many crazy impossible stories of survival it's kind of hard to think anything else compares? it was basically just the cpk, communist regime/party, took over after winning the civil war, forced everyone into labor camps, and destroyed anything that came from other countries (especially america and other western countries) because the party i guess wanted to declare that cambodia was better and they could survive without outside help? so people who weren't fully cambodian, who spoke other languages, who were more educated etc were much more likely to be killed. and both my parents were chinese cambodian, but my dad was like. really little when it was all going down so he only knew mandarin until he was taught + he stayed a lot longer than my mother did. thing i think about a lot, unrelated to language but i just think you would find it interesting, is during that time money became nothing--because the regime was controlling everything anyway and all non-soldiers got equal amounts of very little--so in lieu of paper/metal currency people would trade in salt. in the 1970s. it's both like wow so interesting i could use this in my classed (and DID. so many times <3 it can't be said i don't use the inherited khmer trauma to my advantage) and also just, dude, that was the 70s. the rest of the world was kind of just like. chilling in their normal 1970s events. elvis was probably still alive.

Thank you very much for the impromptu history lesson, I know I could've looked it up myself (and I do intend to do more research on my own, don't worry, I don't intent to make you my sole source), but I figured you could better articulate which parts specifically related to what we were talking about. which you did with the mandarin comment

I have an ongoing list of things to research and look into in general, and I have now added the khmer rouge to said list. I'm not super rigorous with it, so I don't know when I'll get around to this topic, but I do intend to. It seems like an important event to be aware of on several levels--though that is, of course, an understatement. It's kinda hard to capture all the horrors and reactions to them in words. Like saying "my condolences to your parents for being under a life-threatening oppressive regime" doesn't feel like it covers everything, but how do I cover everything?

You are right though, that salt thing is very interesting. I'm very curious how that worked--was salt in short, demanded supply? How much was it worth that it could replace money? I suppose those are questions to be investigated with my research :)

Also! Looked it up, and Elvis would've still been alive. Died in 1977, so depending on when exactly in the 70s we're talking, you are entirely right he'd still be alive. Again, thank you very much for the overview, I don't know if I would've heard about it otherwise if you hadn't brought it up, so I appreciate it

#quil's queries #soryasongsaa #long post #i hope this doesn't come off as too forward but I do wonder. based on my own life (which I'm not trying to say is the same) #do you ever wonder about what could have been? for you? #like your parents were forced out of cambodia by necessity to save their lives. but otherwise? #you could've grown up there lived your life there. you were just one generation to late and that disconnect/lost unfortunate #collateral of other people's influence #perhaps I am projecting because I think about it all the time #about how my nana took my dad out of mexico based on necessity and how. if it wasn't for that #i probably would've grown up in mexico. spanish as a native language #but then again my parents never would've met so I wouldn't exist in the first place #idk. it's just something I think about and based on what you shared I wondered if you ever had #I don't mean to pry :)

[totallyfluxd]

I miss living in a city centre so much, I didn't take advantage of being so close to so many cafes when I had the chance

#i just want there to be places in walking distance where i can have my silly little tea #and read a silly little book #perhaps do my silly little crafts #without having to go all the way into town on the bus #theres literally nothing round here designed for sitting down #we have a tesco express and a post office and many takeaways #the pubs gone the librarys gone we never had cafes in the first place and the only place left is the church #which #no thank you #im sure theyre lovely but not for me ty #we have infrastructure but no community hubs outside of religion #we need the church and the mosque and the madrassahs theyre so important #but like if youre not religious there is nowhere to just hang out or talk to people #remember living like five minutes walk from town and having Stuff and Things To Do and Places To Sit #i miss madame waffle :(

[aesethewitch]

When I was a kid, we moved into a house that had a huge lilac tree out front. It was mostly rotten, and it needed to be taken down before it fell. It took a while, but eventually, it was gone.

Mostly. A couple years later, little lilac babies popped out of the ground in its place. My mom was determined to get rid of them, because she'd planted a beautiful flower garden there, and the lilac trees would overshadow and kill the whole garden. I insisted on saving at least a few saplings. She said fine, but I had to dig them out and put them in pots myself.

