#a pool o’ knowledge

[remy-lebeau]

*catification beam!* You are now a catboy!

Merde.

I knew I shouldn’t a said nothing.

[mangocustard16]

SEVENTEEN'S REACTION TO THEIR S/O BEING DOCTOR/SURGEON

genre: fluff warnings: fake diseases, mentions of ER, hospitals, accidents and blood lmk if i missed someting wc: 512 a/n: i really wanted to use the 'spin wheel thingy' so i chose 6 members using this also i have zero medical knowledge so don't come at me with for the medical terms

mingyu

excited to use all the cheesy pickup lines he learned from the internet

“Doctor! I think there’s something wrong with my heart. It keeps fluttering every time I see you.”

super proud, brags about it everywhere

got a cold and called Hoshi to tell him that he couldn't come for practice cuz he got rhinorrhea

acts like he gains medical knowledge just by being in your presence

seungkwan

loves absolutely loveeesss to introduce you as Dr. Y/N

would cringe whenever he hears you talk about surgery or every time you describe a particular night in the ER

doesn't understand patient privacy, don't get him wrong he respects them

but whenever you tell him about a specific patient, he has to know their name to relate more to the story

brought back a hurt dog so that you could help him heal

"Baby I’m not a veterinarian! Take out the car we need to go to a vet"

joshua

you had been out of med school for about three weeks and had applied for different hospitals and hospices but no one had gotten back to you

joshua was very supportive, driving you to all the interviews and buying you meals

As you stared at the floor soaking in the rejection, you felt a little sad and upset when the doorbell rang and the mailman dropped off a mail

you asked joshua to read the mail for you, not having the energy to get off the couch just to read another "We regret to inform you." letter

"Dear Dr. Y/l/n, we would like to first thank you for your application to work at our hospital, we hope you can come by to discuss your working hours by-"

"I'M IN!" You screamed throwing yourself into joshua's arms

jeonghan

he knew that being an EMT was a very emotionally taxing job and that you've to desensitize yourself towards accidents to help the patients

but boy is beyond shocked when he sees you in action

someone had accidentally slipped down the stairs and hit their head

you jumped right into action and called an ambulance while a pool of blood surrounded their head while everyone around you froze 

scoups

He would be so happy you were a doctor and that you were so smart 

he would love to see you talk about work and patients and speak about some things he didn’t even get

would be your number one supporter

loves to wear your coat and act like a doctor

"Sneezes, headache, and pelvis pain.... yeah you just have noseadvisitis, there is no cure it just comes with old age byee"

expect lots and lots of fake medical terms cuz he loves to pretend like he knows medicine

dino

everything's fine as long as you are not descriptive about wounds 

urges you to describe your day at the hospital

but grimaces at the mention of blood

finds it kind of weird that you don't smell like the hospital

homeboy always thought that the doctors smelled like the hospital, but is internally grateful that you don't smell like the hospital

is very nosy whenever he sees you studying

"I thought you already passed med school? What are you studying for now"

@kflixnet @k-films@k-labels

taglist⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅: @bangchansbae @haecien @aaniag @aaasia111 @weird-bookworm @gigification @bewoyewo if you want to be added just send me an ask ♡⸝⸝

reblog if you liked !!

[talonabraxas]

Saint Raphael the Archangel Talon Abraxas St. Raphael is one of the seven Archangels who stand before the throne of God. He is known as the healer.  Raphael’s name, in fact, means ‘God’s Healing’.  St. Raphael is helpful in bringing healing to body and soul, charity and deliverance. He is powerful and heals all forms of maladies in both humans and animals.

Most of our knowledge of the Archangel Raphael comes to us from the Book of Tobias. Because of his mission as a wonderful healer and the fellow traveller, guide and counsellor of young Tobias, St. Raphael is invoked for journeys and at any critical moment in life. Tradition also holds that Raphael is the angel that stirred the waters at the healing sheep pool in Bethesda.

Saint Raphael, the healer is recorded as having helped Tobias make balms and ointments from fish to cure Tobit’s (Tobias’s father) blindness.  The Archangel Raphael healed Abraham of the pain of circumcision, an operation the patriarch had avoided until late in his life. He also cured the disjointed thigh Jacob suffered while wrestling with the angel.

Saint Raphael is also called the Angel of Science and Knowledge. He is often referred to as ‘Regent’ or ‘Angel of the Sun’. Because of his bright countenance, his sanguine and companionable treatment of Tobias, St. Raphael is considered the most sociable of the archangels; it is imagined that he has the best sense of humor and the happiest disposition. It is said that Raphael delights in bringing health and happiness everywhere he goes. Prayers for St. Raphael’s Intercession Saint Raphael Prayer Blessed Saint Raphael, Archangel, We beseech thee to help us in all our needs and trials of this life, as thou, through the power of God, didst restore sight and give guidance to young Tobit. We humbly seek thine aid and intercession, that our souls may be healed, our bodies protected from all ills, and that through divine grace we may be made fit to dwell in the eternal Glory of God in heaven. Amen.

St. Raphael Prayer for Healing Glorious Archangel St. Raphael, great prince of the heavenly court, you are illustrious for your gifts of wisdom and grace. You are a guide of those who journey by land or sea or air, consoler of the afflicted, and refuge of sinners. I beg you, assist me in all my needs and in all the sufferings of this life, as once you helped the young Tobias on his travels. Because you are the “medicine of God” I humbly pray you to heal the many infirmities of my soul and the ills that afflict my body. I especially ask of you the favor (here mention your special intention), and the great grace of purity to prepare me to be the temple of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Prayer to Saint Raphael Before a Trip Dear St. Raphael, your lovely name means “God heals.” The Lord sent you to young Tobias to guide him throughout a long journey. Upon his return you taught him how to cure his father’s blindness. How natural, therefore, for Christians to pray for your powerful help for safe travel and a happy return. This is what we ask for ourselves as well as for all who are far from home. Amen.

Prayer for Protection From All Evil Most Holy Mother, Queen of the Angels and Archangels, send me your Champion, the Archangel Saint Raphael, let him heal me of all my spiritual and physical ailments in JESUS’ HOLY NAME. May he protect me from satan and all the evil spirits. Saint Raphael be my guide and protector on my journey through life. O’ glorious Saint Raphael the Archangel, herald of blessings, pray for us! Amen.

[sleeptokenpuppy]

there is Himbo Token Discussion on my dash rn and i would like to propose A Theory

the collective shares a delightfully small pool of brain cells, you see. what happens when each of them do or don't have custody of the brain cells, just purely on their vibes:

vessel w/brain cells: songwriting genius of the century, channeling the wisdom of the anicents, could have half a dozen phds! brilliant beautiful mind so full of knowledge and wisdom and art!!

vessel w/o brain cells: usually this is where he gets Silly, just the goofiest fucking goober you ever did see. unless the brain cell has been pushed out by Sad, in which case he is the saddest little raincloud in the whole sky. pls hug him, hug him now or suffer sleep's wrath.

ii w/brain cells: songwriting genius mode, writing and perfecting his drum parts, encyclopedia brain, can and will infodump for hours especially about technical music stuff or nerd media!

ii w/o brain cells: like a cat zeroed in on a laser pointer. exactly One Thought in his pretty lil head, and that is whatever he is focused on

ii has god tier muscle memory for his drum parts and focuses intensely when performing so it's hardest to tell w/him whether or not the brain cells are with him

iii w/brain cells: on stage, he has the crowd in the palm of his hand. master crafter of vibes. can and will channel that slasher energy that tumblr has assigned him. off stage, the most voracious reader you ever did see. researching music gear, reading interviews, flying through notoriously hard to get through books.

iii w/o brain cells: compelled purely by instinct and chaos. dancing and/or messing with ppl. could put jackass to shame all on his own. impulse control? never met her.

iv w/brain cells: fast learner, especially on guitar. king of breaking things down into easier explanations. excited to display and share knowledge! also makes himself irresistible on purpose. -5 to your will save against kissing him.

iv w/o brain cells: absolute peak of no thoughts head empty. texts only in emojis. sweet baby angel. cutie pie. just wants to be loved. also, he's a ho! absolute slut.

even distribution of brain cells when they need to craft The Sleep Token Vibe. photoshoots, performances, in the studio, etc. some brain cells slide around on stage moment to moment but it generally stays pretty even.

espera have their own separate brain cell pool made from goddess energy, beautiful harmonies, and occasional mischief.

i think @polteergeistt and @tonguetyd in particular need to see this but like. ye have fun.

[logical-grave]

✧ Pretty little thing ✧ Ch.2

♡ Pairing ♡ - Rafe Cameron x Plus Size!Reader

♡ Warnings ♡ - Public sex, Smut, some mean!Rafe again and some nice!rafe? Creampie, unprotected sex, dirty talk, some tit play, hurtful comments, and ofc unedited mistakes hehehe

♡ A/N ♡ - Erm I need this man biblically. Pls don’t lose respect for me hehe

♡ Word count ♡ - 2.7k

♡ Part 1 ♡

“Of course! Let me know if you need anything else.” My cheeks hurt due to the forced smile on my face, a side effect of my customer service persona. The serving tray in my hand was two seconds from toppling over, but I made it to the club guests with their drinks before that could happen. The older gentleman of the group slipped me a twenty, and I smiled, slyly taking it and stuffing it in the waistband of my skirt. Twenty was cheap. On a good day, I made close to twelve hundred in tips alone, but every penny counts, I guess.

“Hey sweetie.” Another man called for me and I rolled my eyes before turning to him with another forced smile. “How can I help you, sir?” I tucked the tray I held under my arm as the man approached me, toying with the racket in his hand. His partner busied himself by playing with a tennis ball like a golden retriever, and I stifled a chuckle. “Here,” he holds his racket out towards me, “play a game with us.”

My lips form into a tight-lipped smile, looking at him with hesitation. “I should get back to work.” A dry chuckle follows my words, and he makes an unsatisfied face. “Come on, aren’t you guys supposed to attend to our every need?” He asks, and he’s right, we aren’t supposed to say no to the guests, but it’s also not supposed to be knowledgeable to them. He steps closer to me, making it obvious as he looks me up and down, eye-fucking me right in front of my face. “Apologies, sir. I’m neede-”

“Fuck off, ballsack. She’s busy.” Rafes voice cut through the air and I looked over my shoulder to see him approaching us, holding a racket as well. My eyes widened slightly as I took in Rafes frame. He was shirtless, a sheen of sweat coating his body, telling me just finished a match, and a pair of black shorts hanging low on his hips, accentuating the ‘V’ of his torso along with a backwards hat. Jesus, it’s like looking at a fucking marble statue. It didn't help when he stepped close enough for me to feel his body heat emanating onto my back.

“You’re gonna let this douche speak for you?” The man stepped closer as well, still keeping a safe distance from me, but I could feel Rafe tense up. His reaction caused the man to smirk, showing he was getting what he wanted out of Rafe. “Please, forgive us.” I turn and push on Rafes chest, urging him to walk backwards, and he keeps his attention on the older man. He was in clear view still as Rafe lifted his arm, pointing his racket at the man in a threatening manner. “Watch yourself, gramps.” He yelled out, eventually turning around to walk until we were far enough away from the man.

“What the hell, Rafe?” I bit, drawing my eyebrows together in a pissed off manner. Rafe flared his nostrils, throwing his racket on the ground next to the benches on the court. Great, now he’s going to rip me a new one. “He was harassing you, I wasn’t going to sit on my ass and do nothing.” He was in my face now, anger written all over his face, and I closed my mouth, deciding not to talk back due to the fact that another guest might overhear. “He asked me to play a game, and I was telling him no.” I turned, walking off the courts and towards the pool.

Recently, we cut our laundry attendant because she was smoking joints on the job and made all the towels smell like weed. Of course, complaints ensued and now towel duty that was a one-person job was now a six-person job, dividing it between my coworkers and I.

I groaned as I heard footsteps trailing mine on the wet tile of the pool deck. “You would’ve had to tell him no twice. That’s one too many for my liking.” He reasoned, and I ignored him as I walked over to the first cabana on the pool deck, stripping its sheets and towels. It was close to 10 o’clock and the guests were beginning to trickle out of the club, so it was time to start on my closing duties, but Rafe didn’t give a shit. “I could’ve handled him.” My voice was harsher than I intended as I turned to him, dropping the sheets I held onto the cabana.

