#this is about many things but mostly about kismet

[lorelune]

part o - part iii

|| diluc ragnvindr x f! reader || E/18+ || hurt/comfort, fluff, post-trauma || wc: 16.2k  || ao3 || masterlist || NEXT →

You return to Mondstadt after many years away, sick, with an feeling that's all-too familiar and unwelcome.

❁ my heart, your song - @firein-thesky ❁

minors & ageless blogs dni

a/n: AH!! here it is :'^) the diluc fic!!!! thank you so much to @itoshisoup for beta reading (along with my non-tumblr pals han & ennis as well!!) this section contains four chapters, separated by partitions. if you'd prefer to read this fic with the chapters/parts separated, it will be posted as such on ao3!

this fic is a collab with the lovely cielo (@firein-thesky)!! our fics share a mostly canon compliant universe :3c give it a read!! it's linked above!!!

...

tags: alcohol use, descriptions of vomiting, reader with chronic injury, reader is referred to as 'little sister' by kaeya (not related), unreliable narrator/reader, soggy soggy SOGGY diluc, protective diluc, diluc and reader were childhood friends to lovers, reader is a healer

PART o: kismet

Once, on one of your several trips to Sumeru, you visited the Akademiya. You only went to poke at dusty books and sit in on a few lectures as a wanderer who liked a good story and a bit of learning. There, you met a scholar whose name didn’t stick with you, from the Rtawahist darshan.

They had the far-off look in their eye of someone who had seen a bit too much, for who they were. You knew that some scholars went mad in their pursuit of knowledge. Saw things that they couldn’t cope with even if they tried. Your new friend looked to be close to such a threshold.

Perhaps, in an act of pity, you took this scholar out for a drink. Or two. Or seven. The exact number of cups and goblets escapes you now. But what you do remember, as you sat together on a terrace high above Yazaha pool, legs swinging, was their ramblings. 

“There’s a map of everything, up there.” They gestured wildly to the sky, twinkling and bright, with the moon as company. “Deciphering it... Well. That’s another thing. But it’s there. And if we figure it out, fate will be in our hands to know.”

They continued, stretching their hands to the cosmos above them, as if their fingertips could decipher the orchestration of the Gods with nothing but passion, wine, and will. It was admirable, in your drunken state. Perhaps foolish to your sober mind. 

Nonetheless, such an idea stuck with you. Even after you departed from your bygone friend, and continue your wanderings, you think about it. You laid on your bedroll more than once, staring upward, and wondering—

Why did the gods mosaic the sky? 

You are just a mortal, how are you to know? You tried not to dwell on that specific thought. The one you find yourself coming back to, in your worst nights—

(If I could read the stars, and foresee a tragedy, is there any way for a calamity to be stopped? If you knew fate’s charted course, the crest of its fortune and the wake of its tragedies— could you circumvent them?)

(Could you have stopped your calamity?)

It was a self-deprecating thought, and it dragged you back to a place and time that was both unpleasant and unnecessary to recall. 

There’s no way to change the past, you reminded yourself. You could only move forward. Never back. You only balked at the stars in your weakest moments and pondered such ideas like fate and destiny. You could live in the illusion of carving your own destiny as you traversed Teyvat. One where you wrapped gauze around wounds after the disaster had passed. Heal sullied ground. You could do everything you could to help people. That was enough, you decided early on in your travels. 

You’d help people (and avoid the nation Mondstadt). Simple enough.

One foot in front of the other.

PART i: there’s a puzzle we crafted

You’re tired. 

So tired. 

It’s a merciless type of exhaustion that you rarely, if ever, let yourself slip into. To wander Liyue’s peak and narrow paths in such a condition is dangerous, even if the Millelith and Guild did a decent job keeping settlements of Hilichurls suppressed. In general, you can take down slimes on your own— except when you find yourself this deliriously tired. 

Normally, you don’t even bother traveling in this state. You would drag yourself to the nearest village, throw some mora at a layperson and set up shop wherever they had space. Be that an inn, back room, or stable— you aren’t picky. As long as you could rest for a few days, perhaps help out the village in your spare time. 

Your most recent wanderings, however, took you far onto the Yaoguang Shoals for several days, and by the time you returned to solid, proper earth, you were desperately low on essentials. Your nearest respite was an old village crawling with Hilichurls. Your next best option would be a miniature expedition onto the shores of Dragonspine and hope the cold wouldn’t kill you before you could find shelter and stoke a fire.

So, you keep going.  

All the way past Stonegate and the quarries beyond it. You’re only half-lucid as you wander into Mondstadt for the first time in years. 

You roost in an abandoned cottage some ways down the road. Finally resting for the first time in days. Never mind your still-damp bedroll or the structural unsoundness of the ruin. You practically fall to your knees and pass out, given your state.

(Running has made you tired, hasn’t it?)

When you awaken, you ache. (Familiar). You nibble on the last of your rations and it hits you—

You’re back in Mond, aren’t you?

Archons.

You should leave, really. It’s your first thought when you realize where you are. You shouldn’t be here. You’re not even near the city proper, but a panic unfurls in your chest like you’ve been struck. You immediately begin to pack up your things—

Two things hit you then:

One: You’re far lower on supplies than you had thought. 

This isn’t a new development, however. It’s just far worse than you thought. You paw at the contents of your bag, realizing that the dried zaytun peaches and jerky you had for breakfast were the last of your rations. The weather had been poor across Liyue in the past weeks, and many of the normal markets you would’ve run into were shuttered because of it. Regardless, you didn’t think you were on your last fucking morsels. 

Deep in your bag, all you have is a torn, unusable tarp and a pitiful handful of the crystalline shards you used to purify water. 

You don’t even need to look at your medicine kit to know the paltry state it’s in. Far too many empties. 

Two:  A burning sensation that splits you wide open and threatens to eat you alive. 

You barely twist your foot the wrong way. Hardly at all. Regardless, something like liquid electro shoots from the twisted (broken, mutilated—) parts of your right foot, up your thigh, and shakes you down to your bones. 

You stumble, using the wall for support and keeping your weight off the injury. It shouldn’t be aggravated this early in the day. You shake it off from your ankle, lowering yourself to the dirt floor to massage out any of the tension and subsequent pain that you can. You’ll be able to walk, surely, but it’s getting harder and harder to deny that the old injury isn’t worsening over time. 

You remember, vaguely, hearing tell that there was a skilled healer in Mond once again. Younger, a Vision-bearer in the Church, maybe? 

You know enough about the Church of Favonius that they would at least look at your injury, if this half-remembered healer really does exist and is affiliated with them. 

You hate that Mondstadt seemed like the best option. 

(Later, you’ll realize it’s all a bit like fate, pushing you toward that stupid city.)

You find yourself at a loss, shake your head, and sigh, “... I guess it wouldn’t... really be so bad to visit.”

You’ll just stay for a day or two.

...

Mondstadt’s front gate is so familiar it nearly hurts. The guards have different faces than the ones you remember from your youth. Their demeanor is the same— kind, open, like how people from Mond tend to be. They don’t hound you too much as you pass, and you enter the city without issue. 

Midday sun lights Mondstadt proper when you arrive (your journey from the quarries took a bit longer than necessary, considering your route went wide around a particular plot of land that you refused to go near.)

The city bustles with noise and activity. Merchants line the streets, carts and stalls overflowing. Seafoam banners and floral wreaths hang along the stone arches and walls, while garlands of fresh flowers stretch from building to building. The scent of fresh flowers, baking bread, and sweet wine envelopes you.

Windblume, you remember. It is spring, after all.

You hope the crowds of the festival will help you blend in as you meander through the city. You keep your head down, counting cobblestones and being quick with your purchases. Better to get in and out, probably. If you can snag a new tarp and bedroll, you could set up across the bridge for the night, and be gone by morning if you could track down that healer within the afternoon too. 

As you walk up the main run of Mond proper, toward the fountain and the smell of warm spiced meat, someone, archons, gasps from behind you and says your name.

(Later, you’ll recall this moment. Perhaps kismet turned on its axis for you to still and—)

You freeze, going stiff. You’d know that voice anywhere. Sweet and teasing, curling down your spine in a way that feels both ambiently flirtatious and horribly familiar. 

Part of you screams to ignore her. Let her think she has the wrong person and continue your journey in Mond unimpeded by an old specter. You could be out the gates in a number of hours, if not minutes if you really need to (run, run, run).

But, there’s a temptation. It breathes itself alive, from the back of your mind to the front, entirely unavoidable. 

(How long has it been since you’ve seen a familiar face? One that you know instead of just recognizing?)

You turn slowly. “... Hi, Lisa.”

...

And, somehow, you end up in the Knight’s of Favonius headquarters, with a perfectly warm cup of tea in your hands, nestled in a library you hadn’t been inside for nearly a decade. It smells of old parchment and leather. Steam rises from your cup, fragrant with Sumeru rose and Guili cinnamon stick with black tea leaves. You recall the scholars of the Spantamad darshan favored this blend; you shared more than a cup or two during your visits to the Akademiya. 

Lisa settles in the seat across from you, with a small box of pastries that look sticky and sweet. Your mouth waters. 

“How have you been, dear?” Lisa gives you a soft look. “It’s been so long.”

So long, you add to yourself. Sitting across from Lisa is giving you a gut-twisting sense of deja vu that has your palms sweating.

“I’ve been well,” you say, gently. “Travelling, still.”

“Oh, how exciting.” Lisa smiles and lays her cheek on her palm. “What was your most recent destination?”

You hummed. “I recently went to Natlan’s capital, just for a few months. I ended up staying with a smith who gave me odd jobs in exchange for housing.”

“Oh, wow,” Lisa preens for you. “And before that? I apologize, dear, I’m not caught up with your journeys.”

Ah, the lack of letters.

“I apologize.” You rub your forehead. “I haven’t been writing lately. It’s been... hard to keep track of things, though it’s not an excuse.”

“I would disagree.” She flashes you a sympathetic smile. “You’ve been crisscrossing Teyvat; it makes perfect sense why you would struggle to keep in touch with folks. I’m sure you’ve met plenty of friends on your travels, too. I imagine you have lots to juggle.”

Lisa is partially correct, you suppose.

“You continue to give me so much amnesty— too kind,” you laugh, and lean back in your chair. 

Lisa looks a bit wistful as she puts down her cup in exchange for one of the pastries. You recognize the expression on her. You’ve only seen her wear it once before.

“How long are you staying in Mond?” Lisa asks, nodding down to the box. You leave the treats untouched.

“Not long.” You refuse to look at her as you answer, “Just for the day. I needed some supplies and Mondstadt was the most convenient.”

It’s a clinical answer. One you say intentionally, perfectly, so she can’t poke holes in your logic. You hope, pray, she doesn’t push back on your short visit. Any longer, and you might accidentally run into more faces you don’t wish to see. Lisa was tangentially related to... everything, but she was the least obtrusive person you could have run into. Still, you’re in the lion’s den, in the Ordo’s HQ, for a cup of tea, praying that you can slip in and out undetected outside of Lisa.

(It’s easier like this, you tell yourself. You can’t get twisted up in this place again.)

Lisa examines you, tracing you up and down with her gaze in a way that’s horribly disarming. If it was from anyone else, you’d think they were checking you out, especially with the sweet, upward quirk of her lips. But, this is Lisa, and you had forgotten how astute she is.

“Only a day? That’s a shame.” She sighs, sitting back and stirring the tiny spoon perched in her teacup. “It's Windblume. You should stay.”

“I could,” you muse and give her a sympathetic smile. “But, I don’t think it would be wise. It would be better if I got on my way quickly.”

She raises an eyebrow. “How far back would a few days in Mondstadt put you on your travel plans?” 

‘Plans’. 

You nearly bark out a laugh, but you keep it lodged in your throat. 

“Not terribly far, but I... I don’t want to stay, Lisa.” You reach across the table and squeeze her free hand. “It isn’t good for me to linger here.”

The look she gives you breaks your heart. Her brows wilt, her eyes get a little sadder, and she grips your hand unyieldingly. “... Are you sure, sweetheart? I’m sure the Knights could put together some lodging for you—”

She presses, and you hate the feeling of it. You know her kindness is not misplaced, but it makes you roll around in your skin regardless. Archons. You interrupt her with a tight smile, “Truly, Lisa, I am grateful for the offer, but I will be on my way come tomorrow morning. Perhaps another year.”

“Perhaps.”

You sip your tea in silence for a moment. You stew, barely, not at her specifically but circumstance. It boils just underneath your skin, just as it has been since you entered Mond’s border. Speaking to Lisa has only made the feeling grow and burn. 

You can’t meet her gaze— you can’t. You can feel it on you regardless. You know you’ll see more pity and maybe that familiar bite of anger she wields so well. 

“Why don’t you tell me when and how you got that Vision then?” She nods low, down to your waist. Your dendro Vision hums there, tied to you with a fraying, braided string that desperately needs replacing. 

There isn’t a problem with indulging a bit of... this, is there? You’re only sitting to chat. Drinking some tea. You can hunt for that healer and duck out of Mond’s walls by sundown. Easy. You pluck one of the buttery-looking pastries from the box and plop it on your plate. 

“Sure, but only if I can get a refill on this tea.” You smile and raise your cup.

...

You lose track of time, talking to Lisa. 

You do tell her how you obtained your Vision, and of your subsequent journey through Snezhnaya to its port following your graduation. She tells you some of the new gossip of Ordo Favonius, and that she’s been thinking about picking out a ring to give to Jean (though, she has a hunch the other already has one in mind. Lisa thinks it'll be fun to meddle with whatever precise plan the Acting Grand Master (nice) has in place.)

She continues to pour you tea and push more baked goods onto your plate. You enjoy them, and her company. It’s a rare treat to sit down for so long with nothing more than chatting on your mind. 

“How was studying in Snezhnaya?” Lisa asked, eyeing your various bags. “Cold, I imagine?”

“Very.” You grimace, fishing around in your satchel. “But, worth it.” 

You pull forth a palm-sized metal insignia. You keep it tucked away, most of the time, only flashing the thing when necessary. You only need legitimacy every so often.

“Oh, wow.” Lisa gawks a bit. “May I see?”

You hand it to her. “Be my guest.”

She studies the metal, running her fingertips along the edges where the different colors meet. Vibrant blues meet greens and whites, with pink and purple flowers cast around the bottom edge. The shape resembles something between a shield and wheel, with each one of its seven portions having some meaning for the institution. They escape you now. 

“I’ve heard that the Tselostnyy School is quite the place,” Lisa says. “No one at the Akademiya seemed fond of them, but I imagine it was out of some sort of insecurity.”

You snort. “Probably. Folks at Tselostnyy actually teach healing— not just study the human body for the sake of some academic pursuit. The two schools have opposing goals.”

It was one of the main reasons you declined to apply to the Akademiya at all. 

“I’m glad you found a place to study— I know it was hard, after Teacher passed away.” Lisa reaches out as she speaks, going for your hand. 

You withdrew your own from the tabletop, hiding it in your lap. “It was. But I managed.”

‘Managed.’

Lisa gives you a look that drips pity. She looks as though she’s going to reply, just as the door to enter the library clicks open. 

Your gut drops to the floor and your shoulders stiffen. 

“Lisa? Could you proofread this draft for me? I’m afraid I sound too formal again—” It’s Jean, it’s Jean.

It’s her voice, the distantly familiar click of her hard heels against the wood flooring. You bunch the fabric of your trousers in your fist, forcibly reminding yourself to breathe. Jean walks from behind you, rounds the table, stops at Lisa’s side and looks at you. 

Jean’s eyes widen.

“Oh, sorry sweetheart— I’m a bit busy with a friend right now,” Lisa says easily, oblivious (seemingly, probably not.) She gestures to you and winks. “I can take a look after lunch, if you can take a break with me.” 

Jean says your name— gasping it more or less, tightening her grip on the document in her hands. 

“... Hi, Jean.” You give her a little wave. “How have you been?”

It’s bittersweet, the feeling that curls and grows in your chest as she brightens and pulls up a chair next to Lisa. It’s familiar and rotten, all the same.

...

The commotion in the library brings other visitors.

Lisa wears a smitten smile as other knights make their way into the library. Aramia and Flyn— they look older, long grown out of their adolescence and more into their skin. Hertha has crinkles around her eyes that grow tight when she recognizes who you are. 

The Spark Knight barrels in the room being lazily chased by—

Kaeya.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck— 

He scoops up the little knight and turns to the tea table, now surrounded by familiar faces, and you can see he has his lips pursed for some sort of teasing quip. Probably at the expense of the Ordo’s acting Grand Master and Librarian.

Then, Kaeya sees you. 

You watch his jaw snap shut. Whatever clever thing he had to say dies on his tongue and you watch it. It’s a little satisfying after all this time. You’ll cherish this moment, you think. The split second of confusion, the realization, the shock and— the guilt.

He wipes the expression off his face easily, as if it were never there to begin with. But you’ll revel in his discomfort. Your own little revenge, several years too late.

“Oh, wow—” Kaeya whistles, clicking closer and settling Klee on his hip with a bounce. He says your name almost breathlessly. “Little sister, it’s been quite some time. We’ve missed you.”

“Did you?” You tilt your head. “That’s surprising.”

You hold your tongue. You dig your teeth into the sides of it, forcing yourself quiet. The feeling that’s boiling in your chest won’t be extinguished by verbally thrashing Kaeya in the middle of the Knight’s HQ— but, Archons—

It’s tempting.

“‘Sister’?” The little knight’s nose scrunches. “Mister Kaeya, you said you only had Diluc, who’s only kinda your brother. No sisters!”

“He’s teasing me,” you placate her, voice sweetening. The little knight looks at you with wide eyes, a little awed. “‘Mister Kaeya’ is an old friend of mine, we played together lots when we were little like you.”

An oversimplification, of course. Little Klee doesn’t need to know what happened after the sun-swept days of sword fighting and house ended at the winery. Kaeya’s air quickly fades as Klee squirms down and asks kindly for a hug. You don’t think she can remember you— you only held her once, when she was so small— but you know her kind age and remember so differently from your own.

“Why are you in town?” Kaeya asks. “I thought I’d never seen you within city limits again. Color me surprised.”

You lock your jaw, as Klee bounds away from you and wrestles her way onto Jean’s lap, “Passing through, is all. I’ll be gone by morning.”

“... So, you’re not staying for Windblume?” Kaeya sits, pouring himself a cup of tea. You think you might hate him. “That’s a shame.” 

“I’m not,” you clarify and roll your eyes. “Though everyone is insisting that I do.”

“You really should.” Lisa takes the opening and insists, “It would be lovely to have you.”

Of the group that has congested in the library, you only hear agreement. Jean has a bright look in her eye that makes you shy away. 

“I... I really shouldn’t.” 

“Why not?” Kaeya grins, foxlike. You think he just likes making you squirm.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Jean inquires, setting her chin on her fist.

“Well, no—” There’s always somewhere for you to be. You can’t stay. You shouldn’t even be here now. 

“Then, stay.” Eula leans against the doorframe, entered at some point. 

You’re being thoroughly peer-pressured, it seems. 

“...I’m being bullied into staying for Windblume, aren’t I?”

“Perhaps.” Jean gives you a sheepish grin. “You’re missed, Windblume is just an excuse.”

You ache. 

“Stay in the city, enjoy some wine,” Lisa insists. “Catch up with folks. I’d love to see more of you while you’re here. I’m sure you have stories to share of your travels.”’

You barter, “... If I do stay, I need to find a healer. I heard that there’s a skilled one, living in Mond. A Vision holder.”

Jean opens her mouth, but Kaeya speaks first. “Done.”

You consider. 

You’re fully aware that your arm is being horribly twisted into staying for Windblume. You know this is unwise. But—

(There’s something to it. Something you can’t admit it to, not aloud, not yet— but being in a room full of people who do not see you as a stranger, but rather an old friend. They know your name, and you know theirs. There’s something to knowing the streets you will walk if you stay. Familiarity is a wretched comfort.)

“If you need lodging, the knights could easily put you up in the dormitories,” Jean offers.

“No, I—” You sigh, scrubbing a hand down your cheeks. “I appreciate the gesture, but if I do stay I’ll camp outside the city.”

“So you’re staying?” Klee’s eyes shine. 

“I—”

“In that case, come out for drinks tonight,” Kaeya insists with a sly smile that makes you want to eat glass. “I’ll buy a round.”

“Wait—”

“Angel’s Share does bring out its Windblume vintage tonight—” Lisa says enticingly. 

“Absolutely not.” You smack your hand on the table, far louder than you intend. 

Kaeya cocks his head, amused. Lisa and Jean share a look, and the rest of the knights look a bit bewildered. You hate to raise your voice, but Archons, this crowd can be pushy.

“I’ll stay. But I’m not going to Angel’s Share.” Never ever again.

Lisa does seem to notice her error in suggesting it and gives you an apologetic smile. She reaches for your hand and squeezes. You feel a bit lighter.

“Diluc won’t be there,” Kaeya states. On the nose. “He doesn’t bartend on weeknights, even during Windblume.”

“... Really?”

“He doesn’t,” Eula corroborates. “I have knowledge as well that he is in the middle of merchant deals with a group from Natlan. There is no reason to think he’d be at Angel’s Share this evening, if that’s your concern.”

You pick at the skin around your nails. 

“I’ll think about it.”

(You agree, by the time you leave Ordo HQ. After many other promises of free wine and dancing, you find it hard to refuse. It doesn’t hurt that you confirm with multiple others that Diluc doesn’t bartend on weeknights. That he’s been caught up in business, and hasn’t been in the city much at all.)

...

