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munacy · 2 years ago

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Trials and Tribulations of Sorts

@wolfstarmicrofic

For the prompt: dubious

Cross-posted to ao3 with minor edits: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44490901

Remus Lupin is running an experiment.

That is the word he’s settled on, because this thing, this thing he’s doing has changed shape a few times now. But it’s gone on long enough, and he finds himself desperate for an explanation.

It had started like this:

Remus had moved into Sirius’ flat straight after Hogwarts. It had not taken as much cajoling as one might expect. He agreed with Sirius that it was practical, and, beyond that, he relished the idea of always being near his best friend. Not that he would ever admit that. Not very manly.

Constantly being in each other’s company was fine. Actually, no, it was not fine, it was lovely. They tried wines together (James made fun of them endlessly for it). They told each other scary stories after dark (Remus’ were terrifying, Sirius’ were goofy). Sirius would come home from work exhausted and ranting, and Remus would commiserate with him over whatever new and awful thing That Bitch Geraldine had done. Remus would study old Arithmancy tomes late into the night for his fellowship, and Sirius would keep him quiet company until he inevitably fell asleep slumped over Remus’ desk and Remus would tentatively stroke his hair.

They made each other tea and coffee in the morning, and Remus would sit on one end of the sofa with a novel, and Sirius would sprawl out on the other end, holding a crossword, and sometimes the very tip of Sirius’ socked foot would be touching Remus’ thigh, and that would make Remus’ heart start to beat like a hummingbird’s wings and cause him all manner of confusion, but that, too, was lovely.

That was not the issue. The issue was that they didn’t know how to cook.

Cleaning was fine, after a rocky start. Mrs. Potter gave them a battered copy of Basic Household Spells and thereafter they lived in a state of comfortably cluttered cleanliness.

Cooking, however, was far more advanced, and in many ways, magical cooking was trickier and more dangerous than the Muggle way. Sirius, being a lazy aristocrat, gave it up as a bad job. Remus gave a few halfhearted attempts, but found that his lack of aptitude for potions was well-translated to cooking, much to his (and his stomach’s) misfortune. They survived largely on takeout until Remus put his foot down.

I can learn how to cook, he thought to himself, It’s unbecoming for a man to be so helpless.

So he made an omelet. A horrible, horrible omelet. It was clear upon first bite that the flavor was completely wrong, parts of the egg were runny and parts of it were somehow burnt, and there was more than a little shell crunching between his teeth. It was the worst omelet anyone had ever eaten in history.

“Wow, delicious, Moons!”

Remus turned to glare at him, assuming Sirius was taking the piss. But no, Sirius was wolfing the omelet down, eggshell and all, and giving him a heartbreaking smile.

What the fuck? Maybe because he’s a dog, he likes eggshells, he had thought wonderingly.

Thus began the experimentation.

Formulation of Research Question

Remus starts cooking with regularity, each time deeply curious about Sirius’ reaction. He tries his hand at simple pastas, curries, stir fries, and more. He fails spectacularly in new and creative ways each time. One time, he causes a small fire.

No one could possibly enjoy this, he thinks resolutely, making great effort to continue chewing his rubbery half-burnt roast chicken.

And yet, Sirius does. Or pretends to, if his pained smile is anything to go by. The mystery turns Remus to frustrated musings.

Why is he pretending?

Characterizing the Phenomenon

He decides to see how far he can take this.

The scholar in him claims that he’s simply trying to gather as much evidence as possible. But, honestly, he’s just pranking Sirius. It’s fun.

Every day, despite having limited free time, he spends an hour or more making increasingly dubious and varied entrees. He makes a Shepherd’s Pie and purposely forgets the gravy and cheese. He dumps half of shaker of salt into a dehydrated mushroom risotto. He grills steaks that achieve accolades far beyond the pale of a mere “well done”.

Possibly the biggest insult occurs the day he prepares a beautiful-looking coq au vin, a classic French dish for his classic French friend who was bred with classic French cooking, with Moscato instead of a dry red wine.

“Oh, Moony, now this looks incredible!” Sirius crows with real enthusiasm. Remus leers at him as he takes a bite. And waits.

“Just as I thought,” says Sirius, a little weakly. He would have sounded normal to anyone else, but Remus knows him far better. The next part he says much more warmly, earnestly: “I hope you never stop cooking for me.”

Controlled Trials

Remus has a theory. He has a theory, and it’s one that makes his stomach flip inside-out (no, no, in a way that is completely unrelated to his godawful cooking), makes his heart pound, and deliciously terrifies him. A theory supported by the way Sirius has become his favorite food critic, but also in other ways.

It’s the way Sirius looks at him after full moons, like he’s hurting just as badly. It’s the way Sirius surprises him with his favorite chocolates (the ones with the surprise salted-caramel center). It’s the way Sirius helps Remus up the stairs with an arm tenderly around his waist when he’s had too much wine, and, after Remus is under the covers of his bed, the way Sirius’ hands rest on his forearms for a few moments too long, like he doesn’t want to leave.

He has this theory that’s driving him insane with sleepless nights. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it’s correct.

But first, he needs more evidence.

Trial #1:

They are having friends over for dinner, as adults, or those pretending, are wont to do.

Remus is cooking.

He is making a classic Indian dish: masala dosa. He does not ferment the batter—he considers that to be a friendly suggestion by the recipe. He does not touch a single bottle of spice. He considers those friendly suggestions too. It is the worst dish he’s ever made.

As they dine, Lily attempts to be discreet about her gagging. It is not discreet. Peter frowns outright and slowly pushes away his plate. And James....well James is tearing into him.

“How dare you!” James spits with a vitriol that’s never before been directed been directed at Remus. “Moony, you weirdly insisted on cooking for all of us, and it’s like you tried to make it awful and disrespect my ancestors. My mum used to make masala dosa for Sirius and I whenever we were off term as a special treat, did you know that? It’s our favorite food and you fucking butchered it.”

Remus feels a bit bad, but not very. Effie Potter is alive and well, and soon enough, will surely make her darling little princelings food so delicious, it will wipe away any memory of Remus’ nightmare dinner party. Instead he looks at Sirius across the table, who has been staring at him this whole time.

“Padfoot? What did you think?”

“Well...Jamie, I get why it’s not your cup of tea,” Sirius starts haltingly, “it’s very different from Effie’s recipe...but also very unique. I loved it.”

Everyone stares at Sirius, who, by all means, looks guileless.

Later, no one can figure out why, after being told in no uncertain terms by three of his closest friends that his dish unequivocally sucked, Remus is grinning so broadly.

Trial #2:

“Lily, please.”

“No. Why would anyone want this?”

“Lily,” Remus pleads, “You’re my best friend.”

She raises a red brow at him.

“Best girl friend,” he amends.

She sighs. “Just tell me why you would possibly want this. I’ll be so embarrassed if I do this.”

Remus bites his lip. “I can’t tell you. But I really need this. There’s a good reason for it and I promise it’s not a prank.”

“Certainly not. Pranks have a punchline.”

“Please? I never ask you for anything.”

“Remus, that is not even remotely true.”

Sensing he is losing, he attempts to recreate Padfoot’s signature puppy eyes.

“Urghh! Alright, I’ll do it if you stop doing whatever it is you’re doing; it looks like it hurts.”

She invites everyone over for dinner, as adults, such as Lily, who was born with an adult-brain, are wont to do.

She follows a steak and kidney pie recipe that Remus had insisted on her using. Only, instead of using kidney, she uses nearly raw whale liver. The liver is swimming in a revolting pool of its own juices. When interrogated about this later, she blinks innocently, saying, “I thought the organs were interchangeable?”

Remus is too tense to eat as he listens to the plates being set down. Barely a moment passes before Sirius’ voice is booming: “EVANS! What the fuck is this!? It tastes like dogshit! I would know!”

Remus’ heart explodes with joy.

Trial #3:

The definition of insanity, some have said, is doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. Remus wonders if there’s any folksy wisdom about doing something differently every single time and always achieving the same result.

A month after the Liver-Pool fiasco, Sirius sits across from Remus at their little dining room table, his face lit up by dancing candlelight—candles lit by Remus—a small smile playing about his mouth as he eats dinner, dinner that Remus has cooked.

“It’s delicious, Moony. As usual. I’ve missed these dinners with you.” Sirius’ mouth twists sadly as if recalling the past month of Remus’ unusual absences and nausea-free meals.

“Padfoot...I made paella with popcorn shrimp, anchovies, and basil...and you think it’s delicious?”

Sirius gapes for a moment but recovers: “I do! I think it’s unusual but wonderful...I like…things like that.”

Sirius takes a seemingly nervous gulp of his red wine (purposely paired incorrectly).

“Sirius,” Remus says softly, “Are you in love with me?”

Sirius chokes on his wine and it spills all over his trousers. Alarmed, Remus runs over, slapping Sirius’ back as he coughs violently. Only, in the process, he upsets more of the wine in Sirius’ hand, causing Remus to leap, grab a kitchen towel, and rub it roughly all over Sirius’ stained thighs. He jolts the moment he realizes exactly what he’s doing. Sirius is staring down at his kneeling form with wide eyes. Both of their cheeks are flushed a lovely port color.

Catching his breath after his coughing fit, Sirius whispers, “Why would you ask me such a thing?”

“Because,” he whispers as well, even though his throat should be in perfect condition, “you keep pretending to like my awful food.”

Sirius sputters. “You’re a great cook! I like your food!”

“Pads, absolutely no one likes my food,” Remus murmurs gently but firmly. “No one.”

Sirius’ eyes suddenly become over-bright. He says nothing.

“Listen...if you did...love me,” Remus says slowly, trying to deliberate his words, “Honestly, that would be...fine. That would be fine.”

“’Fine’?” Sirius mutters bitterly. Now his tears really do spill over. Remus catches them with his thumbs on instinct...and leaves his palms on either side of Sirius’ face.

“No,” he swallows decisively. “Not fine. That would be lovely. That would be the most lovely, wonderous thing that has ever happened or will ever happen to me, and I’d be—just—Sirius, I’d be so happy.”

Hope and disbelief war on Sirius’ face.

“I’m serious,” Remus insists, uncurling out of his kneeling position to stand over him.

“No, you’re Remus, I’m--”

He stamps his lovely wine-stained mouth with a hard kiss, both hands desperately clutching Sirius’ face. Sirius immediately curls his fingers into Remus’ hair and pulls him in closer by his shirtfront. His mouth opens, and Remus thinks deliriously, Oh God. God, that’s his tongue and he tastes like basil and red wine and magic.

One of his hands trails down to clutch at the very top of Sirius’ thigh and Sirius lets out a funny, tiny, little sound, and it makes Remus smile against his mouth. They’re panting when they finally break apart.

“I have something to confess,” Remus begins breathlessly. “I’ve learned to cook, at least a few things, that are really good now. That’s where I’ve been all month, at the Potter’s, trying to learn some of the dishes you grew up with. I’ve got masala dosa keeping warm in the oven, and it’s actually good this time, I promise. Effie showed me how.”

Sirius stares at him. “That’s a good thing, Moony, because your cooking was truly atrocious.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, utter dogshit.”

“I know.”

“Paella without any saffron? Who does that?”

“I know.”

Sirius hesitates. “I still love you madly though.”

Remus smiles shyly. “I know. I love you madly, too.”

FIN

#wolfstar #wolfstar microfic #microfic #LOL is it really tho??#this got away from me #sorry #fluff #fluff and humor #cooking #dubious #masala dosa #shepherds pie #mushroom risotto #coq au vin #well done steak #steak and kidney pie #seafood paella #i had so much fun figuring out how to screw up all of the wonderful and classic dishes

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kinncman · 4 years ago

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A LIST OF PLOTLESS TOWN RP-FRIENDLY CHARACTER IDEAS & CONNECTIONS INSPIRED BY MOVIES! (PART 1)

click here for part two.

i collected a couple of plot ideas from some of the movies i thought had interesting stories or characters that i hope can help you with your applications / character connections. please note that a lot of these are, by no means, the actual plots of the films and are only inspired by them. i’ve taken the liberty of making a couple of edits for them to be ‘plotless town rp-friendly’. also, i would’ve separated them by category (platonic, romantic, familial, etc.) but tbh a lot of these can be taken in any way so feel free to put your own spin on them, too, or even make combinations!

trigger warnings: nothing too specific, but there are light mentions of death, road accident, infidelity, illness, injury, drug addiction.

now, without further ado:

BAY OF ANGELS // muse a met muse b on a vacation several years ago, brought together because they were both from the same home country and realized that they were traveling to run away from something. muse a came to learn that this wasn’t muse b’s first rodeo, and where this was the first time that muse a had tried to run away from their problems, muse b had been running for most of their life. muse b initially wished to emulate the same free-spirited, high-risk-high-reward principles that muse a lived by. however, muse b started to display totally erratic behavior that prompted muse a to question whether they were making the right choices. eventually, they went home. jump to present day where they meet again in their home country— muse b has toned down somewhat due to a traumatic event (a hard lesson to learn for them) meanwhile, muse a’s life remains the same cycle of events they can’t seem to break free from.

CLEO FROM 5 TO 7 // muse a suspects they are sick but refuses to go to the doctor to have it checked. most of their days are plagued with this feeling of doom enshrouding them, causing them to have a general distaste for life. they meet muse b who has profoundly positive disposition towards life. their company helps muse a to come to terms with the fact that perhaps their illness is something they should deal with. with muse b’s help, muse a starts to find meaning in death.

HAPPY OLD YEAR // muse a left town / the country for college, leaving behind all their friends and family, cutting all ties in a heartbeat, only to come back several years later a completely changed person who subscribes to the idea of minimalism and wants to get rid of all the clutter in their life, material or otherwise. this brings them to reconnect with muse b (and a variety of other muses if the mun wishes) when they find their old belongings and return them in order to be ‘minimalist’ and get rid of all the garbage in their home, which means getting rid of memories, too. however, muse b, who has now moved on from muse a and is with someone else, isn’t too pleased with having muse a back in their life. muse a is desperate to find the closure that muse b isn’t giving them, primarily because muse b knows that muse a is after starting over on a clean slate only to clear their conscience and not to make amends.

YI-YI: A ONE AND A TWO // muse a and muse b were each other’s first and greatest loves but are currently married to other people. when they are reunited through a chance encounter, they decide that it’s better to have each other in their lives as friends than not at all. they realize they still do have feelings for each other but because of their spouses, know that they can never be anything else other than friends. thus begins a journey of trying to bring their old selves back into the light as new people.

MIKEY AND NICKY // muse a and muse b are best friends since childhood. muse a is neurotic, childish, and wildly impulsive, and often has to depend on muse b to get them out of trouble only to show very little gratitude for it, much to muse b’s chagrin. in fact, muse b often finds themself thrown under the bus in muse a’s favor, though it’s not entirely muse a’s fault: muse b is an enabler. however, muse b can’t quite seem to quit muse a (either because they love the feeling of being needed and there’s no one who needs them more than muse a or maybe they’ve been in love with muse a since childhood— or both) until a certain event causes muse b to question whether they are healthy for each other at all.

IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE // muse a and muse b are neighbors, both living with their significant others. both muse a and muse b often see each other in the hallways or share an elevator up to their apartment when they come home from work. maybe they even carpool sometimes. however, they spare very little in the way of words until one day, muse a breaks down while drunk and admits that they think their partner is cheating on them. in an attempt to comfort them, muse b reveals that they think the same thing of their own partner. desperate for answers, they conduct an investigation until they realize that their partners are cheating on them with each other. muse a and muse b become each other’s support system, as they try to coach each other through an impending breakup all the while realizing that they might be developing feelings for each other and must now choose between indulging their feelings or deny themselves the hypocrisy.

TAKE THIS WALTZ // muse a meets muse b on a trip out of town and they instantly connect. they share the same flight back home and even a cab ride from the airport. however, they soon realize that muse b is muse a’s new neighbor, which makes things plenty awkward considering how a) they’ve been borderline flirty the whole time and b) muse a is married to someone who they now consider to be far less interesting in comparison to muse b. regardless, once they’ve recognized a mutual attraction with each other, muse a demands for muse b to keep their distance, only to keep running into each other everywhere, much to muse a’s chagrin.

LAST LIFE IN THE UNIVERSE // muse a is witness to a terrible road accident involving a pedestrian. muse a takes the pedestrian and their sibling, muse b to the hospital where muse b’s sibling is declared dead on arrival. despite being total strangers, muse a stays with muse b through the entire process. eventually, muse a takes muse b home but muse a refuses to let muse b leave, claiming they don’t want to be left alone in the house that they previously shared with their now deceased sibling. having money troubles of their own and on the brink of an eviction, muse a ends up staying with muse b not just for the night but for the week until they get comfortable enough with each other that muse b invites muse a to officially live with them to help with their financial problems, but mostly because they don’t know how to handle their grief alone.

THE FALL // muse a is in an outpatient physical rehabilitation facility after suffering from a near-fatal injury when they meet muse b. the pair are polar opposites in terms of their attitudes towards recovery: where muse a is more hopeful, muse b only throws pity parties for themself considering that this injury might prevent them from fully getting back to doing what they love. despite this, the two form an unlikely bond where muse b is completely enthralled with muse a, who tells them stories about their travels and their career and all the amazing things they’ve done, without realizing until they’re in too deep that they are all fabricated versions of the truth and muse b falls for every single one of them. what started as little white lies becomes a source of anxiety for muse a when the lies just get bigger and bigger.

COLUMBUS // muse a is a young, aspiring [insert career here] but to pursue this passion, they must leave their hometown, which they have constantly been refusing to do despite the numerous opportunities having been presented to them on account of the fear that no one else is going to take care of their mother (who, in the movie, is a recovering drug addict but it can be for any reason or relative in this case). muse b’s father is a well-known [insert career that muse a wants here] and is in town to hold a lecture/exhibit/performance/etc etc depending on the career, but then he suffers from a stroke. muse b, despite being estranged from their father for having been scrutinized by the man for most of their life, is forced to come to town and take care of him being their closest living relative. they meet muse a by chance, only to learn shortly after that they are a huge fan of muse b’s parent’s work. having spent their whole life in this town, muse a becomes muse b’s tour guide of sorts, while inadvertently helping each other come to terms with their relationship with their parents and how they can be kinder to themselves.

SECRET SUNSHINE // after their spouse’s passing, muse a moves from the big city to their spouse’s much, much smaller hometown so they can raise their child there. they meet all of the important figures of their spouse’s childhood including muse b, a local shopkeeper and an old friend of their spouse’s, who, despite muse a’s reluctance, helps them adjust to small town life. the pair eventually closer to each other and muse a to their spouse as they find out more about who they were before they met.

THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU // (originally lgbtqia+ and written about older characters with grown children, but make of this plot what u will, tbh) muse a and muse b are best friends. both married, both with grown kids. muse a’s spouse died a long time ago so they’ve had plenty of time to help muse b take care of their spouse in the couple of months leading to that spouse’s death. in the process, the pair have grown intimate (with muse b’s spouse’s knowledge— in fact, they encouraged muse a to ‘take care’ of muse b in the event of their passing and wouldn’t trust anyone else to do so) but haven’t told their families yet in fear of what they might think of them given their age and how they’re basically uncles/aunts to each other’s children.

