#half moonshine; full eclipse

[chigirisprincess]

— Ajax

⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, gn!reader, sfw, mentions of wounds and medicine, one "good boy", nursing back to health, banter, secrets, and strange soup. ⊹ Run time. 3.4k ⊹ Note. Wah! I hope you enjoy this chapter friends!! Life has slowed down for me a bit so I'm finally able to focus on this baby once more <3

❝You get to know the strange man who was dumped on your doorstep as he awakens from his slumber.❞

prev part || masterlist || next part

Confusion swims within the murky depths of the man’s eyes. He blearily blinked up at you, his body sluggishly reacting to the unfamiliarity that surrounded him. Snatching your hand away from his head, you press it into his shoulder, keeping his feeble figure pinned to the floor.

“Don’t move,” you lowly murmur, mustering up a strict tone, “You’re very badly injured.”

Cursing to yourself, you fight the urge to roll your eyes, as if that wasn’t obvious. Surely every pain receptor in his body was screaming out in agony, his jaw was tense and held stiffly in place, likely biting back a moan of pain. Your lips deepen into a frown, if he was awake, changing his bandages would be far more difficult. You could hardly stomach the sound of a crying baby, the thought of this stranger writhing around in pain beneath you made your stomach turn.

“Your comrades brought you here to heal.”

A shaky breath passes through his lips and his eyes fall shut for a moment. You watch, tendrils of your hair spilling over your shoulder as you lean over him.  Slowly, he raises one hand to his lips, tapping his callous fingers against the cracked skin. Water, he probably wants water. Your legs tremble as you hoist yourself from the ground and scuttle around the kitchen. Half a pitcher sits in your ice box, you make a mental note of visiting the well soon. You’d need more to clean his wounds, his clothing, him.

There’s a chip in the first cup you grab and you hope he’s far too out of his mind to notice it. He peers up at you from the corner of his half lidded eyes. The corners of his mouth quirk up into a lazy smile when you round the sofa, cup in hand. He mouths a “Thank you,” eagerly tilting his head up to meet the lip of the cup. You have half a mind to chastise him for the strain but no words find your mouth. Some of the water dribbles down his chin and jaw, spilling into his hair. Now that it’s dried, the ends have begun to curl into a fluffy orange mess. The end of your shirt makes a fine handkerchief as you wipe up the water. His jaw is stubbly, skin warm and clammy. 

Smoothing back a stray curl, you turn to dig through your wagon. Draff had piled it full of old clothing that was large enough to fit him, furs, and a few old quilts. Tossing a pale blue and yellow blanket over his mostly bare body, you sighed. His bandages would need to be changed, his wounds redressed soon but his lingering consciousness made you weary.

You’d used the last of your salves that were imported from Bubu Pharmacy on the nasty fissure that ate away at his abdomen. You could make do with the basket of wolfhook berries you were saving to make jam. You vaguely remember reading in some dusty tome at the library that wolfhook berries were used to soothe pain and had a hemostatic effect, whatever that meant. Surely, it’d be a good enough remedy. The mist flower corolla’s that kept your ice box chilled made a fine paste for sore muscles. You could apply it to the large bruises and lacerations that covered most of his body. It’d have to do until you could forage some more plants and get your hands on that herbalist book.

“Why don’t you try to get some rest,” you whisper to the man when you notice his eyes have cracked open once more, “Archons knows you need it, hm?”

The joints in your knees crackle to life when you rise from the floor, your hands pressed to the plush flesh of your hips. You mentally go down the list of household chores that were begging for your attention, the thought alone of how much work was needed made whatever satisfied peace within you deflate.

You settle on doing the washing, dragging inside the large metal basins filled with last night's rainwater. The cecilia soap you drop in the basin is delicately floral. If you shut your eyes for long enough, you could almost imagine yourself at the very top of Starsnatch Cliff with the wind rustling through your hair and dancing through your billowing shirt. You remember the last time you went, the details seared into your mind. Somehow, you managed to drag Kaeya, Diluc, and Jean to explore the Thousand Winds Temple in the midst of a summer heat wave. You wove crowns out of cecilia’s and stripped yourselves of your shoes and shocks to splash around in Starfell Lake. 

It felt as though a million years had passed since then. 

You supposed, a million years had passed.