You had enough mora for a few nights of lodging. You figured that Goth may have even given you a discount, as an old friend of his. Archons know how many times you worked odd jobs for him and his sons, patching up walls and the occasion twisted ankle or jammed finger. 

After some searching, you find Goth in one of the many gardens of Mond proper. As happy as he is to see you, he regretfully informs you that he has no free lodging. 

“Windblume has booked out all of my short-term properties,” Goth sighs. “Unless you’re looking for a minimum six-month lease, I don’t have any rooms available.”

(Goth explains to you that the goddamn Fatui has rented out the entirety of his hotel... indefinitely? Upfront? Hence the lack of a room.)

You tell him it’s no trouble, wave off his concern. You don’t mind a few more nights of camping. The only allure of an inn or hotel was the possibility of consistently bathing and a soft mattress. 

You pick a spot outside of Mondstadt proper to set up your camp. There are many tents already set up— travelers, like yourself, here for the festival. You recognize colors and fabrics from all over Teyvat. It warms something in you, that you aren’t alone in being an outsider here.

(Such a thought feels wrong, because it is, isn’t it? You aren’t an outsider at all. This is your home. The only place you’re not an outsider.) 

You struggle to set up your tent, and decide to leave it for later. Wandering around Mond for the afternoon aggravated your injury, and you instead take the time to poke around in your medicine kit for a quick tincture. Something to settle the—

(Burning, screeching pain that tracks up your leg. You’re grateful the other travelers aren’t watching how you collapse against a pile of discarded crates, barely holding back a hiss of pain.)

(It’s getting worse, isn’t it?)

Teacher always said that nothing was harder on sickness and wounds than stress. It was a wisdom you remembered but barely heeded.

You use the dropper and place the tincture under your tongue. It tastes bitter and coats your throat as you swallow. 

...

The sun rains gold on Mond as you meander toward the Angel’s Share. Liquid amber that coats the buildings and cobblestones. It’s nostalgic in too many ways, and it makes something behind your ribs ache.

(You’re hit with the distinct urge to run. To turn tail and leave Mondstadt forever, again.)

You shove it down, swallow it whole, and bear it. Bear it. Not forever, just for a few days. You can catch up with some old friends, leave any old scores unsettled and untouched (undisturbed, unthought about—), and depart. Maybe even fix up your foot in the process.

You hesitate outside of Angel’s share.

It looks different than you remember. The door and its frame have been replaced, the door and its frame hardly ached. There’s a message board outside that you can’t recall being there previously. A wreath hangs on the door, woven with blue and white flowers for Windblume.

You want it to be different. You do. Because if things are different, walking into Angel’s Share wouldn’t feel so daunting. You could pretend that this horribly familiar tavern was someplace else entirely. Maybe even delude yourself into thinking that this little building was its own, unique, carved-out square during one of your travels. A fantasy where you’ve never been here before.

(The warmth under your disgust wouldn’t feel so misplaced then.)

You enter.

It’s lively, bustling with patrons of all types with the festival beginning so soon. You recognize clothes and people from all corners of Teyvat, and it comforts you once more. You blend in easily, lingering near the door, and peek at the bar.

Diluc is nowhere to be seen. Another barkeep mans the kegs, barrels, and bottles. You don’t recognize him— which brings you some relief. 

It would be easy. To be delusional about this whole thing. That Angel’s Share could be just a tavern in the middle of nowhere and the faces that are around you have no chance of being familiar. You’re in a sea of folks who are travelers, just like, or mostly unfamiliar. You could, couldn’t you? Tell yourself that this isn’t a place where—

(You had your first drink. Learned how to mix cocktails with Crepus. Play fought Diluc and Kaeya in the rafters on the third floor. Where you last saw Diluc—)

You clutch a hand to your chest. Who knew that emotional pain could be so violently physical? 

Jean calls your name from across the room, pulling you from your stupor. You meet her eyes, and the smile you force to meet your eyes feels a little more genuine.

With the call of your name, several other patrons look up and gawk for a moment. You get a few more ‘oh hello!’s and ‘I didn’t know you were in town!’ thrown your way and you give them all sheepish smiles. Faces you can’t place very well. Features and familiar expressions mutilated by time and a botched memory. It makes you feel sick to your stomach— archons, and you haven’t even sampled this year’s selection of thousand-wind’s wine, have you? 

Jean flashes you a sympathetic look when you finally make it to their table. The table is flushed full— intimidatingly so. The knights have come out tonight. Lisa and Jean cozy up on the same bench seat, while Kaeya (die) and Albedo sit across from the two. You offer the alchemist a timid wave, which he returns in kind. Some of the other knights have spilled out to the tables around you, chattering away with wine-stained lips.

And the night’s still young.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d show,” Kaeya practically purrs (choke) and leans closer to you on an elbow. “Were you able to find some lodging for the festival?”

“Yeah, I found something that will work.” It’s not technically a lie. Besides, they don’t need to know where you’re sleeping.

Kaeya raises an eyebrow and Albedo elbows him politely in the ribs. You make a note to buy him a drink later.

“I’ll get this round,” Lisa says, standing and grabbing you by the arm. “My treat. A welcome home present.”

You let her tug you through the crowd.

You end up seated properly at a barstool while Lisa orders. She wove her way through the crowd and up to the bar so easily, like liquid. You hardly have to wait at all before a drink is passed to you across the bar top.

You gulp half the glass down, greedily.

You, notably, have chosen not to cessate from dandelion wine in your absence. It was a rare treat to come across outside of Mond and Liyue, so when you could get your hands on glass, you let yourself partake. Whatever melancholy it brought with it could be tempered with more of it anyways.

It goes down easy— it always does. Thicker than other wines, sweet but bodied, with some type of nutty and berry note to it. You never understood the process of winemaking, despite so many years spent at the winery. When Crepus or Diluc or one of the staff attempted to explain, it all easily went over your head. 

The tannins sour your cheeks. You swallow down another mouthful, greedy, and slam down your empty goblet. Lisa looks at you wide-eyed.

“I don’t recall that you were ever much of a drinker,” Lisa remarks as she flags down another glass for you. She sips her own, mischief in her eyes. 

You shrug, nodding to the barkeep who fills your cup. “I indulge, occasionally. Forgive me for needing a drink in this environment.”

You gesture to the carousing around you. A lyre and fiddle play in the corner, and you distinctly hear two different bard songs. One is significantly better than the other, and you may have even enjoyed it if you could hear it fully. 

Being near the bar forces you to see changes. They’re hard to not notice. The signage behind the bar has changed. An old menu and drink list have been changed out for something sleeker. Paintings and their frames replaced. The glass you’re drinking out must be new, along with the tankards that the barkeep washes whenever he has a free moment.

There are still ghosts in the corners.

“Gods, you look like a wet towel.” Kaeya’s shouts, nearly in your goddamn ear, as he slips into the empty seat next to you. He drapes an arm over your shoulders like you’re old friends and not the byproducts of a dissolved relationship. You think about shrugging his arm off, but decide against it. 

You throw back the rest of whatever is in your glass and shout for another.

Kaeya catches your eye for a moment with a nearly unreadable expression. You recognize it (and concur that you need to be far more drunk than you currently are in order to survive the evening.) His brow lays smooth, lips in a not-quite smile, and his posture is a bit too rigid. You know he’s picking you apart, albeit quietly.

The expression disappears a moment later, and he has a new bottle of wine in his hands (“For you, little sister.”) Your cup fills yet again, and you drink.

The world begins to feel fuzzier, easier, and the pain in your foot and leg dulls. God, you try not to indulge in drinking too often (it’s simply a recipe for reliance, given your condition. Regardless, you're a physician who knows better than to turn to the bottle rather than medicine), but you feel the temptation of it occasionally. 

It’s an easy friend to indulge in under these circumstances.

One of the bards, the one with loose braids, strikes up a conversation with Kaeya, looping you in with an exchange of introduction. Your cheeks warm when you notice the slur of your words, sipping your cup to disguise any embarrassment. The bard must be drunk, with how much sweet wine he drinks, but he hardly acts it. Poised.

Lisa pats you on your back after your fourth glass, seemingly pitying you in your stupor. 

The good bard, at some point, leaves Kaeya’s side. Kaeya’s back to leaning into yours, the furs of his outfit prickling your nose. If you were sober, you’d be spewing curses at him. But in your drunken mind... it was fine. Fine. Maybe the warmth of him against your side wasn’t entirely unwelcome either.

You loosen up, whether you want to or not. 

Lisa drags you out of your stool after your fifth drink, to take pulls off a pipe a traveler offers and to dance with her in the main room of the tavern. The bards play a duet now, in tune, though the good bard from earlier carries the performance.

You laugh as she twirls you, dipping you near the floor. Some of the patrons cheer and whistle at the move, and you let loose a giggle that never would’ve left you in your right mind. Her face swims before you. Your insides are warm. Things are okay, maybe. For now.

So, you dance.

You dance with Jean and Kaeya, even dragging Hertha in for a round. Eula refuses, though apologetically. She’s a bit too drunk herself, and Amber insists on staying by her side to nurse her with water and pyro-warmed pets to the back of her neck.

(Do you envy them? Maybe. The skinship of it seems nice. They’re so familiar with each other, even from a distance. So lax and tender with each other even within such a setting. You cannot imagine receiving such treatment.)

Kaeya spins you back to the bar and buys you another glass.

“You dance better than you used to,” he croons in your ear. “even with that dreadful limp of yours.”

You bark out a laugh and punch him in the arm with hardly any force (you’ll regret not making it hurt more, later). “Wow, and here I thought wine curbed your silver tongue.”

“Unlike some, I can hold my liquor just fine.” He shrugs and sips.

You, on the other hand, turn the corner from ‘tipsy’ to ‘blasted’ as you hit the bottom of your goblet. Your stomach churns, spelling a hangover that will rot your stomach and the space between your eyes come the morning. The room doesn’t spin, not quite yet. 

You lay your forehead on the bartop. 

“Aw, had a bit too much?” Kaeya tsks. “How unfortunate of you, to not know your limits, even after all this time.”

You grumble something unintelligible. 

He sets a cold hand on the nape of your neck and your ground yourself on it.

(You can regret it in the morning.)

You have absolutely no idea what time it is, though the tavern is still rowdy. You imagine late, at least near the high moon if not into the early morning. Windblume was a celebration of drinking after all. Angel’s Share stays lively, despite the hour, though the drone of voices and folk songs becomes lost on you as your eyes slip shut.

Amongst the din, there’s a firm thud— the sound of wood on wood. Another sounds just after, though much closer and more shallow. You only make out the sound because of its old familiarity. The sound of the counter flap falling and straining its hinges. It must be one of the only pieces of original hardware from the old Angel’s share— the sound is identical to the one in your memory (maybe, you’re drunk, you may just be nostalgic—)

The barkeep (Charles, he told you his name though you didn’t give him yours) shuffles away, maybe, based on the thump of feet amongst the roar of the tavern. A shift change.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d show.” Kaeya’s hand leaves you. You can hear the grin in his voice.

There’s a huff from behind the bar. The clink of a glass. A squeak as it’s dried and shined with a rag.

“Do you think I’m unreliable?” 

Your eyes stretch open, wide, in a flash. Horrible, wretched familiarity (with the way a voice can bring you so much anguish and warmth in tandem.) You don’t look up. You stare down at the floorboards, count the grains and notches in the wood. Steady your breathing. 

You know that voice.

You look up, slowly, against all better judgment. If you were sober (Archons, if you were fucking sober—) you would’ve turned, held your eyes shut and ran out of the bar without looking back. You would’ve never dared to peak and pull the thread that dangled in front of you.

He’s blurry, but he’s there. A trim waist that leads up to broad shoulders, arms that bulge more than you remember, scarlet hair that falls in waves from a high-tied ribbon. Scarlet eyes, cut and polished like rubies. 

It’s Diluc, who meets your gaze for the first time in almost a decade. Just as shocked and wide-eyed as you are. 

The glass slips from his hands and shatters.

PART iii: the World (born)

You met Diluc Ragnvindr when you were just children, doing what children do best— playing while the adults talked.

Your parents— traveling merchants— and Crepus Ragnvindr sat down for wine and sweet rum after a lavish supper. Your parents shooed you off. They didn’t need you clinging to their legs while trying to discuss the intricacies of a potential (and lucrative) contract with Dawn Winery and its splendid dandelion wine.

Crepus takes you under his wing a bit, showing your parents to a fine vintage and you to his two boys.

“They like to play in the vineyard this time of day,” Crepus says, a bit wistful. He leads you by the hand. “The crystalflies soar lower when the sun dips beyond the hills, and the fireflies come out.”

You like fireflies.

He shows you out to the courtyard, and you catch sight of two boys scampering around amongst the greenery. Crepus calls them and they both dutifully bound over, the way young boys do, enthusiastic and fast. The one with the pretty blue hair follows the one with the pretty red hair.

Crepus introduces you. Kaeya. Diluc.

Diluc has round cheeks and a soft jaw. He carries baby fat still, pudgy in his arms and legs and round in his belly. His cheeks are flushed with the late summer’s heat and a day of play. He has a brush of freckles over the bridge of his nose and cheeks. His hair is shorter than it will become, but long enough that you think your mother would envy him.

His eyes widen when he sees you. You’ll never be sure why.

(Kismet turned for him earlier, maybe. All it took was you.)

You spend the evening with your side wedged into Diluc's, watching the lazy flight of anemo crystalflies by the water. You tell the boys about the constellations you know, and make up a few that you don’t. You trace them in the sky with the tip of your pointer finger. You ask to braid Diluc’s hair and he lets you. 

Crepus finds you all, just after dusk, dozing as the fireflies begin to dance.

...

Your family visits the winery several times each year. You enjoy the visits immensely. You’ve grown quite close to the Ragnvindr’s, and Kaeya too. You always barrel off your family’s wagon, running ahead of them to greet the boys, who are always waiting for you too.

You play swords with them, though you aren’t any good at it. You always bring them trinkets from wherever you and your family have been. You like to gift Crepus a book or two as well, though you don’t know what they’re about. You choose them based on the covers.

Diluc lights up when you hand him a little shell from Liyue’s shore. You tell him about the cliffs where you found it, and how you’ll go there together some day. You’ll show him the geometric columns of stone that seem to climb all the way to Celestia. You will show him where the sand bars become one with the sea, and how to dig for crabs and shells with your bare hands. 

Diluc likes you, you think. He always lets you slip into his room after the manor has fallen asleep. You sit across from one another on the velvet window bench. You hug a pillow while he tells you about how he’ll start training as a knight soon. He holds a vision now— he pats it with pride. 

(He tells you how he obtained his vision in your absence. The first time he picked up a sword against an adversary, it appeared to him. It’s a grand thing, brave. He was protecting one of his favorite stray winery kittens from a boar near the edge of the property. He raised his rubber training sword and he was granted Celestia’s blessing.)

You think he’s lovely.

...

The boys start training with Ordo Favonius. They practice with the Gunnhildr girl, the older one, who wears a ribbon in her hair and has eyes like midday sky. She’s a few years older than you, and intimidates you with her maturity, but she’s kind. 

The older knights let you watch their training when your family visits. You post up during their drills, watch their forms, their blunders, and their successes. A knight named Varka always takes Diluc aside to teach him how to best wield his vision with his weapon of choice. 

(A greatsword. A claymore. It’s almost your size, probably. The one Diluc uses during training is Favonius issued, smithed with their crest near the base of the blade. You know the one he’ll really use. A family relic that Crepus brought up from storage for him— a rectangular blade, metal cast in black and red, with an elaborate furl stretching from the hilt. Crepus asks Diluc to wield it when he’s ready.)

Kaeya offers you his sword, one day, at the end of training. The junior knights soak in their own sweat as you take the blade from Kaeya. The knights make it look so effortless to wield such weaponry. They carry it at the hip like it's an accessory and not carved metal. When you wrap your hand around it, the weight shocks you. You barely heft it up, struggling with the balance of it. The trainees rib you a bit for it, and it makes you blush hot and hard.

Diluc scolds Kaeya, taking the blade from you when it's clear that brandishing it one-handed as intended is close to impossible for you. You feel some relief when Kaeya takes it back and shrugs. 

“You won’t have to worry about wielding a weapon like that— ever.” Diluc says on your way home (home, home, home, it’s becoming your home—) that day. “Especially a sword.”

“Why?” You ask.

“I’ll make sure you never have to.”

“Hm... what if I want to?” You try to be cheeky with him.

He gives you a playful shove and you bump into Kaeya. The latter groans and makes a choking sound.

“You don’t,” Diluc replies, flashing you a smile. “If you did, you would’ve played swords with Kaeya and I more when we were little. You always liked to watch.”

“It’s more fun that way!” You hip check him. “It’s interesting to see all of it, rather than participate.”

“Yeah, sure,” Kaeya chimes in. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with how weak your arms are.” 

He squeezes your bicep and you shriek at him, chasing him ahead down the path. You squabble all the way home (home, home, home), rolling down the hills back into the Winery’s valley. You belly laugh together, tears in your eyes. It’s good. 

You only go silent when you notice your family’s wagon, packed and ready for departure, idling in front of the winery. 

...

You don’t travel well, you never have. 

Your parents had informed Crepus of this during your first visit (“Never well, even when my wife my pregnant— the little thing gave her the hardest time on the road.”) Despite this, you had always meandered with your family on their circuit from Liyue to Mond. 

One of your visits to the winery, just around the turn of your childhood to adolescence, you fall ill.

Your parents brush off your complaints upon arrival. Chills, aches, and a cough— “It’s from the rain. Your clothes are still damp.”. Your usually lively arrival was dulled. You barely touched the dinner Crepus provided before retiring to your favored room.

You hate being sick. You hate how your gut churns and you feel so cold, despite the fire one of the maid’s stoked in the big fireplace. You sniffle and snot over the back of your hand, fighting tears. You fall ill so frequently, but it doesn’t make it easier. Even your softest clothes feel scratchy against your tender skin— you feel horribly breakable. 

There’s a gentle knock on your door before it opens. Diluc joins you by your bedside, kneeling, watching you with wide ruby eyes.

“My father told me you’re sick,” he says gently. “You don’t look well.”

You give him a wilted look. “It happens.”

“... It shouldn’t,” Diluc says with a conviction that your fever forces you to miss. “He says that you get sick often.”

“I don’t travel well.” You parrot what you heard your parents say a thousand times, to innkeepers and merchant-folk alike. “It’s alright, Diluc. I’ll be well in a few days.”

Your teeth chatter. You bury yourself deeper in the covers.

Diluc looks unconvinced. He disrobes as much as is proper, and asks quietly if he can join you. He’s warm, from his pyro vision, he tells you. He can see how cold you feel.

Whether he had such a vision or not, you would’ve said yes.

You pull away the duvet, inviting Diluc closer. It’s innocent, a sharing of heat. You press your forehead to his chest and he lets his arms fall naturally to your waist. It cages you. It feels safe and warm, and you don’t think you’ve felt that before.

You give him the smallest ‘thank you’, voice burnt and charred with fever. Diluc chases off the chill and embers alike, replaces them with the hearth that he will become to you, and you think that kismet might’ve shifted for you then, too. 

...

You leave, a few days later, still sick. 

You return, several months later, still sick.

Whatever cold you had during your last visit had metastasized— or so your parents say. They seem moderately unconcerned as they sort through the inventory they’ll be taking for their run.

Crepus doesn’t look convinced. 

Diluc helps you inside. You barely hold yourself on two feet, and need to stop and catch your breath several times. Kaeya loops his arm over your neck and Diluc hoists you by the waist, and the two nearly drag you to your room. 

A doctor is called, a healer from Mond that knows the Ragnvindr’s well. Diluc and Kaeya stay by your side as the healer draws up tincture and grinds down herbs and oils into a soft balm to slather on your chest. 

Diluc lays with you in bed again that night, over the covers, not daring to touch you. You seem so fragile, only half-there in the room with him. He resents your parents horribly for allowing you to carelessly decline in such a state. It shows in the way his expression twists into a scowl whenever they’re within his vicinity.

...

Crepus offers his home to you— no, rather he insists.

You’re still ill, lungs gunky and fever hardly waned, by the time your family deigns it time to leave. They plan to cart you along, never mind your condition. Diluc, if he had less restraint, would’ve cursed them out in the winery’s foyer. 

(The wet sound of your breathing. The little whimpers when your fever spiked, signaling that it was time for more of the tincture the healer left behind. The way you balled your fist in his nightshirt during the worst of it.)

Crepus says it’ll be no trouble to house you, for however long you need. You’ve always taken to the winery easily, and clearly need a stable place to recover from your illness. He enjoys taking in a stray or two. One more, especially one he thinks so fondly of and that he knows his boys adore, is simply a blessing, not a burden.

...

Diluc ascends to cavalry captain of the Knights of Favonius just around the time that you make a full recovery. 

It takes months— for both of you. Diluc patrols and trains with the knights when he’s not by your side. He’s incredibly well-regarded by Mond, beloved by his fellow knights and the townsfolk as well. He has ample support from all around, and his father glows with pride. 

(Diluc bears the weight of his father’s expectations well. You don’t even notice Diluc squirm under the pressure of it. It all seems to come naturally to him— being a hero.)

You see your healer every few days, drink your teas and diligently rest while you recover. The illness sticks in your lungs and you take to reading up on medicinal plants and potential treatments. It gives you some understanding of the remedies that your healer makes for you. Your healer finds you promising, despite your sickly state, and offers you an apprenticeship, if you choose to pursue such a profession.

It’s success after success, a time bathed in thick gold sun that feels as warm as it tastes.