#rpc #rph #rp help #writing help #plot ideas #inspo #*

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bb8sworld · 4 years ago

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— litoreus, part i

pairing: god of the sea!obi-wan kenobi x reader

word count: 7k (*sweats nervously*)

a/n: greetings, and welcome to the first part of my new series! i don’t know how better to summarize this story than by saying that kara (@karasong) said “neptune is a dilf” then val (@milleniumvalcon) said a statue of poseidon looked like obi-wan, and it spiraled from there. so many thanks to the discord for the idea of this poseidon!obi au.

-- ☆ -- ☆ -- ☆ -- ☆ --

Destiny. Fate. Will. Luck. Fortune. Chance. Predestination.

Words Obi-Wan Kenobi was intimately familiar with in a multitude of different tongues, languages, dialects, and scripts. Words that have altered in connotation throughout history but have remained steadfast in their use. Words that he didn’t believe in but knew nonetheless. As someone who has been around as long as he has, and as someone who knows the inner workings of the universe and was created shortly after it’s conception, he’s aware that the ideas of Fate and Destiny were innately… human. Something clung onto by ordinary people who dwelled on the Earth and needed reassurance for an occurrence in their lives or ideas blamed for any wrongdoing that came their way.

No, Obi-Wan Kenobi didn’t believe in Fate, Destiny, Fortune, or whatever other terms may be used to describe these phenomena. Everything had an order, everything had a purpose, and things didn’t happen “by chance” or “just because.” They happened because they were supposed to, not because some outside force separate from the godly beings decided to intervene. As a godly being himself, he thinks he would know if there were outside forces beyond him and his fellow gods having any say in the universe.

One of the many perks of being a god, he supposed.

Being a god was tricky business, and it was a job that often didn’t pay in kind. From his very creation, Obi-Wan had struggled with this role of his, from who he was, who he was meant to be, and how he was supposed to act.

Despite being named Obi-Wan Kenobi upon “birth,” he has gone by a plethora of different names throughout his immortal life thus far—such as Olokun, Lir, Hapi, Poseidon, Neptune, Enbilulu, and Njord, just to name a few. So many names to describe one being who ruled, guarded, and protected the seas and oceans. Each one attuned to the civilization in which the name originated from, but all converging together to describe the same god. And from it came an outpouring of love and awe. It was flattering, to say the least, that humans at one point cared so much about him that they would craft pieces of artwork dedicated to him. Or how they would construct temples of worship for him so that they might have a place to pray for safe voyages, either for themselves or loved ones. It made him feel good and loved and appreciated and a whole litany of positive affirmations that humans use to describe this gooey feeling nestled within him.

Obi-Wan loved to help humanity and had always been infatuated with them—their cultures, lifestyles, relationships, emotions, everything. And any time he helped, he got to learn a little bit more about what made humans so human. Sometimes when he did intervene in their matters and was praised for it, he couldn’t help but wonder if that was what it felt like to be human. To be loved, appreciated, adored, wanted.

But being a god wasn’t always so pleasant and flattering.

Sometimes, if a storm churned in the ocean and caused a shipwreck, his name would be cursed at in such hatred and despair as grief overtook the humans. It stung and was incredibly painful to hear, but unfortunately, he didn’t always have control over those situations. Whenever this happened, he would wonder if the feelings he felt were the same ones humans did in response to these occurrences—unloved, hated, disgusted, guilty, remorseful.

Obi-Wan really, truly wanted to take suffering away from the very humans who had fascinated him for centuries, but that’s not the way the universe works. Matters of life and death were not his jurisdiction, even if either of these happened in the blue waves below. It fell to the god of the underworld who was the overseer of death, so therefore Obi-Wan’s hands were tied. He only had control over the voyage's journey, not the destination of the passengers, meaning he was often forced to watch as lives were taken at sea and his name was sworn against in wrath.

But like with all things brought to the attention of humanity, people move on. And unfortunately for Obi-Wan, as times changed and new beliefs gained traction, that meant humans moved on from their old ways and religions—from the other gods and from him.

Despite his presence once being well-known and called upon in times of need and worship and gratitude, his importance dwindled in the eyes of the humans until he was all but nonexistent. His very being and all his life’s work were boiled down to a name that was somehow both him yet not him, written offhandedly in a history textbook for children to be aware of for a test but to forget immediately afterward. His life became a story sometimes told in a mythology book or two, often censored and abridged for audiences to “understand better.” He became a name people were familiar with but knew little about.

And so humanity had moved on from him, but he hadn’t moved on from humanity.

He was still endlessly intrigued by everything they were about and everything they had to offer, but because of his godly status, he never dared to go down and explore for himself, despite other gods having done so for one reason or another. And every day he was a little more tempted to go down and see what was new and exciting. Every time he saw another god leave to head down, he got a little bit closer to asking if he could join.

That being said, he did stay connected where he could. Throughout all of human history, art had been made in his name, and sometimes he would clear his mind and connect to those works as he did back in the ancient days and listen in on what was being said. Sometimes he caught snippets of stories from those who stood nearby. Sometimes he heard tales of his own life being taught to a younger generation in museums. But it had been a long time since he heard anyone talk to him. And despite his lack of belief in Fate or Destiny or whatever you wanted to call it, he couldn’t help but wish for the times to change and for one person to talk to him instead of about him. He wished that someone would answer his pathetic call and just talk to him.

So imagine his surprise when one day someone picked up.

At first, he thought it to be an accident. No way had someone genuinely believed he was real and manifested the powers to protect them when they traveled at sea, nor had someone directly contacted him in years for any reason. With all the new methods of transportation and exploration in the seas and oceans, most people went on those devices willingly without saying a quick prayer to him for the waters to be safe. Which was fine, really. He knew his place. Doesn’t mean he didn’t feel a little pang of hurt every time he saw a cruise ship head out or people go boating or children learn how to canoe.

But no… this call was different. It wasn’t a history lesson, or someone singing to themselves near a statue of him, or just some background clutter. No, this one felt different. And so, Obi-Wan sat on the floor of his room, closed his eyes, and began to slip into a meditative state in order to hear the call better.

“—maybe… we hang the light a foot more to the right? And tilt it just a tiny bit backward… there. Perfect! Look at you, Poseidon—or do you prefer Neptune—whatever, it doesn’t matter. But look at you, all cleaned up, restored, illuminated, and ready to go on display when the exhibit opens tomorrow. Let’s hope the visitors appreciate you in your polished state. Are you ready?”

Ah, so a new exhibit was going up featuring, presumably, a statue of him made by one of the ancient Greeks or Romans he oversaw so many centuries ago. He was about to tune out the voice and slip out of his meditative state when the voice picked up again.

“—god I must sound crazy. Just look at me, talking to a statue of a god who doesn’t even exist.” A beat. “I wish you did though, you seem like you’d be better company than some of the other people around here. Wishful thinking, eh, Neptune? Or… Poseidon… ugh, this is what happens when it’s an ancient Greek and Roman exhibit, there are too many double names—”

And off the voice went on a tangent about finishing up illuminating each of the iconic pieces of artwork and organizing pamphlets about the new exhibit in the information stands. From the sounds of it, the person behind the voice presumably worked at some museum where a new exhibit of him and the other gods in his life was being put together.

Maybe… maybe he could go down and visit it sometime. At least to see the art he hadn’t seen in many years. And if he happened to stumble across the worker with the voice he just tuned into, then he’d consider that a happy accident despite that very claim going against his beliefs about Fate. But how could he head down from his home in the clouds without raising suspicion among the other gods? He was notorious for keeping his distance once humanity forgot him, instead preferring to observe from afar and rejecting any offers to head down to the land.

The answer came in the form of Anakin Skywalker—also known as Camulus, Svetovid, Teutates, Ares, Mars, Odin, and Montu, to name a few—the god of war and the manifestation of the spirit of battle. He was a frequent visitor of the land and was undoubtedly Obi-Wan’s best friend. Not to mention, he regularly asked Obi-Wan to join him in hopes of getting him “out of his hermit lifestyle and back to the land of the living,” to quote Anakin, but Obi-Wan had either made excuses or flat out rejected his offer. But maybe it was high time he said yes.

With his plan in mind, now all he had to do was wait for Anakin to approach him and ask. And sure enough, just a few earth days later, Anakin showed up outside of Obi-Wan’s room with a cheeky smile on his face and a “ready to be done with being a recluse?” comment as expected. And though Anakin wouldn’t ever admit it to Obi-Wan’s face, Obi-Wan could see the true concern reflecting in his eyes alongside the expectation of getting rejected. Typically, there would be a pain in his eyes following each rejection, likely stemming from the wedge that sat between them because, for all that they were best friends—brothers even—they didn’t always see eye-to-eye on godly matters. From this came the worry that always sat at the corner of every conversation because Obi-Wan (admittedly so) had been self-isolating from humanity and became a stickler for following the rules of the gods. Contrast that to Anakin who was laxer in his ways and open to embracing his feelings and attachments.

But that concern and pain would end today. Obi-Wan was tired of feeling sorry for himself and hiding away up here and being lonely despite never actually being alone.

He was ready for adventure again.

And so, it was with a resounding sigh and faked exasperation that he said, “Oh, alright.”

If he took a little pleasure in being able to cause such a shocked facial expression on Anakin’s face, then that was for him to know. Though, it was a moment later when Anakin’s face split into a wide grin that he felt any lingering doubts about going down to earth dissipate. Yes, this was the right choice. If not for himself, then for his relationship with Anakin.

The act of getting down to earth was a rather easy task consisting of exiting through a golden archway that teleported them to a location of their choosing. Obi-Wan hopped on Anakin’s coordinates and the two reappeared in a forest Obi-Wan was unfamiliar with, the lights and sounds of a nearby town being their guide on the trek.

Before stepping into the hustle and bustle of the town, Anakin and Obi-Wan had “normalized” themselves from their usual glowing, almost angelic appearance into something more humane and easily looked over, particularly nondescript and unassuming, using the powers they possessed. The less attention they brought to themselves, the better. It was safer not to risk the chance of revealing themselves. Back in historic and ancient times, it was more common for them to fall into crowds of people undercover and interact, getting to know and understand the circumstances humanity faced up close and personal instead of from a distance. But that had all changed once Obi-Wan, Anakin, and the fellow gods above all became characters in a history book.

Nonetheless, Obi-Wan treasured this one act of using his powers for fun instead of remaining dormant and simply controlling the seas in the same patterns and cycles. He looked over at Anakin, wanting to see if he was ready to head into the streets, when he was surprised to see Anakin’s eyes already looking his way, a smug smile tugging at his lips.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighed, exasperation smothering the very word, “What is it?”

“Finally decided on getting a haircut?” Anakin replied, laughter playing on the edge of the question. Obi-Wan rolled his eyes at the question. Yes, usually when he came down to earth he sported a longer hairstyle—a godly mullet, as Anakin oh so lovingly called it, business in the front and the only fun you know how to have in the back—but times had changed, and Obi-Wan had figured it was time for him to as well, at least a little bit. So he did. It was less of a haircut and more of the decision to manifest with shorter hair, unlike a certain someone standing next to him who had apparently decided the opposite.

“Strong words coming from someone who’s sporting a mullet themselves,” he quipped back, turning his attention forward and beginning the trek to the town. Affronted was the only word to describe how Anakin reacted, cemented in his shock, before he shook out of his state and rushed to catch up with his friend, secretly happy to see Obi-Wan engaging in their familiar back-and-forth.

“It is not a mullet, Obi-Wan,” Anakin refuted. “It’s stylish and helps me blend in.”

Obi-Wan gives a quiet hmm in acknowledgment before replying, “Whatever you say, Anakin.”

And so the trek continued until they found themselves in a bustling town with car horns honking, people shoving themselves through crowds, and bright lights illuminating around them. It was both entirely overwhelming yet hauntingly intriguing. For as much as he wanted to look away from the circus before him, Obi-Wan couldn’t stop admiring and absorbing all the information thrown at him. Of course he was aware of how the earth and humanity had progressed from his perch in the clouds, but while it’s one thing to hear and know of something, it’s another thing to witness and experience that which you had heard so much about.

Through his daze, he’s just barely able to keep up with Anakin as they take to the sidewalks, Anakin walking in an apparent familiar cadence as if he already knows where he’s heading and knows the trek well. Perhaps there’s a destination Anakin frequents on his jaunts down to earth? Maybe Obi-Wan should’ve asked what Anakin had in mind before he agreed to this excursion, but it’s too little too late for that now. But still, asking the destination of their slightly fast walking couldn’t hurt, right?

“You know, Anakin,” he starts, “You never told me where you were intending for us to go today.”

“Oh,” Anakin flounders for a moment, as if not expecting the question. Curious. “I, uh, well I figured we’d go to the local art museum.”

“Really?” Obi-Wan is unconvinced, but plays along anyway, only the slightest bit of suspicion seeping into his tone.

“Well… I know you love learning and appreciating the more—how do you phrase it?—refined and civilized things in life,” Anakin jokes, “So I figured we could go to an art museum together.”

Well wasn’t that just the shock of the century. Art museums were far from Anakin’s usual environment. Why? Anakin was loud, brash, and impulsive, constantly itching to go out and meet action head-on, act now think later, a complete contrast to the usually quiet, serene, and contemplative nature that art museums held dear. And for all that Obi-Wan loved Anakin, there were certain environments he would never dare to be with him, art museums being one of them. But, considering Obi-Wan had agreed to join and Anakin actually seemed somewhat eager to go, he figured he could indulge Anakin just this once.

Besides, Obi-Wan figured there must’ve been some ulterior motive at play here, and if he played his cards right, he could figure it out.

“An art museum?” he asks casually, hoping maybe he’ll get a hint of this mysterious motive.

But Anakin immediately picks up on the slight curiosity in his words. “Yeah, why? You don’t want to go?”

“No, I wouldn’t mind going, I just didn’t know you’d be interested in that.”

“Well, people change, Obi-Wan. Maybe I’ve taken a page from your book and learned how to be stuffy and grandfatherly.”

Rude, Obi-Wan muses, but an unlikely story. He leaves it at that and instead asks Anakin what else he had on the itinerary for the day as they walk toward the museum. Apparently, the art museum is the highlight of the day, though Anakin does promise that if Obi-Wan would be open to indulging in human food—something that honestly means nothing to them because they can’t be satisfied on non-godly food—there’s a cafe not too far from the museum that they can hang out and people watch at. All-in-all, not a bad day. Could’ve been way worse given how differently he and Anakin define “a fun day out.”

Eventually, they do make it to the art museum in one piece, and Obi-Wan immediately takes note of how quaint it looks against the glamour of the surrounding town. Less bright colors and flashes of light on the exterior but still a commanding presence with its masonry that almost demands you to look at it and compels you to go inside.

They stand in the queue to get tickets and go inside, but once they do, Anakin starts walking off before Obi-Wan can even grab a map of the museum. He manages to snag one and just barely finds Anakin in the crowd of the entry foyer, leaving Obi-Wan to trail behind a couple of feet once he catches up as Anakin guides him to the Medieval and Renaissance art exhibit. They’re only a few feet inside the exhibit when someone calls out “Ani!” and the two whip their heads around in-sync to the sound of the voice, a chorus of shushing surrounding them.

It’s a short woman who approaches the pair, a charming smile on her lips and a glint in her eyes. She immediately goes to embrace Anakin and Obi-Wan thinks: ah, ulterior motive discovered. He looks at her professional attire, the low but elegant bun her brown hair is in, and the name tag he just barely caught a glimpse of and easily deduces that she must be a staff member here. Maybe once the two finally release each other Obi-Wan can say his greetings and find out more.

Luckily, she seems to be the sensible one between the two and releases Anakin after making eye contact with Obi-Wan, as if just now realizing that Anakin came with company. She tries to be blasé about the overly friendly interaction with Anakin by plowing forward in her introduction, holding her hand out for a handshake. Very interesting, indeed.

“I’m Padmé Amidala, one of the curators for this exhibit in the museum. You must be one of Anakin’s friends,” she greets. Obi-Wan takes her hand and gives it a slight shake. Her grip is firm but not tight, giving just enough of her away for him to understand that she is a person to be respected and in awe of but not feared. It’s easy to begin understanding how her dynamic with Anakin works.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Oh, so you’re the famous Obi-Wan. Anakin has told me so much about you.” Obi-Wan gives a side-eyed glance to Anakin, noting the innocent expression he wears and wondering just how much he’s revealed to Padmé.

“Interesting, he hasn’t mentioned you at all,” Obi-Wan responds, giving them both a teasing smile in some semblance of reassurance that he isn’t offended by this fact.

However, Obi-Wan can feel the lingering hesitation and slight nerves radiating off of Anakin, which is an unsurprising development. Gods aren’t meant to have deep bonds with humans. Loose friendships are typically accepted with only slight frowns, but once it strays into a tight-knit bond and attachments form, especially romantic ones, they’re frowned upon greatly. And between the two of them, Anakin is less of a stickler for the rules, instead preferring to live by his own interpretations and caveats to the rules—which means Obi-Wan knows that Anakin fears this friendship of his with Padmé will be scrutinized and berated.

Which… okay, is a valid concern considering Obi-Wan’s devotion to the rules, but Obi-Wan hates to be a snitch on his best friend. And as long as he doesn’t witness any actions that would confirm a more serious relationship, particularly romantic, Obi-Wan is willing to turn his eye to the obvious heart eyes and lingering touches the two share. Can’t tattle if there’s room for doubt and question.

He just hopes Anakin knows this himself. And he especially hopes that Anakin hasn’t told Padmé that he’s a god.

He decides to shake off these thoughts and turn the conversation to safer territory to try and ease Anakin some. “So, Padmé, I take it you work here. What is it that you do?”

Immense relief hits him like a tidal wave from Anakin with happiness trailing behind like seafoam as the wave recedes. Not wanting to make any open comments about Anakin’s feelings and potentially clue Padmé into their more than human nature, he settles for a quick moment of eye contact before focusing back on Padmé.

“I’m one of the museum curators here,” she confirms, “I mainly specialize with art in the Medieval and Renaissance exhibit as well as our Impressionist pieces.” She pauses to size him up, silently scrutinizing him and his reactions. Whatever it is she finds must satisfy her, because she continues as if nothing happened, “Have you been here before, Obi-Wan? We recently got some new pieces on loan from some collectors and other museums that are worth checking out.”

“This is my first time, actually,” Obi-Wan starts before Anakin jumps in, quick on his verbal heels, “Right! And I was going to show him around. Make sure he visits the highlights at least.”

Instantly Padmé’s face drops ever so slightly at the idea of this conversation ending and her parting from Anakin, but she composes herself well. But Obi-Wan would be blind not to notice Anakin’s disappointment too, so he decides to take matters into his own hands and says, “Though I’m more than capable of wandering on my own if you’d rather stay and chat with Padmé, Anakin.”

“Are you sure, Obi-Wan? I was the one who invited you out after all—”

“Nonsense, I’ll be more than fine on my own. Maybe then I’ll actually get to appreciate the art and read the descriptions like the grandfather you think I am,” he jokes. “I’ll meet you back by the entrance in a couple hours. Pleasure meeting you, Padmé, I hope we meet again soon.”

And just like that, Obi-Wan is off and he no longer has to be surrounded by the obvious desire for something more between the two that was only stifled from being acted on by his presence. When he’s a good distance away, he decides to stop for a moment and actually look at the map in his hand, and he’s pleasantly surprised by just how many exhibits, art movements, and cultural regions are housed in this art museum. With the knowledge that he may not be able to knock out every exhibit in one visit, he decides to make his rounds to the ones that intrigue him the most.