I look at Rafe, and he doesn’t say anything, just huffing his chest, which doesn’t help when I’m trying to be mad at him. His broad shoulders compliment him well, his eyes narrowing on me as he walks closer to me. I could feel his body heat again, and I looked forward, facing his chest, which was beautifully structured. He hooked a finger under my chin, leading my face up to meet his, his other hand resting on my hip. He doesn’t say anything, just staring into my eyes longer than he’d ever done. In fact, I think this was the first time he actually took the time to look at me and could answer what color my eyes were if he was asked by someone.

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, as a gasp left my lips from the feeling of his hand pushing my back to bring my body flush against him. Something flashed in his eyes, igniting something inside me, and it was all centered around him. I couldn’t tell when he placed his lips on mine, but when I realized it, the anger that resented him seemed to fade along with whatever else was around us. The kiss felt like a pull that I refused for so long, and the relief of his lips on mine was something that burned into the memory of my brain. His lips are soft, pink, and so perfectly tender as passion brewed between us from the way he pushed his tongue passed the slit above my bottom lip. The kiss was needy and intimate, exactly the kind of kiss Rafe would give.

I pushed his chest, urging him away from me, and I could swear he didn’t want to until I pushed him further. He sighed, pushing his hips forward and making me gasp. “Are you hard?” I giggled with a small blush, looking down at his prominent bulge, pressing it against me. Rafe looked at me and gave me a small shrug. “I get turned on when you yell at me.” His face was unchanging, as if his statement was matter-of-factly.

My head turned as I searched the pool deck for any signs of life. The golf course was not far and anyone in a cabby driving by would see, as well as tennis players returning from a match. Even worse, a lot of the workers walk through the pool deck as a shortcut to the gym. It was simply too risky and though this wasn’t the best paying job, I didn’t want to lose it over something as trivial as sex. Yet, I’m reminded of our agreement as Rafe presses his body against mine, prompting me to sit on the edge of the cabana.

“Rafe, we can’t. I’ll get fired if we get caught.” I move to sit up, but Rafe pushes me down, making me let out an exasperated yelp. The comfort of the cabana on my back was welcomed as I laid down on it and my head rested on the bundled sheets. Rafe moved to stand between my legs, making me bite my lip at how perfectly aligned we are. I stretch my neck up to look around once again, the fear of someone coming rushing through me. “Rafe, we shouldn’t.” I looked at him with worry, but he’s busy trailing his fingers under my skirt and up my thigh, leaving goose-bumps over my skin due to his delicate touch.

Fuck, he makes this hard.

“What did I say about these?” Rafe hooked his finger on the waistband of my panties before snapping them back against my skin, warranting a small wince from me. I looked up at him and bit my lip nervously. “Not to wear them anymore.” My voice was soft-spoken, his intimidation drawing this out from me. The side of his mouth curled up, his eyes darkening at my response, just like he wanted me to. “Good girl,” He said in a low voice, a tinge of husk aiding it. Rafe pulls on my polo that was tucked into my skirt, pushing it over my breasts, and my eyes widen.

Though, I don't stop him. The worry of being caught by someone has been pushed behind the lust that began to cloud my mind, and Rafe took notice. He pulled the cups of my bra down under my breasts, giving them a small push-up and exposing them perfectly to him. He makes no hesitation to reach and palm at my breasts, biting his lip. “That's what I love about girls like you,” He pinched my nipple. “You have tits and ass for days.”

I look away, attempting to distract myself from his words. I knew what he meant, the compliment not even close to being considered one with how backhanded it was. The worst part? Rafe genuinely meant it, as if bigger girls didn’t have much more to themselves than our sizable assets. It reminded me that to him, I was good enough to fuck but not to date, much less even save my phone number.

Rafe doesn’t take notice of my sudden disinterest, instead removing one hand from my breast, and I hear a rustle of fabric. I crane my neck and look at him standing between my legs, taking his shorts off to circle his knees, fully baring himself. I let out a small gasp as I looked at his cock. It was painfully hard, with a string of pre-cum falling from the tip to drip onto my thigh. “See what you do to me?” He pumps himself a couple of times, letting out small moans as his other hand bunches my skirt up at my waist.

He thumbs my clit, making small circular motions as he narrows his eyes at me, making sure I’m reacting how he wants. I blush as I bite my lip, holding back the moans that threaten to spill from my lips. This just warrants him to press on it, eliciting a moan from me as he intended. “I wish you could see yourself right now.” His eyes are hooded, clouded with lust and desire. I look at him innocently, his comment giving me a small surge of confidence. It was insane how quickly he shifted my mood and I, more than, let him.

I watch as he removes his hand, moving it to grip my hip as he presses his tip on my clit. I make a small noise at the sensation before he starts to drag his tip up and down my folds, gathering my slick with his pre-cum, the act lewd in itself. Finally, after out his tease, he slowly eases in until fully sinking in me, prompting a moan from the both of us. I shut my eyes as I let out a show exhale, delighting in the feeling of him in me time and time again. Rafe pushed my thigh down, as he began his thrusts, his other hand moving to cup my breast.

My head falls back against the bundle of sheets as Rafe thrusts into me, my hand reaching over my head to grip the sheets. “Fuck, Rafe.” I whimper, his cock stretching me out, and I bite the inside of my cheek against the burn, ignoring it due to the pleasure accompanying it. The familiar way his cock curved always lightly grazed over my g-spot, adding to my lust. Sometimes, I swear he knew my body better than I did.

“Rafe,” I whine, “S’too much.” This only drove him to pound into me harder and at a faster pace as well. If he had the chance to ruin me completely, he’d take it without hesitation. “You can take me,” Rafe pants, looking down. “Look.” I follow his eyes, and it takes everything in me not to cum as I watch his cock slide in and out of my abused cunt. The image, so pornographic, I almost subconsciously tell myself to look away, but then I remember I’m a part of that image. The indecent sound of our shared arousal fills our ears with each slap of his skin against mine, along with my strangled moans.

This was wrong. This was so incredibly wrong yet the seemingly never ending list of consequences wouldn’t even be considered when asked if this was worth it. Rafe grasps onto my hips as he pushes me into the cabana, driving into me enough to hit my cervix. He squeezes his eyes shut, a habit he’s formed when he’s trying to hold himself back from finishing quickly.

“Rafe,” He looks at me with lust-driven eyes. “I need you to cum in me.” I whine and something behind his eyes shifts. As if he’s been waiting to hear those words leave my mouth for as long as we’ve had this relationship. Rafe always came inside me, thanks to the IUD I have implanted, but I had never asked him once to do the sinful act myself.

Then, It started at the base of my stomach, the familiar tightness of my walls causing Rafe to hold my hips harder, and I winced at the pleasurable pain it drew out. “I’m close, baby. I’m so close.” He reached his finger to my clit and circled it with his thumb, the stimulation allowing the force of my orgasm to crash into every crevice of my body. My head fell into a daze and my vision blurred slightly as I milked his cock, my walls clenching him oh so nicely.

He thrusts forward, the fill of his cum settled into me with pulses of his cock, and the overflow dripped down between our thighs. The stutter of his hips made a slow stop and his body fell slack over mine, and a silent buzz of content settled over us. Rafe and I panted as we attempted to recover our breathing, the feeling of his chest pressing against mine almost giving me a sense of comfort. A blush pinched my cheeks as I felt Rafe pepper small kisses over my chest and neck, the ticklish feeling making me giggle. Rafe stopped himself at that sound and looked at me and in an instant, he was Rafe Cameron again. The subtle changes in his expression weren't subtle enough, clearly.

Rafe pushes off me and takes himself out with a groan. I cross my ankles as I sit up, pulling down my shirt before reaching behind myself to grab a pillowcase and clean myself off but its taken from my hands before I could do so. I look up at Rafe, and he rudely avoids my gaze, instead wiping his shaft before I get a chance for myself. I sigh and reach behind again for another pillowcase, but Rafe grabs that one and throws it behind me as well.

“Put your panties on.” He says, pulling up his shorts and wiping his hand. I quirk an eyebrow as I look at him, finding some sort of tell that says he’s not serious. He seems to notice and darkens his expression, reaching to pull on my arm and stand me up abruptly, making me stumble into his chest. I stare at him in disbelief at his man-handling, ready to speak on it, but he beats me to it. “If you're going to wear your little panties, you’re going to wear them to keep my cum inside you.” He lightly grasps my chin to look up at him, and I slowly nod in response. Rafe pecks my lips with a small smile before taking the waistband of my panties and pulling them up, giving my ass cheek a slap, and I jumped slightly.

Rafe gives me a small nod as a goodbye before walking out the pool deck, and a strike of fear surges through me as soon as he’s gone. Just above the door he left through, a camera sits idly facing the entirety of the pool and all the blood drains from my face. “Fuck!” I yell to myself, into the sheets I held in my hands out of frustration. Attempting to push the problem from my brain, I continued stripping the rest of the cabanas on the pool deck until a notification made me pause. I take out my phone and read it to myself.

“Rafe Cameron sent you $1,500.”

-

thank you for reading!!! lmk what you think! love you!!

[catboybiologist]

yo I'm actually kinda curious now I'm not a geneticist and I guess you aren't either to my knowledge but what the hell does the y chromosome do? specifically in trans people on hrt and stuff I mean. to my understanding you said that trans women have everything they really need from one x chromosome, so. what's the other one up to. and also for trans men who lack a y chromosome, are they like. missing anything? hormones do 99% of the heavy lifting, right?

much love and whatnot btw. sorry about the freak in your inbox

Bit tired right now, so I hope this doesn't come out too rambly.

The one function that the Y chromosome has on sex determination is the Sry gene. This gene is responsible for testes formation, and ultimately, testosterone production. That's pretty much it. All of the other genes required to make something male or female are present, but inactive, in everyone. Hormones tell cells which ones to switch on and off, and at what times.

There's no explicit reason why Sry has to be linked to the Y chromosome. Most non-mammalian animals have different methods of sex determination, either from different sets of chromosomes, environmental triggers, or similar sex determining genes associating in appropriate ratios.

Why the Y, then?

All chromosomes, sex and somatic, are paired. Each member of the pair has the same genes on it. This is why you have two copies of most genes, and different "forms", or alleles, of a gene are possible. It's why mendelian genetics works. One of the cleanest examples is blood type. Blood types A, B, and O are all different forms of the same gene. You have two of these genes, and can therefore end up in combinations like AB, AO, etc (O in this case is no protein, A and B are slightly different forms of the same protein).

The Y chromosome is different. It's a shortened version of the X chromosome. So every gene on the Y chromosome has a pair on the X, but some genes on the X don't have a partner on the Y. And these genes have nothing to do with sex determination- the gene encoding for the red-sensitive protein in your eyes is an example of a gene in the part of the X chromosome that is "chopped off" to make the Y, and is therefore not carried by it. Every organism NEEDS at least one copy of these genes- from that point, you can upregulated that one copy and end up fairly normal.

Large chromosome deletions are fairly common, but oftentimes lethal to a developing embryo (not so fun fact, this is why the miscarriage rate is something like 70%, oftentimes so early and invisible that even the mother doesn't notice). While we can't know for certain without a time machine, the rationale is that one of these large chromosomal deletions happened to the X chromosome at some point in mammalian evolution. From that point, the only way that offspring can be passed down with that new Y chromosome in the gene pool is if you have a system that somehow forces every offspring to end up with at least one X chromosome.

Sry being linked to the Y chromosome accomplishes just that. It's an evolutionary band aid, a patch, a bodge, on a deleterious mutation. It forces the XX to XY pairing, ensuring that YY offspring don't happen.

In fact, we can see something similar happening in real time with a population of white throated sparrows: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7725849/#:~:text=Thus%2C%20not%20only%20do%20white,et%20al.%2C%202016).

A large chromosomal deletion is forcing new reproductive rules for pairing, to reduce the number of non viable offspring.

Hope this was somewhat digestible! It's a cool topic, but I'm very eepy atm

[bequiteanddriveeeeeee]

Hi tumblr. My esteemed knowledge and experiences has led to, this and I am far from pleased.

Since this was requested on this blog, and most o you dont follow my main I’m posting it here, I feel like I am confessing something to you.

It is rather short. And, of course NSFW. So, be warned in that, their might be (probobly are) some spelling or formatting errors, this was just a quick one shot and didn’t need me to fix them plus I dont care so,

Here’s my trump x Biden smut shot im going to kill myself now. Goodbye.

