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scoutofmymind · 1 month ago

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hey loved your fics you are incredibly talented. i have a scene picture some angst reader is kinda like jo march if u watched little women and luigi is laurie in that one hill scene. basically reader prioritizes acads because of her upbringing - high achiever, academic validations, the whole package and luigi somehow is the same but he compels the reader in a magnetic way because luigi gets to be so carefree and awesome about it and turns out luigi and reader have a common thread and it's turning out rlly good but then reader is slightly scared of commitment in a relationship dare i say? because it was all acads for reader even though there were dreams of having a relationship, it all seemed abstract and unreal!! and the angst comes when luigi confesses to reader and reader reacts very defensive i suppose spitting out word vomit enumerating reasons why luigi shouldnt like her and how he's too good for her and luigi just shuts reader up by pinching their cheeks and holding them steady saying i want you all of you all that sweet stuff...this is just a thought i want to say i admire you heavily your writing is pivotal

Without Me — { Luigi x Reader}

Content: SFW, angst, yearning, pining, best friends, purest love, summer, unrequited, lowkey gut-wrenching (sorry)

Wc: 6,843 (I could not stop writing)

Notes; Before we begin, I have to say, anon, I very much enjoyed writing this!! And thank you so much for sending me this request! ✨ there are only a couple bits of dialogue that match the hill scene, but I wanted to throw them in there!

This is lowkey a mini-fic, so enjoy!

Side note: If anything is badly edited, I will likely come back to do some cleaning up. But maybe not. Also I’ve started picking songs to include in requests wherever they may fit in. I want to mention too that backstory is something I just simply can’t leave out when it comes to angsty or emotional scenes, so I’m sorry I literally can’t shut up.

The cicadas weave their summer hymn through the gentle lap of water against stone, your body stretched across whisper-soft grass beside the reservoir.

This spot holds years of you both — echoes of skinned knees and bruised elbows soothed by cool spring water, of childhood dares and teenage secrets.

"You never swim with me anymore." Luigi's voice carries no accusation, just a quiet observation that somehow makes it worse. You can picture his expression without looking —that gentle, knowing thing that always sees too much. "All you do now is torch yourself in the sun."

Your back peels away from the grass, elbows bent to prop you up. Through his borrowed sunglasses — because of course you forgot yours back at the house, and of course he had a spare —you study him.

He's summer personified: water-darkened hair curling at his temples, shoulders golden in the early evening light, wearing a smile easy as breathing.

"I just don't want to get my hair wet, Lu." You say it with the comfortable certainty of someone who's had this exact argument a hundred times before.

"Well, don't then." His retort is quick, familiar. He moves through the water with an easy grace that somehow makes the old reservoir look more inviting than it ever has, though you'd never admit it.

Your shoulders are painted with freckles from all these summer days — chasing chickens in the fields, racing bikes into the city with him riding at your back, his presence as constant as the seasons.

"But then when I get out, I'll be cold." The words float between you like lazy dragonflies, and Luigi just shakes his head, spattering droplets that catch the light.

He pouts, but not like you do.

Where your pouts are theatrical productions, his is a quiet thing — eyebrows drawn together in thought, bottom lip pulled inward instead of jutted out dramatically. His gaze fixes downward at his feet beneath the crystal-clear water, methodically toeing one stone over, then another, like the placement of each pebble might solve some grand puzzle.

You watch him wage his silent war of reorganization, using nothing but his ten toes as construction equipment. It's such a Luigi thing to do — finding the smallest tasks to occupy himself instead of splashing around like he usually does, trying to tempt you in.

"Bet the water feels incredible," he murmurs, more to the stones than to you. His toes have created a perfect semicircle now, a tiny amphitheater beneath the surface. "Like that lemonade your mom makes — you know, the one with mint?"

You do know.

The kind she only makes when the temperature crawls past ninety, when the air feels thick enough to chew. Like today. You can almost taste it — tart and cool and perfect — which is exactly what Luigi intended with that particular comparison, the sneak.

"You're not as subtle as you think you are," you inform him, but you're already sitting up straighter, your legs beginning to tingle from staying still too long in the sun.

The grass has left impressions on your skin, tiny crosshatched patterns that Luigi always says look like secret maps, his fingers drawing lines upon them.

He doesn't look up from his underwater construction project, but one corner of his mouth quirks upward. "Never claimed to be subtle. That's your department, avoiding the water like it's personally offended you."

"The water hasn't offended me," you say, though you draw your knees up to your chest, putting another inch between you and the shoreline. "We have a mutual understanding. It stays there, and I stay here."

"Mhm." Luigi abandons his stone circle, wading a few steps deeper until the water laps at his knees, stood there in his trunks, the cobalt blue ones that hit just above his mid-thigh. "And how's that working out for you? Enjoying your dusty patch of grass while I'm out here living like a king?"

The problem is, he does look a bit regal out there, all long limbs and easy grace, like he was born for summer days and spring water.

You've known Lu since you were both gap-toothed and gangly, but sometimes — like now — he seems to have grown into himself while you weren't looking.

Yet, your own limbs still feel too long, too awkward, like you're wearing a costume that doesn't quite fit.

Meanwhile, Luigi wears summer like a second skin, all easy movements and natural grace, as if the universe decided to polish him up while leaving you in your perpetual state of stumbling through doorways.

"A king of minnows, maybe," you counter, but you're already uncurling, letting your feet stretch toward the water's edge. Not to join him, obviously. Just to... test the temperature.

"Ah," he says softly, watching your toes creep closer, his voice taking on a funny narrators tone, an accent thrown in that sounded similar to his fathers. "The snail emerges from her shell."

"Shell-less snails are just slugs," you inform him primly, but dip one toe in anyway. The water isn't as cold as you expected — it never is, but that doesn't stop you from putting on this show every single time. "And I'm neither."

"No," Luigi agrees, dropping the accent but keeping that amused lilt in his voice. "You're more like- like one of those hermit crabs. The ones that think really hard about switching shells but then just stick with the same one anyway."

You splash water at him with your foot, and he doesn't even try to dodge. "Fuck, Lu —That's the worst analogy I've ever heard."

"Is it?" He takes a few steps backward, deeper into the water, like he's laying out a trail for you to follow. "Because you're still sitting there, thinking about coming in, just like you do every time.“

Luigi could easily remember all the days spent here, in this very body of water together — the secret collection of precious gems that were really just polished river rocks, the fossil that turned out to be an old bottle cap, and that infamous river snake from an overturned stone that had you shrieking and refusing to dive under for weeks.

"Can't be thinking about doing it if I'm already doing it, Lu." You roll your eyes, your shins now lapping gently with clean, cool water. The trees droop overhead like nature's own parasol, their leaves casting dappled shadows that dance across your shoulders.

He's quiet for a moment, watching you with an expression you can't quite read. And then. “Remember when we thought we found actual dinosaur bones here?"

"You mean the plastic fork?"

"A very convincing plastic fork."

The water feels like silk against your skin now, and you find yourself wading deeper without really meaning to. It's muscle memory, maybe — your body remembering what your mind keeps second-guessing.

"At least I wasn't the one who tried to sell it to the museum.” you remind him, the water now swirling around your waist. Each step stirs up tiny clouds of silt that disappear into the clear water.

He splashes in your direction, grinning. "We were tweleve! And Mrs. Henderson at the museum was very nice about it."

"She gave you a cookie and a lecture about scientific integrity."

"Exactly. A win-win."

You're deep enough now that you have to lift your arms to keep them dry, though you're not sure why you're bothering. Your bikini is already clinging to you, and that familiar weightless feeling is starting to take over — the one that always made you feel brave before.

"You know what your real problem is?" Luigi quips, but this time his voice is gentler. "You forgot how to play."

The words hit harder than you expect, maybe because there's no teasing in them now.

Just truth, floating there on the surface like a leaf.

"I didn't forget," you say quietly. "I just- I put it away somewhere."

The look in his eyes tells you exactly what's coming, but muscle memory kicks in before you can retreat, your arms already up in defense position as he sends a massive splash your way, the arc of water catching sunlight like scattered diamonds before it hits you full in the face.

"Luigi!" you shriek, but you're already laughing, already moving. Your soul remembers this dance even if your mind's been trying to forget it, and the water parts easily as you lunge toward him, years of practice making your movements swift and sure.

He tries to dodge, but you know all his tricks — the way he always feints left before going right, how he can't resist staying just within splashing range.

The water battle that ensues is immediate and fierce, both of you laughing and gasping, sending waves in every direction, limbs smacking into each other at times, your body trailing away from his while he charged closer.

"See?" he manages between splashes. "The Queen of minnows!”

You're about to respond when your foot slips on a smooth stone, and suddenly you're going under.

For a split second, panic flares — but then the tranquility and silence envelops you, and it feels like greeting an old friend, your eyes open underwater, seeing the filtered sunlight create shifting patterns all around you, and suddenly you remember why you used to love this so much.

When you surface, pushing wet hair from your face, Luigi is watching you with a grin, his sunglasses pushed away from his face and atop his head instead, nestled in his damp black curls. “You got your hair wet.” He gives you one last gentle splash, his grin so carved into his features it may as well be everlasting.

Luigi, the son of Marco Mangione, whose genius lay in transforming his grandfather's modest Milan carpentry shop into Mangione Artisan Living — now a name whispered in the same breath as Fendi Casa and Bottega Veneta's home collection.

When Marco married Sofia Bernardi in the 80’s, a celebrated interior designer, they moved to America, the local papers painting it as another wealthy foreigner's passing fancy — this modernist villa rising among cornfields and weathered barns.

But Marco had seen something in these hills that reminded him of Tuscany, in the calloused hands of local woodworkers that echoed his grandfather's.

The Mangione Mansion stands like a slice of northern Italy transplanted to American soil, with its stark geometries softened by groves of imported olive trees and terraced gardens.

It's a world away from your family's farmhouse, where the paint peels in honest patches and the screen door creaks a familiar welcome, yet Marco moves between these worlds with effortless grace, discussing the merits of different wood grains with your father across the fence line, or clearing out your mother's farmer's market stall of preserves, declaring each jar Perfetto, just like my Nonna's! with the same genuine warmth he uses to greet European royalty.

Luigi, who could have been pressed into private academies and dinner jackets, groomed for Ivy League legacies and country club memberships, had instead grown up alongside you in public school — though his future was cushioned by both financial security and natural brilliance.

You can't remember a time when academic excellence wasn't your north star — every assignment a stepping stone, every grade a battle in the war for your future.

Being a veterinarian wasn't just a dream, it was your escape route from the endless cycle of farm life that had worn your father's hands to calluses and bent your mother's back.

Perfect attendance since kindergarten, straight A's through AP Biology, even showing up on Senior Skip Day — just you and Lacey Williams, the would-be neurosurgeon, bent over your textbooks in an empty classroom.

Now here you both are in the water — you with your scholarship letters and student loan applications waiting at home, him with acceptance letters from Harvard and Yale gathering dust on his desk.

Two lives that should never have intersected, meeting in the middle of sun-warmed water, your shared freckles catching golden light, limbs tangling as Luigi feints another playful attack.

•

Summer buzzes by your eyeshot like a cicada in a hurry, the season winding down with cooler, longer nights and shorter, blazing hot days.

August comes barreling through like it always does, hot and sticky air clinging to your skin as you sit with Luigi upon the sloped side of the barn, a Birds Eye view of the farm, this very spot the first place the two of you had tried smoking weed, the very first time you ogled at a traumatizing porn everyone at school was talking about — this spot, worn from years of shared moments together is the very place you create some distance.

For the first time.

“I think I want my own party this year.”

The words land like a stone in still water, ripples of hurt crossing Luigi's face before he can master his expression.

For a moment, he looks eight years old again, standing in the tall grass with his first American birthday cake — the one your mom made because his parents were still learning that birthdays here meant homemade frosting, not elegant catered affairs and grand garden parties.