Everything was wrong when you returned home from Mondstadt. You weren’t much better off, a shell of your former self and a reclusive who hardly left the archaic cottage you called home.

“Is,” the man starts, coughing a bit before speaking again, “Is the washing difficult?��

You blink back to reality, a frown replacing the wistful expression that ate away at your visage, “I thought I told you to get some rest?” You question with a quirk of your brow.

Looking into the basin, you realised you’d begun to roughly clasp the bar of laundry soap in your hand. It crumbled beneath your nails and flaked off to the bottom of the tub.

“It’s not difficult, I just got lost in thought, that's all.”

Your face warms. There's an inexplicable urge that bubbles up your throat to defend your actions though there was no judgemental edge to his tone. Just curiosity. 

He languidly blinks up at you. It’s difficult to discern what he may be thinking with the sluggish shadow that follows his movements. You think that he’s studying you, not that he’d have much luck. Surely, his mind was still rather addled with pain, and clouded by the mourning flower extract that you slipped under his tongue while he slept. The merchant who sold it to you claimed it relieved the mind and body of pain from sundown to sun up. 

“Ajax,” he finally whispers, you almost missed it, “My name … is Ajax.”

Oh.

That’s right, the two Fatui henchmen never gave you a name. Just a set of instructions and him. It never occurred to you to ask. Your scattered brain had nearly lost its wits from the shear stress that ping ponged through your veins. Ajax. He had a nice name, the name of a hero. Your heart nearly split in two. He must have been like you, hopelessly entangled in the carelessly cruel traps laid by the Tsaritsa. You pondered what dreams he might have once possessed, if he’d have liked to live up to his namesake? Or, if he’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Surely whatever misfortunes that befell him were moulded by the treacherous hands of the Fatui. You couldn’t fathom how a trained soldier could have been injured to this extent, but a dreamy eyed young man? You walked a similar path. You were lucky that you came out the otherside as unscathed as you did.

Offering him your name, you soften your expression, “You have a pretty name,” you murmur, flexing your fingers in the frigid water to fight off the shiver that travels up your forearms.

“You stole my line,” he rasps, chuckling a bit to himself until a pang of pain interrupts him, “Shit…”

Water splashes over the lip of the tub when you jump to your feet, nearly tripping over the damn thing on your way to him. Your brows crease together in concern, wiping your hands dry on the back of your trousers, you reach for the quilt covering him.

“Can I check?”

He nods, his face scrunched up in a wince. Peeling back the blanket, you press your hands against his tensed abdomen. Nothing had seeped through the gauze, you let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. A shiver wracks through Ajax’s body when you slide your frigid fingers along the length of his stomach. Mumbling a quick apology, you peel back, shuffling away from him.

“Try not to laugh or move too much,” you gently murmur, tucking the blanket back up to his chin, “I don’t want you tearing your stitches, they’re much more painful the second time around.”

Ajax nods again, “Aye aye captain,” he grins to mask the discomfort. His smile doesn’t fall in spite of the point look you give him, it only grows wider.

You wonder once more how he could have found himself in this predicament. It's while gazing in the depths of his hazy blue eyes that you decide him to be a mirror image of yourself. An unfortunate, wretched thing who stupidly sipped fire water all too readily and downed a second glass though the burn of the first never faded. A loan from the Northland Bank, perhaps to aid the pursuit of something that filled his soul with liquid sunlight. Or, maybe a favour that spiralled into a debt that could never be repaid. It didn’t matter much in retrospect when it landed him in the same precarious situation you struggled to survive in. A small thanks to Barbatos floats past your lips. Quite enough that he wouldn’t register the words as common tongue.

“What did I just say,” you scold, in the most authoritative tune you’re able to muster.

“Sorry, ‘m sorry.”

Brushing a few damp strands away from his eyes you sigh, “It’s not me you should be apologising to.”

He nods a bit to himself, averting his gaze to the wooden beams that span across your ceiling. A few potted plants hang from the rafters, their wilting green leaves swinging in the breeze. They were a hassle to water. The chains were too short. You’d need a ladder to reach them. Diluc had come by to fix a hole in your roof when you’d hung them, you had no tools of your own. Even after a year of returning home.

“Rest and when you awaken you can have something to eat,” he must be hungry, the travel to Mondstadt from anywhere past Liyue was long and arduous, “And, perhaps something to drink if you’re able to keep your food down.”