You and Diluc dance at his ascension celebration. He holds you by the waist, clumsy like the young man he is, but you don’t mind. You loop your arms over his shoulders, memorizing the blush that paints his cheeks, and the dimples that carve them. You twirl him under your arm and laugh up to the sun and moon alike. You pull the ribbon from his hair so it unfurls over his shoulder. You run your hands through it without a care.

(Diluc looks at you, when you’re not looking at him, with such a reverence. You can’t see it yet, but it’s a burgeoning thing. Love and devotion caramelized by innocence, by want and need intertwined. He doesn’t know how to say how he feels, not yet; the feelings are still loose and undefined. But smoldering kindling he is.)

...

Crepus offers his home to you, permanently. You have taken to it so well, and his boys— his boys adore you. The staff does. You have so much growing for you in Mond, it seems silly to pack up your belongings small and tight so you can ride out on merchants circuit once more. Only to return sick once more.

You accept, hesitant at first. It’s a scary thing to give up the life you’ve known, even if the one Crepus extends to you is far more comfortable. Your parents have no qualms. You think they enjoyed your absence too much. They seem content to leave you at Dawn Winery, promising to continue their circuit, so you’d see them a few times a year.

It makes something in your ache and cry, but there’s many things to balm it in the manor. A warm fire and Adelinde’s recipes, along with whatever new tarts and sweets Crepus brings home from Mondstadt proper— they all make it easier. Good company too. Kaeya always has new ideas for schemes and little adventures. Crepus brings you gifts and makes sure you’re settling in well to your new space. Diluc is ever-dutifully at your side, whatever the circumstance, and you at his. 

You still sneak into Diluc’s room in the late night. You nestle up, side by side, on his plush window bench. You link pinkies and talk about everything.

...

“I thought this one was a bit boring.” You look up to Diluc, backwards, craning your neck. “The love interest was a bit shallow for me.”

“I agree,” Diluc answers from above you. He shuts the book deftly with one hand. “This author’s pieces usually have a bit more depth to them. This one was a bit flat.”

You tend to come to the same conclusion on the stories you share.

The Small Study (ow, ow, ow, ow) is a room most near Crepus’ wing of the manor. It’s exactly as it sounds— a small study. Something Diluc’s mother made sure was constructed for him, prior to her leaving. Floor to ceiling bookshelves line the walls, with a long table slicing the room in two. When you were young, very young, you, Diluc, and Kaeya would sit at the table and write your own stories. Color with paints that Crepus bought for you from Snezhnaya on recycled receipts and old ledgers. 

These days, the table is mostly bare and a bit dusty. You use it more than Diluc, though most of your studying with your teacher happens at their cottage, in Mond proper. Diluc and Kaeya have a training room a few doors down, one that Crepus constructed, with mats and straw targets, and more armaments than Ordo Favonius probably knows about. 

Most of your time in the Small Study is spent in the corner, tucked close to each other. You have amassed an impressive number of spare sheets, pillows, and blankets, and have constructed what could only be called a nest. You and Diluc take to lounging on it in the mornings and evenings, when you both have the time. You read together. Sometimes you aloud to him, and sometimes him aloud to you.  

Diluc’s voice has taken to breaking lately. You find it adorable and can’t help teasing him about it.

“I’ll have to hunt for a new novel at the markets today.” You sigh. The sun is rising above the cliffs, bathing the shelves and columns of dust ichor gold. You throw your hand up, watching the beam soak your skin warm.

Diluc catches your wrist and brings the back of your hand to his lips. 

Little things, skinship, he likes. He never says anything much about it, only asks quietly if it's alright that he keeps such proximity to you. You eat it up, his heat, his presence— you want all of it. You’re gluttonous in your youth (you have yet to know starvation.)

“Be careful on patrol today, okay? I’m helping Adelinde make that sweet bread you like before I visit Teacher.” You huff, maneuvering to you’re at his eye level. You tug his cheek, still soft with baby fat. “You better not have any extra bruises when I pick you up today.”

“I’ll try.” He rolls his eyes. “Even if I do, you’ll patch me up, won’t you?” 

“I could have Teacher do it,” you huff. “I know you don’t like how rough they can get with you.”

Diluc scoffs, “They don’t like me—”

“They like you plenty—” 

You squabble, soft in your chests, because it's all easy and slow. The romance novel gets tucked away into an overflowing shelf, bulging with others that you’ve already finished. 

Kaeya is shining his blade in the armory, and you collect him before heading to Mondstadt proper. It’s a routine, each day, one that you enjoy and cling to. You enjoy your training and you feel only pride seeing your boys bud and grow in their strength. You fight, like young ones of your age do, but it's all in jest. Simple. Your squabbles get settled with wrestling by the river or when Crepus intervenes and fathers the three of you.

It’s good and you never want it to end.

...

Diluc grows into himself. He’s gangly in his teen years— long arms and bulging shoulder blades he’s yet to grow into. The pudge he’d had around his belly has disappeared, sucked away by a growth spurt or two. He grows a bit more into his frame, each year closer to adulthood that he gets. Muscle building on muscle. 

Teacher says you’re doing well with your studies. You pour over books on medicinal herbs and medical techniques during the day, and watch Teacher heal when patients are around. You become adept enough to see patients on your own, for small injuries. 

You fix up Diluc whenever he comes home to you. Cuts. Bruises. The odd fracture or two. He’s the person you ever stitch a wound together for. He doesn’t flinch. So trusting.

...

Crepus gets odd, at some point. You’re almost old enough to be considered an adult. He starts asking you questions you know the answer to, but it seems like he’s seeking something other than the truth. Sentiments that he wants to squeeze out of you, to satiate something in him that you can clearly see, but don’t know how to name.

(He’s a businessman— is it in his nature to be greedy—?)

(Forget. Forget. Forget.)

...

You wish it had stayed so kind and good for longer. You wish you appreciated it more, but you didn’t fully understand the goodness laid before you until it was so brutally ripped away from you. 

The night Diluc turns eighteen, your world shatters. Burns. Immolates while you lay drunkenly dozing in a friend's warm bed. You don’t greet the wreckage until you awaken. Alone, drowning and with a new pang in your stomach.

PART iii: the stitch the wound the burning

You instantly slam your hands on the bartop. You whip your head around to Kaeya. He wears a wide, awful grin. So fucking smitten with himself.

You hate him. 

“Fuck you,”  you snap. 

You push up, knocking the bar stool over with a bang. You turn on a heel and run from the tavern. Wordless.

(You run. You should’ve run. You should’ve never come back. Ever.)

You know the display caused enough of a ruckus that Angel’s Share fell nearly silent as you left. You know that your vision shuddered out of your control, sending dendro to liven the flowers around the tavern. It felt sick. To know that the blooms would be wider and more beautiful while you ran. Running, running, running. 

Lisa and Jean, maybe, shout your name as you sprint away. You ignore them— you have to. The temptation to turn back and face them drowns in the wine that churns in your stomach. Your breath feels too hot and heavy in your lungs, like lead and steam. You feel like you might die.

(Diluc in the same room as you. Diluc in front of you.  Not a ghost, a breathing body. Flesh. He would’ve been a bit too warm, to the touch. You know him to be. He’d grown so much— how much had you missed? Archons, you miss him—)

You barely get out of Mondstadt proper before you bracing yourself on one its outer walls, forcing your finger down your throat, and heaving your guts out onto the high grass. All of the splendid wine you sampled color the ground blood red, surely staining your lips. Tears drip from your lash line. You feel sticky as you draw your fingers from your throat, spit and dribble sliding down your wrist. 

You curse and shake. 

You wipe your hands down on your trousers and scrub at your lips with the edge of your sleeve. You spit pretty scarlet and nearly hurl again.

The sun has set, and the dark is a comfort. It cloaks you, allowing you to duck easily between shadows and firelight that other travelers warm themselves by. No one looks at you twice. You’re sure you seem like a drunkard, not— Not whatever you are. You drag yourself back to your campsite.

You fall to the ground, drawing up your good leg by the knee and press your forehead to it.

Fuck.

Fuck the healer. Fuck Windblume. Fuck seeing any friends or familiar faces. You discard the plans, crushing them down until you decide they’re not worth it. None of this was worth it. If you’d only ducked in and out of Mondstadt’s market, you wouldn’t have met Lisa. Gotten twisted up with Kaeya. Dared to enter Angel’s Share. Seen Diluc.

You knew the mere sight of him would send you. You knew. You feel foolish. Stupid. If you were a fraction more sober, you would’ve dragged yourself out of self pity and set up camp for the night. Instead you stew. You swallow back dread and bile and clutch your shoulders.

(You always knew this was a risk, coming back here, didn’t you? That’s why you never dared to even get near Mondstadt’s borders. Now you’ve done it.)

You certainly have.

You rub your eyes again, grimacing at the taste in your mouth. Forcing yourself up is a task, especially trying to keep weight off of your (now very) bad foot. You struggle to balance, propping yourself up on a pile of discarded crates and get to work setting up your campsite for the night. You resolve to sleep until dawn, pack up, and be on your way. You’ll head back to Liyue and catch a boat out of the harbor. You’ll go anywhere. Do anything. 

(To be far away from here.)

You struggle with your tent and tarp. It’s infinitely harder to set up your sleeping arrangements when you’re hobbling around on one leg. Emptying your stomach of its content has made you lightheaded (or, it's the panic that is thick and porous in your blood. Burrowing into your flesh. Will you even be able to sleep tonight?) You fight to keep your breath steady as you struggle to stake the tarp into the dirt.

Someone says your name from behind you. Breathes it like it's lighter than air, weighted like a gospel.

You turn, for the second time, against better judgment.

Diluc stands above you, wearing the same shocked expression he had in Angel’s Share. 

Your lips twist, your brow falls. You feel yourself sink. It’s the same feeling you get in your stomach when you’re put toe-to-toe with an adversary out in the wilderness. It’s the feeling you get when you get a patient a little too late and can’t be sure if you’ll be able to drag them back from the brink.

You breathe his name right back.

“... You’re here,” he says. His voice has evened out. Deeper than you remember, and rougher, but barely.

“I am,” you answer as neutrally as you can. You school your expression and turn back to your tarp. “Please leave.”

Diluc doesn’t answer. He’s frozen above you, so close that you swear you can feel the heat coming off of him. 

“Don’t ask me to do that,” Diluc says, like a demand and not a request.

You bristle.

“I’m setting up my camp for the night,” you state plainly. “Then I will be sleeping. I will be gone by dawn tomorrow. I apologize for any disruption I caused at... at Angel’s Share.”

You press your hands over the top of a nail. The iron digs into your palms. You shove at it anyway, until it’s snug against the earth.

“I don’t care about that,” Diluc replies with an edge to his voice that’s unfamiliar. “That’s not of consequence.”

“... Then why are you here?” You crawl across the ground, brace yourself on a crate, and stand. Your weak foot hovers just off the ground. “Why follow me, Diluc? I’m sure you have better things to do.”

You say his name like it's a curse and face him.

(And it’s like coming home.)

(If you had any less of yourself, you would’ve sank into the earth and wept.)

“I don’t,” he says. Arms crossed. Shoulders square. You see him struggle with his words, chewing on the inside of his cheek, just like he used to. “You left so quickly, and Kaeya—”

“Bastard,” you spit. 

Diluc muffles a laugh (a full sound so lovely— you used to do anything to hear it). “He didn’t tell you I would be bartending, I’m assuming?”

“He told me, expressly, that you would not be bartending.” 

“... It is my tavern. Windblume is the busiest time of the year.” He looks a bit wounded. You can’t tell if you’re imagining it. “Kaeya sent word that Ordo would be at Angel’s Share in full force this evening. My presence was called.”

You scowl, “I realize that now.”

Diluc sighs, deep and hard and full, “You left so quickly, and Kaeya told me you were most likely staying outside of the city. I was... worried.”

You let out a breath through your teeth, maybe a laugh, some unholy thing and you shake your head. You can’t bear to look at him for too long, “Well, I’m fine. Promise. I just wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Clearly.”

“And you weren’t expecting to see me?”

“No.” Diluc sighs. “I... No. I wasn’t.”

You don’t know what else to say to him. 

“Go.” You shoo him off. “I need to finish setting up and get some sleep. Sorry again for causing any trouble.”

You turn away, going to reach for your tent—

Diluc grabs your upper arm. He keeps you steady and upright.

“You didn’t.”

The contact burns. Sears through you like you’re just gossamer and old silk. You tense with it. When did his heat become unfamiliar?

You open your mouth, part your lips just barely, but nothing comes out. Your mind empties.

“Come back to the winery.”

His words cut you from any of your reverie. Your grief forces itself up in plumes, from the base of your spine to the corners of your damp eyes.

“Absolutely fucking not.” You tear away from him. 

He lets you go. (You suffocate the part of you that mourns the loss.) 

“It’s not safe outside the walls.” He takes a step back. Breathing room. “There’s no lodging available in the city, I’m sure you found.”

“I did, and I’m fine out here, Diluc. I can protect myself just fine.” You pat the dendro Vision on your hip. Your weapon remains unsummoned and out of sight.

“It’s going to rain.” Diluc frowns. “And, your tent is torn.”

He gestures behind you, and sure enough, a massive tear runs through an entire side of your tent. You hadn’t noticed. 

(If you will not go where you are supposed to be, perhaps fate will push you there? Align the stars and cosmos just right—)

“I recall that you never enjoyed camping,” Diluc says and it's like a knife to the chest. The idea that he remembers anything about you. “You’ll have a bed for as long as you’d like.”

“Diluc—” You’re near to cursing him out, let the Archons, Celestia and the damn Stars hear it—

“I’m sure Adelinde would love you to see you too.”

Oh.

Oh— Adelinde. When was the last time you sent her a letter? Or read one of hers? You have a stack of them, sealed with purple wax and bound in twine, shoved in your bag. Among your most prized possessions. You’ve hardly let the ink smudge, despite time and condition.

“... She still works for you?”

“Of course.” Diluc’s voice sounds strained. 

“Elzer too?” You ask.

“Yes, he’s been at my side since—”

“Since you came back to Mondstadt,” you answer for him. “Since you returned to the winery.”

Elzer had been at your side too, when you were running the winery in Diluc’s absence. Same with Adelinde.

Archons, you miss them. 

“I’ll stay at the winery,” you say after a beat. “So I can see them.”

Diluc lets out a sigh, shaky and short. He flexes his hands, open and closed. Relieved. The moment of vulnerability passes.

“Will you be able to walk there with—” He gestures to your foot.

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” You put weight on it, swallowing down any pain. You can bear it. 

Diluc offers his arm, and you refuse it, striding past him. 

You walk side by side back to Dawn Winery.

...

It does begin to drizzle, eventually. Nothing close to proper rain, but a thick mist that dampens your hair and clothes. The chill of it sinks into you, unpleasant but not unbearable. You cling to the discomfort of it. You and Diluc do not speak to each on the way back, other than the time or two you announce you need a short rest for your foot.

Fatigue hits you as you stumble down the valley paths leading into the winery’s main grounds. 

You blame the wine. 

The front door looks almost the same, perhaps the wood refinished. Diluc pulls forth a shining brass key (different, than the one that you had during your tenure as ‘master’ of Dawn Winery. That key was thick, old iron. Rusting at its corners. It always felt cold and heavy. An entire year it was tied to you. Tethered to your waist on the very same belt that now holds your vision.)

The lock was replaced.

The interior of the winery is different too, you find. It makes stepping inside less jarring— the floors, once dark, long-planked hardwood, has been redone to intricate patterns of lighter, warm-toned wood. Less candles, more electro-powered fixtures set into the walls and ceiling. The couches look different, brighter and fluffier with fresh cushions. Even the grand carpet that covers the main room, bearing the Ragnvindr crest, appears to have been freshened. Maybe even re-tuffed. It’s generally brighter.

“You’ve... updated things.” Your voice trails off as you shrug off your cloak and hang it on your arm. 

Diluc follows your line of sight to a new tapestry on the east-wall. Not of the family crest, but the vineyard. It’s far more ornate than any you remember; you can see the metallic gold weavings shine, even in the lowlight. The tapestry is ringed by paintings, portraits and some landscapes. You recall Crepus commissioning many of them, or creating them himself. There’s a number of new photographs as well.

“I have over the years,” Diluc replies. “It was necessary.”

You hum, pausing. “... I like it. It’s nice.”

It’s nice because it doesn’t feel quite as much like you’re walking into a still-breathing cadaver. You expected to be greeted with an interior you had seared in your memory. Corners you’d still see ghosts in, picture frames that were askew that you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to fix. You know which floorboards were creaky and which windows had the worst draft. 

This version of Dawn Winery from your memory doesn’t exist anymore, in any way or facet. What’s left certainly isn’t blank or void, but it’s more unfamiliar than you expected. It smells like rose oil and beeswax rather than cedar and tobacco. 

“Master Diluc? You’re back earlier than expected.”

Adelinde breaks you from your stupor. 

She looks much the same— the same uniform, though perhaps her hair’s a bit shorter? There’s new wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, sun spots around her forehead and the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are still kind. They go wide when she sees you, and the mug she’s holding nearly slips from her grip.

Your chest tightens.

She says your name and it’s like you’ve been cut through. Flesh parting around a sharp blade. 

“Hi.” Your voice sounds soft and so much more broken than you can accept it is. 

“Welcome home.” She smiles, all the way up to her eyes.

If you were a little more weak, perhaps a few months more weathered— you would’ve broken then. You would’ve fallen apart in the foyer of Dawn Winery, drowning and hungry and soaked to the bone in something colder than rain water. You hold yourself together, barely, thin threads wound around you to the point of constricting keep you upright. Sure-footed. Almost-whole.

But, Adelinde knows... doesn’t she? She must. She has an uncanny ability for these things. It’s because she watched you grow, watched your toils and supported you. Mothered you when needed. You counseled and consoled each other, during the worst of it.

It makes you feel less guilty, less ashamed, when you nearly throw yourself at her. You wrap your arms around her shoulders and smother your face in her shoulder.

Adelinde hugs you in kind. She still smells like pine-cleaner and that jasmine perfume she imports. She wraps you, in herself, squeezing so hard you’re afraid she’ll undo the strings binding your heart together. 

“H-How have you been?” you ask. Tears sting your eyes.

She strokes the back of your head, through your hair. “I’ve been well. And you?”

You smush your face into her shoulder. You don’t know what to say to her. Instinctual honesty climbs up in your throat— you suppress it. 

“I’ve been better,” you say, softly. You hope only she can hear. “Excited to sleep in a real bed. Take a bath.”

Adelinde goes still, slack— then she almost crushes you. You feel her heartbeat and your lip wobbles.

“I’m glad you’re home, then. Let me fetch you a cup of tea. I’ll make sweet bread in the morning.”

“T-That sounds nice. Thank you.”

Diluc, who has been silent and watchful, clears his throat. “They can take whichever room they like.”

“I’ll prepare the west wing guest room.” (Far from your old bedroom.) She whispers to you. “There was a Fontainisian merchant we were hosting— she left all of her luxury skincare and bath supplies here.”

You pull away, narrowing your eyes, “Are you implying something?”

“Not at all.” She gives you a good-natured smile. “They’re yours. Let’s get you settled.”

You nod and she guides you with a hand on your lower back, up the stairs, to the west wing. Diluc has made himself scarce, seemingly disappearing into thin air to the northern wing of the manor. You only half notice.

Archons, you’re tired.

Adelinde helps you settle in. She sets your bag on a vanity stool, shows you a newly renovated bathroom with a tub that could easily fit you and a Rishboland tiger in it. The rest of the details of the room fade. Something stickier and older than fatigue works its way up through your bone marrow, leaving your body as a yawn.

Adelinde gives you a sympathetic smile when she brings you a cup of lavender and chamomile tea. 

The world is blurry when you crash into the pillows. They smell like the herbal detergent you suckered Crepus into buying during your teen years. Diluc liked it. Whatever potential revulsion you could have has wilted with your exhaustion. Instead, something warm brews in you. You shove your nose into the silken case. The feeling is good. You don’t mind it. 

(Fuck, maybe you even need it.)  

...

You sleep for three days. 

You don’t mean to, and it’s not continuous. You rise for your promised sweet bread, tea, and a much-need, thorough bath. You’ve spent the past few months using communal bath houses or washing in rivers and lakes, quick and rarely relaxing. You indulge in the massive, stone tub for a private soak that leaves you pruney and smelling like rose oil and Natlani bright grass. 

The position of the sun feels arbitrary. You just sleep. Like the fucking dead. No dreams, thank the gods. Thick curtains keep your room dark and you relish every moment. You hadn’t realized how deeply fatigue had woven itself into you. You’d become so acclimated to exhaustion, it only hit you when you finally had a (safe and) quiet place to sleep with no end date. 

Adelinde brings an armful of clothes at some point. (“We put these in storage, when you left. I’m sure some still fit.”) Some do, thankfully, and you’re grateful to have more than four garments, especially when they go together. It’s nostalgic to slip into skirts and trousers you haven’t worn in so long, and you decide they’ll suffice. Unideal, but comfortable. 

The tiredness is an odd blessing. You feel too blurry and foggy to really pick apart your feelings. All of them. You’re aware of the knot that’s formed somewhere between your ribs and gut (or rather, revealed itself), and you ignore it for as long as you are able to. No one comes to you except Adelinde, who never presses you. 

(You don’t know what you would do if she did. Adelinde knows discretion, she knows wounds and scrapes and bruises, and knew yours once. Well and thoroughly. You think she can see all of your ills now too.)