So, I did. I spent days digging little lilac bushes out of the ground and putting them into pots. Some couldn't be saved, but some could. When all was said and done, I had five brand-new lilac saplings. Seven or eight years old, and it was my absolute pride and joy.

Three died due to sun scorching, severe drought that no amount of watering could save, and perhaps just being moved from their place in the ground. But two survived, and I was awfully proud of them! I'd go out and talk to them every single day. I watered them by hand and made sure they were fertilized properly. I learned all about their favored environments, and I was determined to make sure they lived.

One of my mom's friends saw what I was doing with the lilacs. She asked if she could have one to put in her backyard, and I agreed on the condition that she take very, very good care of it.

It's now fucking enormous. I'm talking ten feet tall and bursting with beautiful purple flowers every spring. My mom still gets updates each year as they start to bloom, which she forwards to me. And all I can think is, "That's my friend! Thriving some twenty years on, there it is."

The other tree nearly died, too. It lived in a pot for far, far too long. I wanted to plant it somewhere in my parents' yard, but my mom was reluctant. Eventually, we agreed to put it in the far back garden. It grew okay for many years, despite the shade, but in all these years, it's never bloomed.

Last year, the massive tree casting massive shadows over the lilac and the garden cracked in half and fell. It tumbled into the garden, crushing part of the nearby shed and destroying a few plants beneath it.

It missed my lilac by inches.

The clean-up is long done. The rest of the tree has been cut down, and my lilac has full sunlight for the first time in fifteen years. It won't bloom this year, I know. But it's got new shoots up. It's taller than ever. I spent half an hour a few weeks ago praising it for surviving all this time, dreaming about its future and telling it how I believe it'll become the tall beauty it's always been meant to be.

I think next year, I'll see flowers.

#aese speaks #a little personal story for you all #the origin of my life-long relationship with lilacs #i've been a garden witch since i was very small! (: #green witch #garden witch #garden magic #10k #the lilac post

[eternityofend]

Another type of milk.

PAIRING: Francis Mosses x Female!Reader ( Slight Doppelganger!Francis Mosses x Reader. )

Requested: Can I request something for Francis, the Milkman? Like the scenario is: Y'all be talking then, they do it under the desk while the reader is working?

MDNI +18, NSFW.

You scroll through your phone, time ticking with each passing second as you get even more bored. Your job as a doorman was nice however the hours needed to work were plenty enough of time for you to wish you had never taken up such a job in the first place.

You hear a tap on the window as you see Francis in front of you, holding a carton of milk in his hands, his movements were sluggish and his eye bags were darker than when you last saw him.

You ignored the concern building in you and tried to find your wallet to pay for the milk you ordered from Francis, keyword: tried. You frantically searched your pockets and the drawers but there was no sign of a leather wallet in all of the places you searched.

Francis stares at you with a blank expression, completely minding his own business as he didn't question the amount of time it took for you to find your wallet.

"Hey.. can I pay you up in a different way?"

Francis raises his eyebrows, skeptical about your request but nods his head; far too kept up with how much time this delivery was taking. He wasn't used to social interaction anyway, he just wanted to get out.

You motion for him to come into your office, opening the gate for him and closing it once he went through.

A few minutes later, Francis knocks on your door and you let him in, he's still holding onto the carton of milk which you help him put on your desk.

"Mmmm.. so what's this different method of payment are you talking about?.." Francis mutters, his voice husky with the tiredness he felt from his job, tone as curious as ever.

You walk up to him, putting your hand on his chest while smiling innocently.

Francis looked at you with a curious expression, gulping as he was nervous about what you were going to do with him.

Francis looked at your eyelashes, and your pretty eyes, trying to distract himself from the weird thoughts he was thinking; perhaps he was watching too much inappropriate stuff, he should limit himself on that.

"Do you live alone?" You asked, knowing well what his answer would be.

Francis tore his gaze away from you, now staring at your wall. "Yes.."

He hears a small laugh come from you, and his body feels tingly with extreme nervousness. Why were you laughing? Did you expect him to have a roommate or something?

"So you have no one to milk you at home then?" You whisper in Francis's ears, watching him tense up as he caved in to your voice and touch.

You saw the way his knees trembled to hold onto his body, cheeks turning redder than the scarlet milk he frequently delivers.