"Oh," he says, and it's the smallest you've ever heard his voice. "Yeah, of course. That makes sense. We’re turning twenty-two. Not eight anymore.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes, hands fidgeting with the bracelet you’d made him years and years ago — the same nervous tell he's had since childhood. "Actually, Ma’s been saying I should do something more — you know, formal this year anyway."

The lie sits between you like a third person.

Luigi, who once convinced his parents to move his elaborate garden party to your barn because you had the flu has never cared for formal anything.

You can see him rebuilding his walls, brick by careful brick, protecting himself the way he never had to with you before.

"Send me pictures though?" he adds lightly, but there's at least fifteen years of shared candles and off-key, bi-lingual singing wrapped in that request, fifteen years of your mom's chocolate cake and his ma’s tiramisu side by side on the same table.

"Luigi, it's not-" you start, then pause, because it is exactly what he thinks it is. A separation. A gentle fracture. "I just need to figure out who I am without- without being part of a matched set. Does that make sense?"

The words feel clumsy in your mouth, inadequate to explain this need that's been growing since your acceptance letter arrived.

You watch him nod too quickly, the way he does when he's processing something that hurts.

The same way he looked when Benny, one of the milking cows had passed three summers ago, or the way he looked when you told him you couldn’t go on the Mangione trip to Italy, desperately needing the vet clinic hours.

"My party's probably just going to be pizza with my study group anyway," you continue, trying to make it sound smaller than it is, even though you've already planned every detail — your first real birthday party that isn't shaped around accommodating both your worlds. "And you should do something spectacular. Twenty-two is a weird number, but you could make it your thing.“

He laughs, but it's his polite laugh, the one he uses at his father's business dinners. "Maybe I'll rent out that new rooftop place in the city," he says, playing along with this sudden pretense that the two of you haven't spent months quietly planning your joint party like every year before. "Very grown-up."

The space between you fills with unspoken memories — dual parties with increasingly ridiculous themes, the year you both got chicken pox and celebrated in quarantine together, or the year his mother hired a magician who pulled you both on stage as assistants.

Fifteen years of wishes and synchronized candle-blowing, and you’ve put an abrupt end to it, with not so much as a warning.

"You're not mad?" you ask, even though you can see he is — not angry-mad, but hurt-mad, the kind that makes his shoulders tight and his smile too careful.

He stands abruptly, brushing invisible dirt from his shorts. "Mad? Nah, come on. We're not kids anymore." The words come out just a touch too fast, too light. "Actually, I should head back. Papa wanted to discuss something about the company tonight."

It's barely seven, and Marco's in New York City until Thursday — you both know this. But Luigi's already stepping back, that practiced social smile firmly in place, the one he uses when he needs to retreat but is too polite to say so.

"Night," he calls over his shoulder once he scales the side of the barn down to the grass again, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

You watch him walk away, his usual easy stride now stiff and measured, leaving you alone with just the sound of the bullfrogs near the pond, and the chickens settling in their coops for the night.

The sunset feels colder somehow, and you wrap your arms around your knees, trying to convince yourself this is what growing up looks like as you sit there until the mosquitoes start biting, watching the space where Luigi disappeared and wondering if this is what independence is supposed to feel like — this hollow victory that tastes nothing like freedom and everything like loss.

•

The late August evening slowly begins to melt into night, the air carrying whispers of autumn though summer still reigns.

You breathe in deep — catching hints of hay being baled in distant fields, leaves just beginning their subtle shift from green to gold, and lake water evaporating off sun-warmed skin. The pontoon boat hums steadily beneath you, loaded with friends sprawled across every available surface, their laughter echoing across the darkening water.

You'd done your best to prepare them all, carefully explaining the separate celebrations to avoid awkward questions.

But Luigi's absence feels like a shadow you can't shake — in the pause after every joke, in the empty space at the boat's stern where he always sat, in the way conversations drift and fade without his easy charm to bridge them.

You're learning that some people leave gaps too precisely shaped to fill, and you catch yourself waiting for sounds that aren't coming —the full-bodied laughter that usually ricochets across the lake, the constant stream of Luigi's commentary that made even silence feel alive.

No one's standing at the boat's edge, goading others into increasingly ridiculous diving contests. The absence of these things sits heavy in your chest, like missing the last step on a familiar staircase.

"Good for you for doing your own thing this year," Mia offers, wine sloshing in her solo cup as she gestures vaguely. "Must be nice not having to compromise on everything for once."

Not really, you think.

The evening settles into dinner in the back garden, strings of lights casting warm halos over familiar faces — relatives, neighbors, friends who'd trickled in as the day aged and as if on cue, the peaceful scene splinters at the sound of tires on gravel and a booming voice that makes your stomach drop.

"Where's Luigi?!"

Cousin Tony's borrowed truck sits askew on the path, driver's door still swinging open like an afterthought.

He bounds toward you, one arm clutching what's clearly a wine bottle wrapped in what looks like yesterday's newspaper, his face bright with the anticipation of seeing his favorite duo.

The sight makes something in your chest twist.

He’s always treated you both as his own blood, never drawing lines between family and chosen family.

You're crushed into a bear hug before you can dodge it, his familiar cologne mixing with engine grease as you try to breathe through compressed lungs, but he’s still calling for Luigi over your head, each shout making the other guests shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"He's somewhere in the city, Tone," you manage to wheeze out.

Your phone burns in your pocket, where Luigi's latest Instagram story sits unopened — some rooftop view you're deliberately not thinking about.

"What'da ya mean?" His grip loosens just enough for you to see his face fall, confusion creeping into his features like a slowly spreading stain.

"We're... trying something different this year," you say, words feeling clumsy as you glance over your shoulder at the laden table — a spread that still unconsciously includes all of Luigi's favorites alongside your own. The sight of his mother's recipe for stuffed shells sitting next to your grandmother's pierogies makes your throat tight.

"Well, is he at least comin' later?"

"No." The word falls between you like a stone. "He couldn't cancel his reservation without losing the booking fee, so I just told him it was fi-"

"No, no, mia cara," Tony drags his hands through his hair, face crumpling like you've just told him the world is ending. "Potrebbe essere l'ultimo!" The words tumble out in his rushed native tongue, his distress making him forget himself.

"You just said that in Italian." Your voice sounds far away, even to your own ears, like it's coming from the bottom of a well.

"Shit — It could be your last time, cuginetta." Tony's sigh seems to come from his bones as he pulls out his phone, cursing when he sees the no-service icon.

"My last time?"

Tony lifts his head slowly from his phone screen, eyes finding yours with a weight that makes your stomach drop. "What — oh, Dio — do you mean to say he has not told you?"

"Told me...?” You brace yourself, chest aching with a sudden, sharp regret for all those breakfast lessons with Luigi's nonna, her patient voice guiding you through pronunciations you'd carelessly let slip away between coffee and lunch.

"He got big'a job in the big city," Tony's hands sweep upward, as if trying to encompass the vastness of a metropolis that stretches far beyond any gesture could capture. "Saying bye-bye forever to smelly farm." His hands fall, and his expression softens into something dangerously close to pity. "Sorry.”

"Leaving? Like — he's moving there?" The words feel strange in your mouth.

You're standing in the same garden where you and Luigi once buried treasure maps at age eight, where you learned to cartwheel together at twelve, where you shared your first illegal beer at sixteen — and suddenly it all feels like archaeological evidence of something that's already gone.

"That's where zio Marco is now, making sure Princess Luigi has all the things he need there for — uh—" Tony lapses into rapid Italian, but you've already stopped listening, the rest of his words fading into white noise.

You're hung up on the present tense of it all — Luigi’s father is there now, apartment hunting, setting up a brand new life while you stand here in your shared history, surrounded by people who apparently knew more about Luigi's future than you did.

The realization hits very suddenly.

Luigi was moving away, and he spoke not a word of it to you.

Tony manages a plate of food before borrowing your landline, desperate to track down Luigi in the sprawling city and when his truck finally crunches back down the gravel path, you feel it like a physical wound — as if he's taking a piece of you with him, torn straight from your core, yet, you maintain your composure with award-winning precision, a smile fixed firmly in place as guests filter away into the darkness.

You go through the motions, accepting kisses on cheeks, graciously receiving gifts labeled with just your name - no more Dynamic Duo or Thing 1 and 2 scrawled in familiar handwriting.

You help clear the garden, stack chairs, wash dishes that held food Luigi would have fought you for the leftovers of. You kiss your father's cheek goodnight, and tell your still-bustling mother you're heading out for some stargazing.

It's not entirely a lie.

You do end up beneath the stars, though you hadn't exactly planned to collapse here by the waterfront, where the distant dock creaks its lonely song, the splash of jumping fish and the bold croaking of nearby bullfrogs barely register — sounds that would normally make you jump now feel as distant as satellite signals.

You're lost in the undertow of your thoughts, barely noticing the warm tears tracking down your neck until your t-shirt is damp with evidence of a grief you didn't know you needed to prepare for — the silence holds you, envelopes you, and you’re almost convinced you can disappear here until-

"Hey, stranger."

His voice cuts through the cricket symphony like a knife, and you freeze, tears still wet on your face.

You don't turn around — can't turn around — because you know exactly what he'll look like: silhouetted against the moons full and distant glow, wearing that stupid designer jacket he bought last month that suddenly makes too much sense.

Big City boy.

The grass whispers beneath his feet as he approaches, each step measured like he's greeting a spooked animal.

It's funny — he used to just crash down beside you, all elbows and laughter.

When did you become something he had to be careful with?

"Tone called me," he says softly, still standing. "Said he found you but couldn't find me." There's a pause, heavy with unspoken words. "Told me other things, too."

The lake laps at the shore, a steady rhythm that used to calm you both on countless nights like this.

Now it just sounds like a countdown.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Your voice sounds small against the vastness of the lake, broken and confused, betrayed and disbelieving.

"Would it have changed anything?" His words come sharp, defensive. "Would you have suddenly decided to stay?"

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" The laugh that escapes him is bitter and unfamiliar. "You want to talk about fair? I watched you apply to every college more than fifty miles away. Watched you light up talking about leaving, about getting out. Never once asking—" He cuts himself off, his gaze turning up instead at the trees that sway and rustle in the midnight air, a chill taking your spine.

"Asking what, Lu?”

"If I wanted to come with you." The words hang in the darkness between you. "If maybe I had dreams too, ones that didn't involve watching you disappear."

"I never said you couldn't-“

"What do you think I was going to do, wait around forever?" His voice cracks at the end, brittle and broken. "God, I've spent my whole life orbiting you like a personal Pluto. I don't even remember my life before you." He paces now like an agitated zoo animal behind a sheath of thin glass, just out of reach. “And yet, you expect me to stay here without you? While you go to college, make your own dreams come true?"

The moonlight catches his face as he turns, and you see something break in his expression. "I would have waited. I would have always waited, but fuck—" His hands tremble as they rake through his hair. "You've pushed and pushed and pushed me away. Every college application, every excited story about your future somewhere else, the party -“ he watches as you stand, your posture ridged and nervous, but attentive.

"Lu, please -“

"So what do I do?" His voice drops lower, trembling. "I have to think of myself too. I have to accept that we won't always be this way." He watches as you scrub your hands over your face, your unsteady legs carrying you off the dock.

The cool, damp grass beneath your feet becomes an anchor, something real in a moment that feels anything but.

He follows, his body angled toward yours like a compass finding north. "But it didn't have to be like this." His voice softens to barely above a whisper, his dress shoes crushing the grass with each step.

"Well, what exactly did you expect?" You whirl around, wiping furiously beneath your eyes, moonlight catching the tears on your cheeks that refuse to be unseen. "We were going to play in the river forever? Did you think we'd just find our way without ever trying?" The words come out harder than you mean them, sharp with the kind of anger that's really just fear in disguise.

"I- you-" Luigi's voice breaks.