(You’re glad she doesn't pry at you. In your moments between wakefulness and sleep, you tend to dream more loosely. You imagine what you might say to Diluc, had you... the opportunity without damage. What would you say to him? The you that’s mostly a dream screams at him sometimes. Enraged. Sometimes you cry, asking questions that neither your sleeping or waking mind has answers for. They’re not... unfamiliar dreams, but they’re unwelcome. They’re more vivid now that you’re staying in the Winery.)

They feel more real. Diluc is only rooms away at any given time.

(He’s not a specter.)

On the third day, you awake midday to a frantic knock on your door. Adelinde, you assume. Stumbling from bed, and pull on a dressing gown and nothing more, and pull open the heavy oak door—

It’s Diluc. Of course it is. In working trousers and a loose, white top. Dirt stains his knees and the tips of his fingers. Pretty red hair spills from its loose tie, bouncy with a fresh wash. He tenses, when he sees you. Fists balling at his sides and shoulders going rigid.

Your jaw locks and the air in your lungs suddenly feels heavy and too hot. Your throat bobs with a swallow, and you gather up the satin of your robe before it has a chance to slip down to the crook of your elbow. 

(Just seeing him sends you. Into a rage. Into a fit of grief. The visage of him forces you to reckon with something more awful and sticky and molten than you know what to do with.)

(You wish it was more avoidable.)

You freeze.

Your several days of rest afforded you the time to... ignore Diluc. Hide from him, and the knot that you desperately don’t want to unravel. Despite sleeping in one of his beds and eating his food, you need distance. It feels like you’ll explode if you don’t have it.

“The child of one of the vineyard workers is injured,” Diluc says, maybe a little out of breath. “Can you take a look?”

“Of course,” you reply without hesitation. A hurt child takes precedence over most things.

The child and his mother sit in Diluc’s foyer, you can hear them as you approach. The girl sniffles and clings to her mothers sleeve with one hand, the other limp in her lap. One of her legs splays the wrong way, equally limp. 

You approach easily, introducing yourself. The air has an edge of crisis to it, but you wade through it easily. If anything, it’s comfortingly familiar. To be calm and confident in the face of serious injury or illness is often medicine in and of itself. 

You set your large, leather-bound caboodle beside you and take to the floor. Your Tselostnyy insignia is pinned to the outside. The mother’s eyes dart to it as she pets over her daughter’s hair, and she relaxes at the sight of it. A qualified stranger, you are.

The mother is younger, someone before your time as the Winery’s temporary master which is a relief. Diluc lingers behind you, watching you work, probably.  You attempt not to care.

You scooch forward, on your knees, knitting your fingers together and hover them over your patient. You focus on the spiral of dendro through muscle and bone, reading the injury:

Two clean breaks. Closed fracture of the left ulna. Closed fracture of the left femur.

It’s a miracle that the child isn’t shrieking in her mother’s lap. 

“How did you get hurt?” you ask the child directly. 

She sniffles. “I f-fell outta’ the big tree by the water. I was trying to climb it.”

Her mother almost scolds her, but you beat her to speaking. “That’s a hard tree to climb. The oaks by the stables are much easier.”

It’s just a slip of the tongue, to be so familiar.

You turn to the child and school a smile on your lips. “I’ll be able to heal your injuries with my Vision. You’ll get some medicine as well, and it needs to be stirred into juice. Do you have a favorite kind?”

The child looks unsure, and her mother answers for her: “She likes apple best.”

“Apple, master of the house.” You wave a hand behind you. “Can you fetch some?”

“Of course,” Diluc answers without missing a beat and you hasten him away.

Knitting your fingers together once more, you begin to work on her injuries. The child is holding up quite well, despite the immense pain she must be in. You work quickly regardless, but keep in mind you do have the luxury of time. There’s no one more broken or more sick just beyond her who needs to be treated as well.

Dendro sews together her bones. Encourages new flesh and muscle to grow where it is needed. 

When Diluc returns, you instruct him further, gaze never straying from the knitting bones, “Take the third vial from the right on the top row of oils, will you? Stir half a dropper into the juice and stir for a minute. If you see oil on the top, keep going.”

“What’s the medicine for?” The girl asks. 

“Relaxation and sleep,” You reply softly. “This type of healing is very effective, but it takes a lot of energy out of the person who is being healed. You’ll be tired once I’m all done, but you may have trouble resting since your body is still reacting to the shock of your injuries.”

The mother lets out a sigh of relief. Perhaps too wordy of an explanation for a child, but her mother seems grateful for it. 

When the child’s healed into proper pieces again, you unknit your fingers and fall back on your heels. Diluc wordlessly passes the goblet of well-mixed apple juice to the child, who shakily gulps it town. The medicine doesn’t have much of a taste, more of an oily texture to it that requires it to be drunk quickly after being mixed. The juice must be from one of Diluc’s best stashes because the child beams after chugging it.

“... That’s it?” She asks. 

You nod and crack your knuckles, now stiff. “That’s it.”

“... Nothing else?” 

“Nope.” You crack your neck. “Other than the fatigue, but a few extra hours of sleep should remedy that. She’ll be back to normal after a nap.”

“Thank you,” The mother says and your chest feels sticky and warm. “I know that Barbara from the Church has similar skills with her Vision, but I’ve never seen healing like yours. Mondstadt could use a physician like you, you know.”

The feeling goes cold, but you keep your smile. Bear it.

“I’m sure they do.” Teacher’s shoes hadn’t been filled, apparently. And you’d departed to the Tselostnyy School and never returned. 

The mother and her child give more thanks before leaving and you keep your facade up until they’re out the door. The girl’s no doubt ruffled still, even with the light sedative. The mother frazzled. The last thing you’d want to do is burden them with your own misplaced ire. They can’t know. They wouldn’t know.

Diluc, however—

He’s been the silent spectator to this whole affair. He idles by the couches and the hearth, arms crossed, still-dirtied from whatever vineyard work he’d been doing prior to fetching you. You’re sure he was working in the fields, heard the child shriek, and rushed to their aid. Typical.

Diluc stares at you like he could immolate you alive.

“You’re incredible.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like the sentence doesn’t implode something in you. 

Your fists shake at your sides. “Hardly. It’s just my profession.”

Diluc works his jaw and considers his words. You note the way he looks stumped and lost. It’s not intentional, if you’re being honest— so there’s no harm in enjoying the way he stumbles to speak around you, is there?

(It’s only fair. Diluc had always been so sure-footed and sturdy with his words. To see him flounder now reminds you that he’s changed too. Something in him has paled and been mutilated, just like you. Two wounded. His suffering isn’t what you revel in, but the knowledge that he’s affected. Neither of you came out unscathed and you’ve spent the last years refusing to imagine how Diluc might’ve coped.)

“Will you have tea with me?” Diluc asks, the words ringing off the glass chandelier in minor key. “You don’t have to if you don’t want—”

“I will.” 

...

Adelinde kindly brings you both tea, by the hearth and its embers. It’s served with a few small cakes and rounds of steaming sweet bread. Diluc takes his tea just as he did when he was young— a heavy dash of cream and a spoon and a half of sugar (“the half is very important” he had always said). Adeline leaves you a carafe of coffee and shoots you a gentle smile before leaving the two of you be.

You rest on one of the couches, leg pulled up beneath you and blow over the rim of your mug.

Diluc sits adjacent from you, in a resplendent mid-morning sun beam. The chair is high-backed, upholstered with the red and gold pattern of the Ragnvindr clan. He looks regal, like a king from the stories you used to read together. Sunlight halos the frizz in his hair and the dust that shifts around him.

He sits with one heel propped up on the opposite knee, cupping the tea cup from the bottom, unbothered by its heat.

(He’s pretty, just as beautiful as you remember. Maybe more so.)

It makes something in you feel rotten. You pick at your nails and curl over your core. 

He glances at you and you look away into the hearth, into the small flames that eat at the last of a birch log. 

Having Diluc in front of you is uncomfortable. Maybe worse than uncomfortable, as discomfort is bearable and the sensation crawling up from the back of your throat isn’t. It makes your skin itch and feel too tight. Your palms sweat. Maybe you want to puke.

(It’s dread, or something like it. Like just seeing him put you on a precipice you had convinced yourself didn’t exist.)

“When did you start drinking coffee?” Diluc asks, breaking you from your spiral. “If I recall correctly, you hated it. Too bitter for your palate, or something like that.”

Ah—

“In your absence. In the year I stayed here, when you left.” It’s the truth. “ Lots of paperwork. I got used to the flavor after a while.”

(You used to prefer tea, favoring some black variety that Crepus painstakingly imported from Natlan’s volcanic cliffs. The first time you tried to drink it following his passing, you retched it back into your cup.)

You both shift uncomfortably. 

“I see.” 

You pretend not to notice the way Diluc’s grip goes white-knuckled for a moment. Your chest feels tight, too tight, and you squirm under your skin. 

“I don’t know how to face you,” you blurt out. 

(You never thought you would have to.) 

Diluc looks away from you, into the fire. “If you don’t wish to ‘face me’, then you don’t have to.”

“Are you suggesting I simply ignore you?”

“If that’s what you would wish to do.”

“That’s not what I asked.” You frown, something burning between your ribs. 

Diluc chews on his words for a moment. “Allow me to clarify. I have no expectations of you while you’re staying within the Winery.”

“So, if I simply ate your food and slept in one of your beds, ignoring you, you’d be alright with that?”

“If that’s what you wish, then yes.”

(The answer hurts to hear. You refuse to think about why.)

“Alright.” You take a long sip of your coffee. You’re not sure when your stomach began to ache.

“You’re unsatisfied with that answer,” Diluc guesses.

“Entirely,” you reply. “You’re basing your wants off of mine. It’s bothersome.”

“It’s the truth. As I said—“

“You ‘have no expectations of me’,” you parrot. “Would you truly be satisfied if I didn’t speak to you at all while I’m here?”

Diluc chews the inside of his cheek (a new habit you don’t recognize). “My satisfaction isn’t of consequence.”

“Idiot,” You snap— you don’t mean to. “Of course it is. I don’t want to make this any more unbearable than it already is.”

“Do you think this is unbearable for me?” 

“… Yes?” You feel yourself shaking. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

(It’s worse than unbearable. The feeling in your chest is blooming, radiating out into your arms and legs, down to your hands. There’s a buzzing in the base of your skull.)

“I understand that it’s difficult for you to be here,” Diluc grits out. “I do not want to make that any worse by some expectation or assumption you think that I carry. If you wish to enjoy the festival and ignore me, that’s more than fine. If it would be easier for you to stay here and think of me as only some type of… concierge, I wouldn’t resent you for it.”

(You hate it. You hate him. You hate Diluc Ragnvindr endlessly, perhaps. You want to burn Dawn Winery to the ground.)

“Do you really think I could ever think of you as anything other than yourself?” You spit, intending to. “It’s insulting— a fucking affront to think that I could view you in such a way.”

“I don’t know how you view me.” Diluc’s voice wavers with what you can only assume to be anger. “I’m trying to make this easier for you.”

“In what way?!” You stand. “Do you think ignoring you would be easier for me?”

“I am making a well-intended inference based on the fact that you haven’t returned to Mondstadt for years.” Diluc stares at you like he wants to— “I am assuming you’d like to continue to ignore me, given that you’ve never given any indication otherwise.”

“… You’re the one who left first.” You spit the words, like how a sword cuts through air. “You’re the one who left and gave no ‘ indication’ of returning.”

Diluc swallows, thick and hard with a bob of his throat and he rises to his feet. You instinctively take a step back. He opens his mouth, then closes it with a snap of his teeth. The fire cracks and a log loses its structure, tumbling in the hearth with a flurry of embers.

He looks lost for words. You let loose a laugh, something awful and torn that you wish you could stuff back down your throat.

“Nothing to say?”

“It was a long time ago—“

“Ah, it’s irrelevant to you. I see.” Archons, you don’t want this. You should’ve never come back. It can’t be worth it, can it? It feels like your ribs are being broken, one by one. 

(How wretched it is, for him to have such a power over you.)

“Don’t twist my words.” Diluc rises, taking a step toward you. “I only meant to say—“

“I am well-aware of what you meant to say.” You want to vomit, maybe. “It was so long ago, so it’s easier, right? If I view you as nothing more than a doorman with a familiar face, and if you view me as a guest to be treated with pleasantries.”

(Let’s forget all the history. Etch a lie onto a slate that’s already been shattered beyond repair.)

Diluc’s expression twists. Your hands shake and you cross them over yourself, wrapping your arms over your own shoulders and squeezing. He looks… hurt. Gutted. 

“Do you think me cruel enough to ever think of you in such a way?”

“Yes, actually.” You laugh with a shake of your head. “Not even a letter, Diluc? Couldn’t even spare me a thought, could you?”

(Meanwhile, you clung to the hope that he’d arrive home through the front door of the Winery for months. How many did you sit in front of this very same hearth, wrapped in his old blankets and left-behind clothes and pray to any God who’d listen that Diluc would return?)

The admission guts Diluc. You can see it in his face, the way his expression tears open and he balls his fist and he almost seems to shake with it.

(Despite everything, it hurts to see him hurt.)

You step away, almost toppling into the couch. Diluc catches you by the arm with a lurch and keeps you upright. The contact burns like you’re too close to a roaring fire. You feel singed. 

“I can’t forget, Diluc.” You laugh, shudder in his grip and you feel the bits of you fray even further. “I— I don’t know. I’m sorry. I resent you. I hate you. I look at you and I’m struck by the feeling that I’m looking at a ghost.”

You watch Diluc’s jaw lock. “Pot, kettle.”

“Pardon?”

“You left Mond as well, dear.” Diluc says the pet name and then flushes. An old habit, unearthed by sparring. You maybe would swoon if you weren’t feeling light-headed. “You’re a ghost to me as well. Maybe something worse.”

“... Am I? ” you spit, writhing in your skin. 

His expression tightens and you see the hurt. A crack. His lip twitches and he stands. He has to look down at you and you feel the height. 

“Do you think I haven’t been haunted by you?”

Oh, it’s like being punched in the gut. You’re being flayed, surely, on his great room floor. If you’re not careful, your entrails will spill and you’ll die here. You’re sure. 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

“You’re impossible,” Diluc says, grip almost bruising. “Do you truly think I’m lying?”

(You don’t.)

You swallow and step away from him. The moment you pull against him, Diluc lets you go, and you stumble back. 

(You’re too frayed for this. Burnt. Cinders at a masquerade.)

“I need some time,” you say, fire in your voice is gone. You burn down so easily. “I’m sorry.”

Diluc stays silent for a moment. You can’t be sure what he’s thinking.

“Take all the time you need,” he says, before striding past you to his office. You hear the door nearly slam. 

#lore writes #diluc ragnvindr x reader #diluc x reader #diluc x you #diluc reader insert #genshin impact x reader #diluc ragnvindr x you

[alienisticxo]

Before the Fever

{Master Chief x Reader series - TV based}

{A╱N} Hi there!

I know you guys were used to other kinds of fics from me but I had to give into impulse here with a Halo fic.

I’ve played the games for years, they’re my favorite! But this series, and any future fics I write in this fandom, will be mostly based off of the TV series. I know plenty of people had their opinions about the show, but for what it was, I absolutely loved it.

That being said, this is my first Halo fic ever, and it’s all mostly not canon compliant.. I don’t know every aspect of the lore by heart, but I’ll try to research what I don’t know as I go along to add more to the atmosphere! I appreciate your forgiveness for any mistakes or things that make no sense though, again not canon!

So I guess what I’m trying to say is, this first-person POV/reader insert is purely for fun, take it for what you will if you decide to read it! This is also on AO3, my username is simply “alienistic” ♡

I am still working on my other WIPs, thanks for being patient, but I run through hyperfixations like water so sometimes it takes a little while!

enjoy! ♡

Extra note: I used a little Sanghelli! Because the dictionary I found is kind of limited, I pieced together the word for ‘my’ and the word for ‘love’ to create a pet name. V soft, much sweet.

Chapter One - Thrill of the Chase

“It’s been three days since we’ve had any decent money. I’m hungry,” Astra complained, her blonde hair falling in her face as she dipped her head into her hands.

She looked over at me as she sat back against the wall of the small nook we’d taken cover in, her wide green eyes shining under the twinkling lights that seemed to be everywhere you turned in The Rubble’s streets and alleyways. They seemed to expose your secrets, leaving nothing to hide. The deepened purples and blues of her orbital sockets made her look far more exhausted than usual, and my heart sank in my chest at the sight of her. She wasn’t wrong, and my own stomach growled at the mere mention of being hungry.

The hustle and bustle of people made it easy to hide in plain sight despite the lighting— not that we were in need of any kind of concealment. The Rubble was home to every misfit and ne’er do well-er that happened to mosey into that sector of the galaxy, along with survivors that managed to make it out of Madrigal and other humans who belonged nowhere and to no one. Astra and I were really no different from any of the others. We had to steal what we could, sell it to eat; barter to get what we needed, and, when we had a particularly good streak, what we wanted, too.

“I’m hungry, too,” I sighed, {e/c} eyes drifting downward.

We’d been living off of scraps for years, taking food where we could without pissing off a merchant or a pirate. Life wasn’t easy anywhere anymore, especially when you had the UNSC closing in at every turn to defeat The notorious legend that was ‘The Covenant’ wherever they landed. It was claimed that both parties tended to destroy everything in their wake.

But when Astra and I found each other, it was like kismet. We were both the same age, both orphans, and both completely jaded by the system that seemed to be set in place by a corrupt technocracy. The Rubble was lawless, and we liked it that way. Though when trouble came knocking, we had nothing else to fall back on but each other. She was like a long lost sister to me and I to her, someone that I immediately knew I’d never have to go through life without the moment we spoke. I took solace in the notion, especially after having gone through so many empty, lonely years bouncing from place to place, trying to fill the void in my heart and change the hand I was dealt in life.

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I scanned our surroundings for anything that looked valuable— valuable enough to fetch some money or at least a decent trade. But no matter where I looked, there was nothing to be had. Everyone who passed kept their belongings too close to the chest, and while I was adept at pickpocketing, I could only do so much when everyone else was, too.

Leaning against the wall, my back went rigid as I slid downward to sit beside Astra, eyes still trained on any unsuspecting person or item. Feeling slightly defeated, I rested my head against her shoulder, thinking about where else we could try to find some kind of currency instead. Maybe down a different alley, or in one of the bars… On another asteroid? Sneaking into a party might–  

But before I could string my thoughts together, my head instinctively popped back up, my line of sight honing in on what looked like a metal briefcase that swung at someone’s side. I clamored to lean forward as though it would help me get a better look at the object, and almost head-butted Astra in the process of my newfound hope.

“Hey!” She whined, leaning away from me with a confused expression.

But I couldn’t pull my eyes off of the item of interest, my brow furrowing as I continued to shift in my place on the ground to get a better look through the legs of the moving crowd. It wasn’t until the sea of people began to nervously part that I realized just what kind of hand held that intriguing case.

“Holy shit…” Astra drew out, obviously having chased the direction I was looking in on her own, her voice nearly a whisper. “A Spartan… ”

Slowly– very slowly, I let my gaze trail upwards, over the sturdy hand, up the alloy-plated arm, over the broad shoulder, and to the bare face that was exposed to anyone who happened to lay eyes on him. That was something very unheard of in his kind. A clear view was now the only thing to be had as I sat back in my spot, completely still and extremely intimidated.

Taking notice of the dark green, near black alloy that covered every inch of the soldier’s body, I swallowed hard. I’d never seen a Spartan before— not in person, anyway. I’d only heard the stories; been warned of what would happen if they finally had business on Rubble. They were the best of the best, trained and deadly. And there one stood, like nothing, beside a pirate I’d seen in the area quite often, chatting about while curious and fearful eyes kept steady watch as they passed. He held his helmet in his free hand and seemed a little less like the terrifying tales I’d heard as I watched him carry on the conversation— in that moment, he seemed more human than machine, the way they’d painted Spartans out to be.

“Maybe we can ask him for money!” Astra exclaimed in a whisper and tapped my shoulder excitedly, ripping me from my train of thought. “I bet they pay him pretty well!”

I could only shake my head, breathing a soft laugh through my nostrils. The inability to look away from the man that stood towering over everyone else was stirring. I wondered what he was visiting Rubble for, what sat beneath the confines of the large case he held. It could’ve been a stretch, but I knew someone of his caliber was not going to be carrying something of little worth, no matter where he was in the galaxy.

“No.. Whatever he’s holding, it looks important,” I hesitated then, pondering on my decision for just a few seconds longer. “I’m going for it, Astra. This could be what finally changes our lives. Maybe it’s something that’ll be worth everything.. And then we won’t have to live like thieves anymore.”

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head, and I could see her looking over at the armored man and then back to me from my peripheral vision. Still, I sized him up, uselessly, of course. I had no chance against him, and if he caught me I was as good as dead, or at least in a heap of trouble.

“Are you insane? You can’t steal from a Spartan! Do you want to die?” Astra squealed, concern written all over her features.

A real laugh escaped me then. Half of the fun of the steal was the risk; the adrenaline rush you got from the act. If there was any way to get your heart racing, it would’ve been this. And maybe it was a bit more stupid than anything else I’d pulled before, but desperate times did call for desperate measures, and I would’ve been lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to the challenge just a little.. No matter how it ended up.

With a deep breath, I faced Astra. Glancing back and forth between her eyes and the item of interest still firmly imprisoned in the Spartan’s grip, I held onto her shoulders tightly and spoke concisely.

“If anything happens, don’t come after me. Find a new place to be, eil monerasha. Don’t live like this forever.”

A moment of silence hung between us, and I could almost hear what she was thinking as she held my flickering stare. But in true Astra fashion, her next words were so inexplicably her.

“I think you’re being a little dramatic,” she smiled.