 Joe grabbed his flabby orange disgusting petulant face and spat on it. “You think that with your money you could afford to fix that fucking mess? Is there something wrong with you or were you just born that way? No amount of spray tan can fix that fucking mess and you know it” His mouth twisted into a scowl of utter disgust. Like the ex-president was a lame dog who had just drooled on his expensive coat tails.He had backed the man up against his podium, and with the stage lights off he looked rather ghoulish. “And you talk like your hot shit” he barked a laugh “I can see the after effects you use puddle around your face, so can everyone else. I might be old but fuck at lest I’m not a poster child for the obesity epidemic.” 

  Trump slipped “What the fuck has gotten into you? Has your dementia gotten to the point of aggression already? Jesus Christ get the fuck off of me” The president’s grip only tightened around his cheeks and Trump saw a animalistic hunger in the older man’s eyes he hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t the dull greed for power or the flaccid look of what should be hatred  in the absent man's eyes. It was the first time it actually looked like someone was awake behind them. 

  It was a look of terrible lust, the way they darted across his face like he was in a fever state looking at prey. He looked like a young man again, and with that fucking grip he felt like on too, Trump really didn’t think he had it in him.  

  “I think that fucking kid that helped me on dosed it wrong, I should have peaked at the fucking debate I would have distroyed your ass, but that can still happen” Trump looked at him with a look of disgusted apprehension. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

  “I take a cocktail of stimulants, and that idiot didn’t time it right” he said in no less desperate of a tone. “Usually it just pumps me up and all but with nowhere to put that energy well I..” he trailed off and the ex-president snarled a lip at him. “Are you kidding? At your age you still manage to get it up?” The president rolled his eyes “Not without some help, no”

   “You are just so-“ he let out a frustrated sound, part growl part sigh. “Fucking frustrating, your childish name calling, your stupid tight looking ass god I-“ He bit his tounge. “You what?” Trump said the words with a reclusion, he couldn’t have heard him right, right? 

“I just want-“ Trump inturupted “Oh just like always you can’t get a sentence out sleepy J-“ 

“I just want to fuck you!” He yelled, probably a bit too loud but he wasn’t really in a state to care. The other man’s orange face slowly replacing its hue for a more reddish one. “You want to fuck me-now-here? How l-“ Biden grabbed both his arms dogging his fingers into his fat flesh, leaving dimples in his suit “Yes” he hissed. 

  The tension from the debate hadn’t had its come down yet and Trump found himself leaning against the podium for more support than he’d like to admit, huffing a bit to himself. He found a pool of warmth trickle its way down his body and settle around in his groin, a deep restless pulling feeling getting more and more apparent.

A small moan wormed its way through his lips, “Please-fuck, my wife she, she dosen’t touch me like she used to, its been so long since” he stopped. Biden grinned “Why don’t we show her how to fuck you? Huh? Were always asked to ‘reach across the aisle’ right?” He took a grip off of Trump. Biden dug around in his suit pocket for a moment and produced a cell phone. “Why don’t we show them?” 

                                -

Pushing him up against the podium further and kicking his legs apart at the ankles with his boot, pinning the two of his arms against his back and roughly snaking his belt out of its loops. Crudely unzipping his pants and putting the free hand up his shirt. Groping his man boobs, tearing his nails down the rest of his sternum and he exited his clothing. 

 He unzipped his own pants just enough to pull out his own hard phallus, pressing the tip against the top of the younger man’s ass, giving it a few ruts back and forth and marveling at the depth it would reach inside him. 

  He pulled his tie off, making him gag with the way he disrobed him. Using it as makeshift cuffs, binding his hands behind his back. Trump’s wrists burned at the pressure and he struggled some in it, which only egged the other on. Biden yanked his head back with a snap, small tears forming in their ducts. Forcing him to face his pathetic reflection in the phone’s screen which sat on its perfect vantage point on the podium. He was nowhere near the man he was, the one he claimed to be. 

“Now smile for the American people whore” 

[paradlselost]

CRIMSON.

JOHN SEED X FEMALE DEPUTY

Sort of a dump, I was really debating on just publishing this as a WIP but I was halfway through the smut and decided to just finish it. Not my best, but I tried to go for a more canon accurate John, which means he’s a major freak in this sorry :/

I mentioned it in the fic but didn’t go too deep, I kinda love toying with the idea of a more selfish deputy - humanizing them. If I were to ever write a longer fic with more of an oc-ized version of the deputy would anyone read? Let me know.

I probably won’t post about John Seed or FC5 for a little while after this. I have ideas for a Black Noir (my bbg) fic and then a Father Paul Hill one from Midnight Mass cause I love religious trauma as y’all can tell. I do also like indoctrinated!deputy so maybe maybe eventually I write about that.

2.7k words

content warnings: mentions of cutting into flesh. smut — dubcon, choking, blood play (John being a freak sorry), dryhumping, oral (m receiving), fingering, debauchery in a house of God.

She should’ve known from the start, when the crackle of her radio sounded, interjecting her music with his voice; that this request was nothing but trouble. But rage had blinded her, wrath seeped into every pore in her body, selfishness.

It was never the Deputy’s plan to become the symbol for the resistance, even after the blades of the helicopter stopped, and smoke and fire billowed out from the engine. Even after Dutch saved her and enlisted her help, and despite the stories from countless other resistance members, she only really had one prerogative; save her friends. 

Hudson, Pratt, Whitehorse. Trapped in the claws of the cult, it was her duty to get them back, and despite the help she had been giving to the resistance, those were the only three people she cared about.

He knew this, stalking her like a cat preparing to pounce, he watched every facet of her life from the moment she ventured into Holland Valley that he could. A selfish little thing, ripe for his obsession.

John Seed was a proud man, bold and brave as he had so eloquently begged Jacob to put in his song. His pedestal as a Herald inflated his ego, the knowledge that without him Eden’s Gate wouldn’t have prospered nearly as much fueled his narcissism, which is why he surrounded himself with only the peggies who would do anything for him.

He isn’t sure whether new members are supposed to pledge their lives to him and the cult, but it sounds so sweet when the floor pools with the blood of their atonement and he coaxes those little words from his new followers' lips. His tongue is coated in silver, he loves this new power, and she threatens to take that from him.

He knew she wouldn’t be as proactive if he crooned to her that he had a resistance member or two, and she would swing in guns blazing if he claimed to have Hudson right beside him. So, instead he played on her curiosity, that little nudge in the back of her mind that forced her to seek him out whenever he called. Like a moth to a flame.

“Fuck you, Seed!” Voice so filled with venom it might’ve burned a hole in the floor, he tilted his head at her profanity, a sadistic grin playing on his face.

Hope County was filled with little white churches, chapels with steeples that attempted to reach to the heavens above. She assumed they were much more lively before, now most were barren except on Sundays, when the peggies who could not fit onto Joseph’s compound would listen to him under random roofs of God.

This. He chose to be under the white ceiling specifically, to call her into the thing she had been fighting against. To hear her screams echo against the chipped painting that decorated the walls, for her blood to be stained on the old wooden floorboards.

Curiosity killed the cat. She was stupid enough to venture into his trap, falling to the ground when hit hard enough over the head, and now she was stupid enough to attempt to fight off the peggies that held either arm.

“Such profanity. You’re in a house of God, Deputy, mind your tongue.” He scolded her as if she was a misbehaving child, as if everything she had ever done could be chalked up to that. A spoiled rotten brat.

His fingers danced over the tools he had brought with him, his trusty tattoo gun being at the top, but an assortment of knives he also deemed fit for this occasion. Oh, the blood she would spill for him, he became giddy at the thought.

“Get off of me-! Woah woah woah- hey stop!” Yelping, she still attempted to fight off the peggies that held her arms, she shied away when he advanced toward her, tattoo gun in his hands. He had tried this before, she knew what he was doing.

“No one here to help you now, Wrath. Don’t try and fight, your atonement will hurt much less if you cooperate.” He was too calm for this situation, a practiced art he had been through hundreds of times. It was a skill, making people spill their most intimate secrets, a skill he had perfected.

The Deputy was a fighter, through and through, though John could understand Jacobs words. She was weak without her companions, without pastor Jerome stealing her from her atonement, or Nick Rye strafing his armed convoy, she was nothing now - and it was almost endearing to him.

With her hands bound, she resorted to spitting that same venom that she held in her words, marking his perfect face with her saliva. He grimaced, wiping it off his cheek before it trailed down to his beard, pretty blue eyes flashing with that same bloodlust that dictated his every waking moment.

It was shocking to even the peggies that held her when he grabbed her by her throat, pinning her to the ground and straddling her hips. His hands shook with anger - the same wrath that he deemed consumed her now making an appearance in himself. Two sides of the same coin, two heads of a snake.

Her head ached now, body feeling as though it was echoing. A second blow to the back of her head that surely would’ve knocked her out if the pain of his tattoo gun wasn’t keeping her grounded. She didn’t know how fast he had ripped her shirt, or how long it would take for him to carve her skin, but she was reduced to pained whines and pleas for him to stop.

And he relished in the noises she made. The blood that covered his hands and trickled down her chest wasn’t an unusual sight for the herald - but her being the one under him made it all the more exciting. His Deputy, his wrath, his perfect rival. The peggies that stood above him now didn’t matter, and what are they to him anyways? Expendable followers he could use, the Deputy was everything.

“Yes yes, c’mon, keep pleading…” How could he help it? Her eyes half lidded as she looked up at him, hands no longer bound by the peggies now loosely grabbing the wrist that held the tattoo gun in an attempt to stop him. She looked so pathetic under him, so why shouldn’t he grind himself against her when his pants were so uncomfortably tight?

Her words didn’t quite reach his ears, not as he waved his followers out - who hurriedly scrambled in embarrassment. The old church was silent, save for her soft sobs and his intense breathing. His hand still placed over her neck made her choke on her words, which only fueled his desire. He could crush her windpipe, her life rested in his hands, and maybe he would’ve if the nagging reminder that she was the only way he was getting into New Eden wasn’t playing in the back of his head.

His ticket, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun with her.

He removed his hand from her neck as he finished carving into her pretty skin. WRATH, her own personal scarlet letters. He hummed, looking down at her with lustful eyes, fluttering between hers and the blood that pooled on her chest and trickled down her body to the wooden floor below.

She hated the feeling that bubbled in her chest as the pain subsided, now only a dull ache danced with the look he gave her, how he rubbed the tent made in his pants against her. No doubt, a mark had been left on her neck - his handprint, a reminder. The world felt silent at this moment, when she should've pushed him off.

Selfishness. Prioritizing that small ache he gave her over what she should be doing. Finding anything to act as a weapon against him.

But she didn’t, not as his head lowered and she was greeted with his perfectly slicked back hair, shaking hands reaching to play with a strand. A soft grumble came from his throat, tongue lapping at the blood that trickled down the valley of her chest, tasting what he had drawn out of her.

“What are you doing-?” Her voice was soft, he barely heard it over the ringing in his ears. Too long had he been subjected to resorting to his hand when he thought about her, or messing up his silk pillowcases with his pretty ropes when she teased him over the radio. He had her under him, he wasn’t going to let her go now.

“Shh.” His voice was more scolding then he meant it to be, his tongue traveling from the blood he lapped at down to her budding nipple. He wasn’t gentle, and why should he be? After everything she had messed up for him, he felt it justified to bite down on her pretty flesh, pulling at the bud as much as he wanted.

He relished in the pretty, pained moans that fell from her lips, how her back arched into it. Two sides of the same coin, both reveling in whatever pain was brought to them.

The Deputy’s head tilted back, allowing him a chance to latch onto her neck as a vampire would, smearing the blood on his lips all over her pretty skin. He bit, marking her with his teeth over the forming bruises from his handprint. His hands, decorated in the crimson from his hold on the tattoo gun traveled down her body, painting her in her own red.

He slipped his hand below the rough fabric of her jeans, being met with a contrast, soft and delicate and slightly damp. A soft grumble left his lips at the feeling; which were still pressed against her pretty neck. He felt the way her breath hitched as he ran digits over her most delicate areas. Being so close to her neck, he felt how her muscles tightened and how her breath hitched in her throat.

Lifting her hips to meet his tattooed fingers, a small admission of need. She bit her bottom lip to suppress the noises that tempted to fall from her lips - not wanting to give him the satisfaction. They were still enemies, still rivals, at least to her. 

John on the other hand seemed to be on cloud nine, relishing in how she moved against his hand, grinding herself through the fabric of her underwear. He bit down once more, slipping her out of her jeans and grabbing her hips, sitting up and pressing his pelvis against hers.