He starts in the African Art section, admiring the ceramics and textiles created in various regions of Africa, before moving onto the Chinese bronzes, ceramics, and jades exhibition and it’s next-door Japanese screens and paintings exhibit. He’s thinking of swinging to modern and contemporary works when he looks at the map in his hands and eyes the Ancient Greek and Roman Art exhibit, reluctance setting in. Obi-Wan always feels a bit of hesitancy whenever admiring ancient creations because he remembers who the artists were and that fact makes him feel old and worn down in ways he never expected gods to feel like. Besides, wouldn’t it be narcissistic of himself to go and admire the times of old and perhaps even stumble upon a work of him?

Caution thrown to the wind, Obi-Wan decides to make his way to the Ancient Greek and Roman Art exhibit. With his head held high, he spots the tall glass doors to the exhibit and opens them slowly before stepping inside and almost immediately being hit by a whirlpool of nostalgia. Just seeing the vases, plates, coins, cups, relics, and statues on display make him nearly stumble on his feet. The faces staring back at him on the head busts by the entrance are so eerily similar to those of his friends that he feels his breathing stutter for a moment. It’s true that back in those times the gods were more… open to visiting earth. Back then they were more willing and able to interact with humanity and be treated kindly in return. Though, the stories of their escapades and interactions always seemed to be skewed and embellished among all civilizations.

But one thing that transpires over almost every civilization who ever believed in the gods and goddess that Obi-Wan is connected to is that they managed to nail one key feature of the gods in their stories: their extremities. Because at the end of the day, that’s what the gods all were—the best and worst of humanity, but maximized.

Obi-Wan prefers not to think about that fact and how, subsequently, he feels more than humans do and also has an awareness for the feelings of the other gods.

No, best not to dwell on that.

He decides that perhaps it’s best to move beyond the entryway and stop clogging up the doorway with his presence, so he begins to move through the exhibit, stopping every now and then to admire a certain work of art. By the time he’s gone through about half the exhibit, the sting of seeing those he knows etched onto bronze or marble is hurting less; he’s thinking he can finally start to appreciate the art more when he hears a voice.

But it’s not just any voice, it’s a voice he recognizes. And it’s not Anakin, nor is it Padmé. It’s a voice he’s heard before but he doesn’t know the person it belongs to. It’s familiar enough that he clings to it, scrambling through past and recent memories until finally it clicks:

The voice he’s hearing is the voice that recently talked to him via one of the statues commemorated in his honor.

And just like that, he turns his head around and begins to look around for the source. It’s like he’s a ship lost at sea and this voice is his guiding light home, if only he could find it. It takes a couple more seconds before finally his gaze settles on you, and it’s as if sunlight just burst into the room. He notices your eyes first and the way they shimmer with happiness as you wander through the exhibit, admiring the artworks yourself. But then he catches your smile as you turn to talk to one of the nearby patrons and the very sight of it makes him feel as if the world has just opened wide, opportunities he’s never considered laying out on many paths before him.

He takes a moment to shake himself out of his daze to properly take in your appearance. Judging on your outfit and the name tag that he just barely can’t make out and read, you are obviously a worker here, perhaps a curator like Padmé. You’re wandering the exhibit with an air of pride surrounding you, as if you’re happy that so many people are taking the time to come and appreciate the art before them. Everything about you is intriguing and he wants to introduce himself to you before this high feeling surrounding him comes crashing down and he goes back up to the clouds to spend out his immortal days alone and separated again from humanity.

Just as he’s about to take a few steps in your direction, he feels a harsh force of another body hit him in the side, nearly sending him toppling over onto a head bust next to him. He’s bracing for impact, praying that this piece of art somehow is a counterfeit and doesn’t cost more than he can even fathom (seriously, exactly how bad is inflation right now?) when he feels hands on his shoulders that push him back onto his feet. His hands immediately latch onto the ones grabbing him as he steadies himself. One he’s back on solid ground, he looks up to go thank whoever caught him when his heart leaps to his throat and he momentarily stops breathing because who else would be his savior than his guiding light?

He barely has time to even admire your speed and strength before you’re talking to him.

“Are you okay?” you ask and oh how he wants to hear more and more and more of your angelic voice. It’s as if you’re a siren, tempting him closer and closer to you until finally he is caught in your eyes and dancing among the many stars that twinkle in them. But suddenly he flushes with the realization that he’s been staring way too long and oh dear this is quite a messy first impression he really needs to redeem himself with something coherent and get this boat sailing back on course—

“Uh, y-yeah. Yeah. Fine. I’m fine. Never better, truly.” Shipwreck. What an utter shipwreck this is for him. Maker, he’s making a fool of himself. Amid his internal despair, he hears you giggle at his fumbling and his heart starts beating faster.

“Poseidon right?”

And suddenly his heart stops, his mouth drops every so slightly, and his face whitens. How have you possibly figured him out so quickly?

“What?” Is about all he can muster in response.

“Or Neptune, I guess, depending on which you prefer.” He’s silent. Awestruck. But you must pick up on the confusion and awe on his face because you elaborate, “You know… the sculpture right over there? The big marble one with a man holding a trident? The one you were staring at before you nearly crashed into this poor head bust of Zeus and broke this priceless piece of historic artwork? Really, what did the poor guy ever do to you? Surely he doesn’t deserve his head getting cracked open a second time.”

Oh thank the Maker, you were just referring to the art in the room. Which perhaps he should’ve accounted for instead of internally freaking out because he did willingly enter the Ancient Greek and Roman Art exhibit of the museum.

But you take his silent relief as continued confusion because you are suddenly rambling, “You know, because Zeus already had his head cracked open once by Hephaestus after Zeus swallowed a pregnant Metis and gave birth to Athena through his forehead?” You laugh awkwardly before plowing on, “Maybe I should stop talking now, sorry, sometimes I just go off about all these old myths, I just think they’re fascinating and—sorry, I’m doing it again aren’t I?”

He laughs in response to your weak joke and hearty explanation, and he starts to feel a little less wound up and nervous when he notices that you’re feeling the same way.

“No, no, it’s alright! It was very clever. Funny too,” he comments. The two of you share a smile and simply stare into each others’ eyes for a couple moments. But then he begins to worry that he’s making you uncomfortable by maintaining eye contact for longer than normal—except what is “normal”? How much has human etiquette changed since he’d last been on earth? Is this conversation already doomed? He decides to take the gamble anyway and clears his throat as his eyes flicker around the exhibit, trying to think of what else to say to you, before he lands on your name tag (what a pretty name you have) and he says the first thought that comes to mind.

“So, you work here then?” Not the best conversation starter, but it’s something, he supposes. Maker, what is wrong with him? He’s never been so nervous in his entire immortal life, but one conversation with you and suddenly he’s falling victim to all the nerves and anxieties of humans, but dialed up beyond a 10. Gods really are the maximization of humanity’s best and worst. What an awful time to be living this fact. Thankfully, you respond and break him out of his spiraling worries.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been working here for the past couple of years as one of the curators. I actually worked on this exhibit. I helped organize and select all the pieces in the exhibit, arrange restorations and displays, and record all the art you see here. I’ll admit it’s rather hard selecting which art pieces would fit best with the message we’re trying to convey, not to mention the availability of many pieces of art also plays a difficult role, but I like to think it paid off in the end. There’s something special about all the pieces of art here,” you suddenly pause in your speech before walking over to the very Poseidon statue you thought Obi-Wan had been looking at earlier, and he follows, quick on your heels.

You continue, “Like, this statue of Poseidon, for example. It traveled through an ocean of time, across several continents, through several restorations, all to be right here, right now, in this very moment for you and I to admire.” You let out a sigh that Obi-Wan can only describe as wistful. “I can only wonder how it looked when the artist was creating it and when it was first unveiled.”

He wishes how he could tell you about when he first laid eyes on this statue of himself he had nearly burst into tears, sending a light rain over the agora from the intensity of his emotions. But he suppresses the urge. He wasn’t supposed to reveal himself to humanity, and even if he did let something slip, what are the odds that you’d ever believe him? The two of you are not close, and you never will be. His livelihood as a god forbids it.

Still…

There’s something about the sparkle in your eye as you wistfully look at the art, as if looking at it for the first time despite having seen it countless times before, and your passion for the ancient classics that he finds compelling. Initial literal-sweeping-off-his-feet encounter aside, there’s something about you that draws him to you.

You’re entirely intriguing to him, and he can’t quite pinpoint why. Not entirely, at least. It doesn’t hurt that he finds your ramblings of history and art to be adorable. Not that he’s admitting to anything more than simple infatuation at first sight. He wishes he had the chance to get to know you better beyond the confines of this Ancient Greek and Roman exhibit. But the two of you lead entirely different lives and he has to let this go.

But, he can allow himself this one instance of normal human interaction.

“I’m sure it must have been a sight to behold given how important the gods were to the Ancient Greeks and Romans,” he comments.

“Exactly!” Despite being a curator here and knowing the rules of the exhibits like the back of your hand, you are shushed by a nearby patron at your happy exclamation. Obi-Wan laughs softly at the embarrassed look on your face.

“Guess that’s my cue to switch topics,” you joke. Obi-Wan smiles kindly at you before you continue, “Basics then. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t throw it,” he winks at your unimpressed look. Luckily for him though, it cracks and transforms into a brilliant smile as the two of you share a laugh. No harm done.

“Okay, smartass, I’ll rephrase: what’s your name?” you ask. “Not all of us are lucky enough to talk with people who wear name tags.”

“Alright then, since you asked so nicely, I’m Obi-Wan. And it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He holds out a hand for you, which you easily take and give a shake. A slight zing runs through his body at the slight contact, his hand still buzzing even after you two let go.

“Pleasure to meet you as well. Is this your first time here?” you inquire.

“Ah, yes, my friend decided to take me,” Obi-Wan starts, but he can’t help but grumble out, “I think he’s a frequent visitor.”

You let out a giggle at his grumpy tone. “You make it seem as if that’s a bad thing. Surely it’s not that god-awful here?”

“The company sure makes it better,” slips out before he can catch the words, but he’s not blind to the pleased look on your face. Huh. Interesting. “I never thought he was interested in art museums but—”

“Obi-Wan!” Cuts through the air, loud and brash and diluted with the slightest hint of concern, immediately followed by shushing by other patrons. Obi-Wan sighs as he recognizes the voice of Anakin.

“—it would appear that he still hasn’t picked up on museum etiquette despite all those visits.”

You rub his arm gently, a look of playful sympathy on your face as you tell him, “How awful it must be to have a friend that cares about your whereabouts.”

But he’s suddenly finding it very hard to even pretend to be annoyed when you’re touching him with such care. All too soon, your hand is off his arm as Anakin makes himself known, sidling up right to Obi-Wan and immediately grasping his elbow.

“Where on earth were you? We were supposed to meet half an hour ago. I waited for you! And here I was thinking you were the responsible one—” Anakin is cut off by you attempting to diffuse the situation.

“I believe that’s my fault. I kept him here talking to me and I held him up,” you turn back to Obi-Wan, a bright smile on your lips and the stars twinkling once more in your eyes. Maker, if he didn’t know any better he really would think he was looking at the sun, his beacon of light. “It was lovely talking to you, Obi-Wan. Maybe you could come again soon and we can continue this conversation?”

“Of course.” It’s his automatic response, no thoughts, questions, or worries in mind. You just look so hopeful and he’s once again a ship in the night, setting out to sail the high seas but hoping to return to again safely, guided by your light. He can only hope Anakin doesn’t pick up on his infatuation with you.

“Great! I’ll let you two go then. Nice meeting you!” And just like the wind, you’re gone, moving on to other patrons and other works of art, sharing your knowledge and stories and passion with other lucky souls. Maybe he will come back.

“They seemed nice,” Anakin remarks with absolutely no subtly.

“I’m not sure what you think happened between us, but whatever it is, you’re wrong,” and with that Obi-Wan turns and begins walking out of the exhibit before Anakin can refute or comment on Obi-Wan’s building anxiety, giving him no choice but to follow.

The walk out of the museum, their time sitting and people watching at a nearby cafe, and the walk back to the forested area follow a similar pattern: Anakin trying to do some digging with heavy insinuations, Obi-Wan denying vehemently any theories and offering scant details, and neither one willing to back down from their stance. It’s an old familiar rhythm, and despite it being grating at times, it’s nice to feel a sense of normalcy with Anakin once more.

Eventually, they make it back up to their hidden sanctuary in the sky and part ways for the day. Once back in his dwelling, Obi-Wan sits down on a cushioned chair and mulls over his day. While going to the museum was fun and enlightening, his mind wanders back to a certain museum curator. The dark horse of the day. The unexpected detail. His beacon of light.

There’s something more to you, something he wants so desperately to know. He practically itches to go back to the museum and keep talking with you. You’re intelligent, beautiful, and humorous. You’re the sun, moon, and stars. He knows he can’t pursue a romantic relationship with you, and he knows friendships with humans are frowned upon if they get too close, but he reasons to himself that one more visit down to earth to speak with you wouldn’t hurt anyone. With this in mind, he closes his eyes and begins to reach out to see if he can hear you once again, but as he’s doing so, a realization dawns on him.

Meeting you is the closest he’s come to believing in Fate, and despite this going against his beliefs, he’s ready to set sail on this unknown voyage and see where your next meeting takes him.

#so that was a doozy... good grief but i hope it's worth it #i usually don't do taglists but lemme know if you want to be tagged in future parts #because i don't have a schedule soooo #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x reader #obi wan kenobi imagine #star wars #star wars x reader #star wars one shots #obi wan kenobi #my writing #userkarina #yes a lot of the godly traits were inspired by disney's hercules bc i am basic

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prettywordsyouleft · 4 years ago

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Forsaken | Part 7

Summary: As one of the Forsaken, Jinyoung had no right to covet anything as his own. When he stumbles across you standing in the middle of the village he had plundered, the memories of old make him risk it all, clutching at the past in hopes for a better future.

Pairing: Park Jinyoung x reader

Genre: warrior au / star crossed lovers / angst / romance

Warnings: death, kidnapping, cursing, a myriad of emotions - this is a really sad love story.

Index: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

Jinyoung urged the sun to go back down. He didn’t want the new day to arrive and yet it had done just that, blinding him whenever he looked up to curse the heavens.

He had been reluctant to do anything this morning.

It had been a brief slice of paradise, he realised. Since the last raid, orders had been to stay on the low. And then right before tattooing you yesterday morning, Mark had found him and slipped him the messaged received through the radio.

They were expected to plunder another region with one week as the timeframe.

It was foolish, on his behalf, to get so wrapped up in you. The highs and lows of having you here had distracted him from his usually clear focus. And after sharing his body and becoming one with your heart and soul, Jinyoung wondered if this was how you felt when you had your rebellious stage as a teenager. Back then, he hadn’t understood your defiance towards your parents and their rules. Now, he could explicitly.

He wanted to crumble the note within his hands, pretending the radio never picked up the order. Yet, too many of his men knew of what was expected here. BamBam and Yugyeom were stationed in the radio tower most days and would have passed on the message to Mark. It was fruitless to deny the order’s existence.

Could he object fulfilling it, however?

There was a growing moral concern within him now that you were at his side. Numb, he had followed orders for the past decade in hopes it would somehow lead to a way out of the army. He knew it was hopeless, and yet that was how he had processed it.

You brought out a different side within him. Jinyoung wanted to scrub his hands clean of his sins. Although he couldn’t change the past, he wanted to keep the blood from his hands so you didn’t have to clean it off for him.

Being an honest man when he was a seasoned warrior would be impossible and yet he wanted to try.

“Mark told me they’re readying the horses for the trip out,” you murmured after stepping to Jinyoung’s side, holding a hand over your eyes to keep the bright light out of them.

Were you trying to comfort him right now, knowing full well he was about to take the lives of others? Jinyoung closed his eyes guiltily. He didn’t want you to see him at his worst again.

“I don’t hate you,” you announced a moment later, stepping in front of him and rearranging the protective armour to his outfit. Your expression was grim as you fussed over him. “I can’t hate you.”

“It’s okay. I can do that in your stead.”

“I’ll send a prayer to those who cross paths with you all that it ends quickly.”

Jinyoung turned his head away from yours, blinking back his emotions. He hadn’t cried over the cruelness of this world in years. Now you were rendering him into a bubbling mess. Stepping back from you, Jinyoung shook his head.

“Don’t do anything. I don’t want you involved in this.”

“I am though. I know that people will lose their lives by the man I love. My lack of stopping you means I am now a part of this too.”

Static filled his mind, buzzing away whatever you were saying to him now.

He didn’t need to you see him off like some housewife sending her husband off to work. This wasn’t a job worthy of such a send-off. In fact, the longer he stood near you, the more repulsed Jinyoung became, wanting to get away from you immediately.

He strode over to the stables as quickly as he could and mounted his stead, patting its neck before kicking it to charge forward. His men scrambled to follow after his hasty departure, keeping up with the race he had made it into until some miles away from the base.

There, Jinyoung sucked in a deep breath and expelled it shakily. Jackson glanced in his direction and groaned. “Some leader you are.”

“Shut up.”

“Can’t even tell the woman you love that you’ll miss her whilst on the road,” he continued and ignored the seething expression Jinyoung shot him. Jackson shrugged. “If I ever find someone to love, I’ll make sure she knows it every day.”

“Do make sure she’s aware she’s lying with a man who has sins stacked up so high that the heavens above won’t ever grant him access beyond those pearly white gates.”

“You think she can’t cope with who you are? Y/N isn’t like that.”

“What would you know? It was me who spent years at her side, not you.”

“Whilst you’ve been brooding like a petulant child, I’ve spent some time with her. I’ll have you know, Jinyoung, she’s far easier to talk to than you are.”

Jinyoung merely grunted in response.

“When you love someone, you have to accept all of them. You might not agree, you might hope for change and you might shoulder some of their guilt.”

“That’s what I don’t want.”

“For Y/N to be a strength for you?”

Jinyoung scoffed. “She’s my weakness.”

“She could empower you if you let her. She’s accepted who you are. She loves you regardless. You’re the one with the problem. If you keep acting like a tortured soul and open a door just to slam it in her face again, she’ll find it hard to remain at your side.”

“Did I sign up for an advice session, Lieutenant?” Jinyoung questioned sternly and Jackson’s concerned expression turned sombre.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Let’s focus on the task ahead, shall we?”

“What’s love like?”

Jinyoung looked over at Jaebum and frowned. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’ve clearly experienced it.” Jinyoung made no effort to react and Jaebum nudged him. “With that girl from the village.”

“She saved me, it wasn’t love.”

“How do you know what is and isn’t love?” Jaebum pointed out and Jinyoung laughed at the boy’s ludicrous way of asking a question, only to throw it back at him when he didn’t respond the way he wanted him to.

Although Jaebum was by far the easiest company Jinyoung had within this wretched camp thus far, he found the man beyond frustrating at times.

“I’m not answering.”

“He looks like he’s suffering from heartbreak,” another voice crooned and Jinyoung glanced at Jackson and rolled his eyes. He wasn’t fond of him much, either.

“What’s heartbreak like?” Jaebum wondered, peering at Jinyoung for obvious signs. “He looks healthy enough; surely his heart still works fine.”