But her jaw was visibly clenched, and I could see the faltering in her expression, hear the worry that laced her voice. She always tried to laugh in the face of danger, but the small heist this time seemed to be pushing it, even for her electric spirit. Spartans were killing machines, human (if that) weapons for the UNSC. One wrong move around any of them, and it was lights out if they saw fit– or so we’d been told.

“Or maybe…” she began again, her own hands moving to grip my biceps.

I kept glancing between the item and her face, still focused on her words just as much as I had been on my thoughts. I knew if I continued to hear her out, she might be able to talk me out of what I was about to do.

“You shouldn’t try it this time,” she continued. “I’m not that hungry, I can probably go another day or two, easy. We’ll find someth–”

“Whatever’s in there must be important. It’s my new mission to find out,” I cut her off, shaking my head, courage coursing through my veins all at once.

I had to take advantage of the sudden bravery and run with it, or I would’ve lost the drive to do it altogether.

The tiny blonde’s lips parted to speak, but before she could manage another word, I cupped her jaw gently, giving her face a soft squeeze before darting off into the alley. In one of my glances, I’d noticed the metal case had been set down beside a young, human girl with black hair. I hadn’t noticed her prior, but assumed she was with the soldier, though he turned his back on her to speak with the pirate in a closer manner.

I wondered what secrets were being told amongst the two as I stopped in the middle of the crowd of moving people, quickly planning my next course of action. In a snap decision, I lunged forward, my feet carrying me toward the prize without my mind having much time to catch up. I held my hand out as I prayed to whatever gods the universe may have contained that I wouldn’t miss the handle that sat ungrasped atop the case. People fell out of my way, being pushed and shoved without my realizing it as I ran. Life simultaneously sped up and slowed down as I felt the handle connect with my fingers, a smile immediately touching my lips at the next step being a success.

My thought immediately after was if I really was stupid enough to think I could outrun a Spartan.

“{Y/N}!” Astra called out behind me, clearly having started to follow me despite my clear instruction. But her voice was already a faded sound that fell into the atmosphere; simply background noise.

“Hey!” I heard a girlish voice cry from who I assumed was the girl who was in charge of the case.

“Stop!” A booming voice followed from behind me as I darted through the crowd, heavy footsteps of each stride he took behind me seeming to shake the ground.

Goosebumps rose on my flesh at the sound, at the danger, at the threat that permeated his voice and presence despite the lack of any actual warning. Pure adrenaline and lack of any other thought filled my mind and body as I pushed myself harder, instinct searching for a way out of the trouble I now found myself in. It was fight or flight, and flight was definitely more predominant once I noticed a motorcycle just ahead, running and ready, its driver still seated.

“Wait!” I screamed, my voice panicked through my labored breathing, hoarse already. “Hey, wait!”

I gripped the handle of the case and sped forward, my heart pounding in my ears the only real sound I could hear. The motorcyclist noticed me first, and then the menacing alloy-covered man behind me. With a look of terror and a quick hand, he revved the engine and began to roll forward, clearly trying to get away from the scene.

“No!” I screamed, before I felt something hard and cold grasp at my back, tugging at my shirt.

I didn’t dare look behind me, I didn’t dare risk a misstep and fall to the mercy of the man chasing me. I’d always been fast, faster than anyone I knew, and I deeply began to hope that my little talent could at least carry me out of this situation -almost- unscathed. My lungs burned, my feet felt as though I was stepping on knives with every footfall. By some kind of miracle unknown to me, I managed to throw myself onto the back of the motorcycle as it sped off. Dust and dirt flew around us, and I suddenly felt sick to my stomach from the rise and fall of the endorphins I’d used up as I gripped onto the stranger in front of me for dear life.

I could barely feel the metal case against my chest, the item being securely held between myself and the back of my new getaway driver.

Trying to quickly take inventory of my limbs, I hoped they were all still there and intact through my moment of overdrive. As I attempted to calm my breathing, I remembered the cold sensation against my shoulder blade just before I reached the vehicle, taking notice then of how raw and sore it felt.

With a faint roll of my shoulders and a glance behind myself, I took slight solace in the fact that I was unable to see the Spartan any longer through the dust cloud that’d been kicked up by the motorcycle. Peeking at my back some, I could only see red streaks and the fabric of my top torn where, I realized all too quickly, his fingers must’ve grabbed me. That’s going to leave a nasty bruise, I thought, deciding I’d get a better look later if I could.

“Where am I going?” The stranger finally posed over the roaring of the engine as we found ourselves in another area entirely.

I hesitated. I couldn't go back to Astra, that much was certain. I couldn’t lead a Spartan back to her– I had to wait for the heat to die down. But it was then that I realized it may never die down. I’d stolen this mystery item in hopes that we could escape the impoverished life we’d been living since we were kids, but now it became all too real that it may have finally been the thing to separate us instead.

If what I knew about the UNSC was any sort of true, I was about to become public enemy number one regardless of what happened. I was lucky enough to outrun a Spartan once– and I wasn’t even sure I outran him so much as he decided to cut the chase short and take harsher measures to find me and the case I’d acquired instead. I held no hope that it would be possible to do it again, or to fight off a team of them when they decided to deploy on the mission of getting back whatever this thing was. Even if I sold it, traded it away, I was sure I would still be on their shit list for lifting it in the first place.

I silently damned myself for my lack of any important thought before jumping into this venture.

“Take me to the nearest airlock,” was all I could say as my mind raced with any idea of just what I was going to do next.

#master chief x reader #halo fanfic #halo paramount #master chief #cortana #fanfic #fanfiction #halo fanfiction #halo infinite #halo fandom #john 117 #halo the series #master chief fanfiction #master chief fanfic #pablo schreiber #reader fanfiction

[lixxen]

can you tell us about the worldbuilding of your new au?

Why of course!

To start this off though, let me tell you a fun little thing about the Blog AU that is built in!

We made this AU with the idea that people who read it can put their characters into it. You know the Cafe AU that everyone is sticking their OCs in? You can do something similar! The fic is going to be canon to y'all but y'all won't be 100% canon to the fic so you guys can interact with the canon! So we genuinely encourage you guys to make outside content and make your OCs blogs or designs for this. Go crazy with it and join in! I will eventually need usernames and a few other things for the blog/forum skins. If you make anything, make sure to tag me on here (and if it's on Instagram, I'm Lixxendraws). I want you guys to be able to draw/write your characters in this AU because it'd be such a fun thing to do!

Anyways.

There are a few doodles of their official outfit designs but I don't like how they look. But I will post them eventually!

Here is the world building Under The Cut

Branch's Kismet identity is Bass while his in person one is Lapis for the sake of his safety and privacy.

Technology:

Napbug: digital audio sharing website whereP3 files are shared. Mostly for music rips and downloads

TOL: the internet hosting. Mostly known for the chatroom they speak on. You need to know the person's connection code to directly connect to them. You can chat on it and view forums/blogs directly from their TOL. You can have up to four identifications per computer

PHP (personal homepage): the blog domains they use. They can be reached outside of TOL, along with personal forums

Trollums: the nicknames for forums. You can find people's TOL & PHP on trollums and it is how people mostly find blogs

BeeperBugs (beepers): little hugs that act like pagers. They will send and receive messages somehow (they never figures it out). You will hear them beep and they can carry codes; you can put them onto landlines and they will put in the numbers. They also can use Morse code to send messages instead of needing calls.

Computers: dial up computers. They are simple and can connect to CD drives (not built in), VHS players, floppy disks, cassettes, and can burn CDs/DVDs. They're big and chunky; no laptops. Internet cafes and libraries are popular due to not as many people having them. People learn coding to break and customize them

Cassettes and MP3 players: they are popular and do not have earbuds. Only over ear headphones that are wired.

Very basic printer/fax machines that run off landlines

Televisions: tube/box TVs. Podbuster is a popular VHS and DVD rental/store. DVDs are barely used due to being new

Film cameras are very much still used and popular. People will develop themselves or take them to the library to be digitalized. There's services to develop photos still

Zines exist! They will be produced by a group of fans and sent out. They will trade items or find ways to collect money to pay for them. You will find forums dedicated to zines and posting zines months after print release. There is big fan culture

Blogs are every big. Normally personal blogs will interact with each other and have fun; but then there's fan blogs. They only post about their interests and will post some personal stuff. They're almost always anonymous unless you directly know them.

Blog lore:

PinkBandLyfe is a popular BroZone and Kismet blog that always has the best images, videos, and MP3s. They've nicknamed the blog owner Pinkie and know her bias is Clay, but since she is around Bitty B’s age, she has a soft spot for him. Bass in Kismet is her bias. But since Bass is a private person she promotes healthy boundaries and privacy. She preaches for Bitty B and Bass’s privacy. She's speculated a few times but that's it. Everyone gives her her privacy and keep her identity secret since she is big on that and they respect her (and fear her disappearing). Her blog is chaotic but well organized and out together!

BatterBug is a survival/doomsday blog that people learn survival skills from and it talks about literally everything and anything about tragedy and skills to use in them. They call the owner BB and call him paranoid. But it's useful so he has a following

ReverbFan27 is a Bad Hair Day blog that isn't as in-depth as PinkBandLyfe. The blog is run by the user who has been nicknamed 27. He tends to be more practical and people enjoy watching him ramble about the technical aspects of the performances. They know his older brother, who is nicknames Ef, was into them first and got 27 into it. They only know that, he is a Billy Reverb bias, and he is the youngest child. The rest is a secret. They speculate who he is because sometimes he has the best pictures of BHD. But they haven't figured it out yet. He's VERY organized

Everybody knows Pinkie and 27 are friends and they helped each other get popular. Sometimes you will see them give each other content to post! 27 somehow has never before seen BroZone stuff or will mention he has rare collectibles that Pinkie lives for

People ship Pinkie and 27. They laugh and brush it off

Misc story lore that isn't spoilers:

Bergens made peace 10 years earlier when Poppy accidentally ran into Bridget when she ran off angrily. She helped Bridget on her own and it creates positive political ties!

The kingdoms live how they are post Trolls World Tour due to (unspecified) events happening! It is noted to happen a generation ago with King Thrash and King Peppy taking thrones

The kingdoms now have bigger populations and are more spread out! They have multiple cities and towns. Neighboring troll tribes now touch, but you must put in effort to travel

Royals freely live amongst their people in society due to respect from the people. They're big on “humanizing” the royals. Royals are not big on public appearances outside of their kingdoms. The ambassadors are the only ones seen in the wild

Branch spends his free time reading/writing in the coffee shop or in a library. He normally has his headphones on with a Walktroll (walkman). He lives to write his blog posts by hand first, so he writes them in the coffee shop. He also carries around a camera to take pictures of things. He develops them himself in his pod and put them on the walls if they're good then in albums if they're okay or bad. He has a TON of childhood photos from Rosiepuff, who died a natural death before he joined Kismet. He uses her camera. He so takes a ton of pictures of Kismet and sends them to Pinkie!

#trolls #dreamworks trolls #blog #blog au #trolls au #princess poppy #queen poppy #trolls poppy #trolls branch #broppy #branch #90s tech #fanfiction #fan culture #trolls band together #trolls world tour #trolls cooper #cooper #y2k #technology #world building #alternate universe #trolls blog au #anon #anon ask #ask

[yeyinde]

Knows, somehow, it would taste of Lethe. 

I have a lot of thoughts about this. I want you to know how I choked on my own spit when I read this. Lethe! the oblivion personified!! The river that will make you lose memory of your past existence!! You said so many things about this relationship between Joel and OC without saying much. I'm crying and throwing up. please. Atrophy was so beautiful. I have so many things to say about it.

I have always marveled at many aspects of your writing and your Greek myth references were definitely one of them. I thought I was ready after Kismet and Momus. but boy, was I wrong!

(do you have any good book recs in that genre? love to read more!)

Ahhh!!!! Thank you so much! 🖤

Lethe was absolutely perfect for Joel, and I'm so glad you caught it!! It was sort of inspired after re-reading Amnesiac and Two Campers in Cloud Country by Sylvia Plath. I loved her use of Lethe in both, and it sort of stuck as I was writing this. I thought it was the perfect comparison for the complexities of Joel and MC's relationship.

For recs, I mostly just read poetry using mythological concepts, but I would definitely recommend Mythology by Edith Hamilton (nonfiction). I also really enjoy Theogony by Hesiodis, and of course - the Divine Comedy.

#There are so many facets of Lethe and erasure #and I could probably go on forever about it #which makes it one of my favourite concepts/goddesses

[kaceyxhuddington]

Kacey Jamey Huddington ▹Age: 35 ▹ He/him ▹ Hometown: Boston, Massachusett ▹ How long have they been in town?: March 2017 (7 years this year) ▹ Owner of Access Aathletics and trainer

Kacey grew up in Boston, Massachusett with his older brother Josiah. They were close in age due to Josiah just being over a year older than Kacey. They grew up well, with parents caring, letting them play sports and take whatever class or lesson they wanted. As long as the kids stuck with it the parents thought it was worth it. Kacey enjoyed sports, playing baseball, football, and hockey growing and would play basketball and track in times he felt bored. Kacey had always loved being outside and being active. He did Boy Scouts growing up till he got into middle school when he quit. Since it wasn't that cool to his friends and he didn't want to deal with that.

In middle school, he kept up with sports and started to go to the gym more to work out due to it being something he did really enjoyed. The school he was always okay at. Half the time he felt like everything went in one ear and out the other so his grades sometimes struggled and he failed classes at times. This stuck with him in high school. Many times having to take summer classes to make up for his failing grades at times.In high school he had a good time but his group of friends that he played baseball and football with were not all good people. The ones that started to get Kacey into trouble. He ditched school, did not do homework, and enjoyed racing cars and going to parties. He did still try and and good for his parents but he did start to struggle. But in the end, after he graduated high school. Even know his parent wanted him to go to college Kacey said not now and said he would try community college after he took off for a year.

He had friends who went to college and went to college parties and went out to bars with fake ID's. Kacey just wanted to have a good time and that was his favorite thing. But the summer after he turned nineteen was when things changed for him. He was out at a party with friends and had been drinking and dancing. When his friends wanted to go out and race cars like normal. That Kacey followed after and did. They did their normal race around the local streets and around the mall. Kacey having a blast went out and was just racing around with friends. He had his girlfriend at the time and best friend in his car. He was driving too fast and ended up crashing his car. It was bad for everyone Kacey broke his arm and was cut up all over but mostly was fine. His girlfriend was badly hurt she broke her leg and became paralyzed from the waist down and his best friend died. Kacey after being treated at the hospital was sent to prison.

Getting 10 years for the crash that changed the life of his girlfriend and killed his best friend. It was hard on the family, Kacey knew he had messed up and suffered. He didnt do well his first year behind bars. He was beaten up a lot and didn't enjoy getting out of his cell, only doing it if he had to. After time he started to use the gym at the prison more and would study in the library. He didn't know what he wanted to do with his life so he did read about a lot of things. But this kept him on track and a good person in the prison. That after 3 years he got a job caring for the dogs that were trained to become service animals. Every year he had a few dogs come and go with their training. He did love it and enjoyed his years of working with dogs.

Due to this he did have good behavior and was able to get out after 9 years. He spent a year in Boston and asked his parole if he could move and was granted and he found Kismet, Oregon and moved. He worked a few odd jobs and a job at the gym as a trainer and enjoyed that. Saving up his money for a few years he was able to buy out Access Athletics and has been the owner for the past 5 years. He loves it and still works as a trainer. He does try and keep his past in the past but also isn't one to keep it a secret.

Soon after he arrived in town he met up with Gracee Cheung at bar in town and hit off flirting and ended up hooking up.This went on for a few weeks before they started dating. He hadn't been with anyone since before he went to a person that was really dating not just in writing as he had his prison pen pal that he dated for a while while inside. But he and Gracee Cheung did get along well and where happy but soon she became pregnant soon after they started dating. He didn't expect for it to happen so quickly with them but it there was no stopping it and they moved into an apartment with each other. Doing their best to get by and get ready for the birth of their son. But nearing the birth of their son things started to sour and they would argue at times. Kacey did hope it was just the emotions of pregnancy after their son was born it got worse for their and after Fallon was a few months old they broke up.

They share custody of Fallon normally trading off about once a week depending on each other's work. They are civil in front of Fallon but they do tend to argue around each other still. They are better than they used to be but still seem to butt heads.

#about me x #bio x

[autumnlullaby]

A tribute to you - my funny, loving best friend

It seems astonishing when I say it now, that it has been 16 years that you have been a part of my life.

You have know me, and I you, for the better part of our lives.

So many things have changed, where we are, who we are, the people in our lives.

But you and me, we are still here, and with certainty I can say that I will be here with you to the end.

You, always one of the greatest blessings on my life. You who have weathered storms together with me, the small ones and the typhoons. We who have seen each other cry, over friendships, over family, over joy.

I have always remembered debts to people, even those who's chapters closed. With fondness I remember the things they brought to my life, the fleeting moments they were important.

But with you it's never been about debts - only love. You who's friendship has always felt both like an accident and like kismet, like our souls have always been perfectly aligned even when we were too young to truly know better.

In my youth I loved and let go of a great many things, but you, the one thing I always knew was important beyond comprehension.

It's strange to say that I have watched you grow up, because it isn't quite true. We watched each other grow into ourselves, I suppose. My memory isn't what it used to be, and I don't pride myself on it anymore.

But I still remember the things that matter. I remember when you were new and lost in a new school, when you were still finding your bearings and not sure if it would to be your place. I remember the moments of us slipping letters and postcards to each other in classes, the nights of phone calls to cram in French (okay that was mostly just for me). I remember the moments of waving bye to you at doors with a hundred people beside me, but always knowing one particular look and wave was just for me. I remember university and the struggles of it, of visiting and staying in your dorm. Of sitting with you in your BCIT classroom, of following you to your workplace.

Of backpacking, of Hawaii, of meeting the people in your life - both the ones who stayed and the ones who left. Of being there for the beginning of C., all the panic and questions of the beginning, and riding the whole roller coaster to now.

As I write I realize, 16 years of chapters and moments, are really not little at all.

You have always been a very precious person, but the older we get, the more I learn to value. Finding a true best friend is just as hard as finding a good significant other, and some people go their whole lives and never find one at all.

After all these years, I am not disillusioned of who you are. We have seen each other through the tides and the storms and tsunamis, and you remain steadfastly one of the best people I will ever know.

You were loving when we met, always a moment for someone who needed it, always listening like what you were being told mattered, always a smile that made everyone feel like they are someone special.

And as your world got bigger, so did your heart. And you never stopped being a good friend, a good daughter, a good sister. You just became even more: a good wife, a good daughter in law, a good sister in law.

I am proud of you, did you know?

For all the scary decisions you had to make, for all the courage to venture forth when you didn't know. For how lost you must have felt, and how much you had to leave behind. For all the people who clamor for your attention, and for you who's always tried to make time for everyone.

But most of all I am proud because you never stopped being wonderful. Your laughter, always coming easily, always contagious, whether it be at your expense or not. Your hugs, always like home. Always firm and unyielding in your friendship and care. Though you must often be exhausted, though you must be so tired at times, but in every conversation you always try to be present. And everyone's problems, no matter how big or how small - you always make it matter. Always grounded, always empathetic, always grateful.

That's you, my funny, loving, best friend.

I will always miss you, always be proud of you, always be waiting for the next time we spend time together.

[queerinigo]

oh to be straight historian, making up an extremely far fetched reason why a clearly gay historical figure was actually very heterosexual

#gay memes #lgbt memes #lesbian memes #queer memes #history memes #this is about many things but mostly about kismet #mine

[industriallyinsecure]

How would yandere La Squadra go about their darling being extremely paranoid... maybe even an abduction survivor? Like, they won't drink or eat anything that's not sealed or prepared by them, they won't go anywhere without telling a loved one or friend where they are and where they're going. They only use their own car or commute with ppl they are close with, their door has several locks and bolts, the windows have special locks and they have a hidden weapon on their body and know how to use it.

I apologize for the long wait!

Sorbet and Gelato don’t care. Gelato is audacious enough to keep testing your boundaries by inserting himself into your life as mere coincidences. Sorbet is the only one keeping you safe, in a strange way. He constantly has to talk Gelato down with kisses and promises of taking you soon. Even if you pulled a weapon on them, there’s two of them. Your odds wouldn’t even be that great with just one of them pursuing you. The only problem is orchestrating the whole ordeal just right. With the constant paper trail you left, it would be difficult to just snatch you up and make you disappear off the face of the earth so suddenly. They have to strike in the golden hour, which, much to Gelato’s displeasure, means they have to leave you alone. When you stop frantically updating your friends and family, Gelato kicks in your door and Sorbet restrains you. Of course, when you wake up in an unfamiliar place with two men sandwiching you, the carefully crafted walls you put up to protect yourself from your past abduction come crumbling down. Gelato feels the tiniest bit remorseful and tries to kiss it better, but nothing works and they end up having to knock you out. Sorbet scolds Gelato for his hastiness while they cuddle on the chair across from the bed where your sleeping body whimpered and twitched. It would take some time to help you rebuild from your trauma, but the Milk and Milkless Dessert couple weren’t known for giving up easily.