“John- John cmon…” Head thrown back, panting as she grabbed at the blue silk of his top. He tilted his head down at her, a sadistic smirk playing on his features.

He always took what he wanted, no matter who it was, and the Deputy was no exception to this. To him, it was God's Grace that placed them both here, that gave him the opportunity to rut his hips against hers.

The bulge in his covered jeans met her underwear, fucking himself against her covered cunt. He leaned down overtop of her, panting against her ear. Hot breath on her neck, the sounds of his soft moans mixing with his heavy breaths, and of course his restricted cock grazing just over her clit every couple of thrusts, it was enough to make any girl's eyes roll back.

He stopped, only for a moment, but long enough for her to let out a needy whine, lifting her head to see what he was doing. Tattooed fingers worked the EG belt off, letting his pants pool at his ankles. He wasted no time once they were off, underwear meeting underwear as the outline of his dick was much more pronounced.

“Fuck fuck, put your head back. Fucking-… good girl.” He groaned out, one hand leaving her hips and grabbing at her pretty hair, pulling her head back against the cold wooden floor of the church. She ached, head pounding and echoing from the injuries earlier - but the feeling of him fucking himself against her needy cunt kept her grounded.

In this moment, she needed him, needed this feeling to not pass out.

He tilted his own head back, sweat casting a slick sheen over his skin. A hand dipped against the drying blood on her chest, gathering what he could over his fingertips before bringing them to his lips, sucking on the bloodied digits. He groaned around his fingers, muffling the moans that threatened to fall.

The head of his cock strained against the blue fabric of his boxers, hips thrusting sloppily against her as his hand tightened on her hips, leaving pretty marks in his wake. One thrust, another thrust, and finally another before white pooled at the head, spurting out of the tiny holes in his underwear.

Panting, he finally moved his fingers out of his mouth, cleaned off the blood and tilted his head down at her almost mockingly; he got to finish, the cum that leaked from his underwear dripping down onto hers, and she didn’t get to. He relished in that, that power he had over her.

“H-hey! Not fair!”

“Oh, Deputy. Come here, maybe I’ll let you get off.”

He grinned as he stood up, fixing himself before moving back onto one of the pews, watching her scramble over to him. He had her eating out of the palm of his hand as she kneeled in front of him. Her head pounded harder, eyes a little woozy.

“Poor baby, rest your head, sweetheart.” He teased, a sadistic grin on his face as she nodded and rested against his thigh, looking up at him with those pretty eyes of hers. He couldn’t help himself, not if she looked so pretty right there in his grasp. 

He tangled his fingers in her hair, watching her confused expression as he moved the blue fabric off of his legs, dick springing up as it was freed from the confinement of his underwear. Guiding her head over it, watching her part her pretty lips to suck on his leaking tip.

Milking his cock, swallowing the spurts of salty seed that spilled onto her tongue. She drained him for all he’s worth, looking up at him as he ran his fingers through her hair. He was soft and gentle in this moment, noises falling from his lips that told her how good she was doing. She shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be sucking off John Seed of all people.

He grinned as he watched her, once he was satisfied with the way she suckled on him, he grabbed her chin and pulled her off of him. Guiding her up to her feet, he let her loom over him. She wasn’t intimidating like this, he didn’t know if it was because he had just fucked her over their clothes or because she was relying on him for an orgasm, but she seemed almost adorable.

His lips found her neck once more as she leaned against him, nuzzling her head into his shoulder. He forced her to stand, to spread her legs to allow his fingers to feel the now wet fabric of her panties. He hummed in satisfaction, moving them aside and tracing a finger over her slick folds.

A soft gasp left her lips, grabbing onto his shoulder and attempting to move back to look him in the eye. He grumbled, forcing her in that same position as he bit down on her neck, pushing a finger inside of her at the same time. He loved the moans that fell from her lips as he pumped a digit deeper inside of her.

Another finger stretched her out, deep enough to hit those nerves that made her legs tremble. She whined, shaking against him and propping herself up as he continued to pump in and out of her. He pulled away from her neck for only a moment, watching the way she buried her face against him and laughing softly.

He added one more finger before her legs fully began to tremble, grabbing onto his shoulder. Pumping more, fully reaching those nerves, which caused her to spasm around him, her orgasm flooding around his fingers. She rocked against him once or twice, chasing her high.

“Look at you, Deputy, needing me. Did I make you feel good? Use your words.”

[lemonjamdraws]

LILANETTE WEEK DAY 6 - INJURY

friday is the PAIN TRAIN

cw: blood/severe injury/very mild emetophobia

Despite being the symbol of good luck, fortune is very clearly not on Ladybug’s side. Lila never thought she’d see the day the superheroine gets absolutely demolished. Having used her Lucky Charm about four minutes ago, she’s in danger of detransforming at any moment, but the akuma present has been doing a stellar job of not letting Ladybug escape, no thanks to the compromised Chat Noir that is comatose some streets away.

Good riddance , was all she thought as she watched the livestream on her phone, of a powerful punch sending Ladybug flying across the park. She’d never been able to enact revenge for the events of Volpina, so this is enough to give her satisfaction.

Wait, what? Her next thought comes as in real life , a spotted blur flies by her face and she whips around to watch incredulously as mid-flight, sparkles flicker off and away a limp Ladybug at high velocity, the red suit dissolving.

Wham!

A cloud of dust rises at the sight of impact, Lila’s jaw dropping. Sure, she’d wished bad omens upon Ladybug, but if she transformed back before hitting the wall, she wouldn’t have had her supernatural resilience and was as fragile as any normal human. And that supervillain hit hard . She never wanted the superheroine to die!

Steeling herself, she approaches.

“Ow, fuck, fuck,” a voice mutters, strained. As the particles fade, there’s none other than a bruised Marinette Dupain-Cheng, sprawled in a growing pool of red, and not the kind of red that her super identity is usually associated with. Some of her limbs don’t seem to be bending in the right way. Cracks dig into the ground and wall around her, having been hit with unnatural force.

Holy shit.

Her girlfriend was Ladybug, all along, and now she’s crumpled in a bloody heap before her.

“What the hell?” She says, practically in shock. Her beloved Marinette is here before her and gravely injured, and she’d normally be running over immediately but for the fact that she just saw Ladybug. Marinette was Ladybug a l l   a l o n g . The hero she’d badmouthed with gusto, directly to Marinette multiple times.

“B-babe? That you?” Marinette says weakly, clutching at her side. A small red creature flutters around her frantically.

“Marinette! You’re seriously hurt!” The creature says in a high-pitched voice before turning around. “Oh, no. Lila?”

Lila finally steps closer, dropping to a knee numbly.

“What the hell is this?” She repeats tightly, unable to look away from the bent leg and the dark red staining through Marinette’s clothes. Lila tries to remember the basic steps to first aid, trying to push aside her shock at the reveal of Ladybug's identity. She’ll have plenty of time to yell at Marinette about that later , assuming that the girl will still be alive to hear it.

Marinette can’t die .

“I took a little fall,” Marinette coughs, “I’ll be okay.”

“What are you talking about?!” Lila cries, finding too many different injuries to focus on just one. Her eyes blur and the red intensifies. Red.

Right. Stopping the bleeding first is the most important thing. Marinette can survive broken bones but she’ll die of blood loss before anything else, that’s for sure. 

“Do you have- ugh- do you have a snack in your bag?” The wounded girl asks next, wincing with pain.

“A snack? That's not important, Marinette! We need to stop the bleeding, you’re going to bleed out!” Lila bites her lip as she tries to find the main source, but there seems to be multiple sources, on Marinette’s side and even back, so she’d need to roll her over. She has no gloves, but she has no choice. Lila places hands on the wound on Marinette’s side, at least that she can apply pressure to, but this is all far beyond her meager knowledge. “Wait, wait, I need to call the police, you need an ambulance-” 

“No, no,” Marinette says, shaking her head, “I just need a snack. To feed Tikki-agh, to recharge. Defeating the akuma- I can repair everything- I’ll heal .”

Lila stares, blood slicking her fingers as she presses on Marinette’s side, who grunts in pain as she shifts in the rubble around her. The red creature lands on Marinette’s shoulder, nodding to Lila.

“You’re in absolutely no shape to be doing any fighting at all!” Lila says, shocked. “What’s wrong with you?” Tears prick at her eyes, feeling lost. Marinette’s going to die here, in front of her, babbling nonsense about risking her life again.

“Transforming will suppress the injuries,” the creature says, voice also fatigued, “that’s the fastest way to help her, Lila.”

“Fuck,” she say, eyes closing for a moment, “okay, okay.” Why not listen to the strange supernatural fairy? Lila starts digging through pockets and her bag, praying there’s something, anything that can help. She finds a loose wrapped truffle that accompanied a love letter from the prior day. Bloodstained, she holds it out to the creature even if everything in her body is screaming to grab her phone and call for emergency services; she can hardly carry the girl safely herself.

It’s a blur as the creature unwraps the chocolate, Lila noticing how the pool of red has expanded enough to seep into her leggings. Her hands are smeared with Marinette’s– Ladybug’s –blood. This can’t be happening. Her heart thumps in her ears as she returns to applying pressure, wound up and terrified. 

A hand caresses her cheek as Marinette looks at her with a weak smile. 

“Thanks babe,” she says, “I owe you one. It's gonna be fine. This is nothing.”

How can she say that? What’s wrong with her? Lila presses harder, but the blood seems to have no end, and this is awful, so awful, and she doesn’t know why it’s happening.

“Nothing?! How can this be nothing? Your leg’s broken , you probably have a concussion, you’re coughing up blood- you could die -”

“I’m not gonna die,” Marinette returns as blood rolls down her cheek, “Ladybug can be never be defeated.”

It doesn’t make any sense. She’s incomprehensible. Lila can’t make her see reason.

“I’m ready, Marinette, hurry!” Tikki says.

“Great, yes. Tikki–agh–spots on .” It comes out a pained whisper more than anything else, and Lila stares, feeling empty as a swirl of light encompasses the girl before her. It’s only for a few seconds, and then Ladybug is standing before her, wearing only the red of a spotted suit. 

She doesn’t look hurt at all, but Lila knows better. Of course, she still kneels in the remnants of Marinette’s fall, hands dipped in red from her attempts to staunch the flow of blood.

Behind the fierce determination in the heroine’s eyes, there’s a broken, broken girl, and Lila realizes how that girl hardly cares if she shatters into pieces as long as she can still wear the mask and save the day.

“Sorry you had to see that,” Ladybug says, looking down, “that wasn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

Lila stares up at her, words lost in her throat.

“I’ll be back soon,” the heroine says, fingers tightening into fists, “I’ll finish this as quickly as I can. Get somewhere safe.” Her expression intensifies, brows drawing together. “Sorry,” she repeats, “and thanks.”

With that, she zips up and out of the alleyway, leaving Lila sitting there amidst the debris. Unsteadily, she draws herself to her feet after a minute passes, feeling cold, but she has to lean on the wall to stay upright.

“What the hell,” she says again, throat tight, her eyes burning as emotion thrashes inside of her, but becoming another akumatized victim is the thing she wants least , and she has to shove it away, shove it all away. Lila takes a few steps before she drops again, sliding down the wall as she tries to focus on anything else.

She only knows things are finally over when a swirl of pink rushes past, leaving her hands devoid of any red at all. After all, the miraculous ladybugs always fix everything, never leaving any signs of the damage that occurred.

It’s as if nothing happened in the first place.

Lila feels sick, and she throws up.

[remy-lebeau]

what about fangs? like big ones?

Why y’all so obsessed wit teeth?? Ain’t dese good enough??

[lorelune]

part o - part iii

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

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

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

minors & ageless blogs dni

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

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

...

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

PART o: kismet

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why did the gods mosaic the sky? 

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

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

(Could you have stopped your��calamity?)

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

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

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

One foot in front of the other.

PART i: there’s a puzzle we crafted

You’re tired. 

So tired. 

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

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

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

So, you keep going.  

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

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

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

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

You’re back in Mond, aren’t you?

Archons.

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

Two things hit you then:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate that Mondstadt seemed like the best option. 

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

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

You’ll just stay for a day or two.

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turn slowly. “... Hi, Lisa.”

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, the lack of letters.

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

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

Lisa is partially correct, you suppose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Plans’. 

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps.”

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

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

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

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

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

...