His eyes are bloodshot, the bridge of his nose red from earlier tears hastily wiped away in the party bathroom. In the half-light, he looks both younger and older than your shared twenty-two years — a boy trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers, a man facing his first real loss.

"You know, maybe it might have been that easy for you, Lu." Your eyes drift to the Mangione Mansion, its windows gleaming like jewels against the dark hills, an anomaly among the endless cornfields. "You never had to lift a finger — it always just..." You gesture vaguely, bitterly. "Fell into place."

The words taste like copper in your mouth, sharper for how unfair they feel.

Because he's always shared everything.

Those lavish family dinners where his mother insisted you sit next to her, those delicate necklaces from Rome that he'd drape around your neck with careful fingers, those shopping trips where his nonna would press dresses into your arms with a conspirator's wink.

He's never once made you feel like charity.

But there are some things that can't be shared, some advantages that run deeper than generosity.

While you pieced together credits between evening classes and online courses, fighting for every inch of progress, he'd come home rolling his eyes at another Harvard letter, another Yale recruiter calling.

You take a deep breath, feeling the summer air fill your lungs, and air that smells like it always has, like corn silk and cut grass and the all-consuming night. "Did you think we'd just stay here in our bubble, Lu?" Your voice softens despite yourself. "The only place we've ever known?"

All he can do is stand there, helpless, caught between a nod and denial.

His expression crumples into something raw and pleading — such a far cry from the boy who, just last week, had painted patterns across your skin with river mud, both of you laughing until your sides hurt.

The same boy whom you could communicate with without even speaking to, who knew exactly how you took your coffee, who was born the day before you, and who could read your silences like a book he'd memorized; yet now he's looking at you like you're written in a language he never learned to speak.

"No." The word propels you forward, feet moving before your brain catches up.

His face softens into something unbearable — like watching a star collapse in slow motion, finally understanding that this isn't just another one of your theoretical late-night talks about the future.

His carefully constructed composure crumbles, leaving behind something young and scared and achingly real.

"I love you." The words fall from his lips like muscle memory, like breathing, like the thousands of times before — whispered against your hair during movies, shouted across parking lots, mumbled sleepily during long car rides. But now they land heavy between you, a weight pressing against your chest until it hurts to breathe. "I always have, and I always will—"

"No. No, Lu." Your voice cracks on his name, and your pace quickens, bare feet crushing grass beneath desperate steps.

But he matches you stride for stride.

“My life has been so intertwined with yours, when you began to pull away - I- I panicked,” He was rambling now, quick and out of breath but keeping up with you nonetheless, the two of you navigating the vast property, moon and starlight the only thing guiding your path. “I settled on what I knew would be easiest,”

“That’s the problem.” You stop again to look at him, your chest heaving. “You don’t need to settle, Lu — you’re brilliant, you’re so fucking brilliant-“ he grabs your wrists gently, taking several steps to close the gap between you.

"I have never settled on you." Luigi's voice goes rigid, cracking in the middle like ice breaking over deep water. Each word carries the weight of years — shared secrets, dreams whispered under blanket forts, and promises made in tree houses. "You have always been my first option."

You catch your breath, the familiar warmth of his hands on your wrists suddenly feeling like shackles.

Your head shakes, slow and deliberate, as you try to pull back — but his grip steadfast remains. "How would you know of the other options?" The question comes out softer than you mean it to, weighted with everything you've both been too scared to say. "Do you know yourself without me?”

"I don't want to know myself without you."

"Luigi. Please stop-“ You wrench your wrists from his loosened grip, your feet carrying you forward through the night but he follows, like an echo you can't shake, like a shadow that refuses to fade with distance.

His words tumble out faster now, chasing the shrinking space between you and home, visible through the wavering corn stalks like a lighthouse warning of rough water ahead. "I know I'm not — I know I'm not Matthew Williams, or that guy that works the stables near the Bradshaws. And I know I’m not a perfect man, but—"

You stop once again, so abruptly this time he nearly collides with you, turning to face this strange new version of Luigi — one you've never seen before, one who wears his insecurities like an ill-fitting suit.

He's brave, you'll give him that, but he's also terrified in a way that makes your chest ache.

This boy who's never had to compete for anything in his life, suddenly listing off names like entries in a contest he thinks he's losing.

"You stop that." Your finger jabs at his chest, connecting with the expensive fabric of his jacket. "You are the most-the most magnificent person I have ever met, Luigi. And you're not perfect, no-“ You swallow against the rising bile, against the irony of having to defend him to himself when you're the one walking away. "But you're honest, and you're good — a goddamn great deal too good for me."

The last part comes out like a confession, like something you've carried so long it's carved itself into your bones — the real reason you're running, the fear that someday he'll wake up and realize it too.

The night holds its breath around you, your ragged exhales mixing with his in the space between heartbeats, and the trees shiver their leaves like witnesses to your undoing, crickets falling silent as if they too understand the gravity of this moment — this closing act.

"But-“ You step into his warmth, drawn forward like a moth to flame, even now, knowing it would burn. You’re close enough to catch the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with fresh-cut grass and summer sweat. Close enough to see the moonlight catching in his eyelashes. Close enough to break both your hearts properly. "I can't love you the way you deserve to be loved."

The words tear themselves from your throat like barbed wire, each syllable drawing blood.

Your stomach twists inside out, acid creeping up your throat again, "I can't love you like that. I’m - I’m so, so sorry, Luigi — I just - I can’t,

His hands find your face with the reverence of a prayer, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones like he's trying to memorize the geography of your skin. "Listen to me," he whispers, his voice thick with desperation. "Listen."

The tenderness in his touch nearly breaks you — the way his fingers tremble against your jaw, the gentle circles he traces beneath your ears, the familiar callous on his right thumb from his tree-climbing habit.

His forehead drops to rest against yours, and you can feel his breath hitching, unsteady and warm against your lips.

"You've already loved me better than anyone else ever could," Luigi's voice cracks, splintering like ice in early spring. "You love me exactly as I am — not the heir, not the prodigy, not the Mangione name." His hands slide into your hair, “You have loved me even though I can’t remember to help feed the hens, but I can recite every constellation. And you’ve loved me even though I name every cull cow — even though you think it’s cruel.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and the raw hope in his gaze is almost unbearable. "Please," he breathes, the word more air than sound. "Please don't decide for both of us what kind of love I deserve." His thumbs catch the tears you didn't realize were falling, smearing them across your cheeks like war paint. "Let me choose.”

“Then choose someone else!” You shake your hands at him, helpless and wishing to disappear. “I - I’m so unsure of myself - every goddamn thing I do, Luigi. I break everything, I’m useless at being a homemaker. I’m awkward, I’m a black sheep, even all the way out here.”

You aren’t made for the big city like he is.

The moonlight catches in his dark eyes, turning them to liquid as they search yours. "I don't need perfect love. I don't need textbook romance or fairy tale." His voice breaks, raw with honesty. "I just need you. But - but I can’t live like this forever" He’s speaking faster than you’ve ever heard the smooth-talking, easy going Luigi say anything.

You try to turn away, to escape the weight of his words, but his touch holds you steady — gentle but unwavering. "Luigi — let me the fuck-“

"No," he breathes, the word ghosting across your lips. "No, don't push me away because you think you're protecting me. Don't make decisions about what I can handle." His fingers thread through your hair, cradling the back of your head. "I choose this. I choose the messy parts, the broken parts, the parts you think are unlovable. I choose all of it."

I am stopping this here. Love you 💕

#req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #also thanks so so much for the compliments anon!! I’m here to serve you

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miroana · 2 years ago

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Elite moments in the Odyssey

A curated selection of my favorite details in this silly epic that changed storytelling forever. Homer is hilarious.

- Whenever anyone asks Odysseus where he’s from and he seizes the opportunity to lie continuously for several pages.

- Victims of his elaborate, entirely false backstories include: the cyclops, the suitors, the swineherd, the goddess Athena (who immediately calls bull), his son, his wife, and his father. Odysseus just loves lying

- Every time Athena makes Odysseus hotter and taller so he can rizz someone up

- His brilliant strategy to survive Charybdis’ whirlpool (cling to fig tree “like a bat”)

- When Telemachus casually drops that he is well aware that Mentor is actually Athena and she pretends not to hear and continues to act like she’s just some guy

- When Odysseus falls asleep while the Phoenicians give him a lift home, and instead of waking him when they reach Ithaca, the sailors just pick up the corners of his blankets to dump him on the shore and leave

- Odysseus subsequently waking on a random beach and spending several pages violently confused until Athena, slapping her forehead, has to appear to tell him what’s going on

- Penelope’s weaving and unweaving of the tapestry to get out of marrying the suitors. it’s so stupid that it’s brilliant

- When Odysseus goes to the land of the dead and Achilles and Patroclus appear together <3

- That time Odysseus and Athena sit down on a rock together to plot and scheme etc

- When the maid who raised Odysseus recognizes the gigantic scar he used to always brag about and he grabs her by the neck and tells her to shut the hell up. Elegant elegant man

- Odysseus’s dog who stayed alive for over 20 years so he could lay eyes on him before dying on the spot

- Every time someone says bro you’re kind of hot for a beggar and Odysseus says yeah I know right?

- When Circe was like oh dude I can’t kill you? Guess I’ll sleep with you

- “‘You bitch!’ retorted the ready-witted Odysseus”

- Penelope later calls this maid a bitch too

- When Odysseus avoids competing in the Phoenician games until one of the Phoenicians calls him weak and lazy. so he thoroughly wipes the floor with them

- The sheer number of boats Odysseus crashed

- The sheer number of times Odysseus started sobbing in public

- When one of the Suitors smacks beggar Odysseus with a stool and it takes everything in him to not go insane on them

- Every time Odysseus anonymously gasses Odysseus up

- And last, but not in any way least, the Trojan horse plan. We all know it. We all love it. But take a step back and think for a moment how delightfully absurd it is

#the odyssey #odysseus #penelope #telemachus #athena #the iliad #homer #greek mythology #tagamemnon

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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months ago

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Christopher Brown’s ‘A Natural History of Empty Lots’

On SEPTEMBER 24th, I'll be speaking IN PERSON at the BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY!

Christopher Brown is an accomplished post-cyberpunk sf writer, a tech lawyer with a sideline in public interest environmental law, the proud owner of one of the most striking homes I have ever seen, and an urban pastoralist who writes about wildlife in ways I've never seen and can't get enough of:

https://fieldnotes.christopherbrown.com/

All of these facets of Brown's identity come together today with the launch of A Natural History of Empty Lots: Field Notes from Urban Edgelands, Back Alleys and other Wild Places:

https://christopherbrown.com/a-natural-history-of-empty-lots/

This is a frustratingly hard to summarize book, because it requires a lot of backstory and explanation, and one of the things that makes this book so! fucking! great! is how skillfully Brown weaves all that stuff into his telling. Which makes me feel self-conscious as I try to summarize things, because there's no way I'll do this as well as he did, but whatever, here goes.

Brown is a transplant from rural Iowa to Austin, where he set out to start a family, practice tech law during the dotcom boom, and write science fiction, as part of a circle of writers loosely associated with cyberpunk icon @brucesterling. After both the economy and his marriage collapsed, Brown started his restless perambulations around Austin's abandoned places, sacrifice zones, the bones of failed housing starts and abandoned dot-crash office parks.

When he did, something changed in him. Slowly, his eyes learned to see things that they had just skipped over. Plants, animals, and spoor and carapaces and dens of all description, all around him, a secret world. These were not pockets of "wilderness" in the city, but they were pockets of wildness. Birds' nests woven with plastic fibers scavenged from nearby industrial dumpsters; trees taking root in half-submerged tires rolled into a creekbed, foxes and rodents playing out a real-life version of the classic ecosystem simulation exercise on the edge of an elevated highway that fills the same function as the edge of a woodland where predator and prey meet.