Risotto is the same way. It’s part of the reason he was drawn to you. After researching about a hit and discovering they had kidnapped and held someone for ransom unsuccessfully, he felt it necessary to check in on the victim to see if there were any connections between them and Passione. More accurately, to see if the victim would cause any problems for Passione. When he first seeks you out, he’s not surprised about your demeanor. But something about your mouselike timidness drew him in. He knows he has to measure his steps carefully if he wants to get close. There’s a lot of methodical planning involved to make sure he doesn’t accidentally scare you off. He attempts to insert himself in your life subtly, appearing in places you go but not engaging you. When he was finally bold enough to seek you out in your own home, he finally saw the extent of your trauma. Metallica made it easy to bypass the many locks on the door, but it was a chore to do. Finding you waiting behind the door with a gun drawn was certainly a surprise, though. Seeing your perpetual eyebags and frowning features so frightened made his heart ache. It’s too bad you were close enough for Metallica to work. He’s positive you would’ve put up a good fight. But for now he’s focused on getting you tucked in. There was no reason to whisk you away when it was clear you were smart enough to be scared of the world outside.

Ghiaccio always has to be in the right, no matter the situation. He doesn’t care that you have trauma that makes your day to day hell or that his constant presence makes you wary and weary. His needs and desires come first at the cost of your comfort. He only compromises on his yelling when he notices he makes you flinch. Other than that, he’ll pester you nonstop. It’s a mystery how he is always where you are without fail. At a certain point, you refuse to leave your home because of it. Ghiaccio isn’t understanding of this and nearly breaks down your door and sends you into a panic attack. Seeing you scream and shield yourself with your arms makes him hesitate. What breaks him is when you plead for him to leave you alone and to not hurt you. It’s a rare moment of clarity in his obsession addled mind and he tries his best to calm you down, even though his touch makes you flinch away. In the middle of his attempt to soothe you, he ends up covering you in frost. The effects of White Album make your reactions sluggish and weak, but you have plenty of time to consider how you got here as he hefts you over his shoulder and buckles you into the passenger’s seat, wrapping the seatbelt around you several times.

Melone honestly has an Obsession of the Week™️, which more than half the time is just for scientific purposes. He likes to psychoanalyze random people he sees, just for funsies. You, on the other hand, were far too interesting to just dissect mentally and move on. He tuned in when you asked for a drink that was from an unopened case of products, and his interest only heightened when he saw you take a very calculated path through the lounge area. He noted you made sure to move in the blind spots of the windows and cameras before nestling safely in a corner where you could see the whole room, all the while peeking over your shoulder. At first, he thought OCD or some other disorder. It made sense, but he watched you timidly flick your eyes around as you uncapped your drink , sniffed it, and took a tentative sip. Melone is already mentally logging this information, creating trials and assessing variables as you sip away at your beverage. Of course when he went to pursue you after you left, he didn’t expect for you to pull a knife on him and threaten him with wide eyes to stay away. The reasons you gave were conjecture, though. He could see that you weren’t quite sure of your choice to confront him, the minuscule shaking of your hand only proving it. It’s laughably easy for him to disarm you, even if his thievery skills have gotten rusty from his transition from petty thief into assassin. After his civil approach, by his own standards, you're toted off to a nearby safe house where he could keep you while he arranges for your accommodations elsewhere.

This is a problem for Prosciutto. He and Formaggio are the most social creatures of La Squadra (Melone is well… social in a different way). Prosciutto loves to be seen. He likes going to the opera, to have someone on his arm dressed almost as finely as he was, to go to art auctions, to go out to a restaurant where the prices were high and the portions low. So your paranoid personality, while understandable, poses a problem for the fantasy he made within five minutes of seeing you shuffle around the market in what he would describe as “bum clothes” (aka sweatpants and a baggy shirt). He notes that every step you take is deliberate, every move calculated and determined beforehand. With his years of stealth training, he trails you for a while to fully observe you. One thing that stuck out to him was that you were always in public places, among crowds with just enough people that you would be missed if you were swept off your feet by a dashing blond in a finely pressed suit. Prosciutto is a fixer. He lives to nitpick and improve and fix everyone he cares for, and you are no different. Soon you’ll find yourself in the company of the handsome blond you’ve seen around town, whether you like it or not. He takes it upon himself to interject and speak over you when it comes to certain things, stating how you should’ve handled a situation. Your paranoia is soon taken advantage of, with Prosciutto feeding into it by isolating you and forcing you to depend on him. Not that he minds. He loves to help people improve. On his terms, of course.

Illuso takes it as a challenge. He’s very reserved as well, and when he observed you for his own interest, it was kismet. Illuso is great at playing the long game and letting his opponent’s psyche get the best of them. With your ‘weakened’ mind, he could play around with you as much as he liked. Tapping on your (barred)window, the mirror, moving stuff. Your own personal curator of hell. He never once feels bad, but he wondered why he didn’t stop playing poltergeist after his usual week or so. Soon he found himself just…staring at your permanently furrowed brow and frowning lips. Maybe if he isolated you in a place where he knew there wouldn’t be anyone, he could get something out of you? Secretly pulls you into the mirror world and observes you. He lets you sit in the comfort of assured solitude before making his grand entrance. Of course he didn’t expect to get punched in the gut and to have a knife pulled on him. He might boast that Man in the Mirror is the strongest stand, but stands are pretty much useless when you’re taken by surprise by someone you underestimated. For a moment, he can’t decide if this makes him like you a lot more, or if you deserve a kick to the gut. Maybe both.

Formaggio firmly believes in the ideology of “take no shit, give no fucks”. He may be social, but he’s not exactly socially intelligent. Case in point, he didn’t understand that his social butterfly-ness might be a huge turn off for some people. So he’s pretty much at a loss for what to do. His previous flings loved it, but you, well, you wanted nothing to do with him in any capacity. Formaggio was supposed to have been scouting his hit, but he was mostly checking out the Milfs, Dilfs, and Pilfs (parent) that passed. And when his gaze finally fell on you, sitting by yourself, he had to swoop in. Similar to how he reacts to Narancia, he’s very affable when you pull your weapon on him and threaten him with very serious eyes, even joking with you playfully when you ask him what he thinks he’s doing. I love him dearly, but Formaggio is a dumb man. He can’t read social cues and probably just thinks you’re playing hard to get when in reality you have trauma. But since he hides all his trauma and self hatred behind jokes, it takes him a while to fully realize that you’re broken. And what do you do with broken things? Why, stick them in a doll house and provide for them, of course!

#la squadra di esecuzione #yandere la squadra #yandere sorlato #yandere risotto nero #yandere ghiaccio #yandere melone #yandere prosciutto #yandere illuso #yandere formaggio #la squadra x reader

[blackpinkofficial]

[ARTICLE] EXCLUSIVE! 7 QUESTIONS WITH BLACKPINK’S ROSÉ, TIFFANY & CO’S LATEST GLOBAL AMBASSADOR

It’s official. Blackpink’s Rosé has joined Tiffany & Co. as its new global ambassador. It feels something like kismet. Just last year in August, Tiffany & Co. started following Rosé on Instagram, BLINKS noticed, of course, that she is the only Korean account that the jeweller follows on Instagram. Not to mention, one of three accounts that they follow. Rosé even sported Tiffany & Co.’s HardWear pieces in the girl group’s music video for Ice Cream, and in the same month, graced the cover of W Korea with a spread of Tiffany & Co. jewels. It’s clear, for BLINKS in particular, that all signs pointed to this union.

Here, Rosé makes her debut as the brand’s latest global ambassador in the 2021 Tiffany HardWear digital campaign. “I’ve always loved wearing Tiffany jewellery. To be part of an iconic brand that has been part of my life for a long time makes it that much more special to me,” says Rosé. “I am very honoured and excited to be a part of the HardWear campaign and I can’t wait for everyone to see it.”

Inspired by the edge of New York City, Tiffany HardWear is based on a 1971 bracelet taken from the archives. Taking the graphic sculptural lines of industrial shapes and gauge links, the jeweller’s bold designs are a refined balance of tension and proportion. It’s only apt that Rosé fronts the campaign, seeing as her bold personality and modern style is an enduring allure that perfectly embodies the attitude and identity of the collection. Emanating strength and confidence, Rosé wears the collection’s graphic 18k yellow and rose gold links accented with pavé diamonds.

Read on as Rosé shares what her first piece of Tiffany jewellery was, who she’d have breakfast at Tiffany’s with, the woman she admires most, and more.

What has inspired you creatively recently? What do you think of the Tiffany HardWear collection’s industrial yet elegant shapes?

I think small things in my everyday life inspires me the most. It doesn’t have to be anything grand but something that’s effortlessly embedded in our lifestyles. Which is why I feel much more drawn to the HardWear collection’s industrial shapes. I love how intricate and edgy the design is.

Tiffany HardWear is all about being bold. When is the last time you felt that you did something bold? Where did that fearlessness come from?

I think everyone is tested with new obstacles every single day. I feel bold when I stand up for my own opinions. Whether it be a small decision or a big one that follows large responsibility. I think knowing how to stick up for yourself on a daily basis is definitely a definition for boldness.

How do you feel when you put on a beautiful piece of jewellery?

Like any others feel when they put on jewellery! All sorts of butterflies. Jewellery is always a lot of fun. When we put together an outfit for the day, whether that be for an everyday look or a whole extra look for a day at work, jewellery is always the cherry on top. You’ll never know how the out- fit looks like until you add the jewellery.

Who would you most want to have breakfast at Tiffany’s with? What would you order?

If they allow pets, then I would definitely go with my puppy, Hank. I would probably just order a good old English breakfast meal and freshly squeezed orange juice.

When did you receive your first piece of Tiffany jewellery?

In my memory, I think it was some white gold earrings in the classic Tiffany charm shape that my mum got me when I pierced my ears for the first time in 7th grade.

What has made you feel empowered recently?

Standing up for my own opinions and trusting in them. Even if it’s for the smallest things.

Who are some of the women that you admire in your life?

My mum. I still remember my mum when she used to work full time back in New Zealand. How she would dress up in the most chic, boss-black fitted blazer and pencil skirt. Her dark red lipstick and perfectly styled hair. She always looked like a boss and she was always my idol. I always wanted to look like her when I grew up. I admire her in so many ways. How responsible, respectful and kind she is to the people around her. And mostly, I admire her for her unconditional love towards me and my sister. She is one selfless yet strong and independent human being.

cr. www.elle.com.sg

#rose #blackpink #article

[punkpoemprose]

December 1st- Lights Out

Universe: 1970′s AU (The Great NYC Blackout of ‘77)

Rating: M (Mature, Sexy times)

Length: 3077 Words

A/N: So here we are again. Advent fics, and also decades AUs! I wrote from 1900 to 1950 for last year’s advent and I did 1960 in the spring, so here we are picking up where I left off! If you can guess what company Anna works for in this fic I will give you a cookie and a sticker. 

Lets see if I can finish at least the decades this time around, shall we?

Anna sighed as soon as she walked through the front door of the apartment, letting her hair fall out of the low bun she’s had it up in all day. She knew that it was probably silly to keep it up. After all she hated it being that way, but she wanted to make a good impression at work. The better she did, the quicker she could get a good reference, and the sooner she could get out of the city.

She was a bit amused though, despite the hairpin headache it had given her all day, that a coworker had compared the look to something out of the sci-fi flick that had come out some months back. She hadn’t seen it yet, but she imagined that being compared to the princess in the film was probably a good thing, she did know that it was exceedingly rare that a princess was evil or ugly. Her experience with children’s content was, of course, what she’d in part been hired for in the first place.

She shook out her hair and heard some of the little metal bobby pins fall to the floor, they clattered and skidded, undoubtedly falling into cracks and corners she didn’t have the time, energy, or light to locate. She knew that she’d find them again someday, but she hoped that it would soon be because she was busy moving furniture into a truck and her belongings into boxes. New York was interesting, to say the least, but she’d decided that she was much more of a small-town gal than a city chick.

She gathered up the rest of the pins in her hand as she raked her hair through the long and snarled mess. Those pins that hadn’t jumped ship with the initial shake had found themselves tangled in the waves of descending hair and were sometimes angrily biting at strands and taking pieces with them as she removed them. She could already feel her headache easing as her scalp tingled and readjusted to the natural weight distribution of her hair.

The worst part of her job was not the headaches, the hairstyles, or even the momentary concerns that maybe the princess she looked like was the rare evil and cruel type. No, it was much more mundane and far more upsetting, the factor being, of course, the hours. She had been working since noon and it was one of the rare days that she was able to get home before nine at night. Of course, she had expected this when she joined on the CTW’s education research and grant writing division. Kid’s television didn’t exactly make itself, much less make itself educational, but she was looking forward to going elsewhere and working for a less high-profile program and company. A nine to five, she thought, would suit her just fine, especially if it meant that she’d spend more time actually working with kids.

She kicked her shoes off and let herself breathe for a moment before turning around to lock the apartment door behind her. Kristoff has been asking her to be more careful lately with the door, and on the subway, and doing just about anything. They weren’t in a particularly dangerous area of the city and the office she worked out of was only two subway stops from their apartment, but she understood the worry. She was young and pretty in his eyes at least and there was talk in the news about some psycho attacking women. She couldn’t let herself give into the fear of it though, she was done being afraid. She had spent too much of her life being scared and lonely to let it ever happen again.

The bathroom door opened on the opposite side of the room and Anna grinned at the familiar creak of the hinges. She turned and saw Kristoff, fresh from the shower with steam rolling out from behind him, looking as happy to see her as he felt seeing him.

“There’s takeout in the fridge,” he said, looking a bit sheepish, “I was going to cook but I didn’t know when you were getting home tonight and I forgot to pick up the egg noodles on my way back from the shop.”

She wondered how he’d react if she told him that he was the only thing she was hungry for. She’d forgotten to call him to let him know that she’d had a sub at the office while finishing up on some research for an upcoming episode about astronomy, and while she appreciated his efforts at takeout, she didn’t need to eat. She was much more interested in the feast for the eyes before her. She was starving for his attention, to let her hands wander down his chest and to the towel slung low over his hips the way her eyes were traversing the same path.

They were both working crazy hours, saving up as much as they could for their dream of moving to the suburbs or to upstate or wherever they could both find jobs in their fields with a nice little starter house that they could set up a life in. Consequently, they’d both been too exhausted lately to spend their time together doing anything other than eating, sleeping, and maybe listening to the radio before falling asleep. The monotony of it was more exhausting than the workload, particularly when she spent a fair amount of her day wishing for the opportunity she now found before her.

She saw him grin when her eyes wandered back up to his. She knew that he couldn’t have planned to be just getting out of the shower when she got home given he hadn’t known when she would get home, so she called it kismet instead. She shrugged off her blazer, barely turning as she hung it up on the coatrack and returned the smile, throwing in an eyebrow raise for good measure.

It made him laugh, and that let her know that she had looked exactly as mock-lascivious as she’d meant to. She’d learned that when it came to Kristoff, she never really needed to try to flirt, he just gave her the love she needed on demand. Any flirting between them was, at this point in their relationship, mostly for the laughs.

As she stepped forward to meet him she watched as the room went from softly lit to pitch black in an instant. It caused her to jump about a foot, rush forward, trip, and encounter Kristoff who had been, in return, crossing the room to get to her. The impact wasn’t gentle, he was normally her favorite pillow, his largeness being mostly a virtue given the fact that despite his muscle he was overwhelmingly soft, but she had never run straight into his chest before. It was a bit like what she felt running into a padded wall would feel like.

“Oof.”

His grunt of discomfort was a strange comfort when compared to the more concerned sounds, shouts, and confused cries that came from the surrounding apartments and the street below. That, Anna realized, meant that they were certainly not the only ones who were out of power.

“Sorry!”

She offered the apology meekly as his arms wrapped around her. He gave her a little protective squeeze and she rested her weight against him a bit more fully, still recovering from the impact of their bodies that had her a bit shaky on her feet. Normally she enjoyed the sensation of him thoroughly wrecking her, but crashing into him unexpectedly was significantly less enjoyable.

Power outages weren’t exactly uncommon in the summer as everyone ran their fans and air conditioners, but it normally wasn’t something that lasted exceedingly long. This already felt different though, particularly as Anna heard the hollers and shouts coming from through the window from the rest of the block. Whatever had caused their power to go out was not localized to their apartment or building it seemed.

She let her eyes drift over to the window as they adjusted to the darkness they’d been plunged into. She could see past the no longer running fan that there were no lights to be seen in the park across the street from it, nor were there any beyond it.

“I think it’s the whole block,” she said quietly, “maybe even more. There’s no lights in the park and I can’t see any light past that either.”

They were both quiet for a moment as she felt him turning to look as well, turning them together to the side so that they could both look through their dark window, into the dark city beyond.

“Crap,” he groaned, “Might be the whole borough.”

Anna shook her head. That would be insane. They were in Manhattan, it was massive, and for the sheer amount of different areas it contained there was really no logical way for her to wrap her head around the power being out across it.

“If Manhattan is out, the whole city might as well be. I don’t know what it would take for it all to go out.”

Kristoff sighed and Anna’s eyes finally adjusted well enough for her to see his grumpy expression, or at least the shadowy set of his displeased jaw. They sat like that for a while, eyes adjusting to the dark, waiting for the power to click back on and for them to be proven wrong about any more than just their block being out. It didn’t return after minutes passed like hours, and they were forced to move from their standstill.

“Well… guess it’s a good thing that Elsa bought us candles for an apartment warming gift. Do we even have a lighter?”

Anna sighed, “Honestly I don’t know? I think I have a box of matches in the drawer next to the stove because we needed them when the igniter wasn’t working. One of us needs to take up smoking if this is going to become a more frequent event.”

That, she was pleased to report, made him laugh again. She stepped out from his arms to bump into furniture in her search for the drawer containing the matches. She never truly realized how many obstacles their apartment contained until she crashed her hip into the table edge, bumped into a basket of laundry she’d only half folded, and stumbled across a chair leg.

“That seems like an extreme option. We could just buy a lighter and not smoke. I know you don’t like the smell. You always complain about it when we go out to eat and someone lights up at a table near us.”

Anna hip checked the counter by accident but managed to find the drawer handle with one hand as she rubbed the now sore skin through her pant leg with the other. Somewhere on the other side of the apartment she heard Kristoff open the closet door and make a valiant attempt to dig through out-of-season coats, miscellaneous pieces of décor, tools, and sundry to find candles that, like everything else in their apartment, he couldn’t see.

For her part she was rummaging through the junk drawer, fingers making contact with buttons, patches, glue bottles, tape dispensers, and all manner of unnecessary-until-they’re-necessary items. She always told herself when she went into the drawer for something that she needed to clean it out, but it was one of those tasks that never made itself a priority.

“I don’t like it, but I’d probably have a lighter in my pocket if I did.”

She could practically feel his eyes rolling when her fingertips brushed against the rough, sandpaper-like striker of the matchbox. Her hand wrapped around the little box, and she was grateful to feel something rattle around inside. It would have been just like her to have thrown an empty box back into the drawer, and she couldn’t help but appreciate past Anna for leaving her at least a few matches.

“Found them,” Kristoff called just as Anna was about to do the same. It was a small mercy, she thought, that they’d managed to be prepared despite not intentionally preparing for anything. She held the match box up in the dark and shook it hard, the rattling heard across the apartment even with their neighbors still grumbling and shouting.

“Great,” he replied, hearing the sound or seeing the movement confirming the existence of the matches. “Though you should know… Anna I think I lost my towel somewhere near the closet.”

***

The lights hadn’t come on. They’d spent hours in the living room, reading, lazing, complaining about the heat as they read and lazed and sweated in their underclothes. The possibility of going out and seeing what everyone else was doing was offered and quashed by them both on a few occasions, ultimately with them both deciding that they wouldn’t be leaving the apartment that night, nor would they be doing so in the morning, even if the power was back on.

“I deserve a day off,” Anna moaned as Kristoff’s hips rolled into hers.

They’d went to bed innocently enough, planning to sleep in and catch up on rest. The plan had lasted all of a few moments until Anna took advantage of Kristoff spooning her to press her rear suggestively into his crotch. She thought that they deserved some sort of prize for making it into bed in the first place. She’d wanted him since she walked into the apartment, and though he’d managed to put on underwear out of the half-folded laundry basket after losing his towel, Anna had been more than willing to spend the rest of their evening on the couch in candle light.

Their current arrangement was better on their backs, and less likely to start a fire.

“You do baby,” he agreed, his voice deep as they engaged in the only agreeable activity a young couple could possibly agree on when it was late, the power was out, and there was nothing to be done about the heat.

His hands were on her waist as she moved above him, his fingers pressing into her skin as he helped her find a rhythm. She loved the way it felt to have him below her, to give him the pleasure he deserved while taking it for herself.

“You deserve a day off,” she added, “We can spend the whole day in bed.”

           He groaned and she felt his fingers squeeze a little tighter at the idea of spending a whole day alternating between making love and napping. Though, she supposed that he might also be reacting to the fact that she was speeding up her pace, riding him hard and fast, trying to make up for weeks of unwanted celibacy in one night.

           She was full of him, each time she rolled her hips and sank down on him brought her closer and closer to the edge. She’d spent hours daydreaming of it, feeling the stretch of him filling her, watching the euphoric daze come over his features as he let her give herself to him again and again until they were tired and sated. To see it now in the dim flickering candle light brought an intimacy that she hadn’t imagined before, the light dancing over his kiss swollen lips as he groaned and panted along with her.

           “Anna, if you keep doing that I’m going to…”

           She rocked her hips and his rolled in return, seeking just the right angle together and finding it as the friction of their joining brought her to her climax before he could achieve the same. She kept her pace, riding out the euphoric sensation as he panted out her name. She let him take up the lead then, letting him set the pace as she moved along with the urging of his hands on her waist.

           “Kris,” she encouraged, “Gosh baby you make me feel so good. Please come for me.”

           She settled her hands on his shoulders, using him for support as they sped up and worked together to find his end.