“Alright, I’ll try.”

Ajax keeps his eyes shut only until your back is turned. You face away from him while you do the washing and hum an old Mondstadt lullaby beneath your breath. The heat of his gaze slowly simmers as slumber welcomes him back into its welcoming embrace. You release a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. Dunking your arms into the cold, soapy basin, you hold them there until the chill is too much for you to bear and then, move on, ridding your water closet of the blood stained nightgown that you left on the floor. 

The sight of it makes your stomach churn with disgust. The crimson colour turned a ruddy brown but the sharp metallic scent still lingers. You wish you could use it to fuel the hearth but the chill of winter had not yet left the long spring nights in Mondstadt. You needed the warmth if you were to care for this man. The hours you spend scrubbing leave the white flannel stained and tinged an unappealing pinky hue. Your hands tremble, skin stinging from where you’ve rubbed yourself raw from your fervent scrubbing. You hang your clothing to dry with a sigh, mechanically shuffling through your cottage to clean your things before hunkering down in the kitchen to cook some warming broth for Ajax.

He stirs once more long after the sun has been laid to rest. The smell of frying vegetables and fragrant herbs tickling his senses. 

You feel his eyes on you before he even thinks of speaking. In the hours that passed you changed his bandages twice and kept a damp rag against his forehead to chase away the fever. The clear broth that bubbled and boiled at your hearth should burn the rest of the infection from him. The medley of dried herbs and whopperflower nectar you mixed together were supposed to be an effective remedy according to the sparse notes you’d taken on the herbalist book you read months ago. You weren’t brave enough to try it, the fluorescent yellow of the nectar made the broths colour an unusual shade. A slice of fisherman's toast for the third day in a row suddenly seems far more appealing than it did an hour ago. 

A shiver slices through your spine and an unwelcome heat tinges the apples of your cheeks. It strikes you that the scene splayed out across your cottage is strangely intimate. You’ve never cooked for another, let alone a man who lay half bare in your abode. Though the situation was forced, you couldn’t help but feel strangely.

“I haven’t had a home cooked meal in quite some time,” Ajax murmurs when you scoop a ladle full of broth into a bowl to cool. 

Your skin seems to burn even hotter.

“Not to get your hopes up but, I’m not much of a cook,” you pronounce, bringing over the food on a small wooden tray  to where he rests, “And I think this is more medicine than it is a meal.”

Your hands tremble when you help him sit up, his back resting against the sofa. His skin is still warm to the touch but less clammy. The firm muscles that make up his abdomen rippled beneath your touch and you flinched away.

“Any meal is a good meal.”

Slowly stirring the broth, you gently blow into it. The steam dissipates for but a moment before it swirls over top of the bowl again, “Did your mother teach you that?” You ask while scooping some of the soup up for him, “Or, are all Snezhnayan men this philosophical.”

You spoon the broth into his mouth before he can answer, hoping your question caught him off guard enough that he swallows on instinct before the bitter taste seeps into his tongue. His brows knit together in clear discomfort. Still, he swallows it down without complaint.

“Good boy,” you murmur, spooning another scoop into his mouth.

His face reddens considerably darker. You pay it no mind, ignoring your own searing flush of awkwardness that eats at the apples of your cheeks. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, catching the few bits of broth that dribbled out from the corners of his mouth. You use your sleeve to dab what he misses, taking note of how stubbly his jaw is. He might like to shave but you had no razors and no money to spend for such a luxury. Ajax leans slightly into your touch before seeming to remember himself, pulling away until you hold another spoonful up to his mouth.

“It’s not so bad,” he murmurs between bites, “A bit bitter.”

You hum in agreement, “Whopperflower nectar is unexpectedly bitter.”

Ajax eats in silence until the bowl is finished, without complaint.The slice of fisherman's toast that's gone cold next to you feels strangely unappealing, but you still bring it to your mouth and nibble on the crust, avoiding Ajax’s surprisingly intense gaze.

“How did you know I was from Snezhnaya?”

“Your name,” you hum, your tongue flicking out to lap up the crumbs of toast on your lips, “And your accent, you speak Mondstadtian well but some of your pronunciation indicates that its not your native tongue.”