You put a hand on his cheek, making him look at you with a smile on your face. "Let me help you, that's my payment." You utter, watching his eyes widen as he came across a conflicted statement-- not knowing what to choose.

You really didn't have to wait long.

Francis stares up at you, hand on his mouth as he leans against the wall, ears flushing with blush as he attempted to conceal his noises from you, afraid of someone hearing.

You rubbed your shoe against his bulge, looking at him with a mischievous look on your face, wanting to make him cum from a dry orgasm before you fully fuck him.

"Ah~ Hnn~ Ngn~" Francis moans out, his sounds muffled by how hard he was biting on his hand, throwing his head back at how lewd your method to pleasure him was.

His eyes were teary and his cheeks were flushed, he looked as if he already got fucked by you even if you hadn't advanced that fast yet.

You grin, pressing on his erection with the heel of your shoe-- enjoying the way he stuttered, gripping onto your leg with his free hand.

A tap on the window stops you from admiring him longer, and Francis panics. He couldn't run out because it would be suspicious if the visitor were to see someone come from below your desk, he didn't want to spread rumours as well if someone recognized him.

So he just sat there, both hands covering his mouth.

Wait.. what were you doing?

Francis bites onto his hand, heart pulsing as he felt your shoe rub more against his dick, you were crazy! Why were you still continuing?!

You grinned, twirling your hair as you faced a doppelganger of one of the visitors, not even having to check the ID to know it was a doppelganger.

You had to admit, it sure mimicked the resident properly, but if it weren't for the real Francis already being below your desk, you would've let the doppelganger of Francis in, there were barely any differences as well.

"Oh? My appearance..? I don't quite follow.." The doppelganger muttered, trying to keep calm as he felt rage from how fast you figured out he was a doppelganger.

You were not only a pretty doorman but a smart one too, the doppelganger held back on transforming, wanting to see if he could still convince you that he was the real one.

You chuckle at the doppelganger's confused expression, adding a bit more pressure to your shoe as you pressed on Francis's erection, hearing a small moan come out of him.

The doppelganger's eyes widened, looking around as he was confused at where the noise came from.

What a shame, you'd so tease the real Francis using the doppelganger if only you weren't allowed to spread the fact that Doppelgangers existed.

"I'm sorry, but I don't quite think I can let you in."

You rang the DDD and let them handle the situation, completely forgetting about Francis beneath you, trembling at how much pressure he was receiving.

By the time you remembered about him, you were already finished with the doppelganger situation, seeing him all teary and red just from your shoe.

You laugh, lifting his face up as you stop rubbing your shoe against his dick, grinning at him with a new idea in mind.

"Let's start with the milking process now, shall we, Milkman? But first, why don't you eat me out first?"

You catch his flustered expression as he nodded, moving his hands all the way to your thighs as he got rid of your panties.

Francis moves closer to your pussy, licking on it as his eyes widened from the taste, it was much different than the milk he was used to.

You let out a breathy moan, spreading your legs wider as you felt Francis shove his tongue straight into you, eating you out as if he was a man that was starved for years.

His tongue flicks against your clit, and you let out a full moan, suddenly closing your thighs around Francis's head, he didn't seem to mind however.

"Shit... you sure know how to eat pussy.." You mumble, biting on your lip as you run your fingers through his hair, enjoying the sensation of his cold wet tongue.

Francis's hooked nose makes you moan as it pressed against your pussy because of how close he was.

You moan, throwing your head back when you feel Francis's tongue licking on your clit, lapping it up as if it was water.

Your grip on his hair tightens, clenching down on his tongue as you orgasmed.

Francis moans beneath you, the vibration running across your entire body making you shake and tremble.

You breathe out, your pussy pulsing while Francis explored your insides, eager to drink up all of your cum, not letting a single drop go to waste.

You pull Francis away from your dick, and your pussy twitches at the sight. His eyes are half-lidded, staring at you while his tongue and mouth were filled with your cum.

Francis smiles, and swallows your cum right in front of you, making you bite your lip from how aroused you were.

"We aren't done yet, Milkman." You grin.