“It’s losing someone who makes your world brighter,” a quiet man spoke, everyone at the wooden table turning to look at Mark. He sighed heavily. “It’s when the life leaves your eyes because you’re too far away from their bright light they live within.”

That Jinyoung could relate to. Without you, the world did seem dull in comparison. However, he wasn’t about to tell any of them that.

“What? Yet the sun is out right now!” Jackson exclaimed, dodging the hand that Mark threw out towards him exasperatedly. They laughed together and Jinyoung smiled lightly.

It hurt without you, but at least he wasn’t alone.

It was a gruelling five days and when the men returned to the camp, only the younger ones seemed in good spirits.

Jinyoung was exhausted, and after dismounting his horse he led it to the stables where the gypsy ladies began untacking them.

“You’re back, Commander.”

“Make sure the bathing house has hot water for us in an hour,” he instructed and Trudy reached for his wrist.

“Don’t be alarmed when you look around the camp.”

“What?” he asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

Trudy smiled weakly and tapped her hand gently over his. “Y/N cleaned.”

Darting away from the woman, Jinyoung took the entrance to their camp through the hillside from the stables, hurrying through the earthen corridor to the other side. On first glance, nothing seemed to be out of order.

And that’s when he realised it, everything was glistening.

“Oh, thank god you’re back,” Youngjae greeted with a relieved tone. “She hasn’t stopped.”

“Y/N?” Jinyoung questioned distractedly as he continued to survey the area, and the man nodded. “She did all this?”

“At first, she organised the entire kitchen. Then the bathing house she scrubbed until her hands bled. I tried to stop her, to make her rest, but then she was up in the middle of the night rearranging the seating foyer and the supplies shed. She climbed the ladder and dusted off the cobwebs in every crevice and I have no idea what she’s gotten up to in your home, Jinyoung.”

“Thank you for telling me,” he replied as he marched towards the areas Youngjae had spoken of. The kitchen was indeed void of any clutter and mess and Jinyoung began to run through the camp towards his house, thumping down the stairs from the side door and then flung the final door open, heaving as he took you in.

You were reading at his desk and twisted around to look at him miserably. “Oh, you’re back.”

Yanking off his armour and letting it drop to the floor with a thud, he moved to your side, pulling you out of the chair and holding you as close as he could. “I missed you.”

“You... you did?”

“Every day, every hour, every minute,” he confessed and you began to cry, clinging to him tightly.

“I didn’t know what to do without you!”

“I know.”

“I hate cleaning but it was all I could do to pass the time.”

“I know,” he repeated soothingly, breathing you in to calm some of his nerves down.

“Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

“Only a graze, I’ll be fine.”

“Did you… are they…?” Jinyoung hummed weakly in answer.

“I did what was expected of me.”

“I don’t have any idea what to say,” you told him honestly and Jinyoung choked on his emotions, your head jerking back to look at him, reaching to wipe the tears now falling from his eyes. “It’s painful for you.”

“I want to leave before the next order,” he announced and you nodded in agreement, gripping him more tightly.

“We can do that. We’ll get it organised. Jaebum was here whilst you were gone, taking things he felt was needed and storing it in the old shack on the boundary line.”

“I need to go and wash off everything,” Jinyoung mentioned, once spent with his emotions, and glanced at your linked hands. Dried blood now sullied your once clean ones and he sighed at the sight, his fears now a reality.

He wasn’t as scared as he had been on the morning he left. Jackson, even if he had bothered him at the time, had been right.

You were trying to accept all that came with him. Although you were eager to escape, Jinyoung knew you wouldn’t go without him. You would stay here and endure it all for the rest of your life if that was what was needed.

He rested against you, feeling vulnerable and small in comparison.

“Do you need me to help you go to the bathing house?”

“And see all the rest of the men using it, I don’t think so,” Jinyoung replied sternly and you giggled.

It was amazing how such a small bright sound like that could liven him up so easily.

Staring at you again, Jinyoung realised he had loved you from the day he stole that compass from you. You had laughed at him then too, the sound embedded in his mind, the source of your light.

Now that you were back, he didn’t want to cast you into darkness. He wanted you to shine as brightly as you once had. If that meant allowing you to shoulder his burdens along with him, then he would do it.

And he knew that a meeting with Jaebum was in order as well.

It was time for phase one to begin.

_________________

Part 8

[GOT7 Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist] | [Request Guidelines]

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shimeiro · 4 years ago

Text

1- Jean Jacket (Maxwell Lord x Fem!Reader

- Part 1 - Maxwell Lord x Fem!Reader

┃Next Part┃- ┃Masterlist┃

( a / n : I don't know if it's my love for clothes in vintage thrift stores that made me create this story or just my love for that asshole Maxwell but ... Yeah, we'll all see how it goes I guess? (Alistair does not exist in this story so no Father Max sorryyyy) )

Warnings : None ?

Words : 2275

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Your life was rather quiet and pleasant, you like your job as a saleswoman in a big and quite famous second-hand store in the neighborhood, the vintage clothes are in good condition and the stock is renewed every day so new pieces from the 60's to the 90's make their appearance on the shelves and the hangers of the store full of clothes, Shoes, accessories... Your status as a saleswoman gives you the right to be one step ahead of the store's regulars to choose clothes you like for half the price and that alone makes your job so nice. Just yesterday you managed to find a real denim jacket from the 80's, and as everyone in this store knows: each piece is unique and when you manage to find something you like it becomes a bit of a treasure just for you because no one will find exactly the same thing in the whole store.

Today you decided to come to work with your new jacket, it's a little big for you but the oversize side is very fashionable at the moment, your work doesn't require a proper outfit and the boss himself wears very extravagant and colorful outfits, this man is adorable and full of life which makes the atmosphere at work great. So, your outfit of the day consisting of a black strapless crop top in fabric that holds your breasts does not leave much to the imagination because you are not wearing a bra underneath - necessarily a bustier. - but more and more women do not wear a bra and you're lucky that you don't have boobs that don't necessarily require a bra so you take advantage.

But for some people it seems vulgar even though it's summer and the sun is scorching outside and yes women can wear crop tops and no bra, but with your jacket and your high waist jeans that hide your belly button make the outfit modern and vintage at the same time with your wedge ankle boots found a month ago at the bottom of a cardboard box in the store's reserve. But if this is really neccesary you can close your jacket if you feel that some men will become too... agressive in front of a bar when you come home tonight. Women life...

You feel especially pretty today thanks to your new jacket, the new clothes have the power to make you happy the first time you wear them so you walk confidently towards work while the soft air of the sunny summer morning makes a few strands of your hair twirl to the rhythm of your steps while the music in your headphones makes the street atmosphere you taking every day almost magical.

A strange feeling has been gripping your heart since you left home, it feels like some kind of strange nostalgia and you can't really understand why you suddenly feel this way for no apparent reason, maybe it's because when you left home and put your hand in the pocket of your new jacket you found a small piece of paper yellowed by the years, you immediately found it strange because normally when the clothes arrive at the store they are cleaned because most of the clothes come from people who give them to the store to resell them because they used to clutter up their parents' or grandparents' attics or garages sometimes. So finding a paper in a pocket of your jacket is surprising but not impossible.

But when you carefully unfold the little piece of paper it is the sentence written on it that stirred something in you, it's just a few words written with a black pen:

« Can't Take My Eyes off You. » It's the lyrics of an old song but you felt something strange while reading the paper, maybe it's because of your small - big - hypersensitivity and your romantic side but since reading this old paper - which was clearly meant for the former owner of the denim jacket - you feel this strange feeling. You get out of your thoughts when the music you are listening to ends and another one randomly launches from the playlist in your phone but the earphones start to sizzle in an unusual way, you sigh with annoyance because you bought them no more than two weeks ago, and having music while walking alone outside has become almost more of a necessity than a habit, Having music in your ears almost makes you feel like you're in another world when you're walking and it makes you forget your slight discomfort when you find yourself in crowded streets or a bus full of strangers invading your personal space.

Suddenly you feel a violent vertigo that forces you to stop walking and your earphones sizzle even louder so you have to quickly remove them from your ears before they pierce your eardrums or something like that. You open your eyes gently and don't even notice that you closed them first, your head spins a little and you feel a little nauseous for a few more seconds and then the world stabilizes again and you look around you with incomprehension, you don't know at all the street you're on right now.

You look frantically from left to right hoping to find something familiar, a store, a café, a sign, anything that would help you find your way, but you find yourself in a big, completely unknown avenue that doesn't even look like an avenue that the city where you live might have. You feel your body warmth rise a notch when panic starts to creep into your mind when you realize that absolutely everything seems unknown, the cars are all old American cars, the people walking down the street all seem to be going out in old fashion stores from the 80's, even their hairstyles.

You feel like you're in a movie.

Your brain rushes to try to rationalize the situation you're in to try to prevent you from having a panic attack in the middle of a street crowded with people looking at you weirdly, if only you had your headphones and relaxing music to make you think about something else ... But yes your phone! A wave of relief comes over you when you take your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans, just having it in your hands right now makes you want to cry with joy, you quickly retreat until your back is against the wall of a building and you are no longer in the passage of the street crowded with people who look at you as if you had a second head. You don't even look at the building you're leaning against and you quickly press the button on your phone to turn it on, but once the screen lights up he flashes frantically it's impossible to unlock it and call someone.

« What the hell ... Please ..! » You whisper in a trembling voice as you feel your breath accelerating, the stupid phone has absolutely no mercy for you even though you desperately try to make it work properly by turning it on and off, You have a glimmer of hope when the image on your wallpaper - an adorable picture of Mando with his green baby from The Mandalorian series - stabilizes enough for you to unlock it and access your contacts, you were going to text your position to your colleague and friend Daisy to beg her to come and pick you up in car but suddenly the screen goes completely off and you can't turn it back on.

« No no no no no no no… » You swear that you can feel your heart stop beating for a few moments because of the black screen of your only hope in this nightmare. Yes nightmare, you must certainly be in full dream and you will wake up nice and warm in your bed and Roucky your long-haired red cat will come and purr in your ear for you to wake up and give him food and then ... You are startled when you hear someone clearing their throat insistently right in front of you, it must have been a little while that person has been trying to get your attention and you hadn't even noticed their presence. You raise your head gently with a little smile on your lips to try to hide your internal panic, a salesperson reflex when you are lost in your thoughts while a customer wanted to attract your attention. But your smile fades when you finally see the person right in front of you with his arms crossed over a large chest dressed in a three-piece sky-blue suit, a smirk on his lips and an eyebrow raised in a questioning manner. Maxwell Lord.

Wait...

Maxwell Lord?!

What the fuck ?!

He is literally a fictional character who is played by your favorite actor Pedro Pascal, and he is there in front of you and his deep brown eyes are staring at you with a kind of fun and curiosity not hidden, you it looks strongly like a dream but everything seems far too realistic in a same time, you can smell his masculine perfume and certainly the smell of his aftershave if he was even closer, you hear the noise of the passers-by behind him. Yeah It's really much too realistic.

Instinctively you look down on the hand that is not holding your phone to observe the palm of your hand and your fingers, usually when you have a doubt in a dream about the reality of the situation you are in and if you are in a dream your hand will be anything but normal, a finger in addition or something else and after that you know that you are in a dream what leads you to make a lucid dream and thus to be able to control more or less the continuation of your dream, it is besides often amusing but there your hand is completely normal even if you fix it for a long time.

« Mmh, it's the first time a woman has ignored me like this. »

You quickly raise your head and open your eyes, and Pedr-Maxwell still looks at you, but this time his hands are in his pants pockets.

« Oh- I'm sorry I'm... I'm... in need of sugar! So- I almost fainted so uh... I'm slowly coming to my senses? So... I'm gonna go buy a sugary drink and... I'll feel better. »

You're aware your voice shakes at times when you tell your half lie to the beautiful man in front of you, you almost fainted when you... landed here. But you weren't going to tell him that you were technically from the future, were you? But this world doesn't really exist because it's from a movie but... Yeah...?

You probably had to convince him with your lost and panicked look and his brown eyes seem to soften slightly he looks at you from top to bottom - maybe lingering too much on your black top - then he looks on your phone that you still hold in your right hand, he looks at it curiously but he doesn't say anything and then his eyes go back to your face, it's really weird to see her in front of you after the fanfictions you read about him when you haven't even seen the movie Wonder Woman 1984, in fact the whole situation is weird, you always laughed and said to yourself that if you were in the world of one of the characters you love and you met him you might try to be enterprising and enjoy the moment but right now you're just completely lost and scared.

« Need sugar huh? My assistant was going to get me a coffee, » He takes his left hand out of his pocket and makes a lazy wave with his hand, the gold rings on his fingers shine with the sun's rays, barely he make his gesture a beautiful blonde woman with curves worthy of the muse of an expensive lingerie brand appear next to him.

« Yes Mr. Lord? »

« Usual coffee and something with sugar. »

Her assistant seems slightly irritated when she looks in your direction but she picks herself up when she looks at her boss again.

« What kind of sweet thing Mr. Lord? »

Her tone leaves a kind of innuendo, and you can imagine that as in some fanfictions you read Maxwell must fuck his assistants out of ease, and this beautiful woman with perfect breasts must surely be one of them, Maxwell doesn't pick up the innuendo and doesn't even look at her.

« You bring it back to my office in 5 minutes. »

She stutters a little: "Yes Mr. Lord" while throwing you a murderous look as if it was your fault that her boss was like that, but you are not irritated or hurt by the look of this assistant you are just still in the fog, maybe you really have something sweet finally to clear your mind a bit.

You feel knuckles brushing against your cheek, Maxwell freezes when you look up at his face and his eyes darken for a split second and then he clears his throat and quickly removes the hand that just brushed against your face.

« Follow me, I wouldn't want a young woman to pass out in front of the Lord Industry building. »

You hadn't even paid attention to the building right behind you in your panic to try to get out of this situation but now you've drawn Maxwell Lord's attention and you don't know if it's a good thing in the supernatural situation you're in.

#maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord x you #ww84 #wonder woman 1984 #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #maxwell lord fanfiction #fanfiction #no y/n #no spoilers #i haven't seen the movie #no canon

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hunidlo · 4 years ago

Text

Call of Fire

CHAPTER 3 - The Decision

Rating: M

Word Count: 3K

Pairing: The Mandalorian x F!Reader

Warnings: slow burn fic, language, mentions of death, angst

A/N: I really enjoyed writing angry Mando parts for this chapter. Hope you enjoy them too.

Summary: Now that you know where your parents might be, you need to figure out a way to get out this planet. And the Mandalorian has a ship, doesn’t he?

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Masterlist // Chapter 4

***

By the time you get to the village, the sun has already set and you are troubled by a number of questions. You worry about what might be awaiting you in the village.

Have the villagers come back? … Are the bandits still there? … Is the Mandalorian dead?

Then, you see light coming from the settlement. There is no turmoil, no clattering of weapons, no blaster fires—a good sign, you think.

When you get closer to the square, a heartbreaking cry comes from somewhere in front of you.

“No!” A woman is running towards you—Zullu’s mother. “My baby!”

She hugs the body that is being carried in your arms and weeps.

“S-she saved me.” You eventually say. “I’m sorry ... I couldn’t …”

Zullu’s mother raises her teary eyes at you and nods. She understands.

A couple of men from the village come and gently take Zullu’s body from your arms. Too weak to resist, you let them. One of them places a hand on your shoulder. “You should rest …,” he says compassionately.

Having a chance to look around now, you see dozens of torches lit around the small village, illuminating the rubble that used to be the square. You observe the people who are getting rid of the dead bodies, cleaning up the mess and going through the clutter that remained in the place of the barn.

Then, you see the Mandalorian. He’s standing on the front porch of one of the houses—his feet wide apart, thumbs tucked into his belt—his visor fixed at you.

So he’s still here.

“This ...” You tilt your chin towards the debris. “... his doing?”

“... Not his fault …,” the man replies. “One of them decided to blow the barn up with the Mandalorian in it.”

You turn your head to the man.

“They underestimated him,” he continues on when he notices your baffled look, “He killed them all ...”

“No, he didn’t,” you mutter to yourself, remembering the bandit you killed in the forest.

The Mandalorian’s gaze makes you uneasy but you do not have the strength to think about it—about him—any longer. You really need to rest.

You let your weak legs lead you to your hut. You head straight to the ‘fresher, washing the blood and dirt from your hands and body. You can’t stop thinking about what happened in the woods—the way the bandit’s body split in half because you wished it to do so, what Zullu said about your parents ... Zullu—you try to suppress a sob—you can’t believe it ... can’t accept it. Your limbs begin to tremble and you burst into tears again.

When you get out of the ‘fresher, you’re beyond exhausted.

You fall asleep as soon as soon as your body hits the bed.

***

You wake up early. The sleep helped with your exhaustion but it did not ease your mind at all. You look in the mirror to see your eyes are puffy, your cheek is swollen, and you have a split lip.

It doesn’t surprise you, the bandit hit you really hard yesterday.

Everyone is already up. They are still working on the repairs around the village. Some of the men are cutting down trees near the woods—for the funeral pyre, you realise.

You squint and see something shiny near the cart … the Mandalorian is helping the men load the logs ...

Why hasn’t he left yet?

It was sort of exciting seeing him on his ship yesterday—witnessing all the stories you heard about the Mandalorians coming alive. You remember how you laughed with Zullu when you ran away from him. But today … everything is different. Zullu is gone and you—despite knowing you shouldn't because it’s unreasonable—blame him as well. You blame yourself for not being able to save Zullu, and the Mandalorian for starting the fight with the bandits in the first place.

Lost in your thoughts, you walk to Zullu’s hut. You hesitate a little before you enter.

Zullu’s mother is kneeling next to the chest that belonged to her daughter—clutching to one of Zullu’s dresses—weeping.

You silently approach her and sit next to her on the floor.

She turns to you to hug you.

“I’m so sorry,” you let out on the verge of crying again. “I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not your fault,” she says and pulls you closer.

“... She was so brave ...” You need to say it, you need to let her mother know that Zullu died honorably.

“I know.”

She reaches inside the chest and takes out a piece of clothing. “Here ...” She extends her hands towards you. She’s holding a light brown, slightly worn leather jacket—it’s Zullu’s.

“No.” You gently push her hands away. “I can’t take it. It’s her favourite—”

“She would have liked you to have it.”

For a beat you just stare at the jacket wordlessly.

“Thank you,” you say, not knowing what else to say as you take the jacket from her.

“Zullu said … you knew my parents.” You’re hesitant and it comes out more like a question.

“Yes,” she breathes out. “I was here when they brought you to the village.” And then, she tells you the whole story about the day when you were left with the villagers.

“... So my father stole something from the Empire and ran.”

“Yes, I don’t know what it was though … You have to understand that your parents left you here to protect you, spare you from the constant running and hiding.”

“I want to find them,” you say eventually, looking at the jacket that you’re clenching in your fists.

“No.” She shakes her head. “You have to stay here—safe—with us. Your parents didn’t want you to come looking for them, they feared someone might capture you, use you to get to your father.

“But I have no idea where he is …”

“The Empire doesn't know that … they would torture you.” She looks seriously worried now.

You want to push her, want to know more. Zullu said her mother knew where your parents were hiding. Yet … you can’t. Not now. Not on the day of her daughter’s funeral.