Tossing your mostly untouched toast aside, you lean back and peer at Ajax. He watches you in return, the air perfumed with scrutiny. The tendons in his hands and arms flex as he absentmindedly racks his fingers through your rug. The hearth across your room gently crackles with dying embers, it fills the space your silence has carved out.

With a tilt of his head, Ajax juts his chin at you, “So are you native to Mondstadt?” He questions, furrowing his brows, “I happened to think my Mondstadtian is quite good.”

“It is, it’d be enough to fool and outlander,” you muse, “But, not quite good enough for someone who was born and raised in the city of wind.”

Ajax looks at you for a moment with what you think is confusion. He must be wondering how you’ve become entangled with the Fatui, perhaps unaware of their enteral, oppressive presence that looms over the region and the eyes that watch from their bunker at Goth Grand Hotel. Frustration eats away at you, and eats away at the skin you pick off of your cuticles soothe your frayed nerves. The knights were useless, allowing spiders to weave webs all over Mondstadt– Grand Master Varka too busy galavanting across Teyvat and sparing Harbingers for fun to protect the city as he was supposed to. In spite of her station, Jean Gunnhildr could to little without the express permission of Varka, allowing the Fatui to darken Mondstadt’s doorstep each passing day.

“Do you like it here?” He asks, almost hesitantly.

As a child you did.

When you reached adolescence you wished to fly far away from Barbatos’ reach. Anywhere but Mondstadt is what your heart longed for.

While life here was rather monotonous, lacking any excitement outside of the local festivals, you supposed you did enjoy your life here. Sure, you might have liked to be free of the debt that weighed heavily upon your brow, but Mondstadt was home. Even after all the mistakes you made, the cruelties you spewed, and the bridges you seared with your rage, it would always welcome you into its warm embrace. Thank Barbatos, those here were far kinder than you would ever be.

Shrugging your shoulders you sigh, “It's home,” is all you say, “There is no place like it.”

“That’s oddly evasive.”

“You’ve just woken up after being unconscious for how long?” You roll your eyes, “What do you know about being evasive?”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, “All I’m saying is that you didn’t answer my question.”

“Do you like it back in Snezhnaya?”

You bite back a snippy comment about their icy climate. It sits on your tongue like a devilish impulse, misplaced amongst all your hatred for the Fatui. Surely the region wasn’t so bad. Master Diluc had little contempt for the people and fell victim to Fire Water like any other traveller, but aside from the venomous, vile puppeteers of the nation, he hadn’t a bad word to say about his time there.

“It’s home.”

His voice wavers, he’s far more unconvincing.

“Haha, very funny,” rising from the floor you dusty off your trousers, “Shall I say you’re being the evasive one?”

Ajax offers you a weak smile, watching as you pick up your dishes and bring them into your kitchen. He doesn’t project his voice, instead whispering quietly, “I have reason to be.”

You suppose he didn’t think you heard him.

You’d let him believe it so.

“I’ll be there in a moment, you must rest now, okay?” You call, your back turned to him as you set your plates upon the countertops.

“Worry not, I feel sleep coming over me.”

He’s laid himself flat against the floor by the time you’ve approached him once more. His chest rises and falls evenly, sleep having been swift and kind to take him so quickly. It isn’t so kind to you. You spend the hours after you’ve finished tidying with a racing mind and swirling stomach, tossing and turning about your lumpy mattress. Your freshly pressed and starched nightgown itches against your skin, begging you to peel it from your body. The smell of blood lingers beneath the fragrant cecelia’s. Throwing yourself out of bed, you pad over to your bedroom door and peer into the depths of your home. In the dim candle light, Ajax is nothing more than a lump on the ground.

You stare at him until the corners of your eyes sting, stepping closer and closer until you’re able to hear his heavy breath and slight mumbles. You stand over him until the sun peeks over the horizon, the stress of the day weighing heavily upon your back. A prayer to Barbatos stuck to your lips as slumber took you, one for guidance and luck to assuage your fears. Of Ajax, of the Fatui, of whatever it is he meant by those few words, and the secrets that laid behind them.