You lose track of time, talking to Lisa. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hand it to her. “Be my guest.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Managed.’

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

Your gut drops to the floor and your shoulders stiffen. 

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

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

Jean’s eyes widen.

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

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

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

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

...

The commotion in the library brings other visitors.

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

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

Kaeya.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck— 

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

Then, Kaeya sees you. 

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

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

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

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

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

It’s tempting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I... I really shouldn’t.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ache. 

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

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

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

You consider. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I—”

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

“Wait—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“... Really?”

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

You pick at the skin around your nails. 

“I’ll think about it.”

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(It’s getting worse, isn’t it?)

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

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

...

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

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

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

You hesitate outside of Angel’s share.

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

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

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

You enter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the night’s still young.

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

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

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

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

You let her tug you through the crowd.

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

You gulp half the glass down, greedily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are still ghosts in the corners.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You loosen up, whether you want to or not. 

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

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

So, you dance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lay your forehead on the bartop. 

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

You grumble something unintelligible. 

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

(You can regret it in the morning.)

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you think I’m unreliable?” 

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

You know that voice.

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

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

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

The glass slips from his hands and shatters.

PART iii: the World (born)

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

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

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

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

You like fireflies.

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

Crepus introduces you. Kaeya. Diluc.

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

You think he’s lovely.

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?” You ask.

“I’ll make sure you never have to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

You don’t travel well, you never have. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

You leave, a few days later, still sick. 

You return, several months later, still sick.

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

Crepus doesn’t look convinced. 

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diluc scoffs, “They don’t like me—”

“They like you plenty—” 

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

...

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

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

(Forget. Forget. Forget.)

...

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

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

PART iii: the stitch the wound the burning

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

You hate him. 

“Fuck you,”  you snap. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You curse and shake. 

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

You certainly have.

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

(To be far away from here.)

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

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

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

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

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

You breathe his name right back.

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

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

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

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

You bristle.

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

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

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

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

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

(And it’s like coming home.)

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

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

“Bastard,” you spit. 

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

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

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

You scowl, “I realize that now.”

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

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

“Clearly.”

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

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

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

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

You turn away, going to reach for your tent—

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

“You didn’t.”

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

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

“Come back to the winery.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

“... She still works for you?”

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

“Elzer too?” You ask.

“Yes, he’s been at my side since—”

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

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

Archons, you miss them. 

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

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

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

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

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

You walk side by side back to Dawn Winery.

...

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

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

You blame the wine. 

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

The lock was replaced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adelinde breaks you from your stupor. 

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

Your chest tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“T-That sounds nice. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

Archons, you’re tired.

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

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

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

(Fuck, maybe you even need it.)  

...

You sleep for three days. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(He’s not a specter.)

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

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

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

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

(You wish it was more avoidable.)

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“... That’s it?” She asks. 

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

“... Nothing else?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Diluc, however—

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

Diluc stares at you like he could immolate you alive.

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

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

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

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

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

“I will.” 

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah—

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

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

You both shift uncomfortably. 

“I see.” 

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

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

(You never thought you would have to.) 

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

“Are you suggesting I simply ignore you?”

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

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

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

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

“If that’s what you wish, then yes.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s the truth. As I said—“

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

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

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

“Do you think this is unbearable for me?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing to say?”

“It was a long time ago—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t lie to me.” 

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

(You don’t.)

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

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

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

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

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

[underfaller]

in his house of mind, dead cipher waits dreaming

Chapter 3: Frilliam II

Rating: T

Synopsis:

You really think you won that day/You packed your bags and sailed away/You think you left your past behind/But trust me/I'm still on your mind

A year has passed since Weirdmaggedon and the Pines family, victorious in the end, are happier than ever. Stan and Ford are adventuring at sea, making up for lost time. Dipper and Mabel are now freshmen and are ready to take on high school-- geometry, bullies, (student eating?) clubs, and all! However, things take a turn for the worst when Dipper and Mabel receive of horrific message from Ford:

Bill is back.

“C'mon Fordsy, let me outta here! I promise I won't undo my stitches again!” 

Bill struggles against the leather straps that bind him to a cold, metal table. It rattles as he purposely shakes it back and forth. Stanford shoots him a glare. 

“Will you just shut up for once?” He snaps. 

“Make me!” Bill yells back. 

Stanford presses his lips tightly, but doesn’t continue the conversation. He knows that there isn’t any point in engaging with Bill. The demon only sweet talks you when he wants something and vexes you when he doesn’t. Ford instead continues writing in his new journal, documenting his failures to bring Stanley back. After their fight, Ford immediately turned the Stan-o-War II back to the only place he could possibly go-- The Mystery Shack. The lab is exactly the same as it was 30 years ago save for its equipment’s slightly worn appearance and a framed photo of the kids on the desk. Stanford’s heart twists. 

What would they say if they knew their Grunkle was like this? 

“I have to admit though, I'm impressed!” Bill continues. “You really went for the kill back there. Talk about cold-blooded!”

Memories flash in Ford’s mind. Stanley on the bridge floor, eerily still, in a pool of his own blood. Perhaps one of the scariest moments in Stanford’s life was that of momentarily realization that he’d accidentally killed his own brother-- Even more frightening than when he was sucked into the interdimensional portal. Thankfully, Stanford is a skilled medic and was able to successfully resuscitate Stanley. Still as Stanford’s eyes stray toward Stanley’s chest, still wrapped in white bandages, he feels gnawing guilt eating away at him. 

It all happened so fast. Bill came at me. I didn't mean to actually shoot him. 

Please forgive me, Stanley. If you are still there. 

No, he can’t think like that. Doubt leads to stagnation. Stanford cannot afford to doubt. He will not stagnate in the pursuit of his brother. Bill may have taken over his body temporarily, but Stanley is still there. Somewhere. He has to be. 

He has to be. 

“I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised. It's not like you actually respect the guy anyway,” Bill chimes. “Sure, you love your brother and all. Blah, blah, blah! But you don't actually respect him. Deep down, you still see him as a fumbling idiot. As you should, you're the superior twin after all!”

Stanford narrows his eyes. 

“Your manipulation isn’t going to work this time.”

“Tch, it’s not manipulation. It’s the truth,” Bill sneers. “Like how you loved me too. Before, you know, all the drama . Only difference was you actually respected me too.” 

Stanford raises an eyebrow. 

“Seriously? I always knew you were the jealous type but getting jealous of my brother? That’s a bit low, even for you Cipher.” 

Bill growls. 

“Whatever. I don't have to convince you of the truth. You'll do that on your own eventually. I just planted the seed in your little noggin,” Bill huffs. “All that knowledge bestowed upon you and this is the thanks I get. Seriously, is this how you treat all your partners?” 

“We were never partners.” 

“Denial is a river in Egypt-,” Bill momentarily pauses his pettiness, craning his neck and watching as Ford surrounds the table with candles. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m going into Stan’s mind and forcibly removing you myself.” 

Bill laughs.

“Seriously, you’re actually gonna meet me in the mindscape?” Bill’s lips curl into a dark grin. “Wow, a date with Stanford Pines. This is gonna be interesting.”

Stanford rolls his eyes before pulling out a lighter from his pocket. As he lights the candles, his heart pounds in his ears. The last time Ford spoke to Bill face to face ended with Bill frying him alive for an equation to end the world. Stanford sits crossed legged on the floor, ignoring the demon’s giggles and closes his eyes. He tries to calm his mind but Stanford realizes that he’s slightly trembling. 

He’s wary of his former muse but he’ll do anything for Stanley Pines. After all, he did the same for Stanford by bringing him out of the portal. Stanford can’t help but notice the obvious irony in all this. It’d be amusing if this were a novel he was reading instead of his own life. 

However, it wasn’t and that made it terrifying. 

Stanford takes a deep breath.

“Videntus omnium. Magister mentium. Magnesium ad hominem,” Stanford calls. “Magnum opus. Habeas corpus! Inceptus Nolanus overratus! Magister mentium! Magister mentium! MAGISTER MENTIUM!” Bill smirks. 

“See you real soon.”

There’s a blinding flash of blue light. It envelops the entire lab and as it does, Stanford can feel himself floating up and up until he’s out of his  body. Stanford stands up, a ghost outside the physical world, and examines himself, still sitting on the lab floor, illuminated by candlelight. It's uncanny. He shivers slightly. Despite having done it dozens of times, Stanford will never get used to this out of body experience. He swims across the air before floating right into his brother’s skull. There is another flash of light and when Ford opens his eyes, he finds himself in a completely blank space with no signs of Stanley or Bill in sight. 

Stanford conjures his weapon of choice- an interdimensional gun- into existence, pointing it as he delves further and further into Stanley’s mindscape. 

“Show yourself, Cipher!” He calls. 

The air crackles with electricity as a shrill laughter fills the space. 

“Well, well, well! It’s actually Sixer in the flesh! Welcome to my humble abode!” Ford whips around to see his ex muse. His messy, blonde hair rests over his leery face, covering his right eye. Bill bows, tipping his top hat. “Look who missed me,” Bill simpers, adjusting his bowtie. He leans on his slender, black cane, a leery smile etched on his pretty face. “Ya’know I just had to change my form for the special occasion. Remember it? You used to absolutely adore seeing me like this.”

Ford points his gun at Bill, ignoring the redness in his ears. He knows that Bill Cipher is just messing with him-- similar to how cats play with their food before they disembowel it-- but even Stanford is slightly caught off guard by Bill’s sudden change of physique. “I’m not here to play games, Bill. Get out of here before I-”

Swoosh.  

In a flash, Bill is in front of Ford, grabbing the gun and pressing its barrel against his chest with wide eyes and an even wider. Ford flinches, trying to pull away, but Bill pulls him closer so that Ford can feel Cipher’s hot breath against his face. 

“C’mon, Ford! You’ve already tried that; it’s not gonna work. What’s the saying again, doing the same thing expecting different results makes you insane?” Bill croons. His hand snakes towards Ford's fingers. They're cold, like talons scraping against his skin. “Unless you’re actually going insane, then I’ll happily accept you by my side with open arms!”

“We're in the mindscape now. Stanley's mindscape. It'll be different blasting you out of here,” Ford hisses. 

Bill tilts his head.

“Do you really think you can bring him back? Face it, you're a scientist, not a necromancer.”

“He’s not dead. You may have taken over his mind but he’s still here somewhere.” 

He has to be. 

“Hmm.. that’s an interesting hypothesis,” Bill says. “It’s out of your control though. Take a look around! What’s done is done!”

If this truly was Stanley's mindscape, where is everything? His memories, his thoughts, the very mental image of himself? It should all be here and yet, it is not. Even Stanford, the master of rationalizing all things wrong when it suits him, cannot delude himself of that stark fact. Bill notices Ford's hesitation and chuckles. 

“But….If you make a deal with me, perhaps we can actually bring him back!” Bill adds. “We'll keep him around like a house pet. How's that sound?” 

Ford eyes blaze, clenching his fingers over the gun. 

“How dare--You isosceles prick!” 

Ford pulls the trigger. The shot rings in the empty space as the ray blasts through Bill’s suit, creating a giant hole in his chest. Ford watches as the flesh and tendons twist and wiggles, returning to their original state. The only piece of Bill that doesn’t reform is his white dress suit, leaving his chest bare as Bill clicks his tongue in annoyance.  

“Now look at what you did,” Bill says. He grabs Ford, pushing him to the ground as he straddles him with his long legs. Ford struggles wildly but Bill quickly overpowers him. He leans into the man’s ear. 

“Let me break it down for you, IQ. Your brother and I are one now. My mind is his. I’m in control here and you, Stanford, are in enemy territory. Do you know what happens to little six-fingered freaks that get into places where they shouldn’t be?” 

Bill raises his hand. 

���They go SPLAT!” 

Bill strikes Ford and the world goes black. Stanford gasps, ears ringing as he opens his eyes. He falls back onto the lab floor. The candles are blown out. Ford stumbles to his feet, making his way towards the table. Stanley is unconscious but Bill is certainly still there, his ugly smile still etched on his brother's sleeping face. Ford slams his fist against the metal surface. 

“GODDAMMIT!” He yells. Stanford paces back and forth, muttering and cursing. He's seeing red, adrenaline and anger racing in his veins. 

What now, smart guy?