           He came for her, his grip tightening and his eyes fluttering closed as she watched his face. That was her favorite part of being on top, the view it afforded her of his features softening as she felt him go pliant below her.

           They stayed like that for a moment, his hands on her hips and her just holding his shoulders for support, watching him. When he caught his breath and her thighs began to shake from the effort, he pulled her to his side and kissed her lips softly, almost chastely.

           “I hope the power stays out,” Anna teased as she got comfortable on the bed at his side, “I know we agreed not to go to work tomorrow, but I think I could live without electricity if it meant more of this.”

           Kristoff chuckled against her ear as he pulled her back into him. It was too hot for it, too hot for what they’d just done, but a slight breeze through the window cooled the sweat on their bare skin and made it bearable. She felt him kiss her throat and she hummed appreciatively at the contact, her arm settling over his where it crossed her stomach.

           “Or we could just move sooner than planned. Imagine all the free time we’ll have together when we’re on the same schedule. I’ve been looking at jobs North of Albany and I think with our savings we can live on one income for a little while if you want to move up the timeline.”

           Anna smiled at the idea.

           “Want to hear something crazy?”

           He didn’t speak but instead she felt him nodding behind her.

           “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I’ve been looking at open positions upstate too and Fisher Price is looking for someone with an education background to join their research and design team. I was thinking about calling about the position and setting up an interview, but it just seemed like it was a little fast.”

           “Anna that’s not crazy… baby that’s wonderful.”

           “You’re wonderful,” she teased, leaning back into him and turning her head to give him a peck on his arm.

           He laughed and kissed her on the top of her head in retaliation, and as they quieted and dozed off to sleep, Anna could not help but to think that maybe the blackout was fate after all.  

#kristanna #kristannaadvent2020 #frozen fanfiction #kristanna fanfiction #1970's AU #Blackout of 77 AU

[bluebuzzmusic]

Lollapalooza’s Big Return Helped Usher In A New Festival Season [REVIEW]

words by Dani Deahl

  As Lollapalooza’s gates opened on Thursday morning, the air was filled with fizzy excitement. Whoops rippled through the throngs of fans decked out in jewels, body glitter, and other adornments as the rush moved toward the main entrance. One attendee triumphantly thrust his vaccination card aloft as he yelled “Summertime Chi!”

Like hundreds of other live events, Lollapalooza was canceled in 2020 due to COVID-19 concerns. And, like hundreds of other live events that rescheduled for 2021, uncertainty hung in the air beforehand, despite the city’s insistence that the show would go on. And go on it did.

Precautions were put in place — attendees had to show proof of vaccination or negative COVID-19 test results upon entrance every day while artists had to provide attestation letters in advance — but many remain concerned about crowds with hundreds of thousands of unmasked people. One Chicago Tribune reporter tweeted that “Fake COVID-19 vaccination cards are 100% a thing at Lollapalooza in Chicago.”

(For its part, the city maintains that there are no plans to shut Chicago down again. Mayor Lori Lightfoot said, “We’ve been able to open but do it with care because of the vaccinations.”)

this photo from lollapalooza is giving me so much anxiety omg pic.twitter.com/68POnvE9X3

— no context jeff (@thecultureofme) August 1, 2021

Almost all were more than happy to comply with the added regulations. Lollapalooza says it only turned away about 600 people who showed up without paperwork on Thursday, a fraction of the day’s attendance.

It’s not surprising as the anticipation building up to the return of Lollapalooza was palpable. The iconic Chicago festival has been a staple for over 30 years and is a rite of passage for music lovers and acts alike. It’s famous for any number of things, including its location in the middle of the city which provides breathtaking views of the skyline (and cute photo ops in front of Buckingham fountain).

Over time, Perry Farrell’s brainchild has blossomed into a pop-up city within a city, replete with (depending on the year) opulent gifting suites, tucked away forests dotted with hammocks, and even a Red Bull gaming stage, where Ninja streamed on Mixer with acts like Madeon.

That last example might show just how diverse Lollapalooza has become over the years. It’s rooted in rock, but fans of just about any genre can get their fix and wander off their musical path to discover something new.

Dance in particular has its own separate and seminal history with Lollapalooza. The festival launched Perry’s Stage back in 2008 in order to give the genre a dedicated space. That first year in a tiny white tent, it hosted names like Willy Joy, Does It Offend You, Yeah?, and DJ AM. Since then, the likes of CRAY, Alesso, Rezz, Shiba San, Seven Lions, and Duke Dumont have performed on Perry’s as the stage itself exploded in both size and production.

Now with the behemoth stage a mainstay, the dance audience gets the best of both worlds at Lolla: a top-notch experience with plenty of pyro, Co2, and fireworks, and the perfect location to stake as home base for the week. While dedicated hip-hop fans likely did the 15-20 minute trek across Grant Park many times to bounce between headliners, dance fans didn’t have the same worry as the genre is mostly contained to Perry’s. Camping out at Perry’s also affords the bonus of being relatively close to lockers, mobile charging, food, beer stations, and restrooms, a five-peat that can’t be said about many other locations across the festival’s expansive grounds.

This year, fans of dance were treated to heavy-hitters like Jauz, Alison Wonderland, and Grammy-nominated KAYTRANADA on Perry’s, alongside buzz-worthy up-and-comers like Moore Kismet, Wenzday, and Blossom. And, like some previous iterations of Lollapalooza (Daft Punk and Deadmau5 come to mind), dance was the mainstage event two nights, with headliner slots doled out to Marshmello and Illenium.

Among the dance artists, there was a wholesome sense of glee while on stage. For most acts, Lollapalooza was the largest event they had played since the pandemic took the music industry to its knees and snatched away live shows about a year and a half ago. For Alison Wonderland, in particular, the fest marked her first show on US soil in over a year. Within that context, Lollapalooza wasn’t just a festival, it was hope.

That sense of relief and gratitude was perhaps underlined best by Jauz’s set introduction, which began with an acapella of Eminem’s “Square Dance.” The singular line “It feels so good to be back” echoed out over the field at Perry’s to swells of cheers. Then, the Roland Clark acapella of “Glad You’re Home” kicked in over a house beat. “Hello my friends,” says Clark, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen your faces. I miss you so much.”

Other notable moments included Marc Rebillet (affectionately known as “Loop Daddy” because of his Boss RC-505 Loop Station) running in large circles on stage in a silk robe leading the crowd in a “fuck Jeff Bezos” chant, Twista making a surprise appearance with YehMe2 to perform “Overnight Celebrity” during Brownies & Lemonade All Stars, and Dr. Fresch goading the Limp Bizkit crowd to smash Wes Borland’s guitar to pieces. Because, sure.

Aside from the music, there was an interesting but noticeable shift: Perry’s, for the first time, is no longer called Perry’s. This year, web-scale blockchain company Solana got in the mix, rebranding the stage as Perry’s x Solana. As part of the integration, Solana built a digital Lolla NFT Marketplace with limited edition NFTs (non-fungible tokens) for purchase. NFTs on sale include a 1-of-1 NFT of the original 1991 Lollapalooza poster priced at $9,999, and 25 NFTs of Steve Aoki throwing cake during his Friday night set priced at $999.99 each. If those prices make you dizzy, there are plenty at lower prices, and even some that can be claimed for free.

Celebrating the return of live music with a cake to the face. Own this moment now at the #Lolla NFT Marketplace. @steveaoki

NFT by Transition Ninja. pic.twitter.com/QmUVpJ1Gzu

— Lollapalooza (@lollapalooza) July 31, 2021

At the end of four days, when people would normally be exhausted, beaten down by Chicago’s summer humidity and the sheer amount of physical exertion spent darting from stage to stage for hours at a time, there was instead a lightness. 

Ultimately, the festival’s storied history combined with the excitement of fans and musicians dipping their toes back into live events made this year’s Lollapalooza feel like a collective emotional reunion. Albeit one that’s complicated, and understandably so. As one of the skyscrapers lining Grant Park’s border reminded fans through lit-up windows at the end of each night: “#VACC TO LOLLA.”

  Photo via Shea Flynn

This article was first published on Your EDM. Source: Lollapalooza’s Big Return Helped Usher In A New Festival Season [REVIEW]

source https://www.youredm.com/2021/08/04/lollapaloozas-big-return-helped-usher-in-a-new-festival-season-review/

#edm #music #music production #music news #edm news

[hedonisthierophant]

Unveiled eyes and bloodless lips -A skarsgard multiverse thing.

A universe of many Bills, a couple AHAs, and a few others.

@grandpa-sweaters You asked for fic with The Kid and instead I somehow came up with this monstrosity. I’m not sure if you’ve ever read my writing before but I’m sorry.

Dedicated to my literary soulmate @ill-skillsgard I hope you don’t hate it.

Warnings: Smut, mentions of pregnancy and childbirth, gore, spit kink, cuckoldry, degradation, injury, death.

   Unveiled eyes and bloodless lips

The witch had lost this game long before she even started playing, the final result such a foregone conclusion that it might be more accurate in fact to say she had lost before she had even been born. Forces much larger than her, to call them even titanic in scope would be an understatement, had been attending to the moves of the board since time immemorial. To say her fate such as it was had been decided back then is to grievously misstate the situation. Her exact destiny was fiercely contested on the board of play, it could’ve turned out completely differently, unfolding along anyone of the infinite myriad of paths of kismet. But her doom? That became inevitable she drew the attention of the game’s players. Naturally she remained unaware of the inescapable quality of her demise, she fought against it until the very last moment, her ferocious zeal, her skill and talent, all of it amounted to naught, For what hope does in an insect have against flood? Through no fault of her own, her perspective on this eons-long contest she had the misfortune of being prescribed to enter was…limited. In actuality the word “limited” doesn’t begin to convey the magnitude of her ignorance, imagine if you will placing your eye at a keyhole and attempting to catch a glimpse of a room darkened to pitch black. Some less astute souls might say that her involvement in the affair was rather like bringing a deaf person to the symphony but you dear reader know better, I should hope. Someone who cannot hear will have a different experience with music to be sure, but an experience they will have, the concepts on display remain within the realm of understanding. In our case a young woman became the toy of forces so far beyond her ken that she was to them as an amoeba might be to one of us beneath the prying lens of a microscope. As you may have surmised the tragedy that brings my voyeuristic audience to me unfolded slowly, spanning two lifetimes. Of course, this is only slow from the mortal point of view, to the beings that brought this about such a timeframe was less than the blink of an eye might be to us, for their machinations make glaciers seem to move with haste. Oh yes, they lack celerity but in exchange their actions carry the gravity of unquestionable certainty. However, I have indulged myself long enough. It is time that I recount, to the best of my ability the story which is brought you here today…whilst I remain able to do so.

           Her mother was possessed of a nearly singular lack of the talent that had been at the disposal to members of her family as far back as records would go. She did retain the gift of foresight. In the hands of anyone else this boon guaranteed an interesting life, if not necessarily a good one. The ability to see the future meant that so much of the world could be bent to your whim, fortunes raised, mistakes avoided, enemies destroyed before they even had the opportunity to transgress. For her mother though the only thing her visions brought was infinite sadness. She was many months pregnant you see. The result of an impetuous liaison with an excitable and impassioned thief several years who junior who quite literally stumbled into her lap, betrayed by his gangly limbs at a luxurious hotel bar he happened to be casing. He must have absconded with a waiter’s uniform for nothing about his outfit fit his exquisitely lanky form properly. Remembering the bowtie that hung limply and sideways from his collar still brings a smile to her face. The knave proclaimed she was the love of his life, his goddess and that he would devote his life to securing her happiness. It was quite a scene the tableau made certainly more…unconventional due to the fact that she was celebrating her first wedding anniversary at and sitting directly across from her husband at the time. Their marriage had been mostly a business arrangement, not entirely loveless but more cordial than intimate, but she thinks she could have grown to love him for the smirk that wound its way across his face after the blubbering young would be waiter realized his presence. She recalls watching the scene like a member of the audience at the theater, her face impassive, one brow raised. Her husband had a reputation for an incredibly violent temper, if you ever witnessed it though but she could never convince herself to entirely discredit the rumors. Both she and the scoundrel were frozen, he in fear, she in surprise. Her husband stood up, declare that their food had been awful and they were taking the waiter as recompense. Her husband, she couldn’t stand the pain that thinking his name brought even all these years later. He had made his fortune as proprietor of the “last heir to the great circuses of old, the man was a showman to his core and could have sold sin to the most pious of people. Sitting in the stands watching that man bewitch everyone around her, she certain she could’ve learned to love him had she been given more time with him. Her brother-in-law put a stop to any happy fantasies she might’ve entertained though, fratricide had a way of casting a pall over such things. Death took him from her, but that night he had been so very alive. He threw the reprobate onto their sumptuous marriage bed and ordered her in a voice that was equal parts chilling and gleeful to fuck him within an inch of his life. She did, hips canting madly as she struggled to match the thief’s exuberance for all he was worth, she was the only thing that grounded him as he shuddered through orgasm after improbable orgasm. His soulful eyes stared up at her as though she had hung the stars. After one particularly fierce climax she turned to look at her husband across the darkened room for all the while he had been orchestrating the performance as though being its sole audience member also burdened him with the role of conductor, she may have been having extraordinary sex but for all that the two of them were just  toys for her husband. He controlled them with such precision a note here,  a whisper there, advice for the two of them ghosting across the room. He was a master puppeteer, they may have lacked physical strings but that did not stop him. He ruled over them with the same exactness he employed with his beloved elephants, compelling them through routines to astound and amaze basking in the dazzled worship of the onlookers. That night though, he was taking full advantage of being the only onlooker. She still remembers the manic smile on his face and how his hair looked like flame in the moonlight spilling through the window as hysterical (euphoric) laughter echoed off the walls of their manor, as though her husband were the only one in on some wonderfully hilarious joke of cosmic proportions. Looking back on it, he may well have been. Following their final crescendo as her husband’s euphoria slowly waned into giggling, the criminal professed his love for her for the umpteenth time and begged her to come away with him to Florida, promising to dedicate the rest of his days to making her happy. His stirring gaze brimmed with imploring tears he unabashedly let fall from his eyes, his voice quavering beneath the immense wait of his need to keep her in his life. The scales she used to weigh her options were suddenly dashed as her husband took a great gasping breath, sprang up from his seated position in the sumptuous armchair he’d been occupying and began to flit around the room gathering things to him, mania rolling off him in waves. He’d hoisted the nude crook off her with little apparent effort despite being smaller than the rangy younger man. He spun him around and  slapped the sex drunk visitor’s bare ass as the man squawked in surprise and indignation, pale globes of flesh flushing an angry shade of red and leaving a print in the form of her husband’s hand at the sting. Her husband crouched for on his haunches for a moment to admire his impromptu work of art. She couldn’t see him but she could clearly picture his eyes growing wide with fascination as the mark took shape, his hands twitched with restrained desire, she could practically feel him warring with the impulse to throw him onto their marriage bed yet again, but this time for the purpose of sowing sharper and deeper blossoms of suffering across the entirety of the canvas that was the other man’s body. Disturbed smile still in place as he ground his teeth he muttered to himself in hushed tones. “No Jer, be a good boy. Almost done now, you can do it. Just gotta ape him. He straightened the conflict within him tucked away beneath the impeccable veneer of the consummate showman’s mask. “Would that I could have joined you crazy kids. I’d have loved to use all my fun little tricks on a tall glass of water like you. I’d have driven you crazy, stark raving mad really, shown you just how wild gingers can get, I’m talking showing you where the animals go.” He said with a grin that was only matched in lascivious by it’s lunacy and air of danger. She was certain the young man with the innocence and coordination of a newborn fawn would not have survived such an encounter He clapped the sex drunk young man on the back, sensually garbed him in a ludicrously expensive silken kimono, handed him a duffel bag of cash as though he had one standing by for just this occasion. That torn expression came over his face yet again, this time he surrendered to his urges. Quite suddenly he brought their lips together with the force of a devouring hunger, grinding his crotch against the other man’s leg. Judging by the surprised sound that issued from their visitor, her husband’s tongue had embarked on an enthusiastic exploration of the other man’s mouth. Then as suddenly as the whirlwind of passion had come, it stilled. He stepped back, a deranged smile lighting up his face. A single thin and determined cord of saliva still bound them together in remembrance of their embrace, her husband broke it with his middle finger, and then brought the digit to the other man’s lips. He sucked on it with a dazed expression for a moment before her husband withdrew with out warning. He clapped him on his back, said in perhaps the most jovial tone a cuckold has ever used with his competitor “I’ve always loved a good fireworks show.” and sent the befuddled young paramour on his way with a wink. The next day her husband left on “family business” to some crime on the east coast submerged seven layers deep in corruption and crime, this business ended in his demise. She remembers looking at him in the casket, smirk fixed in place as though even in death he had gotten the last laugh after all.

That had all been eight months ago exactly. Now here she was at a comfortable cruising altitude of 30,000 feet returning from a sojourn to the place where so many of her sisters had famously died along with innocents and hapless victims of circumstance. She buried her husband in the cesspool city and then communed with nature and the spirits of the sisters who came before her in Salem, now all that was left for her to do was return to her family’s modest estate in Canada and continue puzzling over the odd provision in her husband’s will for any child of hers regardless of whether that child was part of their union or not. The trouble began in earnest on that flight which should’ve been an entirely unremarkable trip from Salem to Halifax.  The first unusual occurrence was that her water broke and quite suddenly she was in the process of bringing a life into the world some 2000 stories off the ground suspended in what she’d always considered to be fragile contraptions held aloft by little more than a prayer. Her situation was odd and certainly less than ideal but not unheard of. The flight attendants rushed her to the back of the plane and by what many would like to think was a happy accident there were several members of an obstetrics team present aboard that very flight. The delivery was much more difficult than expected for the culmination of what had been by every reckoning a model pregnancy, with nary an over-enthusiastic kick. Whatever creature was inside of her head suddenly gained the claws of the most wicked of fairytale crones, and the weight of a giant every movement brought only piercing agony and precious little relief. Her screams echoed through the craft that was a dedication to mankind’s hubris as her pain intensified so too did an incredibly unforeseen bout of bad weather, the radar which just hours ago prior to takeoff had promised skies wonderful for flying was now proving itself to be a liar. It was as though passing above some insignificant little town in Maine that caused the storm spring up around them. Their vehicle was buffeted from every direction by winds and frost that were unseasonable even for harsh winter in upper North America. Around her people cursed and prayed, screamed and shouted as the pilots fought to deliver their charges to the ground in the same amount of pieces as they left it, rather than in so many more as was becoming increasingly likely. The town against all sense did have its own infinitesimally small airstrip, it wasn’t until many years later that she would begin to understand just how long ago the pieces had been set in play. As they began their harried descent people were struck by falling luggage and other debris that comes when you compress the lives of hundred people into the space of an aircraft and then turn it into a topsy-turvy. Some were killed, she even took a piece of glass to the jaw but any object that got within striking distance of the newborn child swaddled in a washcloth suddenly lost all momentum and dropped to the floor, this sort of power was most definitely beyond her she had no gift for telekinetics but she was simply too alarmed at the gravity of their situation as Earth’s own gravity began to make its power and its displeasure at having been flaunted known to the passengers. Someone with much more than was at her disposal was looking out for her daughter. And so, their airplane limped down from the sky thoroughly chastened by Zeus and his ilk for its trespass into their domain and Moira and her mother crashed into Castle Rock.

Moira and her mother had always been considered oddities by the town. Two outsiders literally cast out of the heavens and dropped into the midst of unwelcoming townsfolk. Her mother had made the best of the situation, for she had tried, made a very valiant attempt to leave this town but the moment that she crossed the boundaries she was wrapped in agony which would not abate until she took a step back into the town, this phenomenon persisted whether she tried by car or on foot and she refused to give air travel another attempt. She was no fool, she knew well that some incredible force was bent on keeping her and her daughter entrapped in this little nothing of a hamlet. She may not have had the gifts that her family had taken for granted but anyone could make rituals work with enough determination, she used her dead husband’s well to secure a small cottage on the outskirts of town for her daughter and set about turning it into a mystic fortress brimming with occult defenses. Oh the villagers looked at her askance when she went asking strange herbs or when rumors, true in this case, swirled about that she desecrated graves looking for bones or danced in the moonlight bared skin flashing as she circled her home and chanted in forgotten tongues. Castle Rock had a history with which is in their neighbor town of Salem’s Lot you see, they knew the signs even if many had forgotten precisely what they meant. When her mother realized she was potentially in the territory of other practitioners her theory became that a powerful coven existed here and they wanted her for as of yet unknown reasons, but the more she doubt the more it seemed that any true coven had long since died out or moved on to more fitting pastures. The occult in community the town consisted of one or two charlatans, and a few like herself with barely an iota of true power between them, capable of little more than the simplest cantrips, certainly not the massive feats of magic required to both down and trap her here. The first night she performed a ritual of crying beseeching a cracked bowl she’d stolen from the motel to connect her with her mother. Her family had always been a nest of vipers they were immune to their own poison but that did not stop the backstabbing that took place as soon as one was no longer able to defend oneself. Her mother made it clear imperious tones bringing out into the forest and stirring the leaves although in truth she was many miles away, that by allowing herself to be brought low and trapped in a backwater with even a lesser one of her families grimoires by unknown parties she had shamed the family and would be forgotten. They would not come to her aid. Cast out of the one coven she had known since birth she went about forming a tighter knit one as its replacement. She had asked the two charlatans out of town and gathered those with inklings of true power to her, she lacked her family’s innate command of the mystic arts, but her deficit had made her a master ritualist. And so she doled out their precious secrets to a few peasants in this town and made herself a new family. With helpers at her disposal she was able to enact more complex magic and had soon carved out a niche for herself and her followers as the area’s sole authority on matters of the arcane. People flocked to see her from all corners of the continent and a few from even further. She didn’t doubt that her mother, the rest of her family and their retainers were trying their best to end her life but as the years went by it occurred to her that whatever was keeping her here was also keeping her alive, the town seemed to repel anything more than passing outside influences and her family feared to enter its boundaries and become trapped themselves, better to let whatever invisible enemy had brought her there finish her off eventually. Their judgment proved correct.