As Brown fell in love again – with the artist and architect Agustina Rodriguez – he conceived of a genuinely weird and amazing plan to build a house. A very weird house, in a very weird place. He bought a plot of wasteland that had once housed the head-end of an oil pipeline (connected to a nearby oil-storage facility that poisoned the people who lived near it, in an act of wanton environmental racism) and had been used as a construction-waste dump for years.

After securing an extremely unlikely loan, Brown remediated the plot, excavating the oil pipeline, then building the most striking home you have ever seen in the resulting trench. Brown is a pal of mine, and this is where I stay when I'm in Austin, and I can promise you, the pictures don't do it justice:

https://www.texasmonthly.com/style/christopher-brown-edgeland-house-austin/

Formally, A Natural History of Empty Lots is a memoir that explains all of this. But not really. Like I say, this is just the back story. What Natural History really is, is a series of loosely connected essays that explains how everything fits together: colonial conquest, Brown's failed marriage, his experience as a lawyer learning property law, what he learned by mobilizing that learning to help his neighbors defend the pockets of wildness that refuse to budge.

It's an erudite book, skipping back through millennia of history, sidewise through the ecology of Texas, all while somehow serving as a kind of spotter's guide to the wild things you can see in Austin – and maybe, in your town – if you know how to look. It's a book about how people change the land, and how the land changes people. It is filled with pastoral writing that summons Kim Stanley Robinson by way of Thoreau, and it sometimes frames its philosophical points the way a cyberpunk writer would – like Neal Stephenson writing a cyberpunk trilogy that is also the story of Leibniz and Newton fighting over credit for inventing calculus:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/11/20/neal-stephensons-system-of-the-world-concludes-the-baroque-trilogy/

Brown is a stupendous post-cyberpunk writer, and also a post-cyberpunk person, which I've known for sure since I happened upon him one morning, thoughtfully mowing his roof with a scythe:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/46433979075/

You can get a sense of what that means in this lockdown-era joint presentation that Chris, Bruce Sterling and I did on "cyberpunk and post-cyberpunk":

https://archive.org/details/asl-cyberpunk

Brown is a spectacular novelist. His ecofascist civil war trilogy that opens with Tropic of Kansas got so much right about the politics of American demagoguery and was perfectly timed with the Trump presidency:

https://memex.craphound.com/2017/07/11/tropic-of-kansas-making-america-great-again-considered-harmful/

The sequel, Rule of Capture, uses the device of courtroom drama in a way that comes uncomfortably close to the Orwell/Kafka mashup that the authorities have created to deal with environmental protesters:

https://memex.craphound.com/2019/08/12/rule-of-capture-inside-the-martial-law-tribunals-that-will-come-when-climate-deniers-become-climate-looters-and-start-rendering-environmentalists-for-offshore-torture/

And the final volume, Failed State, is one of the most complicated complicated utopias you could ask for. This is what people mean by "thrilling conclusion":

https://pluralistic.net/2020/08/12/failed-state/#chris-brown

As brilliant as Brown is in fiction mode, his nonfiction is unclassifiably, unforgettably brilliant. A Natural History of Empty Lots is the kind of book that challenges how you feel about the crossroads we're at, the place you live, and the place you want to be.

The paperback edition of The Lost Cause, my nationally bestselling, hopeful solarpunk novel is out this month!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/17/cyberpunk-pastoralism/#time-to-mow-the-roof

#pluralistic #books #reviews #gift guide #pastoralism #environmentalism #ecology #cyberpunk #austin #texas #climate #christopher brown #conservation #urbanism #ecosocialism #architecture #environmental racism #writing

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literaryvein-reblogs · 4 months ago

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Writing Notes: Plotting Your Novel

Plotting your novel is a multi-step process.

There are a few different approaches and mindsets when it comes to plotting a novel.

The following is a step-by-step guide to plotting a novel.

Generate ideas.

The first step in writing a novel is generating story ideas.

Some writers like to freewrite and brainstorm.

Others prefer working with writing prompts.

Whichever approach you take, it’s important to spend time coming up with a variety of ideas and choosing a strong premise that lends itself to an effective plot.

Start with a simple, compelling premise.

Once you have a basic idea, it’s time to develop a story premise.

One way to develop a small idea into a basic story is called the snowflake method.

The snowflake method involves starting with a core premise or theme upon which you build every other aspect of narrative and character as you flesh out the big picture.

Have a clear central conflict.

Creating a clear central conflict will anchor your plot and give your narrative focus.

If you’re a first-time novelist or new writer, look to thrillers, fantasy or adventure stories for examples of clear good guy vs. bad guy conflict.

Choose your structure.

There are many different models upon which you can base your plot structure. The most common is a three act structure.

Learning the basics of how a three-act story structure can help you start to piece together your plot and structure your narrative.

Trace out general story arcs.

Start to lay out a storyline.

You don’t have to worry about building the whole thing at once.

Rather you can focus on an act length story arc or even scene descriptions and piece these together as you build out a full-length narrative.

Build subplots.

Once you have a good sense for your main plot it’s time to layer in subplots.

Subplots can often be character specific, so this is a good time to think a bit about the characters you’ve populated your world with and how each individual backstory might come into play.

Good subplots will weave seamlessly through your main arc and help advance your action rather than distract from it.

Think about cause and effect.

Good stories involve a logical series of events that progress one into the next.

Make sure that your scenes are each motivated by something that preceded them.

A good driving narrative should feel dynamic.

A plot should progress forward because of tangible story elements like a character’s motivation or actions that propel your narrative.

If you look at your story arc as a sequence of events, there should be a logical progression where one scene triggers the next and pushes the action forward.

Write a detailed outline.

Before you start writing, you should have a detailed plot outline.

This should catalog the main story and individual plot points.

It should be comprehensive enough that someone who has no knowledge of your story could look at the outline and piece together the narrative of events, identifying your inciting incident, rising action, and climax.

Tie up loose ends.

Once you have a detailed outline, tie up loose ends and fill any plot holes.

Editing is a very important part of creative writing.

One misconception about writing is that editing comes at the end of the process.

Editing is something you should return to throughout your writing process and it’s important to edit your plot and outline before you start writing in earnest.

Don’t neglect character development.

Character is an incredibly important part of a story and helps to balance out plot-based narratives.

Before you start writing you should make sure that you have detailed character arcs and main characters with clear motivations and backstories.

Part of building a good character is building a strong and nuanced point of view.

Balance out the plot portion of your writing process by taking some time to analyze your characters and make sure they are strong, realistic, and nuanced.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References Writing References: Plot ⚜ Character ⚜ Worldbuilding

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heliosunny · 9 days ago

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Hello! I have read your fyodor writing and it is amazing! I was wondering if you could write fyodor and a reader that work side by side and fyodor starts growing an admiration for them.BUTTT they both have like a backstory on when they first met,like she was a international student in Russia, until they met him

Yandere!Fyodor x Fem!Reader

The library was quiet that afternoon, the air thick with the scent of old books and dust motes swirling in the pale light filtering through tall windows. You had been here for hours, buried in your notes, brow furrowed in concentration as you struggled to decipher a particularly dense passage of Russian literature.

It was then that you noticed him.

A man stood a few shelves away, his presence almost ghostlike—tall, with dark hair falling over sharp, intelligent eyes. His gaze flickered over the spines of books, fingers tracing the worn edges as though in silent reverence. There was something unnervingly composed about him, something almost scholarly.

Perhaps it was the way he carried himself, or the fact that he looked utterly at home amidst the endless rows of books, but you made an assumption.

“Excuse me!” you called out in hesitant Russian, clutching your notebook to your chest as you approached. “Are you a professor?”

The question lingered in the space between you, and for a second, there was only silence. Then, he smiled—slow and amused.

“A professor?” he repeated, his voice smooth, laced with something unreadable. “That’s an interesting mistake.”

Heat crept up your neck. “I-I just thought… you seem like you belong here. Like someone who teaches.”

His smile deepened. “How flattering. And you—are a student, I presume?”

You nodded. “An international one. I’ve been trying to improve my Russian, but this text is... difficult.” You hesitated, then, feeling bold, you held out the book. “Would you mind helping?”

Interesting

“Of course” he murmured, taking the book from your hands. Your fingers brushed, and though you barely noticed, he did.

That was the first moment Fyodor Dostoevsky truly took notice of you.

-----

Graduation had come faster than you expected. The weight of textbooks was replaced by the weight of uncertainty, of what came next. Your time as an international student in Russia had been a whirlwind of study, language struggles, and fleeting connections, but one encounter lingered in your mind more than the others.

The mysterious man from the library.

You never learned much about him beyond his name, but he had helped you that day—and a few more after that. His explanations had been sharp, precise, and almost hypnotic, as if he enjoyed weaving words together just to watch you untangle them. He never revealed much about himself, and yet… his presence had been unforgettable.

And now, years later, you saw him again.

The world had changed. You were no longer a student buried in books, you had stepped into the real world, carving out a career. You had long since left the dusty halls of academia behind.

But fate had a strange way of bringing back ghosts.

"How unexpected" came a voice you hadn't heard in years—low, smooth, and still carrying that air of quiet amusement.

You turned, your breath catching as you met his gaze.

Fyodor stood just as he had back then, calm, composed, and unreadable. The dim lighting of the café softened his features, but it did little to mask the sharpness in his violet eyes.

“You...” you murmured, half in disbelief.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling at the edges. “You remember me. How delightful.”

Of course, you remembered. But what was he doing here?

“What a coincidence.” you said cautiously. “I didn’t expect to run into you again.”

He chuckled, the sound almost melodic. “Is it truly coincidence?”

You should have known then—this was no chance encounter.

Fyodor Dostoevsky had been waiting for you.

-----

It started with a conversation over coffee.

At first, it had seemed like an idle exchange, catching up, reminiscing about that odd first meeting in the library. But Fyodor had a way of steering discussions, of making simple words feel deliberate, as if he were leading you down a carefully paved path.

And before you knew it, he had offered you an opportunity.

The details were vague at first. Consulting work, he called it. A role that required a sharp mind, adaptability, and discretion. His words were elegant, calculated which made it feel less like an offer and more like inevitability.

You told yourself you accepted because of the challenge. Because Fyodor Dostoevsky, enigmatic as he was, recognized your intelligence.

That was how it began.

Working with Fyodor was unlike anything you had experienced before. He wasn’t a man of rigid schedules or predictable tasks. He would send for you at strange hours, his messages brief yet somehow demanding.

Come by my office when you’re free. Bring that keen mind of yours.

There’s something I want your thoughts on.

The work itself was intellectually thrilling, analyzing patterns, decoding encrypted messages, piecing together fragments of information like a puzzle. Fyodor rarely gave direct instructions, he preferred to let you figure things out on your own, watching from the shadows as you unraveled the complexities he placed before you.

And when you succeeded, his approval was quiet but undeniable.

“Impressive” he would murmur, a gloved hand resting against his chin as he studied your work. “I expected you to struggle with this one, but you continue to exceed my expectations.”

It was always like that. Subtle praise. Measured words. A gaze that lingered just long enough to make you wonder what he was thinking.

At first, you thought he merely saw you as useful.

But then, small moments made you question.

A cup of tea, waiting on your desk before you even arrived. A casual mention of something you had told him in passing weeks ago, your preferred books, the way you took your coffee, the kind of music that helped you focus.

-----

It began subtly, like most things with Fyodor. A casual mention of someone. A passing reference to a meeting. He never explicitly told you where he was leading you, only guided you forward until you found yourself standing at the edge of something much larger than you anticipated.

You had gained his trust.

One evening, after an especially long day of work, Fyodor leaned back in his chair and regarded you with an expression of quiet amusement. His office was dimly lit, a single lamp casting long shadows across the desk where scattered documents lay between you.

“You’ve done well” he said, tapping his fingers against the polished wood.

You arched a brow at him. “You keep saying that. I’m starting to think you underestimated me.”

His lips curved slightly. “On the contrary, I’ve been testing you.”