Stanford is supposed to be a genius! If he couldn’t even bring his brother back, what the hell was he good for? Stanford grits his teeth, grabbing his pen and documenting the trial in his journal before he loses his temper once more and throws the book against the wall. He slumps to the ground, head in hands. That stupid triangle. He was toying with him. Why, why, why was it that after everything, that demon still had power over him. Ford shakes his head. This is going nowhere.

Stanley. I’m sorry. I’m trying. 

After a few minutes, Ford calms himself. He takes a deep breath, counting to ten over and over like he did when he was a child angry at his father for scolding Stanley. Then, Ford picks himself and his journal up and locks the lab door behind him. 

Stanford needs help.

Ford makes his way up the dark stairs before pressing the vending machine from behind and stepping out into the quiet Mystery Shack. All the tourists have gone to their motels or RVs for the night. As moonlight wafts through dirty windows, Soos sweeps the floors of the empty gift shop, whistling. When he sees Stanford, he pauses, waving slightly. 

“Hey dude. Any luck on getting Mr. Pines back?”

Stanford shakes his head. 

“Not yet, Soos.”

Disappointment flashes in the young man's eyes as he frowns. Soos sighs, propping his broom against the counter, taking off his fez and playing with the worn tassel. 

“He's not actually dead, is he?”

There's sadness in Soos’s voice, as if he's expecting the worst answer despite desperately hoping for the opposite. Stanford once again feels crawling shame for his recent failures. He doesn’t know Soos very well but Stanley often spoke of his former employee as his son. Soos no doubt sees Stanley as a de facto father figure in return. It's probably why Soos was more than willing to let the Pines stay at the Mystery Shack for the time being. Stanford clears his throat. 

“Of course not. You know Stanley. It's gonna take more than that yellow bastard to kill him.”

His words make Soos brighten up just a little. He laughs. 

“Yeah man. If Bill tries to kill him, Mr. Pines would probably punch him to smithereens-- again!”

There’s so much enthusiasm and hope in Soos’s voice-- it makes Ford grin just slightly. 

Their conversation is interrupted by a light in the hallway being switched on. Melody leans in the doorway, still in her pajamas, a worried expression of her face as her hand rests over her very pregnant belly. 

“Soos, there's gnomes in the trash again! Do you know where the broom is?”

Soos jumps up, grabbing the broom. 

“I'll handle it!” Soos says. “You can go back to bed.”

Melody tilts her head, placing her hands on her hips.  

“Just because I'm pregnant, doesn't mean I can't do anything you know,” She replies, teasingly. 

Soos chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I know. You're awesome, Mel but you're doing enough already taking care of Sooslet,” Soos pecks Melody on the check before adjusting his cap. “A few gnomes is nothing compared to what you're doing!” 

Before Melody can protest, Soos is already racing to the kitchen. She shakes her head, but is clearly amused by her husband. She turns toward Ford. 

“Still helping Mr. Pines?”

Stanford nods. 

“Yes. I apologize for having barged in on you two on such short notice.”

Melody shakes her head. 

“No problem. Technically, it’s still your house, is it not? If there's anything we can do to help Mr. Pines, let us know. Soos is very worried about him.”

Stanford nods once more. 

“I know. We'll get him back soon. I promise.”

He says it with conviction but Ford isn't sure if his reassurance is for Melody or for himself.  ~

Lake Gravity Falls is serene at this hour of the night. The air is crisp and cool as opposed to the hot, stiff Oregon summer daylight. Cicadas sing loudly as fireflies float across still waters. Stanford sits on the dock next to Fiddleford. 

“Asking to go fishing in the middle of the night? I have a feeling this isn’t some ol’ rendezvous just to catch up.”

Stanford sighs, fiddling with his fishing pole. He never really liked fishing. Stanford wasn’t a very patient man and fishing was a very patient sport. Fiddleford, on the other hand, absolutely adored it, always begging Ford to join him in their younger years. Stanford scoffs. 

The first time I actually go and it’s for my own gain. 

As Stanford fills his old partner in on the recent turn of events, the old engineer grows silent and serious. Fiddleford scratches his beard. 

“I could always construct another memory erasing gun. You can try that again.”

Ford shakes his head. 

“No more guns, F. I think I've shot my brother enough times.”

Fiddleford nods. He gazes across the lake with a faraway, thoughtful look in his eyes. 

“I want to help but we're dealing with forces outside this realm of reality, on a plane of existence even God doesn't dare step up on.” 

“Not so different from last time.”

Fiddleford scoffs. 

“No, not very different.”

Ford turns towards him. 

“I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t have anyone else to turn to,” Stanford says, quietly. “You’re the brightest mind I know., F-”

Fiddleford interrupts him. 

“Ya know-- you're the only one that calls me that.”

“F?”

“F, Fiddleford. Everyone I know calls me Old Man Mcgucket ‘cept little Tate of course. I don't even think half this town knows my real name.”

Stanford grimaces, remembering all he put his old roommate through. He reels up his line, abruptly standing up. Fiddleford looks at him, confused. 

“Where are you going?”

“I'm sorry, this was a mistake. I can't drag you back into this. Not after last time-” 

“Oh, sit yer butt down!” 

Stanford is shocked by Fiddleford’s sudden sharpness and quickly sits back down. Fiddleford shakes his head. 

“I’m not telling you this to guilt you.” “Then why?” “You’re so damn impatient! I’m getting to it!” “Ok! Ok! Sorry, F.” 

Fiddleford clears his throat. 

“When we parted ways all those years ago, I was a broken man with a broken mind coming home to a broken family-” 

“You must have despised me.” 

“I did. For a little bit,” Fiddleford admits. “Then I forgot. Then your grandkids helped me remember again and when I remembered you again, I was happy. I never wanted to forget you. I cherished you in my mind, even in my anger.”

Stanford sighs. 

“I'm sorry, Fiddleford. I never meant to hurt you.” He says. “I squandered your life. Your potential. You could've been a billionaire with your computers. You could have still been married to Emma May. You could have had a relationship with your son.” 

“I do have a relationship with Tate, though and I’ve got more money than I know what to do with now.” Fiddleford laughs. “As for Emma May… Well, let's just say things probably would have ended the same with her whether I left for Gravity Falls or not.”

Fiddleford bows his head, smiling softly. 

“I guess what I’m tryna get at is that you keep blaming yourself when you've already been forgiven. The past is past, Ford. You’ve got to put it behind you,”  Fiddleford states. “Apprehension is unnatural for the Great Genius Stanford Pines.” 

Ford shakes his head. 

“It's hard when the past keeps haunting the present.” 

Fiddleford hums. 

“Perhaps, but when it does, you've got people around you to help blow it back to where it belongs.” Fiddleford says. 

“I'm gonna stay by your side. Not like before.”

Fiddleford holds out his hand. Stanford stares at it, utterly bewildered yet grateful that Fiddleford so willingly forgives him despite everything. Still, Ford smiles, shaking his hand. 

“Right back at you, partner.”

Suddenly, Fiddleford lets go and jumps, pointing at the water.

“Look at that!” 

In the darkness, the small shadow in the water seems like a formless blob but as Stanford shines his lantern closer to it, he realizes that it’s an Axolotl, pink with a dreamy smile on its face as it paddles through the water. Fiddleford slaps his knee, laughing. 

“Well I’ll be! It looks like Frilliam. Remember that little guy?”

“How could I forget?”

“Perhaps it's one of his great- great- grandsons. He’s got the same frills, after all, just like your sideburns!” 

Fiddleford bends down and dips his hand into the water. The Axolotl swims tentatively towards Fiddleford’s fingers, looking up at the two men. Its deep eyes glisten as it stares at Ford. For some very odd reason, Ford feels as if its expression is one of familiarity, as if it recognizes the old man. Then, it flicks its tail, leaving as quickly as it came, sending ripples across the starlit lake as the two men sit together in peace. 

Bill Cipher is dreaming. 

He’s out at sea, watching the waves crash against a small boat as the vessel lurches back and forth. He despises it. He’s getting seasick just standing there. 

“Hey Pointdexer! Check this out!” Somewhere in the distance, Stanford is laughing. 

Bill feels a wave of nausea rise in him. That voice-- he hated that voice-- The voice of Stanley Pines. He claws at his own skin, trying to escape this hellscape. Get me out of here. Get me out of here. Get me out of here- 

“Woah buddy! Chill out!” Bill’s eye snaps open. He is in a white space, somehow more empty than his cell. He sees himself waving back at him. 

“Hey Handsome, long time no see,” The other Bill tips his hat. 

Bill checks his own hat. It’s still on his head. Bill narrows his eye. 

“What the- Who are you?” The triangle laughs. 

“I’m you, dummy. Duh!” 

“No, I’m me.” 

“I know you are, but so am I!”

“What?”

The triangle breaks into another fit of giggles before wiping a tear from his eye. Bill crosses his arms, obviously not amused by this other Bill mocking him. He’d dice him into tiny squares if he still had his powers. 

“Lemme explain,” The other Bill states. “You’re the little broken pieces the Axolotl picked out of Stanley’s mind, put into ‘therapy’.”

He pretends to gag before motioning to the empty area around the two demons. 

“...and I am the one that stayed.”

Bill crosses his arms.

“That’s impossible.”

“Aww, where’s your faith, William?” Bill puts his arm around Bill, waving his hand as he explains. “Even the axolotl makes the mistakes, sometimes.” 

Bill leans closer. 

“Mistakes that can work in our favor.”

He steps back, looking smug and shrugging. 

“While you’ve been doing arts and crafts, wallowing in self pity, I’ve been making moves! Moves towards total dimensional annihilation and sweet, sweet revenge!” Bill yells. “So hurry up and get out of timeout and join me; it’s getting boring without the full use of my powers.”

Snap. 

Bill suddenly sits up, awake and still in his dark cell. He looks down at his orange jumpsuit. Was there truly a way to get out of here? Half of him was already out there, having fun and causing chaos-- all he had to do was join him. Slowly, a smile grows on his face. 

Yes, perhaps things were finally changing.

Previous Chapter

[jacevelaryonswife]

i was thinking how would Jacaerys and aemond be like their s/o having a sweet and addictive taste

ㅤㅤㅤㅤDōna (sweet, pleasant)

“A retribution for your earlier show of affection,” Aemond murmurs as he crawls between your legs, calmly lifting the white night shifts you wore until it pools at your waist. It will be the first time that the one-eyed prince has performed such a feat, but he is no layman, he knows what a man can do between a lady's thighs — much grudgingly, especially when Aegon told him. However, all knowledge has utility.

He holds your hips and kisses your inner thighs very close to where you need it, but not directly there, just to see your restless reaction. Eventually he stops teasing and plants a soft kiss in the center of your intimate area, bringing his lips to your pearl. Your hands cup his stupidly perfect face and guide him where you feel the most effect, then he starts experimentally kissing and licking your flower until you're moaning and the taste of your nectar invades his entire tongue. It's sweet and so addictive and he doesn't want to stop tasting it.

Aemond tightens your hips as he greedily eats your womanhood, licking your entrance and sucking your mound, delighting madly before pulling away to your utter displeasure.

“I hope you're enjoying it as much as I am, my love, because I don't intend to leave until you say so with conviction,” he said, lips wet with your arousal. “You’re completely delicious, fucking delicious. Dōna.” He is relentless in eating you. Fuck, nothing compares to the sweet taste between your legs and he knows right away that he needs to be between your legs every day.

Jace is anxious when he snakes between your legs for the first time. Like Aemond, Prince Jacaerys knows the activities a man can perform with his mouth, but knowing is different from performing, and if there's one thing Jacaerys Velaryon hates, it's being incapable/average at a job. He lifts your white night shift and breathes deeply against your skin, trailing kisses all the way from you belly to your loins. “Let me know if you don't like it, right?” Is all he says before plunging into your flower.

It's sloppy at first. He licks and kisses from the entrance to your pearl, gripping your hips and thighs as he satisfies you intensely. His mouth feels so good against your pearl, he feels so good against you. When you cup the sides of his face and your womanhood moistens, Jace tastes the sweet nectar of you and groans against your mound, pausing to look into your eyes. It's an obscene vision of you and him. His face is wet with your moisture and your face is an aroused mess wanting more. He'll give you more, he'll give you as much as you want because he needs the addictive taste in his mouth.

He eats you like a starving man and makes a mess between your thighs when he realizes that's what you want. “My love, you taste so good,” he says breathlessly, hardening at your moans and your sensitive body to him. “Dōna.” It's almost a sin that something can be this good, it just wants to make you relax and come strong as you luxuriate in the wet petals of your flower.