Moira was an unusual soul, daughter of the town witch and perpetually mistrusted. Despite all that she had a sunny demeanor and those that matter couldn’t help but be charmed by her. For as long as she could remember her mother had forced her, even as a barely aware child to partake in odd rituals, from filling purple gossamer bags of strange herbs sends unknown objects and placing them in various spots throughout the house to keeping a bowl of water by the door and flicking a drop against the wood once it was shut to bathing in oils and strange concoctions by the light of the moon. She did all this because as she told Moira “Something was out to get them.” Moira always found it odd that her mother chose to say something as opposed to someone. Moira had always dreamed of being a doctor but her mother forbid her to leave town for any reason and although she could not explain why to herself even after all these years she’d never even thought of disobeying that particular rule. Her few friends in town and her mother concurred that she would’ve made a brilliant doctor but in a town like Castle Rock the closest she could manage was to be a nursing assistant at the local prison. Some days she bemoaned her life stuck in this little town, so small that it did not even merit a dot on most maps of the area. But she would gather up her natural cheer, take her sketchpad and pencil, sit in the park and draw on those days. Since Moira began drawing she’d been a prodigy, but even from earliest childhood when one has no attention span to speak of after she would dally with the subject and that she would return always to her first. A pair of haunting blue-green eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and your whispering pair of lips, cracked and dry, parched even to the drawings one got the impression that no words passed between them for a long time. The drawings of course worried her mother but try as she might she could puzzle out no theories as to their significance, the last time she’d tried describing ritual on the mysterious subject her bowl had been gripped by a powerful kinetic force shattered from the inside out embedding pieces of cheap ceramic into the wall around her and a few into her body as water that had been cool and tranquil moments earlier became scalding and improbably rose up to splash her in the face. It was then she decided that the drawings were out of her power.

Whenever she was outside of her house Moira always felt the faintest buzzing against her skull, the local doctor had considered it a prodromal symptom of a migraine, but the element never progressed beyond an irritating sound. Until the day she disobeyed one of her mother’s rules. She always looked forward to Fridays, it meant that she have the weekend to draw, but more importantly she would get to see Adrian. Adrian she suspected, that been an enigma from the moment he was born. A Scandinavian street rat with far too much charm and intelligence for his own good and somehow grifted his way across the Atlantic and ended up in her life riding a steed of criminal charges for allegedly attempting to traffic young women across the border. Adrian claimed he had been trying to rescue them and the promised jury of his “peers” such as it was appeared to have bought that story, but Adrian could sell water to a drowning man. Even Moira was unsure what the truth of the matter was. Still Adrian was a charmer, and incorrigible flirt and she had fun bantering with him, although when she asked about his plans his thoughts always turned to getting out and making enough money to support his little boy. About a month ago, Adrian had complained of awful whispering noises splitting his skull during the day while Moira was not on shift. She walked into his cell the later at the start of the graveyard shift and found him sitting as though he were a wounded lion whose legs had been caught in a trap, through his quick pained breaths he greeted her in a melodious accent that was related to but unlike Adrian’s own. She saw that his legs were twisted, broken and fractured at various intervals as though someone had taken a chisel up and down the length of bone within his limbs. No one at the prison could explain the origin of his injuries and beyond a cursory visit from the institution’s uncaring physician no one tried to. As long as word did not escape these walls no one cared, Moira had thought about telling but who was there to tell? How did one even begin to do that? She’d never even left this town once in her twenty-something years. He been an able-bodied, athletic young man at lights out, and had awoken as…

“A cripple! I am but a poor humble cripple and I throw myself on your mercy, my dear sweet Moria. How must I abase myself before you to obtain another of these wonderful puddings? I am willing to do quite a lot, to serve…no that’s not quite the right word, oh your language is so silly…Service! I am willing to service you in oh so many ways!” He said in his singsong voice, appearing quite proud of himself for hunting down his lexical quarry. He he had used the provided spoon merely  an implement to tear the thin film of plastic keeping him from his prize, flung it away and for lack of a better descriptor… began preforming cunnilingus on the pudding pouch in his hand, his performance was complete with moans and groans and little contented sighs. All the while never breaking eye contact with her, blue orbs burning into her own filled with indecent proposals. Unwilling to tolerate his antics anymore she snatched the offending pudding cup from his grasp, for the shadow of an instant she could have sworn a terrible look of feral rage had flashed across his countenance but it was gone before Moira could register whether or not it ever truly been there. “I am so terribly sorry dear Moira for my offense, it is just that in my day, we did not have such…culinary delights. He’d slowed to get the word “culinary” out properly but hadn’t stumbled and looked satisfied. In his day, that was the other thing, in the month since Adrian awoken the entire prison wailing about whispering in his cell, according to the doctors he developed a dis-associative identity. The young man that now occupied the cell which officially belonged to Adrian, called himself Ivar Lothbrok. He had been doing his best to convince Moira that he was the spirit of a long dead Viking who had for reasons unknown even to himself woken up in a body that was so similar to his own that it had frightened even him. The prison psychiatrist couldn’t have cared less about the situation in that cell, but to Moira it was quite the engaging mystery.

Today Moira decided to challenge him. “If you really aren’t Adrian, prove it if you’re not him then your innocent of the crimes that got him put in here and you should be angry, you should want out.” The smile that split the face in front of her should have been a warning. “I may be innocent of his petty crime dealing in flesh and weird…potions,” Moira decided to let the odd word choice go to spare his pride. “But I have killed and maimed, and lied,  and stolen, and coveted many times over. You’re correct though, I do want out of the cell but for the moment I’m right where I want to be.” Moira, ever quizzical couldn’t stop herself from asking “Why do you want to be here?” “Because here is where you are.” he said as if he were speaking to the dullest child in all the world. “I will indulge you however, I am not Adrian, Adrian had pure wholesome thoughts about you, he was going to be free, tell you that he wanted you to be his little boy’s mother, beg you to start a family and run away with him to whatever little speck of a town he found someone foolish enough to care for the child while he was here. He’d have trafficked poison and flesh slaves or slaughtered swine for the rest of his days for you. He used to touch himself here in the dark fantasize about reaching through the bars of the cage and touching your skin, used to dream of having pure loving sex with you on a blanket by fjords illuminated only by the stars and the moon, lest he seemed to greedy to want to see you in all your glory. He wanted to fill your cunt with his seed over any over until the two of you made a brother or sister for precious little Patrick. One big happy family.” He spat out the infant’s name like a curse most vile, and treated the world family as though it was unconscionable poison on his tongue. She took a breath intending to halt whatever sick game he was playing, but the moment she drew breath and opened her mouth his eyes blazed with danger. “Keep your tongue behind your teeth if you wish to keep it all wench!” He roared. “You asked for this, now you will listen. I am not Adrian because never in his wildest dreams would he have contemplated the fantasy of using your uniform to tie you down and spitting on your face over and over forcing you to swallow what you could, and what you couldn’t would slide down between those perfect breasts of yours and they would glisten as I played with them, sucked and bit until they were raw, then I would have kept spitting until your cunt was drenched from the inside out, I would have laid siege to it like it was my traitor brother’s last stronghold. Oh, the sounds and squeals I would have pulled from you. I would have lavished you with my tongue and fingers, bit and sucked and twisted and slapped and pulled and made you come over and over again until you understood what it is to be ravished by a god!” He broke off into a fit of chuckling then capped with a wistful sigh. “But alas all that is denied to me, and indeed you, for you belong to someone else, and as sweet as you would be, you are not worth the effort of challenging his claim.” He stated this with such nonchalance that it broke the terrible spell that she had been under and she fled the prison with eyes burning and tears streaming.

Ivar smiled as she fled, finally, finally. he was one step closer to being free of this accursed in-between place, he was getting home to his beloved Eira and their little girl. Or perhaps another sojourn through life with his healer who had the body of a tower. Or maybe he’d meet that lippy little puppy of an entitled young man in Pennsylvania again who secretly craved discipline. Whatever happened he would be home again, nothing would stop him.

In her haste, she entered her home, ran to her bedroom and threw herself down on the bed without observing her mother’s rules. Had she been paying more attention she would’ve noticed that the water in the bowl she was supposed to flick at the door suddenly evaporated and the gossamer bags filled with protective elements suddenly caught flame and turned to ash in moments. It was then that she heard his voice. “Please don’t cry. I’m here now, it’ll be alright.” His tone was nearly plaintive. She didn’t bother setting up she knew that the voice came from no place within her home. “I’ve been waiting…eternities for you Moria,” He whispered inside her skull. “Let me make you feel better.” There was a hand stroking her face. Her eyes shot open and she beheld a figure that was both present and absent, there was wait to him but light seemed to pass through him through him as though he was merely a projection. Even trapped in the in between as he was, he was gorgeous. Her angel. A completely bare towering figure with the chest and leg and back and ass seemingly having been sculpted from the highest quality marble by da Vinci himself, with cheekbones that could reduce adamantine diamonds to dust, with lustrous hair and sinfully plump and pillowy lips. His eyes, so soulful that she believed he had lived a thousand lifetimes, she realized she’d been drawing this face for as long as she could remember. To feel his touch was to experience euphoria. He kissed her and all her senses were expanded beyond human potential, she saw a kaleidoscope of colors behind her eyes, he smelled and tasted of every single enticing thing at once but instead of a riotous discord of scents and flavors, they were balanced in perfect harmony. His voice alone could reduce her bones to jelly in a way that would make Ivar fear she intended to stake a claim to his epithet. He worshiped her with his entire being, fingers and hands and tongue and colossal endowment yes, but in the midst of their lovemaking she was certain that their spirits were melding even more intensely than their bodies. He spat upon her face one and she felt as though she were being anointed in holy oil by a deity. He scored her flesh with his sharp straight teeth the color of shining bone, drew blood, and she was happy to give it. His enormous hand encircled her throat closed her airway and if she hadn’t already been experiencing what she thought might be Nirvana, the oxygen deprivation would’ve taken her there. After fucking her through more than 20 orgasms and claiming all her orifices for his own each first with the gentle fervor of a virginal lover at the end of an idyllic courtship and then with a harsh brutality as though fucking her two within an inch of her life was the only way he could properly express the hatred for her that filled his entire alien being. He finally unburdened himself of his seed deep inside her and sighed contentedly .

When she awoke after their tryst, he was seated in a chair opposite her bed dressed in a suit and other finery looking for all the world like a high-powered professional instead of some cosmic entity to take an interest in her. He then told her of the tragedy of Henry Deaver, how a Titanic battle with his wife over his infidelity with a young woman he had met at a business engagement led to him driving fueled by rage and sadness while rain pounded the car and obscured his vision, he’d crashed into the lake and been thrown into a myriad of alternate realities, “other heres and nows where the dominos fell in different patterns. His stories of lives spent with Charlotte, Oliver, Westly, as a professor, a soldier from West Virginia, a bounty hunter who fought for his life in a dystopia, the life he’d almost lived of a Viking, a philanderer with a beer-based pick-up strategy, a gangster, the searching for true love based on a scientific assessment ,they all brought tears to her eyes. He entreated her with every fiber of his being to free him from his cage and put an end to his cycle of loneliness, to save him and others trapped in this limbo. She swore to do it.

That was the day the matriarch without a clan descended on the prison, her chariot of choice, a limousine flanked by a motorcade of four SUVs each bearing the insignia of an elite private security firm denigrated the world over for unsavory activities, their detractors though couldn’t question their effectiveness. She and the battalion she paid for advanced through the prison like a storm, the guards normally employed were deferential and out of their depth. The only sounds echoing through the prison with a click of her heels and the thuds of the jackboots that accompanied her for she had brought silence to the prison with her mere presence. Moira had heard of her, the interim controller of a ludicrously wealthy and secretive biotech firm following the scandalous disappearance of her son and heir. Allegedly, the young man whom the newspapers referred to as the Brat Prince had somehow veered off the course of normally accepted philandering ways among the ultrarich and powerful and become involved with someone his mother deemed unacceptable. The matriarch had come because the vast network of informants that she plied with riches and sharp promises had imparted to her knowledge of a prisoner found here who almost matched her son’s description. The only thing he had left behind was a wheelchair covered in the blood of its owner, a crippled faggot whom he had dared to take for a lover. He would pay for his insolence, for the damage down to her reputation and company, she would break this mysterious prisoner and learn all that he knew, she swore it. When she reached his unusual cell a young woman in scrubs was fumbling with the keys, her son’s face taken on a different path through destiny than the one she knew stared back at her. He spoke to her in an antiquated dialect of that language from the Balkans she had left behind so many mortal lifetimes ago, she was not that frightened, trusting girl from Wallachia anymore, she nearly charged the cage to make him pay for daring to address her this way, but the meaning of his words stilled her. “Madame Olivia, I believe we can be of help to one another once this insect has served its purpose.” Moria broke the lock.

He nuzzled into her touch aching a contented sound as she ran her hands through his hair, it had been eons since he felt the touch of another, his eyelashes fluttered and tears swam in his eyes, he would allow himself this one indulgence. “Loyal Moria, you have played your part well and in appreciation I give you the greatest of gifts, the fulfillment of your destiny.” When he spoke it was with the voice of 100 different people at once both cacophonous and whisper quiet. She screamed as his lips brushed her forehead, for this feather-light touch broke everything inside of her all at once. She fell as her skin froze and burned all at once, her muscles liquefied and her bones turned to jelly, her ears, nose, and eyes ran with blood, then her eyes began to boil in their sockets fluids running down into her still shrieking mouth as her body contorted it this way and that trying desperately to contend with suffering that was beyond human comprehension.

The last thing she saw before death mercifully claimed her were a pair of unveiled eyes atop bloodless lips, her final sight was one she had been drawing her entire life.

As the wretch finally had the good sense to expire Olivia Godfrey watched as the death seemed to fill out the prisoner’s gaunt and wan features until she could almost confuse him for an older version of her son. He drew in a deep breath, stooped to kiss her hand and issued a request, eyes glittering with dark promise: “Take me to Derry.”

#Bill Skarsgård #fic #roman godfrey #ivar the boneless #henry deaver #Mickey #axel cluney

[senbons]

*tagged by @aluxuryissohardtofind-blog--blog​

since i’m such a roll this morning and finally answering

NAME:  luc AGE: ew BIRTHDATE: nov 12 PRESENT ADDRESS:  ny ny

Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with  92 Truths about you. At the end, choose  peoples to be tagged. You have  to tag the person who tagged you. WHAT WAS YOUR: 1. Last beverage = coffee 2. Last phone call =  last night, friend to discuss pros/cons of electoral college 😂 3. Last text message = from minuteclinic about covid test results 😂 4. Last song you listened to = daydreams, maisie peters 😭😭😭 5. Last time you cried = ugh this morning teared up in the boruto ep HAVE YOU EVER: 6. Dated someone twice = yes 7. Been cheated on = yes 8. Kissed someone & regretted it = not particularly 9. Left someone = yes 10. Been depressed = yes, but not clinically 11. Been drunk and threw up = yes

LIST THREE FAVORITE COLORS: 12. navy 13. green 14. grey

LAST YEAR (2020) HA, HAVE YOU: 15. Made a new friend = yes, but not good friends (covid bb) 16. Fallen out of love = no 17. Laughed until you cried  = yes 18. Met someone who changed you = no 19. Found out who your true friends were = no 20. Found out someone was talking about you = not irl i think 21. Kissed anyone on your FB friend’s list = no facebook. but no, no one i follow on social media i think GENERAL: 22. How many people on your FB friends list do you know in real life = no fb (though i get on my younger brothers sometimes to stalk a boy i’ll never date but think we’d be perfect 😭) 24. Do you have any pets = dog 25. Do you want to change your name =  not now, but i did as a kid 26. What did you do for your last birthday = idek? dinner w parents. quarantine! 27. What time did you wake up today = 6:30 (every morning) 28.What were you doing at midnight last night = reading 29. Name something you CANNOT wait for = derry girls s3. only thing i’m looking forward to in this world.  30. Last time you saw your Mother = early nov 31. What is one thing you wish you could change about your life = gone for it earlier  32. What are you listening to right now = final (take 1) -- miles davis (ascenseur pour l’echafaud) 33. Have you ever talked to a person named Tom = i know some toms. not close friends though. 34. What’s getting on your nerves right now = travel planning  35. Most visited webpage = gmail  37. Nickname =  luc’s short enough. friends have some other version, but not really 38. Relationship Status = single and commitment-averse 39. Zodiac sign = scorpio 40. He or She = she 41. Elementary = mostly good memories 42. High School = almost all good memories 43. College = good mix of things. bad and good. mostly good. love, friends, etc. 44. Hair color = dirty blonde 45. Long or short = long atm 46. Height = 5'6" 47. Do you have a crush on someone? yes, but little ones. nothing serious 48. What do you like about yourself? = my broad amount of knowledge, ability to think on my feet, analytical skills, physical strength, music collection 49. Piercings = three on lobe of right ear + 1 cartlidge, regular single lobe on left  50. Tattoos = one, left wrist 51. Righty or lefty = righty

FIRST : 52. First surgery = appendix 53. First piercing = regular ear piercings 54. First friends = family friends who had kids same age  55. First sport you joined = organized? soccer, pick-up? baseball 56. First vacation = guatemala (i was a few months though so doesn’t really count) 58. First pair of trainers = sneakers? idk, had them as a baby RIGHT NOW: 59. Eating = nothing 60. Drinking = coffee 61. I’m about to = workout 62. Listening to = i don’t mind -- darren criss (homework EP) 63. Waiting for = covid test results YOUR FUTURE : 64. Want kids? = yes 65. Get Married? = divorced 66. Career? = not lawyer WHICH IS BETTER : (idk if this is about me or in others? answering in general) 67. Lips or eyes = eyes 68. Hugs or kisses = hugs 69. Shorter or taller = tall i guess 70. Older or Younger = younger 71. Romantic or spontaneous = romantic 72. Nice stomach or nice arms = stomach 73. Sensitive or loud = sensitive 74. Hook-up or relationship = hook up 75. Trouble maker or hesitant = trouble maker HAVE YOU EVER : 76. Kissed a stranger = yes 77. Drank hard liquor = yes 78. Lost glasses/contacts = story of my life 79. Sex on first date = yes 80. Broke someone’s heart = yes 81. Had your own heart broken = yes 82. Been arrested = no 83. Turned someone down = yes 84. Cried when someone died = yes 85. Fallen for a friend = not seriously

DO YOU BELIEVE IN: 86. Yourself = yes 87. Miracles = yes, in kismet ways, not god-given 88. Love at first sight = maybe 89. Heaven = no 90. Santa Claus = no 91. Kiss on the first date = believe in? sure? 92. Angels = haven’t you heard? they become gay and die

tagged: @shkdai there now we’re even and you can spend the half hour this just took me😭😭😭😭

#personal #dumb dumb dumb #56?

[losinmortalesperdidos]

1.) During the last scene you wrote/thought of that involved your character, how were they feeling? What were their immediate motivations?

4.) Has your character ever hurt or been hurt by a friend? What were the repercussions from this incident? Did the friendship survive?

10.) Is your character more dominant or submissive to the people around them? Do they tend to follow others’ orders and wait for people to give them instruction in life, or do they charge ahead and make decisions on their own?

13.) What is your character’s personal version of hell?

CHANCE & KISMET :

1. Chance kissing Ronan for the first time. He’s feeling alive. He’s feeling actually seen for the first time in a long time, because it’s not just a romantic affair. Ronan knows who he is, maybe not everything for now, but he knows that Chance is more than just a human guy, and it means a lot for the trickster. After the man kissed him he could think only about not letting it end so quickly, he wanted to keep feeling the other and keep feeling himself feeling the other. Kismet seeing Ronan being shot by the junkie. They’re startled, they’re angry at the man for covering them by his body, but these emotions are going to fade away quickly. They are determined to help and are ready to do anything that’s needed. They want the attacker to pay but they also know that the punishment is already on the way, bad luck is already coming the poor bastard’s way and is going to be equal to his crime.

4. After the siblings ran away from home their only friends were themselves because they rarely stayed anywhere for too long. There were moments when one of them was mad at the other, for example for getting himself/themselves killed or for ending up in the police custody, but they can’t get rid of each other and in their own way they love each other, so they always forgive.

10. Chance is mostly submissive. He’s very good at teaching others things he knows and at giving advice, but he’s not a fighter (he hates it), he’s easily frightened, and doesn’t like complications in general. So, if he finds a leader or some kind of a parent figure he’s happy to follow and let them make all the important decisions. Kismet is mostly dominant. They’re more independent than Chance and they can stand for themselves. That’s why all of the most important decisions are taken by them. Both siblings are good at surviving but Kismet makes sure that they never are too deep in trouble.

13. Both siblings are scared of disappearing if one day the world won’t need them anymore. That’s why they cling to their funs and always run as though someone is always chasing them. They need to have fun and they need to do their ���job’ - to bring good luck and bad luck to people. The more people they meet, the more they mess with people’s fates, the more visible is their trace. They can’t die but the fear of just vanishing like many other forgotten gods is very strong in them.

@aspcrnamentum

#; flip the coin #; side: chance #; side: kismet #aspcrnamentum #; hcfate