You frowned. “Testing me?”

Fyodor tilted his head, studying you the way one might observe a particularly interesting specimen. “You have a sharp mind. More capable than most. But intelligence alone is not enough in this line of work. There is loyalty, discretion… the ability to maneuver in the spaces between truth and deception.”

You folded your arms. “And have I passed your tests?”

He chuckled. “Oh, I decided that long ago.”

Before you could question him further, he rose from his chair in a slow, deliberate motion, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “Come with me.”

You hesitated. “Where?”

His smile was unreadable. “There are people I’d like you to meet.”

Something in his tone made your stomach tighten. Fyodor was not a man who made careless introductions. If he was bringing you deeper into his world, it meant one thing—he had decided you belonged there.

The place he took you was not what you expected. A quiet, secluded café tucked into the heart of the city, unremarkable at first glance. But as you stepped inside, you immediately noticed the way the air shifted—low murmurs, sharp glances, a tension beneath the surface.

At a corner table sat two men. One was tall and broad-shouldered, an easy smirk playing on his lips as he twirled a fork between his fingers. The other had long hair that stretched to his waist, an eerie calm to him as he sipped from a steaming cup of tea.

Fyodor approached without hesitation, gesturing for you to follow. “This is them.”

You had heard of them before—fragments of names and roles pieced together over time, always spoken with a certain weight. They were not merely associates. They were his closest circle.

The white-haired man was the first to acknowledge you, his smirk widening as he leaned forward. “So, you’re the one he’s been keeping to himself.” His voice was smooth, teasing. “I was starting to think you were a myth.”

You glanced at Fyodor, but his expression remained neutral. Instead, it was the lilac and white hair who spoke next.

“Nikolai, don’t scare her.” he said, setting his cup down. His gaze shifted to you—piercing, assessing. “I’m Sigma. And the loud one over there is Nikolai.”

Nikolai placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Loud? You wound me.”

You let out a breath, offering a polite nod. “It’s… nice to meet you both.”

Fyodor’s voice cut through the exchange, smooth as always. “She has proven herself quite capable.” His eyes flickered to you, something unspoken lingering in his gaze. “She’s earned her place here.”

Earned

The weight of that word settled over you. This wasn’t just a casual meeting. It was a declaration. A sign that you had crossed an invisible threshold, one you couldn’t step back from.

Nikolai grinned. “Well, if you’ve got Dostoy’s approval, I suppose that means we should play nice.” He extended a hand, his grin turning sly. “Welcome to the madness.”

You hesitated for only a second before shaking it.

Across the table, Fyodor watched with quiet satisfaction.

You had taken another step into his world.

And he would make sure you never left it.

-----

Fyodor had always prided himself on being an observer, a man who noticed the details others overlooked. And in you, he found a curiosity that refused to be ignored.

Perhaps it was the way you immersed yourself so wholly in your work, the way your fingers would tighten around a pen as you deciphered complex codes, or how you leaned closer to your screen when deep in thought, completely unaware of how much time had passed.

Perhaps it was how you always stayed later than you should, refusing to step away even as exhaustion settled into your frame.

Perhaps it was simply you.

And Fyodor found himself watching.

“You’re still here.”

You barely looked up from your papers, exhaustion evident in the way your shoulders remained tense.

“Just finishing up” you murmured, flipping a page. “There were some inconsistencies in the last report, and I didn’t want to leave them for tomorrow.”

Fyodor tilted his head, his gaze trailing over the dark circles beginning to form beneath your eyes. He had noticed it before—your tendency to push yourself beyond reason, to prioritize efficiency over rest.

“You say that every night” he mused, stepping closer.

You huffed lightly, finally meeting his gaze. “I could say the same about you.”

A low chuckle escaped him. He leaned against the edge of your desk, his fingers drumming idly against the wood. “But I wonder… are you truly working, or merely avoiding rest?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fyodor hummed, considering you. “You overwork yourself. Even when there is no urgency, you find something to bury yourself in.” His lips curled slightly. “A habit formed out of necessity… or avoidance?”

You opened your mouth to respond but hesitated. Because he wasn’t wrong.

You had always been like this, pushing, striving, moving forward without stopping to consider why.

Fyodor’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “You will not be useful to me if you collapse from exhaustion.”

It was a pragmatic statement, but there was something else beneath it.

Concern.

He reached for the cup of tea sitting on your desk, long since gone cold, and replaced it with a fresh one from a tray he had brought with him.

“Go home” he said simply. “Or at least drink this before you drown in paperwork.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Are you actually worried about me?”

Fyodor smiled, but didn’t answer.

And yet, as you took the cup from his hands, warmth spreading through your fingertips, you realized that maybe he didn’t need to.

-----

The first time Fyodor saw you outside of work, it was purely coincidence.

Or so he told himself.

It was late evening, the city alive with the hum of passing cars and distant conversation. Fyodor had no particular destination, he often wandered, preferring movement over stagnation when lost in thought.

And then he saw you.

Sitting at the far end of a small café, a book in hand, absentmindedly stirring a drink you had yet to sip from. The sight of you outside of work, out of the structured environment he had placed you in, was strangely disarming.

You looked… softer.

More human.

It was one thing to admire your intelligence, your sharp mind and unwavering dedication. But here, without the weight of responsibility pressing against you, he saw something else entirely.

Something that made his interest shift, deepen.

He watched as you pushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, your brow furrowing slightly as you read. Your focus was the same as when you worked, but there was a quiet contentment to it.

For the first time in a long while, Fyodor hesitated.

Would you notice him if he approached? Would you welcome his presence outside of the boundaries of your professional relationship?

And more importantly… Why did he care?

For a man who prided himself on control, this was unfamiliar territory.

A rare moment of uncertainty.

And yet, he found himself lingering for a moment longer than necessary, fingers brushing over the edge of his coat, before finally stepping away.

He would not approach. Not tonight.

-----

You were too deep in thought to notice him.

Your fingers hovered over your keyboard, barely moving. The glow of your monitor cast soft shadows over your face, but your mind was elsewhere—buried in numbers, codes, patterns that refused to align the way they should.

Time had lost meaning.

It was quiet, save for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the faint rustling of papers beside you. The world had shrunk to just you and the problem at hand.

Then, a slow, deliberate warmth pressed against your back.

You froze.

The sensation of hands, light but undeniably there, settling on your shoulders, fingers ghosting along the fabric of your shirt before tracing down, down to your arms.

Your breath caught as a weight leaned into you, something- or someone—coiling around you like a shadow.

Fyodor

His presence was unmistakable, his scent a mix of faint ink and something darker, something uniquely him. His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“I wonder” he mused, his breath fanning against your ear, “just how long you planned to ignore me.”

Your throat tightened. You hadn’t realized he was there.

Your hands, now utterly still, rested atop your desk, but his covered them soon after- elegant fingers curling over your wrists in a touch that was neither forceful nor fleeting.

“I wasn’t ignoring you” you murmured, voice steadier than you felt.

A low chuckle. “Mm. Perhaps.” His fingers brushed against your pulse. “But you do have a tendency to forget the world when you work.”

You swallowed. “That’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“No” he murmured. “It simply means I must remind you I exist.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs. “Fyodor—”

“Shh.” His voice dipped lower, turning something close to intimate.

Then, as if to prove his point, he did something you didn’t expect.

He rested his chin on your shoulder.

The shift was subtle, slow, he barely applied any pressure, but the action was enough to send a jolt of awareness down your spine.

Trapped. Not in the physical sense, if you truly wanted to move, you could. And yet, you knew in the quiet space between you that wasn’t the game he was playing.

He wasn’t holding you down.

He was enveloping you.

And then he whispered “You do realize, don’t you?”

You swallowed. “Realize what?”

His grip on your wrists tightened, just for a second.

“That no matter where you go, no matter how much you work, how much you think… I will always be here.”

Something in his tone sent a shiver through you.

“Fyodor” you started, a warning, but he only exhaled a soft laugh.

“You cannot rid yourself of me, my dear” he murmured. “Not now. Not ever.”

His words dripped with quiet amusement, but beneath them, beneath the silken charm, there was something else.

Something inescapable.

And though you knew you should move, pull away, demand an explanation, you didn't.

And Fyodor, still curled around you, still smiling against your skin, knew it too.

#yandere x reader #yandere #bsd x reader #yandere bsd #bsd x you #bsd fyodor dostoevsky #bsd fyodor #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #bungou stray dogs fyodor #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor x reader

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jinbugs · 1 year ago

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VIVERE

“Do you think you deserve it? To be punished?” “I think so, yes.”

A Pathfinder 2e Campaign Introduction Post!

MEET THE PARTY:

REVUN (@dovelydraws)

26 years old

he/they/she

A duel-wielding tiefling fighter. Easy-going freelance mercenary from Alephia, looking for a job that pays well and a little company.

FERRA (@artpepkin)

87 years old

she/her

A beastkin elven rogue from Chiei Thya. Playful vagabond who finds herself wherever the wind takes her. She's maybe gotten herself in a little over her head.

POLITES (@mossy-garden)

17 years old

he/him

A tiefling champion. Proud kingdom guard of Crimyria under the goddess Vildeas, who is willing and anxious to prove himself.

KWAN (@jinbugs)

39 years old

he/they/she

A human investigator. Cunning Po Lian scholar-official informant who is in pursuit of a dangerous secret, the centurion pearl. At any cost.

Glitch (@eternalglitch), our game master, weaves all our loose threads into one coherent story.

One fun rule we’ve incorporated into this campaign: players CANNOT share their character backstories with each other outside of gameplay.

It gives more mystery fun! It’s also driving us insane. Pray for us.

(Map created by @dovelydraws, summary also written by Dove)

A lot has gone into the cultures and politics of each of the countries our characters come from. Enough so that it doesn't make sense to get into all of it on an introductory post! But perhaps later in a reblog.

THE STORY SO FAR…

As of the writing of this post, we have now played 5 sessions of the campaign.

Our party all met each other in the small seaside town of Plumeport, Crimyria. We were all brought together in pursuit of the same thing: a legendary man-eating boar, said to hold the power of immortality.

It is believed that consuming the flesh of this boar would grant eternal life, and even just a bit of its fur or blood can extend a person's life, for a time. The King of Crimyria himself has offered whoever can take down this boar a large sum of wealth and a small offering of its blood for personal consumption. He wants the job to be done in time for the Crimyrian Festival of Flight, in a couple months time.

The bounty on the boar's head has drawn adventurers from all over the continent, but none so far have been able to take it down. Many have lost their lives. While each of our party members have their own reasons for wanting to take on this job, Kwan has a very personal stake in their success.

He has, reluctantly, revealed that he once knew the boar before it obtained the power it has today. He has reason to believe it has swallowed something once known as a centurion pearl: a powerful artifact that caused the fall of a once great kingdom, and threw the continent into tumultuous conflict. Kwan is adamant that this power should not be handed over to any king. Once it is killed, they want to extract the pearl from its body to make sure it can never fall into the wrong hands.

So far, Kwan has only revealed this to Revun. Polites, meanwhile, works directly under the king and wants to succeed on this mission to make him proud. Ferra seems to only be interested in the money and adventure. Revun has also said they were in this for the money, but vaguely admitted to Kwan that they also had their own personal reasons to go after the boar, and if he truly believes its power is too dangerous, they will follow his lead.

Once faced with the boar, however, the party was unprepared and outmatched. It was massive, its eyes as large as their heads, emanating a golden glow. It moved unlike a normal animal, and seemingly bore a higher level of intelligence than it should.

After a deceptively strong start, Polites went down in battle, and they were all forced to run to ensure everyone's survival. Before retreating though, Kwan shot the boar with a strange arrow, claiming they would be able to track it again later.

The party camped outside of the marsh, unable to sleep while waiting for Polites to wake up. They discussed next steps- going back to the city to regroup, get proper healing, and perhaps find a sponsor to help them in their next try. They still have a few weeks to get things figured out.