© all content belongs to dearbraus. do not modify, repost, or redistribute.

networks: @houseofsolisoccasum @interstellar-inn

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

“The crowd goes wild at her fingertips/half moonshine, full eclipse” — I don’t mean to overthink (lol) before the songs come out but taken like this (after seeing it set to eras gifs) I love the interpretation I’ve seen that it’s like, she gets on stage and the roar of the crowd is an intoxicating tonic that momentarily overshadows whatever she’s going through. Or, that the magic she creates intoxicates the crowd, all eyes on her in total rapture.

Idk idk idk I know these songs are going to just grab me in a chokehold

[rebecca--barnes]

“crowd goes wild at her fingertips”

[lovelornnobodyknows]

crowd DOES go wild at her fingertips, in fact!

[taylorftparamore]

stevie nicks mad at taylor swift fans are so funny to me like okay read the poem stevie nicks wrote for taylor's new album and listen to clara bow and maybe you'll calm down

[delicatedayzee]

“Half Moonshine” by Judith Viorst

[kelseab]

tags ;

[tswiftupdatess]

TTPD Lyrics Taylor Swift has revealed so far:

“I love you, it's ruining my life” “You don't get to tell me about sad” “Am i allowed to cry?” “Old habits die screaming” “Crowd goes wild at her fingertips Half moonshine, full eclipse” “I wish I could un-recall how we almost had it all” “Even statues crumble if they're made to wait” “One less temptress. One less dagger to sharpen” “Lost the game of chance, what are the chances?” “As she was leaving, it felt like she was breathing”

Pre-order the album now! 🤍

[chigirisprincess]

— Ajax

�� Details. 18+ minors dni, gn!reader, sfw, mentions of wounds, coerion, and debt, set after the 4.2 archon quest. ⊹ Run time. 2.6k ⊹ Note. This has been in the drafts since October and I just decided life is too short to keep everything in the drafts, enjoy

❝Your next form of repayment comes in the form of a half dead harbinger on your doorstep.❞

masterlist || next part

The knock comes long after the sun has sunk beneath the lip of Stormbearers Point. You nearly mistake it for the rough pounding of wind and rain that pounds against your windows, rattling the glass, but the fist comes down once more with enough force to splinter the frame. The soles of your slippers slap against the aged oak wood as you rush over with nothing but a single candle to light the way. Your power blew out hours ago, leaving you with only the glow of your vision and the few spare candles to illuminate your home. A chill shoots through you as the door swings open with the force of the ferocious wind. Rain splatters against your face, nearly extinguishing your candle as you peer into the night.

Two low-ranking Fatui men stood on the other side of the door, they barged into your space without a word, tracking in mud and leaving puddles with each heavy stomp of their boots. Between them lay a man on a flimsy put-together cot, his skin was pale and damp. You hoped to wash your hands clean of them long ago but it seemed that once your limbs were caught within the Tsarita’s web there was no escape. The man's bright ginger was matted against his forehead and he shivered uncomfortably in his slumber. Rolling your sleeves up to your elbows, you shook your head in disbelief. 

“We’ll be back for him when he’s in peak condition,” the man with the garish top hat muttered gruffly as they dropped the cot down in the middle of your living room, “Don’t contact us before then.”

The thinly veiled threat and finality to his voice made your shoulders shake. They were left without sparing so much as a second glance towards their comrade who let out a pained groan as his body was carelessly thrown to the floor. You kept your expression school into a façade of neutrality. The few minutes that passed felt closer to an eternity as you held your breath, your chest burning from the tension. Wrapping your fingers around the stem of your candle stick, you rushed over to the living room. In the dim light, all you could see was the faint rise and fall of his chest. He appeared far weaker than he did before as you sunk into the plush floral rug that was soaking up the stormwater that soaked the man’s clothing.

His vision weakly pulsated, the rich blue glow growing faint, “Archons above, just what have I gotten myself into …” you grumble, pressing the back of your hand to the man's clammy skin. He was warm, too warm  but still he shivered in his restless sleep.

Wax dripped over your knuckles as you hastily shoved it onto your side table. Hissing beneath your breath, you rushed over to your fireplace. There were few logs left to burn but they’d be enough to tide you until morning came and the storm subsided, then you could hike over to Springvale and haggle Draff to part with his store of dry wood. He didn’t need it when he spent most nights passed out at the Angel’s Share. Your frigid fingers fumble with the matches, you snap two of them in half from the rough way you drag them against the matchbox before you manage to light one. The flames are slow to grow but they’re willing to work with you so long as you gently stoke the embers. You silently thank Barbatos, casting a quick look behind you.