“You look tired … should get more sleep … be ready for the evening,” she says after a moment of silence. “I’ll see you on the hill.”

You nod and leave without a word.

On your way back you catch sight of the Mandalorian. He’s leaning against one of the huts—his legs and arms crossed—his visor following you as you walk by.

What’s his problem? You’re definitely getting irritated by him constantly gazing at you. Especially since you can’t see his face or guess what he’s thinking. Is he still pissed about the ship?

Even now—in what you imagine is a comfortable stance for him—he’s still threatening as hell. He looks like a bescar vulture that has spotted a womp rat and is now circling around it, waiting for the right moment to strike.

You consciously choose to ignore him and thus deny him the pleasure of seeing how nervous he makes you feel.

The tension is unbearable though. You can’t help but glance in his direction when you reach your hut.

What the …?

He’s gone.

“Creep,” you say to yourself, checking your surroundings before you enter.

***

Someone is shaking your shoulder. You wake up instantly.

Zullu’s mother is leaning over you. “It’s time …”

The sun is setting as you walk up the hill where the funeral takes place.

The pyre is prepared and Zullu's body is already lying on top of it. No one says anything. This is how it goes in your village—no speeches, no pompous ceremonies. Zullu’s mother lights the pyre and the whole village stands in complete silence, watching.

“One day, we’ll walk among the stars together,” you whisper as you raise your vision towards the night sky.

When you look down again—

He’s gotta be fuckin’ kidding …

The Mandalorian is standing opposite to you—behind the pyre.

That does it!

You can’t be sure whether he’s watching you or the pyre in front of him but you don’t care. You have to ask what his deal is. You need to know what exactly he’s doing on this planet—

“I’m sorry.” Zullu’s mother is now standing beside you.

“Excuse me?” You look at her with raised eyebrows.

“I shouldn’t have kept it from you for all those years. Maybe ... it’s really time for you to find them.” Her voice is quiet, eyes gleaming—reflecting the fire. “They might still be alive. You deserve to see them again.”

“But … h-how do I find them?”

“Go to the planet Hoth. There should be a Rebel base. If they are still on that planet, they would be there.”

“Thank you,” you say and lay a hand on her shoulder.

Hoth. You’ve never heard of such a planet. Your parents are most probably very far away, yet you feel them being closer than ever before. You’ve been trying most of your life to forget about them, accept the present and not dwell on the past. But now? Now when you know where your parents could be, you can’t continue living your life in the village, can you?

No, you can’t.

Okay, how do you get out of this planet …

Then it strikes you—the Mandalorian!

You look in the direction where he was standing.

Not again …

A group of men is standing where the Mandalorian was just a couple of minutes ago.

You rush towards them. “Um ... have you seen the Mandalorian?” you ask.

“No,” some of them say while others just shake their heads.

A little hand by your side tugs your sleeve. “He left,” the child says.

You lean closer to her. “Have you seen where he went?”

Your eyes follow a tiny finger pointing to … the lake.

He’s setting off …

Okay, don’t panic. First things first.

You sprint to your hut, take your backpack and shove a couple of things you think you might need in—some credits, food, water bottle, and clean underwear of course.

You put on Zullu’s leather jacket and run out of the village towards the lake without looking back.

***

It’s dark outside but the forest is even darker. By the time you get to the lake you can barely see a couple of steps ahead of you. You trip and fall several times before you get to the clearing. You breathe heavily, your hands and clothes are dirty, and you’re positive there is mud and little twigs tangled in your hair.

Phew! … The ship is still here.

Through the gap under the aircraft, you see two armoured boots. It seems that he’s doing some maintenance on the opposite side of the ship, meaning … he has not seen you yet.

You contemplate your options. Of course, you could approach him and ask him to take you with him. However, for some reason, you feel like he would not be compliant to fly you to Hoth. Moreover, there’s a good chance he’s still mad at you. So it’s decided.

Treading softly—as silently as possible—you sneak into the ship. Unnoticed.

There’s a little … thingy lying on one of the crates and it’s flashing rapidly with red light. You get to the weapons locker to see it’s open.

“Just in case …” You take one of the blasters and continue to the end of the hull.

Where could you hide?

Yes, the boxes and crates conveniently stacked up by the wall will do perfectly. You hide in the space between the crates and cover yourself with some sort of canvas that you found folded in one of the boxes.

Let’s hope he won’t find you until you are far away from this planet. Then you can figure out the rest.

Yes, let’s …

-----------------------------------------------

The Mandalorian finishes the work on his ship and is ready to hit the road. He walks up the ramp, puts his blaster in its place in the weapons locker—

One of the blasters is missing …

He quickly looks around the hull and notices the tracking fob on the crate is flashing.

He cautiously presses something on the side of his helmet, turning on the thermal vision. He can see you now—sitting on the floor behind the crates, curled up.

He takes his blaster from the cabinet and walks towards the crates to eventually stop in front of you. He raises his blaster, aiming at what he assumes is your head.

-------------------------------------------------

The canvas is abruptly pulled away and you blink at the armoured man standing in front of you. You could hear him coming and prepared your blaster, so you are now pointing your weapons at each other.

“You,” he utters but it sounds more like I knew it.

Obviously examining you, he tilts his helmet to the side, looks at the blaster in your hands, sighs, and puts his own weapon back in the holster.

“Take me to Hoth,” you command, suddenly emboldened by the fact that he is now unarmed.

“No.”

The lack of emotion in his answer and its bluntness shock you. You expected him to protest but you’re now struggling to find the right words to continue.

To your surprise, he … he relaxes—transferring his weight to one foot��clearly anticipating what you’re going to do next.

“I have to get to Hoth to find my parents.” You try to play on his—quite possibly non-existent—feelings.

“I don’t take passengers,” he speaks again, his voice raspy.

You’re losing your patience. “Y-you’re going to take me to Hoth or else—”

“You’re gonna shoot me?”

He’s taunting you ... You have your blaster aimed at him, trying to look as threatening as humanly possible, and he’s mocking you.

“Well … yes … I will shoot you and take your ship.”

“Try,” he enunciates slowly—leaning closer to you—his visor trained on your face.

He thinks, you’re not going to do it. After what you’ve been through in the past couple of days, you’re sure you could kill anyone who stands in your way, right? Right?

You put your other hand on the blaster too to steady yourself, and point the barrel at his chest.

An annoyed sigh comes out of the helmet. “You’re not stupid but you need to stop acting like you are … See this?”—he taps his chest plate with one fist—”Beskar … It would hurt, but won’t kill me … You want to aim at the gaps in the armour.”

Is he giving you advice about how to shoot him?

You lift your blaster so that it’s trained on his neck—covered only by his cape that is wrapped around it.

“Better …” he says. “Now shoot.”

What? Is he serious?

“I-I will …,” you warn but your voice deceives you, indicating you’re fucking scared right now, even though you are the one holding a blaster.

He takes a slow step towards you. As he moves closer, the barrel of your blaster digs into his cape until you can feel his neck pressed against it.

“Shoot me.”

You hesitate.

“Shoot!” he shouts.

Your whole body is quivering.

You … can’t do it. You can’t kill an unarmed man.

Your grip around the weapon eases and you slowly start to lower the blaster.

Before you can do so, his hand shoots up, catches your wrist and you can feel your finger being pushed against the trigger with his.

He pulled the trigger! He pulled the fucking—

But …

Nothing happens. The blaster doesn’t shoot.

“Next time you try to kill me with my own blaster, at least turn the safety off,” he grunts at you, ripping the weapon out from your hands.

“Wait …” you’re still trying to process what happened.

“Go home,” he says coldly and turns away from you to put the blaster back in the cabinet, grumbling something about an insult.

Before you can think of a better reaction, you push his armoured back with all the strength you can currently muster.

Considering how well-built he is, his chest moving by an inch at most came as no surprise.

Oops …

He stops and turns to look at you, slowly tilting his head sideways a little. Did you really just do that, the silent gesture says.

You are quite thankful that you can’t see his—most definitely furious—face right now. You would swear you can hear him grinding his teeth under his helmet. It was stupid … and you really don’t know why you did it. You’re perfectly aware that you are throwing a tantrum like a child right now.

And he treats you as such in return.

He grabs you by your upper arm, drags you through the hull and shoves you down the ramp, out of the ship with ferocious force. You have to make a couple of clumsy steps forward to prevent yourself from falling over.

He turns to shut the hatch.

“Please!” you hear yourself pleading to stop him, tears now flooding your eyes. It’s pathetic. “I … I p-promised her … promised her to find out wha—” You hesitate for a second. “I need to find my parents.”

He sighs.

“Look …” he says eventually, his voice considerably softer than before. “I’m sorry about your friend, okay? But trust me, it’ll be safer for you here.”

Oh no … the rage is back. “Trust you?” you cry out. “It’s your fault that she’s dead!”

“My fault?” He sounds genuinely confused.

“If you didn’t stalk us back to the village and play a hero—”

“Me? … I wasn't the one to spit in that guy’s face. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead now!”

“And she would live!” your voice cracks with grief as you yell.

He takes a couple of steps forward, grabs your shoulders, yanks you closer to him so that your nose is practically touching his visor, and shakes you in an attempt to knock some sense into you, “Do you think they would stop there, huh? Do you think they wouldn’t massacre half the village after that?”

“Well, if you had let me take that blaster instead of pawing me—” you snark at him.

He immediately lets go of your shoulders as if scalded and takes a step back.

“—I could have protected them ...” you finish.

“Yeah …,” he chuckles darkly, mocking you again, “… sure … I’d like to see you kill thirty armed men with the safety on ...” He turns and starts climbing the ramp back to his ship.

“Well, fuck you!” you yell after him. “If you won’t help me, I’m sure I can find another ship that would take me out of this planet!”

“Good luck with that,” he utters, his tone ice-cold.

Suddenly, a laser blast strikes the ground just a few feet from you. You duck and try to spot what caused it.

A small starship flies over your head.

Someone is shooting at you.

“… To the ship …” The Mandalorian shouts to you.

You quickly run into his ship and he closes the hatch. Before you can ask about what’s happening, he’s already climbing the ladder up to the cockpit.

You follow him.

He sits in the pilot's chair pushing various buttons as the ship rumbles and takes off.

“Sit down and fasten your seatbelt,” he exclaims without looking at you.

You stand behind him, gaping out the cockpit window trying to spot the attacking ship again.

“Who was—”

A laser beam hits the ship. You are tossed sideways and against the wall, knocking yourself unconscious.

The Mandalorian turns his head to look at you, growls and steers his ship so that it now flies directly against the little starship. He readjusts his hands on the control sticks and inhales deeply.

“This is more than I signed up for.”

***

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Masterlist

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian fan fic #the mandalorian fan fiction #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal

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mmmmalo · 3 years ago

Note

First Anon (FA): Kan is saying that Vris trips is because she refuses to clean them up, which is correct. But she refuses to clean them up because she can't find the mental clarity to clean it up (the clutter hides and exacerbates the problem). And so Vris is also correct that it's also bad luck. The bad luck is her stuck in a mental loop of creating her own misfortune. Kan acts as divine intervention restructuring the clutter and thus creating SOME clarity (enough to plan but not fix).

FA again: There's two different perspectives here, and Vriska's is the most important one because it's her problem. Kanaya exists outside ot. So implying the bad luck (Vriska's situation) is in her head it registers as really condescending and sort of gaslighty. Like the wealthy telling the poor to act like them despite experiencing none of the same hardship. The only way the problem was going to be improved was if someone intervened on her behalf (which luckily for her, Kanaya did).

So your contention is that Vriska has psychological problems beyond her control, and since we're defining "bad luck" as negative events beyond one's control, her mental problems (as well as the circumstances in and out of which those problems flow) qualify as bad luck. That works, but in runs into problems to the degree that "events beyond one's control" aren't an absolute category?

I'm not sure I know what you mean by Vriska's perspective being the most important? Even in the extreme case you mention, I don't think poor people have exclusive access to correct views on poverty, even if it's true that rich people ignorant of poverty are liable to spout nonsense. I think it was good for Kanaya to try to persuade Vriska that she does, in fact, have some measure of control over her environment, and that her sense of what is and isn't within her power might be out of whack. I don't mean this in a bootstraps sort of way, implying that everyone can just think their way out of every problem, but it's strange to me to entirely rule it out entirely, even if the story we see shows that the verbal intervention fails to help Vriska.

#sorry if I gave off the impression that getting over mental blocks ought to be easy #is it the usage of 'paranoid'?#i don't mean it to be dismissive it just seems to be part of what Vriska's dealing with

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mojofun · 4 years ago

Text

A Sunday Kind of Love (Pre-Serum Steve x Reader)

Hello y’all. This is a new entry for a new writing challenge I’m participating in. It was launched by @iliveiloveiwrite and I want to give them a shoutout not only for hitting 500 but also for the wonderful prompts! Thank you :) The prompt for this story was Etta James’s song “A Sunday Kind of Love”. I decided to write about pre-serum Steve because beefcake Steve is hot and handsome but smol bean Steve is handsome and wonderful and he deserves this. That said, I hope you enjoy the story :)

I want a Sunday kind of love

A love to last

Past Saturday night

Steve groaned when a ray of sunlight hit him square in the face. He slowly sat up on the worn mattress, bringing his hands to his face; when he did, he cried out in pain.

His right eye throbbed painfully, and his lip stung.

With a sigh, the lanky blond threw back the threadbare blankets off and stood up, traipsing to the bathroom. There, in the small and dirty mirror that was too tall for him, he saw his reflection: his eye was black and swollen, and his lip was split. As if that wasn’t enough, his hand hurt quite a bit.

Memories from the previous night came back to him: the group of guys twice his size ganging up on him in the back alley, simply because he’d dared to defend an innocent waitress from their sleaziness…

He turned away from his image in the glass: he had no regrets, not at all. He simply wished he could do something more, actually take down at least one of his opponents.

He felt as though there was a hidden purpose within him, but he was angry and frustrated because he did not have the means to put it in action.

Thus thinking, he trudged to the small space that he called a kitchen. Something made him stop though.

A strange smell. It was unexpectedly pleasant and sweet, luring him closer to identify the source. He even heard cluttering noises

<<Hey Buck, what are you do->>

Words died on his lips as soon as he spotted the person fumbling with utensils in his kitchen

That’s not Bucky

No, that was far from Bucky.

A beautiful woman was standing in front of his jalopy of a stove, flipping something that looked like pancakes in a pan.

So that was where the mouth-watering scent came from.

She had H/C hair that fell loosely on her shoulders and she donned a pretty D/C dress that complimented her S/C skin

Am I still dreaming?

She heard him and turned around with a smile

<<Oh, hello Steve>>

And I’d like to know

It’s more than

Love at first sight

Steve was amazed. She remembered him? How?

<<Hi, Y/N>>

He could have sworn he’d seen her blush

And I want a Sunday kind of love

Oh yeah

Yeah

I want a

A love that’s on the square

<<What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, I’m just wondering…>>

Usually, girls only spoke to him for one reason: getting to Bucky.

Well, none had ever gotten as far as to turn up at his apartment to cook pancakes, but he couldn’t see any other explanation for it

Can’t seem to find somebody

Someone to care

<<Oh, I ran into Bucky while on my way home from the store. He told me about the fight of last night, and I thought I should check on you>>

The short, headstrong boy felt his heart skip a beat, but he told himself it was probably his asthma. His cheeks felt hot… Did he have a fever?

And I’m on a

Lonely road

That leads to nowhere

<<Oh. Thank you>> He mumbled

I need a Sunday kind of love

<<You’re welcome, sweetie>>

Sweetie?

<<Take a seat. I made pancakes!>>

For me?

He nodded numbly, still trying to wrap his head around what was happening. It felt all so surreal, but it was incredibly heart-warming.

As he watched Y/N waltz around the small, dim-lit room, bringing him a plate filled with more pancakes than he could count and a glass of juice, Steve felt his face grow even hotter.

It probably hit supernova temperatures when she pecked his cheek and told him to enjoy the meal.

He had admittedly entertained this kind of scenario a few times- ok, more than a few, in his mind, but it never got this far…

Usually, it was just him kissing her on the cheek.

He never dared to go any further for fear of heartbreak

I do my Sunday dreaming, oh yeah

And all my Sunday scheming

Every minute, every hour, every day

<<Aren’t you gonna have any?>>

<<Oh no, I ate this morning>>

<<But you cooked them>>

<<For you, Stevie. Now eat>>

He did so in silence, watching her as Y/N ran around the apartment to fix this or that. There wasn’t much to fix, to be honest, but she found something.

It made him smile.

Just for a moment though, until he was brought back to reality by the pain in his injuries

Oh, I’m hoping to discover

A certain kind of lover

Who will show me the way

———————————————————————

When he was done, he jumped off the chair and brought his plate to the sink. The H/C-haired girl moved toward it, but he stopped her

<<Don’t. It’s the least I could do>>

<<But->>

<<Y/N, stop. I said I’ll do it>>

<<Ste->>

<> He shouted. The young woman froze, mouth agape <>

And my arms need someone

Someone to enfold

The world came to a screeching halt.

Steve simply opened the tap and rinsed his plate and his glass, not daring to turn to look back at her.

The room suddenly felt colder

To keep me warm when Mondays

And Tuesdays grow cold

<<I… I just wanted to do something nice for you…>>

Shit.

Her voice was cracking.

He abruptly dropped everything he was holding, and it smashed to the floor, breaking into millions of pieces.

Just like you broke her, his subconscious reprimanded. Look at her: you made her cry

It was true: he could see tears pooling in her E/C eyes. It made him feel worse than the lowliest worm in the deepest pit of the Earth.

He was frozen in place, staring at her but unable to say anything

Love for all my life

<<Do you want some help to clean that?>>

Steve still didn’t reply. His heartbeat was drumming, making his ears ring with a dull noise.

He was scared and ashamed. Ashamed of himself, because he hurt her

To have and to hold

<<Wait, no, you said you don’t want me here>> Y/N snivelled, wiping away a tear that trickled down her cheek <<You know what? I might as well go, so->> She trailed off abruptly, spinning on her heels and making a beeline for the door, leaving him standing there like a fool.

Oh and I want a

Sunday kind of love

What the hell am I doing? Why am I letting her go?

He knew he couldn’t do that: he couldn’t let her go, not like that; not without making things right.

Not while tears poured down her cheeks because of him

Oh yeah

He broke into a run, ignoring everything else. He did not care about the rattling in his lungs, the shaking sensation in his legs or the pain in his wounds.

He had to reach her

Yeah, yeah

<<Y/N!>> He shouted, barely avoiding a disastrous fall down the few steps that lead to his apartment <<Y/N! For crying out loud, stop!>>

The girl heard him and stood still, but she did not turn around. He jogged up to her, out of breath but filled with determination

<<Y/N>> He wheezed <<I’m sorry>>

She winced, but still did not turn around

<<You have been so nice to me ever since we met in that diner, a few months ago, and I never even gave you the time of day… I’m so damn sorry.

I’ve been horrible to you>>

Silence met his words.

Steve bent his head low and sighed, ready to turn around and leave: he didn’t want to surrender, but he would not bother her if she didn’t want to talk to him.