And that's all, so far! We're all pretty stoked and making tons of art and written works, so keep a look out, we might publish a zine when the sessions start wrapping up. Bye-bye, for now!

#vivere campaign #pathfinder #ttrpg #dnd #revun #ferra #polites #kwan

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m0remor1 · 3 months ago

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Who’s Birthday Are It???

Logan Howlett x FtM!Reader

NOTES: FINALLY i’m posting my first oneshot! i’m crazy new to this but i really wanted to post something Wolverine related considering i never shut up about him…,.,,… hope yall enjoy!!

WC: 1,668 words

TAGS: hurt/comfort, Comic!Logan (I def used some of his Origins’ backstory though el oh el), established “friendship”, ALMOST make-out scene, no smut, reader is basically the same height as Logan, really slight description of violence, a little unserious and silly

October 12th.

It used to be a somewhat fun occasion back when Logan was still Jimmy the sickly little Victorian boy. His family was well off enough to afford him gifts and heaps of food that he could barely stomach while showering him in attention he wasn’t all that present for. Could’ve been out of pity or something, but there’s no way of him knowing that now.

The earliest memory of his birthday that stuck after taking three rounds of adamantium between the eyes was Sabretooth hunting him down. The biting cold of bum-fuck nowhere, Canada, the actual biting and tearing of flesh, the hours of endless beatdowns that left Logan in a heap while his torn flesh weaved together layer by layer.

What’s even worse is that the rat bastard made this a tradition.

And considering Logan’s as old as dirt, there’s only so many birthday punchies he can endure from a bloodthirsty maniac before he starts to loathe it. He does his best to block the day out of his mind, ducking the other X-Men to avoid any pointless—and frankly annoying—birthday wishes from them. It’s almost impressive how absent he manages to be on his own birthday.

Cut to what feels like his billionth ‘special day’—he’s shacked up in a seedy dive bar nursing what’s now half a bottle of Jack’s while awaiting his inevitable crashout with his feline freak of a nemesis. His leg is bouncing off the stool, his hand is clenched hard around the glass he’s refilled countless times, and his muscles are tensed in preparation.

You, however, didn’t seem to get the memo.

Well—you did. You’re just politely ignoring it. A completely inconspicuous excess of cash magically found its way to your pockets after a couple battles with anti-mutant thugs, and you’d been hanging off Logan’s shoulder long enough to take note of his favorite brands.

And thank fuck you garnered as much money as you did, because the man’s tastes were almost disgustingly expensive.

And now, here you were with a small box held behind your back while you finally found the bar Logan was brooding in. Took a good couple hours to track em’ down, but a win is a win regardless.

“…You know I ain’t celebratin’. Get lost, bub.” Logan pipes up the moment he catches your scent sneaking closer, a scowl pinning itself to the burned in plasma screen bolted to a high point on the bar.

“Oh come on—you’re not even takin’ gifts? I had to study for this, man.” You huffed in complaint, hovering over the stool next to him.

And before Logan can press you to leave, the box you held behind your back slides into view and thuds softly against the wood counter. It earns a side eye from the older man, a glimpse of shock chipping away at his stoned mask just a teenie bit at the sight of the box’s logo.

“Bribin’ me with a couple smokes ain’t gettin’ you anywh—“ The minute Logan unlatches the box and opens it, he’s met with the sight of a FULL box. Stacked to the brim with tightly wrapped cigars that held the brand’s shiny sticker. He gives you a fully stunned look, almost slack jawed as he quickly shut it and cursed under his breath.

“…I’d make a real shit cop.” He mutters as he taps the worn leather of the seat cushion beside him in a silent demand to take a seat.

And you’re SAT. It’s almost comical how fast you scurry into the seat. You’re lucky it’s bolted to the floor, or else you would have conked your head on the grimy hardwood real hard. There’s a beat of silence as Logan takes a cigar from the top of the box and almost glares at it in an attempt to spot something wrong. But he finds nothing. Shit—they don’t even smell off. He extends a claw halfway to snip off the ends, reaching into his pocket for a lighter.

FINALLY you get to show off again.

You bring a hand to stop him, fishing through your own pocket to fish out the second half of your gift.

“Hollon—“ You whip out a silver zippo lighter. “Ta-da!”

…

“How empty is your wallet right now?” Logan questions, taking the lighter from you and scanning each detail of the silver embossments on it.

“…I think a moth or three is in it right now.” You jest, watching as he drags a finger over the detailing.

There’s a traditional Japanese-style dragon curled on the front, the silver metal darkened in the crevices to look grungy. The rest of it is black, save for the engraving on the side. The letters of his name are straight and jagged, each shiny silver line meant to look like a claw had scratched it in. He’s almost mad at how much he likes it, because it means he has to admit that one—he really is an art nerd, and two—he’s getting soft. His stomach twists a little, but not in the ‘there’s perilous danger incoming and everyone’s gonna die’ way. More in the ‘this stupid kissboy’s worming his way further into his good graces’ kinda way. And he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“This is dumb, y’know. Ain’t a reason for a lighter t’be this extra.” He grumbles as he gives it another shift between his fingers.

“I mean—f’you don’t like it I can jus’—“ You reach for it, but Logan snatches it away before you can even graze it. “Aht—Back off. Yer gonna have t’pry this from my cold dead hands in 200 years.”

He hunches over the lighter slightly, clinking it open and striking the little wheel a couple times before it came to life while you stifle a giggle. The cigar eventually starts to glow a faint red at the tip, and Logan drags in a hefty breath that he holds. It takes a moment before the smoke billows from his lips, and something in you lurches with glee at the sight of said smoke framing his bearded face. His blue eyes dart to you, watching with a raised brow as you pretend to look anywhere else but him. And poor soul—instead of catching on to what were probably some FREAK nasty thoughts—he thinks you want to bum a puff of his cigar. His hand tilts to offer it over, but you shake your head.

“M’good. I’d probably cough up a lung or two.” You don’t wanna admit you hate smoking in general.

Because if we’re being honest, it’s kind of a lie. Sure—if you walked past strangers you’d cough like you had pneumonia to make em feel a little guilty. But with a scent that didn’t make you want to dry heave and a lethally handsome face behind it, you could only bring yourself to pretend that the cigars were too strong for you.

But this… this old man has to go and insist.

“…Could always shotgun it.” It’s aggravating how fast you wanted to blurt out an okay. “Wouldn’t mind sharin’ my gift a lil.”

This little bastard knows what he’s doing. He HAS to, considering there’s a ghost of a smirk on his face at the sight of your shock. You clear your throat behind a clenched hand, trying to play nonchalant and failing horribly.

“I mean—yeah, sure. Whatever, I guess...” You can’t even look at him properly it’s that embarrassing.

Your face runs hot when you lean a little closer, eyes squeezed shut as if you’re ready to get punched or something.

“Good god—relax, bub. Y’look like I’m handin’ you a pipe bomb.” Logan leans in too, but his free hand grabs at your collar and pulls you even closer.

Words are failing you fast, leaving whatever retort you could come up with in the dust before you even thought about the first word. Your eyes peek open, watching his chest puff as he took another drag off the cigar and held it. He lets the smoke die out a little before dragging a calloused hand up the front of your jacket and to the junction between your neck and shoulder.

His large palm presses against the side of your neck, the pad of his thumb swiping across your plush bottom lip and earning a breathy sigh from you. When his hand moves to your jaw to keep your head still, you shiver at the slightly rough drag of his worn fingertips against your skin. Your stomach is doing gymnastics and the both of you can probably hear the drumming of your heart against your ribs. Your hands find purchase on his thighs to keep you upright while you’re leaned forward, and you thank whoever’s up there for giving you an excuse to do so. You part your lips as he gets in your face, blowing the sheered out smoke into your mouth and maintaining crazy amounts of eye contact while you inhale it.

Hands clench at his muscled thighs in a bid to keep you grounded, but it’s mostly just because you’re trying to resist closing the non-existent gap between you two. However, before you can even think of kissing him, your lungs start to burn and you turn away to cough and sputter as transparent smoke puffs out of your mouth.

“Y’ain’t supposed ta breathe it in like a shitty cigarette. Yer supposed to taste it.” Logan can’t help a snicker as he pats your back while you hack up the smoke in your lungs.

“Gee… thanks, you little—“ Whatever expletive you had for him gets lost in another coughing fit, complete with a little wheeze that finally seemed to help clear you up.

You glare over at the other man next to you, but your anger feels unfounded when you catch him almost full on grinning. Sure—it was kind of at your expense—but you got him to smile. On what’s usually the worst day of his year, no less.

…Man—you’re really great at this whole birthday thing.

#logan howlett #logan wolverine #wolverine #x men #comic logan #wolverine x reader #trans reader #mlm #i heart gay people #kissboys #bisexual logan truther #male reader #transmasc reader #self indulgent ngl #I heart wolverine #shotgunning #james howlett #logan howlet x reader

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sh1-n0bu · 2 years ago

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Omg hello fellow lumine main!

I don't know if you watched the recent Xiao teaser but i got inspired by it so if it's okay with you can you write an angsty scenario about this:

After fighting with the "evil" Xiao, Xiao feels extremely tired and after walking for a while he bumps into you in a deserted field he then confuses/ hallucinates as if you are his evil self so he starts choking you(?) tries to attack you(?) And no matter what you say your words doesn't reach his ears and he snaps out of it only when Zhongli calls his name when he happened to be passing by

Hope this is not too specific! Feel free to change any part that you don't like and it could end with whatever genre you want whether it's angst or angst with fluff!! Thank you and please ignore this if you don't feel like writing it<33

✿ 𝙠𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙖 ✿

characters: xiao x nb!reader

warnings: angst, slight spoilers to xiao’s backstory, hurt/no comfort, fighting, descriptions of blood and canon violence, confession, big ouchies, major character death

notes: just wanna add that the reader doesn’t have a vision! since you didn’t specify the reader’s gender, i went with the “you” pronouns thing. also hiii❗️fellow lumine main❗️(ps: i wanted it to be different but my mitski’s playlist hurt me)

karmic debt is something that all yakshas bear in their lifetime until their timely demise. it is a collection of their evil deeds, of slaying demons, of taking the life of a corrupted being. of tainting one’s hand with blood whether that blood was already tainted or not.

out of five yakshas that guarded liyue and kept the land of any evil, three had died. minds corrupted by their own karmic debts, hearts shattered by the ones they once used to call a family, bodies torn apart, leaving behind only ashes with nothing to bury and reminisce about in the future. while one had disappeared without a trace.

out of five, only one remains.

and that one would sooner or later fall into his own karmic debt as well. it was only a matter of time. however, there was a small glimmer of hope in the yaksha’s tainted heart. a small glimmer in the shape of you.

sweet, loving you in all your glory who first met the legend of a being when he protected you from a mitachurl. kind, gentle you who thanked him later at the wangshu inn with a plate of hand-made almond tofu with a small offering at the side. thoughtful you who kept appearing every once in a while at the balcony, talking out loud to him about your day, your latest travels and business trades, knowing full well he was listening.

passionate you who gleefully accepted him with open arms when he first decided to sit beside you to hear about your day. understanding you who kept your distance when he warned you of his karmic debt, respectful of his wishes.

and the idiotic clumsy you who would sometimes trip over on the way up the stairs. who would smile at him with the same smile, calling out his name with a scratched hand or forehead. who would brush it off as something small and mediocre.

but the yaksha hated that you would always say your injuries are mediocre and “nothing to worry about”.

of course he would worry. you were one of the few people in his life that he held dear in his heart. one of the few who accepted him, karmic debt, dirty hands, tainted heart and all. the only one… he ended up falling in love with.

“if one day, this karmic debt that binds my soul becomes too much and i no longer can tell the difference between friend or a foe, call upon mister zhongli or the traveler. they’ll get rid of me before i can harm anyone” was something that the lonely yaksha would remind you often.