You’d need to strip him of his wet clothing and wrap him in something warm. The thought made your stomach churn uncomfortably. Even if it were possible to rouse the man from his fever induced slumber, it’d be unkind. You wished in that moment your vision would morph from dendro to pyro. At least then you’d be able to dry his clothing whilst preserving his modesty, well whatever modicum of modesty a man could have when all he wore were tattered, blood stained clothing. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper through gritted teeth as you peel back the remains of his grey jacket. There was a soaked glob of gauze sloppily tied around his torso. 

You didn’t want to remove the bandage, you knew whatever it covered was likely to be infected. The longer you remained ignorant to his condition, the closer he came to death's door. Would that have been such a bad thing? For this man, yes, but for you? Finally, you’d be freed from this so called debt that left you on the Fatui’s roster but it was a cruel thought. This stranger did not deserve death because of your own stupidity and selfishness. The gaping hole of fissured flesh that ate away at the mans milky, freckled skin was infected. Sickly green pus oozes out when you lifted the soiled gauze. The urge to wretch rolls through your stomach. 

“You poor thing,” you mumble as you bury your nose into your shoulder, “They really did a number on you.”

The man makes no sound, he hardly stirs at the sound of your voice. Your heart sinks further into your chest, his condition was far worse than you were prepared for. It takes you three hours to remove the shoddy field job, disinfect his wounds, and wrap them once more. His wet clothing lies in tatters around him. They weren’t in very good condition but your guilt ate away at you as he lay bare before you with only a small fur blanket to keep him warm. Perhaps Draff or one of the other hunters may have some clothing to spare, if not, you were sure the Cathedral would have something lingering in the lost and found.

Your knees creak obnoxiously as you rise from the floor. Sunlight has begun to bleed through your windows as morning crept over the horizon and the storm has dwindled to a light spattering of rain. Grabbing his belt from the mess of fabric that soaked your carpet, you furrowed your brow. The light in his vision still weakly pulsed but as you turned it over, the swirling blue that belonged to hydro morphed into a deep crimson. Stamped in the middle was a symbol you were familiar with, it’s what was brandished by the men who barged into your house– it was the Fatui emblem. He must have possessed a delusion; that confirmed some of your suspicions, whoever this man was, he must have been high ranking within the Fatui. 

Fear rolled through your belly as you peered at the man's face. As he lay like this, he looked rather innocent. The telltale signs of time had yet to visit him. His cheeks were still round with youth, in spite of the many scars that littered his freckled skin. Shaking your head, you frowned a bit. You could not allow your guard to fall. You knew nothing of this man and a seemingly innocent expression did not mean cruelty didn’t live within him. Retching your gaze away, you pad down the hall to your bedroom. The trip into Springvale would be long but if you left soon, you’d catch the hunters before they embarked for the day.

You catch sight of your expression out of the corner of your eyes. Your mirror reflects your frail visage like a taunting mirage. Peering at the worn wood of your bedroom floor, you striped your soiled sleepwear. The white cotton is stained with mud and splotches of blood. You allow the cloth to fall to the ground with little fanfare. You’d deal with it whenever you returned home. It’d make fine kindling if you couldn’t scrub the stains out. Noelle, your friend and knight in training, might be able to clean them but she’d worry far too much about why you found yourself covered in blood. 

The cold tile of your bathroom is not welcoming. Goosebumps erupt along the expanse of your bare skin, the hair on the back of your neck rises as you step into the space. You can’t avoid the imposing reflection of your mirror, your blank expression haunts you as you putter around. Your tub fills slowly, the water is always tepid, it never grows warm enough for you to feel clean but it’s the price you pay for the solace of solidarity. Daring to look into your mirror, you size up your reflection. The dark circles that ring around your eyes seemed to have deepened, your eyes sinking sadly into your skill. Your skin is dull and lifeless but that was nothing new. 

Rolling your eyes, you turn away and dip your feet into the tub before the water has filled half way. The porcelain digs uncomfortably into your ribs as you lean over the edge, a heaving sigh passing your lips. You feel grimy, the filth clings to you like a second skin that cannot be cleaved away. 