Just when he was about to go, a broken whisper left her lips

<<Why?>>

He bit his lip and cursed when he was painfully reminded that it was wounded, but brushed it off for the moment

<<What was that?>>

<<Why are you mad at me, Steve? What did I do wrong?>>

<<It wasn’t you, I swear. It’s me>>

<<That’s what people say when they’re trying to let someone down gently>> She muttered

<<No, I swear. I… I’m scared, Y/N>>

That seemed to get to her. She finally turned around and Steve jolted again when he saw the faint traces of teardrops on her cheeks

<<Scared? Of me?>>

He gulped.

The E/C-eyed woman a few feet from him flinched, furrowing her brow

<>

<<But I’m not->>

<<I know you’re not, but sometimes… It just gets to me.

I even tell Bucky off now and then, because of this>> The boy sighed, clenching his fists and ignoring the pain that shot through him again

<<I’m not used to people just being nice to me for no reason; they ignore me, bully me, or they feel sorry for me.

I’m just the silly, lanky kid with asthma>>

<<I’m so->>

<<That’s not all>>

<<It isn’t?>>

<<I…

Y/N, girls have never looked at me like that. They only speak to me in hopes of getting me to put in a good word for them with Bucky. You don’t know how many times they strung me along just for that.

There were even times when I let myself be fooled, when I chose to believe that->> He stopped for a moment, choking on his words <<You can imagine how that turned out>>

Y/N nodded, frowning still

<<That’s horrible Steve, but I promise you I’m not like that>> She approached him <>

<>

Those words made her flinch, but he rushed to explain himself before she could misunderstand

<<You deserve so much better than me doll>>

Did she just blush?

<<You deserve a man that you won’t get picked on for going out with, a man who can whisk you off your feet and who can actually withstand chasing you without feeling like he’s about to faint…>> He paused, took a deep breath and went on with his speech of self-loathing <<You are a fantastic woman, and you deserve someone in your league; someone like Bucky, someone like the guy who was trying his luck with you the day we met>>

When he was done with his tirade he finally looked at her, and he turned frantic when he noticed there were tears in her eyes again

For goodness’ sake, what did I do now?

<<Y/N? Why are you crying?>>

<> She eluded his question and stepped even closer to him until their faces were inches apart

<<You don’t?>>

<<No, you fool, I don’t. I don’t want that guy either. Besides, he was an absolute jerk>>

<<Yeah, he was; a huge jerk>>

They chuckled together

<<And you stepped in to defend me without thinking twice>> She giggled.

He floundered

<>

<>

I don’t want a Monday

Tuesday or Wednesday

Or Thursday, Friday

Or Saturday

The blond was certain he’d gone mad

<<You- You want me?>>

She giggled

<<Yes. Does that surprise you so much?>>

<<Yes. I’m short, lanky, ugly and I->>

His flattering description of himself was interrupted when she pressed her lips against his. His eyes widened, and he froze.

When she pulled away Y/N giggled; her cheeks were cherry red

<<You are not ugly, you doofus. You are the most wonderful man I ever met, and I want you; no one else>>

Oh, nothing

But Sunday

Oh yeah

<<Mh…>>

<<Oh gosh, your lip! I’m sorry, I forgot about it… Did I hurt you?>>

<<No, doll, don’t worry>> Her cheeks grew even redder, and he loved it <>

The young woman gasped

<<You cheeky fiend! I didn’t know you had it in you!>>

He cackled, giving her a loving smile

<<Come on, doll. Give me another one>>

<<Spending so much time with Bucky is getting to you>>

<<I’m hurt, Y/N; I thought you liked me>> He joked.

Her expression grew softer and she took his hands in hers

<>

I want a Sunday

Steve barely restrained himself from whooping with joy, giving her a smirk instead

<<Well then, won’t you give me one more kiss?>>

Sunday

He didn’t expect her to play along

I want a Sunday kind of love

<>

Oh yeah

Her grin cut his breath short, but he shook himself out of it pretty quickly, going on with his suave act

<<As you wish, princess>>

That said, he pulled her closer and kissed her, busted lip be damned.

They stayed like that for a while, until he pulled away

Damn, that was some kiss

Y/N was beaming at him, and his heart beat a mile per minute. It was everything he’d hoped for and more

<<Doll…>>

<<Yes?>>

<<I’m so sorry for what I said before>>

<<It’s ok, darling, I understand>>

<<Thank you. You make every moment of pain worthwhile>>

<<Steve…>>

Sunday, Sunday

Words were only a nuisance then, so they kissed again; it was even more spectacular than the first two, and they could only hope that every kiss they would share from then on would be as fantastic, if not more

Sunday kind of love

——————————Extra——————————

Steve pulled away from the kiss, leaning on his elbow as he looked into Y/N’s eyes. He was about to say something sickeningly sweet, but she beat him to it

<<Oh, what’s the matter, Stevie? Are you tired of kissing me?>>

Well, that was not sweet.

No, it was more of a taunt. The teasing grin on her face only further confirmed his assumption.

But Steve was not someone to back down from a challenge.

Smirking smugly, he cradled her face in his hands before whispering

<>

Y/N swatted him on the arm with a snort. He kissed her again, immediately after.

#millieswritingchallenge #steve x reader #steve rogers fluf #steve rogers imagine

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panamastayed · 5 years ago

Text

PSA

Hello everyone!

So I’m sure many of you saw this coming seeing as I’ve been talking about it frequently for the past few days but, I’ve officially decided that I’m going move & remake Karter’s blog however I want to explain why exactly this is happening seeing as I imagine for some of you this might be coming rather suddenly so allow me to elaborate:

Lack of Plotting: I’ve tried to work otherwise, but I’ve come to the QUICK realization that I am borderline incapable of keeping up with threads or even mustering replies for threads when I don’t have some frame of reference for where we’re going plot wise and what kind of relationship is in the works. Karter is a difficult character to write to begin with as he’s not the friendliest nor is he the most accommodating to random interactions, thus those first meeting threads or threads with no baseline for where to go end up having no merit as essentially I don’t know how to keep going. So going forward on my new blog I’ll very likely be strongly encouraging ( if not outright requiring ) some level of plotting just for the sake of keeping interactions going.

Feeling Overwhelmed: Going hand in hand with that lack of plotting I’ve also been feeling like I’m constantly buried under the replies I have to do, and that, while of my own making, is a feeling I can’t seem to escape from. I want to interact with everyone yes, but I don’t think I can manage that until I have a fresh start & a clean slate to work from. To mitigate this I’m definitely going to be using my queue more frequently, especially considering that the queue buys me time to clear out other replies before resetting that cycle.

General Lack of Muse: I have to face facts and state that my muse for Karter has been SIGNIFICANTLY lower recently. I couldn’t tell you why and I know for certain I don’t want to give him up, but I am going to undoubtedly be reducing my activity on Karter and rely more heavily on the queue for this remake. This blog feels over-cluttered & just generally like a mess and it’s killing my muse. There are other reasons for my muse being less prominent but the primary one is this feeling of suffocation from being on this blog.

Following / Being Followed By Too Many People: I don’t mean to sound ungrateful because I am MORE than thankful for all the wonderful people I have that I have gotten the chance to write with & become good friends with. I love that so many people get invested in Karter and his story. But the truth is I have a hard time keeping up with all the people I want to write with as it is, and that’s to say NOTHING of this feeling like I’m constantly forgetting & shirking these interactions because I have so many people to keep up with. I’m going to need to cut out people and this goes hand in hand with that UNFOLLOW spree. The bottom line is that I am going to be far more strict going forward with my rule regarding unfollowing. If you follow me and I follow you back, I intend on interacting with you and I give plenty of opportunities to do make that leap, but I can’t keep following people for months on end and never write with them. That’s just clutter for my dash and hence ends up contributing to this problem. That means going forward EVERYONE is going to have one week to reach out in some way shape or form to me–––and I want to be clear. If you aren’t super active, that is perfectly fine with me, all you need to do is give me a heads up that you’re interested and I’m willing to wait until you have some dedicated free time to chat even if it’s only a small window of time, but it just bridges the gap seeing as I don’t want to do the whole “Follow for Follow” deal.

Rules/Bio Being Ignored: This one I think is perhaps another HUGE contributor for my need to move blogs. I can TELL when people don’t read my rules or read my bio. YES. I understand that it’s a very long bio, I wrote the thing. But please understand it’s not there for my health. It is there to illuminate who Karter is as a character and detail what his life was like at different stages. It is supposed to explain WHY Karter is the way he is, and yes I get that it’s a daunting task. I don’t expect people to memorize it. Hell I don’t even expect people to read the whole thing in one sitting. But the bottom line is that the full length bio is the BEST way to understand Karter, and if you intend on writing in Main Verse ( which as I understand it, most people do ) then reading that bio is MANDATORY. On my new blog it WILL be for anyone who expects to write in main verse. And I want to be clear, I always encourage questions. Karter’s main verse canon was built almost entirely from scratch with inspiration from sources related to it, so I get that sometimes part of the bio can be kind of confusing, never be ashamed to ask questions. I would rather spend 20 minutes trying to explain something that you didn’t quite understand in the bio than to end up having to explain it ANYWAY when Karter reacts a certain way that confuses or upsets another writer.

I apologize that this explanation is so long winded and I hope you all understand that this blog move is perhaps more necessary than anything else because at this point I am having a difficult time even coming onto this blog as I feel absolutely overwhelmed beyond any shadow of a doubt. I need a clean slate with a clean start.

For those of you who are still interested in writing with Karter & I after the move I’ll be making a post offering anyone the NEW URL of my blog once I finished getting it ready.

Thank you,

Joey

#ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴀᴘᴛᴀɪɴ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ( OOC )#PSA

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redsamuraiii · 5 years ago

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Marie Kondo & Minimalism

Pic : Pinterest

We have lost the art of simple living. We have too many material possessions, too many choices and too much to eat, that we waste and destroy so much. Minimalism is not about living in poverty and sleeping on the floor of an empty room, it’s about possessing little or just necessities and simple decorations that is enough to make your home clean and comfortable.

For many of us, material wealth is an expression of selfhood, proof of our existence or success to show to the world that we’ve made it. So we tend to associate our identities and self-image with the things we possess, the car we drive, the job we have, the house we live in, the food we eat, the clothes we wear, the phone we use, the degree certificate we take and so much more.

How often do we asked ourselves, do we buy things because we really need or love them or because you think it might impress others who will see them? Do we post social gathering photos on social media to show our appreciation of our friendship or to show others what kind of friends we have and to portray the type of person we are? Do we buy a particular car model because it’s economical, practical or pleasing to the eyes? Or do we buy them to show others that we could afford such a brand?

In the end, we became unhappy with our own excessive and repulsive purchases because we buy them not for ourselves but for others, or buy them simply because we were too stressed at the time that we went on a shopping therapy. And you start asking yourself all this now as you get older, when your list of bills start to get longer and your store starts to get crowded with items you don’t even remember why you bought it or when was the last time you actually used it.

It’s no wonder we get so stressed easily working at home now during the pandemic and no wonder minimalist guru such as Marie Kondo have been gaining popularity, because people not only need help in sorting out their stuffs but sorting out their cluttered heart and life as well, to achieve the inner peace with just the minimum.

Source : The Life-Changing Manga of Tidying Up: A Magical Story

We all know who she is by now and one thing I do not understand is the hate she’s been getting since she became known to the world. Interesting fact about her is that her videos have already been circulating YouTube about five years ago but she only became famous now after her shows came on Netflix.

From what I understand from these haters or skeptics is that they have a misconception about her, thinking it’s just a tidying up method that anybody can do or has been doing for ages, so they do not see the logic that people need to read her books and watch her shows to know how to clean up your own house.

What they fail to understand is that it’s more than just cleaning up your room, it’s about recognizing your attachments to your belongings and identifying yourself. It’s not just about cluttering up your cupboards but your life as well. Not letting objects define your self worth. You do not need things that you do not need, just to impress others on social media for likes or make yourself feel better.

When you dig out your stuffs, you can tell which are the ones that you bought simply because you really want it, because you like the color or design or its comfortable or it makes you look great? And the ones that you bought simply because of the brand or trend because you want to show off to others to give them an impression that you are this or that kind of person? This is what she’s trying to imply, separating things that you really love “spark joy” and those that you don’t even remember or know why you bought it in the first place now that you look at it again. It could be you bought it ten years ago when you were younger because you wanted to make a fashion statement but now you’re more mature and realize what a waste of money that was.

Unfortunately, we live in a capitalist world that is constantly shoving consumerism down our throats daily with advertisements and social influencers telling you to get this and that just so you could be in trend with everyone else and do not want to be left out. And when you can’t afford to get those things like everyone else you become unhappy, depressed and angry.

You wanted to dress like them, you wanted to look like them, you wanted to live in a big house like them, you wanted to drive a branded car like them, you wanted to have the perfect lover like them, you want everything about them from their lifestyle to their personality that you lost yourself and your identity of who you really are as a person and what really makes you happy. Despite all the things that you already have that you need, you’re still unhappy because you’re obsessed in getting things that you want simply because others have it too! So we put in extra hours at work for that extra cash sacrificing things that really matter such as spending time with friends and family. We lost the human connection to objects that’s supposed to make us feel happy.

She also stress out about the dangers of nostalgia because if you are too entrenched in the past, you’ll never be able to get rid of the old things and you’ll only accumulate more stuffs that you don’t need. You’ll feel more constrained and stressed out living in a “storeroom” you call home. Most importantly, you won’t be able to move on in the present because you’re still living in the past.

I have only started learning more about her recently as I have never been the sort that gets on stuffs while its trending and the only reason I start to learn more about her now is purely out of curiosity and interest as I believe there is more to her than meets the eye. I find her “anti-consumerism” refreshing because I think extreme consumerism is what making people very unhappy today.

Also because I believe that no matter how many years of experiences that we have or all the knowledge that we acquired thus far, no matter how smart we think we are, there is always something new that we do not know about. Life is a continuous learning process, it’s all about learning, discovering new things and taking a step back to re-look at things from a different perspective.

Learning doesn’t stop, which is why I find it amusing when the haters, critics and skeptics say they don’t need to know about Konmari when they’ve been cleaning up their entire life. To me that’s like saying, “This has always been the way we do things around here, we don’t need improvisation or innovation, thank you.”

Be it as it may, what I’m trying to say here is to just be respectful to others and their beliefs no matter how weird or ridiculous that may seem to you. If you think it’s not something meant for you or interests you then by all means, you’re free to walk away from this. No one’s forcing you to stay put.

I just don’t get why they choose to stay and make fun of something they do not understand that works for the fans.

At the end of the day, it is who you are as a person that defines you. Not your material possessions, not your career credentials, not your academic qualifications. Strip them all away, and ask yourself who you are beneath it all?

I end my thoughts with a quote by Sen no Rikyu, a historical figure considered to have had the most profound influence on the Japanese tea ceremony.

“How much does he lack himself who must have many things.”

#marie kondo #konmari #minimalist #anti consumerism #life #minimalism #simple living #sen no rikyu #japan

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laurelwritesandstuff · 5 years ago

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Jeremiah

Given Name: Jeremiah

Scientific Name: crassula argentea

About: Jeremiah is yet another one of my Walmart babies. He is a jade plant who I’ve had for a little more than a year, yet he has just started to show growth this summer. Maybe something about the climate in Texas is better for him.

When I was at college, a few of my friends had jade plants, so I decided that it was time to add to my plant family. After all, I felt like I was falling behind because my friends with plants had half of their dorm rooms filled. Eventually, as we got more and more comfortable with each other, we started leaving our plants out in the common area where I would periodically go and talk to my babies (it wasn’t that weird...). One day, our hall director walked into the suite and started talking to us. This wasn’t alarming to us in any way as she would often come in, check on how we were doing (usually stressed and praying to be run over while using the crosswalk lol just kidding! sort of), and glance around the suite. I’m not going to lie; we were oftentimes on the receiving end of a gentle, yet stern reprimand to keep the suite clean, but we weren’t completely disastrous. Anyway, she came in and talked to us like normal, but then started a conversation about our plants. “You know, maybe everyone should have these plants inside their rooms, so that the suite isn’t cluttered.” Now, understand, dear, non-existent reader, by this point, the plant situation had gotten a bit out of hand. In our heads, I’m sure we were all thinking that what our hall director was suggesting was nearly impossible at this point in our collective addiction. Like the good residents we are, everyone slowly, but surely moved their plants into their rooms with only minimal grumblings of complaint; however, that might have had more to do with the fact that our suite chair was a stickler for the rules and would never have allowed us to disobey a direct order. And that’s the story of how I ended up with a roommate in my single room (or rather 3 “plantmates”), but that’s not where the story ends.

Flash forward to the next school year; one of our suitemates was putting her room together and she realized she didn’t have room for her 4-level plastic shelf and presented it to us as the new “plant shelf.” Thus, the plants regained their privileged seat near the windows in the common area. Soon after, the hall director walked in, noticed the shelf, and seemed to shrug it off and let us be. It honestly did look quite nice! Our plant addiction was allowed to flourish which may not have been the best outcome...

P.S. R.I.P. to my mint and cilantro plants, Alex and Elena (named after two characters on my favorite show at the time, One Day at a Time) who tragically died a few weeks after I got them, but technically came before Jeremiah.

#plants #jade plant #crassula argentea #sorry my posts are so late #i'll try writing more soon

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killingthebuddha · 5 years ago

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“All of us become pilgrims at one time or another, even though we may not give ourselves the name.” –Richard Niebuhr

PJ, who presides over Dublin’s dusty shop Sweny’s, has read Joyce’s Ulysses 51 times in 6 different languages. Over a dark pint of Guinness, with the mist from the glass melting on his fingertips, PJ speaks about the lines from the book that are making his pulse race that minute. He doesn’t try to persuade you of their sacredness or its genius. He just smiles slightly, revealing coffee-stained and wayward teeth, and nods as he cites whole paragraphs. PJ loves Joyce. To PJ, Sweny’s, the shop where Leopold Bloom bought lemon soap for his wife Molly in Joyce’s epic, is an invaluable relic of Joyce’s Dublin, and he would do anything to protect its legacy. Even as rent steadily increases, PJ continues to sell bars of lemon soap in the chemist’s shop, now cluttered with old photographs, various editions of Ulysses, and hundreds of small glass bottles. PJ says with a wry smile, “the soap cleans the body while the book corrupts the mind.”

Every year on June 16, the same date that marked Leopold Bloom’s walk around Dublin in 1904, a host of literary pilgrims visit the city to pay tribute to Joyce. Sweny’s was a sacred stop on the tour for people I met last Bloomsday, people who came from Australia, Japan, Bosnia, South Korea, the United States, Germany, Spain, Argentina, England, France, and Switzerland.

In the Catholic tradition of pilgrimage, a location that is considered sacred is often referred to as a “thin place,” a place where the space between heaven and earth wanes, and becomes rarefied or thin. Such places typically mark the site of a saint’s ascension, a miraculous act, or some epiphanic moment. In other religions, places may be considered sacred because they have been saturated with meaning by God. What might a thin place be in a conversation about literary pilgrimage? Perhaps where the distance between an author’s imagination and a reader’s lived reality narrows and eventually collapses. And where the human being who generated meaning in the place—the author, the artist, the genius—begins to acquire divine status. Joyce certainly seems to assume deific qualities every year on Bloomsday as devotees travel to Dublin and re-enact the events from Bloom’s life, visit the places he walked, and read excerpts of Ulysses aloud.