“it’s fine. that won’t ever happen” you would console him, hands weaving a flower crown together from the qingxin flowers he picked up for you.

“because i’ll be there to knock some sense into you” was your sweet promise as you would place the flower crown atop his head with a smile.

he always found it meaningless that you would weave the flowers into something as useless as a flower crown. but he couldn’t bring himself to ever take it off or throw it away, even after the flowers have dried up and he would pick up the fallen petals, storing them in a glass. he loved how even in death, without nourishments, the petals would continue to keep their beauty.

perhaps that’s why he always brought you flower bouquets back. ones made from random flowers. sweet flowers, glaze lilies, qingxin, silk flowers — he always brings back a flower for you whenever you visit. and on certain days when he feels an odd emotion gripping his heart, unable to tear his gaze away from you as you look at the setting sun, his gloved hand would slowly reach out, tucking one of the flowers behind your ear.

“pretty…” the lonely immortal would whisper without notice. only when you glance at him with a smile, would the yaksha realize what he had done, turn beet red and teleport away. too shy to confront his feelings, too conflicted to stay beside you, too afraid of your mortality.

there are so many times when xiao fears for your mortality.

the times when he feels his karma gripping his heart. hand clutching his jade spear tight to the point he fears he would break the weapon. blurry figures in his sight, muffled voices in his ears, an annoying high pitched ringing in his head.

it was just supposed to be another night. another night of keeping liyue safe. another night of banishing demons and abyss mages, mitachurls, what nots.

and yet it drained him so greatly. when was the last time he had ever felt this exhausted? down right almost collapsing right then and there in the fields of liyue? muscles straining, dragging his feet, vision blurry — the yaksha was exhausted.

amidst the chaos of the voices screeching in his head, demanding more blood, more death and sacrifices, xiao finds himself staring back at a familiar mask. his own mask. himself. or what kind of a twisted joke of himself it was.

their speed was evenly matched. spear swings and thrusts sharp, aimed at his weakest parts, the same feeling of adrenaline pumping as he fights against his own self. with some sort of blind luck or fate, the yaksha manages to make his other self kneel. a single plummet of his jade spear to the heart was all it took for the illusion to disappear.

this was a tiring night. xiao just wanted to go back to wangshu inn and collapse in your arms. you always had a soothing presence that quelled the karma in him.

“xiao?” a voice sounds from behind him. turning back to look at the person who spoke the immortal’s name, he finds himself growing enraged. another look alike of himself.

this was getting tiring.

and yet when the yaksha slipped on his mask and attacked, something was weird. this illusion was slower, weaker, never attacking back and he would almost daresay, felt wrong to fight against.

it didn’t took long for the seasoned fighter to leave a nasty cut on the illusion’s side, almost plunging his spear through their ribcage. he’d just have to try a bit harder then.

xiao wanted nothing more than to go back to you. to feel your arms around him. to feel your hands run through his hair, rambling on about your day or just simply choosing to stay quiet. either way, the lonely immortal loved it. he wanted to go back to you. to your loving embrace. sweet smiles. little nods when he whispered about somethings he wanted.

xiao just wanted to be with you.

just your presence alone was enough for him. he would savor the warmth your skin excludes as he sits beside you on the balcony. cherish every little moment you would spend with him. treasure the small gifts and the almond tofu you would make for him.

and yet why was it that such a familiar hand was touching his own gloved one when he finally drove his jade spear through the illusion’s chest.

it was only then the illuminated bird noticed.

there was no second ‘illusion’. there was no need to fight against the voice that called out to him. for it was you. for it was the one person he cherished the most. for it was his beloved that was now bleeding out, blood tainting the tips of his spear, warm hand covering his own gloved one. warmth that was so quickly fading away.

his beloved… that he killed.

taking his spear out, xiao moved quickly to catch your falling body. the warmth that your hug gives him, the comfort he feels now being replaced by the warmth of your blood.

“no. no no no no, h-hang on. i’ll get you to liyue harbor” what was he saying? it was no use. he had already pierced your heart straight through, there was no hope for you. but xiao wanted there to be one. xiao wanted you to stay alive so he can confess to you. xiao wanted you to live, wanted to taste your hand made almond tofu again, wanted to put flowers in your hair.

xiao wanted to spend his tomorrows with you.

“don’t. we both know i won’t make it” your voice calls out. weak, hoarse, tired. you were bleeding. eyes dull, losing life, losing it’s shine. you were dying and it was all his fault.

“please… please don’t go” the yaksha didn’t knew he was crying until his tears landed on your face. even when bleeding out, even when dying, you still smiled. and by the archons, you were still beautiful even as you lay dying in his arms.

“please don’t go. i love you too much to let you go…” the yaksha sniffled, sobs coming out as he holds you in his arms.

it was just like how you two would lay on the rooftops of wangshu inn. watching the stars, the cloud move by, pointing out the shapes as you two enjoy each other’s presence.

except the warmth that came from your body was now the warmth of your blood gushing out, staining his clothes. the smile you used to give him now dead, stoic, almost like a puppet’s forced smile. the bright shine of life that was once in your perfect [color], dull like a matted blood.

“i wanted to spend my tomorrows with you…”

#nobu.writes #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x reader angst #genshin x reader angst #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x y/n #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #xiao x reader #xiao x reader angst #xiao angst #gender neutral insert #gender neutral reader #xiao x you #xiao x y/n #and yes i quoted trigun

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gffa · 6 months ago

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Hiiii :D I was just wondering, do you have any good Marvel fic reccomendations? Your massive list of star wars fics is like the no.1 thing I go to when im in a star wars mood, and all of them have been amazing, so thanks so much for that!! I'm just curious if you have any good Marvel fic recs?? If not that's fine lol, thank you for your service 🙏

Hi! Lol, I had to sit with this post for a few days because "Marvel fic" is such a wide range of possibilities, like are we talking the comics or the live action shows? The Avengers movies? The X-Men movies? Which section of those fandoms? Avengers as a team? Captain America? Thor? Iron Man? Daredevil? X-Men: First Class? Just... anything? I don't actually have a lot of comics fic recommendations (mostly because it's too hard to wade through all the movie stuff because so many people cross-tag into the comics tags despite it not being comic fic that those tags are now useless), but my go-to for Marvel comics are always: ✦ Betrayal + Paradox Law + The Game of Empires by Valerie J It's hard to describe this series, other than that about ~15 years ago, it was an ambitious attempt at taking various elements of the X-Men comics and weaving them into a coherent whole, focusing on giving Remy an epic backstory to explain his origins and his powers. It probably wouldn't really fit with more recent comics, but if you're a fan of late '90s/early '00s X-Men comics, this was a hell of a ride with cool powers, surprising family twists, time travel, fun relationships, and incredible ramp ups to tense situations that explode in the best way. ✦ The Gestalt Arc by Lori McDonald Another old school fic centered around the Remy/Rogue relationship and taking them on an epic journey, in an alternate version of what happened after their kiss in X-Men #41. The ups and downs of how they work out their issues, the lives they try to lead with each other, finding their path forward together, it's still one of my favorites for the era. ✦ Anything by Traincat for the Young Avengers My favorite is grab a blanket, brother, but they're an author that I'd write a blanket rec for, if any of the summaries sound relevant to your interests! They also write Peter Parker/Johnny Storm, which isn't my area of comics, but I'd trust them with it! But primarily I'd route you to them for their super fun Young Avengers stories, the Teddy/Billy and Eli/Kate ones especially. ✦ Anything by silverspidertm2, X-parrot, takadainmate, or Mythtaken Identity for Journey into Mystery and Loki: Agent of Asgard-era fic. This is when I was in my prime era of reading Thor comic-centric fic, around Journey into Mystery and Loki: Agent of Asgard, when he was Kid Loki and then Teen Loki. There was a lot really fun worldbuilding or road trips or just feelings explosions fic from this era. Beyond that, my bookmarks are a bit of a mess, but you can scroll through them to see what you're looking for. My primary fandoms were: ✦ Daredevil TV, where I went in hard on Matt/Foggy (and some Matt/Foggy/Karen and Frank/Karen and a little Matt/Elektra), where I read voraciously for about a year before MCU burnout hit. Some faves are Double Blind by smilebackwards and Something Dumb to Do by poisonivory and jump, check parachute augustbird.

✦ Thor (MCU), which is actually the heart of who I was as an MCU fan, I spent a long time there reading a lot of fic and this will take you to my bookmarks with the pairings filtered out. I was a big fan of Thor & Loki's relationship so that's most of what's in there, and I always suggest starting with these three fics: ✦ Bargaining by proantagonist, thor & loki & odin & frigga & cast, time travel, 108.9k Faced with an eternity without his brother, Loki strikes a bargain to change the past. Post TDW. ✦ No Such Liberty by Xparrot, thor & loki & cast, 147.3k The first thing Loki said, after he had swiped his tongue over his lips to wet them, was, "You shouldn't trust me." ~ Following the attack on New York, Thor takes Loki back to Asgard in chains; but this does not mean that the god of mischief's schemes are ended, or that Thor has or ever will give up on his brother. But when Thanos threatens the realm to claim his lost prizes, on which side will Loki fall? [post-Avengers fix it] ✦ The Lullaby Singer by TheOtherOdinson, thor & loki & odin & frigga, 85k wip Odin hasn't left Asgard in over a thousand years. When he finds out Loki is still alive and preparing to launch an attack on Midgard, he could send Thor to stop him. Or Odin could go himself. As a bonus, I have a few more Thor genfic recs here.

✦ Captain America (MCU), where sure I liked some gen fic but lbr I was there for the Stucky. I mostly read during the height of the post-TWS fervor and then tapered off a lot after that (given how hard they swerved away from their relationship) and I haven't read almost anything in the fandom since Endgame, but if you want some fun TWS-era fic, I put together this list recently. (To be fair, I also liked a lot of Steve &/ Natasha, Bucky &/ Natasha and Sam/Natasha, so you can find that in there, too.)

✦ Iron Man (MCU), where I liked a mix of some fun gen pieces and some Tony/Pepper which put me in the minority, but I don't care because there were some banger authors for both. If you're interested in them, I always liked pretty much anything I read by roboticonography. icarus_chained wrote a wider variety of stuff, but I've always liked anything I've read from them as well.

✦ Avengers (MCU), where I read a lot of fic, but it's kind of all mixed in together, even some sprinkled in Black Panther fic, some Spideypool that was super fun for a hot minute, some Guardians of the Galaxy characters showing up, etc. Step carefully if you're not interested in pairings (I read a fair amount of Tony/Loki and Steve/Loki in amongst the other stuff), but honestly by the end I was probably reading more gen than anything.

✦ X-Men: First Class-verse, which is my exception to not reading much for the live action versions of the X-Men, because I am a long time Pietro Maximoff fan and while Peter wasn't my Pietro, I did love him and there was some absolute banger fic for the Dadneto trope, which was where my heart was at. Come Together by blarfkey is absolutely the first place to start!

Hopefully this is what you were looking for, but if you have further refinements on what you're interested in, let me know and I'll try to give some pointers! I've been out of reading Marvel for awhile, but I have a huge backlog from when I was in it, at least. 😂

#lumi.txt #marvel #marvel fic recs #fic recs #thor #captain america #iron man #daredevil #loki #avengers

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brian-in-finance · 3 months ago

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Inside Unfinished Business • Part 1

🧵Outlander_Starz: Outlander is back and so is "Inside Outlander," your scoop on the behind-the-scenes magic that brings this magical series to life! ✨ Let's dive into the emotional premiere, "Unfinished Business," shall we?"

Returning to Lallybroch and the location of Midhope Castle where Outlander films wasn't just magical for the fans but for the cast as well. Sam Heughan says this was his favourite location from this second half of the season.

Going back to Lallybroch was a really big moment, for Jamie but also for Outlander. It's where we started. I have a lot of memories working there. One of my first days shooting in Season 1 was at Midhope at Lallybroch... so it was quite a special moment.