Your bath leaves you unsatisfied. You gag on the scent of your valberry soap, it’s nauseatingly sweet. The leather of your hiking boots rubs against your skin in a way that makes you want to claw out your eyeballs. Still, you shove your sock clad feet inside and tightly lace them over the hem of your pants. The patches you used to cover up a few holes have begun to fray around the edges, you momentarily pause to poke at them. They’d need to be replaced soon.

The man is still resting peacefully when you pass through the living room. Though it’s unlikely, you write him a quick note, just in case he were to wake. Pressing your palm to his forehead, you note that he’s become less clammy. You hope that it’s a good sign.

As always, the trek from Stormbearers Point to civilization is long. You snack on nuts and berries as you descend the mountain. The air is damp and humidity hangs low but the sun is bright enough for you to momentarily forget your worries and appreciate the beauty of Mondstadt. In all your years, travelling across Teyvat, nothing could ever quite compare to home. Some days, you wish you had realised that before heading off with nothing but a couple hundred mora to your name and a dream to become a famous writer. If you kept your roots planted in the pot you were raised in, maybe that Harbinger wouldn’t have been able to take advantage of a green nineteen year old in desperate need. 

You sigh to yourself, willing away thoughts of the dark haired man with glasses who kept your soul caged within his fist. Your name is called before you’re able to register the town sign, “Good mornin’ to ya!” Draff shouts, his hand is pressed against his brow to block out the sun, “It’s been a while since ya came ‘round these parts!”

He seemed chipper. With the storm he likely couldn’t indulge in his nightly cap at the Angel’s Share. You shrink in on yourself, hoping that the others milling about the gate would be too busy to notice your presence. 

“Good morning,” you return the greeting once you’re close enough that he could hear you without shouting, “I was hoping you’d have some things for me?”

“Aye, you’re out of wood?”

You nod your head, peering around him to get a closer look at the stock he’s piled beneath the wooden stall. There’s a few half plucked pheasants splayed across a sheet, a crate of sunsettia’s, and a rather lofty pile of dried firewood. Shoving your hand into your pocket, you curl your fingers around the pouch of mora that felt far too light for your liking. Straightening your shoulders, you offer Draff a smile.

“I’m out of everything,” you admit with a nervous laugh, “But I’ll settle on as much wood as I can carry, medical supplies, and some clothing if Allan or Jotun can part with anything.”

Draff gives you a quizzical look, “Why not head into the city?” He asks, rubbing his calloused hands across his scraggly goatee, “If clothing’s what you’re looking for.”

“Ah well, I’m not looking for anything fancy!” You exclaim, your cheeks filling with embarrassment, “I just need some new clothes to muck around in the garden and can’t really afford to shell out the mora.”

“I’ll see what I can do for you, kid.”

Draff gives you a smile like he feels some kind of fatherly affection for you. It makes your skin crawl. His own child spent most nights alone in the city scheming in an effort to force him to curb his alcohol addiction. If he did feel something for you, even if it was pity, you didn’t want it. The stench of faux fatherly care makes your stomach roll as a new wave of nausea crashes into your belly.

“Thanks,” the smile you force burns the muscles in your face. 

You watch with tired eyes as he scurries away, rounding up a few familiar faces before disappearing into his meat shed. Your expression quickly drops as you plop yourself onto the closet tree stump you could find. Exhaustion tugs at your heart strings, begging for the solace of your bed, even with all the lumps and bumps of your worn mattress.

Marla and Brook pass you with a smile and a cart of freshly washed produce in tow. They carted goods into town for Blanche at the start of every week. With the Summer Solstice on the cusp of the horizon, and the heat of the new season pressing closer, Blanche and Mondstadt’s fruit vendors took smaller shipments throughout the week, lest they wanted their produce to spoil from sitting in the sun all day. Brook only pauses half way down the path to toss you a lustrous red apple with a toothy grin before leaving you to your lonesome. 

Turning the apple over in your hand, you examine the pattern in the smooth, silken skin to bid your time. Sweat gathers at the nape of your neck and dribbles down the curve of your spine. No matter how you twist and turn, there's no comfort to be found beneath the brutal beating sun and a sweat damp shirt. 