[cyberrose2001]

could i have a couple hcs about tfp ratchet and optimus (seperate) having a s/o that has pains/aches all over their body that pop up without warning? just some comfort hcs, if that’s okay

TFP Optimus and Ratchet w/ reader who has sudden aches/pains (hcs)

I'm assuming you mean those ass hole stabbing pains that hurt like a biatch... those are a menance fr. I especially get those in my stomach often, so that's what I went with. I hope you enjoy these headcanons!

Warnings: SFW/fluff, reader has sudden pain, very slight mention of death.

Word count: 693

Optimus

- You both would be resting together in your shared berthroom. Optimus would read a data pad while you scroll aimlessly on your phone. It'd be relatively peaceful until you feel a cramp in your abdomen. It makes you wince a little, but you'd ignore it and continue your internet surfing.

- Then, the pain hits you, your face twists in agony, and you let out a silent scream, clutching your abdomen.

- Optimus notices from the corner of his optics and instantly jumps into action, not hesitating even once as his spark sinks to his tanks.

- He won't know what to do, servos hovering over you in hesitancy as he watches you writhe around on the berth like a tortured snake.

- "What's wrong?" "Did something happen to you without my knowledge?" "Should I take you to Ratchet?"

- He would eventually scoop you up into his servos and cradle you until whatever was going on inside your tiny body stopped, optics never leaving your face, worry etched into every crevice of his frame.

- After a few moments, the pain stops, leaving a dull ache where the piercing pain once was, and he watches as you sigh in relief.

- This poor mech would be so confused. He'd ask you what happened and why you're suddenly not in pain anymore.

- You then had to explain to him that humans sometimes have 'hiccups' in their nervous system, thinking you're injured when you're really not.

- The amusement you gain from his confused facial expression is somewhat entertaining, but you'd ultimately need to reassure him that you're not hurt in any way. You're safe, and he breathes out a shaky ex-vent. 

- "It seems I still have much to learn about your kind, but I am glad you are okay."

- Proceeds to snuggle you for the rest of the night until he is sure you are unharmed, and you decide that reassurance cuddles from Optimus are the only cure for anything your fragile body throws at you.

- But if you ask, he'd massage the area to soothe the remaining aches for you. He'd be delighted to assist.

Ratchet

- It would be a typical day for you, lounging around on the couch watching Ratchet work on, well, whatever experiment or research he was conducting on the computer. It didn't matter what he was doing; you'd always admire him from a distance, and he would do the same, glancing his optics over to you occasionally to ensure you were still there.

- During your 'medic daydreaming', as you like to put it, a sharp sting hits the side of your abdomen, and you yelp in agonising pain. Tears pool in your eyes as your face scrunches up, trying to bear the sudden wave of pain.

- Ratchet abandons his station and is immediately beside you, reaching over the guard rail and scooping you up. His optics flutter over your frame and potential multiple diagnostics courses through his processor.

- "What the frag??" "Why are you holding your- for Primus' sake, move your hand! I need to see!" "Why didn't you tell me you were in pain?!"

- He'd be frantic, racing you to the med bay with you cupped in his palm.

- Ratchet has June on speed dial, and as soon as she is about to pick up, he no longer hears your whimpers.

- He'd be confused, gobsmacked even, when he sees you laying on the gurney, not a sign of pain on your face. It's like it never even happened.

- "What-" "Were you not just in distress?" "Why are you acting like you're fine?!"

- You'd hold back a chuckle as you explain to him that humans can get a little 'quirky' at times and cause you unexplainable pain for absolutely no reason. All Ratchet can do is stare at you wide-eyed as you tell him exactly why he dislikes the primitive design of the human nervous system.

- He'd be relieved, though. Thanking Primus that you weren't in danger or worse. He'd pick you up again, mumbling profanities and words like "Don't fraggin' scare me like that again." and "You humans and your body's strange aversion for death and dying scare me."

- You won't be let out of his sight for the rest of the day, keeping you cradled to his chassis. His thumb would rest against your chest in a self-soothing tactic, reassuring himself that you were okay.

- Much reassurance and thumb kisses are prescribed to him until he's calm again.

[littlemspeachy]

I'll Sleep Later (Battinson x reader)

Summary: After the floods, you start taking care of people with your limited background in medicine. And one night Bruce walks in through your window.

Note: There's mentions of the reader wearing a bonnet and putting her braids into a ponytail, but outside of that reader looks is not mentioned. Also, sorry if this is a bit heavy, but it's Gotham and a massive flood occurred in a densely populated city.

Warnings: Medical Knowledge acquired from Greys Anatomy and Google. Arguing about the ethics of killing, cursing, mentions of drug overdoses, mentions of human trafficking, melatonin usage, mentions of bullet wounds and internal bleeding, drinking, mentions of people dying or dead.

Word Count: 3.8K

-------

You never knew why he came to you. You were no one, a nobody another working class body in a city where ultra rich people got wealthier. A part of you wished they got wealthier by just basic corporate exploitation. Underpaying workers and jacking up the prices of essential needs to rise profit margins. But nooo, it was through means of human trafficking and heavy drugs.

You lost your roommate due to those drugs. She was a dancer at one of the local clubs. It was good money, you used to bartend at the same place. Ran a token system so the men couldn't outright give girls drinks. They could claim it after their shift or just take the money if they didn't want the drinks. Unfortunately, a lot of men complained, and your job was gone.  

A part of you believed in the Riddler and what he was doing. They deserved to pay. Pay for their crimes and not just the monetary. But wiping out the city? Letting the disabled, elderly, and poor just be swept away into the rivers. Forcing the poor and working class to pay the already high insurance deductions to clean up his mess. If he was smart enough, he would've just assassinated those who he knew was responsible. But noo he had to think he was some sort of God bringing in the next big flood. Stupid. Your neighborhood was destroyed. Because you knew emergency medicine from training as a nurse before dropping out due to the rising cost of med school, you brought people in your home and became a small clinic. Stole from the local convenience stores and other houses that were abandoned for medical supplies and food. 

You took in small cats and dogs that came by your house. Young boys occasionally dropped someone off with medical supplied in exchange for some food. You barely got any sleep, making sure no one died. And luckily no one has. This was you and your life now. 

Which is why you were confused when he came through your window one night. You were attempting to get in a small nap before doing rounds on your patients. 

You stared at him and turned on a small light. Most of the water had receded but with you being so central the streets were still cold and wet. A foot of water still in the streets. Luckily the backup generators were held on the third floor, so two weeks after the flood you were able to use the electricity. But depending on the usage it goes out fast. Small lamp meant less electricity.

You internalized his helmet and ripped cape. "What do you want?" You asked cooly. 

"I need help." He whispered before beginning to fall sluggishly.  

You rushed towards him eyes wide. The last thing you wanted and needed was to operate on this man in your bed. Clean water was hard to come by in your part of time and the last thing you needed was dirty sheets. 

You dragged him carefully through your halls and into the guest room. Your last patient just left that morning, so the room was empty.

You internally cringed but turned on the main light so that you could see better. 

Blood pooling in his undershirt, making the black look wet and darker than usual. 

You took in a deep breath stilling yourself before walking over to your assorted medical cabinet and a cabinet full of vodka. You pulled a liter bottle of vodka and some gloves and scissors. 

A question on the tip of your tongue being cut off by the sound of a walkie-talkie. "Ayo (Y/N) we got an injury here should we bring them up?" A young male voice asked through a walkie talkie situated on a three-tier rolling cabinet next to the floor cabinets. 

You took a glance at the man on your bed before grabbing the walkie with your ungloved hand. "What the situation looking like?" 

"We got a potential drug overdose, a shallow breather, and one whose got a nasty wound." 

"Administer Naloxone to the drug overdose and bring in the nasty wound. Pick up any more supplies that you can find and ring the bell when you get in, we got a patient." 

"But what about the shallow breather." 

You let out a deep sigh. "It'll take around 20-30 minutes to bring anyone in unless your right at my door. They ain't gonna make it kid. I don't know what to tell you anymore." 

The line stayed quiet. You and the boy on the other line knew it was impossible to save everyone. Some days were better than others but, as time went on you knew you could only try to save those with the highest chance of living. And at the moment you didn't have any help. 

"Understood. We'll be back in 3o mins." 

You nodded in silent confirmation and sat the walkie down before going back to the situation at hand. 

"Ay, I need you to stay awake as long as physically possible." You said tapping his helmet lightly. 

You cut open the shirt too see three bullet holes and crazy bruising. Internal bleeding.

You laid your hands on his body and looked up at the ceiling before getting to work. You ran to your cupboards and pulled out some medical kits. A perk of the flooding was that the national guard was in and so your kids managed to steal medical supplies at night and at really busy times. 

You pulled out a tongue dampener and a numbing spray before walking over to the man. 

You pulled off a glove before taking off your bonnet and wrapping a braid around the rest to make a makeshift and tight ponytail before putting the glove back on. 

You grimaced slightly realizing what was about to occur. "Sorry, this isn't the most sanitary place. But based off of where the bruises and the bullets are you have some internal bleeding. I'm going to have to flip you slightly to make sure they didn't go through." You said softly, adrenaline kicking in. 

After loud groan and cutting through the rest of his shirt you noticed that the bullets didn't get through and that there were only punch marks on the back. You laid him back down and pushed him up enough to drink a shot. 

He looked at you, pupils blood shot and black surrounding his eyes slowly fading to reveal the white skin underneath. 

"Listen this is about to hurt, and alcohol works as a depressant." He nodded silently before you poured him a drink from an unmarked bottle. 

You passed him a shot glass before grabbing the tongue dampener and you bit back a small laugh while you watched the man almost throw up the liquid. 

You shrugged as his gave you a glare. "I'm sorry, that was moonshine. Not vodka." 

He laid back down and you sprayed the numbing spray on the first bullet before making a small cross over the first bullet and grabbing a pair of clamps to dig around and find the small piece of metal. Luckily that one wasn't that deep. Which was good for you but that means another one broke into something causing the bleed. 

You slowly took it out and dropped it into the trash before grabbing a suturing kit and sewing it shut. You ignored his groans and muffled screams while rolling your wrist and starting again. 

 You moved on to the next bullet and repeated the same steps. Spray,Cut, pull, sew. Unfortunately, like the other bullet, it was lodged right under the skin. Meaning the third one was deeper and lodged into something that was going to require much faster movements and quicker thinking. 

You let out a deep sigh before throwing down your supplies and ripping off your gloves. If the internal bleeding was due to it being lodged in the small intestine, then as soon as you cut it open blood was going to pour, and because you weren't an actual hospital you had no suction. So, the next best things were some tampons, a syringe, and some extra lap pads. You also dragged over a floor lamp with an LED light that you had before the flood for extra lighting. 

You sat the supplies down on him lap, before grabbing a new pair of gloves. "This is gonna hurt. I am so sorry but you're going to get lead poisoning if I leave this in you." 

He stared at you with blank eyes before nodding and grasping the side of the bed. You touched the massive bruise gently just to confirm that there was bleeding and when he let out a loud groan you knew you had to act fast. 

And acting fast you did. Stuffed in the lap pads and sucked all the lose blood that you could. Cursed to high hell and managed to do the best you could do with internal sutures and a tampon, closing him up and throwing your gloves and the bullet into the trash. 

You wiped the sweat off your head before roughly grabbing the bottle of moonshine and taking a deep swig. You collapsed in a corner trying to control your heartbeat before getting up and grabbing a big bandage and putting it on him. 

You took one last glance of him before leaving and going into the living room to deal with the people the young man over the walkie talkie picked up. 

The next time he came to you he wasn't injured, just with supplies. A lot of supplies. 

"What is this?" You asked watching him walk around your guest room and gently put away supplies. 

He stayed silence and brush past you on the way to your living room and to the kitchen before walking out of your house. 

A part of you wished he stayed, you could've asked him what he's doing here, how he's healing. But instead, it's just short words and more action. 

And that's how it was, for a while. Silent dropping of supplies and leaving without a word. A small note about updates on repairs. 

A part of you was deeply thankful, but another part was curious, almost too curious. So, you set up a small trap. Well not really a trap, you were just going to sit in your living room until he came. And come he did. 

He came in again, 4.30 am sharp. Bags of an assortment of things. He acknowledged you sitting on the couch and headed towards your guest room. 

"You can't go in there, someone there's some people grieving, and I want to leave them alone." You said to his back.  