Actually, I'd never been in the actual castle because it's derelict. We were using the doorway. So, I actually got to go in this time and have a look inside, which was very special. — SAM HEUGHAN, JAMIE FRASER

🧵Outlander_Starz: Showrunner and Executive Producer Matthew B. Roberts said, "Bringing one of our main characters back into the show... Scotland... she's such a beauty.

You miss her when you're not there. I love when we can play Scotland for Scotland at any point. And that iconic driveway going up to Lallybroch, it always makes your heart beat a little faster."

🧵Outlander_Starz: Set Decorator Stuart Bryce, who has been on Outlander since the beginning, was nostalgic at recreating this set across decades: "New touches, like Mike Gunn's murals, were a great addition, but essentially we didn't have to change too much. We kept it as true as we could to the original Lallybroch.

The tapestries in the dining room had been in storage, and there were a few pieces missing, so finding the original plans and having to recreate them was a challenge."

🧵Outlander_Starz: For Production Designer Mike Gunn, now that we're seeing Lallybroch in 1739 as well as the 1770s and 1980s, it was important to instantly recognize Roger was in a different time. He came up with the idea that behind the incredible tapestries from Season 1, there were murals created in the time of Brian Fraser, hidden after Culloden, then discovered by Bree and Roger in the 80s.

Read more about how Mike used these murals to plant Easter Eggs about Jamie and the story of Outlander itself!

I developed this backstory that the murals depicted the Jacobite rising and fight for Scottish independence. By the time the 1770s came and the Jacobites had lost Culloden, that's when the tapestries were hidden... In the 1980s, the tapestries were taken off. That was the starting point.

Then I decided to weave in the story of Outlander...

The unicorn, which I decided to depict in all of the four images, was Jamie. And of course, Claire is going to come into that journey. The central mural above the fireplace with the unicorn and horse, that's the two of them in love. But the unicorn is depicted as having his struggles throughout. He's depicted fighting a mythical beast that you could say is Black Jack. — MIKE GUNN, PRODUCTION DESIGNER

🧵Outlander_Starz: Fans will be delighted to see Jamie and Claire staying in the Laird's bedroom again with the iconic blue wallpaper. Set Decorator Stuart Bryce says of this room: "There is something about that blue that makes people's skin look amazing and enhanced those early romantic scenes of Jamie and Claire.

When we came to put the room back together, though it was exactly the way it should have been, by some mystery, the room was bigger...something spooky happened there!"

Inside Unfinished Business • 1 of 2

Threads 🧵

Remember… you miss her when you're not there. I love when we can play Scotland for Scotland at any point. And that iconic driveway going up to Lallybroch, it always makes your heart beat a little faster. — Matthew B Roberts

#Tait rhymes with hat #Good times #Outlander #Inside Outlander #Unfinished Business #S07E09 #Part 1 #Threads

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fumifooms · 6 months ago

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Firefly wedding chapter 42 - 43 : Together - With you forever

How are we feeling broskis. These two chapters were an evil rollercoaster I need to talk about them. Thing are looking up…??? But also things are so transparently going to get worse. The outcome is happy in the moment but it’s setting up for failure by promising things that are still too up in the air. Will the red string of fate truly keep them together and for how long. The story’s been ramping up both references to her sickness and future death and to their happy ever after, which! Is very thematic and also terrible for my heart.

We go from sad about the backstory to soothed by the kind gesture to euphoric in the dreamlike flower field scene to scared and dreading to tentatively pleasantly surprised to paranoid "how can this go wrong" to indulging in the happiness of the moment to having sadness like a stone in your stomach.

It starts with some more setting up of their upbringings and weaves some pretty explicit parallels and causal links, and so when Shinpei talks about "only seeing Satoko", we know that his reflex to cling onto one thing hard, as if it’s the only thing he needs for happiness, was born from never having had anything. Going from having nothing to having one something is enough in his mind, but of course that’s not true, we know that, and that wouldn’t go as well as we’d like to think. And this is exactly what the leap between chapter 42 and 43 illustrates, from a high to a low in a blink of an eye, because Satoko couldn’t sate his hunger if he were to only feed on her to fuel his life.

This far he’d been fighting for scraps of attention and hints of affection, even illustrated in how he says "being asked so many questions by you makes me happy" even when the questions are about such sad things.

And then it doubles down with the possessivity and oh we see where this is going. Isolation and jealousy and violence. But this is where the supreme yandere writing enters!! They get to healthily confront it and deal with it, they are able to de-escalate!!! THEY DE-ESCALATED!!!

Firefly Wedding is a lot about balance, about hope vs facing reality, about obsession being bad vs care still being good, about running away from things while confronting others, about it being okay even if it’s a little bad or dishonorable, living in the past vs overthinking the future, leaving the past behind vs giving up on having a future, about compromising your health if it’s for the sake of living fully. About who gets to decide what you should do when and for what, and that counts your family, your lover and yourself too. Who gets to decide if you should die when and how and for what or who, if you’re allowed to cut your own finger for an oath or allowed to marry into a loveless political marriage like shackles, or marry into misery?

Satoko’s expressed it before too, sometimes Shinpei scares her, especially when he gets intense like this. But Satoko’s also had these very same thoughts, even if she has to abandon everything, maybe living on the island with Shinpei for the rest of her life would be better than to fight to get back home. Maybe a little wonderland of just the two of them, like the flower field, like the firefly lake, those unfiltered moments of the world’s beauty and inner peace, forevermore is what she wants. Maybe Shinpei is saying what she craves inside of her but knows herself is unattainable and based on unhealthy grounds, but what she craves nonetheless. The tension is high, how will she react? Push him away? Fold the knee?

But she sees herself reflected in his eye then. And she loves him. She loves him, and that’s why she knows she can’t let this go on. Because she cares about him.

Satoko refuses and we think it’s gonna get even worse. We think oh, the confession plans are so over. It’s gonna become a life or death chase or something now, like the fake-out when Shinpei felt "betrayed" by her and said he’d kill her except now the emotional dams are truly burst open.

LADIES GENTS AND PALS, EVERY ROMANCE’S LAST BOSS!!! COMMUNICATION!!! SUCCESS!!

And in her words you can hear how she’s already planning for her death, caring about how he’ll live after she’s gone. We’ve already had a very harsh wake up call with the mirror scene and it haunts us while reading just as much as it haunts Satoko, it haunts the whole narrative, it haunts the love. She’s doing Shinpei an ultimate selfless kindness with this consideration, reflected again and again in dialogue, also worried when she mentions how he has no attachment to life.

This is the beauty of Firefly Wedding as a yandere story, it’s about an obsessive lover who can’t handle the thought of their significant other not being there and the inevitability of that happening even in the best case scenario. About not delaying the inevitable but basking in the value of it while it’s there regardless, even if flawed even if fleeting. Both of them resigned to their own deaths and finding little worth in their lives, yet still making something out of them and fighting to have them be theirs. Their life, their death.

IT’S! THEM! BOTH!

Living as a zombie vs dying having felt alive.

It’s similar to the "If you don’t have a future then give it to me" -> "Live a good life, if not for yourself then for me" the story has played with before, but reframed once again as we grow one step closer to "if you can’t take care of yourself because you value your life, then maybe take care of yourself because you value your life with me".

So she tells him she loves him and everything is so great for a second before we go oh no. Oh no. Of course. How could I have forgotten. The abandonment issues!! The insecurities and paranoia mixing together into the possessivity soup!! The need for something to be material for it to be real, for it to be externalized to be able to trust it, and oh god he wants her pinky finger-

But the worst is avoided once again. Unlike many other stories of the like, this would have been a moment of full character regression for Shinpei, where all progress is lost and he becomes uncontrollably violent again, but no, there’s a key difference between Shinpei and those others, he cares. He has grown, and every turn for the worst was easily countered by openly talking.

How? It’s all only possible because he’s grown to truly value her words. To trust her. These chapters set up several times the conflict of "I don’t trust you saying good things about me", but that’s a him issue, that’s self-sabotage and self-defense jumping out when his trauma makes him hang onto her words like they’re life or death to him. The conflict is that he doesn’t trust her, but the resolution is that he does tust her.

He’s pitting his faith in her words against his instinctive lifelong fears and worldview beliefs, and her words are winning, because he’s allowing them to. Because he loves and trusts and values and cares about her. Having Satoko in his mind was supposed to make up for all the bad that could and would ever happen to him, the one shred of happiness that made it all worth it. It’d make up for all his past pain and fill the void his trauma left, but instead he fights it head on by himself, it’s his own strength from loving Satoko that fills that void, for his own sake. Love! Wins!

It’s so beautiful to see them learning how to love moment by moment throughout the story.

That’s definitely one of Firefly Wedding’s biggest strength and appeal I think. You can pinpoint in the character’s reaction the moment something clicks in them, the moment they realize something or when an emotion or fear kicks in, when a lesson is learned, all in just expression, body language and composition framing…

And this is our reward.

It is! It is healthier and happier than anything what Shinpei had asked for would have given! It’s getting better, beyond all of our wildest hopes!

Satoko got wet here to protect mere doodles representing her life plans with Shinpei, which isn’t exactly great for her health. Ultimately, on a small scale, risking herself for a very unimportant thing that however symbolizes something very important to her. I’ve had this thought before but it’s interesting to think of how Shinpei is literally bad for Satoko’s heart.

Besides the general stress of her situation or the time she chased after him out in the rain, I wonder if the jumpscares he regularly gives her by being naturally stealthy are physically bad for her… This might be something that won’t happen anymore, now that she has confessed and she isn’t as conscious around him anymore, but in the confession arc let’s call it, it was a very recurring gag. Stress is a natural part of life and can’t be avoided, and trying to extend your lifespan to the theoretical maximum is a risky unsatisfying game, so I’m wondering if that’s true in some ways… It’d go well with the manga’s themes I mentioned earlier, about how even if it isn’t the safest best bet you should embrace and pursue true love, and you should live your life fully and lively without overthinking. Sometimes knowingly potentially shortening your life for things that matter to you is worth it. He makes her heart beat, and is that truly such a bad thing?

Just before this we saw Shinpei give her his hand to help so her feet wouldn’t get wet. He wants to protect her fully, but we’ve seen several times how Satoko is ready to endanger herself for Shinpei, even jumping into the fray to shield him. He wants to protect her, sometimes from himself, because he loves her, but because she loves him she’ll always take the more dangerous path for the chance of him being alive and happy. The both of them lovingly selfless, and their wishes incompatible because of this. To marry or not to marry, how to marry, who to marry, for whose sake? What way to go about it would maximize the other’s happiness and the fullness of their life?

The red string of fate tying their pinkies together forevermore… Something doomed to be undone sooner or later, by circumstance or inadvertance or accident.

Reality crashes back in. Her health, her health, her health.

Reality crashes back in in ripples through the scene, and then one final wave when other characters walk into the new scene with something serious and ominous to discuss. Satoko and Shinpei are in a little make believe world of euphoria right now but the audience dreads for the reality of things. Satoko’s words talk of both living together forever, and of death, of living together forever until the end. Contradictory and irreconcilable you romanticize it into making sense.

The name of the chapter, "with you forever", is an impossible pipe dream of a lie. But that’s what Shinpei is hanging onto, and it’s all that Satoko wants.

And so they fantasize about the future and talk their daydreams into reality, making each other promises about eternal love and house plans, children and celebrations and domestic routines, about a life together they very might never get to have.

#They’ve got everything stacked against themmmm i need to see what next #firefly wedding #firefly marriage #hotaru no yomeiri #fumi rambles #Scene analysis #Spoilers #firefly wedding spoilers #Can’t believe we dodged a bullet with the miraculous wonder of: communication. Straight to god honest communication.#Trust in each other to have a talk and consider each other’s stances seriously wow #No wonder that other lady was jealous of their relationship damn

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