Morning melds into the afternoon as you sit in wait, watching the people of Springvale come together to offer you what little they had. Your stomach twists uncomfortably with each smile and quick, “Thank You” and empty promises of repayment that you press into the palm of their hands. You trek home with a heavy wagon and an even heavier heart. Mentally catalogue how long you’ll be able to stretch your supplies if the man's wound was not as bad it looked. A melody of brains stain your lips, one to Barbatos, another to Rex Lapis, a third to Beezelbub, to any Archon that may receive them and return your wishes swiftly.

By the time you’ve returned home, exhaustion has carved out a space between your bones. Your clothing clings uncomfortably but there is no cool bath in your future. Kicking off your muddied boots, you look to the living room where he lays. His chest slowly rises and falls with each shallow breath he takes. He didn’t die while you were away. You wonder if that was a good sign. The floorboards creak beneath your socked feet as you step closer to him, kneeling into the plush of your rug. You’d need to throw it away, it’s stained with his blood. Reaching out to brush back a few sweat soaked curls you freeze in shock.

A pair of bloodshot, dull blue eyes stare groggily back at you.

He was awake.

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[bettyrightnow]

thinking about how taylor has talked about light or the lack thereof in the past couple of years .. how it began as "something happened for the first time in the darkest little paradise, shaking, pacing, i just need you" -> "you should think about the consequence of you touching my hand in the darkened room" -> "i'd kiss you as the lights went out" -> "starry eyes sparking up my darkest nights" -> "we could follow the sparks" -> "the streetlights pointed in an arrowhead leading us home" -> "meet me in the afterglow" -> "this ultraviolet morning light below tells me this love is worth the fight" -> "i've been sleeping so long in a 20-year dark night, and now i see daylight". and then it turned into "my eclipsed sun, this has broken me down" -> "across our great divide there is a glorious sunrise" -> "i'm sitting on a bench in coney island wonder 'where did my baby go?' the fast times, the bright lights, the merry-go" -> "it gets colder and colder when the sun goes down" -> "remember looking at this room, we loved it cause of the light. now i just sit in the dark and wonder if it's time" -> "half moonshine, full eclipse". how initially he was a force that pulled her from the darkness and brought her light, the light was a safe place from them to stay. then it became something that he was taking from her, not letting her shine as brightly as she felt they once did. it was something that she could only reminisce on from the dark that she had been re-delivered to. and how the beginning of the resolution of the arc, which i'm sure will be discussed in much further detail in ttpd, can be found in bejeweled: "i miss sparkling" "i'm still bejeweled, when i walk in the room, i can still make the whole place shimmer" "what's a girl gonna do? a diamond's gotta shine"

[jessss-ica]

💫 half moonshine, a full eclipse 💫

[whiskeyswifty]

gotta say it's not much but i love the interplay of "moonshine" and "eclipse" like both of them double entendres in conversation with each other like on one hand, the literal use of eclipse and how it pulls the literal use of "moon" out of moonshine. How during an eclipse, it can fool you into thinking it's night time and the light up above is the moon shining down, but then you realize someone something was just blocking the light from reaching you and dousing the world in darkness. but on the other hand how "moonshine" being one word, referring to the booze, pulls out the metaphorical meaning of eclipse, like how half a bottle of moonshine is so strong it'll easily make you fully black out the way an eclipse blacks out the sun, a mental eclipse if you will, throwing yourself into darkness. how it's "half" moonshine, maybe half glimmering moonlight or drunken bliss, but "full" eclipse, ultimatly paying the price for that with a life of full darkness all around. moonshine also famously known to be brewed at home, in secret, a loose metaphor for reckless self medicating of sorts if you wanna go there..... yeah.... yeah.

[thoughtroomba02]

HERE WE GO!!

I was a functioning alcoholic til nobody noticed my new aesthetic….

Dear god the HAIRPINS. So many hairpins! She literally wears an absurd amount in the Fortnight video. Also she made it abundantly obvious on this album that the stories and her dating life don’t match up…

Half moonshine, full eclipse // crowd goes wild at her fingertips….

UNFURLING OF A BALLERINA BUN AFTER A LONG PERFORMANCE.

Also the article literally talks about poets and their muses which is before the drop…

Me thinks now even more than before this article was so planned and she was in on it.

CHAOS. DEMON.

[evermoredeluxe]

rb and put what song do you think “crowd goes wild at her fingertips, half moonshine, full eclipse” is from

[littlegreenhouseplant]

half moonshine, a full eclipse 🌙