In the home I grew up in, we consider all books sacred, and one of my family’s South Indian traditions has become practically reflexive for me. When someone accidentally drops a book or grazes one with a foot, we place our hand on the cover and gently touch our closed eyelids. We thus symbolically ask forgiveness for treating a book with inadvertent disregard. My parents instilled in me a deep appreciation for written words. Literary pilgrimage provides an opportunity to reflect on that appreciation, and on what happens when it extends beyond an individual gesture to a collective expression of reverence. Why do people become dedicated to one author, or one text? And how does that dedication evolve from fleeting infatuation to persistent devotion?

Last summer, on a quest to reckon with these questions, I attended the Bloomsday festival, which is primarily organized by the James Joyce Center on Dublin’s North Great George’s Street. Deirdre Ellis-King, the chair of the board of the James Joyce Center, notes that the center is committed to providing “different points of entry” into the text, be it “music and song, drama, costume, or food.” The entry points Ellis-King referred to are visible throughout Dublin on Bloomsday. As I walked down North Great George’s Street, people were dressed for the trends of 1904—most men sported black top hats, and carried walking sticks, while women donned petticoats, lace gloves, and parasols. One man even tipped his hat, saluted me, and said with a melancholic tinge, “what a shame, poor fellow, Paddy Dignam,” referencing the character whose funeral in Ulysses occurs on June 16.

When I arrived at Davy Byrne’s, a central pub in the novel, I witnessed a joyful uproar of Irish anthems and songs from the book. There were productions of Ulysses all over Dublin, from the Abbey’s adaptation of the entire epic to the Bewley Café’s staged reading of Molly Bloom’s monologue, and her famed finale, “and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.” There were pub crawls across Dublin, not to mention food tours that took visitors down Bloom’s bizarre trajectory of consumption, from kidneys for breakfast to gorgonzola sandwiches and burgundy for lunch. All these events were meant to challenge the notion that Ulysses ought to be abstruse and abstract for readers. Bloomsday participants come with varying levels of Ulysses knowledge, but even if you haven’t read the book, you can still down a pint or digest a kidney.

Sam Slote, a professor at Trinity College Dublin, who has organized an academic symposium on Ulysses, cites Joyce’s remark, “If I can get to the heart of Dublin, I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world.” Slote comments that in order “to get to the heart of Dublin, Joyce represents the city in all its specificities.” In this way, he “gets to everywhere else and all their specificities.” Deirdre Ellis-King agrees, remarking that “Joyce and Dublin are synonymous, it’s any-man and every-man, you could be in any city in the world and enjoy the same kind of experiences of the streetscape.” Paradoxically, by being so precise, the text becomes universal. This stylistic technique is analogous to the character of Bloom. “It’s not that every man likes kidneys for breakfast, but every man has his particularities,” Slote says. It is in this way that Ulysses speaks to any reader, any person in motion, any pilgrim—not in the specifics of every human being, but in the specificity with which any human being can be represented. No one is special. Everyone is special. Stephen Dedalus, the other main character in the novel, has a line, “every life is many days, day after day.” This could be the motto for not only the epic, but also the festival commemorating June 16—any day, in any life, could be Bloomsday. The annual convergence of time and place restores significance to every ordinary and individual encounter, to every overlooked dollop of time.

Jessica Yates, who oversees the Bloomsday festival and manages the James Joyce Center, tells me she “converted” to Joyce (her word) because of Bloomsday. Unlike people who embark on a pilgrimage to honor the text they love, Yates casually went out to a pub on Bloomsday eleven years ago without any prior knowledge of Ulysses. It was there that she met “someone special,” and they set out on a project to read Ulysses before their first anniversary. She says with a trill of laughter, “I got so into Bloomsday.”

She recommends I sit in on one of the storied reading circles at Sweny’s. I do, and am struck by the variety of voices present. Some readers sit with a cane or walker leaning against theirs chairs, and others sprint over to the shop after class. As Joycean phrases echo in the small confines of Sweny’s, I hear accents from Argentina, South Korea, and France. One Dubliner named Paddy has been attending the reading circle on and off for about a decade. Paddy wears long trousers, a light blue button down shirt, and round reading glasses. He seems serious, but he also has a toothy grin. While some wanderers came into the bookshop after one or two beers, Paddy arrives early, eager to pour over the text he deems so valuable. He has read the book in 6-month cycles about ten or eleven times—he can’t recall exactly. He views Ulysses as a vessel through which he can access his own ancestors, a thin place with miraculous possibility. He explains, “I am from Dublin. My parents, my grandparents too. I have no non-Irish connections. I think I am deeply of Dublin, and there are few books deeply of Dublin. Ulysses is one of them.” He explains why the book resonates with him emotionally by pointing to its melodic qualities: “There is a music in the language, a rhythm in the speech. I can hear my parents who are now dead, my grandparents who are now dead, I can hear them talking, when I read it, I can hear their voices.”

Yet another regular at Sweny’s is Finon, a former student at Trinity College. He has been attending readings of Ulysses for four years, and he loves how Sweny’s regulars move “in a loop,” how the book itself is like a “carousel, no fun unless you get to do the whole thing.” “After all,” he chuckles, “if you haven’t finished, it’s not worth the money.” Like many sacred texts, Ulysses contains philosophical reflections, surprising imagery, and beautiful poetry. And like many religious holidays, which draw pilgrims from all over the world to a holy site, Bloomsday too, according to Finon, becomes a “spawning day,” to which “a lot of people return.” Both re-reading and pilgrimage are rituals of returning.

Attempts to disavow the sacred aspects of the festival sometimes sound inadvertently religious. When Finon describes the goal of Bloomsday, he seems a bit like a defensive missionary: “The attempt to popularize the text is really an attempt to create an invitation into it. I mean nobody’s looking to actively spread it onto people, but to keep it as welcoming as possible.” Similarly, Jessica Yates says she wants to get people excited about the text, but she insists, “I don’t want to impose it on everyone.” They are enthusiasts who hesitate to proselytize.

Indeed, Professor Slote of Trinity College Dublin notes with a hint of smug amusement that many people were asking him what he thought of Bloomsday from a scholarly perspective and he was “about to say something,” until he realized, “I’m not going to be this guy.” It would be understandable, from an academic standpoint, to scoff at some of what unfolds. For starters, many of the most devoted participants have never read the book. Take John, the James Joyce lookalike who has stood outside the James Joyce Center every June 16 for the last seven years. He carries a cane, and wears a black top hat, a suit, a healthy gray moustache and a tiny square beard. He peers through large circular spectacles, and takes photographs with tourists. Originally a hat-maker, John grew up in Dublin. He explains the mass of people at the James Joyce Center in an assured tone: “People don’t have to be readers to enjoy Bloomsday, people just like the association.” When I asked John what he thought when he read Ulysses for the first time, his eyes stretched open, and he raised his brows: “Read it? I wrote it!” I smiled, and he conceded, “I’m afraid I didn’t read it.”

For Joyce, a writer who said that if “Ulysses isn’t worth reading, then life isn’t worth living,” John’s confession could be considered blasphemous. But returning to Professor Slote’s less judgmental perspective, it’s unnecessary to “be that guy” who reads and analyzes Ulysses in order to have a genuine relationship with the text. Slote analogizes criticism of Bloomsday to what “we have in America—the [rhetoric of the] war against Christmas … the secularization of Bloomsday is not a bad thing.”

Is Bloomsday a sign that the religion of Joyce is somehow being compromised, challenged, thinned out in the public’s touristic, commercial and dangerously superficial imagination? Or is Bloomsday’s existence reaffirming the sacredness of Ulysses to its readers? After all, not everyone who travels to Lourdes has read the Bible, and not everyone who journeys to Mecca has read the Qur’an. The mastery of a text is not necessary, or at the very least, not a prerequisite for meaningful motivations. Pilgrimage provides a different kind of proof of faith.

As Slote elaborates on not wanting to be the Grinch of Bloomsday, he says, Bloomsday “is not a bad thing—usually it falls on nice, sunny weather,” and it’s “a pleasant excuse to have a bit of a lark.” He concurs with the organizers of the Bloomsday festival that it’s good to get people interested, and even though he says “my job is generally not to think about popularizing Ulysses,” he believes offering various points of entry for readers is noble. He elaborates on Joyce’s mission with Ulysses: “While it is a book that is studied at universities, it’s not just for those people. It has a wider audience. The way culture has moved, these things tend to be more academicized, [and] something like [Bloomsday] is a good counterbalance.”

Leslie Daugherty, from the North Side of Dublin, plays Leopold Bloom in the James Joyce Center productions of Ulysses, and he agrees that the so-called “secularization” of Joyce is a good thing. He describes the text as “a fabulous read,” but takes issue with some of the academics who treat Ulysses with the wrong kind of “reverence,” effectively “making Ulysses unattainable.” He objects to the notion that Ulysses is for “the posh people,” and shook his head as he said, in a throaty voice, “No. Ulysses is for everyone who has a mind of his own.”

Marty, a man from Donegal, Ireland, who is a marketing and events coordinator at the James Joyce Center, first encountered Joyce when he read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and he says with a chuckle that “a lot of teenage Catholic dudes in Ireland identified with it.” He describes being deeply moved by the part where Stephen is called to the priesthood but says, instead, that he is an artist. The tensions between religious tradition, devotion, expectation, and the inclination towards the life of an artist resonate with Marty.

Leopold Bloom, Ulysses, and Bloomsday itself are all fraught with similar tensions. Bloom is a man who loves his wife and preaches love but deceives her and behaves disloyally. Ulysses contains styles that contradict and challenge one another—clean prose, experimental stream-of-consciousness, advertisement jargon, and saccharine romantic-novel satire. Bloomsday has attendees who have read the text 51 times and people who have never heard of Joyce. The idea of “literary pilgrimage,” too, brims with ambiguity. Are books meant to be read, or to be revered? And does a book find its meaning in an isolated experience, or in a collective celebration?

In 1996, Jonathan Franzen revised an essay initially published as “The Harper’s Essay” and retitled it “Why Bother.” In it, Franzen laments the demise of a reading-culture, and describes his “despair about the American novel.” He writes about one novel he read in reverent prose, marking his gratitude “that someone besides me had suffered from these ambiguities and had seen light on their far side—that Fox’s book had been published and preserved; that I could find company and consolation and hope in an object pulled almost at random from a bookshelf—felt akin to an instance of religious grace.” The experience of literature, of reading as an act of worship, is often seen as an individual one, as it is in this passage. Indeed, the collection for which Franzen revised his essay is called How to be Alone.

Yet Bloomsday’s beauty is in its social activity. As many literary pilgrims have pointed out, Joyce wanted his text to be democratic. The point of Bloomsday is for “any man and every man,” and the text is about bringing reverence to our everyday. Ulysses itself, in various bodily and granular descriptions elevates the profane to an esteemed status. For example, in one instance, Joyce satirically describes a man seated at the foot of a large tower as a “broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong-limbed, frank-eyed, red-haired, freely-freckled, shaggy-bearded, wide-mouthed, large-nosed, long-headed, deep-voiced, bare-kneed, brawny-handed, hair-legged, ruddy-faced, sinew-armed hero.” And just as Joyce plays with his characters, gifting them gallant qualities (albeit in a sardonic tone), so does Bloomsday toy with its visitors and their expectations, until people find communion in a collective, at times gimmicky, at times reverent experience. Ulysses motivates its readers enough that they want to change their physical circumstances, embark on an embodied passage, and develop another vantage-point—beyond the systems of logic and reason that we so often subscribe to. The book inspires people to find one another, to derive solace and soul, from an admittedly kooky community. This somewhat paradoxical combination of the sacred and the irreverent is what permeates Dublin on Bloomsday. There are pub crawls and exclamations of Joycean passages made shriller by grand glasses of Guinness. But there is also something reminiscent of what we see in churches and memorials—pilgrims, persons in motion—seeking answers, inspired by something that has no neat ending, maybe realizing as they wander, that they too, will never be complete.

Despite all the ambiguity and insecurity that is present when one sets out on a pilgrimage, there is also a yearning. People embark on a pilgrimage in search of something, be it healing, obligation, or understanding. And whether it is religious or literary pilgrimage, we can discover havens in vagrancy the way we do in words. As Franzen puts it, “to write sentences of such authenticity that refuge can be taken in them: Isn’t this enough? Isn’t it a lot?” There are not often clear answers in literature, but when paragraphs protect you, it doesn’t so much matter, does it? There are not clear lines drawn between the drawbacks and merits of Bloomsday either. Tourist Destination or Holy Site? One could easily say that the merits of Bloomsday are inits campiness, its accessibility, and its rendering a “thin place” palpable to readers. Franzen ends his essay with the image of a character discovering in a broken ink bottle “both perdition and salvation.” He writes, at peace without real resolution, “The world was ending then, it’s ending still, and I’m happy to belong to it again.”

Finon, one of the regular members of the Sweny’s reading circle, also embraces contradiction in Bloomsday. He believes that the festival is meaningful, but remarks with a knowing smirk that “on Bloomsday people like to drink and eat strange meat … [but] no one’s really talking about metempsychosis” (a concept of great significance in the novel). Finon asks if I had read Station Island by Seamus Heaney when I press him on the benefits and caveats of literary pilgrimage. I answer that I have not. He is keen to explain, “it’s a poem about revisiting a Catholic pilgrimage site, a catholic shrine …based on the idea that St. Patrick had a vision of purgatory there.” Finon outlines the context of the poem. “He was revisiting the place as a secularized figure … returning to a place he no longer believed in.” This raises an interesting question within a framework of literary pilgrimage. Is it possible to have a jarring return to a place you have lost faith in if all you have lost faith in is the sanctity of the literature (and not, for instance, the existence of God?)

In Heaney’s poem, various characters appear from disparate significant moments in the history of Ireland. And at the “dead center,” Finon narrates in a thrilled whisper, “he meets the ghost of the dead James Joyce.” Heaney doesn’t name him. He refers only to the storied image of Joyce that impersonators and photographers and readers and writers have memorialized for a century: a tall man with a cane, and the voice of a singer. Heaney writes that the figure held out his hand— “whether to guide or be guided I could not be certain,” because the man seemed blind. In this poem, an itinerant soul reckons with the loss of meaning in a formerly faithful location. That a hero of literature, a genius, artist, poet, is ambiguous in his leadership—that it is unclear whether he wants to lead or be led, demonstrates the deterioration and dismantling of Joyce as an idol, of Joyce as a God. Here Joyce’s hand is “fish-cold and bony,” and the onlooker knows him “in the flesh …wintered hard and sharp as a blackthorn bush.” This is a weathered, human being, a worn body, tired, old, nothing divine or eternal-seeming about him.

In many ways, this encounter could represent the ultimate challenge, a revisiting and reckoning with the sacred ground on which a metaphorical shrine to Ulysses was erected. In Station Island the character of Joyce does not seem wholly self-assured. He says, “your obligation / is not discharged by any common rite. / What you do you must do on your own … You’ve listened long enough. Now strike your note.” In this imagination of Joyce, the source of Ulysses’s genius, is not, on the surface, a divine force, because he feels entirely human. Yet, isn’t there something god-like in the command to strike out alone, to stop “listening,” and to embrace a new “rite”?

Considering Joyce as a simultaneously godly and ghostly figure is pertinent to the paradoxes of Bloomsday. Finon notes some logical dilemmas he observed on June 16 every year: “It’s a strange map in itself. I came to the real pub where a fictional character didn’t set foot. I came to the place where nobody bought the bar of soap. (laughs) It’s quite odd.”

Nonetheless, it seems hard to contend with the fact that Ulysses renders Dublin “a thin place.” It is the destination for wandering minds and bodies to relish and find refuge in words that feel mimetic of reality: the ugly, disturbing, devastating, and remedial stories that make up most of our lives. Letting Bloomsday be a thin place extracts communal joy from that solitary act of reading (or even of not-reading!) which can at times be isolating, and that private worship of Joyce, which can at times be embarrassing. A shared human soul pieced together from infinitely complex and individual particularities. One may plumb the mundane for miracles.

Niebuhr describes pilgrims as people “passing through territories not their own—seeking something we might call completion, or perhaps the word clarity will do as well.” I was passing through a territory not my own, and when I walked the streets of Dublin on Bloomsday, I felt both spiritual and giddy.

My very first interview, in the early morning of June 16, 2018, was with a couple from Trieste, and it felt like a moment of grace. I saw them loitering by the James Joyce Statue on the main street of the north side of Dublin. They were smiling and taking photos. It turned out that the man had read Ulysses as a young academic forty years ago. He matter-of-factly stated, “It was the text that inspired me to become a professor of literature.” As he spoke, his wife started laughing. I turned to her quizzically. She said, “Oh I’m sorry, it’s just my husband is really downplaying what this book means to him.” I asked her what she meant. “Well, when my first son was born—when I went into labor, what does my husband take along to the hospital? The thick fat book—Ulysses! He read it to me for twelve hours.” I turned to the man, now in his late 70s, a small smile playing on his lips, while a plum flush spread across his cheeks in patches. “Well,” he stuttered, “it’s sizzling…and brilliant…and so human.” This man wanted the very first words his son heard to be those of Joyce. What better anecdote could I have to demonstrate worship of this text? Yet, when I asked if he believed visiting Dublin for Bloomsday would lead to a more intimate understanding of Ulysses, he said, as his forehead creased slightly, “that would be too much, too big a claim.” His wife nodded knowingly. He added, “We’re here for more profane reasons.”

Literature enables both profane pleasure and reverence. On Bloomsday, no one has to choose.

#IFTTT #WordPress

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davidmann95 · 6 years ago

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This weeks comics?

So much to cover, and just so we’re all clear upfront, SPOILERS ahead.

Sideways Annual #1: I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive the cover for simply reading “All-out Action, guest-starring Superman” rather than the declaration of “The Champion of the Oppressed is BACK–JUST WHEN THE WORLD NEEDS HIM MOST!” it demanded, but otherwise what a delightful comic. It’s a mess in so many ways given Morrison’s working with what DiDio laid down for him (which he seems to demonstrate hilarious contempt for when he almost literally drops a bridge on the no-hoper who’d been set up as the arc villain before he can do anything) and jumping on mid-stream to boot, but it’s basically just an extended excuse for him to put dialogue in Superman and the Seven Soldiers’ mouths again and remind everyone how rad his takes on them are, and thereby shame us for abandoning the former. Plus give us a taste of what his voice for Spider-Man would be, which it turns out is a perfectly fine one in spite of his past professed skepticism that he could pull it off. And above all to assure us with a smile and the proper send-off (a particularly satisfying one for me personally given my arachnophobia) we never got before that even if we never see our pal cop-punching, bank-busting, casual Fridays Superman again, he’ll be out there, along with all the other cast-off good Superman ideas, helping out wherever he can.

Also, who else caught the nudge and wink about the Tailor, and how that tells devoted Seven Soldiers fans just how much of role Morrison really played in saving his take on Superman?

Batman #60: Batman is…Batman is weird lately. I honestly don’t have anything else to say about this issue, except that the bit with Alfred cleaning was obviously killer.