He paused hand inches away from the door handle before dropping it back to his side. Silence filling the apartment before bootsteps made their way into your kitchen. 

"You need to get sleep, there's people out there that might need your help." He stated deadpanned. His voice rough and raspy sounding like it was the first time he used it all day. 

"Why did you come here that night. You're a hero to Gotham. You could've gone to anyone." You asked, eyes never moving from his dark figure. 

"I've listened to your conversations with the boy, Pedro, I knew you wouldn't ask questions. I know you still don't." He said still busying himself with the mix of supplies he brought. 

"I could've killed you." 

"Yet you didn't, you saved me. I healed. You have good hands; the scars are almost fully healed." He said voice softer. 

"You know some think it's your fault," You stated plainly. "Some think you caused it. You were working with the Riddler to get a name out for yourself." 

He stopped his movements and stared at you. He grit his teeth causing his jaw to flare but remained silent. "Do you believe that?" 

"No. But I do think you're hiding. No one around here has enough money to be walking around with that kind of armor. Because why would a crazy man be so obsessed over you? As far as I'm concern you've done no wrong. Except for not killing him." 

"Killing him and anyone else is not my job. It's not my position to do so." He responded.

"Oh, but he's in the position to do so. Why because he's angry at a couple of some dead rich couple?" You argued back, walking towards the bar counter in your kitchen. 

"He's mentally deranged, but ultimately he should be tried. It is not my judgement to decided that." 

"Oh, the same judges that have been bought out by the same fuckers in drug pushing and human trafficking. Get the fuck out of here." You said angrily. A part of you was happy that there was a kitchen island separating you two. 

"So do you agree with him?" He said slamming down a can of corn. His voice stayed even but the slam said otherwise. 

"No, I think he's some deranged lunatic white boy, who just like you are playing God, the only difference is one person is stupid enough to think that killing everyone was a great fucking solution and the other being some rich white boy believing in a system that put us in this situation in the first place! Do you know how many people have died in this house? That guest room belonged to my best friend that was killed because someone thought it would be funny to slip drugs into her drink. And now I-" You stopped quickly, your breath coming out in shudders and tears threatening to fall. 

You looked up at the ceiling to attempt to make the tears not fall. "She died due to the floods. We couldn't get to the Narcan in time, and she stopped breathing. We couldn't get her upstairs fast enough and I couldn't carry her and by the time I managed to get back downstairs her body was already under the water. We were supposed to make it, she was dancing to pay her way through nursing school. The only good thing about Gotham is the hospital, but it takes the most expensive schooling to get there. So no, I do wish that you killed him, I wished that you forced him to see all the suffering then forced him to drown the way many others did. You don't get to decide to kill hundreds if not thousands then get to see justice." You spat before angrily wiping the tears that came down your face. 

He stayed and stared at you before walking around the corner and doing something even unfamiliar to him and hugged you. It wasn't tight, it wasn't loose, but it was just enough. He gently grabbed a walkie talkie and a random bottle you had sitting by the door before leading you outside your apartment and up the stairs. A part of you wanted to protest but another part just didn't care anymore. So, you followed him up to the rooftop. The two of you walked to the center of the roof before sitting down. 

The brisk air filling your lungs and bones, the odd dark blue lighting up the sky and prepping for the day. 

Brue took off his cap and sat it on your shoulders before handing you the bottle.  You took it and glanced sideways at the man. 

"I can't I have people to deal with. Care never ends." You said shaking your head and placing the bottle down beside you. 

"You need to rest (Y/N). No one can heal that many people and stay sane or healthy." He said softly looking at you. Blue eyes somehow brighter in the light of the early morning. 

"And do you rest? Mr. Super-Hero," You asked back looking into his eyes, a battle of who would look away first commencing. "I see your eye bags, your bruises that have been there for weeks. You know if you rested properly, you would be able to heal faster." 

He continued looking into your eyes before breaking away. "Gotham never sleeps and neither do I." 

"Welp, I guess that makes two of us. Sick people don't stop being sick, and violence doesn't stop either." You said sarcastically. 

"It's not the violence anymore, it's just getting people to safety. The national guard has been clearing people out in dangerous areas. You would be a good help to them." He stated softly, his voice was so rough it dropped in and out of being a whisper. 

You shook your head in disagreement. "The national guard is just evacuating people. I help the people who can't access help. By the time the national guard rolls in, they would be dead." 

The two of you at in silence, the only thing heard is the gentle blowing of the early morning wind. 

Bruce pondered what to say to you. You were safe with your crew of rag tag teens running the streets and picking them up. Moving you, or recommending you move to the manor didn't make sense. He knew you would argue. You would've liked Celina he thinks. You were both strong, angry at the world. He was stupid to not see this all going on. What was the point of all this money, all the donations. Wasn't there someone in charge, someone to- Yes there was someone in charge. Him. He was Bruce Wayne. The last living Wayne member, if he cared this much, he could've checked and made sure everything was running smoothly. She was right. He was just another white guy that believed that the system could change, believed in the same systems that made Gotham this way. 

"I'm sorry." He admitted suddenly. Shocking the both of them. 

You frowned and looked over. "Sorry about what? What did you do." 

He let out a deep breath, a strange weight being lifted off his shoulders, a weird lightness in his heart he hadn't felt in years. 

"Do you really think I should've killed him." 

You moved your eyes to the sky. Thoughts swirling through your mind. You mouth opening and closing again. "No. I-" 

You chuckled at the strangeness of it all. "I would've probably beat the shit out of him. But you're not... You have a slight point. As angry as I am at all this, The guilt of knowing I have blood on my hands, that I'm no better. Not saying that killing can't be justified it very much can be. It's sometimes the only right thing you can do. But.. Killing some guy that honestly had nothing to do with her death. I wouldn't know what to do with myself." 

You stated to the sky. Your ego too high to look at him. 

"I don't sleep." 

You raised a brow at the admission not shocked at all. 

"I lied. I can't fall asleep. All I hear is crying and people looking for loved ones. I.. I only get a few hours a night. I haven't slept for more than 5 hours since the floods." 

"To be fair I usually pass out, I try to get sleep but it's never any good, too on guard." You admitted grabbing the bottle of vodka and twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a swig before passing it. 

He hesitated before taking several swallows. You looked at him amused. "Drink up babes, I got more than enough to go around." 

He winced and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

"I give you the supplies because I feel guilty. For so long I just assumed that everything was fine, and that this city was a dump because that's just what it was. But it's... everywhere.. And it's not just petty crime. It's everywhere." He gasped, a lump evident in his voice. 

You stared at him. Everything clicking into place. Bruce Wayne is Batman. huh.

"I wouldn't take Brue Wayne to be an optimist." You stated. 

He quickly whipped his head around, shock evident in his eyes. 

"I'm not stupid, who else would have enough money to be stomping around in that costume. Plus, all the wealthy people in Gotham are old. And you're obviously not. Plus, your parents got shot when you were younger and now you go around saving people." You said with a shrug. 

Bruce stared at you in pure shock and watched you roll your eyes. 

"I won't tell anyone. Not that anyone would believe me."  You said before chuckling and grabbing the bottle. 

"Stay," You whispered after two minutes of sitting in silence. "Just for the day. Eat something and I'll get some sleep meds for you, and you sleep. Take a shower and go sleep." 

"You need sleep, you actually care for people. You sleep, I can take care of people." 

"You can't take care of people looking like that." 

"Sleep with me." 

You stared at him with wide open eyes. Shock very evident. 

"I mean. In the sense that. I trust you, and I need someone I trust around me to feel comfortable sleeping. So, sleep with me. And before you argue, I've seen the streets before I came in, there's nothing going on out there, that Pedro can't handle." 

You closed and opened your mouth a couple times before his ask started to make sense. He was right, the walkie that he brought with him has stayed silent.

You nodded your head. "Sleep.. OK." 

You shrugged off his cape and stood up with a groan. Your legs cramped from siting on the cold concreate for so long. 

He followed your actions and headed back into the building. The heating warming up the building slightly. Bruce helped your guest bring their now deceased friend to Pedro before telling the young boy that you weren't taking anyone today and giving him the address for the coroner. The two of you watched the truck drive off before heading back inside. 

You gave him one of your oversized sweaters and a pair of pants that belonged to your father that you meant to tailor but never got around to before sending off to the shower.  Hotdogs, eggs, toast and a random fruit that hadn't gone bad was cooked. More food than usual but he was a grown man and you guessed he hadn't eaten in a white. You ate in silence before putting down two melatonin gummies in front of the man and going to take a shower. 

You locked your doors and turned down the volume of your walkie before slipping into bed next to him.

"Thank you." The two of you said at the same time before heading off to sleep. 

Anger and healing are non-linear and painful. But with goodnights sleep and a friend you trust, it's a bit easier. 

[n7punk]

Lava_Beee (pretty well-known artist who draw she-ra fanart from time to time) is asking on twitter what would Adora and Catra main pokemon be. You're pretty knowledgeable when it comes to pokemon i believe, so what's your take?

hi i love lava_bee's art but here's the thing. i can't fucking answer this question. i can't. there are too many pokemon. and i don't mean this in a "i dont have every single pokemon + most of their shinies and types memorized" kind of way, because I do, i mean it is impossible for me to pick my favorite pokemon, which makes it very hard to have a "main", and even harder to ascribe a main to a character and feel.... idk, confident about it. i could give you 30 different answers and none of them would feel more correct. i've never seen a fan-team for them and went "oh yes this is the Correct answer" it's just an answer. its a little easier if you give me a specific gen and i can either 1) only use pokemon from that gen (so for gen 2 it had to be pokemon 152-251) or 2) only use pokemon from that game's regional pokedex (which includes all pokemon added to that gen and some from previous) as if we're saying okay if adora and catra were kalos trainers what would their team be, but even then, i think i would have a pool of like 20 pokemon i could call their team.

context also matters. are they casual trainers? are they gym leaders and confined by type? are they part of the evil team? are they really competitive and trying to get all the badges, and thus have balanced teams in mind? oh god are stats real in-universe? actually i refuse to acknowledge stats that makes this question a billion times harder, but typing is relevant.

anyway i think if adora was a dedicated trainer she'd care a lot about team balance but get too attached to some favorites and use them more than is logical, and if she isn't a competitive trainer than she's literally out here using her starter, the first three pokemon she befriended, and a fifth+sixth pokemon she saved spots for because she always found them really cool and had to work really hard to get

if catra is a dedicated trainer she'd be ruthless in cultivating a "perfect" team but she would end up falling for her in-universe melog equivalent and become a total softie for it even though it doesnt fit with the team so she only battles with them casually and drills her competitive team but then adora manages to talk her into a change of heart ("its not all about winning, its about the battle and the bond with your team too!") and she ends up putting melog on her final team against the champion/elite four/adora. if she's not a dedicated trainer she would outwardly refuse to learn about "good" pokemon and just pick based purely on vibes and completely ignore adora whining at her about type balance. and then she would be really good at playing around type, revealing she actually knows a lot more than she's pretending to care

and here's a small list of only some of my favorite pokemon to demonstrate what i mean: (Hisuian) Zorua (and Hisuian Zoroark but not regular) (Shiny form also) Slither Wing Torracat (Litten okay, NOT Incineroar at all) Sprigatito Chien-pao Alolan Ninetails Hisui Growlithe/Arcanine Cosmog, Cosmoem, Lunala (Solgaleo) Serperior Vivillion (Ocean, Savanna, Garden, Meadow, Marine, Sun, Elegant, Modern, Continental, Polar, Tundra) Applin (evols are good) Pumpkaboo Wooloo (not the evol) Rowlett (lowkey Dartix and Decidueye) Sinistea (not evol) & Poltchagheist (not the evol) Alcremie (varying by form but theres like 60 im not listeing them) Xerneas Marshadow Leavanny Xurkitree (shiny) Ponyta/Rapidash (kanto) and both galarian Lopunny Eevee(s) (Leafeon, Sylveon, Vaporeon, Jolteon, Espeon) Hisuian Typholosion Meowstic shiny Maerenie (and Toxapex) Dwebble Joltik Doublade Minior Mimikyu Galarian Zapdos Yveltal Lunala (esp shiny) shiny Zacian & Zamazenta Jangmo-o (and Kommo-o but not the middle) Tapu Lele Spectrier Galarian Articuno Spinda (for the mechanic) Walking Wake

NOW IMAGINE DOING THIS FOR SOMEONE WHO ISN'T EVEN YOU