But apparently the story is done! I hope you enjoyed the story, this is my second time writing smut :)

#milkman x reader #milkman #francis mosses #Francis #francis mosses x reader #x reader #female reader #reader #x you #you #smut #thats not my neighbor #doppelganger #doppelganger francis mosses

[itostea]

the strongest (gojo x wife! reader)

gojo can't help but feel annoyed that he feels concern for the wife he swears he doesn't care for.

warnings: arranged marriage au, gojo refers to you as his wife, enemies to lovers (?), gojo tells you to lift up your top, slight angst, he's really bad at feelings okay, image from loving yamada-kun at lv999 (part of gojo’s wife series)

The lines of intrigue and fear are often blurred. It explains why we admire fire from afar, careful not to get too close in hopes of not getting burned. It explains why we find peace in parts of the ocean and tense up in deeper parts. It also explains why Gojo Satoru seeks your presence yet pushes you away the moment he finds himself feeling something other than indifference or vexation–it’s never hatred though. The strongest can’t envision himself ever hating his wife and it scares him. 

He’s not sure that can be said about you. Gojo wouldn’t be surprised if you grew to hate him after the treatment you put up with. 

Your marriage is what you call a “marriage of convenience” and Gojo made sure you remembered that. He wasn’t always so distant with you. Back then, you might’ve considered him a friend but time did its bidding and you two drifted apart, your time together merely a memory. Now fast forward a few years and you were wedded to him, taking up his surname and sleeping in the same house as him–in separate rooms of course. 

Your steps on the wooden floors were silent as you intended not to make a single noise at such a late hour. You sighed, feeling the weight of your heavy shoulders drag you down. 

Gojo might be considered cruel to you but the elders were on a different level. They knew this mission would be too much for you yet they sent you on it as punishment for speaking your mind the last time everyone gathered. 

At that time, your husband had an unfamiliar gleam in your eyes as you voiced your thoughts on the matter of Itadori. He’s a nice kid, you thought when you first saw the pink-haired boy. 

Taking away his youth wouldn’t be fair. After all, he didn’t choose to have the Ryomen Sukuna use him as a vessel. Yet, sentiment doesn’t do well with the higher ups and they made sure you knew your place with the mission they sent you on. 

You inhaled sharply, wincing as you felt the bruise on your rib with your palm. There was blood soaking your tights, little cuts littering your legs. You’re so tired you can’t find it in yourself to even eat. Then again, you needed to be in your best condition tomorrow since another mission was sent out of you and specifically you. Those in power always make sure it’s clear that they are in power. Your voice of opinion meant nothing to their beliefs in tradition or what you liked to call, “backward thinking.” That’s one thing you and your husband could agree on. 

“Ow,” you wince for the nth time as you open the fridge, scanning the items. Mochi. Ice-cream. Leftover cake. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to go grocery shopping a day prior so you could have a proper meal. This was the kind of stuff Gojo could live on but you couldn’t. Closing the fridge, you opt for instant ramen instead. Not the best choice in regards to healthiness but cracking an egg in there meant more protein and it also minimized the spice levels. 

You’re halfway in between preparing the noodles when you feel a presence right beside you and soft breathing besides your ears. “You’re home,” your ‘husband’ mumbles, his eyes half-lidded from just having woken up. 

“God! Satoru!” You gasp, flinching away from and only realizing how close he was. For someone who claimed he wasn’t interested in you, he didn’t know what personal space was. “How did you know I was home?”

“Your cursed energy leaked in,” he shrugs his shoulders, peering down at you without the constraints of his blindfold or shades. You gulp as his eyes flit up and down your appearance, causing your insides to tense up in a sudden wave of self-consciousness. Being scrutinized by the six-eyes himself wasn’t much fun and you’re suddenly aware of the fact that your hair is disheveled and your face is sweaty from just having come home from a grueling mission. 

You don’t even notice the glint of rage that crosses his hues before he masks it. “Who did this to you?”

“Huh?” You blink, coming to your senses that your body was bloodied up and battered from having fought a curse. “Oh it was just a mission. It’s normal to be hurt on missions.” 

Gojo’s been living with you for nearly half a year now and he knows you’re more than competent when it comes to shaman duties (not that he’d ever tell you). He knows you return home by 7 p.m.., and never at hours well past midnight. He knows that you usually only get injuries on your back because you get careless at times. But now, he sees cuts everywhere and he’s not sure if you’re running on adrenaline or if you’re too tired to notice. 