The Unexpected #6: So Ronan Cliquet is bad, right? Like, we can all agree that dude is just bringing nothing to the table? I’ve never seen pages so plain look so simultaneously cramped and barren. This book has been such a damn disappointment: clearly promises were made about how much space Orlando would have to work on this that have been entirely broken, he’s cutting past what was clearly intended to be dozens of issues of buildup and fleshing-out of the concept to the grand finale, and he’s already obviously and understandably checked out. This should have been one of those “hey, you never heard of _____, but it was quietly one of DC’s best books for awhile there!” titles you learn about 20 years after the fact, but it was stillborn and unable to explore even the slightest sliver of its potential. It’s almost reached a point where it can make me think its coming conclusion is a mercy killing, but then, said conclusion is the problem.

Justice League #11: The debut of the Super-eyepatch! Otherwise, while it’s definitely not my favorite issue thus far of Snyder’s Justice League, it might be the one that feels the most well-realized in terms of getting his vision on the page thanks to Francis Manapul. I desperately hope he sticks on the book past Drowned Earth, because as much as I absolutely love what Jorge Jimenez and Jim Cheung are doing, his vision feels the most in line with the, as Snyder put it, ‘magisterial’ tone this title is going for a lot of the time.

The Green Lantern #1: Not my favorite Morrison title of the week in spite of its lack of clutter and outside influence, to the point where I’d honestly say it initially left me pretty cold, but much as with Morrison’s last major #1 in Action Comics, a reread did wonders for me once I knew what sort of tone I’d be grappling with. I do think it was oddly structured in a way that didn’t benefit it, leading with the mundane-flavored-with-cosmic with the alien beat cops rather than Hal’s more grounded perspective leading into the awe-inspiring, but given it sets up an immediate contrast with his ‘civilian life’, I’d call it a calculated risk that didn’t quite pay off. Hal himself is interestingly realized, this blunt, bored dude who only really comes alive when he’s on the clock, who’s as hyper-competent at his job as you’d think the Greatest Green Lantern Of Them All would be but almost seems to be sleepwalking through his days. It’s when we reach Oa with the mission statement for the Corps that the book really comes together, meshing up the beautiful design sense, an evocation of some of Morrison’s past recurring themes and elements, and raw high concept into the most powerful evocation of the basic idea of Green Lantern’s Deal I’ve ever read. And Liam Sharp mostly does justice by it; I know some find his style off-putting and his anatomy wonky, but he sells the what-if-GL-was-a-2000AD-strip sensibility, and his work has a framing and structure and a tangible, doughy 3Dishness that recalls the flavor of some of Morirson’s best prior collaborations. Not that, to be clear, I don’t think plenty of those prior collaborators couldn’t have done a much better job with this, but I think this’ll pan out just fine.

On top of that a couple minor notes: I suspect David Uzumeri might have been right regarding the possibility that this could be the book where Morrison delves into the basic question of whether superheroes are by nature cops, and thereby police brutality (Maxim Tox and Hal himself both have some startlingly severe moments in here) and the moral feasibility of the whole business. Rather than rethinking his process in his time away, Morrison’s storytelling tics are as prominently on display here as just about anything he’s ever done. And I was genuinely shocked to see the acknowledgement of Manhattan in here - a landmark chapter in The Last War In Albion in the making if ever there was one - right alongside addressing Snyder’s Justice League, making this to my knowledge the only book in the company’s lineup to acknowledge both contenders to the throne of DC’s current actual Important Cosmic-Scale Story. I suppose Lantern is the place where that makes sense, but both bring interesting elements of their own, as with the Source Wall Morrison’s going right on in and acknowledging how other creators have brought his ideas and spirit to the forefront of the DCU in the last several years, and with Manhattan, having a Grant Morrison DC Comic acknowledge the presence of Watchmen characters as parts of the grand scheme of things makes that whole bizarre business feel real in a way even Doomsday Clock itself hasn’t for me.

Adventures of the Super Sons #4: What a charmer! I harped a lot on Pete Tomasi by and large sucking on Superman, because by and large he sucked on Superman, but put that dude on just the right project to play into his strengths and he absolutely shines.

The Dreaming #3: Wound up in my pull file since I’d unsubscribed so recently, and decided to give it one last chance. It’s pretty and confident in what it’s doing and I’m sure lots of people are rightfully getting a lot out of it, but I’m not one of them and it won’t be getting another shot.

Border Town #3: It feels odd to think this given how much positive attention it’s been getting and how well it’s sold for a modern Vertigo book, but Border Town absolutely still feels like the sleeper hit of 2018. It so feels like the sort of comic that I usually can acknowledge the quality of but doesn’t do it for me personally, so I keep picking it up expecting to not quite gel with a given issue, but each time I’m dead damn wrong. It’s brimming with energy and personality on every level, and it’s still early enough that I can’t possibly recommend enough that anyone who hasn’t given it a chance yet jump onboard.

The Wicked + The Divine: The Funnies: Speaking of titles that I can acknowledge the quality of but rarely do it for me, I’ve followed W + D from the beginning on the understanding that the fairly subdued joys I take from it on a month-by-month basis will be eclipsed by the scale of my love for it on a full reread, as was the case with the team’s Young Avengers. But boy did this one buck that trend, because it was a hoot. Honestly couldn’t tell you which was my favorite short, because like half the book is made up of front-runners.

Death of the Inhumans #5: Because Death of Some Inhumans, But Don’t Worry Not Any of the Good Ones, Other than Maximus wouldn’t have shifted as much copy. Donny Cates is establishing himself as a solid mid-tier superhero writer alongside your Tim Seeleys and James Tynions, and Ariel Olivetti’s a treat, but I have to call this one a miss.

Shatterstar #2: As I expected it didn’t grab me as much as the first issue since the tenants aren’t front-and-center, but I’m still digging it to a truly startling extent!

Marvel Knights #1: Okay? I mean, I liked it (aside from the unbelievably poorly-chosen ‘I can sort of see even though I’m blind’ line - had to be a dozen better ways of putting that), but aside from that it’s gritty and involves some of the characters with notable history in the imprint, I have no idea why this is the Marvel Knights 20th Anniversary book as opposed to just a random Marvel miniseries that I suppose could be published under that imprint if you wanted. The conceit feels so odd for the intended purpose.

The Immortal Hulk #8: This book is SO FUCKING GOOD ALL OF THE TIME AT EVERYTHING AND YOU ALL NEED TO BUY IT AND TELL YOUR FRIENDS ABOUT IT. CHRIST. Still the best super-shit on the stands.

DC Nation #6: Yanick Paquette needs to write Batman explaining science so as to teach us how to better fight crime for as long as he lives, if not in fact longer.

#Grant Morrison #Superman #Green Lantern #The Unexpected #Border Town #DC Comics #Marvel #Liam Sharp #Week's Comics #Opinion

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curestardust · 3 years ago

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Dust Watched: Tokyo 7th Sisters: Bokura wa Aozora ni Naru

Genres: Girl Idols // 1 movie (1h 16m)

Obligatory “I don’t know anything about the source material so this review is solely based on the movie” disclaimer.

✧ story ✧

So, the story of this 1 hour long movie is that there’s no story. I wish I were kidding. We’re told that there’s an “idol ice-age” in which a group called 777☆SISTERS... well, exists. We aren’t shown much of anything about how popular they’re in the beginning of the anime before the “story” begins. The group is at an idol studio called Nanastar however they find out that one of the most prolific idol studios is going to be shut down. But it can be saved if they can fill the concert hall. This is a pretty generic premise for an idol anime so I’m not sure how they managed to mess this up. In the end, nothing that happened particularly matters in the grand scheme of things and I just came away wondering what the point of this whole movie even was.

✧ characters ✧

In my opinion, this is where the core problem lies with this movie. The members of 777☆SISTERS all stand out in their own ways. The first 10 minutes of the movie is spent introducing them in a fun relay fashion and while one might not remember all 12(!) members’ names, they are easy to recognize and despite the huge number of female main characters (which is actually 13 including the manager) it never becomes too cluttered. I think this movie would’ve been quite good if it focused on the girls primarily.

But it doesn’t. In a decision that I cannot understand, half of this movie focuses on 2 very bland male characters, one of whom is trying to support the girls and the other being the most bland, generic, annoying villain you’d find in any low-tier garbage anime. This villain dude has more lines than 90% of 777☆SISTERS COMBINED! This character doesn’t even NEED to exist in the story. The whole villain behind the shut down/buy out of this studio could’ve just been a merely mentioned, faceless corporation.

The supporting guy character annoyed me less but the presence of these 2 takes away a lot of precious time that could’ve been spent on the, you know, *actual main characters* of the anime? Thus, while I liked the girls, the majority of the potential was wasted.

✧ art ✧

The art is very nice and clean, props on not using CGI for the dance scenes. I really like the distinctive designs of the girls as well.

✧ sound ✧

Oddly weak? The insert songs are good but they’re pretty generic pop songs. The OST seemed a bit limited as well with scenes having a lot less impact as there was literally just no OST playing during them and the silence was pretty jarring.

✧ overview ✧

Ahhhh, what a waste! Unfortunately, I don’t play rhythm games, so this will probably be the last time I see these girls which is really a shame.

My Rating: 5/10

#dusty reviews #tokyo 7th sisters #T7S

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ryqoshay · 7 years ago

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How to Handle a Nico: Improper Housekeeping

Primary Pairing: NicoMaki Words: 1.8k Rating: T? Time Frame: Maki is working through her residency. Nico is working as an idol producer. They are living together as a couple, but not married yet. Story Arc: Stand Alone

List of all HtHaN scenes

Author’s Note: Though this scene continues a theme from How to Care for a Nico, I am not currently considering them part of the same story arc. If I find myself wanting to bring it up again, I may link them in a similar manner to what I did with the three small photoshoot scenes.

“I’m home!” Nico called, closing the door behind her.

No response from within.

Odd.

Normally, after a tour, Maki would meet Nico at the door, anxious to see her again. Well, maybe not normally yet, as she’d only been on a handful of tours; not enough to really establish a pattern just yet. But once, Maki had been impatient enough that she had waited at the train station. And Nico knew her girlfriend. Though Maki was often loath to admit being lonely, there was no question in Nico’s mind how much she missed her. And as much as Nico loved to tease her about it, Nico missed her in return.

“Maki-chan?” Nico called again. “I’m home! Come give your girlfriend a welcome home kiss!”

Still no response.

“Or at least help Nico with her bag!”

Silence.

She didn’t really need that much help as she and the crew had already dropped off her idol related luggage at Egao; one of her employees would take care of cleaning later. This left her with just one bag of personal items. But still, it was the principle of the matter. Nico had been the one traveling all day, dragging around her luggage, while Maki had just been sitting around in class and studying.

Nico was beginning to feel a little concerned as she started moving into the house. She was fairly certain Maki was home, based on the fact that her shoes and coat were still in the entryway. And it was definitely too early for Maki to have gone to bed, especially with how late she had been staying up studying these days. Nico regularly had to remind her girlfriend how necessary it was to get a good night sleep.

It was entirely possible that Maki was listening to music while she studied. Several times, Nico had come home from work and accidentally scared her girlfriend whose headphones had been drowning out the rest of the world. But still, today Nico wasn’t simply coming home from a day at work, she was returning from a tour that had lasted over a month; surely that would warrant a warmer welcome.

Nico wrinkled her nose as she neared the kitchen. It wasn’t overpowering, by any means, just a little unpleasant. A quick glance verified the source of the strange smell, all of the bento boxes she had prepared for Maki were piled in the sink; empty save for a few scraps. The tower of takeout containers that stood past the rim of the trashcan likely added to the aroma. And there were cans everywhere. How many cases of beer had Maki consumed while she was gone?

Judging by the stray textbook and handful of coffee mugs on the small kitchen table, Maki had at least shoved breakfast down her throat a time or two there. But looking past the kitchen into the dining room revealed a room in pristine order; a stark contrast to the disaster area that was the kitchen.

“Maki-chan?” Nico poked her head into the living room.

Silence continued to prevail, and like the dining room, this room was immaculate. The lines in the carpet from the last time Nico had vacuumed were still visible. Maki was not only not here, but apparently hadn’t set foot in the room the entire time Nico was on tour; not even to watch a movie, or read a book, or just relax. At least Maki had gone out with Hanayo and Rin a couple of times, so Nico wasn’t worried about her spending all of her time studying.

There was one more place Nico needed to check; Maki’s office. She refused to look into the bathroom she passed along the way for fear of what she might see there, if the kitchen was any indication.

“Maki-chan?” Nico entered the office.

Though no response was given, Nico’s eyes immediately settled on a head of red hair on the desk. As she moved closer, she could see earbuds that had been not been removed before their owner fell asleep. She’s drooling. Nico made a mental note to tease her girlfriend about this fact as she moved around the desk.

“Maki-chan, your notebook is not a pillow.” The idol said gently, placing a hand on the younger girl’s shoulder. “And you’re making a mess of the paper.”

“Mmmm…” The med student stirred slightly.

“It’s still a bit early, but I’ll bet you’re exhausted from too many long nights. Again.” She leaned over to gently remove the headphones. “Let’s get you to bed. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

“Ni…” Maki’s eyes opened a bit. “Nico…-chan?”

“Yes, it’s Nico.” The older girl couldn’t help the smile that crossed her lips. “I’m home.”

“Nico-chan…” The younger girl shifted before sliding an arm around the other girl’s back and pulling her head against the stomach of the standing girl.

“Kyaa!” Nico cried in surprise as she was pulled off balance. Her hand shot out to catch the edge of the desk and prevent herself from falling, but found herself arched awkwardly over the other girl. “Geez, Maki-chan…”

“…” Maki’s only reply was her gentle breathing.

“I’m not staying like this all night.” Nico thought aloud as she used her free hand to pry a surprisingly strong arm off her waist. She chuckled at the plaintive whine that emanated from her girlfriend as she stood up again.

Maki’s eyes fluttered open. “Nico-chan?”

“Sorry to disturb your beauty rest, my princess.”

Maki’s eyes widened as she took a sharp breath. “Nico-chan?!”

Nico smirked. “You know, I wouldn’t mind if my name was the only thing you ever said from now on, but I’m sure others may object.”

“W-what are you doing here?!” The redhead shot up, sending her wheeled chair careening back toward the wall. “Ughn…” She wobbled a bit before bracing herself against the desk.

“Nice to see you too.” It was then that the raven-haired girl caught a whiff of the other girl’s breath. “Are you drunk?” She leaned in and craned her neck up just in time to get a quick view of dilated pupils before the violet eyes were squeezed shut.

“No…?” Came an uncertain reply. “Uhm… A little… Maybe?”

Nico glanced at the collection of cans on the desk. “How many of these are from tonight?”

“A few…”

Nico sighed, thinking that two was probably too much for her lightweight of a girlfriend. “So are you awake enough to explain the mess or should I just help you to bed and tuck you in?”

“Uhm…” Maki’s gaze drifted around the room. “What day is it?” Her speech was slightly slowed and slurred.

“Monday.”

“…” The gears grated and ground in Maki’s head as she stared blankly at her girlfriend. “Have you always come home on Mondays?” She finally asked after a moment.

“So far, yeah.” Nico furrowed her brow. “Last concert on Sunday and travel on Monday. Why?”

“Huh…”

“…” Nico waited, but when nothing seemed forthcoming, she pushed for more. “Huh, what?”

“The cleaners are coming tomorrow.”

“Cleaners?”

“Yeah…” Maki’s gaze found the floor.

“You hired cleaners again?”

“Yeah…”

“Wait…” Something clicked in Nico’s mind. “Have you hired cleaners every time I’ve gone on tour?”

“… Yeah…”

“Maki-chan, you’re not in high school any more, or college either, for that matter, you really need to learn how to clean up properly after yourself.” Nico sighed dramatically. “But seriously, how did you not notice the smell?”

“What smell?”

“The one in the kitchen.”

“I can smell you.” Maki looked back up at her girlfriend.

“Wha?”

“You smell good.” The redhead smiled goofily as her words continued to slur.

“Well of course Nico smells good, I always… wait, that’s not the point.”

“Nico-chan is always the point.” Maki said, pulling the older girl into a loose hug.

Nico was about to retort but ended up gasping instead as the younger girl nibbled on her ear. “Hey.” She finally got out after a moment. “Maki-chan, wait.” She pulled away from the hug.

Maki blinked at her in confusion. “You don’t want to?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Nico sighed. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks, of course I want to.”

“But…?”

“But you’re drunk.”

“Just a little. And what difference does that make?”

Nico bit her lip. The younger girl did make a point. Historically, Maki’s libido did seem unfazed by, well, pretty much anything that would otherwise affect one of a normal person. And if Nico was being completely honest, she loved that aspect of her girlfriend, especially knowing that it was because of her that Maki’s desire burned as strong as it did. But still…

“And I’m a bit upset with you.” Nico admitted after a moment.

“I’m sorry…” Maki hung her head again. “I won’t hire cleaners next time…”

Images of coming home to an even worse mess flashed through Nico’s mind. “Well…” She pondered aloud. “Maybe don’t forgo them completely. If you’re busy with school, then you’re busy with school. Don’t fall behind in your classes just for the sake of proper housekeeping.” She pursed her lips in thought. “I suppose I don’t mind if you let them take care of the big stuff like vacuuming and scrubbing down the kitchen and bathroom and whatnot. But you should at least be able to pick up after yourself to prevent stuff like this.” She motioned towards the clutter around the room. “Cleaners shouldn’t have deal with that.”

“That’s… fair…” Maki conceded, remembering the extra fees she had willingly paid thus far for the clutter.

“So if you can promise me that you’ll at least take care of the small stuff like that, and not let it build up like this, I’ll lay off about getting cleaners for everything else. Deal?”

“Deal.” Maki nodded slowly.

“Good.” Nico smiled. “Now come here and give Nico her welcome home kiss.”

Now that was something for which Maki needed no further encouragement and she swiftly closed the distance between herself and her girlfriend. “Welcome home, Nico-chan.” She said, starting to lean down. “I love you.” She added.

“I love you too, Maki-chan.” Nico replied, closing her eyes and tilting her chin up.

Maki continued to close the distance until she was able to capture the shorter girl’s lips. After a moment, however, she pulled away as she noticed Nico wasn’t reciprocating. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing, really.” The idol shook her head and started giggling. “Sorry, but that if we’re going to do anything else, I’m going to have to request that you at least brush your teeth. You taste like beer.”

The med student pouted, earning more laughter.

“And maybe a bath for me. I’m all sweaty from travel.” A mischievous glint flashed across Nico’s eyes. “Though, maybe we could take one together.”

Maki perked up a bit.

“You know, we haven’t done that in a while.” The raven-haired girl pointed out.

“You’re right.”

“Want to rectify that?”

“Very much so.” The redhead nodded.

“Alright then.” Nico said, taking her girlfriend’s hand. “You brush your teeth while I fill the tub.”

“Alright.” Maki replied, letting herself be led out of the office and towards the bathroom.

Author’s Note Continued: I hit a wall earlier this month while writing this scene and ended up completing two scenes for Happy Life in the interim. There are times I believe my µ’s muse is taking cues from a certain redheaded pianist with tsundere’ish traits; either one, honestly, take your pick. In any case, I realized that as much as I adore writing YohaRiko, there is no question in my mind that NicoMaki holds strong its place as the flagship among my fleet of favored ships. I really need to finish some of the other scenes I’ve started over the last few months. And start the Christmas one for this year.

#NicoMaki #Nishikino Maki #Yazawa Nico #How to Handle a Nico #Love Live #fanfic

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