His eyes glance at the way you press a palm on your rib, subconsciously squeezing the area as if hiding it from him. “Let me see.”

Your surprise is immediate and he would’ve felt a strange fluttering in his stomach if not for this concern he was experiencing for you. You smile. “See what?”

“Your injury. Let me see it,” he says again, pressing on the hand you hold close to your ribs, narrowing his eyes as you hiss in pain. “Don’t be stubborn (Name).” 

His voice is different from the cheery one he often uses and you’re left leaning further into the kitchen counter, acutely aware of the fact that his taller frame wasn’t allowing you to escape. His eyes widen the slightest once he gets a glimpse of your flustered expression as you peer up at him and he only realizes what he was asking from you. Part of him tells him to ignore this and pretend his concern for you was brief. Yet, part of him screams at him that he was your husband, so he should feel the right to be worried–even if he was months late. 

He sighs, tilting his head. “I’m just going to look. I promise I won’t do anything else,” his voice is oddly tender as he speaks to you, a contrast to the usual nonchalance you’re used to. 

You gulp and let out a shaky sigh, giving in when your fingers reach to pull your top up for him to see the bare skin that you can’t even say is spotless or void of marks. Multiple wounds litter your skin–some faded, some new. You’re scared his gaze would show some signs of judgment or disgust but you’re left bemused when you see how his eyebrows furrow and his lips purse. For a second, you allow yourself to be deluded by the fact that he might be worried but you quickly abandon that thought, averting your eyes from him.

You can see how he pieces everything together. From the way you rebelled against the elders and how they saw it as a means to punish you. He does it so quickly that you can only blink when his blank expression morphs into something different. You almost feel relieved from the fact that his expression of pure anger wasn’t directed at you and rather those who sent you on the mission.

It’s almost natural how he slides the top further up, mapping the extent of the bruise with his eyes. His hands are warm and calloused. They’re also gentle, tracing the bruise carefully to not hurt you. “I’ll kill those old bastards,” he chuckles with a sneer. “They have some nerve letting my wife take this mission without me.”

You frown as you see his anger first-hand. “Satoru–”

“Why didn’t you go to Shoko?” He interrupts, gently holding on your waist to prop you on the counter while he stands in between your legs. He watches you intently, in search of answers.

You feel somewhat embarrassed as his hand still lifts your top up to see the bare skin but don’t comment on it. “I didn’t want to bother her so late at night…”

For the first time since today, you see him flash a genuine smile, as if exasperated by your reasoning. “But you’re fine with bothering me?” 

“That’s different!” You say, a pout slowly forming on your lips and he can’t help but feel drawn to you even if he doesn’t want to. 

He laughs as you pull your top down with a huff, finding it cute that you were so bashful. “Because I’m your husband?” 

You go silent and for a second, Gojo thinks he’s messed up for mentioning that. Despite being your husband, he’s not the greatest at doing his job. He’s not callous or spiteful towards you, instead taking on more of a cold and aloof attitude towards you. Even so, he thinks that hurts just as much as a few insults. 

He’s about to pull back but your voice draws him back to you. “Yeah. It’s because you’re my husband.”

Gojo can’t stop himself from glancing at your lips at that single statement. He was today years old when he realized he was a man of simple tastes. All you had to do was tell him that he was your husband and he’d want to kiss you until your lips turned red. He considers himself lucky that you didn’t see that slip-up of his–though he wouldn’t have minded if you did.

He breathes out a sigh, propping his chin atop your head while his fingers draw circles around your hips. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

It’s a vow he swears to keep. 

“I know,” you whisper quietly enough for him to hear. “You’re the strongest after all.”

He thinks it’s funny that even as the strongest, he feels weak when he feels your fingers play with his sleeves. No words are said after that and a comfortable silence drifts between you two. It’s like the barrier between the two of you is cracking once you feel his lips press gently against your forehead and you think it's his way of sealing the promise. 

Gojo Satoru thinks–or rather he knows that he wouldn’t mind living the rest of his life with you. And he knows that he should fix his behavior around you and stop running away. That way, instead of a kiss to the forehead, he can finally give you one on your lips. 

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #satoru gojo #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #arranged marriage #i'm in my jjk phase bye